Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing [Fifth Compact Edition] 0205000347, 9790205000349

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FIFTH COMPACT EDITION

EDGAR V. ROBERTS

ROBERT ZWEIG

Writing and Research Coverage in Literature, Fifth Compact Edition

The Writing Process Argument in Literature, 33,43,1395 Brainstorming (Discovering Ideas), 21 Development and Organization, 34 Drafting, 32 Final Draft, student essay, 51 First Draft, student essay, 40 Journaling, 13 Language: Using Exact, Comprehensive, and Forceful Language, 48 Major Stages of Thinking and Writing, 19 Outlining, 37

Physical Process of Writing, 29 Preparing to Write, 27 Quotations, 56 References, 35 Revision, 42 Thesis, 34 Topic Sentences, 37 Verb Tenses in Literary Analysis, 36 Writing Topics About the Writing Process, 55

Writing About Literature Archetypal / Symbolic / Mythic Criticism, 1363 Character in Fiction, 156 Comparison and Contrast, 1371 Deconstructionist Criticism, 1365 Diction and Syntax in Poetry, 514 Drama: Comedy, 1119 Drama: Elements of Drama, 886 Drama: Tragedy, 952 Economic Determinist/Marxist Criticism, 1360 Examinations in Literature, 1401 Explicating Poetry, 507 Feminist Criticism/Gender Studies/Queer Theory, 1357 Figures of Speech in Poetry, 583 Film Writing, 1413 Form in Poetry, 514 Idea or Theme in Fiction, 371 Imagery in Poetry, 548

Moral/Intellectual Criticism, 1349 New Critical/Formalist Criticism, 1353 Paraphrasing Poetry, 506 Plot in Fiction, 110 Point of View in Fiction, 119 Psychological / Psychoanalytic Criticism, 1362 Reader-Response Criticism, 1388 Research Essays on Drama, 1334 Research Essays on Fiction, 442 Research Essays on Poetry, 878 Setting in Fiction, 208 Structuralist Criticism, 1355 Structure in Fiction, 238 Symbolism and Allegory in Fiction, 323 Symbolism and Allusion in Poetry, 715 Tone and Style in Fiction, 286 Tone in Poetry, 623 Topical/Historical Criticism, 1350

Illustrative Student Essays PARAGRAPHS

ESSAY EXAM RESPONSES

Dee's Attitude Toward the Quilts in the

The Setting of Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Answer B), 1402 The Discovery of the Dead Canary in GlaspelTs

Storage Chest in Walker's "Everyday Use," 39 A Paraphrase of Hardy's "The Man He Killed," 507 Wordsworth's Use of Overstatement in "London, 1802," 617

LITERARY CRITICISM PARAGRAPHS The Probable Harm Caused by Religious Belief in Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown," 1349 Moral Issues in Stafford's "Traveling Through the Dark," 1350 The Effect of Overzealousness on Family Life in "Young Goodman Brown," 1352

"Trifles," 1408

LITERARY ANALYSIS ESSAYS Plot in Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily," 113 Shirley Jackson's Dramatic Point of View in "The Lottery," 141 The Character of Minnie Wright in Glaspell's "A Jury of Her Peers," 203 The Interaction of Story and Setting in James Joyce's "Araby," 233 The Structure of Eudora Welty's "A Worn Path," 282 Frank O'Connor's Control of Tone and Style in

The Impersonality of War in Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner," 1352 Young Goodman Brown's Personal Failure,

"First Confession," 318 Symbols of Light and Darkness in Porter's "The Jilting of Granny Weatherall," 360

1354 The Tight Structure of Robinson's "Richard

The Allegory of Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown," 364

Cory," 1354 The Passivity of Young Goodman Brown,

D. H. Lawrence's "The Horse Dealer's Daughter" as an Expression of the Idea that Loving Commitment Is Essential in

1356 Jackson's Indictment of Senseless Tradition in "The Lottery," 1356 Goodman Brown's Literal and Figurative Neglect of his wife. Faith, 1358 The Suppression of the Humanity of Women in Chopin's "The Story of an Hour,"

Life 408 Diction and Character in Robinson's "Richard Cory," 543 The Images of Masefield's "Cargoes," 578 A Study of Shakespeare's Metaphors in Sonnet 30: "When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent

1359 The Economic Implications of "Young Goodman Brown," 1360 The Issue of Economic Disparity in Bambara's

Thought," 618 The Speaker's Attitudes in Sharon Old's "The

"The Lesson," 1361 The Destructiveness Caused by Guilt in "Young Goodman Brown," 1362 The Egocentric and Cruel Duke in Browning's

Dee, in Walker's "Everyday Use," 51 Form and Meaning in George Herbert's

"My Last Duchess," 1363 Goodman Brown's Disturbed Standard of Judgment, 1364 Frost's Symbolism in "Birches," 1365 The Misuse of Conscience in "Young Goodman Brown," 1366 Misunderstanding the Suffering of Others as described in Auden's "Musee des Beaux

Planned Child," 664 Mrs. Johnson's Overly Self-Assured Daughter,

"Virtue," 710 Symbolism in Oliver's "Wild Geese," 751 Eugene O'Neill's Use of Negative Descriptions and Stage Directions in Before Breakfast as a Means of Revealing Character, 947 The Problem of Hamlet's Apparent Delay, 1113 Setting as Symbol and Comic Structure in A Midsummer Night's Dream, 1196

EXPLICATION ESSAYS

Arts," 1367 Good Intentions and Harmful Results in

An Explication of Thomas Hardy's "The Man

"Young Goodman Brown," 1369 The Speaker's Complex Attitude toward his Father in Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz,"

COMPARISON/CONTRAST ESSAYS

1369

He Killed," 509 The Treatment of Responses to War in Amy Lowell's "Patterns" and Wilfred Owen's "Anthem for Doomed Youth," 1378 (.continued)

Illustrative Student Essays (continued) Literary Treatments of the Conflicts Between Private and Public Life, 1382 READER-RESPONSE ESSAY Opposite Personal Responses to W. H. Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts," 1390 LITERARY ARGUMENT Sammy's Decision to Become an Adult, 1397

RESEARCH ESSAYS The Structure of Katherine Mansfield's "Miss Brill," 455 "Beat! Beat! Drums!" and "I Hear America Singing": Two Whitman Poems Spanning the Civil War, 880 The Ghost in Hamlet, 1335

Research Coverage Bibliography—Setting Up a Working Bibliography, 445 Creative and Original Research, 416 Databases—-Gaining Access to Books and Articles Through Databases, 449 Documenting Your Work, 458 |gl Drama: Research Essay on Drama (Chapter 22A), 1334 Endnotes, 461 (J Fiction: Research Essay on Fiction (Chapter 9A), 464 Footnotes, 461 Library—Searching Library Resources, 446

Internet—Searching the Internet, 444 Outlining: Strategies for Organizing Ideas in Your Research Essay, 454 MLA Documentation—Appendix II: MLA, 1424 Paraphrasing, 450 Plagiarism, 452 @ Poetry: Research Essay on Poetry (Chapter 18A), 878 Sources—Evaluating Sources, 445 Sources—Locating Sources, 444 Taking Notes, 450 Topic—Selecting a Topic, 442

Why Do You Need This New Edition? If you are wondering why you should buy this fifth compact edition of Literature, here are 7 good reasons: O

NEW Approach to Part I: The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature: Walk through the entire process of reading, responding to, and writing about literature with the authors, while exploring Alice Walker's story "Everyday Use."

e

NEW Selections: Your professor will most likely assign some of the new selections that can only be found in this edition.

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NEW Attention to Paragraph-Level Assignments: Not all of your assignments will be formal essays; therefore, new instruction and exam¬ ples are included to help you respond to assignments that require single-paragraph responses. NEW Chapter 24: Three Types of Writing About Literature: Tackle three common assignments in the literature classroom (comparison/contrast, argument, and reader-response essays) with sureness, using the instructions and illustrative essays provided in this new chapter for guidance.

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NEW Expanded Visual Coverage of the Literary Research Process: Approach your next research essay with confidence using the heavily revised Chapter 9A as your guide to locating traditional and electronic sources, evaluating sources, taking notes, and avoiding plagiarism.

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NEW MLA Document Maps and Updated MLA Coverage: Locate key information for frequently cited sources such as books and Web sites and cite them according to the most up-to-date MLA guidelines.

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NEW Design: The entire book has been redesigned to make key fea¬ tures and selections easier to find and read. _

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• wrf' Vs O'CC Sonnot toi \ou 5° l ■\ \0 On Vnothx'r s Sorrow (\>2 \x >V ' Much Madness o ' C\ \so ' l ho Sovd SoUvts oS co: the Uift ol Flowers S ViV Vd\ no to \oung l adies S8e -,yVs' Vheme txu English B NS V>‘V ‘.OxV Facing It (AS '■ rco On Mis blindness ,V Vo o laMigra M' V'VC- life Cycle 850 '\w t pigtam . on tho Collar (\'l \\V from Epilogue to tho Satires cod

Lamb 522 ScfxC On Another's Sorrow Stake. The Tyger 592

632

Carter; My Father's World 635 C. mrr ngs, she being Brand/-new 638 Frost Acquainted with the Night 781 Frost Desert Places 690 G'Ttn, Love Should Grow Up 560 Lincoln, My Childhood's Home 646 Roetc\e Dolor 536 N.SSi? iAE), Continuity 703

Plays Shakespeare, Hamlet 1010 Sopihodes, Oedipus 968

Art B: ueghe Peasants'Dance 1-8 i\histler The Little White Girl 1-11

LIFE'S VALUES, CONDUCT, AND MEANING Stories Fesop, Fox and the Grapes 319 Cbopm, Story of an Hour 293 eemingway, Hills Like White Elephants , xe The Prodigal Son 338

295

lopioil in id Ihom/dio GoMonP, Maupassant, The Necklace O'Connor, First Confession

186 306

Poems l

Browning, How Do i Love Thee

Poems

764

Frost, Birches 778 Frost, A Considerable Speck 783 Frost, Fire and Ice 780 Frost, Mending Wall 111 Frost, The Road Not Taken 779 Frost, Stopping by Woods 490 Frost, Tuft of Flowers 775 Graham, The Geese 729 Halpern, Snapshot of Flue 834 Fiardy, The Man He Killed 491 Fiughes, Silhouette 795 Jacobsen, Tears 732 Jeffers, The Answer 838 Keats, Bright Star 588 Levertov, A Time Past 565 Lightman, In Computers 844 Oliver, Wild Geese 741 Shakespeare, When in Disgrace 861 Shelley, Ozymandias 704 Spender, I Think Continually Swenson, Question 686

K22

Hum:,, A Red, Red Rose 998 Cummings, she being Brand 638 I rust, The Silken 'lent 7B2 Marv&ll, In Hist oy Mistress 740 NetUdu, l.very Day You Play 369 Neruda, It You Forget Me 603 Pa/, Two Bodies 498 Plath, Song lor a Summer'* Day 817 Poe, Annabel Lee 836 Queen I ti/abnth /, Departure 610 Hukeyser, Looking at Laho has "made it." Ghe compares her situation to the TV shout This Is Vpur Life.

The narrator imagines a sentimental scene almost (ike those on TV, hosted by someone like Johnny Carson.

Ghe does go back to reality.

Ghe describes her very practical and robust appearance, and her skills in slaughtering livestock, but carries on her fantasy about pleasing her daughter, idealizing her slenderness and uoittiness before the imaginary audience.

°TV shows: In the early days of television (i.e., the 1950s), This Is Your Life was a popular show, which the narra¬ tor accurately describes here. °Johnny Carson (1925-2005) was an amateur magician, actor, and radio announcer before he began hosting the late night television Tonight show, a role that he continued for thirty years. He amused and pleased huge national audiences, gained many awards, and was known as “the king of late night.” He did not host This Is Your Life.

WALKER • Everyday Use

But that is a mistake. I know even before I wake up. Who ever knew a Johnson with a quick tongue? Who can even imagine me looking a strange white man in the eye? It seems to me I have talked to them always with one foot raised in flight, with my head turned in whichever way is farthest from them. Dee, though. She would always look anyone in the eye. Hesitation was no part of her nature. “How do 1 look, Mama?" Maggie says, showing just enough of her thin body enveloped in pink skirt and red blouse for me to know she's there, hidden by the door.

“Come out into the yard," I say.

7

Ghe comes back to "realitg" Ghe contrasts her slowness of u>it i^ith the boldness of 'Dee (her daughter?). Ghe also brings of the issue of color. The family name is Johnson, and so the narrator mag be called "Tflrs. Johnson." A nevo section in the storg. Tflaggie appears. Ghe seems to have been hurt in some u>ag, and is verg much in need of kindness.

Have you ever seen a lame animal, perhaps a dog run over by some careless person rich enough to own a car, sidle up to some¬ one who is ignorant enough to be kind to him? That is the way my Maggie walks. She has been like this, chin on chest, eyes on ground, feet in shuffle, ever since the fire that burned the other house to the ground. Dee is lighter than Maggie, with nicer hair and a fuller figure. The narrator remembers the io She's a woman now, though sometimes I forget. How long ago past—a housefire tohen TYlaggie was it that the other house burned? Ten, twelve years? Some¬ u>as burned, and TYlrs. Johnson, times I can still hear the flames and feel Maggie's arms sticking the mother, rescued her. Vee to me, her hair smoking and her dress falling off her in little hated that house, and seems not black papery flakes. Her eyes seemed stretched open, blazed to have made ang effort to open by the flames reflected in them. And Dee, I see her standing rescue her mother or her off under the sweet gum tree she used to dig gum out of; a look sister. Is Vflrs. Johnson saging of concentration on her face as she watched the last dingy gray that T)ee might have set the board of the house fall in toward the red-hot brick chimney. Why fire? don't you do a dance around the ashes? I'd wanted to ask her. She had hated the house that much. I used to think she hated Maggie, too. But that was before we Voes it seem that the narrator, raised the money, the church and me, to send her to Augusta0 to TYlrs. Johnson, seems to distrust school. She used to read to us without pity; forcing words, lies, Vee? yOas Vee reading not out other folks' habits, whole lives upon us two, sitting trapped and of love but out of contempt? ignorant underneath her voice. She washed us in a river of Here is an indication that Tflrs. make-believe, burned us with a lot of knowledge we didn't nec¬ Johnson might distrust Vee, essarily need to know. Pressed us to her with the serious way she even though Vee is her read, to shove us away at just the moment, like dimwits, we daughter. seemed about to understand. Dee wanted nice things. A yellow organdy dress to wear to her graduation from high school; black pumps to match a green suit she'd made from an old suit somebody gave me. She was determined to stare down any disaster in her efforts. Her eyelids would not flicker for minutes at a time. Often I fought off the temptation to shake her. At sixteen she had a style of her own; and knew what style was. I never had an education myself. After second grade the school was closed down. Don't ask me why: in 1927 colored asked fewer questions than they do now. Sometimes Maggie

Background about Vee. Ghe understood stgle even u>hen goung. But Tflrs. Johnson seems to have been annoged bg Vee.

Tflrs. Johnson carries on the theme of paragraph 5 bg describing her education. The

°Augusta: Augusta, Georgia, the second largest city in the state, is the home of Augusta State University, and also of Paine College, traditionally a “black” school.

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The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

reads to me. She stumbles along good-naturedly, but can't see well. She knows she is not bright. Like good looks and money, quickness passed her by. She will marry John Thomas (who has mossy teeth in an earnest face) and then I'll be free to sit here and I guess just sing church songs to myself. Although I never was'a good singer. Never could carry a tune. I was always better at a man's job. I used to love to milk till I was hooked in the side in '49.° Cows are soothing and slow and don't bother you, unless you try to milk them the wrong way. I have deliberately turned my back on the house. It is three rooms, just like the one that burned, except the roof is tin; they don't make shingle roofs any more. There are no real windows, just some holes cut in the sides, like the portholes on a ship, but not round and not square, with rawhide holding the shutters up on the outside. This house is in a pasture, too, like the other one. No doubt when Dee sees it she will want to tear it down. She wrote me once that no matter where we "choose" to live, she will manage to come see us. But she will never bring her friends. Maggie and I thought about this and Maggie asked me, "Mama, when did Dee ever have any friends?" She has a few. Furtive boys in pink shirts hanging about on washday after school. Nervous girls who never laughed. Impressed with her they worshiped the well-turned phrase, the cute shape, the scalding humor that erupted like bubbles in lye. She read to them. When she was courting Jimmy T she didn't have much time to pay to us, but turned all her faultfinding power on him. He flew to marry a cheap city girl from a family of ignorant flashy people. She hardly had time to recompose herself. When she comes I will meet. . . but there they are! Maggie attempts to make a dash for the house, in her shuf¬ fling way, but I stay her with my hand. "Come back here," I say. And she stops and tries to dig a well in the sand with her toe. It is hard to see them clearly through the strong sun. But even the first glimpse of leg out of the car tells me it is Dee. Her feet were always neat-looking, as if God himself had shaped them with a certain style. From the other side of the car comes a short, stocky man. Hair is all over his head a foot long and hanging from his chin like a kinky mule tail. I hear Maggie suck in her breath. "Uhnnnh," is what it sounds like. Like when you see the wriggling end of a snake just in front of your foot on the road. "Uhnnnh."

20

Dee next. A dress down to the ground, in this hot weather. A dress so loud it hurts my eyes. There are yellows and oranges enough to throw back the light of the sun. I feel my whole face warming from the heat waves it throws out. Earrings gold, too, and hanging down to her shoulders. Bracelets dangling and making noises when she moves her arm up to shake the folds of

°hooked in the side: i.e., kicked by a cow.

race issue emerges to indicate that her parents ia>ere not able to challenge the decision to close her school.

The Johnsons' home is smAl and inexpensive. Tflrs. Johnson thinks that Vee (All be ashamed of her past, and (Mill not bring friends to see her family.

Tflrs. Johnson compares Vee's past humor (Ath “bubbles in lye." The narrator really doesn't like her daughter, Vee. Vee's past, according to the narrator's memory. Vee drove “Jimmy T" au>ay u>ith her “faultfinding." A nevo section of the story. A skift here, from the past to the present. Vee is coming, but she is a part of "they." 'She is not alone. Vee is accompanied by a short and stocky man u>hom Tflrs. Johnson does not know Tflaggie's response is fear, as though she is seeing a wriggling snake.

WALKER • Everyday Use

the dress out of her armpits. The dress is loose and flows, and as she walks closer, I like it. I hear Maggie go "Uhnnnh" again. It is her sister's hair. It stands straight up like the wool on a sheep. It is black as night and around the edges are two long pigtails that rope about like small lizards disappearing behind her ears. "Wa-su-zo-Tean-o!"° she says, coming on in that gliding way the dress makes her move. The short stocky fellow with the hair to his navel is all grinning and he follows up with "Asalamalakim,0 my mother and my sister!" He moves to hug Maggie but she falls back, tight up against the back of my chair. I feel her trembling there and when I look up I see the perspiration falling off her chin. "Don't get up," says Dee. Since I am stout it takes something of a push. You can see me trying to move a second or two before I make it. She turns, showing white heels through her sandals, and goes back to the car. Out she peeks next with a Polaroid.0 She stoops down quickly and lines up picture after picture of me sitting there in front of the house with Maggie cowering behind me. She never takes a shot without making sure the house is included. When a cow comes nibbling around the edge of the yard she snaps it and me and Maggie and the house. Then she puts the Polaroid in the back seat of the car, and comes up and kisses me on the forehead. Meanwhile Asalamalakim is going through motions with Maggie's hand. Maggie's hand is as limp as a fish, and probably as cold, despite the sweat, and she keeps trying to pull it back. It looks like Asalamalakim wants to shake hands but wants to do it fancy. Or maybe he don't know how people shake hands. Any¬ how, he soon gives up on Maggie. "Well," I say, "Dee." "No, Mama," she says. "Not 'Dee.' Wangero Leeewanika Kemanjo!"0 "What happened to 'Dee'?" I wanted to know. "She's dead," Wangero said. "I couldn't bear it any longer, being named after the people who oppress me." "You know as well as me you was named after your aunt Dicie," I said. Dicie is my sister: She named Dee. We called her "Big Dee" after Dee was born. "But who was she named after?" asked Wangero. "I guess after Grandma Dee," I said. "And who was she named after?" asked Wangero. "Her mother," I said, and saw Wangero was getting tired. "That's about as far back as I can trace it," I said. Though, in fact.

9

The descriptions here are fumy. Vee and her friend are Using phrases from the culture of Black Power, but Tflrs. Johnson and Tfiaggie don’t know how to respond to them. Continuation of the comedy. Vee photographs everything, making sure to get the house in the background of all her photos. It appears that she is trying to record the poverty of the place inhere she was brought up.

Tdore comedy. Asalamalakim wants to shake Tdaggie's hand, but Tdaggie is unable to respond, even though he has called her "sister "

Vee has changed her 25 American name, in the manner of Black Tdushms. Vee, now vJangero, thinks of her past life as being dead, ytihat does the narrator think of this?

30

Vees questions seem to indicate that she is trying to establish a new family tradition, her own.

°WasU'ZO'Tean-o: a phrase from the Lugandan dialect, meaning “Good morning,” or “I hope you had a good night.” °Asalamalakim: Arabic phrase for “Peace be with you.” °Polaroid: The Polaroid Land Camera was an “instant camera” that in the 1970s and beyond provided fully de~ veloped photographs a minute after the picture was taken. °Wangero . . . Kemanjo: Dee apparently mispronounces “Wanjiro” and “Kamenjo,” two of her adopted African names.

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The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

I probably could have carried it back beyond the Civil War Yflrs. Johnson thinks that the through the branches. name "Bee," e% tends into the "Well," said Asalamalakim, "there you are." remote past. "Uhnnnh," I heard Maggie say. "There I was not," I said, "before 'Dicie' cropped up in our Asalamalakim's comment does not indicate mack intelligence. family, so why should 1 try to trace it that far back?" He just stood there grinning, looking down on me like some¬ body inspecting a Model A° car. Every once in a while he and Wangero sent eye signals over my head. "How do you pronounce this name?" I asked. "You don't have to call me by it if you don't want to," said Bee's comment mag suggest Wangero. tkat ske -flunks ske might kave "Why shouldn't I?" I asked. "If that's what you want us to offended ker motker. call you, we'll call you." "I know it might sound awkward at first," said Wangero. "I'll get used to it," I said. "Ream it out again." Well, soon we got the name out of the way. Asalamalakim Tkis is a funny paragraph. Tflrs. had a name twice as long and three times as hard. After I tripped Joknson, ia)ko has said tkat over it two or three times he told me to just call him Hakim-a- Asalamalakim kas hair "a foot barber.0 I wanted to ask him was he a barber, but I didn't really long," remarks tkat ske doesn't think he was, so I didn't ask. think ke is a barker. "You must belong to those beef-cattle peoples down the road," I said. They said "Asalamalakim" when they met you, TYlrs. Joknson describes a serious too, but they didn't shake hands. Always too busy: feeding the and dangerous situation, '[here cattle, fixing the fences, putting up salt-lick shelters,0 throwing Idas a Black Tfluskm group, down hay. When the white folks poisoned some of the herd the idkom ske calls “beef-cattle men stayed up all night with rifles in their hands. I walked a peoples" "yOkite folks" poisoned mile and a half just to see the sight. some of the cattle, and the men Hakim-a-barber said, "I accept some of their doctrines, but guarded the rest iditk rifles. farming and raising cattle is not my style." (They didn't tell me, TYlrs. Johnson oanted to see and I didn't ask, whether Wangero (Dee) had really gone and black men opposing oppression. married him.) We sat down to eat and right away he said he didn't eat collards and pork was unclean. Wangero, though, went on through the chitlins and corn bread, the greens and everything else. She talked a blue streak over the sweet potatoes. Everything delighted her. Even the fact that we still used the benches her daddy made for the table when we couldn't afford to buy chairs. "Oh, Mama!" she cried. Then turned to Hakim-a-barber. "I never knew how lovely these benches are. You can feel the rump prints," she said, running her hands underneath her and along the bench. Then she gave a sigh and her hand closed over Grandma Dee's butter dish. "That's it!" she said. "I knew there was something I wanted to ask you if I could have." She jumped up from the table and went over in the corner where the churn

They kave a meal. Bee is happy tditk the home-cooked food tkat ske had obviously liked token ske ioas living at home. Bee is even noticing "koid lovely these benches are." Is she thinking of koid to blend ker old tradition iAtk ker neid tradition? Bee idants the churn top, too, idhick is an essential part of the entire butter churn.

°Model A: The Ford car that replaced the Model T in the late 1920s. The Model A was proverbial for its quality and durability. Hakim-a-barber. a mistake in hearing Hakim Akbar, meaning, in Arabic, ltThc wise man is great.” Salt-lick shelters: Structures designed to keep rain from dissolving the large blocks of rock salt put on poles for cattle.

WALKER • Everyday Use

11

stood, the milk in it clabber0 by now. She looked at the churn and looked at it. "This churn top is what I need," she said. "Didn't Uncle Buddy whittle it out of a tree you all used to have?" "Yes," I said. "Uh huh," she said happily. "And I want the dasher,0 too." "Uncle Buddy whittle that, too?" asked the barber. Dee (Wangero) looked up at me. "Aunt Dee's first husband whittled the dash," said Maggie so low you almost couldn't hear her. "His name was Henry, but they called him Stash." "Maggie's brain is like an elephant's." Wangero said, laugh¬ ing. "I can use the churn top as a centerpiece for the alcove table, she said, sliding a plate over the churn, "and I'll think of some¬ thing artistic to do with the dasher." When she finished wrapping the dasher the handle stuck out. I took it for a moment in my hands. You didn't even have to look close to see where hands pushing the dasher up and down to make butter had left a kind of sink in the wood. In fact, there were a lot of small sinks; you could see where thumbs and fingers had sunk into the wood. It was beautiful light yellow wood, from a tree that grew in the yard where Big Dee and Stash had lived. After dinner Dee (Wangero) went to the trunk at the foot of my bed and started rifling through it. Maggie hung back in the kitchen over the dishpan. Out came Wangero with two quilts. They had been pieced by Grandma Dee and then Big Dee and me had hung them on the quilt frames on the front porch and quilted them. One was in the Lone Star pattern. The other was Walk Around the Mountain. In both of them were scraps of dresses Grandma Dee had worn fifty and more years ago. Bits and pieces of Grandpa Jarrell's Paisley shirts. And one teeny faded blue piece, about the size of a penny matchbox, that was from Great Grandpa Ezra's uniform that he wore in the Civil War. "Mama," Wangero said sweet as a bird. "Can I have these old quilts?" I heard something fall in the kitchen, and a minute later the kitchen door slammed. "Why don't you take one or two of the others?" I asked. "These old things was just done by me and Big Dee from some tops your grandma pieced before she died." "No," said Wangero. "I don't want those. They are stitched around the borders by machine." "That'll make them last better," I said. "That's not the point," said Wangero. "These are all pieces of dresses Grandma used to wear. She did all this stitching by hand. Imagine!" She held the quilts securely in her arms stroking

Vee doesn't ask, bat demands the dasher of the

so

batter shorn. Tdagg ie provides some of the family history. Does this suggest that Tdaggie is brighter than people in her family have thought? Vee thinks of the family artifacts not as things of use, bat rather as things to be displayed. Here is one of the details fitting into the story's title.

The connection of the dasher

55

itfitk the family, a>ith the past, and voith the imprints left by past family members. Vee is noa> going after wo guilts. It seems that Vee is planning on "raiding" her mother's home.

It is clear that 7Ylaggie, voho overhears this conversation, had planned on having the guilts herself.

TYlrs. Johnson argues for the superiority of the other guilts, but Vee i/oants the guilts made from "(grandma's" dresses.

them.

°clabber: i.e., clabbered: curdled. °dasher: device used for agitating and blending together the ingredients of butter (and also ice cream).

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The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

"Some of the pieces, like those lavender ones, come from old clothes her mother handed down to her," I said, moving up to touch the quilts. Dee (Wangero) moved back just enough so that I couldn't reach the quilts. They already belonged to her. "Imagine!" she breathed again, clutching them closely to h£r bosom. "The truth is," I said, "I promised to give them quilts to Mag¬ gie, for when she marries John Thomas." She gasped like a bee had stung her. "Maggie can't appreciate these quilts!" she said. "She'd prob¬ ably be backward enough to put them to everyday use." "I reckon she would," I said. "God knows I been saving 'em for long enough with nobody using 'em. I hope she will!" I didn't want to bring up how I had offered Dee (Wangero) a quilt when she went away to college. Then she had told me they were old-fashioned, out of style. "But they're priceless!" she was saying now, furiously, for she has a temper. "Maggie would put them on the bed and in five years they'd be in rags. Less than that!" "She can always make some more," I said. "Maggie knows how to quilt."

A simall conflict. Vee moves the ^wilts out of her mother's grasp, as though they "already) belonged to her"

Dee (Wangero) looked at me with hatred. "You just will not understand. The point is these quilts, these quilts!" "Well," I said, stumped. "What would you do with them?" "Hang them," she said. As if that was the only thing you could do with quilts.

Tkis is neuj. "Dee is novo looking at her mother u>ith "hatred." Tkis indicates a deep division between the tu>o.

Maggie by now was standing in the door. I could almost hear the sound her feet made as they scraped over each other. "She can have them. Mama," she said, like somebody used to never winning anything, or having anything reserved for her. "I can 'member Grandma Dee without the quilts." I looked at her hard. She had filled her bottom lip with checkerberry snuff’ and it gave her face a kind of dopey, hang¬ dog look. It was Grandma Dee and Big Dee who taught her how to quilt herself. She stood there with her scarred hands hidden in the folds of her skirt. She looked at her sister with something like fear but she wasn't mad at her. This was Maggie's portion. This was the way she knew God to work.

Tflaggie appears. It seems that she has heard the previous conversation. Ghe agrees to give the guilts to Vee. The narrator is filled u>ith a sense of deep sympathy for Vflaggie, uiho asks for little and is resigned to the utoys of fate.

When I looked at her like that something hit me in the top of The narrator gives the guilts, my head and ran down to the soles of my feet. Just like when I'm just like that, to TYUggie, in church and the spirit of God touches me and I get happy and snatching them out of the hands shout. I did something I never had done before: hugged Maggie of "TAiss yQangero." YArs. to me, then dragged her on into the room, snatched the quilts out Johnson is clearly annoyed voith _ of Miss Wangero's hands and dumped them into Maggie's lap. Vee. Maggie just sat there on my bed with her mouth open. "Take one or two of the others," I said to Dee. But she turned without a word and went out to Hakim-abarber.

°checkerbeny snuff: snuff flavored with wintergreen.

Reading and Responding in a Computer File or Notebook

13

"You just don't understand," she said, as Maggie and I came out to the car. "What don't I understand?" I wanted to know. "Your heritage," she said. And then she turned to Maggie, kissed her, and said, "You ought to try to make something of yourself, too, Maggie. It's really a new day for us. But from the way you and Mama still live you'd never know it." She put on some sunglasses that hid everything above the tip of her nose and her chin. Maggie smiled; maybe at the sunglasses. But a real smile, not scared. After we watched the car dust settle I asked Maggie to bring me a dip of snuff. And then the two of us sat there just enjoying, until it was time to go in the house and go to bed.

Interesting. Dee leaves

i/oithout a u>ord, but the narrator and Vflaa)gi.e come oat to her yOho is superior?

7/\aggie finally smiles. Her mother has given her a vote of confidence.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the narrator, Mrs. Johnson. Who is she? What is she like? Where and how does she live? What kind of life has she had? How does the story bring out her judg¬ ments about her two daughters?

2. Describe Dee and Maggie. How are they different physically and mentally? How have their lives been different? How do they change during the story?

3. Why did Dee change her name? How is this change important, and how is it reflected in her desire for the family artifacts?

4. Describe the importance of the title "Everyday Use" in the story (paragraph 66). How does this phrase highlight the conflicting values in the story?

Reading and Responding in a Computer File or Notebook The marginal comments printed with "Everyday Use" demonstrate the active reading-responding process you might try to apply to everything you read. Use the margins in your text similarly to record your comments and questions, but plan also to record your more lengthy responses in a notebook, on note cards, on separate sheets of paper, or in a computer file. Be careful not to lose anything; keep all your notes. As you progress from work to work, you will find that your written or saved comments will be immensely important to you as your record, or journal, of your first impressions together with your more carefully considered and expanded thoughts. In keeping your notebook, your objective should be to learn assigned works inside and out and then to say perceptive things about them. To achieve this goal, you need to read the work more than once. Develop a good note-taking system so that as you read, you will create a "memory bank" of your own knowledge. You can make withdrawals from this fund of ideas when you begin to write. As an aid in developing your own procedures for reading and "depositing" your ideas, you may wish to begin with the following Guidelines for Reading. Of course, you will want to modify these suggestions and add to them as you become a more experi¬ enced and disciplined reader.

C

so

14

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

GUIDELINES FOR READING 1. Observations for basic understanding a. Explain words, situations, and concepts. Write down words that are new or not immediately clear. Use your dictionary, and record the relevant mean¬ ings in your notebook. Write down special difficulties so that you can ask your instructor about them. b. Determine what is happening in the work. For a story or play, where do the actions take place? What do they show? Who is involved? Who is the major figure? Why is he or she major? What relationships do the characters have with one another? What concerns do the characters have? What do they do? Who says what to whom? How do the speeches advance the action and reveal the characters? For a poem, what is the situation? Who is talking, and to whom? What does the speaker say about the situation? Why does the poem end as it does and where it does? 2. Notes on first impressions a. Make a record of your reactions and responses. What did you think was mem¬ orable, noteworthy, funny, or otherwise striking? Did you worry, get scared, laugh, smile, feel a thrill, learn a great deal, feel proud, find a lot to think about? b. Describe interesting characterizations, events, techniques, and ideas. If you like a character or an idea, explain what you like, and do the same for char¬ acters and ideas you don't like. Is there anything else in the work that you especially like or dislike? Are parts easy or difficult to understand? Why? Are there any surprises? What was your reaction to them? Be sure to use your own words when writing your explanations. 3. Development of ideas and enlargement of responses a. Trace developing patterns. Make an outline or a scheme: What conflicts appear? Do these conflicts exist between people, groups, or ideas? How are the conflicts resolved? Is one force, idea, or side the winner? How do you respond to the winner or to the loser? b. Write expanded notes about characters, situations, and actions. What explanations need to be made about the characters? What is the nature of the situations (e.g., young people discover a damaged boat, and them¬ selves, in the spring; a prisoner tries to hide her baby from cruel guards, and so on)? What is the nature of the actions (e.g., a platoon of soldiers car¬ ries out actions during the Vietnamese War, a woman is told that her hus¬ band has been killed in a train wreck, a group of children are taken to a fashionable toy store, a young boy is taken by his mother to the dentist, and so on)? What are the people like, and what are their habits and customs? What sort of language do they use? c. Memorize important, interesting, and well-written passages. Copy them in full on note cards, and keep these in your pocket or purse. When walking to class, riding public transportation, or otherwise not fully occupying your time, learn them by heart. Please take memorization seriously. d. Always write down questions that come up during your reading. You may raise these in class, and trying to write out your own answers will also aid your own study.

Reading and Responding in a Computer File or Notebook

15

Sample Notebook Entries on Walker’s “Everyday Use” The following entries demonstrate how you can use the foregoing guidelines in your first thoughts about a work. You should try to develop enough observations and responses to be useful later, both for additional study and for developing essays. Notice that the entries are not only comments but also questions.

The narrator is Vflrs. Johnson. Ghe descries the bri.eT hom.ecoming of her daughter Vee and aboo-t her reaction and the reaction of her other daughter, WWMie- Ghe tells the stqua, and therefore m hear a. [of aboo-t hoiA> she feds.

TYlrs. Johnson has had a tough life. Ghe is a. big, husky [Mia, and is good At doing jobs like butcher eng, not vohat is ejected of a mwvan.

Ghe has had Utile education, because support oh her public elementary school ended i/ohen she iu>as in second wade._

The issue of black/Shiite relationships is important. The whites, in control oh the school financing, closed, the school -for Uacks u>hen Yflrs. Johnson ia>os verg little. Ghe never kneu> u>hg the school ell, With some occasional grammatical issues._

16

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

l/\lken Dee comes trie see that. ske

is

a pecs on rih li.kes to fag

people's Mention. Gke kas altriays asst/med sfa skodd be on top, and sfa bekaves like

it.

Dee's companion

is

a. short fellotri triith fair a Dot long, irifase name

is Asalamalakim. or "Hakw.~a-barber". They are committed to black potrier. and have changed their American names to names taken from Africa.

It's

kind of funny that Dee takes pictures of the place

in

suck a triay

that sfa always gets the plain and rustic Johnson home into vietri. Is Dee making some kind of point?

Dee iriants to take airiay some o-f the basic bat triell iatorn things, like things

from

the family batter churn, together iriith

two

homemade quilts, to display at her present bonne, bat just to display,

not

to use.

Vflaggie is sky and

ritircng,

and apparently simple. yOfan little, she

trfas bt/fned token -the previous Johnson home ia)as destroyed by fire. She bekeves that she

is

aliriays second, never first. Gfa

is

generous.

and is iridliny to give Dee the guilts that Wad been saved for her.

Reading and Responding in a Computer File or Notebook

17

Vflrs. Johnson gets annoyed at some of the things that Dee Is saying and doing. Vflhen "Dee demands the quilts. Wlrs. Johnson believes that Vee is speaking u>ith hatred. This is big in their relationship.

yOhen Tflrs. Johnson gives the quilts to Tflaggie rather than Vee, Vee leaves. As a result of being allowed to keep the quilts, TYlagg'ie seems to have become stronger, anal wore self-possessed than she t/oas earlier in the story.

Questions-. Is this story more about Vee, or Tflaggie, or both? Or is it about Tflrs. Johnson, the narrator? 71 Ihich of these characters do m learn the most about? yOhy is Dee's companion. Asalamalakim, brought into the story? Are some of these details supposed to be_ comic? ytihy is such a fuss made about the Wo guilts? y\)hy does li\rs. Johnson give the guilts to TYlaggie rather than to Vee? Does_ Vee go through any change in the stortA? yQhy does Vfirs. Johnson_ speak negatively about Vee u>hen recalling her girlhood?

Hoia>_

important is the store's title?

These are reasonable—and also fairly full—remarks and questions about "Everyday Use." Use your notebook or journal similarly for all reading assign¬ ments. If your assignment is simply to learn about a work, general notes like these should be enough. If you are preparing for a test, you might write pointed

18

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

observations more in line with what is happening in your class, and also write and answer your own questions (see Chapter 25, "Taking Examinations on Liter¬ ature"). If you have a writing assignment, observations like these can help you focus more closely on your topic—such as character, idea, or setting. Whatever your purpose, always take good notes, and put in as ma'ny details and responses as you can. The notes will be invaluable to you as a mind refresher and as a wellspring of thought.

Major Stages in Thinking and Writing About Literature: From Discovering Ideas to Completing the Essay Finished writing is the sharpened, focused expression of thought and study. It begins with the search for something to say—an idea. Not all ideas are equal; some are better than others, and getting good ideas is an ability that you will develop the more you think and write. As you discover ideas and explain them in words, you will also improve your perceptions and increase your critical faculties. In addition, because literature itself contains the subject material (though not in a systematic way) of philosophy, religion, psychology, sociology, and politics, learning to analyze literature and to write about it will also improve your capacity to deal with these and other disciplines.

Writing Does Not Come Easily—for Anyone A major purpose of your being in college, of which your composition and litera¬ ture course is a vital part, is to develop your capacities to think and to express your thoughts clearly and fully. Flowever, the process of creating a successfully argued essay—the actual process itself of writing—is not automatic. Writing begins in uncertainty and hesitation, and it becomes certain and confident— accomplished—only as a result of great care, applied thought, a certain amount of experimentation, the passage of time, and much effort. When you read complete, polished, well-formed pieces of writing, you might assume, as many of us do, that the writers wrote their successful versions the first time they tried and never needed to make any changes and improvements at all. In an ideal world, perhaps, something like this could happen, but not in this one. If you could see the early drafts of writing you admire, you would be sur¬ prised and startled—and also encouraged—to see that good writers are also human and that what they first write is often uncertain, vague, tangential, tenta¬ tive, incomplete, and messy. Good writers do not always like their first drafts; nevertheless, they work with their efforts and build upon them. They reconsider their ideas and try to restate them, discard some details, add others, chop para¬ graphs in half and reassemble the parts elsewhere, throw out much (and then maybe recover some of it), revise or completely rewrite sentences, change words, correct misspellings, sharpen expressions, and add new material to tie all the parts together in a smooth/natural flow.

The Goal of Writing: To Show a Process of Thought As you approach the task of writing, you should constantly realize that your goal should always be to explain the work you are analyzing. You should never be 19

20

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

satisfied simply to restate the events in the work. Too often students fall easily into a pattern of retelling a story or play, or of summarizing the details of a poem. But nothing could be further from what is expected from good writing. Good writing should be the embodiment of your thought; it should show your thought in action. Thinking is an active process that does not happen accidentally. Thinking requires that you develop ideas, draw conclusions, exemplify them and support them with details, and connect everything in a coherent manner. Your goal should constantly be to explain the results of your thinking—your ideas, your play of mind over the materials of a work, your insights, your conclusions. Approach each writing assignment in light of the following objectives: You should consider your reader as a person who has read the work, just as you have done. This person knows what is in the work, and therefore does not need you to restate what she or he already knows. Instead, your reader wants to learn from you what to think about it. Therefore, your task as a writer is always to explain something about the work, to describe the thoughts that you can develop about it. Let us consider again Walker's "Everyday Use." Early in the story we learn that the narrator, Mrs. Johnson, along with her younger daughter, Maggie, is anticipat¬ ing a visit from her older daughter. Dee. We know this, but if we are reading an essay about the story we will want to learn more from the essay writer. Let us then suppose that a first goal of one of your paragraphs is to explain the uneasiness that Mrs. Johnson feels about her daughter's return. Your paragraph might go as follows: In the story's first part. Walker establishes that Mrs. Johnson is not totally delighted by her daughter Dee's returning visit. That, in itself, is a surprise, and readers might won¬ der why she feels this way. Mrs. Johnson's thoughts go back to details about her early life with the daughters. Maggie, the younger child, received burns in a house fire many years before, which Dee escaped. Mrs. Johnson's memory of the fire, when she rescued Maggie only to encounter Dee waiting safely outside, suggests, but only suggests, that Dee might have had something to do with the fire (7). This incident, strong in Mrs. Johnson's mind, however, might explain some of her ambiguous feelings. The same hesitation applies to her memory that Dee as an adolescent was always trying to com¬ mand, always trying to be No. 1. She had a "scalding humor" (8), even in the family. She also almost literally drove away a boy, Jimmy T, who could not stand Dee's criti¬ cism, and who fled to marriage with another young woman (8). It is clear that in these early paragraphs of the story. Walker is providing details that prepare readers for Mrs. Johnson's refusal later on of Dee's request—demand, really—for the two quilts that had been promised to Maggie.

Notice that this paragraph does not simply retell the story's introductory details, but rather refers to the details in order to explain to us, as readers, the causes for Mrs. Johnson's ambiguous feelings about her elder daughter's return¬ ing visit. In short, the paragraph illustrates a process of thought involving the story's details and is not a restatement of the narrative. Here is another way in which you might use a thought to connect the same materials: In the opening paragraphs of "Everyday Use," Walker points out the negative qualities of Dee's character. Dee has always tried to be in command and has the habit of staring peo¬ ple down who might disagree with her. In the judgment of the narrator, Mrs. Johnson,

Discovering Ideas ("Brainstorming")

21

Dee's mother. Dee has always felt that she held things in the "palm of one hand" (6), and seems to expect that the "world never learned to say no to her" (6). As an adolescent, she had a strongly negative humor that, in her mother's words, was "like bubbles in lye" (8). At a time when Dee was seeing a boy, Jimmy T, she criticized and antagonized him, and he then got married to another young woman whom he would have thought of as being less critical. These details indicate that Dee, who is to appear later in the story and exhibit some of these same qualities, has a strong character, but also has a negative bearing that brings out opposition in others.

Here the details are not unlike those in the first paragraph, but they are uni¬ fied by a different idea—namely the difficult and proud traits of the character Dee. What is important is that neither paragraph presents only the details. Instead both paragraphs illustrate the goal of writing with a purpose. Whenever you write, you should always be trying, as in these examples, to use a dominating thought or thoughts to shape the details in the work you are analyzing. For both practiced and beginning writers alike, there are four stages of think¬ ing and writing, and in each of these there are characteristic activities. In the beginning stage, writers try to find the details and thoughts that seem to be right for eventual inclusion in what they are hoping to write. The second stage is char¬ acterized by written drafts, or sketches—ideas, sentences, paragraphs. The third stage of writing encompasses the forming and ordering of what has previously been done—the creation and determination of final paragraphs and a final essay. Although these stages occur in a natural order, they are not separate and distinct, but merge with each other and in effect are fused together. However, when you think you are close to finishing a piece of writing, you may find that you are not as close as you might have thought. You are now in the fourth stage, when you need to finish or complete something else, something more, something different. At this point you can easily re-create an earlier stage to discover new details and ideas. You might say that your writing is always open for change and improvement until you regard it as finished or until you need to turn it in.

Discovering Ideas ("Brainstorming") With the foregoing general goal in mind, let us assume that you have read the work about which you are to write and have made notes and observations on which you are planning to base your thought. You are now ready to consider and plan what to include in your paragraphs and essays. This earliest stage of writing is unpredictable and somewhat frustrating because you are on a search. You do not know quite what you want, for you are reaching out for ideas and you are not yet sure what they are and what you might say about them. This process of search¬ ing and discovery, sometimes also called brainstorming, requires you to examine any and every subject that your mind can produce. Just as you are trying to reach for ideas, however, you also should try to introduce purpose and resolution into your thought. You have to zero in on some¬ thing specific, and develop your ideas through this process. Although what you first write may seem indefinite, the best way to help your thinking is to put your mind, figuratively, into specific channels or grooves, and then to confine your thoughts

22

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

within these boundaries. What matters is to get your mind going on a particular topic and to get your thoughts down on paper or onto a computer screen. Once you can see your thoughts in front of you, you can work with them and develop them. The drawing above can be helpful to you as an illustration of the various facets of a literary work, and it will help you with discovering ways of talking about it. Consider the work you have read—story, poem, play—as the central circle, from which a number of points, like the rays of a star, shine out, some of them prominently, others less so. These points, or rays, are the various subjects, or top¬ ics, that you might decide to select in exploration, discovery, and discussion. Because some elements in a work may be more significant than others, the points are not all equal in size. Notice also that the points grow larger as they get nearer to the work, suggesting that once you select a point of discussion you may amplify that point with details and your own observations about the work. You can consider literary works in many ways, but for now, as a way of get¬ ting started, you might choose to explore (1) the work's characters, (2) its his¬ torical period and background, (3) the social and economic conditions it depicts, (4) its major ideas, (5) any of its artistic qualities, or (6) any additional ideas that seem important to you.1 These topics, of course, have many subtopics, but any one of them can help you in the concentration you will need for beginning your essay (and also for classroom discussion). All you need is one topic, just one; don't try everything at the same time. Let us see how this illustration can be revised to account for these topics. This time the number of points is reduced to illustrate the points or approaches that have just been raised (with an additional and unnamed point to represent all the other

'Together with additional topics, these critical approaches are discussed in more detail in Chapter 23.

Discovering Ideas ("Brainstorming")

23

1.Characters

Historical Period and Background

Social and Economic Conditions

approaches that might be used for other studies). These points represent your ways of discovering ideas about the work.

Study the Characters in the Work You do not need to be a professional psychologist to discuss the persons or characters that you find in a literary work (see also Chapter 3). You need to raise only issues about the characters and what they do and what they represent. What are the charac¬ ters like at the beginning of the work? What happens to them? Do they change in any way? What sort of change occurs, such as an alteration of personal condition, or an alteration or modification of an attitude or attitudes? Does the change occur because of what the characters do? Is the change for good or for bad? What brings about the change? For example, in Walker's "Everyday Use," the narrator, Mrs. Johnson, un¬ dergoes a shift in her attitudes toward her two daughters. At the beginning, she speaks deferentially about her elder daughter. Dee, and makes apologies about her younger daughter, Maggie. When the story develops to show just how demanding and possessive Dee really is, however, Mrs. Johnson bristles at Dee's demand for the quilts, and refuses to give them up, giving them to Maggie instead. When Dee feels affronted and immediately leaves, it is clear that the relationships between the mother and her daughters have changed. In discussing character, you might also wish to raise the issue of whether the characters in the work do or do not do what might normally be expected from people in their circumstances. Do they correspond to type? The idea here is that

24

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

certain attitudes and behaviors are typical of people at particular stages of life (e.g., children behaving like children, lovers dealing with their relationship, a young couple coping with difficult finances). Thus we might ask questions about whether the usual circumstances experienced by the characters affect them, either by limiting them in some way or by freeing them. What attitudes seem typical of the characters? How do these attitudes govern what the charac¬ ters do, or do not do? For example, in life, parents typically try to treat their chil¬ dren equally, both when the children are small and dependent, and also when they become adults. Life being what it is, however, along with the literature about it, both real and fictional parents sometimes have favorites among their children. Mrs. Johnson clearly has admired her daughter Dee (or perhaps respected, or treated in awe), but in the course of "Everyday Use" she shifts her favor to her daughter Maggie. One might therefore ask whether Mrs. Johnson's change is logical or illogical—a parental attitude that is within the limits of what we think of as normality.

Determine the Work’s Historical Period and Background An obvious topic is the historical circumstances of the work. When was the work written? How well does it portray details about life at the time it appeared? What is historically unique about it? To what degree does it help you learn something about the past—or the present—that you did not previously know? What actions in the work are like or unlike actions going on at the pres¬ ent time? What truthfulness to life do you discover in the work? "Everyday Use," for example, brings us many details about the life of poor blacks during the time of the Black Power movement following the sit-ins of the 1960s. The story revolves about the differences between a young woman who has accepted the conditions of Black Power and her mother, who has stayed in the rural South and who has also accepted her inequality as a black woman in a dominantly white society. Discussing matters like these might also help you with works written during more recent times, because even the latest assumptions, artifacts, and habits will bear analysis and discussion.

Analyze the Work’s Economic and Social Conditions Closely related to the historical period, and perhaps integral to it, an obvious topic to pursue in many works is the economic and social condition of the characters. To what level of life, economically, do the characters belong? How are events in the work related to their condition? How does their money, or lack of it, limit what they do? How do their economic circumstances either restrict or liberate their imaginations? How do their jobs and their apparent income determine their way of life? If we apply some of these issues to "Everyday Use," we can see that Mrs. Johnson and her daughter Maggie are greatly hindered by their lowly economic status. Mrs. Johnson sustains herself through much hard work more befitting a powerful man. She and Maggie live in Mrs. Johnson's tiny and tin-roofed home To be comfortable, they go outside, to a yard that is "like an extended living room"

Discovering Ideas ("Brainstorming")

25

(paragraph 1). They have few, if any, modern conveniences, and instead still actively use many homemade objects in their household. Finally, Mrs. Johnson's lowly social status brings about a consequent acceptance of her political and social inequality as a black woman. An important part of the economic and social analysis of literature is the con¬ sideration of female characters and what it means to be a woman. This is the fem¬ inist analysis of literature, which asks questions like these: Generally, how do female literary characters fare because of their sex? To what degree do they con¬ form to gender typing, and to what degree are they able to be free (i.e., Mrs. John¬ son does what is normally considered a man's work)? What is their relationship to the men who happen to be a part of their lives? What difficulties are imposed on them as a result of their being women? Contrastingly, what opportunities or bene¬ fits do they gain because they are women? What role are female characters able to take as a result of their sex and their family background? To what degree is their imaginative life either enhanced or restricted? Should female characters be consid¬ ered as an aspect of political arguments for greater freedom for women? Once you start asking questions like these, you will find that your thinking is developing along with your ideas for writing. The feminist approach to the interpretation of literature has been well estab¬ lished, and it will usually provide you with a way to discuss a work. It is also pos¬ sible, of course, to analyze what a work says about the condition of being a man, or being a child. Depending on the kind of literature you are reading, many of the questions important in a feminist approach are not dissimilar to those you might use if you are dealing with childhood or with male adulthood. One of the most important social and economic topics is that of race and eth¬ nicity. What happens in the work that seems to occur mainly because of the race of the characters? Is the author pointing out any deprivations, any absence of oppor¬ tunity, any oppression? What do the characters do under such circumstances? Do they succeed or not? Are they negative? Are they angry? Are they resolute and determined, as seems to be the outlook of Dee, Mrs. Johnson's elder daughter? Your aim in an inquiry of this type should be to concentrate on actions and ideas in the work that are clearly related to race.

Explain the Work’s Major Ideas One of the major ways of focusing on a work is to zero in on various ideas, or val¬ ues, or issues to be discovered there. What ideas might we gain from Mrs. John¬ son's recollections of her headstrong and self-absorbed daughter Dee? One idea is that when she makes requests from others, it is more important to be considerate than demanding. This is an idea that we might illustrate and expand in an entire essay, not to mention a paragraph. Here are some other ideas that we might also pursue, all of them based on the story's actions. • • • •

Childhood behavior is sometimes carried over into adulthood. Too much enthusiasm for a cause often skews one's judgment. Adversity may bring out a character's good qualities. Many things are to be used for service, not style.

26

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

These ideas are all to be found in Walker's "Everyday Use." In other works, of course, we may find similar ideas, in addition to other major ideas and issues.

Describe the Work’s Artistic Qualities A work's artistic qualities provide many possible choices for study, but basically here you might want to consider matters such as (1) the author's narrative method or writing style, and (2) the work's plan or organization. Thus, if we dis¬ cuss the narrative method of "Everyday Use," we observe that the narrator, Mrs. Johnson, begins her description of Dee with a good deal of detail, but at the same time she provides less detail about Dee's sister Maggie. Thus, at first, the story focuses our attention on Dee, for we learn about Dee's childhood, adolescence, and present appearance and circumstances—no matter how amusing Dee may at first seem. As the story progresses, however, and as the characters interact, Mrs. Johnson tells about Dee more objectively, while at the same time we learn more personal details about Maggie. For this reason we become increasingly sympa¬ thetic to Maggie, who emerges as the dominant sister at the story's end, after Dee has departed. Another artistic approach might be to discuss the author's use of chronology in the story. Through Mrs. Johnson's narration, for example. Walker permits us to follow Dee as she sets about to ransack the Johnson family's posses¬ sions, especially the chest containing the quilts. We therefore understand Mrs. Johnson's developing disapproval of Dee, if not anger against her, and we also understand her increasing favor toward Maggie. An additional aspect of Walker's artistic skill in the story is her inclusion of symbols to explain the attitudes of Mrs. Johnson. A strong symbol is the earlier house fire, when, we learn. Dee did nothing to help her mother and sister. Another detail that we may understand symbolically is Mrs. Johnson's "rough, man-working hands" (paragraph 5), for she has needed to do heavy labor to make ends meet during her lengthy life as a single mother.

Explain Any Other Approaches That Seem Important Additional ways of looking at a work might occur to you beyond those just described. One reader might want to deal with some of the comic or humorous parts of a story, such as those in "Everyday Use." One comically presented situation is that Dee makes sure to include the tiny house in all her photographs of the sur¬ roundings, along with Mrs. Johnson's responses to this action. Another somewhat comic element is that Mrs. Johnson and Maggie enjoy snuff together at the end of the story. Another reader might want to consider the character of Maggie alone, although she is clearly not the story's major focus. But it is clear that we watch Maggie undergo change as we learn more about her, and this change would be of definite interest. It would also be of interest to track Mrs. Johnson's exact views of Dee, and deal with the problem of whether Dee always put her mother off the way she does in this story—and the implications for the subject of parent-child relation¬ ships. The point here is that additional ideas may suggest themselves to you, and that you should keep yourself open to explore and discuss any of these other ways of seeing and thinking.

Preparing to Write

27

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ESSAYS AND PARAGRAPHS—FOUNDATION STONES OF WRITING Throughout this book there are many directions and guides for various assign¬ ments requiring either fairly full essays, or shorter paragraphs. The basic idea underlying an essay is that the writer of an essay tries to present a comprehen¬ sive treatment of a particular idea, question, subject, issue, or topic. Originally, the word "essay" did refer to an attempt, or exploration, and it was associated with "trial" in the phrase "trial and essay." That meaning is still in play, but the word is usually considered today as a writer's explorations and conclusions about a subject based on a number of connected subtopics. In short, an essay is a focused and full presentation. In a finished essay, the major subtopics are presented not only in single sentences, but also in a pattern of related sentences designed to sustain a major idea—a paragraph, which is a separate subpresentation in itself, but which may also be a connected section of a larger essay. Sentences build up to a paragraph; paragraphs build up to an essay; essays—as essential parts of fur¬ ther developing thought—build up to a section, or chapter; and sections and chapters may be built up to a complete book. A major requirement in many if not most of your courses will be to write full essays, for both out-of-class and in-class assignments. Essays are evaluated on the success of how well you state an idea to be tried out, and of creating a related pattern of argument that explores and expands on the idea—a finished essay. Quite often, you may also be asked for a single, stand-alone paragraph that may explore just one aspect of an idea. These are the two major elements of writing that are stressed in this book. For each of the chapters, it is essays and para¬ graphs that you will be asked to develop in relation to the works of literature that will be assigned for your reading, understanding, enjoyment, and benefit.

V--' Preparing to Write By this time you will already have been focusing on your topic and will have assembled much that you can put into your essay. You should now aim to develop paragraphs and sketches of what you will eventually include. You should think constantly of the point or argument you want to develop, but invariably digres¬ sions will occur, together with other difficulties—false starts, dead ends, total ces¬ sation of thought, digressions, despair, hopelessness, and general frustration. Remember, however, that it is important just to start. Jump right in and start writ¬ ing anything at all—no matter how unacceptable your first efforts may seem— and force yourself to deal with the materials. Get going. The writing down of ideas does not commit you. You should not think that these first ideas are untouchable and holy just because you have written them on paper or on your computer screen. You can throw them out in favor of new ideas, you can make deletions and changes; and you can move paragraphs or even sections around as

28

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

you wish. However, if you do not start writing, your first thoughts will remain locked in your mind and you will have nothing to work with. You must learn to accept the uncertainties in the writing process and make them work for you rather than against you.

Build Ideas from Your Original Notes You need to get your mind going by mining your notebook or computer file for useful things you have already written. Thus, let us use an observation in our original set of notes—"When Dee comes we see that she is a person who likes to hog people's attention."—in reference to the ways in which she comes to her mother's home and immediately begins to take charge. With such a note as a start, you might develop a number of ideas to support an argument about Dee's charac¬ ter, as in the following: When Dee comes we see that she is a person who likes to hog people's attention. She has always assumed she should be on top, and she behaves like it. Her dress is so loud her mother claims that it hurts her eyes. Dee is also wearing flashy gold earrings and noisy bracelets. On Dee's first appearance, she grabs her Polaroid camera and takes pictures of her mother's home. Dee snaps her mother and sister, Maggie, and makes sure to get the home into the background of each picture. She even manages to get a cow to stand still long enough to picture the animal in front of the house. It isn't until she has taken enough pictures that she kisses her mother on the forehead, something she should have done right away. When her mother addresses her as "Dee," Dee immediately denies the name. She also states that Dee is "dead," certainly a bombshell to her mother. Then, to indicate her status or her individuality, or whatever, she announces that she has taken a new name in place of the old, and she indicates that she now has three names: "Wangero Leewanika Kemanjo." It is fair to say that Dee's mother is surprised and shocked by this news.

In this way, even in an assertion as basic as "she is a person who likes to hog peo¬ ple's attention," the process of putting together details is a form of concentrated thought that leads you creatively forward. You can express thoughts and conclu¬ sions that you could not express at the beginning. Such an exercise in stretching your mind leads you to put elements of the work together in ways that create ideas for good paragraphs and essays.

Trace Patterns of Action and Thought You can also discover ideas by making a list or scheme for the story or main idea. What conflicts appear? Do these conflicts exist between people, groups, or ideas? How does the author resolve them? Is one force, idea, or side the winner? Why? How do you respond to the winner or to the loser? Using this method, you might make a list similar to this one: The story's beginning describes past conflicts or contrasts between Mrs. Johnson and her daughter Dee.

Preparing to Write

29

After Dee enters with Asalamalakim, does it seem that Dee is slightly ashamed of her family? Why does she want to assert herself about being given household objects that will be of no use to her? A number of Dee's actions seem to produce negative reactions in Mrs. Johnson, whose joy at seeing Dee is replaced in the development of the story. The argument over household possessions marks a high point of the family antag¬ onism. Dee wants the butter churn dasher and the quilts as objects to be seen on a wall, or on a shelf, as an emblem of outmoded but quaint family objects that are to be seen as part of a past and outmoded age.

These conflicts revolve about Dee, but you may wish to trace other patterns you find in the story. If you start planning an essay about another pattern, be sure to account for all the actions and scenes that relate to your topic. Otherwise, you may miss a piece of evidence that could lead you to new conclusions.

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THE NEED FOR THE ACTUAL PHYSICAL PROCESS OF WRITING Thinking and writing are interdependent processes. If you don't get your thoughts into words that are visible to you on a paper or computer screen, your thinking will be impeded. It is therefore vital for you to use the writing process itself as an essential means of developing your ideas. If you are doing an assignment in class—tests, or impromptu essays—write your initial responses on a single side of your paper. So elementary a strategy will enable you to see everything together, and to spread your materials out to get an actual physical overview of them when you begin writing. Everything will be open to you; none of your ideas will be hidden on the other side of the paper. Outside of class, however, when you are at home or otherwise able to use a computer, your machine is an indispensable tool for your writing. It will help you develop ideas, for it quickly enables you to eliminate unworkable thoughts and to replace them with others. You can move sentences and paragraphs into new contexts, test how they look, and move them somewhere else if you choose. In addition, you can print even the initial and tentative stages of writing. Using the printed draft, you can make additional notes, corrections, and sug¬ gestions for further development. With the marked-up draft as a guide, you can go back to the computer and fill in your changes and improvements, repeating this procedure as often as you can. Regardless of your writing method, you should always remember that unwritten thought is incomplete thought. You cannot lay everything out at once on a computer screen. You can see only a small part of what you are writing. Therefore, somewhere in your writing process, you need to prepare a complete draft of what you have written. A clean, readable draft permits you to gather everything together and to make even more improvements through revision. _____'

30

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Raise and Answer Your Own Questions A habit you should always cultivate is to raise your own questions, and try to answer them yourself as you consider your reading. The guidelines for reading will help you formulate questions (p. 14), but you can raise additional questions like these: • What is happening as the work unfolds? How does an action at the beginning of the work bring about later actions and speeches? • Who are the main characters? What seems unusual or different about what they do in the work? • What conclusions can you draw about the work's actions, scenes, and situa¬ tions? Explain these conclusions. • What are the characters and speakers like? What do they do and say about themselves, their goals, the people around them, their families, their friends, their work, and the general circumstances of their lives? • What kinds of words do the characters use: formal or informal words, slang or profanity? • What literary conventions and devices have you discovered, and how do these affect the work? (When an author addresses readers directly, for exam¬ ple, that is a convention; when a comparison is used, that is a device, which might be either a metaphor or a simile.) Of course, you can raise other questions as you reread the piece, or you can be left with one or two major questions that you decide to pursue.

A Plus-Minus, Pro-Con, or Either-Or Method for Ideas A common and very helpful method of discovering ideas is to develop a set of con¬ trasts: plus-minus, pro-con, either-or. Let us suppose a plus-minus method of consid¬ ering the following question about Dee: Is she likable (plus) or not likable (minus)? PLUS: LIKABLE

MINUS: NOT LIKABLE

Dee is self-confident, and dresses to attract attention. Her bracelets make a noise as she moves her arms. She expresses her thoughts and opinions freely.

Dee's self-confidence makes her somewhat inconsiderate of others, even her sister, and also her mother, who mentions that Dee when younger was characterized by "faultfinding" (8).

She does appreciate the past, for she fondly praises the benches that had been made by "her daddy" (10). She knows about, and likely appreciates, her past relatives who had made the objects in her mother's home.

She thinks that the "new day for us" (13) of black power denies the meaning and vitality of the past. In this respect, her thinking is contradictory.

A Plus-Minus, Pro-Con, or Either-Or Method for Ideas

31

She is artistic, and is able to visualize where some of the homemade objects, which she considers her "heritage" (13), would fit artistically into her pres¬ ent home.

Her artistic appreciation limits her vision, so that she thinks the past objects have no place in modern ways of living. Thus she thinks that the fami¬ ly quilts would be spoiled by "every¬ day use" (12).

Even as a child. Dee believed strongly in what she was learning, and would read to her family with great and demanding enthusiasm.

The things she read were impractical, and she "washed" her family "in a world of make-believe" (7).

By putting contrasting observations side by side in this way, you will find that ideas will start to come naturally and will be helpful to you when you begin writ¬ ing, regardless of how you finally organize your essay, or your paragraph. It is possible, for example, that you might develop either column as the argumenta¬ tive basis of an essay, or you might use your notes to support the idea that Dee is too complex to be considered either as wholly negative or wholly positive. You might also want to introduce an entirely new topic of development—for exam¬ ple, that Dee may not understand the effects she has on others, or that she may be a character who is dominated by her own self-esteem. In short, arranging materi¬ als in the plus-minus pattern is a powerful way to discover ideas a truly helpful habit of promoting thought—that can lead to ways of development that you do not at first realize.

Originate and Develop Your Thoughts Through Writing You should always write down what you are thinking for, as a principle, unwrit¬ ten thought is incomplete thought. Make a practice of writing your observations about the work, in addition to any questions that occur to you. This is an exciting step in preliminary writing because it can be useful when you write later drafts. You will discover that looking at what you have written can not only enable you to correct and improve the writing you have done but also lead you to recognize that you need more. The process goes just about like this: "Something needs to be added here—important details that my reader will not have noticed, new support for my argument, a new idea that has just occurred to me, a significant connection to link my thoughts." If you follow such a process, you will be using your own written ideas to create new ideas. You will be advancing your own abilities as a thinker and writer. The processes just described of searching for ideas, or brainstorming, are use¬ ful for you at any stage of composition. Even when you are fairly close to finishing your essay, you might suddenly recognize that you need to add something more (or subtract something you don't like). When that happens, you may return to the discovery or brainstorming process to initiate and develop new ideas and new arguments.

32

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Making an Initial Draft of Your Assignment As you use the brainstorming and focusing techniques, you are also in fact beginning your essay, or your paragraph. You will need to revise your ideas as connec¬ tions among them become clearer and as you reexamine the work to discover details to support the argument you are making. By this stage, however, you already have many of the raw materials you need for developing your topic.

Base Your Writing on a Central Statement, Argument, or Idea By definition, an essay is an organized, connected, and fidly developed set of paragraphs that expand on a central idea, central argument, or central statement. All parts of an essay should contribute to the reader's understanding of the idea. To achieve unity and completeness, each separate paragraph refers to the argument and demonstrates how selected details from the work relate to it and support it. The central idea helps you control and shape your essay, just as it also provides guidance for your reader. A successful essay about literature is a brief but thorough (not exhaustive) examination of a literary work in light of topics like those we have already raised— from character, background, and economic conditions to circumstances of gender, major ideas, artistic qualities, and any additional topic such as point of view and symbolism. Central ideas or arguments might be (1) that a character is strong and tenacious, or (2) that the story shows the unpredictability of action, or (3) that the point of view makes the action seem distant and objective,'' or (4) that a major sym¬ bol governs the actions and thoughts of the major characters. In essays on these top¬ ics, all materials must be tied to such central ideas or arguments. Thus, it is a fact that Dee in "Everyday Use," after being away after a period of time, has returned home to see her mother and sister. This is of course true, but it is not relevant to an essay or paragraph development about her character unless you connect it to a cen¬ tral argument showing how it demonstrates one of her major traits—her adoption of a new way of life, a different set of ideas she might have believed when younger. Look through all of your ideas for one or two that catch your eye for develop¬ ment. In all the early stages of preliminary writing, the chances are that you have already discovered at least a few ideas that are more thought provoking, or more important, than the others. Once you choose an idea you think you can work with, write it as a complete sentence that is essential to the argument of your essay. A simple phrase such as appearance and character" does not focus thought the way a sentence does. The following sentence moves the topic toward new exploration and discovery because it combines a topic with an outcome: "Dee's dress and manner in 'Everyday Use' reflects her character. You can choose to be even more specific: "Dee's dress and speech in Everyday Use show her as a positive but perhaps heedless person." Now that you have phrased a single, central idea or argument, you have also established a guide by which you can accept, reject, rearrange, and change the ideas you have been planning to develop. You can now draft a paragraph (for a single paragraph) or a few paragraphs (for a complete essay). Naturally, you may base your drafts on some of the sketches you have already made, for you should

Making an Initial Draft of Your Assignment

33

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THE need for a sound argument IN WRITING ABOUT LITERATURE

As you write about literature, you should always try to connect your explana¬ tions to a specific argument; that is, you are writing about a specific work, but you are trying to prove—or argue—or demonstrate—a point or idea about it. This book provides you with a number of separate subjects relating to the study of literature. As you select one of these and begin writing, however, you are not to explain just that such-and-such a story has a character who changes and grows, or that such-and-such a poem contains the thought that nature creates great beauty. Rather, you should assert the importance of your topic to the work as a whole in relation to a specific point or argument. One example of an argu¬ ment might be that a story's first-person point of view permits readers to draw their own conclusions about the speaker's character. Another argument might be that the poet's thought is shown in a poem's details about the bustling sounds and sights of birds and other animals in springtime. Let us therefore repeat and stress that your writing should always have an argumentative edge—a goal of demonstrating the truth of your conclusions and clarifying and illuminating your idea about the topic and also about the work. It is here that the accuracy of your choices of details from the work, the soundness of your conclusions, and the cumulative weight of your evidence are essential. You cannot allow your main ideas to rest on one detail alone, but must support your conclusions by showing that the bulk of material leads to them and that they are linked in a reasonable chain of fact and logic. It is such clarification that is the goal of argumentation.

___Y always adapt as much as you can from your first observations. Try to determine whether your idea seems valid, or whether it would be more helpful to make an outline or a list before you do more writing. In either case, you should use your notes for evidence to connect to your central idea. If you need to bolster your argument with more supporting details and ideas, go once again to the techniques of discovery and brainstorming. Using the central idea that Dee's dress and speech in "Everyday Use" reveal the nature of her character, you might write a paragraph such as the following, which presents observations originally taken and somewhat changed from the list about her likable qualities: Dee's way of dressing in "Everyday Use" shows her as a positive person. She is selfconfident, and attracts attention through her colorful clothes. Her "loud" dress, about which her mother says, "I like it" (9), goes to the ground, and makes her seem to flow as she walks. Her dangling bracelets make a noise when she moves her arms.

In such a beginning draft, in which the purpose is to connect details and thoughts to the major idea, a number of details from the story are used in support. In all stages of writing, such use of details is essential.

34

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Create a Thesis Sentence as Your Guide to Organizing Your Essays With your central idea or argument as your focus in a developing essay, you can decide which of the earlier observations and ideas can be developed further. Your goal is to establish a number of major topics to support your argument and to express them in a thesis sentence or thesis statement—an organizing sentence that contains the major topics you plan to develop in your essay. Suppose you choose three ideas from your discovery stage of development. If you put the central idea at the left and the list of topics at the right, you have the shape of the thesis sentence. Note that the first two topics below are taken from the discovery paragraph. CENTRAL IDEA

TOPICS

Dee, of "Everyday Use," is positive but

1. Dress and jewelry

somewhat overbearing.

2. Plans for home decoration 3. Quilts and butter churn parts

This arrangement can be fashioned to the following thesis statement or thesis sentence. Dee's positive but overbearing character is connected to her dress and jewelry, her gen¬ uine plans for home decoration, and her wish to be given parts from the family butter churn along with two home-sewn quilts.

You can revise the thesis sentence at any stage of the writing process if you find that you do not have enough evidence from the work to support it. Perhaps a new topic will occur to you, and you can include it, appropriately, as a part of your the¬ sis sentence. As we have seen, the central idea or central argument is the glue of the essay. The thesis sentence lists the parts to be fastened together—that is, the topics in which the central idea is to be demonstrated and argued. To alert your readers to your essay's structure, the thesis sentence is usually placed at the end of the intro¬ ductory paragraph, just before the body of the essay. As you write your first draft, you need to support the points of your thesis sentence with your notes and discovery materials. You can alter, reject, and learrange ideas and details as you wish, as long as you change your thesis sen¬ tence to account for the changes (a major reason many writers write their introductions last). The thesis sentence just shown contains three topics (it could be two, or four, or more) to be used in forming the body of the essay.

Begin Each Paragraph with a Topic Sentence Just as the organization of the entire essay is based on the thesis, the form of each paragraph is based on a topic sentence—an assertion about how one of the topics in the predicate of the thesis statement supports the argument contained or implied in the central idea. The first topic in our example is the relationship of Dee's character to her dress and jewelry, and the resulting paragraph should emphasize this relationship. If your topic is the relationship of her character to her

Making an Initial Draft of Your Assignment

35

REFERRING TO THE NAMES OF AUTHORS As a general principle, for both men and women writers, you should regularly include the author's full name in the first sentence of your essay. Here are model first sentences. Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" is a story featuring suspense and horror. "The Lottery," by Shirley Jackson, is a story featuring suspense and horror. For all later references, use only last names, such as Jackson, Walker, Lawrence, or Porter. However, for the "giants" of literature, you should use the last names exclusively. In referring to writers like Shakespeare and Dickinson, for example, there is no need to include William or Emily. In spite of today's informal standards, never use an author's first name alone, as in "Shirley skillfully creates suspense and horror in 'The Lottery.'" Also, do not use a courtesy title before the names of dead authors, such as "Ms. Jackson's 'The Lottery' is a suspenseful horror story," or "Mr. Shakespeare's idea is that information is uncertain." Use the last names alone. As with all conventions, of course, there are exceptions. If you are referring to a childhood work of a writer, the first name might be appropriate, but be sure to shift to the last name when referring to the writer's mature works. If your writer has a professional or a noble title, such as "Lord Byron" or "Queen Eliza¬ beth," it is not improper to use the title. Even then, however, the titles are com¬ monly omitted for males, so that most references to Lord Byron and Alfred, Lord Tennyson, should be simply to "Byron" and "Tennyson." Referring to living authors is problematic. Some journals and newspapers regularly use the courtesy titles Mr. and Ms. in their reviews. However, scholarly journals, which are likely to remain on library shelves and Web sites for many decades, follow the general principle of beginning with the entire name and then using only the last name for later references.

plans for home decoration, you can then form a topic sentence by connecting the trait with the location, as follows: Her plans, or hopes, for home decoration show that she has a positive sense of devel¬ oping her own home.

Beginning with this sentence, the paragraph should contain details that argue how Dee's behavior after dinner shows that she, too, has a sense of home that is like the sense of home and stability that is shown by her mother.

Select Only One Topic—No More—for Each Paragraph You should treat each separate topic in a single paragraph—one topic, one para¬ graph. This principle holds true for both paragraph-length and essay-length

r THE USE OF VERB TENSES IN THE DISCUSSION OF LITERARY WORKS Literary works spring into life with each and every reading. You may thus assume that everything happening takes place in the present, and when writing about liter¬ ature you should use the present tense of verbs. It is correct to say, "After Dee and Salamalakim leave [not 'left'], Mrs. Johnson and Maggie sit outside [not 'sat out¬ side'] for the rest of the evening, 'just enjoying' snuff and each other's company." When you consider an author's ideas, the present tense is also proper, on the principle that the words of an author are just as alive and current today (and tomor¬ row) as they were at the moment of writing, even if this same author might have been dead for hundreds or even thousands of years. Indeed, one of the plays in this anthology, Oedipus the King by Sophocles, was written more than 2,400 years ago (p. 969). It is still proper to speak of events in this drama in the present tense. Because it is incorrect to shift tenses inappropriately, you may encounter a problem when you refer to actions that have occurred prior to the time of the main action. An instance is Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Chapter 1), in which the main character, a Southern landowner during the Civil War, is about to be hanged by Union soldiers because he tried to sabotage a strategically important bridge. The story emphasizes the relationship between cause (the attempted sabotage, occurring in the past) and effect (the punish¬ ment, occurring in the present). In discussing such a narrative it is important to keep details in order, and thus you can introduce the past tense as long as you make the relationship clear between past and present, as in this example: "Farquhar is actually hanged [present tense] by the Union soldiers. But his per¬ ceptions turn him [present tense] toward the past, and his final thoughts dwell [present tense] on the life and happiness he knew [past tense] at his own home with his dearest wife." This commingling of past and present tenses is correct because it corresponds to the pattern of time brought out in the story. A problem also arises when you introduce historical or biographical details about a work or author. It is appropriate to use the past tense for such details if they genuinely do belong to the past. Thus it is correct to state, "Shakespeare lived from 1564 to 1616," orthat "Shakespeare wrote his tragedy Hamlet in about 1600-1601." It is also permissible to mix past and present tenses when you are treating historical facts about a literary work and are also considering it as a living text. Of prime importance is to keep things straight. Here is an example showing how past tenses (in bold) and present tenses (in italic) may be used when appropriate: Because Hamlet was first performed in about 1601, Shakespeare most probably wrote it shortly before this time. In the play, a tragedy, Shakespeare treats an act of vengeance, but more importantly he demonstrates the difficulty of ever learning the exact truth. The hero, Prince Hamlet, is the focus of this difficulty, for the task of revenge is assigned to him by the Ghost of his father. Though the Ghost claims that his brother, Claudius, is his murderer, Hamlet is not able to verify this claim. Here, the historical details are in the past tense, while all details about the play Hamlet, including Shakespeare as the creating author whose ideas and words are still alive, are in the present. As a general principle, you will be right most of the time if you use the pres¬ ent tense exclusively for literary details and the past tense for historical details. When in doubt, however, consult your instructor.

Making an Initial Draft of Your Assignment

37

assignments. However, if a topic seems especially difficult, long, and heavily de¬ tailed, you can divide it into two or more subtopics, each receiving a separate paragraph of its own—two or more subtopics, two or more separate paragraphs. Should you make this division, your topic then is really a section, or part, and each paragraph in the section should have its own topic sentence.

Use Your Topic Sentences as the Arguments for Your Paragraph Development Once you create a topic sentence, you can use it to focus your observations and conclusions. Let us see how our topic about Dee's clothes and her character can be developed persuasively within a paragraph. Such a paragraph may stand alone, depending on your assignment, or it may be fitted in as part of a larger essay: In "Everyday Use," Dee's way of dressing shows her positive nature. She selfconfidently attracts attention through her colorful clothes, for she is obviously dress¬ ing to be noticed. Her "loud" dress, about which her mother says, "I like it" (9), goes "down to the ground," and makes her seem almost to flow as she walks. She wears earrings "down to her shoulders," and her dangling bracelets make a distinct noise when she moves her arms. Even her hair shows her self-confidence, for it "stands straight up" like "wool on a sheep," and her two long pigtails "rope about like small lizards" (8-9). A shy and retiring woman would not draw attention to herself in this way, but Dee, with her strong views about herself, truly clamors to be seen and noticed. Here, details from the story are introduced to provide support for the topic sen¬ tence's assertion that Dee is a strongly (and also overly) positive person. All the paragraph's details—the flamboyantly loud dress, the earrings, the bracelets, and the self-conscious hair—are introduced not to retell the story but rather to exem¬ plify the argument the writer is making about Dee's character.

Develop an Outline as the Means of Organizing Your Essay So far we have been creating a de facto outline—that is, a skeletal plan of organi¬ zation. Some writers never use any outline at all, but prefer informal lists of ideas, others always rely on outlines; still others insist that they cannot make an outline until they have finished writing. And then there are those writers who simply hate outlines. Regardless of your preference, your final essay should have a tight struc¬ ture that can stand up to the rigor of an outline. Therefore, you should use a guid¬ ing outline to develop and shape your essay. The outline we focus on here is the analytical sentence outline. This type is easier to create than it sounds. It consists of (1) an introduction, including the central idea and the thesis sentence, together with (2) topic sentences that are to be used in each paragraph of the body, followed by (3) a conclusion. When applied to the subject we have been developing, such an outline looks like this:

38

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

TITLE: Mrs. Johnson's Overly Self-Assured Daughter, Dee, in Walker's "Everyday Use" 1. Introduction a. Central idea: Walker uses ordinary details to show Dee's overly self-assured character. b. Thesis statement: Her characteristics are shown by her dress and jewelry, her passion for home decoration, and her demand to be given some of the Johnson family's homemade things. 2. Body: Topic sentences a, b, and c (and d, e, and f, if necessary) a. Details about Dee's way of dressing show her sense of self-awareness. b. Dee's plans for using family things in her own home indicate her sense of home decoration and also her sense of heritage. c. Her demand to take the homemade quilts away, however, reflects her sense that her wishes should be considered first, certainly a selfish quality. 3. Conclusion Topic sentence: The dramatic development of the story hinges on Dee's sense of wanting things for herself. The conclusion is generally the freest part of an outline. It may be a summary of the body of the essay; it may evaluate the main idea; it may briefly suggest further points of discussion; or it may be a reflection on the details of the body. The illustrative essays included throughout this book are organized according to the structure of the analytical sentence outline. To emphasize the shaping effect of these outlines, all central ideas, thesis sentences, and topic sentences are underlined. In your own writing, you may wish to underline or italicize these "skeletal" sentences as a demonstration of your organization. Unless your instructor requires such markings, however, remove them in your final drafts.

Basic Writing Types: Paragraphs and Essays Depending on the available time for both out-of-class and in-class writing (including the writing of tests), your instructors may wish to have you write ei¬ ther full-scale essays or single paragraphs for your assignments—probably some of each. Writing a single paragraph assignment helps you build up your preparation for essays. Accordingly, the writing of paragraphs will help you control topic sentences and immediately related topical development, meaning that you include details that illustrate the ideas you have stated at the begin¬ nings of your paragraphs. You should constantly be practicing this habit of mind as you develop your analytical skills for all your courses, not just for those in reading and writing about literature. Throughout this book, therefore, each of the writing sections will be directed toward possible assignments for ei¬ ther single paragraphs or full-scale essays. The successful writing of para¬ graphs leads naturally toward the buildup of paragraphs in full essays, just as the successful writing of essays depends on the proper development and order¬ ing of individual paragraphs.

1. A Paragraph Assignment

39

1. A PARAGRAPH ASSIGNMENT: What is the attitude of Dee (Wangero) toward the handmade quilts in her mother's storage chest? How are her feelings different from those of her sister Maggie? Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, underlines are used in this illustrative paragraph as a teaching tool to emphasize the topic sentence.

[1] Dee (Wangero) asks for the handmade quilts in order to keep them as show pieces, but her sister Maggie has expected to have them for “everyday use” (12). [2] Wangero sees the quilts as artworks that represent the past culture other family, and she says that she would like to hang the quilts for display because they are “priceless” (12). [3] When Mrs. Johnson offers other quilts as substitutes, Wangero rejects them because they “are stitched around the borders by machine” (11). [4] On the other hand, for Maggie, just as for Mrs. Johnson, the quilts are things that are still useful, and therefore still vital in their lives. [5] This concern is shown in the fact that Mrs. Johnson has offered the quilts to Maggie as she marries John Thomas and starts her own home (12). [6] To Wangero this practical view has nothing to do with the artistic importance of the handmade quilts as a sign of an old-fashioned way of life. [7] But for Maggie, inheriting the handmade quilts for practical use is a sign of her mother’s love which links Maggie to her ancestors. [8] Even so, however, Maggie shows her family love—something that Wangero does not show—when she volunteers to give up Mrs. Johnson’s gift because, as she says, “I can ’member Grandma Dee without the quilts” (12).

jCommentary on the Paragraph

_„

The first sentence, the topic sentence, announces in general terms the different attitudes of the two sisters toward the handmade quilts. By pointing to specific evidence from the story, sentences 2 and 3 amplify Wangero's view of the quilts and why they are so important to her. Sentences 4, 5, and 6 contrast Maggie s

40

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

interests in the quilts with those of Wangero, offering evidence particularly of Maggie's practical and "everyday" view as opposed to Wangero's "artistic" view. Sentences 7 and 8 assert the importance of love of family by Maggie, a love that is lacking in Wangero. x

2. AN ESSAY ASSIGNMENT: Write an essay describing the character of Dee, in Walker's "Everyday Use." The following illustrative essay is designed to illustrate the qualities of writing that have been illustrated so far in this chapter. It follows our outline, and it includes de¬ tails from the story in support of the various topics. It is by no means, however, as good a piece of writing as it could be. In the discussion following this essay, there will be details about how writing may be improved by various specific means. It therefore reveals how benefits may be made through additional brainstorming and discovery-prewriting techniques. On page 51, you will find another version of the following essay, showing how improvements have been carried out.

Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Deal 1 James Deal Professor Smith English 102 12 January 2011 Mrs. Johnson’s Overly Self-Assured Daughter, Dee, in Walker’s “Everyday Use” dl

1° “Everyday Use” Alice Walker vividly presents her four major characters— Mrs. Johnson, Dee, Maggie, and Asalamalakim. The narrator, Mrs. Johnson, describes herself fully, well enough to give readers a strong understanding of what she is actually like. Even more vivid, however, is the presentation of the older daughter Dee, who is coming back home for a visit after having been away at college and elsewhere for a number of years. To those at home, Dee is like a returning heroine, and, at first she may really seem to be one. Walker uses ordinary, everyday details to show her overly self-assured character.* All the details in

‘Central idea

2. An Essay Assignment

41

Deal 2 the story about her are presented to bring out this quality. Her characteristics are shown by her dress and jewelry, her passion for home decoration, and her demand to be given some of the Johnson family’s homemade things.^ Dee’s way of dressing shows her positive nature. She self-confidently

[2]

attracts attention through her colorful clothes, for she is obviously dressing to be noticed. Her “loud" dress—about which her mother says, “1 like it”— goes “down to the ground,” and makes her seem almost flowing as she walks (8-9). Her earrings hang “to her shoulders,” and her dangling bracelets make a distinct noise when she moves her arms. Even her hair shows her selfconfidence, for it “stands straight up” like “wool on a sheep,” and her two long pigtails “rope about like small lizards” (9). A shy and retiring woman would not draw attention to herself in this way, but Dee, with strong views about her own importance, clamors to be seen and noticed. Dee’s plans for using family things in her own home indicate her sense

[3]

of home decoration and also her sense of heritage. When she praises the kitchen benches that “her daddy made” at some time in the past, she speaks respectfully and enthusiastically, and it therefore seems reasonable that she would want to take something away with her as a keepsake (10). Her picking the churn top from the family butter-churn, together with the churn’s dasher, therefore is natural, because these pieces were whittled by Uncle Buddy and by Stash, who were family members—now, presumably, gone. It is fair to say that her wishes for these things show that she can be respectful and likable. Her demands to take the homemade quilts away, however, reflect her sense that her wishes should be considered first, certainly a selfish quality. When Dee first speaks of the now dead women in the family who made the quilts, she denies their importance (8-9). And so her desire for the two quilts is contradictory. Her wish for the quilts is positive, but her demand for them is negative, because it leads to the story’s major conflict. Maybe she

thesis sentence

[4]

42

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Deal 3 doesn’t know that Mrs. Johnson had promised to give the quilts to Dee’s sister, \

Maggie, the bashful and quiet one, but by her demand Dee antagonizes her mother. Mrs. Johnson sees Dee’s self-assurance in this conflict as selfishness that has reached the point of hatred (12), and thus Dee provokes Mrs. Johnson’s justifiable anger. [51

The dramatic development of the story hinges on Dee’s sense of wanting things for herself. Almost immediately Dee demeans the significance not only of her mother and sister, but of the heritage she claims to value at the story’s end. Her denial of her given birth name is a clear slap in the face of her mother, and throughout the story she constantly belittles her home. When the family enjoys their meal together, Dee seems civil, and happy, but almost immediately she begins making demands, and it is the selfishness of her wishes that enables Mrs. Johnson and Maggie to enjoy themselves once she has gone.

Deal 4 Work Cited Walker, Alice. “Everyday Use.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New

York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 6-13. Print.

Completing the Essay: Developing and Strengthening Your Essay Through Revision After finishing an essay like this one, you may wonder what more you can do. Things may seem to be complete as they are, and that's it. You have read the work several times, have used discovering and brainstorming techniques to establish ideas to write about, have made an outline of your ideas, and have written a full draft. How can you do better?

Completing the Essay: Developing and Strengthening Your Essay Through Revision

43

The best way to begin is to observe that a major mistake writers make when writing about literature is to do no more than retell a story or summarize an idea. Retelling a story shows only that you have read it, not that you have thought about it. Writing a good essay requires you to arrange a pattern of argument and thought.

Make Your Own Arrangement of Details and Ideas One way to escape the trap of summarizing stories and to set up a pattern of development is to stress your own order when referring to parts of a work. Rearrange details to suit your own central idea or argument. It is often important to write first about the conclusion or middle. Should you find that you have fol¬ lowed the chronological order of the work instead of stressing your own order, you can use one of the preliminary writing techniques to figure out new ways to connect your materials. The principle is that you should introduce details about the work only to support the points you wish to make. Details for the sake of detail are unnecessary.

Use Literary Material as Evidence to Support Your Argument When you write, you are like a detective using clues as evidence for building a case, or a lawyer citing evidence to support an argument. Your goal is to convince your readers of your knowledge and the reasonableness of your conclusions. It is vital to use evidence convincingly so that your readers can follow your ideas. Let us look briefly at two drafts of an additional paragraph to see how writing can be improved by the pointed use of details. These are about the character Dee in Walker's "Everyday Use."

PARAGRAPH 1

PARAGRAPH 2

A major flaw in Dee's character is that she considers other people to be unim¬ portant. When she first appears in the story, she does not immediately em¬ brace her mother, but spends an untold number of minutes taking pictures of the house and the cows wandering around in the pasture. It is only then that she kisses her mother, and then only on the forehead. When her mother addresses her as "Dee," she immediately says that she has a new name, and that Dee is "dead." Although there is a hap¬ pier time at the table when everyone is enjoying dinner. Dee immediately begins spoiling things by asking about what she might take away once she and

A major flaw in Dee's character is that she considers other people to be unim¬ portant. For example, when she first gets out of the car, she ignores her fam¬ ily but instead takes photos of the home, as though her closest family is worth less than the home. This same devaluation is shown by her kissing her mother only on the forehead, and avoiding an embrace. When she says that she has taken a new name, she sur¬ prises her mother, and her denial of her birth name seems to be another slap in the face. She clearly thinks the persons in her family are unimportant, and she therefore does not ask how they are, or what they have been doing, but rather

44

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Asalamalakim leave to go back home. She wants some whittled parts of the family butter-churn, and also discovers some quilts that she thinks would look good hanging in her home far away from the house in which her mother and sister live. When her mother refuses to give her the quilts, she gets up, and leaves with Asalamalakim. Her last words, however, are that both her mother and sister are living in the past, as though nothing new is happening socially and politically, even though she says that it is "really a new day for us."

asks about homemade family artifacts to take away when she leaves. When she picks the quilts, she assumes that they are rightfully hers, regardless of Maggie's previous claim. After her demand is rejected she gets up and leaves, but not before telling her mother and sister how to improve their lives, as though they were incapable of any ideas of their own.

A comparison of these paragraphs shows that the first has more words than the second (212 compared to 183, computer count) but that it is more appropriate for a rough than a final draft because the writer does little more than retell the story. Paragraph 1 is cluttered with details that do not support any conclusions. If you try to find what it says about Walker's use of Dee's selfish outlook in "Every¬ day Use," you will get little help. The writer needs to revise the paragraph by eliminating details that do not support the central idea. On the other hand, the details in paragraph 2 actually do support the declared topic. Phrases such as "for example," "as though," "this same devaluation," and "clearly thinks" show that the writer of paragraph 2 has assumed that the audience knows the story and now wants to read an argument in support of a particular interpretation. Paragraph 2 therefore guides readers by connecting the details to the topic. It uses these details as evidence, not as a retelling of actions. By contrast, paragraph 1 recounts a number of relevant actions but does not connect them to the topic. More details, of course, could have been added to the second paragraph, but they are unnecessary because the paragraph develops the argument with the details used. Good writing has many qualities, but one of the most important is shown in a comparison of the two paragraphs: In good writing, no details are included unless they are used as supporting evidence in the development of thought and argument.

Always Keep to Your Point; Stick to It Tenaciously To show another distinction between first- and second-draft writing, let us consider a third example. In the following paragraph, which treats the relationship of eco¬ nomic circumstances to character in "Everyday Use," the writer's topic idea is that Mrs. Johnson, the story's narrator, has overcome the disadvantages of her life of poverty. She is a character of great integrity. To emphasize Mrs. Johnson's character strength, Walker describes many details showing that she has overcome poverty in her life. She herself has had no education, for her local school was shut down in 1927, when she was still in second grade, and because it was a school for "colored," there was no one to demand that it be reopened for the colored children

Completing the Essay: Developing and Strengthening Your Essay Through Revision

45

(7-8). Mrs. Johnson now does farmwork, including working as a butcher, which also means that she slaughters large animals, but it additionally seems that the family has made butter on a homemade butter churn—a difficult task—probably for sale. Her house is tiny and spare. It was built in a cow pasture, with cows wandering by as they graze. The house has just three rooms, and is covered with no more than a tin roof. In addition, the house has no windows. The furniture is homemade, and has been in use for many decades. To be comfortable at home, she and her daughter Maggie sit outside, on a hard clay surface, instead of their sheltered but also unpleas¬ antly hot rooms.

This paragraph begins with an effective topic sentence, indicating that the writer has a good plan. The remaining part, however, shows how easily writers can be diverted from their objectives. The flaw is that the material of the paragraph, while accurate, is not clearly connected to the topic. Once the second sentence is under way, the paragraph gets lost in a recounting of details from the story, and the promising topic sentence is forgotten. The paragraph therefore shows that the use of detail alone will not support an intended meaning or argument. As a writer, you must do the connecting yourself, and make sure that all relationships are explicitly clear. This point cannot be overstressed. Let us see how our specimen paragraph can be made better. If the ideal para¬ graph can be schematized with line drawings, we might say that the paragraph's topic could be like a straight line, moving toward and reaching a specific goal (the topic or argument of the paragraph), with an exemplifying line moving away from the straight line briefly to bring in evidence, but returning to the line to demonstrate the relevance of each new fact. Thus, the ideal scheme looks like this, with a straight line touched a number of times by an undulating line.

Exemplifying Line

Notice that the exemplifying line, fluctuating to illustrate how documentation or exemplification is to be used, always returns to the topic line. A visual scheme for the faulty paragraph on "Everyday Use," however, looks like this, with the line never returning but flying out into space.

46

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

How might the faulty paragraph be improved? The best way is to remind the reader again and again of the writer's argument and to use examples from the text in support of this argument. As our model wavy-line diagram indicates, each time a new detail is intro¬ duced, the undulating line merges with the straight, or central-idea line. This rela¬ tionship of argument to illustrative examples should prevail no matter what subject you write about, and you have to be tenacious in forming these connecting relation¬ ships. If you are analyzing point of view, for example, you should keep connecting your material to the speaker, or narrator, and the same applies to topics such as char¬ acter, idea, or setting. According to this principle, we might revise the paragraph on Mrs. Johnson's poverty in "Everyday Use" as follows. (Parts of sentences stressing the relationship of the examples to the topic sentence are underlined.) To emphasize Mrs. Johnson's character strength, Walker describes many details showing that she has overcome poverty in her life. Early in the story, we learn that Mrs. Johnson herself never had an education, because her local school had been shut down in 1927, when she was still in second grade. Because the school was for "colored," there was no one to demand that it be reopened for the colored children (7-8). She endured with great ef¬ fort despite this handicap. To bring up her own two girls, she took her difficult job as a butcher, and still keeps it, which also means that she slaughters large animals. In fact, she indicates pride in the hard work she does as a butcher (6). Another mark of being poor is Mrs. Johnson's house, which is tiny and spare. It is situated not in a suburb but in a cow pasture, and it has only three rooms, no windows, and nothing more than a tin roof, with cows wandering by as they graze. But she makes the best of things. Her household furniture—what we are told about it—is homemade, and it is many decades old—another mark of her life as one of the poor. An additional aspect of her difficult life, it seems, is that the family has made butter on a homemade butter churn, probably for sale. Churning butter by hand would be very hard work, but the butter would provide needed expense money. In those moments when Mrs. Johnson and her daughter Maggie have leisure, they spend it sitting outside, on a hard clay surface, rather than inside, within a sheltered but unpleasantly hot room. And yet, with no advantages except the ones she makes for herself, "Everyday Use" shows that Mrs. Johnson has remained strong.

The paragraph now successfully develops the argument promised by the topic sentence. While it has also been lengthened, the length has been caused not by inessential detail but by phrases and sentences that give form and direction. You might object that if you lengthened all your paragraphs in this way, your essays would grow too bulky. The answer is to reduce the number of major points and paragraphs, on the theory that it is better to develop a few topics pointedly than many pointlessly. Revising in order to strengthen central and topic ideas requires you either to throw out some topics or else incorporate them as subpoints in the topics you keep. To control your writing in this way will result in improvement.

Check Your Development and Organization It bears repeating over and over again that the first requirement of good para¬ graphs and good essays is to introduce a major idea or argument and then stick to it. Another major step toward excellence is to make your major idea expand and

Completing the Essay: Developing and Strengthening Your Essay Through Revision

47

grow. The word growth is a metaphor describing the disclosure of ideas that were not at first noticeable, together with the expression of original, new, and fresh interpretations.

Try to Be Original In everything you write, now and in the future, you should always try to be origi¬ nal. You might claim that originality is impossible because you are writing about someone else's work. "The author has said everything," might be the argument, "and therefore I can do little more than follow the story." This claim rests on the mistaken assumption that you have no choice in selecting material and no oppor¬ tunity to have individual thoughts and make original contributions. But you do have choices and opportunities to be original. You really do. One obvious area of originality is the development and formulation of your central idea. For example, a natural first response to "Everyday Use" is "The story is about a woman who tells about an afternoon on which her elder daughter returns home for a visit." But this response does not promise an argument because it refers only to an outline of the story's narrative, and not to any idea. You can point the sentence toward an argument, however, if you call the afternoon "uncomfortable" or "unpleasant" or perhaps "disappointing." Just such words alone demand that you explain the differences between pleasant and unpleasant meetings between people, and your application of these differences to the after¬ noon's visit could produce an original essay, or paragraph. Even better and more original insights could result if the topic of the budding essay were to connect the overinflated and self-absorbed traits of Dee to her mother's offended reactions. A resulting central idea might be "People may unintentionally offend even those who are most dear." Such an argument would require you to consider not only the personal but also the representative nature of Dee's actions in "Everyday Use," an avenue of exploration that could produce much in the way of a fresh and original essay. You might also develop your ability to treat a subject originally if you plan to develop your essay around what you think is the most important and perceptive idea. As examples of such planning, the following brief list suggests how a central idea can be widened and expanded: ARGUMENT: Mrs. Johnson Grows as a Character in "Everyday Use" 1. During her lifetime, she has had to overcome difficulties. 2. Although she knows that her daughter Dee can be annoying, she looks for¬ ward to Dee's visit. 3. When Dee demands the quilts, Mrs. Johnson has entirely new feelings, and rejects Dee's demand by giving the quilts to Maggie. The list shows how you can enlarge a subject if you treat your exemplifying details in an increasing order of importance. In this case, the order moves from the difficulties in Mrs. Johnson's life to her new feelings about the daughter who has always been on top at everything. The pattern shows how you can meet two pri¬ mary standards of excellence in writing—organization and growth.

48

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Clearly, you should always try to develop your central idea or argument. Con¬ stantly adhere to your topic, and constantly develop it. Nurture it and make it grow. In a short essay, or even shorter paragraph, you will obviously be able to move only a short distance with an idea or argument, but you should never be sat¬ isfied to leave the idea exactly where you found it. To the degree that you can learn to develop your ideas, you will receive recognition for increasingly original writing.

Writing with Specific Readers as Your Intended Audience Whenever you write, you must decide how much detail to include for discussion. Usually you base this decision on a judgment of your readers. For example, if you assume that they have not read the work, you will need to include a short summary as background. Otherwise, they may not understand your argument. Consider, too, whether your readers have any special interests or concerns. If they are particularly interested in politics, psychology, or history, for example, you may need to select and develop your materials along one of these lines. Your instructor will let you know who your audience is. Usually, it will be your fellow students. They will be familiar with the work and will not expect you to retell a story or summarize an argument. Rather, they will want you to explain and interpret the work in the light of your main assertions about it. Thus, you can omit details that do not exemplify and support your argument, even if these details are important parts of the work. What you write should always be based on your developing idea together with an assessment of your readers.

Use Exact, Comprehensive, and Forceful Language In addition to being original, organized, and well developed, the best writing is exact, comprehensive, and forceful. At any stage of the composition process, you should always think about improving your earliest sentences and paragraphs, which usually need to be rethought, reworded, and rearranged. Try to make each sentence meaningful. First, ask yourself whether your sen¬ tences mean what you really intend, or whether you can make them more exact and therefore stronger. For example, consider these two sentences from essays about "Everyday Use": 1. It seems as though the main character's feelings about her daughter Dee cause her to respond as she does in the story. 2. This incident, although it may seem trivial or unimportant, has substantial signifi¬ cance in the creation of the story; by this I mean the incident that occurred is essen¬ tially what the story is all about.

These sentences are inexact and vague and therefore are unhelpful. Neither of them goes anywhere. Sentence 1 is satisfactory up to the verb cause, but then it falls apart because the writer has lost sight of an argumentative or thematic pur¬ pose. It would be better to describe what the response is rather than to say nothing more than that some kind of response exists. To make the sentence more exact, we might try the following revision.

Completing the Essay: Developing and Strengthening Your Essay Through Revision

49

Mrs. Johnson's feelings about her daughter Dee go through a shift in the story, from being in awe to being offended and angry.

With this revision, the writer could readily go on to consider the relationship of the early part of the story to the later parts. Without the revision, it is not clear where the writer might go. Sentence 2 is vague because the writer has lost all contact with the main thread of argument. If we adopt the principle of trying to be exact, however, we can create more meaning and more promise: Mrs. Johnson's denial of Dee's demand for the quilts, which may seem trivial or unim¬ portant, is the story's major incident because it brings the simmering mother-daughter antagonism to a head and leads immediately to Dee's departure.

In addition to working for exactness, try to make sentences—all sentences, but particularly thesis and topic sentences—complete and comprehensive. Con¬ sider the following sentence: The idea in "Everyday Use" is that Mrs. Johnson has promised the quilts to Maggie, for her use when she marries John Thomas.

Although this sentence promises to describe an idea, it does no more than state one of the story's major actions. It needs additional rethinking and rephrasing to enable it to lead to further development, as in these two revisions: 1. Walker's rapid ending of "Everyday Use" symbolizes the personal and psychologi¬ cal importance of family objects and traditions. 2. In "Everyday Use" Walker brings out the need for keeping family things within a central home, as a way of preserving the memory of parents and relatives.

Both new sentences are connected to the action described by the original phrasing, "Mrs. Johnson has promised the quilts to Maggie, for her use when she marries John Thomas," although they point toward differing treatments. A key word in the first sentence is symbolizes, and an essay or paragraph stemming from it would stress the significance of the objects in Mrs. Johnson's extended family, both past and future. The writer would emphasize that the butter churn and the quilts are unifying symbols, and that Mrs. Johnson's refusal of the quilts to Dee might be taken to show her wish to keep her family heritage intact. Comparably, the second sentence concerns the need for preserving family things even when members of the family may become dispersed. Both of the revised sentences, therefore, are more comprehensive than the original sentence and thus would help the writer get on the track toward a thoughtful and analytical composition. Of course, creating fine sentences is not easy, and never will be easy, no matter how often you write. As a mode of improvement, however, you might use some self-testing mechanisms: • For story materials. Always relate the materials to a point or argument. Do not say simply, "Mrs. Johnson has worked hard for most of her life," and nothing else. Instead, blend the material into a point, like this: "Mrs. Johnson's lifelong

50

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

efforts have enabled her to preserve her home that contains the memories of her people, both present and past," or "The fire that destroyed Mrs. Johnson's previ¬ ous home makes her realize the importance of keeping family things together." • For responses and impressions. Do not say simply, "The story's ending left me with a definite impression." What are you giving your readers with a sentence like this? They want to know what your impression is, and therefore you need to describe it, as in the following: "The story's ending surprised me and also made me sympathetic to the major character," or "The story's ending struck me with the idea that life is unpredictable and unfair." • For ideas. Make the idea clear and direct. Do not say, "Mrs. Johnson lives in a poor household," but rather refer to the story to bring out an idea, as follows: "Mrs. Johnson's story shows that great character strength is needed to over¬ come poverty." • For critical commentary. Do not be satisfied with a statement such as "I found 'Everyday Use' interesting." What does a comment like this tell you? Instead, try to describe what was interesting and why it was interesting, as in this sen¬ tence: "'Everyday Use' is an interesting story because it shows how good peo¬ ple may overcome difficulty despite the handicap of being poor." Good writing begins with attempts, like these, to rephrase sentences to make them really say something. If you always name and pin down descriptions, responses, and judgments, no matter how difficult that job may seem, your sen¬ tences can be strong and forceful because you will be making them exact and comprehensive.

Illustrative Student Essay (Improved Draft) If you refer again to the first essay about the character Dee in Walker's "Every¬ day Use" (pp. 40-42), you might observe that more thought and revision would make for improvements. Most notable is the fourth paragraph, which concerns Dee's lack of concern for others. The point is developed adequately, but something is missing, for in fact this quality of selfishness is the most im¬ portant aspect of Dee's character. There is in fact a need for more detail and dis¬ cussion about this quality, particularly to stress the relationship of the central idea to the topics of the various paragraphs. A new paragraph is in order, and this is therefore included in the following reworking of the first essay. In addi¬ tion, in the reworking of the first essay, there are a few major revisions and re¬ visions throughout, most of them in the first and last paragraphs. Remember that new thought and revision are never untimely or out of order anywhere in a composition. Within the limits of a short assignment, the following essay il¬ lustrates all the principles of organization and unity that we have been dis¬ cussing here.

Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Illustrative Student Essay (Improved Draft)

51

Deal 1 James Deal Professor Smith English 102 12 March 2011 Mrs. Johnson’s Overly Self-Assured Daughter, Dee, in Alice Walker’s “Everyday Use” In “Everyday Use,” Walker presents her four major characters vividly—

[i]

Mrs. Johnson (the narrator). Dee, Maggie, and Asalamalakim. The narrator, Mrs. Johnson, describes herself fully, well enough to give readers a strong understanding of what she is like. Even more vivid and unusual, however, is the presentation of the older daughter. Dee, who is coming back home for a visit after having been away at college and elsewhere for a number of years. Those waiting at home might at first think that Dee is like a returning heroine, but as the story progresses she seems less heroic and more arbitrary. Walker uses ordinary, everyday details to show her overly self-assured character.* All descriptions of her in the story are presented to bring out this quality. Her overly self-assured nature is shown by her dress and jewelry, her passion for home decoration, her demands for some of the Johnson family’s homemade things, and her sense of putting herself before others.!' Dee’s way of dressing shows the more positive side of her self assurance. She obviously dresses to be noticed, and she self-confidently attracts attention through her colorful clothes. Her “loud” dress—about which Mrs. Johnson says “I like it”—goes “down to the ground,” and makes her seem almost flowing as she walks (8-9). Her earrings hang “to her shoulders,” and her dangling bracelets make a distinct noise when she moves her arms. Even her hair shows her self-confidence, for it has been made to stand “straight up” like “wool on a sheep,” and her two long pigtails are fixed to “rope about like small lizards” (9). A shy and retiring woman would not draw attention to

*Central idea fThesis sentence

[2]

52

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Deal 2 herself in this way, but Dee, with strongly positive views about herself, clamors \

to be seen and noticed. [3]

Dee’s praise of some of the things in the family home, however, seem genuinely to indicate her sense of home decoration and also her sense of heritage. When she praises the kitchen benches that “her daddy made” at some time in the past, she speaks respectfully and enthusiastically, and it therefore seems reasonable that she would want to have something as a keepsake (10). Her picking the churn top from the family butter-churn, together with the churn’s dasher, therefore is natural, because they were whittled by Uncle Buddy and by Stash, who were family members, but who are now gone. It is fair to say that her wishes for these things show that she is capable of being respectful and likable.

[4]

But Dee’s demands to take the homemade quilts away show that her self assurance causes her to be unconcerned for others. When she first speaks of the now dead women in the family who made the quilts, she seems to deny their importance (8-9). And so her desire for the two quilts is contradictory. Her wish for the quilts is positive, but her demand for them is negative, because it leads to the story’s major conflict. Maybe she doesn't know that Mrs. Johnson had promised to give the quilts to Maggie, the bashful and quiet sister, but by her demand Dee antagonizes her mother. Mrs. Johnson sees Dee’s self-assurance in this conflict as selfishness that has reached the point of hatred (12), and thus Dee provokes Mrs. Johnson’s justifiable anger. There is an additional aspect of Dee's selfish attitude about the quilts.

[5]

When she first appears she tells her mother, who is seated, not to get up (9). Without further greeting, she gets her Polaroid camera and then takes pictures of the house and surrounding things, including cows, as though it is more important to put things into photographs than to experience the love and happiness of being home again with her mother and sister.

Illustrative Student Essay (Improved Draft)

53

Deal 3 This is definitely strange. Although Dee is delighted with everything at dinner, it is quickly clear that she thinks of her past life as little more than a memory. She therefore talks about what she can take away for herself as a memory, and she tells her mother, “I knew there was something I wanted to ask you if I could have” (10). The height of her lack of interest in her own family is her declaration that the quilts should not be for “everyday use” in current, living time, even though they had originally been made for that purpose. Instead, Dee tries to insist on her own way: she wants to display the quilts on a wall, along with parts of the butter-churn (12). When she goes away after being rejected, she tells Maggie to “make something” of herself, in this way showing her idea that Maggie’s life is irrelevant to the “new day” that she and Asalamalakim have accepted (13). In short, Dee does not recognize that it is important to live life as a balance of future and past, because the past is not dead, but is still as alive as the useful quilts and butter-churn. The dramatic development of the story hinges on Dee’s sense of wanting things for herself, without concern for others. Her return home could have been the subject of a story about a happy and joyful reunion. But almost immediately Dee seems to be unconcerned about her mother and sister, and about the heritage she claims to value at the story’s end. Her denial of her birth name is an outright insult to her mother, and throughout the story she speaks negatively about the circumstances of home. When the family enjoys their meal together, Dee seems civil, and happy, but almost immediately she makes demands that run counter to the life of her mother and sister. Mrs. Johnson and Maggie do not put Dee’s contradiction into words, but they do react to the hostility of her wishes, and their relief after she has gone enables the two of them to spend the evening “just enjoying” until bedtime (13).

[61

54

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Deal 4 Work Cited \

Walker, Alice. “Everyday Use.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V. Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed.

New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 6-13. Print.

Commentary on the Essay

,

___

Several improvements to the first version may be seen here. Some of the sentences of the first paragraph have been revised to lay out more clearly the situation of Dee's return to the family home. In addition, the thesis sentence at the paragraph's end has been revised to include the additional material to be included in the new fifth paragraph. Other verbal changes in the essay have been made for a similar purpose. Paragraph 5—not present in the earlier version, and new in the improved draft—includes additional details about how Dee, literally from the start of her visit, exhibits the pride and indifference to her mother and sister that is apparent after she makes her demand for the quilts. In short, the second version shows the continuity of Dee's character throughout "Everyday Use" more fully than the first draft, and it therefore is the most important part of the essay. Because the writer has revised the first-draft ideas about the story, the final essay is more tightly structured, insightful, and forceful.

Essay Commentaries Throughout this book, the illustrative essays and paragraphs are followed by short commentaries that show how the essays embody the chapter instructions and guidelines. For each essay that has a number of possible approaches, the com¬ mentary points out which one is used, and when an essay uses two or more approaches, the commentary makes this fact clear. In addition, each commentary singles out one of the paragraphs for more detailed analysis of its argument and use of detail. The commentaries will hence help you develop the insights neces¬ sary to use the essays as aids in your own study and writing.

A Summary of Guidelines To sum up, follow these guidelines whenever you write about stories, poems, and plays: • Do not simply retell the story or summarize the work. Bring in story materials only when you can use them as support for your central idea or argument.

Writing Topics About the Writing Process

• • • • •

55

Throughout your essay, keep reminding your reader of your central idea. Within each paragraph, make sure that you stress your topic idea. Develop your subject. Make it bigger than it was when you began. Always make your statements exact, comprehensive, and forceful. And this bears repeating: Do not simply retell the story or summarize the work.

Writing Topics About the Writing Process 1. Write a brainstorming paragraph on the topic of anything in a literary work that you find especially good or interesting. Write as the thoughts occur to you; do not slow yourself down in an effort to make your writing seem per¬ fect. You can make corrections and improvements later. 2. Using marginal and notebook notations, together with any additional thoughts, describe the way in which the author of a particular work has expressed important ideas and difficulties. 3. Create a plus-minus table to list your responses about a character or ideas in a work. 4. Raise questions about the actions of characters in a story or play in order to determine the various customs and manners of the society out of which the work is derived. 5. Analyze and explain the way in which the conflicts in a story or play are developed. What pattern or patterns do you find? Determine the relationship of the conflicts to the work's development, and fashion your idea of this rela¬ tionship as an argument for a potential essay.

6. Basing your ideas on your marginal and notebook notations, select an idea and develop a thesis sentence from it, using your idea and a list of possible topics for an argument or central idea for an essay. 7. Using the thesis sentence you write for Exercise 6, develop a brief analytical sentence outline that could help you in writing a full essay.

A Short Guide to Using Quotations and Making References in Essays About Literature In establishing evidence for the points you make in your essays and essay exami¬ nations, you constantly need to refer to various parts of stories, plays, and poems. You also need to include shorter and longer quotations and keep the time sequences straight within the works you are writing about. In addition, you may need to refer to biographical and historical details that have a bearing on the work or works you are studying. So that your own writing may flow as accurately and naturally as possible, you must be able to integrate these references and distinc¬ tions of time clearly and easily.

Integrate Passages and Ideas into Your Essay Your essays should reflect your own thought as you study and analyze the charac¬ teristics, ideas, and qualities of an author's work. In a typical discussion of litera¬ ture, you constantly need to introduce brief summaries, quotations, general interpretations, observations, and independent applications of everything you are discussing. It is not easy to keep these various elements integrated and to keep confusion from arising.

Distinguish Your Own Thoughts from Those of Your Author Often a major problem is that it is hard for readers to figure out when your ideas have stopped and your author's have begun. You must therefore arrange your sen¬ tences to make the distinctions clear, but you must also blend your materials so that your reader may follow you easily. Let us look at an example of how such problems may be handled. Here, the writer being discussed is the Victorian poet Matthew Arnold (1822-1888). The passage moves from reference to Arnold's ideas to the essay writer's independent application of the ideas. [1] In his poem "Dover Beach," Arnold states that in past times religious faith was accepted as absolute truth. [2] To symbolize this idea he refers to the ocean, which sur¬ rounds all land, and the surf, which constantly rushes onto the earth's shores. [3] According to this symbolism, religious ideas are as vast as the ocean and as regular as the surf, and these ideas at one time constantly and irresistibly replenished people's lives. [4] Arnold's symbol of the flowing ocean changes, however, to a symbol of the ebbing ocean, thus illustrating his idea that belief and religious certainty were falling 56

Blend Quotations into Your Own Sentences

57

away. [5] It is this personal sense of spiritual emptiness that Arnold is associating with his own times, because what he describes, in keeping with the symbolism, is that in the present time the "drear" shoreline has been left vacant by the "melancholy long with¬ drawing roar" of retreat and reduction (lines 25-27).

This example paragraph combines but also separates paraphrase, interpretation, and quotation, and it thereby eliminates any possible confusion about the origin of the ideas and also about who is saying what. In the first three sentences the writer uses the phrases "Arnold states," "To symbolize this idea," and "According to this symbolism," to show clearly that interpretation is to follow. Although the fourth sentence marks a new direction of Arnold's ideas, it continues to separate restatement from interpretation. The fifth sentence indicates, through the phrase "in keeping with the symbolism," what the writer's judgment is about the major idea of "Dover Beach."

Integrate Material by Using Quotation Marks It is often necessary, and also interesting, to use short quotations from your author to illustrate and reinforce your ideas and interpretations. Here the problem of sep¬ arating your thoughts from the author's is solved by quotation marks. In such an internal quotation, you may treat prose and poetry in the same way. If a poetic quotation extends from the end of one line to the beginning of another, however, indicate the line break with a virgule ( / ), and use a capital letter to begin the next line, as in the following discussion of "Lines Written in Early Spring" by William Wordsworth (1770-1850): In "Lines Written in Early Spring" Wordsworth describes a condition in which his speaker is united with the surrounding natural world. Nature is a combination of the "thousand blended notes" of joyful birds (line 1), the sights of "budding twigs" (17), and the "periwinkle" (10). In the exact words of the speaker, these "fair works" directly "link/The human soul that through me ran" (5-6).

Blend Quotations into Your Own Sentences The use of internal quotations still creates the problem of blending materials, how¬ ever, for quotations should never be brought in unless you prepare your reader for them in some way. Do not, for example, use quotations in the following manner: Wordsworth states that his woodland grove is filled with the sounds of birds, the sights of flowers, and the feeling of the light wind, making for the thought that crea¬ tures of the natural world take pleasure in life. "The birds around me hopped and played."

This abrupt quotation throws the reader off balance because it is not blended into the previous sentence. It is necessary to prepare the reader to move from your dis¬ cussion to the quotation, as in the following revision:

58

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Wordsworth claims that his woodland scene is made joyful by the surrounding flow¬ ers and the gentle breeze, causing his speaker to say that "The birds around me hopped and played." From this joyful scene, his conclusion is that the natural world has resulted from a "holy plan" created by Nature. V

Here the quotation is made an actual part of the first sentence. This sort of blend¬ ing is satisfactory, provided that the quotation is brief.

Indent and Block Long Quotations You can follow a general rule for incorporating quotations in your writing: Do not quote within a sentence any passage longer than twenty or twenty-five words (con¬ sult your instructor, because the allowable number of words may vary). Quotations of greater length demand so much separate attention that they interrupt your own sentence and make it difficult if not impossible to understand what you have said. It is possible but not desirable to conclude one of your sentences with a quotation, but you should never make an extensive quotation in the middle of a sentence. By the time you finish such an unwieldy sentence, your reader will have forgotten how it began, and how can that be clear writing? When your quotation is long, you should make a point of introducing it and setting it off separately as a block. The physical layout of block quotations should be this: Start the block quota¬ tion on a new line. Double-space the quotation (like the rest of your essay), and in¬ dent it five spaces from your left margin to distinguish it from your own writing. You might use fewer spaces for longer lines of poetry, but the standard should al¬ ways be to create a balanced, neat page. After the quotation, begin a new line, and resume your own discourse. Here is a specimen, from an essay about Wordsworth's "Lines Written in Early Spring": In "Lines Written in Early Spring" Wordsworth develops an idea that the world of nature is linked directly to the moral human consciousness. He speaks of no religious systems or books of moral values. Instead, he derives his ideas directly from his expe¬ rience, assuming that the world was made for the joy of the living creatures in it, including human beings ("man"), and that anyone disturbing that power of joy is vio¬ lating "Nature's holy plan" itself. Wordsworth's moral criticism, in other words, is derived from his faith in the integrity of creation: If this belief from heaven be sent. If such be Nature's holy plan. Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? (lines 21-24) The concept that morality and life are joined is the most interesting and engaging as¬ pect of the poem. It seems to encourage a live-and-let-live attitude toward others, how¬ ever, not an active program of direct outreach and help.

When quoting lines of poetry, always remember to quote them as lines. Do not run them together as though they were continuous prose. When you create such block quotations, as in the preceding example, you do not need quotation marks.

Use Square Brackets to Enclose Words That You Add Within Quotations

59

Today, computer usage has become the established means of preparing papers, and therefore computer styling has become prominent in the handling of the matters discussed here. If you have style features in your menu, such as "Poem Text" or "Quotation," each of which sets block quotations apart from "Normal" text, you may certainly make use of these features. Be sure to explain to your instructor what you are doing, however, to make sure that your computer's features correspond to the styles that are required for your class.

Use Ellipses to Show Omissions Whether your quotation is long or short, you will often need to change some of the material in it to conform to your own sentence requirements. You might wish to omit something from the quotation that is not essential to your point or to the flow of your sentence. Indicate such omissions with ellipses (three spaced periods), as follows (from an essay about the story "A Worn Path" by Eudora Welty (1909-2001): Welty introduces Phoenix as an aging and impoverished but also lovely and delicate woman. Phoenix's dress, which reaches to "her shoe tops," is protected by a "long apron of bleached sugar sacks." Her skin has "a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles, . . . but a golden color ran underneath." Nevertheless, her hair is shaped "in the frailest of ringlets,... with an odor like copper."

If your quotation is very brief, however, do not use ellipses because they might be more distracting than helpful. For example, do not use ellipses in a quotation like this: Keats asserts that "... a thing of beauty ..." always gives joy.

Instead, make your quotation without the ellipses: Keats asserts that "a thing of beauty" always gives joy

Use Square Brackets to Enclose Words That You Add Within Quotations

_

If you add words of your own to integrate the quotation into your own train of discourse or to explain words that may seem obscure, put square brackets around these words, as in the following passage: In "Lines Written in Early Spring," Wordsworth refers to a past experience of extreme happiness, in which Nature seemed to "link / The human soul that through . . . [him] ran." He is describing a state of mystical awareness in which "pleasant thoughts / Bring [him] sad thoughts," and make him "lament" moral and political cruelty (lines 2-8).

60

The Process of Reading, Responding to, and Writing About Literature

Do Not Overquote A word of caution: Do not use too many quotations. You will be judged on your own thought and on the continuity and development of your own essay. It is tempting to include many quotations on the theory that you need to use examples from the text to illustrate and support your ideas. Naturally it is important to introduce examples, but realize that too many quotations can disturb the flow of your own thought. If your essay consists of many illustrations linked together by no more than your introductory sentences, how much thinking have you actually shown? Try, therefore, to create your own discussion, using appropriate examples to con¬ nect your thoughts to the text or texts you are analyzing.

Preserve the Spellings in Your Sources Always reproduce your source exactly. Sometimes the works of British authors may include words like tyre, defence, honour, and labour. Duplicate these as you find them. Although most anthologies, such as this one, modernize the spelling of older writers, you may often encounter "old-spelling" editions in which all words—such as entring, Shew, beautie, ore (for "over"), zuitte (for "wit"), specifick, 'twas, guaranty (for "guarantee"), or determin'd—are spelled and capitalized exactly as they were centuries ago. Your principle should be to duplicate everything exactly as you find it, even if this means spelling words like achieve as atchieve, music as Musick, or joke as joak. A student once changed the word an to "and" in the con¬ struction "an I were" in a Shakespeare play. The result was misleading, because in introductory clauses of this type, an really meant if (or and if) and not and. Difficul¬ ties like this one are rare, but you can avoid them if you reproduce the text as you find it. Should you think that something is either misspelled or confusing as it stands, you may do one of two things: 1. Clarify or correct the confusing word or phrase within brackets, as in the following: In 1714, fencing was considered a "Gentlemany [i.e., gentlemanly] subject."

2. Use the word sic (Latin for thus, meaning "It is this way in the text") in brack¬ ets immediately after the problematic word or obvious mistake: He was just "finning [sic] his way back to health" when the next disaster struck.

Part II

Reading and Writing About Fiction

Chapter 1 Fiction: An Overview

F

iction originally meant anything made up or shaped. As we understand the word today, it refers to short or long prose stories—and it has retained this meaning since 1599, the first year for which we have a record for it in print. Fiction is distinguished from the works it imitates, such as historical accounts, reports, biographies, autobiographies, letters, and personal memoirs and meditations. Although fiction often resembles these forms, it has a separate identity because it originates not in historical facts but in the imaginative and creative powers of the author. Writers of fiction may include historically accurate details, but their overriding goal is to tell a story and say something significant about life. The essence of fiction, as opposed to drama, is narration, the recounting or telling of a sequence of events or actions. The earliest works of fiction relied almost exclusively on narration, with speeches or dialogue being reported rather than quoted directly. Much recent fiction includes extended passages of dialogue, thereby becoming more dramatic even though narration is still the primary mode. Fiction is rooted in ancient legends and myths. Local priests told stories about their gods and heroes, as shown in some of the narratives of ancient Egypt. In the course of history, traveling storytellers would appear in a court or village to entertain listeners with tales of adventure in faraway countries. Although many of these were fictionalized accounts of events and people who may not ever have existed, they were largely accepted as fact or history. An especially long tale, an epic, was recited during a period of days. To aid their memories and to impress and entertain their listeners, the storytellers chanted their tales in poetry, often accompanying themselves on a stringed instrument. Legends and epics also reinforced the local religions and power structures. Myths of gods like Zeus and Athena (Greece), Jupiter and Minerva (Rome), and Baal and Ishtar (Mesopotamia) abounded, together with stories of famous men and women like Achilles, Aeneas, Atalanta, David, Helen of Troy, Hercules, Joseph, Odysseus, Oedi¬ pus, Penelope, Ruth, Romulus and Remus, and Utu-Napishtim.The ancient Macedon¬ ian king and general Alexander the Great (356-323 bce) developed many of his ideas about nobility and valor from The Iliad, Homer’s epic about the Trojan War—and, we might add, from discussing the epic with his tutor, the philosopher Aristotle. Perhaps nowhere is the moral-instructive aspect of ancient storytelling better illus¬ trated than in the fables of Aesop, a Greek who probably wrote in the sixth century bce, and in the parables of Jesus as told in the Gospels of the New Testament (see Chapter 7). In these works, a short narrative provides an illustration of a religious, philosophic, or psychological conclusion. Starting about eight hundred years ago, storytelling in Western civilization was developed to a fine art by writers such as Marie de France, a Frenchwoman who wrote 62

Modern Fiction

63

in England near the end of the twelfth century, Giovanni Boccaccio (Italian, 1313-1375), and Geoffrey Chaucer (English, c. 1340-1400). William Shakespeare (1564-1616) drew heavily on history and legend for the stories and characters in his plays.

Modern Fiction Fiction as we understand the word today did not begin to spread until the seven¬ teenth and eighteenth centuries, when changes in the idea of human nature began to develop. For many centuries the belief prevailed that human beings were in a fallen moral state—a state of "total depravity"—and that by themselves they needed the controlling hands of church and monarchy to keep them moral, peaceful, and pious. During the Renaissance, however, thinkers began to claim that humanity should be viewed within a perspective of greater and broader latitude. Some peo¬ ple were fallen, yes, but many others were not; and they could become moral through their own efforts without the control of political and moral authorities. It was this analysis that provided the foundation for the development of the demo¬ cratic theory of government that has been accepted in much of modern society. In literature, it thus became possible to view human beings of all social posi¬ tions and ways of life as important literary topics. As one writer put it in 1709, human nature is by no means simple, for it is governed by many complex motives such as "passion, humor, caprice, zeal, faction, and a thousand other springs."1 Observations such as this were the basis of the individual and psychological con¬ cerns that characterize fiction today. Indeed, fiction is strong because it is so real and personal. Characters have both first and last names; the countries and cities in which they live are visualized as real places, with real influences on the inhabitants; and their actions and interactions are like those that readers themselves have expe¬ rienced, could experience, or could readily imagine themselves experiencing. Along with attention to character, fiction is also concerned with the signifi¬ cance of place or environment on the lives of people. In the simplest sense, location is a backdrop or setting within which characters speak, move, and act. But more broadly, environment comprises the social, economic, and political conditions that affect the outcomes of people's lives. Fiction is primarily about the interactions among people, but it also involves these larger interactions—either directly or indi¬ rectly. Indeed, a typical work of fiction includes many forces, both small and large, that influence the ways in which characters meet and deal with their problems. The first true works of fiction in Europe, however, were less concerned with society or politics than adventure. These were the lengthy Spanish and French romances of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In English the word novel was borrowed from French and Italian to describe these works and to distinguish them from medieval and classical romances as something that was new (the mean¬ ing of novel). In England the word story was used along with novel in reference to the new literary form. The increased levels of education and literacy in the eighteenth century encour¬ aged the development of fiction. During the times of Shakespeare (1564-1616) and 'Anthony Ashley Cooper, Third Earl of Shaftesbury, “Sensus Communis,” Ill, 3.

64

CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

John Dryden (1631-1700), the only way a writer could make a living from writing was either to be a member of the nobility or have an allowance from a member of the nobility, or else to have a play accepted at a theater and then receive either a direct payment or the proceeds of an "author's benefit." The paying audiences, however, were limited to people who lived within a short distance of the theater or who had the money and free time to stay in town and attend the plays during the theater season. Once great numbers of people could read for themselves, the paying audience for literature expanded. A writer could write a novel and receive money for it from a publisher, who would then profit from a wide sale. Readers could start reading the book when they wished, and they would finish it when it was conven¬ ient to do so. Reading a novel could even be a social event, for people would gather together and read to each other as a means of sharing the reading experi¬ ence. Quite often, as tastes for fiction developed, the writers would publish monthly installments of their novels. When the mail brought these new episodes and chapters, the principal activity would quickly focus on circles of listeners, who would listen eagerly while a fluent and spirited reader would bring the sto¬ ries to life. Often these episodes would extend for many months, and the fiction¬ consuming public would discuss the latest experiences and try to guess what would happen next. With this wider audience of people whom authors would never see or know, it became possible for writers to develop a profitable career out of their trade. Lengthy fictional stories had arrived as a major genre of literature.

The Short Story Because novels were long, they took a long time to read—hours, days, even weeks. The early nineteenth-century American writer Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) addressed this problem and developed a theory of the short story, which he described in a review of Nathaniel Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales. Poe was convinced that "worldly interests" prevented people from gaining the "total¬ ity" of comprehension and response that he believed reading should provide. A short, concentrated story (he called it "a brief prose tale" that could be read at a single sitting) was ideal for producing such a strong impression. In the wake of the taste for short fiction after Poe, many writers have worked in the form. Today, stories are printed in many magazines, such as Harper's Maga¬ zine, The Atlantic, and Zoetrope, and in many collections, such as American Short Story Masterpieces. Some of the better-established writers—William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Shirley Jackson, Flannery O'Connor, Joyce Carol Oates, John Updike, Alice Walker, and Eudora Welty, to name only a small number—were able to publish their stories in separate volumes.

Elements of Fiction I: Verisimilitude and Donnee Fiction, along with drama, has a basis in realism or verisimilitude. That is, the situations or characters, although they are the invention of writers, are similar to those that many human beings experience, know, or think. Even fantasy, the

Elements of Fiction I: Verisimilitude and Donnee

65

creation of events that are dreamlike or fantastic, is based in the real world, however remotely. This connection of art and life has led some critics to label fiction, and also drama, as an art of imitation. Shakespeare's Hamlet states that an actor attempts to portray real human beings in realistic situations (to "hold a mirror up to Nature"). The same may also be said about writers of fiction, with the clarification that reality is not easily defined and that authors can follow many paths in imitating it. What matters in fiction is the way in which authors establish the ground rules for their works, whether with realistic or nonrealistic characters, places, actions, and physical and chemical laws. The assumption that authors make about the nature of their story material is called a postulate or a premise—what the American nov¬ elist Henry James called a donnee (something given). The donnee of some stories is to resemble the everyday world as much as possible. Eudora Welty's "A Worn Path" (Chapter 5) is such a story. In it we follow the difficult walk of an elderly woman as she goes from home to a medical office in Natchez, Mississippi, and we also learn of the virtual hopelessness of her mission. The events of the story are not uncommon; they could happen in life just as Welty presents them. Once a donnee is established, it governs the directions in which the story moves. Jackson's "The Lottery" (Chapter 2), for example, contains a premise or donnee that may be phrased like this: "Suppose that a small, ordinary town held a lottery in which the prize was not something good but instead was something bad." Everything in Jackson's story follows from this premise. At first we seem to be reading about innocent actions in a rural American community. By the end, however, in accord with the premise, the story enters the realm of nightmare. In such ways authors may lead us into remote, fanciful, and symbolic levels of reality, as in Gilman's "The Yellow Wallpaper" (Chapter 9), in which we readers become drawn in to the disoriented world of a narrator who has totally lost her grip on the reality of the situations around her. Literally nothing is out of bounds as long as the author makes clear the premise for the action. Scenes and actions such as these, which are not realistic in our ordinary sense of the word, are normal in stories as long as they follow the author's own stated or implied ground rules. You may always judge a work by the standard of whether it is consistent with the premise, or the donnee, created by the writer. In addition to referring to various levels of reality, the word donnee may also be taken more broadly, ho futuristic and science fiction, for example, there is an assumption or donnee of certain situations and technological developments (e.g., interstellar space travel) that are not presently in existence. In a love story, the donnee is that two people meet and overcome an obstacle of some sort (usually not a serious one) on the way to fulfilling their love. Interesting variations of the love story are James Joyce's "Araby" (Chapter 4) and D. H. Lawrence's "The Horse Dealer's Daughter" (Chapter 8). There are, of course, other types. A growth or apprenticeship story, for example, is about the development of a major character, such as Jackie in Lrank O'Connor's "Lirst Confession" (Chapter 6). In the detective story, a mysterious event is presented, and then an individual draws conclusions from the available evidence, as in Susan Glaspell's "A Jury of Her Peers" (Chapter 3), in which the correct detective work is done by two women, not by the legally authorized police investigators. In addition to setting levels of reality and fictional types, authors may use other controls or springboards as their donnees. Sometimes an initial situation may

66

CHAPTER 1 » Fiction: An Overview

be the springboard of the narrative, such as the at-first unidentified man standing "upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama" in Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (p. 83). Or the key may be a pattern of behavior, such as the boy's reactions to the people around him in O'Connor's "First Confession," or the solu¬ tion of a mystery about a community icon, as in Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily." A shaping force, or donnee, always guides the actions, and often a number of such controls operate at the same time.

Elements of Fiction II: Character, Plot, Structure, and Idea or Theme Works of fiction share a number of common elements. For reference here, the more significant ones are character, plot, structure, and idea or theme.

Character Brings Fiction to Life Stories, like plays, are about characters, who are not real people but who are nev¬ ertheless like real people. A character may be defined as a reasonable representa¬ tion of a human being, with all the good and bad traits of being human. Most stories are concerned with characters who are facing a major problem that devel¬ ops from misunderstanding, misinformation, unfocused ideals and goals, difficult situations, troubled relationships, and generally challenging situations. The char¬ acters may win, lose, or tie. They may learn and be the better for the experience or may miss the point and be unchanged. As we have stated, modern fiction has accompanied the development of a psy¬ chological interest in human beings. Psychology itself has grown out of the philo¬ sophical and religious idea that people have many inborn qualities—some of them good and others bad. People encounter many problems in their lives, and they make many mistakes; they expend much effort in coping and adjusting. But they nevertheless are important and interesting and are therefore worth writing about, whether male or female; young or old; white, black, tan, or yellow; rich or poor; worker or industrialist; traveler or resident; doctor, librarian, mother, daughter, homemaker, prince, ship captain, bartender, or army lieutenant. The range of fictional characters is vast: A married couple struggling to repay an enormous debt, a young man learning about the nature of his desires, a woman re¬ calling many conflicts with her mother, two close relatives considering the loss of their past, a woman surrounded by her insensitive and self-seeking brothers, a man making triumphs out of his blunders, an unmarried couple dealing with the serious issue of what to do about the possibility of future childbirth, a woman feverishly rec¬ ollecting her long experience without a man whom she had loved—all these, and more, may be found in fiction just as they may also be found in all levels and condi¬ tions of life. Because we all share the same capacities for concern, involvement, sym¬ pathy, happiness, sorrow, exhilaration, and disappointment, we are able to find endless interest in such characters and their ways of coping with their circumstances.

Elements of Fiction II: Character, Plot, Structure, and Idea or Theme

Plot Is the Plan of Fiction

__

67

> ■_______

Fictional characters, who are drawn from life, go through a series of lifelike actions or incidents, which make up the story. In a well-done story, all the actions or incidents, speeches, thoughts, and observations are linked together to make up an entirety, sometimes called an organic unity. The essence of this unity is the development and resolution of a conflict—or conflicts—in which the protagonist, or central character, is engaged. The interactions of causes and effects as they develop sequentially or chronologically make up the story's plot. (See the section on writing on pp. 110-118.) That is, a story's actions follow one another in time as the protagonist meets and tries to overcome opposing forces. Sometimes plot has been compared to a story's map, scheme, or blueprint. Often the protagonist's struggle is directed against another character—an antagonist. Just as often, however, the struggle may occur between the protago¬ nist and opposing groups, forces, ideas, and choices—all of which make up a col¬ lective antagonist. The conflict may be carried out wherever human beings spend their lives, such as a kitchen, a hotel, a railway station bar, a restaurant, a town square, a schoolroom, an ordinary living room, a church, an exclusive store, a vacation resort, a cafe, or a battlefield. The conflict may also take place internally, within the mind of the protagonist.

Structure Is the Knitting Together of Fiction Structure refers to the way a story is put together according to some sort of plan. Chronologically, all stories are similar because they move from beginning to end in accord with the time needed for causes to produce effects. But authors choose many different ways to put their stories together. Some stories are told in straight¬ forward sequential order, and a description of the plot of such stories is identical to a description of the structure. Other stories, however, may get pieced together through out-of-sequence and widely separated episodes, speeches, secondhand reports, vague recollections, accidental discoveries, dreams, nightmares, periods of insanity, fragments of letters, overheard conversations, and the like. In such sto¬ ries, the plot and the structure diverge widely. Therefore, in dealing with the struc¬ ture of stories, we emphasize not chronological order but the actual arrangement and development of the stories as they unfold, part by part. Usually we study an entire story, but we may also direct our attention toward the structure of a smaller aspect of arrangement such as an episode or passage of dialogue.

Idea or Theme Is the Life-Giving Thought of Fiction The word idea refers to the result or results of general and abstract thinking. A theme is an exploration of an idea—an idea in movement that persists through¬ out the story. Often the two words are used interchangeably. Either directly or indirectly, fiction embodies ideas and themes that underlie and give life to stories and novels. Writers do not need to state their ideas in specific words, but the strength of their works depends on the power with which they exemplify ideas and make them clear. Thus, writers of comic works are committed to the idea that human difficulties can be treated with humor. More serious works often show

68

CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

characters confronting difficult and sometimes agonizing moral choices—the idea being that in a losing situation the only winners are those who maintain honor and self-respect. Mystery and suspense stories develop from the idea that prob¬ lems have solutions, although the solutions at first may^seem remote or impossi¬ ble. Even stories written for entertainment alone, some of which may at first seem devoid of ideas, stem out of an idea or position that the work itself makes clear. Writers may deal with the triumphs and defeats of life, the admirable and the des¬ picable, the humorous and the pathetic; but whatever their goal, they are always expressing ideas about human experience. We may therefore raise questions such as these as we look for ideas in fiction: • • • •

What does this mean? Why does the author include it? What idea or ideas does it show? Why is it significant?

Many works can be discussed in terms of the issues that they raise. An issue (which today has become a broad and perhaps overused word) may involve a work's characters in direct or indirect argument or opposition, and it may also bring out vitally important moments of decision about matters of private or pub¬ lic concern. In addition to the issues that the characters face, the works themselves may be considered for their more general issues. Fictional ideas can also be considered as major themes that tie individual works together. Often an author makes the theme obvious, as in the Aesop fable in which a man uses an ax to kill a fly on another man's forehead. The theme of this fable might loosely be expressed in the sentence "The cure should not be worse than the disease." A major theme in Alice Walker's "Everyday Use" (Part I) is that even within a family, outright annoyance and disapproval may develop. The process of determining and describing the themes or ideas in stories is never complete; there is always another theme that we can discuss, another idea that may be explored. Thus in Walker's "Everyday Use," we might note the addi¬ tional and related themes that a true definition of "home" and "family" depends on respect, acceptance, and love; that tradition is a strong guide to current ways of life; that the value of things should be measured by their usefulness; and that absence from home can cause people to lose touch with the roots of their earlier life. Indeed, one of the ways in which we judge stories is to determine the degree to which they explore a number of valid and important ideas.

Elements of Fiction III: The Writer's Tools Narration Creates the Sequence and Logic of Fiction Writers have a number of modes of presentation, or "tools," that they use in their stories. The principal tool (and the heart of fiction) is narration, the reporting of actions in sequential order. The object of narration is to render the story, to make it clear and to bring it alive to the reader's imagination through the movement of sentences through time. Unlike works of painting and sculpture, the reading and

Elements of Fiction III: The Writer's Tools

69

comprehension of a narration cannot be done in a single view. Jacques-Louis David's painting The Death of Socrates (p. 1-10), for example, is like a narrative because it tells a story—an actual historical event. As related by Plato in the dialogue Phaedo, Socrates takes the cup of poisonous hemlock, which he will drink as the means of carrying out his own execution. David does include details that tell the story visually. In the rear of the painting some of Socrates' friends have said goodbye and are sorrowfully climbing stairs to leave. Two of the remaining men hold their heads in grief, and two turn toward a wall in despair. The jailer avoids looking at Socrates as he offers the cup of hemlock. Also, on the bed are the unlocked chains that might have held Socrates, thus emphasizing that he was, all the time, free to walk away had he so chosen. In fact, however, it is only the moment just before Socrates drinks the hemlock that David is able to capture in his painting. As a contrast, the writer of a narrative may include details about the many events leading up to and following such a moment, for a narration moves in a continuous line, from word to word, scene to scene, action to action, and speech to speech. As a result of this chronological movement, the reader's comprehension must necessarily also be chronological.

VISUALIZING FICTION

Cartoons, Graphic Narratives, Graphic Novels David's painting is in the artistic tradition of "History Painting," which portrays a famous subject, such as The Death of Socrates, or The Thracian Girl Carrying the Head of Orpheus on His Lyre (see pp. 1-10, and 1-1). A closely connected type of painting is "Genre Painting," which features scenes of ordinary life, such as Brueghel's Peasants' Dance (see p. 1-8). A modern popular development of such art is the single line-drawn cartoon together with a caption, brought to per¬ fection by the many cartoonists who provided comic panels for The New Yorker and also the innumerable other publications that continue to flourish today. The point about most of the cartoons is that they are based in narrative, as are the history and genre painting traditions. In no more than a single picture drawing, clever cartoonists supply the graphic means by which viewers are able to infer how a situation has developed, and how it will conclude. Whereas the painting traditions featured realistic or semirealistic visions of humanity, the cartoonists developed caricatures in their portrayal of their human and animal subjects. One of the many cartoons done for The New York¬ er by Charles Addams (1912-1988) shows the Addams family, in their charac¬ teristically ghoulish garb and appearance, high on a terraced area of their ghostly house, preparing to pour boiling oil down on a group of Christmas car¬ olers. One may easily imagine both the history and future of this event. The Addams cartoons, in this eerily weird vein, were so popular that a series of films and TV programs were successfully developed that dramatized various actions of the family. One of the most popular of modern cartoonists has been Gary Larson (b. 1950), who created thousands of panels for The Far Side, the title of the syndicated cartoons he drew to popular acclaim from 1980 to 1995.

70

CHAPTER 1 « Fiction: An Overview

Many of Larson's devoted followers expressed great regret when he gave up these cartoons. As his narrative technique, Larson created a situation that is easily followed because of the situations and also the apparent actions of his characters, many of whom are not just caricatures of^doughy and distorted human beings, but also of alien travelers, cows, ducks, dogs, snakes, spiders, ocean monsters, bears, deer, rhinoceroses, and comparable creatures. Even though there is no more than just a single picture in the typical Larson cartoon, Larson skillfully supplies comic captions and quotations, together with artistic narrative details from which readers may easily infer both the beginning and the ending. Closely connected to the single panel cartoon, another major popular mode of narrative presentation is the comic strip, which became a part of regular daily newspapers in the twentieth century. Indeed, very often people buy the papers and then spend more time reading the comics than the news. Usually the comics are printed in three or four panels during each day of the week, and then on Sundays there is a color strip, usually containing half a dozen or more narra¬ tive cartoon panels. Often there is a continuous story in these strips that holds the interest of readers for a number of months. From 1933 until 1987, for exam¬ ple, a strip featuring "Brick Bradford" continued regularly. The story, mainly sci¬ ence fiction, was played out both on a global and universal scale. One interesting adventure in the late 1930s involved Brick and company taking a trip in a uniquely compressing and expanding spaceship, which reduced them to such an infinitely tiny degree that they could engage in an adventure on one of the atoms within the eye of a Lincoln-head penny. (Remember, this was science fiction.) Other extremely popular comics featured Dick Tracy, a famous detec¬ tive concerned with solving crimes and capturing criminals (still regularly pub¬ lished), and Terry and the Pirates (1934-1973), a strip that was set amid those wars in Asia that led up to and included American involvement in the Pacific Theater of operations during World War II. So popular were these comic strips that quarterly publications were soon issued, in which crime fighters like Super¬ man, Batman, and The Specter would be the heroes of as many as four sepa¬ rate and complete adventure narratives. Following World War II, many writers, teaming up with cartoonists, went beyond the traditional comic book limitations and started to adapt the comic book format for more serious and systematic novels. Well-known literary works first reached many readers through this medium, and many readers became so interested that they actually went on to read and appreciate the originals. In addition, many writers and cartoonists worked to create new graphically based works, often called "graphic novels." Perhaps the most famous of these is Maus, by Art Spiegelman, the winner of a Special Pulitzer Prize award in 1992. Maus is a work in the comic/graphic format that describes the horror and brutality of the German concentration camps, as witnessed by his father, during World War II (see pp. 72-77). The form has gained popularity, and has reached the level of its own narrative/dramatic type. A number of separate "Sin City yarns" by Frank Miller (b. 1957), for ex¬ ample, has been used as the basis for popular films. In 2007, a graphic novel originally by Miller, with Lynn Varley, was 300, which was made into a film dramatizing the story of the ancient battle between Greeks and Persians at Thermopylae in 480 bce.

Elements of Fiction III: The Writer's Tools

DAN PIRARO

71

Cartoon from Bizarro

Dan Piraro is a multitalented and prize-winning cartoonist, who was born in the latter twenti¬ eth century and educated in Oklahoma. He was especially artistic, and when working in the advertising department at Neiman-Marcus he would sketch out unique cartoons that fascinat¬ ed and entertained his co-workers. With such material, he successfully began syndicating his work in 1985, just five years after Gary Larson first syndicated The Far Side. Piraro named his cartoons Bizarro because of the closeness in sound to his own name, and also because of the ob¬ vious closeness to the Italian word bizzarro and our own word bizarre. His devoted followers, who look forward eagerly to his daily Bizarro cartoons which appear in many newspapers throughout the country, have termed his work as "surreal," "ascorbic," "oddball," and "off the wall." In addition to being a cartoonist, Piraro has also developed his skills as a speaker and a showman. He continues to do fine art, and to date has published fifteen separate books, two of which are the recent The Three Little Pigs Buy the White House (2004) and Bizarro and Other Strange Manifestations of the Art of Dan Piraro (2006). He produces his own “Bizarroblog," which is regularly available on the Internet.

QUESTIONS 1. How does Piraro establish the narrative situation of this cartoon? On what very famous work of art by what famous artist does the drawing depend? What is the nar¬ rative in the original work? What is the narrative in Piraro's cartoon? How is the car¬ toon narrative particularly modern?

2. Why would the cartoon not be as funny as it is if we did not recognize the original from which the cartoon is derived?

3. On the basis of the contrast between the story in the cartoon and the story in the origi¬ nal to which it alludes, what principles of humor can you develop and describe?

ART SP1EGELMAN

Excerpt from Maus

Art Spiegelman (b. 1948) was born in Sweden and came to the United States with his parents. When in high school, he became fascinated with the art of cartooning and made that his profes¬ sion. For more than twenty years he worked at designing popular products, including such things as candy wrappers. He also spent a number of years teaching at the School for Visual Arts in New York, and he founded a comic magazine, Raw. His most accomplished work is his graphic novel Maus, an episode of which is included here as an illustration of his subject and technique. Another of Spiegelman's honors was a Guggenheim Fellowship.

72

CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

QUESTIONS 1. On the first sheet of the selection, what is the purpose of the overhead view of the grounds of Auschwitz I and Auschwitz II, and, on the fifth sheet, the drawing of the railroad cars entering the camp, together with the smoke frbm the chimneys?

2. What animals represent the faces of the Jewish characters in Maus? For what reason or reasons do you think the author chose this animal? How are men and women distin¬ guished in the drawings? What animal represents the German guards? What benefits do these representations give to the narrative and the drama of Maus?

3. Who tells the story in Maus? To whom does he tell the story? For the most part, how is the narrative developed? How does this method of narrative development give authoritative realism to the story?

4. Describe the language used by Vladek Spiegelman, the father. Why does the author. Art Spiegelman, use this type of language throughout for the father's speeches?

5. Who is Mancie? Why can Vladek and Mancie speak to each other only from a distance? What kindness does Mancie do for Vladek and Anja? 6. Describe the terror experienced by the characters in the story. What is the principal rea¬ son for which characters are fearful? Is it only the prisoners who are afraid? Who else seems afraid in the story? What happens to Anja for spilling the soup? For what infrac¬ tions might characters in the Death Camp suffer physical punishment? How are both Vladek and Anja able to survive the experience of the Death Camp?

Style Is the Author’s Skill in Bringing Language to Life The medium of fiction and of all literature is language, and the manipulation of language—the style—is a primary skill of the writer. A mark of a good style is the use of active verbs and nouns that are specific and concrete. Even with the most active and graphic diction possible, writers can never render their incidents and scenes exactly, but they may be judged on how vividly they tell their stories.

Point of View Guides What We See and Understand in Fiction One of the most important ways in which writers knit their stories together, and also an important way in which they try to interest and engage readers, is through the careful control of point of view—the voice of the story, the speaker who does the narrating. It is the way the story establishes authenticity, either in reality or unreality. It may be regarded as the story's focus, the angle of vision from which things are not only seen and reported but also judged. Basically, there are three kinds of point of view, and there are many variations, sometimes obvious and sometimes subtle. In the first-person point of view, a fic¬ titious observer tells us what he or she saw, heard, concluded, and thought. This viewpoint is characterized by the use of the pronoun 7, as the speaker refers to his or her position as an observer or commentator. The speaker or narrator—terms that are interchangeable—may sometimes seem to be the author speaking directly using an authorial voice. More often, however, the speaker is an independent character—a persona with characteristics that separate her or him from the author. In common with all narrators, the first-person narrator establishes a clearly defined relationship to the story's events. Some narrators are deeply engaged in the action and are major movers; others are only minor participants or observers;

Elements of Fiction III: The Writer's Tools

79

still others have had nothing to do with the action but are passing on the reports of others who were more fully involved. Sometimes the narrator uses the we pro¬ noun if he or she is or has been part of a group that has witnessed the action or participated in it. Often, too, the narrator might use we when referring to ideas and interpretations shared with the reader or listener—the idea being to draw readers into the story as much as possible. The second-person point of view can be recognized by the use of "you" throughout, as though the speaker is telling a listener about things that the listener knows or has done. There are a number of variants in how the second-person point of view can be used, but essentially, this type of narration is similar to ordinary, con¬ versational speech, as a way of making the listener feel almost like a participant in the story. Obviously the listener has not done the things being told about, but psy¬ chologically, the use of the "you" point of view—common as it is in ordinary speech, and rare as it is in literature—is a special means of creating interest in the narration.2 The third-person point of view uses third-person pronouns (she, he, it, they, her, him, them, etc.). The third-person point of view may be (1) limited, with the focus being on one particular character and what he or she does, says, hears, thinks, and otherwise experiences; (2) omniscient, with the possibility that the activities and thoughts of all the characters are open and fully known by the speaker; or (3) dramatic, or objective, in which the story is confined only to the reporting of actions and speeches, with no commentary and no revelation of the thoughts of any of the characters unless the characters themselves express their thoughts dramatically. Understanding point of view usually requires subtlety of perception—indeed, it may be one of the most difficult of all concepts in the study of fiction. In fuller perspective, therefore, we may think of it as the total position from which things are viewed, understood, and communicated. The position might be simply physical: Where was the speaker located when the events occurred? Does the speaker give us a close or distant view of the events? The position might also be personal or philosophical: Do the events illustrate any personal opinions (Walker's "Everyday Use" [Part I, p. 6]), embody a philosophical judgment (Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" [Chapter 7, p. 329]), or argue a theological principle (St. Luke's "The Parable of the Prodigal Son" [Chapter 7, p. 338])? Point of view is one of the major ways by which authors make fiction come to life. By controlling point of view, an author helps us make reasonable inferences about the story's actions. Authors use point of view to raise some of the same ques¬ tions in fiction that confuse us in life. We need to evaluate what fictional narrators as well as real people tell us, for what they say is affected by their limitations, atti¬ tudes, opinions, and degree of openness. The first-person narrator of James Joyce's "Araby" (Chapter 4) describes a series of boyhood incidents leading up to his memory that he had deceived himself with foolish desires. In other words, he emphasizes what he considers to be his own weaknesses. But we might also realize that this narrator is unknowingly showing that it was not he who was at fault, but rather the religious and moral structure of which he was a part. For readers, the perception of a fictional point of view can be as complex as life itself, and it may be as difficult—in fiction as in life—to evaluate our sources of information.

^The second-person narrative method is more fully discussed in Chapter 2, page 124.

80

CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

Description Creates the World of Fiction

,

Together with narration, an essential aspect of fiction is description—those words that cause readers to imagine or re-create the scenes and actions of a story. Description can be both physical (places and persons) and psychological (an emo¬ tion or set of emotions). Because excessive description sometimes interrupts or postpones a story's actions, many writers include only as much as is necessary to provide locations for what is happening in the story. Mood and atmosphere are important aspects of descriptive writing, and to the degree that descriptions are thought provoking, they may reach the level of metaphor and symbolism. These characteristics of fiction are a property of all lit¬ erature, and you will also encounter them whenever you read poems and plays.

Dialogue Creates Interactions Among Fictional Characters Another major tool of the writer of fiction is dialogue. By definition, dialogue is the conversation of two people, but more than two characters may also partici¬ pate. It is of course the major tool of the playwright, and it is one of the means by which fiction writers bring vividness and dramatic tension to their stories. Straight narration and description can do no more than make a secondhand asser¬ tion ("hearsay") that a character's thoughts and responses exist, but dialogue makes everything firsthand and real. Dialogue is hence a means of showing or actualizing rather than reporting. If characters feel pain or declare love, their own words may be taken as the expres¬ sion of what is on their minds. Some dialogue may be terse and minimal. Other dialogue may be expanded, depending on the situation, the personalities of the characters, and the author's intent. Dialogue may concern any topic, including everyday and practical matters, personal feelings, reactions to the past, future plans, changing thoughts, sudden realizations, and ideas—be they political, social, philosophical, or religious. The language of dialogue indicates the intelligence, articulateness, educational levels, or emotional states of the speakers. Hence the author might use grammatical mistakes, faulty pronunciation, or slang to show a character of limited or disadvan¬ taged background or a character who is trying to be seen in that light. Dialect shows the region from which the speaker comes, just as accent indicates a place of national origin. Jargon and cliche suggest self-inflation or intellectual limitations— usually reasons for laughter. The use of private or intimate expressions clearly shows people who are close to each other emotionally. Speech that is interrupted by voiced pauses (for example, "er," "ah," "um," "y'know") or speech characterized by inappropriate words might show a character who is unsure or not in control. There are many possibilities in dialogue, but no matter what qualities you find, writers include dialogue to enable you to know their characters better.

Tone and Irony Guide Our Perceptions of Fictional Works In every story we may consider tone—the ways in which authors convey atti¬ tudes toward readers and also toward the work's subjects. One of the major com¬ ponents of tone—irony—refers to language and situations that seem to reverse

Elements of Fiction III: The Writer's Tools

81

normal expectations. Word choice is the characteristic of verbal irony, in which what is meant is usually the opposite of what is said, as when we mean that peo¬ ple are doing badly even though we say that they are doing well. Broader forms of irony are situational and dramatic. Situational irony refers to circumstances in which bad things happen to good people, or in which rewards are not earned because forces beyond human comprehension seem to be in total control, making the world seem arbitrary and often absurd. In dramatic irony characters have only a nonexistent, partial, incorrect, or misguided understanding of what is hap¬ pening to them, while both readers and other characters understand the situation more fully. Readers hence become concerned about the characters and hope that the characters will develop understanding quickly enough to avoid the problems troubling them and the pitfalls endangering them.

Symbolism and Allegory Relate Fiction to the Larger World In literature broadly, as in fiction narrowly, even apparently ordinary things may be seen as symbols—everyday objects, occurrences, speeches, actions, and charac¬ ters that may be understood to have meaning (or meanings) in excess of their obvious function and texture. Some symbols are widely recognized and therefore are considered as cultural or universal. Water, flowers, jewels, aspects of land¬ scape and environment, the sun, certain stars, the flag, altars, crosses, castles, and pyramids are examples of cultural symbols. Other symbols are contextual; that is, they take on symbolic meaning only in their individual works, as when in the opening of Walker's "Everyday Use" we learn that Mrs. Johnson and her daughter Maggie have made their yard "clean and wavy" on the previous afternoon, thus symbolizing their pride in their home and their family traditions (Part I, p. 6). When a complete story, in addition to maintaining its own narrative integrity, can be applied point by point to a parallel set of situations, it is an allegory. Many stories are not complete allegories, however, even though they may contain sec¬ tions having allegorical parallels. For instance, the many difficulties that Mrs. Johnson describes at the beginning of "Everyday Use" (her difficult work, her burned home, the burns sustained by Maggie in the fire) are similar to the hard¬ ships and accidents that many people suffer in their lives as a matter of course. "Everyday Use," therefore, has allegorical overtones even though it is not, in total¬ ity, an allegory.

Commentary Provides Us with an Author’s Thoughts Writers may also include commentary, analysis, or interpretation, in the expecta¬ tion that readers need insight into the characters and their actions. When fiction was new, authors often expressed such commentary directly. Henry Fielding (1707-1754) divided his novels into "books" and included a chapter of personal and philosophical commentary at the beginning of each of these. In the next century George Eliot (1819-1880) included many extensive passages of commen¬ tary in her novels. Later writers have kept commentary at a minimum, preferring instead to con¬ centrate on direct action and dialogue, thereby allowing readers to draw their own

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

conclusions about meaning. In first-person narrations, however, we may expect the narrators to make their own personal comments. Such observations may be accepted at face value, but we should recognize that anything the speakers say is also a mode of character disclosure and therefore just as much a part of the total story as the narrative incidents.

The Elements Together Are Present in Works of Fiction These, then, are the major tools of fiction, which authors generally use simultaneously in their works. Thus the story may be told by a character who is a witness, and thus it has a first-person point of view. The major character, the protagonist, goes through a series of actions as a result of a carefully arranged plot. Because of this plot, together with the author's chosen method of narration, the story will follow a certain kind of arrange¬ ment, or structure, such as a straightforward sequence or a disjointed series of episodes. The action may demonstrate the story's theme or central idea. The writer's style may be revealed in ironic expressions. The description of the character's actions may show irony of situation, while at the same time this situation is made vivid through dialogue in which the character is a participant. Because the situation of the character is like the plight of many persons in the world, this character may be consid¬ ered as a symbol, and the various actions of his story may be considered as an allegory. Throughout each story we read, no matter what characteristics we are consid¬ ering, it is most important to realize that a work of fiction is an entirety, a unity. Any reading of a story should be undertaken not to break things down into parts but to understand and take in the work as a whole. The separate analysis of various topics is thus a means to that end, not the end itself. The study of fiction, like the study of all literature, is designed to encourage our growth and to increase our understanding of the human condition.

Stories for Study Ambrose Bierce.An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, 83 Sandra Cisneros.Mericans, 89 William Faulkner.A Rose for Emily, 91 Tim O'Brien.The Things They Carried, 97 Luigi Pirandello.War, 107

AMBROSE BIERCE

(1842-1914?)

Ambrose Bierce was a native of Ohio, the youngest of nine children in the highly religious family of a poor farmer. When the Civil War began in 1861, he enlisted in the Union army as a drummer boy and rose to the rank of major by the war's end. After the war he went to San Francisco to begin a career in journalism. At various times he reported, edited, and wrote reviews for papers such as the San Fran¬ cisco Examiner and the San Francisco News-Letter. After he married, he and his wife spent five years in England, but eventually

BIERCE • An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

83

she left him and their two children died—events that left him embittered. In 1913 he traveled to Mexico, and nothing further is known about him after that; he is presumed to have died in rev¬ olutionary fighting there in 1914. Bierce published his first story in 1871 and later published two volumes of stories: In the Midst of Life (1892, originally published in 1891 as Tales of Soldiers and Civilians, which included “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge"), and Can Such Things Be? (1893). He is perhaps best known for his cynical work The Devil's Dictio¬ nary (1911). He favored the short story as a form over the novel on much the same grounds as Poe—namely, that a story could be designed to produce a single effect. He believed that fiction should be realistic and should build to concluding twists and surprises—goals that are seen in “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." His complete works, which he edited himself, appeared in twelve volumes from 1909 to 1912.

ffl ^ An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

(i89i)

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers supporting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners—two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest—a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it. Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open ground—a gentle acclivity topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway of the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators—a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of the rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference. The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good—a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

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CHAPTER 1 ® Fiction: An Overview

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant turned to the cap¬ tain, saluted and placed himself immediately behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of the qross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt and the con¬ demned man go down between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judg¬ ment as simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream! He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of driftwood—all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by—it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each stroke with impatience and—he knew not why—apprehension. The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch. He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond the invader's farthest advance." As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.

II Peyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highly respected Alabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a politician he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with the gallant army that had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of Corinth,0 and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come, as it comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he could. No service was too humble for him to perform in aid of the South, no adventure too perilous for him to under¬ take if consistent with the character of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too much qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly vil¬ lainous dictum that all is fair in love and war. °Cormtli; In the northeast corner of Mississippi, near the Alabama state line, Corinth was the site of a battle in 1862 won by the Union army.

BIERCE • An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

85

One evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water her husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired ea¬ gerly for news from the front. "The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, put it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declar¬ ing that any civilian caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels or trains will be summarily hanged. I saw the order." "Flow far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Farquhar asked. "About thirty miles." "Is there no force on this side of the creek?" "Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single sentinel at this end of the bridge." "Suppose a man—a civilian and student of hanging—should elude the picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Farquhar, smiling, "what could he accomplish?" The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied, "I observed that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would burn like tow." The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked her cere¬ moniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later, after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the direction from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.

As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was awakened—ages later, it seemed to him— by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well-defined lines of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fulness—of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscilla¬ tion, like a vast pendulum. Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with the noise of a loud plash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no additional strangulation; the noose about his neck was already suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of hanging at the bot¬ tom of a river!—the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface—knew it with reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "To be hanged and drowned," he thought, that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot. No; I will not be shot; that is not fair." He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. What splendid effort—what magnificent,

10

15

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

what superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell away; his arms parted and floated upward; the hands dimly seen on each side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a water snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these words to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by the direst pang that he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly; his brain was on fire; his heart, which had been flut¬ tering faintly, gave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his disobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water vigorously with quick, downward strokes, forc¬ ing him to the surface. He felt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek! He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf—saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretch¬ ing their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragonflies'wings, the strokes of the water-spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat—all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting the water. He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic. Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muz¬ zle. The man in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed. A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was again looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the lieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning's work. How coldly and pitilessly—with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and enforcing tranquility in the men—with what accurately measured intervals fell those cruel words: "Attention, company! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . . Aim! . . . Fire!" Farquhar dived—dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the volley and, rising again toward the sur¬ face, met shining bits of metal, singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he snatched it out.

BIERCE • An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

87

As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a long time under water; he was perceptibly farther down stream—nearer to safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels, turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired again, independently and ineffectually. The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming vigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning. "The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's error a second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge them all!" An appalling plash within two yards of him was followed by a loud, rushing sound, diminuendo, which seemed to travel back through the air to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its deeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond. "They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use a charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will apprise me—the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. That is a good gun." Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round—spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men—all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color— that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a veloc¬ ity of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In a few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream—the southern bank—and behind a projecting point which concealed him from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the bank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange, roseate light shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their branches the music of aeolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his escape—was content to remain in that enchant¬ ing spot until retaken. A whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged into the forest. All that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even a woodman's road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a region. There was something uncanny in the revelation. By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought of his wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city street, yet it seem untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides, ter¬ minating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

which had a secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of singular noises, among which—once, twice, and again—he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue. His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horribly swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. His eyesielt congested; he could no longer close them. His tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue-—he could no longer feel the roadway beneath his feet! Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for now he sees another scene—perhaps he has merely recovered from a delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and all bright and beautiful in the morning sun¬ shine. He must have traveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dig¬ nity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon—then all is darkness and silence! Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the situation in the story? What did Farquhar do to deserve his execution? 2. Describe the various shifts in the story's point of view, particularly as indicated in paragraphs 5 and 37. How does Bierce make you aware of Farquhar's heightened con¬ sciousness? 3. According to Farquhar's perception of time, how long does it take him to get home after his escape (see paragraphs 33 and 36)? 4. What evidence can you find to indicate that Farquhar is experiencing great pain, despite his feelings that he is escaping? 5. What is the effect of the shift into the present tense in paragraph 36?

SANDRA CISNEROS

(b

1954)

Sandra Cisneros, a Mexican American, zvas born in Illinois and was educated there. Her higher education was at Loyola University and the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop. She has been a "poet in the schools" in addition to teaching and also zvorking as a college recruiter. She has held tzvo NEA fellowships, and in 2005 she received a prestigious MacArthur Foundation Fellowship. The House on Mango Street, the first of her books, published in 1983 and reissued in 1991, has made her one of the widest selling and best knozvn His¬ panic authors in the United States. Her Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories, from which "Mericans" is taken, zvas published in 1991, and her poetry volume Loose Woman: Poems appeared in 1991. She published Hairs/Pehtos, a book for small children, in 1997. In 2002 she published her second novel, Caramelo, which is based on the immigrant lives of her father and other members of her family.

CISNEROS * Mericans

89

if Mericans {1991) We're waiting for the awful grandmother who is inside dropping pesos into la ofrenda box° before the altar to La Divina Providencia. Lighting votive candles and genuflecting. Blessing herself and kissing her thumb. Running a crystal rosary between her fingers. Mumbling, mumbling, mumbling. There are so many prayers and promises and thanks-be-to-God to be given in the name of the husband and the sons and the only daughter who never attend mass. It doesn't mat¬ ter. Like La Virgen de Guadalupe, the awful grandmother intercedes on their behalf. For the grandfather who hasn't believed in anything since the first PRI4 elections. For my father, El Periquin,0 so skinny he needs his sleep. For Auntie Light-skin, who only a few hours before was breakfasting on brain and goat tacos after dancing all night in the pink zone.0 For Uncle Fat-face, the blackest of the black sheep—Always remember your Uncle Fat-face in your prayers. And Uncle Baby—You go for me, Mama—God listens to you. The awful grandmother has been gone a long time. She disappeared behind the heavy leather outer curtain and the dusty velvet inner. We must stay near the church entrance. We must not wander over to the balloon and punch-ball vendors. We cannot spend our allowance on fried cookies or Familia Burron comic books0 or those clear cone-shaped suckers that make everything look like a rainbow when you look through them. We cannot run off and have our picture taken on the wooden ponies. We must not climb the steps up the hill behind the church and chase each other through the cemetery. We have promised to stay right where the awful grandmother left us until she returns. There are those walking to church on their knees. Some with fat rags tied around their legs and others with pillows, one to kneel on, and one to flop ahead. There are women with black shawls crossing and uncrossing themselves. There are armies of penitents carrying banners and flowered arches while musicians play tinny trumpets and tinny drums. La Virgen de Guadalupe is waiting inside behind a plate of thick glass. There's also a gold crucifix bent crooked as a mesquite tree when someone once threw a bomb. La Virgen de Guadalupe is on the main altar because she's a big miracle, the crooked crucifix on a side altar because that's a little miracle. But we're outside in the sun. My big brother Junior hunkered against the wall with his eyes shut. My little brother Keeks running around in circles. Maybe and most probably my little brother is imagining he's a flying feather dancer, like the ones we saw swinging high up from a pole on the Virgin's birthday. I want to be a fly¬ ing feather dancer too, but when he circles past me he shouts, "I'm a B-Fifty-two bomber, you're a German," and shoots me with an invisible machine gun. I'd rather play flying feather dancers, but if I tell my brother this, he might not play with me at all. "Girl. We can't play with a girl." Girl. It's my brothers' favorite insult now instead of "sissy." "You girl," they yell at each other. "You throw that ball like a girl." I've already made up my mind to be a German when Keeks swoops past again, this time yelling, "I'm Flash Gordon. You're Ming the Merciless and the Mud People." I don't mind being Ming the Merciless, but I don't like being the Mud People. Something wants to come out of the corners of my eyes, but I don't let it. Crying is what girls do. I leave Keeks running around in circles—"I'm the Lone Ranger, you're Tonto." I leave Junior squatting on his ankles and go look for the awful grandmother.

°la ofrenda: offering box. °EI Periquin: the tiny parakeet. °pink zone: a district of popular entertainment in Mexico City. °Familia Burron comic books: a popular Mexican comic strip series.

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

Why do churches smell like the inside of an ear? Like incense and the dark and candles in blue glass? And why does holy water smell of tears? The awful grandmother makes me kneel and fold my hands. The ceiling high and everyone's prayers bumping up there like balloons. If I stare at the eyes of the saints long enough, they move and wink at me, which makes me a sort of saint too. When I get tired of winking saints, I count the awful grandmother's mustache hairs while she prays for Uncle Old, sick from the worm,0 and Auntie Cuca, suf¬ fering from a life of troubles that left half her face crooked and the other half sad. There must be a long, long list of relatives who haven't gone to church. The awful grand¬ mother knits the names of the dead and the living into one long prayer fringed with the grandchildren born in that barbaric country with its barbarian ways. I put my weight on one knee, then the other, and when they both grow fat as a mattress of pins, I slap them each awake. Micaela, you may wait outside with Alfredito and Enrique. The awful grandmother says it all in Spanish, which I understand when I'm paying attention. "What?" I say, though it's neither proper nor polite. "What?" which the awful grandmother hears as " iGuat?”But she only gives me a look and shoves me toward the door. After all that dust and dark, the light from the plaza makes me squinch my eyes like if I just came out of the movies. My brother Keeks is drawing squiggly lines on the concrete with a wedge of glass and the heel of his shoe. My brother Junior squatting against the entrance, talking to a lady and man. They're not from here. Ladies don't come to church dressed in pants. And everybody knows men aren't supposed to wear shorts. "iQuieres chicle?"0 the lady asks in a Spanish too big for her mouth. "Gracias," The lady gives him a whole handful of gum for free, little cellophane cubes of Chiclets, cinnamon and aqua and the white ones that don't taste like anything but are good for pretend buck teeth. "Porfavor," says the lady. "lUnfoto?" pointing to her camera. "Si" She's so busy taking Junior's picture, she doesn't notice me and Keeks. "Hey, Michele, Keeks. You guys want gum?" "But you speak English!" "Yeah," my brother says, " we're Mericans." We're Mericans, we're Mericans, and inside the awful grandmother prays.

QUESTIONS 1. Who is telling this story? What is her name? What is the significance of her name being spelled and pronounced in two different ways?

2. Describe the story's basic theme, as represented by what the children say about their own concerns. Why does Michelle describe her grandmother as "awful"? What does she think of her grandmother's religion? How do the games being played by the boys illustrate the differences between the Hispanic and the American influences acting upon the children?

3. What is the importance of the attitude of the brothers toward girls? How does Michelle react to this attitude?

4. Explain why the issue of being "Mericans" is not brought up until the story's end.

°the worm: an intestinal parasite. °lQuieres chicle?.-Would you like chewing-gum?

FAULKNER • A Rose for Emily

91

B WILLIAM FAULKNER (1897 1962) William Faulkner spent his childhood in Mississippi and became one of the foremost American novelists of the twentieth century. He twice received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction (in 1955 and 1963), and he also received the Nobel Prize in Literature (in 1949). Throughout his extensive fiction about the special world that he named “Yoknapatawpha County," which is modeled on his own home area in Oxford, Mississippi, he treats life in the Southern United States as a symbol of humankind generally, emphasizing the decline of civilization and culture in the decades after the Civil War. Emily Grierson in "A Rose for Emily" is representative of this de¬ cline, for she maintains the appearances of status long after the substance is past. It is not unusual to find degraded, sullen, disturbed, and degenerate characters in Faulkner's fiction.

B

if

A Rose for Emily

(1931)

1 When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral; the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old manservant—a combined gardener and cook—had seen in at least ten years. It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps—an eye¬ sore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson. Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor—he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apronremitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris' gener¬ ation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it. When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her him¬ self, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment. They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china¬ painting lessons eight or ten years earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse—a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy,

5

92

CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father. They rose when she entered—a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tar¬ nished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand. She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietly until the spokesman came to a stumbling halt. Then they could hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain. Her voice was dry and cold. "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps one of you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves." "But we have. We are the city authorities. Miss Emily. Didn't you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by him?" "I received a paper, yes," Miss Emily said. "Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff . . . I have no taxes in Jefferson." "But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see. We must go by the—" "See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson." "But, Miss Emily—" "See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!" The Negro appeared. "Show these gentlemen out."

So she vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before about the smell. That was two years after her father's death and a short time after her sweetheart—the one we believed would marry her—had deserted her. After her father's death she went out very little; after her sweetheart went away, people hardly saw her at all. A few of the ladies had the temerity to call, but were not received, and the only sign of life about the place was the Negro man—a young man then—going in and out with a market basket. "Just as if a man—any man—could keep a kitchen properly," the ladies said; so they were not surprised when the smell developed. It was another link between the gross, teem¬ ing world and the high and mighty Griersons. A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor. Judge Stevens, eighty years old. "But what will you have me do about it, madam?" he said. "Why, send her word to stop it," the woman said. "Isn't there a law?" "I'm sure that won't be necessary," Judge Stevens said. "It's probably just a snake or a rat that nigger of hers killed in the yard. I'll speak to him about it." The next day he received two more complaints, one from a man who came in diffident deprecation. "We really must do something about it. Judge. I'd be the last one in the world to bother Miss Emily, but we've got to do something." That night the Board of Aldermen met three graybeards and one younger man, a member of the rising generation. "It's simple enough," he said. "Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Give her a certain time to do it in, and if she don't..." "Dammit, sir," Judge Stevens said, "will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?" So the next night, after midnight, four men crossed Miss Emily's lawn and slunk about the house like burglars, sniffing along the base of the brickwork and at the cellar openings

FAULKNER • A Rose for Emily

93

while one of them performed a regular sowing motion with his hand out of a sack slung from his shoulder. They broke open the cellar door and sprinkled lime there, and in all the outbuildings. As they recrossed the lawn, a window that had been dark was lighted and Miss Emily sat in it, the light behind her, and her upright torso motionless as that of an idol. They crept quietly across the lawn and into the shadow of the locusts that lined the street. After a week or two the smell went away. That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People in our town, remem¬ bering how old lady Wyatt, her great-aunt, had gone completely crazy at last, believed that the Griersons held themselves a little too high for what they really were. None of the young men were quite good enough for Miss Emily and such. We had long thought of them as a tableau. Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a spraddled sil¬ houette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horsewhip, the two of them framed by the back flung front door. So when she got to be thirty and was still single, we were not pleased exactly, but vindicated; even with insanity in the family she wouldn't have turned down all of her chances if they had really materialized. When her father died, it got about that the house was all that was left to her; and in a way, people were glad. At last they could pity Miss Emily. Being left alone, and a pauper, she had become humanized. Now she too would know the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less. The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house and offer condolence and aid, as is our custom. Miss Emily met them at the door, dressed as usual and with no trace of grief on her face. She told them that her father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the ministers calling on her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down, and they buried her father quickly. We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men her father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which had robbed her, as people will.

Ill She was sick for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows sort of tragic and serene. The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death they began the work. The construction company came with niggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman named Homer Barron, a Yankee—a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear him cuss the niggers, and the niggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks. Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere about the square, Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from the livery stable. At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because the ladies all said, "Of course a Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner, a day laborer." But there were still others, older people, who said that even grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige without calling it noblesse oblige. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman, and there was no communi¬ cation between the two families. They had not even been represented at the funeral. And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could . . . ."

94

CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed: "Poor Emily." She carried her head high enough—even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic. That was over a year after they had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were visiting her. "I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eyesockets as you imagine a light¬ house-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said. "Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom—" "I want the best you have. I don't care what kind." The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is—" "Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?" "Is . . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want—" "I want arsenic." The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. Why, of course,' the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for." Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats."

IV So the next day we all said, "She will kill herself"; and we said it would be the best thing. When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said, "She will marry him." Then we said, "She will persuade him yet," because Homer himself had remarked— he liked men, and it was known that he drank with the younger men in the Elks' Club_ that he was not a marrying man. Later we said, "Poor Emily" behind the jalousies as they passed on Sunday afternoon in the glittering buggy, Miss Emily with her head high and Homer Barron with his hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, reins and whip in a yellow glove. Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad exam¬ ple to the young people. The men did not want to interfere, but at last the ladies forced the Baptist minister—Miss Emily's people were Episcopal—to call upon her. He would never divulge what happened during that interview, but he refused to go back again. The next Sunday they again drove about the streets, and the following day the minister's wife wrote to Miss Emily's relations in Alabama. So she had blood-kin under her roof again and we sat back to watch developments. At first nothing happened. Then we were sure that they were to be married. We learned that Miss Emily had been to the jeweler's and ordered a man's toilet set in silver, with the letters H. B. on each piece. Two days later we learned that she had bought a complete outfit of men's clothing, including a nightshirt, and we said, "They are married." We were really glad. We were glad because the two female cousins were even more Grierson than Miss Emily had ever been. So we were not surprised when Homer Barron—the streets had been finished some time since—was gone. We were a little disappointed that there was not a public blowing-off, but we believed that he had gone on to prepare for Miss Emily's coming, or to give her a chance

FAULKNER • A Rose for Emily

95

to get rid of the cousins. (By that time it was a cabal, and we were all Miss Emily's allies to help circumvent the cousins.) Sure enough, after another week they departed. And, as we had expected all along, within three days Homer Barron was back in town. A neighbor saw the Negro man admit him at the kitchen door at dusk one evening. And that was the last we saw of Homer Barron. And of Miss Emily for some time. The Negro man went in and out with the market basket, but the front door remained closed. Now and then we would see her at a window for a moment, as the men did that night when they sprinkled the lime, but for almost six months she did not appear on the streets. Then we knew that this was to be expected too; as if that quality of her father which had thwarted her woman's life so many times had been too virulent and too furious to die. When we next saw Miss Emily, she had grown fat and her hair was turning gray. During the next few years it grew grayer and grayer until it attained an even pepper-and-salt iron gray, when it ceased turning. Up to the day of her death at seventy-four it was still that vig¬ orous iron-gray, like the hair of an active man. From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was about forty, during which she gave lessons in china-painting. She fitted up a studio in one of the downstairs rooms, where the daughters and granddaughters of Colonel Sartoris' contemporaries were sent to her with the same regularity and in the same spirit that they were sent to church on Sundays with a twenty-five-cent piece for the collec¬ tion plate. Meanwhile her taxes had been remitted. Then the newer generation became the backbone and the spirit of the town, and the painting pupils grew up and fell away and did not send their children to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and pictures cut from the ladies' magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remained closed for good. When the town got free postal delivery. Miss Emily alone refused to let them fasten the metal numbers above her door and attach a mailbox to it. She would not listen to them. Daily, monthly, yearly we watched the Negro grow grayer and more stooped, going in and out with the market basket. Each December we sent her a tax notice, which would be returned by the post office a week later, unclaimed. Now and then we would see her in one of the downstairs windows—she had evidently shut up the top floor of the house like the carven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not looking at us, we could never tell which. Thus she passed from generation to generation—dear, inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and perverse. And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a dodder¬ ing Negro man to wait on her. We did not even know she was sick; we had long since given up trying to get any information from the Negro. He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse. She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.

V The Negro met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, with their hushed, sibilant voices and their quick, curious glances, and then he disappeared. He walked right through the house and out the back and was not seen again. The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the second day, with the town coming to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre, and the very old men—some in their brushed Confederate uniforms—on the porch and the lawn, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematical progres¬ sion, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but, instead, a huge

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided from them now by the narrow bottle¬ neck of the most recent decade of years. Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty years, and which would have to be forced. They waited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground before they opened it. v The violence of breaking down the door seemed to fill this room with pervading dust. A thin, acrid pall as of the tomb seemed to lie everywhere upon this room decked and fur¬ nished as for a bridal: upon the valance curtains of faded rose color, upon the rose-shaded lights, upon the dressing table, upon the delicate array of crystal and the man's toilet things backed with tarnished silver, silver so tarnished that the monogram was obscured. Among them lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which, lifted, left upon the sur¬ face a pale crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit, carefully folded; beneath it the two mute shoes and the discarded socks. The man himself lay in the bed. For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust. Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long strand of iron-gray hair.

QUESTIONS 1. Who is Emily Grierson? What was the former position of her family in the town? What has happened to Emily after her father died? What are her economic circumstances? How does the deputation of aldermen from the town of Jefferson treat her?

2. How do we learn about Emily? How do reports and rumors about her create the narra¬ tive of her life?

3. What has happened between Emily and Homer Barron? What is the significance, if any, of the fact that Homer is from the North?

4. Describe the plot of "A Rose for Emily." What contrasts and oppositions are developed in the story? 5. How does Faulkner shape the story's events to make Emily mysterious or enigmatic? In what ways does the ending come as a surprise?

TIM O’BRIEN

(b. 1946)

William Timothy O'Brien was born in Minnesota and attended Macalester College in St. Paul. He saw duty in Vietnam during some of the more controversial times of that conflict, and after returning home he did graduate study, worked as a reporter, and became a writer. Among the works he has regularly published since the 1970s are If I Die in a Combat Zone, Box Me Up and Ship Me Home {1973); Northern Lights (1974); Going After Cacciato (1978); The Things They Carried (1990), Tomcat in Love (1998), and July, July (2002). In his stories, which interweave fiction and autobiogra¬ phy, he realistically treats both the horrors of the Vietnam War and the

O'BRIEN • The Things They Carried

97

ways in which returning veterans and their loved ones adjust to life after returning home. Because he portrays the lives and feelings of combat soldiers so well, he has been called one of the best Ameri¬ can writers about war.

B * The Things They Carried

(1990)

First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey. They were not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hop¬ ing, so he kept them folded in plastic at the bottom of his rucksack. In the late afternoon, after a day's march, he would dig his foxhole, wash his hands under a canteen, unwrap the letters, hold them with the tips of his fingers, and spend the last hour of light pretending. He would imagine romantic camping trips into the White Mountains in New Hampshire. He would sometimes taste the envelope flaps, knowing her tongue had been there. More than anything, he wanted Martha to love him as he loved her, but the letters were mostly chatty, elusive on the matter of love. She was a virgin, he was almost sure. She was an Eng¬ lish major at Mount Sebastian, and she wrote beautifully about her professors and room¬ mates and midterm exams, about her respect for Chaucer and her great affection for Virginia Woolf. She often quoted lines of poetry; she never mentioned the war, except to say, Jimmy, take care of yourself. The letters weighed 10 ounces. They were signed Love, Martha, but Lieutenant Cross understood that Love was only a way of signing and did not mean what he sometimes pretended it meant. At dusk, he would carefully return the letters to his rucksack. Slowly, a bit distracted, he would get up and move among his men, check¬ ing the perimeter, then at full dark he would return to his hole and watch the night and wonder if Martha was a virgin. The things they carried were largely determined by necessity. Among the necessities or near-necessities were P-38 can openers, pocket knives, heat tabs, wristwatches, dog tags, mosquito repellent, chewing gum, candy, cigarettes, salt tablets, packets of Kool-Aid, lighters, matches, sewing kits. Military Payment Certificates, C rations, and two or three canteens of water. Together, these items weighed between 15 and 20 pounds, depending upon a man's habits or rate of metabolism. Henry Dobbins, who was a big man, carried extra rations; he was especially fond of canned peaches in heavy syrup over pound cake. Dave Jensen, who practiced field hygiene, carried a toothbrush, dental floss, and several hotel-sized bars of soap he'd stolen on R&R in Sydney, Australia. Ted Lavender, who was scared, carried tranquilizers until he was shot in the head outside the village of Than Khe in mid-April. By necessity, and because it was SOP, they all carried steel helmets that weighed 5 pounds including the liner and camouflage cover. They carried the standard fatigue jack¬ ets and trousers. Very few carried underwear. On their feet they carried jungle boots—2.1 pounds—and Dave Jensen carried three pairs of socks and a can of Dr. Scholl's foot powder as a precaution against trench foot. Until he was shot, Ted Lavender carried six or seven ounces of premium dope, which for him was a necessity. Mitchell Sanders, the RTO, carried condoms. Norman Bowker carried a diary. Rat Kiley carried comic books. Kiowa, a devout Baptist, carried an illustrated New Testament that had been presented to him by his father, who taught Sunday school in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. As a hedge against bad times, however, Kiowa also carried his grandmother's distrust of the white man, his grandfa¬ ther's old hunting hatchet. Necessity dictated. Because the land was mined and boobytrapped, it was SOP for each man to carry a steel-centered, nylon-covered flak jacket, which weighed 6.7 pounds, but which on hot days seemed much heavier. Because you could die so quickly, each man carried at least one large compress bandage, usually in the helmet band for easy access. Because the nights were cold, and because the monsoons were wet, each carried a green plastic poncho that could be used as a raincoat or groundsheet or makeshift tent. With its quilted liner, the poncho weighed almost two pounds, but it was

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

worth every ounce. In April, for instance, when Ted Lavender was shot, they used his pon¬ cho to wrap him up, then to carry him across the paddy, then to lift him into the chopper that took him away. They were called legs or grunts. To carry something was to hump it, as when Lieutenant Jinjmy Cross humped his love for Martha up the hills and through the swamps. In its intransitive form, to hump meant to walk, or to march, but it implied burdens far beyond the intransitive. Almost everyone humped photographs. In his wallet. Lieutenant Cross carried two pho¬ tographs of Martha. The first was a Kodacolor snapshot signed Love, though he knew better. She stood against a brick wall. Her eyes were gray and neutral, her lips slightly open as she stared straight-on at the camera. At night, sometimes. Lieutenant Cross wondered who had taken the picture, because he knew she had boyfriends, because he loved her so much, and because he could see the shadow of the picture-taker spreading out against the brick wall. The second photograph had been clipped from the 1968 Mount Sebastian yearbook. It was an action shot—women's volleyball—and Martha was bent horizontal to the floor, reaching, the palms of her hands in sharp focus, the tongue taut, the expression frank and competitive. There was no visible sweat. She wore white gym shorts. Her legs, he thought, were almost certainly the legs of a virgin, dry and without hair, the left knee cocked and carrying her entire weight, which was just over one hundred pounds. Lieutenant Cross remembered touching that left knee. A dark theater, he remembered, and the movie was Bonnie and Clyde, and Martha wore a tweed skirt, and during the final scene, when he touched her knee, she turned and looked at him in a sad, sober way that made him pull his hand back, but he would always remember the feel of the tweed skirt and the knee beneath it and the sound of the gunfire that killed Bonnie and Clyde, how embarrassing it was, how slow and oppres¬ sive. He remembered kissing her good night at the dorm door. Right then, he thought, he should've done something brave. He should've carried her up the stairs to her room and tied her to the bed and touched that left knee all night long. He should've risked it. Whenever he looked at the photographs, he thought of new things he should've done. What they carried was partly a function of rank, partly of field specialty. As a first lieutenant and platoon leader, Jimmy Cross carried a compass, maps, code books, binoculars, and a .45-caliber pistol that weighed 2.9 pounds fully loaded. He carried a strobe light and the responsibility for the lives of his men. As an RTO, Mitchell Sanders carried the PRC-25 radio, a killer, 26 pounds with its battery. As a medic. Rat Kiley carried a canvas satchel filled with morphine and plasma and malaria tablets and surgical tape and comic books and all the things a medic must carry, including M&M's for especially bad wounds, for a total weight of nearly 20 pounds. As a big man, therefore a machine gunner, Henry Dobbins carried the M-60, which weighed 23 pounds unloaded, but which was almost always loaded. In addition, Dobbins carried between 10 and 15 pounds of ammunition draped in belts across his chest and shoulders. As PFCs or Spec 4s, most of them were common grunts and carried the standard M-16 gas-operated assault rifle. The weapon weighed 7.5 pounds unloaded, 8.2 pounds with its full 20-round magazine. Depending on numerous factors, such as topography and psychol¬ ogy, the riflemen carried anywhere from 12 to 20 magazines, usually in cloth bandoliers, adding on another 8.4 pounds at minimum, 14 pounds at maximum. When it was avail¬ able, they also carried M-16 maintenance gear—rods and steel brushes and swabs and tubes of LSA oil—all of which weighed about a pound. Among the grunts, some carried the M-79 grenade launcher, 5.9 pounds unloaded, a reasonably light weapon except for the ammunition, which was heavy. A single round weighed 10 ounces. The typical load was

O'BRIEN • The Things They Carried

99

25 rounds. But Ted Lavender, who was scared, carried 34 rounds when he was shot and killed outside Than Khe, and he went down under an exceptional burden, more than 20 pounds of ammunition, plus the flak jacket and helmet and rations and water and toilet paper and tran¬ quilizers and all the rest, plus the unweighed fear. He was dead weight. There was no twitch¬ ing or flopping. Kiowa, who saw it happen, said it was like watching a rock fall, or a big sandbag or something—just boom, then down—not like the movies where the dead guy rolls around and does fancy spins and goes ass over teakettle—not like that, Kiowa said, the poor bastard just flat-fuck fell. Boom. Down. Nothing else. It was a bright morning in mid-April. Lieutenant Cross felt the pain. He blamed himself. They stripped off Lavender's canteens and ammo, all the heavy things, and Rat Kiley said the obvious, the guy's dead, and Mitchell Sanders used his radio to report one U.S. KIA and to request a chopper. Then they wrapped Lavender in his poncho. They carried him out to a dry paddy, established security, and sat smoking the dead man's dope until the chopper came. Lieutenant Cross kept to himself. He pictured Martha's smooth young face, thinking he loved her more than anything, more than his men, and now Ted Lavender was dead because he loved her so much and could not stop thinking about her. When the dustoff arrived, they carried Lavender aboard. Afterward they burned Than Khe. They marched until dusk, then dug their holes, and that night Kiowa kept explaining how you had to be there, how fast it was, how the poor guy just dropped like so much concrete. Boom-down, he said. Like cement. In addition to the three standard weapons—the M-60, M-16, and M-79—they carried whatever presented itself, or whatever seemed appropriate as a means of killing or staying alive. They carried catch-as-catch-can. At various times, in various situations, they carried M-14s and CAR-15s and Swedish Ks and grease guns and captured AK-47s and Chi-Coms and RPGs and Simonov carbines and black market Uzis and .38-caliber Smith & Wesson handguns and 66 mm LAWs and shotguns and silencers and blackjacks and bayonets and C-4 plastic explosives. Lee Strunk carried a slingshot; a weapon of last resort, he called it. Mitchell Sanders carried brass knuckles. Kiowa carried his grandfather's feathered hatchet. Every third or fourth man carried a Claymore antipersonnel mine—3.5 pounds with its fir¬ ing device. They all carried fragmentation grenades—14 ounces each. They all carried at least one M-18 colored smoke grenade—24 ounces. Some carried CS or tear gas grenades. Some carried white phosphorus grenades. They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.

In the first week of April, before Lavender died, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross received a goodluck charm from Martha. It was a simple pebble, an ounce at most. Smooth to the touch, it was a milky white color with flecks of orange and violet, oval-shaped, like a miniature egg. In the accompanying letter, Martha wrote that she had found the pebble on the Jersey shore¬ line, precisely where the land touched water at high tide, where things came together but also separated. It was this separate-but-together quality, she wrote, that had inspired her to pick up the pebble and to carry it in her breast pocket for several days, where it seemed weightless, and then to send it through the mail, by air, as a token of her truest feelings for him. Lieutenant Cross found this romantic. But he wondered what her truest feelings were, exactly, and what she meant by separate-but-together. He wondered how the tides and waves had come into play on that afternoon along the Jersey shoreline when Martha saw the pebble and bent down to rescue it from geology. He imagined bare feet. Martha was a poet, with the poet's sensibilities, and her feet would be brown and bare, the toenails unpainted, the eyes chilly and somber like the ocean in March, and though it was painful, he wondered who had been with her that afternoon. He imagined a pair of shadows moving along the

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

strip of sand where things came together but also separated. It was phantom jealousy, he knew, but he couldn't help himself. He loved her so much. On the march, through the hot days of early April, he carried the pebble in his mouth, turning it with his tongue, tasting sea salt and moisture. His mind wandered. He had difficulty keeping his attention on the war. On occasion he would yell at his men to spread out the column, fo keep their eyes open, but then he would slip away into daydreams, just pretending, walking barefoot along the Jersey shore, with Martha, carrying nothing. He would feel himself rising. Sun and waves and gen¬ tle winds, all love and lightness. What they carried varied by mission. When a mission took them to the mountains, they carried mosquito netting, machetes, canvas tarps, and extra bug juice. If a mission seemed especially hazardous, or if it involved a place they knew to be bad, they carried everything they could. In certain heavily mined AOs, where the land was dense with Toe Poppers and Bouncing Betties, they took turns humping a 28-pound mine detector. With its headphones and big sensing plate, the equipment was a stress on the lower back and shoulders, awkward to handle, often useless because of the shrapnel in the earth, but they carried it anyway, partly for safety, partly for the illusion of safety. On ambush, or other night missions, they carried peculiar little odds and ends. Kiowa always took along his New Testament and a pair of moccasins for silence. Dave Jensen car¬ ried night-sight vitamins high in carotene. Lee Strunk carried his slingshot; ammo, he claimed, would never be a problem. Rat Kiley carried brandy and M&M's candy. Until he was shot, Ted Lavender carried the starlight scope, which weighed 6.3 pounds with its alu¬ minum carrying case. Henry Dobbins carried his girlfriend's pantyhose wrapped around his neck as a comforter. They all carried ghosts. When dark came, they would move out sin¬ gle file across the meadows and paddies to their ambush coordinates, where they would quietly set up the Claymores and lie down and spend the night waiting. Other missions were more complicated and required special equipment. In mid-April, it was their mission to search out and destroy the elaborate tunnel complexes in the Than Khe area south of Chu Lai. To blow the tunnels, they carried one-pound blocks of pentrite high explosives, four blocks to a man, 68 pounds in all. They carried wiring, detonators, and battery-powered clackers. Dave Jensen carried earplugs. Most often, before blowing the tun¬ nels, they were ordered by higher command to search them, which was considered bad news, but by and large they just shrugged and carried out orders. Because he was a big man, Henry Dobbins was excused from tunnel duty. The others would draw numbers. Before Lavender died there were 17 men in the platoon, and whoever drew the number 17 would strip off his gear and crawl in headfirst with a flashlight and Lieutenant Cross's .45-caliber pistol. The rest of them would fan out as security. They would sit down or kneel, not facing the hole, listening to the ground beneath them, imagining cobwebs and ghosts, whatever was down there—the tunnel walls squeezing in—how the flashlight seemed impossibly heavy in the hand and how it was tunnel vision in the very strictest sense, compression in all ways, even time, and how you had to wiggle in—ass and elbows—a swallowed-up feel¬ ing—and how you found yourself worrying about odd things: Will your flashlight go dead? Do rats carry rabies? If you screamed, how far would the sound carry? Would your buddies hear it? Would they have the courage to drag you out? In some respects, though not many, the waiting was worse than the tunnel itself. Imagination was a killer. On April 16, when Lee Strunk drew the number 17, he laughed and muttered something and went down quickly. The morning was hot and very still. Not good, Kiowa said. He looked at the tunnel opening, then out across a dry paddy toward the village of Than Khe. Nothing moved. No clouds or birds or people. As they waited, the men smoked and drank Kool-Aid, not talking much, feeling sympathy for Lee Strunk but also feeling the luck of the

O'BRIEN • The Things They Carried

101

draw. You win some, you lose some, said Mitchell Sanders, and sometimes you settle for a rain check. It was a tired line and no one laughed. Henry Dobbins ate a tropical chocolate bar. Ted Lavender popped a tranquilizer and

20

went off to pee. After five minutes. Lieutenant Jimmy Cross moved to the tunnel, leaned down, and examined the darkness. Trouble, he thought—a cave-in maybe. And then suddenly, with¬ out willing it, he was thinking about Martha. The stresses and fractures, the quick collapse, the two of them buried alive under all that weight. Dense, crushing love. Kneeling, watch¬ ing the hole, he tried to concentrate on Lee Strunk and the war, all the dangers, but his love was too much for him, he felt paralyzed, he wanted to sleep inside her lungs and breathe her blood and be smothered. He wanted her to be a virgin and not a virgin, all at once. He wanted to know her. Intimate secrets: Why poetry? Why so sad? Why that grayness in her eyes? Why so alone? Not lonely, just alone—riding her bike across campus or sitting off by herself in the cafeteria—even dancing, she danced alone—and it was the aloneness that filled him with love. He remembered telling her that one evening. How she nodded and looked away. And how, later, when he kissed her, she received the kiss without returning it, her eyes wide open, not afraid, not a virgin's eyes, just flat and uninvolved. Lieutenant Cross gazed at the tunnel. But he was not there. He was buried with Martha under the white sand at the Jersey shore. They were pressed together, and the pebble in his mouth was her tongue. He was smiling. Vaguely, he was aware of how quiet the day was, the sullen paddies, yet he could not bring himself to worry about matters of security. He was beyond that. He was just a kid at war, in love. He was twenty-four years old. He couldn't help it. A few moments later Lee Strunk crawled out of the tunnel. He came up grinning, filthy but alive. Lieutenant Cross nodded and closed his eyes while the others clapped Strunk on the back and made jokes about rising from the dead. Worms, Rat Kiley said. Right out of the grave. Fuckin' zombie. The men laughed. They all felt great relief.

25

Spook city, said Mitchell Sanders. Lee Strunk made a funny ghost sound, a kind of moaning, yet very happy, and right then, when Strunk made that high happy moaning sound, when he went Ahhooooo, right then Ted Lavender was shot in the head on his way back from peeing. He lay with his mouth open. The teeth were broken. There was a swollen black bruise under his left eye. The cheekbone was gone. Oh shit. Rat Kiley said, the guy's dead. The guy's dead, he kept saying, which seemed profound—the guy's dead. I mean really.

The things they carried were determined to some extent by superstition. Lieutenant Cross carried his good-luck pebble. Dave Jensen carried a rabbit's foot. Norman Bowker, otherwise a very gentle person, carried a thumb that had been presented to him as a gift by Mitchell Sanders. The thumb was dark brown, rubbery to the touch, and weighed four ounces at most. It had been cut from a VC corpse, a boy of fifteen or sixteen. They'd found him at the bottom of an irrigation ditch, badly burned, flies in his mouth and eyes. The boy wore black shorts and sandals. At the time of his death he had been carrying a pouch of rice, a rifle and three magazines of ammunition. You want my opinion, Mitchell Sanders said, there's a definite moral here. He put his hand on the dead boy's wrist. He was quiet for a time, as if counting a pulse, then he patted the stomach, almost affectionately, and used Kiowa's hunting hatchet to remove the thumb. Henry Dobbins asked what the moral was.

30

102

CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

Moral? You know. Moral. Sanders wrapped the thumb in toilet paper and handed it across to Norman Bowker. There was no blood. Smiling, he kicked the boy's head, watched the flies scatter, and said. It's like with that old TV show—Paladin. Have gun, will travel. Henry Dobbins thought about it. Yeah, well, he finally said. I don't see no moral. There it is, man. Fuck off. They carried USO stationery and pencils and pens. They carried Sterno, safety pins, trip flares, signal flares, spools of wire, razor blades, chewing tobacco, liberated joss sticks and statuettes of the smiling Buddha, candles, grease pencils. The Stars and Stripes, fingernail clippers, Psy Ops leaflets, bush hats, bolos, and much more. Twice a week, when the resup¬ ply choppers came in, they carried hot chow in green mermite cans and large canvas bags filled with iced beer and soda pop. They carried plastic water containers, each with a twogallon capacity. Mitchell Sanders carried a set of starched tiger fatigues for special occa¬ sions. Henry Dobbins carried Black Flag insecticide. Dave Jensen carried empty sandbags that could be filled at night for added protection. Lee Strunk carried tanning lotion. Some things they carried in common. Taking turns, they carried the big PRC-77 scrambler radio, which weighed 30 pounds with its battery. They shared the weight of memory. They took up what others could no longer bear. Often, they carried each other, the wounded or weak. They carried infections. They carried chess sets, basketballs, Vietnamese-English dictionar¬ ies, insignia of rank, Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts, plastic cards imprinted with the Code of Conduct. They carried diseases, among them malaria and dysentery. They carried lice and ringworm and leeches and paddy algae and various rots and molds. They carried the land itself

Vietnam, the place, the soil—a powdery orange-red dust that covered their

boots and fatigues and faces. They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity. They moved like mules. By daylight they took sniper fire, at night they were mortared, but it was not battle, it was just the endless march, village to village, without purpose, nothing won or lost. They marched for the sake of the march. They plodded along slowly, dumblyleaning forward against the heat, unthinking, all blood and bone, simple grunts, soldiering with their legs, toiling up the hills and down into the paddies and across the rivers and up again and down, just humping, one step and then the next and then another, but no voli¬ tion, no will, because it was automatic, it was anatomy, and the war was entirely a matter of posture and carriage, the hump was everything, a kind of inertia, a kind of emptiness, a dullness of desire and intellect and conscience and hope and human sensibility. Their prin¬ ciples were in their feet. Their calculations were biological. They had no sense of strategy or mission. They searched the villages without knowing what to look for, not caring, kicking over jars of rice, frisking children and old men, blowing tunnels, sometimes setting fires and sometimes not, then forming up and moving on to the next village, then other villages, where it would always be the same. They carried their own lives. The pressures were enor¬ mous. In the heat of early afternoon, they would remove their helmets and flak jackets, walking bare, which was dangerous but which helped ease the strain. They would often discard things along the route of march. Purely for comfort, they would throw away rations, blow their Claymores and grenades, no matter, because by nightfall the resupply choppers would arrive with more of the same, then a day or two later still more, fresh watermelons and crates of ammunition and sunglasses and woolen sweaters—the resources were stunning-sparklers for the Fourth of July, colored eggs for Easter—it was the great American war chest

the fruits of science, the smokestacks, the canneries, the

arsenals at Hartford, the Minnesota forests, the machine shops, the vast fields of corn and

O'BRIEN * The Things They Carried

103

wheat—they carried like freight trains; they carried it on their backs and shoulders—and for all the ambiguities of Vietnam, all the mysteries and unknowns, there was at least the single abiding certainty that they would never be at a loss for things to carry. After the chopper took Lavender away, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross led his men into the vil¬ lage of Than Khe. They burned everything. They shot chickens and dogs, they trashed the village well, they called in artillery and watched the wreckage, then they marched for several hours through the hot afternoon, and then at dusk, while Kiowa explained how Lavender died. Lieutenant Cross found himself trembling. He tried not to cry. With his entrenching tool, which weighed five pounds, he began dig¬ ging a hole in the earth. He felt shame. He hated himself. He had loved Martha more than his men, and as a con¬ sequence Lavender was now dead, and this was something he would have to carry like a stone in his stomach for the rest of the war. All he could do was dig. He used his entrenching tool like an ax, slashing, feeling both love and hate, and then later, when it was full dark, he sat at the bottom of his foxhole and wept. It went on for a long while. In part, he was grieving for Ted Lavender, but mostly it was for Martha, and for himself, because she belonged to another world, which was not quite real, and because she was a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey, a poet and a virgin and uninvolved, and because he realized she did not love him and never would. Like cement, Kiowa whispered in the dark. I swear to God—boom, down. Not a word. I've heard this, said Norman Bowker. A pisser, you know? Still zipping himself up. Zapped while zipping. All right, fine. That's enough. Yeah, but you had to see it, the guy just— I heard, man. Cement. So why not shut the fuck up? Kiowa shook his head sadly and glanced over at the hole where Lieutenant Jimmy Cross sat watching the night. The air was thick and wet. A warm dense fog had settled over the paddies and there was the stillness that precedes rain. After a time Kiowa sighed. One thing for sure, he said. The lieutenant's in some deep hurt. I mean that crying jag— the way he was carrying on—it wasn't fake or anything, it was real heavy-duty hurt. The man cares. Sure, Norman Bowker said. Say what you want, the man does care. We all got problems. Not Lavender. No, I guess not, Bowker said. Do me a favor, though. Shut up? That's a smart Indian. Shut up. Shrugging, Kiowa pulled off his boots. He wanted to say more, just to lighten up his sleep, but instead he opened his New Testament and arranged it beneath his head as a pil¬ low. The fog made things seem hollow and unattached. He tried not to think about Ted Lavender, but then he was thinking how fast it was, no drama, down and dead, and how it was hard to feel anything except surprise. It seemed unchristian. He wished he could find some great sadness, or even anger, but the emotion wasn't there and he couldn't make it happen. Mostly he felt pleased to be alive. He liked the smell of the New Testament under his cheek, the leather and ink and paper and glue, whatever the chemicals were. He liked hearing the sounds of night. Even his fatigue, it felt fine, the stiff muscles and the prickly

104

CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

awareness of his own body, a floating feeling. He enjoyed not being dead. Lying there, Kiowa admired Lieutenant Jimmy Cross's capacity for grief. He wanted to share the man's pain, he wanted to care as Jimmy Cross cared. And yet when he closed his eyes, all he could think was Boom-down, and all he could feel was the pleasure of having his boots off and the fog curling in around him and the damp soil and the Bible smells and the plush comfort of night. After a moment Norman Bowker sat up in the dark. What the hell, he said. You want to talk, talk. Tell it to me. Forget it. No, man, go on. One thing I hate, it's a silent Indian. For the most part they carried themselves with poise, a kind of dignity. Now and then, however, there were times of panic, when they squealed or wanted to squeal but couldn't, when they twitched and made moaning sounds and covered their heads and said Dear Jesus and flopped around on the earth and fired their weapons blindly and cringed and sobbed and begged for the noise to stop and went wild and made stupid promises to themselves and to God and to their mothers and fathers, hoping not to die. In different ways, it happened to all of them. Afterward, when the firing ended, they would blink and peek up. They would touch their bodies, feeling shame, then quickly hiding it. They would force themselves to stand. As if in slow motion, frame by frame, the world would take on the old logic—absolute silence, then the wind, then sunlight, then voices. It was the burden of being alive. Awkwardly, the men would reassemble themselves, first in private, then in groups, becoming soldiers again. They would repair the leaks in their eyes. They would check for casualties, call in dust-offs, light cig¬ arettes, try to smile, clear their throats and spit and begin cleaning their weapons. After a time someone would shake his head and say. No lie. I almost shit my pants, and someone else would laugh, which meant it was bad, yes, but the guy had obviously not shit his pants, it wasn t that bad, and in any case nobody would ever do such a thing and then go ahead and talk about it. They would squint into the dense, oppressive sunlight. For a few moments, per¬ haps, they would fall silent, lighting a joint and tracking its passage from man to man, inhalittgr holding in the humiliation. Scary stuff, one of them might say. But then someone else would grin or flick his eyebrows and say, Roger-dodger, almost cut me a new asshole, almost. There were numerous such poses. Some carried themselves with a sort of wistful resig¬ nation, others with pride or stiff soldierly discipline or good humor or macho zeal. They were afraid of dying but they were even more afraid to show it. They found jokes to tell. They used a hard vocabulary to contain the terrible softness. Greased they'd say. Offed, lit up, zapped while zipping. It wasn't cruelty, just stage presence. They were actors. When some¬ one died, it wasn't quite dying, because in a curious way it seemed scripted, and because they had their lines mostly memorized, irony mixed with tragedy, and because they called it by other names, as if to encyst and destroy the reality of death itself. They kicked corpses. They cut off thumbs. They talked grunt lingo. They told stories about Ted Lavender's sup¬ ply of tranquilizers, how the poor guy didn t feel a thing, how incredibly tranquil he was. There's a moral here, said Mitchell Sanders. They were waiting for Lavender's chopper, smoking the dead man's dope. The moral s pretty obvious, Sanders said, and winked. Stay away from drugs. No joke, they'll ruin your day every time. Cute, said Henry Dobbins. Mind blower, get it? Talk about wiggy. Nothing left, just blood and brains. They made themselves laugh. There it is, they'd say. Over and over—there it is, my friend, there it is—as if the repeti¬ tion itself were an act of poise, a balance between crazy and almost crazy, knowing without

O'BRIEN • The Things They Carried

105

going, there it is, which meant be cool, let it ride, because Oh yeah, man, you can't change what can't be changed, there it is, there it absolutely and positively and fucking well is. They were tough. They carried all the emotional baggage of men who might die. Grief, terror, love, longing— these were intangibles, but the intangibles had their own mass and specific gravity, they had tangible weight. They carried shameful memories. They carried the common secret of cowardice barely restrained, the instinct to run or freeze or hide, and in many respects this was the heaviest burden of all, for it could never be put down, it required perfect balance and perfect posture. They carried their reputations. They carried the soldier's greatest fear, which was the fear of blushing. Men killed, and died, because they were embarrassed not to. It was what had brought them to the war in the first place, nothing positive, no dreams of glory or honor, just to avoid the blush of dishonor. They died so as not to die of embar¬ rassment. They crawled into tunnels and walked point and advanced under fire. Each morning, despite the unknowns, they made their legs move. They endured. They kept humping. They did not submit to the obvious alternative, which was simply to close the eyes and fall. So easy, really. Go limp and tumble to the ground and let the muscles unwind and not speak and not budge until your buddies picked you up and lifted you into the chopper that would roar and dip its nose and carry you off to the world. A mere matter of falling, yet no one ever fell. It was not courage, exactly; the object was not valor. Rather, they were too frightened to be cowards. By and large they carried these things inside, maintaining the masks of composure. They sneered at sick call. They spoke bitterly about guys who had found release by shooting off their own toes or fingers. Pussies, they'd say. Candy-asses. It was fierce, mocking talk, with only a trace of envy or awe, but even so the image played itself out behind their eyes. They imagined the muzzle against flesh. So easy: squeeze the trigger and blow away a toe. They imagined it. They imagined the quick, sweet pain, then the evacuation to Japan, then a hospital with warm beds and cute geisha nurses. And they dreamed of freedom birds. At night, on guard, staring into the dark, they were carried away by jumbo jets. They felt the rush of takeoff. Gone! they yelled. And then velocity—wings and engines—a smiling stewardess—but it was more than a plane, it was a real bird, a big sleek silver bird with feath¬ ers and talons and high screeching. They were flying. The weights fell off; there was nothing to bear. They laughed and held on tight, feeling the cold slap of wind and altitude, soaring, thinking It’s over, I’m gone!—they were naked, they were light and free—it was all lightness, bright and fast and buoyant, light as light, a helium buzz in the brain, a giddy bubbling in the lungs as they were taken up over the clouds and the war, beyond duty, beyond gravity and mortification and global entanglements—Sin loi! they yelled. I’m sorry, motherfuckers, but I’m out of it, I’m goofed, I’m on a space cruise, I’m gone!— and it was a restful, unencumbered sensation, just riding the light waves, sailing that big silver freedom bird over the mountains and oceans, over America, over the farms and great sleeping cities and cemeteries and highways and the golden arches of McDonald's, it was flight, a kind of fleeing, a kind of falling, falling higher and higher, spinning off the edge of the earth and beyond the sun and through the vast, silent vacuum where there were no burdens and where everything weighed exactly nothing—Gone! they screamed. I’m sorry but I’m gone!—and so at night, not quite dreaming, they gave themselves over to lightness, they were carried, they were purely borne. On the morning after Ted Lavender died. First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross crouched at the bottom of his foxhole and burned Martha's letters. Then he burned the two photographs. There was a steady rain falling, which made it difficult, but he used heat tabs and Sterno to build a small fire, screening it with his body, holding the photographs over the tight blue flame with the tips of his fingers.

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

He realized it was only a gesture. Stupid, he thought. Sentimental, too, but mostly just stupid. Lavender was dead. You couldn't burn the blame. Besides, the letters were in his head. And even now, without photographs. Lieutenant Cross could see Martha playing volleyball in her white gym shorts and yellow T-shirt. He could see her moving in the rain. When the fire died out, Lieutenant Cross pulled his poncho over his shoulders and ate breakfast from a can. There was no great mystery, he decided. In those burned letters Martha had never mentioned the war, except to say, Jimmy, take care of yourself. She wasn't involved. She signed the letters Love, but it wasn't love, and all the fine lines and technicalities did not matter. Virginity was no longer an issue. He hated her. Yes, he did. He hated her. Love, too, but it was a hard, hating kind of love. The morning came up wet and blurry. Everything seemed part of everything else, the fog and Martha and the deepening rain. He was a soldier, after all. Half smiling. Lieutenant Jimmy Cross took out his maps. He shook his head hard, as if to clear it, then bent forward and began planning the day's march. In ten minutes, or maybe twenty, he would rouse the men and they would pack up and head west, where the maps showed the country to be green and inviting. They would do what they had always done. The rain might add some weight, but otherwise it would be one more day layered upon all the other days. He was realistic about it. There was that new hardness in his stomach. He loved her but he hated her. No more fantasies, he told himself. Henceforth, when he thought about Martha, it would be only to think that she belonged elsewhere. He would shut down the daydreams. This was not Mount Sebastian, it was another world, where there were no pretty poems or midterm exams, a place where men died because of carelessness and gross stupidity. Kiowa was right. Boom-down, and you were dead, never partly dead. Briefly, in the rain. Lieutenant Cross saw Martha's gray eyes gazing back at him. He understood. It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do. He almost nodded at her, but didn't. Instead he went back to his maps. He was now determined to perform his duties firmly and without negligence. It wouldn't help Lavender, he knew that, but from this point on he would comport himself as an officer. He would dispose of his good-luck pebble. Swal¬ low it, maybe, or use Lee Strunk's slingshot, or just drop it along the trail. On the march he would impose strict field discipline. He would be careful to send out flank security, to pre¬ vent straggling or bunching up, to keep his troops moving at the proper pace and at the proper interval. He would insist on clean weapons. He would confiscate the remainder of Lavender s dope. Later in the day, perhaps, he would call the men together and speak to them plainly. He would accept the blame for what had happened to Ted Lavender. He would be a man about it. He would look them in the eyes, keeping his chin level, and he would issue the new SOPs in a calm, impersonal tone of voice, a lieutenant's voice, leaving no room for argument or discussion. Commencing immediately, he'd tell them, they would no longer abandon equipment along the route of march. They would police up their acts. They would get their shit together, and keep it together, and maintain it neatly and in good working order. He would not tolerate laxity. He would show strength, distancing himself.

PIRANDELLO • War

107

Among the men there would be grumbling, of course, and maybe worse, because their days would seem longer and their loads heavier, but Lieutenant Jimmy Cross reminded himself that his obligation was not to be loved but to lead. He would dispense with love; it was not now a factor. And if anyone quarreled or complained, he would simply tighten his lips and arrange his shoulders in the correct command posture. He might give a curt little nod. Or he might not. He might just shrug and say. Carry on, then they would saddle up and form into a column and move out toward the villages west of Than Khe.

QUESTIONS 1. What do we learn about Lieutenant Jimmy Cross? How do we learn about him? Why does he blame himself for Lavender's death? How does Kiowa misinterpret his emo¬ tions? How do his concerns unify the story? What other unifying elements does the story contain?

2. What is the effect of the repetitions in the story (the constant descriptions of how much things weigh, the regular need to carry things, the way in which Lavender died)?

3. Why is Mitchell Sanders unable to put into words the moral of the dead man's thumb? How would you describe the moral?

4. Analyze paragraph 39. Discuss the various burdens the men of the platoon must carry. What bearing does this paragraph have upon other parts of the story?

LUIGI PIRANDELLO (1867-1936) Luigi Pirandello was born in southern Sicily into a wealthy family. At first he was homeschooled, but eventually went to high school in Palermo, the capital of Sicily. Later he attended the University of Palermo and the University of Rome, b ut then he went to Bonn, Germany (the birth city of Beethoven), where he gained a doctorate in humanities in 1891. His resources failed because of a disastrous flood in the family’s Sicilian sulfur mine, and he was left mainly to his own resources as a teacher and writer. His marriage, which produced three children, proved disastrous as his wife eventually was declared insane and had to be institutionalized. Pirandello’s early years were taken up mainly with the writing of stories and dramas. One of his three sons fought in World War I, and survived, unlike the son in the story “War ” Eventually Pirandello developed a masterly career as a drama¬ tist, his best known and highly original play being Six Characters in Search of an Author in 1921. With the support of Benito Mussolini, the prime minister and dictator of Italy—support that many claimed was highly controversial because of Mussolini s later alliance with Adolf Hitler—Pirandello became well known internationally. In 1934, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

War

(1919)

The passengers who had left Rome by the night express had had to stop until dawn at the small station of Fabriano in order to continue their journey by the small old-fashioned local joining the main line with Sulmona. At dawn, in a stuffy and smoky second-class carriage in which five people had already spent the night, a bulky woman in deep mourning was hoisted in—almost like a shapeless bundle. Behind her, puffing and moaning, followed her husband—a tiny man, thin and weakly, his face death-white, his eyes small and bright and looking shy and uneasy.

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Having at last taken a seat he politely thanked the passengers who had helped his wife and who had made room for her; then he turned round to the woman trying to pull down the collar of her coat, and politely inquired: "Are you all right, dear?" The wife, instead of answering, pulled up her collar again to her eyes, so as to hide her face. "Nasty world," muttered the husband with a sad smile. And he felt it his duty to explain to his traveling companions that the poor woman was to be pitied, for the war was taking away from her her only son, a boy of twenty to whom both had devoted their entire life, even breaking up their home at Sulmona to follow him to Rome, where he had to go as a student, then allowing him to volunteer for war with an assurance, however, that at least for six months he would not be sent to the front and now, all of a sudden, receiving a wire saying that he was due to leave in three days' time and ask¬ ing them to go and see him off. The woman under the big coat was twisting and wriggling, at times growling like a wild animal, feeling certain that all those explanations would not have aroused even a shadow of sympathy from those people who—most likely—were in the same plight as herself. One of them, who had been listening with particular attention, said: "You should thank God that your son is only leaving now for the front. Mine has been sent there the first day of the war. He has already come back twice wounded and been sent back again to the front." "What about me? I have two sons and three nephews at the front," said another passenger. "Maybe, but in our case it is our only son," ventured the husband. What difference can it make? You may spoil your only son with excessive attentions, but you cannot love him more than you would all your other children if you had any. Pater¬ nal love is not like bread that can be broken into pieces and split amongst the children in equal shares. A father gives all his love to each one of his children without discrimination, whether it be one or ten, and if I am suffering now for my two sons, I am not suffering half for each of them but double. "True . . . true ..." sighed the embarrassed husband, "but suppose (of course we all hope it will never be your case) a father has two sons at the front and he loses one of them, there is still one left to console him . . . while ..." "Yes," answered the other, getting cross, "a son left to console him but also a son left for whom he must survive, while in the case of the father of an only son if the son dies the father can die too and put an end to his distress. Which of the two positions is the worse? Don't you see how my case would be worse than yours?" "Nonsense," interrupted another traveler, a fat, red-faced man with bloodshot eyes of the palest gray. He was panting. From his bulging eyes seemed to spurt inner violence of an uncon¬ trolled vitality which his weakened body could hardly contain. "Nonsense," he repeated, trying to cover his mouth with his hand so as to hide the two missing front teeth. "Nonsense. Do we give life to our children for our own benefit?" The other travelers stared at him in distress. The one who had had his son at the front since the first day of the war sighed: "You are right. Our children do not belong to us, they belong to the Country . . . ." "Bosh," retorted the fat traveler. "Do we think of the Country when we give life to our chil¬ dren? Our sons are born because . . . well, because they must be born and when they come to life they take our own life with them. This is the truth. We belong to them but they never belong to us. And when they reach twenty they are exactly what we were at their age. We too had a father and mother, but there were so many other things as well. . . girls, cigarettes, illu¬ sions, new ties... and the Country, of course, whose call we would have answered—when we were twenty-even if father and mother had said no. Now at our age, the love of our Country

PIRANDELLO • War

109

is still great, of course, but stronger than it is the love for our children. Is there any one of us here who wouldn't gladly take his son's place at the front if he could?" There was a silence all round, everybody nodding as to approve. "Why then," continued the fat man, "shouldn't we consider the feelings of our children when they are twenty? Isn't it natural that at their age they should consider the love for their Country (I am speaking of decent boys, of course) even greater than the love for us? Isn't it natural that it should be so, as after all they must look upon us as upon old boys who cannot move any more and must stay at home? If Country exists, if Country is a natural necessity, like bread, of which each of us must eat in order not to die of hunger, somebody must go to defend it. And our sons go, when they are twenty, and they don't want tears, because if they die, they die inflamed and happy (I am speaking, of course, of decent boys). Now, if one dies young and happy, without having the ugly sides of life, the boredom of it, the pettiness, the bitterness of disillusion . . . what more can we ask for him? Everyone should stop crying; everyone should laugh, as I do ... or at least thank God^—as I do—because my son, before dying, sent me a message saying that he was dying satisfied at having ended his life in the best way he could have wished. That is why, as you see, I do not even wear mourning He shook his light fawn coat as to show it; his livid lip over his missing teeth was trem¬ bling, his eyes were watery and motionless, and soon after he ended with a shrill laugh which might well have been a sob. "Quite so . . . quite so . . ." agreed the others. The woman who, bundled in a corner under her coat, had been sitting and listening had—for the last three months—tried to find in the words of her husband and her friends something to console her in her deep sorrow, something that might show her how a mother should resign herself to send her son not even to death but to a probably dangerous life. Yet not a word had she found amongst the many which had been said . . . and her grief had been greater in seeing that nobody—as she thought—could share her feelings. But now the words of the traveler amazed and almost stunned her. She suddenly real¬ ized that it wasn't the others who were wrong and could not understand her, but herself who could not rise up to the same height of those fathers and mothers willing to resign themselves, without crying, not only to the departure of their sons but even to their death. She lifted her head, she bent over from her corner trying to listen with great attention to the details which the fat man was giving to his companions about the way his son had fallen as a hero, for his King and his Country, happy and without regrets. It seemed to her that she had stumbled into a world she had never dreamt of, a world so far unknown to her and she was so pleased to hear everyone joining in congratulating that brave father who could so stoically speak of his child's death. Then suddenly, just as if she had heard nothing of what had been said and almost as if waking up from a dream, she turned to the old man, asking him: "Then ... is your son really dead?" Everybody stared at her. The old man, too, turned to look at her, fixing his great, bulging, horribly watery light gray eyes, deep in her face. For some little time he tried to answer, but words failed him. He looked and looked at her, almost as if only then at that silly, incongruous question—he had suddenly realized at last that his son was really dead gone forever—forever. His face contracted, became horribly distorted, then he snatched in haste a handkerchief from his pocket and, to the amazement of everyone, broke into har¬ rowing, heart-rending, uncontrollable sobs.

QUESTIONS 1. Explain the means by which Pirandello develops the narrative structure of the story. Why does he include so much conversation? What might the story be like if it had been carried out exclusively through description?

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

2. Describe the thoughts about death expressed by the "fat, red-faced man with blood¬ shot eyes." How does this man seem to be defending the need for battlefield deaths? How do his true thoughts emerge in the story? How does he seem to be contradictory?

3. What do you think is the story's major idea, as it develops in the discussion by the pas¬ sengers? Why does Pirandello choose the man who seemsdeast appealing as the one to whom the ultimate sacrifice has happened?

4. In paragraph 28, why does the woman who is "bundled in a corner under her coat" ask the simple question of the fat man? Why is it she who asks the question, and not one of the other passengers?

Plot: The Motivation and Causality of Fiction Stories are made up mostly of actions or incidents that follow one another in chronological order. The same is also true of life, but there is a major difference. Fiction must make sense even though life itself does not always seem to make sense at all. Finding a sequential or narrative order is therefore only a first step in our consideration of fiction. What we depend on for the sense or meaning of fic¬ tion is plot—the elements governing the unfolding of the actions. The English novelist E. M. Forster, in Aspects of the Novel, presents a memo¬ rable illustration of plot. To illustrate a bare set of actions, he proposes the following: "The king died, and then the queen died." Forster points out, however, that this sequence does not form a plot because it lacks motivation and causation; it is too much like life itself to be fictional. Thus he introduces motivation and causa¬ tion in his next example: "The king died, and then the queen died of grief." The phrase "of grief" shows that one thing (grief) controls or overcomes another (the normal desire to live), and motivation and causation enter the sequence to form a plot. In a well-plotted story or play, one thing precedes or follows another not sim¬ ply because time ticks away, but more importantly because effects follow causes. In a good work of fiction, nothing is irrelevant or accidental; everything is related and causative.

Determining the Conflicts in a Story The controlling impulse in a connected pattern of causes and effects is conflict, which refers to people or circumstances that a character must face and try to overcome. Conflicts bring out extremes of human energy, causing characters to engage in the decisions, actions, responses, and interactions that make up fictional literature. In its most elemental form, a conflict is the opposition of two people. Their conflict may take the shape of anger, hatred, envy, argument, avoidance, political or moral opposition, gossip, lies, fighting, and many other actions and attitudes. Conflicts may also exist between groups, although conflicts between individuals are more identifiable and therefore more suitable for stories. Conflicts may also be abstract—for example, when an individual opposes larger forces such as natural objects, ideas, modes of behavior, or public opinion. A difficult or even impossible choice a dilemma is a natural conflict for an individual person. A conflict may

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111

also be brought out in ideas and opinions that clash. In short, conflict shows itself in many ways. DIRECTLY RELATING CONFLICT TO DOUBT, TENSION, AND INTEREST. Conflict is the major element of plot because opposing forces arouse curiosity, cause doubt, cre¬ ate tension, and produce interest. The same responses are the lifeblood of athletic competition. Consider which kind of athletic event is more interesting: (1) One team gets so far ahead that the outcome is no longer in doubt, or (2) both teams are so evenly matched that the outcome is uncertain until the final seconds. Obvi¬ ously, games are uninteresting—as games—unless they develop as contests between teams of comparable strength. The same principle applies to conflicts in stories and dramas. There should be uncertainty about a protagonist's success or failure. Unless there is doubt, there is no tension, and without tension there is no interest. FINDING THE CONFLICTS TO DETERMINE THE PLOT. To see a plot in operation, let us build on Forster's description. Here is a simple plot for a story of our own: "John and Jane meet, fall in love, and get married." This sentence contains a plot because it shows cause and effect (they get married because they fall in love), but with no conflict, the plot is not interesting. However, let us introduce conflicting elements into this common "boy meets girl" story: John and Jane meet in college and fall in love. They go together for a number of years and plan to marry, but a problem arises. Jane first wants to establish herself in a career, and after marriage she wants to be an equal contributor to the family. John under¬ stands Jane's wishes for equality, but he wants to get married first and let her finish her studies and have her career after they have children. Jane believes that John's plan is unacceptable because she thinks of it as a trap from which she might not escape. As they discuss their options they find themselves increasingly more irritated and unhappy with each other. Finally they bring their plans to an end, and they part in both anger and sorrow. Their love is not dead, however, but both go on to marry someone else and build separate lives and careers. In their new lives, neither is totally happy even though they like and respect their spouses. The years pass, and, after children and grandchildren, Jane and John meet again. He is now divorced and she is a widow. Because their earlier conflict is no longer a barrier, they rekindle their love, marry, and try to make up for the past. Even their new happiness, however, is tinged with regret and reproach because of their earlier conflicts, their unhappy decision to part, their lost years, and their increasing age.

Here we find a true plot because our original "boy meets girl" topic now contains a major conflict from which a number of related complications develop. These complications embody disagreements, choices, arguments, and ill feelings that produce tension, uncertainty, rupture, and regret. When we learn that John and Jane finally join together at the end we might still find the story painful to contem¬ plate because it does not give us a "happily ever after" ending. Nevertheless, the story makes sense—as a story—because its plot brings out the plausible conse¬ quences of the understandable aims and hopes of John and Jane during their long relationship. It is the imposition of necessary causes and effects upon a series of events in time that creates the story's plot.

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Writing About the Plot of a Story An essay about plot is an analysis of the story's conflict and its developments. The organization of your essay should not be modeled op sequential sections and principal events, however, because these invite only a retelling of the story. Instead, the organization is to be developed from the important elements of con¬ flict. As you look for ideas about plot, try to answer the questions below. QUESTIONS FOR DISCOVERING IDEAS

1. Who are the major and minor characters, and how do their characteristics put them in conflict? How can you describe the conflict or conflicts?

2. How does the story's action grow out of the major conflict? 3. If the conflict stems from contrasting ideas or values, what are these, and how are they brought out?

4. What problems do the major characters face? How do the characters deal with these problems?

5. How do the major characters achieve (or not achieve) their major goal(s)? What obstacles do they overcome? What obstacles overcome them or alter them?

6. At the end, are the characters successful or unsuccessful, happy or unhappy, satisfied or dissatisfied, changed or unchanged, enlightened or ignorant? How has the resolution of the major conflict produced these results?

Strategies for Organizing Ideas To keep your essay brief, you need to be selective. Rather than detailing every¬ thing a character does, for example, stress the major elements in his or her conflict. Such an essay on Eudora Welty's "A Worn Path"(p. 270) might emphasize Phoenix as she encounters the various obstacles both in the woods and in town. When there is a conflict between two major characters, the obvious approach is to focus equally on both. For brevity, however, emphasis might be placed on just one. Thus, an essay on the plot of "A Rose for Emily" might stress the details about Emily's life that make her the central participant in the story's conflict. In addition, the plot may be analyzed more broadly in terms of impulses, goals, values, issues, and historical perspectives. Thus, you might emphasize the elements of chance working against Mathilde in Maupassant's "The Necklace" (Chapter 3) as a contrast to her dreams about wealth. The conclusion may contain a brief summary of the points you have made. It is also a fitting location for a brief consideration of the effect or impact produced by the conflict. Additional ideas might focus on whether the author has arranged actions and dialogue to direct your favor toward one side or the other, or whether the plot is possible or impossible, serious or comic, fair or unfair, powerful or indifferent, and so on.

Illustrative Student Essay

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Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Getty 1 Beth Getty Professor Farmer English 214 12 March 2010 Plot in Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily"0 William Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” may seem at first to be about a

[i]

murder in a small southern town, but even a first reading of the story reveals that the conflict does not arise from the search for a killer. It can’t, because no one knows that a murder has even occurred until the murderess herself has died and been respectfully honored at her own funeral. Instead, incidents in the story indicate that the conflict is actually between those who are capable of change and those who are not, as well as those who want it and those who don’t.* Both the major and minor events in the story’s plot develop the idea that in the progress from an aristocratic but romanticized past to a more egalitarian present and future, there are unhealthy consequences for those who persist in clinging to the past.1' Faulkner begins to develop this conflict by relating several incidents that establish the story’s main character, Emily Grierson, to be one of those older Southerners who are incapable of changing with the times. When Emily’s father dies, for example, she refuses to accept his death. Some of the ladies of the town come to her home to offer their condolences, and “she told them her father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the minister calling on her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just

“This story appears on pages 91-96. ♦Central idea. ■^Thesis sentence.

[2]

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

Getty 2 as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down, and they buried her father quickly” (93). This incident reveals that Emily cannot cope with big changes. Yet another incident—Emily’s refusal to have a mailbox affixed to her house when the town gets free postal delivery (95)—reveals that she cannot cope with smaller changes either. The event that most clearly reveals the unhealthy—and even disastrous—consequences of Emily’s denial of change is her murder of her lover, who had apparently tried to end his relationship with her. The reader must piece the details together to understand what happened, but Faulkner provides enough information to indicate that Emily poisoned Homer Barron, who had said that “he was not a marrying man” (94), and then kept his decomposing corpse in her bed, continuing to sleep beside it after she had become an old woman with gray hair. Emily does not want to progress, and she refuses all change—both good and bad—with all of her might. As a result, she resorts to murder to prevent change from occurring at all. HI

The past has an unhealthy grip on others, too, as brought out by two major plot incidents which show that Emily is not the only Jefferson resident who struggles with change. The first is the disagreement between Emily and the town’s Board of Aldermen over the issue of her taxes. Emily claims that she owes no taxes because of an arrangement she made in 1894 with the town’s former mayor Colonel Sartoris. Her dispensation is overlooked until “the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen.” These younger residents respond to her arrangement with “dissatisfaction” (91), for in the egalitarian spirit of modern times, they believe that everyone in the town should be obliged to share the tax burden. True to form, Emily resists the idea that she should change. She repeats the statement, “I have no taxes in Jefferson” four different times before finally ending the alderman’s visit to her home (92). In this case, the younger and more modern townspeople try to force their newer and fairer standards upon Emily.

Illustrative Student Essay

115

Getty 3 Although their request is valid, Faulkner’s narrator tells us that “she vanquished them” (92). So even those who advocate needed change end up deferring to a relic from their past, and the unhealthy consequence is the continuation of inequality in Jefferson. The second major incident that develops the clash between stagnation and

[4]

progress is the townspeople’s response to the awful smell that comes from Emily’s house. When neighbors complain to the Board of Aldermen, the issue pits the older residents against the younger ones, for the board is composed of “three graybeards, and one younger man, a member of the rising generation” (92). This younger man proposes to deal with the problem as though Emily is no one special: “ ‘It’s simple enough,’ he said. ‘Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Give her a certain time to do it in, and if she don’t. . . ’” (92). His suggestion reflects a newer democratic spirit, one that does not defer to people on the basis of status or position. Eighty-year-old Judge Stevens, however, speaks for the other older aldermen when he reacts with horror to this suggestion: “ ‘Dammit, sir,’ Judge Stevens said, ‘will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?”’ (92). These older officials adhere to more old-fashioned, romantic notions of deference to ladies and to members of the old aristocracy. Once again, in the struggle between the past and the present, the status quo and progress, tradition is the winner. Emily (along with the past she represents) easily vanquishes the objections of the younger residents, for the aldermen agree only to sprinkle lime around her house secretly, under cover of darkness (92-93). The result, however, is injustice, for an investigation into the smell that would have revealed its source to be a murdered corpse never takes place. Without a doubt, in “A Rose for Emily” the characters who resist progress prevail over the ones who advocate it. And yet, two terrible consequences are the result of this opposition to change: a man is murdered and the killer escapes justice, all because the residents of the town, by consensus, defer to out-dated and romantic notions from the past. Emily

[5]

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

Getty 4 Grierson is not held—not by herself nor by others—to the .standards and rules that apply to everyone else in a democratic society. As a result, she ends up getting away with murder. Even so, Faulkner suggests that for those who cannot change, some pity may be in order, for the South’s transformation

completely overwhelms former aristocrats such as Emily. Faulkner is less sympathetic toward those like the older townspeople, however, who will not change, for as they seek to preserve the gentility of their heritage, they also perpetuate its flaws.

Getty 5 Work Cited Faulkner, William. “A Rose for Emily.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed.

New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 91-96. Print.

Commentary on the Essay Because the subject is plot, this essay emphasizes the conflicting elements in Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily"—change and resistance to change—in the town of Jefferson. The first paragraph demonstrates how this conflict emerges only slowly in the story, inasmuch as the most lurid detail is not brought out until the story's end. Throughout the body of the essay, the conflict between change and non¬ change is stressed as the major element of Faulkner's plot. Note that the essay assumes that readers know the story already. FFence the essay is not a plot summary but is instead an analysis of a number of the ele¬ ments making up the plot. Whatever summary is included is presented as evi¬ dence to support points about the plot of the story. As with any essay, it is important to realize that thematic thrust is the overriding need in the shaping of the essay.

Writing Topics About Plot in Fiction

117

Paragraph 2 of the body deals with three major plot incidents revealing how Emily is part of the old aristocracy and serves to crystallize resistance to change in Jefferson. Paragraph 3 demonstrates that many of the Jefferson townspeople are also resistant to change. This paragraph also asserts one of Faulkner's major ideas—namely, that this resistance to change has ill consequences. Paragraph 4 considers the issue of how the townspeople react to the terrible smell at the Grier¬ son household, and thus Emily and her circumstances are a focal point for the town's evasion of the issue. Paragraph 5 summarizes the conflicts of the plot and concludes with a modi¬ fication of the central idea—that those resisting change are victors over those wanting change, and that the murder of Elomer Barron is, symbolically, a negative comment on the town's way of dealing with the past.

Writing Topics About Plot in Fiction Writing Paragraphs 1. Write contrasting paragraphs about a character (whom you know or about whom you have read). In the first, try to make your reader like the character. In the second, try to create a hostile response to the character. Write an addi¬ tional paragraph explaining the ways in which you tried to create these oppo¬ site responses. How fair would it be for a reader to dislike your negative paragraph even though your hostile portrait is successful?

2. Consider the illustrative essay on the plot of Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily." In a paragraph discuss how well the essay organizes the details about the story's plot? Do you accept the arguments in the essay? What other details and argu¬ ments can you think of that might explain Faulkner's plot more fully?

3. In a paragraph about "War" by Pirandello, discuss why the father whose son is dead is made so initially unappealing? What effect on the plot of the story is made plain by the apparent nature of his character?

Writing Essays 1. Suppose that someone has told you that "The Things They Carried" is too de¬ tailed and realistic to be considered a story. In an essay argue that the asser¬ tion should be considered wrong. What elements of narrative, character, plot, point of view, idea, and description justify calling "The Things They Carried" a story?

2. In an essay discuss how the separate sections of "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" affect the development of the story's plot? Why is the second section a "flashback" of events that occurred before the actual story is taking place? Why is this flashback necessary to your understanding of the plot?

3. In an essay consider the various conflicts that develop in "Mericans," by San¬ dra Cisneros. You might consider this issue in terms of Michelle and the

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CHAPTER 1 • Fiction: An Overview

comic-book interests of her brothers, Michelle and her "awful grandmother," the prohibitions about the behavior of the children, the need for Michelle to pay attention before she can understand Spanish, and the surprise of the tourist couple when they discover that the boys spe^k English. Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write a brief episode or story that takes place in a historical period you believe you know well, being as factually accurate as you can. Introduce your own fictional characters as important "movers and shakers," and deal with their public or personal affairs or both. You may model your characters and episodes on historical persons, but you are free to exercise your imagination completely and construct your own characters.

Chapter 2 Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work’s Narrator or Speaker

T

he term “point of view” refers to the speaker, narrator, persona, or voice created by authors to tell stories, make observations, present arguments, and express per¬ sonal attitudes and judgments. Literally, point of view deals with how action and dia¬ logue have been seen and heard. How does the speaker learn about the situation? Is the speaker a participant in the events, or no more than a witness, either close or dis¬ tant? How close to the action is she or he? How much does the speaker know? How accurate and complete are his or her reports? Is the speaker also involved in what hap¬ pened? How thoroughly? Did he or she see everything, miss anything? How much did she or he understand? Point of view involves not only the speaker’s actual position as an observer and recorder but also the ways in which the speaker’s social, political, and mental circumstances affect the narrative. For this reason, point of view is one of the most complex and subtle aspects of literary study. The underlying issue of point of view is wrapped up in the nature of human knowl¬ edge: How do we acquire information? How can we verify its authenticity? How can we trust those who explain the world to us? What is their authority? Are they partial or impartial? What is their interest in telling us things? How reliable are their explana¬ tions? What physical and psychological positions might affect, or even distort, what they are saying? Do they have anything to hide? When they speak, are they trying to justify themselves to any degree? Bear in mind that authors try not only to make their works vital and interesting but also to bring their presentations alive. The presentation is similar to a dramatic per¬ formance: In a play, the actors are always themselves, but as they perform their roles they impersonate and temporarily become the characters they act. In fictional works, not only do authors impersonate or pretend to be characters who do the talking, but they also create these characters. One such character is Jackie, the narrator of Frank O’Connor’s “First Confession” (Chapter 6), who is telling about events that occurred when he was a child. Because he is the subject as well as the narrator, he has firsthand knowledge of the actions, even though he also says things indicating that he, as an adult, has not fully understood his childhood experience. Another speaking character is Francie of Lorrie Moore’s “How to Become a Writer” (this chapter). On the pretext of giving advice to a budding writer, Francie seems to be describing some of the more ironically comic and also serious episodes of her own writing career. Francie is the one we read and hear, but Moore is the one supplying the words because Francie is a literary creation. Because of the implications of creating a narrative voice, point of view may also be considered as the centralizing or guiding intelligence in a work—the mind that filters the

119

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work’s Narrator or Speaker

fictional experience and presents only the most important details to create the maximum impact. It may be compared to the perspectives utilized by painters. As we note in Chap¬ ter 5 (p. 238), Claude Lorrain’s painting Harbour at Sunset (p. 1-3) puts all the buildings, ships, landscape, and foreground figures into the perspective of the distant sun’s myste¬ rious glow. Comparable paintings are Renoir’s The Umbrellas (p. 1-12) and Whistler’s The Little White Girl, Symphony in White, No. 2 (p. 1-11), both of which stress color—blue by Renoir and white by Whistler. The girl and her white dress occupy half of Whistler’s painting, just as Renoir’s umbrellas direct our eyes to the bustling dark blue that unites the foreground figures with the hidden world beyond. Thus, Renoir and Whistler connect life with color, while Claude suggests that human activities are minor in the perspective of the vast universe. (His human figures are small, and some are distant; indeed, he often hired other painters to do his figures.) The way reality is presented in each of the paintings—the point of view or guiding intelligence of the painter—determines our under¬ standing of artistic ideas. Similarly, the point of view fashioned by the author of a literary work determines how we read, respond, and understand.

An Exercise in Point of View: Reporting an Accident As an exercise to show that point of view is based on lifelike situations, let us imagine that there has been an auto accident. Two cars, driven by Alice and Bill, have collided, and the after-crash scene is represented in the drawing on the next page. How might this accident be described? What would Alice say? What would Bill say? Now assume that Frank, who is Bill's best friend, and Mary, who knows nei¬ ther Bill nor Alice, were witnesses. What might Frank say about who was respon¬ sible? What might Mary say? Additionally, assume that you are a reporter for a local newspaper and are sent to report on the accident. You know none of the peo¬ ple involved. How will your report differ from the other reports? Finally, to what degree are all the statements designed to persuade listeners and readers that the details and claims made in the respective reports are true? The likely differences in the various reports may be explained by reference to point of view. Obviously, because both Alice and Bill are deeply involved—each of them is a major participant or what may be called a major mover—they will likely arrange their words to make themselves seem blameless. Frank, because he is Bill's best friend, will report things in Bill's favor. Mary will favor neither Alice nor Bill, but let us assume that she did not look up to see the colliding cars until she heard the crash. Thus, she did not see the accident happening but saw only the immediate aftereffects. Amid all this mixture of partial and impartial views of the action, to whom should we attribute the greatest reliability? Each person's report will have the "hidden agenda" of making herself or him¬ self seem honest, objective, intelligent, impartial, and thorough. Thus, although both Alice and Bill may be truthful to the best of their abilities, their reports will not be reliable because they both have something to gain from avoiding responsi¬ bility for the accident. Also, Frank may be questionable as a witness because he is Bill's friend and may report things to Bill's advantage. Mary could be reliable, but she did not see everything; therefore she is unreliable not because of motivation

An Exercise in Point of View: Reporting an Accident

121

Independent Reporters

but rather because of her location as a witness. Most likely, your account as an impartial reporter will be the most reliable and objective of all, because your major interest is to learn all the details and to report the truth accurately, with no concern about the personal interests of either Alice or Bill. As you can see, the consequences of describing actions are far-reaching, and the consideration of the various interests and situations is subtle. Indeed, of all the aspects of literature, point of view is the most complex because it is so much like life itself. On the one hand, point of view is tangled with the many interests and wishes of humanity at large; on the other, it is linked to the enormous difficulty of uncovering and determining truth.

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Conditions That Affect Point of View As this exercise in observation and expression demonstrates, point of view depends on two major factors. The first factor, as we have seen, is the physical sit¬ uation of the narrator, or speaker, as an observer. How do the speaker's character¬ istics emerge from the narration? What are his or her qualifications or limitations as an observer? The second factor is the speaker's intellectual and emotional posi¬ tion. How might the speaker gain or lose from what takes place in the story? Are the speaker's observations and words colored by these interests? Does he or she have any persuasive purpose beyond being a straightforward recorder or observer? What values does the speaker impose upon the action? In a story, as in many poems using narrative, authors take into account all these subtleties. For example, O'Connor's narrator, Jackie, in "First Confession" (p. 276) tells about boyhood family problems and his first experience with the sacrament of confession, but he has not yet fully separated himself from some of his youthful troubles. Whitecloud's speaker in "Blue Winds Dancing" (p. 306) is filled with mis¬ givings about the life he leaves and relief about the life to which he is returning. These narrators show their own involvement and concern about the events they describe. The speaker in Jackson's "The Lottery," however, does not seem person¬ ally involved in the actions. This narrator listens, sees, and reports, but does not express deep involvement in the events of the story's country village. As readers, we need to develop our understanding of how such differing modes of presenta¬ tion create the effects of these and all other stories and narrative poems. For our purposes in this chapter, however, a discussion of point of view should emphasize how the narration and dramatic situation of a work create and shape the work. If ideas seem to be particularly important in a story, your objec¬ tive should be not to analyze and discuss the ideas as ideas, but rather to consider whether and how these ideas affect what the narrator concludes and says about the story's actions and situations.

Point of View and Opinions Because point of view is often popularly understood to mean ideas, opinions, or beliefs, it must be stressed that the term is not exactly the same as any of these. Point of view refers to a work's mode of narration—comprising narrator, language, audience, and perceptions of events and characters—whereas opinions and beliefs are thoughts and ideas that may or may not have anything to do with a narration. One may grant, however, that the position from which people see and understand things (e.g., established positions of political party, religion, social philosophy, and morality) has a most definite bearing on how they think and therefore on their opinions and beliefs. Opinions also affect how people view real¬ ity, and opinions affect, if not control, what they say about their perceptions of the world around them. Therefore, opinions stem out of point of view and at the same time have an influence on point of view. A four-star general and a buck private will have different things to say about what happens on a wartime battlefield.

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Determining a Work's Point of View In your reading you will encounter a wide variety of points of view. To begin your analysis, first determine the work's grammatical voice (i.e., first, second, or third person). Then study the ways in which the subject, characterization, dialogue, and form interact with the point of view.

In the First-Person Point of View, the Narrator Tells About Events He or She Has Personally Witnessed If the voice of the work is an "I," the author is using the first-person point of view—the impersonation of a fictional narrator or speaker who may be named or unnamed. In our hypothetical accident reports, both Alice and Bill are first-person speakers who are named. Similarly, the narrator of O'Connor's "First Confes¬ sion," Jackie, is named and identified. First-person speakers report events as though they have acquired their knowl¬ edge in a number of ways: • What they themselves have done, said, heard, and thought (firsthand expe¬ rience). • What they have observed others doing and saying (firsthand witness). • What others have said to them or otherwise communicated to them (second¬ hand testimony and hearsay). • What they are able to figure out from the information they have discovered (inferential information). • What conclusions they are able to draw, or what guesses they are able to make about how a character or characters might think and act, given their knowl¬ edge of a situation (conjectural, imaginative, or intuitive information). FIRST-PERSON SPEAKERS COME IN MANY VARIETIES. Of all the points of view, the first person is the most independent of the author, because the first-person speaker may have a unique identity, with name, job, and economic and social position—a life separate totally from that of the author. Often, however, the author creates a more anonymous but still independent first-person speaker, as with the unnamed speaker-narrator of "The ITammon and the Beans" by Americo Paredes. There are also situations in which an "I" speaker is pluralized by "we" when the first person includes other characters. Such a first-person plural point of view lends reliability to the narrative, as in Ellison's "Battle Royal" (Chapter 5), because the characters included as "we," even if they are sometimes unidentified by the speaker, may be considered additional witnesses.

When you encounter a first-person narrative (whether a story or narrative poem), deter¬ mine the narrator's position and ability, prejudices or self-interest, and judgment of his or her readers or listeners. Most first-person speakers describing their own expe¬ riences are to be accepted as reliable and authoritative. But sometimes first-person SOME FIRST-PERSON SPEAKERS ARE RELIABLE, AND OTHERS ARE UNRELIABLE.

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

speakers are unreliable because they may have interests or limitations that lead them to mislead, distort, or even lie. There is reason, for example, to question Jackie's reliability as the speaker of O'Connor's "First Confession" (Chapter 6). As an adult he is describing the events within his family and his after-school prepara¬ tion sessions prior to his attending his first confession; but he is giving us his child¬ hood memories, and he is not including the potential views of those in his family about the ways in which things happened. Whether first-person speakers are reli¬ able or unreliable, however, they are one of the means by which authors confer an authentic, lifelike quality to their works.

In the Second-Person Point of View, the Narrator Is Speaking to Someone Else Who Is Addressed as “You” The second-person point of view, the least common of the points of view, and the most difficult for authors to manage, offers two major possibilities. In the first, a narrator (almost necessarily a first-person speaker) tells a listener what he or she has done and said at a past time. The actions might be a simple retelling of events, as when a parent tells a child about something the child did during infancy, or when a doctor tells a patient with amnesia about past events. Also, the actions might be subject to dispute and interpretation, as when a prosecuting attorney describes a crime for which a defendant is on trial or when a spouse lists complaints about an alienated spouse in a custody or divorce case. Still another situation of the second-person point of view might occur when an angry person accuses the listener of a betrayal or some other wrong. In such instances, it is worth bearing in mind that the point of view may possibly be considered first person rather than second, for the speaker is likely to be speaking subjectively about his or her own perception or analysis of the listener's actions. It is also worth bearing in mind that the second-person point of view in such instances may be totally wrong, and possibly also totally wrongheaded. The second possibility is equally complex. Some narrators are obviously addressing a "you" but are instead referring mainly to themselves—and to listen¬ ers only secondarily—in preference to an "I." In addition, some narrators follow the usage—not uncommon in everyday, informal speech—of the indefinite "you." In this point of view, the "you" refers not only to a specific listener, who may or may not be present, but also to anyone at all, or maybe, and above all, to the speaker himself/herself. In this way the writer avoids the more formal use of such words as one, a person, or people. (Incidentally, the selection of you is non-gender-specific because it eliminates the need for the pronouns he, she; she/he, he/she, or he or she.) A brilliant use of the second-person point of view is seen in Lorrie Moore's "How to Become a Writer" (this chapter). What we find on the pages is an informal, personal discussion in which the speaker uses "you" frequently, as though she is giving advice to any aspiring writers who are able to hear her. More subtly, however, we infer that the speaker is masking personal experience, some of it painful, behind her jokes, puns, and sometimes flippant "advice." r

Determining a Work's Point of View

125

In the Third-Person Point of View, the Speaker Emphasizes the Actions and Speeches of Others If events in the work are described in the third person (he, she, it, they), the author is using the third-person point of view. It is not always easy to charac¬ terize the voice in this point of view. Sometimes the speaker uses an "I," as in Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado" (Chapter 4), and this "I" may seemingly be identical with the author, but at other times the author creates a distinct authorial voice that may be includeci at times within the voice of the narrator, as in Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7). There are three vari¬ ants of the third-person point of view: (1) dramatic or objective, (2) omniscient, and (3) limited omniscient. THE DRAMATIC OR OBJECTIVE POINT OF VIEW IS THE BASIC METHOD OF NARRATION. The most direct presentation of action and dialogue is the dramatic or objective point of view (also called third-person objective). It is the basic method of rendering action and speech that all the points of view share. The narrator of the dramatic point of view is an unidentified speaker who reports things in a way that is similar to a hovering or tracking video camera or to what some critics have called "a fly on the wall (or tree)." Somehow, the narrator is always on the spot—in rooms, forests, village squares, moving vehicles, or even in outer space—to tell us what is happening and what is being said. The dramatic presentation is limited only to what is said and what happens. The writer does not overtly draw conclusions or make interpretations, because the premise of the dramatic point of view is that readers, like a jury, can form their own interpretations if they are shown the right evidence. Jackson's "The Lottery"—a powerful example of the dramatic point of view—is an objective story about a bizarre public occasion in a small town. We, the readers, draw many con¬ clusions about the story (such as that the people are tradition bound, insensitive, cruel, and so on), but because of the dramatic point of view Jackson does not state any of these conclusions for us. THE NARRATOR OF THE OMNISCIENT POINT OF VIEW CAN SEE ALL, KNOW ALL, AND POTENTIALLY DISCLOSE ALL. The third-person point of view is omniscient (all¬ knowing) when the speaker not only presents action and dialogue but also, at times, reports the thoughts and reactions of the characters. In our everyday real world, we never know, nor can we ever know, what other people are thinking. For practical purposes, their minds are closed to us. However, we always make assumptions about the thoughts of others, and these assumptions are the basis of the omniscient point of view. Authors use it freely but carefully to explain responses, thoughts, feelings, and plans—an additional dimension that aids in the development of character. For example, in Maupassant's "The Necklace" (Chapter 3), the speaker takes an omniscient stance to explain the responses and thoughts of the major character and also, though in just a short passage, of her husband. Even in an omniscient point-of-view story, however, relatively little description is actually devoted to the thoughts of the characters, for most of the narration must necessarily be taken up with dramatic third-person descriptions.

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

THE NARRATOR OR SPEAKER IN THE LIMITED OR LIMITED-OMNISCIENT POINT OF VIEW FOCUSES ON THOUGHTS AND DEEDS OF A MAJOR CHARACTER. More common than the omniscient and dramatic points of view is the limited third person or limited omniscient third person, in which the author concentrates on or limits the narration to the actions and thoughts of a major character. In our accident case (p. 121), Frank, being Bill's friend, would be sympathetic to Bill. Thus Frank's report of the collision would likely be third-person limited, with Bill as the center of interest. Depending on whether a narration focuses on action or motivation, the limited third-person narrator may explore the mentality of the major character either lightly or in depth. The name given to the central figure on whom the third-person omniscient point of view is focused is the point-of-view character. Thus, Peyton Farquhar in "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Chapter 1) and Miss Brill in Mansfield's "Miss Brill" (Chapter 3) are both point-of-view characters. Almost everything in these sto¬ ries is there because the point-of-view characters see it, hear it, respond to it, think about it, imagine it entirely, do it or share in it, try to control it, or are controlled by it.

Mingling Points of View In some works, authors mingle points of view in order to imitate reality. For exam¬ ple, many first-person narrators use various types of the third-person point of view during much of their narration. Authors also vary points of view to sustain interest, create suspense, or put the burden of response entirely upon readers. For example, in "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Chapter 1) Bierce keeps our attention focused on the reactions of the major character, Peyton Farquhar, until the last paragraph of the story, when there is a shift to a dramatic point of view as Farquhar is hanging from the bridge. This shift in point of view is an almost bru¬ tal declaration that none of Farquhar's hopes could ever have come true. A com¬ parable but contrasting change in point of view occurs at the end of ITawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7), where the narrator objectively summa¬ rizes Brown's loveless and bleak life after his nightmare about evil.

Point of View and Verb Tense As discussed in this chapter, point of view refers to the ways narrators and speak¬ ers perceive and report actions and speeches. In the broadest sense, however, point of view may be considered as a total way of rendering truth, and for this rea¬ son the tense chosen by the narrators is important. Most narratives rely on the past tense: The actions happened in the past, and they are now over. The introduction of dialogue, however, even in a past-tense narration, dra¬ matically brings the story into the present. Such dramatic rendering is accom¬ plished by the dialogue contained in Jackson's "The Lottery," for example, where the past tense is mixed with the conversations and opinions of the peo¬ ple of the nameless town who have come together to carry on their grisly game of chance. The narrator of a past-tense narrative may also introduce present-tense com¬ mentary during the narration—a strong means of signifying the importance of

Summary: Guidelines for Point of View

127

past events. Examples can be seen in O'Connor's "First Confession" (Chapter 6), in which the narrator Jackie makes personal comments about the events he is describing. In addition, as noted in Chapter 7, the narrators of parables and fables use past-tense narratives as vehicles for teaching current lessons in philosophy and religion. In recent years a number of writers have used the present tense as their prin¬ cipal time reference. With the present tense, the narrative story or poem is ren¬ dered as a virtual drama that is unfolded moment by moment, as in "Blue Winds Dancing" (Chapter 5) when Whitecloud uses the present tense to emphasize the immediate experience of the narrator as he returns home. Some writers intermingle tenses to show how time itself can be blended within the human mind, because our consciousness never exists only in the present but instead is a composite made up of past memories cresting upon a never-ending wave carrying us into the future. Thus at the end of Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," the past-tense narration shifts into the present tense to demonstrate the vividness of the main character's perceptions just before his death.

Summary: Guidelines for Point of View The following guidelines summarize and further classify the types of points of view. Use them to distinguish differences and shades of variation in stories and poems. 1. First Person (I, my, mine, me, and sometimes we, our, and us). First-person speakers are involved to at least some degree in the actions of the work. Such nar¬ rators may have (1) complete understanding, (2) partial or incorrect understand¬ ing, (3) no understanding at all, or (4) complete understanding with the motive to mislead or lie. Although the first three of these narrators probably tell the truth and are therefore reliable, they may also sometimes be unreliable. The only way to determine their reliability is to study the story closely. Obviously, the narrator of the fourth type—the one who misleads or lies—is by nature unreliable, but nev¬ ertheless the mode might possibly be accepted (although critically) on matters of detail. The three types of first-person speakers are these: a. A Major Participant i. Who tells his or her own story and thoughts as a major mover. ii. Who tells a story about others and also about herself or himself as one of the major movers. iii. Who tells a story mainly about others, and about himself or herself only incidentally. b. A Minor Participant, who tells a story about events experienced and witnessed. c. A Nonparticipating but Identifiable Speaker, who learns about events in other ways (e.g., listening to participants through direct conversation, overhear¬ ing conversation, examining documents, hearing news reports, and also rumors, imagining what might have occurred). The narrative of such a speaker is a combination of fact and conjectural reconstruction. 2. Second Person (you, or possibly but rarely thou). This is a point of view that authors use often enough to justify our knowing about it. Its premise is that

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

the speaker knows more about the actions of a character (the "you") than the char¬ acter himself or herself. It is used when the speaker (e.g., lawyer, spouse, friend, sports umpire, psychologist, parent, angry person) talks directly to the other per¬ son and explains this other person's past actions and statements. More generally, and in an everyday and informal style, the speaker may also use "you" to mean himself or herself, the reader, or anyone at all. 3. Third Person {she, he, it, they). The speaker is outside the action and is mainly a reporter of actions and speeches. Some speakers may have unique and distinguishing traits even though no separate identity is claimed for them ("the unnamed third-person narrator"). Other third-person speakers who are not sepa¬ rately identified may represent the words and views of the authors themselves ("the authorial voice"). a. A Dramatic or Third-Person Objective Narrator. The objective narrator reports only what can be seen and heard. The thoughts of characters are included only if they are spoken or written (dialogue, reported or overheard conver¬ sation, letters, reports, etc.). b. An Omniscient Narrator. The omniscient speaker sees all, knows all, and can report all. When necessary, the omniscient narrator can reveal the inner workings of the minds of any or all of a story's characters. Even an omniscient speaker, however, makes a mostly dramatic third-person presentation. c. A Limited, or Limited Omniscient Narrator. This narrator focuses on the actions, responses, thoughts, and feelings of a single major character. Although the resulting narration may concentrate on the major character's actions, it may also probe deeply within the mind of this character.

Stories for Study Sherman Alexie .This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona, 130 Shirley Jackson .The Lottery, 136 Jamaica Kincaid

.What I Have Been Doing Lately, 142

Lorrie Moore.How to Become a Writer, 144

SHERMAN ALEXIE

(b 1966)

Sherman Alexie is a Native American of the Spokane/Coeur d'Alene Nation. He was born with hydrocephalus, and underwent an opera¬ tion for that in his infancy. During his boyhood, however, he suffered from seizures but eventually grew out of these. He was a precocious boy, and his early education was on the reservation. In high school, he enrolled at a school in a nearby city, and was a successful basket¬ ball player. He took his higher education at Gonzaga and at Wash¬ ington State University. Originally he had wanted to study medicine, but because he became ill when taking anatomy classes, he decided to travel a new road and became a writer. His success was virtually immediate. He has been recognized many times over for his

ALEXIE • This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona

129

works since the early 1990s, including an O. Henry Award, Sundance Festival awards, and others. His The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven received a number of prizes after its publication in 1993. This work, a collection of stories, contains "This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona," the story included here. He adapted this story as a film, Smoke Sig¬ nals, for which he also wrote accompanying music. In addition, he has directed films, served as an Artist in Residence at the University of Washington, served on panel TV programs, deliv¬ ered a commencement address, and written the scripts for other films. His recent publications are The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007) and War Dances (2009). In 2009 his poetry collection Face appeared. He currently lives with his family in Seattle.

This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona

(1993)

Just after Victor lost his job at the BIA,° he also found out that his father had died of a heart attack in Phoenix, Arizona. Victor hadn't seen his father in a few years, only talked to him on the telephone once or twice, but there still was a genetic pain, which was soon to be pain as real and immediate as a broken bone. Victor didn't have any money. Who does have money on a reservation, except the cigarette and fireworks salespeople? His father had a savings account waiting to he claimed, but Victor needed to find a way to get to Phoenix. Victor's mother was just as poor as he was, and the rest of his family didn't have any use at all for him. So Victor called the Tribal Council. "Listen," Victor said. "My father just died. I need some money to get to Phoenix to make arrangements." "Now Victor," the council said. "You know we're having a difficult time financially." "But I thought the council had special funds set aside for stuff like this." "Now, Victor, we do have some money available for the proper return of tribal members' bodies. But I don't think we have enough to bring your father all the way back from

5

Phoenix." "Well," Victor said. "It ain't going to cost all that much. He had to be cremated. Things were kind of ugly. He died of a heart attack in his trailer and nobody found him for a week. It was really hot, too. You get the picture." "Now, Victor, we're sorry for your loss and the circumstances. But we can really only afford to give you one hundred dollars." "That's not even enough for a plane ticket." "Well, you might consider driving down to Phoenix." "I don't have a car. Besides, I was going to drive my father's pickup back up here." "Now, Victor," the council said. 'We're sure there is somebody who could drive you to Phoenix. Or is there somebody who could lend you the rest of the money?" "You know there ain't nobody around with that kind of money." "Well, we're sorry, Victor, but that's the best we can do." Victor accepted the Tribal Council's offer. What else could he do? So he signed the proper papers, picked up his check, and walked over to the Trading Post to cash it. While Victor stood in line, he watched Thomas Builds-the-Fire standing near the magazine rack, talking to himself. Like he always did. Thomas was a storyteller0 that nobody wanted to listen to. That’s like being a dentist in a town where everybody has false teeth.

°BIA: the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs. “Thomas is a storyteller, and he is also a dreamer—a part of American Indian history. Traditionally, native dreamers were thought to have special knowledge of God, Nature, the universe, and probably everything else, and their visionary advice was highly prized. As a dreamer, however, Thomas does not get that much recognition, and when he is told that he thinks too much, that observation too is part of the storyteller/dreamer tradition.

10

is

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

Victor and Thomas Builds-the-Fire were the same age, had grown up and played in the dirt together. Ever since Victor could remember, it was Thomas who always had something to say.

20

25

Once, when they were seven years old, when Victor's father still lived with the family, Thomas closed his eyes and told Victor this story: "Your father's heart is weak. He is afraid of his own family. He is afraid of you. Late at night he sits in the dark. Watches the televi¬ sion until there's nothing but that white noise. Sometimes he feels like he wants to buy a motorcycle and ride away. He wants to run and hide. He doesn't want to be found." Thomas Builds-the-Fire had known that Victor's father was going to leave, knew it before anyone. Now Victor stood in the Trading Post with a one-hundred-dollar check in his hand, wondering if Thomas knew that Victor's father was dead, if he knew what was going to happen next. Just then Thomas looked at Victor, smiled, and walked over to him. "Victor, I'm sorry about your father," Thomas said. "How did you know about it?" Victor asked. "I heard it on the wind. I heard it from the birds. I felt it in the sunlight. Also, your mother was just in here crying." "Oh," Victor said and looked around the Trading Post. All the other Indians stared, sur¬ prised that Victor was even talking to Thomas. Nobody talked to Thomas anymore because he told the same damn stories over and over again. Victor was embarrassed, but he thought that Thomas might be able to help him. Victor felt a sudden need for tradition. "I can lend you the money you need," Thomas said suddenly. "But you have to take me with you." "I can't take your money," Victor said, "I mean, I haven't hardly talked to you in years. We're not really friends anymore." "I didn't say we were friends. I said you had to take me with you." "Let me think about it." Victor went home with his one hundred dollars and sat at the kitchen table. He held his head in his hands and thought about Thomas Builds-the-Fire, remembered little details, tears and scars, the bicycle they shared for a summer, so many stories.

30

Thomas Builds-the-Fire sat on the bicycle, waited in Victor's yard. He was ten years old and skinny. His hair was dirty because it was the Fourth of July. "Victor," Thomas yelled. "Hurry up. We're going to miss the fireworks." After a few minutes, Victor ran out of his house, jumped the porch railing, and landed gracefully on the sidewalk. "And the judges award him a 9.95, the highest score of the summer," Thomas said, clapped, laughed.

35

"That was perfect, cousin," Victor said. "And it's my turn to ride the bike." Thomas gave up the bike and they headed for the fairgrounds. It was nearly dark and the fireworks were about to start. You know, Thomas said. "It's strange how us Indians celebrate the Fourth of July. It ain't like it was our independence everybody was fighting for." "You think about things too much," Victor said. "It's just supposed to be fun. Maybe Junior will be there." "Which Junior? Everybody on this reservation is named Junior." And they both laughed.

40

The fireworks were small, hardly more than a few bottle rockets and a fountain. But it was enough for two Indian boys. Years later, they would need much more. Afterwards, sitting in the dark, fighting off mosquitoes, Victor turned to Thomas Builds-the-Fire.

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131

“Hey," Victor said. "Tell me a story." Thomas closed his eyes and told this story: "There were these two Indian boys who wanted to be warriors. But it was too late to be warriors in the old way. All the horses were gone. So the two Indian boys stole a car and drove to the city. They parked the stolen car in front of the police station and then hitchhiked back home to the reservation. When they got back, all their friends cheered and their parents' eyes shone with pride. You were very brave, everybody said to the two Indian boys. Very brave." "Ya-hey," Victor said. "That's a good one. I wish I could be a warrior." "Me, too," Thomas said. They went home together in the dark, Thomas on the bike now, Victor on foot. They walked through shadows and light from streetlamps. "We've come a long ways," Thomas said. "We have outdoor lighting." "All I need is the stars," Victor said. "And besides, you still think about things too much." They separated then, each headed for home both laughing all the way. Victor sat at his kitchen table. He counted his one hundred dollars again and again. He knew he needed more to make it to Phoenix and back. He knew he needed Thomas Buildsthe-Fire. So he put his money in his wallet and opened the front door to find Thomas on the

45

50

porch. "Ya-hey, Victor," Thomas said. "I knew you'd call me." Thomas walked into the living room and sat down on Victor's favorite chair. "I've got some money saved up," Thomas said. "It's enough to get us down there, but you have to get us back." "I've got this hundred dollars," Victor said. "And my dad had a savings account I'm going to claim." "How much in your dad's account?" "Enough. A few hundred." "Sounds good. When we leaving?" When they were fifteen and had long since stopped being friends, Victor and Thomas got into a fistfight. That is, Victor was really drunk and beat Thomas up for no reason at all. All the other Indian boys stood around and watched it happen. Junior was there and so were Lester, Seymour, and a lot of others. The beating might have gone on until Thomas was dead if Norma Many Horses hadn't come along and stopped it. "Hey, you boys," Norma yelled and jumped out of her car. "Leave him alone." If it had been someone else, even another man, the Indian boys would've just ignored the warnings. But Norma was a warrior. She was powerful. She could have picked up any two of the boys and smashed their skulls together. But worse than that, she would have dragged them all over to some tipi and made them listen to some elder tell a dusty

55

60

old story. The Indian boys scattered, and Norma walked over to Thomas and picked him up. "Hey, little man, are you okay?" she asked. Thomas gave her a thumbs up. "Why they always picking on you?" Thomas shook his head, closed his eyes, but no stories came to him, no words or music. He just wanted to go home, to lie in his bed and let his dreams tell his stories for him. Thomas Builds-the-Fire and Victor sat next to each other in the airplane, coach section. A tiny white woman had the window seat. She was busy twisting her body into pretzels. She was flexible. "I have to ask," Thomas said, and Victor closed his eyes in embarrassment. "Don't," Victor said.

65

132

70

75

80

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

"Excuse me, miss," Thomas asked. "Are you a gymnast or something?" "There's no something about it," she said. "I was first alternate on the 1980 Olympic team." "Really?" Thomas asked. "Really." "I mean, you used to be a world-class athlete?" Thomas asked. "My husband still thinks I am." Thomas Builds-the-Fire smiled. She was a mental gymnast, too. She pulled her leg straight up against her body so that she could've kissed her kneecap. "I wish I could do that," Thomas said. Victor was ready to jump out of the plane. Thomas, that crazy Indian storyteller with ratty old braids and broken teeth, was flirting with a beautiful Olympic gymnast. Nobody back home on the reservation would ever believe it. "Well," the gymnast said. "It's easy. Try it." Thomas grabbed at his leg and tried to pull it up into the same position as the gymnast. He couldn't even come close, which made Victor and the gymnast laugh. "Hey," she asked. "You two are Indian, right?" "Full-blood," Victor said. "Not me," Thomas said. "I'm half magician on my mother's side and half clown on my father's." They all laughed. "What are your names?" she asked. "Victor and Thomas." "Mine is Cathy. Pleased to meet you all." The three of them talked for the duration of the flight. Cathy the gymnast complained about the government, how they screwed the 1980 Olympic team by boycotting. "Sounds like you all got a lot in common with Indians," Thomas said. Nobody laughed.

90

After the plane landed in Phoenix and they had all found their way to the terminal, Cathy the gymnast smiled and waved good-bye. "She was really nice," Thomas said. "Yeah, but everybody talks to everybody on airplanes," Victor said. "It's too bad we can't always be that way."

95

"You always used to tell me I think too much," Thomas said. "Now it sounds like you do." "Maybe I caught it from you." "Yeah." Thomas and Victor rode in a taxi to the trailer Where Victor's father died. "Fisten," Victor said as they stopped in front of the trailer. "I never told you I was sorry for beating you up that time."

100

"Oh, it was nothing. We were just kids and you were drunk." "Yeah, but I'm still sorry." "That's all right." Victor paid for the taxi and the two of them stood in the hot Phoenix summer. They could smell the trailer. "This ain't going to be nice," Victor said. "You don't have to go in." "You're going to need help." Victor walked to the front door and opened it. The stink rolled out and made them both gag. Victor s father had lain in that trailer for a week in hundred-degree temperatures before anyone found him. And the only reason anyone found him was because of the smell. They needed dental records to identify him. That's exactly what the coroner said. They needed dental records.

105

"Oh, man," Victor said. "I don't know if I can do this."

ALEXIE • This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona

133

"Well, then don't." "But there might be something valuable in there." "I thought his money was in the bank." "It is. I was talking about pictures and letters and stuff like that." "Oh," Thomas said as he held his breath and followed Victor into the trailer.

no

When Victor was twelve, he stepped into an underground wasp nest. His foot was caught in the hole, and no matter how hard he struggled, Victor couldn't pull free. He might have died there, stung a thousand times, if Thomas Builds-the-Fire had not come by. "Run," Thomas yelled and pulled Victor's foot from the hole. They ran then, hard as they ever had, faster than Billy Mills, faster than Jim Thorpe,0 faster than the wasps could fly. Victor and Thomas ran until they couldn't breathe, ran until it was cold and dark out¬ side, ran until they were lost and it took hours to find their way home. All the way back, Victor counted his stings. "Seven," Victor said. "My lucky number." Victor didn't find much to keep in the trailer. Only a photo album and a stereo. Everything else had that smell stuck in it or was useless anyway. "I guess this is all," Victor said. "It ain't much." "Better than nothing," Thomas said. "Yeah, and I do have the pickup." "Yeah," Thomas said. "It's in good shape." "Dad was good about that stuff." "Yeah, I remember your dad." "Really?" Victor asked. "What do you remember?" Thomas Builds-the-Fire closed his eyes and told this story: "I remember when I had this dream that told me to go to Spokane, to stand by the Falls in the middle of the city and wait for a sign. I knew I had to go there but I didn't have a car. Didn't have a license. I was only thirteen. So I walked all the way, took me all day, and I finally made it to the Falls. I stood there for an hour waiting. Then your dad came walking up. What the hell are you doing here? he asked me. I said, Waiting for a vision. Then your father said. All you're going to get here is mugged. So he drove me over to Denny's, bought me dinner, and then drove me home to the reservation. For a long time I was mad because I thought my dreams had lied to me. But they didn't. Your dad was my vision. Take care of each other is what my dreams were saying.

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120

Take care of each other." Victor was quiet for a long time. He searched his mind for memories of his father, found the good ones, found a few bad ones, added it all up, and smiled. "My father never told me about finding you in Spokane," Victor said. "He said he wouldn't tell anybody. Didn't want me to get in trouble. But he said I had to

125

watch out for you as part of the deal." "Really?" "Really. Your father said you would need the help. He was right." "That's why you came down here with me, isn't it?" Victor asked. "I came because of your father." Victor and Thomas climbed into the pickup, drove over to the bank, and claimed the three hundred dollars in the savings account. Thomas Builds-the-Fire could fly.

°Billy Mills ... Jim Thorpe: both Thorpe and Mills were Olympic gold medal winners.

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

Once, he jumped off the roof of the tribal school and flapped his arms like a crazy eagle. And he flew. For a second, he hovered, suspended above all the other Indian boys who

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i so

were too smart or too scared to jump. "He's flying," Junior yelled, and Seymour was busy looking for the trick wires or mirrors. But it was real. As real as the dirt when Thomas lost altitude and crashed to the ground. He broke his arm in two places. "He broke his wing," Victor chanted, and the other Indian boys joined in, made it a tribal song. "He broke his wing, he broke his wing, he broke his wing," all the Indian boys chanted as they ran off, flapping their wings, wishing they could fly, too. They hated Thomas for his courage, his brief moment as a bird. Everybody has dreams about flying. Thomas flew. One of his dreams came true for just a second, just enough to make it real. Victor's father, his ashes, fit in one wooden box with enough left over to fill a cardboard box. "He always was a big man," Thomas said. Victor carried part of his father and Thomas carried the rest out to the pickup. They set him down carefully behind the seats, put a cowboy hat on the wooden box and a Dodgers cap on the cardboard box. That's the way it was supposed to be. "Ready to head back home?" Victor asked. "It's going to be a long drive." "Yeah, take a couple days, maybe." "We can take turns," Thomas said. "Okay," Victor said, but they didn't take turns. Victor drove for sixteen hours straight north, made it halfway up Nevada toward home before he finally pulled over. "Hey, Thomas," Victor said. "You got to drive for a while." "Okay." Thomas Builds-the-Fire slid behind the wheel and started off down the road. All through Nevada, Thomas and Victor had been amazed at the lack of animal life, at the absence of water, of movement. "Where is everything?" Victor had asked more than once. Now when Thomas was finally driving they saw the first animal, maybe the only animal in Nevada. It was a long-eared jackrabbit. "Look," Victor yelled. "It's alive." Thomas and Victor were busy congratulating themselves on their discovery when the jackrabbit darted out into the road and under the wheels of the pickup. "Stop the goddamn car," Victor yelled, and Thomas did stop, backed the pickup to the dead jackrabbit.

155

"Oh, man, he's dead," Victor said as he looked at the squashed animal. "Really dead." "The only thing alive in this whole state and we just killed it." "I don't know," Thomas said. "I think it was suicide."

160

Victor looked around the desert, sniffed the air, felt the emptiness and loneliness, and nodded his head. "Yeah," Victor said. "It had to be suicide." "I can't believe this," Thomas said. "You drive for a thousand miles and there ain't even any bugs smashed on the windshield. I drive for ten seconds and kill the only living thing in Nevada." "Yeah," Victor said. "Maybe I should drive." "Maybe you should." Thomas Builds-the-Fire walked through the corridors of the tribal school by himself. Nobody wanted to be anywhere near him because of all those stories. Story after story.

ALEXIE • This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona

135

Thomas closed his eyes and his story came to him: "We are all given one thing by which our lives are measured, one determination. Mine are the stories which can change or not change the world. It doesn't matter which as long as I continue to tell the stories. My father, he died on Okinawa in World War II, died fighting for this country, which had tried to kill him for years. My mother, she died giving birth to me, died while I was still inside her. She pushed me out into the world with her last breath. I have no brothers or sisters. I have only my stories which came to me before I even had the words to speak. I learned a thousand stories before I took my first thousand steps. They are all I have. It's all I can do." Thomas Builds-the-Fire told his stories to all those who would stop and listen. He kept telling them long after people had stopped listening. Victor and Thomas made it back to the reservation just as the sun was rising. It was the beginning of a new day on earth, but the same old shit on the reservation. "Good morning," Thomas said. "Good morning." The tribe was waking up, ready for work, eating breakfast, reading the newspaper, just like everybody else does. Willene LeBret was out in her garden wearing a bathrobe. She waved when Thomas and Victor drove by. "Crazy Indians made it," she said to herself and went back to her roses. Victor stopped the pickup in front of Thomas Builds-the-Fire's HUD° house. They both yawned, stretched a little, shook dust from their bodies. "I'm tired," Victor said. "Of everything," Thomas added. They both searched for words to end the journey. Victor needed to thank Thomas for his help, for the money; and make the promise to pay it all back. "Don't worry about the money," Thomas said. "It don't make any difference anyhow."

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175

"Probably not, enit?"° "Nope." Victor knew that Thomas would remain the crazy storyteller who talked to dogs and cars, who listened to the wind and pine trees. Victor knew that he couldn't really be friends with Thomas, even after all that had happened. It was cruel but it was real. As real as the ashes, as Victor's father, sitting behind the seats. "I know how it is," Thomas said. "I know you ain't going to treat me any better than you did before. I know your friends would give you too much shit about it." Victor was ashamed of himself. Whatever happened to the tribal ties, the sense of com¬ munity? The only real thing he shared with anybody was a bottle and broken dreams. He

180

owed Thomas something, anything. "Listen," Victor said and handed Thomas the cardboard box which contained half of his father. "I want you to have this." Thomas took the ashes and smiled, closed his eyes, and told this story: "I'm going to travel to Spokane Falls one last time and toss these ashes into the water. And your father will rise like a salmon, leap over the bridge, over me, and find his way home. It will be beautiful. His teeth will shine like silver, like a rainbow. He will rise, Victor, he will rise." Victor smiled. "I was planning on doing the same thing with my half," Victor said. "But I didn't imag¬ ine my father looking anything like a salmon. I thought it'd be like cleaning the attic or something. Like letting things go after they've stopped having any use." "Nothing stops, cousin," Thomas said. "Nothing stops." Thomas Builds-the-Fire got out of the pickup and walked up his driveway. Victor started the pickup and began the drive home. °HUD: a house supplied by the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development. °enit: i.e., “ain’t it?”

185

136

190

CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

"Wait," Thomas yelled suddenly from his porch. "I just got to ask one favor." Victor stopped the pickup, leaned out the window, and shouted back. "What do you want?" "Just one time when I'm telling a story somewhere, why don't you stop and listen?" Thomas asked. * "Just once?" "Just once." Victor waved his arms to let Thomas know that the deal was good. It was a fair trade, and that was all Victor had ever wanted from his whole life. So Victor drove his father's pickup toward home while Thomas went into his house, closed the door behind him, and heard a new story come to him in the silence afterwards.

QUESTIONS 1. How would you describe the method of narration of this story? Who is the narrator? How do you think the narrator gains the information he writes about, or is it not pos¬ sible to draw such a conclusion? What kind of access does the narrator show to the speeches and responses of the characters? What are the limits, if any, to his supply of detail?

2. What is the purpose of the short interludes describing events in the lives of Victor and Thomas in the years preceding the time of the story?

3. What sort of person is Victor? What are his circumstances of life? Why does he go to Phoenix to recover the remains of his father? In the past, why has he ignored Thomas? Why has he fought with Thomas?

4. What is the significance of Thomas's experience with Victor's father when he went to Spokane and stood by the falls? What "vision" does Thomas find there? Is he describing a real or an imagined experience? How does he explain the meeting to Victor? How do you think that readers are meant to receive this? Thomas is a "storyteller." What does this mean, and how is the character of a storyteller shown in the speeches and actions of Thomas? What does Thomas mean by paragraph 186, "Nothing stops, cousin,... Noth¬ ing stops."

5. Who is the center of interest in this story (whom is the story about)? In which of the two main characters are you more interested? Why?

5P SHIRLEY JACKSON (1919-1965)_ Shirley Jackson was a native of California. She graduated from Syra¬ cuse University in New York and lived for many years in Vermont. Although her life was short, she was a successful writer of novels, short stories, biographies, and children's fiction. Her stories often depict unusual, unreal, or bizarre events in common settings, of which "The Lottery" is a major example. She wrote the story in only two hours and submitted it to The New Yorker without major revi¬ sions. When it was published, many readers raised questions about how to interpret the conclusion. Jackson steadfastly refused to explain, leaving readers to decide for themselves.

If The Lottery (1948) The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the

JACKSON • The Lottery

137

village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred peo¬ ple, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morn¬ ing and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner. The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix—the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"—eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters. Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, stand¬ ing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother. The lottery was conducted—as were the square dances, the teen-age club, the Hal¬ loween program—by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called, "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it. The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year; by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substi¬ tuted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers

138

CHAPTER 2 * Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put away, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there. There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up—of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remem¬ bered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a per¬ functory, timeless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lot¬ tery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins. Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on, "and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there." Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through; two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival. "Well, now," Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?" "Dunbar," several people said. "Dunbar, Dunbar." Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar," he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?" "Me, I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband," Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered. "Horace's not but sixteen yet," Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."

JACKSON • The Lottery

139

"Right," Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?" A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I'm drawing for m'mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow. Jack," and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it." "Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?" "Here," a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded. A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names—heads of families first—and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without look¬ ing at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?" The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions; most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi, Steve," Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said, "Hi, Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand. "Allen," Mr. Summers said. "Anderson .... Bentham." "Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more," Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. "Seems like we got through with the last one only last week." "Time sure goes fast," Mrs. Graves said. "Clark . . . Delacroix." "There goes my old man," Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband

15

20

25

went forward. "Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said, "Go on, Janey," and another said, "There she goes." "We're next," Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely, and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hands, turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper. "Harburt.... Hutchinson." "Get up there. Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed. "Jones." "They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in

30

the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery." Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to liv¬ ing in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' Lirst thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody." "Some places have already quit lotteries," Mrs. Adams said. "Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools." "Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke. . . . Percy." "I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry." "They're almost through," her son said. "You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said. Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time." "Watson." The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous. Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son." "Zanini." After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saying, "Who is it?" "Who's got it?" "Is it the Dunbars?" "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it." "Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers, "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!" "Be a good sport, Tessie," Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance." "Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said. "Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?" "There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!" "Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else." "It wasn't fair," Tessie said. "I guess not, Joe," Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her hus¬ band's family, that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids." Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in expla¬ nation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?" "Right," Bill Hutchinson said. "How many kids. Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally. "Three," Bill Hutchinson said. "There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me." "All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?" Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Sum¬ mers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in." "I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that." Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off. "Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her. "Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded. "Remember," Mr. Summers said, "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy," Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly. "Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward, switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box.

JACKSON • The Lottery

141

"Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet over-large, nearly knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her. "Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it. The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd. "It's not the way it used to be," Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be." "All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's." Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill, Jr., opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank. "It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill." Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal-company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd. "All right, folks," Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly." Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box. Mrs. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up." Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath, "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you." The children had stones already, and someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles. Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers with Mrs. Graves beside him. "It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the point of view of the story. What seems to be the position from which the narrator sees and describes the events? How much extra information does the narrator provide?

2. What would the story be like if it were done with an omniscient point of view? With the first person? Could the story be as suspenseful as it is? In what other ways might the story be different with another point of view?

3. Does the conclusion of "The Lottery" seem to come as a surprise? In retrospect, what hints earlier in the story tell about what is to come?

4. A scapegoat, in the ritual of purification described in the Old Testament, was an actual goat that was released into the wilderness after having been ceremonially heaped with

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

the "iniquities" of the people (Leviticus 16:22). What traces of such a ritual are sug¬ gested in "The Lottery"? Can you think of any other kinds of rituals that are retained today even though their purpose is now remote or even nonexistent?

5. Is "The Lottery" a horror story or a surprise story, or neither or both? Explain.

JAMAICA KINCAID (b 1949) Jamaica Kincaid was bom and educated in Antigua in the West Indies and now lives in Vermont. Her stories and novels are usually set in her native Antigua and often concern mother-daughter rela¬ tionships, as in ‘'Girl,” one of her best-known (and very brief) sto¬ ries. At the Bottom of the River (1983), from which "What I Have Been Doing Lately" is taken, was her first collection of sto¬ ries. Novels are Annie John (1985), A Small Place (1988), Lucy (1990), and more recently The Autobiography of My Mother (1996). Although some critics are concerned that Kincaid's fiction contains less action than situation, all agree that she superbly renders the speech rhythms and simple, primal concerns of her native islands.

^ What I Have Been Doing Lately

(1983)

What I have been doing lately: I was lying in bed and the doorbell rang. I ran downstairs. Quick. I opened the door. There was no one there. I stepped outside. Either it was driz¬ zling or there was a lot of dust in the air and the dust was damp. I stuck out my tongue and the drizzle or the damp dust tasted like government school ink. I looked north. I looked south. I decided to start walking north. While walking north, I noticed that I was barefoot. While walking north, I looked up and saw the planet Venus. I said, "It must be almost morning." I saw a monkey in a tree. The tree had no leaves. I said, "Ah, a monkey. Just look at that. A monkey." I walked for I don't know how long before I came up to a big body of water. I wanted to get across it but I couldn't swim. I wanted to get across it but it would take me years to build a boat. I wanted to get across it but it would take me I don't know how long to build a bridge. Years passed and then one day, feeling like it, I got into my boat and rowed across. When I got to the other side, it was noon and my shadow was small and fell beneath me. I set out on a path that stretched out straight ahead. I passed a house, and a dog was sitting on the verandah but it looked the other way when it saw me coming. I passed a boy tossing a ball in the air but the boy looked the other way when he saw me coming. I walked and I walked but I couldn't tell if I walked a long time because my feet didn't feel as if they would drop off. I turned around to see what I had left behind me but nothing was familiar. Instead of the straight path, I saw hills. Instead of the boy with his ball, I saw tall flowering trees. I looked up and the sky was without clouds and seemed near, as if it were the ceiling in my house and, if I stood on a chair, I could touch it with the tips of my fingers. I turned around and looked ahead of me again. A deep hole had opened up before me. I looked in. The hole was deep and dark and I couldn't see the bottom. I thought. What's down there?, so on purpose I fell in. I fell and I fell, over and over, as if I were an old suitcase. On the sides of the deep hole I could see things written, but perhaps it was in a foreign language because I couldn't read them. Still I fell, for I don't know how long. As I fell I began to see that I didn't like the way falling made me feel. Falling made me feel sick and I missed all the people I had loved. I said, I don't want to fall anymore, and I reversed myself. I was standing again on the edge of the deep hole. I

KINCAID • What I Have Been Doing Lately

143

looked at the deep hole and I said. You can close up now, and it did. I walked some more without knowing distance. I only knew that I passed through days and nights, I only knew that I passed through rain and shine, light and darkness. I was never thirsty and I felt no pain. Looking at the horizon, I made a joke for myself: I said, "The earth has thin lips," and I laughed. Looking at the horizon again, I saw a lone figure coming toward me, but I wasn't frightened because I was sure it was my mother. As I got closer to the figure, I could see that it wasn't my mother, but still I wasn't frightened because I could see that it was a woman. When this woman got closer to me, she looked at me hard and then she threw up her hands. She must have seen me somewhere before because she said, "It's you. Just look at that. It's you. And just what have you been doing lately?" I could have said, "I have been praying not to grow any taller." I could have said, "I have been listening carefully to my mother's words, so as to make a good imitation of a dutiful daughter." I could have said, "A pack of dogs, tired from chasing each other all over town, slept in the moonlight." Instead, I said, What I have been doing lately: I was lying in bed on my back, my hands drawn up, my fingers interlaced lightly at the nape of my neck. Someone rang the doorbell. I went downstairs and opened the door but there was no one there. I stepped outside. Either it was drizzling or there was a lot of dust in the air and the dust was damp. I stuck out my tongue and the drizzle or the damp dust tasted like government school ink. I looked north and I looked south. I started walking north. While walking north, I wanted to move fast, so I removed the shoes from my feet. While walking north, I looked up and saw the planet Venus and I said, "If the sun went out, it would be eight minutes before I would know it." I saw a monkey sitting in a tree that had no leaves and I said, "A monkey. Just look at that. A monkey." I picked up a stone and I threw it at the monkey. The monkey, see¬ ing the stone, quickly moved out of its way. Three times I threw a stone at the monkey and three times it moved away. The fourth time I threw the stone, the monkey caught it and threw it back at me. The stone struck me on my forehead over my right eye, making a deep gash. The gash healed immediately but now the skin on my forehead felt false to me. I walked for I don't know how long before I came to a big body of water. I wanted to get across, so when the boat came I paid my fare. When I got to the other side, I saw a lot of people sitting on the beach and they were having a picnic. They were the most beautiful people I had ever seen. Everything about them was black and shiny. Their skin was black and shiny. Their shoes were black and shiny. Their hair was black and shiny. The clothes they wore were black and shiny. I could hear them laughing and chatting and I said, I would like to be with these people, so I started to walk toward them, but when I got up close to them I saw that they weren't at a picnic and they weren't beautiful and they weren't chatting and laughing. All around me was black mud and the people all looked as if they had been made up out of the black mud. I looked up and saw that the sky seemed far away and nothing I could stand on would make me able to touch it with my fingertips. I thought. If only I could get out of this, so I started to walk. I must have walked for a long time because my feet hurt and felt as if they would drop off. I thought. If only just around the bend I would see my house and inside my house I would find my bed, freshly made at that, and in the kitchen I would find my mother or anyone else that I loved making me a custard. I thought. If only it was a Sunday and I was sitting in a church and I had just heard some¬ one sing a psalm. I felt very sad so I sat down. I felt so sad that I rested my head on my own knees and smoothed my own head. I felt so sad I couldn't imagine feeling any other way again. I said, I don't like this. I don't want to do this anymore. And I went back to lying in bed, just before the doorbell rang.

144

CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

QUESTIONS 1. Is the story told as if it were real or a dream? Why is the dreamlike quality introduced? How soon do you learn that the dreamlike narration has begun?

2. To what level of existence do the various descriptions aVid actions belong? In what ways do the actions and descriptions exceed everyday reality? Why does the author not introduce specific elements that might be considered appropriate in a world of dreams or in a future world?

3. Structurally, why does the story become repetitive at paragraph 7? What differences are there between the second narration and the first? Why does the story end with the third sound of the doorbell? What is the meaning of the repetitive actions?

4. Should this work be considered a story at all? What makes it a story? In what ways is it unlike a story?

LORRIE MOORE (b. 1957) Louie Moore, a professor of English at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, has been internationally acclaimed, and her fiction has been heralded for its combination of wry humor, deep feeling, and impending tragedy. She was born in upstate New York and received an M.A. from Cornell. Following her first collection of stories, SelfHelp (1985), from which "How to Become a Writer" is taken, she published her first novel, Anagrams (1986). A later novel was Who Will Run the Frog Hospital (1994). In 1991 she published Like Life, a collection of eight stories taking its title from the last story, a grim portrait of life in a polluted, deteriorating future. In 2000 she published The Forgotten Helper, a "Christmas Story," and in 2007 her story collection Pepsi Hotel was published. She has received aiuards from the National Endowment for the Humani¬ ties, the Rockefeller Foundation, and the Rea Award for the Short Story. For her story collection People Like That Are the Only People Here (1997), she received the O. Henry Award. Her collection Birds of America was nominated for the 1999 National Book Critics Circle Fiction Prize. In 2006 she was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

How to Become a Writer (1985) First, try to be something, anything, else. A movie star/ astronaut. A movie star/missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age—say, fourteen. Early, critical disillusionment is necessary so that at fifteen you can write long haiku sequences about thwarted desire. It is a pond, a cherry blossom, a wind brushing against sparrow wing leaving for mountain. Count the syllables. Show it to your mom. She is tough and practical. She has a son in Vietnam and a husband who may be hav¬ ing an affair. She believes in wearing brown because it hides spots. She'll look briefly at your writing, then back up at you with a face blank as a donut. She'll say: "How about emptying the dishwasher?" Look away. Shove the forks in the fork drawer. Accidentally break one of the freebie gas station glasses. This is the required pain and suffering. This is only for starters. In your high school English class look only at Mr. Killian's face. Decide faces are impor¬ tant. Write a villanelle about pores. Struggle. Write a sonnet. Count the syllables: nine, ten, eleven, thirteen. Decide to experiment with fiction. Here you don't have to count syllables! Write a short story about an elderly man and woman who accidentally shoot each other in

MOORE • How to Become a Writer

145

the head, the result of an inexplicable malfunction of a shotgun which appears mysteri¬ ously in their living room one night. Give it to Mr. Killian as your final project. When you get it back, he has written on it: "Some of your images are quite nice, but you have no sense of plot." When you are home, in the privacy of your own room, faintly scrawl in pencil beneath his black-inked comments: "Plots are for dead people, pore-face." Take all the babysitting jobs you can get. You are great with kids. They love you. You tell them stories about old people who die idiot deaths. You sing them songs like "Blue Bells of Scotland," which is their favorite. And when they are in their pajamas and have finally stopped pinching each other, when they are fast asleep, you read every sex manual in the house, and wonder how on earth anyone could ever do those things with someone they truly loved. Fall asleep in a chair reading Mr. McMurphy's Playboy. When the McMurphys come home, they will tap you on the shoulder, look at the magazine in your lap, and grin. You will want to die. They will ask you if Tracey took her medicine all right. Explain, yes, she did, that you promised her a story if she would take it like a big girl and that seemed to work out just fine. "Oh, marvelous," they will exclaim. Try to smile proudly. Apply to college as a child psychology major. As a child psychology major, you have some electives. You've always liked birds. Sign up for something called "The Ornithological Field Trip." It meets Tuesdays and Thursdays at two. When you arrive at Room 134 on the first day of class, everyone is sitting around a seminar table talking about metaphors. You've heard of these. After a short, excruciating while, raise your hand and say diffidently, "Excuse me, isn't this Bird-watching One-ohone?" The class stops and turns to look at you. They seem to all have one face—giant and blank as a vandalized clock. Someone with a beard booms out, "No, this is Creative Writ¬ ing." Say: "Oh—right," as if perhaps you knew all along. Look down at your schedule. Wonder how the hell you ended up here. The computer, apparently, has made an error. You start to get up to leave and then don't. The lines at the registrar this week are huge. Perhaps you should stick with this mistake. Perhaps your creative writing isn't all that bad. Perhaps it is fate. Perhaps this is what your dad meant when he said, "It's the age of computers, Francie, it's the age of computers." Decide that you like college life. In your dorm you meet many nice people. Some are smarter than you. And some, you notice, are dumber than you. You will continue, unfortu¬ nately, to view the world in exactly these terms for the rest of your life. The assignment this week in creative writing is to narrate a violent happening. Turn in a story about driving with your Uncle Gordon and another one about two old people who are accidentally electrocuted when they go to turn on a badly wired desk lamp. The teacher will hand them back to you with comments: "Much of your writing is smooth and ener¬ getic. You have, however, a ludicrous notion of plot." Write another story about a man and a woman who, in the very first paragraph, have their lower torsos accidentally blitzed away by dynamite. In the second paragraph, with the insurance money, they buy a frozen yogurt stand together. There are six more paragraphs. You read the whole thing out loud in class. No one likes it. They say your sense of plot is outrageous and incompetent. After class someone asks you if you are crazy. Decide that perhaps you should stick to comedies. Start dating someone who is funny, someone who has what in high school you called a "really great sense of humor" and what now your creative writing class calls "self-contempt giving rise to comic form." Write down all of his jokes, but don't tell him you are doing this. Make up anagrams of his old girl¬ friend's name and name all of your socially handicapped characters with them. Tell him his

146

CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

old girlfriend is in all of your stories and then watch how funny he can be, see what a really great sense of humor he can have. 10

Your child psychology advisor tells you you are neglecting courses in your major. What you spend the most time on should be what you're majoring in. Say yes, you understand. In creative writing seminars over the next two years, everyone continues to smoke ciga¬ rettes and ask the same things: "But does it work?" "Why should we care about this charac¬ ter?" "Have you earned this cliche?" These seem like important questions. On days when it is your turn, you look at the class hopefully as they scour your mimeo¬ graphs for a plot. They look back up at you, drag deeply, and then smile in a sweet sort of way. You spend too much time slouched and demoralized. Your boyfriend suggests bicycling. Your roommate suggests a new boyfriend. You are said to be self-mutilating and losing weight, but you continue writing. The only happiness you have is writing something new, in the middle of the night, armpits damp, heart pounding, something no one has yet seen. You have only those brief, fragile, untested moments of exhilaration when you know: you are a genius. Understand what you must do. Switch majors. The kids in your nursery proj¬ ect will be disappointed, but you have a calling, an urge, a delusion, an unfortunate habit. You have, as your mother would say, fallen in with a bad crowd. Why write? Where does writing come from? These are questions to ask yourself. They are like: Where does dust come from? Or: Why is there war? Or: If there's a God, then why is my brother now a cripple?

15

These are questions that you keep in your wallet, like calling cards. These are questions, your creative writing teacher says, that are good to address in your journals but rarely in your fiction. The writing professor this fall is stressing the Power of the Imagination. Which means he doesn't want long descriptive stories about your camping trip last July. He wants you to start in a realistic context but then to alter it. Like recombinant DNA. He wants you to let your imagination sail, to let it grow big-bellied in the wind. This is a quote from Shakespeare. Tell your roommate your great idea, your great exercise of imaginative power: a trans¬ formation of Melville to contemporary life. It will be about monomania and the fish-eat-fish world of life insurance in Rochester, New York. The first line will be "Call me Fishmeal," and it will feature a menopausal suburban husband named Richard, who because he is so depressed all the time is called Mopey Dick' by his witty wife Elaine. Say to your room¬ mate: "Mopey Dick, get it?" Your roommate looks at you, like a buddy, and puts an arm around your burdened shoulders. "Listen, Francie," she says, slow as speech therapy. "Let's go out and get a big beer." The seminar doesn't like this one either. You suspect they are beginning to feel sorry for you. They say: "You have to think about what is happening. Where is the story here?" The next semester the writing professor is obsessed with writing from personal experi¬ ence. You must write from what you know, from what has happened to you. He wants deaths, he wants camping trips. Think about what has happened to you. In three years there have been three things: you lost your virginity; your parents got divorced; and your brother came home from a forest ten miles from the Cambodian border with only half a thigh, a permanent smirk nestled into one corner of his mouth. About the first you write: "It created a new space, which hurt and cried in a voice that wasn't mine, 'Em not the same anymore, but I'll be okay.'"

MOORE • How to Become a Writer

147

About the second you write an elaborate story of an old married couple who stumble upon an unknown land mine in their kitchen and accidentally blow themselves up. You call it: "For Better or for Liverwurst." About the last you write nothing. There are no words for this. Your typewriter hums. You can find no words. At undergraduate cocktail parties, people say, "Oh, you write? What do you write about?" Your roommate, who has consumed too much wine, too little cheese, and no crack¬ ers at all, blurts: "Oh, my god, she always writes about her dumb boyfriend." Later on in life you will learn that writers are merely open, helpless texts with no real under¬ standing of what they have written and therefore must half-believe anything and everything that is said of them. You, however, have not yet reached this stage of literary criticism. You stiffen and say, "I do not," the same way you said it when someone in the fourth grade accused you of really liking oboe lessons and your parents really weren't just making you take them. Insist you are not very interested in any one subject at all, that you are interested in the music of language, that you are interested in—in—syllables, because they are the atoms of poetry, the cells of the mind, the breath of the soul. Begin to feel woozy. Stare into your plas¬ tic wine cup. "Syllables?" you will hear someone ask, voice trailing off, as they glide slowly toward the reassuring white of the dip. Begin to wonder what you do write about. Or if you have anything to say. Or if there even is such a thing as a thing to say. Limit these thoughts to no more than ten minutes a day; like sit-ups, they can make you thin. You will read somewhere that all writing has to do with one's genitals. Don't dwell on

25

this. It will make you nervous. Your mother will come visit you. She will look at the circles under your eyes and hand you a brown book with a brown briefcase on the cover. It is entitled: How to Become a Busi¬ ness Executive. She has also brought the Names for Baby encyclopedia you asked for; one of your characters, the aging clown-school teacher, needs a new name. Your mother will shake her head and say: "Francie, Francie, remember when you were going to be a child psychol¬ ogy major?" Say: "Mom, I like to write." She'll say: "Sure you like to write. Of course. Sure you like to write." Write a story about a confused music student and title it: "Schubert Was the One with the Glasses, Right?" It's not a big hit, although your roommate likes the part where the two violinists accidentally blow themselves up in a recital room. "I went out with a violinist once," she says, snapping her gum. Thank god you are taking other courses. You can find sanctuary in nineteenth-century ontological snags and invertebrate courting rituals. Certain globular mollusks have what is called "Sex by the Arm." The male octopus, for instance, loses the end of one arm when plac¬ ing it inside the female body during intercourse. Marine biologists call it "Seven Heaven." Be glad you know these things. Be glad you are not just a writer. Apply to law school. From here on in, many things can happen. But the main one will be this: you decide not to go to law school after all, and, instead, you spend a good, big chunk of your adult life telling people how you decided not to go to law school after all. Somehow you end up writ¬ ing again. Perhaps you go to graduate school. Perhaps you work odd jobs and take writing courses at night. Perhaps you are working on a novel and writing down all the clever remarks and intimate personal confessions you hear during the day. Perhaps you are losing your pals, your acquaintances, your balance.

30

148

35

CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

You have broken up with your boyfriend. You now go out with men who, instead of whispering "I love you," shout: "Do it to me, baby." This is good for your writing. Sooner or later you have a finished manuscript more or less. People look at it in a vaguely troubled sort of way and say, "I'll bet becoming a writer was always a fantasy of yours, wasn't it?" Your lips dry to salt. Say that of all the fantasies possible in the world, you can't imagine being a writer even making the top twenty. Tell them you were going to be a child psychology major. "I bet," they always sigh, "you'd be great with kids." Scowl fiercely. Tell them you're a walking blade. Quit classes. Quit jobs. Cash in old savings bonds. Now you have time like warts on your hands. Slowly copy all of your friends' addresses into a new address book. Vacuum. Chew cough drops. Keep a folder full of fragments. An eyelid darkening sideways. World as conspiracy. Possible plot? A woman gets on a bus. Suppose you threw a love affair and nobody came.

40

At home drink a lot of coffee. At Howard Johnson's order the cole slaw. Consider how it looks like the soggy confetti of a map: where you've been, where you're going—"You Are Here," says the red star on the back of the menu. Occasionally a date with a face blank as a sheet of paper asks you whether writers often become discouraged. Say that sometimes they do and sometimes they do. Say it's a lot like having polio. "Interesting," smiles your date, and then he looks down at his arm hairs and starts to smooth them, all, always, in the same direction. QUESTIONS 1. To whom does the "you" in the story refer? How strong a case may be made that the "you" refers really to "I," and that Francie is actually telling a story about herself?

2. In light of the title, how adequate are Francie's "directions" for becoming a writer? 3. Describe some of the comic elements of the story. What serious ideas about the devel¬ opment of a writer's profession undergird the story's humor?

WRITING ABOUT POINT OF VIEW In an essay about point of view, you should explain how point of view con¬ tributes to making the work exactly as it is. As you prepare to write, therefore, consider language, authority and opportunity for observation, the involvement or detachment of the speaker, the selection of detail, interpretive commentaries, and narrative development. The following questions will help you get started. QUESTIONS FOR DISCOVERING IDEAS

• •

How is the narration made to seem real or probable? Are the actions and speeches reported authentically, as they might be seen and reported in life? Is the narrator/speaker identifiable? What are the narrator's qualifica¬ tions as an observer? How much of the story seems to result from the imaginative or creative powers of the narrator?

Writing About Point of View

•

•

149

How does the narrator/speaker perceive the time of the actions? If the predominant tense is the past, what relationship, if any, does the narrator establish between the past and the present (e.g., providing explanations, making conclusions)? If the tense is present, what effect does this tense have on your understanding of the story? To what extent does the point of view make the work interesting and effective?

FIRST-PERSON POINT OF VIEW

•

•

•

• •

What situation prompts the speaker to tell the story or explain the situa¬ tion? What does the story tell us about the experience and interests of the narrator/speaker? Is the speaker talking to the reader, a listener, or herself? How does her audience affect what she is saying? Is the level of language appropriate to her and the situation? How much does she tell about herself? To what degree is the narrator involved in the action (i.e., as a major par¬ ticipant or major mover, minor participant, or nonparticipating observer)? Does he make himself the center of humor or admiration? How? Does he seem aware of changes he undergoes? Does the speaker criticize other characters? Why? Does she seem to report fairly and accurately what others have told her? How reliable is the speaker? Does the speaker seem to have anything to hide? Does it seem that he may be using the story for self-justification or exoneration? What effect does this complexity have on the story?

SECOND-PERSON POINT OF VIEW

•

What situation prompts the use of the second person? How does the speaker acquire the authority to explain things to the listener? How directly involved is the listener? What is the relationship between the speaker and listener? If the listener is indefinite, why does the speaker choose to use "you" as the basis of the narration?

THIRD-PERSON POINT OF VIEW

• •

•

•

•

Does the author speak in an authorial voice, or does it seem that the author has adopted a special but unnamed voice for the work? What is the speaker's level of language (e.g., formal and grammatical, informal or intimate and ungrammatical)? Are actions, speeches, and explanations made fully or sparsely? From what apparent vantage point does the speaker report action and speeches? Does this vantage point make the characters seem distant or close? How much sympathy does the speaker express for the characters? To what degree is your interest centered on a particular character? Does the speaker give you thoughts and responses of this character (limited third person)? If the work is third-person omniscient, how extensive is this omniscience (e.g., all the characters or just a few)? Generally, what limitations or free¬ doms can be attributed to this point of view?

150

•

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CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

What special kinds of knowledge does the narrator assume that the listen¬ ers or readers possess (e.g., familiarity with art, religion, politics, history, navigation, music, current or past social conditions)? How much dialogue is used in the story? Is the dialogue presented directly, as dramatic speech, or indirectly, as past-tense reports of speeches? What is your perception of the story's events as a result of the use of dialogue?

TENSE •

What tense is mainly used throughout the story? If a single tense is used throughout (e.g., present, past), what is the effect of this constant use of tense?

•

Does the story demonstrate a mixture of tenses? Why are the tenses mixed? What purpose is served by these variations? What is the effect of this mixture? Is any special use made of the future tense? What is the effect of this use on the present and past circumstances of the characters?

•

Organizing Your Essay About Point of View Throughout your essay, you should develop your analysis of how the point of view determines such aspects as situation, form, general content, and language. The questions in the preceding section should help you decide how the point of view interacts with these other elements. Begin by briefly stating the major influence of the point of view on the work. (Examples: "The omniscient point of view permits many insights into the major character," or "The first-person point of view makes the work seem like an expose of backroom political deals.") How does the point of view make the work interest¬ ing and effective? How will your analysis support your central idea? A fruitful and imaginative way to build your analysis and argument is to explore how changing the point of view might affect the presentation of the story. Let us consider Welty's "A Worn Path" (Chapter 5), which limits its third-person point of view to the circumstances of Phoenix Jackson, whose walk to Natchez is a mission of mercy for her invalid grandson. With the third-person limited focus as we have it, we derive just enough information about Phoenix to understand and sympathize deeply with her plight. If she herself were the narrator, however, we would get not an objective but rather a personalized view of her circumstances— and also perhaps a scattered and unfocused one—and the story would not be as powerful as it is. (Or it might become powerful through different means.) One story that would be vastly different if told from an alternative perspective is Tan's "Two Kinds" (Chapter 3). Just suppose—for a moment—that "Two Kinds" (Chap¬ ter 3), which is the first-person narration of Jing-Mei, were rather to be told in the first person by Jing-Mei's mother. Certainly the mother would explain her ambi¬ tions for her daughter fully and reasonably, and Jing-Mei herself would not be as comprehensible to readers as she is in the story as we have it.

Illustrative Student Essay

151

You can see that this alternative approach to point of view requires creative imagination, for to carry it out you must, as it were, invade the author's space and speculate about the results of a point of view that the author did not choose. Con¬ sidering such hypothetical alternative points of view deeply, however, will greatly enhance your analytical and critical abilities. In your conclusion, evaluate the success of the point of view. Is it consistent, effective, truthful? What does it contribute to the nature and quality of the story? What particular benefits does the writer gain or lose (if anything) as a result of the point of view?

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Garcia 1 Ashley Garcia Professor Sutton English 243 10 October 2010 Shirley Jackson’s Dramatic Point of View in “The Lottery”0 The dramatic point of view in Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” is essential to her success in rendering horror in the midst of the ordinary.* The story, however, is not only about horror: It may also be called a surprise story, an allegory, or a portrayal of human insensitivity and cruelty. But the validity of all other claims for “The Lottery” hinges on the author’s control over point of view to make the events develop out of a seemingly everyday, matter-of-fact situation—a control that could not be easily maintained with another point of view. The success of Jackson’s point of view is achieved through her characterization, selection of details, and diction.1

This story appears on pages 136-141. ‘Central idea.

Thesis sentence.

[1]

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CHAPTER 2 » Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

Garcia 2 [2]

Because of the dramatic point of view, Jackson succeeds in presenting the villagers as ordinary folks attending a normal, festive event—in contrast to the horror of their real purpose. The contrast depends on Jackson’s speaker, who is emotionally uninvolved and who tells only enough about the three hundred townsfolk and their customs to permit the conclusion that they are normal, common people. The principal character is a local housewife, Tessie Hutchinson, but the speaker presents little about her except that she is just like everyone else—an important characteristic when she, like any other person being singled out for punishment, objects not to the lottery itself but to the “unfairness” of the drawing. The same commonness applies also to the other characters, whose brief conversations are recorded but not analyzed. This detached, reportorial method of making the villagers seem common and one¬ dimensional is fundamental to Jackson’s dramatic point of view, and the cruel twist of the ending depends on the method.

HI

While there could be much description, Jackson’s speaker omits some of the important details to conceal the lottery’s horrifying purpose. For example, the speaker presents enough information about the lottery to permit readers to understand its rules but does not disclose the grim prize for the “winner.” The short saying “Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon” is mentioned as a remnant of a long-forgotten ritual, but the speaker does not explain anything more about this connection with scapegoatism and human sacrifice (139). None of these references seems unusual as the narrator first presents them, and it is only the conclusion that reveals, in reconsideration, their shocking ghastliness.

HI

Without doubt, a point of view other than the dramatic would spoil Jackson’s concluding horror because it would require more explanatory detail. A first-person speaker, for example, would not be credible without explaining the situation and revealing feelings that would give away the ending. Such an I” speaker would need to say something like “The little boys gathered rocks but seemed not to be thinking about their forthcoming use in the stoning.” But how would such detail affect the reader’s response to the terrifying conclusion? Similarly, an omniscient narrator would need to include details about people’s

Illustrative Student Essay

153

Garcia 3 reactions (how could he or she be omniscient otherwise?). A more suitable alternative might be a limited omniscient point of view confined to, say, a stranger in town or one of the local children. But any intelligent stranger would be asking “giveaway” questions, and any child but a tiny tot would know about the lottery’s sinister outcome. Either hypothetical point-of-view character would therefore require revealing the information too soon. The only conclusion is that Jackson’s point of view—the dramatic—is best for this story. Because it permits her naturally to hold back crucial details, it is essential for the suspenseful delay of horror. Appropriate both to the suspenseful ending and also to the simple

[5]

character of the villagers is the speaker’s language. The words are accurate and descriptive but not elaborate. When Tessie Hutchinson appears, for example, she dries “her hands on her apron” (138)—words that define her role as a housewife. Most of these simple, bare words may be seen as part of Jackson’s technique of withholding detail to delay the reader’s understanding. A prime example is the pile of stones, which is in truth a thoughtless and cruel preparation for the stoning, yet this conclusion cannot be drawn from the easy words describing it: Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix—the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”—eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys, (137) Both the nicknames and the connotation of boyhood games divert attention

[6]

and obscure the horrible purpose of the stones. Even at the end, the speaker uses the word “pebbles” to describe the stones given to Tessie’s son Davy (141). The implication is that Davy is playing a game, not participating in the -

ritual stoning of his own mother! Such masterly control over point of view is a major cause of Jackson’s success in “The Lottery.” Her narrative method is to establish the appearance of

[7]

154

CHAPTER 2 • Point of View: The Position or Stance of the Work's Narrator or Speaker

Garcia 4 everyday, uneventful reality, which she maintains up to the beginning of the last \

scene. She is so successful that a reader’s first response to the stoning is “Such an event could not take place among such common, earthy folks.” Yet it is this reality that validates Jackson’s vision. Horror is not to be found on moors and in haunted castles but among everyday people like Jackson’s three hundred villagers. Without her control of the dramatic point of view, there could be little of this power of suggestion, and it would not be possible to claim such success for the story.

Garcia 5 Work Cited Jackson, Shirley. “The Lottery.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New

York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 136^41. Print.

Commentary on the Essay The strategy of this essay is to argue for the importance of Jackson's dramatic point of view in building toward the shocking ending. Words of tribute through¬ out the essay are "success," "control," "essential," "appropriate," and "masterly." The introductory paragraph sets out three areas for exploration in the body: char¬ acter, detail, and diction. The body begins with paragraph 2, in which the aim is not to present a full character study (since the essay is not about character but point of view), but rather to discuss the ways in which the dramatic point of view enables the charac¬ ters to be rendered. The argument of the paragraph is that the villagers are to be judged not as complete human beings but as "ordinary folks." The second part of the body (paragraphs 3 and 4) emphasizes that the sparse¬ ness of detail permitted by the dramatic point of view aids Jackson in deferring conclusions about the horror of the drawing. Paragraph 4, which continues the topic of paragraph 3, shows how talking about alternative points of view may aid understanding of the story's actual point of view (see paragraph 4). The material for the paragraph is derived from notes speculating about whether Jackson's tech¬ nique of withholding detail to build toward the concluding horror (the topic of paragraph 3) could be maintained with differing points of view. A combination of analysis and imagination is therefore at work in the paragraph.

Writing Topics About Point of View

155

The third section of the body (paragraph 5) emphasizes the idea that the flat colorless diction defers awareness of what is happening; therefore the point of view is vital in the story's surprise and horror. The concluding paragraph (6) emphasizes the way in which general response to the story, and also its success, are conditioned by the detached, dramatic point of view.

Writing Topics About Point of View Writing Paragraphs 1. Write a narrative paragraph from the first-person point of view of one of these characters: a. Old Man Warner in "The Lottery" (this chapter): People ain't the way they used to be. b. Faith in "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7): I don't understand why my husband is so sour and sullen all the time. c. Thomas in "This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona": Real truth is revealed by the telling of stories. Writing Essays 1. Write an essay about the proposition that people often have something to gain when they speak, and that therefore we need to be critical about what others tell us. Are they trying to change our judgments and opinions? Are they telling the truth? Are they leaving out any important details? Are they trying to sell us something? In your discussion, you may strengthen your ideas by referring to stories that you have been reading.

2.

Write an essay about how Hawthorne's story "Young Goodman Brown' (Chapter 7) would be affected if told by a narrator with different knowledge, different inter¬ ests, and different purposes for telling the story, such as the narrators of "A Worn Path" (Chapter 5), and Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Chapter 1).

Creative Writing Assignment 1. Recall a childhood occasion on which you were punished. Write an explana¬ tion of the punishment as though you were the adult who was in the position of punishing you. Be sure to consider your childhood self objectively, in the third person. Present things from the viewpoint of the adult, and try to deter¬ mine how the adult would have learned about your action, judged it, and decided on your punishment. Library Assignment 1. In the reference section of your library, find two books on literary terms and concepts. How completely and clearly do these works explain the concept of point of view? With the aid of these books, together with the materials in this chapter, describe the interests and views of the narrators in Moore's "How to Become a Writer," Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," or another story of your choice. You should also consult Google, under "Glossary of Lit¬ erary Terms," to see some of the many online resources available to you.

Chapter 3 Characters: The People in Fiction

W

riters of fiction create narratives that enhance and deepen our understanding of human character and human life. In our own day, under the influences of such pioneers as Freud (1856-1939), Jung (1875-1961), and Skinner (1904-1990), the sci¬ ence of psychology has influenced both the creation and the study of literature. It is well known that Freud reinforced some of his psychological conclusions by referring to literary works, especially plays by Shakespeare. Widely known films such as The Silence of the Lambs (1991) and American Psycho (2000), together with the Dexter series on Showtime (still running [in 2010]) have popularized the relationships between literary character and psychology. Without doubt, the presentation and understanding of character is one of the major aims of fiction, and literature generally. In literature, a character is a verbal representation of a human being. Through action, speech, description, and commentary, authors portray characters who are worth caring about, cheering for, and even loving, although there are also characters you may laugh at, dislike, or even hate. In a story or play emphasizing a major character, you may expect that each action or speech, no matter how small, is part of a total presentation of the complex combina¬ tion of both the inner and the outer self that constitutes a human being. Whereas in life things may “just happen,” in literature all actions, interactions, speeches, and observa¬ tions are deliberate. Thus, you read about important actions like a long period of work and sacrifice (Maupassant’s “The Necklace” in this chapter), acts of defiance and retri¬ bution (Poes The Cask of Amontillado” in Chapter 4), or a young man’s poignant dream of freedom (Bierce’s “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” in Chapter 1). By mak¬ ing such actions interesting, authors help you understand and appreciate not only their major characters but also life itself.

Character Traits In studying a literary character, try to determine the character's outstanding traits. A trait is a quality of mind or habitual mode of behavior that is evident in both positive and negative ways, such as supplying moral support to friends and loved ones, being a person on whom people always rely, always wearing a sunny smile, listening to the thoughts and problems of others, avoiding eye contact, never repaying borrowed money, taking the biggest portions, or always thinking oneself the center of attention. Similarly, artists utilize elements such as facial characteris¬ tics and expressions to convey their judgments about the characteristics of their human subjects. If we study the facial expression of the bust of Lorenzo de' Medici 156

Character Traits

157

"Bust of Lorenzo de Medici," Florentine, fifteenth or sixteenth century, probably after a model by Andrea del Verrocchio and Orsino Benintendi. (Photograph © Board of Trustees, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. Samuel H. Kress Collection.)

by Andrea del Verrocchio (c. 1435-1488), for example, we can see that Verrocchio is presenting a negative view of his subject. Lorenzo's firm mouth, his fixed stare, and his closely knit eyebrows suggest a high degree of pride and ruthlessness. Sometimes, of course, the traits we encounter are minor and insignificant, but often a trait may be a person's primary characteristic (not only in fiction but also in life). Thus, characters may be ambitious or lazy, calm or anxious, aggressive or fearful, thoughtful or inconsiderate, open or secretive, confident or self-doubting, kind or cruel, quiet or noisy, idealistic or practical, careful or careless, impartial or biased, straightforward or underhanded, “winners" or “losers," and so on. With this sort of list, to which you may add at will, you can analyze and develop conclusions about character. For example, Mathilde in Maupassant s The Necklace" (this chapter) indulges in thoughts of unattainable wealth and comfort, and is so swept up in her dreams that she scorns the comparatively good life she has with her reliable but dull husband. It is fair to say that this denial of reality is her major trait. It is also a major weakness, because Maupassant shows that her dream life harms her real life. Comparably, the character Miss Brill in Mansfield's "Miss Brill" (this chapter) is totally taken up by her unrealistically imaginary per¬ ceptions of her surroundings. All the actions she witnesses are filtered through these perceptions, and hence she is disconnected from her true circumstances. A contrast between a mother's dreams and a daughter s realism is brought out by

158

CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

Amy Tan in "Two Kinds" (this chapter). By similarly analyzing the thoughts, actions, and speeches of the literary characters you encounter, you can also draw conclusions about their nature and their qualities.

Distinguishing Between Circumstances and Character Traits When you study a fictional person, distinguish between circumstances and char¬ acter, for circumstances have value only if you show that they demonstrate important traits. Thus, if our good friend Sam wins a lottery, let us congratulate him on his luck; but the win does not say much about his character—not much, that is, unless you also point out that for years he has been regularly spending hundreds of dol¬ lars each week for lottery tickets. In other words, making the effort to win a lottery is a character trait but winning (or losing) is not. Or, let us suppose that an author stresses the neatness of one character and the sloppiness of another. If you accept the premise that people care for their appear¬ ance according to choice—and that choices develop from character—you can use these details to make conclusions about a person's self-esteem or the lack of it. In short, when reading about characters in literature, look beyond circumstances, actions, and appearances, and try to determine what these things show about character. Always try to get from the outside to the inside, for it is the internal qualities of character that determine external behavior.

How Authors Disclose Character in Literature Basically, authors rely on five ways of bringing characters to life. Remember that you can draw on your own knowledge and experience to make judgments about the qualities of the characters.

The Actions of Characters Reveal Their Qualities What characters do is our best clue to understanding what they are. For example, working at a cash register is part of ordinary existence for most people who do it, and it shows little about their characters except a desire for work (this, in itself, may be an unusual trait). But when Sammy quits his job in Updike's "A & P" (Chapter 6), he ceases to be an ordinary cashier and indulges in his desire for more from life. By contrast, in Tan's "Two Kinds," the narrator Jing-Mei, after her diffi¬ cult childhood opposition to her mother's influences, reaches an emotional recon¬ ciliation when playing the piano her mother had bought for her and given to her. Like most of us, fictional characters do not always understand why they do what they do, or why they think what they think. Nevertheless, their actions and thoughts provide insights into their characters. Miss Brill, of Mansfield's "Miss Brill" (this chapter), is alone on a Sunday afternoon—always alone—and she goes to a nearby public park to enjoy the passing crowds—her only weekly excitement. She eavesdrops on people sitting nearby, and draws silent conclusions about others, and in this way she imagines that she is a part of their lives. She even supposes

How Authors Disclose Character in Literature

159

that all those in the park are actors, along with herself, performing in a massive drama of life. Her unrealistic daydreams reveal her habitual solitude and pathetic vulnerability. Actions may also signal qualities such as naivete, weakness, deceit, a schem¬ ing personality, strong inner conflicts, sudden comprehension, or other growth or change. In Alexie's "This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona" (Chapter 2), the character Thomas Builds-the-Fire, whom fellow Native Americans on the reservation regularly ignore, engages in conversation with Cathy, an ex-Olympic athlete, and exhibits friendliness and charm that his companion Victor has never known about. In Carver's "Cathedral", the narrator undergoes a growth of under¬ standing and an enlargement of his powers of sympathy when he and a blind vis¬ itor share in sketching a religious building—a cathedral.

The Author’s Descriptions Tell Us About Characters Appearance and environment reveal much about a character's social and eco¬ nomic status, and they also tell us about character traits. Although Mathilde's dreams in Maupassant's "The Necklace" (this chapter) are unrealizable and destructive, they also bring about her character strength that emerges in the story. A comparable situation occurs in O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" (p. 97), a story about a group of soldiers on ground patrol during the Vietnamese War. The leader of the group is Lt. Jimmy Cross, whom O’Brien describes in detail. We come to understand Cross's character through the story’s descriptions about his deep concerns, his uncertainty about his girl back home, his uneasiness with his respon¬ sibility, and his ultimate resoluteness about his command.

What Characters Say Reveals What They Are Like Although the speeches of most characters are functional—essential to keeping the action moving along—they provide material from which you may draw conclusions. When the second traveler of Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7) speaks, for example, he reveals his devious and deceptive nature even though out¬ wardly he appears friendly. Jackie's parents and sister in O'Connor's "First Confes¬ sion" (Chapter 6) speak angrily to Jackie, the stubborn child who, as an older person, is the story's narrator. Their anger suggests that they have little interest in Jackie's thoughts or concerns, but view their world through nothing more than ordinary and limited eyes. It is because of the unsympathetic nature of his family that Jackie is so delighted by the priest, who shows enough interest in Jackie to listen to him. Often, characters use speech to hide their motives from others. The traveling pot mender in Steinbeck's "The Chrysanthemums (Chapter 7) is deceptive and guileful. His sole aim is to have Elisa give him some work to do, and we may con¬ sequently believe nothing of what he says. The Federal scout in Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Chapter 1) is pretending to be a Confederate soldier, and in speaking with the major character Farquhar, who is a landowner and a Confederate loyalist, he speaks confidentially but deceivingly. The result of the scout's lies is that Farquhar is fooled into believing that he will be safe if he sabotages the bridge at Owl Creek.

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

What Others Say Tells Us About a Character By studying what characters say about each other, you can enhance your under¬ standing not only of the character being discussed but also about the characters doing the talking. For example, the narrator's father inChioles's "Before the Firing Squad" (Chapter 9) speaks to his young son about not being too friendly with Fritz, who is still a teenager but who is also a member of the occupying German army. The father's summary is this: "Tie's the enemy." This oversimplified charac¬ terization of Fritz is proved wrong at the story's end, when Fritz, at obvious per¬ sonal risk, preserves the lives of the narrator, his family, and other villagers. Ironically, speeches often indicate something other than what the speakers intend, perhaps because of prejudice, stupidity, or foolishness. Nora, in O'Con¬ nor's "First Confession" (Chapter 6), tells about Jackie's lashing out at her with a butter knife, but in effect she describes the boy's individuality just as she also dis¬ closes her own spitefulness.

The Author, Speaking as a Storyteller or an Observer, May Present Judgments About Characters What the author, speaking as a work's authorial voice, says about a character is usually accurate, and the authorial voice can be accepted factually. However, when the authorial voice interprets actions and characteristics, as in Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7), the author himself or herself assumes the role of a reader or critic, whose opinions are therefore open to question. For this reason, authors frequently avoid interpretations and devote their skill to arrang¬ ing events and speeches so that readers can draw their own conclusions.

Types of Characters: Round and Flat No writer can present an entire life history of a protagonist, nor can each charac¬ ter in a story get equal time" for development. Accordingly, some characters grow to be full and alive, while others remain shadowy. The British novelist and critic E. M. Forster, in Aspects of the Novel (1927), calls the two major types "round" and "flat." 1 yy

Round Characters Are Three-Dimensional and Lifelike The basic trait of round characters is that we are told enough about them to permit the conclusion that they are three-dimensional, rounded, authentic, memorable, original, and true to life. They are the centers of our attention in most works of fic¬ tion. Their roundness and fullness are characterized by both individuality and unpredictability. It is true that, like all human beings, round characters have inner and sometimes hidden qualities that the circumstances of a story bring out, and therefore their full realization as characters is directly connected to the stories in which they live their lives. Mabel, of Lawrence's "The Horse Dealer's Daughter" (Chapter 8), is a round character. She has spent her life taking care of her father

Types of Characters: Round and Flat

161

and his affairs, but following her father's death she sees no value in continuing to live. It is when she discovers a favorable change in her life that she becomes restored. Along with her new direction, however, she also anticipates new compli¬ cations, and it is this complexity of response that especially marks the roundness and fullness of her character. A complementary quality about round characters is that they are dynamic. Dynamic characters recognize, change with, or adjust to circumstances. Such changes may be shown in (1) an action or actions, (2) the realization of new strength and therefore the affirmation of previous decisions, (3) the acceptance of new condi¬ tions and the need for making changes, (4) the discovery of unrecognized truths, or (5) the reconciliation of the character to adverse conditions. A case in point is Farquhar in Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Chapter 1). Although he is a "well-to-do" southern planter during the Civil War, for a number of reasons he has not been called to service in the Confederate Army. His life as a planter and slaveholder is stable, and would continue so; but when he learns about the possi¬ bility of dynamiting the bridge, he goes ahead and does it. By this action he under¬ goes change and growth; he is dynamic. Usually, dynamic character growth like this is good, but such growth, under some conditions, may bring a dynamic char¬ acter to ruin, such as that experienced by Farquhar. This is not to say that only round characters are dynamic, for less significant characters in a story may also undergo alteration as their circumstances change, as with Maggie, the younger daughter in Walker's "Everyday Use" (Part I). At the story's beginning, Maggie's mother—the story's narrator—compares her to "a lame animal," to indicate her bashful, withdrawn character. By the story's end, however, Maggie has risen personally, as is shown by her generous offer to help her older and selfish sister. Because a round character plays a major role in a story, he or she is often called the hero or heroine. Some round characters are not particularly heroic, however, so it is preferable to use the more neutral word protagonist (the "first actor"). The protagonist is central to the action, moves against an antagonist (the "opposing actor"), and exhibits the ability to adapt to new situations.

Flat Characters Are Simple and One-Dimensional Unlike round characters, flat characters are not complex, but are simple and one¬ dimensional. They may have no more than a single role to perform in a story, or they may be associated with no more than a single dominating idea. Most flat characters end pretty much where they begin, and for this reason we may think of them as static, not dynamic. Often their absence of growth or development results from lack of knowledge or understanding, or even from stupidity or insensitivity. Flat characters are not worthless in fiction, however, for they high¬ light the development of the round characters. In Joyce's "Araby" (Chapter 4), there is no character growth in Mangan's sister, and yet her presence is the major reason for the narrator's attitudes, and he travels to the Saturday night bazaar in order to please her. Usually, flat characters are minor (e.g., relatives, acquaintances, functionaries), but not all minor characters are necessarily flat. Sometimes flat characters are

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

prominent in certain types of literature, such as cowboy, police, and detective sto¬ ries, where the focus is less on character than on performance. Such characters might be lively and engaging, even though they do not undergo significant change and development. They must be strong, tough, and clever enough to perform recur¬ ring tasks such as solving a crime, boxing with the major character, overcoming a villain, or finding a treasure. The term stock character is often used to describe char¬ acters in these repeating situations. To the degree that stock characters have many common traits, they are representative of their class or group. Such characters, with variations in names, ages, and sexes, have been constant in literature since the ancient Greeks. Some regular stock or representative characters are the insensitive father, the interfering mother, the sassy younger sister or brother, the greedy politi¬ cian, the harassed boss, the resourceful cowboy or detective, the overbearing or hen¬ pecked husband, the submissive or nagging wife, the absent-minded professor, the angry police captain, the lovable drunk, and the town do-gooder. Stock characters are usually also flat as long as they do no more than perform their roles and exhibit conventional and nonindividual traits. Because they pos¬ sess no attitudes except those of their class, they are often called stereotype char¬ acters, or characters who all seem to have been cast in the same mold. When authors bring characters into strong focus, however, no matter what roles they perform, the characters emerge from flatness and move into roundness. For example, Louise Mallard of Chopin's "The Story of an Hour" (Chapter 6) is a traditional housewife, and if she were no more than that she would be flat and stereotypical. After receiving the news that her husband has died, however, the roundness of her character emerges because of her sudden and unexpected exhil¬ aration at the prospect of being widowed and free. A comparable character is Francie, the speaker of Lorrie Moore's "How to Become a Writer" (Chapter 2). Under the guise of giving instructions for undertaking the profession of writing, Francie demonstrates characteristic linguistic ability and wittiness. Of equal importance is that she also reveals a number of incidents in her personal and fam¬ ily life that have evoked both grief and disappointment. We may conclude that such experiences in effect have caused the adaptation and character growth that have made her the writer that she is. In sum, the ability to grow and develop and adjust to changing circumstances makes characters round and dynamic. Absence of these traits makes characters flat and static.

Reality and Probability: Verisimilitude

^ .

Characters in fiction should be true to life. Therefore their actions, statements, and thoughts must all be what human beings are likely to do, say, and think under the conditions presented in the literary work. This is the standard of verisimilitude, probability, or plausibility. One may readily admit that there are people in life who perform tasks or exhibit characteristics that are difficult or seemingly impos¬ sible (such as always leading the team to victory, always getting A+'s on every test, always being cheerful and helpful, or always understanding the needs of others)7 However, such characters in fiction would not be true to life because they do not fit within normal or usual behavior.

Reality and Probability: Verisimilitude

163

You should therefore distinguish between what characters may possibly do and what they most frequently or most usually do. Thus, in Maupassant's "The Necklace" (this chapter), it is possible that Mathilde could be truthful and tell her friend Jeanne Forrestier about the lost necklace. In light of Mathilde's pride and concept of self-respect, however, it is more in character for her and her husband to hide the loss and borrow money for a replacement, even though they endure dis¬ astrous financial hardship for ten years. Granted the possibilities of the story (either self-sacrifice or the admission of fault or of a possible crime), the decision she makes with her husband is the more probable one. Nevertheless, probability does not rule out surprise or even exaggeration. In Katherine Anne Porter's "The Jilting of Granny Weatherall" (Chapter 7), the accomplishments of Granny—such as fencing a hundred acres of farmland all by herself—do not seem impossible even if they do seem unlikely. But we learn that when she was young she became compulsively determined to overcome the shame of having been betrayed and left at the altar by her fiance. It is therefore probable, or at least not improbable, that she would be capable of the heavy labor of building the fence. Writers render probability of character in many ways. Works that attempt to mirror life—realistic, naturalistic, or "slice of life" stories like Joyce's "Araby" (Chapter 4)—set up a pattern of ordinary, everyday probability. Less realistic con¬ ditions establish different frameworks of probability, in which characters are expected to be unusual, as in Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7). Because a major way of explaining this story is that Brown is having a nightmar¬ ish psychotic trance, his bizarre and unnatural responses are probable. Equally probable is the way the doctors explain Louise Mallard's sudden death at the end of Chopin's "The Story of an Hour" (Chapter 6), even though their smug analysis is totally and comically wrong. You might also encounter works containing supernatural figures, such as the second traveler in "Young Goodman Brown." You may wonder whether such characters are probable or improbable. Usually, gods and goddesses embody qualities of the best and most moral human beings, and devils like Hawthorne's guide take on attributes of the worst. However, you might remember that the devil is often given dashing and engaging qualities so that he can deceive gullible sinners and then drag them screaming into the fiery pits of hell. The friendliness of Brown's guide is therefore not an improbable trait. In judging characters of this or any other type, your best standards are probability, consistency, and believability.

Stories for Study T. Coraghessan Boyle.

.Greasy Lake, 164

Susan Glaspell.

A Jury of Her Peers, 170

Katherine Mansfield.

.Miss Brill, 183

Guy de Maupassant.

.The Necklace, 187

Amy Tan.

.Two Kinds, 193

164

CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

T. CORAGHESSAN BOYLE

(b

1948)

T. Coraghessan Boyle, or T. C. Boyle, was born in Peekskill, New York. He received his BA from the State University of New York in 1968, his MFAfrom the University of Iowa in 1974, and his PhD from Iowa in 1977. He is currently a professor of English at the Uni¬ versity of Southern California. He began writing in the seventies and has published a dozen novels and eight short story collections, including Descent of Man (1979) and Greasy Lake and Other Stories (1985). His most recent novels are Talk Talk (2006) and The Women (2009). He has received many honors and awards, among which are six O. Henry Awards for his fiction.

% Greasy Lake

(1985) It's about a mile down on the dark side of Route 88. —Bruce Springsteen0

There was a time when courtesy and winning ways went out of style, when it was good to be bad, when you cultivated decadence like a taste. We were all dangerous characters then. We wore torn-up leather jackets, slouched around with toothpicks in our mouths, sniffed glue and ether and what somebody claimed was cocaine. When we wheeled our parents' whining station wagons out onto the street we left a patch of rubber half a block long. We drank gin and grape juice. Tango, Thunderbird, and Bali Hai. We were nineteen. We were bad. We read Andre Gide° and struck elaborate poses to show that we didn't give a shit about anything. At night, we went up to Greasy Lake.0 Through the center of town, up the strip, past the housing developments and shopping malls, street lights giving way to the thin streaming illumination of the headlights, trees crowding the asphalt in a black unbroken wall: that was the way out to Greasy Lake. The Indians had called it Wakan, a reference to the clarity of its waters. Now it was fetid and murky, the mud banks glittering with broken glass and strewn with beer cans and the charred remains of bonfires. There was a single ravaged island a hundred yards from shore, so stripped of vegetation it looked as if the air force had strafed it. We went up to the lake because everyone went there, because we wanted to snuff the rich scent of possibility on the breeze, watch a girl take off her clothes and plunge into the festering murk, drink beer, smoke pot, howl at the stars, savor the incongruous full-throated roar of rock and roll against the primeval susurrus of frogs and crickets. This was nature. I was there one night, late, in the company of two dangerous characters. Digby wore a gold star in his right ear and allowed his father to pay his tuition at Cornell; Jeff was think¬ ing of quitting school to become a painter/musician/head-shop proprietor. They were both expert in the social graces, quick with a sneer, able to manage a Ford with lousy shocks over a rutted and gutted blacktop road at eighty-five while rolling a joint as compact as a Tootsie Roll Pop stick. They could lounge against a bank of booming speakers and trade man s with the best of them or roll out across the dance floor as if their joints worked on

From the song Spirit in the Night in Bruce Springsteen’s album Greetings from Asbury Park, New Jersey (1973) iif1947Gide' A FrenCH wnter (1869-1951 > and noted free thinker, Gide received the Nobel Prize in Literature theTgWhh1frindrb0"6 ^Uke” ^ naiTat0r

°f ** “Spidt in the Nlght” tells Spending

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bearings. They were slick and quick and they wore their mirror shades at breakfast and din¬ ner, iia the shower, in closets and caves. In short, they were bad. I drove. Digby pounded the dashboard and shouted along with Toots & the Maytals0 while Jeff hung his head out the window and streaked the side of my mother's Bel Air with vomit. It was early June, the air soft as a hand on your cheek, the third night of summer vacation. The first two nights we'd been out till dawn, looking for something we never found. On this, the third night, we'd cruised the strip sixty-seven times, been in and out of every bar and club we could think of in a twenty-mile radius, stopped twice for bucket chicken and forty-cent hamburgers, debated going to a party at the house of a girl Jeff's sis¬ ter knew, and chucked two dozen raw eggs at mailboxes and hitchhikers. It was 2:00 A.M.; the bars were closing. There was nothing to do but take a bottle of lemon-flavored gin up to Greasy Lake. The taillights of a single car winked at us as we swung into the dirt lot with its tufts of weed and washboard corrugations; '57 Chevy, mint, metallic blue. On the far side of the lot, like the exoskeleton of some gaunt chrome insect, a chopper leaned against its kickstand. And that was it for excitement: some junkie halfwit biker and a car freak pumping his girl¬ friend. Whatever it was we were looking for, we weren't about to find it at Greasy Lake. Not that night. But then all of a sudden Digby was fighting for the wheel. "Hey, that's Tony Lovett's car! Hey!" he shouted, while I stabbed at the brake pedal and the Bel Air nosed up to the gleam¬ ing bumper of the parked Chevy. Digby leaned on the horn, laughing, and instructed me to put my brights on. I flicked on the brights. This was hilarious. A joke. Tony would experi¬ ence premature withdrawal and expect to be confronted by grim-looking state troopers with flashlights. We hit the horn, strobed the lights, and then jumped out of the car to press our witty faces to Tony's windows; for all we knew we might even catch a glimpse of some little fox's tit, and then we could slap backs with red-faced Tony, roughhouse a little, and go on to new heights of adventure and daring. The first mistake, the one that opened the whole floodgate, was losing my grip on the keys. In the excitement, leaping from the car with the gin in one hand and a roach dip in the other, I spilled them in the grass—in the dark, rank, mysterious nighttime grass of Greasy Lake. This was a tactical error, as damaging and irreversible in its way as Westmoreland's decision to dig in at Khe Sanh.° I felt it like a jab of intuition, and I stopped there by the open door, peering vaguely into the night that puddled up round my feet. The second mistake—and this was inextricably bound up with the first—was identifying the car as Tony Lovett's. Even before the very bad character in greasy jeans and engineer boots ripped out of the driver's door, I began to realize that this chrome blue was much lighter than the robin's-egg of Tony's car, and that Tony's car didn't have rear-mounted speakers. Judging from their expressions, Digby and Jeff were privately groping toward the same inevitable and unsettling conclusion as I was. In any case, there was no reasoning with this bad greasy character—clearly he was a man of action. The first lusty Rockette kick of his steel-toed boot caught me under the chin, chipped my favorite tooth, and left me sprawled in the dirt. Like a fool. I'd gone down on one knee to comb the stiff hacked grass for the keys, my mind making connections in the

“Toots & the Maytals: a Reggae musical group, popular in the 1960s, and still popular in 2010. °Khe Sanh: General William Westmoreland (1914-2005) commanded American forces during the Vietnam War from 1964 to 1968. He was criticized for his handling of the Viet Cong attacks at Khe Sanh in 1968, and after that he was replaced.

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most dragged-out, testudineous0 way, knowing that things had gone wrong, that I was in a lot of trouble, and that the lost ignition key was my grail and my salvation. The three or four succeeding blows were mainly absorbed by my right buttock and the tough piece of bone at the base of my spine. Meanwhile, Digby vaulted the kissing bumpers and delivered a savage kung-fu blow to the greasy character's collarbone. Digby had just finished a course in martial arts for phys-ed credit and had spent the better part of the past two nights telling us apocryphal tales of Bruce Lee types and of the raw power invested in lightning blows shot from coiled wrists, ankles, and elbows. The greasy character was unimpressed. He merely backed off a step, his face like a Toltec mask, and laid Digby out with a single whistling roundhouse blow . . . but by now Jeff had got into the act, and I was beginning to extricate myself from the dirt, a tinny compound of shock, rage, and impotence wadded in my throat. Jeff was on the guy's back, biting at his ear. Digby was on the ground, cursing. I went for the tire iron I kept under the driver's seat. I kept it there because bad charac¬ ters always keep tire irons under the driver's seat, for just such an occasion as this. Never mind that I hadn't been involved in a fight since sixth grade, when a kid with a sleepy eye and two streams of mucus depending from his nostrils hit me in the knee with a Louisville slugger, never mind that I'd touched the tire iron exactly twice before, to change tires: it was there. And I went for it. I was terrified. Blood was beating in my ears, my hands were shaking, my heart turning over like a dirtbike in the wrong gear. My antagonist was shirtless, and a single cord of muscle flashed across his chest as he bent forward to peel Jeff from his back like a wet over¬ coat. "Motherfucker," he spat, over and over, and I was aware in that instant that all four of us 1 ligby, Jeff, and myself included—were chanting "motherfucker, motherfucker," as if it were a battle cry. (What happened next? the detective asks the murderer from beneath the turned-down brim of his porkpie hat. I don't know, the murderer says, something came over me. Exactly.) Digby poked the flat of his hand in the bad character's face and I came at him like a kamikaze, mindless, raging, stung with humiliation—the whole thing, from the initial boot in the chin to this murderous primal instant involving no more than sixty hyperventilating, gland-flooding seconds—I came at him and brought the tire iron down across his ear. The effect was instantaneous, astonishing. He was a stunt man and this was Hollywood, he was a big grimacing toothy balloon and I was a man with a straight pin. He collapsed. Wet his pants. Went loose in his boots. A single second, big as a zeppelin, floated by. We were standing over him in a circle, grit¬ ting our teeth, jerking our necks, our limbs and hands and feet twitching with glandular discharges. No one said anything. We just stared down at the guy, the car freak,'the lover, the bad greasy character laid low. Digby looked at me; so did Jeff. I was still holding the tire iron, a tuft of hair clinging to the crook like dandelion fluff, like down. Rattled, I dropped it in the dirt, already envisioning the headlines, the pitted faces of the police inquisitors, the gleam of handcuffs, clank of bars, the big black shadows rising from the back of the cell when suddenly a raw torn shriek cut through me like all the juice in all the electric chairs in the country. It was the fox. She was short, barefoot, dressed in panties and a man's shirt. "Animals!" she screamed, running at us with her fists clenched and wisps of blow-dried hair in her face There was a silver chain round her ankle, and her toenails flashed in the glare of the headlights. I think it was the toenails that did it. Sure, the gin and the cannabis and even the Kentucky Fried may have had a hand in it, but it was the sight of those flaming toes that set us off—the toad

°testudineous: tortoise-like.

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emerging from the loaf in Virgin Spring,0 lipstick smeared on a child; she was already tainted. We were on her like Bergman's deranged brothers—see no evil, hear none, speak none—pant¬ ing, wheezing, tearing at her clothes, grabbing for flesh. We were bad characters, and we were scared and hot and three steps over the line—anything could have happened. It didn't. Before we could pin her to the hood of the car, our eyes masked with lust and greed and the purest primal badness, a pair of headlights swung into the lot. There we were, dirty, bloody, guilty, dissociated from humanity and civilization, the first of the Ur-crimes behind us, the second in progress, shreds of nylon panty and spandex brassiere dangling from our fingers, our flies open, lips licked—there we were, caught in the spotlight. Nailed. We bolted. First for the car, and then, realizing we had no way of starting it, for the woods. I thought nothing. I thought escape. The headlights came at me like accusing fin¬ gers. I was gone. Ram-bam-bam, across the parking lot, past the chopper and into the feculent under¬ growth at the lake's edge, insects flying up in my face, weeds whipping, frogs and snakes and red-eyed turtles splashing off into the night: I was already ankle-deep in muck and tepid water and still going strong. Behind me, the girl's screams rose in intensity, disconso¬ late, incriminating, the screams of the Sabine women,0 the Christian martyrs, Anne Frank dragged from the garret. I kept going, pursued by those cries, imagining cops and blood¬ hounds. The water was up to my knees when I realized what I was doing: I was going to swim for it. Swim the breadth of Greasy Lake and hide myself in the thick clot of woods on the far side. They'd never find me there. I was breathing in sobs, in gasps. The water lapped at my waist as I looked out over the moon-burnished ripples, the mats of algae that clung to the surface like scabs. Digby and Jeff had vanished. I paused. Listened. The girl was quieter now, screams tapering to sobs, but there were male voices, angry, excited, and the high-pitched ticking of the second car's engine. I waded deeper, stealthy, hunted, the ooze sucking at my sneakers. As I was about to take the plunge—at the very instant I dropped my shoulder for the first slashing stroke— I blundered into something. Something unspeakable, obscene, something soft, wet, moss-grown. A patch of weed? A log? When I reached out to touch it, it gave like a rubber duck, it gave like flesh. In one of those nasty little epiphanies for which we are prepared by films and TV and childhood visits to the funeral home to ponder the shrunken painted forms of dead grand¬ parents, I understood what it was that bobbed there so inadmissibly in the dark. Under¬ stood, and stumbled back in horror and revulsion, my mind yanked in six different directions (I was nineteen, a mere child, an infant, and here in the space of five minutes I'd struck down one greasy character and blundered into the waterlogged carcass of a second), thinking. The keys, the keys, why did I have to go and lose the keys? I stumbled back, but the muck took hold of my feet—a sneaker snagged, balance lost—and suddenly I was pitch¬ ing face forward into the buoyant black mass, throwing out my hands in desperation while simultaneously conjuring the image of reeking frogs and muskrats revolving in slicks of their own deliquescing juices. AAAAArrrgh! I shot from the water like a torpedo, the dead man rotating to expose a mossy beard and eyes cold as the moon. I must have shouted out, thrashing around in the weeds, because the voices behind me suddenly became animated. "What was that?" "It's them, it's them: they tried to, tried to . . . rape me!" Sobs.

°Virgin Spring: a film (1960) directed by Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007), in which the sudden appearance of a toad triggers the rape and murder of a young girl. °Sabine women: a reference to a major event of early Roman prehistory, when a Roman army, under Romulus, abducted a large number of Sabine women for the purpose of establishing Roman families.

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A man's voice, flat Midwestern accent. "You sons a bitches, we'll kill you!" Frogs, crickets. Then another voice, harsh, r-less. Lower East Side: "Motherfucker!" I recognized the ver¬ bal virtuosity of the bad greasy character in the engineer boots. Tooth chipped, sneakers gone, coated in mud and slime and worse, crouching breathless in the weeds waiting to have my ass thoroughly and definitively kicked and fresh from the hideous stinking embrace of a three-days-dead-corpse, I suddenly felt a rush of joy and vindication: the son of a bitch was alive! Just as quickly, my bowels turned to ice. "Come on out of there, you pansy mothers!" the bad greasy character was screaming. He shouted curses till he was out of breath. The crickets started up again, then the frogs. I held my breath. All at once was a sound in the reeds, a swishing, a splash: thunk-a-thunk. They were throwing rocks. The frogs fell silent. I cradled my head. Swish, swish, thunk-a-thunk. A wedge of feldspar the size of a cue ball glanced off my knee. I bit my finger. It was then that they turned to the car. I heard a door slam, a curse, and then the sound of the headlights shattering—almost a good-natured sound, celebratory, like corks popping from the necks of bottles. This was succeeded by the dull booming of the fenders, metal on metal, and then the icy crash of the windshield. I inched forward, elbows and knees, my belly pressed to the muck, thinking of guerrillas and commandos and The Naked and the Dead. I parted the weeds and squinted the length of the parking lot. The second car it was a Trans-Am—-was still running, its high beams washing the scene in a lurid stagy light. Tire iron flailing, the greasy bad character was laying into the side of my mother's Bel Air like an avenging demon, his shadow riding up the trunks of the trees. Whomp. Whomp. Whomp-whomp. The other two guys—blond types, in fra¬ ternity jackets—were helping out with tree branches and skull-sized boulders. One of them was gathering up bottles, rocks, muck, candy wrappers, used condoms, poptops, and other refuse and pitching it through the window on the driver's side. I could see the fox, a white bulb behind the windshield of the '57 Chevy. "Bobbie," she whined over the thumping, "come on." The greasy character paused a moment, took one good swipe at the left taillight, and then heaved the tire iron halfway across the lake. Then he fired up the '57 and was gone. Blond head nodded at blond head. One said something to the other, too low for me to catch. They were no doubt thinking that in helping to annihilate my mother's car they'd committed a fairly rash act, and thinking too that there were three bad characters connected with that very car watching them from the woods. Perhaps other possibilities occurred to them as well police, jail cells, justices of the peace, reparations, lawyers, irate parents, fra¬ ternal censure. Whatever they were thinking, they suddenly dropped branches, bottles, and rocks and sprang for their car in unison, as if they'd choreographed it. Five seconds! That's all it took. The engine shrieked, the tires squealed, a cloud of dust rose from the rut¬ ted lot and then settled back on darkness. I don't know how long I lay there, the bad breath of decay all around me, my jacket heavy as a bear, the primordial ooze subtly reconstituting itself to accommodate my upper thighs and testicles. My jaws ached, my knee throbbed, my coccyx was on fire. I contemplated sui¬ cide, wondered if I'd need bridgework, scraped the recesses of my brain for some sort of excuse to give my parents-a tree had fallen on the car, I was blinded by a bread truck, hit and run, vandals had got to it while we were playing chess at Digby's. Then I thought of the dead man. He was probably the only person on the planet worse off than I was. I thought about him, fog on the lake, insects chirring eerily, and felt the tug of fear, felt the darkness opening up inside me like a set of jaws. Who was he, I wondered, this victim of time and cir¬ cumstance bobbing sorrowfully in the lake at my back. The owner of the chopper, no doubt a bad older character come to this. Shot during a murky drug deal, drowned while drunkenly frolicking m the lake. Another headline. My car was wrecked; he was dead.

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When the eastern half of the sky went from black to cobalt and the trees began to separate themselves from the shadows, I pushed myself up from the mud and stepped out into the open. By now the birds had begun to take over for the crickets, and dew lay slick on the leaves. There was a smell in the air, raw and sweet at the same time, the smell of the sun firing buds and opening blossoms. I contemplated the car. It lay there like a wreck along the highway, like a steel sculpture left over from a vanished civilization. Everything was still. This was nature. I was circling the car, as dazed and bedraggled as the sole survivor of an air blitz, when Digby and Jeff emerged from the trees behind me. Digby's face was crosshatched with smears of dirt; Jeff's jacket was gone and his shirt was torn across the shoulder. They slouched across the lot, looking sheepish, and silently came up beside me to gape at the ravaged automobile. No one said a word. After a while Jeff swung open the driver's door and began to scoop the broken glass and garbage off the seat. I looked at Digby. He shrugged. "At least they didn't slash the tires," he said. It was true: the tires were intact. There was no windshield, the headlights were staved in, and the body looked as if it had been sledge-hammered for a quarter a shot at the county fair, but the tires were inflated to regulation pressure. The car was drivable. In silence, all three of us bent to scrape the mud and shattered glass from the interior. I said nothing about the biker. When we were finished, I reached in my pocket for the keys, experienced a nasty stab of recollection, cursed myself, and turned to search the grass. I spotted them almost immediately, no more than five feet from the open door, glinting like jewels in the first tapering shaft of sunlight. There was no reason to get philosophical about it: I eased into the seat and turned the engine over. It was at that precise moment that the silver Mustang with the flame decals rumbled into the lot. All three of us froze; then Digby and Jeff slid into the car and slammed the door. We watched as the Mustang rocked and bobbed across the ruts and finally jerked to a halt beside the forlorn chopper at the far end of the lot. "Let's go," Digby said. I hesitated, the

35

Bel Air wheezing beneath me. Two girls emerged from the Mustang. Tight jeans, stiletto heels, hair like frozen fur. They bent over the motorcycle, paced back and forth aimlessly, glanced once or twice at us, and then ambled over to where the reeds sprang up in a green fence round the perimeter of the lake. One of them cupped her hands to her mouth. "Al," she called. "Hey, Al!" "Come on," Digby hissed. "Let's get out of here." But it was too late. The second girl was picking her way across the lot, unsteady on her heels, looking up at us and then away. She was older—twenty-five or -six—and as she came closer we could see there was something wrong with her: she was stoned or drunk, lurching now and waving her arms for balance. I gripped the steering wheel as if it were the ejection lever of a flaming jet, and Digby spat out my name, twice, terse and impatient. "Hi," the girl said. We looked at her like zombies, like war veterans, like deaf-and-dumb pencil peddlers. She smiled, her lips cracked and dry. "Listen," she said, bending from the waist to look in the window, "you guys seen Al?" Her pupils were pinpoints, her eyes glass. She jerked her neck. "That's his bike over there—Al's. You seen him?" Al. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to get out of the car and retch, I wanted to go home to my parents' house and crawl into bed. Digby poked me in the ribs. "We haven't seen anybody," I said. The girl seemed to consider this, reaching out a slim veiny arm to brace herself against the car. "No matter," she said, slurring the t's, "he'll turn up." And then, as if she'd just taken stock of the whole scene—the ravaged car and our battered faces, the desolation of the place—she said: "Hey, you guys look like some pretty bad characters—been fightin', huh?" We stared straight ahead, rigid as catatonics. She was fumbling in her pocket and

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

muttering something. Finally she held out a handful of tablets in glassine wrappers: "Hey, you want to party, you want to do some of these with me and Sarah?" I just looked at her. I thought I was going to cry. Digby broke the silence. "No, thanks," he said, leaning over me. "Some other time." 1 put the car in gear and it inched forward with a groan, shaking off pellets of glass like an old dog shedding water after a bath, heaving over the ruts on its worn springs, creeping toward the highway. There was a sheen of sun on the lake. I looked back. The girl was still standing there, watching us, her shoulders slumped, hand outstretched.

QUESTIONS 1. What do you think the narrator means by beginning his narrative with the sentence, "There was a time when courtesy and winning ways went out of style, when it was good to be bad"? What do you think the narrator might have learned in the course of the story? Why does he think he might cry at the girl's offer to party (paragraph 44)? How does he develop as a character?

2. Describe the narrator's friends. How old are they? On whom do they depend for their present lives and currency? What talents do the friends exhibit in the action of the story itself? What do they think is their affinity with Greasy Lake? Why does the narra¬ tor say that the group is "bad"?

3. What happens when the group starts to harass what they consider to be "Tony Lovett's car"? In what way might the ensuing brawl be considered symbolic of the group's par¬ ticular style of life? How could the brawling be considered comic, even if darkly comic?

4. What is the condition of Greasy Lake itself? What does this condition signify? Whom does the narrator encounter when he wades into Greasy Lake? How might this person be considered symbolically? What might he symbolize?

5. At the end, what is the connection between the girl and Al? Of what significance is her gesture in the final paragraph?

D SUSAN GLASPELL

(1882-1948)_

For a brief biography and photo, see Chapter 19, page 914.

^ A Jury of Her Peers0 (1917) When Martha Hale opened the storm-door and got a cut of the north wind, she ran back for her big woolen scarf. As she hurriedly wound that round her head her eye made a scandal¬ ized sweep of her kitchen. It was no ordinary thing that called her away—it was probably further from ordinary than anything that had ever happened in Dickson County. But what her eye took in was that her kitchen was in no shape for leaving: her bread all ready for mixing, half the flour sifted and half unsifted. She hated to see things half done; but she had been at that when the team from town stopped to get Mr. Hale, and then the sheriff came running in to say his wife wished Mrs. Hale would come too adding, with a grin, that he guessed she was getting scary and wanted another woman along. So she had dropped everything right where it was.

“GlaspelTs play Trifles, with which this story may be compared, appears in Chapter 19.

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"Martha!" now came her husband's impatient voice. "Don't keep folks waiting out here in the cold." She again opened the storm-door, and this time joined the three men and the one woman waiting for her in the big two-seated buggy. After she had the robes tucked around her she took another look at the woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met Mrs. Peters the year before at the county fair, and the thing she remembered about her was that she didn't seem like a sheriff's wife. She was small and thin and didn't have a strong voice. Mrs. Gorman, sheriff's wife before Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a voice that somehow seemed to be backing up the law with every word. But if Mrs. Peters didn't look like a sheriff's wife, Peters made it up in looking like a sheriff. He was to a dot the kind of man who could get himself elected sheriff—a heavy man with a big voice, who was particularly genial with the law-abiding, as if to make it plain that he knew the difference between criminals and non-criminals. And right there it came into Mrs. Hale's mind, with a stab, that this man who was so pleasant and lively with all of them was going to the Wrights' now as a sheriff. "The country's not very pleasant this time of year," Mrs. Peters at last ventured, as if she felt they ought to be talking as well as the men. Mrs. Hale scarcely finished her reply, for they had gone up a little hill and could see the Wright place now, and seeing it did not make her feel like talking. It looked very lonesome this cold March morning. It had always been a lonesome-looking place. It was down in a hollow, and the poplar trees around it were lonesome-looking trees. The men were looking at it and talking about what had happened. The county attorney was bending to one side of the buggy, and kept looking steadily at the place as they drew up to it. "I'm glad you came with me," Mrs. Peters said nervously, as the two women were about to follow the men in through the kitchen door. Even after she had her foot on the door-step, her hand on the knob, Martha Hale had a moment of feeling she could not cross that threshold. And the reason it seemed she couldn't cross it now was simply because she hadn't crossed it before. Time and time again it had been in her mind, "I ought to go over and see Minnie Foster"—she still thought of her as Minnie Foster, though for twenty years she had been Mrs. Wright. And then there was always something to do and Minnie Foster would go from her mind. But now she could come. The men went over to the stove. The women stood close together by the door. Young Henderson, the county attorney, turned around and said, "Come up to the fire, ladies." Mrs. Peters took a step forward, then stopped. "I'm not—cold," she said. And so the two women stood by the door, at first not even so much as looking around

5

io

the kitchen. The men talked for a minute about what a good thing it was the sheriff had sent his deputy out that morning to make a fire for them, and then Sheriff Peters stepped back from the stove, unbuttoned his outer coat, and leaned his hands on the kitchen table in a way that seemed to mark the beginning of official business. "Now, Mr. Hale," he said in a sort of semi-official voice, "before we move things about, you tell Mr. Henderson just what it was you saw when you came here yesterday morning." The county attorney was looking around the kitchen. "By the way," he said, "has anything been moved?" He turned to the sheriff. "Are things just as you left them yesterday?" Peters looked from cupboard to sink; from that to a small worn rocker a little to one side of the kitchen table. "It's just the same." "Somebody should have been left here yesterday," said the county attorney. "Oh—yesterday," returned the sheriff, with a little gesture as of yesterday having been more than he could bear to think of. "When I had to send Frank to Morris Center for that

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

man who went crazy—let me tell you. I had my hands full yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by today, George, and as long as I went over everything here myself—" "Well, Mr. Hale," said the county attorney, in a way of letting what was past and gone go, "tell just what happened when you came here yesterday morning." Mrs. Hale, still leaning against the door, had that sinking feeling of the mother whose child is about to speak a piece. Lewis often wandered along and got things mixed up in a story. She hoped he would tell this straight and plain, and not say unnecessary things that would just make things harder for Minnie Foster. He didn't begin at once, and she noticed that he looked queer—as if standing in that kitchen and having to tell what he had seen there yesterday morning made him almost sick. "Yes, Mr. Hale?" the county attorney reminded. "Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes," Mrs. Hale's husband began. Harry was Mrs. Hale's oldest boy. He wasn't with them now, for the very good rea¬ son that those potatoes never got to town yesterday and he was taking them this morn¬ ing, so he hadn't been home when the sheriff stopped to say he wanted Mr. Hale to come over to the Wright place and tell the county attorney his story there, where he could point it all out. With all Mrs. Hale's other emotions came the fear now that maybe Harry wasn't dressed warm enough—they hadn't any of them realized how that north

25

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35

wind did bite. "We come along this road," Hale was going on, with a motion of his hand to the road over which they had just come, "and as we got in sight of the house I says to Harry, 'I'm goin' to see if I can't get John Wright to take a telephone.' You see," he explained to Henderson, "unless I can get somebody to go in with me they won't come out this branch road except for a price I can't pay. I'd spoke to Wright about it once before; but he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet—guess you know about how much he talked himself. But I thought maybe if I went to the house and talked about it before his wife, and said all the women-folks liked the telephones, and that in this lonesome stretch of road it would be a good thing—well, I said to Harry that that was what I was going to say—though I said at the same time that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to John—" Now there he was!—saying things he didn't need to say. Mrs. Hale tried to catch her husband's eye, but fortunately the county attorney interrupted with: "Let's talk about that a little later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about that, but I'm anxious now to get along to just what happened when you got here." When he began this time, it was very deliberately and carefully: "I didn't see or hear anything. I knocked at the door. And still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up—it was past eight o'clock. So I knocked again, louder, and I thought I heard somebody say, 'Come in.' I wasn't sure—I'm not sure yet. But I opened the door— this door," jerking a hand toward the door by which the two women stood, "and there, in that rocker"—pointing to it—"sat Mrs. Wright." Everyone in the kitchen looked at the rocker. It came into Mrs. Hale's mind that that rocker didn't look in the least like Minnie Foster—the Minnie Foster of twenty years before. It was a dingy red, with wooden rungs up the back, and the middle rung was gone, and the chair sagged to one side. "How did she—look?" the county attorney was inquiring. "Well," said Hale, "she looked—queer." "How do you mean—queer?" As he asked it he took out a note-book and pencil. Mrs. Hale did not like the sight of that pencil. She kept her eye fixed on her husband, as if to keep him from saying unnecessary things that would go into that note-book and make trouble. Hale did speak guardedly, as if the pencil had affected him too.

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"Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next. And kind of—done up." "How did she seem to feel about your coming?" Why, I don't think she minded—one way or other. She didn't pay much attention. I said, 'Ho' do, Mrs. Wright? It's cold, ain't it?' And she said. 'Is it?'—and went on pleatin' at her apron. "Well, I was surprised. She didn't ask me to come up to the stove, or to sit down, but just set there, not even lookin' at me. And so I said: 'I want to see John.' "And then she—laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh.

40

"I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said, a little sharp, 'Can I see John?' 'No,' says she—kind of dull like. 'Ain't he home?' says I. Then she looked at me. 'Yes,' says she, 'he's home.' 'Then why can't I see him?' I asked her, out of patience with her now. 'Cause he's dead' says she, just as quiet and dull—and fell to pleatin' her apron. 'Dead?' says I, like you do when you can't take in what you've heard. "She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin' back and forth. "'Why—where is he?' says I, not knowing what to say. "She just pointed upstairs—like this"—pointing to the room above. "I got up, with the idea of going up there myself. By this time I—didn't know what to do. I walked from there to here; then I says: 'Why, what did he die of?' "'He died of a rope around his neck,' says she; and just went on pleatin' at her apron." Hale stopped speaking, and stood staring at the rocker, as if he were still seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before. Nobody spoke; it was as if every one were seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before. "And what did you do then?" the county attorney at last broke the silence. "I went out and called Harry. I thought I might—need help. I got Harry in, and we went upstairs." His voice fell almost to a whisper. "There he was—lying over the—" "I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs," the county attorney interrupted, "where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story." "Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked—" He stopped, his face twitching. "But Harry, he went up to him, and he said. 'No, he's dead all right, and we'd better not touch anything.' So we went downstairs. "She was still sitting that same way. 'Has anybody been notified?' I asked. 'No,' says she, unconcerned. "'Who did this, Mrs. Wright?' said Harry. He said it businesslike, and she stopped pleatin' at her apron. 'I don't know,' she says. 'You don't knozvl' says Harry. 'Weren't you sleepin' in the bed with him?' 'Yes,' says she, 'but I was on the inside.' 'Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up?' says Harry. 'I didn't wake up,' she said after him. "We may have looked as if we didn't see how that could be, for after a minute she said,

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'I sleep sound.' "Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe that weren't our business; maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner or the sheriff. So Harry went fast as he could over to High Road—the Rivers' place, where there's a telephone." "And what did she do when she knew you had gone for the coroner?" The attorney got his pencil in his hand all ready for writing. "She moved from that chair to this one over here"—Hale pointed to a small chair in the corner—"and just sat there with her hands held together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a telephone; and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me—scared." At the sound of a moving pencil the man who was telling the story looked up.

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"I dunno—maybe it wasn't scared," he hastened: "I wouldn't like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't." He said that last with relief, and moved a little, as if relaxing. Everyone moved a little. The county attorney walked toward the stair door. "I guess we'll go upstairs first—then out to the barn and around there." He paused and looked around the kitchen. "You're convinced there was nothing important here?" he asked the sheriff. "Nothing that would—point to any motive?" The sheriff too looked all around, as if to re-convince himself. "Nothing here but kitchen things," he said, with a little laugh for the insignificance of kitchen things. The county attorney was looking at the cupboard—a peculiar, ungainly structure, half closet and half cupboard, the upper part of it being built in the wall, and the lower part just the old-fashioned kitchen cupboard. As if its queerness attracted him, he got a chair and opened the upper part and looked in. After a moment he drew his hand away sticky. "Here's a nice mess," he said resentfully. The two women had drawn nearer, and now the sheriff's wife spoke. "Oh—-her fruit," she said, looking to Mrs. Hale for sympathetic understanding. She turned back to the county attorney and explained: "She worried about that when it turned so cold last night. She said the fire would go out and her jars might burst." Mrs. Peters' husband broke into a laugh. "Well, can you beat the woman! Held for murder, and worrying about her preserves!" The young attorney set his lips. "I guess before we're through with her she may have something more serious than pre¬ serves to worry about." "Oh, well," said Mrs. Hale's husband, with good-natured superiority, "women are used to worrying over trifles." The two women moved a little closer together. Neither of them spoke. The county attor¬ ney seemed suddenly to remember his manners—and think of his future. "And yet," said he, with the gallantry of a young politician, "for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies?" The women did not speak, did not unbend. He went to the sink and began washing his hands. He turned to wipe them on the roller towel—whirled it for a cleaner place. "Dirty towels! Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies?" He kicked his foot against some dirty pans under the sink. "There's a great deal of work to be done on a farm," said Mrs. Hale stiffly. To be sure. And yet"—with a little bow to her—"I know there are some Dickson County farm-houses that do not have such roller towels." He gave it a pull to expose its full length again. "Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always as clean as they might be." "Ah, loyal to your sex, I see," he laughed. He stopped and gave her a keen look. "But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too." Martha Hale shook her head. "I've seen little enough of her of late years. I've not been in this house—it's more than a year." "And why was that? You didn't like her?" "I liked her well enough," she replied with spirit. "Farmers' wives have their hands full, Mr. Henderson. And then—" She looked around the kitchen. "Yes?" he encouraged. "It never seemed a very cheerful place," said she, more to herself than to him.

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"No," he agreed; "I don't think anyone would call it cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the home-making instinct." "Well, I don't know as Wright had, either," she muttered. "You mean they didn't get on very well?" he was quick to ask. "No; I don't mean anything," she answered, with decision. As she turned a little away from him, she added: "But I don't think a place would be any the cheerfuller for John Wright's bein' in it."

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"I'd like to talk to you about that a little later, Mrs. Hale," he said. "I'm anxious to get the lay of things upstairs now." He moved toward the stair door, followed by the two men. "I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does'll be all right?" the sheriff inquired. "She was to take in some clothes for her, you know—arid a few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday." The county attorney looked at the two women whom they were leaving alone there among the kitchen things. "Yes—Mrs. Peters," he said, his glance resting on the woman who was not Mrs. Peters, the big farmer woman who stood behind the sheriff's wife. "Of course Mrs. Peters is one of us," he said, in a manner of entrusting responsibility. "And keep your eye out, Mrs. Peters, for anything that might be of use. No telling; you women might come upon a clue to the motive—and that's the thing we need." Mr. Hale rubbed his face after the fashion of a showman getting ready for a pleasantry. "But would the women know a clue if they did come upon it?" he said; and, having delivered himself of this, he followed the others through the stair door. The women stood motionless and silent, listening to the footsteps, first upon the stairs, then in the room above them. Then, as if releasing herself from something strange, Mrs. Hale began to arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county attorney's disdainful push of the foot had deranged. "I'd hate to have men cornin' into my kitchen," she said testily—"snoopin' round and criticizin'." "Of course it's no more than their duty," said the sheriff's wife, in her manner of timid acquiescence. "Duty's all right," replied Mrs. Hale bluffly; "but I guess that deputy sheriff that come out to make the fire might have got a little of this on." She gave the roller towel a pull. "Wish I'd thought of that sooner! Seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up, when she had to come away in such a hurry." She looked around the kitchen. Certainly it was not "slicked up." Her eye was held by a bucket of sugar on a low shelf. The cover was off the wooden bucket, and beside it was a paper bag—half full. Mrs. Hale moved toward it. "She was putting this in there," she said to herself—slowly. She thought of the flour in her kitchen at home—half sifted, half not sifted. She had been interrupted, and had left things half done. What had interrupted Minnie Foster? Why had that work been left half done? She made a move as if to finish it,—unfinished things always bothered her,—and then she glanced around and saw that Mrs. Peters was watching her— and she didn't want Mrs. Peters to get that feeling she had got of work begun and then—for some reason—not finished. "It's a shame about her fruit," she said, and walked toward the cupboard that the county attorney had opened, and got on the chair, murmuring: "I wonder if it's all gone." It was a sorry enough looking sight, but "Here's one that's all right," she said at last. She held it toward the light. "This is cherries, too." She looked again. "I declare I believe that's the only one."

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With a sigh, she got down from the chair, went to the sink, and wiped off the bottle. "She'll feel awful bad, after all her hard work in the hot weather. I remember the after¬ noon I put up my cherries last summer." She set the bottle on the table, and, with another sigh, started to sit down in the rocker. But she did not sit down. Something kept her from sitting down in that chair. She straight¬ ened—stepped back, and, half turned away, stood looking at it, seeing the woman who had sat there "pleatin' at her apron." The thin voice of the sheriff's wife broke in upon her: "I must be getting those things from the front-room closet." She opened the door into the other room, started in, stepped back. "You coming with me, Mrs. Hale?" she asked nervously. "You—you could help me get them." They were soon back—the stark coldness of that shut-up room was not a thing to linger in. "My!" said Mrs. Peters, dropping the things on the table and hurrying to the stove. Mrs. Hale stood examining the clothes the woman who was being detained in town had said she wanted. "Wright was close!"0 she exclaimed, holding up a shabby black skirt that bore the marks of much making over. "I think maybe that's why she kept so much to herself. I s'pose she felt she couldn't do her part; and then, you don't enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes and be lively—when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls, singing in the choir. But that—oh, that was twenty years ago." With a carefulness in which there was something tender, she folded the shabby clothes and piled them at one corner of the table. She looked up at Mrs. Peters, and there was some¬ thing in the other woman's look that irritated her. "She don't care," she said to herself. "Much difference it makes to her whether Minnie Foster had pretty clothes when she was a girl." Then she looked again, and she wasn't so sure; in fact, she hadn't at any time been per¬ fectly sure about Mrs. Peters. She had that shrinking manner, and yet her eyes looked as if they could see a long way into things. "This all you was to take in?" asked Mrs. Hale. "No," said the sheriff's wife; "she said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to want," she ventured in her nervous little way, "for there's not much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose just to make her feel more natural. If you're used to wearing an apron—. She said they were in the bottom drawer of this cupboard. Yes—here they are. And then her little shawl that always hung on the stair door." She took the small gray shawl from behind the door leading upstairs, and stood a minute looking at it.

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Suddenly Mrs. Hale took a quick step toward the other woman. "Mrs. Peters!" "Yes, Mrs. Hale?" "Do you think she—did it?" A frightened look blurred the other thing in Mrs. Peters' eyes.

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"Oh, I don't know," she said, in a voice that seemed to shrink away from the subject. "Well, I don't think she did," affirmed Mrs. Hale stoutly. "Asking for an apron, and her little shawl. Worryin' about her fruit." "Mr. Peters says—Footsteps were heard in the room above; she stopped, looked up, then went on in a lowered voice: "Mr. Peters says—it looks bad for her. Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech, and he's going to make fun of her saying she didn't—wake up."

0close: that is, frugal, tightfisted.

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For a moment Mrs. Hale had no answer. Then, "Well, I guess John Wright didn't wake up—when they was slippin' that rope under his neck," she muttered. No, it s strange, man."

breathed Mrs. Peters. "They think it was such a—funny way to kill a

She began to laugh; at sound of the laugh, abruptly stopped. That s just what Mr. Hale said," said Mrs. Hale, in a resolutely natural voice. "There was a gun in the house. He says that's what he can't understand."

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Mr. Henderson said, coming out, that what was needed for the case was a motive. Something to show anger—or sudden feeling." "Well, I don't see any signs of anger around here," said Mrs. Hale, "I don't—" She stopped. It was as if her mind tripped on something. Her eye was caught by a dish-towel in the middle of the kitchen table. Slowly she moved toward the table. One half of it was wiped clean, the other half messy. Her eyes made a slow, almost unwilling turn to the bucket of sugar and the half empty bag beside it. Things begun—and not finished. After a moment she stepped back, and said, in that manner of releasing herself: "Wonder how they're finding things upstairs? I hope she had it a little more redd up0 up there. You know,"—she paused, and feeling gathered,—"it seems kind of sneaking: locking her up in town and coming out here to get her own house to turn against her!" "But, Mrs. Hale," said the sheriff's wife, "the law is the law." "I s'pose 'tis," answered Mrs. Hale shortly.

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She turned to the stove, saying something about that fire not being much to brag of. She worked with it a minute, and when she straightened up she said aggressively: "The law is the law—and a bad stove is a bad stove. How'd you like to cook on this?"—pointing with the poker to the broken lining. She opened the oven door and started to express her opinion of the oven; but she was swept into her own thoughts, thinking of what it would mean, year after year, to have that stove to wrestle with. The thought of Minnie Foster trying to bake in that oven—and the thought of her never going over to see Minnie Foster—. She was startled by hearing Mrs. Peters say: "A person gets discouraged—and loses heart." The sheriff's wife had looked from the stove to the sink—to the pail of water which had been carried in from outside. The two women stood there silent, above them the footsteps of the men who were looking for evidence against the woman who had worked in that kitchen. That look of seeing into things, of seeing through a thing to something else, was in the eyes of the sheriff's wife now. When Mrs. Hale next spoke to her, it was gently: "Better loosen up your things, Mrs. Peters. We'll not feel them when we go out." Mrs. Peters went to the back of the room to hang up the fur tippet she was wearing. A moment later she exclaimed, "Why, she was piecing a quilt," and held up a large sewing basket piled high with quilt pieces. Mrs. Hale spread some of the blocks on the table. "It's a log-cabin pattern," she said, putting several of them together, "Pretty, isn't it?" They were so engaged with the quilt that they did not hear the footsteps on the stairs. Just as the stair door opened Mrs. Hale was saying: "Do you suppose she was going to quilt it or just knot it?" The sheriff threw up his hands. "They wonder whether she was going to quilt it or just knot it!" There was a laugh for the ways of women, a warming of hands over the stove, and then the county attorney said briskly:

°redd up: neat.

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"Well, let's go right out to the barn and get that cleared up." "I don't see as there's anything so strange," Mrs. Hale said resentfully, after the outside door had closed on the three men—"our taking up our time with little things while we're waiting for them to get the evidence. I don't see as it's anything to laugh about." "Of course they've got awful important things on their minds," said the sheriff's wife apologetically. They returned to an inspection of the block for the quilt. Mrs. Hale was looking at the fine, even sewing, and preoccupied with thoughts of the woman who had done that sewing, when she heard the sheriff's wife say, in a queer tone: "Why, look at this one." She turned to take the block held out to her. "The sewing," said Mrs. Peters, in a troubled way, "All the rest of them have been so nice and even—but—this one. Why, it looks as if she didn't know what she was about!" Their eyes met—something flashed to life, passed between them; then, as if with an effort, they seemed to pull away from each other. A moment Mrs. Hale sat there, her hands folded over that sewing which was so unlike all the rest of the sewing. Then she had pulled a knot and drawn the threads. "Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?" asked the sheriff's wife, startled. "Just pulling out a stitch or two that's not sewed very good," said Mrs. Hale mildly. "I don't think we ought to touch things," Mrs. Peters said, a little helplessly. "I'll just finish up this end," answered Mrs. Hale, still in that mild, matter-of-fact fashion. She threaded a needle and started to replace bad sewing with good. For a little while she sewed in silence. Then, in that thin, timid voice, she heard: "Mrs. Hale!" "Yes, Mrs. Peters?" "What do you suppose she was so—nervous about?" "Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Hale, as if dismissing a thing not important enough to spend much time on. "I don't know as she was—nervous. I sew awful queer sometimes when I'm just tired." She cut a thread, and out of the corner of her eye looked up at Mrs. Peters. The small, lean face of the sheriff's wife seemed to have tightened up. Her eyes had that look of peer¬ ing into something. But next moment she moved, and said in her thin, indecisive way: "Well, I must get those clothes wrapped. They may be through sooner than we think. I wonder where I could find a piece of paper—and string." "In that cupboard, maybe," suggested to Mrs. Hale, after a glance around. One piece of the crazy sewing remained unripped. Mrs. Peter's back turned, Martha Hale now scrutinized that piece, compared it with the dainty, accurate sewing of the other blocks. The difference was startling. Holding this block made her feel queer, as if the dis¬ tracted thoughts of the woman who had perhaps turned to it to try and quiet herself were communicating themselves to her. Mrs. Peters' voice roused her. "Here's a bird-cage," she said. "Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?" "Why, I don't know whether she did or not." She turned to look at the cage Mrs. Peters was holding up. "I've not been here in so long." She sighed. "There was a man round last year selling canaries cheap—but I don't know as she took one. Maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty herself." Mrs. Peters looked around the kitchen.

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"Seems kind of funny to think of a bird here." She half laughed—an attempt to put up a barrier. "But she must have had one—or why would she have a cage? I wonder what hap¬ pened to it."

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"I suppose maybe the cat got it," suggested Mrs. Hale, resuming her sewing. No; she didn't have a cat. She's got that feeling some people have about cats—being afraid of them. When they brought her to our house yesterday, my cat got in the room, and she was real upset and asked me to take it out." "My sister Bessie was like that," laughed Mrs. Hale. The sheriff's wife did not reply. The silence made Mrs. Hale turn round. Mrs. Peters was examining the bird-cage. Look at this door, she said slowly. "It's broke. One hinge has been pulled apart." Mrs. Hale came nearer.

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"Looks as if someone must have been—rough with it." Again their eyes met—startled, questioning, apprehensive. For a moment neither spoke nor stirred. Then Mrs. Hale, turning away, said brusquely: "If they're going to find any evidence, I wish they'd be about it. I don't like this place." But I m awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale." Mrs. Peters put the bird-cage on the table and sat down. "It would be lonesome for me—sitting here alone." "Yes, it would, wouldn't it?" agreed Mrs. Hale, a certain determined naturalness in her voice. She had picked up the sewing, but now it dropped in her lap, and she murmured in a different voice: "But I tell you what I do wish, Mrs Peters. I wish I had come over some¬ times when she was here. I wish—I had."

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But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale. Your house—and your children." "I could've come," retorted Mrs. Hale shortly. "I stayed away because it weren't cheerful— and that's why I ought to have come. I"—she looked around—"I've never liked this place. Maybe because it's down in a hollow and you don't see the road. I don't know what it is, but it's a lonesome place, and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now—" She did not put it into words. "Well, you mustn't reproach yourself," counseled Mrs. Peters. "Somehow, we just don't see how it is with other folks till—something comes up." "Not having children makes less work," mused Mrs. Hale, after a silence, "but it makes a quiet house—and Wright out to work all day—and no company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?" "Not to know him. I've seen him in town. They say he was a good man." "Yes—good," conceded John Wright's neighbor grimly. "He didn't drink, and kept his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him—." She stopped, shivered a little. "Like a raw wind that gets to the bone." Her eye fell upon the cage on the table before her, and she added, almost bitterly: "I should think she would've wanted a bird!" Suddenly she leaned forward, looking intently at the cage. "But what do you s'pose went wrong with it?" "I don't know," returned Mrs. Peters; "unless it got sick and died." But after she said it she reached over and swung the broken door. Both women watched it as if somehow held by it. "You didn't know—her?" Mrs. Hale asked, a gentler note in her voice. "Not till they brought her yesterday," said the sheriff's wife. "She—come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself. Real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and—fluttery. How—she—did—change." That held her for a long time. Finally, as if struck with a happy thought and relieved to get back to everyday things, she exclaimed: "Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind." "Why, I think that's a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale," agreed the sheriff's wife, as if she too were glad to come into the atmosphere of a simple kindness. "There couldn't possibly be

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

any objection to that, could there? Now, just what will I take? I wonder if her patches are in here—and her things?" They turned to the sewing basket. "Here's some red," said Mrs. Hale, bringing out a roll of cloth. Underneath that was a box. "Here, maybe her scissors are in here—and her things." She held it up. "What a pretty box! I'll warrant that was something she had a long time ago—when she was a girl." She held it in her hand a moment; then, with a little sigh, opened it. Instantly her hand went to her nose. "Why—!" Mrs. Peters drew nearer—then turned away. "There's something wrapped up in this piece of silk," faltered Mrs. Hale. "This isn't her scissors," said Mrs. Peters, in a shrinking voice. Her hand not steady, Mrs. Hale raised the piece of silk. "Oh, Mrs. Peters!" she cried. "It's—" Mrs. Peters bent closer. "It's the bird," she whispered. "But, Mrs. Peters!" cried Mrs. Hale. "Look at it! Its neck—look at its neck! It's all—other side to." She held the box away from her. The sheriff's wife again bent closer. "Somebody wrung its neck," said she, in a voice that was slow and deep. And then again the eyes of the two women met—this time clung together in a look of dawning comprehension, of growing horror. Mrs. Peters looked from the dead bird to the bro¬ ken door of the cage. Again their eyes met. And just then there was a sound at the outside door. Mrs. Hale slipped the box under the quilt pieces in the basket, and sank into the chair before it. Mrs. Peters stood holding to the table. The county attorney and the sheriff came in from outside. "Well, ladies," said the county attorney, as one turning from serious things to little pleas¬ antries, "have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?" "We think," began the sheriff's wife in a flurried voice, "that she was going to—knot it." He was too preoccupied to notice the change that came in her voice on that last. "Well, that's very interesting. I'm sure," he said tolerantly. He caught sight of the bird¬ cage. "Has the bird flown?" "We think the cat got it," said Mrs. Hale in a voice curiously even. He was walking up and down, as if thinking something out. "Is there a cat?" he asked absently. Mrs. Hale shot a look up at the sheriff's wife. "Well, not now," said Mrs. Peters. "They're superstitious, you know; they leave." She sank into her chair. The county attorney did not heed her. "No sign at all of anyone having come in from the outside," he said to Peters, in the manner of continuing an interrupted conversation. "Their own rope. Now let's go upstairs again and go over it, piece by piece. It would have to have been someone who knew just the—"

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The stair door closed behind them and their voices were lost. The two women sat motionless, not looking at each other, but as if peering into some¬ thing and at the same time holding back. When they spoke now it was as if they were afraid of what they were saying, but as if they could not help saying it. She liked the bird, said Martha Hale, low and slowly. "She was going to bury it in that pretty box." "When I was a girl," said Mrs. Peters, under her breath, "my kitten—there was a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes—before I could get there—" She covered her face an

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instant. If they hadn t held me back I would have”—she caught herself, looked upstairs where footsteps were heard, and finished weakly—"hurt him." Then they sat without speaking or moving. I wonder how it would seem," Mrs. Hale at last began, as if feeling her way over strange ground never to have had any children around?" Her eyes made a slow sweep of the kitchen, as if seeing what that kitchen had meant through all the years. "No, Wright wouldn't like the bird," she said after that—"a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that too." Her voice tightened. Mrs. Peters moved uneasily.

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"Of course we don't know who killed the bird." "I knew John Wright," was Mrs. Hale's answer. "It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs. Hale," said the sheriff's wife. "Killing a man while he slept—slipping a thing round his neck that choked the life out of him." Mrs. Hale's hand went out to the bird cage. "His neck. Choked the life out of him."

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"We don't know who killed him," whispered Mrs. Peters wildly. "We don't know." Mrs. Hale had not moved. "If there had been years and years of—nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful—still—after the bird was still." It was as if something within her not herself had spoken, and it found in Mrs. Peters something she did not know as herself. "I know what stillness is," she said, in a queer, monotonous voice. "When we home¬ steaded in Dakota, and my first baby died—after he was two years old—and me with no other then—"

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Mrs. Hale stirred. "How soon do you suppose they'll be through looking for the evidence?" "I know what stillness is," repeated Mrs. Peters, in just that same way. Then she too pulled back. "The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale," she said in her tight little way. "I wish you'd seen Minnie Foster," was the answer, "when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons, and stood up there in the choir and sang." The picture of that girl, the fact that she had lived neighbor to that girl for twenty years, and had let her die for lack of life, was suddenly more than she could bear. "Oh, I wish I'd come over here once in a while!" she cried. "That was a crime! Who's going to punish that?"

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"We mustn't take on," said Mrs. Peters, with a frightened look toward the stairs. "I might 'a' known she needed help! I tell you, it's queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close together, and we live far apart. We all go through the same things—it's all just a different kind of the same thing! If it weren't—why do you and I understand? Why do we know—what we know this minute?" She dashed her hand across her eyes. Then, seeing the jar of fruit on the table, she reached for it and choked out: "If I was you I wouldn't tell her her fruit was gone! Tell her it ain't. Tell her it's all right— all of it. Here—take this in to prove it to her! She—she may never know whether it was broke or not." She turned away. Mrs. Peters reached out for the bottle of fruit as if she were glad to take it—as if touching a familiar thing, having something to do, could keep her from something else. She got up, looked about for something to wrap the fruit in, took a petticoat from the pile of clothes she had brought from the front room, and nervously started winding that round the bottle. "My!" she began, in a high; false voice, "it's a good thing the men couldn't hear us! Get¬ ting all stirred up over a little thing like a—dead canary." She hurried over that. "As if that could have anything to do with—with—My, wouldn't they laugh?"

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Footsteps were heard on the stairs. "Maybe they would," muttered Mrs. Hale—"maybe they wouldn't." "No, Peters," said the county attorney incisively; "it's all perfectly clear, except the rea¬ son for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some definite thing—something to show. Something to make a story about. A thing that would connect up with this clumsy way of doing it." In a covert way Mrs. Hale looked at Mrs. Peters. Mrs. Peters was looking at her. Quickly they looked away from each other. The outer door opened and Mr. Hale came in. "I've got the team0 round now," he said. "Pretty cold out there." "I'm going to stay here awhile by myself," the county attorney suddenly announced. "You can send Frank out for me, can't you?" he asked the sheriff. "I want to go over every¬ thing. I'm not satisfied we can't do better." Again, for one brief moment, the two women's eyes found one another. The sheriff came up to the table. "Did you want to see what Mrs. Peters was going to take in?" The county attorney picked up the apron. He laughed. "Oh, I guess they're not very dangerous things the ladies have picked out." Mrs. Hale's hand was on the sewing basket in which the box was concealed. She felt that she ought to take her hand off the basket. She did not seem able to. He picked up one of the quilt blocks which she had piled on to cover the box. Her eyes felt like fire. She had a feel¬ ing that if he took up the basket she would snatch it from him. But he did not take it up. With another little laugh, he turned away, saying: "No; Mrs. Peters doesn't need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff's wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?" Mrs. Peters was standing beside the table. Mrs. Hale shot a look up at her; but she could not see her face. Mrs. Peters had turned away. When she spoke, her voice was muffled. "Not—just that way," she said.

285

"Married to the law!" chuckled Mrs. Peters' husband. He moved toward the door into the front room, and said to the county attorney: "I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows." "Oh—windows," said the county attorney scoffingly. "We'll be right out, Mr. Hale," said the sheriff to the farmer, who was still waiting by the door.

290

Hale went to look after the horses. The sheriff followed the county attorney into the other room. Again—for one final moment—the two women were alone in that kitchen. Martha Hale sprang up, her hands tight together, looking at that other woman, with whom it rested. At first she could not see her eyes, for the sheriff's wife had not turned back since she turned away at that suggestion of being married to the law. But now Mrs. Hale made her turn back. Her eyes made her turn back. Slowly, unwillingly, Mrs. Peters turned her head until her eyes met the eyes of the other woman. There was a moment when they held each other in a steady, burning look in which there was no evasion nor flinching. Then Martha Hale's eyes pointed the way to the basket in which was hidden the thing that would make certain the conviction of the other woman—that woman who was not there and yet who had been there with them all through that hour. For a moment Mrs. Peters did not move. And then she did it. With a rush forward, she threw back the quilt pieces, got the box, tried to put it in her handbag. It was too big. Des¬ perately she opened it, started to take the bird out. But there she broke—-she could not touch the bird. She stood there helpless, foolish.

°team: team of horses pulling the buggy or sleigh in which the group had come.

MANSFIELD • Miss Brill

183

There was the sound of a knob turning in the inner door. Martha Hale snatched the box from the sheriff's wife, and got it in the pocket of her big coat just as the sheriff and the county attorney came back into the kitchen. "Well, Henry," said the county attorney facetiously, "at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to—what is it you call it, ladies?" Mrs. Hale's hand was against the pocket of her coat. "We call it—knot it, Mr. Henderson."

QUESTIONS 1. Who is the central character? That is, on whom does the story focus? What do you learn about her? What are her circumstances of life? Why does she explain her actions as she does?

2. Describe the differences between Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters, in terms of their status, backgrounds, and comparative qualities and strengths of character.

3. Why do the two women not voice their conclusions about the murderer? How does Glaspell show that they both know the murderer's identity, the reasons, and the method? At the story's conclusion, why do they silently "cover up" the clues they have discovered?

KATHERINE MANSFIELD (1888-1923) "Katherine Mansfield " was the pen name of Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp Murry. She was brought up in a prosperous household in New Zealand, and in the early years of the twentieth century she went to England to study at Queen's College. An accomplished cel¬ list, she had been a serious student of music, but she was discour¬ aged from that profession by her father. She then turned to writing. Before she was thirty she realized that she was afflicted with tuber¬ culosis, and spent many of her remaining years desperately seeking a cure. Without the benefit of modern antibiotics, however, her doom was sealed, and she succumbed to the disease in her thirty-fifth year. During her lifetime her collections were In a German Pension (1911), Bliss and Other Sto¬ ries (1920), and The Garden Party and Other Stories (1922), which included "Miss Brill." Her posthumous collections were The Dove's Nest (1923) and Something Childish (1924). Her husband and literary executor, the critic John Middleton Murry, arranged for a number of other publications after her death, including her letters and selections from her journals.

B

Miss Brill

(1920)

Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques0—Miss Brill0 was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting—from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box

°]ardins Publiques: public gardens or park. The setting of the story is apparently a French seaside town. °Miss Brill: Brill is the name of a common deep-sea flatfish.

295

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown! . . . But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, some¬ how. Never mind—a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came—when it was absolutely necessary. . . . Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue bit¬ ing its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad—no, not sad, exactly—something gentle seemed to move in her bosom. There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like someone playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and bands¬ men sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit—very pretty!—a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled. Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her. She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dread¬ ful Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so patient. He'd suggested everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. "They'll always be sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to shake her. The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beg¬ gar who had his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly rock¬ ing into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down "flop," until its small high-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other peo¬ ple sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and Miss Brill had often noticed—there was something funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as though they'd just come from dark little rooms or even—even cupboards! Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined clouds. Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! turn tiddle-um turn ta! blew the band. Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by.

MANSFIELD » Miss Brill

185

A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn t know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque0 and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified and she was wearing the ermine toque she'd bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him—delighted! She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she'd been—everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so charming— didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps? . . . But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face, and, even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The Brute! The Brute!" over and over. What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill won¬ dered, the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she'd seen some one else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played more quickly, more gaily than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill's seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four girls walking abreast. Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till a little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all on the stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn't been there; she was part of the per¬ formance after all. How strange she'd never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting from home at just the same time each week—so as not to be late for the performance—and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead she mightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!" The old head lifted; two points of light quiv¬ ered in the old eyes. "An actress—are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently: "Yes, I have been an actress for a long time." The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill—a something, what was it?—not sadnessno, not sadness—a something that made you want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, they would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the benches—they would come in with a kind of accompaniment—something low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so °ermine toque: close-fitting hat made of the white fur of an ermine; here the phrase stands for the woman wear¬ ing the hat.

186

CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

beautiful—moving. . . . And Miss Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought—though what they understood she didn't know. Just at the moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile. Miss Brill prepared to listen. "No, not now," said the girl, "Not here, I can't." "But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked the boy. "Why does she come here at all—who wants her? Why doesn't she keep her silly old mug at home?" "It's her fu-fur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's exactly like a fried whiting." "Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me, ma petite cherie—" "No, not here," said the girl, "Not yet." On her way home she usually bought a slice of honeycake at the baker's. It was her Sun¬ day treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great dif¬ ference. If there was an almond it was like carrying home a tiny present—a surprise—something that might very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way. But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into the little dark room— her room like a cupboard—and sat down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the scene in which the action of this story occurs.

2. What details about the life of Miss Brill do we learn from the story? What sort of life does she live? How often does she come to the park? How is her life comparable to the lives of the old people sitting on the benches as described in paragraph 5?

3. Miss Brill observes a number of people who are walking in the park, and she overhears some of their conversations. Why does Mansfield described these scenes, or vignettes, in so detailed a way?

4. What is the significance of the young couple near the story's end? What is Miss Brill's response to them? What is happening to Miss Brill as the story ends?

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

(1850-1893)

Henri-Rene-Albert-Guy de Maupassant was one of the major nine¬ teenth-century French naturalist writers. Scion of an aristocratic Norman family, he received his baccalaureate degree from a lycee at Le Havre, after which he began studying law. When the FrancoPrussian War broke out in 1870 he served in the French army, including battlefield duty. After leaving the military he became a minor bureaucrat, first in the Ministry of Marine and then in the Ministry of Education (also the -workplace ofLoisel, the husband of "The Necklace"). As a youth Maupassant was an energetic oarsman, swimmer, and boatman—a power that he also devoted to his career as a writer. During the 1870s in Paris he had regularly submitted

MAUPASSANT • The Necklace

187

his literary efforts to the novelist Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880), a family friend who regarded him as a son and whose criticism both improved and encouraged him. In Maupassant's thirties, aftei the death of Iris mentor Flaubert, his career flourished. His first published volume was a collection of poems (Des Vers, 1880), which he had to withdraw after it created a scandal and a lawsuit because of its sexual openness. After this time, until his death in 1893, he produced thirty volumes—novels, poems, articles, travel books, and three hundred short stories. In addi¬ tion to "The Necklace," a few of his better-known stories are "The Ball of Fat," "Mademoiselle Fiji, and "A Piece of String." Maupassant was a meticulous writer, devoting much attention to the reality of everyday existence (hence his status as a naturalist writer). A number of his stories are about events occuiring during the Franco-Prussian War. Some are about life among bureaucrats, some about peasant life in Normandy, and a large number, including "The Necklace," about Parisian life. His major stories are characterized by strong irony; human beings are influ¬ enced by forces they cannot control, and their wishes are often frustrated by their own defects. Linder such circumstances, Maupassant's characters exhibit varying degrees of weakness, hypocrisy, vanity, insensitivity, callousness, and even cruelty, but those who are victimized are viewed with understanding and sympathy.

\

The Necklace (1884)

Translated by Edgar V. Roberts She was one of those pretty and charming women, born, as if by an error of destiny, into a family of clerks and copyists. She had no dowry, no prospects, no way of getting known, courted, loved, married by a rich and distinguished man. She finally settled for a marriage with a minor clerk in the Ministry of Education. She was a simple person, without the money to dress well, but she was as unhappy as if she had really gone down in the world, for women have neither rank nor race. In place of high birth or important family connections, they can rely only on their beauty, their grace, and their charm. Their inborn finesse, their elegant taste, their engaging personali¬ ties, which are their only power, make working-class women the equals of the grandest ladies. She suffered constantly, feeling herself destined for all delicacies and luxuries. She suf¬ fered because of her grim apartment with its drab walls, threadbare furniture, ugly cur¬ tains. All such things, which most other women in her situation would not even have noticed, tortured her and filled her with despair. The sight of the young country girl who did her simple housework awakened in her only a sense of desolation and lost hopes. She daydreamed of large, silent anterooms, decorated with oriental tapestries and lighted by high bronze floor lamps, with two elegant valets in short culottes dozing in large armchairs under the effects of forced-air heaters. She imagined large drawing rooms draped in the most expensive silks, with fine end tables on which were placed knickknacks of inestimable value. She dreamed of the perfume of dainty private rooms, which were designed only for intimate tete-a-tetes with the closest friends, who because of their achievements and fame would make her the envy of all other women. When she sat down to dinner at her round little table covered with a cloth that had not been washed for three days, in front of her husband who opened the kettle while declaring ecstatically, "Ah, good old beef stew! I don't know anything better," she dreamed of expen¬ sive banquets with shining place settings, and wall hangings portraying ancient heroes and exotic birds in an enchanted forest. She imagined a gourmet-prepared main course carried on the most exquisite trays and served on the most beautiful dishes, with whispered gal¬ lantries that she would hear with a sphinxlike smile as she dined on the pink meat of a trout or the delicate wing of a quail.

188 5

CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

She had no decent dresses, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but these; she believed herself born only for these. She burned with the desire to please, to be envied, to be attractive and sought after. She had a rich friend, a comrade from convent days, whom she did not want to see any¬ more because she suffered so much when she returned home. She would weep for the entire day afterward with sorrow, regret, despair, and misery. Well, one evening, her husband came home glowing and carrying a large envelope. "Here," he said, "this is something for you." She quickly tore open the envelope and took out a card engraved with these words: The Chancellor of Education and

Mrs. George Ramponneau request that

Mr. and Mrs. Loisel do them the honor of coming to dinner at the Ministry of Education on the evening of January 8. io

15

20

25

Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the invitation spitefully on the table, muttering: "What do you expect me to do with this?" "But Sweety, I thought you'd be glad. You never get to go out, and this is a special occa¬ sion! I had a lot of trouble getting the invitation. The demand is high and not many clerks get invited. Everyone important will be there." She looked at him angrily and stated impatiently: "What do you expect me to wear to go there?" He had not thought of that. He stammered: "But your theater dress. That seems nice to me ..." He stopped, amazed and bewildered, as his wife began to cry. Large tears fell slowly from the corners of her eyes to her mouth. He said falteringly: "What's wrong? What's the matter?" But with a strong effort she had recovered, and she answered calmly as she wiped her damp cheeks: "Nothing, except that I have nothing to wear and therefore can't go to the party. Give your invitation to someone else at the office whose wife will have nicer clothes than mine." Distressed, he responded: "Well, all right, Mathilde. How much would a new dress cost, something you could use at other times, but not anything fancy?" She thought for a few moments, adding things up and thinking also of an amount that she could ask without getting an immediate refusal and a frightened outcry from the frugal clerk. Finally she responded tentatively: "I don't know exactly, but it seems to me that I could get by on four hundred francs." He blanched slightly at this, because he had set aside just that amount to buy a shotgun for Sunday lark-hunts the next summer with a few friends in the Plain of Nanterre. However, he said: "All right, you've got four hundred francs, but make it a pretty dress."

30

As the day of the party drew near, Mrs. Loisel seemed sad, uneasy, anxious, even though her gown was all ready. One evening her husband said to her: "What's the matter? You've been acting funny for several days."

MAUPASSANT • The Necklace

189

She answered: "It's awful, but I don't have any jewels to wear, not a single gem, nothing to dress up my outfit. 111 look like a beggar. I'd almost rather not go to the party." He responded: "You can wear a corsage of cut flowers. This year it's all the rage. For only ten francs you can get two or three gorgeous roses." She was not convinced.

35

' No . . . there's nothing more humiliating than looking shabby in the company of rich women." But her husband exclaimed: "God, but you're silly! Go to your friend Mrs. Forrestier, and ask her to lend you some jewelry. You know her well enough to do that." She uttered a cry of joy: "That's right. I hadn't thought of that."

40

The next day she went to her friend's house and described her problem. Mrs. Forrestier went to her mirrored wardrobe, took out a large jewel box, opened it, and said to Mrs. Loisel: "Choose, my dear." She saw bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross of finely worked gold and gems. She tried on the jewelry in front of a mirror, and hesitated, unable to make up her mind about each one. She kept asking: "Do you have anything else?"

45

"Certainly. Look to your heart's content. I don't know what you'd like best." Suddenly she found a superb diamond necklace in a black satin box, and her heart throbbed with desire for it. Her hands shook as she picked it up. She fastened it around her neck, watched it gleam at her throat, and looked at herself ecstatically. Then she asked, haltingly and anxiously: "Could you lend me this, nothing but this?" "Why yes, certainly."

50

She jumped up, hugged her friend joyfully, then hurried away with her treasure. The day of the party came. Mrs. Loisel was a success. She was prettier than anyone else, stylish, graceful, smiling and wild with joy. All the men saw her, asked her name, sought to be introduced. All the important administrators stood in line to waltz with her. The Chan¬ cellor himself eyed her. She danced joyfully, passionately, intoxicated with pleasure, thinking of nothing but the moment, in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her success, on Cloud Nine with hap¬ piness made up of all the admiration, of all the aroused desire, of this victory so complete and so sweet to the heart of any woman. She did not leave until four o'clock in the morning. Her husband, since midnight, had been sleeping in a little empty room with three other men whose wives had also been enjoying themselves. He threw, over her shoulders, the shawl that he had brought for the trip home—a mod¬ est everyday wrap, the poverty of which contrasted sharply with the elegance of her evening gown. She felt it and hurried away to avoid being noticed by the other women who luxuriated in rich furs. Loisel tried to hold her back: "Wait a minute. You'll catch cold outdoors. I'll call a cab." But she paid no attention and hurried down the stairs. When they reached the street they found no carriages. They began to look for one, shouting at cabmen passing by at a distance.

55

190

CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

They walked toward the Seine, desperate, shivering. Finally, on a quay, they found one of those old night-going buggies that are seen in Paris only after dark, as if they were 60

65

70

75

80

ashamed of their wretched appearance in daylight. It took them to their door, on the Street of Martyrs, and they sadly climbed the stairs to their flat. For her, it was finished. As for him, he could think only that he had to begin work at the Ministry of Education at ten o'clock. She took the shawl off her shoulders, in front of the mirror, to see herself once more in her glory. But suddenly she cried out. The necklace was no longer around her neck! Tier husband, already half undressed, asked: "What's wrong?" She turned toward him frantically: "I... I... I no longer have Mrs. Forrestier's necklace." He stood up, bewildered: "What! . . . How! . . . It's not possible!" And they looked in the folds of the gown, in the folds of the shawl, in the pockets, every¬ where. They found nothing. He asked: "You're sure you still had it when you left the party?" "Yes. I checked it in the vestibule of the Ministry." "But if you'd lost it in the street, we would've heard it fall. It must be in the cab." "Yes, probably. Did you notice the number?" "No. Did you see it?" "No." Overwhelmed, they looked at each other. Finally, Loisel got dressed again: "I'm going out to retrace all our steps," he said, "to see if I can find the necklace that way." And he went out. She stayed in her evening dress, without the energy to get ready for bed, stretched out in a chair, drained of strength and thought. Her husband came back at about seven o'clock. He had found nothing. He went to Police Headquarters and to the newspapers to announce a reward. He went to the small cab companies, and finally he followed up even the slightest hopeful lead. She waited the entire day, in the same enervated state, in the face of this frightful disaster.

85

90

Loisel came back in the evening, his face pale and haggard. He had found nothing. "You'll have to write to your friend," he said, "that you broke a clasp on her necklace and that you're having it fixed. That'll give us time to look around." She wrote as he dictated. By the end of the week they had lost all hope. And Loisel, looking five years older, declared: "We'll have to see about replacing the jewels." The next day they took the case that had contained the necklace and went to the jeweler whose name was inside. He looked at his books: "I wasn't the one, Madam, who sold the necklace. I only made the case." Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other one, rack¬ ing their memories, both of them sick with worry and anguish. In a shop in the Palais-Royal, they found a necklace of diamonds that seemed to them exactly like the one they were looking for. It was priced at forty thousand francs. They could buy it for thirty-six thousand. They got the jeweler to promise not to sell it for three days. And they made an agree¬ ment that he would buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs if the original were recov¬ ered before the end of February.

MAUPASSANT • The Necklace

191

Loisel had saved eighteen thousand francs that his father had left him. He would have to borrow the rest. He borrowed, asking a thousand francs from one, five hundred from another, five louis0 here, three louis there. He wrote promissory notes, undertook ruinous obligations, did business with finance companies and the whole tribe of loan sharks. He compromised him¬ self for the remainder of his days, risked his signature without knowing whether he would be able to honor it; and, terrified by anguish over the future, by the black misery that was about to descend on him, by the prospect of all kinds of physical deprivations and moral tortures, he went to get the new necklace, and put down thirty-six thousand francs on the jeweler's counter. Mrs. Loisel took the necklace back to Mrs. Forrestier, who said with an offended tone: You should have brought it back sooner; I might have needed it." She did not open the case, as her friend feared she might. If she had noticed the substitu¬ tion, what would she have thought? What would she have said? Would she not have taken her for a thief? Mrs. Loisel soon discovered the horrible life of the needy. She did her share, however, completely, heroically. That horrifying debt had to be paid. She would pay. They dismissed the maid; they changed their address; they rented an attic flat. She learned to do the heavy housework, dirty kitchen jobs. She washed the dishes, wear¬ ing away her manicured fingernails on greasy pots and encrusted baking dishes. She hand¬ washed dirty linen, shirts, and dish towels that she hung out on the line to dry. Each morning, she took the garbage down to the street, and she carried up water, stopping at each floor to catch her breath. And, dressed in cheap housedresses, she went to the fruit dealer, the grocer, the butchers, with her basket under her arms, haggling, insulting, de¬ fending her measly cash penny by penny. They had to make installment payments every month, and, to buy more time, to refi¬ nance loans. The husband worked evenings to make fair copies of tradesmen's accounts, and late into the night he made copies at five cents a page. And this life lasted ten years. At the end of ten years, they had paid back everything—everything—including the extra charges imposed by loan sharks and the accumulation of compound interest. Mrs. Loisel looked old now. She had become the strong, hard, and rude woman of poor households. Her hair unkempt, with uneven skirts and rough, red hands, she spoke loudly, washed floors with large buckets of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at work, she sat down near the window, and she dreamed of that evening so long ago, of that party, where she had been so beautiful and so admired. What would life have been like if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows? Who knows? Life is so peculiar, so uncertain. How little a thing it takes to destroy you or to save you! Well, one Sunday, when she had gone for a stroll along the Champs-Elysees to relax from the cares of the week, she suddenly noticed a woman walking with a child. It was Mrs. Forrestier, still youthful, still beautiful, still attractive. Mrs. Loisel felt moved. Would she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she could tell all. Why not? She walked closer. "Hello, Jeanne." °louis: a gold coin worth twenty francs.

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

The other gave no sign of recognition and was astonished to be addressed so familiarly by this working-class woman. She stammered: "But. . . Madam!... I don't know. . . . You must have made a mistake." "No. I'm Mathilde Loisel." Her friend cried out: * "Oh! . . . My poor Mathilde, you've changed so much." "Yes. I've had some tough times since I saw you last; in fact hardships . . . and all because of you! ..." "Of me . . . how so?" "You remember the diamond necklace that you lent me to go to the party at the Ministry of Education?" "Yes. What then?" "Well, I lost it." "How, since you gave it back to me?" "I returned another exactly like it. And for ten years we've been paying for it. You under¬ stand this wasn't easy for us, who have nothing. . .. Finally it's over, and I'm damned glad." Mrs. Forrestier stopped her. "You say that you bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?" "Yes, you didn't notice it, eh? It was exactly like yours." And she smiled with proud and childish joy. Mrs. Forrestier, deeply moved, took both her hands. "Oh, my poor Mathilde! But mine was only costume jewelry. At most, it was worth only five hundred francs!..."

QUESTIONS 1. Who is Mathilde? What is her station in life? How does the speaker describe her char¬ acter as the story begins?

2. The story was published in 1884. Explain how the details of the Loisel household show domestic conditions at that time. At what level of life do the Loisels live? How does Mathilde feel about this?

3. What happens that seems about to make Mahilde's life interesting? How does she ask her husband to buy things to wear for the ball? What does the scene between them reveal about her character?

4. What do the Loisels do to overcome their indebtedness? What do Mathilde's efforts demonstrate about her character?

5. How successful is the ending as a "surprise"? What idea might Maupassant be express¬ ing as a result of the ending?

O AMY TAN (b. 1952)_ Amy Tan was born in Oakland, California, several years after her par¬ ents had left their native China to settle in the San Francisco Bay Area. Early in her life she exhibited talent as a writer, winning a first prize for essay writing at the age of eight. Her family endured the untimely deaths of her father and brother in 1967 and 1968, and the remaining family spent time afterward in Switzerland. She attended a number of U.S. colleges, including San Jose State University, where she graduated with honors in 1972 and received an MA in 1973. After graduating she did freelance business writing for companies such as

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IBM and Pacific Bell. By 1985 she had decided to devote herself to the writing of fiction, and she launched her career in 1986 with the publication of her first short story, "End Game." In 1989 her The Joy Luck Club, an interlinked collection of stories, was published and enjoyed forty weeks on the New York Times best-sellers list. Her other major books are The Kitchen God's Wife (1991), The Hundred Secret Senses (1995), The Bonesetter's Daughter (2001), which had been earlier excerpted for publication in The New Yorker, and Saving Fish from Drowning (2005). Tan has also written two children's books, The Moon Lady (1992) and SAGWA The Chinese Siamese Cat (1994). She collaborates with novelist Stephen King, cartoonist Matt Groening, novelist Barbara Kingsolver, and humorist Dave Barry in a "literary garage band, the Rock Bottom Remainders,” which raises money for literacy causes and also for groups devoted to First Amendment rights. In the fall of 2008, the San Francisco Opera was scheduled to perform the world premiere of The Bonesetter's Daughter, an opera based on Tan's novel. Stewart Wal¬ lace is the composer, and Tan is the librettist. "Two Kinds" is taken from The Joy Luck Club.

TWo Kinds (1989) My mother believed you could be anything you wanted to be in America. You could open a restaurant. You could work for the government and get good retirement. You could buy a house with almost no money down. You could become rich. You could become instantly famous. "Of course you can be prodigy, too," my mother told me when I was nine. "You can be best anything. What does Auntie Lindo know? Her daughter, she is only best tricky." America was where all my mother's hopes lay. She had come here in 1949 after losing everything in China: her mother and father, her family home, her first husband, and two daughters, twin baby girls. But she never looked back with regret. There were so many ways for things to get better. We didn't immediately pick the right kind of prodigy. At first my mother thought I could be a Chinese Shirley Temple. We'd watch Shirley's old movies on TV as though they were training films. My mother would poke my arm and say, "M kan"—You watch. And I would see Shirley tapping her feet, or singing a sailor song, or pursing her lips into a very round O while saying, "Oh my goodness." "Ni kan," said my mother as Shirley's eyes flooded with tears. "You already know how. Don't need talent for crying!" Soon after my mother got this idea about Shirley Temple, she took me to a beauty training school in the Mission district and put me in the hands of a student who could barely hold the scissors without shaking. Instead of getting big fat curls, I emerged with an uneven mass of crinkly black fuzz. My mother dragged me off to the bathroom and tried to wet down my hair. "You look like Negro Chinese," she lamented, as if I had done this on purpose. The instructor of the beauty training school had to lop off these soggy clumps to make my hair even again. "Peter Pan is very popular these days," the instructor assured my mother. I now had hair the length of a boy's, with straight-across bangs that hung at a slant two inches above my eyebrows. I liked the haircut and it made me actually look forward to my future fame. In fact, in the beginning, I was just as excited as my mother, maybe even more so. I pic¬ tured this prodigy part of me as many different images, trying each one on for size. I was a dainty ballerina girl standing by the curtains, waiting to hear the right music that would send me floating on my tiptoes. I was like the Christ child lifted out of the straw manger, crying with holy indignity. I was Cinderella stepping from her pumpkin carriage with sparkly cartoon music filling the air. In all of my imaginings, I was filled with a sense that I would soon become perfect. My mother and father would adore me. I would be beyond reproach. I would never feel the need to sulk for anything.

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

But sometimes the prodigy in me became impatient. "If you don't hurry up and get me out of here. I'm disappearing for good," it warned. "And then you'll always be nothing." •

•

•

Every night after dinner, my mother and I would sit at the Formica kitchen table. She would present new tests, taking her examples from stories of amazing children she had read in Ripley s Believe It or Not, or Good Housekeeping, Reader's Digest, and a dozen other maga¬ zines she kept in a pile in our bathroom. My mother got these magazines from people whose houses she cleaned. And since she cleaned many houses each week, we had a great assort¬ ment. She would look through them all, searching for stories about remarkable children. The first night she brought out a story about a three-year-old boy who knew the capitals of all the states and even most of the European countries. A teacher was quoted as saying the little boy could also pronounce the names of the foreign cities correctly. What s the capital of Finland? my mother asked me, looking at the magazine story. All I knew was the capital of California, because Sacramento was the name of the street we lived on in Chinatown. "Nairobi!" I guessed, saying the most foreign word I could think of. She checked to see if that was possibly one way to pronounce "Helsinki" before show¬ ing me the answer. The tests got harder multiplying numbers in my head, finding the queen of hearts in a deck of cards, trying to stand on my head without using my hands, predicting the daily temperatures in Los Angeles, New York, and London. One night I had to look at a page from the Bible for three minutes and then report every¬ thing I could remember. "Now Jehoshaphat had riches0 and honor in abundance and . . . that's all I remember, Ma," I said. And after seeing my mother's disappointed face once again, something inside of me began to die. I hated the tests, the raised hopes and failed expectations. Before going to bed that night, I looked in the mirror above the bathroom sink and when I saw only my face staring back— and that it would always be this ordinary face-I began to cry. Such a sad, ugly girl! I made high-pitched noises like a crazed animal, trying to scratch out the face in the mirror. And then I saw what seemed to be the prodigy side of me—because I had never seen that face before. I looked at my reflection, blinking so I could see more clearly. The girl star¬ ing back at me was angry, powerful. This girl and I were the same. I had new thoughts willful thoughts, or rather thoughts filled with lots of won'ts. I won't let her change me I promised myself. I won't be what I'm not. So now on nights when my mother presented her tests, I performed listlessly, my head propped on one arm. I pretended to be bored. And I was. I got so bored I started counting the bellows of the foghorns out on the bay while my mother drilled me in other areas. The sound was comforting and reminded me of the cow jumping over the moon. And the next day, I played a game with myself, seeing if my mother would give up on me before eight bellows. After a while I usually counted only one, maybe two bellows at most At last she was beginning to give up hope.

a °r three months had §one bX without any mention of my being a prodigy again. And then one day my mother was watching The Ed Sullivan Show0 on TV. The TV was old and the sound kept shorting out. Every time my mother got halfway up from the sofa to

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TAN • Two Kinds

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adjust the set, the sound would go back on and Ed would be talking. As soon as she sat down, Ed would go silent again. She got up, the TV broke into loud piano music. She sat down. Silence. Up and down, back and forth, quiet and loud. It was like a stiff embraceless dance between her and the TV set. Finally she stood by the set with her hand on the sound dial. She seemed entranced by the music, a little frenzied piano piece with this mesmerizing quality, sort of quick passages and then teasing lilting ones before it returned to the quick playful parts. "M kan," my mother said, calling me over with hurried hand gestures, "Look here." I could see why my mother was fascinated by the music. It was being pounded out by a little Chinese girl, about nine years old, with a Peter Pan haircut. The girl had the sauciness of a Shirley Temple. She was proudly modest like a proper Chinese child. And she also did this fancy sweep of a curtsy, so that the fluffy skirt of her white dress cascaded slowly to the floor like the petals of a large carnation. In spite of these warning signs, I wasn't worried. Our family had no piano and we couldn't afford to buy one, let alone reams of sheet music and piano lessons. So I could be generous in my comments when my mother bad-mouthed the little girl on TV. "Play note right, but doesn't sound good! No singing sound," complained my mother. "What are you picking on her for?" I said carelessly. "She's pretty good. Maybe she's not the best, but she's trying hard." I knew almost immediately I would be sorry I said that. "Just like you," she said. "Not the best. Because you not trying." She gave a little huff as she let go of the sound dial and sat down on the sofa.

25

The little Chinese girl sat down also to play an encore of "Anitra's Dance" by Grieg.0 I remember the song, because later on I had to learn how to play it. Three days after watching The Ed Sullivan Show, my mother told me what my schedule would be for piano lessons and piano practice. She had talked to Mr. Chong, who lived on the first floor of our apartment building. Mr. Chong was a retired piano teacher and my mother had traded housecleaning services for weekly lessons and a piano for me to practice on every day, two hours a day, from four until six. When my mother told me this, I felt as though I had been sent to hell. I whined and then kicked my foot a little when I couldn't stand it anymore. "Why don't you like me the way I am? I'm not a genius! I can't play the piano. And even if I could, I wouldn't go on TV if you paid me a million dollars!" I cried. My mother slapped me. "Who ask you be genius?" she shouted. "Only ask you be you best. For you sake. You think I want you be genius? Hnnli! What for! Who ask you!" "So ungrateful," I heard her mutter in Chinese. "If she had as much talent as she has temper, she would be famous now." Mr. Chong, whom I secretly nicknamed Old Chong, was very strange, always tapping his fingers to the silent music of an invisible orchestra. He looked ancient in my eyes. He had lost most of the hair on top of his head and he wore thick glasses and had eyes that always looked tired and sleepy. But he must have been younger than I thought, since he lived with his mother and was not yet married. I met Old Lady Chong once and that was enough. She had this peculiar smell like a baby that had done something in its pants. And her fingers felt like a dead person's, like an old peach I once found in the back of the refrigerator; the skin just slid off the meat when I picked it up. I soon found out why Old Chong had retired from teaching piano. He was deaf. "Like Beethoven!" he shouted to me. "We're both listening only in our head!" And he would start to conduct his frantic silent sonatas.

°“Anitra’s Dance" by Grieg: a portion of the suite composed for Ibsen’s Peer Gynt by Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg (1843-1907).

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

Our lessons went like this. He would open the book and point to different things, explaining their purpose: "Key! Treble! Bass! No sharps or flats! So this is C major! Listen now and play after me!" And then he would play the C scale a few times, a simple chord, and then, as if inspired by an old, unreachable itch, he gradually added more notes and running trills and a pound¬ ing bass until the music was really something quite grand. I would play after him, the simple scale, the simple chord, and then I just played some nonsense that sounded like a cat running up and down on top of garbage cans. Old Chong smiled and applauded and then said, "Very good! But now you must learn to keep time!" So that's how I discovered that Old Chong's eyes were too slow to keep up with the wrong notes I was playing. He went through the motions in half-time. To help me keep rhythm, he stood behind me, pushing down on my right shoulder for every beat. He bal¬ anced pennies on top of my wrists so I would keep them still as I slowly played scales and arpeggios. He had me curve my hand around an apple and keep that shape when playing chords. He marched stiffly to show me how to make each finger dance up and down, stac¬ cato like an obedient little soldier. He taught me all these things, and that was how I also learned I could be lazy and get away with mistakes, lots of mistakes. If I hit the wrong notes because I hadn't practiced enough, I never corrected myself. I just kept playing in rhythm. And Old Chong kept con¬ ducting his own private reverie. So maybe I never really gave myself a fair chance. I did pick up the basics pretty quickly, and I might have become a good pianist at that young age. But I was so determined not to try, not to be anybody different that I learned to play only the most earsplitting preludes, the most discordant hymns. Over the next year, I practiced like this, dutifully in my own way. And then one day I heard my mother and her friend Lindo Jong both talking in a loud bragging tone of voice so others could hear. It was after church, and I was leaning against the brick wall wearing a dress with stiff white petticoats. Auntie Lindo's daughter, Waverly, who was about my age, was standing farther down the wall about five feet away. We had grown up together and shared all the closeness of two sisters squabbling over crayons and dolls. In other words, for the most part, we hated each other. I thought she was snotty. Waverly Jong had gained' a certain amount of fame as "Chinatown's Littlest Chinese Chess Champion." "She bring home too many trophy," lamented Auntie Lindo that Sunday. "All day she play chess. All day I have no time do nothing but dust off her winnings." She threw a scold¬ ing look at Waverly, who pretended not to see her. "You lucky you don't have this problem," said Auntie Lindo with a sigh to my mother. And my mother squared her shoulders and bragged: "Our problem worser than yours. If we ask Jmg-Mei wash dish, she hear nothing but music. It's like you can't stop this natural talent." And right then, I was determined to put a stop to her foolish pride. A few weeks later. Old Chong and my mother conspired to have me play in a talent show which would be held in the church hall. By then, my parents had saved up enough to buy me a secondhand piano, a black Wurlitzer spinet with a scarred bench. It was the showpiece of our living room. For the talent show, I was to play a piece called "Pleading Child" from Schumann's Scenes from Childhood.0 It was a simple, moody piece that sounded more difficult than it was.

“Scenes from Childhood: Scenes from Childhood, or Kinderszenen (1836), is one of the best-known works for piano by Robert Schumann (1810-1856).

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I was supposed to memorize the whole thing, playing the repeat parts twice to make the piece sound longer. But I dawdled over it, playing a few bars and then cheating, looking up to see what notes followed. I never really listened to what I was playing. I daydreamed about being somewhere else, about being someone else. The part I liked to practice best was the fancy curtsy: right foot out, touch the rose on the carpet with a pointed foot, sweep to the side, left leg bends, look up and smile. My parents invited all the couples from the Joy Luck Club to witness my debut. Auntie Lindo and Uncle Tin were there. Waverly and her two older brothers had also come. The first two rows were filled with children both younger and older than I was. The littlest ones got to go first. They recited simple nursery rhymes, squawked out tunes on miniature vio¬ lins, twirled Hula Hoops, pranced in pink ballet tutus, and when they bowed or curtsied, the audience would sigh in unison, "Awww," and then clap enthusiastically. When my turn came, I was very confident. I remember my childish excitement. It was as if I knew, without a doubt, that the prodigy side of me really did exist. I had no fear what¬ soever, no nervousness. I remember thinking to myself. This is it! This is it! I looked out over the audience, at my mother's blank face, my father's yawn. Auntie Lindo's stiff-lipped smile, Waverly's sulky expression. I had on a white dress layered with sheets of lace, and a pink bow in my Peter Pan haircut. As I sat down I envisioned people jumping to their feet and Ed Suliivan rushing up to introduce me to everyone on TV. And I started to play. It was so beautiful. I was so caught up in how lovely I looked that at first I didn't worry how I would sound. So it was a surprise to me when I hit the first wrong note and I realized something didn't sound quite right. And then I hit another and another followed that. A chill started at the top of my head and began to trickle down. Yet I couldn't stop playing, as though my hands were bewitched. I kept thinking my fingers would adjust themselves back, like a train switching to the right track. I played this strange jumble through two repeats, the sour notes staying with me all the way to the end. When I stood up, I discovered my legs were shaking. Maybe I had just been nervous and the audience, like Old Chong, had seen me go through the right motions and had not heard anything wrong at all. I swept my right foot out, went down on my knee, looked up and smiled. The room was quiet, except for Old Chong, who was beaming and shouting, "Bravo! Bravo! Well done!" But then I saw my mother's face, her stricken face. The audi¬ ence clapped weakly, and as I walked back to my chair, with my whole face quivering as I tried not to cry, I heard a little boy whisper loudly to his mother, "That was awful," and the mother whispered back, "Well, she certainly tried." And now I realized how many people were in the audience, the whole world it seemed. I was aware of eyes burning into my back. I felt the shame of my mother and father as they sat stiffly throughout the rest of the show. We could have escaped during intermission. Pride and some strange sense of honor must have anchored my parents to their chairs. And so we watched it all: the eighteen-yearold boy with a fake mustache who did a magic show and juggled flaming hoops while rid¬ ing a unicycle. The breasted girl with white makeup who sang from Madama Butterfly0 and got honorable mention. And the eleven-year-old boy who won first prize playing a tricky violin song that sounded like a busy bee.° After the show, the Hsus, the Jongs, and the St. Clairs from the Joy Luck Club came up to my mother and father.

°Madama Butterfly: The girl probably sang “Un Bel Di,” the signature soprano aria from the opera Madama But¬ terfly by Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924). °busy bee: probably the well-known “Flight of the Bumblebee” by Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov (1844-1908) from the opera Tale of Tsar Saltan (1900).

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"Lots of talented kids," Auntie Lindo said vaguely, smiling broadly. "That was somethin' else," said my father, and I wondered if he was referring to me in a humorous way, or whether he even remembered what I had done. Waverly looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. "You aren't a genius like me," she said matter-of-factly. And if I hadn't felt so bad, I would have pulled her braids and punched her stomach. But my mother's expression was what devastated me: a quiet, blank look that said she had lost everything. I felt the same way, and it seemed as if everybody were now coming up, like gawkers at the scene of an accident, to see what parts were actually missing. When we got on the bus to go home, my father was humming the busy-bee tune and my mother was silent. I kept thinking she wanted to wait until we got home before shouting at me. But when my father unlocked the door to our apartment, my mother walked in and then went to the back, into the bedroom. No accusations. No blame. And in a way, I felt disappointed. I had been waiting for her to start shouting, so I could shout back and cry and blame her for all my misery. I assumed my talent-show fiasco meant I never had to play the piano again. But two days later, after school, my mother came out of the kitchen and saw me watching TV. "Four clock," she reminded me as if it were any other day. I was stunned, as though she were asking me to go through the talent-show torture again. I wedged myself more tightly in front of the TV. "Turn off TV," she called from the kitchen five minutes later. I didn't budge. And then I decided. I didn't have to do what my mother said anymore. I wasn t her slave. This wasn't China. I had listened to her before and look what happened. She was the stupid one. She came out from the kitchen and stood in the arched entryway of the living room. "Four clock," she said once again, louder. "I'm not going to play anymore," I said nonchalantly. "Why should I? I'm not a genius." She walked over and stood in front of the TV. I saw her chest was heaving up and down in an angry way. "No!" I said, and I now felt stronger, as if my true self had finally emerged. So this was what had been inside me all along. "No! I won't!" I screamed. She yanked me by the arm, pulled me off the floor, snapped off the TV. She was frighten¬ ingly strong, half pulling, half carrying me toward the piano as I kicked the throw rugs under my feet. She lifted me up and onto the hard bench. I was sobbing by now, looking at her bitterly. Fier chest was heaving even more and her mouth was open, smiling crazily as if she were pleased I was crying. "You want me to be someone that I'm not!" I sobbed. "I'll never be the kind of daughter you want me to be!" Only two kinds of daughters," she shouted in Chinese. "Those who are obedient and those who follow their own mind! Only one kind of daughter can live in this house. Obedi¬ ent daughter!" "Then I wish I wasn't your daughter. I wish you weren't my mother," I shouted. As I said these things I got scared. It felt like worms and toads and slimy things crawling out of my chest, but it also felt good, as if this awful side of me had surfaced, at last. "Too late change this," said my mother shrilly. And 1 could sense her anger rising to its breaking point. I wanted to see it spill over. And that's when I remembered the babies she had lost in China, the ones we never talked about. "Then I wish I'd never been born!" I shouted. "I wish I were dead1 Like them."

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It was as if I had said the magic words. Alakazam!—and her face went blank, her mouth closed, her arms went slack, and she backed out of the room, stunned, as if she were blow¬ ing away like a small brown leaf, thin, brittle, lifeless. It was not the only disappointment my mother felt in me. hi the years that followed, I failed her so many times, each time asserting my own will, my right to fall short of expectations. I didn't get straight As. I didn't become class president. I didn't get into Stanford. I dropped out of college. For unlike my mother, I did not believe I could be anything I wanted to be. I could only be me.

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And for all those years, we never talked about the disaster at the recital or my terrible accusations afterward at the piano bench. All that remained unchecked, like a betrayal that was now unspeakable. So I never found a way to ask her why she had hoped for something so large that failure was inevitable. And even worse, I never asked her what frightened me the most: Why had she given up hope? For after our struggle at the piano, she never mentioned my playing again. The lessons stopped. The lid to the piano was closed, shutting out the dust, my misery, and her dreams. So she surprised me. A few years ago, she offered to give me the piano, for my thirtieth birthday. I had not played in all those years. I saw the offer as a sign of forgiveness, a tremendous burden removed. "Are you sure?" I asked shyly. "I mean, won't you and Dad miss it?" "No, this your piano," she said firmly. "Always your piano. You only one can play." "Well, I probably can't play anymore," I said. "It's been years." "You pick up fast," said my mother, as if she knew this was certain. "You have natural talent. You could been genius if you want to." "No I couldn't." "You just not trying," said my mother. And she was neither angry nor sad. She said it as if to announce a fact that could never be disproved. "Take it," she said. But I didn't at first. It was enough that she had offered it to me. And after that, every time I saw it in my parents' living room, standing in front of the bay windows, it made me feel proud, as if it were a shiny trophy I had won back. Last week I sent a tuner over to my parents' apartment and had the piano reconditioned, for purely sentimental reasons. My mother had died a few months before and I had been getting things in order for my father, a little bit at a time. I put the jewelry in special silk pouches. The sweaters she had knitted in yellow, pink, bright orange—all the colors I hated—I put those in moth-proof boxes. I found some old Chinese silk dresses, the kind with little slits up the sides. I rubbed the old silk against my skin, then wrapped them in tis¬ sue and decided to take them home with me. After I had the piano tuned, I opened the lid and touched the keys. It sounded even richer than I remembered. Really, it was a very good piano. Inside the bench were the same exer¬ cise notes with handwritten scales, the same secondhand music books with their covers held together with yellow tape. I opened up the Schumann book to the dark little piece I had played at the recital. It was on the left-hand side of the page, "Pleading Child." It looked more difficult than I remem¬ bered. I played a few bars, surprised at how easily the notes came back to me. And for the first time, or so it seemed, I noticed the piece on the right-hand side. It was called "Perfectly Contented." I tried to play this one as well. It had a lighter melody but the same flowing rhythm and turned out to be quite easy. "Pleading Child" was shorter but slower; "Perfectly Contented" was longer, but faster. And after I played them both a few times, I realized they were two halves of the same song.

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CHAPTER 3 * Characters: The People in Fiction

QUESTIONS 1. What major characteristics about the narrator, Jing-Mei, are brought out in the story?

2. Describe the relationship between Jing-Mei and her mother. Why does Jing-Mei resist all efforts to develop her talents?

„

3. Characterize the mother. To what degree is she sympathetic? Unsympathetic? At the story's end, how does Jing-Mei feel about her mother?

4. What general details about the nature of first- and second-generation immigrants are presented in the story?

WRITING ABOUT CHARACTER Usually your topic will be a major character in a story or drama, although you might also study one or more minor characters. After your customary overview, begin taking notes. List as many traits as you can, and also deter¬ mine how the author presents details about the character through actions, appearances, speeches, comments by others, or authorial explanations. If you discover unusual traits, determine what they show. The following suggestions and questions will help you get started.

Questions for Discovering Ideas •

Who is the major character? What do you learn about this character from his or her actions and speeches? From the speeches and actions of other characters? How else do you learn about the character?

•

How important is the character to the work's principal action? Which characters oppose the major character? How do the major character and the opposing antagonist(s) interact? What effects do these interactions create?

•

What actions bring out important traits of the main character? To what degree does the character simply respond to events? To what degree does he or she create and influence events?

•

Describe the main character's actions: Are they good or bad, intelligent or stupid, deliberate or spontaneous? How do they help you understand her or him? What do they show about the character as a person?

•

Describe and explain the traits, both major and minor, of the character you plan to discuss. To what extent do the traits permit you to judge the char¬ acter? What is your judgment?

•

What descriptions (if any) of how the character looks do you discover in the story? What does this appearance demonstrate about him or her?

•

In what ways is the character's major trait a strength—or a weakness? As the story progresses, to what degree does the trait become more (or less) prominent? ’

Writing About Character

• •

•

•

•

201

How does the character recognize, change with, or adjust to circum¬ stances? Is the character round and dynamic, or flat and passive? If the character you are analyzing is flat or passive, and minor, what func¬ tion does he or she perform in the story (for example, by doing a task or by bringing out qualities of the major character)? If the character is a stereotype, to what type does he or she belong? To what degree does the character stay in the stereotypical role or rise above it? How? What do any of the other characters do, say, or think to give you under¬ standing of the character you are analyzing? What does the character say or think about himself or herself? What does the storyteller or narrator say? How valid are these comments and insights? How helpful are they in providing insights into the character? Is the character lifelike or unreal? Consistent or inconsistent? Believable or not believable?

Strategies for Organizing Ideas Sometimes when you have begun discussing a character you may find it easy to lapse into doing no more than presenting details of action without tying the actions to the character's traits and qualities. This is a trap to be avoided. Remember always to connect the actions and circumstances directly to char¬ acteristics—in other words to the character of the character. Do not be satisfied just to say what the character is doing, but tell your reader what the actions show about the character as a person—as a living, breathing individual with particular distinctness and unique identity. Always keep these thoughts in your mind when you discuss a literary character. In your developing essay, identify the character you are studying, and refer to noteworthy problems in determining this character's qualities. Use your central idea and thesis statement to form the body of your essay. Consider one of the following approaches to organize your ideas. 1. Develop a central trait or major characteristic, such as "a determination to preserve her children despite the constant threats around her" (Rosa of Ozick's "The Shawl" in Chapter 4) or "the habit of remaking the world through one's own eyes alone" (Miss Brill in Mansfield's "Miss Brill" in this chapter). This kind of structure should be organized to show how the work brings out the trait. For example, one story might use selected speeches and actions to bring the character to life (the mother in Tan's "Two Kinds" in this chapter). Another story might employ the character's speeches and actions alone (Tessie Hutchinson of Jackson's "The Lottery" in Chapter 2). Studying the trait thus enables you to focus on the ways in which the author presents the character, and it also enables you to focus on separate parts of the work. 2. Explain a character's groivth or change. This type of essay describes a charac¬ ter's traits at the work's beginning and then analyzes changes or developments.

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CHAPTER 3 • Characters: The People in Fiction

It is important to stress the actual alterations as they emerge, but at the same time to avoid retelling the story. Additionally, you should not only describe the changing traits but also analyze how they are brought out within the work (such as the dream of Goodman Brown in Hawthorpe's "Young Goodman Brown in Chapter 7, or Mathilde Foisel's ten-year economic ordeal in "The Necklace" in this chapter). 3. Organize your essay around a number of important but separate events, objects, or characteristics. Most major characters exhibit not just one but many separate traits and qualities. Thus, for example, Updike's Sammy of "A & P" (Chapter 6), appears at first to be just an ordinary young man. He seems lively but does not show any more than ordinary postadolescent interests and ordinary views on life. When a key incident occurs in the grocery store, however, he suddenly illustrates his capacity to make a significant moral gesture. His character might be studied on the basis of the separate characteristics he shows—provided, of course, that they are connected within the essay. (See the illustrative essay that follows here for this type of development.) 4. Organize your essay around central actions, objects, or quotations that reveal primary characteristics. Key incidents may stand out (such as falling inadvertently into a ditch), along with objects closely associated with the character being analyzed (such as a falling hair ribbon). There may be important quotations spoken by the character or by someone else in the work. Show how such elements serve as signposts or guides to understand¬ ing the character. 5. Develop qualities of a flat character or characters. If the character is flat (such as Eva's friend in Munro's "The Found Boat" in Chapter 6, or Jackie's sister in Frank O'Connor's "First Confession" in Chapter 6, or the nurses in the medical station in Welty's "A Worn Path" in Chapter 5), you might develop topics such as the function and relative significance of the character, the group the character represents, the relationship of the flat character to the round ones, the importance of this relationship, and any additional qualities or traits. For a flat character, you should explain the circumstances or characteristics that keep the character from seeming round and full as well as the importance of these shortcomings in the author's presentation of character. In your conclusion, show how the character's traits are related to the work as a whole. If the person was good but came to a bad end, does this mis¬ fortune make him or her seem especially worthy? If the person suffers, does the suffering suggest any attitudes about the class or type of which he or she is a part? Or does it illustrate the author's general view of human life? Or both? Do the characteristics explain why the person helps or hinders other characters? How does your essay help to clear up things that you did not understand on your first reading?

Illustrative Student Essay

203

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Hernandez 1 Ali Hernandez Professor Lee English 201 17 October 2010 The Character of Minnie Wright in GlaspelPs “A Jury of Her Peers”0 Minnie Wright is Susan GlaspelPs major character in “A Jury of Her

[11

Peers.” She is the center, the focus, of the story. We do not learn about her first-hand, however, because she is not an actual speaking and acting character. Rather, we get all our information from the speeches of the actual characters in the story, who talk about her constantly. Lewis Hale, a neighboring farmer, tells about Minnie’s behavior after the body of her husband, John, was found strangled, in bed. Mrs. Martha Hale, Hale’s wife, tells about Minnie’s young womanhood and about how she became alienated from her nearest neighbors because of John’s stingy and unfriendly ways. Both Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters, the Sheriff’s wife, make observations about Minnie based on the condition of her kitchen. From this information we get a full portrait of Minnie, who has changed from passivity to destructive assertiveness.* * Her change in character is indicated by her clothing, her dead canary, and her unfinished patchwork quilt.^ The clothes that Minnie wore in the past and has worn in the present indicate her character as a person of charm who has withered under neglect and contempt. Martha Hale mentions Minnie’s attractive and colorful dresses as a young woman, even recalling a “white dress with blue ribbons” (181). Martha also recalls that Minnie, when young, was “sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and—fluttery” (179). In the light of these recollections, Martha observes

“This story appears on pages 170-83. *Central idea, thesis sentence.

U1

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CHAPTER 3 ® Characters: The People in Fiction

Hernandez 2 that Minnie had changed, and changed for the worse, during her dreary years of marriage with John Wright, who is characterized as a “raw wind that gets to the bone” (179). As more evidence for Minnie’s acceptance of her drab life, Mrs. Peters says that Minnie asks for no more than an apron and shawl when under arrest in the sheriff s home. This modest and shabby clothing, as contrasted with the colorful dresses of her youth, suggests her suppression of spirit. It is the discovery of her dead canary that clearly marks the emergence of Minnie’s rage to the point of actually killing her miserable husband. We learn that she, who when young had been in love with music, had endured her cheerless farm home for thirty years. During this time her husband’s contempt made her life solitary, cheerless, unmusical, and depressingly impoverished. But her buying the canary (178) suggests the reemergence of her love of song, just as it also suggests her growth toward self-assertion. That her husband (obviously her husband) had wrung the bird’s neck may thus be seen as the cause not only of her immediate sorrow (shown by the dead bird in a “pretty box” (180) but also of the anger that marks her change from a stock, obedient wife to a person angry enough to commit murder. Like her love ot song, her unfinished quilt indicates her creativity. In thirty years on the farm, never having had children, she has had nothing creative to do except for needlework like the quilt. Martha Hale comments on the beauty of Minnie s log-cabin design, and Mrs. Peters draws attention to the pieces in the sewing basket (178). The inference is that even though Minnie’s life has been bleak, she has been able to indulge her characteristic love of color and form_and also of warmth, granted the purpose of a quilt. honically, the quilt also shows Minnie’s creativity in committing her act of murder. Both Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters interpret the breakdown of her stitching on the quilt as signs of distress about the dead canary and also of her nervousness in planning revenge. Further, even though nowhere in the story is it said that John is strangled with a quilting knot, this conclusion is inescapable. Both Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters agree that Minnie probably intended to knot

Illustrative Student Essay

205

Hernandez 3 the quilt rather than sew it in a quilt stitch, and Glaspell pointedly causes the men to learn this detail also, even though they scoff at it and ignore it, thus showing their incompetence at recognizing evidence (177). In other words, we learn that Minnie’s only outlet for creativity—needlework—had enabled her to perform the murder in the only way she could, by strangling John with a slip-proof quilting knot. Even though her plan for the murder is deliberate—Mrs. Peters observes that the arrangement of the rope was “strange” and a “funny way to kill” (177)—Minnie is not cold or remorseless. Her passivity after the crime demonstrates that planning to evade guilt, beyond simple denial, is not in her character. She is not so diabolically creative that she plans or even understands the irony of her having used a quilting knot to kill her husband (remember that he killed the bird by wringing its neck). Glaspell, however, makes the irony plain. It is important to stress once more that we learn about Minnie from others. Nevertheless, Minnie is fully realized, round, and poignant. For the greater part of her adult life, she patiently endured her drab and colorless marriage even though it was so cruelly different from her youthful expectations. In the dreary surroundings of the Wright farm, she suppressed her grudges, just as she suppressed her prettiness, creativity, and love of color and beauty. In short, she had been nothing more than a flat character. The killing of the canary, however, causes her to change and to destroy her husband in an assertive rejection of her stock role as the suffering wife. She is a patient woman whose patience finally reaches the breaking point.

Hernandez 4 Work Cited Glaspell, Susan. “A Jury of Her Peers.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 170-83. Print.

[6]

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CHAPTER 3 » Characters: The People in Fiction

Commentary on the Essay The strategy of this essay is to support the central idea that Minnie Wright is a round, developing character. Hence the essay illustrates one of the types described in strategy 3 on page 202. Other plans of organization could also have been chosen, such as the qualities of acquiescence, fortitude, and potential for anger (strategy 1); the change in Minnie from submission to vengefulness (strate§y 2)/ or the reported actions of Minnie's singing, knotting quilts, and sitting in the kitchen on the morning after the murder (another way to use strategy 3). Because Minnie does not appear in the story but is described only in the words of the major characters, the introductory paragraph of the illustrative essay deals with the way readers learn about her. The essay thus highlights how Glaspell uses strategies 2 and 4 (described on pages 201-202) as the ways of ren¬ dering the story's main character, while omitting strategies 1, 3, and 5. The essay s argument is developed through inferences made from details in the story—namely, Minnie's clothing (paragraph 2), her canary (paragraph 3), and her quilt (paragraphs 4 and 5). The concluding paragraph summarizes a number of these details, and it also considers how Minnie transcends the stock qualities of her role as a farm wife and gains roundness of character as a result of this emergence. As a study in composition, paragraph 3 demonstrates how discussion of a specific character trait, together with related details, can contribute to the essay's main argument. The trait is Minnie's love of music (shown by her canary). The connecting details, selected from study notes, are her isolation as a farm wife, her lack of pretty clothing, the contemptibility of her husband, her grief when putting the dead bird into the box, and the loss of music in her life. In short, the paragraph weaves together enough material to show the relationship between Minnie's trait of loving music and the crisis of her developing anger—a change that marks her as a round character.

Writing Topics About Character Writing Paragraphs 1. Write a paragraph in which you compare the ways in which actions (or speeches, or the comments of others) are used to bring out the character traits m one of the following characters: Jing-Mei in "Two Kinds" (this chap¬ ter); Jackie in "First Confession" (Chapter 6); Miss Brill in "Miss Brill" (this rnanfor'l

'

2. Write a paragraph in which you compare the parent-child relationships in Two Kinds and War" (Chapter 1), or between "Two Kinds" and "First Con¬ fession" (Chapter 6). 3. Write a paragraph on one of the following: a. It often seems that fictional characters are under stress and also that they lead byes of great difficulty. How true is this claim? To what degree do the difficulties that characters experience bring out either good or bad quali¬ ties, or both? ^

Writing Topics About Character

207

b. Discuss this point: To our friends and close relatives, we are round, but to ourselves and most other people, we are flat. Writing Essays 1. Write a brief essay comparing the changes or developments of two major or round characters in stories included in this chapter or elsewhere in the book. You might deal with issues such as what the characters are like at the begin¬ ning; what conflicts they confront, deal with, or avoid; what qualities are brought out that signal the characters' changes or developments; and so on. 2. Write an essay in which you compare the qualities and functions of two or more flat characters (e.g., Mangan's sister in Joyce's "Araby" in Chapter 4, the father and Old Chong in Tan's "Two Kinds," in this chapter, the hunter in "A Worn Path" in Chapter 5). How do the flat characters bring out qualities of the major characters? What do you discover about their own character traits? 3. Using, the narrator of "Battle Royal" (Chapter 5) and the narrator Jing-Mei of Tan's "Two Kinds" (this chapter) as examples, write an essay in which you describe the effects of circumstance on character. Under the rubric "circum¬ stance" you may consider elements such as education, family, economic and social status, cultural background, and geographic isolation. Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write a brief story about an important decision you have made (e.g., choosing a school, beginning or leaving a job, declaring a major, starting or ending a friendship). Show how your qualities of character (to the extent that you understand yourself), together with your experiences, have gone into the decision. You may write more comfortably if you give yourself another name and describe your actions in the third person. Try that. Library Assignment 1. Google the topic "Characters in Literature" (there are more than 30,000,000 entries in Google). Make a selection of topics: What information can you gath¬ er from "flat and round," "favorite classic characters," "the image of women in early British literature," and so on? How thoroughly do the entries explore the topics? Make a report on your discoveries.

Chapter 4 Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

L

ike all human beings, literary characters do not exist in isolation. Just as they become human by interacting with other characters, they gain identity because of their cultural and political allegiances, their possessions, their jobs, and where they live, and move, and have their being. They are usually involved deeply with their envi¬ ronments, and their surroundings are causes of much of their motivation and many of their possible conflicts. Plays, stories, and narrative poems must therefore necessarily include descriptions of places, objects, and backgrounds—the setting.

What Is Setting? Setting is the natural, manufactured, political, cultural, and temporal environ¬ ment, including everything that characters know, own, and otherwise experience. Characters may be either helped or hurt by their surroundings, and they may oppose each other and even fight about possessions and goals. Further, as charac¬ ters speak with each other, they reveal the degree to which they share the customs and ideas of their times.

Three Basic Types of Settings Settings may be indoor places that are either private or public, together with all outdoor places. In addition, we may also consider historical and cultural circum¬ stances as a vital aspect of setting. PUBLIC AND PRIVATE PLACES, TOGETHER WITH VARIOUS POSSESSIONS, ARE IMPOR¬

To reveal or highlight qualities of character, and also to make literature lifelike, authors include many details about objects and places of human manufacture, construction, and maintenance. Houses, both interiors and exteriors, are common, as are streets, alleys, public parks, park benches, garden paths, fences, confessionals, offices, hallways, steamships, sailboats, terraces, ceme¬ teries, railway cars, trolley cars, historical landmarks, grocery stores, recital rooms, bridges, and the like. In addition, writers include references to objects such as walk¬ ing sticks, baseballs, books, phonograph records, necklaces, money, guns, shawls, clocks, wallpaper, or hair ribbons. In Maupassant's "The Necklace" (Chapter 3), the loss of a comfortable home brings out the best in the major character by causing her to adjust to her economic reversal, whereas in Lawrence's "The Horse Dealer's Daughter (Chapter 8), such a loss leads a major character to depression and at¬ tempted suicide. TANT IN FICTION, AS IN LIFE.

208

The Literary Uses of Setting

209

Objects also enter directly into fictional action and character. The lives of the men in O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" (Chapter 1) depend on the countless objects they must carry on their military missions. A falling hair ribbon reveals the inadequate relationship between Brown and Faith in Hawthorne's "Young Good¬ man Brown" (Chapter 7). The natural world is an obvious location for the action of many narratives and plays. It is therefore important to note natural surroundings (hills, shorelines, valleys, mountains, meadows, fields, trees, lakes, streams), living creatures (birds, dogs, horses, sharks, snakes), and also the times, seasons, and conditions in which things hap¬ pen (morning or night, summer or winter, sunlight or cloudiness, wind or calm¬ ness, rain or shine, sunlight or darkness, summer or winter, snowfall or blizzard, heat or cold)—any or all of which may influence and interact with character, moti¬ vation, and conduct. Without the forest in Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown," there could be no story, for the events in the story could not have taken place anywhere else just as Hawthorne presents them. OUTDOOR PLACES ARE SCENES OF MANY FICTIONAL ACTIONS.

CULTURAL

AND

HISTORICAL

CIRCUMSTANCES

ARE

OFTEN

IMPORTANT

IN

Just as physical setting influences characters, so do historical and cultural conditions and assumptions. The broad cultural setting of Jackson's "The Lottery" (Chapter 2) is built on the persistence of a primitive belief despite the sophistication of our own modern and scientific age. The brutal concentra¬ tion-camp conditions in Ozick's "The Shawl" (this chapter) cause the major character to conceal a small child as the only way to keep that child alive. In Mansfield's "Miss Brill" (Chapter 3), we see that the shabbiness of a favorite ar¬ ticle of clothing suggests the isolation of the principal character. Bear in mind that settings are frequently important in poetry and also (especially) in drama. The broad cultural setting of Irving Layton's poem "Rhine Boat Trip" (Chapter 18) brings out the contrast between the beauty of German scenery and mythology, on the one hand, and the viciousness of German atrocities in World War II, on the other. LITERATURE.

The Literary Uses of Setting Authors use setting to create meaning, just as painters include backgrounds and objects to render ideas. For example, the contrasting settings of Frangois Boucher's portrait Madame de Pompadour (p. 1-5), Edward Hopper's Automat (p. 1-6), and Whistler's The Little White Girl, Symphony in White, No. 2 (p. I—11) demonstrate how the same subject—a single female figure—can show differing views of human life, one elegant and pampered, another ordinary and depressed, and one alone and bored. Writers manipulate literary locations in a comparable way. For example, in Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7), a woodland path that is dif¬ ficult to follow and filled with obstacles is a major geographical feature. The path is of course no more than ordinary, granted the time and circumstances of the

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

story, but it also conveys the idea that life is difficult, unpredictable, risky, deceiv¬ ing, and mysterious. Similarly, in O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" (Chapter 1), the constant attention to details indicates the exceedingly difficult and dangerous lives that were led by American soldiers during the Vietnam War.

The Setting Is Usually Essential and Vital in a Story To study the setting in a narrative (or play), discover the important details and then try to explain their function. Depending on the author's purpose, the amount of detail may vary. Poe provides many graphic and also impressionistic details in "The Cask of Amontillado" (p. 226) so that we can follow, almost visually, the bizarre action at the story's end. In some works the setting is so intensely present, like the various Dublin scenes in Joyce's "Araby" (p. 213), that it is almost literally an additional participant in the action.

Setting Enhances a Work’s Realism and Credibility One of the major purposes of literary setting is to establish realism, or verisimilitude. As the description of location and objects becomes particular and detailed, the events of the work become more believable. Maupassant places "The Necklace (Chapter 3) in real locations in late-nineteenth-century France, and for this reason the story has all the appearance of having actually happened, in reality. Even futuristic, symbolic, and fantastic stories, as well as ghost stories, seem more believable if they include places and objects from everyday experience. Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7) is such a story. Although the story is by no means realistic, its credibility is enhanced because it takes place in a setting that has a basis in the world of reality.

Setting May Accentuate Qualities of Character Setting may intersect with character as a means by which authors underscore the influence of place, circumstance, and time on human growth and change. Whitecloud's progressive settings in "Blue Winds Dancing" (Chapter 5), from California to Wisconsin, explain the disillusionment and also the fear that possesses the nar¬ rator, and also help us understand why he longed so deeply for home and the comfort provided to him by once again being with his family. The ways that characters respond and adjust to the world around them can reveal their qualities. Peyton Farquhar's scheme to escape from his fate, even when it is literally dangling in front of him, suggests that he is a character of great strength but also of powerful imagination (Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge in Chapter 1). In contrast, Goodman Brown's Calvinistic religious convic¬ tion that human beings are evil at the time of their birth, and are evil throughout their lives, which is confirmed to him by his nightmarish encounter, indicates the weakness and gullibility of his character (Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" in Chapter 7).

The Literary Uses of Setting

211

Setting Is a Means by Which Authors Structure and Shape Their Works _»«____ Authors often use setting as one of the means of organizing their stories, as in Maupassant's "The Necklace" (Chapter 3). The story's final scene is believable because Mathilde leaves her impoverished home to take a nostalgic stroll on the Champs-Elysees, the most fashionable street in Paris. Without this change of set¬ ting, she could not have encountered Jeanne Forrestier again, for their usual ways of life would have in fact separated them. In short, the structure of the story depends on a normal and natural change of scene. Another organizational application of place, time, and object is a framing or enclosing setting, when an author opens with a particular description and then returns to the same setting at the end. An example is Steinbeck's "The Chrysanthe¬ mums" (Chapter 7), which begins with the major character tending her flowers and ends with her seeing the destruction of some of these same flowers that she had given away. A comparable use of framing occurs in Welty's "A Worn Path" (Chapter 5), in which the walking trips taken by the main character open and close the story—to the town and then away from the town. By such means, framing cre¬ ates a formal completeness, just as it may underscore the author's depiction of the human condition.

Various Settings May Be Symbolic

_.__

If the scenes and materials of setting are highlighted or emphasized, they also may be taken as symbols through which the author expresses ideas. Such an emphasis is made in Ozick's "The Shawl," in which the shawl has the ordinary function of providing cover and warmth for a baby. Because it is so prominent, however, the shawl also may be taken as a symbol of the attempt to preserve future generations; and because its loss also produces a human loss, it symbolizes the helplessness of the victims in Nazi extermination camps during World War II. In O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" (Chapter 1), the constant references to the weights of the objects symbolize how the men's lives depend on their own resources—their car¬ ried burdens.

Setting Is Used in the Creation of Atmosphere and Mood Most actions require no more than a functional description of setting. Thus, taking a walk in a forest needs just the statement that there are many, or few, trees. How¬ ever, if you find descriptions of shapes, light and shadows, animals, wind, and sounds, you may be sure that the author is creating an atmosphere or mood for the action (as in Gilman's "The Yellow Wallpaper" in Chapter 9 and Joyce's "Araby" in this chapter, p. 213). There are many ways to develop moods. Descrip¬ tions of bright colors (red, orange, yellow) may contribute to a mood of happiness. The same colors in dim or eerie light, like the rooms in Poe's "The Cask of Amontil¬ lado" (p. 226), invoke gloom or intensify hysteria. References to smells and sounds bring the setting to life further by asking additional sensory responses from the

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

reader. The setting of a story in a small town or large city, in green or snow-cov¬ ered fields, or in middle-class or lower-class residences may evoke responses to these places that contribute to the work's atmosphere.

Setting May Underscore a Work’s Irony Just as setting may reinforce character and theme, so it may establish expecta¬ tions that are the opposite of what occurs. At the beginning of "The Lottery" (Chapter 2), for example, Jackson describes the plainness and folksiness of the assembling townspeople—details that make the conclusion ironic, for it is these same everyday folks who bring about the final horror. Irony is also a motif in Chopin's "The Story of an Hour" (Chapter 6) inasmuch as the major characters in the story are unable to prevent the final outcome, even though their intentions aim toward the opposite result. The ironic use of setting is by no means limited only to fiction, because it may also be significantly important in plays and poems. The case of dueling pistols in Chekhov's The Bear (Chapter 21) brings out the developing love between Smirnov and Mrs. Popov, for instead of separating these characters through death, the pistols bring them into passionate direct con¬ tact. Thomas Hardy creates a heavily ironic situation in the poem "Channel FiriRg "(Chapter 12) when the noise of large guns at sea "wakens" the skeletons buried in an English churchyard. The irony is that those engaged in the gunnery practice, if "red war" gets "yet redder," will soon be numbered among the skele¬ tons in the graveyard.

Stories for Study James Joyce ... ..Araby, 213 Lu Hsun .My Old Home, 217 Cynthia Ozick .The Shawl, 223 Edgar Allan Poe.Cask of Amontillado, 226

@ JAMES JOYCE

(1882-1940)

_

Joyce, one of the great twentieth-century ivriters, zvas born in Ire¬ land and received a vigorous and thorough education there. He left Ireland in 1902 and spent most of the rest of his life in Switzerland and France. His best-known works are Dubliners (1914), A Por¬ trait of the Artist as a Young Man (1914-1915), Ulysses (1922), and Finnegans Wake (1939). Much of his work has been called "fic¬ tionalized autobiography," a quality shown in "Araby," which is selected from Dubliners. As a young child, Joyce had lived on North Richmond Street, just like the narrator of the story. The bazaar that the narrator visits actually did take place in Dublin, from May 14 to 19, 1894, when Joyce was the same age as the narrator. It was called "Araby in Dublin" and zvas advertised as a "Grand Oriental Fete."

JOYCE • Araby

9

213

Araby (1914) North Richmond Street,0 being blind,0 was a quiet street except at the hour when the Chris¬ tian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces. The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing room. Air, musty from having long been enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbott, by Walter Scott, The Devoid Communicant0 and The Memoirs of Vidocq.0 I liked the last best because its leaves were yel¬ low. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister. When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odor¬ ous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side. Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlor watching her door. The blind was pulled down within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a sum¬ mons to all my foolish blood. Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring street, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of

"North Richmond Street: name of a real street in Dublin on which Joyce lived as a boy. "blind: dead-end street. °The Devout Communicant: a book of meditations by Pacificus Baker, published 1873. "The Memoirs ofVidocq: published 1829, the story of Francois Vidocq, a Parisian chief of detectives.

214

CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street singers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa,° or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through the throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: O love! O love! many times. At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby.° I forget whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar, she said; she would love to go. —And why can't you? I asked. While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat0 that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease. —It's well for you, she said. —If I go, I said, I will bring you something. What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason0 affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wan¬ dering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play. On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hall-stand, looking for the hatbrush, and answered me curtly: —Yes, boy, I know.

°0’Donovan Rossa: popular ballad about Jeremiah O’Donovan (1831-1915), a leader in the movement to free Ireland from English control. He was called "Dynamite Rossa.” °Araby: the bazaar held in Dublin from May 14 to 19, 1894. retreat: a special time set aside for concentrated religious instruction, discussion, and prayer. °Freemason: and therefore Protestant.

JOYCE • Araby

215

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me. When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still, it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad fig¬ ure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railing and at the border below the dress. When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used stamps for some pious pur¬ pose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said: —I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord. At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the halldoor. I heard him talking to him¬ self and heard the hall-stand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten. —The people are in bed and after their first sleep now, he said. I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically: —Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late enough as it is. My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. He asked me where I was going and, when I had told him a second time he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed.0 When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt. I held a florin0 tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the sta¬ tion. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name. I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which per¬ vades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the

°The Arab’s Farewell to his Steed: poem by Caroline Norton (1808-1877). °florin: a two-shilling coin in the 1890s (when the story takes place), worth perhaps twenty dollars in today’s money.

15

20

25

216

CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

words Cafe Chantani were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.

30

Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of the stalls and exam¬ ined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation. —O, I never said such a thing! —O, but you did! —O, but I didn't! —Didn't she say that? —Yes I heard her. —O, there's a . . . fib! Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone in her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured: —No, thank you.

as

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder. I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark. Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe what you consider to be the story's major idea.

2. How might the bazaar, "Araby," be considered symbolically in the story? To what extent does this symbol embody the story's central idea?

3. Consider the attitude of the speaker toward his home as indicated in the first para¬ graph. Why do you think the speaker uses the word blind to describe the dead-end street? What relationship exists between the speaker's pain at the end of the story to the ideas in the first paragraph?

4. Who is the narrator? About how old is he at the time of the story? About how old when he tells the story? What effect is produced by this difference in age between narratoras-character and narrator-as-storyteller?

LU HSUN [OR LU XUN] (1881 1936) Lu Hsiin (or Lit Xun) was the pen name of Zhou Shuren, one of the foremost Chinese writers in the forty-year period prior to the Com¬ munist takeover in 1949. His first apparent calling was in medicine, but he soon realized another calling—that of being a writer. He was born poor, and made his way on the strength of his talent and his efforts. He was educated in China and also in Japan. He was a mas¬ ter of Russian and German, and he made many translations from those languages into Chinese. He taught at a number of separate

HSUN • My Old Home ("Kuhsiang")

217

Chinese schools and was influential in shaping a desire for artistic independence among intel¬ lectuals of the time. He was an apostle of the "May Fourth Movement" of 1917. One result of this movement was the use of colloquial Chinese in literary texts, and for this reason Lu Hsiin is revered as one of the creators of modern Chinese literature. In the 1930s he contracted tuber¬ culosis and succumbed to that disease in 1936, for at that time there were no antibiotics that just ten years later might have cured him. His literary output was quite sizable, including three separate story collections and many volumes of essays, research studies, and translations. In addition, he wrote more than sixty poems. During the Chinese Cultural Revolution of 1966, Lu Hsiin's reputation survived the onslaughts that discredited many other writers. Indeed, Chairman Mao Zedong numbered Lu Hsiin as one of his favorite writers. Lu Hsiin is widely read in China today, and is favored because he stressed the political equality that was an important idea in China even before the revolution became established. One of his best known stories is "My Old Home" ("Kuhsiang"), which is included here.

My Old Home (“Kuhsiang”)

1921

Translated by Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang Braving the bitter cold, I traveled more than seven hundred miles back to the old home I had left over twenty years before. It was late winter. As we drew near my former home the day became overcast and a cold wind blew into the cabin of our boat, while all one could see through the chinks in our bam¬ boo awning were a few desolate villages, void of any sign of life, scattered far and near under the somber yellow sky. I could not help feeling depressed. Ah! Surely this was not the old home I had remembered for the past twenty years? The old home I remembered was not in the least like this. My old home was much bet¬ ter. But if you asked me to recall its peculiar charm or describe its beauties, I had no clear impression, no words to describe it. And now it seemed this was all there was to it. Then I rationalized the matter to myself, saying: Home was always like this, and although it has not improved, still it is not so depressing as I imagine; it is only my mood that has changed, because I am coming back to the country this time with no illusions. This time I had come with the sole object of saying goodbye. The old house our clan had lived in for so many years had already been sold to another family, and was to change hands before the end of the year. I had to hurry there before New Year's Day to say good¬ bye forever to the familiar old house, and to move my family to another place where I was working, far from my old home town. At dawn on the second day I reached the gateway of my home. Broken stems of withered grass on the roof, trembling in the wind, made very clear the reason why this old house could not avoid changing hands. Several branches of our clan had probably already moved away, so it was unusually quiet. By the time I reached the house my mother was already at the door to welcome me, and my eight-year-old nephew, Hung-erh, rushed out after her. Though mother was delighted, she was also trying to hide a certain feeling of sadness. She told me to sit down and rest and have some tea, letting the removal wait for the time being. Hung-erh, who had never seen me before, stood watching me at a distance. But finally we had to talk about the removal. I said that rooms had already been rented elsewhere, and I had bought a little furniture; in addition it would be necessary to sell all the furniture in the house in order to buy more things. Mother agreed, saying that the lug¬ gage was nearly all packed, and about half the furniture that could not easily be moved had already been sold. Only it was difficult to get people to pay up. "You must rest for a day or two, and call on our relatives, and then we can go," said mother.

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

"Yes." "Then there is Jun-tu. Each time he comes here he always asks after you, and wants very much to see you again. I told him the probable date of your return home, and he may be coming any time." At this point a strange picture suddenly flashed into mymind: a golden moon sus¬ pended in a deep blue sky and beneath it the seashore, planted as far as the eye could see with jade-green watermelons, while in their midst a boy of eleven or twelve, wearing a sil¬ ver necklet and grasping a steel pitchfork in his hand, was thrusting with all his might at a zha° which dodged the blow and escaped between his legs. This boy was Jun-tu. When I first met him he was just over ten—that was thirty years ago, and at that time my father was still alive and the family well off, so I was really a spoilt child. That year it was our family's turn to take charge of a big ancestral sacrifice, which came round only once in thirty years, and hence was an important one. In the first month the ancestral images were presented and offerings made, and since the sacrificial vessels were very fine and there was such a crowd of worshippers, it was necessary to guard against theft. Our family had only one part-time laborer. (In our district we divide laborers into three classes: those who work all the year for one family are called full-timers; those who are hired by the day are called dailies; and those who farm their own land and only work for one family at New Year, during festivals or when rents are being collected are called part-timers.) And since there was so much to be done, he told my father that he would send for his son Jun-tu to look after the sacrificial vessels. When my father gave his consent I was overjoyed, because I had long since heard of Juntu and knew that he was about my own age, born in the intercalary month, and when his horoscope was told it was found that of the five elements that of earth was lacking, so his father called him Jun-tu (Intercalary Earth). He could set traps and catch small birds. I looked forward every day to New Year, for New Year would bring Jun-tu. At last, when the end of the year came, one day mother told me that Jun-tu had come, and I flew to see him. He was standing in the kitchen. He had a round, crimson face and wore a small felt cap on his head and a gleaming silver necklet round his neck, showing that his father doted on him and, fearing he might die, had made a pledge with the gods and buddhas, using the necklet as a talisman. He was very shy, and I was the only person he was not afraid of. When there was no one else there, he would talk with me, so in a few hours we were fast friends. I don't know what we talked of then, but I remember that Jun-tu was in high spirits, saying that since he had come to town he had seen many new things. The next day I wanted him to catch birds. "Can't be done," he said. "It's only possible after a heavy snowfall. On our sands, after it snows, I sweep clear a patch of ground, prop up a big threshing basket with a short stick, and scatter husks of grain beneath. When the birds come there to eat, I tug a string tied to the stick, and the birds are caught in the basket. There are all kinds: wild pheasants,, wood¬ cocks, wood-pigeons, 'blue-backs'. . . ." Accordingly I looked forward very eagerly to snow. "Just now it is too cold," said Jun-tu another time, "but you must come to our place in summer. In the daytime we'll go to the seashore to look for shells, there are green ones and red ones, besides 'scare-devil' shells and 'buddha's hands.' In the evening when dad and I go to see to the watermelons, you shall come too." "Is it to look out for thieves?" "No. If passers-by are thirsty and pick a watermelon, folk down our way don't consider it as stealmg. What we have to look out for are badgers, hedgehogs and zha. When under

zha. the Chinese word for a small, rodent-like animal. See paragraph 23.

HSUN * My Old Home ("Kuhsiang")

219

the moonlight you hear the crunching sound made by the zha when it bites the melons, then you take your pitchfork and creep stealthily over. . . ." I had no idea then what this thing called zha was—and 1 am not much clearer now for that matter—but somehow I felt it was something like a small dog, and very fierce. "Don't they bite people?" "You have a pitchfork. You go across, and when you see it you strike. It's a very cunning creature and will rush towards you and get away between your legs. Its fur is as slippery as

25

oil_" I had never known that all these strange things existed: at the seashore there were shells all colors of the rainbow; watermelons were exposed to such danger, yet all I had known of them before was that they were sold in the greengrocer's. "On our shore, when the tide comes in, there are lots of jumping fish, each with two legs like a frog. . . Jun-tu's mind was a treasure-house of such strange lore, all of it outside the ken of my former friends. They were ignorant of all these things and, while Jun-tu lived by the sea, they like me could see only the four corners of the sky above the high courtyard wall. Unfortunately, a month after New Year Jun-tu had to go home. I burst into tears and he took refuge in the kitchen, crying and refusing to come out, until finally his father carried him off. Later he sent me by his father a packet of shells and a few very beautiful feathers, and I sent him presents once or twice, but we never saw each other again. Now that my mother mentioned him, this childhood memory sprang into life like a flash

30

of lightning, and 1 seemed to see my beautiful old home. So I answered: "Fine! And he—how is he?" "He's not at all well off either," said mother. And then, looking out of the door: "Here come those people again. They say they want to buy our furniture; but actually they just want to see what they can pick up. I must go and watch them." Mother stood up and went out. The voices of several women could be heard outside. I called Hung-erh to me and started talking to him, asking him whether he could write, and whether he would be glad to leave. "Shall we be going by train?" "Yes, we shall go by train." "And boat?" "We shall take a boat first." "Oh! Like this! With such a long moustache!" A strange shrill voice suddenly rang

35

out. I looked up with a start, and saw a woman of about fifty with prominent cheekbones and thin lips. With her hands on her hips, not wearing a skirt but with her trousered legs apart, she stood in front of me just like the compass in a box of geometrical instruments. I was flabbergasted. "Don't you know me? Why, I have held you in my arms!" I felt even more flabbergasted. Fortunately my mother came in just then and said: "He has been away so long, you must excuse him for forgetting. You should remember," she said to me, "this is Mrs. Yang from across the road. .. . She has a beancurd shop." Then, to be sure, I remembered. When I was a child there was a Mrs. Yang who used to sit nearly all day long in the beancurd shop across the road, and everybody used to call her Beancurd Beauty. She used to powder herself, and her cheekbones were not so prominent then nor her lips so thin; moreover she remained seated all the time, so that I had never noticed this resemblance to a compass. In those days people said that, thanks to her, that beancurd shop did very good business. But, probably on account of my age, she had made no impression on me, so that later I forgot her entirely. However, the Compass was extremely indignant and looked at me most contemptuously, just as one might look at a

40

220

CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

Frenchman who had never heard of Napoleon or an American who had never heard of Washington, and smiling sarcastically she said: "You had forgotten? Naturally I am beneath your notice. . . "Certainly not... I..." I answered nervously, getting to my feet. "Then you listen to me. Master Hsun. You have grown riqh, and they are too heavy to move, so you can't possibly want these old pieces of furniture any more. You had better let me take them away. Poor people like us can do with them." "I haven't grown rich. I must sell these in order to buy. . . "Oh, come now, you have been made the superintendent of a circuit, how can you still say you're not rich? You have three concubines now, and whenever you go out it is in a big sedan-chair with eight bearers. Do you still say you're not rich? Hah! You can't hide any¬ thing from me." Knowing there was nothing I could say, I remained silent. "Come now, really, the more money people have the more miserly they get, and the more miserly they are the more money they get . . . " remarked the Compass, turning indignantly away and walking slowly off, casually picking up a pair of mother's gloves and stuffing them into her pocket as she went out. After this a number of relatives in the neighborhood came to call. In the intervals between entertaining them I did some packing, and so three or four days passed. One very cold afternoon, I sat drinking tea after lunch when I was aware of someone coming in, and turned my head to see who it was. At the first glance I gave an involuntary start, hastily stood up and went over to welcome him. The newcomer was Jun-tu. But although I knew at a glance that this was Jun-tu, it was not the Jun-tu I remembered. He had grown to twice his former size. His round face, once crimson, had become sallow, and acquired deep lines and wrinkles; his eyes too had become like his father s, the rims swollen and red, a feature common to most peas¬ ants who work by the sea and are exposed all day to the wind from the ocean. He wore a shabby felt cap and just one very thin padded jacket, with the result that he was shiv¬ ering from head to foot. He carried a paper package and a long pipe, nor was his hand the plump red hand I remembered, but coarse and clumsy and chapped, like the bark of a pine tree. Delighted as I was, I did not know how to express myself, and could only say: "Oh! Tuntu—so it's you? ..." After this there were so many things I wanted to talk about, they should have poured out like a string of beads: woodcocks, jumping fish, shells, zha. ... But I was tongue-tied, unable to put all I was thinking into words. He stood there, mixed joy and sadness showing on his face. His lips moved, but not a sound did he utter. Finally, assuming a respectful attitude, he said clearly "Master!..." 3' I felt a shiver run through me; for I knew then what a lamentably thick wall had grown up between us. Yet I could not say anything. He turned his head to call: Shui-sheng, bow to the master." Then he pulled forward a boy who had been hiding behind his back, and this was just the Jun-tu of twenty years before, only a little paler and thinner, and he had no silver necklet. This is my fifth, he said. "He's not used to company, so he's shy and awkward " Mother came downstairs with Hung-erh, probably after hearing our voices. "I got your letter some time ago, madam," said Jun-tu. "I was really so pleased to know the master was coming back. ..." Now, why are you so polite? Weren't you playmates together in the past?" said mother gaily. You had better still call him Brother Hsun as before."

HSUN • My Old Home ("Kuhsiang")

221

"Oh, you are really too. . . . What bad manners that would be. I was a child then and didn't understand." As he was speaking Jun-tu motioned Shui-sheng to come and bow, but the child was shy, and stood stock-still behind his father. "So he is Shui-sheng? Your fifth?" asked mother. "We are all strangers, you can't blame him for feeling shy. Hung-erh had better take him out to play." When Hung-erh heard this he went over to Shui-sheng, and Shui-sheng went out with him, entirely at his ease. Mother asked Jun-tu to sit down, and after a little hesitation he did so; then leaning his long pipe against the table he handed over the paper package, saying: "In winter there is nothing worth bringing; but these few beans we dried ourselves, if you will excuse the liberty, sir." When I asked him how things were with him, he just shook his head. 70 "In a very bad way. Even my sixth can do a little work, but still we haven't enough to eat... and then there is no security ... all sorts of people want money, there is no fixed rule ... and the harvests are bad. You grow things, and when you take them to sell you always have to pay several taxes and lose money, while if you don't try to sell, the things may go bad ... He kept shaking his head; yet, although his face was lined with wrinkles, not one of them moved, just as if he were a stone statue. No doubt he felt intensely bitter, but could not express himself. After a pause he took up his pipe and began to smoke in silence. From her chat with him, mother learned that he was busy at home and had to go back the next day; and since he had had no lunch, she told him to go to the kitchen and fry some rice for himself. After he had gone out, mother and I both shook our heads over his hard life: many chil¬ dren, famines, taxes, soldiers, bandits, officials and landed gentry, all had squeezed him as dry as a mummy. Mother said that we should offer him all the things we were not going to take away, letting him choose for himself. That afternoon he picked out a number of things: two long tables, four chairs, an incense burner and candlesticks, and one balance. He also asked for all the ashes from the stove (in our part we cook over straw, and the ashes can be used to fertilize sandy soil), saying that

75

when we left he would come to take them away by boat. That night we talked again, but not of anything serious; and the next morning he went away with Shui-sheng. After another nine days it was time for us to leave. Jun-tu came in the morning. Shuisheng did not come with him—he had just brought a little girl of five to watch the boat. We were very busy all day, and had no time to talk. We also had quite a number of visitors, some to see us off, some to fetch things, and some to do both. It was nearly evening when we left by boat, and by that time everything in the house, however old or shabby, large or small, fine or coarse, had been cleared away. As we set off, in the dusk, the green mountains on either side of the river became deep blue, receding towards the stern of the boat. Hung-erh and I, leaning against the cabin window, were looking out together at the indistinct scene outside, when suddenly he asked: "Uncle, when shall we go back?" "Go back? Do you mean that before you've left you want to go back?" "Well, Shui-sheng has invited me to his home ..." He opened wide his black eyes in anxious thought. Mother and I both felt rather sad, and so Jun-tu's name came up again. Mother said that ever since our family started packing up, Mrs. Yang from the beancurd shop had come over every day, and the day before in the ash-heap she had unearthed a dozen bowls and plates, which after some discussion she insisted must have been buried there by Jun-tu, so that when he came to remove the ashes he could take them home at the same time. After mak¬ ing this discovery Mrs. Yang was very pleased with herself, and flew off taking the dog-teaser

8C

222

CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

with her. (The dog-teaser is used by poultry keepers in our parts. It is a wooden cage inside which food is put, so that hens can stretch their necks in to eat but dogs can only look on furiously.) And it was a marvel, considering the size of her feet, how fast she could run. I was leaving the old house farther and farther behind, while the hills and rivers of my old home were also receding gradually ever farther in the distance. But I felt no regret. I only felt that all round me was an invisible high wall, cutting me off from my fellows, and this depressed me thoroughly. The vision of that small hero with the silver necklet among the watermelons had formerly been as clear as day, but now it suddenly blurred, adding to my depression. Mother and Hung-erh fell asleep. I lay down, listening to the water rippling beneath the boat, and knew that I was going my way. I thought: although there is such a barrier between Jun-tu and myself, the children still have much in common, for wasn't Hung-erh thinking of Shui-sheng just now? I hope they will not be like us, that they will not allow a barrier to grow up between them. But again I would not like them, because they want to be akin, all to have a treadmill existence like mine, nor to suffer like Jun-tu until they become stupefied, nor yet, like others, to devote all their energies to dissipation. They should have a new life, a life we have never experienced. The access of hope made me suddenly afraid. When Jun-tu asked for the incense burner and candlesticks I had laughed up my sleeve at him, to think that he still worshipped idols and could not put them out of his mind. Yet what I now called hope was no more than an idol I had created myself. The only difference was that what he desired was close at hand, while what I desired was less easily realized. As I dozed, a stretch of jade-green seashore spread itself before my eyes, and above a round golden moon hung in a deep blue sky. I thought: hope cannot be said to exist, nor can it be said not to exist. It is just like roads across the earth. For actually the earth had no roads to begin with, but when many men pass one way, a road is made.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the locations and objects that are brought out in the story, such as the old home itself, the furniture to be given to Jun-tu, the ash heap, the surrounding coun¬ tryside, and the use of the boat for the speaker, Hsun, when he leaves. Why does Lu-Hsim, the writer, give the narrator his own name, "Hsun," and not some other name?

2. What is the importance of the beancurd shop (paragraph 44). How does the shop, and its owner, Mrs. Yang, figure into the memory of the narrator? Why does the narrator not seem to remember her?

3. Characterize Jun-tu's kind of life since Hsun and he had been friends briefly in child¬ hood. What kind of life has Jun-tu led, and does he now lead? What has happened to his manner, and his physical appearance, as a result of the hard life he has had?

4. What is the importance of Hung-erh's desire for coming back at some future time to see Shui-sheng? In what way is the friendship of the two boys comparable to the ear¬ lier friendship of the narrator and Jun-tu?

5. Why is one of Hsun's last thoughts about a wall, and about the way in which human beings make roads (paragraph 89)? What is the meaning of such roads? Why does Hsun state, about Jun-tu and the other people at his old home, "They should have a new life, a life we have never experienced."

OZICK • The Shawl

CYNTHIA OZICK

223

(b 1928)

Ozick has published three novels, Trust (1966), The Cannibal Galaxy (1983), and The Messiah of Stockholm (1987); four shortstory collections, The Pagan Rabbi (1971), Bloodshed (1976), Levitation (1982), and Collected Stories (2006); and frequent essays and reviews, among which is the collection Fame and Folly (1996). Among her many recognitions and awards, she serves on the Board of Advisers of the American Poetry Review. Her 1990 novella "Puttermesser Paired" was the first story featured in Prize Stories 1992: The O. Henry Awards, edited by William Abra¬ hams. “The Shawl," first published in The New Yorker in 1980, was republished in The Shawl in 1989, with a companion story describing the heroine's expe¬ riences in the United States after surviving the death camp. "The Shawl" was also adapted as a play in 1996.

The Shawl

(i980)

Stella, cold, cold the coldness of hell. How they walked on the roads together, Rosa with Magda curled up between sore breasts, Magda wound up in the shawl. Sometimes Stella car¬ ried Magda. But she was jealous of Magda. A thin girl of fourteen, too small, with thin breasts of her own, Stella wanted to be wrapped in a shawl, hidden away, asleep, rocked by the march, a baby, a round infant in arms. Magda took Rosa's nipple, and Rosa never stopped walking, a walking cradle. There was not enough milk; sometimes Magda sucked air, then she screamed. Stella was ravenous. Her knees were tumors on sticks, her elbows chicken bones. Rosa did not feel hunger; she felt light, not like someone walking but like someone in a faint, in trance, arrested in a fit, someone who is already a floating angel, alert and seeing everything, but in the air, not there, not touching the road. As if teetering on the tips of her fingernails. She looked into Magda's face through a gap in the shawl: a squirrel in a nest, safe, no one could reach her inside the little house of the shawl's windings. The face, very round, a pocket mirror of a face: but it was not Rosa s bleak complexion, dark like cholera, it was another kind of face altogether, eyes blue as air, smooth feathers of hair nearly as yel¬ low as the Star sewn into Rosa's coat. You could think she was one of their babies. Rosa, floating, dreamed of giving Magda away in one of the villages. She could leave the line for a minute and push Magda into the hands of any woman on the side of the road. But if she moved out of line they might shoot. And even if she fled the line for half a second and pushed the shawl-bundle at a stranger, would the woman take it? She might be surprised, or afraid; she might drop the shawl, and Magda would fall out and strike her head and die. The little round head. Such a good child, she gave up screaming, and sucked now only for the taste of the drying nipple itself. The neat grip of the tiny gums. One mite of a tooth tip sticking up in the bottom gum, how shining, an elfin tombstone of white marble gleaming there. Without complaining, Magda relinquished Rosa's teats, first the left, then the right, both were cracked, not a sniff of milk. The duct crevice extinct, a dead volcano, blind eye, chill hole, so Magda took the corner of the shawl and milked it instead. She sucked and sucked, flooding the threads with wetness. The shawl's good flavor, milk of linen. It was a magic shawl, it could nourish an infant for three days and three nights. Magda did not die, she stayed alive, although very quiet. A peculiar smell, of cinnamon and almonds, lifted out of her mouth. She held her eyes open every moment, forgetting how to blink or nap, and Rosa and sometimes Stella studied their blueness. On the road they raised one burden of a leg after another and studied Magda's face. "Aryan, Stella said, in a voice grown as thin as a string; and Rosa thought how Stella gazed at Magda like a

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

young cannibal. And the time that Stella said "Aryan," it sounded to Rosa as if Stella had really said "Let us devour her." But Magda lived to walk. She lived that long, but she did not walk very well, partly because she was only fifteen months old, and partly because the spindles of her legs could not hold up her fat belly. It was fat with air, full and round. Rosa gave almost all her food to Magda, Stella gave nothing; Stella was ravenous, a growing child herself, but not growing much. Stella did not menstruate. Rosa did not menstruate. Rosa was ravenous, but also not; she learned from Magda how to drink the taste of a finger in one's mouth. They were in a place without pity, all pity was annihilated in Rosa, she looked at Stella's bones without pity. She was sure that Stella was waiting for Magda to die so she could put her teeth into the little thighs. Rosa knew Magda was going to die very soon; she should have been dead already, but she had been buried away deep inside the magic shawl, mistaken there for the shivering mound of Rosa's breasts; Rosa clung to the shawl as if it covered only herself. No one took it away from her. Magda was mute. She never cried. Rosa hid her in the barracks, under the shawl, but she knew that one day someone would inform; or one day someone, not even Stella, would steal Magda to eat her. When Magda began to walk Rosa knew that Magda was going to die very soon, something would happen. She was afraid to fall asleep; she slept with the weight of her thigh on Magda's body; she was afraid she would smother Magda under her thigh. The weight of Rosa was becoming less and less; Rosa and Stella were slowly turning into air. Magda was quiet, but her eyes were horribly alive, like blue tigers. She watched. Sometimes she laughed it seemed a laugh, but how could it be? Magda had never seen anyone laugh. Still, Magda laughed at her shawl when the wind blew its comers, the bad wind with pieces of black in it, that made Stella s and Rosa s eyes tear. Magda's eyes were always clear and tearless. She watched like a tiger. She guarded her shawl. No one could touch it; only Rosa could touch it. Stella was not allowed. The shawl was Magda's own baby, her pet, her little sister. She tan¬ gled herself up in it and sucked on one of the comers when she wanted to be very still. Then Stella took the shawl away and made Magda die. Afterward Stella said: "I was cold." And afterward she was always cold, always. The cold went into her heart: Rosa saw that Stella's heart was cold. Magda flopped onward with her little pencil legs scribbling this way and that, in search of the shawl; the pencils faltered at the barracks opening, where the light began. Rosa saw and pursued. But already Magda was in the square outside the bar¬ racks, in the jolly light. It was the roll-call arena. Every morning Rosa had to conceal Magda under the shawl against a wall of the barracks and go out and stand in the arena with Stella and hundreds of others, sometimes for hours, and Magda, deserted, was quiet under the shawl, sucking on her corner. Every day Magda was silent, and so she did not die. Rosa saw that today Magda was going to die, and at the same time a fearful joy ran into Rosa's two palms, her fingers were on fire, she was astonished, febrile: Magda, in the sunlight, sway¬ ing on her pencil legs, was howling. Ever since the drying up of Rosa's nipples, ever since Magda s last scream on the road, Magda had been devoid of any syllable; Magda was a mute. Rosa believed that something had gone wrong with her vocal cords, with her wind¬ pipe, with the cave of her larynx; Magda was defective, without a voice; perhaps she was deaf, there might be something amiss with her intelligence; Magda was dumb. Even the laugh that came when the ash-stippled wind made a clown out of Magda's shawl was only the air-blown showing of her teeth. Even when the lice, head lice and body lice, crazed her so that she became as wild as one of the big rats that plundered the barracks at daybreak looking for carrion, she rubbed and scratched and kicked and bit and rolled without a whimper. But now Magda's mouth was spilling a long viscous rope of clamor "Maaaa—" It was the first noise Magda had ever sent out from her throat since the drying up of Rosa s nipples. y 6 F

OZICK • The Shawl

225

"Maaaa . . . aaa!" Again! Magda was wavering in the perilous sunlight of the arena, scrabbling on such pitiful little bent shins. Rosa saw. She saw that Magda was grieving for the loss of her shawl, she saw that Magda was going to die. A tide of commands hammered in Rosa's nip¬ ples: Fetch, get, bring! But she did not know which to go after first, Magda or the shawl. If she jumped out into the arena to snatch Magda up, the howling would not stop, because Magda would still not have the shawl; but if she ran back into the barracks to find the shawl, and if she found it, and if she came after Magda holding it and shaking it, then she would get Magda back, Magda would put the shawl in her mouth and turn dumb again. Rosa entered the dark. It was easy to discover the shawl. Stella was heaped under it, asleep in her thin bones. Rosa tore the shawl free and flew—she could fly, she was only air— into the arena. The sunheat murmured of another life, of butterflies in summer. The light was placid, mellow. On the other side of the steel fence, far away, there were green meadows speckled with dandelions and deep-colored violets; beyond them, even farther, innocent tiger lilies, tall, lifting their orange bonnets. In the barracks they spoke of "flowers," of "rain": excrement, thick turd-braids, and the slow stinking maroon waterfall that slunk down from the upper bunks, the stink mixed with a bitter fatty floating smoke that greased Rosa's skill. She stood for an instant at the margin of the arena. Sometimes the electricity inside the fence would seem to hum; even Stella said it was only an imagining, but Rosa heard real sounds in the wire: grainy sad voices. The farther she was from the fence, the more clearly the voices crowded at her. The lamenting voices strummed so convincingly, so passionately, it was impossible to suspect them of being phantoms. The voices told her to hold up the shawl, high; the voices told her to shake it, to whip with it, to unfurl it like a flag. Rosa lifted, shook, whipped, unfurled. Far off, very far, Magda leaned across her air-fed belly, reaching out with the rods of her arms. She was high up, elevated, riding someone's shoulder. But the shoulder that carried Magda was not coming toward Rosa and the shawl, it was drifting away, the speck of Magda was moving more and more into the smoky dis¬ tance. Above the shoulder a helmet glinted. The light tapped the helmet and sparkled it into a goblet. Below the helmet a black body like a domino and a pair of black boots hurled them¬ selves in the direction of the electrified fence. The electric voices began to chatter wildly. "Maa-maa, maaamaaa," they all hummed together. How far Magda was from Rosa now, across the whole square, past a dozen barracks, all the way on the other side! She was no big¬ ger than a moth. All at once Magda was swimming through the air. The whole of Magda traveled through loftiness. She looked like a butterfly touching a silver vine. And the moment Magda's feathered round head and her pencil legs and balloonish belly and zigzag arms splashed against the fence, the steel voices went mad in their growling, urging Rosa to run and run to the spot where Magda had fallen from her flight against the electrified fence; but of course Rosa did not obey them. She only stood, because if she ran they would shoot, and if she tried to pick up the sticks of Magda's body they would shoot, and if she let the wolf's screech ascending now through the ladder of her skeleton break out, they would shoot; so she took Magda's shawl and filled her own mouth with it, stuffed it in and stuffed it in, until she was swallowing up the wolf's screech and tasting the cinnamon and almond depth of Magda's saliva; and Rosa drank Magda's shawl until it dried.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe how Ozick presents the setting. Why do you not receive a clear picture of how things look? Why does Ozick present the details as she does?

2. In paragraph 15, what is on the other side of the fence? Explain Ozick's description here. Why does Ozick include these details so close to the story's end?

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

3. What character is the center of interest in "The Shawl"? Why is she being treated as she is? What are her impressions of the conditions and circumstances around her? What are her responses to her hunger and deprivation?

4. Explain the function of the more unpleasant and brutal details. What do you need to know about the circumstances of the story to respond to these details?

EDGAR ALLAN POE

(1809-1849)

During his lifetime Poe experienced much adversity. He was born in Boston, and his parents separated before he was a year old. His mother, an actress, traveled from city to city to do her performances, and she took Poe, along with his two siblings, along with her. Before he was three, she died, but Poe was rescued from a childhood of poverty and neglect when he was taken into foster care by John and Francis Allan of Richmond, Virginia. In the care of the Allans, Poe was educated both in Virginia and England. For a brief time he was a cadet at West Point. He became alienated from Francis Allan (from whom he took his middle initial, "A," which he preferred to the name "Allan"), and began a lifelong struggle against poverty, alcohol addiction, and physical and psychological illness. To make a living, he worked at various editorships and produced a steady stream of poems, essays, and stories. Though he was constantly productive, he did not gain much fame beyond the great praise heaped upon his poem "The Raven" in 1845. His death in 1849 is still an unexplained mystery. He had been on a trip to Philadelphia, which he never completed, and when he was found in Baltimore he was delirious, and in dire condition. He may have consumed a lethal amount of alcohol, possibly because he was urged or forced to do so, or he may have succumbed to a severe neurological illness. As a belated recognition of his stature as a writer, he was selected to the Hall of Fame of American Authors in 1986.

The Cask of Amontillado (1846) 1 he thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled—but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not per¬ ceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation. He had a weak point this Fortunato—although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity—to practice imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of

POE • The Cask of Amontillado

227

old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him—"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my

5

doubts." "How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!" "I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" "I have my doubts." "Amontillado!" "And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado!" "As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me—" "Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."

10

15

"Come, let us go." "Whither?" "To your vaults." "My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi—" "I have no engagement;—come." "My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaire0 closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my

20

palazzo. There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe," said he. "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cav¬ ern walls."

°roquelaire: a type of cloak.

25

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. "Nitre?" he asked, at length. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh!-—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! pgh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!" My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi—" "Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." True—true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily— but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps." Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould. "Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "And I to your long life." He again took my arm, and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said, "are extensive." "The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family." "I forget your arms." A huge human foot d or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit. "Good!" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermin¬ gling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. "The nitre!" I said: "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough—" "It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement—a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the brotherhood." "How?"

°Nemo me impune lacessit: No one attacks me with impunity.

POE * The Cask of Amontillado

229

"You are not of the masons." "Yes, yes," I said, "yes, yes." "You? Impossible! A mason?" "A mason," I replied. "A sign," he said. "It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire. "You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado." "Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great cat¬ acombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the cata¬ combs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi—" "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied; "the Amontillado." As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and fin¬ ished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the masonwork, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I trembled.

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess: but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt sat¬ isfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close, 1 had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. 1 had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said— “Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo—he! he! he!—over our wine—he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "Yes," I said, "let us be gone." “For the love of God, Montresor!" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud— "Fortunato!" No answer. I called again— "Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick—on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old ram¬ part of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!° QUESTIONS 1. Describe Poe's use of setting in "The Cask of Amontillado" (e.g., the cap and bells, Fortunato's motley clothing, the interior recess in which Fortunato is pinioned, etc.).

2. To whom is Montresor, the narrator speaking? What is the purpose of his saying "May he rest in peace" at the story's end? Why is the nature of Fortunato's insult against Montresor not explained in detail?

3. What do you learn about Montresor from his description of revenge and from his fam¬ ily's coat of arms?

4. How does Montresor manipulate Fortunato so that Fortunato seems to be the origina¬ tor of the trip to examine the Amontillado? Who is Luchesi? What does Fortunato think of him?

WRITING ABOUT SETTING In preparing to write about setting, determine the number and importance of locations, artifacts, and customs. Ask questions such as the following: •

How extensive are the visual descriptions? Does the author provide such vivid and carefully arranged detail about surroundings that you could

°ln pace requiescat: May he rest in peace.

Writing About Setting

•

•

• •

•

•

• • •

231

draw a map or plan? Or is the scenery vague and difficult for you to reconstruct imaginatively? In either case, why? What connections, if any, are apparent between locations and characters? Do the locations bring characters together, separate them, facilitate their privacy, make intimacy and conversation difficult? How fully are objects described? How vital are they to the action? How important are they in the development of the plot or idea? How are they connected to the mental states of the characters? How important to plot and character are shapes, colors, times of day, clouds, storms, light and sun, seasons of the year, and conditions of vegetation? Are the characters poor, moderately well off, or rich? How does their eco¬ nomic condition affect what happens to them, and how does it affect their actions and attitudes? What cultural, religious, and political conditions are brought out in the story? How do the characters accept and adjust to these conditions? How do the conditions affect the characters' judgments and actions? What is the state of houses, furniture, and objects (e.g., polished and new, old and worn, ragged and torn)? What connections can you find between these conditions and the outlook and behavior of the characters? How important are sounds or silences? To what degree is music or other sound important in the development of character and action? Do characters respect or mistreat the environment? If there is an environ¬ mental connection, how central is it to the story? What conclusions do you think the author expects you to draw as a result of the neighborhood, culture, and larger world of the story?

Strategies for Organizing Ideas Begin by making a brief description of the setting or scenes of the work, speci¬ fying the amount and importance of detail. Choosing one of the approaches in the following list, describe the approach you plan to develop. As you gather material for your essay, however, you may need to combine your major approach with one or more of the others. Whatever approach for development you choose, be sure to consider setting not as an end in itself but rather as illus¬ tration and evidence for claims you are making about the particular story. 1. Setting and action. Explore the importance of setting in the work. How extensively is the setting described? Are locations essential or incidental to the actions? Does the setting serve as part of the action (e.g., places of flight or concealment; public places where people meet openly, or hidden places where they meet privately; natural or environmental conditions; seasonal conditions such as searing heat or numbing cold; customs and conventions)? Do any objects cause inspiration, difficulty, or conflict (such as a bridge, a farm, a walking stick, a necklace, a fence, a hair ribbon, a frozen lake, a bizarre party, a hat floating in water)? How directly do these objects influence the action?

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

2. Setting and organization. How is the setting connected to the various parts of the work? Does it undergo any changes as the action develops? Why are some parts of the setting more important than others? Is the setting used as a structural frame or enclosure for the story? Describe the effect and pur¬ pose of such a structural use of setting. How do objects such as money, appli¬ ances, property, or physical location (e.g., a subway platform, a prison camp, a winter scene on a lake) influence the characters? How do descriptions made at the start become important in the action later on? 3. Setting and character. Analyze the degree to which setting influences and interacts with character. Are the characters happy or unhappy where they live? Do they get into discussions or arguments about their home environ¬ ments? Do they want to stay or leave? Do the economic, philosophical, reli¬ gious, or ethnic aspects of the setting make the characters undergo changes? What jobs do the characters perform because of their ways of life? What free¬ doms or restraints do these jobs cause? How does the setting influence their decisions, transportation, speech habits, eating habits, attitudes about love and honor, and general behavior? 4. Setting and atmosphere. To what extent does setting contribute to mood? Does the setting go beyond the minimum needed for action or character? How do descriptive words paint verbal pictures and evoke moods through references to colors, shapes, sounds, smells, or tastes? Does the setting estab¬ lish a mood, say, of joy or hopelessness, plenty or scarcity? What is the effect of daylight or nighttime upon events in the story? Do the locations and activi¬ ties of the characters suggest permanence or impermanence (like returning home, creating figures out of mud, repairing a battered boat, perceiving ocean currents, being confined within a room)? Are things warm and pleasant, or cold and harsh? What connection do you find between the atmosphere and the author's expressed or apparent thoughts about existence? 5. Setting and other aspects of the story. Does the setting reinforce the story's meaning? Does it establish irony about the circumstances and ideas in the story? If you choose this approach, consult the introductory paragraph in "The Literary Uses of Setting" earlier in this chapter. If you are interested in writing about the symbolic implications of a setting, consult Chapter 7. To conclude, summarize your major points or write about related aspects of setting that you have not considered. Thus, if your essay treats the relation¬ ship of setting and action, your conclusion might mention connections of the setting with character or atmosphere. You might also point out whether your central idea about setting also applies to other major aspects of the story.

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

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233

Jani 1 Sonal Jani Professor Addas English 200 1 March 2011 The Interaction of Story and Setting in James Joyce’s “Araby”0 The narrator of Joyce’s “Araby” is a young man telling a story about

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himself as an early adolescent first experiencing the overwhelming emotions that accompany sexual development. This intensely imaginative boy attaches his powerful feelings to the unnamed sister of Mangan, one of his playmates. Although he mainly worships her from afar, the two finally do speak, and he promises her that he will go to a Dublin bazaar called “Araby” and buy something for her. To him, the gift will be virtually a holy gift. In telling this boy’s story Joyce closely integrates the events themselves with the places in which they occur. The setting not only serves as the place of the actions, but it is also suggestive of the narrator’s intense but confused emotions.* The aspects of setting are the outside scenes and the interior of his home, and also the negative views of the environment near his home and at the bazaar, f Even before the narrator tells about going to the bazaar, a number of elements of setting establish his ardent but silent affection for Mangan’s sister. When she is first introduced, the narrator and his friend Mangan are standing in “shadow,” while she is described as standing in the light—“her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door” of her house—as though she is surrounded by a halo (213). When she and the narrator first speak together about the Araby bazaar, the narrator says, “The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and falling, lit up the hand upon the railing” (214). These words of love and worship blend setting and subject matter, for the narrator’s feelings stem out of his vision of Mangan’s sister at the entrance of the house. The interior light and the

°See pages 213-16 for this story. ♦Central idea. ^Thesis sentence.

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

Jani 2 lamplight, which illuminate her in these two scenes, provide for him the hopeful vision that he might move permanently out of the shadow to be with her. Place, object, illumination, and imagination all blend in these early scenes and seem, as setting, to offer him the opportunities which he dreams that he might realize. l3l

Additional aspects of setting also point to the narrator’s idealized feelings for the girl. The first of these is the local marketplace, where he accompanies his aunt to help carry parcels (his aunt and uncle are apparently his guardians). The circumstances here are “hostile to romance,” for the streets are swarming with “drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers [. . . and] the shrill litanies of shop-boys” (213). Despite this loud and boisterous environment, the narrator confesses that he indulges himself in the daydream of acting out his great love and devotion to Mangan’s sister. “I imagined,” he says, “that I bore my chalice safely through the throng of foes” (214). In these passages the word chalice, and also the word litanies, reveals the religious overtones about the intensity of the narrator’s boyhood love. Another significant location of setting is the back drawing room of his home, where a priest who once owned the house had died. In the total privacy of this room, listening to the sound of the rain hit the earth outside, the narrator as a boy experiences great depths of emotion that are mixed with religious fervor and prayer: “All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: O love! O love! many times” (214).

Dl

An alternative pattern of settings in the story, however, complements the narrator’s misgivings and disillusionment about his feelings. The very first sentence explains that the street on which he lived as a boy was “blind,” a term meaning “dead-end” (213). Even here at the beginning, then, the setting casts a pall over the narrator’s idealized love, the implication of the setting being that the narrator’s youthful imaginative power could have no outlet. In addition, the streets and alleys around his house are described as “dark,” a word that Joyce uses three times to describe the scenes of early winter nights when the narrator and his friends play their childhood games of chase (213). Darkness also

Illustrative Student Essay

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Jani 3 pervades both the “gloomy rooms” of the narrator’s house and the home of Mangan’s sister. The darkness constantly surrounding the narrator suggests the uncertainty and lack of direction of his feelings, and he explains that his attitudes were those of “confused adoration” (214). This lack of knowledge and experience is reinforced by the “uninhabited house” at the end of his street, which is “detached from its neighbors” (213), and by the “deserted” and “bare” third-class train car that carries him to the Araby bazaar (214). The setting within the bazaar is strongly influential in the narrator’s

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disillusionment. His aim has been to purchase “something” for Mangan’s sister, a gesture that he believes is on the level of a holy obligation. But when he enters the building with the “magical name,” he is struck not by the romance of the setting and the possibility of realizing his dreams, but rather by the closed stalls and the pervading darkness (215). In addition, he finds that the place is bathed in “a silence like that which pervades a church after a service” (215). Here the setting illustrates the narrator’s memory of growing frustration and anger. When he goes to one of the few open stalls to shop for a gift, he notices “the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall” (216). The young saleswoman there, who is rather unintelligent, is flirting with two men, but she leaves her flirtation to ask if she can help him. Interestingly, as she leaves him she changes “the position of one of the vases” (216). This alteration of setting suggests a similar alteration in the boy’s romantic ideals, for he concludes that his trip has been “useless” (216). The darkness that immediately comes over the upper part of the hall is suggestive of his “vanity” (216) and it also suggests that his idealized love has fled to an emotional equivalent of the shadow where, earlier, he and Mangan waited for Mangan’s sister to appear. Without question the narrator as a boy is capable of intense imagination and the most deeply felt romantic enthusiasm, as is shown by the setting of doorlight and lamplight which forms a halo around Mangan’s sister. But the negative objects and locations of setting, together with the narrator’s youth,

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CHAPTER 4 • Setting: The Background of Place, Objects, and Culture in Stories

Jani 4 suggest the impossibility of his ever realizing his dreams. Ultimately, he concludes that he is a “creature driven and derided by vanity,” a realization that overwhelms him with “anguish and anger” (216). The story ends on this note, and Joyce’s use of setting throughout the story points toward the same conclusion.

Jani 5 Work Cited Joyce, James. “Araby.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 213-16. Print.

Commentary on the Essay Because the topic of this essay is the setting of Joyce's "Araby," it is most impor¬ tant to note that, after a few sentences briefly describing the narrative, the essay focuses not on character, or point of view, but on setting. Setting is foremost. Whenever other aspects of the story become significant, the point of the essay is to emphasize these additional aspects to the story's setting. The central idea of the essay is that the locations and some of the objects described in the story are linked with the major character's developing emotions. In its consideration of action and setting, the essay illustrates some aspects of strategy 1 described on page 231. In showing the connection between setting, character, and ideas, it illustrates strategies 3 and 5. The introductory paragraph indicates the closeness of setting and story and lays out the areas to be developed. Paragraph 2 contains details showing the ways in which place and conditions of light establish the narrator's affections when he was a boy. Paragraph 3 brings out two major additional details of setting that illustrate the force of the narrator s boyhood emotions: in public, where he indulges his day¬ dreams, and in private, where his desires take on an almost religious fervor. Para¬ graph 4 introduces a contrary patterning of setting in and around the boy's home

Writing Topics About Setting

237

that reinforces the negative aspects of the narrator's childhood love. Paragraph 5 does the same for the setting of the Araby bazaar itself. The concluding paragraph encapsulates both the positive and negative aspects of setting, and focuses on the story's conclusion as the climax of the narrator's boyhood disillusionment.

Writing Topics About Setting Writing Paragraphs 1. Write a paragraph in which you compare and contrast how details of setting establish qualities and traits of one of the following female characters: Stella of "The Shawl" (this chapter), or Miss Brill of "Miss Brill" (Chapter 3). To add to your comparison, you might discuss how the painters Boucher, Hopper, and Whistler portray background and dress to highlight the character of their female subjects (see pp. 1-5,1-6, and I—11).

2. Write a paragraph in which you consider the significance of place to character in "My Old Home" (this chapter) or "Araby" (this chapter). Writing Essays 1. In what ways might we say that both "The Cask of Amontillado (this chapter) and "The Shawl" (this chapter) are inseparable from their settings? Write an essay in which you consider the relationship of character to place and circum¬ stance in order to answer this question. How could the actions of the stories happen without the locations in which they occur? Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write a short narrative as though it is part of a story (which you may also wish to write for the assignment), using option (a) and/or (b). a. Relate a natural setting or type of day to a mood—for example, a nice day to happiness and satisfaction, or a cold, cloudy, rainy day to sadness. Or create irony by relating the nice day to sadness or the rainy day to happiness. b. Indicate how an object or circumstance becomes the cause of conflict or rec¬ onciliation (such as the shawl in "The Shawl" in this chapter or the newly tuned piano in "Two Kinds" in Chapter 3).

2. Choose one story included in this chapter and rewrite a page or two, taking the characters out of their setting and placing them in an entirely new setting or in the setting of another story (you choose). Then write a brief analysis dealing with questions like these: How do you think your characters would be affected by their new settings? Do you make them change slowly or rapidly? Why? As a result of your rewriting, what can you conclude about the uses of setting in fiction? Library Assignment 1. Locate two books or Internet sources on the career of James Joyce. On the basis of information you find in these sources, write a brief account of Joyce's use of setting and place to evoke atmosphere and to bring out qualities of human character.

Chapter 5 Structure: The Organization of Stories

S

tructure refers to the ways in which writers arrange materials in accord with the general ideas and purposes of their works. Unlike plot, which is focused on conflict or conflicts (see Chapter 1), structure defines the layouts of works—the ways the story, play, or poem is shaped. Structure is about matters such as placement, balance, recur¬ ring themes, true and misleading conclusions, suspense, and the imitation of models or forms such as reports, letters, conversations, or confessions. A work might be divided into numbered sections or parts, or it might begin in a countryside (or one state) and conclude in a city (or another state), or it might develop a relationship between two people from their first introduction to their falling in love. The importance of structure may be seen graphically in the art of the painter. As an example, the painting Harbour at Sunset (p. 1-3), by the French painter Claude Lorrain (1600-1682), pictures a lifelike scene comprising a harbor, ships, boats, buildings, and a shore on which people are working, chatting, transacting business, and fighting. Near the horizon, the distant and glowing sun bathes the scene in light, which seems there¬ fore to be the source of all the human activities in the painting. This structuring of figures and background brings out contrasts between human beings, human artifacts and nature, and human existence and the cosmos. Claude’s painting suggests that, despite temporary human concerns, the source of life is like the sun—remote, vast, mysterious, and beautiful. In fiction, we find that organization and structure highlight many similar contrasts. To study structure is to study these arrangements and the purposes for which they are made.

Formal Categories of Structure Many aspects of structure are common to all genres of literature. Particularly for stories and plays, however, the following aspects form a skeleton, a pattern of development.

The Exposition Provides the Materials Necessary to Put the Plot into Operation Exposition is the laying out, the putting forth, of the materials in the story—the mam characters, their backgrounds, their characteristics, interests, goals, limitations, potentials, and basic assumptions. Exposition may not be limited to the beginning of the work, where it is most expected, but may be found anywhere. Thus, intricacies. 238

Formal Categories of Structure

239

twists, turns, false leads, blind alleys, surprises, and other quirks may be introduced to interest, intrigue, perplex, mystify, and please readers. Whenever something new arises, to the degree that it is new it is a part of exposition.

The Complication Marks the Beginning and the Growth of the Conflict ____ The complication is the onset and development of the major conflict—the plot. The major participants are the protagonist and antagonist, together with whatever ideas and values they represent, such as good or evil, freedom or oppression, independence or dependence, love or hate, intelligence or stupidity, and knowl¬ edge or ignorance.

The Crisis Marks the Decisions Made to End the Conflict The crisis (the Greek word for judgment or separation—a separating, distinguish¬ ing, or turning point) marks that part of the action where the conflict reaches its greatest tension. During the crisis, a decision or an action is undertaken to resolve the complication or complications, and therefore the crisis is that point at which uncertainty and anxiety are greatest. Usually the crisis is followed closely by the next stage, the climax. In fact, the two often occur so near each other that they are considered the same.

The Climax Is the Conclusion of the Conflict Because the climax (the Greek word for ladder) is a consequence of the crisis, it is the story's high point (from the idea of a ladder) and may take the shape of an action, a decision, an affirmation or denial, or an illumination or realization. It is the logical conclusion of the preceding actions; no new major developments fol¬ low it. In most stories, the climax occurs at the end or close to it. For example, in Tom Whitecloud's "Blue Winds Dancing" (this chapter), the young Native-American narrator has left college in California and has returned home to his welcoming family in northern Wisconsin, just at Christmas time. Standing by a frozen lake near the lodge of his native home, he hears the ice groaning with the cold, and he ponders the truth of an Indian legend about "an old woman under the ice, trying to get out so she can punish some runaway lovers" (paragraph 30). He thinks that if he is genuinely Indian, he will instinctively know that the story is true. As he listens to the ice, he concludes that it is true—that "there is an old woman under the ice." This realization is the story's climax, embodying the security and happiness that the narrator has dreamed about and hoped for.

The Resolution or Denouement Finishes the Work and Releases the Tension The resolution (the Latin word for untying or releasing) or denouement (the French word for untying or undoing) is the completing of the story or play after the climax; for once the climax has occurred, the work's tension and uncertainty are finished,

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

and most authors conclude quickly to avoid losing their readers' interest. For instance, Jin ends "Saboteur" (this chapter) by stating that an epidemic suddenly struck. In other words, after the story's major conflicts are finished, the denouement brings the work to a satisfying and rapid ending. v

Formal and Actual Structure The structure just described is a formal one, an ideal pattern that moves directly from beginning to end. Few narratives and dramas follow this pattern exactly, however. A mystery story might hold back crucial details of exposition (because the goal is to mystify); a suspense story might keep the protagonist ignorant but provide readers with abundant details in order to maximize concern and tension about the outcome. More realistic, less "artificial" stories might also contain structural variations. For example, Welty's "A Worn Path" (this chapter) produces a double take because of unique structuring. During most of the story the major character, Phoenix, seems to be in conflict with age, poverty, and environment. At the end, however, the story brings out an additional difficulty—a new conflict that enlarges our responses to include not just concern but also heartfelt anguish. "A Worn Path" is just one example of how a structural variation maximizes the impact of a work. There are many other possible variants in structure. One of these is called flashback, or selective recollection, in which present circumstances are explained by the selective introduction of past events. The moment at which the flashback is introduced may be a part of the resolution of the plot, and the flash¬ back might lead you into a moment of climax but then go from there to develop the details that are more properly part of the exposition. Let us again consider our brief story about John and Jane (Chapter 1) and use the flashback method of structuring the story: Jane is now old, and a noise outside causes her to remember the argument that forced her to part with John many years before. They were deeply in love, but their disagree¬ ment about her wishes for a career and equality split them apart. Then she pictures in her mind the years she and John have spent happily together after they married. She then contrasts her present happiness with her memory of her earlier, less happy mar¬ riage, and from there she recalls her youthful years of courtship with John before their disastrous conflict developed. Then she looks over at John, reading in a chair, and smiles. John smiles back, and the two embrace. Even then, Jane has tears on her cheeks. In this structure the action begins and remains in the present. Important parts of the past flood the protagonist's memory in flashback, though not in the order in which they happened. Memory might be used structurally in other ways. An example is Katherine Anne Porter's "The Jilting of Granny Weatherall" (Chapter 7), an intense story that is developed within the dying imaginings of an aged woman, Granny Weatherall. As she passes in and out of consciousness on her deathbed, we follow her recollection of major events in her life, such as being deserted on her wedding day, remarrying and bringing up her children, enduring her long widowhood, losing a favorite daughter, and retaining her lifelong obligation

ELLISON • Battle Royal

241

to her church. In short, this story builds its chronology through a series of apparently disconnected but closely unified flashbacks. Each narrative or drama has its own unique structure. Some stories may be organized according to simple geography, as in Whitecloud's "Blue Winds Danc¬ ing" (a ride from California to Wisconsin [this chapter]) and Munro's "The Found Boat" (from a spring flood to an exploration on and beside a river, in Chapter 6). Parts or scenes might be carried on through a period of dying fantasy, as in Ambrose Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Chapter 1). Additionally, parts of a work may be set out as fragments of conversation, as in St. Luke's "The Parable of the Prodigal Son" (Chapter 7), or as a ceremony, as in Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7), or as an announcement of a party, as in "The Necklace" (Chapter 3). The possible variations in literary structures are infinite.

Stories for Study Ralph Ellison.Battle Royal, Ha Jin.Saboteur, Jhumpa Lahiri.The Interpreter of Maladies, Eudora Welty .A Worn Path, Tom Whitedoud.Blue Winds Dancing,

RALPH ELLISON

241 251 258 270 276

(1914-1994)

Ralph Ellison was born in Oklahoma seven years after it became a state. As a youth he was attracted to music, particularly jazz; and at one point he planned on becoming a classical music composer, his ideal being Richard Wagner, the giant among nineteenth century German operatic composers. In 1933 Ellison went to Alabama's Tuskeegee Institute, but after three years he left for New York with a plan to become a sculptor. Once in New York, he met Richard Wright (1908-1960), and with Wright's encouragement and influence he began writing essays and stories for magazines such as New Chal¬ lenge and New Masses. Before he published Invisible Man in 1952, his best known works were the stories "King of the Bingo Game” and "Flying Home." With Invisible Man, which won a National Book Award in 1953, his work became widely read and taught. In 1964 he published Shadow and Act, a collection of essays, and in 1985 he published Going to the Territory, a book of essays and interviews. In later years he held a chair in humanities at New York University. His works published posthumously are The Collected Essays of Ralph Ellison (1995), Fly¬ ing Home and Other Stories (1996), and the novel Juneteenth (1999).

Battle Royal

(1952)

It goes a long way back, some twenty years. All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself. But first 1 had to discover that I am an invisible man! And yet I am no freak of nature, nor of history. I was in the cards, other things having been equal (or unequal) eighty-five years ago. I am not ashamed of my grandparents for having been slaves. I am only ashamed of myself for having at one time been ashamed. About eighty-five years ago they were told that they were free, united with others of our country in everything pertaining to the common good, and, in everything social, separate like the fingers of the hand. And they believed it. They exulted in it. They stayed in their place, worked hard, and brought up my father to do the same. But my grandfather is the one. He was an odd old guy, my grandfather, and I am told 1 take after him. It was he who caused the trouble. On his deathbed he called my father to him and said, "Son, after I'm gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy's country ever since I gave up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion's mouth. I want you to overcome 'em with yeses, under¬ mine 'em with grins, agree 'em to death and destruction, let 'em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open." They thought the old man had gone out of his mind. He had been the meekest of men. The younger children were rushed from the room, the shades drawn and the flame of the lamp turned so low that it sputtered on the wick like the old man's breath¬ ing. "Learn it to the young uns," he whispered fiercely; then he died. But my folks were more alarmed over his last words than over his dying. It was as though he had not died at all, his words caused so much anxiety. I was warned emphatically to forget what he had said and, indeed, this is the first time it has been mentioned outside the family circle. It had a tremendous effect upon me, however. I could never be sure of what he meant. Grandfather had been a quiet old man who never made any trouble, yet on his deathbed he had called himself a traitor and a spy, and he had spoken of his meekness as a dangerous activity. It became a constant puzzle which lay unanswered in the back of my mind. And whenever things went well for me I remembered my grandfather and felt guilty and uncomfortable. It was as though I was carrying out his advice in spite of myself. And to make it worse, everyone loved me for it. I was praised by the most lily-white men of the town. I was considered an example of desirable conduct—just as my grandfather had been. And what puzzled me was that the old man had defined it as treachery. When I was praised for my conduct I felt a guilt that in some way I was doing something that was really against the wishes of the white folks, that if they had understood they would have desired me to act just the opposite, that I should have been sulky and mean, and that that really would have been what they wanted, even though they were fooled and thought they wanted me to act as I did. It made me afraid that some day they would look upon me as a traitor and I would be lost. Still I was more afraid to act any other way because they didn't like that at all. The old man's words were like a curse. On my graduation day I delivered an oration in which I showed that humility was the secret, indeed, the very essence of progress. (Not that I believed this—how could I, remembering my grandfather?—1 only believed that it worked.) It was a great success. Everyone praised me and I was invited to give the speech at a gather¬ ing of the town's leading white citizens. It was a triumph for our whole community. It was in the main ballroom of the leading hotel. When I got there I discovered that it was on the occasion of a smoker, and I was told that since I was to be there anyway I might as well take part in the battle royal to be fought by some of my schoolmates as part of the entertainment. The battle royal came first. All of the town's big shots were there in their tuxedoes, wolfing down the buffet foods, drinking beer and whiskey and smoking black cigars. It was a large room with a high ceiling.

ELLISON • Battle Royal

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Chairs were arranged in neat rows around three sides of a portable boxing ring. The fourth side was clear, revealing a gleaming space of polished floor. I had some misgivings over the battle royal, by the way. Not from a distaste for fighting, but because I didn't care too much for the other fellows who were to take part. They were tough guys who seemed to have no grandfather's curse worrying their minds. No one could mistake their toughness. And besides, I suspected that fighting a battle royal might detract from the dignity of my speech. In those pre-invisible days I visualized myself as a potential Booker T. Washington.0 But the other fellows didn't care too much for me either, and there were nine of them. I felt superior to them in my way, and I didn't like the manner in which we were all crowded together into the servants' elevator. Nor did they like my being there. In fact, as the warmly lighted floors flashed past the elevator we had words over the fact that I, by taking part in the fight, had knocked one of their friends out of a night's work. We were led out of the elevator through a rococo hall into an anteroom and told to get into our fighting togs. Each of us was issued a pair of boxing gloves and ushered out into the big mirrored hall, which we entered looking cautiously about us and whispering, lest we might accidentally be heard above the noise of the room. It was foggy with cigar smoke. And already the whiskey was taking effect. I was shocked to see some of the most impor¬ tant men of the town quite tipsy. They were all there—bankers, lawyers, judges, doctors, fire chiefs, teachers, merchants. Even one of the more fashionable pastors. Something we could not see was going on up front. A clarinet was vibrating sensuously and the men were standing up and moving eagerly forward. We were a small tight group, clustered together, our bare upper bodies touching and shining with anticipatory sweat; while up front the big shots were becoming increasingly excited over something we still could not see. Suddenly I heard the school superintendent, who had told me to come, yell, "Bring up the shines gen¬ tlemen! Bring up the little shines!" We were rushed up to the front of the ballroom, where it smelled even more strongly of tobacco and whiskey. Then we were pushed into place. I almost wet my pants. A sea of faces, some hostile, some amused, ringed around us, and in the center, facing us, stood a magnifi¬ cent blonde—stark naked. There was dead silence. I felt a blast of cold air chill me. I tried to back away, but they were behind me and around me. Some of the boys stood with lowered heads, trembling. I felt a wave of irrational guilt and fear. My teeth chattered, my skin turned to goose flesh, my knees knocked. Yet I was strongly attracted and looked in spite of myself. Had the price of looking been blindness, I would have looked. The hair was yellow like that of a circus kewpie doll, the face heavily powdered and rouged, as though to form an abstract mask, the eyes hollow and smeared a cool blue, the color of a baboon's butt. I felt a desire to spit upon her as my eyes brushed slowly over her body. Her breasts were firm and round as the domes of East Indian temples, and I stood so close as to see the fine skin texture and beads of pearly perspiration glistening like dew around the pink and erected buds of her nipples. I wanted at one and the same time to run from the room, to sink through the floor, or go to her and cover her from my eyes and the eyes of the others with my body; to feel the soft thighs, to caress her and destroy her, to love her and murder her, to hide from her, and yet to stroke where below the small American flag tattooed upon her belly her thighs formed a capital V. I had a notion that of all in the room she saw only me with her impersonal eyes. And then she began to dance, a slow sensuous movement; the smoke of a hundred cigars clinging to her like the thinnest of veils. She seemed like a fair bird-girl girdled in veils calling to me from the angry surface of some gray and threatening sea. I was trans¬ ported. Then I became aware of the clarinet playing and the big shots yelling at us. Some threatened us if we looked and others if we did not. On my right I saw one boy faint. And

°Booker T. Washington: Booker T. Washington (1856-1915) was born a slave, but ultimately he became widely recognized as an educator, and served as president of the Tuskeegee Institute.

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

now a man grabbed a silver pitcher from a table and stepped close as he dashed ice water upon him and stood him up and forced two of us to support him as his head hung and moans issued from his thick bluish lips. Another boy began to plead to go home. He was the largest of the group, wearing dark red fighting trunks much too small to conceal the erection which projected from him as though in answer to the'insinuating low-registered moaning of the clarinet. He tried to hide himself with his boxing gloves. And all the while the blonde continued dancing, smiling faintly at the big shots who watched her with fascination, and faintly smiling at our fear. I noticed a certain merchant who followed her hungrily, his lips loose and drooling. He was a large man who wore dia¬ mond studs in a shirtfront which swelled with the ample paunch underneath, and each time the blonde swayed her undulating hips he ran his hand through the thin hair of his bald head and, with his arms upheld, his posture clumsy like that of an intoxicated panda, wound his belly in a slow and obscene grind. This creature was completely hypnotized. The music had quickened. As the dancer flung herself about with a detached expression on her face, the men began reaching out to touch her. I could see their beefy fingers sink into her soft flesh. Some of the others tried to stop them and she began to move around the floor in graceful circles, as they gave chase, slipping and sliding over the polished floor. It was mad. Chairs went crashing, drinks were spilt, as they ran laughing and howling after her. They caught her just as she reached a door, raised her from the floor, and tossed her as col¬ lege boys are tossed at a hazing, and above her red, fixed-smiling lips I saw the terror and disgust in her eyes, almost like my own terror and that which I saw in some of the other boys. As I watched, they tossed her twice and her soft breasts seemed to flatten against the air and her legs flung widely as she spun. Some of the more sober ones helped her to escape. And I started off the floor, heading for the anteroom with the rest of the boys. Some were still crying and in hysteria. But as we tried to leave we were stopped and ordered to get into the ring. There was nothing to do but what we were told. All ten of us climbed under the ropes and allowed ourselves to be blindfolded with broad bands of white cloth. One of the men seemed to feel a bit sympathetic and tried to cheer us up as we stood with our backs against the ropes. Some of us tried to grin. "See that boy over there?" one of the men said. "I want you to run across at the bell and give it to him right in the belly. If you don't get him. I'm going to get you. I don't like his looks." Each of us was told the same. The blindfolds were put on. Yet even then I had been going over my speech. In my mind each word was as bright as flame. I felt the cloth pressed into place, and frowned so that it would be loosened when I relaxed. But now I felt a sudden fit of blind terror. I was unused to darkness. It was as though I had suddenly found myself in a dark room filled with poisonous cottonmouths. I could hear the bleary voices yelling insistently for the battle royal to begin. "Get going in there!" "Let me at that big nigger!"

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I strained to pick up the school superintendent's voice, as though to squeeze some secu¬ rity out of that slightly more familiar sound. "Let me at those black sonsabitches!" someone yelled. "No, Jackson, no!" another voice yelled. "Here, somebody, help me hold Jack." "I want to get at that ginger-colored nigger. Tear him limb from limb," the first voice yelled. I stood against the ropes trembling. Lor in those days I was what they called ginger-colored, and he sounded as though he might crunch me between his teeth like a crisp ginger cookie. Quite a struggle was going on. Chairs were being kicked about and I could hear voices grunting as with a terrific effort. I wanted to see, to see more desperately than ever before. But the blindfold was as tight as a thick skinpuckering scab and when I raised my gloved hands to push the layers of white aside a voice yelled, "Oh, no you don't, black bastard! Leave that alone!"

ELLISON • Battle Royal

245

"Ring the bell before Jackson kills him a coon!" someone boomed in the sudden silence. And I heard the bell clang and the sound of the feet scuffling forward. A glove smacked against my head. I pivoted, striking out stiffly as someone went past, and felt the jar ripple along the length of my arm to my shoulder. Then it seemed as though all nine of the boys had turned upon me at once. Blows pounded me from all sides while I struck out as best I could. So many blows landed upon me that I wondered if I were not the only blindfolded fighter in the ring, or if the man called Jackson hadn't succeeded in get¬ ting me after all. Blindfolded, I could no longer control my motions. I had no dignity. I stumbled about like a baby or a drunken man. The smoke had become thicker and with each new blow it seemed to sear and further restrict my lungs. My saliva became like hot bitter glue. A glove connected with my head, filling my mouth with warm blood. It was everywhere. I could not tell if the moisture I felt upon my body was sweat or blood. A blow landed hard against the nape of my neck. I felt myself going over, my head hitting the floor. Streaks of blue light filled the black world behind the blindfold. I lay prone, pretending that I was knocked out, but felt myself seized by hands and yanked to my feet. "Get going, black boy! Mix it up!" My arms were like lead, my head smarting from blows. I managed to feel my way to the ropes and held on, trying to catch my breath. A glove landed in my midsection and I went over again, feeling as though the smoke had become a knife jabbed into my guts. Pushed this way and that by the legs milling around me, I finally pulled erect and discovered that I could see the black, sweat-washed forms weaving in the smoky-blue atmosphere like drunken dancers weaving to the rapid drum-like thuds of blows. Everyone fought hysterically. It was complete anarchy. Everybody fought everybody else. No group fought together for long. Two, three, four, fought one, then turned to fight each other, were themselves attacked. Blows landed below the belt and in the kidney, with the gloves open as well as closed, and with my eye partly opened now there was not so much terror. I moved carefully, avoiding blows, although not too many to attract attention, fighting from group to group. The boys groped about like blind, cautious crabs crouching to protect their midsections, their heads pulled in short against their shoulders, their arms stretched nervously before them, with their fists testing the smoke-filled air like the knobbed feelers of hypersensitive snails. In one corner I glimpsed a boy violently punching the air and heard him scream in pain as he smashed his hand against a ring post. For a second I saw him bent over holding his hand, then going down as a blow caught his unprotected head. I played one group against the other, slipping in and throwing a punch then stepping out of range while pushing the others into the melee to take the blows blindly aimed at me. The smoke was agonizing and there were no rounds, no bells at three minute intervals to relieve our exhaustion. The room spun round me, a swirl of lights, smoke, seating bodies surrounded by tense white faces. I bled from both nose and mouth, the blood spattering upon my chest. The men kept yelling, "Slug him, black boy! Knock his guts out!" "Uppercut him! Kill him! Kill that big boy!" Taking a fake fall, I saw a boy going down heavily beside me as though we were felled by a single blow, saw a sneaker-clad foot shoot into his groin as the two who had knocked him down stumbled upon him. I rolled out of range, feeling a twinge of nausea. The harder we fought the more threatening the men became. And yet, I had begun to worry about my speech again. How would it go? Would they recognize my ability? What would they give me? I was fighting automatically and suddenly I noticed that one after another of the boys was leaving the ring. I was surprised, filled with panic, as though I had been left alone with an unknown danger. Then I understood. The boys had arranged it among themselves. It was the custom for the two men left in the ring to slug it out for the winner's prize. I discovered

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

this too late. When the bell sounded two men in tuxedoes leaped into the ring and removed the blindfold. I found myself facing Tatlock, the biggest of the gang. I felt sick at my stomach. Hardly had the bell stopped ringing in my ears than it clanged again and I saw him moving swiftly toward me. Thinking of nothing else to do I hit him smash on the nose. He kept com¬ ing, bringing the rank sharp violence of stale sweat. His face wa*S a black blank of a face, only his eyes alive—with hate of me and aglow with a feverish terror from what had happened to us all. I became anxious. I wanted to deliver my speech and he came at me as though he meant to beat it out of me. I smashed him again and again, taking his blows as they came. Then on a sudden impulse I struck him lightly and as we clinched, I whispered, "Fake like I

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knocked you out, you can have the prize." "I'll break your behind," he whispered hoarsely. "For them?” "For me, sonofabitch!" They were yelling for us to break it up and Tatlock spun me half around with a blow, and as a joggled camera sweeps in a reeling scene, I saw the howling red faces crouching tense beneath the cloud of blue-gray smoke. For a moment the world wavered, unraveled, flowed, then my head cleared and Tatlock bounced before me. That fluttering shadow before my eyes was his jabbing left hand. Then falling forward, my head against his damp shoulder, I whispered, "T11 make it five dollars more." "Go to hell!" But his muscles relaxed a trifle beneath my pressure and I breathed, "Seven!" "Give it to your ma," he said, ripping me beneath the heart. And while I still held him I butted him and moved away. I felt myself bombarded with punches. I fought back with hopeless desperation. I wanted to deliver my speech more than anything else in the world, because I felt that only these men could judge truly my ability, and now this stupid clown was ruining my chances. I began fighting carefully now, moving in to punch him and out again with my greater speed. A lucky blow to his chin and I had him going too—until I heard a loud voice yell, "I got my money on the big boy." Hearing this, I almost dropped my guard. I was confused: Should I try to win against the voice out there? Would not this go against my speech, and was not this a moment for humility, for nonresistance? A blow to my head as I danced about sent my right eye pop¬ ping like a jack-in-the-box and settled my dilemma. The room went red as I fell. It was a dream fall, my body languid and fastidious as to where to land, until the floor became impatient and smashed up to meet me. A moment later I came to. An hypnotic voice said FIVE emphatically. And I lay there, hazily watching a dark red spot of my own blood shap¬ ing itself into a butterfly, glistening and soaking into the soiled gray world of the canvas. When the voice drawled TEN I was lifted up and dragged to a chair. I sat dazed. My eye pained and swelled with each throb of my pounding heart and I wondered if now I would be allowed to speak. I was wringing wet, my mouth still bleeding. We were grouped along the wall now. The other boys ignored me as they congratulated Tatlock and speculated as to how much they would be paid. One boy whimpered over his smashed hand. Looking up front, I saw attendants in white jackets rolling the portable ring away and placing a small square rug in the vacant space surrounded by chairs. Perhaps, I thought, I will stand on the rug to deliver my speech. Then the M.C. called to us, "Come on up here boys and get your money." We ran forward to where the men laughed and talked in their chairs, waiting. Everyone seemed friendly now. "There it is on the rug," the man said. I saw the rug covered with coins of all dimen¬ sions and a few crumpled bills. But what excited me, scattered here and there, were the gold pieces.

ELLISON • Battle Royal

247

"Boys, it's all yours," the man said. "You get all you grab." "That's right. Sambo," a blond man said, winking at me confidentially. I trembled with excitement, forgetting my pain. I would get the gold and the bills, I thought. I would use both hands. I would throw my body against the boys nearest me to block them from the gold.

45

"Get down around the rug now," the man commanded, "and don't anyone touch it until I give the signal." "This ought to be good," I heard. As told, we got around the square rug on our knees. Slowly the man raised his freckled hand as we followed it upward with our eyes. I heard, "These niggers look like they're about to pray!" Then, "Ready," the man said. "Go!" I lunged for a yellow coin lying on the blue design of the carpet, touching it and send¬ ing a surprised shriek to join those rising around me. I tried frantically to remove my hand but could not let go. A hot, violent force tore through my body, shaking me like a wet rat. The rug was electrified. The hair bristled up on my head as I shook myself free. My mus¬ cles jumped, my nerves jangled, writhed. But I saw that this was not stopping the other boys. Laughing in fear and embarrassment, some were holding back and scooping up the coins knocked off by the painful contortions of the others. The men roared above us as we struggled. "Pick it up, goddamnit, pick it up!" someone called like a bass-voiced parrot. "Go on, get it!" I crawled rapidly around the floor, picking up the coins, trying to avoid the coppers and to get greenbacks and the gold. Ignoring the shock by laughing, as I brushed the coins off quickly, I discovered that I could contain the electricity—a contradiction, but it works. Then the men began to push us onto the rug. Laughing embarrassedly, we struggled out of their hands and kept after the coins. We were all wet and slippery and hard to hold. Suddenly I saw a boy lifted into the air, glistening with sweat like a circus seal, and dropped, his wet back landing flush upon the charged rug, heard him yell and saw him literally dance upon his back, his elbows beating a frenzied tattoo upon the floor, his muscles twitching like the flesh of a horse stung by many flies. When he finally rolled off, his face was gray and no one stopped him when he ran from the floor amid booming laughter. "Get the money," the M.C. called. "That's good hard American cash!" And we snatched and grabbed, snatched and grabbed. I was careful not to come too close to the rug now, and when I felt the hot whiskey breath descend upon me like a cloud of foul air I reached out and grabbed the leg of a chair. It was occupied and I held on desperately. "Leggo, nigger! Leggo!" The huge face wavered down to mine as he tried to push me free. But my body was slip¬ pery and he was too drunk. It was Mr. Colcord, who owned a chain of movie houses and "entertainment palaces." Each time he grabbed me I slipped out of his hands. It became a real struggle. I feared the rug more than I did the drunk, so I held on, surprising myself for a moment by trying to topple him upon the rug. It was such an enormous idea that I found myself actually carrying it out. I tried not to be obvious, yet when I grabbed his leg, trying to tumble him out of the chair, he raised up roaring with laughter, and, looking at me with soberness dead in the eye, kicked me viciously in the chest. The chair leg flew out of my hand. I felt myself going and rolled. It was as though I had rolled through a bed of hot coals. It seemed a whole century would pass before I would roll free, a century in which I was scared through the deepest levels of my body to the fearful breath within me and the breath seared and heated to the point of explosion. It'll all be over in a flash, I thought as I rolled clear. It'll all be over in a flash.

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

But not yet, the men on the other side were waiting, red faces swollen as though from apoplexy as they bent forward in their chairs. Seeing their fingers coming toward me I rolled away as a fumbled football rolls off the receiver's fingertips, back into the coals. That time I luckily sent the rug sliding out of place and heard the coins ringing against the floor and the boys scuffling to pick them up and the M.C. calling, "All right, boys, that's all. Go get dressed and get your money." I was limp as a dish rag. My back felt as though it had been beaten with wires. When we had dressed the M.C. came in and gave us each five dollars, except Tatlock, who got ten for being last in the ring. Then he told us to leave. I was not to get a chance to deliver my speech, I thought. I was going out into the dim alley in despair when I was stopped and told to go back. I returned to the ballroom, where the men were pushing back their chairs and gathering in groups to talk. The M.C. knocked on a table for quiet. "Gentlemen," he said, "we almost forgot an important part of the program. A most serious part, gentlemen. This boy was brought here to deliver a speech which he made at his graduation yesterday. . . ." "Bravo!" "I'm told that he is the smartest boy we've got out there in Greenwood. I'm told that he knows more big words than a pocket-sized dictionary." Much applause and laughter. "So now, gentlemen, I want you to give him your attention." There was still laughter as I faced them, my mouth dry, my eye throbbing. I began slowly, but evidently my throat was tense, because they began shouting, "Louder! Louder!" "We of the younger generation extol the wisdom of that great leader and educator," I shouted, "who first spoke these flaming words of wisdom: 'A ship lost at sea for many days suddenly sighted a friendly vessel. From the mast of the unfortunate vessel was seen a sig¬ nal: "Water, water; we die of thirst!" The answer from the friendly vessel came back: "Cast down your bucket where you are." The captain of the distressed vessel, at last heeding the injunction, cast down his bucket, and it came up full of fresh sparkling water from the mouth of the Amazon River.' And like him I say, and in his words, 'To those of my race who depend upon bettering their condition in a foreign land, or who underestimate the impor¬ tance of cultivating friendly relations with the Southern white man, who is his next-door neighbor, I would say: "Cast down your bucket where you are"—cast it down in making friends in every manly way of the people of all races by whom we are surrounded. . . ." I spoke automatically and with such fervor that I did not realize that the men were still talking and laughing until my dry mouth, filling up with blood from the cut, almost stran¬ gled me. I coughed, wanting to stop and go to one of the tall brass, sand-filled spittoons to relieve myself, but a few of the men, especially the superintendent, were listening and I was afraid. So I gulped it down, blood, saliva and all, and continued. (What powers of endurance I had during those days! What enthusiasm! What a belief in the rightness of things!) I spoke even louder in spite of the pain. But still they talked and still they laughed, as though deaf with cotton in dirty ears. So I spoke with greater emotional emphasis. I closed my ears and swallowed blood until I was nauseated. The speech seemed a hundred times as long as before, but I could not leave out a single word. All had to be said, each memorized nuance considered, rendered. Nor was that all. Whenever I uttered a word of three or more syllables a group of voices would yell for me to repeat it. I used the phrase "social responsibility" and they yelled: "What's the word you say, boy?" "Social responsibility," I said. "What?" "Social..." "Louder."

ELLISON • Battle Roya

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. . responsibility." "More!" "Respon—" "Repeat!"

sibility."

80

The room filled with the uproar of laughter until, no doubt, distracted by having to gulp down my blood, I made a mistake and yelled a phrase I had often seen denounced in news¬ paper editorials, heard debated in private. "Social..." "What?" they yelled. ". . . equality—" The laughter hung smokelike in the sudden stillness. I opened my eyes, puzzled. Sounds of displeasure filled the room. The M.C. rushed forward. They shouted hostile phrases at me. But I did not understand. A small dry mustached man in the front row blared out, "Say that slowly, son!" "What sir?" "What you just said!" "Social responsibility, sir," I said. "You weren't being smart, were you, boy?" he said, not unkindly. "No, sir!" "You sure that about 'equality' was a mistake?" "Oh, yes, sir," I said. "I was swallowing blood." "Well, you had better speak more slowly so we can understand. We mean to do right by you, but you've got to know your place at all times. All right, now, go on with your speech." I was afraid. I wanted to leave but I wanted also to speak and I was afraid they'd snatch me down. "Thank you, sir," I said, beginning where I had left off, and having them ignore me as

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before. Yet when I finished there was a thunderous applause. I was surprised to see the superin¬ tendent come forth with a package wrapped in white tissue paper, and, gesturing for quiet, address the men. "Gentlemen, you see that I did not overpraise this boy. He makes a good speech and some day he'll lead his people in the proper paths. And I don't have to tell you that that is important in these days and times. This is a good, smart boy, and so to encourage him in the right direction, in the name of the Board of Education I wish to present him a prize in the form of this ..." He paused, removing the tissue paper and revealing a gleaming calfskin brief case. ". . . in the form of this first-class article from Shad Whitmore's shop." "Boy," he said, addressing me, "take this prize and keep it well. Consider it a badge of office. Prize it. Keep developing as you are and some day it will be filled with important

100

papers that will help shape the destiny of your people." I was so moved that I could hardly express my thanks. A rope of bloody saliva forming a shape like an undiscovered continent drooled upon the leather and I wiped it quickly away. I felt an importance that I had never dreamed. "Open it and see what's inside," I was told. My fingers a-tremble, I complied, smelling the fresh leather and finding an official-looking document inside. It was a scholarship to the state college for Negroes. My eyes filled with tears and I ran awkwardly off the floor. I was overjoyed; I did not even mind when I discovered that the gold pieces I had scram¬ bled for were brass pocket tokens advertising a certain make of automobile.

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

When I reached home everyone was excited. Next day the neighbors came to congratu¬ late me. I even felt safe from grandfather, whose deathbed curse usually spoiled my tri¬ umphs. I stood beneath his photograph with my brief case in hand and smiled triumphantly into his stolid black peasant's face. It was a face that fascinated me. The eyes

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seemed to follow everywhere 1 went. ' That night I dreamed I was at a circus with him and that he refused to laugh at the clowns no matter what they did. Then later he told me to open my brief case and read what was inside and I did, finding an official envelope stamped with the state seal; and inside the envelope I found another and another, endlessly, and I thought I would fall of weariness. "Them's years," he said. "Now open that one." And I did and in it I found an engraved doc¬ ument containing a short message in letters of gold. "Read it," my grandfather said. "Out loud." "To Whom It May Concern," I intoned. "Keep This Nigger-Boy Running." I awoke with the old man's laughter ringing in my ears, (It was a dream I was to remember and dream again for many years after. But at the time I had no insight into its meaning. First I had to attend college.)

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the narrator. How old is he? What are the circumstances that lead him to the "gathering of the town's leading white citizens"? What conclusions do you draw about the mental and moral qualities of these citizens?

2. What is the significance of the advice given by the narrator's grandfather? What is the connection between the narrator's dream and the grandfather's advice?

3. What is a battle royal? What is the narrator's attitude toward the battle in which he is to participate? Why does he have this attitude? To what indignities are the boys sub¬ jected as a result of their appearance before the assembled townsmen? In what way is the female dancer's plight like that of the boys?

4. Describe how the story's structure underlies the story's attack on racism. 5. What special indignities are imposed on the narrator? Why does he have difficulty in delivering his speech? Why is he reminded that "you've got to know your place at all times" (paragraph 93)?

HA JIN

(b. 1956)

Ha Jin was born as Jin Xuefei, his native Chinese name, in 1956. As a boy of 14 he joined the People's Liberation Army during the period just after the so-called "Cultural Revolution/' which under Chair¬ man Mao attempted to reinvigorate the spirit of revolution of the Chinese people who, it was thought, were losing the public spirit and unity that had undergirded the original revolution that established the Communist government in 1949. Jin stayed in the people's army for six years. In 1985, disillusioned with the Chinese regime, he left China, ultimately becoming a naturalized American citizen and a speaker and writer of English. He attended Brandeis University, where he was azvarded his PhD in 1992. He has taught at Emory University and Boston Uni¬ versity. Since 1996, when he published his first volume of short stories, he has published five novels, three volumes of poetry, and five story collections. He has been the recipient of many awards and honors, including a Guggenheim Fellowship, the National Book Award, and the

JIN • Saboteur

251

PEN/Faulkner Award. His most recent collection, in 2009, is The Good Fall, in which Jin explores the problems and hopes of Chinese expatriates living in Queens, New York. "Saboteur," the story included here, is from Jin's collection The Bridegroom (2000).

ffc

Saboteur

(2000)

Mr. Chiu and his bride were having lunch in the square before Muji Train Station. On the table between them were two bottles of soda spewing out brown foam and two paper boxes of rice and sauteed cucumber and pork. "Let's eat," he said to her, and broke the connected ends of the chopsticks. He picked up a slice of streaky pork and put it into his mouth. As he was chewing, a few crinkles appeared on his thin jaw. To his right, at another table, two railroad policemen were drinking tea and laughing; it seemed that the stout, middle-aged man was telling a joke to his young comrade, who was tall and of athletic build. Now and again they would steal a glance at Mr. Chiu's table. The air smelled of rotten melon. A few flies kept buzzing above the couple's lunch. Hun¬ dreds of people were rushing around to get on the platform or to catch buses to downtown. Food and fruit vendors were crying for customers in lazy voices. About a dozen young women, representing the local hotels, held up placards which displayed the daily prices and words as large as a palm, like free meals, air-conditioning, and on the river. In the center of the square stood a concrete statue of Chairman Mao, at whose feet peasants were napping, their backs on the warm granite and their faces toward the sunny sky. A flock of pigeons perched on the Chairman's raised hand and forearm. The rice and cucumber tasted good, and Mr. Chiu was eating unhurriedly. His sallow face showed exhaustion. He was glad that the honeymoon was finally over and that he and his bride were heading back for Harbin.0 During the two weeks' vacation, he had been worried about his liver, because three months ago he had suffered from acute hepatitis; he was afraid he might have a relapse. But he had had no severe symptoms, despite his liver being still big and tender. On the whole he was pleased with his health, which could endure even the strain of a honeymoon; indeed, he was on the course of recov¬ ery. He looked at his bride, who took off her wire glasses, kneading the root of her nose with her fingertips. Beads of sweat coated her pale cheeks. "Are you all right, sweetheart?" he asked. "I have a headache. I didn't sleep well last night." "Take an aspirin, will you?" "It's not that serious. Tomorrow is Sunday and I can sleep in. Don't worry." As they were talking, the stout policeman at the next table stood up and threw a bowl of tea in their direction. Both Mr. Chiu's and his bride's sandals were wet instantly. "Hooligan!" she said in a low voice. Mr. Chiu got to his feet and said out loud, "Comrade Policeman, why did you do this?" He stretched out his right foot to show the wet sandal. "Do what?" the stout man asked huskily, glaring at Mr. Chiu while the young fellow was whistling. "See, you dumped tea on our feet." "You're lying. You wet your shoes yourself."

°Harbin: China is an exceedingly large country, with Beijing as its capital, which Jin fictionalizes here as “Muji.” Harbin is a real city far to the north of Beijing, and as the story begins Mr. Chiu and his new wife are in the process of returning there after their honeymoon in Muji.

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

"Comrade Policemen, your duty is to keep order, but you purposely tortured us com¬ mon citizens. Why violate the law you are supposed to enforce?" As Mr. Chiu was speak¬ ing, dozens of people began gathering around. With a wave of his hand, the man said to the young fellow, "Let's get hold of him!" They grabbed Mr. Chiu and clamped handcuffs around his'wrists. He cried, "You can't do this to me. This is utterly unreasonable." "Shut up!" The man pulled out his pistol. "You can use your tongue at our headquarters." The young fellow added, "You're a saboteur, you know that? You're disrupting public order." The bride was too petrified to say anything coherent. She was a recent college graduate, had majored in fine arts, and had never seen the police make an arrest. All she could say was, "Oh, please, please!" The policemen were pulling Mr. Chiu, but he refused to go with them, holding the cor¬ ner of the table and shouting, "We have a train to catch. We already bought the tickets." The stout man punched him in the chest. "Shut up. Let your ticket expire." With the pis¬ tol butt he chopped Mr. Chiu's hands, which at once released the table. Together the two men were dragging him away to the police station. Realizing he had to go with them, Mr. Chiu turned his head and shouted to his bride, "Don't wait for me here. Take the train. If I'm not back by tomorrow morning, send some¬ one over to get me out." She nodded, covering her sobbing mouth with her palm. After removing his belt, they locked Mr. Chiu into a cell in the back of the Railroad Police Station. The single window in the room was blocked by six steel bars; it faced a spa¬ cious yard, in which stood a few pines. Beyond the trees, two swings hung from an iron frame, swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere in the building a cleaver was chopping rhythmically. There must be a kitchen upstairs. Mr. Chiu thought. He was too exhausted to worry about what they would do to him, so he lay down on the narrow bed and shut his eyes. He wasn't afraid. The Cultural Revolu¬ tion was over already, and recently the Party had been propagating the idea that all citizens were equal before the law. The police ought to be a law-abiding model for common people. As long as he remained coolheaded and reasoned with them, they probably wouldn't harm him. Late in the afternoon he was taken to the Interrogation Bureau on the second floor. On his way there, in the stairwell, he ran into the middle-aged policeman who had manhan¬ dled him. The man grinned, rolling his bulgy eyes and pointing his fingers at him as if fir¬ ing a pistol. Egg of a tortoise! Mr. Chiu cursed mentally. The moment he sat down in the office, he burped, his palm shielding his mouth. In front of him, across a long desk, sat the chief of the bureau and a donkey-faced man. On the glass desktop was a folder containing information on his case. He felt it bizarre that in just a mat¬ ter of hours they had accumulated a small pile of writing about him. On second thought he began to wonder whether they had kept a file on him all the time. How could this have happened? He lived and worked in Harbin, more than three hundred miles away, and this was his first time in Muji City. The chief of the bureau was a thin, bald man who looked serene and Intelligent. His slim hands handled the written pages in the folder in the maimer of a lecturing scholar. To Mr. Chiu's left sat a young scribe, with a clipboard on his knee and a black fountain pen in his hand.

30

"Your name?" the chief asked, apparently reading out the question from a form. "Chiu Maguang." "Age?" "Thirty-four."

JIN • Saboteur

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"Profession?" "Lecturer." "Work unit?" "Harbin University." "Political status?" "Communist Party member." The chief put down the paper and began to speak.

35

40

"Your crime is sabotage, although it hasn't induced serious consequences yet. Because you are a Party member, you should be punished more. You have failed to be a model for the masses and you—" "Excuse me, sir," Mr. Chiu cut him off. "What?" "I didn't do anything. Your men are the saboteurs of our social order. They threw hot tea on my feet and on my wife's feet. Logically speaking, you should criticize them, if not pun¬ ish them." "That statement is groundless. You have no witness. Why should I believe you?" the chief said matter-of-factly. "This is my evidence." He raised his right hand. "Your man hit my fingers with a pistol." "That doesn't prove how your feet got wet. Besides, you could have hurt your fingers yourself." "But I am telling the truth!" Anger flared up in Mr. Chiu. "Your police station owes me an apology. My train ticket has expired, my new leather sandals are ruined, and I am late for a conference in the provincial capital. You must compensate me for the damage and losses. Don't mistake me for a common citizen who would tremble when you sneeze. I'm a scholar, a philosopher, and an expert in dialectical materialism. If necessary, we will argue about this in The Northeastern Daily, or we will go to the highest People's Court in Beijing. Tell me, what's your name?" He got carried away with his harangue, which was by no means trivial and had worked to his advantage on numerous occasions. "Stop bluffing us," the donkey-faced man broke in. "We have seen a lot of your kind. We can easily prove you are guilty. Here are some of the statements given by eyewitnesses." He pushed a few sheets of paper toward Mr. Chiu. Mr. Chiu was dazed to see the different handwritings, which all stated that he had shouted in the square to attract attention and refused to obey the police. One of the wit¬ nesses had identified herself as a purchasing agent from a shipyard in Shanghai. Something stirred in Mr. Chiu's stomach, a pain rising to his rib. He gave out a faint moan. "Now you have to admit you are guilty," the chief said. "Although it's a serious crime, we won't punish you severely, provided you write out a self-criticism and promise that you won't disrupt the public order again. In other words, your release will depend on your atti¬

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50

tude toward this crime." "You're daydreaming," Mr. Chiu cried. "I won't write a word, because I'm innocent. I demand that you provide me with a letter of apology so I can explain to my university why I'm late." Both the interrogators smiled contemptuously. "Well, we've never done that," said the chief, taking a puff of his cigarette. "Then make this a precedent." "That's unnecessary. We are pretty certain that you will comply with our wishes." The chief blew a column of smoke toward Mr. Chiu's face. At the tilt of the chief's head, two guards stepped forward and grabbed the criminal by the arms. Mr. Chiu meanwhile went on saying, "I shall report you to the Provincial Administration. You'll have to pay for this! You are worse than the Japanese military police."

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They dragged him out of the room. After dinner, which consisted of a bowl of millet porridge, a corn bun, and a piece of pickled turnip, Mr. Chiu began to have a fever, shaking with a chill and sweating profusely. He knew that the fire of anger had gotten into his liver and that he was probably having a relapse. No medicine was available, because his briefcase had been left with his bride. At home it would have been time for him to sit in front of their color TV, drinking jasmine tea and watching the evening news. It was so lonesome in here. The orange bulb above the sin¬ gle bed was the only source of light, which enabled the guards to keep him under surveil¬ lance at night. A moment ago he had asked them for a newspaper or a magazine to read, but they turned him down. Through the small opening on the door noises came in. It seemed that the police on duty were playing cards or chess in a nearby office; shouts and laughter could be heard now and then. Meanwhile, an accordion kept coughing from a remote corner in the building. Look¬ ing at the ballpoint and the letter paper left for him by the guards when they took him back from the Interrogation Bureau, Mr. Chiu remembered the old saying, "When a scholar runs into soldiers, the more he argues, the muddier his point becomes." How ridiculous this whole thing was. He ruffled his thick hair with his fingers. 60

He felt miserable, massaging his stomach continually. To tell the truth, he was more upset than frightened, because he would have to catch up with his work once he was back home—a paper that was due at the printers next week, and two dozen books he ought to read for the courses he was going to teach in the fall. A human shadow flitted across the opening. Mr. Chiu rushed to the door and shouted through the hole, "Comrade Guard, Comrade Guard!" "What do you want?" a voice rasped.

65

"I want you to inform your leaders that I'm very sick. I have heart disease and hepatitis. I may die here if you keep me like this without medication." "No leader is on duty on the weekend. You have to wait till Monday." "What? You mean I'll stay in here tomorrow?" "Yes." "Your station will be held responsible if anything happens to me." "We know that. Take it easy, you won't die." It seemed illogical that Mr. Chiu slept quite well that night, though the light above his head had been on all the time and the straw mattress was hard and infested with fleas. He was afraid of ticks, mosquitoes, cockroaches—any kind of insect but fleas and bed¬ bugs. Once, in the countryside, where his school's faculty and staff had helped the peas¬ ants harvest crops for a week, his colleagues had joked about his flesh, which they said must have tasted nonhuman to fleas. Except for him, they were all afflicted with hundreds of bites.

70

More amazing now, he didn't miss his bride a lot. He even enjoyed sleeping alone, per¬ haps because the honeymoon had tired him out and he needed more rest. The backyard was quiet on Sunday morning. Pale sunlight streamed through the pine branches. A few sparrows were jumping on the ground, catching caterpillars and ladybugs. Holding the steel bars, Mr. Chiu inhaled the morning air, which smelled meaty. There must have been an eatery or a cooked-meat stand nearby. He reminded himself that he should take this detention with ease. A sentence that Chairman Mao had written to a hospitalized friend rose in his mind: "Since you are already in here, you may as well stav and make the best of it." His desire for peace of mind originated in his fear that his hepatitis might get worse. He tried to remain unperturbed. However, he was sure that his liver was swelling up, since the fever still persisted. For a whole day he lay in bed, thinking about his paper on the nature of conti adictions. Time and again he was overwhelmed by anger, cursing aloud, "A bunch

JIN • Saboteur

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of thugs!" He swore that once he was out, he would write an article about this experience. He had better find out some of the policemen's names. It turned out to be a restful day for the most part; he was certain that his university would send somebody to his rescue. All he should do now was remain calm and wait patiently. Sooner or later the police would have to release him, although they had no idea that he might refuse to leave unless they wrote him an apology. Damn those hoodlums, they had ordered more than they could eat! When he woke up on Monday morning, it was already light. Somewhere a man was moaning; the sound came from the backyard. After a long yawn, and kicking off the tat¬ tered blanket, Mr. Chiu climbed out of bed and went to the window. In the middle of the yard, a young man was fastened to a pine, his wrists handcuffed around the trunk from behind. He was wriggling and swearing loudly, but there was no sight of anyone else in the yard He looked familiar to Mr. Chiu. Mr. Chiu squinted his eyes to see who it was. To his astonishment, he recognized the man, who was Fenjin, a recent graduate from the Law Department at Harbin University. Two years ago Mr. Chiu had taught a course in Marxist materialism, in which Fenjin had enrolled. Now, how on earth had this young devil landed here? Then it dawned on him that Fenjin must have been sent over by his bride. What a stupid woman! A bookworm, who only knew how to read foreign novels! He had expected that she would contact the school's Security Section, which would for sure send a cadre here. Fenjin held no official position; he merely worked in a private law firm that had just two lawyers; in fact, they had little business except for some detective work for men and women who suspected their spouses of having extramarital affairs. Mr. Chiu was overcome with a wave of nausea. Should he call out to let his student know he was nearby? He decided not to, because he didn't know what had happened. Fenjin must have quarreled with the police to incur such a punishment. Yet this could never have occurred if Fenjin hadn't come to his rescue. So no matter what, Mr. Chiu had to do something. But what could he do? It was going to be a scorcher. He could see purple steam shimmering and rising from the ground among the pines. Poor devil, he thought, as he raised a bowl of corn glue to his mouth, sipped, and took a bite of a piece of salted celery. When a guard came to collect the bowl and the chopsticks, Mr. Chiu asked him what had happened to the man in the backyard. "He called our boss 'bandit.'" the guard said. "He claimed he was a lawyer or something. An arrogant son of a rabbit." Now it was obvious to Mr. Chiu that he had to do something to help his rescuer. Before he could figure out a way, a scream broke out in the backyard. He rushed to the window and saw a tall policeman standing before Fenjin, an iron bucket on the ground. It was the same young fellow who had arrested Mr. Chiu in the square two days before. The man pinched Fenjin's nose, then raised his hand, which stayed in the air for a few seconds, then slapped the lawyer across the face. As Fenjin was groaning, the man lifted up the bucket and poured water on his head. "This will keep you from getting sunstroke, boy. I'll give you some more every hour," the man said loudly. Fenjin kept his eyes shut, yet his wry face showed that he was struggling to hold back from cursing the policeman, or, more likely, that he was sobbing in silence. He sneezed, then raised his face and shouted, "Let me go take a piss." "Oh, yeah?" the man bawled. "Pee in your pants." Still Mr. Chiu didn't make any noise, gripping the steel bars with both hands, his fingers white. The policeman turned and glanced at the cell's window; his pistol, partly holstered, glittered in the sun. With a snort he spat his cigarette butt to the ground and stamped it into the dust.

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Then the door opened and the guards motioned Mr. Chiu to come out. Again they took him upstairs to the Interrogation Bureau. The same men were in the office, though this time the scribe was sitting there empty-handed. At the sight of Mr. Chiu the chief said, "Ah, here you are. Please be seated." After Mr. Chiu sat down, the chief waved a white silk fan and said to him, "You may have seen your lawyer. He's a young man without manners, so our director had him taught a crash course in the backyard." "It's illegal to do that. Aren't you afraid to appear in a newspaper?" "No, we are not, not even on TV. What else can you do? We are not afraid of any story you make up. We call it fiction. What we do care about is that you cooperate with us. That is to say, you must admit your crime." "What if I refuse to cooperate?" "Then your lawyer will continue his education in the sunshine." A swoon swayed Mr. Chiu, and he held the arms of the chair to steady himself. A numb pain stung him in the upper stomach and nauseated him, and his head was throbbing. He was sure that the hepatitis was finally attacking him. Anger was flaming up in his chest; his throat was tight and clogged. The chief resumed, "As a matter of fact, you don't even have to write out your self-criticism. We have your crime described clearly here. All we need is your signature." Holding back his rage, Mr. Chiu said, "Let me look at that." With a smirk the donkey-faced man handed him a sheet which carried these words: I hereby admit that on July 131 disrupted public order at Muji Train Station, and that I refused to listen to reason when the railroad police issued their warning. Thus I myself am responsible for my arrest. After two days' detention, I have realized the reactionary nature of my crime. From now on, I shall continue to educate myself with all my effort and shall never commit this kind of crime again. A voice started screaming in Mr. Chiu's ears, "Lie, lie!" But he shook his head and forced the voice away. He asked the chief, "If I sign this, will you release both my lawyer and me?" "Of course, we'll do that." The chief was drumming his fingers on the blue folder—their file on him. Mr. Chiu signed his name and put his thumbprint under his signature. "Now you are free to go," the chief said with a smile, and handed him a piece of paper to wipe his thumb with. Mr. Chiu was so sick that he couldn't stand up from the chair at first try. Then he doubled his effort and rose to his feet. He staggered out of the building to meet his lawyer in the backyard, having forgotten to ask for his belt back. In his chest he felt as though there were a bomb. If he were able to, he would have razed the entire police station and eliminated all their families. Though he knew he could do nothing like that, he made up his mind to do something. "I'm sorry about this torture, Fenjin," Mr. Chiu said when they met. "It doesn't matter. They are savages." The lawyer brushed a patch of dirt off his jacket with trembling fingers. Water was still dribbling from the bottoms of his trouser legs. "Let's go now," the teacher said. The moment they came out of the police station, Mr. Chiu caught sight of a tea stand. He grabbed Fenjin's arm and walked over to the old woman at the table. "Two bowls of black tea," he said and handed her a one-yuan note. After the first bowl, they each had another one. Then they set out for the train station. But before they walked fifty yards, Mr. Chiu insisted on eating a bowl of tree-ear soup at a food stand. Fenjin agreed. He told his teacher, "You mustn't treat me like a guest." "No, I want to eat something myself."

LAHIRI * Interpreter of Maladies

257

As if dying of hunger, Mr. Chiu dragged his lawyer from restaurant to restaurant near the police station, but at each place he ordered no more than two bowls of food. Fenjin won¬ dered why his teacher wouldn't stay at one place and eat his fill. Mr. Chiu bought noodles, wonton, eight-grain porridge, and chicken soup, respectively, at four restaurants. While eating, he kept saying through his teeth, "If only I could kill all the bastards!" At the last place he merely took a few sips of the soup without tasting the chicken cubes and mushrooms. Fenjin was baffled by his teacher, who looked ferocious and muttered to himself myste¬ riously, and whose jaundiced face was covered with dark puckers. For the first time Fenjin thought of Mr. Chiu as an ugly man. Within a month over eight hundred people contracted acute hepatitis in Muji. Six died of the disease, including two children. Nobody knew how the epidemic had started.

QUESTIONS 1. Who is Mr. Chiu? What is his official position? Why is he in the city of Muji, so far away from his home in Harbin? From what illness has he recently suffered?

2. What happens to Mr. Chiu and his wife at the restaurant? How does he respond to his treatment at the hands of the police? Why would a normal person be outraged at such treatment?

3. Explain the structure of "Saboteur." That is, what is the sequence and plan of the story's events? What is the patterning of emotional responses evoked by the develop¬ ment of details in the story?

4. The authorities declare that Mr. Chiu is a saboteur—that is, a person who (usually secretly) destroys or prevents normal civil or military installations or activities. Explain how Mr. Chiu, at the story's end, performs the very real sabotage that produces the epidemic of hepatitis. To what degree is Mr. Chiu justified in this "sabotage"?

5. To judge from this story, who is, or who are, the real saboteurs? How can the story be seen as a criticism of arbitrary Chinese authority during the 'Cultural Revolution' and during the current revolutionary period of Chinese history? What do you think the author wants you to conclude about the political situation in modern China?

JHUMPA LAHIRI

(b 1967)

Jhumpa Lahiri was born in London (as Nilajana Sudeshna), and grew up in Rhode Island. After graduating from Barnard, she received three MA degrees and a PhD from Boston University. As she worked for her doctorate, she discovered that she preferred the career of a writer to that of a scholar. Her first collection of stories, Interpreter of Maladies, the title story of which is included here, was published in 2000, and received The New Yorker magazine's "Debut of the Year" award. Interpreter of Maladies also was the winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2000. Lahiri's first novel, The Namesake (2003), was dramatized as an acclaimed movie in 2007. An interesting detail about the film is that Lahiri herself serves as an extra in the cast. Unaccustomed Earth, a collection of eight sto¬ ries, was published in 2008. In general, her fiction depicts the lives of Indians who live in the United States and who are adjusting to the new conditions of life that they encounter here. In the story "Interpreter of Maladies," the situation is interestingly reversed, for it is the point-of-view charac¬ ter, an Indian resident, who meets a totally Americanized Indian family who are touring India.

no

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

Interpreter of Maladies

(2000)

At the tea stall Mr. and Mrs. Das bickered about who should take Tina to the toilet. Eventu¬ ally Mrs. Das relented when Mr. Das pointed out that he had given the girl her bath the night before. In the rearview mirror Mr. Kapasi watched as Mfs. Das emerged slowly from his bulky white Ambassador, dragging her shaved, largely bare legs across the back seat. She did not hold the little girl's hand as they walked to the rest room. They were on their way to see the Sun Temple at Konarak.0 It was a dry, bright Satur¬ day, the mid-July heat tempered by a steady ocean breeze, ideal weather for sightseeing. Ordinarily Mr. Kapasi would not have stopped so soon along the way, but less than five minutes after he'd picked up the family that morning in front of Hotel Sandy Villa, the lit¬ tle girl had complained. The first thing Mr. Kapasi had noticed when he saw Mr. and Mrs. Das, standing with their children under the portico of the hotel, was that they were very young, perhaps not even thirty. In addition to Tina they had two boys, Ronny and Bobby, who appeared very close in age and had teeth covered in a network of flashing silver wires. The family looked Indian but dressed as foreigners did, the children in stiff, brightly colored clothing and caps with translucent visors. Mr. Kapasi was accustomed to foreign tourists; he was assigned to them regularly because he could speak English. Yesterday he had driven an elderly couple from Scotland, both with spotted faces and fluffy white hair so thin it exposed their sunburnt scalps. In comparison, the tanned, youthful faces of Mr. and Mrs. Das were all the more striking. When he'd introduced himself, Mr. Kapasi had pressed his palms together in greeting, but Mr. Das squeezed hands like an American so that Mr. Kapasi felt it in his elbow. Mrs. Das, for her part, had flexed one side of her mouth, smiling dutifully at Mr. Kapasi, without displaying any interest in him. As they waited at the tea stall, Ronny, who looked like the older of the two boys, clam¬ bered suddenly out of the back seat, intrigued by a goat tied to a stake in the ground. "Don't touch it," Mr. Das said. He glanced up from his paperback tour book, which said 'INDIA' in yellow letters and looked as if it had been published abroad. His voice, some¬ how tentative and a little shrill, sounded as though it had not yet settled into maturity. "I want to give it a piece of gum," the boy called back as he trotted ahead. Mr. Das stepped out of the car and stretched his legs by squatting briefly to the ground. A clean-shaven man, he looked exactly like a magnified version of Ronny. He had a sap¬ phire blue visor, and was dressed in shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt. The camera slung around his neck, with an impressive telephoto lens and numerous buttons and markings, was the only complicated thing he wore. He frowned, watching as Ronny rushed toward the goat, but appeared to have no intention of intervening. "Bobby, make sure that your brother doesn't do anything stupid." "I don't feel like it," Bobby said, not moving. He was sitting in the front seat beside Mr. Kapasi, studying a picture of the elephant god taped to the glove compartment. "No need to worry;" Mr. Kapasi said. "They are quite tame." Mr. Kapasi was forty-six years old, with receding hair that had gone completely silver, but his butterscotch complex¬ ion and his unlined brow, which he treated in spare moments to dabs of lotus-oil balm, made it easy to imagine what he must have looked like at an earlier age. He wore gray trousers and a matching jacket-style shirt, tapered at the waist, with short sleeves and a large pointed collar, made of a thin but durable synthetic material. He had specified both the cut and the fabric to his tailor—it was his preferred uniform for giving tours because it

Konarak. in Orissa state, on the east coast of India, on the Bay of Bengal, Konarak is famous as the location of a temple to the sun.

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259

did not get crushed during his long hours behind the wheel. Through the windshield he watched as Ronny circled around the goat, touched it quickly on its side, then trotted back to the car. "You left India as a child?" Mr. Kapasi asked when Mr. Das had settled once again into the passenger seat. "Oh, Mina and I were both born in America," Mr. Das announced with an air of sudden confidence. "Born and raised. Our parents live here now, in Assansol. They retired. We visit them every couple years." He turned to watch as the little girl ran toward the car, the wide purple bows of her sundress flopping on her narrow brown shoulders. She was holding to her chest a doll with yellow hair that looked as if it had been chopped, as a punitive measure, with a pair of dull scissors. "This is Tina's first trip to India, isn't it, Tina?" "I don't have to go to the bathroom anymore," Tina announced. "Where's Mina?" Mr. Das asked. Mr. Kapasi found it strange that Mr. Das should refer to his wife by her first name when speaking to the little girl. Tina pointed to where Mrs. Das was purchasing something from one of the shirtless men who worked at the tea stall. Mr. Kapasi heard one of the shirtless men sing a phrase from a popular Hindi love song as Mrs. Das walked back to the car, but she did not appear to understand the words of the song, for she did not express irritation, or embarrassment, or react in any other way to the man's declarations. He observed her. She wore a red-and-white-checkered skirt that stopped above her knees, slip-on shoes with a square wooden heel, and a close-fitting blouse styled like a man's undershirt. The blouse was decorated at chest-level with a calico applique in the shape of a strawberry She was a short woman, with small hands like paws, her frosty pink fingernails painted to match her lips, and was slightly plump in her figure. Her hair, shorn only a little longer than her husband's, was parted far to one side. She was wearing large dark brown sunglasses with a pinkish tint to them, and carried a big straw bag, almost as big as her torso, shaped like a bowl, with a water bottle poking out of it. She walked slowly, carrying some puffed rice tossed with peanuts and chili peppers in a large packet made from newspapers. Mr. Kapasi turned to Mr. Das. "Where in America do you live?" "New Brunswick, New Jersey." "Next to New York?" "Exactly. I teach middle school there." "What subject?" "Science. In fact, every year I take my students on a trip to the Museum of Natural History in New York City. In a way we have a lot in common, you could say, you and I. How long

10

15

20

have you been a tour guide, Mr. Kapasi?" "Five years." Mrs. Das reached the car. "How long's the trip?" she asked, shutting the door. "About two and a half hours," Mr. Kapasi replied. At this Mrs. Das gave an impatient sigh, as if she had been traveling her whole life with¬ out pause. She fanned herself with a folded Bombay film magazine written in English. "I thought that the Sun Temple is only eighteen miles north of Pun," Mr. Das said, tapping on the tour book. "The roads to Konarak are poor. Actually it is a distance of fifty-two miles," Mr. Kapasi explained. Mr. Das nodded, readjusting the camera strap where it had begun to chafe the back of his neck. Before starting the ignition, Mr. Kapasi reached back to make sure the cranklike locks on the inside of each of the back doors were secured. As soon as the car began to move the lit¬ tle girl began to play with the lock on her side, clicking it with some effort forward and

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

backward, but Mrs. Das said nothing to stop her. She sat a bit slouched at one end of the back seat, not offering her puffed rice to anyone. Ronny and Tina sat on either side of her, both snapping bright green gum. "Look," Bobby said as the car began to gather speed. He pointed with his finger to the tall trees that lined the road. "Look." v "Monkeys!" Ronny shrieked. "Wow!" They were seated in groups along the branches, with shining black faces, silver bodies, horizontal eyebrows, and crested heads. Their long gray tails dangled like a series of ropes among the leaves. A few scratched themselves with black leathery hands, or swung their feet, staring as the car passed. "We call them the hanuman," Mr. Kapasi said. "They are quite common in the area." As soon as he spoke, one of the monkeys leaped into the middle of the road, causing Mr. Kapasi to brake suddenly. Another bounced onto the hood of the car, then sprang away. Mr. Kapasi beeped his horn. The children began to get excited, sucking in their breath and cov¬ ering their faces partly with their hands. They had never seen monkeys outside of a zoo, Mr. Das explained. He asked Mr. Kapasi to stop the car so that he could take a picture. While Mr. Das adjusted his telephoto lens, Mrs. Das reached into her straw bag and pulled out a bottle of colorless nail polish, which she proceeded to stroke on the tip of her index finger. The little girl stuck out a hand. "Mine too. Mommy, do mine too." "Leave me alone," Mrs. Das said, blowing on her nail and turning her body slightly. "You're making me mess up." The little girl occupied herself by buttoning and unbuttoning a pinafore on the doll's plastic body. "All set," Mr. Das said, replacing the lens cap. The car rattled considerably as it raced along the dusty road, causing them all to pop up from their seats every now and then, but Mrs. Das continued to polish her nails. Mr. Kapasi eased up on the accelerator, hoping to produce a smoother ride. When he reached for the gearshift the boy in front accommodated him by swinging his hairless knees out of the way. Mr. Kapasi noted that this boy was slightly paler than the other children. "Daddy, why is the driver sitting on the wrong side in this car, too?" the boy asked. "They all do that here, dummy," Ronny said. "Don't call your brother a dummy," Mr. Das said. He turned to Mr. Kapasi. "In America, you know ... it confuses them." "Oh yes, I am well aware," Mr. Kapasi said. As delicately as he could, he shifted gears again, accelerating as they approached a hill in the road. "I see it on Dallas, the steering wheels are on the left-hand side." "What's Dallas?" Tina asked, banging her now naked doll on the seat behind Mr. Kapasi. "It went off the air," Mr. Das explained. "It's a television show." They were all like siblings, Mr. Kapasi thought as they passed a row of date trees. Mr. and Mrs. Das behaved like an older brother and sister, not parents. It seemed that they were in charge of the children only for the day; it was hard to believe they were regularly respon¬ sible for anything other than themselves. Mr. Das tapped on his lens cap, and his tour book, hragg*ng his thumbnail occasionally across the pages so that they made a scraping sound. Mrs. Das continued to polish her nails. She had still not removed her sunglasses. Every now and then Tina renewed her plea that she wanted her nails done, too, and so at one point Mrs. Das flicked a drop of polish on the little girl's finger before depositing the bottle back inside her straw bag. "Isn't this an air-conditioned car?" she asked, still blowing on her hand. The window on Tina s side was broken and could not be rolled down. "Quit complaining," Mr. Das said. "It isn't so hot."

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"I told you to get a car with air-conditioning," Mrs. Das continued. "Why do you do this, Raj, just to save a few stupid rupees. What are you saving us, fifty cents?" Their accents sounded just like the ones Mr. Kapasi heard on American television pro¬ grams, though not like the ones on Dallas. "Doesn't it get tiresome, Mr. Kapasi, showing people the same thing every day?" Mr. Das asked, rolling down his own window all the way. "Hey, do you mind stopping the car. I just want to get a shot of this guy." Mr. Kapasi pulled over to the side of the road as Mr. Das took a picture of a barefoot man, his head wrapped in a dirty turban, seated on top of a cart of grain sacks pulled by a pair of bullocks. Both the man and the bullocks were emaciated. In the back seat Mrs. Das gazed out another window, at the sky, where nearly transparent clouds passed quickly in front of one another. "I look forward to it, actually," Mr. Kapasi said as they continued on their way. "The Sun Temple is one of my favorite places. In that way it is a reward for me. I give tours on Fridays and Saturdays only. I have another job during the week." "Oh? Where?" Mr. Das asked. "I work in a doctor's office." "You're a doctor?" "I am not a doctor. I work with one. As an interpreter." "What does a doctor need an interpreter for?" "He has a number of Gujarati0 patients. My father was Gujarati, but many people do not speak Gujarati in this area, including the doctor. And so the doctor asked me to work in his office, interpreting what the patients say." "Interesting. I've never heard of anything like that," Mr. Das said. Mr. Kapasi shrugged. "It is a job like any other." "But so romantic," Mrs. Das said dreamily, breaking her extended silence. She lifted her pinkish brown sunglasses and arranged them on top of her head like a tiara. For the first time, her eyes met Mr. Kapasi's in the rearview mirror: pale, a bit small, their gaze fixed but drowsy. Mr. Das craned to look at her. "What's so romantic about it?" "I don't know. Something." She shrugged, knitting her brows together for an instant. "Would you like a piece of gum, Mr. Kapasi?" she asked brightly. She reached into her straw bag and handed him a small square wrapped in green-and-white-striped paper. As soon as Mr. Kapasi put the gum in his mouth a thick sweet liquid burst onto his tongue. "Tell us more about your job, Mr. Kapasi," Mrs. Das said. "What would you like to know, madame?" "I don't know," she shrugged, munching on some puffed rice and licking the mustard oil from the corners of her mouth. "Tell us a typical situation." She settled back in her seat, her head tilted in a patch of sun, and closed her eyes. "I want to picture what happens." "Very well. The other day a man came in with a pain in his throat."

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"Did he smoke cigarettes?" "No. It was very curious. He complained that he felt as if there were long pieces of straw stuck in his throat. When I told the doctor he was able to prescribe the proper medication." "That's so neat." "Yes," Mr. Kapasi agreed after some hesitation. "So these patients are totally dependent on you," Mrs. Das said. She spoke slowly, as if she were thinking aloud. "In a way, more dependent on you than the doctor."

°Gujarati: the native language of Gujarat, in the west of India, bordering on Pakistan.

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"How do you mean? How could it be?" "Well, for example, you could tell the doctor that the pain felt like a burning, not straw. The patient would never know what you had told the doctor, and the doctor wouldn't know that you had told the wrong thing. It's a big responsibility." "Yes, a big responsibility you have there, Mr. Kapasi," Mr. Das agreed. Mr. Kapasi had never thought of his job in such complimentary terms. To him it was a thankless occupation. He found nothing noble in interpreting people's maladies, assidu¬ ously translating the symptoms of so many swollen bones, countless cramps of bellies and bowels, spots on people's palms that changed color, shape, or size. The doctor, nearly half his age, had an affinity for bell-bottom trousers and made humorless jokes about the Con¬ gress party. Together they worked in a stale little infirmary where Mr. Kapasi's smartly tai¬ lored clothes clung to him in the heat, in spite of the blackened blades of a ceiling fan churning over their heads. The job was a sign of his failings. In his youth he'd been a devoted scholar of foreign languages, the owner of an impressive collection of dictionaries. He had dreamed of being an interpreter for diplomats and dignitaries, resolving conflicts between people and nations, settling disputes of which he alone could understand both sides. He was a selfeducated man. In a series of notebooks, in the evenings before his parents settled his mar¬ riage, he had listed the common etymologies of words, and at one point in his life he was confident that he could converse, if given the opportunity, in English, French, Russian, Portuguese, and Italian, not to mention Hindi, Bengali, Orissi, and Gujarati. Now only a handful of European phrases remained in his memory, scattered words for things like saucers and chairs. English was the only non-Indian language he spoke fluently anymore. Mr. Kapasi knew it was not a remarkable talent. Sometimes he feared that his children knew better English than he did, just from watching television. Still, it came in handy for the tours. He had taken the job as an interpreter after his first son, at the age of seven, contracted typhoid—that was how he had first made the acquaintance of the doctor. At the time Mr. Kapasi had been teaching English in a grammar school, and he bartered his skills as an interpreter to pay the increasingly exorbitant medical bills. In the end the boy had died one evening in his mother's arms, his limbs burning with fever, but then there was the funeral to pay for, and the other children who were born soon enough, and the newer, bigger house, and the good schools and tutors, and the fine shoes and the television, and the countless other ways he tried to console his wife and to keep her from crying in her sleep, and so when the doctor offered to pay him twice as much as he earned at the grammar school, he accepted. Mr. Kapasi knew that his wife had little regard for his career as an interpreter. He knew it reminded her of the son she'd lost, and that she resented the other lives he helped, in his own small way, to save. If ever she referred to his position, she used the phrase doctor s assistant," as if the process of interpretation were equal to taking someone's temperature, or changing a bedpan. She never asked him about the patients who came to the doctor's office, or said that his job was a big responsibility. For this reason it flattered Mr. Kapasi that Mrs. Das was so intrigued by his job. Unlike his wife, she had reminded him of its intellectual challenges. She had also used the word "romantic." She did not behave in a romantic way toward her husband, and yet she had used the word to describe him. He wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Das were a bad match, just as he and his wife were. Perhaps they, too, had little in common apart from three children and a decade of their lives. The signs he recognized from his own marriage were there_the bickering, the indifference, the protracted silences. Her sudden interest in him, an interest she did not express in either her husband or her children, was mildly intoxicating. When Mr. Kapasi thought once again about how she had said "romantic," the feeling of intoxica¬ tion grew.

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He began to check his reflection in the rearview mirror as he drove, feeling grateful that he had chosen the gray suit that morning and not the brown one, which tended to sag a lit¬ tle in the knees. From time to time he glanced through the mirror at Mrs. Das. In addition to glancing at her face he glanced at the strawberry between her breasts, and the golden brown hollow in her throat. He decided to tell Mrs. Das about another patient, and another: the young woman who had complained of a sensation of raindrops in her spine, the gentle¬ man whose birthmark had begun to sprout hairs. Mrs. Das listened attentively, stroking her hair with a small plastic brush that resembled an oval bed of nails, asking more questions, for yet another example. The children were quiet, intent on spotting more monkeys in the trees, and Mr. Das was absorbed by his tour book, so it seemed like a private conversation between Mr. Kapasi and Mrs. Das. In this manner the next half hour passed, and when they stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant that sold fritters and omelette sandwiches, usu¬ ally something Mr. Kapasi looked forward to on his tours so that he could sit in peace and enjoy some hot tea, he was disappointed. As the Das family settled together under a magenta umbrella fringed with white and orange tassels, and placed their orders with one of the waiters who marched about in tricornered caps, Mr. Kapasi reluctantly headed toward a neighboring table. "Mr. Kapasi, wait. There's room here," Mrs. Das called out. She gathered Tina onto her lap, insisting that he accompany them. And so, together, they had bottled mango juice and sandwiches and plates of onions and potatoes deep-fried in graham-flour batter. After fin¬ ishing two omelette sandwiches Mr. Das took more pictures of the group as they ate. "How much longer?" he asked Mr. Kapasi as he paused to load a new roll of film in the camera. "About half an hour more." By now the children had gotten up from the table to look at more monkeys perched in a nearby tree, so there was a considerable space between Mrs. Das and Mr. Kapasi. Mr. Das placed the camera to his face and squeezed one eye shut, his tongue exposed at one corner of his mouth. "This looks funny. Mina, you need to lean in closer to Mr. Kapasi." She did. He could smell a scent on her skin, like a mixture of whiskey and rosewater. He worried suddenly that she could smell his perspiration, which he knew had collected beneath the synthetic material of his shirt. He polished off his mango juice in one gulp and smoothed his silver hair with his hands. A bit of the juice dripped onto his chin. He won¬ dered if Mrs. Das had noticed. She had not. "What's your address, Mr. Kapasi?" she inquired, fishing for something inside her straw bag. "You would like my address?" "So we can send you copies," she said. "Of the pictures." She handed him a scrap of paper which she had hastily ripped from a page of her film magazine. The blank portion was limited, for the narrow strip was crowded by lines of text and a tiny picture of a hero and heroine embracing under a eucalyptus tree. The paper curled as Mr. Kapasi wrote his address in clear, careful letters. She would write to him, asking about his days interpreting at the doctor's office, and he would respond eloquently, choosing only the most entertaining anecdotes, ones that would make her laugh out loud as she read them in her house in New Jersey. In time she would reveal the disappointment of her marriage, and he his. In this way their friendship would grow, and flourish. He would possess a picture of the two of them, eating fried onions under a magenta umbrella, which he would keep, he decided, safely tucked between the pages of his Russian grammar. As his mind raced, Mr. Kapasi experienced a mild and pleasant shock. It was similar to a feeling he used to experience long ago when, after months of translating with the aid of a dictionary, he would finally read a passage from a French novel, or an Italian sonnet, and understand the words, one after another, unencumbered by

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his own efforts. In those moments Mr. Kapasi used to believe that all was right with the world, that all struggles were rewarded, that all of life's mistakes made sense in the end. The promise that he would hear from Mrs. Das now filled him with the same belief. When he finished writing his address Mr. Kapasi handed her the paper, but as soon as he did so he worried that he had either misspelled his name,or accidentally reversed the numbers of his postal code. He dreaded the possibility of a lost letter, the photograph never reaching him, hovering somewhere in Orissa, close but ultimately unattainable. He thought of asking for the slip of paper again, just to make sure he had written his address accurately, but Mrs. Das had already dropped it into the jumble of her bag. They reached Konarak at two-thirty. The temple, made of sandstone, was a massive pyramid-like structure in the shape of a chariot. It was dedicated to the great master of life, the sun, which struck three sides of the edifice as it made its journey each day across the sky. Twenty-four giant wheels were carved on the north and south sides of the plinth. The whole thing was drawn by a team of seven horses, speeding as if through the heavens. As they approached, Mr. Kapasi explained that the temple had been built between A.D. 1243 and 1255, with the efforts of twelve hundred artisans, by the great ruler of the Ganga dynasty King Narasimhadeva the First, to commemorate his victory against the Muslim army. "It says the temple occupies about a hundred and seventy acres of land," Mr. Das said, reading from his book. "It's like a desert," Ronny said, his eyes wandering across the sand that stretched on all sides beyond the temple. "The Chandrabhaga River once flowed one mile north of here. It is dry now," Mr. Kapasi said, turning off the engine. They got out and walked toward the temple, posing first for pictures by the pair of lions that flanked the steps. Mr. Kapasi led them next to one of the wheels of the chariot, higher than any human being, nine feet in diameter. "The wheels are supposed to symbolize the wheel of life," Mr. Das read. ""They depict the cycle of creation, preservation, and achievement of realization.' Cool." He turned the page of his book. "Each wheel is divided into eight thick and thin spokes, dividing the day into eight equal parts. The rims are carved with designs of birds and animals, whereas the medallions in the spokes are carved with women in luxurious poses, largely erotic in nature." What he referred to were the countless friezes of entwined naked bodies, making love in various positions, women clinging to the necks of men, their knees wrapped eternally around their lovers' thighs. In addition to these were assorted scenes from daily life, of hunting and trading, of deer being killed with bows and arrows and marching warriors holding swords in their hands. It was no longer possible to enter the temple, for it had filled with rubble years ago, but they admired the exterior, as did all the tourists Mr. Kapasi brought there, slowly strolling along each of its sides. Mr. Das trailed behind, taking pictures. The children ran ahead, pointing to figures of naked people, intrigued in particular by the Nagamithunas, the half¬ human, half-serpentine couples who were said, Mr. Kapasi told them, to live in the deepest waters of the sea. Mr. Kapasi was pleased that they liked the temple, pleased especially that it appealed to Mrs. Das. She stopped every three or four paces, staring silently at the carved lovers, and the processions of elephants, and the topless female musicians beating on twosided drums. Though Mr. Kapasi had been to the temple countless times, it occurred to him, as he, too, gazed at the topless women, that he had never seen his own wife fully naked. Even when they had made love she kept the panels of her blouse hooked together, the string of her pet¬ ticoat knotted around her waist. He had never admired the backs of his wife's legs the way

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he now admired those of Mrs. Das, walking as if for his benefit alone. He had, of course, seen plenty of bare limbs before, belonging to the American and European ladies who took his tours. But Mrs. Das was different. Unlike the other women, who had an interest only in the temple, and kept their noses buried in a guidebook, or their eyes behind the lens of a camera, Mrs. Das had taken an interest in him. Mr. Kapasi was anxious to be alone with her, to continue their private conversation, yet he felt nervous to walk at her side. She was lost behind her sunglasses, ignoring her hus¬ band's requests that she pose for another picture, walking past her children as if they were strangers. Worried that he might disturb her, Mr. Kapasi walked ahead, to admire, as he always did, the three life-sized bronze avatars of Surya, the sun god, each emerging from its own niche on the temple facade to greet the sun at dawn, noon, and evening. They wore elaborate headdresses, their languid, elongated eyes closed, their bare chests draped with carved chains and amulets. Hibiscus petals, offerings from previous visitors, were strewn at their gray-green feet. The last statue, on the northern wall of the temple, was Mr. Kapasi's favorite. This Surya had a tired expression, weary after a hard day of work, sitting astride a horse with folded legs. Even his horse's eyes were drowsy. Around his body were smaller sculptures of women in pairs, their hips thrust to one side. "Who's that?" Mrs. Das asked. He was startled to see that she was standing beside him. "He is the Astachala-Surya," Mr. Kapasi said. "The setting sun." "So in a couple of hours the sun will set right here?" She slipped a foot out of one of her square-heeled shoes, rubbed her toes on the back of her other leg. "That is correct." She raised her sunglasses for a moment, then put them back on again. "Neat." Mr. Kapasi was not certain exactly what the word suggested, but he had a feeling it was a favorable response. He hoped that Mrs. Das had understood Surya's beauty, his power. Perhaps they would discuss it further in their letters. He would explain things to her, things about India, and she would explain things to him about America. In its own way this corre¬ spondence would fulfill his dream, of serving as an interpreter between nations. He looked at her straw bag, delighted that his address lay nestled among its contents. When he pic¬ tured her so many thousands of miles away he plummeted, so much so that he had an over¬ whelming urge to wrap his arms around her, to freeze with her, even for an instant, in an embrace witnessed by his favorite Surya. But Mrs. Das had already started walking. "When do you return to America?" he asked, trying to sound placid.

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"In ten days." He calculated: A week to settle in, a week to develop the pictures, a few days to compose her letter, two weeks to get to India by air. According to his schedule, allowing room for delays, he would hear from Mrs. Das in approximately six weeks' time. The family was silent as Mr. Kapasi drove them back, a little past four-thirty, to Hotel Sandy Villa. The children had bought miniature granite versions of the chariot's wheels at a souvenir stand, and they turned them round in their hands. Mr. Das continued to read his book. Mrs. Das untangled Tina's hair with her brush and divided it into two little ponytails. Mr. Kapasi was beginning to dread the thought of dropping them off. Tie was not pre¬ pared to begin his six-week wait to hear from Mrs. Das. As he stole glances at her in the rearview mirror, wrapping elastic bands around Tina's hair, he wondered how he might make the tour last a little longer. Ordinarily he sped back to Pun using a shortcut, eager to return home, scrub his feet and hands with sandalwood soap, and enjoy the evening news¬ paper and a cup of tea that his wife would serve him in silence. The thought of that silence, something to which he'd long been resigned, now oppressed him. It was then that he sug¬ gested visiting the hills at Udayagiri and Khandagiri, where a number of monastic

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dwellings were hewn out of the ground, facing one another across a defile. It was some miles away, but well worth seeing, Mr. Kapasi told them. "Oh yeah, there's something mentioned about it in this book," Mr. Das said. "Built by a Jain king or something." "Shall we go then?" Mr. Kapasi asked. He paused at a turn in the road. "It's to the left." 115

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Mr. Das turned to look at Mrs. Das. Both of them shrugged. "Left, left," the children chanted. Mr. Kapasi turned the wheel, almost delirious with relief. He did not know what he would do or say to Mrs. Das once they arrived at the hills. Perhaps he would tell her what a pleasing smile she had. Perhaps he would compliment her strawberry shirt, which he found irresistibly becoming. Perhaps, when Mr. Das was busy taking a picture, he would take her hand. He did not have to worry. When they got to the hills, divided by a steep path thick with trees, Mrs. Das refused to get out of the car. All along the path, dozens of monkeys were seated on stones, as well as on the branches of the trees. Their hind legs were stretched out in front and raised to shoulder level, their arms resting on their knees. "My legs are tired," she said, sinking low in her seat. "I'll stay here." "Why did you have to wear those stupid shoes?" Mr. Das said. "You won't be in the pictures." "Pretend I'm there." "But we could use one of these pictures for our Christmas card this year. We didn't get one of all five of us at the Sun Temple. Mr. Kapasi could take it." "I'm not coming. Anyway, those monkeys give me the creeps." "But they're harmless," Mr. Das said. He turned to Mr. Kapasi. 'Aren't they?" "They are more hungry than dangerous," Mr. Kapasi said. "Do not provoke them with food, and they will not bother you." Mr. Das headed up the defile with the children, the boys at his side, the little girl on his shoulders. Mr. Kapasi watched as they crossed paths with a Japanese man and woman, the only other tourists there, who paused for a final photograph, then stepped into a nearby car and drove away. As the car disappeared out of view some of the monkeys called out, emit¬ ting soft whooping sounds, and then walked on their flat black hands and feet up the path. At one point a group of them formed a little ring around Mr. Das and the children. Tina screamed in delight. Ronny ran in circles around his father. Bobby bent down and picked up a fat stick on the ground. When he extended it, one of the monkeys approached him and snatched it, then briefly beat the ground. "I'll join them," Mr. Kapasi said, unlocking the door on his side. "There is much to explain about the caves." "No. Stay a minute," Mrs. Das said. She got out of the back seat and slipped in beside Mr. Kapasi. "Raj has his dumb book anyway." Together, through the windshield, Mrs. Das and Mr. Kapasi watched as Bobby and the monkey passed the stick back and forth between them.

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"A brave little boy," Mr. Kapasi commented. "It's not so surprising," Mrs. Das said. "No?" "He's not his." "I beg your pardon?" "Raj's. He's not Raj's son." Mr. Kapasi felt a prickle on his skin. He reached into his shirt pocket for the small tin of lotus-oil balm he carried with him at all times, and applied it to three spots on his fore¬ head. He knew that Mrs. Das was watching him, but he did not turn to face her. Instead he watched as the figures of Mr. Das and the children grew smaller, climbing up the steep

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path, pausing every now and then for a picture, surrounded by a growing number of monkeys. "Are you surprised?" The way she put it made him choose his words with care. "It's not the type of thing one assumes," Mr. Kapasi replied slowly. He put the tin of lotus-oil balm back in his pocket. "No, of course not. And no one knows, of course. No one at all. I've kept it a secret for eight whole years." She looked at Mr. Kapasi, tilting her chin as if to gain a fresh perspec¬ tive. "But now I've told you." Mr. Kapasi nodded. He felt suddenly parched, and his forehead was warm and slightly numb from the balm. He considered asking Mrs. Das for a sip of water, then decided against it. "We met when we were very young," she said. She reached into her straw bag in search of something, then pulled out a packet of puffed rice. "Want some?" "No, thank you." She put a fistful in her mouth, sank into the seat a little, and looked away from Mr. Kapasi, out the window on her side of the car. "We married when we were still in college. We were in high school when he proposed. We went to the same college, of course. Back then we couldn't stand the thought of being separated, not for a day, not for a minute. Our parents were best friends who lived in the same town. My entire life I saw him every weekend, either at our house or theirs. We were sent upstairs to play together while our parents joked about our marriage. Imagine! They never caught us at anything, though in a way I think it was all more or less a setup. The things we did those Friday and Saturday nights, while our parents sat downstairs drinking tea ... I could tell you stories, Mr. Kapasi." As a result of spending all her time in college with Raj, she continued, she did not make many close friends. There was no one to confide in about him at the end of a difficult day, or to share a passing thought or a worry. Her parents now lived on the other side of the world, but she had never been very close to them, anyway. After marrying so young she was overwhelmed by it all, having a child so quickly and nursing, and warming up bottles of milk and testing their temperature against her wrist while Raj was at work, dressed in sweaters and corduroy pants, teaching his students about rocks and dinosaurs. Raj never looked cross or harried, or plump as she had become after the first baby. Always tired, she declined invitations from her one or two college girlfriends, to have lunch or shop in Manhattan. Eventually the friends stopped calling her, so that she was left at home all day with the baby, surrounded by toys that made her trip when she walked or wince when she sat, always cross and tired. Only occasionally did they go out after Ronny was born, and even more rarely did they entertain. Raj didn't mind; he looked forward to coming home from teaching and watching television and bouncing Ronny on his knee. She had been outraged when Raj told her that a Punjabi friend, someone whom she had once met but did not remember, would be staying with them for a week for some job interviews in the New Brunswick area. Bobby was conceived in the afternoon, on a sofa littered with rubber teething toys, after the friend learned that a London pharmaceutical company had hired him, while Ronny cried to be freed from his playpen. She made no protest when the friend touched the small of her back as she was about to make a pot of coffee, then pulled her against his crisp navy suit. He made love to her swiftly, in silence, with an expertise she had never known, with¬ out the meaningful expressions and smiles Raj always insisted on afterward. The next day Raj drove the friend to JFK. He was married now, to a Punjabi girl, and they lived in Lon¬ don still, and every year they exchanged Christmas cards with Raj and Mina, each couple tucking photos of their families into the envelopes. He did not know that he was Bobby s father. He never would.

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"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Das, but why have you told me this information?" Mr. Kapasi asked when she had finally finished speaking, and had turned to face him once again. "For God's sake, stop calling me Mrs. Das. I'm twenty-eight. You probably have children my age." "Not quite." It disturbed Mr. Kapasi to learn that she thodght of him as a parent. The feeling he had had toward her, that had made him check his reflection in the rearview mir¬ ror as they drove, evaporated a little. "I told you because of your talents." She put the packet of puffed rice back into her bag without folding over the top. "I don't understand," Mr. Kapasi said. "Don't you see? For eight years I haven't been able to express this to anybody, not to friends, certainly not to Raj. Fie doesn't even suspect it. Fie thinks I'm still in love with him. Well, don't you have anything to say?" "About what?" "About what I've just told you. About my secret, and about how terrible it makes me feel. I feel terrible looking at my children, and at Raj, always terrible. I have terrible urges, Mr. Kapasi, to throw things away. One day I had the urge to throw everything I own out the window, the television, the children, everything. Don't you think it's unhealthy?" He was silent. "Mr. Kapasi, don't you have anything to say? I thought that was your job." "My job is to give tours, Mrs. Das." "Not that. Your other job. As an interpreter." "But we do not face a language barrier. What need is there for an interpreter?" "That's not what I mean. I would never have told you otherwise. Don't you realize what it means for me to tell you?" "What does it mean?" "It means that I'm tired of feeling so terrible all the time. Eight years, Mr. Kapasi, I've been in pain eight years. I was hoping you could help me feel better, say the right thing. Suggest some kind of remedy." He looked at her, in her red plaid skirt and strawberry T-shirt, a woman not yet thirty, who loved neither her husband nor her children, who had already fallen out of love with life. Her confession depressed him, depressed him all the more when he thought of Mr. Das at the top of the path, Tina clinging to his shoulders, taking pictures of ancient monastic cells cut into the hills to show his students in America, unsuspecting and unaware that one of his sons was not his own. Mr. Kapasi felt insulted that Mrs. Das should ask him to interpret her common, trivial little secret. She did not resemble the patients in the doctor's office, those who came glassy-eyed and desperate, unable to sleep or breathe or urinate with ease, unable, above all, to give words to their pains. Still, Mr. Kapasi believed it was his duty to assist Mrs. Das. Perhaps he ought to tell her to confess the truth to Mr. Das. He would explain that honesty was the best policy. Hon¬ esty, surely, would help her feel better, as she'd put it. Perhaps he would offer to preside over the discussion, as a mediator. He decided to begin with the most obvious question, to get to the heart of the matter, and so he asked, "Is it really pain you feel, Mrs. Das, or is it guilt?" She turned to him and glared, mustard oil thick on her frosty pink lips. She opened her mouth to say something, but as she glared at Mr. Kapasi some certain knowledge seemed to pass before her eyes, and she stopped. It crushed him; he knew at that moment that he was not even important enough to be properly insulted. She opened the car door and began walking up the path, wobbling a little on her square wooden heels, reaching into her straw bag to eat handfuls of puffed rice. It fell through her fingers, leaving a zigzagging trail, causing a monkey to leap down from a tree and devour the little white grains. In search of

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more, the monkey began to follow Mrs. Das. Others joined him, so that she was soon being followed by about half a dozen of them, their velvety tails dragging behind. Mr. Kapasi stepped out of the car. He wanted to holler, to alert her in some way, but he worried that if she knew they were behind her, she would grow nervous. Perhaps she would lose her balance. Perhaps they would pull at her bag or her hair. He began to jog up the path, taking a fallen branch in his hand to scare away the monkeys. Mrs. Das continued walking, oblivious, trailing grains of puffed rice. Near the top of the incline, before a group of cells fronted by a row of squat stone pillars, Mr. Das was kneeling on the ground, focus¬ ing the lens of his camera. The children stood under the arcade, now hiding, now emerging from view. “Wait for me," Mrs. Das called out. "I'm coming." Tina jumped up and down. "Here comes Mommy!" "Great," Mr. Das said without looking up. "Just in time. We'll get Mr. Kapasi to take a picture of the five of us." Mr. Kapasi quickened his pace, waving his branch so that the monkeys scampered away, distracted, in another direction. "Where's Bobby?" Mrs. Das asked when she stopped. Mr. Das looked up from the camera. "I don't know. Ronny, where's Bobby?" Ronny shrugged. "I thought he was right here." "Where is he?" Mrs. Das repeated sharply. '"What's wrong with all of you?" They began calling his name, wandering up and down the path a bit. Because they were calling, they did not initially hear the boy's screams. When they found him, a little farther down the path under a tree, he was surrounded by a group of monkeys, over a dozen of them, pulling at his T-shirt with their long black fingers. The puffed rice Mrs. Das had spilled was scattered at his feet, raked over by the monkeys' hands. The boy was silent, his body frozen, swift tears running down his startled face. His bare legs were dusty and red with welts from where one of the monkeys struck him repeatedly with the stick he had given to it earlier. "Daddy, the monkey's hurting Bobby," Tina said. Mr. Das wiped his palms on the front of his shorts. In his nervousness he accidentally pressed the shutter on his camera; the whirring noise of the advancing film excited the monkeys, and the one with the stick began to beat Bobby more intently. "What are we sup¬ posed to do? What if they start attacking?" "Mr. Kapasi," Mrs. Das shrieked, noticing him standing to one side. "Do something, for God's sake, do something!" Mr. Kapasi took his branch and shooed them away, hissing at the ones that remained, stomping his feet to scare them. The animals retreated slowly, with a measured gait, obedi¬ ent but unintimidated. Mr. Kapasi gathered Bobby in his arms and brought him back to where his parents and siblings were standing. As he carried him he was tempted to whis¬ per a secret into the boy's ear. But Bobby was stunned, and shivering with fright, his legs bleeding slightly where the stick had broken the skin. When Mr. Kapasi delivered him to his parents, Mr. Das brushed some dirt off the boy's T-shirt and put the visor on him the right way. Mrs. Das reached into her straw bag to find a bandage which she taped over the cut on his knee. Ronny offered his brother a fresh piece of gum. "He's fine. Just a little scared, right, Bobby?" Mr. Das said, patting the top of his head. "God, let's get out of here," Mrs. Das said. She folded her arms across the strawberry on her chest. "This place gives me the creeps." "Yeah. Back to the hotel, definitely," Mr. Das agreed. "Poor Bobby, " Mrs. Das said. "Come here a second. Let Mommy fix your hair." Again she reached into her straw bag, this time for her hairbrush, and began to run it around the edges of the translucent visor. When she whipped out the hairbrush, the slip of paper with

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

Mr. Kapasi's address on it fluttered away in the wind. No one but Mr. Kapasi noticed. He watched as it rose, carried higher and higher by the breeze, into the trees where the mon¬ keys now sat, solemnly observing the scene below. Mr. Kapasi observed it too, knowing that this was the picture of the Das family he would preserve forever in his mind.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the structural form of "Interpreter of Maladies." Where are the people located during the time of the story's events? How does the movement of the car enable the story to develop? How could the story's form be described as a development of inter¬ est in Mrs. Das by Mr. Kapasi, and then his realization of the impossibility of his emo¬ tions during the day?

2. Who is the center of interest in this story? What do we learn about him, and about his life? How is this story disclosed to us? What is the occasion of Mrs. Das's telling Mr. Kapasi about the fatherhood of Bobby?

3. Why do you think that the American-born tourists, Mr. and Mrs. Das, are of Indian ancestry? Why does this situation appear to unsettle Mr. Kapasi? How does he respond to Mrs. Das? Why does she apparently think of him as an interpreter of mal¬ adies? Why is Mr. Kapasi intrigued by Mrs. Das's interest in his job as an interpreter? How does he misinterpret her interest?

4. Why do you think that Mrs. Das takes Mr. Kapasi into her confidence about the iden¬ tity of the father of her son Bobby? What does her story tell you about her life with her husband and family? How does Mr. Kapasi react to this information?

EUDORA WELTY (1909-2001) One of the major southern writers, Welty was born in Jackson, Mississippi. She attended the Mississippi State College for Women and the University of Wisconsin, and she began her writing career during the Great Depression. By 1943 she had published two major story collections, Curtain of Green (1941, including "A Worn Path") and The Wide Net (1943). She was the author of many sto¬ ries and was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1973 for her short novel The Optimist's Daughter (1972). “A Worn Path" received an O. Henry Award in 1941.

if

A Worn Path0 (1941)

It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from side to side in her steps, with the bal¬ anced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air, that seemed meditative like the chirping of a solitary little bird.

°“A Worn Path,” from A Curtain of Green and Other Stories. Copyright 1941 and renewed 1969 by Eudora Welty, reprinted by permission of Harcourt, Inc.

WELTY • A Worn Path

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She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks were illumi¬ nated by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the rag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper. Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said, "Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits, coons and wild animals!... Keep out from under these feet, little bob-whites. . . . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't let none of those come running my direction. I got a long way." Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggy whip, would switch at the brush as if to rouse up any hiding things. On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in the hollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him. The path ran up a hill. "Seem like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far," she said, in the voice of argument old people keep to use with themselves. "Something always take a hold of me on this hill—pleads I should stay." After she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come. "Up through pines," she said at length. "Now down through oaks." Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bot¬ tom of the hill a bush caught her dress. Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull them free in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. "I in the thorny bush," she said. "Thorns, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass, no sir. Old eyes thought you was a pretty little green bush." Finally, trembling all over, she stood free, and after a moment dared to stoop for her cane. "Sun so high!" she cried, leaning back and looking, while the thick tears went over her eyes. "The time getting all gone here." At the foot of this hill was a place where a log was laid across the creek. "Now comes the trial," said Phoenix. Putting her right foot out, she mounted the log and shut her eyes. Lifting her skirt, level¬ ing her cane fiercely before her, like a festival figure in some parade, she began to march across. Then she opened her eyes and she was safe on the other side. "I wasn't as old as I thought," she said. But she sat down to rest. She spread her skirts on the bank around her and folded her hands over her knees. Up above her was a tree in a pearly cloud of mistletoe. She did not dare to close her eyes, and when a little boy brought her a plate with a slice of marble-cake on it she spoke to him. "That would be acceptable," she said. But when she went to take it there was just her own hand in the air. So she left that tree, and had to go through a barbed-wire fence. There she had to creep and crawl, spreading her knees and stretching her fingers like a baby trying to climb the steps. But she talked loudly to herself: she could not let her dress be torn now, so late in the day, and she could not pay for having her arm or leg sawed off if she got caught fast where she was. At last she was safe through the fence and risen up out in the clearing. Big dead trees, like black men with one arm, were standing in the purple stalks of the withered cotton field. There sat a buzzard. "Who you watching?" In the furrow she made her way along.

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

"Glad this is not the season for bulls," she said, looking sideways, "and the good Lord made his snakes to curl up and sleep in the winter. A pleasure I don't see no two-headed snake coming around that tree, where it come once. It took a while to get by him, back in the summer." She passed through the old cotton and went into a field of dead corn. It whispered and shook and was taller than her head. "Through the maze now," she said, for there was no path. Then there was something tall, black, and skinny there, moving before her. At first she took it for a man. It could have been a man dancing in the field. But she stood still and listened, and it did not make a sound. It was as silent as a ghost. "Ghost," she said sharply, "who be you the ghost of? For I have heard of nary death close by." But there was no answer—only the ragged dancing in the wind. She shut her eyes, reached out her hand, and touched a sleeve. She found a coat and inside that an emptiness, cold as ice. "You scarecrow," she said. Her face lighted. "I ought to be shut up for good," she said with laughter. "My senses is gone. I too old, I the oldest people I ever know. Dance, old scarecrow," she said, "while I dancing with you." She kicked her foot over the furrow, and with mouth drawn down, shook her head once or twice in a little strutting way. Some husks blew down and whirled in steamers about her skirts. Then she went on, parting her way from side to side with the cane, through the whisper¬ ing field. At last she came to the end, to a wagon track where the silver grass blew between the red ruts. The quail were walking around like pullets, seeming all dainty and unseen. "Walk pretty," she said. "This is the easy place. This the easy going." She followed the track, swaying through the quiet bare fields, through the little strings of trees silver in their dead leaves, past cabins silver from weather, with the doors and win¬ dows boarded shut, all like old women under a spell sitting there. "I walking in their sleep," she said, nodding her head vigorously. In a ravine she went where a spring was silently flowing through a hollow log. Old Phoenix bent and drank. "Sweet-gum makes the water sweet," she said, and drank more. "Nobody know who made this well, for it was here when I was born." The track crossed a swampy part where the moss hung as white as lace from every limb. "Sleep on, alligators, and blow your bubbles." Then the track went into the road. Deep, deep the road went down between the high green-colored banks. Overhead the live-oaks met, and it was as dark as a cave. A black dog with a lolling tongue came up out of the weeds by the ditch. She was medi¬ tating, and not ready, and when he came at her she only hit him a little with her cane. Over she went in the ditch, like a little puff of milkweed. Down there, her sense drifted away. A dream visited her, and she reached her hand up, but nothing reached down and gave her a pull. So she lay there and presently went to talk¬ ing. "Old woman," she said to herself, "that black dog come up out of the weeds to stall you off, and now there he sitting on his fine tail smiling at you." A white man finally came along and found her—a hunter, a young man, with his dog on a chain. "Well, Granny!" he laughed. "What are you doing there?" "Lying on my back like a June-bug waiting to be turned over, mister," she said, reaching up her hand.

40

He lifted her up, gave her a swing in the air, and set her down. "Anything broken. Granny?" "No sir, them old dead weeds is springy enough," said Phoenix, when she had got her breath. "I thank you for your trouble."

WELTY • A Worn Path

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"Where do you live. Granny?" he asked, while the two dogs were growling at each other. "Away back yonder, sir, behind the ridge. You can't even see it from here." "On your way home?" "No sir, I goin to town." "Why, that's too far! That's as far as I walk when I come out myself, and I get something for my trouble." He patted the stuffed bag he carried, and there hung down a little closed claw. It was one of the bob-whites, with its beak hooked bitterly to show it was dead. "Now

45

you go on home. Granny!" "I bound to go to town, mister," said Phoenix. "The time come around." He gave another laugh, filling the whole landscape. "I know you old colored people! Wouldn't miss going to town to see Santa Claus!" But something held old Phoenix very still. The deep lines in her face went into a fierce and different radiation. Without warning, she had seen with her own eyes a flashing nickel fall out of the man's pocket onto the ground. "How old are you. Granny?" he was saying. "There is no telling, mister," she said, "no telling." Then she gave a little cry and clapped her hands and said, "Git on away from here, dog! Look! Look at that dog!" She laughed as if in admiration. "He ain't scared of nobody. He a

50

big black dog." She whispered, "Sic him!" "Watch me get rid of that cur," said the man. "Sic him, Pete! Sic him!" Phoenix heard the dogs fighting, and heard the man running and throwing sticks. She even heard a gunshot. But she was slowly bending forward by that time, further and fur¬ ther forward, the lids stretched down over her eyes, as if she were doing this in her sleep. Her chin was lowered almost to her knees. The yellow palm of her hand came out from the fold of her apron. Her fingers slid down and along the ground under the piece of money with the grace and care they would have in lifting an egg from under a setting hen. Then she slowly straightened up, she stood erect, and the nickel was in her apron pocket. A bird flew by. Her lips moved. "God watching me the whole time. I come to stealing." The man came back, and his own dog panted about them. "Well, I scared him off that time," he said, and then he laughed and lifted his gun and pointed it at Phoenix. She stood straight and faced him. "Doesn't the gun scare you?" he said, still pointing it. "No sir. I seen plenty go off closer by, in my day, and for less than what I done," she said,

55

holding utterly still. He smiled, and shouldered the gun. "Well, Granny," he said, "you must be a hundred years old, and scared of nothing. I'd give you a dime if I had any money with me. But you take my advice and stay home, and nothing will happen to you.' "I bound to go on my way, mister," said Phoenix. She inclined her head in the red rag. Then they went in different directions, but she could hear the gun shooting again and again over the hill. She walked on. The shadows hung from the oak trees to the road like curtains. Then she smelled wood-smoke, and smelled the river, and she saw a steeple and the cabins on their steep steps. Dozens of little black children whirled around her. There ahead was Natchez shining. Bells were ringing. She walked on. In the paved city it was Christmas time. There were red and green electric lights strung and crisscrossed everywhere, and all turned on in the daytime. Old Phoenix would have been lost if she had not distrusted her eyesight and depended on her feet to know where to take her. She paused quietly on the sidewalk where people were passing by. A lady came along in the crowd, carrying an armful of red-, green-, and silver-wrapped presents, she gave off perfume like the red roses in hot summer, and Phoenix stopped her. "Please, missy, will you lace up my shoe?" She held up her foot.

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"What do you want. Grandma?" "See my shoe," said Phoenix. "Do all right for out in the country, but wouldn't look right to go in a big building." "Stand still then. Grandma," said the lady. She put her packages down on the sidewalk beside her and laced and tied both shoes tightly. >■ "Can't lace 'em with a cane," said Phoenix. "Thank you, missy. I doesn't mind asking a

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nice lady to tie up my shoe, when I gets out on the street." Moving slowly and from side to side, she went into the big building, and into a tower of steps, where she walked up and around and around until her feet knew to stop. She entered a door, and there she saw nailed up on the wall the document that had been stamped with the gold seal and framed in the gold frame, which matched the dream that was hung up in her head. "Here I be," she said. There was a fixed and ceremonial stiffness over her body. "A charity case, I suppose," said an attendant who sat at the desk before her. But Phoenix only looked above her head. There was sweat on her face, the wrinkles in her skin shone like a bright net. "Speak up. Grandma," the woman said, "What's your name? We must have your his¬ tory, you know. Have you been here before? What seems to be the trouble with you?" Old Phoenix only gave a twitch to her face as if a fly were bothering her. "Are you deaf?" cried the attendant. But then the nurse came in. "Oh, that's just old Aunt Phoenix," she said. "She doesn't come for herself—she has a lit¬ tle grandson. She makes these trips just as regular as clockwork. She lives away back off the Old Natchez Trace." She bent down. "Well, Aunt Phoenix, why don't you just take a seat? We won't keep you standing after your long trip." She pointed. The old woman sat down, bolt upright in the chair. "Now, how is the boy?" asked the nurse. Old Phoenix did not speak. "I said, how is the boy?" But Phoenix only waited and stared straight ahead, her face very solemn and with¬ drawn into rigidity. "Is his throat any better?" asked the nurse. "Aunt Phoenix, don't you hear me? Is your grandson's throat any better since the last time you came for the medicine?" With her hands on her knees, the old woman waited, silent, erect, and motionless, just as if she were in armor.

85

"You mustn't take up our time this way. Aunt Phoenix," the nurse said. "Tell us quickly about your grandson, and get it over. He isn't dead, is he?" At last there came a flicker and then a flame of comprehension across her face, and she spoke. "My grandson. It was my memory had left me. There I sat and forgot why I made my long trip." "Forgot?" the nurse frowned. "After you came so far?" Then Phoenix was like an old woman begging a dignified forgiveness for waking up frightened in the night. "I never did go to school, I was too old at the Surrender," she said in a soft voice. "I'm an old woman without an education. It was my memory fail me. My lit¬ tle grandson, he is just the same, and I forgot it in the coming."

90

"Throat never heals, does it?" said the nurse, speaking in a loud, sure voice to old Phoenix. By now she had a card with something written on it, a little list. "Yes. Swallowed lye. When was it—January—two, three years ago—" Phoenix spoke unasked now. "No missy, he not dead, he just the same. Every little while his throat begin to close up again, and he not able to swallow. He not get his breath. He not

WELTY • A Worn Path

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able to help himself. So the time come around, and I go on another trip for the soothing medicine." "All right. The doctor said as long as you came to get it, you could have it," said the nurse. "But it's an obstinate case." "My little grandson, he sit up there in the house all wrapped up, waiting by himself," Phoenix went on. "We is the only two left in the world. He suffer and it don't seem to put him back at all. He got a sweet look. He going to last. He wear a little patch quilt and peep out holding his mouth open like a little bird. I remembers so plain now. I not going to for¬ get him again, no, the whole enduring time. I could tell him from all the others in creation." "All right." The nurse was trying to hush her now. She brought her a bottle of medicine. "Charity," she said, making a check mark in a book. Old Phoenix held the bottle close to her eyes, and then carefully put it into her pocket. "I thank you," she said. "It's Christmas time. Grandma," said the attendant. "Could I give you a few pennies out 95 of my purse?" "Five pennies is a nickel," said Phoenix stiffly. "Here's a nickel," said the attendant. Phoenix rose carefully and held out her hand. She received the nickel and then fished the other nickel out of her pocket and laid it beside the new one. She stared at her palm closely, with her head on one side. Then she gave a tap with her cane on the floor. "This is what come to me to do," she said, "I going to the store and buy my child a little windmill they sells, made out of paper. He going to find it hard to believe there such a thing in the world. I'll march myself back where he waiting, holding it straight up in this hand." She lifted her free hand, gave a little nod, turned around, and walked out of the doctor's office. Then her slow step began on the stairs, going down.

QUESTIONS 1. From the description of Phoenix, what do you conclude about her economic condition? How do you know that she has taken the path through the woods before? Is she accus¬ tomed to being alone? What do you make of her speaking to animals, and of her imag¬ ining a boy offering her a piece of cake? What does her speech show about her education and background?

2. Describe the form of the story. With Phoenix as the protagonist, what are the obstacles ranged against her? How might the story be considered as a succession of obstacles that Phoenix encounters on the "worn path"? How might Phoenix be considered to be in the grip of large and indifferent social and political forces?

3. Why is the existence and condition of Phoenix's grandson not introduced until the very end? How does this knowledge shed light on Phoenix's walk to town?

4. Comment on the meaning of this dialogue between Phoenix and the hunter: "Doesn't the gun scare you?" he said, still pointing it. "No, sir. I seen plenty go off closer by, in my day, and for less than what I done," she said, holding utterly still.

5. A number of responses might be made to this story, among them admiration for Phoenix, pity for her and her grandson and for the downtrodden generally, anger at her impoverished condition, and apprehension about her approaching senility. Do you share in any of these responses? Do you have any others?

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TOM WHITECLOUD (1914 1972) Thomas St. Germain Whitecloud was born in New York City. How¬ ever, he spent much of his youth on the Lac du Flambeau Indian Reser¬ vation near Woodruff, Wisconsin, the town mentioned in paragraph 20 of “Blue Winds Dancing." After attending colleges in New Mexico and California, he received his degree in medicine from Tulane Univer¬ sity. He lived in Louisiana and Texas throughout his medical career, and at the time of his death he was a consultant for the Texas Commis¬ sion on Alcoholism and Drug Abuse for Indians. "Blue Winds Danc¬ ing,” which can be considered as either a story or a fictionalized autobiographical fragment, received a prize in 1938 from both Scribner's Magazine, in which it was published, and the Phi Beta Kappa National Honor Society.

Blue Winds Dancing

(1938)

There is a moon out tonight. Moon and stars and clouds tipped with moonlight. And there is a fall wind blowing in my heart. Ever since this evening, when against a fading sky I saw geese wedge southward. They were going home. . . . Now I try to study, but against the pages I see them again, driving southward. Going home. Across the valley there are heavy mountains holding up the night sky, and beyond the mountains there is home. Home, and peace, and the beat of drums, and blue winds dancing over snowfields. The Indian lodge will fill with my people, and our gods will come and sit among them. I should be there then. I should be at home. But home is beyond the mountains, and I am here. Here where fall hides in the valleys, and winter never comes down from the mountains. Here where all the trees grow in rows; the palms stand stiffly by the roadsides, and in the groves the orange trees line in military rows, and endlessly bear fruit. Beautiful, yes: there is always beauty in order, in rows of growing things! But it is the beauty of captivity. A pine fighting for existence on a windy knoll is much more beautiful. In my Wisconsin, the leaves change before the snows come. In the air there is the smell of wild rice and venison cooking; and when the winds come whispering through the forests, they carry the smell of rotting leaves. In the evenings, the loon calls, lonely; and birds sing their last songs before leaving. Bears dig roots and eat late fall berries, fattening for their long winter sleep. Later, when the first snows fall, one awakens in the morning to find the world white and beautiful and clean. Then one can look back over his trail and see the tracks following. In the woods there are tracks of deer and snowshoe rabbits, and long streaks where partridges slide to alight. Chipmunks make tiny footprints on the limbs and one can hear squirrels busy in hollow trees, sorting acorns. Soft lake waves wash the shores, and sunsets burst each evening over the lakes, and make them look as if they were afire. That land which is my home! Beautiful, calm—where there is no hurry to get anywhere, no driving to keep up in a race that knows no ending and no goal. No classes where men talk and talk and then stop now and then to hear their own words come back to them from the students. No constant peering into the maelstrom of one's mind; no worries about grades and honors; no hysterical preparing for life until that life is half over; no anxiety about one's place in the thing they call Society. I hear again the ring of axes in deep woods, the crunch of snow beneath my feet. I feel again the smooth velvet of ghost-birch bark. I hear the rhythm of the drums. ... I am tired. I am weary of trying to keep up this bluff of being civilized. Being civilized means trying to do everything you don't want to, never doing anything you want to. It means dancing to the strings of custom and tradition; it means living in houses and never knowing or caring

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who is next door. These civilized white men want us to be like them—always dissatisfied— getting a hill and wanting a mountain. Then again, maybe I am not tired. Maybe I'm licked. Maybe I am just not smart enough to grasp these things that go to make up civilization. Maybe I am just too lazy to think hard enough to keep up. Still, I know my people have many things that civilization has taken from the whites. They know how to give; how to tear one's piece of meat in two and share it with one's brother. They know how to sing—how to make each man his own songs and sing them; for their music they do not have to listen to other men singing over a radio. They know how to make things with their hands, how to shape beads into design and make a thing of beauty from a piece of birch bark. But we are inferior. It is terrible to have to feel inferior; to have to read reports of intelli¬ gence tests, and learn that one's race is behind. It is terrible to sit in classes and hear men tell you that your people worship sticks of wood—that your gods are all false, that the Manitou forgot your people and did not write them a book. I am tired. I want to walk again among the ghost-birches. I want to see the leaves turn in autumn, the smoke rise from the lodgehouses, and to feel the blue winds. I want to hear the drums; I want to hear the drums and feel the blue whispering winds. There is a train wailing into the night. The trains go across the mountains. It would be easy to catch a freight. They will say he has gone back to the blanket; I don't care. The dance at Christmas. . . . A bunch of bums warming at a tiny fire talk politics and women and joke about the Relief and the WPA and smoke cigarettes. These men in caps and overcoats and dirty overalls living on the outskirts of civilization are free, but they pay the price of being free in civilization. They are outcasts. I remember a sociology professor lecturing on adjust¬ ment to society; hobos and prostitutes and criminals are individuals who never adjusted, he said. He could learn a lot if he came and listened to a bunch of bums talk. He would learn that work and a woman and a place to hang his hat are all the ordinary man wants. These are all he wants, but other men are not content to let him want only these. He must be taught to want radios and automobiles and a new suit every spring. Progress would stop if he did not want these things. I listen to hear if there is any talk of communism or socialism in the hobo jungles. There is none. At best there is a sort of disgusted philoso¬ phy about life. They seem to think there should be a better distribution of wealth, or more work, or something. But they are not rabid about it. The radicals live in the cities. I find a fellow headed for Albuquerque, and talk road-talk with him. "It is hard to ride fruit cars. Bums break in. Better to wait for a cattle car going back to the Middle West, and ride that." We catch the next east-bound and walk the tops until we find a cattle car. Inside, we crouch near the forward wall, huddle, and try to sleep. I feel peaceful and content at last. I am going home. The cattle car rocks. I sleep. Morning and the desert. Noon and the Salton Sea, lying more lifeless than a mirage under a somber sun in a pale sky. Skeleton mountains rearing on the skyline, thrusting out of the desert floor, all rock and shadow and edges. Desert. Good country for an Indian reservation. . . . Yuma and the muddy Colorado. Night again, and I wait shivering for the dawn. Phoenix. Pima country. Mountains that look like cardboard sets on a forgotten stage. Tucson, Papago country. Giant cacti that look like petrified hitchhikers along the highways. Apache country. At El Paso my road-buddy decides to go on to Houston. I leave him, and head north to the mesa country. Las Cruces and the terrible Organ Mountains, jagged peaks that instill fear and wondering. Albuquerque. Pueblos along the Rio Grande. On the board¬ walk there are some Indian women in colored sashes selling bits of pottery. The stone age

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offering its art to the twentieth century. They hold up a piece and fix the tourist with black eyes until, embarrassed, he buys or turns away. I feel suddenly angry that my people should have to do such things for a living. . . . Santa Fe trains are fast, and they keep them pretty clean of bums. I decide to hurry and ride passenger coaltenders. Hide in the dark, judge the speed of the train as it leaves, and then dash out, and catch it. I hug the cold steel wall of the tender and think of the roaring fire in the engine ahead, and of the passengers back in the dining car reading their papers over hot cof¬ fee. Beneath me there is a blur of rails. Death would come quick if my hands should freeze and I fall. Up over the Sangre De Cristo range, around cliffs and through canyons to Denver. Bitter cold here, and I must watch out for Denver Bob. He is a railroad bull who has thrown bums from fast freights. I miss him. It is too cold, I suppose. On north to the Sioux country. Small towns lit for the coming Christmas. On the streets of one I see a beam-shouldered young farmer gazing into a window filled with shining silver toasters. He is tall and wears a blue shirt buttoned, with no tie. His young wife by his side looks at him hopefully. He wants decorations for his place to hang his hat to please his woman. . . . Northward again. Minnesota, and great white fields of snow; frozen lakes, and dawn running into dusk without noon. Long forests wearing white. Bitter cold, and one night the northern lights. I am nearing home. I reach Woodruff at midnight. Suddenly I am afraid, now that I am but twenty miles from home. Afraid of what my father will say, afraid of being looked on as a stranger by my own people. I sit by a fire and think about myself and all other young Indians. We just don't seem to fit in anywhere—certainly not among the whites, and not among the older people. I think again about the learned sociology professor and his professing. So many things seem to be clear now that I am away from school and do not have to worry about some man's opinion of my ideas. It is easy to think while looking at dancing flames. Morning, I spend the day cleaning up, and buying some presents for my family with what is left of my money. Nothing much, but a gift is a gift, if a man buys it with his last quarter. I wait until evening, then start up the track toward home. Christmas Eve comes in on a north wind. Snow clouds hang over the pines, and the night comes early. Walking along the railroad bed, I feel the calm peace of snowbound forests on either side of me. I take my time; I am back in a world where time does not mean so much now. I am alone; alone but not nearly so lonely as I was back on the campus at school. Those are never lonely who love the snow and the pines; never lonely when the pines are wearing white shawls and snow crunches coldly underfoot. In the woods I know there are the tracks of deer and rabbit; I know that if I leave the rails and go into the woods I shall find them. I walk along feeling glad because my legs are light and my feet seem to know that they are home. A deer comes out of the woods ahead of me, and stands silhouet¬ ted on the rails. The North, I feel, has welcomed me home. I watch him and am glad that I do not wish for a gun. He goes into the woods quietly, leaving only the design of his tracks in the snow. I walk on. Now and then I pass a field, white under the night sky, with houses at the far end. Smoke comes from the chimneys of the houses, and I try to tell what sort of wood each is burning by the smoke; some burn pine, others aspen, others tamarack. There is one from which comes black coal smoke that rises lazily and drifts out over the tops of the trees. I like to watch houses and try to imagine what might be happening in them. Just as a light snow begins to fall I cross the reservation boundary; somehow it seems as though I have stepped into another world. Deep woods in a white-and-black winter night. A faint trail leading to the village. The railroad on which I stand comes from a city sprawled by a lake—a city with a mil¬ lion people who walk around without seeing one another; a city sucking the life from all the country around; a city with stores and police and intellectuals and criminals and movies and apartment houses; a city with its politics and libraries and zoos.

WHITECLOUD • Blue Winds Dancing

279

Laughing, I go into the woods. As I cross a frozen lake I begin to hear the drums. Soft in the night the drums beat. It is like the pulse beat of the world. The white line of the lake ends at a black forest, and above the trees the blue winds are dancing. I come to the outlying houses of the village. Simple box houses, etched black in the night. From one or two windows soft lamplight falls on the snow. Christmas here, too, but it does not mean much; not much in the way of parties and presents. Joe Sky will get drunk. Alex Bodidash will buy his children red mittens and a new sled. Alex is a Carlisle man, and tries to keep his home up to white standards. White standards. Funny that my people should be ever falling farther behind. The more they try to imitate whites the more tragic the result. Yet they want us to be imitation white men. About all we imitate well are their vices. The village is not a sight to instill pride, yet I am not ashamed; one can never be ashamed of his own people when he knows they have dreams as beautiful as white snow on a tall pine. Father and my brother and sister are seated around the table as I walk in. Father stares at me for a moment, then I am in his arms, crying on his shoulder. I give them the presents I have brought, and my throat tightens as I watch my sister save carefully bits of red string from the packages. I hide my feelings by wrestling with my brother when he strikes my shoulder in token of affection. Father looks at me, and I know he has many questions, but he seems to know why I have come. He tells me to go alone to the lodge, and he will follow. I walk along the trail to the lodge, watching the northern lights forming in the heavens. White waving ribbons that seem to pulsate with the rhythm of the drums. Clean snow creaks beneath my feet, and a soft wind sighs through the trees, singing to me. Everything seems to say, "Be happy! You are home now—you are free. You are among friends—we are your friends; we, the trees, and the snow, and the lights." I follow the trail to the lodge. My feet are light, my heart seems to sing to the music, and I hold my head high. Across white snow fields blue winds are dancing. Before the lodge door I stop, afraid, I wonder if my people will remember me. I wonder— "Am I Indian, or am I white?" I stand before the door a long time. I hear the ice groan on the lake, and remember the story of the old woman under the ice, trying to get out, so she can punish some runaway lovers. I think to myself, "If I am white I will not believe that story; If I am Indian, I will know that there is an old woman under the ice." I listen for a while, and I know that there is an old woman under the ice. I look again at the lights, and go in. Inside the lodge there are many Indians. Some sit on benches around the walls, others dance in the center of the floor around a drum. Nobody seems to notice me. It seems as though I were among a people I have never seen before. Heavy women with long hair. Women with children on their knees—small children that watch with intent black eyes the movements of the dancers, whose small faces are solemn and serene. The faces of the old people are serene, too, and their eyes are merry and bright. I look at the old men. Straight, dressed in dark trousers and beaded velvet vests, wearing soft moccasins. Dark, lined faces intent on the music. I wonder if I am at all like them. They dance on, lifting their feet to the rhythm of the drums swaying lightly, looking upward. I look at their eyes, and am startled at the rapt attention to the rhythm of the music. The dance stops. The men walk back to the walls, and talk in low tones or with their hands. There is little conversation, yet everyone seems to be sharing some secret. A woman looks at a small boy wandering away, and he comes back to her. Strange, I think and then remember. These people are not sharing words—they are sharing a mood. Everyone is happy. I am so used to white people that it seems strange so many people could be together without someone talking. These Indians are happy because they are together, and because the night is beautiful outside, and the music is beautiful. I try hard to for¬ get school and white people, and be one of these—my people. I try to forget everything but the night, and it is a part of me that I am one with my people and we are all a part of something

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universal. 1 watch eyes, and see now that the old people are speaking to me. They nod slightly, imperceptibly, and their eyes laugh into mine. I look around the room. All the eyes are friendly; they all laugh. No one questions my being here. The drums begin to beat again, and I catch the invitation in the eyes of the old men. My feet begin to lift to the rhythm, and I look out beyond the walls into the night and see the lights. I am happy. It is beautiful. I am home.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the first section of the story in terms of the structure. How could a case be made that this first section contains its own crisis and climax and that the rest of the story is really a resolution?

2. What do you learn in the first section about the conflict in the attitudes of the narrator? What is his attitude about "civilization"? What values make him think this way? If he is the protagonist, who or what is the antagonist?

3. What does the narrator mean by saying, "I am alone; alone but not nearly so lonely as I was back on the campus at school" (paragraph 22)?

4. What is meant by the dancing of the blue winds—what kind of wisdom? What is the place for such wisdom in today's computerized, industrialized society?

WRITING ABOUT STRUCTURE IN A STORY Your essay should concern arrangement and shape. In form, the essay should not restate or summarize the part-by-part unfolding of the narrative or argument. Rather, it should explain why things are where they are; "Why is this here and not there?" is the fundamental question you need to answer. Thus it is possible to begin with a consideration of a work's crisis, and then to consider how the exposition and complication have built up to it. A vital piece of information, for example, might have been withheld in the story's earlier exposition (as in Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" in Chapter 1 and Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily" in Chapter 1) and introduced only at or near the conclusion. Therefore the crisis might be heightened because there would have been less suspense if the detail had been intro¬ duced earlier. Consider the following questions in planning to write about the story's structure.

Questions for Discovering Ideas •

If spaces or numbers divide the story into sections or parts, what struc¬ tural importance do these parts have?

•

If there are no marked divisions, what major sections can you find? (You might make divisions according to places where actions occur, various times of day, changing weather, or increasingly important events.)

•

If the story departs in major ways from the formal structure of exposition, complication, crisis, climax, and resolution, what purpose do these depar¬ tures serve?

Illustrative Student Essay

•

• •

281

What variations in chronological order, if any, appear in the story (for example, gaps in the time sequence; flashbacks or selective recollection)? What effects are achieved by these variations? Does the story delay any crucial details of exposition? Why? What effect is achieved by the delay? Where does an important action or a major section (such as the climax) begin? End? How is it related to the other formal structural elements, such as the crisis? Is the climax an action, a realization, or a decision? To what degree does it relieve the work's tension? What is the effect of the climax on your understanding of the characters involved in it? How is this effect related to the arrangement of the climax?

Strategies for Organizing Ideas Your essay should show why an entire story is arranged the way it is—to reveal the nature of a character's situation, to create surprise, or to evoke sym¬ pathy, reveal nobility (or depravity) of character, unravel apparently insoluble puzzles, express philosophical or political values, or bring out maximum humor. You might also, however, explain the structure of no more than a part of the story, such as the climax or the complication. The essay is best developed in concert or agreement with what the work contains. The location of scenes is an obvious organizing element. Thus, essays on the structure of Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown (Chapter 7) and Whitecloud's "Blue Winds Dancing" (this chapter) might be based on the fact that both take place outdoors (a dark forest for one and a series of railway locations and a winter scene for the other). Similarly, an essay might explore the structure of Maupassant's "The Necklace" (Chapter 3) by contrasting the story's indoor and outdoor locations. Other ways to consider structure may be derived from a work's notable aspects, such as the growing suspense of Jack¬ son's "The Lottery" (Chapter 2) or the revelations about the "sinfulness" of Goodman Brown's father and neighbors in Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7). The conclusion should highlight the main parts of your essay. You may also deal briefly with the relationship of structure to the plot. If the work you have analyzed departs from chronological order, you might explain the causes and effects of this departure. Your aim should be to focus on the suc¬ cess of the work as it has been brought about by the author's choices in development.

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

Flores 1 Jeannette Flores Professor Iacovelli English 120 29 January 2011 The Structure of Eudora Welty’s “A Worn Path”0 [1]

The narrative of Welty’s “A Worn Path” is not difficult to follow. Events occur in sequence. The main character is Phoenix Jackson, an old and poor woman. She walks from her rural home in Mississippi through the woods to Natchez to get a free bottle of medicine for her grandson, who is a hopeless invalid. Everything takes place in just a few hours. This action is only the frame, however, for a skillfully structured plot.* * The masterly control of structure is shown in the story’s locations, and in the way in which the delayed revelation produces both mystery and complexity.'1'

[2]

The locations in the story coincide with the increasing difficulties that Phoenix encounters. The first and most obvious worn path is the rural woods with all its natural difficulties. For most people the obstacles would not be challenging, but for an old woman they are formidable. In Natchez, the location of the next part of the story, Phoenix’s inability to bend over to tie her shoe demonstrates the lack of flexibility of old age. In the medical office, where the final scene takes place, two major difficulties of the plot are brought out. One is Phoenix’s increasing senility, and the other is the disclosure that her grandson is an incurable invalid. This set of oppositions, the major conflicts in the plot, thus coincides with locations or scenes and show the powerful forces opposing Phoenix.

131

The strongest of these conditions, the revelation about the grandson, makes the story something like a mystery. Because detail about the boy is delayed until the end, the reader wonders for most of the story what bad thing might happen next. In fact, some parts of the story are false leads. For example, the episode with the hunter’s dog is threatening, but it leads nowhere: Phoenix,

“This story appears on pages 270-75. *Central idea, thesis sentence.

Illustrative Student Essay

283

Flores 2 with the aid of the hunter, is unharmed. That she picks up and keeps the nickel dropped by the hunter might seem at first to be cause for punishment. In fact, she thinks it does, as this scene with the hunter shows: [H]e laughed and lifted his gun and pointed it at Phoenix. She stood straight and faced him. “Doesn’t the gun scare you?” he said, still pointing it. “No, sir, I seen plenty go off closer by, in my day, and for less than what I done,” she said, holding utterly still. (273) But the young hunter does not notice that the coin is missing, and he does not accuse her. Right up to the moment of her entering the medical building, in fact, the reader is still wondering what might happen. Therefore the details about the grandson, carefully concealed until the

[4]

end, make the story more complex than it at first seems. Because of this concluding revelation, the reader must do a double take and reconsider what has gone on before. Phoenix’s difficult walk into town must be seen not as an ordinary errand but as a hopeless mission of mercy. Her character also bears reevaluation: She is not just a funny old woman who speaks to the woods and the animals in it, but she is also a brave woman carrying on against crushing odds. These conclusions are not apparent for most of the story, and the late emergence of the carefully concealed details makes “A Worn Path” both forceful and powerful. Thus the parts of “A Worn Path,” while simple at first, are skillfully arranged. The key to the double take and reevaluation is Welty’s withholding of the crucial detail of exposition until the very end. The result is that parts of the exposition and complication, through the speeches of the attendant and the nurse, merge with the climax near the story s end. In some respects, the detail makes it seem as though Phoenix’s entire existence is a crisis, although she is not aware of this condition as she leaves the office to buy the paper windmill. It is this complex buildup and emotional peak that make the structure of “A Worn Path” the creation of a master writer.

[5]

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CHAPTER 5 • Structure: The Organization of Stories

Flores 3 Work Cited Welty, Eudora. “A Worn Path.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V. Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New

York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 270-75. Print.

Commentary on the Essay Essays about either plot (Chapter 2) or structure are concerned with the conflicts of the story, but the essay on plot concentrates on the opposing forces whereas the essay on structure focuses on the placement and arrangement of the story's details. Notice here that an essay on structure, like an essay on plot, does not sim¬ ply retell the story event by event. That is not the concern of analytical writing. Instead, essays on both plot and structure explain the conflict (for plot) and the arrangement and layout (for structure). In both essays, the writer's assumption is that the reader has read the story, and therefore there is no need to include a retelling of the story in an essay. The introductory paragraph of this essay on the structure of "A Worn Path" points out that the masterly structure accounts for the story's power. Paragraph 2 develops the topic that the geographical locations are arranged climactically to demonstrate the forces against the major character. Paragraph 3 considers how the early exposition about the grandson creates uncertainty about the issues and direction of the story. As supporting evidence, the paragraph cites two important details—the danger from the hunter's dog and the theft of his nickel—as struc¬ tural false leads about Phoenix's troubles. Paragraph 4 deals with the complexity brought about by the delayed information: the necessary reevaluation of Phoenix's character and her mission to town. The concluding paragraph also considers this complexity, accounting for the story's power by pointing out how a number of plot elements merge near the end to bring things out swiftly and powerfully.

Writing Topics About Structure Writing Paragraphs 1. Consider the surprises in Maupassant's "The Necklace" (Chapter 3), Faulkner s A Rose for Emily (Chapter 1), Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Chapter 1), and Chopin's "The Story of an Hour" (Chapter 6). Write a paragraph about one of these stories. How much preparation is made, structurally, for the surprise in this story? In retrospect, to what degree is the surprise not a surprise at all but rather a necessary outcome of the preceding parts of the work?

Writing Topics About Structure

285

2. Write a paragraph about what kind of story "A Worn Path" might be, struc¬ turally, if the detail about the invalid grandson were introduced at the start, before Phoenix begins her walk to town. Writing Essays

1. Write an essay in which you compare Tan's "Two Kinds" (Chapter 3) and Whitecloud's "Blue Winds Dancing" (this chapter) as stories about clashing racial and social values. What are the comparative values? How do the narra¬ tors react to the values and ideas to which they object? How do the stories develop, structurally, as a result of their reactions? 2. Consider those aspects of Whitecloud's "Blue Winds Dancing" (this chapter) that seem socially and politically significant. You might deal with questions about the ability of a young minority student to flourish when removed from the security he gained from his home, about the values that the narrator has questioned in the courses he has been taking, or about why he does not speak about any friendships he might have made at school. Write an essay in which you argue that the implications of this story for minority assimilation into the country's dominant culture is relevant today, even though the story was writ¬ ten in the late 1930s. Creative Writing Assignment

1. Select a circumstance in your life that caused you doubt, difficulty, and con¬ flict. Making yourself anonymous (give yourself a fictitious name and put yourself in a fictitious location if you wish), write a brief story about the occa¬ sion, stressing how your conflict began, how it affected you, and how you resolved it. You might choose to begin your story in the present tense and introduce details in flashback. Library Assignment

1. Go online to investigate two of the following structural terms: adventure novel chiastic structure detective fiction dramatic structure: tragedy and comedy epistolary structure narrative structure stream of consciousness Write a short report on your discoveries. Be sure to include definitions of the terms and descriptions of how the structures are important in various fictional works.

Chapter 6 Tone and Style: The Words That Convey Attitudes in Fiction

T

one refers to the methods by which writers and speakers reveal attitudes or feelings—toward the material, toward their readers, and toward the general situa¬ tion they are describing or analyzing. It is an aspect of all spoken and written state¬ ments, whether serious analyses of political campaigns, earnest declarations of love, requests to pass a dinner dish, descriptions of social or athletic events, letters from stu¬ dents asking parents for money, or official government notices threatening penalties if fines and taxes are not paid. The attitudes expressed in each of these situations are usually readily apparent. When we speak about tone here, we refer to a variety of sim¬ ilar and dissimilar attitudes, but, in addition, and more importantly, we stress those modes of expression that create and shape those attitudes. Although tone is a vast subject that can involve large matters of action and situation, in this chapter we will treat the interconnectedness of tone and style. Style refers to the ways in which writers assemble words to tell the story, to develop the argument, to dram¬ atize the play, or to compose the poem. Sometimes style is distinguished from content, but actually style is best considered as the choice of words in the service of content. The writ¬ ten expression of an action or scene, in other words, cannot be separated from the action or scene itself, nor can it be separated from the impressions and attitudes it creates. By reading a story carefully, we may deduce the author’s attitude or attitudes toward the subject matter and toward readers. In “The Story of an Hour,” for example (p. 293), Kate Chopin sympathetically portrays a young wife’s secret wishes for free¬ dom, just as Chopin also satirically reveals the unwitting smugness that often pervades men’s relationships with women. Words and subject matter may also indicate the writer’s assessment of readers. When Hawthorne’s woodland guide in “Young Goodman Brown” (Chapter 7) refers to “King Philip’s War,” for example, Hawthorne clearly assumes that his readers know that this war in seventeenth-century New England was notoriously cruel and inhumane. In this way he indicates respect for the knowledge of his readers, and he also assumes that they will assent to his interpretation. Authors always make such considerations about readers by implicitly complimenting them on their capacity to recognize and understand the ways in which materials are presented.

Diction: The Writer's Choice and Control of Words Control over style and tone is highly individual, because all authors put words together uniquely to fit the specific circumstances of specific works. We may there¬ fore speak of the style of Ernest Hemingway and the style of Alice Munro, even 286

Diction: The Writer's Choice and Control of Words

287

though both writers adapt words to situations. An author may have a distinct style for narrative and descriptive passages, but a very different style for dialogue. The essential aspect of style is diction, the writer's selection of words. First, words must be accurate and comprehensive, so that all actions, scenes, and ideas are perfectly understandable to readers. If a writer's work is effective—if it por¬ trays an action graphically and clearly, explains ideas accurately, and indicates the conditions of human relationships among the major characters—we may confi¬ dently say that the words are right. Additionally, right words bear the burden of controlling the ways in which readers respond to the material. Thus, a passage of action should verbally create the action and the place or places in which things happen, and it should also cause readers to be interested and involved. Similarly, explanatory or reflective passages should be clear but should also spark the curiosity and satisfy the understanding of readers. In short, the writer should make all efforts to control the work's tone.

Formal, Neutral, and Informal Diction Create Unique Effects As a guide to the types of words authors use to control tone, a major classification of diction can be made according to three degrees of formality or informality: formal or high, neutral or middle, and informal or low. Formal or high diction bestows major importance to the characters and actions being described. It consists of standard and also "elegant" words (frequently poly¬ syllabic), correct word order, and the absence of contractions. The sentence "It is I," for example, is formal, for this expression is more "elegant" and grammatically correct than most American speakers normally now prefer. An example of formal diction may be seen in the narrative sections of Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown." Neutral or middle diction is ordinary, everyday standard vocabulary, shunning longer words and using contractions when necessary. The sentence "It's me" is an example of what many American speakers naturally say in preference to the for¬ mal "It is I." Neutral words may be thought of as clear window glass, while words in the formal or high style are more decorative, like stained glass. Neutral diction is appropriate for stories about everyday, ordinary people going through situa¬ tions they encounter or can imagine encountering in their lives. Generally, today's writers favor neutral diction as a means of putting their characters in a light that is normal and appropriate but also respectful. In Alice Munro s The Found Boat we see neutral, middle diction. Nobody said a word this time, they all bent and stripped themselves. Eva, naked first, started running across the field, and then all the others ran, all five of them running bare through the knee-high hot grass, running towards the river. Not caring now about being caught but in fact leaping and yelling to call attention to themselves, if there was anybody to hear or see. They felt as if they were going to jump off a cliff and fly. They felt that something was happening to them different from anything that had happened before, and it had to do with the boat, the water, the sunlight, the dark ruined station, and each other. They thought of each other now hardly as names or people, but as echoing shrieks, reflections, all bold and white and loud and scandalous, and as fast as arrows. They went running without a break into the cold water and when it came

288

CHAPTER 6 • Tone and Style: The Words That Convey Attitudes in Fiction

almost to the tops of their legs they fell on it and swam. It stopped their noise. Silence, amazement, came over them in a rush. They dipped and floated and separated, sleek as mink. (304)

The words of this passage are ordinary and easy. They are centered directly on the subject and do not draw attention to themselves. In an almost ritualistic way, the paragraph describes young people running impulsively toward a river and diving in. This action can be seen as sexually symbolic, but Munro's diction focuses on the experience itself, and the words are neither analytical nor clinical. If her intention had been to create a searching psychological examination, she might have used formal or high words from the language of psychology (libido, urge, sublimation, and so on). Instead, she uses words that could have been in the vocabularies of the characters themselves, who would have used comparable words to express their sensations. Hence they feel "as if they were going to jump off a cliff and fly" and in their excitement they think "that something was happening to them different from anything that had happened before." These neutral, middle words enable us to focus on the excitement of the situation rather than on deeper psychological signif¬ icance. Munro therefore does not instruct us so much as she causes us to be amused and happy about the young people playing on the field and in the water. Informal or low diction may range from colloquial—the language of relaxed, com¬ mon activities—to the level of substandard or slang expressions. A person speaking to a close friend uses diction that would not be appropriate in public and formal situa¬ tions and even in some social situations. Informal or low diction is thus appropriate for some narrative dialogue, depending, of course, on individual speakers. It is also a natural choice for stories told in the first-person point of view as though the speaker is talking directly to sympathetic and relaxed close friends—"pals." The following sentence from Bambara's "The Lesson" (Chapter 8) illustrates informal, low diction: And school suppose to let up in summer I heard, but she don't never let up.

Note the ungrammatical "don't never," a double negative often used in informal or low speech but frowned upon in writing. Note also that the d has been dropped in the participle "suppose," that the word "is" before "suppose" is omitted, and that "I heard" follows and does not precede the clause "And school suppose to let up in summer." The purpose of these substandard usages is clearly to establish the voice of the speaker, Sylvia, and to encourage us to listen attentively to her story.

Authors Use Specific-General and Concrete-Abstract Language to Guide Readers to Perceptions of Numbers and Qualities Another aspect of language is its degree of exactness. Specific refers to words that bring to mind images from the real world. "My dog Teddie is barking" is specific. General statements refer to broad classes, such as "All people like pets" and "Dogs make good pets." There is an ascending order of generality from (1) very specific, to (2) less specific, to (3) general, as though the words themselves are climbing a ladder. Thus peach is a specific fruit. Fruit is specific but more general because it may also include apples, oranges, and all other fruits. Dessert is a still

Diction: The Writer's Choice and Control of Words

289

more general word, which can include all sweets, including fruits and peaches, and also other confections, such as ice cream. Food is more general yet, for it is a comprehensive word that describes everything we eat. While specific-general refers to categories, concrete-abstract refers to qualities or conditions. Concrete words describe qualities of immediate perception. If you say, "Ice cream is cold," the word cold is concrete because it describes a condition that you can feel, just as you can taste ice cream's sweetness and feel its creamy texture in your mouth. Abstract words refer to broader and less concrete qualities; they may therefore apply to many separate things. If we describe ice cream as good, our word is abstract because good is far removed from ice cream itself and conveys no descriptive information about it. A vast number of things may be good, just as they may be bad, fine, "cool," excellent, and so on. Usually, narrative and descriptive writing features specific and concrete words that are intended to help us visualize actions, scenes, and objects, for with more specificity and concreteness there is less ambiguity. Because exactness and vividness are goals of most fiction, specific and concrete words are the fiction writer's basic tools, with general and abstract words being used sparingly. The point, however, is not that abstract and general words have no place at all, but rather that words should be appropriate in the context. Good writers control style in the interests of tone as well as description. Observe, for example, Hemingway's diction in "Hills Like White Elephants" (pp. 295-98). This brief story takes place at a railway station in Spain, and it consists largely of conversation between the "American and the girl with him" as they are waiting for a train. The two speak idly about details of the day, the appearance of the nearby hills, and the drinks they are having as they wait. The language here is all quite specific, but at a certain point the specifics bring out an obvious issue of contention the two had been discussing before the story opens. About a third of the way through the story, the man speaks about an operation that is "not really an operation at all." It is clear that the opera¬ tion he wants "Jig" (the woman's nickname) to have is an abortion. In the rest of the story, the dialogue takes a more negative turn. Even when he says that he doesn't want her to go through with it unless she wants it, she understands his words as an expression of the anger her refusal would cause. Her many questions about their relationship after such an operation indicate her worries not only about the proce¬ dure but also her increasing disappointment in the American. The height of the American's generalized view of abortion is his claim to have known "lots of people that have done it." Her response, at the same level of generalization, but with cutting irony, marks the height of their dispute: "So have I," said the girl. And afterward they were all so happy." Through such passages, mixing appropriate specific details with general observations, Hemingway skillfully points readers toward great understanding of the life these two characters have shared together.

Authors Use Denotation and Connotation to Control Meaning and Suggestion Another way to understand the connection of style and tone is to study the author's management of denotation and connotation. Denotation is a limiting term, referring to what a word means, and connotation is a broader word, referring to

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CHAPTER 6 • Tone and Style: The Words That Convey Attitudes in Fiction

what the word suggests. For example, if a person in a social situation behaves in ways that are friendly, warm, polite, or cordial, these words are different in tone because they have different connotations. Similarly, both cat and kitten are close to each other denotatively, but kitten connotes more playfulness and cuteness than cat. Consider the connotations of words describing physical appearance. It is one thing to call a person thin, for example, but another to use such words as skinny, gaunt, scrawny, and skeletal, and still something else to say fit, trim, svelte, slim, and slender. Through the careful choice of words, not only for denotation but also for con¬ notation, writers control tone even though they might be describing similar or even identical situations. Let us look briefly at Cynthia Ozick's opening para¬ graph of "The Shawl" (223, Chapter 4). Stella, cold, cold the coldness of hell. How they walked on the roads together, Rosa with Magda curled up between sore breasts, Magda wound up in the shawl. Some¬ times Stella carried Magda. But she was jealous of Magda. A thin girl of fourteen, too small, with thin breasts of her own, Stella wanted to be wrapped in a shawl, hidden away, asleep, rocked by the march, a baby, a round infant in arms. Magda took Rosa's nipple, and Rosa never stopped walking, a walking cradle. There was not enough milk; sometimes Magda sucked air; then she screamed. Stella was ravenous. Her knees were tumors on sticks, her elbows chicken bones.

This short but complex paragraph conveys a grisly close-up experience of horror during the enforced death marches of Nazi prisoners during the closing months of World War II. Many of the words here would be totally appropriate to the peace¬ ful mothering and nurturing of an infant, but in the context of the paragraph these words dissolve into the bleakness and despair described in the passage. Stella, the thin fourteen-year-old girl who is forced to walk while carrying her infant sister, is "ravenous," a word suggesting her desperation for food, rather than "hungry," a word that connotes normal life in which meals are taken for granted. In addition, because of the march and her starved condition her knees have come to resemble "tumors on sticks" and her elbows are "chicken bones." Babies cry all the time, and the word cry would describe a baby under normal circumstances, but this paragraph conveys the unspeakably cruel treatment of innocent prisoners, and therefore Magda, Rosa's baby, "screamed." The brief discussion of these words shows how an author's skillful use of connotation shapes the tone of individual passages and, beyond that, of entire works.

Tone, Irony, and Style The capacity to have more than one attitude toward someone or something is a uniquely human trait. We know that people are not perfect, but we love a number of them anyway. Therefore, we speak to them not only with love and praise but also with banter and criticism. On occasion, you may have given mildly insulting greeting cards to your loved ones, not to offend them but to amuse them. You share smiles and laughs at these negative words on your cards, but at the same time you remind your loved ones of your affection.

Tone, Humor, and Style

291

The word irony, specifically verbal irony, describes such contradictory state¬ ments, in which one thing is said and the opposite is meant. There are important types of verbal irony. In understatement the expression does not fully describe the importance of a situation, and therefore makes its point by implication. For exam¬ ple, in Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" (Chapter 1) the condemned man, Farquhar, contemplates the device designed by the soldiers to hang him. After considering the method, Farquhar's response is described by the narrator: "The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and effective" (84). These words would be appropriate for ordinary machinery, perhaps, but because the apparatus is soon to cause Farquhar's death, the understated observa¬ tion is ironic. By contrast, in hyperbole or overstatement, the words are far in excess of the situation, and readers or listeners therefore understand that the true meaning is considerably less than what is said. An example is the priest's exaggerated dia¬ logue with Jackie in "First Confession" (this chapter). Though the priest makes exaggerated comments on Jackie's plans for slaughtering his grandmother, read¬ ers automatically know he means no such thing. The gulf between what is said and what is meant creates smiles and chuckles. Often verbal irony is ambiguous, having double meaning or double-entendre. Midway through "Young Goodman Brown" (Chapter 7), for example, the wood¬ land guide leaves Brown alone while stating, "[W]hen you feel like moving again, there is my staff to help you along" (333, paragraph 40). The word "staff is ambiguous, for it refers to the staff that resembles a serpent (331, paragraph 13). The word therefore suggests that the devilish guide is leaving Brown not only with a real staff but also with the spirit of evil (unlike the divine "staff" of Psalm 23:4 that gives comfort). Ambiguity of course may be used in relation to any topic. Quite often double-entendre is used in statements about sexuality, and on such occasions it is intended for the amusement of listeners or readers.

Tone, Humor, and Style A major aspect of tone is humor and laughter. Everyone likes to laugh, and shared laughter is part of good human relationships. As common and enjoyable as laugh¬ ter is, however, not many people can adequately explain why some things are funny. Even when reasons for laughter are analyzed and explained, it always seems that they do not answer all our questions. Explanation, however, is a goal worthy of pursuit. It seems that a common element in laughter is that it depends on our seeing something familiar in a new light, or in encountering something surprisingly new or unique. It also seems that whenever we laugh—perhaps in the company of our friends or as a result of our reading or looking at films and tel¬ evision shows—we likely find that laughter is most often unplanned, personal, unique, and unpredictable. A primary ingredient in humor is something to laugh at a person, thing, situ¬ ation, custom, habit of speech or dialect, or arrangement of words. But once we have this ingredient we must also have disproportion or incongruity; that is, something happens or is said that violates what we might normally expect. It is such jarring

292

CHAPTER 6 • Tone and Style: The Words That Convey Attitudes in Fiction

juxtapositions that provide the comic newness prompting the occasion of laughter. In O'Connor's "First Confession" (this chapter) we might expect that Mrs. Ryan's discourse about enduring the agonizing pain of hellfire for all eternity might have made Jackie, the narrator, fearful. But is this what happens? Let us look: She lit a candle, took out a new half-crown [a valuable coin], and offered it to the first boy who would hold one finger—only one finger!—in the flame for five minutes by the school clock. Being always very ambitious I was tempted to volunteer, but I thought it might look greedy. Then she asked were we afraid of holding one finger— only one finger!—in a little candle flame for five minutes and not afraid of burning all over in roasting hot furnaces for all eternity. "All eternity! Just think of that! A whole lifetime goes by and it's nothing, not even a drop in the ocean of your sufferings." The woman was really interesting about hell, but my attention was all fixed on the halfcrown. . . . (307)

Jackie's response shows that Mrs. Ryan's challenge has not even dented his boy¬ hood problems, which have nothing to do with eternal punishment. For him, punishment is a matter of things happening day by day: the "flaking" adminis¬ tered by his father and also the family disruptions caused by his grandmother. Eternity, for him as a little boy, is not even a remote concern. It is comparable incongruities in Jackie's responses that characterize the comic method in O'Connor's story. In addition, the language itself may be used for incongruity. A well-known example is the traditional stand-up comedian's statement, "One day I was walk¬ ing in the local shopping mall, and I turned into a drugstore." Here the come¬ dian causes laughter through the ambiguous meaning of "turned into," thus verbally changing an ordinary walk into a miraculously comic event. Another verbal incongruity is this one: "Barking loudly, I was awakened by my dog." Here the humor depends on the juggling of grammar: the modifier "barking loudly" is misplaced, and the resulting sentence seems to say incongruously that the speaker, and not the dog, is barking. A real-life speaker, who will be name¬ less here, once stated that he had trouble understanding the "congregation of verbs," not quite catching up to the word conjugation. Here the inadvertent pun creates the humor of the sentence. We laugh at the pun, and we also laugh at the speaker whose verbal mistake has produced the pun. The same speaker also described the grammatical parts of speech as "nouns, verbs, and proverbs." We conclude that he intended to say (maybe) either pronouns or adverbs, but some¬ how his understanding slipped and he created a comic incongruity. If we dis¬ cover such verbal errors in a story, the author is controlling tone by directing humor against the speaker and his or her language, for the amusement of both readers and author alike. It is such flashes of insight, or sudden revelations like these, that create the newness and spontaneity underlying humor. Indeed, the task of the writer is to develop ordinary materials to that point when spontaneity brings us to the explosiveness of laughter. This is not to say that works that you already know are not spontaneous or new. You can read O'Connor's "First Confession" and laugh, and read it again and laugh again, because even though you know what happens, the story shapes your acceptance of how Jackie maintains his natural

CHOPIN • The Story of an Hour

293

innocence despite the fact that the older people around him, except for the priest, are pushing him to accept their own fears and anxieties. Jackie's experi¬ ence is and always will be comic—and new—because it is so incongruous and so spontaneous.

Stories for Study Kate Chopin.The Story of an Hour, 293 Ernest Hemingway.Hills Like White Elephants, 295 Alice Munro.The Found Boat, 299 Frank O'Connor.First Confession, 306 John Updike.A & P, 311

KATE CHOPIN

(1851-1904)

Born in St. Louis, Missouri, Chopin lived in Louisiana from the time of her marriage until 1882. After her husband's death she returned to St. Louis and began to write. She published two collections of stories based on the life she had known back in Louisiana: Bayou Folk (1894) and A Night in Acadie (1897). However, she became best known for her major novel, The Awakening (1899), which aroused negative reac¬ tions because it mentioned taboo subjects like adidtery and miscegena¬ tion. Indeed, the critical disapproval was so intense that Chopin published no further works, even though she was at the height of her lit¬ erary power and lived five years after the controversy.

The Story of an Hour

(1894)

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death. It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences: veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less care¬ ful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message. She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her. There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul. She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a

294

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CHAPTER 6 • Tone and Style: The Words That Convey Attitudes in Fiction

peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window. She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams. She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought. There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air. Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will—as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body. She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome. There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination. And yet she had loved him—sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being! "Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering. Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door—you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door." "Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

20

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long. She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a fever¬ ish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom. Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He

HEMINGWAY • Hills Like White Elephants

295

stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry: at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife. But Richards was too late. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of joy that kills.

QUESTIONS 1. What do we learn about Louise's husband? How has he justified her responses? How are your judgments about him controlled by the context of the story?

2. Analyze the tone of paragraph 5. How is the imagery here (and in the following para¬ graphs) appropriate for her developing mood?

3. What is the apparent attitude of the narrator toward the institution of marriage, and what elements of tone make this apparent?

4. What do Louise's sister and Richards have in common? How do their attitudes con¬ tribute to the irony of the story? 5. Consider the tone of the last paragraph. What judgment is being made about how men view their importance to women?

M ERNEST HEMINGWAY0

(1899 1961)_

Hemingway was born in Illinois. During World War I he served in the Ambulance Corps in France, where he was wounded. In the 1920s he published The Sun Also Rises (1926) and A Farewell to Arms (1929), and the resulting critical fame made him a major liter¬ ary celebrity. He developed a sparse style, in keeping with the ele¬ mental, stark lives of the characters he depicted. "Hills Like White Elephants," from the collection Men Without Women (1927), typ¬ ifies that pared, annealed style. Of particular note in this story is the way in which Hemingway, by carefully controlling the various speeches of his two characters without providing any extra prose guidance, enables readers clearly to identify the speakers and to follow their interests about the topics of concern.

% Hills Like White Elephants

(1927)

The hills across the valley of the Ebro° were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid. "What should we drink?" the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table. "It's pretty hot," the man said. "Let's drink beer."

°“Hills Like White Elephants” by Ernest Hemingway is reprinted with the permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group, from The Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. Copyright 1927 by Charles Scribner’s Sons. Copyright renewed © 1955 by Ernest Hemingway. All rights reserved. °Ebro: a river in Spain.

296

10

15

20

25

CHAPTER 6 • Tone and Style: The Words That Convey Attitudes in Fiction

"Dos cervezas," the man said into the curtain. "Big ones?" a woman asked0 from the doorway. "Yes. Two big ones." The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glasses on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry. "They look like white elephants," she said. "I've never seen one," the man drank his beer. "No, you wouldn't have." "I might have," the man said. "Just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove any¬ thing." The girl looked at the bead curtain. "They've painted something on it," she said. "What does it say?" "Anis del Toro. It's a drink." "Could we try it?" The man called "Listen" through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar. "Four reaies."0 "We want two Anis del Toro." "With water?" "Do you want it with water?" "I don't know," the girl said. "Is it good with water?" "It's all right." "You want them with water?" asked the woman. "Yes, with water." "It tastes like licorice," the girl said and put the glass down. "That's the way with everything." "Yes," said the girl. "Everything tastes of licorice. Especially all the things you've waited so long for, like absinthe." "Oh, cut it out."

30

"You started it," the girl said. "I was being amused. I was having a fine time." "Well, let's try and have a fine time." "All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn't that bright?" "That was bright." "I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it—look at things and try new drinks?" "I guess so."

35

The girl looked across at the hills. "They're lovely hills," she said. "They don't really look like white elephants. I just meant the coloring of their skin through the trees." "Should we have another drink?" "All right."

40

The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table. "The beer's nice and cool," the man said. "It's lovely," the girl said. "It's really an awfully simple operation. Jig," the man said. "It's not really an operation at all." ^

°a woman asked: The waitress speaks in Spanish. The American man understands Spanish, but the girl does not. The man therefore translates for her throughout the story, when necessary. °reales: a real was a silver Spanish coin.

HEMINGWAY • Hills Like White Elephants

297

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on. "I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's just to let the air in." The girl did not say anything. "I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it's all perfectly natural." "Then what will we do afterward?" "We'll be fine afterward. Just like we were before." " What makes you think so?" "That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that's made us unhappy." The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings

45

50

of beads. "And you think then we'll be all right and be happy." "I know we will. You don't have to be afraid. I've known lots of people that have done it." "So have I," said the girl. "And afterward they were all so happy." "Well," the man said, "if you don't want to you don't have to. I wouldn't have you do it if you didn't want to. But I know it's perfectly simple." "And you really want to?" "I think it's the best thing to do. But I don't want you to do it if you don't really want to." "And if I do it you'll be happy and things will be like they were and you'll love me?" "I love you now. You know I love you." "I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants,

55

60

and you'll like it?" "I'll love it. I love it now but I just can't think about it. You know how I get when I worry." "If I do it you won't ever worry?" "I won't worry about that because it's perfectly simple." "Then I'll do it. Because I don't care about me." "What do you mean?" "I don't care about me." "Well, I care about you." "Oh, yes. But I don't care about me. And I'll do it and then everything will be fine." "I don't want you to do it if you feel that way." The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river

65

70

through the trees. "And we could have all this," she said. "And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible." "What did you say?" "I said we could have everything." "We can have everything." "No, we can't." "We can have the whole world."

75

"No, we can't." "We can go everywhere." "No, we can't. It isn't ours any more." "It's ours." "No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back." "But they haven't taken it away." "We'll wait and see."

80

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CHAPTER 6 • Tone and Style: The Words That Convey Attitudes in Fiction

"Come on back in the shade," he said. "You mustn't feel that way." 85

90

"I don't feel any way," the girl said. "I just know things." "I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do—" "Nor that isn't good for me," she said. "I know. Could we have another beer?" "All right. But you've got to realize—" "I realize," the girl said. "Can't we maybe stop talking?" They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table. "You've got to realize," he said, "that I don't want you to do it if you don't want to. I'm perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you." "Doesn't it mean anything to you? We could get along." "Of course it does. But I don't want anybody but you. I don't want any one else. And I

know it's perfectly simple." "Yes, you know it's perfectly simple." 95 "It's all right for you to say that, but I do know it." "Would you do something for me now?" "I'd do anything for you." "Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?" He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights. ioo "But I don't want you to," he said, "I don't care anything about it." "I'll scream," the girl said. The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. "The train comes in five minutes," she said. "What did she say?" asked the girl. "That the train is coming in five minutes." 105 The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her. "I'd better take the bags over to the other side of the station," the man said. She smiled at him. "All right. Then come back and we'll finish the beer." He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the barroom, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him. "Do you feel better?" he asked. no "I feel fine," she said. "There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine."

QUESTIONS 1. Who are the major characters in this story? What is the principal problem that they are facing? What does "Jig" want to do? What does "the American" want her to do?

2. What are her responses to his wishes? In what ways can you determine what her wishes are? What is happening to her judgment about the American?

3. Describe Hemingway's handling of the dialogue. Stylistically, how does Hemingway make it plain who is speaking, without the many "he said" and "she said" statements that you might find in other stories?

4. Why does the American stop in the station barroom to have another Anis, to which "Jig" has voiced what seems to be an objection?

MUNRO » The Found Boat

299

5. What evidence do you find in the dialogue about the relationship between the American and "Jig” before the story has opened? Explain Hemingway's use of irony in Jig's speeches after paragraph 53. How do the speeches of Jig and the American let you know about their attitudes toward the future of their relationship? How does Jig seem to be growing psychologically as the story unfolds? How believable is her final state¬ ment, that she "feels fine"?

ALICE MUNRO

(b 1931)

Munro, who is a writer almost exclusively of short stories, grew up in Western Ontario, twenty miles east of Lake Huron—the approxi¬ mate geographic locale of "The Found Boat." She received her higher education at the University of Western Ontario, after which she married and moved to British Columbia, where she began her writ¬ ing career. Her first collection was Dance of the Happy Shades (1968), followed three years later by the novelistic Lives of Girls and Women. Later volumes are Something I've Been Meaning to Tell You (1974), The Beggar Maid (1978), The Moons of Jupiter (1982), The Progress of Love (1986), Friend of My Youth (1990), Open Secrets (1995), Selected Stories (1997), The Love of a Good Woman (1998), Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage: Stories (2002), Runaway (2004), The View from Castle Rock (2006), and Carried Away (2006,2008). Her stories are mainly regional and have a realistic basis in her own experiences. The stories are not autobiographical, however; her characters and their actions develop out of her powerful imagination and strong sympathy and compassion. Recipient of Canada's Governor-General's Award for her very first work, she has merited additional honors throughout her full and distinguished career. Among her honors is the 1999 National Book Critics Circle Fiction Prize for The Love of a Good Woman. In 2004 The New York Times named Runaway one of the ten best books of2004. In 2005 Time named her one of the world's most influential people.

The Found Boat (1974) At the end of Bell Street, McKay Street, Mayo Street, there was the Flood. It was the Wawanash River, which every spring overflowed its banks. Some springs, say one in every five, it covered the roads on that side of town and washed over the fields, creating a shal¬ low choppy lake. Light reflected off the water made everything bright and cold, as it is in a lakeside town, and woke or revived in people certain vague hopes of disaster. Mostly dur¬ ing the late afternoon and early evening, there were people straggling out to look at it, and discuss whether it was still rising, and whether this time it might invade the town. In gen¬ eral, those under fifteen and over sixty-five were most certain that it would. Eva and Carol rode out on their bicycles. They left the road—it was the end of Mayo Street, past any houses—and rode right into a field, over a wire fence entirely flattened by the weight of the winter's snow. They coasted a little way before the long grass stopped them, then left their bicycles lying down and went to the water. "We have to find a log and ride on it," Eva said. "Jesus, we'll freeze our legs off." "Jesus, we'll freeze our legs off!" said one of the boys who were there too at the water's edge. He spoke in a sour whine, the way boys imitated girls although it was nothing like the way girls talked. These boys—there were three of them—were all in the same class as Eva and Carol at school and were known to them by name (their names being Frank, Bud and Clayton), but Eva and Carol, who had seen and recognized them from the road, had

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CHAPTER 6 • Tone and Style: The Words That Convey Attitudes in Fiction

not spoken to them or looked at them or, even yet, given any sign of knowing they were there. The boys seemed to be trying to make a raft, from lumber they had salvaged from the

10

water. Eva and Carol took off their shoes and socks and waded in. The water was so cold it sent pain up their legs, like blue electric sparks shooting through their veins, but they went on, pulling their skirts high, tight behind and bunched so they could hold them in front. "Look at the fat-assed ducks in wading." "Fat-assed fucks." Eva and Carol, of course, gave no sign of hearing this. They laid hold of a log and climbed on, taking a couple of boards floating in the water for paddles. There were always things floating around in the Flood—branches, fence-rails, logs, road signs, old lumber; sometimes boilers, washtubs, pots and pans, or even a car seat or stuffed chair, as if some¬ where the Flood had got into a dump. They paddled away from shore, heading out into the cold lake. The water was perfectly clear, they could see the brown grass swimming along the bottom. Suppose it was the sea, thought Eva. She thought of drowned cities and countries. Atlantis. Suppose they were rid¬ ing in a Viking boat—Viking boats on the Atlantic were more frail and narrow than this log on the Flood—and they had miles of clear sea beneath them, then a spired city, intact as a jewel irretrievable on the ocean floor. "This is a Viking boat," she said. "I am the carving on the front." She stuck her chest out and stretched her neck, trying to make a curve, and she made a face, putting out her tongue. Then she turned and for the first time took notice of the boys. "Hey, you sucks!" she yelled at them. "You'd be scared to come out here, this water is ten feet deep!" "Liar," they answered without interest, and she was. They steered the log around a row of trees, avoiding floating barbed wire, and got into a little bay created by a natural hollow of the land. Where the bay was now, there would be a pond full of frogs later in the spring, and by the middle of summer there would be no water visible at all, just a low tangle of reeds and bushes, green, to show that mud was still wet around their roots. Larger bushes, willows, grew around the steep bank of this pond and were still partly out of the water. Eva and Carol let the log ride in. They saw a place where something was caught.

15

It was a boat, or part of one. An old rowboat with most of one side ripped out, the board that had been the seat just dangling. It was pushed up among the branches, lying on what would have been its side, if it had a side, the prow caught high. Their idea came to them without consultation, at the same time: "You guys! Hey, you guys!" "We found you a boat!"

20

What surprised them in the first place was that the boys really did come, scrambling overland, half running, half sliding down the bank, wanting to see. "Hey, where?" "Where is it. I don't see no boat."

"Stop building your stupid raft and come and look at the boat!"

What surprised them in the second place was that when the boys did actually see what boat was meant, this old flood-smashed wreck held up in the branches, they did not under¬ stand that they had been fooled, that a joke had been played on them. They did not show a moment's disappointment, but seemed as pleased at the discovery as if the boat had been whole and new. They were already barefoot, because they had been wading in the water to get lumber, and they waded in here without a stop, surrounding the boat and appraising it and paying no attention even of an insulting kind to Eva and Carol who bobbed up and down on their log. Eva and Carol had to call to them.

MUNRO • The Found Boat

301

"How do you think you're going to get it off?" "It won't float anyway." "What makes you think it will float?" "It'll sink. Glub-blub-blub, you'll all be drownded." The boys did not answer, because they were too busy walking around the boat, pulling at it in a testing way to see how it could be got off with the least possible damage. Frank, who was the most literate, talkative and inept of the three, began referring to the boat as she, an affectation which Eva and Carol acknowledged with fish-mouths of contempt. "She's caught two places. You got to be careful not to tear a hole in her bottom. She's heavier than you'd think." It was Clayton who climbed up and freed the boat, and Bud, a tall fat boy, who got the weight of it on his back to turn it into the water so that they could half float, half carry it to shore. All this took some time. Eva and Carol abandoned their log and waded out of the water. They walked overland to get their shoes and socks and bicycles. They did not need to come back this way but they came. They stood at the top of the hill, leaning on their bicy¬ cles. They did not go on home, but they did not sit down and frankly watch, either. They stood more or less facing each other, but glancing down at the water and at the boys strug¬ gling with the boat, as if they had just halted for a moment out of curiosity, and staying longer than they intended, to see what came of this unpromising project. About nine o'clock, or when it was nearly dark—dark to people inside the houses, but not quite dark outside—they all returned to town, going along Mayo Street in a sort of procession. Frank and Bud and Clayton came carrying the boat, upside-down, and Eva and Carol walked behind, wheeling their bicycles. The boys' heads were almost hidden in the darkness of the overturned boat, with its smell of soaked wood, cold swampy water. The girls could look ahead and see the street lights in their tin reflectors, a necklace of lights climbing Mayo Street, reaching all the way up to the standpipe. They turned onto Burns Street heading for Clayton's house, the nearest house belonging to any of them. This was not the way home for Eva or for Carol either, but they followed along. The boys were perhaps too busy carrying the boat to tell them to go away. Some younger chil¬ dren were still out playing, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk though they could hardly see. At this time of year the bare sidewalk was still such a novelty and delight. These chil¬ dren cleared out of the way and watched the boat go by with unwilling respect; they shouted questions after it, wanting to know where it came from and what was going to be done with it. No one answered them. Eva and Carol as well as the boys refused to answer or even look at them. The five of them entered Clayton's yard. The boys shifted weight, as if they were going to put the boat down. "You better take it round to the back where nobody can see it," Carol said. That was the first thing any of them had said since they came into town. The boys said nothing but went on, following a mud path between Clayton's house and a leaning board fence. They let the boat down in the back yard. "It's a stolen boat, you know," said Eva, mainly for the effect. "It must've belonged to somebody. You stole it." "You was the ones who stole it then," Bud said, short of breath. "It was you seen it first. "It was you took it." "It was all of us then. If one of us gets in trouble then all of us does." "Are you going to tell anybody on them?" said Carol as she and Eva rode home, along the streets which were dark between the lights now and potholed from winter. "It's up to you, I won't if you won't." "I won't if you won't." They rode in silence, relinquishing something, but not discontented.

302

CHAPTER 6 • Tone and Style: The Words That Convey Attitudes in Fiction

The board fence in Clayton's back yard had every so often a post which supported it, or tried to, and it was on these posts that Eva and Carol spent several evenings sitting, jauntily but not very comfortably. Or else they just leaned against the fence while the boys worked on the boat. During the first couple of evenings neighborhood children attracted by the sound of hammering tried to get into the yard to see what was

INTRODUCTION In your research essay you may wish to expand your introduc¬ tion more than usual because of the need to relate the problem of research to your topic. You may wish to bring in relevant historical or biographical information. You may also wish to summarize critical opinion or describe critical problems about your topic. The idea is to lead your reader into your topic by providing interesting and significant materials that you have found. Because of the length of many research essays, some instructors require a topic outline, which is in effect a brief table of contents. Because the inclusion of an outline is a matter of the instructor's choice, be sure to learn whether your instruc¬ tor requires it. BODY AND CONCLUSION As you write the body and conclusion of your research essay, its development will be governed by your choice of topic. Consult the rele¬ vant chapters in this book about what to include for whatever approach or approaches you select (setting, ideas, point of view, character, tone, etc.). In length, the research essay can be anywhere from as few as two or three or as many as fifteen or thirty or more pages, depending on your instructor's assign¬ ment. If you narrow the scope of your topic, as suggested in the approaches described at the beginning of this chapter, you can readily keep your essay within the assigned length. The following illustrative research essay, for example, illus¬ trates approach 1 (page 442) by being limited to only one character in one story. Were you to write on characters in a number of other stories by Mansfield or any other writer (approach 2), you could limit your total number of pages by stressing comparative treatments and by avoiding excessive detail about problems pertain¬ ing to only one work. Although you limit your topic yourself in consultation with your instructor, you may encounter problems because you will deal not with one source alone but with many. Naturally the sources will provide you with details and also trigger many of your ideas. The problem is to handle the many strands without piling on too many details, and also without being led into digressions. It is important therefore to keep your central idea foremost; the constant stressing of your central idea will help you both to select relevant materials and to reject irrelevant ones.

Illustrative Student Essay Using Research

Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Illustrative Student Essay Using Research

465

Outline I. Introduction. The parallel structures of “Miss Brill”

Use 1/2 inch top margin, 1 inch bottom and side margin; doublespace throughout.

II. Season and time as structure III. Insensitive or cruel actions as structure IV. Miss Brill’s “hierarchy of unrealities” as structure V. The story’s conclusion VI. Conclusion

Use 1/2 inch top margin, 1 inch

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Simone Delgado

bottom and side margin; double-

Professor Leeshock

sPace throughout.

Put identifying information in upper-left corner, double-space.

The Structure of Katherine Mansfield’s “Miss Brill”0

In MLA style, the header has the student's last name and page number.

In the story “Miss Brill,” Mansfield creates an aging and emotionally

[1]

I Composition 102 30 October 2010

vulnerable character, Miss Brill (we are given no first name), whose good feelings are dashed when she overhears some cruel and shattering personal insults. In accord with Miss Brill’s emotional deflation, the story is developed

Center title one double-space below identifying information.

through a parallel number of structures.* This parallelling demonstrates Mansfield’s power generally over tight narrative control. Marvin Magalaner, using “Miss Brill” as an example, speaks of Mansfield’s weaving “a myriad of threads into a rigidly patterned whole” (39). Also noting Mansfield’s control over form, Cheryl Hankin suggests that Mansfield’s structuring is perhaps more “instinctive” than deliberate (474). Either of these observations is great praise for Mansfield. The complementary parallels, threads, stages, or “levels” of

This story appears on pages 183-86. ‘Central idea.

In MLA style, put only the page number in parentheses when the author is named in the text.

466

CHAPTER 9A • Writing a Research Essay on Fiction

Delgado 2 “unequal length” (Harmat uses the terms “niveaux” and “longueur inegale,” 49, 51) are the fall season, the time of day, insensitive or cruel actions, Miss Brill’s own unreal perceptions, and the final section or denouement.1’ [2]

An important aspect of structure in “Miss Brill” is Mansfield’s use of the season of the year. Autumn, with its propulsion toward winter, is integral to the deteriorating life of the heroine. In the first paragraph, we learn that there is a “faint chill” in the air (is the word “chill” chosen to rhyme with “Brill”?), and this phrase is repeated in paragraph 10 (185). Thus the author establishes autumn and the approaching year’s end as the beginning of the downward movement toward dashed hopes. This seasonal reference is also carried out when we read that “yellow leaves” are “down drooping” in the local Jardins Publiques (183) and that leaves are drifting “now and again” from almost “nowhere, from the sky” (183). It is the autumn cold that has caused Miss Brill to wear her shabby fur piece, which later the young girl considers the object of contempt. The chill, together with the fur, forms a structural setting for both the action and the mood of the story. Sewell notes that “Miss Brill” both begins and ends with the fur, which is the direct cause of the heroine’s deep hurt at the conclusion (25).

[3]

Like the seasonal structuring, the times of day parallel Miss Brill’s darkening existence. At the beginning, the speaker points out that the day is “brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold,” and that the light is “like white wine.” This figurative language suggests the brightness and crispness of full sunlight. In paragraph 6 (184), where we also learn of the yellow leaves, “the blue sky with gold-veined clouds” indicates that time has been passing as clouds accumulate during late afternoon. By the story’s end. Miss Brill has returned in sadness to her “little dark room” (186). In other words, the time moves from day to evening, from light to darkness, as a virtual accompaniment to Miss Brill’s emotional pain.

Dl

Mansfield’s most significant structural device, which is not emphasized by critics, is the introduction of insensitive or cruel actions. It is as though the

+Thesis sentence.

Illustrative Student Essay Using Research

467

Delgado 3 hurt felt by Miss Brill on the bright Sunday afternoon is also being felt by many others. Because she is the spectator who is closely related to Mansfield’s narrative voice. Miss Brill is the filter through whom these negative examples reach the reader. Considering the patterns that emerge, one may conclude that Mansfield intends that the beauty of the day and the joyousness of the band be taken as an ironic contrast to the pettiness and insensitivity of the people in the park. The first of these people are the silent couple on Miss Brill’s bench and

[5]

the incompatible couple of the week before (184). Because these seem no more than ordinary, they do not at first appear to be part of the story’s pattern of cruelty and rejection. But their incompatibility, suggested by their silence and one-way complaining, establishes a structural parallel with the young and insensitive couple who later insult Miss Brill. Thus the first two couples prepare the way for the third, and all show increasing insensitivity and cruelty. Almost unnoticed as a second level of negation is the vast group of “odd,

[6]

silent, nearly all old” people filling “the benches and green chairs” (184). They seem to be no more than a normal part of the Sunday afternoon landscape. But these people are significant structurally because the “dark little rooms—or even cupboards” that Miss Brill associates with them also, ironically, describe the place where she lives (184, 186). The reader may conclude from Miss Brill’s quiet eavesdropping that she herself is one of these nameless and faceless ones who lead similarly dreary lives. After Mansfield sets these levels for her heroine, she introduces characters experiencing additional rejection and cruelty. The beautiful woman who throws down the bunch of violets is the first of these (185). The story does not explain the causes of this woman’s scorn, and Miss Brill does not know what to make of the incident; but the woman’s actions suggest that she has been involved in a relationship that has ended in anger and bitterness.

[7]

468

CHAPTER 9A • Writing a Research Essay on Fiction

Delgado 4 [8]

The major figure involved in rejection, who is important enough to be considered a structural double of Miss Brill, is the woman wearing the ermine toque (185). It is clear that she, like Miss Brill, is one of “the lonely and

In MLA style, put author and page number in parentheses when the author is not named in the sentence.

isolated women in a hostile world” that Mansfield is so skillful in portraying (Gordon 6). This woman tries to please the “gentleman in grey,” but this man insults her by blowing smoke in her face. It could be, as Peter Thorpe observes, that she is “obviously a prostitute” (661). But it is more likely that the “ermine toque” has had a broken relationship with the gentleman, or perhaps even no relationship. Being familiar with his Sunday habits, she comes to the park to meet him, as though by accident, to attempt to renew contact. After her rejection, her hurrying off to meet someone “much nicer” (there is no such person, for Mansfield uses the phrase “as though” to introduce “ermine toque’s” departure) is her way of masking her hurt. Regardless of the exact situation, however, Mansfield makes it plain that the encounter demonstrates vulnerability, unkindness, and pathos, but also a certain amount of self defense.

[9]

Once Mansfield establishes this major incident, she introduces two additional examples of insensitivity. At the end of paragraph 8 (185), the hobbling old man “with long whiskers” is nearly knocked over by the group of four girls, who show arrogance if not contempt toward him. The final examples involve Miss Brill herself. These are her recollections of the apparent indifference of her students and of the old invalid “who habitually sleeps” when she reads to him.

[10]

Although “Miss Brill” is a brief story, Mansfield creates a large number of structural parallels to the sudden climax brought about by the boorishly insensitive young couple. The boy and girl do not appear until the very end, in other words (186), but extreme insults like theirs have been fully anticipated in the story’s earlier parts. Mansfield’s speaker does not take us to the homes of the other people in the park, as she does when we follow Miss Brill to her wretched room. Instead, the narrative invites us to conclude that the silent couple, the complaining wife and long-suffering husband, the unseen man rejected by the young woman, the “ermine toque,” and the funny

Illustrative Student Essay Using Research

469

Delgado 5 gentleman, not to mention the many silent and withdrawn people sitting like statues in the park, all return to loneliness and personal pain that are comparable to the feelings of Miss Brill. The intricacy of the structure of “Miss Brill” does not end here. Of

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great importance is the structural development of the protagonist herself. Peter Thorpe notes a “hierarchy of unrealities” that govern the reader’s increasing awareness of Miss Brill’s plight (661). By this measure, the story’s actions progressively bring out Miss Brill’s failures of perception and understanding—failures that in this respect make her like her namesake fish, the lowly brill (Gargano). These unrealities begin with Miss Brill’s fanciful but harmless imaginings about her shabby fur piece. This beginning sets up the pattern of her pathetic inner life. When she imagines that the park band is a “single, responsive, and very sensitive creature” (Thorpe 661), we realize that she is unrealistically making too much out of a mediocre band of ordinary musicians. Although she

[12] I Quotation marks around phrases show that they appeared separately in the source.

cannot interpret the actions of the beautiful young woman with the violets, she does see the encounter between the “ermine toque” and the gentleman in grey as a vision of rejection. Her response is correct, but then her belief that the band’s drumbeats are sounding out “The Brute! The Brute!” indicates her vivid overdramatization of the incident. The “top of the hierarchy of unrealities” (Thorpe 661) is her fancy that Miss Brill is an actor with a vital part in a gigantic drama played by all the people in the park. The most poignant aspect of this daydream is her unreal thought that someone would miss her if she were to be absent. In light of this hierarchical structure of unrealities, it is ironic that the boy and girl sit down next to her just when she is at the height of her fancy about her own importance. When she hears the girl’s insults, the couple has introduced objective reality to her with a vengeance, and she is plunged from rapture to pain. The concluding two paragraphs of “Miss Brill” hence form a rapid denouement to reflect her loneliness and solitude.

[13]

470

CHAPTER 9A • Writing a Research Essay on Fiction

Delgado 6 [14]

Of unique importance in the structure of “Miss Brill” are these final two paragraphs, in which Miss Brill, all alone, returns to her wretched little room. Saralyn Daly, referring to Miss Brill as one of Mansfield’s “isolatoes”—that is, solitary persons cut off from normal human contacts— fears that the couple’s callous insults have caused Miss Brill to face the outside world with her fur piece “perhaps for the very last time” (88, 90). Sydney Kaplan adds a political dimension to Miss Brill’s defeat, asserting that here and in other stories Mansfield is expressing “outrage” against “a society in which privilege is . . . marked by indifference” to situations like those of Miss Brill (192).

[15]

It is clear that Mansfield is asking readers to consider not only Miss Brill alone, but also her similarity to the many park inhabitants who are like her. Miss Brill’s grim existence exemplifies a common personal pattern in which the old are destroyed “by loneliness and sickness, by fear of death, by the thoughtless energy of the younger world around them” (Zinman 457). More generally, Mansfield herself considered such negative situations as “the snail under the leaf,” which implies that a gnawing fate is waiting for everyone, not just those who are old (Meyers 213). With such a crushing experience for the major character, “Miss Brill” may be fitted to the structuring of Mansfield’s stories described by Andre Maurois: “moments of beauty suddenly broken by contact with ugliness, cruelty, or death” (342-43).

Delgado 7 In MLA style, the list of sources, called the "Works Cited," begins a new page. Double-space throughout.

Works Cited Daly, Saralyn R. Katherine Mansfield. New York: Twayne, 1965. Print. Gargano, James W. “Mansfield’s Miss Brill.” Explicator 19. 2 (1960) n.p. Print.

Illustrative Student Essay Using Research

471

Delgado 8 Gordon, Ian A. “Katherine Mansfield: Overview.” Reference Guide to English Literature, 2nd ed. Ed. D. L. Kirkpatrick. London: St. James Press, 1991. InfoTrac. Web. 26 March 2010. Hankin, Cheryl. “Fantasy and the Sense of an Ending in the Work of Katherine Mansfield.” Modern Fiction Studies 24.3 (1978): 465-74. Print. Harmat, Andree-Marie. “Essai D’Analyse Structurale d’une Nouvelle Lyrique Anglaise: ‘Miss Brill’ de Katherine Mansfield.” Les Cahiers de la Nouvelle 1 (1983): 49-74. Print. Kaplan, Sydney Janet. Katherine Mansfield and the Origins of Modernist Fiction. Ithaca and London: Cornell UP, 1991. GoogleBooks. Web. 26 March 2010. McLaughlin, Ann L. “The Same Job: The Shared Writing Aims of Katherine Mansfield and Virginia Woolf.” Modern Fiction Studies 24.3 (1978): 369-82. Questia. Web. 26 March 2010. Magalaner, Marvin. The Fiction of Katherine Mansfield. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1971. Print. —. The Short Stories of Katherine Mansfield. New York: Knopf, 1967. Print. Mansfield, Katherine. “Miss Brill.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 183-86. Print. Maurois, Andre. Points of View from Kipling to Graham Greene. 1935. New York: Ungar, 1968. Print. Meyers, Jeffrey. Katherine Mansfield: A Darker View. 1978. New York: Cooper Square Press, 2002. Print. Sewell, Arthur. Katherine Mansfield: A Critical Essay. Auckland: Unicorn, 1936. Print. Thorpe, Peter. “Teaching ‘Miss Brill.”’ College English 23.8 (1962): 661-63. JSTOR. Web. 26 March 2010. Zinman, Toby Silverman. “The Snail Under the Leaf: Katherine Mansfield’s Imagery.” Modern Fiction Studies 24.3 (1978): 457-64. Print.

List sources in alphabetical order.

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CHAPTER 9A • Writing a Research Essay on Fiction

Commentary on the Essay This essay fulfills an assignment of 1500-2000 words, with ten to fifteen sources. (There are actually fifteen.) The bibliography was developed from a college library catalog, references in books of criticism (Magalaner, Daly); the MLA International Bibliography; the Essay and General Literature Index, and the Literature Resource Center available through the Internet and a county library system (www.wls.lib.ny.us). The sources themselves were found in a college library with selective holdings, in a local public library, and in online resources. There is only one rare source, an article (Harmat) obtained in photocopy through interlibrary loan from one of only two U.S. libraries holding the journal in which it appears. The location was made through the national Online Computer Library Center (OCLC). For most semester-long or quarter-long courses, you will probably not have time to add to your sources by such a method, but the article in question refers specifically to "Miss Brill," and it was therefore desirable to examine it. The sources consist of books, articles, and chapters or portions of books. One article (Sewell) has been published as a separate short monograph. Also, one of the sources is the story "Miss Brill" itself (with locations made by paragraph and page numbers), together with a collection of her stories. The sources are used for facts, interpretations, reinforcement of conclusions, and general guidance and authority. All necessary thematic devices, including overall organization and transi¬ tions, are unique to the illustrative essay. The essay also contains passages taking issue with certain conclusions in a few of the sources. Additional particulars about the handling of sources and developing a research essay are included in the dis¬ cussion of note taking and related matters in this chapter. The central idea of the essay (paragraph 1) is built out of this idea, explaining that the movement of emotions in the story is accompanied by an intricate and complementary set of structures. Paragraphs 2 through 13 examine various ele¬ ments of the story for their structural relationship to Miss Brill's emotions. Paragraphs 2 and 3 detail the structural uses of the settings of autumn and times of day, pointing out how they parallel her experiences. The longest part, paragraphs 4 through 10, is based on an idea not found in the sources—that a number of characters are experiencing difficulties and cruelties such as those that befall Miss Brill. Paragraph 5 cites the three couples of the story, paragraph 6 the silent old people, and paragraph 7 the scornful woman with vio¬ lets. Paragraph 8 is developed in disagreement with one of the sources, showing how an essay involving research may be original even though the sources form the basis of discussion. Paragraph 9 contains additional examples of insensitivity— two of them involving Miss Brill herself. Paragraph 10 summarizes the story's instances of insensitivity and cruelty, once again emphasizing parallels to Miss Brill's situation. Paragraphs 11 through 13 of the essay are based on ideas about the story's structure found in one of the sources (Thorpe). It is hence more derivative than paragraphs 4 through 10. Paragraphs 14 and 15, the concluding paragraphs of the essay, are devoted to the story's denouement and to the broader application of the story: Miss Brill is to be considered an example of the anonymous "isolatoes" who inhabit the park.

Writing Topics About How to Undertake a Research Essay

473

The list of works cited is the basis of all references in the essay, in accord with the MLA Handbook. By locating these references, a reader might readily examine, verify, and study any of the ideas and details drawn from the sources and devel¬ oped in the essay.

Writing Topics About How to Undertake a Research Essay In beginning research on any of the following topics, follow the steps in research described in this chapter. 1. Common themes in a number of stories by Hawthorne, Poe, or Mansfield (just one, not all).

2. Various critical views of a Hemingway story. 3. Hawthorne's use of religious and moral topic material. 4. Porter's exemplification of Granny Weatherall's strength of character. 5. Views about women in Chopin, Welty, Mansfield, or Steinbeck. 6. Poe's view of the short story as represented in "The Cask of Amontillado."

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Part III

Reading and Writing About Poetry

Chapter 10 Meeting Poetry: An Overview

O

ur words poem and poetry are derived from the Greek word poiein, “to create or make,” the idea being that poetry is a created artifact, a structure that develops from the human imagination and that is expressed rhythmically in words. Although the word poet originally meant the writer of any kind of literature, we now use the word exclusively to mean a person who writes poems. Poetry and poem describe a wide variety of spoken and written forms, styles, and patterns, and also a wide variety of subjects. In light of this variety, we believe that the best way to understand poetry is to experience it—read it, study it, savor it, think about it, dream about it, learn it, memorize it, mull it over, talk about it with others, ask questions about it, enjoy it, love it. The more experience with poetry you have, the more you will develop your own ideas and definitions of just what poetry is, and the deeper will be your comprehension and the greater your appreciation.

The Nature of Poetry We begin with a favorite poem based in the lives of students and teachers alike. It was written by Billy Collins, who was our American Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003:

M BILLY COLLINS

(b 1941)_

Schoolsville

(i 985)

Glancing over my shoulder at the past, I realize the number of students I have taught is enough to populate a small town.

5

10

I can see it nestled in a paper landscape, chalk dust flurrying down in winter, nights dark as a blackboard. The population ages but never graduates. On hot afternoons they sweat the final in the park and when it's cold they shiver around stoves reading disorganized essays out loud. A bell rings on the hour and everybody zigzags in the streets with their books.

476

COLLINS • Schoolsville

477

I forgot all their last names first and their first names last in alphabetical order. But the boy who always had his hand up is an alderman and owns the haberdashery. The girl who signed her papers in lipstick leans against the drugstore, smoking, brushing her hair like a machine. Their grades are sewn into their clothes like references to Hawthorne.0

i.e.. The Scarlet Letter

The A's stroll along with other A's. The D's honk whenever they pass another D. All the creative writing students recline on the courthouse lawn and play the lute. Wherever they go, they form a big circle. Needless to say, I am the mayor. I live in the white colonial at Maple and Main. I rarely leave the house. The car deflates in the driveway. Vines twirl around the porchswing. Once in a while a student knocks on the door with a term paper fifteen years late or a question about Yeats or double-spacing. And sometimes one will appear in a window pane to watch me lecturing the wall paper, quizzing the chandelier, reprimanding the air.

QUESTIONS 1. What recognizable school experiences does the poem mention? Why is "Schoolsville" the title?

2. Describe the speaker. How does he indicate affection for students? 3. What details indicate that the poem is fantasy and not reality? To what degree is the poem humorous?

4. Compare the details of this poem with those in Roethke's "Dolor" (Chapter 11). What similarities do you find in the choice and appropriateness of detail? What differences? 5. Each poem you read may help you understand, and therefore define, poetry. How might this poem help you begin making a definition?

"Schoolsville" reveals the variety and freedom of poetry. Unlike poems that are set out in strict line lengths, rhythms, and rhymes, "Schoolsville," though arranged in lines, does not follow measured rhythmical or rhyming patterns. The language is not difficult, the descriptions are straightforward, and the scenes seem both real and amusing. Many details such as the chalk dust flur rying down" like snow, "the girl who signed her papers in lipstick," and the stu¬ dents forming a circle when they meet—are genuinely funny. But the poem moves from apparent reality to something beyond reality. Unifying the poem is

478

CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

the fanciful idea that school life is, like life generally, at once comical, serious, memorable, and poignant. We may contrast "Schoolsville" with the following poem, "Hope," by Lisel Mueller, which deals with a topic—hope—that is common to us all, a topic that governs both our present and future behavior. What is unique, however, is that the poet provides us with thoughts about the nature of hope that might never have occurred to us. In this sense the poem fulfills the creative goal of poetry to lead us and guide us.

LISEL MUELLER (b 1924)

Hope

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15

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(1976)

It hovers in dark corners before the lights are turned on, it shakes sleep from its eyes and drops from mushroom gills, it explodes in the starry heads of dandelions turned sages, it sticks to the wings of green angels that sail from the tops of maples. It sprouts in each occluded°eye of the many-eyed potato, it lives in each earthworm segment surviving cruelty, it is the motion that runs from the eyes to the tail of a dog, it is the mouth that inflates the lungs of the child that has just been born. It is the singular gift we cannot destroy in ourselves, the argument that refutes death, the genius that invents the future, all we know of God. It is the serum which makes us swear not to betray one another; it is in this poem, trying to speak.

QUESTIONS 1. How does the poem illustrate the meaning of hope? How true or adequate are the spe¬ cific locations where hope may be found? How do these locations provide the grounds for a broadened understanding of hope?

2. What does the poet mean by saying that hope is a "singular gift / we cannot destroy in ourselves" and that hope is a "serum" that prevents people from betraying each other?

HERRICK • Here a Pretty Baby Lies

479

3. According to the illustrations in the poem, how strong is the connection between hope and life? Can anything or anyone be without hope?

4, Why does the poet write "trying to speak" rather than "speaking" in the final line? "Hope" demonstrates that poetry is inseparable from life and living. We regu¬ larly hope for fine weather, good luck, happier times, love, successful academic and athletic performance, more money, more and better friendships, successful and rewarding careers, and so on. But Mueller takes us on a new and unexpected trip. Her speaker reminds us that hope exists in common things around us where we have never even imagined it might be, such as the fluttering seeds ("angels") of maple trees, the expanding lungs of a newborn baby, and "the genius that invents the future." Hope may even be found in the blind eyes of a potato which, when planted in lowly garden dirt, possess an indomitable wish for growth. The poem makes these ordinary things extraordinary. Mueller even leaves us with a speculative and unusual conclusion, giving life to hope by stating that hope speaks simultaneously with poetry itself. All these connections, which Mueller naturally and easily creates for us, cause us to say yes, to agree that hope exists in every obscure and out-of-theway part of existence. Like all good poetry, "Hope" leads us into thoughts that we have not only not considered, but that we have never even dreamed about. We should always recognize that good poems, regardless of their topics, have similar power. To see this, let us look at another poem, by the seventeenth-century English poet Robert Herrick.

ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1664)

if

Here a Pretty Baby Lies

(1648)

Here a pretty baby lies Sung asleep with lullabies: Pray be silent, and not stir Th'easy earth that covers her.

QUESTIONS 1. What situation is described in this poem? To what degree is this situation either ordi¬ nary or unusual?

2. How does the final line change your perception of the first three lines? How does it change your response to the poem?

3. Consider the double meanings of the following words and phrases: "Here . . . lies"; "Sung asleep"; "lullabies"; "stir."

4. Compare this poem with Jonson's "On My First Daughter" (this chapter). Nothing in the first three lines of this short poem seems anything other than ordinary. A scene is described that takes place over and over again everywhere in the world. A baby is sleeping quietly, and we are told to make no sounds that would awaken her. But the last line hits us with a hammer, making us realize that nothing in the poem is what we understood at first. We immediately change our

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

initial impressions and realize that the baby is not just sleeping but dead, lying not in a cradle but in a coffin; that the lullabies are not the lullabies sung by a loving mother but the religious songs sung at a funeral ceremony; and that the stirring is not just making noise but disturbing the still-loose earth that has just been shov¬ eled onto the baby's grave. The effect of this very simple poem has been called overwhelming; it was overwhelming when it was first written in the seventeenth century, and it is still overwhelming. The three poems we have just seen have much in common; they are serious, engaging, original, and powerful. The first, however, is amusing and slightly per¬ plexing; the second is serious and thought-provoking; the third is sad and deeply moving. There are no other poems like them. Once we have read them, we will never forget them. Even if we never read them again (but we should), they will echo in our minds as time passes, sometimes with great power and impact, some¬ times with less. In reading them again we may rediscover our original responses, and often we may have entirely new responses to them. In short, these poems live, and as long as we too live, they will be a permanent part of our minds.

Preliminary Ideas About Poetry As "Schoolsville," "Hope," and "Here a Pretty Baby Lies" demonstrate, all good poems are unique, and all good poems broaden our comprehension and add lay¬ ers to our understandings. Like living itself, the experience of poetry is a developing process, but nevertheless, it is possible to offer a number of preliminary statements as a guide to understanding. To begin with, poems are imaginative works expressed in words that are used with the utmost compression, force, and economy. Unlike prose, which is expansive if not exhaustive, many poems are brief. But poetry is also comprehensive, offering us high points of thought, feeling, reflection, and resolution. Poems may be formed in just about any coherent and developed shape, from a line of a single word to lines of twenty, thirty, or more words; and these lines may be organized into any number of repeating or nonre¬ peating patterns. Some poems make us think, give us new and unexpected insights, and generally instruct us. Other poems arouse our emotions, surprise us, amuse us, and inspire us. Ideally, reading and understanding poetry should prompt us to reexamine, reinforce, and reshape our ideas, our attitudes, our feel¬ ings, and our lives. Let us hear what Robert Lrost concluded about poetry: "Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went."1 Always be prepared for the surprise, and be delighted when it appears.

Poetry of the English Language Today, most nations of the world have their own literatures, including poetry, with their own unique histories and characteristics. Name a nation, and you may be assured that it will have its own linguistic history, and its own history of literature. Let us try Lrance, which has a history of literature and poetry that is many

1 The Figure a Poem Makes,” in Complete Poems of Robert Frost 1949 (New York: Holt, 1949) viii.

How to Read a Poem

481

centuries old. Many Americans know "La Marseillaise," the French national anthem by Claude-Joseph Rouget de Lisle (1760-1836), and some may even be able to sing at least some of the lyrics. Name the Philippine Islands, the island nation on the other side of the world. The language of the Philippines is Tagalog, and there is a body of literature in that language. So also is it with Germany, Russia, Sweden, China, Japan, and as many nations as we might possibly name. In this anthology, however, we will be concentrating primarily on poetry in our own language by American, British, and Canadian poets. When we introduce poems from other lan¬ guages, we will be relying on translations from these languages into English. The earliest poems in English date back to the period of Old English (450-1100). Many of these early English poems reflect the influence of Christianity. Indeed, the most famous poem, the anonymous epic Beowulf, was probably inter¬ preted as a Christian allegory even though it concerns the secular themes of adventure, courage, and war. Ever since the Middle English period (1100-1500), poets have written about many other subjects, although religious themes have remained important. Today, we find poetry on virtually all topics, including wor¬ ship, music, love, society, sports, individuality, strong drink, sexuality, warfare, government, and politics; some poems treat special and unusual topics such as fishing, machines, buildings, computers, exotic birds, and car crashes. In short, poetry is in a flourishing condition in all its many forms. Commonly held moral principles are instilled by the use of well-known brief poems, epigrams, rhymes, and jingles, such as "Work. / Don't shirk," "A good beginning / Is half the winning," and "A stitch in time / Saves nine." Many people, such as poets them¬ selves and teachers, read poetry or parts of poems aloud in front of audiences of stu¬ dents, friends, families, and general audiences. Many others read poetry silently in private for their own benefit. Nursery rhymes are one of the important means by which children learn the vocabulary and rhythms of our language. Poems that are set to music and sung aloud are especially powerful. "The Star-Spangled Banner" by Francis Scott Key (1779-1843), who wrote the poem during the Battle of Fort McHenry in the War of 1812, is our national anthem and is sung before sports compe¬ titions and many other events. More recently, musical groups like the Beatles and U2, along with singer Bruce Springsteen, have given poetic expression to ideas that huge masses of people have taken to heart. Ever since the 1960s, people devoted to civil rights have been unified and strengthened by the simple lyrics of "We Shall Over¬ come," based on a Gospel hymn by Charles Albert Tindley (1851-1933), not only in the United States but throughout the world. During the national crisis following the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon in 2001, many people turned to "America the Beautiful" and "God Bless America" as songs that stir the heart. The strength and vitality of poetry could be similarly documented time and time again.

How to Read a Poem With poetry, as with any other literary form, the more effort we put into under¬ standing, the greater will be our reward. Poems are often about subjects that we have never experienced directly. We have never met the poet, never had his or her exact experiences, and never thought about things in exactly the same way. To

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CHAPTER 10 « Meeting Poetry: An Overview

recapture the experience of the poem, we need to understand the language, ideas, attitudes, and frames of reference that bring the poem to life. We must therefore read all poems carefully, thoughtfully, sympathetically. The economy and compression of poetry mean that every part of the poem must carry some of the impact and meaning, and thus every part repays careful attention. Try to interact with the poem. Do not expect the poem (or the poet) to do all the work. The poem contributes its language, imagery, rhythms, ideas, and all the other aspects that make it poetry; but you, the reader, will need to open your mind and your heart to the poem's impact. You have to use your imagination and let it happen. There is no single technique for reading, absorbing, and appreciating poetry. In Part 1 we offer a number of guidelines for studying any work of literature (pp. 13-32). In addition to following the guidelines, read each poem more than once and keep in mind these objectives. 1. Read straight through to get a general sense of the poem. In this first read¬ ing, do not stop to puzzle out hard passages or obscure words; just read through from beginning to end. The poem is probably not as hard as you might at first think. 2. Try to understand the poem's meaning and organization. As you read and reread the poem, study these elements. • The title. The title is almost always informative. The title of Collins's "Schoolsville" suggests that the poem will contain a somewhat flippant treat¬ ment of school life. The title of Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" suggests that the poem will present ideas derived from a natural scene of cold and darkness. • The speaker. Poems are dramatic, having points of view just like prose fiction. First-person speakers talk from the "inside" because they are directly involved in the action (like the speaker in Collins's "Schoolsville"). Other speakers are "outside" observers demonstrating the third-person limited and omniscient points of view, as in the anonymous "Sir Patrick Spens" (see also Chapter 2 on point of view). • The meanings of all words, whether familiar or unfamiliar. The words in many poems are immediately clear, as in Herrick's "Here a Pretty Baby Lies," but other poems may contain unfamiliar words and references and you may need to consult dictionaries, encyclopedias, and other sources until you gain a grasp of the poem's content. If you have difficulty with meanings even after using your sources, ask your instructor for help. • The poem's setting and situation. Some poems establish their settings and cir¬ cumstances vividly. Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" (p. 490) describes an evening scene in which the speaker stops his sleigh by a woods so that he can watch snow falling amid the trees. Although not all poems are so clear, you should learn as much as you can about setting and situation in every poem you read. • The poem's basic form and development. Some poems, like the anonymous "Sir Patrick Spens," are narratives; others, like Jim Northrup's "Ogichidag," are per¬ sonal statements; still others may be speeches to another person, like Herrick's "Here a Pretty Baby Lies." The poems may be laid out in a sonnet form or may develop in two-line sequences (couplets). They may contain stanzas, as in

ANONYMOUS * Sir Patrick Spens

483

Mueller's "Hope," each unified by a particular action or thought. Try to deter¬ mine the form and to trace the way in which the poem unfolds, part by part. • The poem's subject and theme. The subject indicates the general or specific topic, while the theme refers to the idea or ideas that the poem explores. Randall Jar¬ rell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner" announces its subject in the title. However, you must usually infer the theme. Jarrell's theme is the repulsive ugliness of war, the poignancy of untimely death, the callousness of the living toward the dead, and the suddenness with which war forces young people to face cruelty and horror. 3. Read the poem aloud, sounding each word clearly. Although this step may seem unnecessary, reading aloud will enable you to judge the effect of sound, rhythm, and rhyme. If you read Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner" aloud, for example, you will notice the impact of rhyming froze with hose and the suggestion of the percussive sounds of cannon fire in the repeated and rhyming /, a, and k sounds of black flak. 4. Prepare a paraphrase of the poem, and make an explication of the ideas and themes. A paraphrase (discussed later in this chapter) is a restatement of the poem in your own words, which helps crystallize your understanding. An expli¬ cation, which is both explanation and interpretation, goes beyond paraphrase to consider significance—either of brief passages or of the entire poem.

Studying Poetry Let us now look in detail at a poem, in this case one that tells a story. It was com¬ posed as a song, or ballad, sometime during the late Middle Ages or early Renais¬ sance, when most people got information about the outside world from strolling balladeers who sang the news to them (there were no newspapers, and besides, few people could read anyway). It tells a story that is probably true, or at least that is based on a real event.

ANONYMOUS

Sir Patrick Spens

(fifteenth century)

The king sits in Dumferline0 town. Drinking the blood-red wine: "O where will I get a good sailor To sail this ship of mine?" Up and spoke an eldern0 knight Sat° at the king's right knee: "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That sails upon the sea."

°1 Dumferline: a town on the Firth of Forth, in Scotland.

oW-senior wh°sal

484

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CHAPTER 10 * Meeting Poetry: An Overview

The king has written a braid0 letter And signed it wi'° his hand. And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was° walking on the sand.

This ill deed done to me. To send me out this time o'° the year, To sail upon the sea? "Make haste, make haste, my merry men all. Our good ship sails the morn."° "O say not so, my master dear. For I fear a deadly storm.

25

30

35

40

with who was

The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud laugh laughed he; The next line that Sir Patrick read, A tear blinded his eye.

"O who is this has° done this deed.

20

large, commanding

Late late yestere'en01 saw the new moon With the old moon in her arm. And I fear, I fear, my dear master. That we will come to harm." O our Scots nobles were right loath To wet their cork-heeled shoon,° But long ere a'0 the play were played Their hats they swam aboon.°

who has

of

in the morning

yesterday evening

shoes all about [in the water]

O long, long may their ladies sit Wi' their fans into their hand, Or e'er they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the land. O long, long may the ladies stand, Wi' their gold combs in their hair. Waiting for their own dear lords, For they'll see them no more. Half o'er, half o'er to Aberdour0 It's fifty fathom deep. And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

°41 Aberdour: Aberdeen, on the east coast of Scotland on the North Sea, about 80 miles north of Dumferline.

QUESTIONS 1. What action does the poem describe? Who are the principal individual figures? What groups of people are involved with and concerned about the action?

ANONYMOUS • Sir Patrick Spens

485

2. What do you learn about the principal figure. Sir Patrick Spens? Why does he follow the king's orders rather than his own judgment?

3. What conflicts do you find in the poem? Do they seem personal or political? 4. What emotions are conveyed in the last two stanzas? Since the poem does not explain why the king sends Sir Patrick and his men to sea, how might the emotions have been expressed more strongly?

5. Describe the poem's use of dialogue. How many people speak? How do the speeches assist in conveying the poem's action?

"Sir Patrick Spens" is a narrative ballad. A narrative tells a story, and the term ballad defines the poem's shape or form, which was originally a song for dancing (related to our word ballet). The first two stanzas set up the situation: The king needs a captain and crew to undertake a vital mission, and an old knight— one of the king's close advisers—suggests Sir Patrick Spens, who is obviously dis¬ tinguished and reliable. The rest of the poem focuses on the feelings and eventual death of Sir Patrick and his men. The third stanza provides a transition from the king to Sir Patrick. The king orders Sir Patrick to embark on an important sea voy¬ age, and Sir Patrick reads the order. At first he laughs—probably bitterly, because Sir Patrick's response is that an order to go to sea during an obvious time of dan¬ ger is nothing more than a grim joke. But when he realizes that the order is real, he foresees disaster. Our sense of impending calamity is increased when we learn that Sir Patrick's crewmen are also frightened (lines 23-28). The shipwreck, described in the eighth stanza, is presented with ironic under¬ statement. There is no description of the storm or of the crew's panic, nor does the speaker describe the masts splitting or the ship sinking under the waves. Although these horrors are omitted, the floating hats are grim evidence of destruction and death. The remainder of the poem continues in this vein of understatement. In the ninth and tenth stanzas the focus shifts back to the land, and to the ladies who will wait a "long, long" time (forever) for Sir Patrick and his men to return. The poem ends with a vision of Sir Patrick and the "Scots lords" lying "fifty fathom deep." On first reflection, "Sir Patrick Spens" tells a sad tale without complications. The subject seems to describe no more than Sir Patrick's drowning, along with his crew and the Scots noblemen. One might therefore claim that the poem does not have a clear theme. Even the irony of the floating hats and the waiting ladies is straightforward and unambiguous. However, you might consider how the poem appeals to our imaginations through its suggestions of the contradictions and conflicts between authority and individuals. Sir Patrick knows the danger, yet he still obeys the king. In addition, in lines 5, 17-20, and 31, there is a suggestion of political infighting. The "eldern knight" is in effect responsible for dooming the ship. Moreover, the "play" being "played" suggests that a political game is happening beyond the grim game of the men caught in the deadly storm (if Sir Patrick knows the danger, would not the knight also know it, and would not this knight also know the consequences of choosing Sir Patrick?). These political motives are not spelled out, but they are implied. Thus the poem is not only a sad tale but also a poignant dramatization of how power operates, of how a loyal person responds to a tragic dilemma, and of the pitiful consequences of that response.

LdG.

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

vSZmKi

In reading poetry, then, let the poem be your guide. Get all the words, try to understand dramatic situations, follow the emotional cues the poet gives you, and try to explain everything that is happening. Let the poem trigger your imagina¬ tion. If you find implications that you believe are important, as with the political overtones of "Sir Patrick Spens," use details from the poem to support your obser¬ vations. Resist the temptation to "uncover" unusual or far-fetched elements in the poem (for example, that hope is a tiny spirit that inhabits human beings, trees, and vegetables, or that the "man he killed" was literally the speaker's brother). Draw only those conclusions that the poem itself supports.

Poems for Study Gwendolyn Brooks.The Mother, 486 William Cowper.The Poplar Field, 487 Emily Dickinson.Because I Could Not Stop for Death, 488 Robert Francis.Catch, 489 Robert Frost.Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, 490 Thomas Hardy.The Man He Killed, 491 Joy Harjo.Eagle Poem, 491 Randall Jarrell.The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner, 492 Ben Jonson.On My First Daughter, 493 Dorianne Laux.The Life of Trees, 493 Emma Lazarus.The New Colossus, 495 Louis MacNeice.Snow, 495 Jim Northrup.Ogichidag, 496 Naomi Shihab Nye.Where Children Live, 497 Joyce Carol Oates.Loving, 497 Octavio Paz.Two Bodies, 498 Phil Rizzuto.They Own the Wind, 499 William Shakespeare.Sonnet 55: Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments, 500 Percy Bysshe Shelley.To — ("Music, when Soft Voices Die"), 500 Elaine Terranova.Rush Hour, 501 William Wordsworth.Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, 502

^ GWENDOLYN BROOKS (1917-2000)

□ ^ The Mother

5

(1945)

Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get. The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair. The singers and workers that never handled the air. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come.

COWPER * The Poplar Field

487

You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh. Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye. I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children. I have contracted. I have eased My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck. I have said. Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized Your luck And your lives from your unfinished reach. If I stole your births and your names. Your straight baby tears and your games. Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches, and your deaths. If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths. Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate. Though why should I whine. Whine that the crime was other than mine?— Since anyhow you are dead. Or rather, or instead, You were never made. But that too, I am afraid. Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said? You were born, you had body, you died. It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried. Believe me, I loved you all. Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you All.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the circumstances of the speaker. Who is she? What is the topic of her narra¬ tive? What has happened to her? What thoughts and feelings does she express about her experiences? Why does she say "how is the truth to be said" (line 28)?

2. What is the topic of this poem? What moral and political issues does the poem raise? 3. What conclusions do you think the poet wants you to draw from this poem? What "pro" and "con" positions might be derived from the poem?

4. Considering this poem, discuss what topical material might be imposed on writers of poetry? What might be considered "poetic" subject matter?

WILLIAM COWPER

(1731

1800)

The Poplar Field (1782) The poplars are felled,0 farewell to the shade And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade. The winds play no longer, and sing in the leaves. Nor Ouse° on his bosom their image receives.

°4 Ouse: river in northern England, near which Cowper lived.

488 5

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field and the bank where they grew. And now in the grass behold they are laid. And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat. And the scene where his melody charmed me before, Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. My fugitive years are all hasting away. And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head. Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can. To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he.

QUESTIONS 1. What situation does the speaker describe? How has the scene changed from what he knew twelve years before? Why does the speaker refer to the passage of time? What kind of person is he?

2. How has the situation affected the blackbird? Why does the speaker care? 3. How does the scene affect the speaker? What idea does he express about what has occurred?

B EMILY DICKINSON

(1830-1886)_

For a photo, see Chapter 17, page 756.

B

# Because I Could Not Stop for Death

(i89o: c.i863)°

Because I could not stop for Death— He kindly stopped for me— The Carriage held but just Ourselves— And Immortality. 5

We slowly drove—He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too. For His Civility—

first published, 1890; written c. 1863. You will see two dates given for many poems in the book.

FRANCIS • Catch

489

We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess—in the Ring— We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain— We passed the Setting Sun— Or rather—He passed Us— The Dews drew quivering and chill— For only Gossamer,0 my Gown— My Tippet0—only Tulle0—

10

thin fabric

15

cape, scarf; thin silk

We passed before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground— The Roof was scarcely visible—The Cornice—in the Ground—

20

Since then—tis Centuries—and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity—

QUESTIONS 1. Who is the speaker, and what is she like? Why couldn't she stop for Death? What per¬ spective does her present position give the poem?

2. In what unusual ways does the poem characterize death? 3. What does the carriage represent? Where is it headed? Who are the riders? What is meant by the things the carriage passes?

4. What is represented by the house in line 17? Why does the poet use the word "House" in preference to some other word?

ROBERT FRANCIS

Catch

(1901-1987)

(1950)

Two boys uncoached are tossing a poem together. Overhand, underhand, backhand, sleight of hand, every hand. Teasing with attitudes, latitudes, interludes, altitudes. High, make him fly off the ground for it, low, make him stoop, Make him scoop it up, make him as-almost-as-possible miss it. Fast, let him sting from it, now, fool him slowly. Anything, everything tricky, risky, nonchalant. Anything under the sun to outwit the prosy. Over the tree and the long sweet cadence down. Over his head, make him scramble to pick up the meaning. And now, like a posy, a pretty one plump in his hands.

10

490

CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the language of "Catch." How does the poet establish that there are two meanings to most of the words in the game of catch played by the "boys"?

2. How accurately does the poem describe a game of ordinary catch in which the partici¬ pants are throwing a baseball? How interesting would a game of catch be if the partic¬ ipants stood still and merely threw the ball back and forth to each other? How interesting would poetry be if the poet did not create variety just as the catch players vary their throws?

3. How well does the analogy of the game of catch explain why poetry sometimes requires extra efforts of understanding?

fg

ROBERT FROST

(1874-1963)_

For a photo, see Chapter 17, page 770.

^ Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening (1923) Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. 5

io

15

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.

QUESTIONS 1. What do we learn about the speaker? Where is he? What is he doing?

2. What is the setting (place, weather, time) of this poem? 3. Why does the speaker want to watch the "woods fill up with snow"? 4. What evidence suggests that the speaker is embarrassed or self-conscious about stop¬ ping? Consider the words "though" in line 2 and "must" in line 5. 5. The last stanza offers two alternative attitudes and courses of action. What are they? Which does the speaker choose?

491

HARJO • Eagle Poem

THOMAS HARDY

(1840-1928)

^ The Man He Killed

(1902)

"Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin!0 "But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place. "I shot him dead because— Because he was my foe. Just so: my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although "He thought he'd 'list,0 perhaps. Off-hand like—just as I— Was out of work—had sold his traps0— No other reason why.

10

enlist possessions

"Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown."0

15

20

°20 half'd-crown: at the time, the equivalent of $20 or $30.

QUESTIONS 1. Who and what is the speaker? What do you learn about him from his language?

2. What situation and event is the speaker recalling and relating? 3. What is the effect produced by repeating the word "because" in lines 9 and 10 and using the word "although" in line 12?

4. What is the speaker's attitude toward his "foe" and toward what he has done? 5. What point, if any, does this poem make about war? How are this poem and Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner" similar and different?

JOY HARJO

(b 1951)

Eagle Poem

(1990)

To pray you open your whole self To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon To one whole voice that is you. And know there is more That you can't see, can't hear.

5

492

io

15

20

25

CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

Can't know except in moments Steadily growing, and in languages That aren't always sound but other Circles of motion. Like eagle that Sunday morning Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky In wind, swept our hearts clean With sacred wings. We see you, see ourselves and know That we must take the utmost care And kindness in all things. Breathe in, knowing we are made of All this, and breathe, knowing We are truly blessed because we Were born, and die soon within a True circle of motion. Like eagle rounding out the morning Inside us. We pray that it will be done In beauty. In beauty.

QUESTIONS 1. What is meant by the requirement that "to pray you open your whole self/To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon"? What is the meaning of lines 4-9?

2. Why is the eagle significant to the speaker? Of what importance is the figure that the eagle makes?

3. Why does the poet repeat the phrase "In beauty" at the poem's end?

RANDALL JARRELL

(1914-1965)

The Death of the Ball Tlirret Gunner0 (1945) From my mother's sleep I fell into the State And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.0 Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak° and the nightmare fighters. 5

When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

“Ball Turret Gunner: High-altitude bombers in World War II (1941-1945) contained a revolvable gun turret both at the top and at the bottom, from which a machine-gunner could shoot at attacking fighter planes. Gunners in these turrets were sometimes mutilated by the gunfire of attacking planes. 2 froze: The stratospheric below-zero temperatures caused the moisture in the gunner’s breath to freeze as it contacted the collar of his flight jacket. 4 flak: the round, black explosions of antiaircraft shells fired at bombers from the ground, an acronym of the German word Fliegerabwehrkanone.

LAUX • The Life of Trees

493

QUESTIONS 1. Who is the speaker? Where has he been, and what has he been doing? What has hap¬ pened to him?

2. In the first line, what is the poet saying about the age of the speaker and the opportu¬ nities he had for living before he was killed? How may this line be read politically and polemically?

3. What is a turret? What is your response to the last line?

BEN JOWSOW

if

(1573-1637)

On My First Daughter0

(1616)

Here lies, to each her parents' ruth,° Mary, the daughter of their youth: Yet all heaven's gifts, being heaven's due. It makes the father less, to rue.° At six month's end, she parted hence With safety of her innocence; Whose soul heaven's Queen (whose name she bears). In comfort of her mother's tears. Hath placed amongst her virgin-train:0 Where, while that severed0 doth remain, This grave partakes0 the fleshly birth. Which cover lightly, gentle earth.

°On My First Daughter: Jonson’s infant daughter, Mary, died at the age of six months, but the year of her death is unknown. The poem was included in the 1616 edition of Jonson’s Epigrams. 1 ruth: sadness, grief 3-4- Yet .. . rue: i.e., because all heaven’s gifts are [still] owned by heaven, the child’s death takes from me, her father, a cause of mourning. 7-9 Whose soul . . . virgin-train: i.e., to comfort the tears of her mother, the Queen of heaven, after whom [my daughter] was named, has placed her soul among her [Mary’s] virgin-train. 10 that sev¬ ered: the child’s soul, which at death is separated from the body. 11 partakes: contains the infant’s body [until the Resurrection].

QUESTIONS 1. What is the situation of this poem? How does the speaker reconcile himself to the death of his infant daughter?

2. Compare this poem with Herrick's "Here a Pretty Baby Lies" (p. 479).

PORI ANNE LAUX

if

(b. 1952)

The Life of Trees

(2003)

The pines rub their great noise Into the spangled dark. They scratch their itchy boughs Against the house and the mystery of that moan translates into drudgery of ownership: time

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

to drag the ladder from the shed, climb onto the roof with a saw between my teeth, cut those suckers down. What's reality if not a long exhaustive cringe from the blade, the teeth. I want to sleep and dream the life of trees, beings from the muted world who care nothing for Money, Politics, Power, Will or Right, who want little from the night but a few dead stars going dim, a white owl lifting from their limbs, who want only to sink their roots into the wet ground and terrify the worms or shake their bleary heads like fashion models or old hippies. If they could speak, they wouldn't, only hum some low green note, roll their pinecones down the empty streets and blame it, with a shrug, on the cold wind. During the day they sleep inside their furry bark, clouds shredding like ancient lace above their crowns. Sun. Rain. Snow. Wind. They fear Nothing but the Hurricane, and Fire, that whipped bully who rises up and becomes his own dead father. Then the young ones bend and bend and the old know they may not make it, go down with the power lines sparking, broken at the trunk. They fling their branches, forked sacrifice to the beaten earth. They do not pray. If they make a sound it's eaten by the wind. And though the stars return they do not offer thanks, only ooze a sticky sap from their roundish concentric wounds, clap the water from their needles, straighten their spines and breathe, and breathe again. QUESTIONS 1. What contrast does the poem develop between human and sylvan or arboreal life? In general terms, what kind of existence do trees represent? How accurately does the poem describe this existence?

2. In what way does the speaker seem to idealize the cares and interests of trees, in con¬ trast to the tasks and duties of human beings? How does the final line, "breathe, and breathe again," represent a goal or duty from which human beings may benefit?

3. Why does the speaker say "What's reality if not a long exhaustive /cringe from the blade, / the teeth"? How does this description fit an idea of the reality facing human beings?

MACNEICE • Snow

EMMA LAZARUS

495

(1849-1887)

The New Colossus (i883) Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,0 With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.0 "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" °1 brazen giant of Greek fame: the statue of Apollo that stood at the harbor of ancient Rhodes, an island in the Aegean Sea. Known as the “Colossus,” it was sheathed in copper, and it was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. 8 The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame: “The air-bridged harbor that is framed by the twin cities [of New York and Newark, New Jersey].”

QUESTIONS 1. Why does the poem open with the word "Not"? What argument is introduced by the use of this word and its contrast with the Statue of Liberty? How is this argument brought out throughout the sonnet? Why is this poem always associated with the Statue of Liberty?

2. What does "golden door" mean about the United States? Why does the poet use the name "Mother of Exiles" in reference to the statue? How is "golden" (line 14) to be con¬ trasted with "brazen" (line 1)?

3. What is meant by the "New Colossus"? How does the poem present an optimistic view for the "huddled masses" that will come to the United States to "breathe free"?

LOUIS MACNEICE

^ Snow

(1907-1963)

(1935)

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was Spawning snow and pink roses against it Soundlessly collateral and incompatible: World is suddener than we fancy it. World is crazier and more of it than we think. Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion A tangerine and spit the pips and feel The drunkenness of things being various.

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes— On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands—■ There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses. QUESTIONS 1. Where is the speaker at the time of the poem? What is the contrast between the roses and the snow? Why is this contrast important?

2. What words describe snow in lines 1-3? What words in lines 4, 5, 6, 8, 10 describe the world generally? Why does the speaker choose these words rather than more descrip¬ tive ones?

3. What does the last line suggest? 4. What similarities and differences do you find between "Snow" and Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" (p. 490)?

JIM NORTHRUP (b

^ Ogichidag0

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1943)

_

(1993)

I was born in war, WW Two. Listened as the old men told stories of getting gassed in the trenches, WW One. Saw my uncles come back from Guadalcanal, North Africa, and the Battle of the Bulge. Memorized the war stories my cousins told of Korea. Felt the fear in their voices. Finally it was my turn, my brothers too. Joined the marines in time for the Cuban Missile Crisis. Heard the crack of rifles in the rice paddies south of Da Nang. Watched my friends die there then tasted the bitterness of the only war America ever lost. My son is now a warrior. Will I listen to his war stories or cry into his open grave? QUESTIONS 1. What battles are mentioned in the poem, and over what period of time do these battles extend?

2. How does the speaker state that he learned about the battles? Why is this method of gaining knowledge important? What experience has the speaker had with war?

°The title “Ogichidag” is the Ojibway word for “warriors;

OATES • Loving

497

3. Why does the speaker finish the poem by referring to his son? In relationship to the poem's structure, why is the concluding question important?

NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

(b 1952)

Where Children Live (1982) Homes where children live exude a pleasant rumpledness, like a bed made by a child, or a yard littered with balloons. To be a child again one would need to shed details till the heart found itself dressed in the coat with a hood. Now the heart has taken on gloves and mufflers, the heart never goes outside to find something to "do." And the house takes on a new face, dignified. No lost shoes blooming under bushes. No chipped trucks in the drive. Grown-ups like swings, leafy plants, slow-motion back and forth. While the yard of a child is strewn with the corpses of bottle-rockets and whistles, anything whizzing and spectacular, brilliantly short-lived. Trees in children's yards speak in clearer tongues. Ants have more hope. Squirrels dance as well as hide. The fence has a reason to be there, so children can go in and out. Even when the children are at school, the yards glow with the leftovers of their affection, the roots of the tiniest grasses curl toward one another like secret smiles.

QUESTIONS 1. How accurately does the poem present the "pleasant rumpledness" of children?

2. What is the speaker's view of the comparative dependence or independence of chil¬ dren? What does the speaker think of children?

3. Sometimes poems about children can be overly sentimental. How well does this poem present sentiment about children? Does it go too far, or is it about right?

JOYCE CAROL OATES

Loving

(b 1938)

(1970)

A balloon of gauze around us, sheerest gauze: it is a balloon of skin around us, fine light-riddled skin, invisible.

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

If we reach out to pinch its walls it floats from us— it eludes us wetly, this sac. It is warmed by a network of veins fine as hairs and invisible. The veins pulsate and expand to the width of eyelashes. In them blood floats weightless as color. The warm walls sink upon us when we love each other, and are blinded by the heavier skin that closes over our eyes. We are in here together. Outside, people are walking in a landscape— it is a city landscape, it is theirs. Their shouts and laughter come to us in broken sounds Their strides take them everywhere in daylight. If they turn suddenly toward us we draw back— the skin shudders wetly, finely— will we be torn into two people?

make vibrantly alive

this shall also happen to thy thoughts

The balloon will grow up around us again as if breathed out of us, moist and sticky and light as skin, more perfect than our own skin, invisible.

QUESTIONS 1. What does the speaker mean by a "balloon of gauze around us" (line 1)? How does she define this balloon? What does she mean by "We are in here together" (line 15)?

2. Why does the speaker refer to veins and blood and "warm walls" (line 12) in dis¬ cussing the subject of loving? How common are these references to love? How appro¬ priate is the language?

3. How would you characterize the speaker's attitudes about love? To what does the final stanza refer?

OCTAVIO PAZ

(1914-1998)

Two Bodies (Dos Cuerpos) Translated by Muriel Rukeyser Two bodies face to face are at times two waves and night is an ocean.

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Two bodies face to face are at times two stones and night a desert.

(1944)

RIZZUTO • They Own the Wind

499

Two bodies face to face are at times two roots laced into night. Two bodies face to face are at times two knives and night strikes sparks Two bodies face to face are two stars falling in an empty sky.

QUESTIONS 1. What does the speaker mean by "two bodies face to face" in each of the first lines of the stanzas?

2. Which of the stanzas might be considered positive descriptions of personal relation¬ ships? Which might be negative? Which comparisons suggest love? Which compar¬ isons suggest anger? Which comparisons suggest indifference?

3. What is meant by "roots" that are "laced into night"?

PHIL RIZZUTO

%

(1917-2007)

They Own the Wind (1978)

I tell ya, did you take notice of the flag? I couldn't believe it. just as Jim Rice° came to the plate, the wind started blowing to left field. it not only helped Yastrzemski's0 homer, but it hurt Jackson's,0 the wind was blowing to right field when Jackson hit the fly ball, when Yaz hit the homer the wind was blowing to left field, kept it from going foul. strike one to Piniella.0 somebody told me the Red Sox control the elements up here I didn't believe 'em until today

°4 Jim Rice: Red Sox outfielder (b. 1953). 6 Yastrzemski: Carl Yastrzemski (b. 1939), Red Sox outfielder. 7 Jackson: Reggie Jackson (b. 1946), Yankee outfielder. °13 Piniella: Lou Piniella (b. 1943), Yankee outfielder; retired as manager of the Cubs in 2010.

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

QUESTIONS 1. An example of "found poetry," this poem was "spoken" when Rizzuto was announc¬ ing a game between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox on October 2,1978. On the basis of this poem, define what is meant by "found poetry." In what way should this be considered poetry?

2. What observations about the "elements" does Rizzuto make with regard to the winds at Boston's Fenway Park? How does he transform ordinary complaints about weather into something amusing?

M

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564 1616)_ For a portrait, see Chapter 20, page 1009.

^ Sonnet 55: Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments (1609)

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Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn. And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor° Mars his° sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom.0 So, till the judgment that yourself arise. You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

Neither, Mars's

Judgment Day

QUESTIONS 1. Who is the speaker of the poem, and who is being addressed?

2. What powers of destruction does the speaker mention? What, according to the speaker, will survive these powers?

3. What does "the living record of your memory" (line 8) mean? 4. What is the poem's subject? Theme?

m

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822)_

To—(“Music, When Soft Voices Die”) 1824 Music, when soft voices die. Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken. Live within the sense they quicken.0

make vibrantly alive

TERRANOVA* Rush Hour

501

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts,0 when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

this shall also happen to thy thoughts

QUESTIONS 1. What is the topic of this poem? What view of reality is the poet describing? What is the purpose of the words die, sicken, dead, and art gone? If music, odors, roses, and thoughts are no longer alive in actuality, in what sense do they continue to live?

2. What is meant by the phrase "shall slumber on" (line 8)? How can love slumber on, but not die? What is the connection between love slumbering and the memory of music, the sense of the odors of violets, and the heaping of rose leaves on the marriage bed?

3. In what way does the speaker praise the thoughts of the listener?

ELAINE TERRANOVA

Rush Hour

(b 1939)

(1995)

Odd, the baby's scabbed face peeking over the woman's shoulder. The little girl at her side with her arm in a cast, wearing a plain taffeta party dress. The woman herself who is in shorts and sunglasses among commuters in the underground station. Her body that sags and tenses at the same time. The little girl has not once moved to touch her or to be touched. Even on the train, she never turns and says, "Mommy." Sunlight bobs over her blond head inclining toward the window. The baby is excited now. "Loo, loo, loo, loo," he calls, a wet crescendo. "He's pulling my hair," the little girl at last cries out. A kind man comes up the aisle to see the baby. He stares at those rosettes of blood and wants to know what's wrong with him. The woman says a dog bit him. "It must have been a big dog, then." "Oh, no. A neighbor's little dog." The man says, "I hope they put that dog to sleep." The woman is nearly pleading. "It was an accident. He didn't mean to do it." The conductor, taking tickets, asks the little girl how she broke her arm. But the child looks out to the big, shaded houses. The woman says, "She doesn't like to talk about that." No one has seen what is behind

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her own dark glasses. She pulls the children to her. Maybe she is thinking of the arm raised over them, Its motion that would begin like a blessing.

CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

QUESTIONS 1. What clues early in the poem indicate that the woman and her children are victims of domestic abuse?

2. Why does the mother not appeal for help when the two men, the "kind man" and the conductor, inquire about the injuries of the children? What is the irony of the raised arm in the last two lines? What is the pathos of the mother's situation?

3. Describe the attitude of the speaker telling the story of the poem. Why does the speaker do no more than describe details, and not actually rail against domestic abuse?

Big WILLIAM WORDSWORTH m

(1770 1850)

-

For a portrait, see Chapter 11, page 539.

BO "Vr Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern

Abbey on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye During a Tour, June 13, 1798° (1798)

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Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur.—Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms. Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods. Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone.

“Wordsworth first visited the valley of the Wye in southwest England in August 1793, at age twenty-three. On this second visit he was accompanied by his sister Dorothy (the “Friend” in line 115).

WORDSWORTH • Tintern Abbey Lines

These beauteous forms. Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps. As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life. His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. To them I may have owed another gift. Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood. In which the burden of the mystery. In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world. Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood. In which the affections gently lead us on,— Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh!—how oft— In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. Have hung upon the beatings of my heart— How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods. How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half extinguished thought. With many recognitions dim and faint. And somewhat of a sad perplexity. The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all.—I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock. The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. Their colours, and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love. That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past. And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe. Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity. Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused. Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air. And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought. And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods. And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create. And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense. The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance. If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once. My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make.

WORDSWORTH • Tintern Abbey Lines

505

Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life. Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years. When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then. If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance— If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence—wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

QUESTIONS 1. What is the opening scene, and what meaning does the poet ascribe to it?

2. To the speaker, what is the relationship of remembered scenes and the growth of moral behavior?

3. What effect does the speaker believe the present will have on his future? 4. In lines 93-111, how successfully does the speaker make concrete his ideas about moral forces? 5. What is the power that the speaker attributes to nature? What is the "cheerful faith" of lines 133-134?

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

WRITING A PARAPHRASE OF A POEM (PARAGRAPH LENGTH) Paraphrasing is especially useful in the study of poetry. It fixes both the gen¬ eral shape and the details of a poem in your mind, and it also reveals the poetic devices at work. A comparison of the original poem with the para¬ phrase highlights the techniques and the language that make the poem effective. To paraphrase a poem, rewrite it in prose, in your own words. Decide what details to include—a number that you determine partly by the length of the poem and partly by the total length of your paraphrase. When you deal with lyrics, sonnets, and other short poems, you may include all the details, and thus your paraphrase may be as long as the work, or longer. Paraphrases of long poems, however, will be shorter than the originals because some details must be summarized briefly while others may be cut entirely. It is vital to make your paraphrase accurate and also to use only your own words. To make sure that your words are all your own, read through the poem several times. Then, put the poem out of sight and write your paraphrase. Once you have finished, check yourself both for accuracy and vocabulary. If you find that you have borrowed too many of the poem's words, choose other words that mean the same thing, or else use quotation marks to set off the original words (but do not overuse quotations). Above all, remain faithful to the poem, but avoid drawing conclusions and giving unnecessary explanations. It would be wrong in a paraphrase of Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner," for example, to state, "This poem makes a forceful argument against the brutal and wasteful deaths caused by war." This assertion states the poem's theme, but it does not describe the poem's actual content.

Organizing Your Paraphrase The organization of your paraphrase should reflect the poem's form or devel¬ opment. Include material in the order in which it occurs. With short poems, organize your paraphrase to reflect the poem's development line by line or stanza by stanza. In paraphrasing Shakespeare's "Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments," for example, you should deal with each four-line group in sequence and then consider the final couplet. With longer poems, look for nat¬ ural divisions such as groups of related stanzas, verse paragraphs, or other possible organizational units. In every situation, the poem's shape should determine the form of your paraphrase.

Writing an Explication of a Poem (Essay Length)

507

Illustrative Student Paraphrase A Paraphrase of Thomas Hardy’s “The Man He Killed”0

If the man I killed had met me in a bar, we would have sat down together and had many drinks. But because we belonged to armies of warring foot soldiers lined up on a battlefield, we shot at each other, and my shot killed him. The reason I killed him, I think, was that he and 1 were enemies—-just that. But as I think of it, I realize that he had enlisted exactly as I did. Maybe he did it on a whim, or maybe he had lost his job and sold everything he owned. There was no other reason to enlist. Being at war is unusual and strange. Instead of buying a man a drink, or helping him out with a little money, you have to kill him.

Commentary on the Paraphrase Because Hardy's poem is short, the paraphrase attempts to include all its details. The organization closely follows the poem's development. Paragraph 1, for exam¬ ple, restates the contents of the first two stanzas. Paragraph 2 restates the third and fourth stanzas. Finally, the last paragraph separately paraphrases the last stanza, which contains the reflections made by the poem's "I" speaker. This paragraph concludes the paraphrase just as the last stanza concludes the poem. Notice that the essay does not abstract details from the poem, such as "The dead man might have become a good friend in peacetime" in paraphrasing stanza 5; nor does it extend details, such as "We would have gotten acquainted, had drinks together, told many stories, and done a lot of laughing" for stanza 1 (both stanzas, however, actually do suggest these details). Although the paraphrase reflects the poem's strong antiwar sentiments, an interpretive sentence like "By his very direct¬ ness, the narrator brings out the senselessness and brutality of warfare" would be out of place. What is needed is a short restatement of the poem to demonstrate the essay writer's understanding of the poem's content, and no more.

WRITING AN EXPLICATION OF A POEM (ESSAY LENGTH) Explication goes beyond the assimilation required for a paraphrase and thus provides you with the opportunity to show your understanding. But there is no need to explain everything in the poem. A complete, or total, explication would theoretically require you to explain the meaning and implications of each word and every line—a technique that obviously would be exhaustive (and °This poem appears on page 491.

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

exhausting). It would also be self-defeating, for explicating everything would prohibit you from using your judgment and deciding what is important. A more manageable and desirable technique is therefore the general expli¬ cation, which devotes attention to the meaning of individual parts in relation¬ ship to the entire work, as in the discussion of "Sir Patrick Spens" (p. 483). You might think of a general explication as your explanation or "reading" of the poem. Because it does not require you to go into exhaustive detail, you will need to be selective and to consider only those details that are significant in themselves and vital to your own thematic development.

Questions for Discovering Ideas • • • •

• •

What does the title contribute to the reader's understanding? Who is speaking? Where is the speaker when the poem is happening? What is the situation? What has happened in the past, or what is happen¬ ing in the present, that has brought about the speech? What difficult, special, or unusual words does the poem contain? What references need explaining? How does an explanation assist in the under¬ standing of the poem? How does the poem develop? Is it a personal statement? Is it a story? What is the main idea of the poem? What details make possible the for¬ mulation of the main idea?

Strategies for Organizing Ideas Your general explication demonstrates your ability to (1) follow the essential details of the poem (the same as in a paraphrase), (2) understand the issues and the meaning the poem reveals, (3) explain some of the relationships of content to technique, and (4) note and discuss especially important or unique aspects of the poem. In your introduction, use your central idea to express a general view of the poem, which your essay will bear out. The discussion of the anonymous "Sir Patrick Spens" (p. 483) suggests some possible central ideas—namely, that (1) the poem highlights a conflict between self-preservation and obedi¬ ence to authority, and (2) innocent people may be caught in political infight¬ ing. In the following illustrative student essay explicating Hardy's "The Man He Killed," the central idea is that war is senseless. In the body of your essay, first explain the poem's content—not with a para¬ phrase but with a description of the poem's major organizing elements. Hence, if the speaker of the poem is "inside" the poem as a first-person involved "I," you do not need to reproduce this voice yourself in your description. Instead, describe the poem in your own words, with whatever brief introductory phrases you find necessary, as in the second paragraph of the illustrative essay that follows. Next, explicate the poem in relation to your central idea. Choose your own order of discussion, depending on your topics. You should, however, keep stressing your central idea with each new topic. Thus, you might wish to fol¬ low your description by discussing the poem's meaning, or even by present¬ ing two or more possible interpretations.

Illustrative Student Essay

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509 ‘

You might also wish to refer to significant techniques. For example, in the anonymous "Sir Patrick Spens," a noteworthy technique is the unintroduced quotations (i.e., quotations appearing without any "he said" or "quoth he" phrases) as the ballad writer's means of dramatizing the commands and responses of Sir Patrick and his doomed crew. You might also introduce spe¬ cial topics, such as the crewman who explains that there will be bad luck because the new moon has "the old moon in her arm" (line 26). Such a refer¬ ence to superstition might include the explanation of the crewman's assump¬ tions, the relationship of his uneasiness to the remainder of the poem, and also how the ballad writer keeps the narrative brief. In short, discuss those aspects of meaning and technique that bear upon your central idea. In your conclusion, you may repeat your major idea to reinforce your essay's thematic structure. Because your essay is a general explication, there will be parts of the poem that you will not have discussed. You might therefore mention what might be gained from an exhaustive discussion of various parts of the poem (do not, however, begin to exhaust any subject in the conclusion of your essay). The last stanza of Hardy's "The Man He Killed," for example, contains the words "quaint and curious" in reference to war. These words are unusual, particularly because the speaker might have chosen hateful, senseless, destructive, or other sim¬ ilarly descriptive words. Why did Hardy have his speaker make such a choice? With brief attention to such a problem, you may conclude your essay.

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Lagerstrom 1 Steven Lagerstrom Professor Bonner English 110 22 September 2010 An Explication of Thomas Hardy’s “The Man He Killed”0 Hardy’s “The Man He Killed” deals with the senselessness of war.* * It does this through a silent contrast between the needs of ordinary people, as represented by a young man—the speaker—who has killed an enemy soldier in

°This poem appears on page 491. *Central idea.

ksjD >

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CHAPTER 10 • Meeting Poetry: An Overview

Lagerstrom 2 battle, and the antihuman and unnatural deaths of war. Of major note in this contrast are the speaker’s circumstances, his language, his sense of identity with the dead man, and his concerns and wishes.^ [2]

The speaker begins by contrasting the circumstances of warfare with those of peace. He does not identify himself, but his speech reveals that he is common and ordinary—a person who enjoys drinking in a bar and who prefers friendship and helpfulness to violence. If he and the man he killed had met in an inn, he says, they would have shared many drinks; but because they met on a battlefield they shot at each other, and he killed the other man. The speaker tries to justify the killing but can produce no stronger reason than that the dead man was his “foe.” Once he states this reason, he again thinks of the similarities between himself and the dead man, and then he concludes that warfare is “quaint and curious” (line 17) because it forces a man to kill another man whom he would have befriended if they had met during peacetime.

[3]

To make the irony of warfare clear, the poem uses easy, everyday language to bring out the speaker’s ordinary qualities. His manner of speech is conversational, as in “We should have sat us down” (3), “’list” (for “enlist,” 13), and his use of “you” in the last stanza. Also, his word choices, shown in words like “nipperkin,” “traps,” and “fellow” (4, 15, and 18), are common and informal, at least in British usage. This language is important because it establishes that the speaker is an average man whom war has thrown into an unnatural role.

:

14

As another means of stressing the stupidity of war, the poem makes clear that the two men—the live soldier who killed and the dead soldier who was killed—were so alike that they could have been brothers or even twins. They had similar ways of life, similar economic troubles, similar wishes to help other people, and similar motives in enlisting in the army. Symbolically, the “man he killed” is the speaker himself, and hence the killing may be considered a form of suicide. The poem thus raises the question of why two people who are almost

+Thesis sentence.

Illustrative Student Essay

511

Lagerstrom 3 identical should be shoved into opposing battle lines in order to kill each other. This question is rhetorical, for the obvious answer is that there is no good reason.

[5]

Because the speaker (and also, very likely, the dead man) is shown as a person embodying the virtues of friendliness and helpfulness, Hardy’s poem is a strong disapproval of war. Clearly, political reasons for violence as policy are irrelevant to the characters and concerns of the men who fight. They, like the speaker, would prefer to follow their own needs rather than remote and meaningless ideals. The failure of complex but irrelevant political explanations is brought out most clearly in the third stanza, in which the speaker tries to give a reason for shooting the other man. Hardy’s use of punctuation—the dashes— stresses the fact that the speaker has no commitment to the cause he served when killing. Thus the speaker stops at the word “because—” and gropes for a reason (9). Not being articulate, he can say only “Because he was my foe. / Just so: my foe of course he was; / That’s clear enough” (10-12). These short bursts of words indicate that he cannot explain things to himself or to anyone else except in the most obvious and trite terms, and in apparent embarrassment he inserts “of course” as a way of emphasizing hostility even though he clearly felt none toward the man he killed. A reading thus shows the power of the poem’s dramatic argument. Hardy does not establish closely detailed reasons against war as a policy but rather dramatizes the idea that all political arguments are unimportant in view of the central and glaring brutality of war—killing. Hardy’s speaker is not able to express deep feelings; rather he is confused because he is an average sort who wants only to live and let live and to enjoy a drink in a bar with friends. But this very commonness stresses the point that everyone is victimized by war—both those who die and those who kill. The poem is a powerful argument for peace and reconciliation.

[6]

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CHAPTER 10 * Meeting Poetry: An Overview

Lagerstrom 4 Work Cited

\

Hardy, Thomas. “The Man He Killed.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V. Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed.

New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 491. Print.

Commentary on the Essay

__

This explication begins by stating a central idea about "The Man He Killed/' then indicates the topics to follow that will develop the idea. Although nowhere does the speaker state that war is senseless, the illustrative essay takes the position that the poem embodies this idea. A more detailed examination of the poem's themes might develop the idea by discussing the ways in which individuals are caught up in social and political forces, or the contrast between individuality and the state. In this essay, however, the simple statement of the idea is enough. Paragraph 2 describes the major details of the poem, with guiding phrases like "The speaker begins," "he says," and "he again thinks." Thus the paragraph goes over the poem, like a paraphrase, but explains how things occur, as is appropriate for an explication. Paragraph 3 is devoted to the speaker's words and idioms, with the idea that his conversational maimer is part of the poem's contrasting method of argument. If these brief references to style were more detailed, this topic could be more fully developed as an aspect of Hardy's implied argument against war. Paragraph 4 extends paragraph 3 inasmuch as it points out the similarities of the speaker and the man he killed. If the situation were reversed, the dead man might say exactly the same things about the present speaker. This affinity under¬ scores the suicidal nature of war. Paragraph 5 treats the style of the poem's fourth stanza. In this context, the treatment is brief. The last paragraph reiterates the main idea and concludes with a tribute to the poem as an argument. The entire essay therefore represents a reading and explanation of the poem's high points. It stresses a particular interpretation and briefly shows how various aspects of the poem bear it out.

Writing Topics About the Nature of Poetry Writing Paragraphs 1. Skim the titles of poems listed in the table of contents of this book. Judging by the subjects of these poems, in a paragraph, describe and discuss the possible range of subject matter for poetry. What topics seem most suitable? Why? Do any topics seem to be ruled out? Why?

Writing Topics About the Nature of Poetry

513

2. Besides the subject matter of the poems in this chapter, in a paragraph, describe what additional subject matter you would suggest as possible topics for poems?

3. In a paragraph, describe how accurate the proposition is that poetry is a par¬ ticularly compressed form of expression. To support your position, you might refer to one of the following poems: "Because I Could Not Stop for Death," Francis's "Catch," Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," or Shel¬ ley's "Music, When Soft Voices Die." Writing Essays 1. Consider the subject of war as brought out in Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner," Hardy's "The Man He Killed," and Northrop's "Ogichidag." What ideas are common to the poems? What ideas are distinct and unique? In an essay, on the basis of your comparison, argue that poetry is an excellent vehicle for the expression of moral and political ideas.

2. Consult the brief section on reader-response criticism in Chapter 24. Then write an essay about your responses to one poem, or a number of poems, in this chapter. Assume that your own experiences are valuable guides for your judgment. In the poems that you have read, what has had a bearing on your experiences? What in your own experiences has given you insights into the poems? Try to avoid being anecdotal; instead, try to find a relationship between your experiences and the poetry. Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write two poems of your own about your future plans. In one, assume that the world is stable and will go on forever. In the other, assume that a large asteroid is out of orbit and is hurtling toward earth at great speed, and a collision six months from now will bring untold destruction and may even end life on earth. After composing your poems, write a brief explanation of how and why they differ in terms of language, references, and attitudes toward friends, fam¬ ily, country, religion, and so on. Library Assignment 1. In the reference section of your library, find two books (anthologies, encyclo¬ pedias, introductions, dictionaries of literary terms) about the general subject of poetry. On the basis of how these two sources define and explain poetry, write a brief essay telling a person younger than you what to expect from the reading of poems.

Chapter 11 Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

W

ords are the spoken and written signifiers of thoughts, objects, and actions. They are also the building blocks of both poetry and prose, but poetry is unique because by its nature it uses words with the utmost economy. The words of poetry cre¬ ate rhythm, rhyme, meter, and form. They define the poem’s speaker, the characters, the setting, and the situation, and they also carry its ideas and emotions. For this rea¬ son, each poet searches for perfect and indispensable words, words that convey all the compressed meanings, overtones, and emotions that each poem requires, and also the words that sound right and look right. Life—and poetry—might be simpler (but less interesting) if there were an exact one-to-one correspondence between words and the objects or ideas they signify. Such close correspondences exist in artificial language systems such as chemical equations and computer languages. This identical correlation, however, is not characteristic of English or any other natural language. Instead, words have the independent and glori¬ ous habit of attracting and expressing a vast array of different meanings. Even if we have not thought much about language, most of us know that words are sometimes ambiguous, and that much literature is built on ambiguity. For instance, in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, when Mercutio says, “Seek for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man” (3.1.97), the joke works because grave has two separate meanings, both of which come into play. In reading poetry, we recognize that poets rejoice in this shifting and elusive but also rich nature of language.

Choice of Diction: Specific and Concrete, General and Abstract Because poets always try to use only the exactly right words, they constantly make conscious and subconscious decisions about diction. One of the major categories of their choice is diction that is either specific and concrete or general and abstract. Specific language refers to objects or conditions that can be perceived or imagined; general language signifies broad classes of persons, objects, and phe¬ nomena. Concrete diction describes conditions or qualities that are exact and par¬ ticular; abstract diction refers to qualities that are rarefied and theoretical. In practice, poems using specific and concrete words tend to be visual, familiar, and compelling. By contrast, poems that use general and abstract words tend to be detached and cerebral, and they often deal with universal questions or emotions. These distinctions become clear when we compare Housman's "Loveliest of Trees" and Eberhart's "The Fury of Aerial Bombardment." Many of the terms and 514

Levels of Diction

515

images that Housman uses, such as "cherry . . . /hung with bloom" and "three¬ score years and ten," are specific and concrete; they evoke exact time and clear visualization. By contrast, Eberhart's terms, such as "infinite spaces" and "eternal truth," are general and abstract, and it is therefore hard to define them with clarity and exactness. This contrast, which by no means implies that Housman's poem is superior to Eberhart's, reflects differences in word choices for different objectives. Most poets employ mixtures of words in these categories because in many poems they draw general observations and abstract conclusions from specific sit¬ uations and concrete responses. They therefore interweave their words to fit their situations and ideas, as in Roethke's "Dolor," which uses specific and concrete words to define a series of abstract emotional states.

Levels of Diction Like ordinary speakers and writers of prose, poets choose words from the category of the three levels of diction: high or formal, middle or neutral, and low or informal. Often, the high and middle levels are considered standard or "right," while low lan¬ guage is dismissed as substandard or "wrong." In poetry, however, none of the classes is more correct than any other, for what counts is that they all function accord¬ ing to the poet's wishes, from broadly formal and intellectual to ordinary and popular.

High or Formal Diction Is Elevated and Elaborate High or formal diction exactly follows the rules of syntax, seeking accuracy of expression even if unusually elevated or complex words are brought into play. Beyond "correctness," formal language is characterized by complex words and a lofty tone. In general, formal diction freely introduces words of French, Latin, and Greek derivation, some of which are quite long, so some people might think that formal language is "difficult." Graves uses formal diction in "The Naked and the Nude" when the speaker asserts that the terms in the title are "By lexicographers construed / As synonyms that should express / The same deficiency of dress." The Latinate words stiffen and generalize the passage: We find lexicographers instead of dictionary writers, construed (from Latin) instead of thought (native English), express (from Latin) instead of say or show (native English), and deficiency (Latin) instead of lack (English). It is simply a fact that our language contains thousands of words that have descended to our language from French, Latin, or Greek and that many of these are long and abstract. But not all words of this sort are necessarily long, nor are they abstract and stiff. Many of our short words, for example, are French in ori¬ gin, such as class, face, fort, paint, bat, tend, gain, cap, trace, order, and very. A collegelevel dictionary contains brief descriptions of word origins, or etymologies; as an exercise, you might trace the origins of a number of words in a poem.

Middle or Neutral Diction Stresses Simplicity Middle or neutral diction maintains the correct language and word order of for¬ mal diction but avoids elaborate words and elevated tone, just as it avoids idioms, colloquialisms, contractions, slang, jargon, and fads of speech. For example, Emily

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CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

Dickinson's "Because I Could Not Stop for Death" (Chapter 10) is almost entirely in middle diction.

Low or Informal Diction Is the Language of Common, Everyday Use Low or informal diction is relaxed and unselfconscious, the language of people buying groceries, gasoline, and pizza, and of people who may just be "hanging out." Poems using informal diction include common and simple words, idiomatic unself¬ conscious expressions, substandard expressions, foreign expressions, slang, "swear¬ words" or "cusswords," grammatical "errors," and contractions. Informal diction is seen in Hardy's "The Man He Killed" (Chapter 10), in which the speaker uses words and phrases like "many a nipperkin," "He thought he'd 'list," and "off-hand like."

Special Types of Diction Depending on their subjects and purposes, poets (and writers of prose) may wish to introduce four special types of diction into their poems: idiom, dialect, slang, and jargon.

Idiom Refers to Unique Forms of Diction and Word Order The word idiom, originally meaning "making one's own," refers to words, phrases, and expressions that are common and acceptable in a particular language, even though they might, upon analysis, seem peculiar or illogical. Standard English idioms are so ingrained into our thought that we do not notice them. Poems auto¬ matically reflect these idioms. Thus, for example, a poet may "think of" an idea, speak of "living in" a house, talk of "going out to play," or describe a woman "lovely as chandeliers." Poets hardly have choices about such idioms as long as they are using standard English. Real choice occurs when poets select idioms that are unusual or even ungrammatical, as in phrases like "had he and I but met," "we was happy," and "except that You than He" (this last phrase is by Emily Dick¬ inson). Idioms like these enable poets to achieve levels of ordinary and colloquial diction, depending on their purposes.

Dialect Refers to Regional and Group Usage and Pronunciation Although we recognize English as a common language, in practice the language is made up of many habits of speech or dialects that are characteristic of many groups, regions, and nations. In addition to "general American," we can recognize many common dialects, such as Southern, Midwestern, New England, Brooklynese, American Black English, Yiddish English, and Texan, together with "upper" British, Cockney, Scottish, and Australian English. Dialect is concerned with whether we refer to a pail (general American) or a bucket (Southern); or sit down on a sofa (Eastern) or a couch (general American) or davenport (Midwestern); or drink soda (Eastern), pop (Midwestern), soda pop (a confused Midwesterner liv¬ ing in the East, or a confused Easterner living in the Midwest), or tonic (Boston¬ ian). Burns's "Green Grow the Rashes, O" illustrates the poetic use of dialect.

Syntax

517

Slang Refers to Informal and Substandard Vocabulary and Idiom Much of the language that people use every day is slang. Usually, slang is imper¬ manent, appearing among certain speakers and then vanishing. The use of the word bad to mean "good" illustrates how a new slang meaning can develop, and even stay for a time. This is not to say that slang is not persistent, for some of it is a significant part of our language. There is a continuous word stock of substan¬ dard or "impolite" words, some of which are so-called "four-letter" words, which everyone knows but speaks only privately. There are also innumerable slang expressions. For example, we have many slang phrases describing dying, such as kick the bucket, croak, be wasted, sleep with the fishes, buy the farm, be disappeared, be whacked, and be offed. A normative speaker of English, unfamiliar with our slang, would have difficulty understanding that a person who "kicked the bucket," "bought the farm," "croaked," or "was offed" had actually died. Even though slang is a permanent part of our language, it is usually confined to colloquial or conversational levels. (Interestingly, people with perfect com¬ mand of standard English regularly use slang in private among their friends and acquaintances.) If slang is introduced into a standard context, therefore, it mars and jars, as in Cummings's "Buffalo Bill's Defunct" (Chapter 15), where the speaker refers to Buffalo Bill as a "blueeyed boy." Because the poem deals with the universality of death, the phrase, which usually refers to a young man on the make, or moving upward in his career, ironically underscores this intention.

Jargon Is the Special Language and Terminology of Groups Particular groups develop jargon—specialized words and expressions that are usu¬ ally employed by members of specific professions or trades, such as astronauts, doc¬ tors, lawyers, computer experts, plumbers, and football players. Without an initiation, people ordinarily cannot understand the special meanings. Although jar¬ gon at its worst befuddles rather than informs, it is significant when it becomes part of mainstream English or is used in literature. Poets may introduce jargon for special effects. For example, Paul Zimmer, in "The Day Zimmer Lost Religion" (Chapter 18), wryly uses the phrase "ready for Him now," a boxing expression that describes a fighter in top condition. Linda Pastan uses "gives me an A" and "I'm dropping out," both phrases from school life, to create comic effects in "Marks" (Chapter 18). Another poem employing jargon is Eberhart's "The Fury of Aerial Bombardment," which uses technical terms for firearms to establish the authenticity of the poem's ref¬ erences and therefore to reinforce the poem's judgments about warfare.

Syntax Syntax refers to word order and sentence structure. Normal English word order is fixed in a subject-verb-object sequence. At the simplest level, we say, "A dog (subject) bites (verb) a man (object)." This order is so central to our communication that any change significantly affects meaning: "A dog bites a man" is not the same as "A man bites a dog."

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CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

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DECORUM: THE MATCHING OF SUBJECT AND WORD A vital literary concept is decorum ("beautiful," "appropriate"); that is, words and subjects should be in perfect accord—formal words for serious subjects, and informal words for low subjects and comedy. In Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, for example, the nobles usually speak poetry and the "mechani¬ cals" speak prose (Chapter 21). When the nobility are relaxed and in the forest, however, they also speak prose. Decorum governs such choices of language. In the eighteenth century, English writers aimed to make their language as dignified as ancient Latin, which was the international language of discourse. They therefore asserted that only formal diction was appropriate for poetry; common life and colloquial language were excluded, except in drama and pop¬ ular ballads. These rules of decorum required standard and elevated language rather than common words and phrases. The development of scientific termi¬ nology during the eighteenth century also influenced language. In the scientific mode, poets of the time used descriptive phrases, like "lowing herd" for cattle (Thomas Gray) and "finny prey" for fish (Alexander Pope). In this vein, Thomas Gray observed the dependence of color on light in the line "And cheerful fields resume their green attire" from the "Sonnet on the Death of Richard West." Pope, one of the greatest eighteenth-century poets, maintained these rules of decorum—and also made fun of them—in his mock-epic poem The Rape of the Lock (1714), and more fully in the mock-critical work Peri Bathous, or The Art of Sinking in Poetry (1715). In The Rape of the Lock, he refers to a scissors as a "glittering forfex" (3.147). Similarly, in an earlier couplet he elevates the simple act of pouring coffee. From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receives the smoking tide. (3.109-10) After Wordsworth transformed poetic diction early in the nineteenth century, the topics and language of people of all classes, with a special stress on com¬ mon folk, have become a feature of poetry. Poets have continued to follow rules of decorum, however, inasmuch as the use of colloquial diction and even slang is a necessary consequence of popular subject matter.

V___) Much of the time, poets follow normal word order, as in "The Lamb," where Blake creates a simple, easy order in keeping with the poem's purpose of present¬ ing a childlike praise of God. Many modern poets, such as Mark Strand, go out of their way to create ordinary, everyday syntax, on the theory that a poem's sen¬ tence structures should not get in the way of the reader's perceptions. Yet, just as poets always explore the limits of ideas, so also do they sometimes explore the many possibilities of syntax, as in line 7 of Donne's "Batter My Heart": "Reason, Your viceroy in me, me should defend." In prose, this sentence would read "Reason, who is Your viceroy in me, should defend me." But note that Donne drops the "who is," and that he also puts the direct object "me" before and not after the verb. The resulting emphasis on the pronoun me is appropriate to the personaldivine relationship that is the topic of the sonnet. The alteration also meets the

Denotation and Connotation

519

demand of the poem's rhyme scheme. A set of particularly noteworthy syntactic variations occurs in Roethke's "Dolor." The poet uses an irregular and idiosyncratic combination of objects, phrases, and appositives to create ambiguity and uncertainty, underscoring the idea that school and office routines are aimless and depressing. Some of the other means by which poets shape word order to create emphasis are an aspect of rhetoric. Parallelism is the most easily recognized rhetorical device. A simple form of parallelism is repetition, as with the question "who made thee?" in Blake's "The Lamb." Through the use of the same grammatical forms, though in different words, parallelism produces lines or portions of lines that impress our minds strongly, as in this passage from Robinson's "Richard Cory," in which there are four parallel past-tense verbs (italicized here). So on we worked, and waited for the light. And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; The final two lines of this poem demonstrate how parallelism may embody antithesis—a contrasting situation or idea that brings out surprise, shock, or climax: And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Wmthome and put a bullet through his head. A major quality of parallelism is the packing of words (the economy and compression of poetry), for by using a parallel structure the poet makes a single word or phrase function a number of times, with no need for repetition. The open¬ ing verb phrase "have known" in Roethke's "Dolor," though used once, controls six parallel direct objects. At the end of Donne's "Batter My Heart," parallelism (along with antithesis) permits Donne to omit the italicized words added and bracketed in the last line here. for I, Except You enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor [shallI] ever [be] chaste, except You ravish me. 0

0

unless; enslave

Note also that parallelism and antithesis make possible the unique abba ordering of these two lines, with the pattern "enthrall" (verb), "free" (adjective), "chaste" (adjective), "ravish" (verb). This rhetorical pattern is called antimetabole, or chiasmus, and is a common pattern of creating emphasis.

Denotation and Connotation To achieve the maximum impact, poets depend not just on the simplest, most essential meanings of words, but also on the suggestions and associations that words bring to us. For this reason, control over denotation and connotation (see also Chapter 6) is so important that it has been called the very soul of the poet's art.

Denotation Refers to Standard, Most Commonly Recognized Meanings The ordinary dictionary meaning of a word—denotation—indicates conven¬ tional correspondences between words and objects or ideas. Although we might

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CHAPTER 11 * Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

expect denotation to be straightforward, most English words have multiple denotations. The noun house, for example, can refer to a building, a family, a branch of Congress, a theater, a theater audience, a sorority or fraternity, an astrological classification, or a brothel. Although context usually makes the denota¬ tion of house more specific, the various meanings confer a built-in ambiguity in this simple word. Denotation presents problems, because with the passing of time new mean¬ ings emerge and old ones are shed. In poems written in the eighteenth century and earlier, there are many words that have changed so completely that a modern dictionary is not much help. In Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress" (Chapter 16), for example, the speaker asserts that his "vegetable love should grow/ Vaster than empires, and more slow." At first reading, "vegetable" may seem to refer to something like a giant, loving turnip. When we turn to a cur¬ rent dictionary, we discover that vegetable is an adjective meaning "plantlike"; but plantlike love does not get us much beyond vegetable love. A reference to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), however, tells us that vegetable was used as an adjective in the seventeenth century to mean "living or growing like a plant." Thus we find out that "vegetable love" means love that grows slowly but steadily larger.

Connotation Refers to a Word’s Emotional, Psychological, Social, and Historical Overtones The life of language, and the most difficult to control, is a result of connotation. Almost no word is without it. For instance, according to the dictionary, the words childish and childlike denote the state of being like a child. Nevertheless, they connote or imply different sets of characteristics. Childish suggests a per¬ son who is bratty, stubborn, immature, silly, and petulant, whereas childlike sug¬ gests that a person may be innocent, charming, and unaffected. These different meanings are based entirely on connotations, for the denotations make little distinction. Connotation affects us in almost everything we hear and read. We constantly encounter the manipulation of connotation in advertising, for example, which could not exist without the controlled management of meaning. Such manipula¬ tion may be as simple as calling a used car a pre-owned car to avoid the negative connotations of used. On the other hand, the manipulation may be as sophisticated as the current use of the word lite or light to describe foods and drinks. In all such products, lite denotes "dietetic," "low-calorie," or even "weak." The distinction— and the selling point—is found in connotation. Imagine how difficult it would be to sell a drink called "dietetic beer" or "weak beer." Light and lite, however, carry none of the negative connotations and, instead, suggest products that are pleas¬ ant, sparkling, bright, and healthy. Poets always try to make individual words carry as many appropriate and effective denotations and connotations as possible. Put another way, poets use packed or loaded words that carry a broad range of meaning and association. With this in mind, read the following poem by Robert Graves.

GRAVES « The Naked and the Nude

521

ROBERT GRAVES (1895-1985) if

The Naked and the Nude

(1957)

For me, the naked and the nude (By lexicographers0 construed As synonyms that should express The same deficiency of dress Or shelter) stand as wide apart As love from lies, or truth from art. Lovers without reproach will gaze On bodies naked and ablaze; The Hippocratic0 eye will see In nakedness, anatomy; And naked shines the Goddess when She mounts her lion among men. The nude are bold, the nude are sly To hold each treasonable eye. While draping by a showman's trick Their dishabille0 in rhetoric. They grin a mock-religious grin Of scorn at those of naked skin. The naked, therefore, who compete Against the nude may know defeat; Yet when they both together tread The briary pastures of the dead. By Gorgons0 with long whips pursued. How naked go the sometime nude! °2 lexicographers: writers of dictionaries. 9 Hippocratic: medical; the adjective derives from Hippocrates (c. 460-377 BCE), the ancient Greek who is considered the “father of medicine.” 16 dishabille: being carelessly or partly dressed. 23 Gorgons: mythological female monsters with snakes for hair.

QUESTIONS 1. How does the speaker explain the denotations and connotations of "naked" and "nude" in the first stanza? What is indicated by the fact that the word naked is derived from Old English nacod, while nude comes from Latin nudus?

2. What examples of "the naked" and "the nude" do the second and third stanzas pro¬ vide? What do the examples have in common?

3. How do the connotations of words like "sly," "draping," "dishabille," "rhetoric," and "grin" contribute to the poem's ideas about "the nude"?

4. What does "briary pastures of the dead" mean in line 22? This poem explores the connotative distinctions between the title words, naked and nude, which share a common denotation. The title also suggests that the poem is about human customs; for if the speaker were considering the words alone, he would say "naked" and "nude" instead of "the naked and the nude." The speaker's use of the signifies a double focus on both language and human perspectives. In the first five lines, the poem establishes that the two key words should be "synonyms that should express / The same deficiency of

5

10

15

20

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CHAPTER 11 * Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

dress" (lines 3-4). By introducing elevated and complex words such as "lexicographers" and "construed," however, Graves implies that the connection between "the naked" and "the nude" is sophisticated and artificial. In the rest of the poem. Graves develops this distinction,^ linking the word naked to virtues of love, truth, innocence, and honesty, while connecting nude to artifice, hypocrisy, and deceit. At the end, he visualizes a classical underworld in which all pretentiousness will disappear, and the nude will lose their sophistication and become merged with the naked. The implication is that artifice will vanish in the face of eternal reality. A thorough study of the words in the poem bears out the consistency of Graves's idea, not only about the two words in the title, but also about the accumulated layers of history, usage, and phi¬ losophy that weigh upon human life and thought.

Poems for Study William Blake.The Lamb, 522 Robert Burns.Green Grow the Rashes, O, 523 Lewis Carroll.Jabberwocky, 524 Hayden Carruth.An Apology for Using the Word "Heart" in Too Many Poems, 525 E. E. Cummings.next to of course god america i, 526 John Donne. . Holy Sonnet 14: Batter My Heart, Three-Personed God, 527 Richard Eberhart.The Fury of Aerial Bombardment, 528 Bart Edelman.Chemistry Experiment, 528 Thomas Gray.Sonnet on the Death of Richard West, 529 A. E. Housman.Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now, 530 Carolyn Kizer.Night Sounds, 531 Denise Levertov.Of Being, 532 Eugenio Montale.English Horn (Corno Inglese), 532 Judith Ortiz [Cofer].Latin Women Pray, 533 Henry Reed.Naming of Parts, 534 Edwin Arlington Robinson.Richard Cory, 535 Theodore Roethke.Dolor, 536 Kay Ryan.Crib, 536 Stephen Spender.I Think Continually of Those Who Were Truly Great, 537 Wallace Stevens.Disillusionment of Ten O'clock, 538 Mark Strand.Eating Poetry, 538 William Wordsworth.Daffodils (I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud), 539 James Wright.A Blessing, 540

WILLIAM BLAKE (1757 1827)

%

The Lamb (1789)

Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life & bid thee feed. By the stream & o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing wooly bright;

BURNS • Green Grow the Rashes, 0

523

Gave thee such a tender voice. Making all the vales rejoice! Little Lamb who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little Lamb I'll tell thee. Little Lamb I'll tell thee! He is called by thy name. For he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek & he is mild. He became a little child: I a child & thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little Lamb God bless thee. Little Lamb God bless thee.

QUESTIONS 1. Who or what is the speaker in this poem? The listener? How are they related?

2. What is the effect of repetition in the poem? 3. How would you characterize the diction in this poem? High, middle, or low? Abstract or concrete? How is it consistent with the speaker?

4. What are the connotations of "softest," "bright," "tender," "meek," and "mild"? What do these words imply about the Creator? 5. Describe the characteristics of God imagined in this poem. Contrast the image here with the image of God in Donne's "Batter My Heart."

ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)

14

Green Grow the Rashes, 0

(r/87)

1 There's naught but care on ev'ry han',° In every hour that passes, O; What signifies the life o'° man An' 'twere na° for the lasses, O?

hand of if it were not

Chorus: Green grow the rashes,0 O; Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e'er I spend Are spent among the lasses, O! 2 The warly° race may riches chase. An' riches still may fly them, O; An' tho' at last they catch them fast. Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them. Chorus.

worldly

o.

524

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

3

15

20

But gie me a cannie0 hour at e'en,0 My arms about my dearie, O, An'war'ly cares an'war'ly men May a' gae tapsalteerie,0 O! Chorus. 4 For you sae douce0 ye sneer at this. Ye're naught but senseless asses, O; The wisest man the warl' e'er0 saw, He dearly loved the lasses, O. Chorus. 5

give me a happy; evening

all go topsy-turvy

so sober, so straitlaced world ever

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O; Her prentice han'° she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, O. Chorus.

apprentice hand

QUESTIONS 1. Who is the speaker? What is he like? What is his highest value? How seriously do you take his pronouncements?

2. How does the speaker justify his feelings? How does he compare his interests with those of other people?

3. What is the speaker's explanation of the origins of men and women? How might this explanation have been received in 1787, the year of publication, when most people accepted literally the creation story as told in Genesis?

® LEWIS CARROLL (1832-1898)

ffl t Jabberwocky0

(i87i)

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves. And the mome raths outgrabe. 5

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!

“The poem “Jabberwocky,” which appears in the first chapter of Through the Looking Gloss, is full of nonsense words that Carroll made up with the sound (rather than the sense) in mind. Alice admits that the poem makes some sense even though she does not know the words: “It seems very pretty . . . but it’s rather hard to under¬ stand! . . . Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas—only I don’t exactly know what they are!”

CARRUTH * An Apology for Using the Word "Heart" in Too Many Poems

525

He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood. The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame. Came whiffling through the tulgey wood. And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves. And the mome raths outgrabe. QUESTIONS 1. Summarize in your own words the story that this poem tells.

2. Humpty Dumpty begins to explain or explicate this poem for Alice in Chapter 6 of Through the Looking Glass. He explains that "'brillig' means four o'clock in the afternoon-—the time when you begin broiling things for dinner." He also explains that "'slithy' means Tithe' and 'slimy.' 'Lithe' is the same as 'active.' You see it's like a port¬ manteau—there are two meanings packed into one word." Go through the poem and determine what combinations of words are packed into these portmanteau words. Brillig, for example, might be seen as a combination of broiling, brilliant, and light.

HAYDEN CARRUTH

(1921-2008)

An Apology for Using the Word “Heart” in Too Many Poems (1959) What does it mean? Lord knows; least of all I. Faced with it, schoolboys are shy. And grown-ups speak it at moments of excess Which later seem more or less Unfeasible. It is equivocal, sentimental. Debatable, really a sort of lentil— Neither pea nor bean. Sometimes it's a muscle. Sometimes courage or at least hustle. Sometimes a core or center, but mostly it's A sound that slushily fits

526

15

20

25

30

35

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

The meters of popular songwriters without Meaning anything. It is stout. Leonine, chicken, great, hot, warm, cold, Broken, whole, tender, bold, Stony, soft, green, blue, red, white. Faint, true, heavy, light. Open, down, shallow, etc. No wonder Our superiors thunder

v

Against it. And yet in spite of a million abuses The word survives; its uses Are such that it remains virtually indispensable And, I think, defensible. The Freudian terminology is awkward or worse. And suggests so many perverse Etiologies that it is useless; but "heart" covers The whole business, lovers To monks, i.e., the capacity to love in the fullest Sense. Not even the dullest Reader misapprehends it, although locating It is a matter awaiting Someone more ingenious than I. But given This definition, driven Though it is out of a poet's necessity, isn't The word needed at present As much as ever, if it is well written and said. With the heart and the head?

QUESTIONS 1. How much attention is given in this poem to the meanings of the word "heart"? How accurate are the definitions? Why does the poet title the poem "An Apology

2. Would it be fair to describe some of the definitions as "flippant"? Why? How do we know that the poet is being serious?

3. Why does Carruth say, "Not even the dullest / Reader misapprehends it" [i.e., the word "heart"]? How true is this claim?

9

E. E. CUMMINGS (1894-1962)_

v; next to of course god america i (1926) "next to of course god america i

5

love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh say can you see by the dawn's early my country 'tis of centuries come and go and are no more what of it we should worry in every language even deafanddumb thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry by jingo by gee by gosh by gum why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-

10

iful than these heroic happy dead

DONNE • Holy Sonnet 14: Batter My Heart, Three-Personed God

527

who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter they did not stop to think they died instead then shall the voice of liberty be mute?" He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

QUESTIONS 1. What is the form of this poem? What is the rhyme scheme? What does Cummings achieve by not using capitalization and punctuation?

2. Who is the speaker? What characteristics and capacities does he show? How do you respond to him?

3. What ideas does the poem bring out? In what ways does the speaker parody the speak¬ ers that one is likely to hear on the Fourth of July throughout the United States? What is Cummings saying not only about the speakers but also about the crowds that listen to such speeches?

ffl JOHN DONNE (1572-1631)_

M

Holy Sonnet 14: Batter My Heart, Three-Personed God (1633) Batter my heart, three-personed God; for You As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn and make me new. I, like an usurped0 town, to another due, Labor to admit You, but Oh, to no end; Reason, Your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love You, and would be loved fain,° But am betrothed unto Your enemy. Divorce me, untie or break that knot again; Take me to You, imprison me, for I, Except You enthrall me, never shall be free. Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

conquered

S

gladly

QUESTIONS 1. What kind of God is suggested by the words "batter," "knock," "overthrow," and "break"? What does "three-personed God" mean?

2. With which person of God might the verbs "knock" and "break" be associated? The verbs "breathe" and "blow"? The verbs "shine" and "burn"?

3. What is the effect of the altered word order at the ends of lines 7 and 9? 4. Explain the words "enthrall" (line 13) and "ravish" (line 14) to resolve the apparent paradox or contradiction in the last two lines.

10

528

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

RICHARD EBERHART (1904-2005)

The Fury of Aerial Bombardment

(1947) V

You would think the fury of aerial bombardment Would rouse God to relent; the infinite spaces Are still silent. He looks on shock-pried faces. History, even, does not know what is meant. 5

10

15

You would feel that after so many centuries God would give man to repent; yet he can kill As Cain could, but with multitudinous will. No farther advanced than in his ancient furies. Was man made stupid to see his own stupidity? Is God by definition indifferent, beyond us all? Is the eternal truth man's fighting soul Wherein the Beast ravens in its own avidity? Of Van Wettering I speak, and Averill, Names on a list, whose faces I do not recall But they are gone to early death, who late in school Distinguished the belt feed lever from the belt holding pawl. QUESTIONS 1. Who or what is the speaker in this poem? What does the last stanza tell you about him? (Eberhart was a gunnery instructor during World War II.)

2. What type and level of diction predominates in lines 1-12? What observations about God are made in these lines? Compare the image of God presented here with the one found in Donne's “Batter My Heart, Three-Personed God" and Blake's "The Lamb." What similarities or differences do you find?

3. How does the level and type of diction change in the last stanza? What is the effect of these changes? How is jargon used here?

4. Compare this poem with Thomas Hardy's "Channel Firing" (p. 562). How are the ideas in the poems similar?

BART EDELMAN (b. 1951)_

t Chemistry Experiment

5

We listened intently to the professor. Followed each one of her instructions. Read through the textbook twice. Wore lab coats and safety goggles, Mixed the perfect chemical combinations In the proper amounts and order. It was all progressing smoothly; We thought we were a complete success. And then the flash of light.

(2001)

GRAY • Sonnet on the Death of Richard West

529

The loud, perplexing explosion, The black rope of smoke, Rising freely above our singed hair. Someone in another lab down the hallway Phoned the local fire department Which arrived lickety-split With the hazardous waste crew. And they assessed the accident. Deciding we were out of danger. It was the talk of the campus For many weeks afterwards. We, however, became so disillusioned That we immediately dropped the course And slowly retreated from each other. The very idea we could have done More damage than we actually did— Blown up ourselves and the building From the base of its foundation— Shook us, like nothing had before. And even now, years later. When anyone still asks about you, I get this sick feeling in my stomach And wonder what really happened To all that elementary matter.

QUESTIONS 1. What events are recounted in this poem? How may the narrative be placed into sec¬ tions? Who is the listener or implied reader of the poem?

2. What level of language is contained here? Study lines 13-18. How does the diction change here? Why?

3. Why does the poem end as it does? What connection does this conclusion have with the previous parts of the poem? Why might this incident have caused the participants to have lost contact with each other?

THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771)

Sonnet on the Death of Richard West (1742; 1775) In vain to me the smiling mornings shine. And redd'ning Phoebus0 lifts his golden fire; The birds in vain their amorous descant0 join, Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:0 These ears, alas! for other notes repine; A different object do these eyes require.

love songs

°2 Phoebus: Apollo, the Sun God 4 resume their green attire: During the darkness of night, the “cheerful fields’ have no color, but in the light of the morning sun they become green again.

530

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine, And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer. And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;0 To warm their little loves the birds complain:0 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear. And weep the more because I weep in vain. °11 The fields ... bear: The fields contribute their customary harvest to benefit all creation. 12 complain: sing love songs.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the poem's subject—the speaker or the dead friend? How effective is the poem as a lament or dirge?

2. Describe the poem's level of diction. Why does the speaker use phrases like "smiling mornings" (line 1), "redd'ning Phoebus" (2), "golden fire" (2), "resume their green attire" (4), and "notes" (5)? How common are these phrases? What is their effect?

3. Consider the syntax in lines 5, 6, 9, 10, 11, and 12. What is unusual about the word order in these lines? What is the effect of this word order?

4. In the 1800 Preface to Lyrical Ballads, William Wordsworth printed this poem. He itali¬ cized lines 6-8 and 13 and 14 and wrote, "It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this Sonnet which is of any value is the lines printed in Italics; it is equally obvious, that... the language of these lines does in no respect differ from that of prose." What does Wordsworth's criticism mean? To what degree is it justified?

A. E. HOUSMAN (1859-1936)

vf Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now (1896) Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough. And stands about the woodland ride° Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten. Twenty will not come again. And take from seventy springs a score. It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room. About the woodland I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

^

KIZER • Night Sounds

531

QUESTIONS 1. How old is the speaker? How can you tell? Why does he assume he will live seventy years ("threescore years and ten")?

2. How would you describe the speaker's perception or sense of time? What is the effect of the words "only" (line 8) and "little" (line 10)?

3. What ideas about time, beauty, and life does this poem explore? What does it suggest about the way we should live?

CAROLYN KIZER (b 1925)

Night Sounds

(1984)

Imitated from the Chinese The moonlight on my bed keeps me awake; Living alone now, aware of the voices of evening, A child weeping at nightmares, the faint love-cries of a woman, Everything tinged by terror or nostalgia. No heavy, impassive back to nudge with one foot While coaxing, "Wake up and hold me," When the moon's creamy beauty is transformed Into a map of impersonal desolation. But, restless in this mock dawn of moonlight That so chills the spirit, I alter our history; You were never able to lie quite peacefully at my side. Not the night through. Always withholding something. Awake before morning, restless and uneasy, Trying not to disturb me, you would leave my bed While I lay there rigidly, feigning sleep. Still—the night was nearly over, the light not as cold As a full cup of moonlight. And there were the lovely times when, to the skies' cold No You cried to me. Yes! Impaled me with affirmation. Now when I call out in fear, not in love, there is no answer. Nothing speaks in the dark but the distant voices, A child with the moon in his face, a dog's hollow cadence.

QUESTIONS 1. To what degree may this poem be considered confessional? What is being confessed?

2. Who is the "you" of the poem? What has happened between the speaker and the "you"? With what contrasts does the speaker conclude the poem? How are these con¬ trasts related to the relationship between the speaker and the "you"?

532

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

3. What situation and impressions are brought about by these words in the first stanza: “moonlight," "weeping," "nightmares," "tinged," "terror," "nostalgia"?

4. What is the effect of the participles in stanzas 1-4 ("living," "coaxing," "withholding," "trying," "feigning")?

DENISE LEVERTOV (1923-1997)

Of Being

(1997)

I know this happiness Is provisional: the looming presences— great suffering, great fear—

5

withdraw only into peripheral vision: but ineluctable this shimmering of wind in the blue leaves: 10

this flood of stillness widening the lake of sky: this need to dance, this need to kneel: this mystery:

QUESTIONS 1. What is meant by "this happiness / Is provisional"?

2. What is it that withdraws (line 5)? How does the poet connect withdrawing with the poem's title?

3. What do the words "peripheral vision," "ineluctable," "blue leaves," "flood of still¬ ness," and "lake of sky" contribute to your understanding of the "mystery" with which the poem closes? What is noteworthy about these words?

4. Why does the poet end the poem with a colon rather than a period?

EUGENIO MONTALE (1896-1981)_

1

English Horn (Corno Inglese)

Translated by Robert Zweig The intent wind that plays tonight —recalling a strong slashing of blades— the instrument of dense trees and sweeps the horizon of copper

(1916-1920)

ORTIZ • Latin Women Pray

533

where streaks of light are stretching, like roaring kites in the sky (Moving clouds, clear kingdoms above! High Eldorados'0 partly shut doors!) and the angry sea, which scale by scale, changes color launches a twisted horn of spume towards land; The wind that is born and dies in the hour that slowly goes black— if only, tonight, it could play you too dissonant instrument, heart. °8 Eldtrrados’: Eldorado was a mythical city of great wealth, believed in the sixteenth century to be in South America.

QUESTIONS 1. What does the wind do in this poem? Why do you think the speaker wishes the wind to "play" her heart?

2. What are the images of the earth? What are the images of the sky? How are they different?

3. What lines indicate that the speaker is either satisfied or dissatisfied with her life? What images help you to understand her feelings about herself?

4. What does the speaker mean by referring to Eldorados' doors as "partly shut"? 5. What is the meaning of the title, "Engish Horn (Corno Inglese)"?

JUDITH ORTIZ [COFER] (b 1952)

% Latin Women Pray

(1987)

Latin women pray In incense sweet churches They pray in Spanish to an Anglo God With a Jewish heritage. And this great White Father Imperturbable in his marble pedestal Looks down upon his brown daughters Votive candles shining like lust In his all seeing eyes Unmoved by their persistent prayers. Yet year after year Before his image they kneel Margarita Josefina Maria and Isabel All fervently hoping That if not omnipotent At least he be bilingual

534

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

QUESTIONS 1. What is the situation described in this poem? Who are the women who pray? What do their names indicate about them? To what God do these women pray? Are they living in their native countries?

2. What words in the poem explain the contradiction implied by the speaker? What is conveyed by the term "Anglo" (line 3). What is conveyed by the terms "White Father" and "Jewish heritage" (lines 4 and 5).

3. What are votive candles? Why does the speaker state that they shine "like lust"? What does "lust" indicate in this context?

4. Describe the effect of the last line (16). In what way is the line comic? How does the line contrast with the previous part of the poem?

HENRY REED (1914-1986)

Naming of Farts

5

(1946)

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning. We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day. To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens. And to-day we have naming of parts. This is the lower sling swivel. And this Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,

io

15

20

25

When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, Which in your case you have not got. The branches Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures. Which in our case we have not got. This is the safety-catch, which is always released With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger. And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it easing the Spring. They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt. And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance. Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom

ROBINSON • Richard Cory

535

Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards. For to-day we have naming of parts.

30

QUESTIONS 1. There may be two speakers in this poem, or one speaker repeating the words of another and adding his own thoughts. What two voices do you hear?

2. What is the setting? The situation? How do these affect the speaker? 3. How and why is jargon used in the poem? With what set of "parts" is the jargon initially associated? How does this change?

4. How are phrases like "easing the spring" (lines 22, 24, 25) and "point of balance" (27) used ambiguously? What is the effect of repetition?

m

EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON (1869 1935)

O ^

Richard Cory

(1897)

Whenever Richard Cory went down town. We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown. Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, 'Good-morning/ and he glittered when he walked.

5

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king— And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light. And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the effect of using "down town," "pavement," "meat," and "bread" in connec¬ tion with the people who admire Richard Cory?

2. What are the connotations and implications of the name "Richard Cory"? Of the word "gentleman"?

3. Why does the poet use "sole to crown" instead of "head to toe" and "imperially slim" instead of "very thin" to describe Cory?

4. What effect does repetition produce in this poem? Consider especially the six lines that begin with "And." 5. What positive characteristic does Richard Cory possess (at least from the perspective of the speaker) besides wealth?

io

15

536

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

ffl THEODORE ROETHKE (1908-1963)_ if Dolor (1943)

5

io

I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils. Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper-weight. All the misery of manila folders and mucilage. Desolation in immaculate public places, Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard. The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher. Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma. Endless duplication of lives and objects. And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions, Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica. Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium. Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows. Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces.

QUESTIONS 1. What does "dolor" mean? What words objectify the concept?

2. Why does "Dolor" not contain the fourteen lines usual in a sonnet? 3. What institutions, conditions, and places does the speaker associate with "dolor"? What do these have in common?

4. Describe the relationships of sentence structures and lines in "Dolor."

KAY RYAN

Crib

5

io

15

(b. 1945)

(1997)

From the Greek for woven or plaited which quickly translated to basket. Whence the verb crib, which meant to filch under cover of wicker anything—some liquor, a cutlet. For we want to make off with things that are not our own. There is a pleasure theft brings, a vitality to the home. Cribbed objects or answers keep their guilty shimmer forever, have you noticed? Yet religions downplay this. Note, for instance, in our annual ref the substitution of manger for crib—

of innocence.

SPENDER • I Think Continually of Those Who Were Truly Great

537

as if we ever deserved that baby, or thought we did.

QUESTIONS 1. Why do you think the poet named this poem "Crib"? In what way is the word "crib" developed in the poem?

2. Why does the speaker bring out the idea of theft in the word "crib"? What is meant by the sentence "There is a pleasure / Theft brings"? Is this true? How is the idea of theft related to the entire poem?

3. What is meant by the "annual rehearsals of innocence." What is the connection between the rehearsals of innocence and the title, "Crib," of the poem?

4. Explain the idea of the final four lines of the poem. Should we consider this poem to be about the development of words, or about the nature of religious belief, or both?

STEPHEN SPENDER (1909-1995)

^ I Think Continually of Those Who Were Truly Great (1934) I think continually of those who were truly great. Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history Through corridors of light where the hours are suns. Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition Was that their lips, still touched with fire. Should tell of the spirit clothed from head to foot in song. And who hoarded from the spring branches The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms. What is precious is never to forget The delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth; Never to deny its pleasure in the simple morning light. Nor its grave evening demand for love; Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother With noise and fog the flowering of the spirit. QUESTIONS 1. How does this poem cause you to reconsider what is usually understood by the word "great"? What are the principal characteristics of people "who were truly great"?

2. Why does Spender use the words "were great" rather than "are great"? What differ¬ ence, if any, does this distinction make to Spender's definition of greatness?

3. What is the meaning of phrases like "delight of the blood," "in worlds before our earth," "hours are suns," "still touched with fire"? What other phrases need similar thought and explanation?

4. How practical is the advice of the poem in the light of its definitions of "great" and "precious"? Why should the practicality or impracticality of these definitions probably not be considered in your judgment of the poem?

538

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

ffl WALLACE STEVENS

(1879-1955)_

1* Disillusionment of Ten O’clock

10

The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green. Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings. Or yellow with blue rings. None of them are strange, With socks of lace And beaded ceintures.0 People are not going

15

To dream of baboons and periwinkles. Only, here and there, an old sailor. Drunk and asleep in his boots. Catches tigers In red weather.

5

(1923)

belts

QUESTIONS 1. Is the "Ten O'Clock" here morning or night? How can you tell?

2. What do "haunted" and "white night-gowns" suggest about the people who live in the houses? What do the negative images in lines 3-9 suggest?

3. To whom are these people contrasted in lines 12-15? 4. What are the connotations of "socks with lace" and "beaded ceintures"? With which character in the poem would you associate these things? 5. What is the effect of using words and images like "baboons," "periwinkles," "tigers," and "red weather" in lines 11-15? Who will dream of these things? 6. Explain the term "disillusionment" and explore its relation to the point that this poem makes about dreams, images, and imagination.

MARK STRAND

(b. 1934)_

if Eating Poetry (1968) Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.

5

The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

539

WORDSWORTH • Daffodils (I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud)

Their eyeballs roll, their blond legs burn like brush.

10

The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep. She does not understand. When I get on my knees and lick her hand. She screams.

is

I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

QUESTIONS 1. In the first three lines, which words tell you the poem is not to be taken literally?

2. What is the serious topic of the poem? What words indicate its serious intent? 3. What is the comic topic? Which words tell you that the poem's action is comic?

m

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

(1770 1850)

^ Daffodils (1 Wandered Lonely as a Cloud) (i807: i804)° I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills. When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way. They stretched in never-ending line 10

Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay. In such a jocund0 company:

15

cheeiul, merry

“Wordsworth’s note: “Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Daffodils grew and still grow on the margin of Ullswater, and probably may be seen to this day as beautiful in the month of March, nodding their golden heads beside the dancing and foaming waves.” Wordsworth also pointed out that lines 21 and 22, the “best lines,” were by his wife, Mary.

540

CHAPTER 11 * Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

20

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the occasion of the poem? Where was the speaker at the time he describes in the poem? What was he doing? What did he see?

2. What words does Wordsworth use to show the life and beauty of the flowers at the side of the lake? How successful are these word choices?

3. How important to the speaker is the memory of this experience?

JAMES WRIGHT

(1927-1980)

* A Blessing (1963) Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. 5

They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

10

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more.

15

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms. For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white. Her mane falls wild on her forehead.

20

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.

Writing About Diction and Syntax in Poetry

541

QUESTIONS 1. What has happened just before the poem opens? Account for the poet's use of the pres¬ ent tense in his descriptions.

2. Is the setting specific or general? What happens as the poem progresses? 3. What realization overtakes the speaker? How does this realization constitute a "bless¬ ing," and what does it show about his character?

4. Why is it necessary for the poet to include all the detail of the first twenty-one lines before the realization of the last three?

WRITING ABOUT DICTION AND SYNTAX IN POETRY Study your poem carefully, line by line, to gain a general sense of its meaning. Try to establish how diction and syntax may be connected to elements such as tone, character, and idea. As you develop your ideas, look for effective and consistent patterns of word choice, connotation, repetition, and syntactic pat¬ terns that help create and reinforce the conclusions you have drawn about the poem. Ask questions like these.

Questions for Discovering Ideas •

• • •

•

• • • • •

Who is the speaker? What is the speaker's profession or way of life? How does the speaker's background affect his or her power of observation? How does the background affect his or her level of speech? Who is the listener? How does the listener affect what the speaker says? What other characters are in the poem? How are their actions described? How accurate and fair do you think these descriptions are? Is the level of diction in the poem elevated, neutral, or informal; and how does this level affect your perception of the speaker, subject, and main idea or ideas? What patterns of diction or syntax do you discover in the poem? (Example: Consider words related to situation, action, setting, or particular charac¬ ters.) How ordinary or unusual are these words? Which, if any, are unusual enough to warrant further examination? Does the poem contain many "loaded" or connotative words in connec¬ tion with any single element, such as setting, speaker, or theme? Does the poem contain a large number of general and abstract or specific and concrete words? What is the effect of these choices? Does the poem contain dialect? Colloquialisms? Jargon? If so, how does this special diction shape your response to the poem? What is the nature of the poem's syntax? Is there any unusual word order? What seems to be the purpose or effect of syntactic variations? Has the poet used any striking patterns of sentence structure such as par¬ allelism or repetition? If so, what is the effect?

542

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

Strategies for Organizing Ideas When you narrow your examination to one or two specific areas of diction or syntax, you should list important words, phrases, und sentences. Begin grouping examples that work in similar ways or produce similar effects. Investigate the full range of meaning and effect that the examples produce. Eventually you may be able to develop the related examples as units or sec¬ tions for your essay. Your central idea should emerge from your investigation of the diction or syntax that you find most fruitful and interesting. Let the poem be your guide. Since diction and syntax contribute to the poem's impact and mean¬ ing, try to connect your thesis and examples to your other conclusions. If you are writing about Stevens's "Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock," for example, your central idea might assert that Stevens uses words describing colors (i.e., "white," "green," "purple," "yellow," "blue," "red") to contrast life's visual reality with the psychological "disillusionment" of the "houses," "People," and "old sailor." Such a formulation makes a clear connection of diction to meaning. There are many different ways to organize your material. If you deal with only one aspect of diction, such as connotative words, you might treat these in the order in which they appear in the poem. When you deal with two or three different aspects of diction and syntax, however, you might devote a series of paragraphs to related examples of multiple denotation, then connotation, and finally jargon (assuming the presence of jargon in the poem). In such an instance, your organization would be controlled by the types of material under consideration rather than by the order in which the words occur. Alternatively, you might deal with the impact of diction or syntax on a series of other elements, such as character, setting, or situation. Such an essay would focus on a single type of lexical or syntactic device (described earlier in this chap¬ ter) as it relates to these different elements in sequence. Thus, you might discuss the link between connotation and situation, character, and the basic situation of the poem. Whatever organization you select, keep in mind that each poem will ^u§8^st its own avenues of exploration and strategies of organization. In your conclusion, summarize your ideas about the impact of the poem's diction or syntax. You might also consider the larger implications of your ideas in connection with the thoughts and emotions evoked by your reading. 7

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Illustrative Student Essay

543

Fitzpatrick 1 Lionel Fitzpatrick Professor Allen English IB 20 October 2010 Diction and Character in Robinson’s “Richard Cory”0 In “Richard Cory,” Edwin Arlington Robinson dramatizes the idea that

[1]

nothing can guarantee happiness. His example, and the central character in the poem, is Richard Cory, a man who apparently has everything: wealth, status, dignity, taste, and respect. Cory’s suicide, however, reveals that these qualities did not make him happy. By creating a gulf between Cory and the people of the town who admire and envy him, Robinson sets us up for the surprising suicide described in the last two lines. The distinction is produced through the words that Robinson uses to demean the general populace and elevate the central character.* The speaker and his or her fellow townspeople are associated with words that indicate their ordinary existence, while Richard Cory is described in words of nobility and privilege.1’ The poem focuses on Richard Cory as perceived by the townspeople, who

[2]

wish that they “were in his place” (line 12). Robinson skillfully employs words about these common folk to suggest their poverty and low status. In the first line, for example, the speaker places himself or herself and these other people “down town.” The phrase refers to a central business district, but here it also carries the negative connotation of the word “down.” The word implies that Cory’s journey to town seems to be a descent, and that the people constantly live in this “down” condition. A similar instance of connotative diction is “pavement” (2), which can mean “sidewalk,” but can also mean “street” or “roadbed.” The net effect of the word “pavement” rather than “sidewalk” is to place the “people” even lower than Richard Cory—literally on the street. In contrast to these few words suggesting the people’s lowness, the poem contains many words that glowingly describe Cory’s high status. Many words

°This poem appears on page 535. ‘Central idea, thesis sentence.

[3]

544

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

Fitzpatrick 2 and phrases suggest nobility or royalty. These implications begin with the title of the poem and the name “Richard Cory.” That the word “rich” is contained within “Richard” implies Cory’s wealth and privilege. It is also the name of a number of English kings, most notably Richard the Lion Hearted (“Richard Coeur de Lion”). The name “Cory” is equally connotative. It clearly suggests the “Coeur,” the heart, of the famous king, and it also reminds us of “core,” the central or innermost part of anything. The name thus points toward Cory’s singular position and significance. Through sound, “Cory” also suggests the English word “court”—that is, a place for kings and courtiers. The name “Richard Cory” thus begins an association through sound and implication that links the central character to kingship and elegance. [4]

There are other similar words in the poem’s first stanza. The speaker describes Richard Cory as “a gentleman from sole to crown” (3). “Gentleman” refers to a civilized and well-mannered individual, but it originally also meant a man of “high” or “noble” birth. The phrase “from sole to crown” is another way of saying “from head to toe,” but it connotes a great deal more. “Sole” means both “the bottom of a shoe or foot” and “alone” or “singular.” Thus, the word suggests Cory’s isolation and separation from the common folk. The word is also a pun (and homophone) on “soul,” implying that Cory’s gentility is inward as well as outward. The final touch is the word “crown.” In context, the term denotes the top of the head, but it also has connotations of aristocracy and royalty.

[5]

The speaker also describes Cory as “clean favored” and “imperially slim” (4). The word “imperially,” like “crown,” makes an explicit connection between Cory and emperors. Clean favored,” instead of the more common “goodlooking,” connotes crisp and untouched features. More to the point, the term “favored” also means “preferred,” “elevated,” “honored,” and “privileged.” Imperially slim, instead of “thin,” is equally connotative of wealth and status. While both terms denote the same physical condition, slim suggests elegance, wealth, and choice, whereas “thin” suggests poverty and necessity.

Illustrative Student Essay

545

Fitzpatrick 3 Although this type of diction is mostly in the first stanza, Robinson

[6]

sustains the link between Cory and royalty by using similar terms in the rest of the poem. In stanza two, for example, he uses “quietly arrayed” and “glittered.” Both carry elevated and imperial connotations. “Arrayed” means “dressed,” but it is also a word in the King James Bible that suggests elegant and heavenly clothing (see Matthew 6:29; Acts 12:21, Revelation 7:13). “Quietly” also suggests solitude and introversion. “Glittered” complements “quietly”; it connotes richness of dress and manner, suggesting that the man himself is golden. In the third stanza, the deliberate cliche “richer than a king” again clearly links Richard Cory to royalty. The speaker also notes that Cory was “schooled in every grace” (10). The phrase means that Cory was trained in manners and social niceties, but “grace” connotes privilege and nobility (“Your Grace”) and also the idea of heavenly love and forgiveness (“Gods Grace”). It is clear, then, that Robinson uses the effects of connotation to lower the common folk and elevate the central character. The words linked to the speaker and the other townspeople have demeaning and negative implications. At the same time, the poet uses words and phrases about Cory that connote royalty and privilege. This careful manipulation of diction widens the gulf between Cory and the town. It also heightens our sense that Cory has aristocratic looks, manners, taste, and breeding. The network of associations built through this skillful diction makes the poem’s ending powerfully shocking, and reinforces the poem’s idea that appearance, wealth, and high status do not necessarily produce happiness.

Fitzpatrick 4 Work Cited Robinson, Edwin Arlington. “Richard Cory.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 535. Print.

[7]

546

CHAPTER 11 • Words: The Building Blocks of Poetry

Commentary on the Essay This essay deals with Robinson's use of connotative words to elevate the central character and demean the townspeople. The opening paragraph makes a general assertion about the poem's theme, connects character to this assertion, and argues that Robinson controls diction to make his distinctions. The body of the essay, in five paragraphs, deals with the effects of a number of examples of word choice. The examples of connotative words are arranged to reflect partly the characters they define and partly the order in which they appear in the poem. Thus, paragraph 2 discusses the common people and the speaker in connection with two highly connotative terms: down town and pavement. The next four paragraphs (3-6) focus on Richard Cory and words or phrases that suggest royalty and privilege. The examples or diction examined here are taken up in the order in which they appear in the poem. Thus, paragraph 3 considers Cory s name, and the fourth explores the effects of gentleman and sole to crown. Paragraphs 5 and 6 continue this process, examining instances of diction that sus¬ tain the association between Cory and nobility. Taken together, the four para¬ graphs devoted to this central character illustrate Robinson's consistent manipulation of diction both to ennoble and isolate Cory. The conclusion reasserts that Robinson's diction not only contributes to Cory s isolation but also adds to the impact of his mysterious suicide. In this way, the words and phrases examined in the essay are linked to the poem's exploration of ideas about the human condition.

Writing Topics About the Words of Poetry Writing Paragraphs 1. In a paragraph compare any two words describing natural scenes in Gray's "Sonnet on the Death of Richard West" and Wordsworth's "Daffodils." Which poem seems more specific and direct in its depiction of nature? 2. In a paragraph compare and contrast Yeats's "When You Are Old" (page 661) and Carruth's "An Apology for Using the Word 'Heart' in Too Many Poems." What common idea about love do the poems share? What differences about love do you find?

Writing Essays 1. Using Eberhart's "The Fury of Aerial Bombardment" in this chapter, together with poems by Jarrell (page 492) and Owen (pages 551 and 625), study the words that these poets use to indicate the weapons and actions of warfare. In an essay, consider these questions: What shared details make the poems simi¬ lar? What separate details make them different? How do the poets use word choices to make their points about war as action, tragedy, and horror? 2. Write an essay considering the sound qualities of the invented words in Jabberwocky." Some obvious choices are "brillig," "frumious," "vorpal," and manxome," but you are free to choose any or all of them. What is the relationship between the sound and apparent meaning of these words? What

Writing Topics About the Words of Poetry

547

effect do the surrounding normal words and normal word order have on the special words? How does Carroll succeed in creating a narrative "structure," even though the key words are, on the surface, nonsense? Argue that the poem would have had a very different meaning had Carroll not used invented words. 3. Write a brief essay discussing the use of connotation in Cummings's "next to of course god america i," Ortiz Cofer's "Latin Women Pray," Levertov's "Of Being," and "Roethke's "Dolor." What particularities of meaning do the poets introduce? How does their control of connotation contribute to the various ideas you discover in the poems? Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write a short poem describing a violent crime and commenting on it. Then, assume that you are the "alleged perpetrator" of the crime, and write another poem on the same topic. Even though you describe the same situation, how do your words differ, and why have you made these different choices? Explain the other different word choices you have made. You might also dis¬ cuss words that you considered using but rejected. Library Assignment 1. Find a book or books in your library about the works of Gray, Roethke, Robin¬ son, Wordsworth, or another poet represented in this chapter. How fully do these sources discuss the style of these poets? Write a brief report explaining how the writers of the book or books deal with poetic diction.

Chapter 12 Imagery: The Poem’s Link to the Senses

I

n literature, imagery refers to words that trigger your imagination to recall and recom¬ bine images—memories or mental pictures of sights, sounds, tastes, smells, sensa¬ tions of touch, and motions. The process is active and even vigorous, for when words or descriptions produce images, you are using your personal experiences with life and lan¬ guage to help you understand the works you are reading. In effect, you are re-creating the work in your own way through the controlled stimulation produced by the writer’s words. Imagery is therefore one of the strongest modes of literary expression because it provides a channel to your active imagination, and along this channel, writers bring their works directly to you and into your consciousness. For example, reading the word lake may bring to your mind your literal memory of a particular lake. Your mental picture—or image—may be a distant view of calm waters reflecting blue sky, a nearby view of gentle waves rippling in the wind, a close-up view of the sandy lake bottom from a boat, or an overhead view of a sun-drenched shore¬ line. Similarly, the words rose, apple, hot dog, malted milk, and pizza all cause you to recollect these objects, and, in addition, may cause you to recall their smells and tastes. Active and graphic words like row, swim, and dive stimulate you to picture mov¬ ing images of someone performing these actions. A comparison with the art of painting may be additionally instructive. In Frida Kahlo’s “The Two Fridas” (1-2), there are two separate self-images, sitting calmly side by side. The two figures are dressed differently, suggesting the artist’s idea that she has two different roles to play in her life. Of special note, however, is the shocking detail that both figures are shown with open hearts, which are connected by open and exposed arteries passing between them. The same blood, in short, is sustaining the lives of both subjects. The left-hand Frida is stanching a flow of blood with an arterial clamp, but nevertheless an amount of blood has stained her white dress, whereas the arteries of the right-hand Frida, though open, are not comparably afflicted. These sideby-side images suggest that the artist is showing that, for whatever reason, her oppos¬ ing commitments are so powerful that they are potentially draining her of life itself Here, the artist has used external images to reveal an overwhelming inner personal dilemma.

Responses and the Poet's Use of Detail In studying imagery, we try to comprehend and explain our imaginative recon¬ struction of the pictures and impressions evoked by the poem's images We let the poet's words simmer and percolate in our minds. To get our imaginations stirring 548

The Relationship of Imagery to Ideas and Attitudes

549

we might follow a description by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in lines 37-41 of "Kubla Khan." A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid. And on her dulcimer she played Singing of Mount Abora.

Note that we do not read about the color of the young woman's clothing or learn anything else about her appearance except that she is playing a stringed instru¬ ment, a dulcimer, and that she is singing a song about a mountain in a foreign, remote land. But Coleridge's image is enough. From it we can visualize a vivid, exotic picture of a young woman from a distant land singing, together with impres¬ sions of the loveliness of her song (even though we never hear it or understand it). The image lives.

The Relationship of Imagery to Ideas and Attitudes Images do more than elicit impressions. By the authenticating effects of the vision and perceptions underlying them, they give you new ways of seeing the world and of strengthening your old ways of seeing it. Shakespeare, in Sonnet 116: "Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds" (Chapter 15), develops the idea that love provides people with consistency of purpose in their lives. Rather than stating the idea directly, he uses images of a landmark or lighthouse and also of a fixed starsights with which we as his readers are familiar. ... it [love] is an ever fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark° Whose worth's unknown, although his° height be taken.

boat, ship its

These images form a link with readers that is clear and also verifiable by observa¬ tion. Such uses of imagery comprise one of the strongest means by which writers reinforce ideas. In addition, as you form mental pictures and impressions from a poet's images, you respond with appropriate attitudes and feelings. Thus the phrase "Beside the lake, beneath the trees," from Wordsworth's poem "Daffodils" (Chapter 11) prompts both the visualization of a wooded lakeshore and the related pleasantness of outdoor relaxation and happiness. A contrasting visual¬ ization is to be found in Hubert von Herkomer's painting Hard Times (p. 1-6), in which all the images—the tired faces, the heavy load, the tools, the bleak road, the leafless trees—point toward the harsh life of the worker and his family, causing a response of sadness and sympathy. By using such imagery, artists and poets create sensory vividness, and they also influence and control our atti¬ tudes as readers.

550

CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

Types of Imagery Visual Imagery Is the Language of Sight Human beings are visual. Sight is the most significant of our senses, for it is the key to our remembrance of other sense impressions. Therefore, the most frequently occurring literary imagery is to things we can visualize either exactly or approxi¬ mately—visual images. In the three-stanza poem "Cargoes," John Masefield cre¬ ates mental pictures or images of ocean-going merchant vessels from three periods of human history.

JOHN MASEFIELD

t ' Cargoes

(1878-1967)

(1902)

Quinquireme0 of Nineveh0 from distant Ophir,° Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory. And apes and peacocks,0

5

Sandalwood, cedarwood,0 and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,0 Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores. With a cargo of diamonds. Emeralds, amethysts,

o

Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.0 Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack. Butting through the Channel in the mad March days. With a cargo of Tyne coal,° Road-rails, pig-lead,

15

Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

1 quinquereme: the largest of the ancient warships, although no wrecks are known to have survived from antiq¬ uity. Very likely a quinquereme was powered by three tiers of oars and was named “quinquereme” because five men operated each vertical oar station The top two oars were each taken by two men, while one man alone took the bottom oar. Nineveh: the capital of ancient Assyria, and an “exceeding great city” (Jonah 3:3). Ophir • Ophir probably was in Africa and was known for its gold (1 Kings 10:22; 1 Chron. 29:4). Masefield quotes from some of c biblical verses in his fust stanza. 4 apes and peacocks: 1 Kings 10:22; 2 Chron. 9:21.5 cedarwood: 1 Kings Worl

the Isthm^s °^Panama- 10 moidores: coins used in Portugal and Brazil at the time the Net

Zcoal7mducdoenXP

^

^

UP°n Tyne’ in northern E^d, Proverbial for

QUESTIONS 1. Consider the images of life during three periods of history: ancient Israel at the time of Solomon (c. 950 bce), sixteenth-century Spain, and modern England. What do these images tell you about Masefield's interpretation of modern commercial life?

2. To what senses do most of the images refer (e.g., sight, taste)?

OWEN • Anthem for Doomed Youth

551

3. The poem contains no complete sentences. Why do yon think Masefield included only verbals ("rowing," "dipping," "butting") to begin the second line of each stanza, rather than finite verbs?

4. In historical reality, the quinquereme was likely rowed hy slaves, and the Spanish galleon likely carried riches stolen from Central American natives. How might these unpleasant details affect the impressions otherwise achieved in the first two stanzas?

Masefield's images are vivid as they stand and need no further amplification. For us to reconstruct them imaginatively, we do not need ever to have seen the ancient biblical lands or waters, or ever to have seen or handled the cheap commodities on a modem merchant ship. We have seen enough in our lives to imagine places and objects like these, and hence Masefield is successful in fixing his visual images in our minds.

Auditory Imagery Is the Language of Sound Auditory images trigger our experiences with sound. For such images, let us con¬ sider Wilfred Owen's "Anthem for Doomed Youth," which is about the death of soldiers in warfare and the sorrow of their loved ones.

WILFRED OWEN

(1893-1918)

Anthem for Doomed Youth

(1920)

What passing-bells0 for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons.0 No mockeries for them from prayers or bells. Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs— The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires.0

prayers

What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. °1 passing-bells: church bells tolling upon the entry of a funeral cortege into a church cemetery. 8 shires: British counties.

QUESTIONS 1. What type of imagery predominates in the first eight lines? How does the imagery change in the last six lines?

2. Contrast the images of death at home and death on the battlefield. How does this con¬ trast affect your experience and understanding of the poem?

552

CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

3. Consider these images: "holy glimmers of good-byes/' "pallor of girls' brows," patient minds," "drawing-down of blinds." What relationship do the people defined by these images have to the doomed youth? V

The poem begins with the question of "What passing-bells" may be tolled "for these who die as cattle." Owen's speaker is referring to the traditional tolling of a church bell to announce a burial. The images of these ceremonial sounds suggest a period of peace and order, when there is time to pay respect to the dead. But the poem points out that the only sound for those who have fallen in battle is the "rapid rattle" of "stuttering" rifles—not the solemn, dignified sounds of peace but the horrifying noises of war. Owen's auditory images evoke corresponding sounds in our imaginations, and they help us to experience the poem and to hate the uncivilized depravity of war.

Olfactory, Gustatory, and Tactile Imagery Refers to Smell, Taste, and Touch In addition to sight and sound, you will find images from the other senses: smell, taste, and touch. Shakespeare includes an olfactory image of sweet perfumes in Sonnet 130: "My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun," and the odor of roses is suggested in Burns's "A Red, Red Rose" (Chapter 13) and in Shelley's "Music, When Soft Voices Die" (Chapter 10). Gustatory images—taste images—are also common, though less frequent than those referring to sight and sound. Lines 5 and 10 of Masefield's "Cargoes," for example, include images of "sweet white wine" and "cinnamon." Although the poem refers to these commodities as cargoes, the words themselves also regis¬ ter in our minds as gustatory images because they evoke our sense of taste. Images of touch and texture tactile images—are not as common, because touch is difficult to render except in terms of effects. The speaker of Amy Lowell's Patterns (Chapter 18), for example, uses tactile imagery when imagining a never-to-happen embrace with her fiance, who we learn has been killed on a wartime battlefield. Her imagery in lines 51-52 records the effect of the embrace ("bruised"), whereas her internalized feelings are expressed in metaphors ("aching, melting"): And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me Aching, melting, unafraid.

Tactile images are not uncommon in love poetry, where references to touch and feeling are natural.

Kinetic and Kinesthetic Imagery Refers to Motion and Activity References to movement are also images. Images of general motion are kinetic (remember that motion pictures may be called "cinema"; note the closeness of kine m kinetic and cine m cinema), whereas the term kinesthetic is applied to human or animal movement. Imagery of motion is closely related to visual images for motion is most often seen. Masefield's "British coaster" is a visual image'but

BISHOP • The Fish

553

when it goes "Butting through the channel," this reference to motion makes it also kinetic. When Hardy's skeletons sit upright at the beginning of "Channel Firing," the image is kinesthetic, as is the action of Lowell's speaker in "Patterns," walking in the garden after hearing about her fiance's death. Both types are seen at the conclusion of the following poem, Elizabeth Bishop's "The Fish."

O ELIZABETH BISHOP

0P

Ifr The Fish

(1911-1979)_

(1946)

I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn't fight. He hadn't fought at all. He hung a grunting weight, battered and venerable and homely. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper, and its pattern of darker brown was like wallpaper: shapes like full-blown roses stained and lost through age. He was speckled with barnacles, fine rosettes of lime, and infested with tiny white sea-lice, and underneath two or three rags of green weed hung down. While his gills were breathing in the terrible oxygen —the frightening gills, fresh and crisp with blood, that can cut so badly— I thought of the coarse white flesh packed in like feathers, the big bones and the little bones, the dramatic reds and blacks of his shiny entrails, and the pink swim-bladder like a big peony I looked into his eyes which were far larger than mine but shallower, and yellowed, the irises backed and packed with tarnished tinfoil seen through the lenses of old scratched isinglass.0

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a thin sheet of mica

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem’s Link to the Senses

They shifted a little, but not to return my stare. —It was more like the tipping of an object toward the light. I admired his sullen face, the mechanism of his jaw, and then I saw that from his lower lip —if you could call it a lip— grim, wet, and weaponlike, hung five old pieces of fish-line, or four and a wire leader with the swivel still attached, with all their five big hooks grown firmly in his mouth. A green line, frayed at the end where he broke it, two heavier lines, and a fine black thread still crimped from the strain and snap when it broke and he got away. Like medals with their ribbons frayed and wavering, a five-haired beard of wisdom trailing from his aching jaw. I stared and stared and victory filled up the little rented boat, from the pool of bilge where oil had spread a rainbow around the rusted engine to the bailer rusted orange, the sun-cracked thwarts, the oarlocks on their strings, the gunnels-until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.

„

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the poem's images of action (kinetic, kinesthetic). What is unusual about them?

2. What impression does the fish make upon the speaker? Is the fish beautiful? Ugly? Why is the fish described in such detail?

3. What do the "five old pieces of fish-line" indicate (line 51)? 4. How is the rainbow formed around the boat's engine? Why does the speaker refer to the "pool of bilge"? What does the rainbow mean to the speaker?

5. What right does the speaker have to keep the fish? Why does she choose to relinquish this right?

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The kinetic images at the end of "The Fish" are those of victory filling the boat (difficult to visualize) and the oil spreading to make a rainbow in the bilgewater

BISHOP * The Fish

555

(easy to visualize). The kinesthetic images are readily imagined—the speaker's staring, observing, and letting the fish go—and they are vivid and real. The final gesture is the necessary outcome of the observed contrast between the deteriorat¬ ing artifacts of human beings and the natural world of the fish, and it is a vivid expression of the right of the natural world to exist without human intervention. In short. Bishop's kinetic and kinesthetic images are designed to emphasize the need for freedom not only for human beings but for all the earth and animated nature. The areas from which kinetic and kinesthetic imagery can be derived are too varied and unpredictable to describe. Occupations, trades, professions, businesses, recreational activities—all these might furnish images. One poet introduces refer¬ ences from gardening, another from money and banking, another from modern real estate developments, another from the falling of leaves in autumn, another from life in the jungle, another from life in the home. The freshness, newness, and surprise of much poetry result from the many and varied areas from which writers draw their images.

Poems for Study Elizabeth Barrett Browning

.Sonnets from the Portuguese, Number 14: If Thou Must Love Me, 556

Samuel Taylor Coleridge . . .

.Kubla Khan, 556

T. S. Eliot.

.Preludes, 558

Louise Erdrich.

Indian Boarding School: The Runaways, 559

Susan Griffin.

.Love Should Grow Up Like a Wild Iris in the Fields, 560

Thomas Hardy.

.Channel Firing, 562

George Herbert.

.The Pulley, 563

Gerard Manley Hopkins. . .

.Spring, 564

A. E. Housman.

.On Wenlock Edge, 564

Denise Levertov.

.A Time Past, 565

Thomas Lux.

.The Voice You Hear When

Eugenio Montale.

.Buffalo (Buffalo), 567

Marianne Moore.

.The Fish, 568

Pablo Neruda.

.Every Day You Play, 569

Octavio Paz.

.The Street, 571

You Read Silently, 566

Ezra Pound.

.In a Station of the Metro, 571

Miklos Radnoti.

.Forced March, 572

Friedrich Ruckert.

. ... If You Love for the Sake of Beauty, 573

William Shakespeare.

.Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun, 573

Stephen Stepanchev.

.Seven Horizons, 574

James Tate.

.Dream On, 575

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1806 1861)

Sonnets from the Portuguese, Number 14: If Thou Must Love Me (isso)

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If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile—her look—her way Of speaking gently—for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes0 brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"— For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought,0 May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry— A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

certainly

created

QUESTIONS 1. Who is the speaker of this poem? Why might you conclude that the speaker is female?

2. What images does the speaker use to indicate possible causes for loving? What kinds of images are they? How does the speaker explain why they should be rejected?

3. How does the idea of lines 1,13, and 14 build upon the ideas in the rest of the poem?

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SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

Kubla Khan

(1772 1834)

(isi6)

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure dome decree: Where Alph,0 the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills. Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon lover! °3 AlPh: P°ssibly a reference to the river Alpheus in Greece, as described by the ancient writers Virgil and Pausanras.

COLERIDGE • Kubla Khan

557

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail. Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!

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A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid. And on her dulcimer she played Singing of Mount Abora.0 Could I revive within me Her symphony and song. To such a deep delight 'twould win me. That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air. That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there. And all should cry. Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice. And close your eyes with holy dread. For he on honeydew hath fed. And drunk the milk of Paradise. °41 Mount Abora: a mountain of Coleridge’s imagination. But see John Milton’s Paradise Lost, IV.

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QUESTIONS 1. How many of the poem's images might be sketched or visualized? Which ones would be panoramic landscapes? Which might be close-ups?

2. What is the effect of auditory images such as "wailing," "fast thick pants," "tumult," "ancestral voices prophesying war," and "mingled measure"?

3. When Coleridge was writing this poem, he was recalling it from a dream. At line 54 he was interrupted, and when he resumed he could write no more. How might an argu¬ ment be made that the poem is finished?

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CHAPTER 12 * Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

4. How do lines 35-36 establish the pleasure dome as a place of mysterious oddity? What is the effect of the words "miracle" and "rare"? The effect of combining the images "sunny" and "caves of ice"?

5. Why does the speaker yearn for the power of the singing Abyssinian maid? What kinesthetic images end the poem? How are these images important in the speaker's desire to reconstruct the vision of the pleasure dome?

BP T. S. ELIOT

(1888-1965)_

Preludes (1910) i

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The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o'clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots. And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps. II

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The morning comes to consciousness Of faint stale smells of beer From the sawdust-trampled street With all its muddy feet that press To early coffee-stands. With the other masquerades That time resumes, One thinks of all the hands That are raising dingy shades In a thousand furnished rooms. III

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You tossed a blanket from the bed. You lay upon your back, and waited; You dozed, and watched the night revealing The thousand sordid images Of which your soul was constituted; They flickered against the ceiling. And when all the world came back And the light crept up between the shutters And you heard the sparrows in the gutters. You had such a vision of the street.

ERDRICH * Indian Boarding School: The Runaways

559

As the street hardly understands; Sitting along the bed's edge, where You curled the papers from your hair. Or clasped the yellow soles of feet In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV His soul stretched tight across the skies That fade behind a city block. Or trampled by insistent feet At four and five and six o'clock; And short square fingers stuffing pipes. And evening newspapers, and eyes Assured of certain certainties. The conscience of a blackened street Impatient to assume the world. I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing. Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; The worlds revolve like ancient women Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

QUESTIONS 1. From what locations are the images in the first stanza derived? How do the images shift in the second stanza? What is the connection between the images in the second and third stanzas?

2. Who is the "you" in the third stanza? What images are associated with this listener? 3. Who is the "His" of the fourth stanza? How do the images develop in this stanza? What is meant particularly in the images of lines 46-47?

4. What is the nature of the bodily imagery in the poem? The urban imagery? What impressions do these images cause?

5. In lines 48-51, what does the speaker conclude? How do the last two unnumbered stanzas constitute a contrast of attitude?

LOUISE ERDRICH

4f

(b 1954)

Indian Boarding School: The Runaways0 (1984)

Home's the place we head for in our sleep. Boxcars stumbling north in dreams °In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, many Indian boarding schools were instituted for the education of Indian children. The principal aim of these schools was to inculcate European and English-based knowledge and ideals, along with encouraging Indian children to forsake their own heritage. If any children left the schools without permission, as runaways, they were punished when they were captured and returned.

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

don't wait for us. We catch them on the run. The rails, old lacerations that we love, shoot parallel across the face and break Just under Turtle Mountains.0 Riding scars you can't get lost. Home is the place they cross. The lame guard strikes a match and makes the dark less tolerant. We watch through cracks in boards as the land starts rolling, rolling till it hurts to be here, cold in regulation clothes. We know the sheriff's waiting at midrun to take us back. His car is dumb and warm. The highway doesn't rock, it only hums like a wing of long insults. The worn-down welts of ancient punishments lead back and forth. All runaways wear dresses, long green ones, the color you would think shame was. We scrub the sidewalks down because it's shameful work. Our brushes cut the stone in watered arcs and in the soak frail outlines shiver clear a moment, things us kids pressed on the dark face before it hardened, pale, remembering delicate old injuries, the spines of names and leaves. 6 Turtle Mountains: the Turtle Mountain Chippewa Indian Reservation in north-central North Dakota

QUESTIONS 1. Who is the speaker? What has she been dreaming about? For whom does she speak? For herself? For others? Why does she say that "we" head for home "in our sleep"? How have the "we" left the Indian Boarding School? In reality? In their dreams?

2. Explain the nature of the images in the first and second stanzas. Could the images in the second stanza be considered as being based in fear? How do the images in the first two stanzas differ from the imagery in the third stanza? In the light of the nature of the images, can the poem be considered as a narrative based in a sequence of dreams?

3. Compare this poem with Tom Whitecloud's story "Blue Winds Dancing" in Chapter 5. In what ways are the speakers of these works similar? Are they both to be considered "runaways"? What happens to each speaker at the conclusions of the works?

SUSAN GRIFFIN

(b 1943)_

# Love Should Grow Up Like a Wild Iris in the Fields (1972) Love should grow up like a wild iris in the fields, unexpected, after a terrible storm, opening a purple

HARDY « Channel Firing

561

mouth to the rain, with not a thought to the future, ignorant of the grass and the graveyard of leaves around, forgetting its own beginning. Love should grow like a wild iris but does not. Love more often is to be found in kitchens at the dinner hour, tired out and hungry, lingers over tables in houses where the walls record movements; while the cook is probably angry, and the ingredients of the meal are budgeted, while a child cries feed me now and her mother not quite hysterical says over and over, wait just a bit, just a bit. Love should grow up in the fields like a wild iris but never does really startle anyone, was to be expected, was to be predicted, is almost absurd, goes on from day to day, not quite blindly, gets taken to the cleaners every fall, sings old songs over and over, and falls on the same piece of rug that never gets tacked down, gives up, wants to hide, is not brave, knows too much, is not like an iris growing wild but more like staring into space in the street not quite sure which door it was, annoyed about the sidewalk being slippery, trying all the doors, thinking if love wished the world to be well, it would be well. Love should grow up like a wild iris, but doesn't, it comes from the midst of everything else, sees like the iris of an eye, when the light is right, feels in blindness and when there is nothing else is tender, blinks, and opens face up to the skies.

QUESTIONS 1. Contrast the locations of the images in the first seven lines and in the next eight. How do the ideas of the poet depend on this contrast in locations? 2. Note the difference in the mood of the verbs, from the "should" clause in the first six lines to the declarative present verb in line 7. Also, note the present tense verbs from lines 8-13, and then the "should" again in line 14. What is the effect of this differing use of verbs? 3. Trace the image of the wild iris throughout the poem. Why is the iris wild, and not cul¬ tivated? How does the iris grow? What is the effect of the change in the image of the iris from the flower to the eye (line 32)? 4. How is the sentence in lines 30-31 ("it comes from / the midst of everything else") related to the ideas and images in the rest of the poem?

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

THOMAS HARDY (1840-1928) For a photo, see Chapter 10, page 491.

1- Channel Firing (1914) That night your great guns, unawares. Shook all our coffins0 as we lay. And broke the chancel window-squares. We thought it was the Judgment Day And sat upright. While drearisome Arose the howl of wakened hounds: The mouse let fall the altar-crumb. The worms drew back into the mounds. The glebe0 cow drooled. Till God called, "No; It's gunnery practice out at sea Just as before you went below; The world is as it used to be: "All nations striving strong to make Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters They do no more for Christes sake Than you who are helpless in such matters. "That this is not the judgment hour For some of them's a blessed thing, For if it were they'd have to scour Hell's floor for so much threatening. . . . "Ha, ha. It will be warmer when I blow the trumpet (if indeed I ever do; for you are men. And rest eternal sorely need)." So down we lay again. "I wonder. Will the world ever saner be," Said one, "than when He sent us under In our indifferent century!" And many a skeleton shook his head. "Instead of preaching forty year," My neighbor Parson Thirdly said, "I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer."

°2 coffins: It has been common practice in England for hundreds of years to bury certain people in the floors or basements of churches. 9 glebe: a parcel of land adjoining and belonging to a church. Cows were grazed there to keep the grass short.

HERBERT • The Pulley

563

Again the guns disturbed the hour. Roaring their readiness to avenge. As far inland as Stourton Tower,0 And Camelot,0 and starlit Stonehenge.0

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35 Stourton Tower: a tower commemorating King Alfred the Great’s defeat of the Danes in 879 CE. 36 Camelot: legendary seat of King Arthur’s court. Stonehenge: a group of standing stones on Salisbury Plain, probably built as a place of worship before 1000 BCE. Stonehenge is one of England’s famous landmarks.

QUESTIONS 1. Who is the speaker in this poem? What is the setting? The situation?

2. To whom does the "your" in line 1 refer? The "our" in line 2? 3. What has awakened the speaker and his friends? What mistake have they made? 4. What other voices are heard in the poem? How are their traits revealed? 5. What ideas about war and the nature of humanity does this poem explore?

GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633)

The Pulley

(1633)

When God at first made man. Having a glass of blessings standing by, "Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can. Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie. Contract into a span."0

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So strength first made a way; Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure. When almost all was out, God made a stay. Perceiving that, alone of all his treasure. Rest0 in the bottom lay.

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"For if I should," said he, "Bestow this jewel also on my creature. He would adore my gifts instead of me. And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature; So both should losers be.

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"Yet let him keep the rest. But keep them with repining restlessness. Let him be rich and weary, that at least. If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast."

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°5 into a span: that is, within the control of human beings. 10 rest: (1) repose, security; (2) all that remains.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the dramatic scene of the poem. Who is doing what?

2. What are the particular "blessings" that God confers on humanity, according to the speaker? Why should these be considered blessings?

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CHAPTER 12 * Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

3. Consider the image of the pulley as the means, or device (through "repining restless¬ ness"), by which God compels people to become worshipful.

4. Analyze and discuss the meaning of the kinetic images signified by the words "pour," "flowed," "rest," and "toss."

M GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

(1844-1889)

Spring (1877)

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Nothing is so beautiful as Spring— When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling. What is all this juice and all this joy? A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning In Eden garden.— Have, get, before it cloy. Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning. Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning. QUESTIONS 1. What images does the speaker mention as support for his first line, "Nothing is so beautiful as Spring"? Are these images those that you would normally expect? To what degree do they seem to be new or unusual?

2. What images of motion and activity do you find in the poem? Are these mainly static or dynamic? What do these suggest about the speaker's view of spring?

3. What is the relationship between "Eden garden" in line 11 and the scene described in lines 1-8? To what extent are spring and "Innocent mind and Mayday" a glimpse of the Garden of Eden?

4. Christ is mentioned in lines 12 and 14 (as "maid's child"). Do these references seal the poem off from readers who are not Christian? Why or why not?

EB A. E. HOUSMAN (1859-1936) For a photo, see Chapter 11, page 530.

^ On Wenlock Edge

(1887)

On Wenlock Edge0 the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin0 heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double. And thick on Severn0 snow the leaves. °1 Wenlock Edge: a range of high hills in western England, south of Birmingham. 2 the Wrekin: a volcano (now extinct) northwest of Birmingham. Housman suggests that the volcano is erupting, just one of the natural distur¬ bances he describes in the first two stanzas. 4 Severn: a major river winding southward through the area toward Bristol.

LEVERTOV • A Time Past

565

Twould0 blow like this through holt and hanger0 When Uricon0 the city stood; 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood. Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare;

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The blood that warms an English yeoman,0 The thoughts that hurt him, they were there. There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet— Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. The gale, it plies the saplings double; It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone. Today the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon.

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°5 'Twould: It would [back in Roman times], 5 holt and hanger: woods and thick underbrush along a hillside or mountainside. 6 Uricon: Uriconium, a regional capital in western England during the Roman occupation from the first to the fifth centuries CE. 11 yeoman: a medieval English farmer who owned the land he farmed.

QUESTIONS 1. How extensively does the speaker stress the images of natural disturbances that are taking place on Wenlock Edge, with the wind, for example, plying the saplings dou¬ ble? Why does Housman repeat this line (line 3) in line 17?

2. What concerns of the ancient Roman in England are continued in the feelings of the speaker, who is inhabiting the same location as the Roman?

3. What is the view of history that the speaker develops in this poem? Is it a usual view of what we ordinarily think of as history? Why or why not? On what idea does the poem conclude?

DENISE LEVERTOV (1923-1997) For a photo, see Chapter 11, page 532.

^ A Time Fast

(1975)

The old wooden steps to the front door where I was sitting that fall morning when you came downstairs, just awake, and my joy at sight of you (emerging into golden day— the dew almost frost) pulled me to my feet to tell you how much I loved you: those wooden steps are gone now, decayed

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CHAPTER 12 * Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

replaced with granite, hard, gray, and handsome. The old steps live only in me: v my feet and thighs remember them, and my hands still feel their splinters. Everything else about and around that house brings memories of others—of marriage, of my son. And the steps do too: I recall sitting there with my friend and her little son who died, or was it the second one who lives and thrives? And sitting there 'in my life,' often, alone or with my husband. Yet that one instant, your cheerful, unafraid, youthful, 'I love you too/ the quiet broken by no bird, no cricket, gold leaves spinning in silence down without any breeze to blow them, is what twines itself in my head and body across those slabs of wood that were warm, ancient, and now wait somewhere to be burnt.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the visual imagery of the poem. What tactile imagery is associated with the steps? What other images are part of the speaker's memory?

2. How is the image of the "old wooden steps" developed in the poem? What has hap¬ pened to the wooden steps? What meaning may be derived from their having been replaced by the granite steps? How are these steps tied to the speaker's "time past"?

3. Why do you think the speaker expressly denies the recollection of any sounds of bird or cricket?

THOMAS LUX

5

(b 1946)

The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently

THE VOICE YOU HEAR WHEN YOU READ SILENTLY

is not silent, it is a speakingout-loud voice in your head: it is spoken, a voice is saying it

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as you read. It's the writer's words, of course, in a literary sense his or her "voice" but the sound of that voice is the sound of your voice. Not the sound your friends know or the sound of a tape played back but your voice caught in the dark cathedral of your skull, your voice heard by an internal ear informed by internal abstracts

(1997)

MONTALE • Buffalo (Buffalo)

567

and what you know by feeling, having felt. It is your voice

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saying, for example, the word "barn" that the writer wrote but the "barn" you say is a barn you know or knew. The voice in your head, speaking as you read, never says anything neutrally—some people hated the barn they knew, some people love the barn they know so you hear the word loaded and a sensory constellation is lit: horse-gnawed stalls, hayloft, black heat tape wrapping a water pipe, a slippery spilled chirrr of oats from a split sack, the bony, filthy haunches of cows. . . . And "barn" is only a noun—no verb or subject has entered into the sentence yet! The voice you hear when you read to yourself is the clearest voice: you speak it speaking to you.

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QUESTIONS 1. What is meant by the "constellation" being lit when the reader reads a word, in this case "barn"? How does "constellation" explain the development of the barn image in lines 26-30?

2. Why is the "voice you hear when you read silently/ . . . not silent"? 3. Describe the meaning and associations of "the dark cathedral/of your skull" in lines 11-12. What is particularly significant about the use of "cathedral" in these lines?

EUGENIO MONTALE (1896-1981)

Buffalo (Buffalo)0

(1929)

Translated by Robert Zweig Gusting, a sweet inferno channeled crowds of every color in the loop of blaring megaphones. The buses gushed out into the evening. On the churning gulf, heat evaporated into smoke; down below, a shining arc

°The Velodrome Buffalo, a Parisian cycling racetrack, was the site of many world cycling records from 1893 until World War I, when it was replaced by an airplane factory. The Buffalo was named after Buffalo Bill Cody, whose Wild West show was performed there during the first year of its existence.

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

etched a current and the crowd was ready at the passage. A black man slumbered inside a ray of light that cut the darkness; in a box, loose, easy women awaited the ferry's landing. I said to myself: Buffalo! —and the name worked.

_

I fell into the limbo of the deafening voices of the blood where flashes burn the sight like flickers of mirror. I heard the dry crashes, and all around me saw the curved, striped backs whirling on the track.

QUESTIONS 1. The setting of "Buffalo" is an indoor bicycle racetrack. Why do you think Montale chose this setting?

2. Is the description of this bicycle race objective or subjective? Which images can you cite to support your conclusion?

3. In Dante's "Inferno," a medieval Italian poem that greatly influenced Montale, a ferry takes Dante across a river into "hell." Might the ferry that the "loose, easy women" wait for be such a ferry? If so, how does that image help you to understand "Buffalo"?

4. What do you think is meant when the speaker says that uttering the word "Buffalo" worked? What did uttering that word do?

MARIANNE MOORE

(1887-1972)

The Fish (i9i8) wade through black jade. Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps adjusting the ash-heaps; opening and shutting itself like

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an injured fan. The barnacles which encrust the side of the wave, cannot hide o

there for the submerged shafts of the sun, split like spun glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness into the crevices— in and out, illuminating the turquoise sea of bodies. The water drives a wedge

NERUDA • Every Day You Play

569

of iron through the iron edge of the cliff; whereupon the stars. pink rice-grains, inkbespattered jelly fish, crabs like green lilies, and submarine toadstools, slide each on the other. All external marks of abuse are present on this defiant edifice— all the physical features of ac¬ cident—lack of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and hatchet strokes, these things stand out on it; the chasm-side is dead. Repeated evidence has proved that it can live on what can not revive its youth. The sea grows old in it.

QUESTIONS 1. Why is this poem titled "The Fish"? What actual fish does the poem describe? What images of other sea creatures do you find?

2. What action is described in this poem? In what ways may this poem be contrasted with Bishop's poem "The Fish"?

3. Describe the structure of rhymes in "The Fish." What pictorial image is suggested by the shapes of the stanzas and by the fact that most of the lines ending the stanzas extend grammatically to the next stanzas?

4. What idea does the speaker seem to be developing in the last three stanzas of the poem?

PABLO NERUDA (1904-1977)

& Every Day You Play (1924) Every day you play with the light of the universe. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water. You are more than this white head that I hold tightly as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands. You are like nobody since I love you. Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

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Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window. The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish. Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them. The rain takes off her clothes.

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The birds go by, fleeing. The wind. The wind. I can contend only against the power of men. The storm whirls dark leaves and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky. You are here. Oh, you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry. Cling to me as though you were frightened. Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes. Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle, and even your breasts smell of it. While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth. How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

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My words rained over you, stroking you. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. I go so far as to think that you own the universe. I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

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I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the situation in this poem? Who is talking to whom? What is their relationship? 2. Describe the nature of the images in this poem. What kinetic and kinesthetic images do you find? What is the effect of these images? What visual images do you find? What tactile images? Olfactory images? Gustatory images?

3. What reality is reflected in the poem's imagery? Analyze the images of lines 9-17 and their meaning.

4. What does the speaker mean by line 8, "Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed"?

POUND • In a Station of the Metro

571

OCTAVIO PAZ (1914-1998) For a photo, see Chapter 10, page 498.

The Street (1963) A long silent street. I walk in blackness and I stumble and fall and rise, and I walk blind, my feet stepping on silent stones and dry leaves. Someone behind me also stepping on stones, leaves: if I slow down, he slows; if I run, he runs. I turn: nobody. Everything dark and doorless. Turning and turning these corners which lead forever to the street where nobody waits for, nobody follows me, where I pursue a man who stumbles and rises and says when he sees me: nobody. QUESTIONS 1* Describe the images of action in this poem. What kind of images are they? What is meant by the "someone" who seems to the speaker to be walking behind him? What happens when the speaker turns to see him?

2. For what reason does the speaker say he walks "blind" in blackness, and stumbles, and falls and rises? What is happening to the man who is following the speaker? Why do both the speaker and the following man say they see "nobody"? Why do they seem to be pursuing each other? Why do they never discover each other?

3. What do you make out of the poem's images of action, in which corners are turned that they lead "forever to the street / where nobody waits for, nobody follows me"? What is meant by the image of the street? What thoughts about human life seem to follow from images in the poem such as these?

4. This poem is one line short of fourteen, the number of lines traditionally contained in a sonnet. Why do you think the poet stopped at thirteen lines, and teenth line?

EZRA POUND (1885-1972)

^ In a Station of the Metro0

(1916)

The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough. “Metro: the Paris subway.

QUESTIONS 1. Is the image of the wet, black bough happy or sad? If the petals were on a tree in the sunlight, what would be the effect?

2. What is the meaning of the image suggested by "apparition"? Does it suggest a posi¬ tive or negative view of human life?

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

3. This poem contains only two lines. Is it proper to consider it as a poem nevertheless? If it is not a poem, what is it?

MIKLOS RADNOTI (1909-1944)

If Forced March0

(1944)

Translated by Zsuzsanna Ozsvath and Frederick Turner

Bor,0 15 September 1944

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Crazy, he stumbles, flops, gets up, and trudges on again. He moves his ankles and his knees like one wandering pain, then sallies forth, as if a wing lifted him where he went, and when the ditch invites him in, he dare not give consent, and if you were to ask why not? perhaps his answer is a woman waits, a death more wise, more beautiful than this. Poor fool, the true believer: for weeks, above the rooves, but for the scorching whirlwind, nothing lives or moves: the housewall's lying on its back, the prune tree's smashed and bare; even at home, when dark comes on, the night is furred with fear. Ah, if I could believe it! that not only do I bear what's worth the keeping in my heart, but home is really there; if it might be!—as once it was, on a veranda old and cool, where the sweet bee of peace would buzz, prune marmalade would chill, late summer's stillness sunbathe in gardens half asleep, fruit sway among the branches, stark naked in the deep, Fanni waiting at the fence blonde by its rusty red, and shadows would write slowly out all the slow morning said— but still it might yet happen! The moon's so round today! Friend, don't walk on. Give me a shout, and I'll be on my way!

In the late days of World War II, allied troops advanced into Germany from all directions. Because there were many prisoners in concentration and work camps in countries around Germany, the Nazis determined to hide the evidence of any atrocities. They therefore forced their prisoners, who were given little if any food, to endure agonizing marches to camps in and near Germany—distances of hundreds of miles. Evacuating the Bor area of Yugoslavia in September 1944, the Germans forced a large number of Jewish laborers, one of whom was Radnoti, to walk to Hungary. “Forced March,” one of his ten last poems, shows his reactions to the match, at the end of which he was shot to death and thrown into a mass grave. The poem was found in a small address book in the pocket of his raincoat after his body was exhumed in 1946. See also Cynthia Ozicks The Shawl of Belgrade.

(Chapter 4, page 223). Bor: A town in eastern Yugoslavia, about eighty miles southeast

QUESTIONS 1. What is the purpose of the tactile images of tiredness and pain in lines 1-6?

2. What is the nature of the images in lines 7-10? 3. How does the poem's perspective shift at line 11? How do the images from lines 11-19 contribute to the speaker's mood, as shown in line 20? What do these lines tell you about human hope and strength?

SHAKESPEARE * Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun

573

FRIEDRICH RUCKERT (1788 1866)_

% If You Love for the Sake of Beauty

(1823)

Anonymous Translator If you love for the sake of beauty, O never love me! Love the sun, that has bright golden hair. If you love for the sake of youth, O never love me! Love the spring, that is reborn each year. If you love for the sake of wealth, O never love me! Love the mermaid, whose pearls are rich and clear. If you love for the sake of love alone, O yes then, love me! Love me as I love you—forever!

QUESTIONS 1. What is the poem's situation? Who is speaking? Who is the listener?

2. How do the images in lines 2, 4, and 6 exemplify the abstract concepts in lines 1, 3, and 5? How does the speaker use these images to reinforce his or her negative requests?

3. How may the final two lines be considered a climax of the poem?

m

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)_ For a portrait, see Chapter 20, page 1009.

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Sonnet 130: My Mistress’ Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun (1609) My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked,0 red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

set in an elaborate bouquet

QUESTIONS 1. To what does the speaker negatively compare his mistress's eyes? Lips? Breasts? Hair? Cheeks? Breath? Voice? Walk? What kinds of images are created in these nega¬ tive comparisons?

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

2. What conventional images does this poem ridicule? What sort of poem is Shakespeare mocking by using the negative images in lines 1-12?

3. In the light of the last two lines, do you think the speaker intends the images as insults? If not as insults, how should they be taken?

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4. Are most of the images auditory, olfactory, visual, or kinesthetic? Explain. 5. What point does this poem make about love poetry? About human relationships? How does the imagery contribute to the development of both points?

STEPHEN STEPANCHEV (b 1915)

Seven Horizons

2006

It is an old story: the oppressed Become oppressors, the conquerers Are conquered, the grass rises from Their bones, and the rat is totem. 5

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The archeologist of mounds Studies the seven horizons of death And discovers endless repetition. Civilizations wearing out their plumes And dying under their tin cans: A shoe in the ashes, a set of false teeth, A shattered hand, a cistern full of heads Of broken jocks and forgotten movie stars. Here in Flushing I let the rain Wash away my rotting selves, The rubble of what I was, the thick Deeps of silence among the ruins.

District in Queens, New York City

The seven layers of abandonment No archeologist will ever read. °13 Flushing: a district in Queens in New York City.

QUESTIONS 1. What is meant by "an old story"? What is the story? To what degree does the "story" represent an accurate view of human history? What does it mean to say that "the con¬ querors / Are conquered"? Is this observation true? Compare this view of history with that presented by W. B. Yeats's "The Second Coming" in Chapter 16.

2. What are the characteristics of the seven horizons of death? Why seven? What com¬ poses the discoveries of the "archaeologist of mounds"? What is the nature of the images that the archaeologist discovers?

3. Describe the speaker's view of himself in the last six lines. Why does he say that "No archaeologist" will ever read his seven layers of abandonment?

TATE • Dream On

575

JAMES TATE (b. 1943)

^ Dream On (1998) Some people go their whole lives without ever writing a single poem. Extraordinary people who don't hesitate to cut somebody's heart or skull open. They go to baseball games with the greatest of ease and play a few rounds of golf as if it were nothing. These same people stroll into a church as if that were a natural part of life. Investing money is second nature to them. They contribute to political campaigns that have absolutely no poetry in them and promise none for the future. They sit around the dinner table at night and pretend as though nothing is missing. Their children get caught shoplifting at the mall and no one admits that it is poetry they are missing. The family dog howls all night, lonely and starving for more poetry in his life. Why is it so difficult for them to see that, without poetry, their lives are effluvial. Sure, they have their banquets, their celebrations, croquet, fox hunts, their seashores and sunsets, their cocktails on the balcony, dog races, and all that kissing and hugging, and don't forget the good deeds, the charity work, nursing the baby squirrels all through the night, filling the birdfeeders all winter, helping the stranger change her tire. Still, there's that disagreeable exhalation from decaying matter, subtle but ever present. They walk around erect like champions. They are smooth-spoken, urbane and witty. When alone, rare occasion, they stare into the mirror for hours, bewildered. There was something they meant to say, but didn't: "And if we put the statue of the rhinoceros next to the tweezers, and walk around the room three times learn to yodel, shave our heads, call our ancestors back from the dead—" poetrywise it's still a bust, bankrupt. You haven't scribbled a syllable of it. You're a nowhere man misfiring the very essence of your life, flustering nothing from nothing and back again. The hereafter may not last all that long. Radiant childhood sweetheart, secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow.

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CHAPTER 12 * Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids: all day, all night meditation, knot of hope, kernel of desire, pure ordinariness of life, seeking, through poetry, a benediction or a bed to lie down on, to connect, reveal, explore, to imbue meaning on the day's extravagant labor. And yet it's cruel to expect too much. It's a rare species of bird That refuses to be categorized. Its song is barely audible. It is like a dragonfly in a dream— Here, then there, then here again, Low-flying amber-wing darting upward and then out of sight. And the dream has a pain in its heart the wonders of which are manifold, or so the story is told.

QUESTIONS 1. Characterize the images from lines 3-20. What types of images, for the most part, are these? What part do they play in the poem's argument?

2. In lines 36-42 there is a different unit of imagery. What are the characteristics and pur¬ pose of these?

3. How does the speaker use images to characterize poetry from line 54 (if we take the rep¬ etition of "it" in lines 54, 55, 57, and 58 as descriptions of poetry). How true is the idea that poetry is a dream with a pain in its heart (line 63)? What is the effect of the final line?

WRITING ABOUT IMAGERY Questions for Discovering Ideas In preparing to write, you should develop a set of thoughtful notes dealing with issues such as the following: •

• • •

What type or types of images prevail in the work? Visual (shapes, col¬ ors)? Auditory (sounds)? Olfactory (smells)? Tactile (touch and texture)? Gustatory (taste)? Kinetic or kinesthetic (motion)? Or is the imagery a combination? To what degree do the images reflect either the poet's actual observation or the poet's reading and knowledge of fields such as science or history? How well do the images stand out? How vivid are they? How does the poet make the images vivid? Within a group of images—say, visual or auditory—do the images pertain to one location or area rather than another (e.g., natural scenes rather than interiors, snowy scenes rather than grassy ones, loud and harsh sounds rather than quiet and soothing ones)?

Writing About Imagery

•

•

•

577

What explanation is needed for the images? (Images might be derived from the classics or the Bible, the Vietnam War or World War II, the behav¬ iors of four-footed creatures or birds or fish, and so on.) What effect do the circumstances described in the poem (e.g., conditions of brightness or darkness, warmth or cold) have on your responses to the images? What purpose do you think the poet achieves by controlling these responses? How well are the images integrated within the poem's argument or development?

Answering questions like these will provide you with a sizable body of mate¬ rial that you can organize and then discuss in your essay.

Strategies for Organizing Ideas Connect a brief overview of the poem to your plan for the body of your essay, noting perhaps that the writer uses images to strengthen ideas about war, character, or love or that the writer relies predominantly on images of sight, sound, and action. You might deal with just one of the following aspects, or you may combine your approaches, as you wish. 1. Images suggesting ideas and/or moods. Such an essay should emphasize the effects of the imagery. What ideas or moods are evoked by the images? (In this chapter the auditory images beginning Owen's "Anthem for Doomed Youth," for example, all point toward a condemnation of the brutality of war. The visual images in "Spring," by Hopkins, all point toward a sense of earthly and also divine growth and lushness.) Do the images promote approval or disapproval? Cheerfulness? Melancholy? Are the images drab, exciting, vivid? How? Why? Are they conducive to humor or surprise? How does the writer achieve these effects? Are the images consistent, or are they ambigu¬ ous? (The images in Masefield's "Cargoes" indicate first approval and then dis¬ approval, with no ambiguity. By contrast, Shakespeare's images in "My Mistress' Eyes" might be construed as insults, but in context, they are really compliments [both in this chapter].) 2. The types of images. Here the emphasis is on the categories of images themselves. Is there a predominance of a particular type of image (e.g., visual or auditory), or is there a blending, as in Neruda's "Every Day You Play"? Is there a bunching of types at particular points in the poem or story? If so, why? Is there any shifting as the work develops (for example, in Owen's "Anthem for Doomed Youth" [this chapter] the auditory images first suggest loudness and harshness, but later auditory images describe quietness and sorrow)? Are the images appropriate, granted the nature and apparent intent of the work? Do they assist in making the ideas seem convincing? If any images seem inap¬ propriate, is the inappropriateness intentional or inadvertent? What is the effect of the inappropriate imagery? 3. Systems of images. Here the emphasis should be on the areas from which the images are drawn. This is another way of considering the

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

appropriateness of the imagery: Is there a pattern of similar or consistent images, such as dark and dreary urban scenes (Eliot's "Preludes" [this chap¬ ter]) or color and activity (Hopkins's "Spring" [this chapter])? Do all the images adhere consistently to a particular frame of reference, such as a sun¬ lit garden (Lowell's "Patterns" [Chapter 18]), an extensive recreational forest and garden (Coleridge's "Kubla Khan"), a front stair (Levertov's "A Time Past"), or a forest at night (Blake's "The Tyger" [Chapter 13])? What is unusual or unique about the set of images? What unexpected or new responses do they produce? Your conclusion, in addition to restating your major points, is the place for additional insights. It would not be proper to go too far in new directions here, but you might briefly take up one or more of the ideas that you have not devel¬ oped in the body. In short, what have you learned from your study of imagery in the poem?

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Pugh 1 Mike Pugh Professor Skaggs English 101 14 January 2011 The Images of Masefield’s “Cargoes”0 In the three-stanza poem Cargoes,” John Masefield develops contrasting imagery to create a negative impression of modem commercial life.* He does not explicitly state that modem commercialism is ugly and drab and that it affects modern human beings negatively, but he creates his word pictures to make this

°This poem appears on page 550. ‘Central idea.

Illustrative Student Essay

579

Pugh 2 point for him. His first two stanzas contain idealized images of ships from ancient and Renaissance times, and his contrasting third stanza includes realistic images of a gritty and grimy modern “coaster.” Masefield's images are thus both positive and lush, on the one hand, and negative and stark, on the other.1 The most evocative and pleasant images in the poem are in the first stanza.

[2]

The speaker asks that we imagine a “Quinquereme of Nineveh from distant Ophir” (line 1), an oceangoing, many-oared vessel loaded with treasure at the time of the biblical King Solomon. As Masefield identifies the cargo, the visual images are lush and romantic: With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. (3-5) Ivory suggests richness, which is augmented by the exotic “apes and peacocks” in all their exciting strangeness. The “sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine” evoke pungent smells and tastes. The “sunny” light of ancient Palestine (2) not only illuminates the imaginative scene (visual) but invites readers to imagine the sun’s warming touch (tactile). The references to animals and birds also suggest the sounds made by these creatures (auditory). Thus, in this rich first stanza, images derived from all the senses evoke impressions of an ideal, romantic past. Almost equally lush are the images of the second stanza, which completes

[3]

the poem’s first part. Here the visual imagery evokes the regal splendor of a tall-masted, full-sailed galleon (6) at the height of Spain’s commercial power in the sixteenth century. The galleon’s cargo suggests wealth, with sparkling diamonds and amethysts, and Portuguese “gold moidores” gleaming in open chests (10). With cinnamon in the second stanza’s bill of lading (10), Masefield includes the image of an exotic, pleasant-tasting spice. The negative images of the third stanza contrast starkly with those in the first two stanzas. The poem asks us to imagine a modern “Dirty British coaster” (11), which draws attention to the griminess and suffocation of modern

Hhesis sentence.

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CHAPTER 12 • Imagery: The Poem's Link to the Senses

Pugh 3 civilization. This spray-swept ship is loaded with materials Jhat pollute the earth with noise and smoke. The smoke stack of the coaster (11) and the firewood it is carrying suggest choking smog. The Tyne coal (13) and road rails (14) suggest the noise and smoke of puffing railroad engines. As if this were not enough, the “pig-lead” (14) to be used in various industrial processes indicates not just more unpleasantness but also something poisonous and deadly. In contrast to the lush and stately imagery of the first two stanzas, the images in the third stanza invite the conclusion that people now, when the “Dirty British coaster” butts through the English Channel, are surrounded and threatened by visual, olfactory, and auditory pollution. [5]

The poem thus establishes a romantic past and ugly present through images of sight, smell, and sound. The images of motion also emphasize this view: In the first two stanzas the quinquereme is “rowing” and the galleon is “dipping.” These kinetic images suggest dignity and lightness. The British coaster, however, is “butting,” an image indicating bull-like hostility and stupid force. These, together with all the other images, focus the poem’s negative views of modem life. The facts that existence for both ancient Palestinians and Renaissance Spaniards included slavery (of those men rowing the quinquereme) and piracy (by those Spanish “explorers” who robbed and killed the natives of the isthmus) should probably not be emphasized as a protest against Masefield’s otherwise valid contrasts in images. His final commentary may hence be thought of as the banging of his “cheap tin trays” (15), which makes a percussive climax of the oppressive images filling too large a portion of modem lives.

Pugh 4 Work Cited Masefield, John. “Cargoes.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New

York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 550. Print.

Writing Topics About Imagery in Poetry

Commentary on the Essay

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This essay illustrates strategy 1 for writing about imagery (p. 577), using images to develop ideas and moods. All the examples—derived directly from the poem— emphasize the qualities of Masefield's images. This method permits the introduc¬ tion of imagery drawn from all the senses in order to demonstrate Masefield's ideas about the past and the present. Other approaches might have concentrated exclusively on Masefield's visual images or on his images drawn from trade and commerce. Because Masefield uses auditory and gustatory images but does not develop them extensively, sound or taste might be appropriately treated in short, paragraph-length essays. The introductory paragraph of the essay presents the central idea that Mase¬ field uses his images contrastingly to lead to his negative view of modern com¬ mercialism. The thesis sentence indicates that the topics to be developed are those of (1) lushness and (2) starkness. Paragraphs 2 and 3 form a unit stressing the lushness and exoticism of the first stanza and the wealth and colorfulness of the second stanza. In particular, para¬ graph 2 uses the words "lush," "evoke," "rich," "exotic," "pungent," "exciting," and "romantic to characterize the pleasing mental pictures prompted by the images. Although the paragraph indicates enthusiastic responses to the images, it does not go beyond the limits of the images themselves. Paragraph 4 stresses the contrast of Masefield's images in the third stanza with those of the first two stanzas. To this end the paragraph illustrates the imagi¬ native reconstruction needed to develop an understanding of this contrast. The unpleasantness, annoyance, and even danger of the cargoes mentioned in the third stanza are therefore emphasized as the qualities evoked by the images. The last paragraph demonstrates that the imagery of motion—not much stressed in the poem—is in agreement with the rest of Masefield's imagery. As a demonstration of the need for fair, impartial judgment, the conclusion introduces the possible objection that Masefield may be slanting his images by including not a full but rather a partial view of their respective historical periods. Thus the conclud¬ ing paragraph adds balance to the analysis illustrated in paragraphs 2, 3, and 4.

Writing Topics About Imagery in Poetry Writing Paragraphs 1. In a paragraph compare the images of war in Owen's "Anthem for Doomed Youth" and Hardy's "Channel Firing" (both in this chapter). Describe the dif¬ fering effects of the images. How are the images used? How effectively do these images aid in the development of the attitudes toward war expressed in each poem? 2. In a paragraph write a comparison of the imagery in Elizabeth Browning's "If Thou Must Love Me" and Riickert's "If You Love for the Sake of Beauty"(pp. 556, 573). Even though the poems are on virtually identical subjects, how does the selection of images contribute toward making each poem distinct?

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Essay Writing 1. Basing your work on the poems in this chapter by Coleridge, Griffin, and Hopkins, write an essay discussing the poetic use of images drawn from the natural world. What sorts of references do the poets make? What attitudes do they express about the details they select? What is the relationship between the images and religious views? What judgments about topics such as nature, God, humanity, and friendship do the poets show by their images? 2. Considering the imagery of Tate's "Dream On" (this chapter) write an essay explaining the nature and use of imagery in poetry. As you develop your thoughts, be sure to consider the different characteristics of Tate's images and to account for the impressions and ideas that they create. You may also wish to introduce references to images from other poems that are relevant to your points. 3. Study the reproduction of Herkomer's painting Hard Times (p. 1-6); then write an essay comparing and contrasting Herkomer's artistic techniques with Hopkins's poem "Spring" and Pound's "In a Station of the Metro," along with other poems that you may wish to include. What similarities and differences do you find in subject matter, treatment, arrangement, and general idea? On the basis of your comparison, what relationships do you perceive between poetic and painterly technique Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write a poem describing one of these: a. Athletes who have just completed an exhausting run. b. Children getting out of school for the day. c. Your recollection of having been lost as a child. d. A cat that always sits down right on your schoolwork. e. A particularly good meal you had recently. f. The best concert you ever attended. g. Driving to work or school on a rainy or snowy day. Write an analysis of the images you selected for your poem, and explain your choices. What details stand out in your mind? What do you recall best—sight, smell, sound, action? What is the relationship between your images and the ideas you express in your poem? Library Assignment 1. Use the retrieval system in your library or go online to research the topic of imagery in Shakespeare (see imagery or style and imagery). How many titles do you find? Over how many years have these works been published? Take out one of the books or articles, and write a brief report on your findings. What topics are discussed? What types of imagery are introduced? What relation¬ ship does the author make between imagery and content?

Chapter 1 3 Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language: A Source of Depth and Range in Poetry

F

igures of speech, metaphorical language, figurative language, figurative devices, and rhetorical figures are terms describing organized patterns of com¬ parison that deepen, broaden, extend, illuminate, and emphasize meaning. First and foremost, the use of figures of speech is a major characteristic by which great literature provides us with fresh and original ways of thinking, feeling, and understanding. Although figurative language is sometimes called “ornate,” as though it were unnecessarily dec¬ orative, it is not uncommon in conversational speech, and it is essential in literary thought and expression. Unlike the writing of the social and “hard” sciences, imagina¬ tive literature is not direct and unambiguous, offering exact correspondences of words and things. Yes, literature presents specific and accurate descriptions and explana¬ tions, but it also moves in areas of implication and suggestiveness through the use of figurative language, which enables writers to amplify their ideas while still employing relatively small numbers of words. Such language is therefore a sine qua non in imag¬ inative literature, particularly poetry, where it compresses thought, deepens under¬ standing, and shapes response. The two most important figures of speech, and the most easily recognized, are metaphors and similes. There are also many other metaphorical figures, some of which are paradox, anaphora, apostrophe, personification, synecdoche and metonymy, pun (or paronomasia), synesthesia, overstatement, and understatement. All these figures are modes of comparison, and they may be expressed in single words, phrases, clauses, or entire structures.

Metaphors and Similes: The Major Figures of Speech A Metaphor Shows That Something Unknown Is Identical to Something Known A metaphor (a "carrying out a change") equates known objects or actions with something that is unknown or to be explained (e.g., "Your words are music to my ears/' "You are the sunshine of my life/' "My life is a squirrel cage"). The equation of the metaphor not only explains and illuminates the thing—let us choose Judith Minty's concept of marital inseparability in "Conjoined"—but also offers distinc¬ tive and original and often startling ways of seeing it and thinking about it. Thus Minty draws her metaphor of a married couple from the joining of two onions 583

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CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

under one onion skin. Here the metaphor is unique and surprising, and yet on examination it is right and natural, and also somewhat comic. Metaphors are inseparable from language. In a heavy storm, for example, trees may be said to bow constantly as the wind blows against them. Bow is a metaphor because the word usually refers to performers' bending forward to acknowledge the applause of an audience and to indicate their gratitude for the audience's approval. The metaphor therefore asks us to equate our knowledge of theater life (something known) to a weather occurrence (something to be explained). A comparable reference to theater life creates one of the best-known metaphors to appear in Shakespeare's plays: "All the world's a stage, / And all the men and women merely players." Here, Shakespeare's character Jacques (JAY-queez) from Act 2, scene 7, of As You Like It, identifies human life exactly with stage life. In other words, the things said and done by stage actors are also said and done by living people in real life. It is important to recognize that Shakespeare's metaphor does not state that the world is like a stage but that it lit¬ erally is a stage.

A Simile Shows That Something Unknown Is Similar to Something Known A simile (a "showing of likeness or resemblance") illustrates the similarity or comparability of the known to something unknown or to be explained. Whereas a metaphor merges identities, a simile focuses on resemblances (e.g., "Your words are like music to me, you are like sunshine in my life," "I feel like a squirrel in a cage"). Similes are distinguishable from metaphors because they are introduced by "like" with nouns and "as" (also "as if" and "as though") with clauses. If Minty had written that a married couple is like "The onion in my cupboard," her compar¬ ison would have been a simile. Let us consider one of the best-known similes in poetry, from "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" by the Renaissance poet John Donne. This is a dramatic poem spoken by a lover about to go on a trip. His loved one is sorrowful, and he attempts to console her by claiming that even when he is gone, he will remain with her in spirit. The following stanza contains the famous simile embodying this idea. Our two souls therefore, which are one. Though I must go, endure not yet A breach,0 but an expansion

break, separation

Like gold to airy thinness beat.

The simile compares the souls of the speaker and his loved one to gold, a metal both valuable and malleable. By the simile, the speaker asserts that the impend¬ ing departure will not be a separation but rather a thinning out, so that the rela¬ tionship of the lovers will remain constant and fervent, even as the distance between them increases. Because the comparison is introduced by like, the emphasis of the figurative language is on the similarity of the lovers' love to gold (which is always gold, even when it is thinned out by the goldsmith's hammer) not on the identification of the two.

KEATS • On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

585

Characteristics of Metaphorical Language In language, the words image and imagery define words that stimulate the imag¬ ination and recall memories (images) of sights, sounds, tastes, smells, sensations of touch, and motions (see Chapter 12). Metaphors and similes go beyond literal imagery to introduce perceptions and comparisons that can be unusual, unpre¬ dictable, and surprising, as in Donne's simile comparing the lovers' relationship to gold. The comparison emphasizes the bond between the two lovers; the refer¬ ence to gold shows how valuable the bond is; the unusual and original compari¬ son is one of the elements that make the poem striking and memorable. To see metaphorical language in further operation, let us take a commonly described condition—happiness. In everyday speech, we might use the sentence “She was happy" to state that a particular character was experiencing joy and excitement. The sentence is of course accurate, but it is not interesting. A more vivid way of saying the same thing is to use an image of action, such as "She jumped for joy." But another and better way of communicating joy is the following simile: "She felt as if she had just won the lottery." Because readers easily understand the disbe¬ lief, excitement, exhilaration, and delight that such an event would bring, they also understand—and feel—the character's happiness. It is the simile that evokes this perception and enables each reader to personalize the experience, for no simple description could help a reader comprehend the same degree of emotion. As a parallel poetic example, let us look at John Keats's sonnet "On First Look¬ ing into Chapman's Homer," which Keats wrote soon after reading the translation of Homer's great epics The Iliad and The Odyssey by the Renaissance poet George Chapman. Keats, one of the greatest of all poets himself, describes his enthusiasm about Chapman's successful and exciting work.

M JOHN KEATS

(1795-1821)_

On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer°(i8i6) Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,0 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen: Round many western islands0 have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo0 hold. Oft of one wide expanse0 had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne0;

the world of great art much ancient literature 5

epic poetry realm, estate

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene0 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken0;

range of vision

“George Chapman (c. 1560-1634) published his translations of Homer’s Iliad in 1612 and Odyssey in 1614_15. 4 bards . . . Apollo: writers who are sworn subjects of Apollo, the Greek god of light, music, poetry,

prophecy, and the sun. 7 serene: a clear expanse of air; also grandeur, clarity; rulers were also sometimes called “serene majesty.”

10

586

CHAPTER 13 * Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men Look d at each other with a wild surmise0— Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 0

conjecture, supposition

11 Cortez: Hernando Cortes (1485-1547), a Spanish general and the conqueror of Mexico. Keats confuses him with Vasco de Balhoa (c. 1475-1519), the first European to see the Pacific Ocean (in 1510) from Darien, an early name for the Isthmus of Panama.

As a first step in understanding the power of metaphorical language, we can briefly paraphrase the sonnet's content. I have enjoyed much art and read much poetry, and I have been told that Homer is the best writer of all. However, I did not appreciate his works until I first read them in Chap¬ man s clear arid forceful translation. This discovery was exciting and awe-inspiring. If all Keats had written had been a paragraph like this one, we would pay little attention to it, for it conveys no excitement or wonder. But the last six lines of the sonnet contain two memorable similes ("like some watcher of the skies" and "like stout Cortez ) that stand out and demand a special effort of imagination. To appre¬ ciate these similes fully, we need to imagine what it would be like to be an astronomer as he or she discovers a previously unknown planet, and what it would have been like to be one of the first European explorers to see the Pacific Ocean. As we imagine ourselves in these roles, we get a sense of the amazement, excitement, exhilaration, and joy that would accompany such discoveries. With that experience comes the realization that the world is far bigger and more astonishing than we had ever dreamed. Metaphorical language, therefore, makes strong demands on our creative imaginations. It bears repeating that as we develop our own mental pictures under the stimulation of metaphors and similes, we also develop appro¬ priately associated attitudes and feelings. Let us consider once more how Keats's metaphor "realms of gold" invites us both to imagine brilliant and shining king¬ doms and also to join Keats in valuing and loving not just poetry but all literature. The metaphorical "realms of gold" act upon our minds—liberating our imagina¬ tions, directing our understanding, and evoking our feelings. In such a way, read¬ ing and responding to the works of writers like Keats produces both mental and emotional experiences that were previously hidden to us. Poets constantly give us something new, and they increase our power to think and know. They enlarge us.

VEHICLE AND TENOR To describe the relationship between a writer's ideas and the metaphors and similes chosen to objectify them, two useful terms have been coined by I A Richards (in The Philosophy of Rhetoric [1929]). First is the vehicle, or the spe¬ cific words of the metaphor or simile. Second is the tenor, which is the totality of ideas and attitudes not only of the literary speaker but also of the author.

Other Figures of Speech

587

For example, the tenor of Donne's simile in "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourn¬ ing" is the inseparable love and unbreakable connection of the two lovers; the vehicle is the hammering of gold "to airy thinness." Similarly, the tenor of the similes in the sestet of Keats's sonnet "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer" is awe and wonder; the vehicle is the description of astronomical and geographical discovery.

V___J

Other Figures of Speech A Paradox Uses an Apparent Error or Contradiction to Reveal Truth A paradox is “a thought beyond a thought," a figurative device through which something apparently wrong or contradictory is shown to be truthful and non¬ contradictory. The phrase "I, a child, very old" in Whitman's "Facing West from California's Shores" is a paradox. The obvious contradiction is that no one can be old and young at the same time, but this contradiction can be reconciled if we realize that even as people get older they still retain many of the qualities of children (such as enthusiasm and hope). Thus Whitman's contradiction is not contradictory (is this clause a paradox?) and the speaker may genuinely be "a child, very old." The second line of Sir Thomas Wyatt's sonnet "I Find No Peace" embodies two paradoxes. One opposes fear with hope, the other fire with ice: "I fear and hope, I burn and freeze like ice." These paradoxes reflect the contradictory states of people in love—wanting love ("hope, burn ), but also being uncertain and unsure about the relationship ("fear," "freeze"). The paradoxes thus highlight the truth that love is a complex and often unsettling emotion.

Anaphora Provides Weight and Emphasis Through Repetition Anaphora ("to carry again or repeat") is the repetition of the same word or phrase throughout a work or a section of a work in order to lend weight and emphasis. An example occurs in Blake's "The Tyger" (this chapter), when the interrogative word what is used five times to emphasize the mystery of evil (italics added). What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? Anaphora is the most obvious feature of Muriel Rukeyser's "Looking at Each Other," where the word yes begins each of the poem's twenty-five lines.

588

CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

Apostrophe Creates the Drama of a Speaker Addressing an Audience In an apostrophe (a "turning away/' or redirection of attention) a speaker addresses a real or imagined listener who is not present. It is like a public speech, with read¬ ers as audience, and it therefore makes a poem dramatic. An apostrophe enables the speaker to develop ideas that might arise naturally on a public occasion, as in Wordsworth's sonnet "London, 1802," which is addressed to the long dead English poet Milton. In the following sonnet by Keats, "Bright Star," the speaker addresses a distant and inanimate star, yet through apostrophe he speaks as though the star has human understanding and divine power.

@ JOHN KEATS

H

5

10

if

(1795-1822)_

Bright Star (i838; isi9)

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night. And watching, with eternal lids apart. Like Nature's patient, sleepless eremite/ The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores. Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors; No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast. To feel forever its soft fall and swell. Awake forever in a sweet unrest. Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

hetmit. a holy presence

QUESTIONS 1. With what topic is the speaker concerned in this sonnet? How does he compare himself with the distant star? 2. What qualities does the speaker attribute specifically to the star? What role does he seem to assign to it? In light of this role, and the qualities needed to serve in it, how might the star be compared to a divine and benign presence? 3. In light of the emphasis on the words forever and ever in lines 11-14, how appropriate is the choice of the star as the subject of the apostrophe in the poem? In this sonnet the speaker addresses the star as though it is a person or god, an object of adoration, and the poem is therefore like a petitionary prayer. The star is idealized with qualities that the speaker wishes to establish in himself—namely, steadfastness, eternal watchfulness, and fidelity. The point of the apostrophe is thus to dramatize the speaker s yearning and to stress the permanence of space and eternity as contrasted with earthly impermanence.

KEATS • Bright Star

589

Personification Is the Attribution of Human Traits to Abstractions or to Nonhuman Objects A close neighbor of apostrophe is personification, another dramatic figurative device through which poets explore relationships to environment, ideals, and inner lives. In "Bright Star," as we have just seen, Keats personifies the star addressed by the speaker. Shakespeare's speaker in Sonnet 146, "Poor Soul, the Center of My Sinful Earth" (Chapter 18) personifies his own soul as he speaks of earthly and heavenly concerns. Other important uses of personification are seen in Keats's "To Autumn" (this chapter) and "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (Chapter 18).

Synecdoche and Metonymy Transfer Meanings by Parts and Associations These figures are close in purpose and effect. Synecdoche ("taking one thing out of another") is a device in which a part stands for the whole or a whole for a part, like the expression "all hands aboard," which describes the whole of a ship's crew by their hands, that part of them that performs work. Metonymy (a "transfer of name") substitutes one thing for another with which it is closely identified, as when "Hollywood" is used to mean the movie industry, or when "the White House" signifies the policies and activities of the American president. The pur¬ pose of both figures of speech is the creation of new insights and ideas, just as with metaphors and similes. Synecdoche is seen in Keats's "To Autumn," where the gourd and hazel shells, which are single instances of ripe produce, stand for the entire autumnal harvest. In Wordsworth's "London, 1802," the phrase "thy heart" (line 13) is a synecdoche in which a part—the heart—refers to the complete person. Metonymy is seen again in Keats's "To Autumn," when the "granary floor (line 14), the place where grain is stored, bears the transferred meaning of the entire autumnal harvest.

Pun, or Paronomasia, Shows That Words with Similar or Identical Sounds Have Different Meanings A pun ("a point or a puncture") or paronomasia ("something alongside a name") is wordplay stemming from the fact that words with different meanings have surprisingly similar or even identical sounds and that some individual words have surprisingly differing and even contradictory meanings. Because puns are sometimes considered outrageous and often require a little bit of thinking, people may groan when they hear them (even while they enjoy them). Also, because many puns seem to play only with sound, they have not always enjoyed critical acclaim. Good puns can always be relished because they work with sounds to reveal ideas. John Gay, for example, creates clever puns in the following song, sung chorally by the gang of thieves in The Beggar's Opera (1728), a play that, incidentally, marked the beginning of the modern musical comedy tradition.

590

CHAPTER 13 » Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

JOHN GAY

(1685-1732)

Let Us Take the Road (17Z8) Let us take the road. Hark! I hear the sound of coaches! The hour of attack approaches. To your arms, brave boys, and load. See the ball I hold!0 Let the chemists0 toil like asses. Our fire their fire surpasses,0 And turns all our lead to gold.

[holding up a bullet] alchemists Our [gunjfire is better than their [forge] fire.

QUESTIONS

1. What traits are shown by the singers of this poem? Why do they not seem frightening, despite their admission that they are holdup men, thugs? 2. Describe the puns in the poem. What kind of knowledge is needed to explain them fully? How many puns are there? How are they connected? Why do the puns seem both witty and outrageous? Here "fire," "lead," and "gold" are puns. Lead was the "base" or "low" metal that the medieval alchemists ("chemists") tried to transform into ingots of gold, using the heat from their fires. The puns develop because the gang of cutthroats singing the song is about to go out to rob travelers at gunpoint. Hence their bullets are their lead, which they plan to transform into the gold coins they steal. Their fire is not the fire of alchemists, but rather pistol fire. Through these puns. Gay's villains charm us by their wit and delight in their villainy, even though in real life they would scare us to death and make us run away in fear.

Synesthesia Demonstrates the Oneness or Unity of Feelings In synesthesia (the "bringing together of feelings") a poet describes a feeling or perception with words that usually refer to different or even opposite feelings or perceptions. Keats uses synesthesia extensively, as, for example, in the "Ode to a Nightingale" (Chapter 15), where a plot of ground is "melodious," a draught of wine tastes of "Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth," and beaded bubbles are "winking at the brim" of a wine glass.

Overstatement and Understatement Are Means of Creating Emphasis Two important devices creating emphasis are overstatement (or hyperbole), and understatement. Overstatement, also called the overreacher, is exaggeration for effect. In "London, 1802," for example, Wordsworth declares that England "is a fen/Of stagnant waters." That is, the country and its people collectively make up a stinking, polluted marsh, a muddy dump. What Wordsworth establishes by this overstatement is his judgment that England in 1802 was so morally and politically rotten that it needed a writer like Milton to unite the people around noble ideas.

AGUEROS • Sonnet for You, Familiar Famine

591

In contrast with overstatement, understatement is the deliberate underplay¬ ing or undervaluing of a thing. One of the most famous poetic understatements is in Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress" (Chapter 16). The grave's a fine and private place. But none, I think, do there embrace. Here Marvell, through understatement, wittily and grimly emphasizes the eternity of death by contrasting the motionless privacy of the grave with the active privacy of a trysting place.

Poems for Study Jack Agiieros.Sonnet for You, Familiar Famine, 591 William Blake.The Tyger, 592 Robert Burns.A Red, Red Rose, 593 John Donne.A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning, 594 Abbie Fluston Evans.The Iceberg Seven-Eighths Under, 595 Thomas Flardy.The Convergence of the Twain, 596 Joy Harjo.Remember, 598 John Keats.To Autumn, 599 Maurice Kenny.Legacy, 600 Jane Kenyon.Let Evening Come, 601 Flenry King.Sic Vita, 602 Robert Lowell.Skunk Hour, 602 Judith Minty.Conjoined, 604 Pablo Neruda.If You Forget Me, 605 Mary Oliver.Showing the Birds, 606 Marge Piercy.A Work of Artifice, 607 Muriel Rukeyser.Looking at Each Other, 608 William Shakespeare.Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day? 608 William Shakespeare.Sonnet 30: When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought, 609 Elizabeth Tudor, Queen Elizabeth I.On Monsieur's Departure, 610 Mona Van Duyn.Earth Tremors Felt in Missouri, 610 Deborah Warren.. • .ar|d Flame, 611 Walt Whitman.Facing West from California's Shores, 612 William Wordsworth.London, 1802, 613 Sir Thomas Wyatt..I Find No Peace, 613

JACK AGUEROS

(b. 1934)

% Sonnet for You, Familiar Famine

(1996)

Nobody's waiting for any apocalypse to meet you. Famine! We know you. There isn't a corner of our round world where you don't politely accompany someone to bed each

592

CHAPTER 13 * Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

night. In some families, you're the only one sitting at the table when the dinner bell tolls. "He's not so bad," say people who have plenty and easily tolerate you. They argue that small portions are good for us, and are just what we deserve. There's an activist side to you. Famine. You've been known to bring down governments, yet you never get any credit for your political reforms. Don't make the mistake I used to make of thinking fat people are immune to Famine. Famine has this other ugly side. Famine knows that the more you eat the more you long. That side bears his other frightening name. Emptiness. QUESTIONS 1. What figure of speech does the poet use in this poem? What situation does the poem address?

2. What is the purpose of using this figure for the poem rather than a more direct analysis of the causes and effects of hunger?

3. What powers does the speaker attribute to Famine? How correct is his assessment of these powers?

WILLIAM BLAKE

(1757-1827)

For a portrait, see Chapter 11, page 522.

^ The Tyger°

(1794)

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art. Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

Tyger . refers not only to a tiger but also to any large, wild, ferocious cat.

BURNS • A Red, Red Rose

593

When the stars threw down their spears. And water'd heaven with their tears. Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

QUESTIONS

1. What do the associations of the image of "burning" suggest? Why is the burning done at night rather than day? What does night suggest? 2. Describe the kinesthetic images of lines 5-20. What ideas is Blake's speaker represent¬ ing by these images? What attributes does the speaker suggest may belong to the blacksmith-type initiator of these actions? 3. Line 20 presents the kinesthetic image of a creator. What is implied about the mixture of good and evil in the world? What answer does the poem offer? Why does Blake phrase this line as a question rather than an assertion? 4. The sixth stanza repeats the first stanza with only one change of imagery of action. Con¬ trast these stanzas, stressing the difference between "could" (line 4) and "dare" (24).

ROBERT BURNS

(1759-1796)

For a portrait, see Chapter 11, page 523.

A Red, Red Rose

(1796)

O my Luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my Dear, Till a'° the seas gang0 dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear, And the rocks melt wi'° the sun: And I will luve thee still, my Dear, While the sands o'° life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve! And fare thee weel, awhile! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile!

594

CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

QUESTIONS 1. In light of the character and background of the speaker, do the two opening similes seem common or unusual? If they are just ordinary, does that fact diminish their value? How and why? '

2. Describe the shift of listener envisioned after the first stanza. How are the last three stanzas related to the first?

3. Consider the metaphors concerning time and travel. How do the metaphors assist you in comprehending the speaker's character?

9

JOHN DONNE

(1572-1631)

For a portrait, see Chapter 11, page 527.

9

A Valediction0: Forbidding Mourning

(1633)

As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go. Whilst some of their sad friends do say The breath goes now, and some say. No; 5

So let us melt, and make no noise. No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move, 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity0 our love.

10

Moving of th'earth0 brings harm and fears, Men reckon what it did and meant: But trepidation0 of the spheres. Though greater far, is innocent.

earthquakes

Dull sublunary lovers' love 15

(Whose soul is sense0) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined That our selves know not what it is. Inter-assured of the mind. Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls therefore, which are one. Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion Like gold to airy thinness beat.0 “Valediction: the saying of fairwell, or goodbye. 7, 8 profanation . . . laity: as though the lovers are priests of love whose love is a mystery. 11 trepidation: Before Sir Isaac Newton explained the precession of the equinoxes, it was assumed that the positions of heavenly bodies should be constant and perfectly circular. The clearly observable irregularities (caused by the slow wobbling of the earth’s axis) were explained by the concept of trepidation or a trembling or oscillation that occurred in the outermost of the spheres surrounding the earth. 14 soul is sense: lovers whose attraction is totally physical. 24 gold to airy thinness beat: a reference to the malleability of gold.

EVANS • The Iceberg Seven-Eighths Under

595

If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses0 are two; Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th'other do. And though it in the center sit. Yet when the other far doth roam. It leans and harkens after it. And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must Like th'other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness draws my circle just,0 And makes me end where I begun. °26 compasses: a compass used for drawing circles. 35 just: perfectly round.

QUESTIONS

1. What is the situation envisioned as the occasion for the poem? Who is talking to whom? What is their relationship? 2. What is the intention of the first two stanzas? What is the effect of the phrases "tearfloods" and "sigh-tempests"? 3. Describe the effect of the opening simile about men on their deathbeds. 4. What is the metaphor of the third stanza (lines 9-12)? In what sense might the "trepi¬ dation of the spheres" be less harmful than the parting of the lovers? 5. In lines 13-20 there is a comparison making the love of the speaker and his sweet¬ heart superior to the love of average lovers. What is the basis for the speaker s claim? 6. What is the comparison begun by the word "refined" in line 17 and continued by the simile in line 24?

ABBIE HUSTON EVANS

(1881-1983)

The Iceberg Seven-Eighths Under Under the sky at night, stunned by our guesses. We know incredibly much and incredibly little. Wrapped in the envelope of gossamer air, A clinging mote whirled round in a blizzard of stars, A chaff-cloud of great suns that has not settled. By the barn's black shoulder where the gibbous moon Hangs low, no other light making a glimmer In the dark country, hearing the breathing of cattle— I do not need that anyone should tell me Most real goes secret, sunken, nigh-submerged: Yet does it dazzle with its least part showing, Like the iceberg seven-eighths under.

(i96i)

596

CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

QUESTIONS 1. How does the simile of the "iceberg seven-eighths under" explain the "Most real" that "goes secret"? In what way is this simile, together with line 11, an extension of the idea in line 2? '

2. What metaphors does the poet use to describe the earth and the people ("We") on it?

3. Explain the contrast between the metaphors of night and darkness (lines 1, 6, 8) and the use of the word "dazzle" in line 11. How does the poem express awe about the vis¬ ible universe?

BP THOMAS HARDY

(1840-1928)

For a photo, see Chapter 10, page 491.

w The Convergence of the TWain (1912) Lines on the Loss of the "Titanic

"0

I In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity. And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. II

5

Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires,0 Cold Currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

thread, instrumental strings

III Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent. IV 10

Jewels in joy designed To ravish the sensuous mind Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

The Titanic: The largest passenger ship in existence at the time, and considered .unsinkable, was sunk after a collision with an iceberg on its maiden voyage in April 1912. The loss was particularly notable because some of the passengers were among the world’s social elite, and 1,500 people died because there were not enough lifeboats for everyone. In 1985 the wreck of the ship was discovered on the ocean floor at a depth of 13 000 feet, and some of the ship’s artifacts were recovered. The loss of the Titanic has become legendary 4-5 Steel chambers .

. salamandrine fires: The idea here is that the “steel chambers” of the ship’s furnaces

were built to resist the high heat of the coal fires, much like the salamander of ancient myth, which was reputedly capable of living through fire.

HARDY • The Convergence of the Twain

597

V

Dim moon-eyed fishes near Gaze at the gilded gear And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?"

15

VI

Well: while was fashioning This creature of cleaving wing. The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything VII

Prepared a sinister mate For her-so gaily great— A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

20

VIII

And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue. In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too. IX

Alien they seemed to be: No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history.

25

X

Or sign that they were bent By paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one august event. XI

Till the Spinner of the Years Said "Now!" And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

QUESTIONS

1. What human attributes does Hardy ascribe to the Titanic? What pronoun does he reg¬ ularly use in reference to the ship? What is the name of this figure of speech? 2. What are the meanings of "vanity" (line 2), "Pride of Life" (line 3), and "vainglorious¬ ness" (line 15) in relation to the speaker's judgment of the meaning of the Titanic? 3. Why does Hardy introduce the phrases "Spinner of the Years" (line 31) and "Imma¬ nent Will" (line 18)? 4. What is the idea of calling the iceberg the "sinister mate" of the Titanic (line 19)? What ’ irony results from this phrase, and from the word "consummation" in the last line of the poem?

30

598

CHAPTER 13 * Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

JOY HARJO

(b 1951)

For a photo, see Chapter 10, page 491.

%

5

10

15

20

Remember

(1983)

Remember the sky that you were born under, know each of the star's stories. Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her in a bar once in Iowa City. Remember the sum's birth at dawn, that is the strongest point of time. Remember sundown and the giving away to night. Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath. You are evidence of her life, and her mother's, and hers. Remember your father. He is your life, also. Remember the earth whose skin you are: red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth brown earth, we are earth. Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them, listen to them. They are alive poems. Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the origin of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once. Remember that you are all people and that all people are you. Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.

25

Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you. Remember that language comes from this. Remember the dance that language is, that life is. Remember.

QUESTIONS 1. How many times is the word "remember" repeated in this poem? What is the name of this figure of speech? What is the effect of the repetitions?

2. Who is the speaker, and who is the listener? What is the apparent purpose of stating all the things that the listener is being asked to remember? What is the implication of the word "remember," inasmuch as many of the things designated for remembrance hap¬ pened before the listener was alive or was old enough to have a memory?

3. What is meant by "the earth whose skin you are" in line 12? Explain the paradox of "you are all people and ... all people / are you" in lines 21-22.

1391 JOHN KEATS

(1795-1821)

For a portrait, see this chapter, page 585.

KEATS • To Autumn

599

To Autumn (1820) Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees. And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more. And still more, later flowers for the bees. Until they think warm days will never cease. For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind, Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep. Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too — While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

QUESTIONS

1. How is personification used in the first stanza? How does it change in the second? What is the effect of such personification? 2 How does Keats structure the poem to accord with his apostrophe to autumn? That is, in what ways can the stanzas be distinguished by the type of discourse addressed to the season? 3. Analyze Keats's metonymy in the first stanza and synecdoche in the second. What effects does he achieve with these devices? 4. How, through the use of images, does Keats develop his idea that autumn is a season of "mellow fruitfulness"?

600

CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

MAURICE KENNY

t ; Legacy

(b 1929)

(1984) V

my face is grass color of April rain; arms, legs are the limbs of birch, cedar; 5

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my thoughts are winds which blow; pictures in my mind are the climb uphill to dream in the sun; hawk feathers, and quills of porcupine running the edge of the stream which reflects stories of my many mornings and the dark faces of night mingled with victories of dawn and tomorrow; corn of the fields and squash . . . the daughters of my mother who collect honey and all the fruits; meadow and sky are the end of my day the stretch of my night yet the birth of my dust; my wind is the breath of a fawn the cry of the cub the trot of the wolf whose print covers the tracks of my feet; my word, my word, loaned legacy, the obligation I hand to the blood of my flesh the sinew of the loins to hold to the sun and the moon which direct the river that carries my song and the beat of the drum to the fires of the village which endures.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe some of the paradoxes that Kenny explores in this poem. What do the para¬ doxes contribute to the speaker's explanation of his identity?

601

KENYON • Let Evening Come

2. How can it be said that "meadow and sky are the end of my day / the stretch of my night / yet the birth of my dust" in lines 22-24?

3. What is the speaker's legacy? How does it differ from what is usually thought of as a legacy?

4. Describe the content of the use of phrases and clauses beginning with "which

in this poem. What is the name of this repetitive usage? What is the effect in this poem?

JANE KENYON

(1947-1995)

^ Let Evening Come

(1990)

Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn, moving up the bales as the sun moves down. Let the cricket take up chafing as a woman takes up her needles and her yarn. Let evening come.

5

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned in long grass. Let the stars appear and the moon disclose her silver horn. 10

Let the fox go back to its sandy den. Let the wind die down. Let the shed go black inside. Let evening come. To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop in the oats, to air in the lung

15

let evening come. Let it come as it will, and don't be afraid.0 God does not leave us comfortless,0 so let evening come.

Matthew 28:10 John 14:18

QUESTIONS 1. This poem features the repetition of phrases beginning with the word let. What is this pattern called? How many such phrases does the poem contain? How does the pattern furnish strength to the poem? 2. What sorts of activities does the speaker associate with day? With night? How are these activities connected? 3. Describe the shift of topic in the last stanza. Does this shift occur logically or illogically from the earlier topic material of the poem? How does the final stanza seem to be an ordinary and necessary part of the activities described in the first five stanzas?

602

CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

HENRY KING

(1592-1669)

Sic Vita°( 1657)

5

10

Like to the falling of a star. Or as the flights of eagles are. Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood. Or bubbles which on water stood: Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entombed in autumn lies: The dew dries up, the star is shot; The flight is past, and man forgot. °Sic Vita: Such is life (Latin).

QUESTIONS 1. How many similes do you find in lines 1-6? Describe the range of references; that is, from what sources are the similes derived? What do all these similes (and references) have in common?

2. Explain the two metaphors in lines 7-8. (One is brought out by the words "borrowed," "called in," and "paid," the other by "light" and "night.")

3. Explain the continuation in lines 9-12 of the similes in 1-6. Do you think that these last four lines are essential, or might the poem have been successfully concluded with line 8? Explain.

4. What point does this poem make about humanity? In what ways do the similes in the poem help explore these ideas and bring them to life?

ROBERT LOWELL

%

Skunk Hour

(1917-1977)

(1959)

For Elizabeth Bishop0 Nautilus Island's0 hermit

5

heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage; her sheep still graze above the sea. Her son's a bishop. Her farmer is first selectman in our village; she's in her dotage. Thirsting for the hierarchic privacy of Queen Victoria's century,

°For Elizabeth Bishop: Bishop and Lowell were friends. “Skunk Hour” is modeled on Bishop’s “The Armadillo” (still m manuscript in 1958, published in 1965), which she dedicated to Lowell. He, reciprocally, dedicated “Skunk Hour to her. 1 Nautilus Island’s: Lowell had a summer house on Nautilus Island, Maine.

LOWELL • Skunk Hour

603

she buys up all the eyesores facing her shore, and lets them fall. The season's ill— we've lost our summer millionaire, who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean catalogue. His nine-knot yawl was auctioned off to lobstermen. A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.0 And now our fairy decorator brightens his shop for fall; his fishnet's filled with orange cork, orange, his cobbler's bench and awl; there is no money in his work, he'd rather marry. One dark night, my Tudor0 Ford climbed the hill's skull; I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down, they lay together, hull to hull, where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . . My mind's not right.

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30

A car radio bleats, "Love, O careless Love°. ..." I hear my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell, as if my hand were at its throat. . . . I myself am hell;° nobody's here— only skunks, that search in the moonlight for a bite to eat. They march on their soles up Main Street: white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire under the chalk-dry and spar spire of the Trinitarian Church. I stand on top of our back steps and breathe the rich air— a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail. She jabs her wedge-head in a cup of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail, and will not scare. °18 Blue Hill:

a small town near Bangor, Maine. 26 Tudor: a pun referring to a Two-Door Ford and to the Tudor rub

ing family in England, which was followed by the Stuart family in 1603. Queen Elizabeth was the last of the Tudor monarchs. See her poem “On Monsieur’s Departure” in this chapter. 32 careless Love: a traditional folk and blues song: “Love, O love, O careless love, / You fly to my head like wine, / You’ve ruined the life of many a poor girl, / And you nearly wrecked this life of mine.” Singers like Bessie Smith, Pete Seeger, and Elvis Presley recorded this song, which many other singers have freely adapted. 35 I myself am hell: quoted from Milton’s Paradise Lost, 4.75.

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45

604

CHAPTER 13 * Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

QUESTIONS 1. What is the significance, if any, of the activities described by the speaker in lines 1-36? Are these ordinary or unusual activities? Why does the speaker state that he went looking for "love cars"? What is the importance of the speaker's noting that the lovers' lane is near the local graveyard?

2. In lines 30-36 the speaker makes observations about his mental condition. How does this section correspond to the idea of "confessional" poetry? (See Chapter 17, p. 797.) Why does the speaker say "My mind's not right" in line 30 and "nobody's here" in line 36? Why does he quote John Milton's Satan by saying "I myself am hell" in line 35?

3. What is the poem's dominant tense? Why does Lowell use past tenses in the third and sixth stanzas?

4. Describe the meaning of the mother skunk and "column of kittens" in the last two stanzas. Why is it significant that the mother skunk "will not scare"? In what way may the mother skunk and her family be considered metaphorically?

JUDITH MINTY (b 1937)

Conjoined

(i98i)

a marriage poem The onion in my cupboard, a monster, actually two joined under one transparent skin: each half-round, then flat and deformed where it pressed and grew against the other. 5

10

An accident, like the two-headed calf rooted in one body, fighting to suck at its mother's teats; or like those other freaks, Chang and Eng,° twins joined at the chest by skin and muscle, doomed to live, even make love, together for sixty years. Do you feel the skin that binds us together as we move, heavy in this house? To sever the muscle could free one, but might kill the other. Ah, but men

15

don't slice onions in the kitchen, seldom see what is invisible. We cannot escape each other. 7 Chang and Eng: bom in 1811, the original and most famous Siamese twins. Although they were never separated they nevertheless fathered twenty-two children. They died in 1874.

QUESTIONS 1. What are the two things—the "us" and "we" of lines 10 and 11—that are conjoined? Since this is "a marriage poem," might they be the man and the woman? Why might they also be considered as the body and soul of the speaker; or the desire to be married and subor¬ dinated, on the one hand, and to be free and in control of destiny, on the other?

2. Explore the metaphor of the onion and the similes of the two-headed calf and the Siamese twins. Why do you think the poet introduces the words "monster," "accident,"

NERUDA • If You Forget Me

605

and "freaks" into these figures in lines 1, 5, and 7? In what sense do you believe that these words are applicable to the nature and plight of women?

3. Is it true that all "men / don't slice onions in the kitchen, seldom see / what is invisi¬ ble" (lines 13-15)? Explain.

4. The first stanza of this three-stanza poem contains four lines; the second contains five lines; and the third contains six. What reason, if any, can you give for why the poet added a line to each of the stanzas?

PABLO NERUDA

(1904-1977)

For a photo, see Chapter 12, page 569.

If,

If You Forget Me

(1952-. 1963)

Translation by Donald S. Walsh I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

5

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15

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.

20

If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life,

25

and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember

30

606

35

40

45

CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.

QUESTIONS 1. What similes and metaphors do you discover in this poem? Explain the paradox in the last stanza.

2. What is the nature of the love the speaker expresses? How strongly and firmly does the speaker express his love? To what degree does he state that his love must be reciprocated to continue to exist?

3. Describe the development of the speaker's thought. Why does he introduce the metaphor that he might possibly lift up his roots "to seek another land"?

MARY OLIVER

%

5

(b. 1935)_

Showing the Birds0 (2008)

Look, children, here is the shy, flightless dodo; the many-colored pigeon named the passenger, the great auk, the Eskimo curlew, the woodpecker called the Lord God Bird, the . . . Come children, hurry—there are so many more wonderful things to show you in the museum's dark drawers.

Birds. Five extinct species of birds among those that were once abundant on earth are named in this poem, from the Dodo,,which became extinct in the seventeenth century, to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker (the “Lord God Bird”), which has not been reliably sighted since the 1980s. Although at one time Passenger Pigeons and Eskimo Curlews numbered many millions, they were declared extinct long before the end of the twentieth century.

PIERCY • A Work of Artifice

607

QUESTIONS 1. What is the dramatic situation of this poem? Who is talking to whom? Where is the action of the poem taking place?

2. Describe the effects of anaphora (repetitions) in lines 1 and 7 ("Look, children" and "Come children," and in lines 1 through 6 (the pattern beginning "the . . . ").

3. Consider the irony of the last two lines. Should "wonderful things" be found only in the "dark drawers" of the museum? What is the poem's implied idea about where wonderful things, instead, should be found?

MARGE PIERCY

(b. 1934)

^P A Work of Artifice

(1973)

The bonsai tree in the attractive pot could have grown eighty feet tall on the side of a mountain till split by lightning. But a gardener carefully pruned it. It is nine inches high. Every day as he whittles back the branches the gardener croons. It is your nature to be small and cozy, domestic and weak; how lucky, little tree, to have a pot to grow in. With living creatures one must begin very early to dwarf their growth: the bound feet, the crippled brain, the hair in curlers, the hands you love to touch.

QUESTIONS 1. What is a bonsai tree? In what ways is it an apt metaphor for women? The tree "could have grown eighty feet tall." What would be the comparable growth and development of a woman?

2. What do you make of the gardener's song (lines 12-16)? If the bonsai tree were able to respond, would it accept the gardener's consolation? What conclusions about women's lives are implied by the metaphor of the tree?

3. How does the poem shift at line 17? To what extent do the next images (lines 20-24) embody women's lives? How are the images metaphorical?

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608

CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

MURIEL RUKEYSER

(1913 1980)

g} Looking at Each Other

5

io

15

20

25

(1978)

Yes, we were looking at each other Yes, we knew each other very well Yes, we had made love with each other many times Yes, we had heard music together Yes, we had gone to the sea together Yes, we had cooked and eaten together Yes, we had laughed often day and night Yes, we fought violence and knew violence Yes, we hated the inner and outer oppression Yes, that day we were looking at each other Yes, we saw the sunlight pouring down Yes, the corner of the table was between us Yes, bread and flowers were on the table Yes, our eyes saw each other's eyes Yes, our mouths saw each other's mouth Yes, our breasts saw each other's breasts Yes, our bodies entire saw each other Yes, it was beginning in each Yes, it threw waves across our lives Yes, the pulses were becoming very strong Yes, the beating became very delicate Yes, the calling the arousal Yes, the arriving the coming Yes, there it was for both entire Yes, we were looking at each other QUESTIONS 1. What is the dramatic situation of the poem? What sort of listener is the speaker addressing?

2. Describe the rhetorical device at work here. How many different words are being repeated?

3. What is the effect of the repetitions? What is their relationship to the emotions and experiences that the speaker is describing?

■ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(1564-1616)_

For a portrait, see Chapter 20, page 1009. The following two sonnets are by Shakespeare.

@ if Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer s Day? (1609) Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

SHAKESPEARE • Sonnet 30: When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought

Rough winds do shake the darling0 buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven0 shines And often is his° gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines. By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade. Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;0 Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,0 When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see. So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

609 dear, cherished the sun its

owns, possess

°11 thou. . . shade: you are wandering in Death’s darkness.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the dramatic situation of the poem? Who is speaking to whom?

2. What do the metaphors in lines 1-8 assert? Why does the speaker emphasize life's brevity?

3. Describe the shift in topic beginning in line 9. How do these lines both deny and echo the subject of lines 1-8?

4. What relationship do the last two lines have to the rest of the poem? What is the mean¬ ing of "this" (line 14)? What sort of immortality does Shakespeare exalt in the sonnet?

M

Sonnet 30: When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought (1609) When to the sessions0 of sweet silent thought I summon0 up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:0 Then can I drown an eye (un-used to flow) For precious friends hid in death's dateless0 night. And weep afresh love's long since canceled0 woe. And moan th'expense0 of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. And heavily0 from woe to woe tell° o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay, as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee (dear friend) All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

holding of court

endless paid in full cost, loss sadly; count

°2 summon: to issue a summons to appear at a legal hearing. 4 old woes . . . waste: revive old sorrows about lost opportunities and express sorrow for them again.

QUESTIONS 1. Explain the metaphor of "sessions" and "summon" in lines 1-2. Where are the "ses¬ sions" being held? What is a "summons" for remembrance?

610

CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

2. What is the metaphor brought out by the word "canceled" in line 7? In what sense might a "woe" of love be canceled? Explain the metaphor of "expense" in line 8.

3. What type of transaction does Shakespeare refer to in the metaphor of lines 9-12? What understanding does the metaphor provide about the sadness and regret that a person feels about past mistakes and sorrows?

4. What role does the speaker assign to the "dear friend" of line 13 in relation to the metaphors of the poem?

ELIZABETH TUDOR, QUEEN ELIZABETH 1

On Monsieur’s Departure I I I I

(c. i56o: 1964)

grieve0 and dare not show my discontent, love and yet am forced to seem to hate. do, yet dare not say I ever meant, seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.0 I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned. Since from myself another self I turned.

My care0 is like my shadow in the sun. Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it. Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done. His too familiar care° doth make me rue it. No means I find to rid him from my breast. Till by the end of things it be supprest.

is

(1533 1603)

1am unhappy

chatter endlessly

loved one

alternativeness, love

Some gentler passion slide into my mind. For I am soft and made of melting snow; Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind. Let me or float or sink, be high or low. Or let me live with some more sweet content. Or die and so forget what love ere meant. QUESTIONS 1. What is the significance of "Monsieur's Departure"? How does this detail prompt the patterns of thought in the poem?

2. Explain the speaker's use of antithesis in the poem to explain her ambivalent situation. How seriously should we take the ideas in lines 12 and 18? Assuming that this is a deeply personal and private lyric, why, granted the speaker's royal status, does she express such contradictory feelings?

3. What is the meaning of the shadow simile in lines 7-10? How well does this compari¬ son reveal her situation?

4. What is explained by the paradoxes in lines 5 and 15?

MONA VAN DUYN

(1921-2004)_

Earth Tremors Felt in Missouri (1964) The quake last night was nothing personal, you told me this morning. I think one always wonders.

WARREN * Clay and Flame

611

unless, of course, something is visible: tremors that take us, private and willy-nilly, are usual. But the earth said last night that what I feel, you feel; what secretly moves you, moves me. One small, sensuous catastrophe makes inklings letters, spelled in a worldly tremble. The earth, with others on it, turns in its course as we turn toward each other, less than ourselves, gross, mindless, more than we were. Pebbles, we swell to planets, nearing the universal roll, in our conceit even comprehending the sun, whose bright ordeal leaves cool men woebegone.

QUESTIONS 1. In what ways is this poem intensely personal, a "confessional" poem? How does the poem develop materials that might be considered less personal and more public?

2. Why does the speaker equate herself and her listener with the earth? Granted that this metaphor is apt, what is then meant by "earth tremors," "quake last night," "Pebbles, we swell/to planets," and "comprehending the sun"?

3. What feelings are brought out in the last line through the words "ordeal" and "woebe¬ gone"?

DEBORAH WARREN (b 1946) NEW

Clay and Flame

(1999)

Nature .. . has mixed us of clay and flame, of brain and mind.0 —William James Up from the mineral mud and ore, from mildew and bacterium and mold and thallophyte0 and spore to fungus, rust and diatom; from moss and fern and flowering seed to coral, fluke and sponge, and from flatworm and snail and centipede to fish to swamp, until we come to mouse, to monkey—to the brain

°William James, Principles of Psychology, Ch. VI: “Nature in her unfathomable designs has mixed us of clay and flame, of brain and mind, that the two things hang indubitably together and determine each other’s being, but how or why, no mortal may ever know.” 3 thallophyte: undifferentiated plantlike organisms including lichens, fungi, and algae.

612 10

CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

that grew in tandem with the thumb: To tell exactly how we came from clay is easy. But explain the place inside the cranium where all that clay turns into flame.

QUESTIONS 1. Explain the structure of the first ten lines of this fourteen-line sonnet in terms of the repetitions of the pattern of anaphora based on the prepositions "from" and "to."

2. How "easy" is it, as the speaker suggests, to explain how "we came/from clay"? By contrast, explain why the speaker offers a challenge to readers to explain how the "clay turns into flame." What is to be understood by "clay" and "flame" here?

WALT WHITMAN (1819-1892)

Facing West from California’s Shores

(i860)

Facing west from California's shores. Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,

5

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I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity,0 the land of migrations, look afar. Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled; For starting westward from Hindustan,0 from the vales of Kashmir, From Asia, from the north, from the God, the sage, and the hero. From the south, from the flowery peninsulas0 and the spice islands,0 Long having wandered since, round the earth having wandered Now I face home again, very pleased and joyous. (But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?)

°3 house of maternity: Asia, then considered the cradle of human civilization. 5 Hindustan: India. 7 flowery penin~ sulas: south India, south Burma, and the Maylay peninsula. 7 spice islands: the Molucca Islands of Indonesia.

QUESTIONS 1. What major paradox, or apparently contradictory situation, is described in this poem? How does the poet bring out this paradox? What has the speaker been seeking? Where has he looked for it?

2. Describe the meaning of the phrases "a child, very old"; "where is what I started for"; "the circle almost circled." In what ways are these phrases paradoxical?

3. Why does the speaker twice use the word "unfound" (lines 2, 11)? How might the word be considered a theme of the poem?

9

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) For a portrait, see Chapter 11, page 539.

WYATT • I Find No Peace

London, 1802

613

(1802; 1807)

Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen° Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen. Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. Have forfeited their ancient English dower0 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners,0 virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. So didst thou travel on life's common way. In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

bog, marsh

widow's inheritance

°8 manners: customs, moral codes of social and political conduct.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the effect of Wordsworth's apostrophe to Milton? What elements of Milton's career as a writer does Wordsworth emphasize?

2. In lines 3 and 4, the device of metonymy is used. How does Wordsworth judge the respective institutions represented by the details?

3. Consider the use of overstatement, or hyperbole, from lines 2-6. What effect does Wordsworth achieve by using the device as extensively as he does here?

4. What effect does Wordsworth make through his use of overstatement in his praise of Milton in lines 9-14? What does he mean by the metonymic references to "soul" (line 9) and "heart" (line 13)?

SIR THOMAS WYATT (1503 1542)

^ I Find No Peace

(1557)

I find no peace, and all my war is done. I fear and hope, I burn and freeze like ice; I fly above the wind yet can I not arise; And naught I have and all the world I season. That looseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison,0 And holdeth me not, yet I can scape0 nowise; Nor letteth me live nor die at my devise,0 And yet of death it giveth none occasion. Without eyen° I see, and without tongue I plain;0

escape choice eyes

I desire to perish, and yet I ask health; I love another, and thus I hate myself; °5 that.. . prison: that is, “that which neither lets me go nor contains me holds me in prison.’ 1 At the time of Wyatt,

-eth was used for the third person singular present tense. 9 plain: express desires about love.

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CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain. Likewise displeaseth me both death and life0 And my delight is causer of this strife. °13 Likewise . . . life: literally, “it is displeasing to me, in the same way, both death and life.” That is, “both death and life are equally distasteful to me.”

QUESTIONS 1. What situation is the speaker reflecting upon? What metaphors and similes express his feelings? How successful are these figures?

2. How many paradoxes are in the poem? What is their cumulative effect? What is the topic of the paradoxes in lines 1-4? In lines 5-8? Why does the speaker declare that hat¬ ing himself is a consequence of loving another? Why is it ironic that his "delight" is the "causer of this strife"?

3. To what extent do you think the paradoxes express the feelings of a person in love, par¬ ticularly because in the sixteenth century free and unchaperoned meetings of lovers were not easily arranged?

WRITING TOPICS ABOUT FIGURES OF SPEECH Begin by determining the use, line by line, of metaphors, similes, or other rhetorical figures. Obviously, similes are the easiest figures to recognize because they introduce comparisons with the words like or as. Metaphors can be recognized because the topics are discussed not as themselves but as other topics. If the poems speak of falling leaves or law courts but the sub¬ jects involve memory or increasing age, you are looking at metaphors. Sim¬ ilarly, if the poet is addressing an absent person or a natural object, or if you find clear double meanings in words, you may have apostrophe, personifi¬ cation, or puns.

Questions for Discovering Ideas •

What figures of speech does the work contain? Where do they occur? Under what circumstances? How extensive are they?

•

How do you recognize them? Are they signaled by a single word or phrase, such as "desert places" in Frost's "Desert Places" (Chapter 15); or are they more extensively detailed, as in Shakespeare's Sonnet 30, "When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought"?

•

How vivid are the figures? How obvious? How unusual? What kind of effort is needed to understand them in context?

•

Structurally, how are the figures developed? How do they rise out of the sit¬ uation envisioned in the poem? To what degree are the figures integrated into the poem s development of ideas? How do they relate to other aspects of the poem? Is one type of figure used in a particular section while another type pre¬ dominates in another section? Why?

Writing Topics About Figures of Speech

•

• •

615

If you have discovered a number of figures, what relationships can you find among them (such as the judicial and financial connections in Shake¬ speare's "When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought")? How do the figures of speech broaden, deepen, or otherwise assist in making the ideas in the poem forceful? In general, how appropriate and meaningful are the figures of speech in the poem? What effect do the figures have on the poem's tone, and on your understanding and appreciation of the poem?

Strategies for Organizing Ideas For this essay, you might choose one of two types of compositions. One is a full-length essay The other, because some rhetorical figures may occupy only a small part of the poem, is a single paragraph. Let us consider the single paragraph first. 1. A paragraph. For a single paragraph you need only one topic, such as the hyperbole used in the opening of Wordsworth's sonnet "London, 1802." The goal is to deal with the single figure and its relationship to the poem's main idea. Thus the essay should describe the figure and discuss its meaning and implications. It is important to begin with a comprehensive topic sentence, such as one that explains the cleverness of the puns in Gay's "Let Us Take the Road," or the use of paradox in Wyatt's "I Find No Peace." 2. A full-length essay. One type of essay might examine just one figure, if the figure is pervasive enough in the poem to justify a full treatment. Most often, the poet's use of metaphors and similes is suitable for extensive discussion. A second type of essay might explore the meaning and effect of two or more fig¬ ures, with the various parts of the body of the essay being taken up with each figure. The unity of this second kind of essay is achieved by linking a series of two or three different rhetorical devices to a single idea or emotion. In the introduction, relate the quality of the figures to the general nature of the work. Thus, metaphors and similes of suffering might be appropriate to a religious, redemptive work, while those of sunshine, cheer, and flowers might be right for a romantic one. If there is any discrepancy between the metaphorical language and the topic, you could consider that contrast as a possible central idea, for it would clearly indicate the writer's ironic perspec¬ tive. Suppose that the topic of the poem is love, but the figures put you in mind of darkness and cold: What might the poet be saying about the quality of love? You should also try to justify any claims that you make about the fig¬ ures. For example, one of the similes in Coleridge's "Kubla Khan" (Chapter 12) compares the sounds of a "mighty fountain" to the breathing of the earth in "fast thick pants." How is this simile to be taken? As a reference to the animal¬ ity of the earth? As a suggestion that the fountain, and the earth, are danger¬ ous? Or simply as a comparison suggesting immense, forceful noise? How do you explain your answer or answers? Your introduction is the place to estab¬ lish ideas and justifications of this sort.

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CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

The following approaches for discussing rhetorical figures are not mutu¬ ally exclusive, and you may combine them as you wish. Most likely, your essay will bring in most of the following classifications. v

1. Interpret the meaning and effect of the figures. Here you explain how the figures enable you to make an interpretation. In the second stanza of "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning," for example, the following metaphor introduces church hierarchy and religious mystery to explain lovers and their love. 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love.

Here Donne emphasizes the mystical relationship of two lovers, drawing the metaphor from the religious tradition whereby any popular explanation of religious mysteries is considered a desecration. A directly explanatory approach such as this requires that metaphors, similes, or other figures be expanded and interpreted, including the explanation of necessary refer¬ ences and allusions. 2. Analyze the frames of reference and their appropriateness to the subject matter. Here you classify and locate the sources and types of the references and determine the appropriateness of these to the poem's subject matter. Ask questions similar to those you might ask in a study of imagery: Does the writer refer extensively to nature, science, warfare, politics, business, reading (e.g., Shakespeare s metaphor equating personal reverie with courtroom pro¬ ceedings)? Does the metaphor seem appropriate? How? Why? 3. Focus on the interests and sensibilities of the poet. In a way this approach is like strategy 2, but the emphasis here is on what the selectivity of the writer might show about his or her vision and interests. You might begin by listing the figures in the poem and then determining the sources, just as you would do in discussing the sources of images generally. But then you should raise questions like the following: Does the writer use figures derived from one sense rather than another (i.e., sight, hearing, taste, smell, touch)? Does he or she record color, brightness, shadow, shape, depth, height, number, size, slow¬ ness, speed, emptiness, fullness, richness, drabness? Has the writer relied on the associations of figures of sense? Do metaphors and similes referring to green plants and trees, to red roses, or to rich fabrics, for example, suggest that life is full and beautiful, or do references to touch suggest amorous warmth? This approach is designed to help you draw conclusions about the author's taste or sensibility. 4. Examine the effect of one figure on the other figures and ideas of the poem. The assumption of this approach is that each literary work is unified and organically whole, so that each part is closely related and inseparable from everything else. Usually it is best to pick a figure that occurs at the begin¬ ning of the poem and then determine how this figure influences your per¬ ception of the rest of the poem. Your aim is to consider the relationship of part to parts and part to whole. The beginning of Donne's "A Valediction:

Illustrative Student Paragraph

617

Forbidding Mourning," for example, contains a simile comparing the part¬ ing of the speaker and his listener to the quiet dying of "virtuous men." What is the effect of this comparison upon the poem? To help you with ques¬ tions like this, you might substitute a totally different detail, such as, here, the violent death of a condemned criminal, or the slaughter of a domestic animal, rather than the deaths of "virtuous men." Such suppositions, which would clearly be out of place, may help you understand and then explain the poet's figures of speech. In your conclusion, summarize your main points, describe your general impressions, try to describe the impact of the figures, indicate your per¬ sonal responses, or show what might further be done along the lines you have been developing. If you know other works by the same writer, or other works by other writers who use comparable or contrasting figures, you might explain the relationship of the other work or works to your pres¬ ent analysis.

Illustrative Student Paragraph

Wordsworth’s Use of Overstatement in “London, 1802”° Through overstatement in “London, 1802,” Wordsworth emphasizes his tribute to Milton as a master of idealistic thought.* The speaker’s claim that England is “a fen/Of stagnant waters” (lines 2-3) is overstated, as is the implication that people (“We”) in England have no “manners, virtue, freedom, power” (6, 8). With the overstatements, however, Wordsworth implies that the nation’s well-being depends on the constant flow of creative thoughts by persons of great ideas. Because Milton was clearly the greatest of these, in the view of Wordsworth’s speaker, the overstatements stress the need for leadership. Milton is the model, and the overstated criticism lays the foundation in the real political and moral world for the rebirth of another Milton. Thus, through overstatement, Wordsworth emphasizes Milton’s importance and in this way pays tribute to him.

°This poem appears on page 613. ♦Central idea.

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CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

Commentary on the Paragraph This paragraph deals with a single rhetorical figure, in this case Wordsworth's overstatements in "London, 1802." Although most often the figure of speech will be fairly obvious, as this one in "London, 1802" is, prominence is not a require¬ ment. In addition, there is no need to write an excessively long paragraph. The goal here is not to describe all the details of Wordsworth's overstatement but to show how the figure affects his tribute to Milton. For this reason the paragraph illustrates clear and direct support of the major point.

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Carter 1 David Carter Professor Hernandez English 123 17 December 2010 A Study of Shakespeare’s Metaphors in Sonnet 30: “When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought”0 HI

In this sonnet Shakespeare’s speaker stresses the sadness and regret of remembered experience, but he states that a person with these feelings may be cheered by the thought of a friend. His metaphors, cleverly used, create new and fresh ways of seeing personal life in this perspective.* He presents metaphors drawn from the public and business world of law courts, money, and banking or money-handling.f

[21

The courtroom metaphor of the first four lines shows that memories of past experience are constantly present and influential. Like a judge commanding defendants to appear in court, the speaker “summon[s]” his

“This poem appears on page 609. ‘Central idea. fThesis sentence.

Illustrative Student Essay

619

Carter 2 memory of “things past” to appear on trial before him. This metaphor suggests that people are their own judges and that their ideals and morals are like laws by which they measure themselves. The speaker finds himself guilty of wasting his time in the past. Removing himself, however, from the strict punishment that a real judge might require, he does not condemn himself for his “dear time’s waste,” but instead laments it (line 4). The metaphor is thus used to indicate that a person’s consciousness is made up just as much of self-doubt and reproach as by more positive qualities. With the closely related reference of money in the next group of four lines,

[3]

Shakespeare shows that living is a lifelong investment and is greatly valuable for this reason. According to the money metaphor, living requires the spending of emotions and commitment to others. When friends move away and loved ones die, it is as though a fortune has been lost. Thus, the speaker’s dead friends are “precious” because he invested time and love in them, and the “sights” that have “vanished” from his eyes make him “moan” because he went to great “expense” for them (8). Like the money metaphor, the metaphor of banking or money-handling in

[4]

the next four lines emphasizes that memory is a bank in which life’s experiences are deposited. The full emotions surrounding experience are recorded there, and may be withdrawn in moments of “sweet silent thought” just as a depositor may withdraw money. Thus the speaker states that he counts out the sad parts of his experience—his woe—just as a merchant or banker counts money: “And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er” (10). Because strong emotions still accompany his memories of past mistakes, the metaphor extends to borrowing and the payment of interest. The speaker thus says that he pays again with “new” woe the accounts that he had already paid with old woe. The metaphor suggests that the past is so much a part of the present that a person never stops feeling pain and regret. The legal, financial, and money-handling metaphors combine in the last two lines to show how a healthy present life may overcome past regrets. The “dear friend” being addressed in these lines has the resources (financial) to settle

[5]

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CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

Carter 3 all the emotional judgments that the speaker as a self-judge has made against himself (legal). It is as though the friend is a rich patron who rescues him from emotional bankruptcy (legal and financial) and the possible doom resulting from the potential sentence of emotional misery and depression (legal). [6]

In these metaphors, therefore, Shakespeare’s references are drawn from everyday public and business actions, but his use of them is creative and brilliant. In particular, the idea of line 8 (“And moan th’expense of many a vanished sight”) stresses that people spend much emotional energy in preserving their friendships. Without such personal commitment, one cannot have precious friends and loved ones. In keeping with this metaphor of money and investment, one could measure life not in months or years, but in the spending of emotion and involvement in personal relationships. Shakespeare, by inviting readers to explore the values brought out by his metaphors, gives new insights into the nature and value of life.

Carter 4 Work Cited Shakespeare, William. “Sonnet 30: When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 609. Print.

Commentary on the Essay This essay treats the three classes of metaphors that Shakespeare introduces in Sonnet 30. It thus illustrates the second strategy described on page 616. But the aim of the discussion is not to explore the extent and nature of the comparison between the metaphors and the personal situations described in the sonnet. Instead, the object is to explain how the metaphors develop Shakespeare's mean¬ ing. This essay therefore also illustrates the first strategy described on page 616. In addition to providing a brief description of the sonnet, the introduction brings out the central idea and the thesis sentence. Paragraph 2 deals with the meaning of Shakespeare's courtroom metaphor. His money metaphor is explained

Writing Topics About Figures of Speech in Poetry

621

in paragraph 3. Paragraph 4 considers the banking or money-handling figure. Paragraph 5 shows how Shakespeare's last two lines bring together the three strands of metaphor. The conclusion comments generally on the creativity of Shakespeare's metaphors, and it also amplifies the way in which the money metaphor leads toward an increased understanding of life. Throughout the essay, transitions are brought about by the linking words in the topic sentences. In paragraph 3, for example, the words "closely related" and "next group" move the reader from paragraph 2 to the new content. In paragraph 4, the words effecting the transition are "like the money metaphor" and "the next four lines." The opening sentence of paragraph 5 refers collectively to the subjects of paragraphs 2, 3, and 4, thereby focusing them on the new topic of paragraph 5.

Writing Topics About Figures of Speech in Poetry Writing Paragraphs 1. Consider one metaphor or simile from a poem in this chapter. Write a para¬ graph in which you answer the following questions. How effective is this metaphor or simile? How does the metaphor or simile help you develop your understanding of the poem? Writing Essays 1. Study the simile of the "stiff twin compasses" in Donne's "A Valediction: For¬ bidding Mourning." Using such a compass or a drawing of one, write an essay that demonstrates the accuracy, or lack of it, of Donne's descriptions. What light does the simile shed on the relationship of two lovers? How does it emphasize any or all of these aspects of love: closeness, immediacy, extent, importance, duration, intensity? 2. Consider some of the metaphors and similes in various poems in which you are interested. Write an essay that answers the following questions. How effective are the figures you select? (Examples: a rose [Burns], an iceberg [Evans], the sunken Titanic [Hardy], the summer's day [Shakespeare].) What insights do the figures provide within the contexts of their respective poems? How appropriate are they? Might they be expanded more fully, and if they were, what would be the effect? 3. Consider some of the other rhetorical figures in the poems of this chapter. Write an essay describing the importance of figures of speech in creating emphasis and in extending and deepening the ideas of poetry. Here are some possible topics, all on poems in this chapter. a. Paradox in Wyatt's "I Find No Peace" or Whitman's "Facing West from California's Shores." b. Paradox and apparent contradiction in Kenny's "Legacy." c. Metaphor in Minty's "Conjoined" or Piercy's "A Work of Artifice." d. Metaphor and simile in Evans's "The Iceberg Seven-Eighths Under" or in Hardy's "The Convergence of the Twain."

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CHAPTER 13 • Figures of Speech, or Metaphorical Language

e. Anaphora in Rukeyser's "Looking at Each Other," Harjo's "Remember," Kenyon's "Let Evening Come," Oliver's "Showing the Birds," or Warren's "Clay and Flame." f. A comparison of contrasts and paradoxes in Queen Elizabeth's "On Mon¬ sieur's Departure" and Wyatt's "I Find No Peace." g. Similes in King's "Sic Vita" or Donne's "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourn¬ ing," personification in the poems by Wordsworth, Keats, or Agiieros; metonymy in Keats's "To Autumn." Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write a poem in which you create a governing metaphor or simile. Examples: "My girlfriend/boyfriend is like (a) an opening flower, (b) a difficult book, (c) an insoluble mathematical problem, (d) a bill that cannot be paid, (e) a slow-moving chess game." "Teaching a person how to do a particular job is like (a) shoveling heavy snow, (b) climbing a mountain during a landslide, (c) having someone force you underwater when you're gasping for breath." When you finish, describe the relationship between your comparison and the development and structure of your poem. Library Assignment 1. In your library's reference section, find the third edition of J. A. Cuddon's A Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory (1991) or some other dictionary of literary terms that you find under "list of literary terms" on Google. Study the entries for metaphysical and conceit, and write a brief report on these sec¬ tions. You might attempt to answer questions like these: What is meant by the word conceit? What are some of the kinds of conceit the reference work dis¬ cusses? What is a metaphysical conceit? Who are some of the writers consid¬ ered metaphysical? In the "metaphysical" entry, of what importance is John Donne?

Chapter 14 Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

T

one, a concept derived from the phrase tone of voice, describes the shaping of attitudes in poetry (see also Chapter 6, on tone and style in fiction). Each poet’s choice of words governs the reader’s responses, as do the participants and situations in the poem. In addition, the poet shapes responses through denotation and connota¬ tion, seriousness or humor, irony, metaphors, similes, understatement, overstatement, and other figures of speech (see Chapter 13). Of major importance is the poem’s speaker. How much self-awareness does the speaker show? What is his or her back¬ ground? What relationship does the speaker establish with listeners and readers? What does the speaker assume about the readers and about their knowledge? How do these assumptions affect the ideas and the diction? To compare poetic tone with artistic tone, see the reproduction of Fernand Leger’s painting The City{p. 1-8). A viewer’s response to the painting depends on the relation¬ ships of the various shapes to Leger’s arrangement and color. The signs, stairs, pole, and human figures in the painting are all common in modern cities. By cutting them up or leaving them partially hidden, Leger creates an atmosphere suggesting that con¬ temporary urban life is truncated, sinister, and even threatening. The same control applies to poetic expression. The sentences must be just long enough to achieve the poet’s intended effect—no shorter and no longer. In a conversa¬ tional style there should be few if any formal words, just as in a formal style there should be no slang, no rollicking rhythms, and no frivolous rhymes—that is, unless the poet deliberately wants readers to be startled or shocked. In all the features that con¬ tribute to a poem’s tone, the poet’s consistency of intention is primary. Any uninten¬ tional deviations will cause the poem to sink and the poet to fail.

Tone, Choice, and Response Remember that a major objective of poets is to stimulate, enrich, and inspire read¬ ers. Poets may begin their poems with a brief idea, a vague feeling, or a fleeting impression. Then, in the light of their developing design, they choose what to say— the form of their material and the words and phrases to express their ideas. The poem "Theme for English B" by Langston Hughes illustrates this process in almost outline form (see Chapter 17). Hughes's speaker lays out many interests that he shares with his intended reader, his English teacher, for the poem is imag¬ ined to be a response to a classroom assignment. In this way Hughes encourages all readers to accept his ideas of human equality. In the long run, readers might not accept all the ideas in any poem, but the successful poem gains agreement—at least for a time—because the poet's control 623

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

over tone is right. Each poem attempts to evoke total responses, which might be destroyed by any lapses in tone. Let us look at a poem in which the tone misses, and misses badly.

CORNELIUS WHUR

(1782-1853)

The First-Rate Wife

5

This brief effusion I indite. And my vast wishes send. That thou mayst be directed right. And have ere long within thy sight A most enchanting friend!

io

The maiden should have lovely face, And be of genteel mien; If not, within thy dwelling place. There may be vestige of disgrace, Not much admired—when seen.

15

Nor will thy dearest be complete Without domestic care; If otherwise, howe'er discreet. Thine eyes will very often meet What none desire to share!

20

And further still—thy future dear, Should have some mental ray; If not, thou mayest drop a tear. Because no real sense is there To charm life's dreary day!

(1837)

QUESTIONS 1. What kind of person is the poem's speaker? What is the situation? What requirements does the speaker create for the "first-rate wife"?

2. Describe the poem's tone. How does the speaker's character influence the tone? In light of the tone, to what degree can the poem be considered insulting?

3. How might lines 14 and 15 be interpreted as a possible threat if the woman as a wife does not keep the house clean and straight?

In this poem the speaker is talking to a friend or associate and is explaining his requirements for a first-rate wife. From his tone, he clearly regards getting married as little more than hiring a pretty housekeeper. In the phrase "some mental ray," for example, the word some does not mean "a great deal" but is more like "at least some," as though nothing more could be expected of a woman. Even allowing for the fact that the poem was written early in the nineteenth century and represents a benighted view of women and marriage, "The First-Rate Wife" offends most readers. Do you wonder why you've never heard of Cornelius Whur before?

OWEN • Dulce et Decorum Est

625

Tone and the Need for Control "The First-Rate Wife" demonstrates the need for the poet to be in control over all facets of the poem. The speaker must be aware of his or her situation and should not, like Whur's speaker, demonstrate any smugness or insensitivity, unless the poet is deliberately revealing the shortcomings of the speaker by dram¬ atizing them for the reader's amusement, as E. E. Cummings does in the poem "next to of course god america i" (Chapter 11). In a poem with well-controlled tone, details and situations should be factually correct; observations should be logical and fair, and also comprehensive and generally applicable. The follow¬ ing poem, based on battlefield conditions in World War I, illustrates a masterly control over tone.

ffl WILFRED OWEN

(1893-1918)

ffl % Dulce et Decorum Est°( 1920) Bent double, like old beggars under sacks. Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge. Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines0 that dropped behind. Gas!0 GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling. Fitting the clumsy helmets0 just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green0 light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight. He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in. And watch the white eyes writhing in his face. His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs. Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

“The Latin title is taken from Horace’s Odes, Book 3, line 13: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (“It is sweet and honorable to die for the fatherland”). 8 Five-Nines: A “five-nine” was a 5.9-inch German high-explosive artillery shell that made a hooting sound before landing. 9 Gas: Chlorine gas was used as an antipersonnel weapon in 1915 by the Germans at Ypres, in Belgium. 10 helmets: Soldiers carried gas masks as normal battle equipment. 13 thick green: The deadly chlorine gas used in gas attacks has a greenish-yellow color.

5

10

15

20

626

CHAPTER 14 * Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues.— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Duke et decorum est Pro patria mori.

v

QUESTIONS 1. What is the scene described in lines 1-8? What expressions does the speaker use to indicate his attitude toward the conditions?

2. What does the title of the poem mean? What attitude or conviction does it embody? 3. Does the speaker really mean "my friend" in line 25? In what tone of voice might this phrase be spoken?

4. What is the tonal relationship between the patriotic fervor of the Latin phrase and the images of the poem? How does the tonal contrast create the dominant tone of the poem?

The tone of "Dulce et Decorum Est" never lapses. The poet intends the description to evoke a response of horror and shock, for he contrasts the strate¬ gic goals of warfare with the speaker's personal experience of terror in battle. The speaker's language skillfully emphasizes first the dreariness and fatigue of warfare (with words like "sludge," "trudge," "lame," and "blind") and second the agony of violent death from chlorine gas (embodied in the participles "gut¬ tering," "choking," "drowning," "smothering," and "writhing"). With these details established, the concluding attack against the "glory" of war is difficult to refute, even if warfare is undertaken to defend or preserve one's country. Although the details about the agonized death may distress or discomfort a sensitive reader, they are not designed to do that alone but instead are integral to the poem's argument. Ultimately, it is the contrast between the high ideals of the Latin phrase and the ugliness of battlefield death that creates the dominant tone of the poem. The Latin phrase treats war and death in the abstract; the poem makes images of battle and death vividly real. The resultant tone is that of controlled bitterness and irony.

Tone and Common Grounds of Assent Not all those reading Owen's poem will deny that war is sometimes necessary; the issues of politics and warfare are far too complex for that. But the poem does show another important aspect of tone—namely, the degree to which the poet judges and tries to control responses through the establishment of a common ground of assent. An appeal to a bond of commonly held interests, con¬ cerns, and assumptions is essential if a poet is to maintain an effective tone. Owen, for example, does not create arguments against the necessity of a just war. Instead, he bases the poem on realistic details about the choking, writhing, spastic death suffered by the speaker's comrade; he also appeals to emotions that everyone, pacifist and militarist alike, would feel—horror at the contem¬ plation of violent death. Even assuming a widely divergent audience, in other

Tone and Irony

627

words, the tone of the poem is successful because it is based on commonly acknowledged facts and commonly felt emotions. Knowing a poem like this one, even advocates of a strong military would need to defend their ideas on the grounds of preventing just such needless, ugly deaths. Owen carefully con¬ siders the responses of his readers, and he regulates speaker, situation, detail, and argument in order to make the poem acceptable for the broadest possible spectrum of opinion.

TONE IN CONVERSATION AND POETRY Many readers think that tone is a subtle and difficult subject, but it is neverthe¬ less true that in ordinary situations we master tone easily and expertly (see Chapter 6). We constantly use standard questions and statements that deal with tone, such as "What do you mean by that?" "What I'm saying is this . . . ," and "Did I hear you correctly?" together with other comments that extend to humor and, sometimes, to hostility. In poetry we do not have everyday speech situa¬ tions; we have only the poems themselves and are guided by the materials they provide us. Some poems are straightforward and unambiguous, but in other poems feeling and mood are essential to our understanding. In Hardy's "The Workbox" (this chapter), for example, the husband's hand-made gift to his wife indicates not love but suspicion. Also, the husband's relentless linking of the dead man's coffin to the gift reveals both doubt and anger. Pope, in the passage from the "Epilogue to the Satires" (this chapter), satirically describes deplorable habits and customs of his English contemporaries in the 1730s. His concluding lines (of the passage and also of the poem) emphasize his scorn: Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) Show there was one who held it in disdain. Of course, poems may also reveal respect and wonder, as shown in the last six lines of Keats's "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer" (Chapter 13). By attend¬ ing carefully to the details of such poems, you can draw conclusions about poetic tone that are as accurate as those you draw in normal speech situations.

V___J Tone and Irony

- ■ .

Irony is a mode of indirection, a means of making a point by emphasizing a dis¬ crepancy or opposite (see also Chapter 6). Thus Owen uses the title "Dulce et Decorum Est" to emphasize that death in warfare is not sweet and honorable but rather demeaning and horrible. The title ironically reminds us of eloquent holiday speeches at the tombs of unknown soldiers, but as we have seen, it also reminds us of the reality of the agonized death of Owen's soldier. As an aspect of tone, therefore, irony is a powerful way of conveying attitudes, for it draws your atten¬ tion to at least two ways of seeing a situation, enabling you not only to understand but also to experience. Poetry shares with fiction the three primary kinds of ironies that afflict human beings: verbal irony, situational irony, and dramatic irony.

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CHAPTER 14 * Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

Verbal Irony, Through Word Selection, Emphasizes Ambiguities and Discrepancies 1 __ At almost any point in a poem, a poet may introduce thg ironic effects of language itself—verbal irony. Cummings's poem "she being Brand/-new" is built on the double meanings derived from the procedures of breaking in a new car. Indeed, the entire poem is a virtuoso piece of double-entendre. Another example of verbal irony occurs in Theodore Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz," in which the speaker uses the name of this graceful and stately dance to describe his childhood memories of his father's whirling him around the kitchen in wild, boisterous drunkenness.

Life’s Anomalies and Uncertainties Underlie Situational Irony Situational irony is derived from the discrepancies between the ideal and the actual. People would like to live their lives in terms of a standard of love, friendship, honor, success, and general excellence, but the irony is that the reality of their lives often falls far short of such standards. Whereas in fiction ironic situations emerge from extended narrative, in poetry such situations are usually at a high point or climax, and we must infer the narrative circumstances that have gone on before. Thomas Hardy, in "The Workbox," skillfully exploits an ironic situation between a husband and a wife.

5 THOMAS HARDY

(1840-1928)_

For a photo, see Chapter 10, page 491.

if

The Workbox

(1914)

"See, here's the workbox, little wife. That I made of polished oak." He was a joiner,0 of village0 life; She came of borough0 folk. s

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cabinetmaker

He holds the present up to her As with a smile she nears And answers to the profferer, "'Twill last all my sewing years!" "I warrant it will. And longer too. 'Tis a scantling0 that I got Off poor John Wayward's coffin, who Died of they knew not what. "The shingled pattern that seems to cease Against your box's rim Continues right on in the piece That's underground with him.

°3, 4 village, borough: An English village was small and rustic; a borough was larger and more sophisticated. 10 scantling: a small leftover piece of wood.

HARDY • The Workbox

629

"And while I worked it made me think Of timber's varied doom: One inch where people eat and drink. The next inch in a tomb.

20

"But why do you look so white, my dear. And turn aside your face? You knew not that good lad, I fear. Though he came from your native place?" "How could I know that good young man. Though he came from my native town. When he must have left far earlier than I was a woman grown?" "Ah, no. I should have understood! It shocked you that I gave To you one end of a piece of wood Whose other is in a grave?" "Don't, dear, despise my intellect. Mere accidental things Of that sort never have effect On my imaginings." Yet still her lips were limp and wan. Her face still held aside. As if she had known not only John, But known of what he died.

QUESTIONS 1. Who does most of the speaking? What does the speaker's tone show about the charac¬ ters of the husband and the wife? What does the tone indicate about the poet's attitude toward them?

2. What do lines 21-40 indicate about the wife's knowledge of John and about her earlier relationship with him? Why does she deny such knowledge? What does the last stanza show about her? Why is John's death kept a mystery?

3. In lines 17-20, what irony is suggested by the fact that the wood was used both for John Wayward's coffin and the workbox?

4. Why is the husband's irony more complex than he realizes? What do his words and actions show about his character?

5. The narrator, or poet, speaks only in lines 3-7 and 37-40. How much of his explanation is essential? How much shows his attitude? How might the poem have been more effectively concluded?

"The Workbox" is a domestic drama of deception, cruelty, and sadness. The com¬ plex details are evidence of situational irony, that is, an awareness that human beings do not control their lives but are rather controlled by powerful forces—in this case by both death and earlier feelings and commitments. Beyond this

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CHAPTER 14 » Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

domestic irony, Hardy also emphasizes symbolically the direct connection that death has with the living. As a result of the husband's gift made of the wood with which he has also made a coffin for the dead man, the wife will never escape being reminded of this man. Within the existence imagined in the poem, she will have to live with regret and the constant need to deny her true emotions, and her situation is therefore endlessly ironic.

Dramatic Irony Is Built on the Ignorance of Characters and the Greater Knowledge of Readers In addition to the situational irony of "The Workbox," the wife's deception reveals that the husband is in a situation of dramatic irony. He does not know the circum¬ stances of his wife's past, and he does not actually know—though he suspects—that his wife is not being truthful about her earlier relationship with the dead man; but the poem is sufficient to enable readers to draw the right conclusions. By emphasiz¬ ing the wood, the husband is apparently trying to make his wife uncomfortable, even to the point of extracting a confession from her; but he has only his suspicions, and he therefore remains unsure of the truth and also of his wife's feelings. Because of these uncertainties. Hardy has deftly used dramatic irony to create a poem of great complexity and pathos.

Tone and Satire

‘

.

Satire, a vital genre in the study of tone, is designed to expose human follies and vices. In method, a satiric poem may be bitter and vituperative, but often it employs humor and irony, on the grounds that anger turns readers away while a comic tone more easily wins interest and agreement. The speaker of a satiric poem may either attack folly and vice directly, or may dramatically embody the folly or vice himself or herself and thus serve as an illustration of the satiric subject. An example of the first type is the following short poem by Alexander Pope, in which the speaker directly attacks a listener who has claimed to be a poet but whom the speaker considers both a bad poet and a fool. The speaker cleverly uses insult as the method of attack.

ALEXANDER POPE

(1688-1744)

For a portrait, see this chapter, page 650

t Epigram from the French Sir, I admit your general rule That every poet is a fool: But you yourself may serve to show it. That every fool is not a poet.

(1732)

POPE • Epigram, Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Royal Highness

631

QUESTIONS 1. What has the listener said before the poem begins? How does the speaker build on the listener's previous comment?

2. Considering this poem as a brief satire, describe the nature of satiric attack and the cor¬ responding tone of attack.

3. Look at tire pattern "poet," "fool," "fool," "poet." This is a rhetorical pattern (a, b, b, a) called chiasmus or antimetabole. What does tire pattern contribute to tire poem's effectiveness?

An example of the second type of satiric poem is another of Pope's epigrams, in which the speaker is an actual embodiment of the subject being attacked.

If

Epigram, Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which 1 Gave to His Royal Highness (1738)

I am his Highness' dog at Kew:° Pray tell me sir, whose dog are you?

the royal palace near London

QUESTIONS 1. Who or what is the subject of the satiric attack?

2. What attitude is expressed toward social pretentiousness? Here the speaker is, comically, the king's dog, and the listener is an unknown dog. Pope's satire is directed not against canines, however, but against human beings who overemphasize the significance of social class. The first line ridicules those who claim social status that is derived, not earned. The second implies an unwillingness to rec¬ ognize the listener until the question of rank is resolved. Pope, by using the dog as a speaker, reduces such snobbishness to an absurdity. A similar satiric poem attacking pretentiousness is "next to of course god america i" by Cummings (Chapter 11). In this poem the speaker voices a set of patriotic platitudes, and in doing so illustrates Cummings's satiric point that most speeches of this sort are empty-headed. Satiric tone may thus range widely, being sometimes objective, comic, and distant; some¬ times deeply concerned and scornful; and sometimes dramatic, ingenuous, and reve¬ latory. Always, however, the satiric mode aims toward confrontation and expose.

Poems for Study William Blake.On Another's Sorrow, 632 Robert Browning.My Last Duchess, 633 Jimmy Carter.I Wanted to Share My Father's World, 635 Lucille Clifton.homage to my hips, 636 Billy Collins.The Names, 636 E. E. Cummings.she being Brand / -new, 638 Bart Edelman.Trouble, 639 Martin Espada.Bully, 640 Mari Evans.I Am a Black Woman, 642 Seamus Heaney.Mid-Term Break, 643

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

William Ernest Henley.When You Are Old, 644 David Ignatow.The Bagel, 644 Yusef Komunyakaa.Facing It, 645 Abraham Lincoln.v . My Childhood's Home, 646 Pat Mora.

La Migra, 647

Sharon Olds.The Planned Child, 648 Robert Pinsky.Dying, 649 Alexander Pope.from Epilogue to the Satires, Dialogue I, 650 Salvatore Quasimodo.Auschwitz, 651 Anne Ridler.Nothing Is Lost, 653 Theodore Roethke.My Papa's Waltz, 654 William Shakespeare.Fear No More the Heat o' th' Sun, 655 Cathy Song.Lost Sister, 656 Jonathan Swift.A Description of the Morning, 657 David Wagoner.My Physics Teacher, 658 C. K. Williams.Dimensions, 659 William Wordsworth.The Solitary Reaper, 660 William Butler Yeats.When You Are Old, 661

9 WILLIAM BLAKE

(1757-1827)

For a portrait, see Chapter 11, page 522.

On Another’s Sorrow (1789) Can I see another's woe. And not be in sorrow too. Can I see another's grief. And not seek for kind relief. 5

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Can I see a falling tear. And not feel my sorrows share. Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled. Can a mother sit and hear, An infant groan an infant fear— No never can it be. Never never can it be. And can he who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small birds grief & care Hear the woes that infants bear— And not sit beside the nest Pouring pity in their breast. And not sit the cradle near Weeping tear on infants tear.

BROWNING • My Last Duchess

633

And not sit both night & day. Wiping all our tears away. O! no never can it be. Never never can it be. He He He He

doth give his joy to all. becomes an infant small. becomes a man of woe doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not, thou canst sigh a sigh. And thy maker is not by. Think not, thou canst weep a tear. And thy maker is not near. O! he gives to us his joy. That our grief he may destroy Till our grief is fled & gone He doth sit by us and moan.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the character of this poem's speaker. What is he like? What are the circum¬ stances of the persons in need of sympathy?

2. Describe the tone of the poem. What connection with human suffering does the speaker establish with human sympathy and with the divine "maker"?

3. Why do you think Blake uses the word "maker" (line 32) rather than God? According to the poem, what are the continuing roles of the maker among human beings? What assurances do people in sorrow have from their belief in divinity?

ROBERT BROWNING

(1812-1889)

My Last Duchess° (1842) Ferrara That's my last Duchess painted on the wall. Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's° hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read

°The poem “My Last Duchess” is based on incidents in the life of Alfonso II, duke of Ferrara, whose first wife died in 1561. Some claimed she was poisoned. The duke negotiated his second marriage to the daughter of the count of Tyrol through an agent. °3 Fra Pandolf: an imaginary painter who is also a monk.

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CHAPTER 14 * Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

Strangers like you that pictured countenance. The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,0 How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart—how shall I say?-—too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast. The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech. Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech—(which 1 have not)—to make your will Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss. Or there exceed the mark"—and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse —E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt. Whene'er 1 passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; 1 gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune,0 though.

54 Neptune: Roman god of the sea.

CARTER • I Wanted to Share My Father's World

635

Taming a sea horse, thought a rarity.

55

Which Claus of Innsbruck0 cast in bronze for me! °56 Claus of Innsbruck: an imaginary sculptor.

QUESTIONS 1. Who dominates the conversation in this poem? Who is the listener? What is the pur¬ pose of the 'conversation"? Why does the speaker avoid dealing with the purpose until near the poem's end?

2. What third character does the speaker describe? In what ways are his descriptions accurate or inaccurate? What judgment do you think Browning wants you to make of the speaker? Why?

3. How does the speaker's language illustrate his attitude toward his own power? In light of this attitude, what do you think Browning's point is in the poem?

JIMMY CARTER

(b 1924)

I Wanted to Share My Father’s World

(1995)

This is a pain I mostly hide, but ties of blood, or seed, endure, and even now I feel inside the hunger for his outstretched hand, a man's embrace to take me in, the need for just a word of praise. I despised the discipline he used to shape what I should be, not owning up that he might feel his own pain when he punished me.

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10

I didn't show my need to him, since his response to an appeal would not have meant as much to me, or been as real. From those rare times when we did cross the bridge between us, the pure joy survives. I never put aside the past resentments of the boy until, with my own sons, I shared his final hours, and came to see what he'd become, or always was— the father who will never cease to be alive in me.

QUESTIONS 1. This poem is about the remembered attitudes of President Carter's speaker toward his father. What is the nature of these attitudes? To what degree are these attitudes of sons

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

to fathers either usual or unusual? Why does the speaker state in line 1, "This is a pain I mostly hide"? 2. Why does the speaker use the words "despised" (line 7) and "resentments" (line 18)? Why does he mention "those rare times" in line 15? v 3. What is the tone of the last stanza? Why does the speaker refer to going with his own sons to share the "final hours" of his father? What is the tone of the final two lines?

LUCILLE CLIFTON

if

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(1936-2010)

homage to my hips

(1987)

these hips are big hips they need space to move around in. they don't fit into little petty places, these hips are free hips. they don't like to be held back, these hips have never been enslaved, they go where they want to go. they do what they want to do. these hips are mighty hips, these hips are magic hips, i have known them to put a spell on a man and spin him like a top!

QUESTIONS 1. What is unusual about the subject matter? Considering that some people are embar¬ rassed to mention their hips, what attitudes does the speaker express here? 2. How do the words "enslaved," "want to go," "want to do," "mighty," and "spell" define the poem's ideas about the relationship between mentality and physicality? 3. To what degree is this a comic poem? What about the subject and the diction makes the poem funny?

M BILLY COLLINS

(b 1941)_

For a photo, see Chapter 10, page 476.

■

if

The Names°

(2002)

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night. A fine rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze. And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows.

°The Names: This poem was read by Professor Collins before a joint session of the U.S. Congress held in New York City on September 6, 2002. It was first published earlier that day in the New York Times.

COLLINS • The Names

I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened. Then Baxter and Calabro,

637

5

Davis and Eberling, names falling into place As droplets fell through the dark. Names printed on the ceiling of the night. Names slipping around a watery bend. Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream. In the morning, I walked out barefoot Among thousands of flowers Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears. And each had a name— Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins. Names written in the air And stitched into the cloth of the day. A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox. Monogram on a torn shirt, I see you spelled out on storefront windows And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city. I say the syllables as I turn a corner— Kelly and Lee, Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor. When I peer into the woods, I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden As in a puzzle concocted for children. Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash, Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton, Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.

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Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea. In the evening—weakening light, the last swallows. A boy on a lake lifts his oars. A woman by a window puts a match to a candle. And the names are outlined on the rose clouds— Vanacore and Wallace, (let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound) Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z. Names etched on the head of a pin. One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel. A blue name needled into the skin. Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers. The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son. Alphabet of names in green rows in a field.

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

Names in the small tracks of birds. Names lifted from a hat Or balanced on the tip of the tongue. Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory. So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

N.B. In light of the topic of this poem, questions seem superfluous.

D9 E. E. CUMMINGS (1894-1962)_ For a photo, see Chapter 11, page 526.

she being Brand / -new

(1926)

she being Brand

5

-new;and you know consequently a little stiff i was careful of her and (having thoroughly oiled the universal joint tested my gas felt of her radiator made sure her springs were O. K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

io

up, slipped the clutch (and then somehow got into reverse she kicked what the hell) next minute i was back in neutral tried and

15

again slo-wly;bare, ly nudg. ing (my lev-er Rightoh and her gears being in

20

A1 shape passed from low through second-in-to-high like greasedlightning) just as we turned the corner of Divinity avenue i touched the accelerator and give her the juice, good

EDELMAN • Trouble

639

(it was the first ride and believe i we was happy to see how nice she acted right up to the last minute coming back down by the Public Gardens i slammed on

25

the internalexpanding

30

& externalcontracting brakes Bothatonce and brought allofher tremB -ling to a:dead.

35

stand¬ still)

QUESTIONS 1. How extensive is the verbal irony, the double entendre, in this poem? This poem is considered comic. Do you agree? Why or why not? This poem might also be consid¬ ered sexist. Do you agree? Why or why not? 2. How do the spacing and alignment affect your reading of the poem? How does the unexpected and sometimes absent punctuation—such as in line 15, "again slo-wly;bare, ly nudg. ing (my"—contribute to the humor? 3. Can this poem in any respect be called off-color or bawdy? How might you refute such charges in light of the tone the speaker uses to equate a first sexual experience with the breaking in of a new car?

BART EDELMAN (b 1951) For a photo, see Chapter 11, page 528.

Trouble

(2005)

Everything pointed to trouble; Danger and distress pranced Topless on my wooden roof. Misfortune grew in the garden I tended day and night I was afflicted by the urge To do myself in. But I was so out of it I failed to plan ahead. I eased into my hardship Like a pair of black loafers.

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

Suddenly two sizes too small. Soon I began to pity My big, fat, flat feet. Woe became my middle name, I suffered from the heebie-jeebies And Saint Vitus left the order When he saw me dance; Alas, it wasn't a pretty picture. I found my meager little life Lost any sense of decency. I could smell disaster in the wind— Hot air breathing down my back. In other words . . . I was hopelessly unable To shoulder the burden I bore. Then I simply gave up. Drove to the hardware store. Bought a gallon of Dutch Boy #157, And painted myself into a corner. Where I now live, rather comfortably. Monopolizing every moment I choose to spend with myself; No more a victim of boredom— A teller of tall tales.

QUESTIONS 1. How serious is this poem? How funny is it? Can it be both serious and funny? What does the diction contribute to the tone, particularly well-worn phrases such as "out of it" and "heebie-jeebies"? 2. What situation is the speaker describing when he says at the beginning that "every¬ thing pointed to trouble" (i.e., he was suffering from malaise or maybe depression)? What is the tone of the descriptions in the poem? 3. On what situation does the poem close? What does the speaker mean by "painted myself into a corner"? How has the speaker solved his problems and ended his trouble?

MARTIN ESFADA (b 1957)

If

Bully°

(1990)

Boston, Massachusetts, 1987 In the school auditorium the Theodore Roosevelt statue is nostalgic

“Theodore Roosevelt led his victorious troop of “Rough Riders” against Spanish opponents at the Battle of San Juan Hill, in southeast Cuba, in 1898. He later claimed that this was a “bully” fight.

ESPADA • Bully

641

for the Spanish-American War, each fist lonely for a saber

5

or the reins of anguish-eyed horses, or a podium to clatter with speeches glorying in the malaria of conquest. But now the Roosevelt school is pronounced Hernandez. Puerto Rico has invaded Roosevelt with its army of Spanish-singing children in the hallways, brown children devouring the stockpiles of the cafeteria, children painting Tamo° ancestors that leap naked across murals. Roosevelt is surrounded by all the faces he ever shoved in eugenic spite and cursed as mongrels, skin of one race, hair and cheekbones of another. Once Marines tramped from the newsreel of his imagination; now children plot to spray graffiti in parrot-brilliant colors across the Victorian mustache and monocle.

°16 Tamo: The Pre-Columbian people of the Caribbean islands. When European explorers first came to the Caribbean area, they reported that the Tafno natives wore no clothes.

QUESTIONS 1. What summary can you make of Espada's argument in this poem? Is his argument that the ideals of Theodore Roosevelt were wrong? That Roosevelt's sense of Ameri¬ can supremacy over Spanish subjects during the Spanish American War was racist and imperialistic? That time has passed by the period of American supremacy repre¬ sented by the American defeat of Spain in the war? That modern Spanish residents in the United States have made the views of Roosevelt and others like him obsolete? Write an essay arguing for one of these views, or for another view that you wish to uphold.

2. Considering the details of the poem, describe the speaker's tone. What do you think is his attitude toward Roosevelt personally, as supported by the details of the poem? What attitude is expressed by the phrase "glorying in the malaria of conquest"?

3. Consider the tone of the final stanza (lines 23-28). What might the speaker be suggest¬ ing by the phrase "parrot-brilliant colors"?

4. How can the poem's title, "Bully," be considered ambiguously? What are the political implications of this ambiguity?

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CHAPTER 14 * Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

MARI EVANS (b. 1923)

I Am a Black Woman

5

(1970)

I am a black woman the music of my song some sweet arpeggio of tears is written in a minor key and I can be heard humming in the night Can be heard humming in the night

10

I saw my mate leap screaming to the sea and I / with these hands / cupped the lifebreath from my issue in the canebreak I lost Nat's swinging body0 in a rain of tears

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and heard my son scream all the way from Anzio° for Peace he never knew ... I

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learned Da Nang0 and Pork Chop Hill0 in anguish Now my nostrils know the gas and these trigger tire / d fingers seek the softness in my warrior's beard

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am a black woman tall as a cypress strong beyond all definition still defying place and time and circumstance assailed impervious indestructible Look on me and be renewed

°13 Nats swinging body: Nat Turner was hanged in 1831 for leading a slave revolt in Southampton, Virginia. 14 Anzio: seacoast town in Italy, the scene of fierce fighting between the Allies and the Germans in 1943 during World War II. 16 Da Nang: major American military base in South Vietnam, frequently attacked during the Vietnam War. Pork Chop Hill: site of a bloody battle between UN and Communist forces during the Korean War (1950-1953).

QUESTIONS 1. What attitude is indicated by the phrase "sweet arpeggio of tears"? How does "in a minor key" complete both the idea and the comparison?

HEANEY • Mid-Term Break

643

2. What phrases and descriptions does the speaker use to indicate her attitudes of anguish, despair, pain, and indignation?

3. In the last fourteen lines, what contrasting attitude is expressed? How does the speaker make this attitude clear? On balance, is the poem optimistic or pes¬ simistic? Why?

SEAMUS HEANEY (b 1939)

Mid-Term Break (1966) I sat all morning in the college sick bay Counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home. ha the porch I met my father crying— He had always taken funerals in his stride— And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

5

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram When I came in, and I was embarrassed By old men standing up to shake my hand And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble," Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest. Away at school, as my mother held my hand In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs. At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

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Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now. Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple. He lay in the four foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four foot box, a foot for every year. QUESTIONS 1. What is the situation of the poem? Who is the speaker? Why has he been called to come home? What are his responses to the circumstances at home?

2. How old was the speaker's brother at the time of the accident? How do you know? When you read line 19, what do you at first make of the "poppy bruise"?

3. Describe your responses to the last four lines of the poem the first time you read them. What clues in the earlier part of the poem prepare you for these final three lines? Do they sufficiently prepare you, or does the final line come as a surprise? Why is the poem unrhymed until the final two lines?

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (1849-1903)

When You Are Old

(1888) \

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When you are old, and I am passed away— Passed, and your face, your golden face, is gray— I think whate'er the end, this dream of mine. Comforting you, a friendly star will shine Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray. So may it be: that so dead Yesterday, No sad-eyed ghost but generous and gay. May serve you memories like almighty wine. When you are old! Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway Of death the past's enormous disarray Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign. Live on well pleased; immortal and divine Love shall still tend you, as God's angels may, When you are old. QUESTIONS 1. Describe the organization of thought as it is affected by time. How much attention is given to a visualization of the old age of the listener? What does the speaker imagine will have happened to him? What consolation does the speaker believe the listener will have in this future period?

2. What comfort does the speaker say will justify the listener's living on "well pleased" (line 13)? What "shall still tend" the listener? Why does the speaker say "God's angels may" rather than "God's angels will"?

DAVID IGNATOW (1914-1997)

The Bagel

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10

(1993)

I stopped to pick up the bagel rolling away in the wind, annoyed with myself for having dropped it as if it were a portent. Faster and faster it rolled, with me running after it bent low, gritting my teeth, and I found myself doubled over and rolling down the street head over heels, one complete somersault after another like a bagel and strangely happy with myself. QUESTIONS 1. What situation does the speaker describe in this poem? Does it make sense? If it doesn't, what is the real situation that the speaker describes?

KOMUNYAKAA • Facing It

645

2. Considering the tone of the poem, how reasonable is it to conclude that some poems, like some activities, exist solely so that readers—and writer—might simply be made happy and be amused.

YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA (b 1947)

Facing It

(1988)

My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite.0 I said I wouldn't, dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way—the stone lets me go. I turn that way—I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022° names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman's trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair. °2 black granite: The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., designed by the sculptor Maya Lin (b. 1959), and dedicated in 1982, is composed of polished black granite. Carved into the panels are lists of the names of all the military personnel who died during the Vietnamese War. 14 58,002: In 2007, the list had grown to 58,256 names.

QUESTIONS 1. What sights and actions does the speaker describe in the poem? What does he see? Why does he state that his "black face" fades and is hiding inside the black granite? What is meant by the vet's having "lost his right arm / inside the stone" (lines 28-29)?

2. What other people are at the memorial? What is the significance of what they are doing?

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

3. Considering the actions of the speaker and the other visitors, how would you charac¬ terize the tone of the poem?

4. Compare this poem with "The Vietnam Wall" by Alberto Rfos in Chapter 18. v

ABRAHAM LINCOLN (1809-1865)

My Childhoods Home°(i844) My childhood's home I see again, And sadden with the view; And still, as memory crowds my brain, There's pleasure in it too. 5

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O Memory! thou midway world 'Twixt earth and paradise. Where things decayed and loved ones lost In dreamy shadows rise. And, freed from all that's earthly vile, Seem hallowed, pure, and bright. Like scenes in some enchanted isle All bathed in liquid light. As dusky mountains please the eye When twilight chases day; As bugle-notes that, passing by. In distance die away. As leaving some grand waterfall. We, lingering, list its roar— So memory will hallow all We've known, but know no more. Near twenty years have passed away Since here I bid farewell To woods and fields, and scenes of play. And playmates loved so well.

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Where many were, but few remain Of old familiar things; But seeing them, to mind again The lost and absent brings. The friends I left the parting day, How changed, as time has sped! Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray. And half of all are dead.

°In 1844, while on a political campaign in Indiana, Lincoln visited the home where he had been raised and where his mother and sister were buried. The occasion prompted him to write this poem.

MORA •

La Migra

647

I hear the loved survivors tell How nought from death could save Till every sound appears a knell. And every spot a grave. I range the fields with pensive tread And pace the hollow rooms. And feel (companion of the dead) I'm living in the tombs.

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QUESTIONS 1. How does Lincoln's speaker explain the importance of memory? How is the sentence "So memory will hallow all / We've known, but know no more" (lines 19-20) related to the descriptions and ideas that follow?

2. Do stanzas 6 and 7 seem exaggerated, self-indulgent, or sentimental? What seems to forestall this criticism of the ideas here?

3. What leads the speaker to the conclusion he makes in the last two lines?

PAT MORA (b. 1942)

La Migra ° {1993) 1 Let's play La Migra I'll be the Border Patrol. You be the Mexican maid. 1 get the badge and sunglasses. You can hide and run, but you can't get away because I have a jeep. I can take you wherever I want, but don't ask questions because I don't speak Spanish. I can touch you wherever 1 want but don't complain too much because I've got boots and kick—if I have to, and I have handcuffs. Oh, and a gun. Get ready, get set, run.

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2 Let's play La Migra. You be the Border Patrol. ’La Migra: border patrol, border guards, immigration police.

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

I'll be the Mexican woman. Your jeep has a flat, and you have been spotted by the sun. All you have is heavy: hat glasses, badge, shoes, gun. I know this desert, where to rest, where to drink. Oh, I am not alone. You hear us singing and laughing with the wind, Agua dulce biota aqui aqui, aqui,° but since you can't speak Spanish, you do not understand. Get ready.

°32-33 Aqua . . . aqui: “fresh water springs [are] here, here, here.” The idea is that the Mexican woman can survive in the desert because she knows where to find fresh water, whereas the border patrolman does not.

QUESTIONS 1. Why does Mora create "La Migra" as a drama, with the first speaker being a border patrolman, and the second being the "Mexican woman"? What is gained by this arrangement? 2. How is the tone created in the first stanza? What kind of person is the border guard shown to be? What attitude toward him does Mora create? What current political con¬ cerns does this attitude address? 3. What is the tone of the second stanza? What resources does the Mexican woman have? What handicaps of the border guard does she point out? In terms of the poem's tone, what is the implication of the final line?

SHARON OLDS (b 1942)_

^ The Planned Child (1996)

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I hated the fact that they had planned me, she had taken a cardboard out of his shirt from the laundry as if sliding the backbone up out of his body, and made a chart of the month and put her temperature on it, rising and falling to know the day to make me—I would have liked to have been conceived in heat, in haste, by mistake, in love, in sex, not on cardboard, the little x on the rising line that did not fall again. But when a friend was pouring wine and said that I seem to have been a child who had been wanted.

PINSKY • Dying

649

I took the wine against my lips as if my mouth were moving along that valved wall in my mother's body, she was bearing down, and then breathing from the mask, and then bearing down, pressing me out into the world that was not enough for her without me in it, not the moon, the sun, Orion cartwheeling across the dark, not the earth, the sea—none of it was enough, for her, without me.

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QUESTIONS 1. Who is the speaker? What is she like? What is she talking about? Why does she begin the poem talking about something she hated?

2. What change of attitudes is described by the poem? Why does the poem seem to require such a change?

3. What attitude is expressed in the concluding global, planetary, solar, and stellar refer¬ ences? Why does the speaker state that, to her mother, she has more value than this image?

4. What unique qualities of perception and expression does the speaker exhibit? Have you ever read a poem before in which details about conception and childbirth have been so prominent? Why are these details included in this poem?

ROBERT PINSKY (b 1940)

Dying

(1984)

Nothing to be said about it, and everything— The change of changes, closer or further away: The Golden Retriever next door, Gussie, is dead. Like Sandy, the Cocker Spaniel from three doors down Who died when I was small; and every day Things that were in my memory fade and die.

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Phrases die out: first, everyone forgets What doornails are; then after certain decades As a dead metaphor, “dead as a doornail”flickers And fades away. But someone I know is dying— And though one might say glibly, "everyone is," The different pace makes the difference absolute. The tiny invisible spores in the air we breathe. That settle harmlessly on our drinking water And on our skin, happen to come together. With certain conditions on the forest floor. Or even a shady corner of the lawn— And overnight the fleshy, pale stalks gather.

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

The colorless growth without a leaf or flower; And around the stalks, the summer grass keeps growing With steady pressure, like the insistent whiskers That grow between shaves on a face, the nails Growing and dying from the toes and fingers At their own humble pace, oblivious

25

As the nerveless moths, that live their night or two— Though like a moth a bright soul keeps on beating. Bored and impatient in the monster's mouth. QUESTIONS 1. What details about death does the poem introduce? How are they connected in the poem's development? What is the effect of these details on the tone of the poem? 2. What is meant by line 12, "The different pace makes the difference absolute"? How strongly does this statement counter the phrase "everyone is" in line 11? 3. Up until line 25 this poem can be considered negative or even despairing. What is the effect of lines 26 and 27 on this negative tone? What is the meaning of the phrase "mon¬ ster's mouth" in these last two lines?

ALEXANDER POPE (1685-1744)

from Epilogue to the Satires, Dialogue I Lines 137-72 (1738)

140

145

150

Virtue may choose the high or low degree, 'Tis just alike to Virtue, and to me; Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, She's still the same, beloved, contented thing. Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth, And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth: But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a whore; Let Greatness own her, and she's mean no more:0 Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess,0 Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless In golden chains the willing world she draws. And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws: Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head, And sees pale Virtue carted0 in her stead! Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,° Old England's genius, rough with many a scar. Dragged in the dust! his arms hang idly round. His flag inverted trails along the ground!0

°144 mean no more: i.e., if the rich and powerful follow vice, vice is no longer low but fashionable. 145 Her birth confess: i.e., under the dictates of fashion, both crowds and courts claim that Vice is both high-bom and beautiful. 150 carted: It was an eighteenth-century punishment to display prostitutes in a cart; in addition, condemned criminals were carried in a cart from prison to Tyburn, in London, where they were hanged. 152-154 Old England’s genius along the ground: i.e., the spirit of England is humiliated by being tied to Vice’s triumphal carriage and then dragged along the ground. The idea is that corrupt politicians have sacrificed England’s defensive power for their own gain.

QUASIMODO • Auschwitz

Our youth, all liveried o'er with foreign gold, Before her dance; behind her crawl the old! See thronging millions to the pagod° run, And offer country, parent, wife, or son! Hear her black trumpet through the land proclaim, That "not to be corrupted is the shame." In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in power, 'Tis avarice all, ambition is no more! See, all our nobles begging to be slaves! See, all our fools aspiring to be knaves! The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore, Are what ten thousand envy and adore. All, all look up, with reverential awe. On crimes that scape,0 or triumph o'er the law: While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry— "Nothing is sacred now but villainy." Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) Show there was one who held it in disdain.

651 155

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escape

°157 pagod: i.e., a pagoda, a symbol of how people have forsaken their own religion and adopted foreign religions.

QUESTIONS 1. The entire poem is in the form of a dialogue, in which these concluding lines are identified as being spoken by "P" (Pope). Should readers therefore take these lines as an expression of Pope's own ideas? In your answer, pay special attention to the final couplet.

2. Explain this poem as social satire. What is attacked? What evidence does the speaker advance to support his case that society has deserted virtue and religion?

3. Describe the poem's tone. What specific charges does the speaker make against the prevailing sociopolitical structure?

4. How timely is the poem? To what degree might such charges be advanced in our society today?

SALVATORE QUASIMODO (1901-1968)

Auschwitz0

(1983)

Translated by Jack Bevan Far from the Vistula,0 along the northern plain, love, in a death-camp there at Auschwitz: on the pole's rust and tangled fencing, rain funeral cold. No tree, no birds in the grey air or above our thought, but limp

°Auschwitz: the German name for the town of Oswiecim in southern Poland, site of the most notorious of the German concentration-extermination camps in World War II. There were two major camps—Auschwitz itself, a former Polish army garrison, and nearby Birkenau, which contained many temporary barracks for worker-prisoners, together with gas chambers and crematoria for the extermination of hundreds of thousands of victims. See pages 71-78. 1 Vistula: The Vistula River rises in the northern Carpathian Mountains, south of Auschwitz.

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

pain that memory leaves to its silence without irony or anger. You ask no elegies or idylls: only the meaning of our destiny, you, here, hurt by the mind's war, uncertain at the clear presence of life. For life is here in every No that seems a certainty: here we shall hear the angel weep, the monster, hear our future time beating the hereafter that is here, forever in motion, not an image of dreams, of possible pity. Here are the myths, the metamorphoses. Lacking the name of symbols or a god, they are history, earth places, they are Auschwitz, love. How suddenly the dear forms of Alpheus and Arethusa0 changed into shadow-smoke! Out of that hell hung with a white inscription "work will make you free"0 there came the endless smoke of many thousand women thrust at dawn out of the kennels up to the firing-wall, or, screaming for mercy to water, choked, their skeleton mouths under the jets of gas. You, soldier, will find them in your annals taking the forms of animals and rivers, or are you too, now, ash of Auschwitz, medal of silence?

40

Long tresses in glass urns can still be seen bound up with charms, and an infinity of ghostly little shoes and shawls of Jews:0 relics of a time of wisdom,

45

of man whose knowledge takes the shape of arms, they are the myths, our metamorphoses. Over the plains where love and sorrow and pity rotted, there in the rain a No inside us beat; a No to death that died at Auschwitz never from the pit of ashes to show itself again.

°24 Alpheus and Arethusa: a river and fountain in Greece. In ancient mythology, Alpheus, who loved Arethusa, was transformed into the river (bearing his name) to be united with Arethusa, who was transformed into the fountain (bearing her name). 27 work will make you free: a translation of the large metal sign Arbeit macht frei, which crested the main gate of Auschwitz and is still on display there. A copy of the sign is displayed in the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. 37-39 Long cresses . . . shawls of Jews: Today the barracks at Auschwitz house permanent displays that include the hair, shoes, eyeglasses, luggage, and clothing of thousands of the victims.

RIDLER • Nothing Is Lost

653

QUESTIONS 1. Compare the tone of the first ten lines with that of the last six. What differences do you notice? How does the idea of the last three lines answer the question posed in lines 9 and 10?

2. Even though the speaker is referring to the deadliest of all the camps, what does he mean by “For life is here / in every No that seems a certainty" (lines 13-14)?

3. In line 20 the speaker mentions ancient myths about metamorphoses or transforma¬ tions. What type of metamorphosis is linked to the death camps in lines 26-42? What attitudes are brought out by this linkage?

ANNE RIDLER (1912-2001)

Nothing Is Lost (1994) Nothing is lost. We are too sad to know that, or too blind; Only in visited moments do we understand: It is not that the dead return— They are about us always, though unguessed .

5

This penciled Latin verse You dying wrote me, ten years past and more. Brings you as much alive to me as the self you wrote it for. Dear father, as I read your words With no word but Alas.

10

Lines in a letter, lines in a face Are faithful currents of life: the boy has written His parents across his forehead, and as we burn Our bodies up each seven years. His own past self has left no plainer trace.

15

Nothing dies. The cells pass on their secrets, we betray them Unknowingly: in a freckle, in the way We walk, recall some ancestor. And Adam in the color of our eyes.

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Yes, on the face of the new born. Before the soul has taken full possession. There pass, as over a screen, in succession The images of other beings: Face after face looks out, and then is gone. Nothing is lost, for all in love survive. I lay my cheek against his sleeping limbs To feel if he is warm, and touch in him Those children whom no shawl could warm, No arms, no grief, no longing could revive.

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

Thus what we see, or know, Is only a tiny portion, at the best. Of the life in which we share; an iceberg's crest Our sunlit present, our partial sense, With deep supporting multitudes below.

s

QUESTIONS 1. What is unusual about the phrase "nothing dies" (line 16)? How successfully does the poet explain and exemplify the idea?

2. In what ways does the "face of the new born" reflect the "images of other beings" (lines 21-24)? How might the "color of our eyes" demonstrate that we are descended from Adam (line 20)? How true is it that "all in love survive" (line 26)?

3. In what ways might this poem offer comfort to readers who believe strongly in the concept of their own uniqueness and originality?

ffl THEODORE ROETHKE (1907-1963)_ For a photo, see Chapter 11, page 536.

*t> My Papa’s Waltz (1942) The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. 5

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We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still dinging to your shirt.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the tone of the speaker's opening description of his father? What is the tone of the phrases "like death" and "such waltzing"?

2. What is the "waltz" the speaker describes? What is the tone of his words describing it in lines 5-15?

3. What does the reference to his "mother's countenance" contribute to the tone? What situation is suggested by the selection of the word "unfrown"?

SHAKESPEARE • Fear No More the Heat o'th'Sun0—1623

(ca. 1610-11)

655

4. What does the tone of the physical descriptions of the father contribute to your under¬ standing of the speaker's attitude toward his childhood experiences as his father's dance partner?

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564 1616) For a portrait, see p. 1009

Fear No More the Heat o’ th’ Sun0—1623 Fear no more the heat o' th' sun; Nor the furious winter's rages. Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en° thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must. As0 chimney sweepers come to dust.

(ca. 1610-11)

taken

5 like

Fear no more the frown o' th' great. Thou art past the tyrant's stroke: Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash. Nor th' all-dread thunder-stone0; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan0; All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust.

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No exorcisor harm thee. Nor no witchcraft charm thee. Ghost unlaid forbear thee. Nothing ill come near thee. Quiet consummation have. And renowned be thy grave. °FearNo More: This poem is a dirge or lament spoken (but not sung) over the supposedly dead body of Innogen in Act IV of Shakespeare’s Cymbeline (she has taken a potion which makes her appear to be dead). The speakers/singers are Guiderius and Arviragus, who are the actual brothers of Innogen, although at this time neither the brothers nor the sister know of their relationship. 14 thunder-stone: The sound of thunder was believed in Elizabethan times to be caused by stones falling from the sky.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the attitude of the speakers toward death. How do they try to soften the bit¬ terness of death?

2. In what ways is the fourth stanza a climax to the poem? How does it differ from the first three stanzas?

3. In the play Guiderius and Arviragus, though princes, have been deprived of their sta¬ tus and rights, and have been brought up simply. How does the language of the song reflect their rustic nature?

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

CATHY SONG (b. 1955)

^ Lost Sister (1983) 1

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In China, even the peasants named their first daughters Jade°— the stone that in the far fields could moisten the dry season, could make men move mountains for the healing green of the inner hills glistening like slices of winter melon. And the daughters were grateful: they never left home. To move freely was a luxury stolen from them at birth. Instead, they gathered patience, learning to walk in shoes the size of teacups,0 without breaking— the arc of their movements as dormant as the rooted willow, as redundant as the farmyard hens. But they traveled far in surviving, learning to stretch the family rice, to quiet the demons, the noisy stomachs. 2

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There is a sister across the ocean, who relinquished her name, diluting jade green with the blue of the Pacific. Rising with a tide of locusts, she swarmed with others to inundate another shore. In America, there are many roads and women can stride along with men. But in another wilderness, the possibilities. °4Jade: In China, both the mineral and the name are considered signs of health and good fortune. 16 teacups: Traditionally in China, girls feet were bound at the age of seven because minuscule feet were considered beauti¬ ful and aristocratic. The binding inhibited the natural growth of the feet and made it painful to walk.

SWIFT • A Description of the Morning

657

the loneliness, can strangulate like jungle vines. The meager provisions and sentiments of once belonging— fermented roots, Mah-Jongg° tiles and firecrackers— set but a flimsy household in a forest of nightless cities. A giant snake rattles above, spewing black clouds into your kitchen. Dough-faced landlords slip in and out of your keyholes, making claims you don't understand tapping into your communication systems of laundry lines and restaurant chains. You find you need China: your one fragile identification, a jade link handcuffed to your wrist. You remember your mother who walked for centuries, footless— and like her, you have left no footprints, but only because there is an ocean in between, the unremitting space of your rebellion. °43 Mah-Jongg: a Chinese game played with 144 domino-like tiles marked in suits, counters, and dice.

QUESTIONS 1. Why is the poem titled "Lost Sister"? Why is it not titled something like "Lucky Sister"? 2. In light of the poem's title, what is the speaker's evaluation of the circumstances of women's life in historical China, and her attitude toward the life of a physically freer woman who has emigrated to the United States? 3. What is meant by the speaker's assertion that both mother and daughter (the "lost sis¬ ter") have "left no footprints" (line 61). What does the speaker find to praise both the women who stayed in China, and the woman who came to America?

JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745)

A Description of the Morning Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach Appearing, showed the ruddy morn's approach. Now Betty from her master's bed had flown. And softly stole to discompose her own. The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.

(1709)

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

Now Moll had whirled her mop with dextrous airs, Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. The youth with broomy stumps began to trace The kennel's edge,0 where wheels had worn the place. The small-coal man° was heard with cadence deep, Till drowned in shriller notes of chimney-sweep. Duns0 at his lordship's gate began to meet; And brickdust Moll had screamed through half the street. The turnkey0 now his flock returning sees, Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees. The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands. And schoolboys lag° with satchels in their hands.

charcoal seller bill collectors

°10 kennel’s edge: that is, the edge of the gutter. Swift annotated this line “To find old Nails.” 15 turnkey: an entrepre¬ neur, operating a jail for profit, who allowed prisoners to go free at night so that they might bring him a night’s booty to pay for the necessities provided them in jail. 18 schoolboys lag: cf. Shakespeare’s As You Like It, 2.7.145—47.

QUESTIONS 1. What images of life in early-eighteenth-century London are presented in this poem? Who is "Betty"? Why is she discomposing her bed? Are such images to be considered ordinary, heroic, or antiheroic? Why? 2. Why does Swift conclude with the reference to "schoolboys" lagging "with satchels in their hands"? Why would it not have been preferable to conclude with reference to adult behavior? 3. How do you know that Swift's poem is satiric? What is being satirized?

DAVID WAGONER (b 1926)

*1 My Physics Teacher (i98i)

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He tried to convince us, but his billiard ball Fell faster than his pingpong ball and thumped To the floor first, in spite of Galileo.0 The rainbows from his prism skidded off-screen Before we could tell an infra from an ultra. His hand-cranked generator refused to spit Sparks and settled for smoke. The dangling pith Ignored the attractions of his amber wand. No matter how much static he rubbed and dubbed From the seat of his pants, and the housebrick He lowered into a tub of water weighed (Eureka!) more than the overflow.0 °3-12 Galileo . . . overflow: These lines describe classic classroom demonstrations in physics. Galileo first formulated the law of uniform falling bodies. Newton explained that a prism divides light into the colors of the rainbow. (“Infra” refers to infrared light; “ultra” to ultraviolet.) Sparks leaping across the space between two wires graphically demonstrate electrical generation and power. The motion of dried pith toward a charged piece of amber demon¬ strates the magnetic power of static electricity. Archimedes explained how the weight of a floating object is the same as the weight of water it displaces, and also how the volume of an immersed object (not the weight) is the same as the volume of displaced water. The physics teacher did not understand this distinction. (According to leg¬ end, Archimedes made this discovery when taking a bath, and then shouted “Eureka!” [“I have found it”].)

WILLIAMS • Dimensions

659

He believed in a World of Laws, where problems had answers. Where tangible objects and intangible forces Acting thereon could be lettered, numbered, and crammed Through our tough skulls for lifetimes of homework. But his only ^incontestable demonstration Came with our last class: he broke his chalk On a formula, stooped to catch it, knocked his forehead On the eraser-gutter, staggered slewfoot, and stuck One foot forever into the wastebasket.

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QUESTIONS 1. What idea underlies the physics teacher's use of classroom demonstrations? What is the speaker's apparent response to this idea?

2. What happens to these demonstrations? Why are these failures comic and farcical? What effect do the poem's farcical actions have upon the validity of the teacher's ideas?

C. K. WILLIAMS (b 1936)

Dimensions

(1969)

There is a world somewhere else that is unendurable. Those who live in it are helpless in the hands of the elements, they are like branches in the deep woods in wind that whip their leaves off and slice the heart of the night and sob. They are like boats bleating wearily in fog.

5

But here, no matter what, we know where we stand. We know more or less what comes next. We hold out. Sometimes a dream will shake us like little dogs, a fever hang on so we're not ourselves or love wring us out, but we prevail, we certify and make sure, we go on.

10

There is a world that uses its soldiers and widows for flour, its orphans for building stone, its legs for pens. In that place, eyes are softened and harmless like God's and all blend in the traffic of their tragedy and pass by like people. And sometimes one of us, losing the way, will drift over the border and see them there, dying, laughing, being revived. When we come home, we are half way. Our screams heal the torn silence. We are like scars.

QUESTIONS 1. Why should this poem be called ironic? Should the irony be called situational? Cos¬ mic? Why?

2. What is intended by the poem's title? What is the implication of the first line? What irony does the line bring out? Describe the irony of the second stanza (lines 6-10).

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

3. What is meant by "losing the way" and drifting "over the border" (lines 15-16)? What is the meaning and the irony of the last three lines? What does it mean to be "like scars" (line 18)?

@ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) For a portrait, see Chapter 11, page 539.

^ The Solitary Reaper

(i807)

Behold her, single in the field. Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! 5

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Alone she cuts and binds the grain. And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt. Among Arabian sands; A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In springtime from the Cuckoo bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.0 Will no one tell me what she sings?0 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago; Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of today? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work. And o'er the sickle bending— I listeried, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill. The music in my heart I bore. Long after it was heard no more.

°16 Hebrides: a group of islands off the west coast of Scotland. 17 Will . . . sings: The speaker does not understand Scots Gaelic, the language in which the woman sings.

Writing About Tone in Poetry

661

QUESTIONS 1. What is the scene described in the poem? Where is the speaker? What actions does he describe? 2. Why does the poet shift from present tense to the past tense at line 25? What is gained by this shift? 3. What speculations does the speaker make about the meaning of the woman's song? What conclusions does he make? What do you conclude from his observations?

M WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS *$r

When You Are Old

(1865-1939)

(1893)

When you are old and grey and full of sleep. And nodding by the fire, take down this book. And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace. And loved your beauty with love false or true. But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you. And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars. Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. QUESTIONS 1. What is the speaker of this poem like? How does the speaker describe himself? 2. To whom is the speaker speaking? What are you asked to conclude about the past rela¬ tionship between the speaker and the listener? 3. Describe the dominant attitudes expressed by the speaker. What words might describe the poem's tone? 4. Compare the tone of this poem with that of Henley's "When You Are Old" (p. 644).

WRITING ABOUT TONE IN POETRY

Be careful to note those elements of the work that touch particularly on atti¬ tudes or authorial consideration. For example, you may be studying Hughes's "Theme for English B," where it is necessary to consider the force of the poet's claim for equality (see Chapter 17). How serious is the claim? Does the speaker's apparent matter-of-factness make him seem less than enthusiastic? Or does this tone indicate that equality is so fundamental a right that its real¬ ization should be an everyday part of life? Devising and answering such

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

questions can help you understand the degree to which authors show control of tone. Similar questions apply when you study internal qualities such as style and characterization.

Questions for Discovering Ideas •

• •

•

•

What is the speaker like? Is he or she intelligent, observant, friendly, ideal¬ istic, realistic, trustworthy? How do you think you should respond to the speaker's characteristics? Do all the speeches seem right for the speaker and situation? Are all descriptions appropriate, all actions believable? If the work is comic, at what is the comedy directed? At situations? At characters? At the speaker himself or herself? What is the poet's apparent attitude toward the comic objects? Does the writer ask you to (1) sympathize with those in misfortune, (2) rejoice with those who have found happiness, (3) lament the human con¬ dition, (4) become angry against unfairness and inequality, (5) admire exam¬ ples of noble human behavior, or (6) have another appropriate emotional response? Do any words seem unusual or especially noteworthy, such as dialect, polysyllabic words, foreign words or phrases that the author assumes you know, or especially connotative words? What is the effect of such words on the poem's tone?

Strategies for Organizing Ideas The goal of your essay is to examine all aspects bearing on the tone. Consider the following topics. 1. The audience, situation, and characters. Is any person or group directly addressed by the speaker? What attitude is expressed (love, respect, condescen¬ sion, confidentiality, confidence, etc.)? What is the basic situation in the work? What is the nature of the speaker or persona? What is the relationship of the speaker to the material? What is the basis of the speaker's authority? Does the speaker give you the whole truth? Is he or she trying to withhold anything? Why? How is the speaker's character manipulated to show apparent authorial attitude and to stimulate responses? Do you find any of the various sorts of irony? If so, what does the irony show (optimism or pessimism, for example)? How is the situation controlled to shape your responses? That is, can actions, sit¬ uations, or characters be seen as expressions of attitude or as embodiments of certain favorable or unfavorable ideas or positions? How does the work promote respect, admiration, dislike, or other feelings about character or situation? 2. Descriptions and diction. Your concern here is to relate attitudes to the poet's use of language and description. Are there any systematic references, such as to colors, sounds, noises, natural scenes, and so on, that collectively

Writing About Tone in Poetry

663

reflect an attitude? Do connotative meanings of words control response in any way? Is any special knowledge of references or unusual words expected of readers? What is the extent of this knowledge? Do speech or dialect patterns indicate attitudes about speakers or their condition of life? Are speech patterns normal and standard or slang and substandard? What is the effect of these pat¬ terns? Are there unusual or particularly noteworthy expressions? If so, what attitudes do these show? Does the author use verbal irony? To what effect? 3. Humor. Is the work funny? How funny, how intense? How is the humor achieved? Does the humor develop out of incongruous situations or language, or both? Is there an underlying basis of attack in the humor, or are the objects of laughter still respected or even loved despite having humor directed against them? 4. Ideas. Ideas may be advocated, defended mildly, attacked, or ridiculed. Which attitude is present in the work you have been studying? How does the poet make his or her attitude clear—directly, by statement, or indirectly, through understatement, overstatement, or the language of a character? In what ways does the work assume a common ground of assent between author and reader? That is, are there apparently common assumptions about religious views, politi¬ cal ideas, moral and behavioral standards, and so on? Are these common ideas readily acceptable, or is any concession needed by the reader to approach the work? For example, Anne Ridler's poem "Nothing Is Lost" (p. 653) deals with death. Although talk of death is often grim and sorrowful in tone, the poem presents ways of understanding that suggest hopefulness. Ridler reminds us that an obvious example of the persistence of life is that memory and written records transfer knowledge and ideas from generations to succeeding genera¬ tions. In the spirit of the idea that "Nothing Is Lost," she cites the fact that actual physical characteristics are also preserved. Thus, "lines in a face / Are faithful currents of life: the boy has written / His parents across his forehead . . . (lines 11-13). In effect, Ridler is showing that life does not give up, because "The cells pass on their secrets" (17), and "all in love survive" (26). 5. Unique characteristics. Each work has unique properties that contribute to the tone. For example, Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz" is a brief narrative in which the speaker's recollected feelings about his father's boisterously drunken behavior must be inferred from understatement. Hardy's "Channel Firing" (Chapter 12) develops from the comic and absurd joke that the sounds of cannons being fired from ships at sea are so loud they could waken the dead. Be alert for such special circumstances in the poem you are consid¬ ering, and as you plan and develop your essay, take them into account. Your conclusion may summarize your main points and from there go on to any needed definitions, explanations, or afterthoughts, together with ideas reinforcing earlier points. If you have changed your mind or have made new realizations, briefly explain these. Finally, you might mention some other major aspect of the work's tone that you did not develop in the body.

664

CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are Used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Regal 1 Willa Regal Professor Tyler English 102 18 May 2010 The Speaker’s Attitudes in Sharon Olds’s “The Planned Child”0 [1]

“The Planned Child” is unusual and striking because in it Sharon Olds deals so frankly with her speaker’s concern about the circumstances of her conception and birth. Few people ever learn about how they were conceived, and even fewer ever think about it enough to criticize it, and yet the poem’s details concern this topic. As unusual as such details are, however, the poem’s power results from the way the speaker traces the development of her attitudes towards her origins—from hate, to uncertainty, to acceptance.* These attitudes may be traced in the poem’s two stanzas, its ordinary diction, and the way its use of the first-person pronoun indicates the speaker’s importance.!

[2]

Olds’s first stanza contrasts the speaker’s hatred for planning and organization and her preference for disorganization. The stanza is arresting, if not shocking, because in it the speaker goes into the past to describe her feelings about how her mother calculated ovulation times to insure conception. Rather than finding it comical that she owes her existence to the chart her mother made on a laundry cardboard, the speaker says she hated this planned record keeping. She explains this attitude because the planning, to her way of thinking, reduced her to little more than an A on a rising graph line and by implication, therefore, it seemed cold and impersonal. From the description the speaker makes of conception in lines 7 and 8, it seems that spontaneous and

°This poem appears on page 648. ‘Central idea, thesis sentence.

Illustrative Student Essay

665

Regal 2 disorganized love by her parents would have created a warmer, more welcoming reason for her existence. The second stanza is continuous with the first because it stems out of

[3]

feelings occasioned by an unplanned but significant moment. A friend serves wine to the speaker and tells her that she seems to have been “a child who had been wanted” (line 12, italics added). This casual social event is symbolic (is it similar to an experience of communion?) because it gives the speaker a lifegiving insight into her existence. The conclusion of the poem is then devoted to the speaker’s newly created feelings of involvement with her mother. She finds affection for her mother in the details of childbirth—bearing down, breathing, pressing, and the emergence into life of the speaker herself. The poem’s climax is the speaker’s apparently amazed realization that she herself was actually wanted. The X on the graph therefore was a means of achieving a far greater goal, for her mother valued her more than the world or the galaxy. As the speaker imagines her mother’s lifegiving act, she imagines how loving it was, and therefore she senses her own importance. With such an unusual topic, one might expect a fair amount of abstract and

[4]

medical diction, but such is not the case. Most of the words are flat and ordinary (e.g., “a friend was pouring wine”). Despite their simplicity, however, the diction confronts readers with direct physical details of planned conception and the labor of childbirth. The speaker refers matter-of-factly to a temperature chart, the birth canal, and breathing into a mask and bearing down during labor. Of major note is the intensity that Olds achieves through the selection of simple but strong verbs and verbals (“hated,” “planned,’ “had taken,” “ sliding, “made,” “pouring,” “were moving,” “bearing down,” “breathing,” “pressing,” and “cartwheeling”). All these words fit the poet’s aim to connect with one of life’s first facts—being conceived and then delivered. As this basic detail indicates, the central figure of the poem is the speaker and her attitudes. This centrality is emphasized by the frequent use of the first person pronoun throughout the poem. A form ot the pronoun appears twelve times, and the poem begins with “I” and concludes with “me.’ This number may not seem high in a personal poem of twenty-two lines, but it is

[5]

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CHAPTER 14 • Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

Regal 3 high enough to support the idea that the poem is about attitudes toward selfrealization. The poem explores some vital personal questions: Could the speaker love herself knowing that she was planned and not spontaneous? Not when these calculations seemed to result from nothing more than cold science. But could she love herself after learning that the calculations were preceded by love for her? Yes, and as a result the speaker makes inferences from this new information. She imagines that nothing in the world was more important to her mother than she. She therefore has more value than the earth and stars themselves, and this vision closes the poem on a strongly positive and affirmative note: not the moon, the sun, Orion cartwheeling across the dark, not the earth, the sea—none of it was enough, for her, without me. (20-22) [6]

Thus, an examination of “The Planned Child” reveals both the need and difficulty of self-understanding. The poem is a confession of changing attitudes in the light of a growing sense of personal origin. Olds makes this point through the commonness and universality of details about birth. Yet the poem is not personal or egocentric because it is about the need of discovering who one is. Without this knowledge the poem’s speaker is uncertain and hostile. But once she can see that she is part of a pattern of love and creativity, she becomes positive and assertive. The tone of “The Planned Child” reflects the speaker’s growing confidence that results from her increased knowledge and awareness.

Regal 4 Work Cited Olds, Sharon. “The Planned Child.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New

York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 648. Print.

Writing Topics About Tone in Poetry

667

Commentary on the Essay Because this essay embodies a number of approaches by which tone may be stud¬ ied in any work (situation, diction, special characteristics), it is typical of many essays that use a combined approach. The central idea, expressed in the first para¬ graph, is that the dominant attitudes in "The Planned Child" are the speaker's change from hostility to certainty. Paragraph 2 considers the poem's first section, in which the speaker explains why a preference for spontaneity caused her initial hatred of how she came into being (strategy 4, p. 663). Paragraph 3 shows how the explanation of a unique sit¬ uation can be seen as a feature of tone (strategy 5, p. 663). The paragraph pursues the speaker's thoughts that develop from an unexpected comment from a friend. In this sense, a casual moment explains how the speaker's relative confusion shifts to the greater self-confidence and acceptance of her mother's labors to bring her into the world. Paragraph 4 concerns the poem's treatment of the unusual subject matter through comparatively simple diction (strategy 1, p. 662). Words in the paragraph that indicate attitudes are "confronts," "matter-of-factly," "intensity," and "desire." Paragraph 5 considers how Olds's use of the first-person pronoun fits into the poem's recognition of the speaker's importance (strategy 2, pp. 662-63). The paragraph asserts that the poem's positive conclusion is augmented by images on a planetary, solar, galactic, geographic, and marine scale (strategy 5). The concluding paragraph points out that the speaker's concern with her ori¬ gins is not simply a matter of egocentrism, but rather results from her need to con¬ nect with an attitude that is more human and loving than the act of planning at first seems to convey.

Writing Topics About Tone in Poetry Writing Paragraphs 1. Consider the tone of Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz." Some readers have con¬ cluded that the speaker is expressing fond memories of his childhood experi¬ ences with his father. Others believe that the speaker is ambiguous about the father and that he suppresses childhood pain as he describes the father's bois¬ terousness in the kitchen. Basing your conclusion on the tone of the poem alone, write a paragraph about how you believe the poem should be interpreted. 2. How does Edelman establish a friendly relationship between the speaker and the reader in "Trouble"? Write a paragraph describing in what way this rela¬ tionship creates the tone of the poem.

Writing Essays 1. Consider Clifton's "homage to my hips," Cummings's "she being Brand / -new," Hardy's "The Workbox," Whur's "The First-Rate Wife," and Henley's "When You Are Old" as poems about love. Write an essay that answers the following questions. What similarities do you find? That is, do the poets state that love creates joy, satisfaction, distress, embarrassment, trouble? How does the tone

668

CHAPTER 14 « Tone: The Creation of Attitude in Poetry

of each of the poems enable you to draw your conclusions? What differences do you find in the ways the poets either control or do not control tone? 2. Consider these same poems (from question 1) from a feminist viewpoint (see Chapter 23). What importance and value do the poems give to women? How do they view women's actions? Write an essay arguing that any of these poems deserve praise or blame because of their treatment of women? 3. What judgments about modern city life do you think Leger conveys in his painting The City (p. 1-8)? If the tone of paintings can be considered similar to poetic tone, write an essay in which you consider in what ways The City is comparable to the presentation of detail in Eliot's "Preludes" (Chapter 12), Sandburg's "Chicago" (Chapter 18), and Swift's "A Description of the Morn¬ ing" (this chapter)—together with any other poems you wish to include. 4. Write an essay that explains how the details and ideas in Ridler's "Nothing Is Lost" (p. 653) shape the poem's tone. What is the effect of the stanzaic pattern and the rhymes on your understanding and on your responses to the poem's ideas? In terms of ideas and tone, how does this poem compare with Pinsky's "Dying" (p. 649)? 5. Quasimodo's "Auschwitz" (p. 651) concerns one of the twentieth century's central evils, the most abhorrent of the Nazi death camps, about which people have expressed anger, horror, indignation, outrage, disgust, hatred, and vengefulness. Write an essay in which you discuss to what degree you find these attitudes in Quasimodo's poem. How do such attitudes, or others, gov¬ ern the poem's tone? Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write a poem about a person or occasion that has made you either glad or angry. Try to create the same feelings in your reader, but create these feelings through your rendering of situation and your choices of the right words. (■Possible topics: a social injustice; an unfair grade; a compliment you have received on a task well done; the landing of a good job; the winning of a game; a rise in the price of gasoline; a good book or movie.) Library Assignment 1. From resources in your library or online, find two critical biographies about Theodore Roethke published by university presses. What do these works dis¬ close about Roethke's childhood and his family, particularly his father? On the basis of what you learn, should your interpretation of the tone of "My Papa's Waltz" be changed or unchanged? Why?

Chapter 15 Form: The Shape of Poems

B

ecause poetry is compressed and highly rhythmical, it always exists under selfimposed restrictions, or conventions. Traditionally, many poets have chosen a vari¬ ety of clearly recognizable shapes or forms—closed-form poetry. Since the middle of the nineteenth century, however, many poets have rejected regular patterns in favor of poems that appear more free and spontaneous—open-form poetry. Both terms refer to the structure and technique of the poems, not to the content or ideas.

Ciosed-Form Poetry Closed-form poetry is written in specific and traditional patterns of lines pro¬ duced through line length, meter, rhyme, and line groupings. In the closed form (and also in the open form), the line is, loosely, the poetic equivalent of the prose sen¬ tence. A prime characteristic of the closed-form line, as opposed to a sentence, is that its length is usually measured or restricted. Various numbers of lines may be grouped together through rhyme and other means to form a stanza, which is the poetic equivalent of a paragraph in prose. Individual lines may coincide exactly with sentences, although quite often sentences stretch out over two or more lines. Stanzas consist of groups of lines that are both connected and also separated by developments of subject, idea, or expression of feeling. Over the centuries English and American poets have appropriated and evolved many closed forms. Among the most important of these are blank verse, the couplet, the tercet or triplet, terza rirna, the villanelle, the quatrain, the sonnet, the song or lyric, the ode, the ballad, the elegy, and common measure or the hymnal stanza, together with forms like the haiku, the epigram, the epitaph, the limerick, the clerihew, and the double dactyl.

Blank Verse Consists of Five Unrhymed lambic Lines One of the most common closed forms in English is blank verse, or unrhymed iambic pentameter, which represents the adaptation and fusion of sentences to poetic form. The great advantage of blank verse is that it resembles normal speech but at the same time it maintains poetic identity. It is suitable for relatively short poems, but it may also extend for hundreds or even thousands of lines. It is the most adaptable line of English poetry. The master of blank verse is Shakespeare, who used it extensively in his plays. Since Shakespeare, poets of English have 669

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CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

used blank verse again and again. Milton used it in his masterly long epic Paradise Lost. Wordsworth was fond of blank verse and used it in some of his best-known poems. Let us look at a passage from his autobiographical poem The Prelude (1850) to see his blank verse—which has been praised as "conversational," "flexible," and "majestic"—in action). Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought. That givest to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion, not in vain By day or star-light thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul; Not with the mean and vulgar works of man. But with high objects, with enduring things— With life and nature, purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought. And sanctifying, by such discipline. Both pain and fear, until we recognize A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. (Book I, lines 401M14)

The development of these lines takes place through a simultaneous blending of line lengths and grammatical coherence. Wordsworth expresses his ideas enthusi¬ astically within his chosen iambic rhythm, which is both restricting and liberating, and by this means he brings about the "majestic" elevation that is characteristic of his poetry.

The Couplet Consists of Two Lines Connected by Thought and Rhyme The couplet contains two rhyming lines and is the shortest distinct closed form. The two lines are usually identical in length and meter. Some couplets are short. Even lines in monometer (one major stress), like "I sing / Each spring," can make up a couplet. However, most English couplets are in iambic tetrameter (four stresses) or iambic pentameter (five stresses), and they have been a regular feature of English poetry ever since Chaucer used them in the fourteenth century. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the iambic-pentameter couplet was consid¬ ered appropriate for epic, or heroic, poetry. For this reason it is often called the heroic couplet. Because these centuries are considered the "neoclassic" age of literature, the form is also called the neoclassic couplet. It was used with consum¬ mate skill by John Dryden (1631-1700) and Alexander Pope (1688-1744). Usually, the heroic couplet expresses a complete idea and is grammatically self-sufficient. It thrives on the rhetorical strategies of parallelism and antithesis. Look, for example, at these two couplets from "The Rape of the Lock," Pope's well-known mock-epic poem (1711): Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home;

Closed-Form Poetry

671

Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey. Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.

These lines describe activities at Hampton Court, the royal palace and residence of Queen Anne (reigned 1701-1714). Notice that the first couplet allows Pope to link "Britain's statesmen" with two parallel but also antithetical events: the fall of nations and the "fall" of young women. Similarly, the second heroic couplet allows for the parallel and comic linking of royal meetings of state ("counsel") and teatime (in the early eighteenth century, tea was pronounced "tay"). The example thus demonstrates how the heroic couplet may contrast amusing and ironic actions and situations.

The Tercet or Triplet Consists of Three Lines A three-line stanza is called a tercet or triplet. Tercets may be written in any uni¬ form line length or meter and most commonly contain three rhymes {am, bbb, and so on), which are, in effect, short stanzas. The following poem by Tennyson is in iambic tetrameter triplets.

Q| ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

The Eagle

(1809 1892).

(i85i)

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls. And like a thunderbolt he falls.

In the first tercet, we view the eagle as though at a distance. In the second, the per¬ spective shifts, and we see through the eagle's eyes and follow his actions. In this tercet the verbs are active: the sea "crawls" and the eagle "falls. While the two ter¬ cets and the shift in perspective divide the poem, alliteration pulls things back together. This is especially true of the k sound in "clasps," "crag, crooked, "close," and "crawls" and the w sound in "with," "world," "watches," and "walls." TERZA RIMA. There are two important variations on the tercet pattern, each re¬ quiring a high degree of ingenuity and control. The first tercet variation is terza rima, in which stanzas are interlocked through a pattern that requires the cen¬ ter termination in one tercet to be rhymed twice in the next: aba bcb cdc ded, and so on.

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CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

THE VILLANELLE. The most complex variation of the tercet pattern is the villanelle, a nineteen-line form containing six tercets, rhymed aba, and concluded by four lines. The first and third lines of the first tercet are repeated alternately in subse¬ quent tercets as a refrain, and they are also used in the concluding four lines. For examples in this chapter, see Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art," Theodore Roethke's "The Waking," and Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night."

The Quatrain Is a Unit of Four Lines

____

The most common and adaptable stanzaic building block is the four-line quatrain. This stanza has been popular for hundreds of years and has lent itself to many variations. Like couplets and tercets, quatrains may be written in any line length and meter; even the line lengths within a quatrain may vary. The determining fac¬ tor is the rhyme scheme, and even that is variable, depending on the form and the poet's aims. Quatrains may be rhymed aaaa, but they can also be rhymed abab, abba, aaba, or even abcb. Quatrains are basic components of many traditional closed forms, most notably ballads and sonnets, and they are significant in many religious hymns.

The Sonnet Is a Versatile Poem of Fourteen Lines The sonnet, consisting of fourteen lines, is one of the most popular and durable closed poetic forms. Initially it was an Italian form (sonnetto means "little song") created by the medieval Italian poet Petrarch (1304-1374), who wrote collections or cycles of sonnets. The sonnet form as made famous by Petrarch is called the Italian sonnet or Petrarchan sonnet in Petrarch's honor. The form and style of Petrarchan sonnets were adapted to English poetry in the early six¬ teenth century, and with variations they have been used ever since. As a form, the Petrarchan sonnet is in iambic pentameter, and it contains two quatrains (the octave) and two tercets (the sestet). In structure and meaning, the octave presents a problem or situation that is resolved in the sestet, as in Milton's "On His Blindness." The rhyme scheme of the Petrarchan octave is fixed in an abba, abba pattern. The sestet offers a number of different rhyming possibilities, including cdc cdc and cde cde. THE SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET OR ENGLISH SONNET. Shakespeare was the most original adapter of the sonnet tradition. Recognizing that there are fewer rhyming words in English than in Italian, he developed the Shakespearean sonnet or English sonnet, based on seven rhymes (in the pattern abab cdcd efef gg) rather than the usual five rhymes of the Italian sonnet. As indicated by the rhyme scheme, the Shakespearean sonnet contains three quatrains and a con¬ cluding couplet. The pattern of thought therefore shifts from the octave-sestet organization of the Italian sonnet to a four-part argument on a single thought or emotion. Each Shakespearean quatrain contains a separate development of the son¬ net's central idea or problem, and the couplet provides a climax and resolution.

Closed-Form Poetry

673

The Song or Lyric Is a Stanzaic Poem of Variable Measure and Length The song or lyric is a stanzaic form that was originally designed to be sung to a repeating melody, although few lyrics today are written specifically for music. Even so, the line lengths and rhyme schemes of the first stanza are duplicated in subsequent stanzas, as though for repeated singing to the same tune. The stanzas of a lyric may be built from any combination of single lines, couplets, triplets, and quatrains. The line lengths may shift, and a great deal of metrical variation is common. The lyric is one of the most adaptable and variable of all verse forms at the present time. In fact, the lyric is one of the forms most commonly used by con¬ temporary poets. The form may be personal, public, philosophical, religious, or political, in addition to its use as a vehicle to express love and other emotions. There is theoretically no limit to the number of stanzas in a lyric, although there are usually no more than five or six. A. E. Housman's "Loveliest of Trees" (Chapter 11), for example, is a lyric made up of three quatrains containing two couplets each. It is in iambic tetrameter and it rhymes aabb. The second and third stanzas repeat the same pattern of rhyme, ccdd eeff. Lyrics often feature quite complex and ingenious stanzaic structures. Donne's "The Canonization" (Chapter 16) for instance, contains five stanzas, each of which follows the iambic pattern 5a4b5b5a4c4c4c4a3a. This nine-line stanza contains three differ¬ ent rhymes and three different line lengths. Nevertheless, the same intricate pattern is repeated in each of the five stanzas.

The Ode Is a Complex and Extensive Stanzaic Poem The ode is a more variable stanzaic form than the lyric, with varying line lengths and intricate rhyme schemes. Usually the topics of odes are meditative and philo¬ sophical, but there is no set topic material, just as there is no set form. Some odes have repeating patterns, while others offer no duplication and introduce a new structure in each stanza. Poets have developed their own structures according to their needs. Keats's great odes were particularly congenial to his ideas, as in "Ode to a Nightingale," which consists of eight stanzas in iambic pentameter with the repeating form ububcds3cds. Although many odes have been set to music, most do not fit repeating melodies.

The Elegy Is a Poern About Death and Its Meaning for the Living The elegy ("lament," or "mournful song") has had a long and rich history in other languages extending back to ancient times, and it has defined a number of topics, but for our purposes it is a poem of lamentation. Usually the topic is the death of a specific person, but it is also generally concerned with mortality and the nega¬ tive and tragic aspects of life. In English the most notable elegy is Milton's "Lycidas" (1638), which he wrote in observance of the death by drowning of a "learned friend" with whom he had gone to school. Milton also composed this poem as a pastoral, that is, a poem describing rural lives and concerns, with direct allegorical

674

CHAPTER 15 * Form: The Shape of Poems

implications for the lives of city-dwellers. So that you may get a sense of this poem, here are the opening twenty-four lines.

5

io

15

20

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,° I come to pluck your berries0 harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. Young Lycidas, and hath0 not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. Without the meed0 of some melodious tear. Begin then, sisters0 of the sacred well. That from beneath the seat of Jove° doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse. So may some gentle muse

dry, withered to write this poem

who hath

gift, honor the muses God (Jupiter)

With lucky0 words favor my destined urn, And as he passes turn. And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill. Fed the same flock; by fountain, shade, and rill.0

providential, inspired

/.&,

we went to the same school

Today few people think of the traditional formalities of elegiac writing, and prefer to understand poems as elegies if they concern death, mortality, and grief. Thus, Collins's "The Names" (Chapter 14), Dryden's "To the Memory of Mr. Oldham" (this chapter), Pinsky's "Dying" (Chapter 14), Cummings's "Buffalo Bill's Defunct" (this chapter), and Dickinson's "The Bustle in a House" (Chapter 17), to name just a few poems in this book, might, broadly, all be considered elegies.

A Ballad Consists of Many Narrative Quatrains The ballad, which fuses narrative description with dramatic dialogue, origi¬ nated in folk literature and is one of the oldest closed forms in English poetry. Ballads consist of many quatrains in which lines of iambic tetrameter alternate with iambic trimeter. Normally, only the second and fourth lines of each stanza rhyme, in the pattern xaxci xbxb xcxc and so on. The ballad was designed for singing, like the anonymous "Sir Patrick Spens" (Chapter 10). Popular ballad tunes were used over and over again by later balladeers, often as many as forty and fifty times, or more, and many of the tunes have survived to the present day and are still well known. The music to folk ballads like "Greensleeves" and "Waly Waly" (not in this collection) has been known now for the past 400 years in both England and America, and many balladeers have written words to be sung to this music.

Closed-Form Poetry

675

Common Measure, or the Hymnal Stanza, Is a Poem Consisting of a Number of Quatrains Common measure, a quatrain form, is similar to the ballad stanza. It shares with the ballad the alternation of four-beat and three-beat iambic lines but adds a sec¬ ond rhyme to the first and third lines of each quatrain: abab cdcd and so on. Because the measure is often used in hymns, it is sometimes called the hymnal stanza. Many of Emily Dickinson's poems, including "Because I Could Not Stop for Death" (Chapter 10), are in common measure.

The Haiku Is a Complete Poem of Seventeen Syllables The haiku originated in Japan, where it has been a favorite genre for hundreds of years. It traditionally imposes strict rules on the writer: (1) There should be three lines (a tercet) of five, seven, and five syllables per line, for a total of seventeen syl¬ lables. (2) The topic should be derived from nature. (3) The poem should embody a unique observation or insight. Today, English-language poets have adapted the haiku but have taken liberties with the subject matter and have often reduced the syllable count. Whether the traditional pattern is varied or not, however, the haiku must be short, simple, objective, clear, and (often) symbolic. The following anony¬ mous haiku illustrates some of these qualities.

Spun in High, Dark Clouds Spun in high, dark clouds. Snow forms vast webs of white flakes And drifts lightly down.

In the tradition of haiku, the subject is derived from nature, and the syllable pat¬ tern is 5-7-5. The central metaphor equates gathering snow with the webs of silk¬ worms or spiders. To supply tension, the lines contrast "high" with "down" and "dark" with "white." Because of the enforced brevity, the diction is simple and, except for the word "forms," of English derivation (our word form is of Latin ori¬ gin). In addition, most of the words are monosyllabic, and through this means the poem fills the seventeen-syllable form with sixteen words.

There Are Additional but Less Significant Closed-Form Types Many other closed forms have enjoyed long popularity. One of these, the epigram, is a short and witty poem that usually makes a humorous or satiric point. Epi¬ grams are two to four lines long and are often written in couplets. The form was developed by the Roman poet Martial (Marcus Valerius Martialis, c. 40-103 ce) and has always been popular. Humorous and sometimes irreverent epitaphs, brief poems composed to mark the death of someone, can also be epigrams. Another popular type is the limerick, a five-line form popularized by the English artist and humorist Edward Lear (1812-1888). Like the epigram, limericks

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CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

are comic, their humor being reinforced by falling rhymes. Usually, they are bawdy. Comic closed forms continue to be devised by enterprising writers. The clerihew, a two-couplet form invented in the late nineteenth century by Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956), is related to the epigram. A final illustration of closed-form humor is the double dactyl, devised in the 1960s by Anthony Hecht and Paul Pascal. The form is related to the epigram, limerick, and clerihew, and it has rules that govern the meter, line length, and specific topic material.

Poets Use the Closed Form to Shape and Polish Meaning Although many contemporary poets consider closed forms restrictive and even stultifying, the closed form has always provided both a framework and a chal¬ lenge for poets to express new and fresh ideas, attitudes, and feelings. Let us look at the way Shakespeare uses the sonnet form to shape thoughts and emotions:

ffl WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(1564-1616)

For a portrait, see Chapter 20, page 1009.

m

5

10

Sonnet 116: Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds (1609) Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments.0 Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove: Oh, no! it is an ever-fixed mark. That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark. Whose worth's unknown, although his height0 be taken. Love's not Time's fool,0 though rosy lips and cheeks Within his° bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. But bears it out even to the edge of doom.0 If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

its altitude slave Time's

the Last Judgment

°2 impediments: a reference to “The Order of Solemnization of Matrimony” in the Anglican Church’s Book of Common Prayer: “I require that if either of you know of any impediment why ye may not he lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.”

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the restrictions of this closed form. How is the poem's argument structured by the form?

2. What is the poem's meter? Rhyme scheme? Structure?

Open-Form Poetry

677

3. Describe the varying ideas about love explored in the three quatrains. 4. What does the concluding couplet contribute to the poem's argument about love? Even if we did not know that the poem is Shakespeare's, we would recognize it as a Shakespearean sonnet. It is in iambic pentameter and contains three quatrains and a concluding couplet, rhyming abab cdcd efefgg. The sonnet form provides the organization for the poem's argument—that real love is a "marriage of true minds" existing independent of earthly time and change. Each quatrain advances a new perspective on this idea. This is not to say that Shakespeare exhausts the subject or that he wants to. The ideas in the third quatrain, for example, about how love transcends time, could be greatly expanded. A philosophical analysis of the topic might deal exten¬ sively with Platonic ideas about reality—whether it exists in particulars or universals. Similarly, the poem's very last line, if it were to become the topic of a prose discourse, might include the introduction of evidence about the poet's own writing, and also about many examples of human love. But the two lines are enough, granted the restrictions of the form, and more would be superfluous. One might add that most readers find Shakespeare's poem interesting and vital, while extensive philosophical discourses often drop into laps as readers fall asleep. The closed poetic form therefore may be viewed as a complex consequence of poetic compression. No matter what form a poet chooses—couplet, sonnet, song, ballad, ode—that form imposes restrictions, and it therefore challenges and shapes the poet's thought. The poet of the closed form shares with all writers the need to make ideas seem logical and well supported, but the challenge of the form is to make all this happen within the form itself. The thought must be developed clearly and also fully, and there should be no lingering doubts once the poem is completed. The words must be the most fitting and exact ones that could be selected. When we look at good poems in the closed form, in short, we may be sure that they represent the ultimate degree of poetic thought, discipline, and skill.

Open-Form Poetry Among the closed forms, as we have seen, the ode is the form that gives poets great opportunity for variability and expansion. The ode is thus the closed form that is most nearly related, in spirit, to open-form poetry, but the open form eliminates the restrictions of the closed form. Each open-form poem is unique and unpredictable. Poetry of this type was once termed free verse (from the French vers libre) to signify its liberation from regular metrics and its embrace of spoken rhythms. But openform poetry is not therefore disorganized or chaotic. Open-form poets have instead created new and original ways to arrange words and lines—new ways to express thoughts and feelings, and new ways to order poetic experience. Poets writing in the open form attempt to fuse form and content by stress¬ ing speechlike rhythms, creating a natural and easy-flowing word order, alter¬ ing and varying line lengths according to the importance of ideas, and creating emphasis through the control of shorter and longer pauses. They often isolate individual words, phrases, and clauses as single lines, freely emphasize their

678

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

ideas through the manipulation of spaces separating words and sentences, and sometimes even break up individual words in separate lines to highlight their importance. Sometimes they create poems that look exactly like prose and that are printed in blocks and paragraphs instead of stanzas or lines, as with "Museum" by Robert Hass (in this chapter). Such prose poems rely on a pro¬ gression of images and the cadences of language.

Open-Form Poetry Is Free in Form and Variable in Content An early example of open-form poetry is Walt Whitman's "Reconciliation" This poem was included in Drum Taps, a collection of fifty-three poems about the poet's reactions to Civil War battles in Virginia.

WALT WHITMAN

(1819-1892)

For a photo, see Chapter 13, page 612.

Reconciliation

(1865, issi)

Word over all, beautiful as the sky. Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost. That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soiled world; For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin—I draw near. Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.

QUESTIONS 1. How do individual lines, varying line lengths, punctuation, pauses, and cadences cre¬ ate rhythm and organize the images and ideas in this poem?

2. How do alliteration, assonance, and the repetition of words unify the poem and rein¬ force its content?

3. What is the "word" referred to in line 1? What does the speaker find "beautiful" about this "word" and the passage of time?

4. What instances of personification can you find? What do these personified figures do? What does the speaker do in lines 5-6? Why does he do this?

"Reconciliation" shows the power of open-form poetry. There is no dominant meter, rhyme scheme, or stanza pattern. Instead, Whitman uses individual lines and varying line lengths to organize and emphasize the images, ideas, and emotions. He also uses repetition, alliteration, and assonance to make internal line connections. Without going into every aspect of the poem, one may note the unifying ele¬ ments in the first few lines. The "word over all" (i.e., reconciliation, peace) is linked to the second line by the repetition of the words "beautiful" and "all,"

Open-Form Poetry

679

while “beautiful" is grammatically complemented by the clauses “that. . . lost" (line 2) and "That . . . world" (line 3). The reconciling word is thus connected to the image of the two personified figures, Death and Night, who "wash" war and carnage (bloodshed) out of "this soiled world." In the third line, unity and emphasis are created through the repetition of "again" and the alliteration on the ly sound of "incessantly" and "softly," the s sound in "sisters," "incessantly," "softly," and "soil'd," and the d sound in "hands," "Death," "soil'd," and "World." One may also note the unifying assonance patterns of ih in "its," "in," "sisters," "incessantly," and "this;" and aye in "sky," "time," and "Night." The pauses, or junctures, of the line create internal rhythms that coincide with the thought, "That the hands / / of the sisters / / Death and Night / / inces¬ santly softly // wash again and ever again // this soiled world." This selective analysis demonstrates that open-form poetry creates its own unity. While some of the unifying elements, such as alliteration and assonance, are also a property of closed-form poetry, many are unique to poetry of the open form, such as the repetitions, the reliance on grammatical structures, and the control of rhythms. The concept of the open form is that the topic itself shapes the number of lines, the line lengths, and the physical appearance on the page. Unity is there— development is there—but the open form demands that there be as many shapes and forms as there are topics.

VISUALIZING POETRY

Poetry and Artistic Expression: Visual Poetry, Concrete Poetry, and Prose Poems Along with the fact that many poets have rejected traditional closed-form pat¬ terns, they have moved in new directions with the open form. The idea has been to allow poetry to follow a wide range of poetic shapes, including avenues of experimentation. Poets have continued to express ideas about the topics we usually associate with poetry—which really means just about everything—but in addition, they have imaginatively invented new looks for their poems on the actual page. Some poets may indulge in creative playfulness by fashioning visual surprises, thus focusing on the medium itself, in which each poem starts its life, waiting patiently for readers. In fact, some poets give almost as much attention to their visual arrangement of letters, words, lines, and white space as they do to the content of their poems. To draw attention to particular thoughts, many poets deliberately alter the spellings of certain words; or they may run a number of words together, without spaces between them, to set them apart; or they may abandon the traditional capitalization of each new line; or, for that matter, they may simply reject some or all capitalization. We may see some of these characteristics in E. E. Cummings's poem "Buffalo Bill s Defunct, in which Cummings uses stretched-out lines in contrast with shorter lines, runs successive words together, and varies the placement of line beginnings, all as the means of guiding readers to see, hear, and comprehend the poem in accor¬ dance with his wishes.

680

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

Of E. E. CUMMINGS

(1894-1962)_

For a photo, see Chapter 11, page 526.

9

5

10

Buffalo Bill’s Defunct0

(1923)

Buffalo Bill's defunct who used to ride a watersmooth-silver stallion and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death “The poem has no title; it is usually referred to as “Portrait” or by its first two lines. Buffalo Bill (William F. Cody, 1846-1917) was an American plainsman, hunter, army scout, sharpshooter, and showman whose Wild West show began touring the world in 1883; he became a symbol of the Wild West.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the effect of devoting a whole line to "Buffalo Bill's" (line 1), "defunct" (line 2), "stallion" (line 5), "Jesus" (line 7), and "Mister Death" (line 11)? How does this tech¬ nique reflect and emphasize the content of the poem?

2. How does the typographical arrangement of line 6 contribute to the fusion of sound and sense? What other examples of this technique do you find?

3. Explain the denotations and connotations of defunct. What would be lost (or gained) by using the term dead or deceased instead?

4. To what extent is this poem a "portrait" of Buffalo Bill? What do we learn about him? Is the portrait respectful, mocking, or something in between?

Cummings's poem is in the tradition of earlier poetry that was very much like anagrams or puzzles. One interesting early type featured the weaving of words inside a poem, with the special words in effect doing double duty—being coher¬ ent and meaningful within a poem, and having a separate coherence and meaning themselves. Such examples, both integral and extraneous at the same time, are almost like a verbal game, which applies also to much later concrete poetry. In the following poem, by the early seventeenth-century poet George Herbert, the poem develops out of the biblical text in Colossians: "Set your affection on tilings above, not on things on the earth. For ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God. When Christ, who is our life, shall appear, then shall ye also appear with him in glory" (3: 2-4). The idea of Paul, the writer of Colossians, is a complex one, and it is vital in Christian theology: that the human lifetime is short but only seemingly so, because eternal life is hidden to human beings and will not be recognized until the eventual return of Jesus. Within the poem, the sentence that Herbert creates is

HERBERT • Colossians 3:3 (Our Life Is Hid with Christ in God)

681

this: "My Life Is Hid In Him That Is My Treasure." This sentence descends, word by word and diagonally downward from left to right. The words of the descend¬ ing sentence are boldfaced, capitalized, and italicized here.

GEORGE HERBERT

(1593-1633)

Colossians 3:3 (Our Life Is Hid with Christ in God) (1633) MYwords and thoughts do both express this notion. That LIFE hath with the sun a double motion. The first IS straight, and our diurnal friend. The other HID and doth obliquely bend. One life is wrapped IN flesh, and tends to earth: The other winds towards HIM, whose happy birth Taught me to live here so, THAT still one eye Should aim and shoot at that which IS on high: Quitting with daily labor all MY pleasure. To gain at harvest an eternal TREASURE.

QUESTIONS 1. How is the Sun to be considered "our diurnal friend"? What is the distinction made in the poem between "straight" and "obliquely"?

2. What is the "double motion" that is embodied (a) in the lives of human beings, (b) in the poem itself, and also (c) in the line that descends within the poem? How does the form of the poem reinforce these ideas?

The "hidden" sentence is essential to the poem in two ways: it is integrated grammatically while at the same time it possesses its own separate coherence and meaning. It reminds us of the importance of the visual aspects of poetry. Visual poetry, also called shaped verse and sometimes picture poetry, is alive and well today. Within this form, poets not only emphasize the idea and emotion of their subjects but also fashion their poems into a generalized or pictorial shape on the page, using words, lines, and spaces. The Chinese have been producing such poetry for many generations, and there are surviving examples from ancient Greece. In the English Renaissance, many poets fashioned the lines of their poems to repre¬ sent wings, altars, squares, triangles, stars, and the like. This type of poetry was often ingenious, and the figures were graphic extensions of traditional poetic images and symbols. In writing about visual and concrete poems, you should seek correspondences between images and poetic ideas. Describe the shape of the poem and the fig¬ ures it resembles. Determine how varying line lengths, the placement of indi¬ vidual words and phrases, and the use of space all contribute to the visual effect. A superb example of traditional visual poetry is "Easter Wings," also by George Herbert, which is a religious poem fashioned into two approximately equal shapes:

682

If

5

1o

15

20

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

Easter Wings

(1633)

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,0 Though foolishly he lost the same. Decaying more and more Till he became Most poor: With thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously. And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall0 further the flight in me. My tender age in sorrow did I begin: And still0 with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sin. That I became Most thin. With thee Let me combine. And feel this day thy victory;0 For, if I imp° my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

abundance

always, constantly

°2, 10 foolishly he lost . . . fall. . . : Two references to the biblical account of how sin and death were introduced as a punishment for humankind after Adam and Eve disobeyed God in the Garden of Eden. 18 victory : I Corinthians 15:54-57. 19 imp: to repair a falcon’s wing or tail by grafting on feathers.

QUESTIONS 1. What does the poem look like when viewed straight on? When viewed sideways, with the left side at the top? How do these two images echo and emphasize the poem's content?

2. How does the typographical arrangement echo the sense? In lines 5 and 15, for exam¬ ple, how are typography, shape, and meaning fused?

3. What do lines 1-5 tell you about humanity's spiritual history, according to Herbert? What do lines 11-15 tell you about the speaker's spiritual state? How are these par¬ allel?

In our own time, many poets have followed Herbert's precedent by creating shaped verse in which the visual image and the poetic meaning merge as separate aspects of one major idea. A unique shape for a recent poem is Charles Harper Webb's "The Shape of History." Let us see how Webb controls the lengths of lines to build his geometrical figure:

WEBB * The Shape of History

CHARLES HARPER WEBB

w

683

(b 1952)

The Shape of History

(1995)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre Today's paper is crammed full of news: pages and pages on the Somalia Famine, the Balkan Wars, Gays in the Military. On this date a year ago, only 1/365 of "The Year's Top Stories" happened. Time magazine fits a decade into one thin retrospective. Barely enough occurred a century ago to fill one sub-chapter in a high school text. 500 years ago, one or two things happened every 50 years. 5000 years ago, a city was founded, a grain cultivated, a civilization toppled every other century. Still farther back, the years march by in groups like graduates at a big state university: 10,000 to 20,000 bc; 50,000-100,000 bc; 1-10 million bc. Before that, things happened once an Era: Mam— mals in the Cenozoic, Dinosaurs in the Meso¬ zoic, Forests in the Paleozoic, Protozoans in the Pre-Cambrian. Below that, at the very base of time's twisting gyre, its cornucopia, its ram's-horn trum¬ pet, its tornado tracking across eternity, came what Christ¬ ians call Creation, astro¬ physicists call the Big Bang. Then, for tril¬ lions of years, nothing at all. “Turning; . . . gyre: See line 1 of Yeats’s “The Second Coming,” Chapter 16, page 747

QUESTIONS 1. What shape does the poet give to history? Flow accurate is this shape?

2. How do the lengths of the first and final two lines graphically show how civilization has grown? What "top stories" are mentioned in the first few lines? How representa¬ tive of modern news are these stories? How long will it take for such stories to be replaced by new, similar stories?

3. In the light of the epigraph by Yeats, what does the speaker apparently think will hap¬ pen in the future?

4. Considering the content and the diminishing shape of the poem's twenty-four lines, what do you think is meant by "nothing at/all"?

A comparable visual poem is John Hollander's "Swan and Shadow." Notice that Hollander, in order to compose the top image and the bottom reflection he seeks, develops a creative pattern of lines and individual words. The pattern coheres grammatically, and it also functions constructively to create the visual pic¬ ture, which is also three-dimensional. The connections here are skillful, and the finished poem shows a command over both poetic and graphic art.

5

10

15

20

684

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

JOHN HOLLANDER

(b 1929)

^ Swan and Shadow

(1969) \

5

io

15

20

25

Dusk Above the water hang the loud flies Here O so gray then What A pale signal will appear When Soon before its shadow fades Where Here in this pool of opened eye In us No Upon us As at the very edges of where we take shape in the dark air this object bares its image awakening ripples of recognition that will brush darkness up into light even after this bird this hour both drift by atop the perfect sad instant now already passing out of sight toward yet-untroubled reflection this image bears its object darkening into memorial shades Scattered bits of light No of water Or something across water Breaking up No Being regathered soon Yet by then a swan will have gone Yes out of mind into what vast pale hush

30

of a place past sudden dark as if a swan sang

35

QUESTIONS 1. How does the shape of the poem help you understand its meaning?

2. What specific words, phrases, and lines are emphasized by the typographical arrange¬ ment? To what extent does this effect give added impact to the poem?

3. How well does the structure echo the verbal images of the poem? 4. Do you find Hollander's experiment with shaped verse as successful as Herbert's in "Easter Wings" If so, demonstrate how it succeeds. If not, explain why.

Many patterns of visual form may be variable and, sometimes, surprising. William Heyen creates a unique form in his poem "Mantle," which presents his reflections about the brilliant professional career of Mickey Mantle, who is fondly

HEYEN • Mantle

685

remembered by sports fans as one of the superior home-run sluggers in baseball his¬ tory. Many students experience a great joy of discovery when they recognize the shape that Heyen is simulating here with his poetic stanzas.

WILLIAM HEYEN

(b 1940)

Mantle° (1980) Mantle ran so hard, they said, he tore his legs to pieces. What is this but spirit? 52 homers in '56, the triple crown. I was a high school junior, batting fourth behind him in a dream.

5

I prayed for him to quit, before his lifetime dropped below .300. But he didn't, and it did. He makes Brylcreem commercials now, models with open mouths draped around him as they never were in Commerce, Oklahoma,

10

where the sandy-haired, wide-shouldered boy stood up against his barn, lefty for an hour (Ruth, Gehrig),

15

then righty (DiMaggio), as his father winged them in, and the future blew toward him, now a fastball, now a slow curve hanging like a model's smile. “Mickey Mantle (1931-1995), a Yankee outfielder from 1951-1968. A switch hitter, he hit eighteen World Series home runs (a record) and 536 career home runs. He was the American League’s most valuable player in 1956, the year he won the triple crown (line 4).

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the shape of the poem, being careful to study the last stanza. Why is this shape appropriate for a famous baseball player?

2. How does the poet use Mantle as a symbol in this poem? 3. Who are Ruth, Gehrig, and DiMaggio? In what ways are they like Mantle? Just as some visual art is abstract and suggestive, rather than pictorial, so also may be the forms created by writers of visual poems. Such a poem is May Swenson's "Women," which is suggestive of feminine rhythm and movement. It is almost as though the poem itself is a dancing and gently swaying figure.

20

686

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

MAY SWENSON

if

10

15

20

25

(1919-1989)

Women (1968)

Women Or they should be should be little horses pedestals moving those wooden sweet pedestals oldfashioned moving painted to the rocking motions horses of men the gladdest things in the toyroom feelingly The and then pegs of their unfeelingly ears To be so familiar joyfully and dear ridden to the trusting rockingly fists ridden until To be chafed the restored egos dismount and the legs stride away Immobile willing sweetlipped to be set sturdy into motion and smiling Women women should be should always pedestals be waiting to men

QUESTIONS 1. Is this poem an instance of closed-form, open-form, or visual poetry? In what different ways or sequences can it be read? How do the different sequences change the meaning? 2. How well does the image of the poem reinforce its meaning? Would the effect be differ¬ ent if the columns of words were straight instead of undulating? 3. To what extent do repetition and alliteration help to organize the poem and underscore its sense? Note especially w, m,f, r, and s sounds. 4. What does this poem say that women should be? Does it mean what it says? How are men characterized? In what way is this poem ironic?

Another and somewhat less graphic type of free verse is called the "prose poem." This phrase may seem like a contradiction in terms, but the idea that poets can write poems in the shape of prose is not surprising, granted that many mod¬ ern poets are committed to principles of poetic freedom.1 Some topics might pos¬ sibly be more suitable to a prose form because they may seem less connected to poetry than to local or international news events, or they may involve the poet in 1See David Lehman, ed., Great American Prose Poems: From Poe to the Present (New York: Scribner, 2003).

FORCHE «The Colonel

687

reflections about politics, or about moral or religious matters. "Museum," by Robert Hass, is such a poem (p. 692), in which the speaker lays out a tranquil scene and draws an optimistic conclusion. But sometimes the subject may seem prob¬ lematic, and therefore more appropriate for a less formal treatment than poetry might offer. Above all, however, the major characteristic of the prose poem is that it should have the compactness and intensity of poetry, even though on the page, from a distance, it may at first seem just like any ordinary prose paragraph. Carolyn Forche creates such poetic intensity in her prose poem "The Colonel."

CAROLYN FORCHE

The Colonel

(b 1950)

(1978)

What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. Elis wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.

QUESTIONS 1. Why does the poet use the prose poem form for this poem? 2. What is the character of the colonel? How can he be gracious, and then abusive, at the same time? What atrocities has he committed or ordered committed? 3. Why does the speaker include details about the walls about the house? What do the walls show about the mentality of those within the walls? Explain the meaning of the last sentence.

As you explore modern poems, you will regularly encounter many different forms. Most poems will appear to be no more than slight variations of traditional poetic lines, but many will stretch and alter normal and expected linear patterns. And some will aim at fusing words and pictures, such as those we have examined briefly here. Modem writers seek to explore ideas and to blend their own new thoughts and insights with the poetic medium of new and original patterns of development. In addition to the poets mentioned here, many other modem poets have worked simi¬ larly with free forms. Some of these poets, included elsewhere in this volume, are Robinson Jeffers, Marge Piercy, Alberto Rios, and C. K. Williams.

688

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

Poems for Study Elizabeth Bishop..One Art, 688 Billy Collins..c.Sonnet, 689 John Dryden.To the Memory of Mr. Oldham, 690 Robert Frost.Desert Places, 690 Allen Ginsberg.A Supermarket in California, 691 Robert Hass.Museum, 692 George Herbert.Virtue, 693 John Hall Ingham.George Washington, 694 John Keats.Ode to a Nightingale, 695 Yusef Komunyakaa.Grenade, 697 Magus Magnus.Empirical/Imperial Demonstration, 698 Claude McKay.In Bondage, 699 Herman Melville.Shiloh: A Requiem, 699 John Milton.On His Blindness (When I Consider How My Light Is Spent), 700 Dudley Randall.Ballad of Birmingham, 701 Theodore Roethke.The Waking, 702 George William Russell (7E).Continuity, 703 William Shakespeare.Sonnet 73: That Time of Year Thou May'st in Me Behold, 703 Percy Bysshe Shelley.Ozymandias, 704 Dylan Thomas.Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night, 705 Jean Toomer.Reapers, 706 Phyllis Webb.Poetics Against the Angel of Death, 706 William Carlos Williams.The Dance, 707

M ELIZABETH BISHOP

m

^ One Art

(1911-1979)

(1976)

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

5

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster; places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

10

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master.

COLLINS • Sonnet

689

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Writeit!) like disaster. QUESTIONS 1. This poem is written in a traditional closed form called the villanelle (originally an Italian peasant song), which was developed in France during the Middle Ages. A villanelle is nineteen lines long. Fairly strict rules govern the length and structure of stanzas, the rhyme scheme, and the repetition of complete lines. Try to formulate these rules. For comparison, see Roethke's "The Waking" and Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night." 2. On what idea is the poem based? What evidence does the speaker produce about los¬ ing? What feelings does she express about her losses? 3. How could the speaker have lost "two cities"? What other things has she lost that jus¬ tify her claim that "the art of losing isn't hard to master"? What might she mean by having lost the "you" to whom the poem is addressed?

M BILLY COLLINS (b.1941)_ For a photo, see Chapter 10, page 476.

Sonnet

(1999)

All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now, and after this next one just a dozen to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas, then only ten more left like rows of beans. How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan and insist the iambic bongos must be played and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines, one for every station of the cross. But hang on here while we make the turn into the final six where all will be resolved, where longing and heartache will find an end, where Faura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen, take off those crazy medieval tights, blow out the lights, and come at last to bed. QUESTIONS 1. Why is this poem amusing? What makes it amusing? 2. What is the effect of lines 6 and 7? Why does the speaker refer to "every station of the cross" in line 8? 3. What is the "little ship" that is to be launched on "love's storm-tossed seas"? To what tradition of the sonnet form is this a reference? 4. Why does the poet conclude the poem with a description of a scene between Petrarch and Laura?

690

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

JOHN DRYDEN

(1631-1700)_

^ To the Memory of Mr. Oldham0

5

io

15

20

25

(1684)

Farewell, too little and too lately known. Whom I began to think and call my own: For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mold with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike, And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike. To the same goal did both our studies drive; The last set out the soonest did arrive. Thus Nisus° fell upon the slipp'ry place, While his young friend performed and won the race. O early ripe! to thy abundant store What could advancing age have added more? It might (what nature never gives the young) Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue. But satire needs not those, and wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line; A noble error, and but seldom made. When poets are by too much force betrayed. Thy gen'rous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, Still showed a quickness; and maturing time But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhyme. Once more, hail and farewell;0 farewell, thou young. But ah too short, Marcellus0 of our tongue; Thy brows with ivy and with laurels0 bound; But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around. “John Oldham (1653-1683) was a young poet whom Dryden admired. 9 Nisus: a character in Virgil’s Aeneid who slipped in a pool of blood while running a race, thus allowing his best friend to win. 22 hail and farewell: an echo of the Latin phrase “ave atque vale”; see Catullus, Poem 101.10 (“and for eternity, brother, hail and farewell”). 23 Marcellus: a Roman general who was adopted by the Emperor Augustus as his successor but died at the age of twenty. 24 laurels: a plant sacred to Apollo, the Greek god of poetry; the traditional prize given to poets is a wreath of laurel.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the meter of this poem? Rhyme scheme? Closed form? How does the form con¬ trol the tempo? Why is this tempo appropriate? 2. What does the speaker reveal about himself in lines 1-10? About Oldham? About his relationship with Oldham? What did the two have in common? 3. What is the effect of Dryden's frequent classical allusions? What pairs of rhyming words most effectively clinch ideas?

ffl ROBERT FROST

(1874-1963)_

For a photo, see Chapter 17, page 770.

Desert Places

(1936)

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast In a field I looked into going past.

Ginsberg • A Supermarket in California

691

And the ground almost covered smooth in snow. But a few weeds and stubble showing last. The woods around it have it—it is theirs. All animals are smothered in their lairs. I am too absent-spirited to count; The loneliness includes me unawares.

5

And lonely as it is that loneliness Will be more lonely ere it will be less— A blanker whiteness of benighted snow With no expression, nothing to express.

10

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars—on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places.

15

QUESTIONS 1. What is the meter? The rhyme scheme? The form? 2. What setting and situation are established in lines 1-4? What does the snow affect here? What does it affect in lines 5-8? In lines 9-12? 3. What different kinds of "desert places" is this poem about? Which kind is the most important? Most frightening? 4. How does the type of rhyme (rising or falling) change in the last stanza? How does this change affect the tone and impact of the poem? 5. How does the stanzaic pattern of this poem organize the progression of the speaker's thoughts, feelings, and conclusions?

ALLEN GINSBERG

(1926-1997)

A Supermarket in California

(1955)

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman,0 for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!0 What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca,0 what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys

°1 Walt Whitman: American poet (1819-1892) who experimented with open forms and significantly influenced the development of twentieth-century poetry. 6 enumerations: Many of Whitman’s poems contain long lists. 9 Garcia Lorca: Spanish surrealist poet and playwright (1896-1936) whose later poetry became progressively more like prose.

10

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15

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

20

25

30

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon0 quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?0 °29 Charon: boatman in Greek mythology who ferried the souls of the dead across the river Styx into Hades, the underworld. 31 Lethe: the river of forgetfulness in Hades. The dead drank from this river and forgot their former lives.

QUESTIONS 1. Where is the speaker? What is he doing? What is his condition? 2. What effect is produced by placing Whitman and Lorca in the market? 3. To what extent do we find Whitman-like enumerations in this work? What is the effect of such enumerations? 4. Why is this a poem? What poetic devices are employed here? To what extent might it make more sense to consider this prose rather than poetry?

ROBERT HASS

Museum

5

(b 1941)

(1989)

On the morning of the Kathe Kollwitz0 exhibit, a young man and woman come into the museum restaurant. She is carrying a baby; he carries the air-freight edition of the Sunday New York Times. She sits in a high-backed wicker chair, cradling the infant in her arms. He fills a tray with fresh fruit, rolls, and coffee in white cups and brings it to the table. His hair is tousled, her eyes are puffy. They look like they were thrown down into sleep and then yanked out of it like divers coming up for air. He holds the baby. She drinks coffee, scans

°1 Kathe Kollwitz: Kollwitz (1867-1945) was a German artist well known for her sculptures and engravings por¬ traying the misery of poverty and war.

HERBERT • Virtue

693

the front page, butters a roll and eats it in their little corner in the sun. After a while, she holds the baby. He reads the Book Review and eats some fruit. Then he holds the baby while she finds the section of the paper she wants and eats fruit and smokes. They've hardly exchanged a look. Meanwhile, I have fallen in love with this equitable arrangement, and with the baby who cooperates by sleeping. All around them are faces Kathe Kollwitz carved in wood of people with no talent or capacity for suffering who are suffering the numbest kinds of pain: hunger, helpless terror. But this young couple is reading the Sunday paper in the sun, the baby is sleeping, the green has begun to emerge from the rind of the cantaloupe, and everything seems possible.

10

15

QUESTIONS 1. Does this poem contain material that you ordinarily think of as poetic? What seems "poetic"? "Unpoetic"? Why? 2. Why does Hass not present the poem in lines? On what principle (topical, grammatical) might you set it up in line form? How might its being in lines change the way you read it as well as see it? 3. How does the poem contrast the young couple and their baby with the art of Kathe Kollwitz? 4. In the light of this poem, how seriously should we take the final statement ("and everything seems possible")?

GEORGE HERBERT

Virtue0

(1593-1633)

(1633)

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. The bridal of the earth and sky: The dew shall weep thy fall tonight; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry0 and brave,0

red; splendid

s

Bids the rash0 gazer wipe his eye: Thy root is ever in its grave. And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets0 compacted lie:

perfumes

My music shows ye have your closes,0 And all must die.

“The title can allude to (a) divine Power operating both outside and inside an individual; (b) a characteristic quality or property; (c) conformity to divine and moral laws. 6 rash: eager or sympathetic. 11 closes: A close is the conclusion of a musical composition.

io

694

15

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

Only a sweet and virtuous soul. Like seasoned timber, never gives;0 But though the whole world turn to coal,0 Then chiefly lives.

14 never gives: i.e., never gives in, never deteriorates and collapses (like rotted timber). 15 turn to coal: the burned-out residue of the earth after the universal fire on Judgment Day.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the rhyme scheme of this poem? The meter? The form? 2. What points does the speaker make about the day, the rose, spring, and the "sweet and virtuous soul"?

JOHN HALL INGHAM ^fr

5

io

(1860-c 1931)__

George Washington

(1900)

This was the man God gave us when the hour Proclaimed the dawn of Liberty begun; Who dared a deed and died when it was done Patient in triumph, temperate in power,— Not striving like the Corsican0 to tower To heaven, nor like great Philip's greater son0 To win the world and weep for worlds unwon. Or lose the star to revel in the flower. The lives that serve the eternal verities Alone do mold mankind. Pleasure and pride Sparkle awhile and perish, as the spray Smoking across the crests of cavernous seas Is impotent to hasten or delay The everlasting surges of the tide.

°5 Corsican: Napoleon I (1769-1821), General and Emperor of France from 1804-1814. 7 great Philip’s greater son: Alexander the Great, King of Macedonia (356-323 BCE.), who conquered all the known world in the short years of his reign. There was a tradition, derived from Plutarch’s Lives, that Alexander wept because there were no more worlds for him to conquer.

QUESTIONS 1. For what reasons does the poet extol Washington? Explain the symbolism of line 8, "Or lose the star to revel in the flower." What is the sense of the simile in the last five lines of the poem? 2. Trace the patterning of alliteration and assonance in the poem. How effectively does the poet use these devices? Are they appropriate, or might some think they are overly obvious? 3. In line 3 there occurs a pattern called consonance, in which words have the same begin¬ ning and ending consonant sounds ("dared a deed and died"). Why do you think the poet includes this pattern here?

KEATS • Ode to a Nightingale

JOHN KEATS

695

(1795-1821)

For a portrait, see Chapter 13, page 585.

Ode to a Nightingale

(isi9)

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock0 I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards0 had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad0 of the trees. In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

a poisonous herb

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora0 and the country green. Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Flippocrene,0 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known. The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs. Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs. Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

°4 Lethe-wards: toward the river of forgetfulness in Hades, the underworld of Greek mythology. 7 Dryad: in Greek mythology, a semidivine tree spirit. 13 Flora: the Roman goddess of flowers. 16 Hippocrene: the fountain of the Muses on Mt. Helicon in Greek mythology; the phrase thus refers to both the waters of poetic inspiration and a cup of wine.

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15

20

25

30

696

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

4 Away! away! for I will fly to thee. Not charioted by Bacchus0 and his pards,0

35

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,0 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;°

50

55

60

P°etrY

fairies

But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

40

45

leopards

'

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed0 darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;0 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child. The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling0 I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme. To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die. To cease upon the midnight with no pain. While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.

fragrant

honeysuckle

in the dark

7

65

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

’32 Bacchus: Dionysus, the Greek god of fertility and power, and, as Bacchus, the god of Wine; see Chapter 20.

KOMUNYAKAA • Grenade

Through the sad heart of Ruth,0 when, sick for home. She stood in tears amid the alien coin; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy0 cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream. Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

697

wheat, grain

70

imagination 75

80

°66 Ruth: the widow of Boaz in the biblical Book of Ruth.

QUESTIONS 1. Formulate the structure (meter of each line and rhyme scheme) of the stanzas. What traditional form is employed here? 2. What is the speaker's mental and emotional state in stanza 1? What similes are employed to describe this condition? 3. What does the speaker want in stanza 2? Whom does he want to join? Why? From what aspects of the world (stanza 3) does he want to escape? 4. How do the speaker's mood and perspective change in stanza 4? How does he achieve this transition? What characterizes the world that the speaker enters in stanza 5? What senses are employed to describe this world? 5. What does the speaker establish about the nightingale's song in stanza 7? What does the song come to symbolize?

YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA

Grenade

(b 1947)

(2008)

There's no rehearsal to turn flesh into dust so quickly. A hair trigger, a cocked hammer in the brain, a split second between a man & infamy. It lands on the ground—a few soldiers duck & the others are caught in a half-run—& one throws himself down on the grenade. All the watches stop. A flash. Smoke. Silence. The sound fills the whole day. Flesh & earth fall into the eyes & mouths of the men. A dream trapped in midair. They touch their legs & arms, their groins, ears, & noses, saying, What happened? Some are crying. Others are laughing. Some are almost dancing. Someone tries to put the dead man back together. "He just dove on the damn thing, sir!" A flash. Smoke. Silence. The day blown apart. For those who can walk away, what is their burden? Shreds of flesh & bloody rags gathered up &

5

698 10

15

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

stuffed into a bag. Each breath belongs to him. Each song. Each curse. Every prayer is his. Your body doesn't belong to your mind & soul. Who are you? Do you remember the man left in the jungle? The others who owe their lives to this phantom, do they feel like you? Would his loved ones remember him if that little park or statue erected in his name didn't exist, & does it enlarge their lives? You wish he'd lie down in that closed coffin, & not wander the streets or enter your bedroom at midnight. The woman you love, she'll never understand. Who would? You remember what he used to say: "If you give a kite too much string, it'll break free." That unselfish certainty. But you can't remember when you began to live his unspoken dreams.

QUESTIONS 1. What has happened? What do we learn that the dead man has done? Where did this event most likely occur? 2. Who does the speaker seem to be? How did he learn of the event? Is the poem less about the dead man than about him, the speaker? Why? 3. What are the first reactions of those who were near the dead man? Are these reactions to be expected? What does one of the men try to do? 4. What does the speaker say about the dead man, the one who made the sacrifice? Why does he say that he wishes the dead man would "not wander the streets or enter your bedroom at midnight"? What is meant by this language? What might be sym¬ bolized by what the dead man used to say: "If you give a kite too much string, it'll break free"? 5. Why do you think that Komunyakaa wrote this poem as a prose poem rather than as a more traditional poem?

MAGUS MAGNUS tit

5

(b 1967)

Empirical/Imperial Demonstration

the difference between what is seen what is heard what is touched isn't the difference between what is there

(2008)

and what is not seen and unheard and intangible and

QUESTIONS 1. What is meant in this poem by the words "empirical" and "imperial"? (Look up these words if you are not sure what they mean.) What does the poem say about these two words? 2. How does the form of the poem affect your understanding of what the poet is saying? 3. How does the diction of the poem aid your reading of the poem? 4. Why do you think the poet did not use any words to complete the right side of line 6? How might this part of the poem be considered complete even without any words?

MELVILLE • Shiloh: A Requiem

699

CLAUDE McKAY (1890-1948)

In Bondage

(1922)

I would be wandering in distant fields Where man, and bird, and beast, live leisurely. And the old earth is kind, and ever yields Her goodly gifts to all her children free; Where life is fairer, lighter, less demanding, And boys and girls have time and space for play Before they come to years of understanding— Somewhere I would be singing, far away. For life is greater than the thousand wars Men wage for it in their insatiate lust, And will remain like the eternal stars. When all that shines to-day is drift and dust.

5

10

But I am bound with you in your mean graves, O black men, simple slaves of ruthless slaves.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the meter of this poem? The rhyme scheme? The form? To what extent does the form organize the speaker's thoughts? 2. Lines 1-8 present a conditional (rather than actual) situation that the speaker desires. What word signals this nature? What is the speaker's wish? 3. What point does the speaker make about life in lines 9-12? 4. How does the couplet undermine the rest of the poem? What single word conveys this reversal? How effectively do the rhymes clinch the poem's meaning? What is the speaker telling us about the lives of African Americans?

HERMAN MELVILLE

(1819 1891)

^ Shiloh: A Requiem0

(1862)

Skimming lightly, wheeling still. The swallows fly low Over the field in clouded days. The forest field of Shiloh— Over the field where April rain Solaced the parched one stretched in pain Through the pause of night That followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh— The church so lone, the log-built one. That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foemen mingled there— Foemen at morn, but friends at eve— Fame or country least their care:

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15

700

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

(What like a bullet can undeceive!) But now they lie low. While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed at Shiloh.

°One of the earliest major battles of the Civil War, the Battle of Shiloh, in southwestern Tennessee, also called the Battle of Pittsburg Landing, took place in April 1862. It was a remarkably bloody but substantially indecisive conflict, with 10,000 casualties on each side.

QUESTIONS 1. Why is it difficult to determine the dominant meter in this poem? What do you think the dominant meter is? What types of metrical feet can you find here? 2. What connection can you make between the indeterminate meter and Melville's subject? 3. What rhymes does Melville create for "Shiloh"? What is the effect of these rhymes? What other rhymes does Melville introduce? How do these rhymes link together his ideas? 4. What irony is expressed in line 14: "Foemen at morn, but friends at eve"?

JOHN MILTON

(1608-1674)

^ On His Blindness (When I Consider How My Light Is Spent)0 (1655)

5

10

When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. And that one talent0 which is death to hide. Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly0 ask; but Patience to prevent0 That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."

foolishly; forestall

°Milton began to go blind in the late 1640s and was completely blind by 1651. 3 talent: both a skill and a refer¬ ence to the talents discussed in the parable in Matthew 25:14-30.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the meter of this poem? The rhyme scheme? The closed form? 2. To what extent do the two major divisions of this form organize the poem's ideas? 3. What problem is raised in the octave? What are the speaker's complaints? Who is the speaker in the sestet? How are the earlier conflicts resolved? 4. Explore the word talent and relate its various meanings to the poem as a whole.

RANDALL • Ballad of Birmingham

DUDLEY RANDALL

701

(1914-2000)

Ballad of Birmingham0

(1966)

(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963) "Mother dear, may I go downtown Instead of out to play. And march the streets of Birmingham In a Freedom March today?" "No, baby, no, you may not go. For the dogs are fierce and wild, And clubs and hoses, guns and jails Aren't good for a little child." "But, mother, I won't be alone. Other children will go with me, And march the streets of Birmingham To make our country free." "No, baby, no, you may not go. For I fear those guns will fire. But you may go to church instead And sing in the children's choir." She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair. And bathed rose petal sweet, And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands. And white shoes on her feet.

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20

The mother smiled to know her child Was in the sacred place. But that smile was the last smile To come upon her face. For when she heard the explosion. Her eyes grew wet and wild. She raced through the streets of Birmingham Calling for her child.

25

She clawed through bits of glass and brick. Then lifted out a shoe "Oh, here's the shoe my baby wore. But, baby, where are you?"

“Four black children were killed when the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, was bombed in 1963. A man was finally indicted for the murders in 1977 and convicted in 1982. There was an additional conviction in 2002.

30

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CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

QUESTIONS 1. Formulate the structure (meter, rhyme scheme, stanza form) of this poem. What tradi¬ tional closed form is employed here? 2. Who is the speaker in stanzas 1 and 3? In stanzas 2 and 4? How are quotation and rep¬ etition employed to create tension? 3. What ironies do you find in the mother's assumptions? In the poem as a whole? In the society pictured in the poem? 4. Compare the poem to "Sir Patrick Spens" (p. 483). How are the structures of all three alike? To what extent do all three deal with the same type of subject matter?

B THEODORE ROETHKE

(1908-1963)_

For a photo, see Chapter 11, page 536.

If

The Waking

(1953)

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.

5

We think by feeling. What is there to know? I hear my being dance from ear to ear. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Of those so close beside me, which are you? God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there. And learn by going where I have to go.

10

15

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Great Nature has another thing to do To you and me; so take the lively air, And, lovely, learn by going where to go. This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go. QUESTIONS 1. Compare the form of this poem with the poems by Bishop and Thomas in this chapter. 2. In what way or ways does the speaker "wake to sleep"? What other apparent contra¬ dictions does the speaker develop in this poem? Why might a reader conclude that the poem is positive rather than negative? 3. What does the speaker mean by saying that he learns "by going where I have to go"? In what way does "always" fall away (line 17)?

SHAKESPEARE • Sonnet 73: That Time of Year Thou May’st in Me Behold

GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (/E)

703

(1867-1935)_

if Continuity (1897) No sign is made while empires pass. The flowers and stars are still His care. The constellations hid in grass. The golden miracles in air. Life in an instant will be rent Where death is glittering blind and wild— The Heavenly Brooding is intent To that last instant on Its child. It breathes the glow in brain and heart. Life is made magical. Until Body and spirit are apart The Everlasting works Its will. In that wild orchid that your feet In their next falling shall destroy. Minute and passionate and sweet The Mighty Master holds His joy.

5

10

15

Though the crushed jewels droop and fade The artist's labors will not cease. And of the ruins shall be made Some yet more lovely masterpiece.

20

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the form of this poem, including the number of stanzas, the regularity of the meter, and the variations that you find. 2. What is the nature of the topic matter of this poem? Is it more appropriate for a song or for a hymn? Would you consider the poem personal, or public? 3. What is the conceptualization of "The Mighty Master" in this poem? In particular, con¬ sider the ideas in lines 2,12,16, and 18. 4. Compare this poem with Hardy's "In Time of 'The Breaking of Nations'" (Chapter 16). What comparable ideas do you find in the two poems? What differing ideas?

5 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(1564-1616)_

For a portrait, see Chapter 20, page 1009.

@ if Sonnet 73: That Time of Year Thou May’st in Me Behold (1609) That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

5

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CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. Bare ruined choirs,0 where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away. Death's second self,0 that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire. That on the ashes of his° youth doth lie. As the death-bed whereon it must expire. Consumed with that which it was nourished by.° This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong. To love that well which thou must leave ere long. °4 choirs', the part of a church just in front of the altar. 8 Death’s . . . self: That is, night is a mirror image of death inasmuch as it brings the sleep of rest just as death brings the sleep of actual death. 12 Consumed ... by. That is, the ashes of the fuel burned at the fire’s height now prevent the fire from continuing, and in fact extinguish it.

QUESTIONS 1. Describe the content of lines 1-4, 5-8, and 9-12. What connects these three sections? How does the concluding couplet relate to the first twelve lines? 2. Analyze the iambic pentameter of the poem. Consider the spondees in lines 2 ("do hang"), 4 ("bare ru-" and "birds sang"), 5 ("such day"), 7 ("black night"), 8 ("death's sec-"), 9 ("such fire"), 10 ("doth lie"), 11 ("death-bed"), 13 ("more strong"), and 14 ("ere long"). What is the effect of these substitutions on the poem's ideas? 3. How does the enjambment of lines 1-3 and 5-6 permit these lines to seem to conclude as lines even though grammatically they carry over to form sentences? 4. In lines 2, 5,6, and 9, where does Shakespeare place the caesurae? What relationship is there between the rhythms produced by these caesurae and the content of lines 1-12? In lines 13 and 14, how do the rising stressed caesurae relate to the content?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

(1792-1822)

^ Ozymandias (isis) I met a traveller from an antique land. Who said—"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand. Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command. Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear; 'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings, Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away."

THOMAS • Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

705

QUESTIONS 1. What is the meter of this poem? The rhyme scheme? What traditional closed form is modified here? How do the modifications affect the poem? 2. To what extent are content and meaning shaped by the closed form? What is described in the octave? ha the sestet? 3. Characterize Ozymandias (thought to be Ramses II, pharaoh of Egypt, who died in 1225 bce) from the way he is portrayed in this poem.

ffl DYLAN THOMAS

(1914-1953)_

O ^ Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night (1951) Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right. Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way. Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height. Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. QUESTIONS 1. What conclusions do you make about the poem's speaker, listener, and situation? 2. What connotative words do you find here? Consider "dying," the "good" of "good night," "gentle," "Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray," and "grave." 3. What five different kinds of men does the speaker discuss in stanzas 2-5? What do they have in common? Of what value are they to the speaker's father (line 16)? 4. Compare the form of this poem with the poems by Bishop and Roethke in this chapter.

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15

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CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

JEAN TOOMER

Reapers

5

(1894-1967)

(1923)

Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done. And start their silent swinging, one by one. Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds. His belly close to ground. I see the blade. Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade. QUESTIONS 1. What is the poem's meter? The rhyme scheme? What is the difference between Toomer's use of the rhyming pattern and Dryden's? 2. How do the images of this poem relate to each other? How does the image of the bleed¬ ing field rat and the "blood-stained" blade heighten the impact? 3. How does alliteration unify this poem and make sound echo sense? Note especially the s and b sounds and the phrase "silent swinging."

PHYLLIS WEBB

(b 1927)

Poetics Against the Angel of Death°

5

1o

(1962)

I am sorry to speak of death again (some say I'll have a long life) but last night Wordsworth's 'Prelude' ° suddenly made sense—I mean the measure, the elevated tone, the attitude of private Man speaking to public men. Last night I thought I would not wake again but now with this June morning I run ragged to elude the Great Iambic Pentameter who is the Hound of Heaven0 in our stress because I want to die writing Haiku or, better, long lines, clean and syllabic as knotted bamboo. Yes!

°See Byron’s “The Destruction of Sennacherib,” stanza 3. 3 Wordsworth’s ‘Prelude’: See this chapter, page 670. 10 Hound of Heaven (The): a long poem (1893) by Francis Thompson (1859-1907) about attempting to evade God’s love.

QUESTIONS 1. In the poem itself, what is meant by the "Angel of Death"?

Writing About Form in Poetry

707

2. What attitude does the speaker express about iambic pentameter? How does the speaker explain this attitude? How defensible is the attitude?

3. For what poetic forms does the speaker express a preference? Why? How does the form of this poem bear out the preference?

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

The Dance

(1883-1963)

(1944)

In Brueghel's0 great picture. The Kermess, the dancers go round, they go round and around, the squeal and the blare and the tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles tipping their bellies (round as the thick-sided glasses whose wash they impound) their hips and their bellies off balance to turn them. Kicking and rolling about the Fair Grounds, swinging their butts, those shanks must be sound to bear up under such rollicking measures, prance as the dance in Brueghel's great picture. The Kermess.

°1 Brueghel’s: Pieter Brueghel (c. 1525-1569), a Flemish painter. Peasants’ Dance (The Kermess) shows peasants dancing in celebration of the anniversary of the founding of a church (church mass). See page 1-8.

QUESTIONS 1. What effect is produced by repeating the first line as the last line?

2. How do repetition, alliteration, assonance, onomatopoeia, and internal rhyme affect the tempo, feeling, and meaning of the poem? How do the numerous participles (like "tipping," "kicking," "rolling") make sound echo sense?

3. What words are capitalized? What effect is produced by omitting the capital letters at the beginning of each line? How does this typographical choice reinforce the sound and the sense of the poem?

4. Most of the lines of this poem are run-on rather than end-stopped, and many of them end with fairly weak words such as and, the, about, and such. What effect is produced through these techniques?

5. How successful is Williams in making the words and sentence rhythms echo the visual rhythms in Brueghel's painting? Why is this open form more appropriate to the images of the poem than any closed form could be?

WRITING ABOUT FORM IN POETRY An essay about form in poetry should demonstrate a relationship between a poem's sense and its form. Do not discuss form or shape in isolation, for such an essay would be no more than a detailed description. The first thing to do as

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CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

you go about determining what you want to say is to examine the poem's main ideas. Consider the various elements that contribute to the poem's impact and effectiveness: the speaker, listener, setting, situation, diction, imagery, and rhetorical devices. Once you understand these, it will be easier to establish a connection between form and content. You will find it helpful to prepare a work sheet that highlights the ele¬ ments you are deciding that you wish to discuss. For closed forms, these ele¬ ments will be rhyme scheme, meter, line lengths, and stanzaic patterns. They may also include significant words and phrases that connect stanzas. The work sheet for an open-form poem should indicate variables such as rhythm and phrases; the use of pauses; significant words that are isolated or empha¬ sized through typography; patterns of repeated sounds, words, phrases, and images; and, if relevant, the relationship of the poem's content and any special visual effects.

Questions for Discovering Ideas CLOSED FORM • •

•

•

•

•

What is the principal meter? Line length? Rhyme scheme? To what extent do these establish and/or reinforce the form? What is the form of each stanza or unit? How many stanzas or divisions does the poem contain? How does the poem establish a pattern? How does the pattern control the poem's developing content? What is the form of the poem (e.g., couplet, tercet, ballad, villanelle, son¬ net)? In what ways is the poem traditional, and what variations does it introduce? What is the effect of the variations? How effectively does the structure create or reinforce the poem's internal logic? What topical, logical, or thematic progressions unite the various parts of the poem? To what extent does the form organize the images of the poem? How does the poet develop images within single units or stanzas? Do images recur in more than one section? What is the purpose and effect of this recurrence? To what extent does the form organize and bring out the poem's ideas or emotions?

OPEN FORM • •

• •

What does the poem look like on the page? What is the relationship of its shape to its meaning? How does the poet use variable line lengths, spaces, punctuation, capital¬ ization, and the like to shape the poem? How do these variables con¬ tribute to the poem's sense and impact? What rhythms are built into the poem through language or typography? How are these relevant to the poem's content? What is the poem's progression of ideas, images, and/or emotions? How is the logic created, and what does it contribute?

Writing About Form in Poetry

• •

709

How does form or typography isolate or unite, and thus emphasize, vari¬ ous words and phrases? What is the effect of such emphasis? What patterns do you discover of words and sounds? To what degree do the patterns create order and structure? How are they related to the sense of the poem?

Strategies for Organizing Ideas In developing your central idea, you should illustrate the connections between form and meaning. For example, in planning an essay on Randall's "Ballad of Birmingham" you might develop your ideas according to the speeches that are a normal feature of the ballad form. The poem's first part is a dialogue between mother and child about the hazard of the local streets and the safety of the local church. In the second part, after the explosion, the mother runs toward the church and calls for her child, who, ironically, will never again engage with her in further dialogue. Another plan is needed for an essay on Williams's "The Dance"; such a plan might link the lively, bustling movement of the dancers pictured in Brueghel's painting "Peasants' Dance" (p. 1-8) to the rhythms, repetitions, and run-on lines of the poem. Still another plan would be needed for a discussion of Heyen's "Mantle," the form of which requires enough stanzas of approximately equal length to make up the pattern of a pitched ball. (What is this pattern?) Your introduction should contain general remarks about the poem, but it should, above that, focus on the connection between form and substance. Describe the ways in which structure and content interact together, with a brief listing of your specific topics. Early in the body, describe the formal characteristics of your poem, using schemes and numbers (as in paragraph 2 of the illustrative student essay). With closed forms, your description should detail such standard features as the traditional form, meter, rhyme scheme, stanzaic structure, and number of stanzas. With open-form poetry, you should focus on the most striking and significant features of the verse (as in the brief discussion of Whitman's "Rec¬ onciliation" on pp. 678-79). Be sure to integrate your discussion of both form and content. It may be that you have uncovered a good deal of information about technical features such as alliteration or rhyme, or you may wish to stress that words, phrases, and clauses develop a pattern of ideas. Remember that you are not making a paraphrase or a general explication, but instead are showing how the poet uses form—either an open or a closed one—in the service of meaning. The order in which you deal with your topics is entirely up to you. The conclusion of your essay might contain additional relevant observa¬ tions about shape or structure. It might also summarize your argument. Here, as in all essays about literature, make sure to reach an actual conclusion rather than simply a stopping point.

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CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Adams 1 Kimberly Adams Professor Patter English 102 20 February 2011 Form and Meaning in George Herbert’s “Virtue”0 [1]

Herbert’s devotional four-stanza poem “Virtue” (1633) contrasts the mortality of worldly things with the immortality of the “virtuous soul.” This is not an uncommon topic in religious poetry and hymns, and there is nothing unusual about this contrast. What is unusual, however, is the simplicity and directness of Herbert’s expressions and the way in which he integrates his ideas within his stanzaic song pattern. Each part of the poem organizes the images logically and underscores the supremacy of life over death.* Through control over line and stanza groupings, rhyme scheme, and repeated sounds and words, Herbert’s stanzas create a structural and visual distinction between the “sweet” soul and the rest of creation.! Herbert’s control over lines within the stanzas is particularly strong. Each stanza follows the same abab rhyme scheme. Because some rhyme sounds and words are repeated throughout the first three stanzas, however, the structure of the poem can be formulated as 4a4b4a2b 4c4b4c2b 4d4b4d2b 4e4f4e2f Each stanza thus contains three lines of iambic tetrameter with a final line of iambic dimeter—an unusual pattern that creates a unique emphasis. In the first three stanzas, the dimeter lines repeat the phrase “must die,” while in the last

°This poem appears on page 693. ‘Central idea. fThesis sentence.

Illustrative Student Essay

711

Adams 2 stanza the contrast is made on the words “Then chiefly lives.” These rhythms require a sensitive reading, and they powerfully underscore Herbert’s idea that death is conquered by eternal life. Like individual lines, Herbert’s stanzaic structure provides the poem’s pattern

[3]

of organization and logic. The first stanza focuses on the image of the “Sweet day,” comparing the day to “The bridal of the earth and sky” (line 2) and asserting that the day inevitably “must die.” Similarly, the second stanza focuses on the image of a “Sweet rose” and asserts that it too “must die.” The third stanza shifts to the image of “Sweet spring.” Here the poet blends the images of the first two stanzas into the third by noting that the “Sweet spring” is “full of sweet days and roses” (9). The stanza concludes with the summarizing claim that “all must die.” In this way, the third stanza is the climax of Herbert’s imagery of beauty and mortality. The last stanza introduces a new image—“a sweet and virtuous soul”—and an assertion that is contrasted with the ideas expressed in the previous three stanzas. Although the day, the rose, and the spring “must die,” the soul “never” deteriorates, but “chiefly lives” even “though the whole world turn to coal” (15). With its key image of the “virtuous soul,” this last stanza marks the logical conclusion of Herbert’s argument. His pattern of organization allows this key image of permanence to be separated structurally from the images of impermanence. This structural organization of images and ideas is repeated and reinforced by other techniques. Herbert’s rhyme scheme, for example, links

[4]

the first three stanzas while isolating the fourth. That the b rhyme is repeated at the ends of the second and fourth lines of each of the first three stanzas makes these stanzas into a complete unit. The fourth stanza, however, is different in both content and rhyme. The stanza introduces the concept of immortality, and it also introduces entirely new rhymes, replacing the b rhyme with an/rhyme. Thus the rhyme scheme, by sound alone, parallels the poem’s imagery and logic. As a complement to the rhyming sounds, the poem also demonstrates organizing patterns of assonance. Most notable is the oo sound, which is repeated throughout the first three stanzas in the words “cool,” “dew,” “whose,” “hue,” “root,” and “music.” The oo sound might also have still been

[5]

712

CHAPTER 15 » Form: The Shape of Poems

Adams 3 prominent in the word “thou,” so that in the first three stanzas the oo, which is suggestive of a moan (certainly appropriate to things that die), is repeated eight times. In the last stanza there is a stress on the o sound, in “only,” “soul,” “though,” “whole,” and “coal.” While oh may also be a moan, in this context it is more like an exclamation, in keeping with the triumph contained in the final line. [6]

Herbert’s repetition of key words and phrases also distinguishes the first three stanzas from the last stanza. Each of the first three stanzas begins with “sweet” and ends with “must die.” These repetitions stress both the beauty and the mortality of worldly things. In the last stanza, however, this repetition is abandoned, just as the stress on immortality transcends mortality. The “Sweet” that begins each of the first three stanzas is replaced by “Only” (13). Similarly, “must die” is replaced with “chiefly lives.” Both substitutions separate this final stanza from the three previous stanzas. More importantly, the shift in the verbal pattern emphasizes the transition from death to the virtuous soul’s immortality.

[7]

The lyric form of Herbert’s “Virtue” provides an organizational pattern for the poem’s images and ideas. At the same time, the stanzaic pattern and the rhyme scheme allow the poet to draw a strong distinction between the corruptible world and the immortal soul. The closed form of this poem is not arbitrary or incidental; it is an integral way of asserting the importance of the key image—the “sweet and virtuous soul.”

Adams 4 Work Cited Herbert, George. “Virtue.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V. Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 693. Print.

Writing Topics About Poetic Form

Commentary on the Essay

v

:

■

713

■

The introductory paragraph establishes the groundwork of the essay—the treat¬ ment of form in relationship to content. The main idea is that each part of the poem represents a complete blending of image, logic, and meaning. Paragraph 2, the first in the body, demonstrates how the poem's schematic formulation is integrated into Herbert's contrast of death and life. In this respect the paragraph demonstrates how a formal enumeration can be integrated within an essay's thematic development. The focus of paragraph 3 is the organization of both images and ideas from stanza to stanza. Paragraph 4 begins with a transitional sentence that repeats part of the essay's central idea and, at the same time, connects it to paragraph 3. In the same way, paragraph 4 is closely tied to both paragraphs 1 and 3. The main topic here, the rhyme scheme of "Virtue," is introduced in the second sen¬ tence. This paragraph asserts that rhythm also reinforces the division between mortality and immortality. On much the same topic, paragraph 5 introduces Herbert's use of assonance, which can be seen as integral in the poem's blending of form and content. Paragraph 6 takes up the last structural element described in the introduc¬ tion—repeated key words and phrases. The idea is that these repetitions empha¬ size the distinction in the poem between mortality and immortality. Paragraph 7, the conclusion, provides a brief overview and summation of the essay's argument. In addition, it concludes that form in "Virtue" is neither arbi¬ trary nor incidental but rather an integral part of the poem's meaning.

Writing Topics About Poetic Form Writing Paragraphs 1. Consider any closed-form poem in this chapter. In a paragraph discuss the appropriateness of this form in relation to the poem's meaning.

2. Consider any open-form poem in this chapter. In a paragraph discuss why you believe open form to be appropriate—or not appropriate—for this poem.

Writing Essays 1. In an essay describe the use of the ode form as exemplified by Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale" (this chapter) and his "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (Chapter 18). What patterns of regularity do you find? What differences do you find in the form and content of the poems? How do you account for these differences?

2. In an essay discuss how Cummings, Dry den, Randall, and Thomas use differ¬ ent forms to consider the subject of death (in "Buffalo Bill's Defunct," "To the Memory of Mr. Oldham," "Ballad of Birmingham," and "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night")? What differences in form and treatment do you find? What similarities do you find, despite these differences?

3. In an essay consider the structural arrangement and shaping of the following works: Brueghel's painting Peasants' Dance (p. 1-8), Hass's "Museum," Heyen's "Mantle," Hollander's "Swan and Shadow," Charles Harper Webb's

714

CHAPTER 15 • Form: The Shape of Poems

"The Shape of History," and Williams's "The Dance." How do painter and poet utilize topic, arrangement, shape, and space to draw attention to their main ideas? How do the shaped and prose poems (by Hass, Heyen, Hollan¬ der, and Webb) blend poetic and artistic techniques? '

4. In an essay compare and contrast the use of the villanelle by Bishop ("One Art"), Roethke ("The Waking"), and Thomas ("Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night"). What topics do the poets develop? Why do the poets choose the villanelle as their poetic form? What lines do they repeat? What is the effect of this repetition?

5. In an essay compare the sonnets in this chapter by McKay, Shelley, Milton, and Collins. In what ways are the poetic forms of these poets similar? Differ¬ ent? How may Collins's poem be read as a commentary on the sonnet forms of the other poets? Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write a visual poem, and explain the principles on which you develop your lines. Here are some possible topics (just to get you started): a telephone, a cat, a dog, a car, a football, a snow shovel, a giraffe. After finishing your poem, write a short essay that considers the following and other questions: What are the strengths and limitations of the visual form, according to your experience? How does the form help make your poem serious or comic? How does it encourage creative language and original development of ideas?

2. Write a haiku. Be sure to fit your poem to the 5-7-5 pattern of syllables. What challenges and problems do you encounter in this form? Once you have com¬ pleted your haiku (which, to be traditional, should be on a topic concerned with nature), try to cut the number of syllables to 4-5-4. Explain how you establish the first haiku pattern, and also explain how you go about cutting the total number of syllables. Be sure to explain what kinds of words you use (length, choice of diction, etc.). Library Assignment 1. Using an online reference system or regular card catalog, depending on avail¬ ability in your college library, look up one of the following topics: "ballads, England," "concrete poetry," or "blank verse." How many references are included under these listings? What sorts of topics are included under the basic topic?

Chapter 16 Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

S

ymbolism refers to the use of symbols in works of art and in all other forms of ex¬ pression. As we note in Chapter 7, a symbol has meaning in and of itself, but it is

also understood to represent something else, like the flag for the country or the school song for the school. Symbols occur in stories as well as in poems, but poetry relies more heavily on symbols because it is more concise and because it comprises more forms than fiction, which is restricted to narratives. Most of the words we use every day are symbols, for they stand for various ob¬ jects without actually being those objects. When we say horse, for example, or tree, or run, these words are symbols of horses (perhaps munching hay), and trees (in a woods, perhaps, or on a lawn), and people (or animals) running. They direct our minds to real horses, real trees, and real actions in the real world that we have seen and can therefore easily imagine. In literature, however, symbolism implies a special relationship that expands our ordinary understanding of words, descriptions, and arguments.

Symbolism and Meanings

.

Symbolism goes beyond the close referral of word to thing; it is more like a win¬ dow through which one can glimpse the extensive world outside. Because poetry is compact, its descriptions and portrayals of experience are brief. Symbolism is therefore one of the primary characteristics of poetry. It is a shorthand way of re¬ ferring to extensive ideas or attitudes that otherwise would be inappropriate to in¬ clude in the brief format of a poem. Thus Philip Larkin, in "Next, Please," uses the word "armada" as a symbol that is both apt and original (p. 738). His thought is that we do not find fulfillment in the present, but rather we look to the symbolic "armada of promises" and expectations that we constantly and habitually dream about for a better future. Like the Spanish Armada that attempted to overthrow the English government in 1588, Larkin's armada seems tiny and far removed from present reality, but as a symbol it suggests that human beings neglect the op¬ portunities they have at the moment in favor of fixing their hopes on the promise of better things to happen—things that are defeated or that never even material¬ ize. This idea could easily be developed through many more observations about the futility of unreal hope, but Larkin is more concerned to symbolize the idea than to amplify it. 715

716

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

Symbolism Extends Meaning Beyond Normal Connotation The use of symbols is a way of moving outward, a means of extending and crys¬ tallizing information and ideas. For example, at thedime of William Blake (1757-1827), the word tiger meant both a large, wild cat and also the specific ani¬ mal we know today as a tiger. The word's connotation therefore links it with wild¬ ness and predation. As a symbol in "The Tyger" (Chapter 13), however, Blake uses the animal as a stand-in for what he considers cosmic negativism—the savage, wild forces that undermine the progress of civilization. Thus the tiger as a symbol is more meaningful than either the denotation or the connotation of the word would indicate. A visual comparison can be made with the painting The Colossus (p. 1-13), attributed to Francisco Goya, in which the giant pugilistic figure above the tiny figures in the landscape represents the combination of anger, defiance, and ruthlessness that is unleashed and unchecked during times of war.1

Cultural or Universal Symbols Are Widely Recognized Many symbols, wherever they are used, possess a ready-made, clearly agreed upon meaning. These are cultural or universal symbols (also discussed in Chap¬ ter 7). Many such symbols, like the tiger, are taken directly from nature. Other nat¬ ural universal symbols are springtime and morning, which signify beginnings, growth, hope, optimism, and love. If such symbols were to be introduced into a poem about the suddenness and irrevocability of death, however, they would be ironic, for their presence would emphasize the contrast between death and life. Cultural symbols are drawn from history and custom, such as the many JudeoChristian religious symbols that appear in poetry. References to the lamb, Eden, Egyptian bondage, shepherds, exile, the Temple, blood, water, bread, the cross, and wine—all Jewish and/or Christian symbols—occur over and over again. Some¬ times these symbols are prominent in a purely devotional context. In other con¬ texts, however, they may be contrasted with symbols of warfare and corruption to show how extensively people neglect their moral and religious obligations.

Contextual, Private, or Authorial Symbols Are Operative as Symbols Only Within Individual Works Symbols that are not widely or universally recognized are termed contextual, private, or authorial symbols (also discussed in Chapter 7). Some of these have a natural relationship with the objects and ideas being symbolized. Let us consider snow, which is cold and white and covers everything when it falls. A poet can ex¬ ploit this quality and make snow a symbol. At the beginning of the long poem "The Waste Land," T. S. Eliot does exactly that; he refers to snow as a symbol of re¬ treat from life, a withdrawal into an intellectual and moral hibernation. Another poem symbolizing snow is the following one. Here the poet refers to snow as both a literal and figurative link between the living and the dead.

JThe attribution of The Colossus to Goya has recently been questioned.

Symbolism and Meanings

VIRGINIA SCOTT

Snow

717

(b. 1938)

(1977)

A doe stands at the roadside, spirit of those who have lived here and passed known through our memory. The doe stands at the edge of the icy road, then darts back into the woods. Snow falling, mother-spirit hovering, white on the drops in the road and fields, light from the windows of the old house brightening the snow. Presences: mother, grandmother, here in their place at the foot of ben lomond,0 green trees black in the hemlock night.

A Canadian mountain

The doe stands at the edge of the icy road, then darts back into the woods. Golden Grove, New Brunswick, Canada January 5,1977 QUESTIONS 1. How is snow described in the poem? How and where is it seen? As a symbol, what does it signify in relationship to the doe, the memory of other people, the mother-spirit, the old house, the light, the presences, the mountains, and the trees? 2. Explain the structural purpose for which the doe is mentioned three times in the poem, with lines 17 and 18 repeating 4 and 5. As a symbol, what do you think the doe signifies? 3. What are the relationships described in the poem between memory of the past and ex¬ istence in the present? What does the symbolism contribute to your understanding of these relationships? This poem describes a real circumstance at a real place at a real time; the poet has even provided an actual location and date, just as we do when writing a letter. We can therefore presume that the snow is real snow, falling in the evening just as lights go on in the nearby houses. This detail by itself would be sufficient as a realistic image, but as Scott develops the poem, the snow symbolizes the link between the speaker's memory of the past and perception of the present. The reality of the mo¬ ment is suffused with the memory of the people—"mother, / grandmother"—who "lived here." The poet is meditating on the idea that individuals, though they may often be by themselves, like the speaker, are never alone as long as they have a vivid memory of the past. Symbolically, the past and present are always connected, just as the snow covers the scene.

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CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

At the poem's conclusion, the doe darting into the woods suggests a linking of present and future (i.e., as long as there are woods, does will dart into them). Both the snow and the deer are private and contextual symbols, for they are established and developed within the poem, and they do not have the same symbolic value elsewhere. Through the symbolism, therefore, the poet has converted a private moment into an idea of general significance. Similarly, references to other ordinary materials may be symbolic if the poet em¬ phasizes them sufficiently, as in Keats's "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," which opens and closes with the image of withered sedge, or grass (p. 735). What might seem like nothing more than a natural detail becomes additionally important because it can be understood to symbolize the loss and bewilderment felt by people when loved ones seem to be faithless and destructive rather than loyal and supportive. The meanings of symbols may be placed on a continuum of qualities from good to bad, high to low, favorable to unfavorable. On the positive end, in Donne's "The Canonization" (pp. 725-26) the speaker asserts that love symbolically elevates lovers to a plain of existence that is far above the level of mortals without love. In contrast, outright horror is suggested by the symbol of the rough beast slouching to¬ ward Bethlehem in Yeats's "The Second Coming" (p. 747). Although this mythical beast shares the same traditional birthplace with Jesus, the commonality is ironic be¬ cause the beast represents the extremes of anger, hatred, and brutality that in Yeats's judgment have been dominant in modern national politics, regardless of country.

The Function of Symbolism in Poetry Poets do not simply jam symbols into a poem artificially and arbitrarily. Rather, symbols are structurally important and meaningful first, and are then, simultane¬ ously, symbolic. We therefore find symbols in single words, and also in actions, scenes and settings, characters and characterizations, and various situations.

Many Words Are Automatically Symbolic With general and universal symbols, a single word is often sufficient, as with ref¬ erences to the lamb, shepherd, cross, blood, bread, and wine; or to summer and winter; or to drought and flood, morning and night, heat and shade, storm and calm, or feast and famine. One of the most famous of all birds, the nightingale, is an example of a single word being instantly symbolic. Because of this bird's beau¬ tiful song, it symbolizes natural, unspoiled beauty as contrasted with the con¬ trived attempts by human beings to create beauty. Keats refers to the bird in this way in his "Ode to a Nightingale" (Chapter 15), and his speaker compares human mortality with the virtually eternal beauty of this singer. Another symbolic bird is the goose. Because migratory Canada geese fly south in the fall, they symbolize the loss of summer abundance, seasonal change, alteration, and loss, with accompanying feelings of regret and sorrow. Because they return north in the spring, however, they also symbolize regeneration, new¬ ness, anticipation, and hope. These contrasting symbolic values are important in Jorie Graham s The Geese" and Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese." Graham emphasizes

The Function of Symbolism in Poetry

719

that the geese are "crossing" overhead but nevertheless that human affairs of "the everyday" continue despite the changes symbolized by the geese. In contrast, Oliver emphasizes geese as symbols of renewal, for the geese returning in spring suggest that "the world offers itself to your imagination" (p. 741).

Symbolism Is to Be Seen in Actions

__

Not only words but also actions may be presented as symbols. In Scott's "Snow," as we have just observed, the doe darting into the darkening woods symbol¬ izes renewal and the mystery of life. In Hardy's "In Time of 'The Breaking of Nations,'" the action of the man plowing a field symbolizes the continued life and vitality of the folk, the people, despite the political wrangling and endless brutality that are constantly occurring in the world (p. 731).

Symbolism Is to Be Seen in Settings and Scenes While settings and scenes may be no more than just that—settings and scenes—the poet may develop them as symbols. We may note a symbolic setting in Wilbur's "Year's End" (this chapter). Wilbur draws our attention to a little dog, curled up as if sleeping, and its (presumable) owners, all of whom were killed by falling lava when the eruption of Mount Vesuvius destroyed Pompeii, the ancient Roman town in southern Italy, in 79 CE. In the poem's context, this scene symbolizes the incom¬ pleteness of human achievements, a condition not only of present life but also of an¬ cient life. Keats, in "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," introduces the "elfin grot" (grotto) of the "lady in the meads." This grotto is an unreal, magical, womblike location symbolizing both the allure and the disappointment that on occasion characterize sexual attraction.

Symbolism Is to Be Seen in Characters Poets also devise characters or people as symbols of ideas or values, like the speaker in Herbert's "The Collar" (this chapter). This speaker describes his fierce reluctance against committing himself to God's service, but his anger vanishes when he thinks he hears a soothingly divine voice calling "Child." In this way he himself becomes a symbol of devoted obedience. In Keats's "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" (this chapter), the "fairy's child" is a symbol of the mystery of love. The figures in Hardy's "In Time of 'The Breaking of Nations'" (this chapter) symbolize the power of average, ordinary people to endure even "Though Dynasties pass."

Symbolism Is to Be Seen in Situations A poem's situations, circumstances, and conditions may also be symbolic. The po¬ sition of the young gunner in the World War II bomber, six miles above the earth in Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner" (Chapter 10), makes him vulnerable and helpless, and his death symbolizes the condition of humankind in the modern age of fear and anxiety, when life is threatened by global war and technologically (and also diabolically) expert destructiveness. In "she being Brand / -new" (Chap¬ ter 14), Cummings cleverly uses the situation of the speaker's breaking in a new automobile as the symbol of another kind of encounter involving the speaker.

720

CHAPTER 16 * Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

Allusions and Meaning Just as symbolism enriches meaning, so also does allusion (see also Chapter 7) that takes the form of (1) unacknowledged brief quotations from other works and (2) references to historical events and any aspect of human culture—art, music, lit¬ erature, and so on. The use of allusions is a means of connecting new literary works with the broader cultural tradition of which the works are a part. In addi¬ tion, allusions presuppose a common bond of knowledge between the poet and the reader. On the one hand, poets making allusions compliment the past, and on the other, they salute readers able to discover how the meanings of the allusions are transformed in the new context.

Allusions Add Dimension to Poetry

___

An allusion carries with it the entire context of the work from which it is drawn. Perhaps the richest sources of references and stories are the King James Bible and the plays of Shakespeare. Keats introduces a biblical allusion in "Ode to a Nightin¬ gale" (Chapter 15), where he refers to the story of Ruth, who was "sick for home" while standing "in tears amid the alien corn." This allusion is particularly rich, be¬ cause Ruth became the mother of Jesse. According to the Gospel of Matthew, it was from the line of Jesse that King David was born, and it was from the house of David that Jesus was born. Thus Keats's nightingale is not only a symbol of natural beau¬ ty, but through the biblical allusion it symbolizes regeneration and redemption, much in keeping with Keats's assertion that the bird is "not born for death." A reader might pursue this symbolism further, perhaps in another context. In Yeats's "The Second Coming," we encounter an allusion to Shakespeare's Macbeth. Yeats uses the phrase "blood-dimmed tide," which refers to Macbeth's soliloquy in the second act of Macbeth. In the play, after murdering Duncan, Macbeth asks if there is enough water in Neptune's ocean to wash the blood from his hands. His immedi¬ ate, guilt-ridden response is that Duncan's blood will instead turn the green water to red (Macbeth: 2.2.63-66). This image of crime being bloody enough to stain the ocean's water is thus the allusive context of Yeats's "blood-dimmed tide." Once works become well known, as with the Bible and the plays of Shakespeare, they may in turn become a source of allusions for subsequent writers. Such a wellknown work is Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" (Chapter 10), which contains an oft-quoted last line: "And miles to go before I sleep." This line is so universally recognized that it is now considered as a symbol of the need to complete tasks and fulfill obligations. Allusions may be discovered in no more than a single word or phrase in a poem, provided that the expression is unusual enough or associative enough to bear the weight of the reference. Scott's "Snow," for example, speaks of "green trees black in the hemlock night." Of course, the word hemlock refers to a common evergreen tree observed by the speaker, but a distillation of hemlock was also the poison drunk by Socrates when the ancient Athenians executed him, as described in Plato's Phaedo.2 Because of this association, any use of the word hemlock can be construed as 2See JacqueS'Louis David’s painting, The Death of Socrates (p. I—10).

Studying for Symbols and Allusions

721

an allusion to the death of Socrates and the abuse of legal authority, depending, of course, on context. Another allusion to hemlock occurs in the beginning lines of "Ode to a Nightingale" (Chapter 15), in which Keats refers to hemlock. His speaker de¬ clares that a "drowsy numbness" has overtaken him "as though of hemlock . . . [he] had drunk." As the poem continues, we realize that Keats's allusion refers to the way in which death might open a new plane of existence for the speaker—a life of immortal beauty. Thus Keats builds the single-word allusion into new speculation about the possible connection of life and death. Phrases, descriptions, and situations may also signal allusions, as in Josephine Jacobsen's "Tears," where the following sentence occurs: "Yet the globe is salt / with that savor." This is an allusion to the book of Matthew, 5:13: "Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted?" This biblical passage refers to the need for believers to retain their faith, for without such faith they are "good for nothing, but to be cast out." However, Jacobsen is discussing something different—namely, the endlessness of grief as a condition of life, with the continuing facts of sorrow remaining on the earth as a silent legacy. By making this allusion, Jacobsen adds to her idea the implication that, throughout human history, sorrow and tears have been a result of the loss of faith and love in human relationships. Allusions are therefore an important means by which poets broaden context and deepen meaning. The issues a poet raises in a new poem, in other words, are important not only there but are linked through allusion to issues raised earlier by other thinkers or brought out by previous events, places, or persons. With con¬ nections made through allusions, poets clarify their own ideas. Allusion is hence not literary "theft" but is rather a means of enrichment.

Studying for Symbols and Allusions As you study poetry, remember that symbols and allusions do not come marked with special notice and fanfare. You can expect no brass band to let you know. Your decision to call something symbolic must be based on the circumstances of the poem. Let us say that the poet introduces a major item of importance at a cli¬ mactic part of the poem, or that the poet introduces a description that is unusual or noteworthy, such as the connection between "stony sleep" and the "rough beast" in Yeats's "The Second Coming." When such a connection occurs, the ele¬ ment may no longer be taken literally but should be read as a symbol. Even after you have found a connection such as this, however, you will need to discover and understand symbolic meaning. For instance, in the context of Yeats's "The Second Coming," the phrase "rough beast" might refer to the person or persons hinted at in traditional interpretations of the New Testament as the "Antichrist." In a secular frame of reference, the associations of blankness and pitilessness suggest brutality and suppression. Still further, however, if the last hundred years had not been a period in which millions of people were persecuted and exterminated in military and secret police operations, even these associations might make the "rough beast" quizzical but not necessarily symbolic. But be¬ cause of the rightness of the application, together with the traditional biblical

722

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

associations, the figure clearly should be construed as a symbol of heartless per¬ secution and brutality As you can see, the interpretation of a symbol requires that you consider, in some depth, the person, object, situation, or action being considered as symbolic. If the element can be seen as general and representative—characteristic of the con¬ dition of a large number of human beings—it assumes symbolic significance. As a rule, the more ideas that you can associate with the element, the more likely it is to be a symbol. As for allusions, the identification of an allusion is usually simple. A word, situation, or phrase either is an allusion or it is not, and hence the matter is easily settled once a source is located. The problem comes in determining how the allu¬ sion affects the context of the poem you are reading. Thus we understand that in the poem "Snow," Scott alludes to Frost's "Desert Places" (Chapter 15) by bor¬ rowing Frost's phrase "Snow falling." Once this allusion is established, its pur¬ pose must still be learned. Thus, on the one hand, the allusion might mean that the situation in "Snow" is the same as in Frost's poem—namely, that the speaker is making observations about interior blankness—the "desert places" of the mind, or soul. On the other hand, the poet may be using the allusion in a new sense, and such is indeed the case. Whereas Frost uses the falling snow to suggest coldness of spirit, Scott uses it, more warmly, to connect the natural scene to the memory of family. In other words, once the presence of an allusion is established, the challenge of reading and understanding goes on.

Poems for Study Emily Bronte.No Coward Soul Is Mine, 723 Peter Davison.Delphi, 724 John Donne.The Canonization, 725 Stephen Dunn.Hawk, 727 Ralph Waldo Emerson

.Concord Hymn, 728

Isabella Gardner.Collage of Echoes, 728 Dan Georgakas.Hiroshima Crewman, 729 Jorie Graham.The Geese, 729 Thomas Hardy .In Time of "The Breaking of Nations," 731 George Herbert.The Collar, 731 Josephine Jacobsen.Tears, 732 Robinson Jeffers .The Purse-Seine, 734 John Keats.La Belle Dame Sans Merci: A Ballad, 735 X. J. Kennedy.Old Men Pitching Horseshoes, 737 Ted Kooser ..Year's End, 738 Philip Larkin.Next, Please, 738 David Lehman

.Venice Is Sinking, 739

Andrew Marvell .To His Coy Mistress, 740 Mary Oliver .Wild Geese, 741 Kay Ryan.We're Building the Ship as We Sail It, 742 Gary Snyder.Milton by Firelight, 743

BRONTE • No Coward Soul Is Mine

723

Judith Viorst .A Wedding Sonnet for the Next Generation, 744 Walt Whitman.A Noiseless Patient Spider, 745 Richard Wilbur .Year's End, 746 William Butler Yeats.The Second Coming, 747

EMILY BRONTE

(1818-1848)

No Coward Soul Is Mine

(i85o; 1846)

No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine. And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. O God within my breast. Almighty, ever-present Deity Life—that in me has rest. As I—undying Life—have power in Thee! Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts, unutterably vain. Worthless as withered weeds. Or idle froth amid the boundless main,0

i.e., oceans throughout the world

To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity; So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of immortality. With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years. Pervades and broods above. Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. Though earth and man were gone. And suns and universes ceased to be. And Thou wert left alone,°

if Thou were to be left (totally) alone

Every existence would exist in Thee. There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou—THOU art Being and Breath, And what THOU art may never be destroyed.

QUESTIONS 1. Why does the speaker assert in the first stanza that "No coward soul is mine"? Why does she raise this issue? Why might someone consider a soul like hers cowardly? Does the speaker make a convincing argument for the poem's first line?

724

CHAPTER 16 * Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

2. Who is "God within my breast" of the poem? What connection or lack of connection does this "Thee/THOU/THY" have with the "thousand creeds / That move men's hearts" of lines 9 and 10?

3. In general, what is the breadth and scope of the symbolic references in this poem? Compare the symbolism of the "storm-troubled sphere" in stanza 1, and of the van¬ ished world, suns, universes, and even humanity in stanza 6.

4. What is the meaning and connection of the symbols "withered weeds" (line 11) and "idle froth" (line 12)? To what extent does the speaker, in lines 9-12, seem to be deni¬ grating conventional religious faiths? How does the grammatical connection between stanzas 3 and 4 help in the understanding of these stanzas?

5. What does the speaker apparently mean, in lines 23-24, by the statement "And Thou wert left alone, / Every existence would exist in Thee"?

6. Describe the symbolism implied in the word "arming" in the first stanza. Against what does the speaker need arming? Who or what is arming her soul? What do "infinity" (line 14) and "immortality" (line 16) contribute to her expressed sense of her own personal strength?

PETER DAVISON

Delphi

0

5

io

15

(1928-2004)

(1964)

The crackle of parched grass bent by wind Is the only music in the grove Except the gush of the Pierian Spring.0 Eagles are often seen, but through a glass Their naked necks declare them to be vultures. The place is sacred with a sanctity Now faded, like a kerchief washed too often. There lies the crevice where the priestesses Hid in the crypt and drugged themselves and spoke Until in later years the ruling powers Bribed them to prophesy what was desired. Till then the Greeks took pride in hopelessness And, though they sometimes wrestled with their gods,° They never won a blessing or a name But only knowledge. I shall never know myself Enough to know what things I half believe And, half believing, only half deny.

°In ancient Greece, Delphi was the location of the Temple of Apollo, the home of the famous oracle. Fumes is¬ suing from an underground opening, around which the temple was built, would overcome the priestess, always named Pythia, and she would then deliver prophecies to priests, who would then pass them on, in prose, to in¬ quiring people who wished to know the future. These people of course would have previously made an offering to the Temple. 3 Pierian Spring: A famous spring near Delphi, on the western slope of Mount Olympus, sacred to the Muses. Consider Alexander Pope’s lines from An Essay on Criticism: “A little learning is a dangerous thing; / Drink deep, or taste not, the Pierian Spring.” 13 wrestled with their gods: See Genesis 32:24-32.

DONNE • The Canonization

725

QUESTIONS 1. What is the topic of this poem? Why is the poem titled "Delphi"?

2. What is the meaning of the final three lines? How do they relate to the previous part of the poem? Why does the speaker include them?

3. Explain the allusions to Delphi, the "crevice where the priestesses / Hid in the crypt," and the reference to Genesis in lines 13-15.

Bp JOHN DONNE

(1572-1631)

For a portrait, see Chapter 11, page 527.

% The Canonization0

(1633)

For Godsake hold your tongue, and let me love. Or chide my palsy, or my gout. My five gray hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout. With wealth your state, your mind with Arts improve,0 Take you a course,0 get you a place,0 Observe His Honor,0 or his grace,0 Or the King's real, or his stamped face Contemplate,0 what you will, approve,0 So you will let me love.

5

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love? What merchant's ships have my sighs drown'd? Who says my tears have overflow'd his ground? When did my colds a forward spring0 remove? When did the heats which my veins fill0 Add one more to the plaguy Bill?0 Soldiers find wars, and Lawyers find out still Litigious men, which quarrels move. Though she and I do love. Call us what you will, we are made such by love; Call her one, me another fly,0 We'are Tapers0 too, and at our own cost die,°

10

15

candles

“Canonization is the making of saints. 4 With wealth . . . improve: i.e., Improve your state with wealth and your mind with arts. 5 Take you a course: take up a career, place: a political appointment. 6 His Honor: any important courtier, his grace: a person of greatest eminence, such as a bishop or the king. 7, 8 Or . . . contemplate: i.e., Or contemplate either the king’s real face (at court) or stamped face (on coins). 8 What . . . approve: Try anything you like (i.e., “Mind your own business”). 13 a forward spring: an early spring (season). 14 the heats . . . fill: i.e., “the heats (fevers) that fill my veins.” Donne apparently wrote this line before the discovery of blood circulation was announced by William Harvey in 1616. 15 plaguy Bill: a regularly published list of deaths caused by the plague. 20 fly: a butterfly or moth (and apparently superficial and light-headed). 21 at . . . die: It was supposed that sexual climax shortened life.

20

726

25

30

35

40

45

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

And we in us find the Eagle and the Dove.° The Phoenix riddle0 hath more wit By us, we two, being one, are it. So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious0 by this love.

v

We can die by it, if not live by love. And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no piece of Chronicle we prove. We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms; As well a well wrought run becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs, And by these hymns, all shall approve Us Canoniz'd for love:° And thus invoke0 us; "You whom reverend love Made one another's hermitage;0 You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage; Who did the whole world's soul extract, and drove Into the glasses of your eyes So made such mirrors, and such spies. That they did all to you epitomize,0 Countries, towns, courts: Beg from above A pattern of your love!"

pray to saints

22 the Eagle and the Dove: masculine and feminine symbols. 23 Phoenix riddle: In ancient times the phoenix, a myth¬ ical bird that lived for a thousand years, was supposed to die and rise five hundred years later from its own ashes; hence the phoenix symbolized immortality and the renewal of life and desire. 27 Mysterious: unknowable to any¬ one but God, and therefore quintessentially holy. °35, 36 by these hymns . . . Canoniz’d for love: The idea is that later generations will remember the lovers and elevate them to the sainthood of a religion of love. Because the lovers’ love is recorded so powerfully in the speaker’s poems (“sonnets” in line 33), these later generations will use the poems as hymns in their worship of love. 38 Made . . . hermitage: made a religious retreat for each other. 40-43 Who did .. . epitomize: An allusion to reputed alchemical processes, and therefore to be understood approximately like this: “Who extracted the whole world’s soul and, through your eyes, assimilated this soul into yours, so that you, whose eyes saw and reflected each other, embodied the love and desire felt by all human beings.”

QUESTIONS 1. What is the situation of the poem? Whom is the speaker addressing? Why does he begin as he does? How does he defend his love? Why does each stanza begin and end with the word "love"? (Rhetorically, this is a figure called "epanadiplosus"; that is, a sentence or a paragraph ends with the same word.)

2. What symbols do you find in the poem? What are the symbols? What is being symbol¬ ized?

3. What mythic and religious mysteries are linked with sexual love in the third stanza? What does "canonization" mean? What canonizes and immortalizes the lovers? How does the "canonization" symbolize the poem's idea about the nature of love?

DUNN • Hawk

727

4. What will future lovers ask of these saints of love? Of what use will the speaker's poem be at that time? What do you think of the speaker's claim about love?

STEPHEN DUNN

(b. 1939)

% Hawk (1989) What a needy, desperate thing to claim what's wild for oneself, yet the hawk circling above the pines looks like the same one I thought might become mine after it crashed into the large window and lay one wing spread, the other loosely tucked, then no, not dead, got up dazed, and in minutes was gone. Now once again this is its sky, this its woods. The tasty small birds it loves have seen their God and know the suddenness of such love as we know lightning or flash flood. If hawks can learn, this hawk learned what's clear can be hard down where the humans live, and that the hunting isn't good where the air is such a lie.

s

10

15

20

It glides above the pines and I turn back into the room, the hawk book open on the cluttered table to Cooper's Hawk and the unwritten caption that to be wild means nothing you do or have done needs to be explained. QUESTIONS 1. Why does the speaker consider the issue of owning or not owning the hawk that crashed into his window?

2. In what way is the hawk significant? How can a reader justify considering it as a sym¬ bol? What does the bird symbolize?

3. What is the meaning of the final four lines? How true are the lines? If "to be wild" needs no explanation, what does it mean, in contrast, to be civilized?

25

728

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Concord Hymn

(1803-1882)

(1837)

Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, July 4, 1837 By the rude bridge that arched the flood. Their flag to April's breeze unfurled. Here once the embattled farmers stood. And fired the shot heard round the world. 5

io

15

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On the green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem. When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those spirits dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

QUESTIONS 1. Line 4 is one of the best-known lines of American poetry. Why is it so well-known? Dis¬ cuss the rhythm of the line. Where are the heavy accents? What complication occurs in the phrase "heard round"?

2. Discuss line 7. What does Emerson do grammatically to get his idea across and also to create the verbal "swept" to rhyme with "slept"?

3. Describe Emerson's use of alliteration and assonance in the poem.

ISABELLA GARDNER

(1915-1981)

v Collage of Echoes

5

(1979)

I have no promises to keep Nor miles to go before I sleep,0 For miles of years I have made promises and (mostly) kept them. It's time I slept. Now I lay me down to sleep0

2 miles to go before I sleep: See Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” (p. 490), lines 13—16 6 Now 1 lay me down to sleep-, from the child’s prayer: Now I lay me down to sleep; / 1 pray the Lord my soul to keep. / If I should die before I wake, / I pray the Lord my soul to take.

GRAHAM * The Geese

729

With no promises to keep. My sleaves are ravelled0 I have travelled.0

8 M;y sleaves are ravelled: See Macbeth, 11.2.37: “Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care.” 9 l have travelled: See Keats, “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer” (p. 585).

QUESTIONS 1. Given the allusions in the poem, what do you conclude about the speaker's judgment of the reader's knowledge of literature?

2. How reliant is "Collage of Echoes" upon the contexts being echoed? How do the echoes assist in enabling enjoyment and appreciation of the poem?

3. In relation to the speaker's character as demonstrated in the poem, consider the phrases "(mostly) kept them," "With no promises to keep," and "My sleaves are ravelled." What do they show about the speaker's self-assessment? In what way might these phrases be considered comic?

DAN GEORGAKAS

(b 1938)

new Hiroshima Crewman (1969) Somewhere in California his body humbled by a hair shirt, a vow of silence on his lips, a Hiroshima crewman tries to find a life. If he should ever choose to break his peace, he might speak of death by fire no Nazi ordered; he might tell how war produces many brands of Auschwitz soap and Dachau lampshade.

QUESTIONS

1. Explain the meaning and purpose of the poem's title. In what way is a "hair shirt" symbolic? What does it symbolize?

2. Why is the principal figure called a "Hiroshima Crewman"? What has happened to him since August 6, 1945, the date of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima? What is the Crewman now doing, according to the poem?

3. Describe the symbolism of "death by fire" and "Auschwitz soap and Dachau lamp¬ shade." What are the human and political implications of this symbolism?

J0R1E GRAHAM

%

The Geese

(b 1954)

(1980)

Today as I hang out the wash I see them again, a code as urgent as elegant, tapering with goals. For days they have been crossing. We live beneath these geese

730 5

io

15

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

as if beneath the passage of time, or a most perfect heading. Sometimes I fear their relevance. Closest at hand, between the lines, the spiders imitate the paths the geese won't stray from, imitate them endlessly to no avail: things will not remain connected, will not heal, and the world thickens with texture instead of history, texture instead of place. Yet the small fear of the spiders binds and binds the pins to the lines, the line to the eaves, to the pincushion bush, as if, at any time, things could fall further apart and nothing could help them

20

recover their meaning. And if these spiders had their way, chainlink over the visible world, would we be in or out? I turn to go back in. There is a feeling the body gives the mind of having missed something, a bedrock poverty, like falling

25

without the sense that you are passing through one world, that you could reach another anytime. Instead the real is crossing you, your body an arrival

30

you know is false but can't outrun. And somewhere in between these geese forever entering and these spiders turning back this astonishing delay, the everyday, takes place.

QUESTIONS

1. What is the dominant tense of the poem? What effect does this tense have on the speaker's conclusions? 2. What action does the speaker perform in the course of the poem? What is the relation¬ ship between this action and the final lines? 3. What do the geese symbolize? What do the spiders symbolize? How are these symbols contrasted? 4. The first half of this poem, particularly lines 11 and 18, is reminiscent of Yeats's "The Second Coming" (p. 747). In your judgment, what use does Graham make of this allusion?

HERBERT* The Collar

ffl THOMAS HARDY

731

(1840-1928)

For a photo, see Chapter 10, page 491.

In Time of “The Breaking of Nations’°

(i9i6; 1915)

Only a man harrowing clods In a slow silent walk. With an old horse that stumbles and nods Half asleep as they stalk. Only thin smoke without flame From the heaps of couch grass:0 Yet this will go onward the same Though Dynasties pass. Yonder a maid and her wight0 Come whispering by; War's annals will fade into night Ere their story die.

5 quack grass

fellow

°See Jeremiah 51:20, “with you I break nations in pieces.”

QUESTIONS 1. What does Hardy symbolize by the man, horse, smoke, and couple? How realistic and vivid are these symbols? Are they universal or contextual?

2. How does Hardy show that the phrase "breaking of nations" is to be taken symbolically? What meaning is gained by the biblical allusion of this phrase?

3. Contrast the structure of stanza 1 with that of stanzas 2 and 3. How does the form of stanzas 2 and 3 enable Hardy to emphasize the main idea?

4. How does the speaker show his evaluation of the life of the common people? You might consider that at the time (1915) World War I was raging in Europe.

GEORGE HERBERT

The Collar0

(1593-1633)

(1633)

I struck the board, and cry'd "No more; I will abroad! What? shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free; free as the road, Loose as the wind, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit?0 Have I no harvest but a thorn0

°collar: (a) the collar worn by a member of the clergy; (b) the collar of the harness of a draft animal such as a horse; (c) a restraint placed on prisoners; (d) a pun on choler (yellow bile), a bodily substance that was thought to cause quick rages. 6 in suit: waiting upon a person of power to gain favor or position. 7 thorn: See Mark 15:17.

1

732

10

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20

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35

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

To let me blood, and not restore What I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn Before my tears did drown it. Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays0 to crown it? No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted? All wasted? Not so, my heart: but there is fruit. And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sight-blown age On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit, and not; forsake thy cage; Thy rope of sands, Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law. While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away; take heed: I will abroad. Call in thy death's head there: tie up thy fears. He that forbears To suit0 and serve his need, Deserves his load." But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Me thought I heard one calling, "Child:" And I replied, "My Lord."

fo//ow

14 bays: laurel crowns to signify victory and honor.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the opening situation? Why is the speaker angry? Against what role in life is he complaining?

2. In light of the many possible meanings of collar (see note), explain the title as a symbol in the poem.

3. Explain the symbolism of the thorn (line 7), blood (line 8), wine (line 10), bays (line 14), flowers and garlands (line 15), cage (line 27), rope of sands (line 22), death's head (line 29), and the dialogue in lines 35 and 36.

JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN (1908-2003)_

Tears

(i98i)

Tears leave no mark on the soil or pavement; certainly not in sand or in any known rain forest; never a mark on stone.

JACOBSEN • Tears

733

One would think that no one in Persepolis or Ur° ever wept.

5

You would assume that, like Alice,0 we would all be swimming, buffeted in a tide of tears. But they disappear. Their heat goes. Yet the globe is salt with that savor.0

10

The animals want no part in this. The hare both screams and weeps at her death, one poet says. The stag, at death, rolls round drops down his muzzle; but, he is in Shakespeare's forest.0

15

These cases are mythically rare. No, it is the human being who persistently weeps, in some countries, openly, in others, not. Children who, even when frightened, weep most hopefully; women, licensed weepers.0 Men, in secret, or childishly; or nobly.

20

.rlaif k> akorls srf) lo 9an9D89iorfq80rlq Could tears not make a sea of their mass? It could be salt and wild enough; it could rouse storms and sink ships, erode, erode its shores: tears of rage, of love, of torture, of loss. Of loss.

25

30

Must we see the future in order to weep? Or the past? Is that why the animals refuse to shed tears? But what of the present, the tears of the present?

35

The awful relief, like breath after strangling? The generosity of the verb "to shed"? They are a classless possession yet are not found in the museum

40

°5, 6 Persepolis ... Ur: Persepolis was the capital city of ancient Persia (now Iran). Ur, on the Persian Gulf, was the capital city of the ancient Sumerian Empire. Today, both cities survive only in ruins. The Hebrew patriarch Abraham traveled from “Ur of the Chaldees” to settle in the land of Canaan, the “promised land.” 7 Alice: in Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (Ch. 2), Alice sheds tears, and then is reduced in size and almost drowns in her own teardrops. °11-12 Yet . . . Savor: Matthew 5:13.

14-18 The hare . . . forest: In the poem

Autumn by James Thomson (1700-1748), lines 401-57, a cruel hunt of the hare and the stag is described. It is the stag who sheds “big round tears” and “groans in anguish” when dying. Jacobsen’s allusion to Shakespeare— to whom Thomson is also alluding—is As You Like It, 2.1.29-43. 23 licensed weepers: In certain countries, such as Greece, professional “weepers” weep and cry aloud at funerals.

734

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

of even our greatest city. Sometimes what was human, turns into an animal, dry-eyed. QUESTIONS 1. What does the poem's major symbol, tears, mean? What significance does the poem at¬ tribute to tears? Why are tears sometimes disregarded?

2. How does the poem apply the symbol to various cultures and conditions? 3. How do tears differentiate human beings from animals? What is the symbolic value of this difference? In light of the contrast, what is the meaning of the last two lines?

4. Explain the poem's use of allusions (i.e., Persepolis, Ur, the New Testament, Alice's Ad¬ ventures in Wonderland, professional mourners, Shakespeare).

ROBINSON JEFFERS

(1887-1962)

The Purse-Seine (1937) Our sardine fishermen work at night in the dark of the moon; daylight or moonlight They could not tell where to spread the net, unable to see the phosphorescence of the shoals of fish. They work northward from Monterey, coasting Santa Cruz; off New Year's Point or off Pigeon Point

5

The look-out man will see some lakes of milk-color light on the seas's night-purple; he points, and the helmsman Turns the dark prow, the motorboat circles the gleaming shoal and dr: her seine-net. They close the circle And purse the bottom of the net, then with great labor haul it in.

2 I cannot tell you How beautiful the scene is, and a little terrible, then, when the crowded fish Know they are caught, and wildly beat from one wall to the other of their closing destiny the phosphorescent 10

Water to a pool of flame, each beautiful slender body sheeted with flame, like a live rocket A comet s tail wake of clear yellow flame; while outside the narrowing Floats and cordage of the net great sea-lions come up to watch, sighing in the dark; the vast walls of night Stand erect to the stars.

3

15

Lately I was looking from a night mountain-top On a wide city, the colored splendor, galaxies of light; how could I help but recall the seine-net Gathering the luminous fish? I cannot tell you how beautiful the city appeared, and a

KEATS • La Belle Dame Sans Merci: A Ballad

735

little terrible. I thought. We have geared the machines and locked all together into interdependence; we have built the great cities; now There is no escape. We have gathered vast populations incapable of free survival, insulated From the strong earth, each person in himself helpless, on all dependent. The circle is closed, and the net Is being hauled in. They hardly feel the cords drawing, yet they shine already. The inevitable mass-disasters Will not come in our time nor in our children's, but we and our children Must watch the net draw narrower, government take all powers—or revolution, and the new government Take more than all, add to kept bodies kept souls—or anarchy, the mass-disasters.

4 These things are Progress; Do you marvel our verse is troubled or frowning, while it keeps its reason? Or it lets go, lets the mood flow In the manner of the recent young men into mere hysteria, splintered gleams, crackled laughter. But they are quite wrong. There is no reason for amazement; surely one always knew that cultures decay, and life's end is death. QUESTIONS 1. Describe how the purse-seine is used to haul in the sardines. What is the speaker's re¬ action to the scene as described in stanza 2?

2. How does the speaker explain that the purse-seine is a symbol? What does it symbol¬ ize? What do the sardines symbolize?

3. Compare the ideas of Jeffers with those of Yeats in "The Second Coming." Are the ideas of Jeffers more or less methodical?

4. Is the statement at the end to be taken as a fact or as a resigned acceptance of that fact? Does the poem offer any solution to the problem?

5. How can the sea-lions of line 12, and their sighs, be construed as a symbol?

n JOHN KEATS

(1795-1821)_

For a portrait, see Chapter 13, page 585.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci: A Ballad°(i82o:

isi9)

i O what can ail thee, knight at arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the lake. And no birds sing. °“La Belle Dame Sans Merci” is French for “The beautiful lady without pity” (that is, “The heartless woman”) This is also the title of a medieval poem by Alain Chartier; Keats’s poem bears no other relationship to the me dieval poem, which was thought at the time to have been by Chaucer.

736

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

2

O what can ail thee, knight at arms. So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full. And the harvest's done. 3

I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew. And on dry cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful, a fairy's child; Tier hair was long, her foot was light. And her eyes were wild.

meadows

,0

I made a garland for her head. And bracelets too, and fragrant zone She look'd at me as she did love. And made sweet moan.

;0

belt

She found me roots of relish sweet. And honey wild, and manna dew. And sure in language strange she said— I love thee true.

See Exodus 16:14-35

6

I set her on my pacing steed. And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song. 7 0

0

magical potion

8

She took me to her elfin grot,° And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore. And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.

grotto

9

And there she lulled me asleep. And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. 0

last

KENNEDY • Old Men Pitching Horseshoes

737

10

I saw pale kings, and princes too. Pale warriors, death pale were they all; They cried—"La belle dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!"0

slavery

40

II 1 saw their starv'd lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide. And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side. 12 And this is why I sojourn here. Alone and palely loitering. Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake. And no birds sing.

45

QUESTIONS 1. Who is the speaker of stanzas 1-3? Who speaks after that? 2. In light of the dreamlike content of the poem, how can the knight's experience be viewed as symbolic? What is being symbolized? 3. Consider "relish" (line 25), "honey" (line 26), and "manna" (line 26) as symbols. Are they realistic or mythical? What does the allusion to manna signify? What is symbol¬ ized by the "pale kings, and princes too" and "Pale warriors" (lines 37-38)? 4. Consider the poem's setting as symbols of the knight's state of mind.

X. J. KENNEDY

(b 1929)

% Old Men Pitching Horseshoes Back in a yard where ringers groove a ditch. These four in shirtsleeves congregate to pitch Dirt-burnished iron. With appraising eye, One sizes up a peg, hoists and lets fly— A clang resounds as though a smith had struck Fire from a forge. His first blow, out of luck. Rattles in circles. Hitching up his face, He swings, and weight once more inhabits space, Tumbles as gently as a new-laid egg. Extended iron arms surround their peg Like one come home to greet a long-lost brother. Shouts from one outpost. Mutters from the other. Now changing sides, each withered pitcher moves As his considered dignity behooves Down the worn path of earth where August flies And sheaves of air in warm distortions rise. To stand ground, fling, kick dust with all the force Of shoes still hammered to a living horse.

(1985)

5

10

15

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CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

QUESTIONS 1. How does the poet indicate that the pitching of horseshoes is symbolic? As symbols, why are old men chosen rather than young men?

2. Discuss the effects of the words "congregate," "outpost," "withered," "sheaves," "kick dust," and "force." What do these words contribute to the poem's symbolism?

TED KOOSER

(b 1939)

Year’s End

5

io

(1985)

Now the seasons are closing their files on each of us, the heavy drawers full of certificates rolling back into the tree trunks, a few old papers flocking away. Someone we loved has fallen from our thoughts, making a little, glittering splash like a bicycle pushed by a breeze. Otherwise, not much has happened; we fell in love again, finding that one red feather in the wind.

QUESTIONS 1. What is the occasion of the poem? Why does the speaker use the pronouns "us," "we," our, and we as references? Does he mean only himself? Does he mean others be¬ side himself?

2. How might certificates roll back into tree trunks? What is the meaning of the speaker's mention of papers "flocking away"?

3. In line 10 the speaker says that "We fell in love again." In what way does the "one red feather in the wind" symbolize this action? Why doesn't the speaker talk sooner in the poem about falling in love?

4. Compare this poem with Wilbur's "Year's End" (this chapter) and Roethke's "Dolor" (Chapter 11). What do the poems have in common? In what ways is Kooser's "Year's End" unique?

PHILIP LARKIN

% Next, Please

(1922-1985)_

(1955)

Always too eager for the future, we Pick up bad habits of expectancy. Something is always approaching; every day Till then we say, 5

Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear. Sparkling armada of promises draw near. How slow they are! And how much time they waste. Refusing to make haste!

LEHMAN • Venice Is Sinking

Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,0 Each rope distinct.

739

10 adorned

Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits Arching our way, it never anchors; it's No sooner present than it turns to past. Right to the last We think each one will heave to and unload All good into our lives, all we are owed For waiting so devoutly and so long. But we are wrong:

15

20

Only one ship is seeking us, a blackSailed unfamiliar, towing at her back A huge and birdless silence. In her wake No waters breed or break. QUESTIONS 1. What is the subject of the poem? The theme? What point does it make about time, ex¬ pectation, human nature, and the way we live our lives?

2. What cliche does the extended metaphor that begins in the second stanza ironically re¬ vitalize and reverse? How does this metaphor make the total meaning of the poem clearer and more palpable?

3. How do meter, rhyme, and diction help create meaning? Consider, for example, the metrical variation in the fourth line of each stanza, rhyming pairs such as "wastehaste" and "wake-break," or words such as "bluff" and "armada."

4. Compare this poem to Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress." To what extent is "Next, Please" a carpe diem poem?

DAVID LEHMAN

(b 1948)

% Venice Is Sinking In New York we defy everything but gravity but we're not sinking unlike Venice we're level though encircled with water we travel underground in trains going through tunnels our grandparents built in a way it's a miracle when you think of any of the ways any of us could die in a day if some apparatus we rely on unthinkingly.

(2002)

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10

740 15

20

CHAPTER 16 * Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

the elevator or the subway or the good faith of motorists, should fail— think of it— what are the odds that we'd still be here as we are

QUESTIONS 1. Why is the poem titled "Venice Is Sinking." In light of the title, why does the poet dis¬ cuss New York throughout the poem? In what way can Venice be considered symbolic of New York, and also, generally, of all big cities?

2. Why does the poet discuss the "miracle" of New York? To what degree might New York symbolize the precariousness of existence? How is it significant that pedestrians are dependent on the "good faith of motorists"? Is it only the faith of motorists on whom we rely for our continued existence?

3. Why do you think the poet largely avoids punctuation and capitalization? How could this lack illustrate any ideas about the nature of modern life?

ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678)

To His Coy Mistress

(i68i)

Had we but world enough, and time. This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. 5

io

15

20

Thou by the Indian Ganges0 side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber0 would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood,0 And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews.0 My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast. But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part.

Noah!s flood

And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near;

5 ?fl7SeS: l ^ ?^err tha!lru,ns acr°ss most ofIndia- 7 Humber: a small river that runs through northern England to the North bea. 10 Jews: Traditionally, this conversion is supposed to occur just before the Last Judgment.

OLIVER * Wild Geese

741

And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song, then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave's a fine and private place. But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew. And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires. Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey. Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped0 power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball. And tear our pleasures with rough stife Thorough0 the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

25

30

35

slow-jawed

40

through 45

QUESTIONS 1. In lines 1-20 the speaker sets up a hypothetical situation and the first part of a pseudological proof: If A then B. What specific words indicate the logic of this section? What hypothetical situation is established?

2. How do geographic and biblical allusions affect our sense of time and place? 3. In lines 21-32 the speaker refutes the hypothetical condition set up in the first twenty lines. What word indicates that this is a refutation? How do symbols of death create and reinforce meaning here?

4. The last part of the poem (lines 33-46) presents the speaker's "logical" conclusion. What words indicate that this is a conclusion? What is the conclusion?

MARY OLIVER (b. 1935)

Wild Geese (1986) You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes.

5

742 io

15

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting— over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

v

QUESTIONS 1. What idea is contained in the first five lines? What ideas are expressed in lines 6-12? In what ways are lines 13-17 a climax of the poem? How does this last section build on the poem's earlier parts?

2. What is symbolized by the references to "the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain," and so on, in lines 7-10? Do these symbols suggest futility or hope?

3. What do the wild geese symbolize (lines 11-12, 15)? How is the symbol of the geese a response to the poem's first six lines? How well would the words acceptance, selfknowledge, or adjustment describe the poem's ideas? What other words would be better or more suitable? Why?

KAY RYAN (b. 1945) For a photo, see page 536.

%

5

10

We’re Building the Ship as We Sail It (20io)

The first fear being drowning, the ship's first shape was a raft, which was hard to unflatten after that didn't happen. It's awkward to have to do one's planning in extremis0 in the early years— so hard to hide later: sleekening the hull, making things more gracious.

under the tfireat °t death

QUESTIONS 1. In the poem's title, what does the ship symbolize? What does making a raft symbolize? What is symbolized by planning and "making things / more gracious"?

2. What does the poet mean here by the phrase "sleekening the hull" (line 12)? How is this word related to the central symbol of "the Ship"?

3. Compare this poem with Theodore Roethke's "The Waking" in Chapter 15 (p. 702). What similar ideas do the two poems have? What are the differences?

SNYDER • Milton by Firelight

743

GARY SNYDER (b 1930)

new Milton by Firelight

(1955)

Piute Creek, August 1955° "O Hell, what doe mine eyes with grief behold?"0 Working with an old Singlejack0 miner, who can sense The vein and cleavage In the very guts of rock, can Blast granite, build Switchbacks0 that last for years Under the beat of snow, thaw, mule-hooves. What use, Milton, a silly story Of our lost general parents, eaters of fruit?0

5

trails, or roads

10 See 4.331-35 of Paradise Lost

The Indian, the chainsaw boy. And a string of six mules Came riding down to camp Hungry for tomatoes and green apples. Sleeping in saddle-blankets Under a bright night-sky Han River slantwise0 by morning. Jays squall Coffee boils

15

20

In ten thousand years the Sierras Will be dry and dead, home of the scorpion. Ice-scratched slabs and bent trees. No paradise, no fall. Only the weathering land The wheeling sky, Man, with his Satan Scouring the chaos of the mind.

25

Oh Hell! Fire down Too dark to read, miles from a road

°Piute Creek: a creek and spring in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Yosemite Park in California. During the sum¬ mer of 1955, Snyder was working with a Yosemite trail crew, and became familiar with the tasks and tools of mak¬ ing hiking trails. 1 O Hell! . . . behold: from Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667), Book 4, line 358. The line begins Satan’s speech about his own fallen condition, which he contrasts with the prelapsarian state of paradise which Adam and Eve at that time enjoyed. It is in this speech that Satan plans to avenge his own fall by bringing both death and the loss of innocence to Adam and Eve, and, of course, to all of humanity. Snyder’s speaker describes the biblical story made epic by Milton—which he calls “a silly story”—in lines 11-13 of this poem. 3 Singlejack: a wooden wedge that, when soaked with water, swells in size to split large rocks. 18 Han River slantwise: perhaps the meaning is that the men slept so soundly that when they woke, their eyes seemed to appear Asiatic, as though they were from the Han River area in Korea.

30

744

35

CHAPTER 16 * Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

The bell-mare° clangs in the meadow That packed dirt for a fill-in Scrambling through loose rocks On an old trail All of a summer's day.0

°32 bell-mare: pack trains in the West were led by a mare with a bell around her neck. The mules and horses of the train would obediently line up behind the bell and follow its sound wherever the bell-mare went. One of the many paintings of the West by Frederic Remington (1861-1909) is The Bell Mare (1904). 36 summer’s day: See Shake¬ speare’s Sonnet 18 (p. 608).

QUESTIONS 1. Why does the speaker contrast the future of the Sierra Nevada Mountains with human concerns about Satan? What is the purpose of the oath in line 28?

2. In Book 4 of Paradise Lost, Milton states that the home of Adam and Eve is totally clean and devoid of "Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm." Why does Snyder draw attention to the future when the Sierras will be "home of the scorpion" (line 22)? What does the scorpion symbolize? In what other ways does Snyder criticize realistic and idealistic concep¬ tions of human and earthly perfection?

3. In what way is the final line, "All of a summer's day," symbolic?

JUDITH VIORST (b 1931)

A Wedding Sonnet for the Next Generation (2000) He might compare you to a summer's day,° Declaring you're far fairer in his eyes. She might, with depth and breadth and many sighs. Count all the ways she loves you, way by way.°

5

He might say when you're old and full of sleep. He'll cherish still the Pilgrim soul in you.° She might—oh, there are poems so fine, so true. To help you speak of love and vows to keep.

10

Words help. And you are writing your own poem. It doesn't always scan or always rhyme. It mingles images of the sublime With plainer words: Respect. Trust. Comfort. Home.

°1 summer's day: See Shakespeare, “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” (Chapter 13). 3, 4 She might way by way: See Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “How Do I Love Thee” (Chapter 18). 5, 6 He might say .. . Pilgrim soul in you: See Yeats, “When You Are Old” (Chapter 14).

WHITMAN • A Noiseless Patient Spider

745

How very rich is love's vocabulary When friends, dear friends, best friends decide to marry.

QUESTIONS 1. Why does the poem speak of "the Next Generation" in the title? What is the form of the poem? Why do the first lines alternate between "he" and "she"?

2. What is the meaning and effect of the allusions in lines 1-6? Why does Viorst intro¬ duce these allusions? What assumptions does she make about her audience for this poem?

3. How does the poem change in the last six lines? How does the language shift in these lines?

4. What does it mean to say "you are writing your own poem"? How are the final two lines related to the previous parts of the poem?

WALT WHITMAN (1819-1892) For a photo, see Chapter 13, page 612.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

(1868)

A noiseless patient spider, I marked where on a little promontory it stood isolated. Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding. It launched forth filament, filament, filament out of itself. Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them. And you O my soul where you stand. Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space. Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them. Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold. Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

QUESTIONS 1. The subject of the second stanza is seemingly unrelated to the subject of the first. How are these stanzas related?

2. ha what way does the spider's web symbolize the soul and the poet's view of the isolation of human beings? How does the web symbolize the soul's ceaseless "musing ... seeking" and the attempt "to connect"?

3. Explain why the second stanza is not a complete sentence. How might this grammatical feature be related to the spider's web? To the poet's idea that life requires striving but does not offer completeness?

746

CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

RICHARD WILBUR (b. 1921)

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Year’s End

(1950)

Now winter downs the dying of the year. And Night is all a settlement of snow; From the soft street the rooms of houses show A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere, Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin And still allows some stirring down within. I've known the wind by water banks to shake The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell And held in ice as dancers in a spell Fluttered all winter long into a lake; Graved on the dark in gestures of descent. They seemed their own most perfect monument. There was perfection in the death of ferns Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone A million years. Great mammoths overthrown Composedly have made their long sojourns. Like palaces of patience, in the gray And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii0 The little dog lay curled and did not rise But slept the deeper as the ashes rose And found the people incomplete, and froze The random hands, the loose unready eyes Of men expecting yet another sun To do the shapely thing they had not done. These sudden ends of time must give us pause. We fray into the future, rarely wrought Save in the tapestries of afterthought. More time, more time. Barrages of applause Come muffled from a buried radio. The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow. °18 Pompeii: the southern Italian Roman city buried by lava during the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 CE. Many people and animals died trying to escape the lava flow and were covered over where they fell. Modem excavators created statues of these fallen figures by using plaster to fill in cavities left by their bodies. One of these was the “little dog” mentioned in line 19.

QUESTIONS 1. What natural and historical symbols does Wilbur introduce in the poem? What ideas do the symbols present about time and the use people make of time?

2. Describe Wilbur's use of two-word groups united by assonance and consonance in the poem (e.g., "People incomplete," downs the dying," "still . . . stirring"). How effective are these groups in drawing your attention to Wilbur's meaning?

YEATS • The Second Coming

747

3. Describe the symbols in the final stanza ("fray into the future," "tapestries of after¬ thought," "muffled from a buried radio"). Why does the poem conclude with the sym¬ bols of "New-year bells" and "snow"?

4. Consider the meaning of line 25. How can this line be interpreted so that the poem may have either positive or negative views of human activity?

9

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (1865-1939)_ For a photo, see Chapter 14, page 661.

The Second Coming0

(1920; 1919)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre0 The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. The blood-dimmed tide0 is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi ° Troubles my sight; somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man,° A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep

“The phrase “second coming” has been used traditionally to refer to expectations of the return of Jesus for the sal¬ vation of believers, as described in the New Testament. The prophecies foretold that Christ’s return would be pre¬ ceded by famine, epidemics, wars between nations, and general civil disturbance. Yeats believed that human history could be measured in cycles of approximately 2,000 years (see line 19, “twenty centuries”). According to this sys¬ tem, the birth of Jesus ended the Greco-Roman cycle and in 1919, when Yeats wrote “The Second Coming,” it ap¬ peared to him that the Christian period was ending and a new era was about to take its place. Tire New Testament expectation was that Jesus would reappear. Yeats, by contrast, holds that the disruptions of the twentieth century were preceding a takeover by the forces of evil. 1 gyre; a radiating spiral, cone, or vortex. Yeats used the intersecting of two of these shapes as a visual symbol of his cyclic theory. As one gyre spiraled and widened out, to become dis¬ sipated, one period of history would end; at the same time a new gyre, closer to the center, would begin and spiral in a reverse direction to the starting point of the old gyre. A drawing of this plan looks like this:

The falcon of line 2 is at the broadest, centrifugal point of one gyre, symbolically illustrating the end of a cycle. The “indignant desert birds” of line 17 “reel” in a tighter circle, symbolizing the beginning of the new age in the new gyre. 5 blood-dimmed tide: quotation from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, 2.2.60-63. 12 Spiritus Mundi: literally, the spirit of the world, a collective human consciousness that furnished writers and thinkers with a common fund of images and symbols. Yeats referred to this collective repository as “a great memory passing on from generation to generation.” 14 lion body and the head of a man: that is, the Sphinx, which in ancient Egypt symbolized the pharaoh as a spirit of the sun. Because of this pre-Christian origin, the reincarnation of a sphinx could therefore represent qualities associated in New Testament books like Revelation (11, 13, 17), Mark (13:14-20), and 2 Thessalonians (2:1-12) with a monstrous, superhuman, satanic figure.

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CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last. Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? QUESTIONS 1. Consider the following as symbols: the "gyre," the "falcon," the "blood-dimmed tide," the "ceremony of innocence," the "worst" who are "full of passionate intensity." What ideas and values do these symbolize in the poem?

2. Why does Yeats capitalize the phrase "Second Coming"? To what does this phrase refer? Explain the irony of Yeats's use of the phrase in this poem.

3. Contrast the symbols of the falcon of line 2 and the desert birds of line 17. Considering that these are realistically presented, how does the realism contribute to their identity as symbols?

4. What is symbolized by the sphinx being revealed as a "rough beast"? What is the sig¬ nificance of the beast's going "towards Bethlehem to be born"?

WRITING ABOUT SYMBOLISM AND ALLUSION IN POETRY As you read the assigned poem, take careful and accurate notes, and make obser¬ vations about the presence of symbols or allusions or both. Explanatory notes will help you establish basic information, but you also need to explain meanings and create interpretations in your own words. Use a dichonary for understand¬ ing words or phrases that require further study. For allusions, you might check out original sources to determine original contexts. Use the explanations sup¬ plied in your text, and ask your instructor when you need more information. Try to determine the ways in which your poem is similar to, or different from, the original work or source, and then determine the purpose served by the allusion.

Questions for Discovering Ideas CULTURAL OR UNIVERSAL SYMBOLS •

What symbols that you can characterize as cultural or universal can you discover in names, objects, places, situations, or actions in the poem (e.g., nightingales, hemlock, a thorn, two lovers, Bethlehem)?

•

How are these symbols used? What do they mean, both specifically, in the poem, and universally, in a broader context? What would the poem be like without the symbolic meaning?

CONTEXTUAL SYMBOLS •

What contextual symbols can you locate in the poem (e.g., withered sedge, a flock of birds, a doe running into a woods)? How are these sym¬ bols used specifically in the poem? What would the poem be like if the contextual symbol were not taken to be symbolic?

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What causes you to conclude that the symbols are truly symbolic? What is being symbolized? What do the symbols mean? How definite or direct is the symbolism?

Writing About Symbolism and Allusion in Poetry

•

749

Is the symbolism used systematically throughout the poem, or is it used only once? How does the symbolism affect the poem's ideas or emotions?

ALLUSIONS •

•

•

Granted your knowledge of literature, science, geography, television, the Bible, film, popular culture, and other fields of knowledge, what allusions do you recognize? Do you find other references in these or other categories? What do the al¬ lusions mean in their original context? What do they mean within the poem? Do you see any possible allusions that you are not sure about? What help do you find in the explanatory notes in the text you are using? Con¬ sult a dictionary, such as The Oxford Dictionary of Allusions, or another reference work to discover the nature of these allusions. Refer also to Chapter 7. If you have questions, be sure to ask your reference librarian for assistance.

Strategies for Organizing Ideas Begin with a brief description of the poem and of the symbolism or allu¬ sions in it. A symbol might be central to the poem, or an allusion might be introduced at a particularly important point. Your central idea might take you in a number of directions: You might conclude that the symbolism is based on objects like flowers and natural scenes, or that it stems out of an action or set of actions, or that it is developed from an initial situation such as a time of the day or year. The symbols may be universal or contextual; they may be applicable particularly to personal life or to political or social life. Allusions may emphasize the differences between your poem and the work or event to which the allusion refers, or they may highlight the cir¬ cumstances of your poem. In addition, you might make a point that the symbols and/or allusions make the poem seem optimistic, or pessimistic, and so on. Here are some possible approaches for your essay, which may be com¬ bined as need arises. 1. The meaning of symbols or allusions. This approach is the most natural one to take for an essay on symbolism or allusion. If you have discovered a sym¬ bol or symbols, or allusions, explain the meaning as best you can. What is the poem's major idea? How do you know that your interpretation is valid? How do the poem's symbols and allusions contribute to your interpretation? How pervasive, how applicable, are these devices? If you have discovered many symbols and allusions, which ones predominate? What do they mean? Why are some more important than others? What connects them with each other and with the poem's main ideas? How are you able to make conclusions about all this?

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CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

2. The effect of symbols or allusions on the poem's form. Here the goal is to de¬ termine how symbolism or allusion is related to the poetic structure. Where does the symbol occur? If it is early in the poem, how do the subsequent parts relate to the ideas borne by the symbol? What logical or chronological func¬ tion does the symbol serve in the poem's development? Is the symbol repeated, and if so, to what effect? If the symbol is introduced later, has it been antici¬ pated earlier? How do you know? Can the symbol be considered climactic? What might the structure of the poem have been like if the symbolism had not been used? (Answering this question can help you judge how the symbol influences the poem's structure.) Many of these same questions might also be applied to an allusion or allusions. In addition, for an allusion, it is important to compare the contexts of the work you are studying and the original to determine how the poet uses the allusion as a part of the poem's form or structure. 3. The relationship between the literal and the symbolic. The object here is to describe the literal nature of the symbols, and then to determine their appro¬ priateness to the poem's context. If the symbol is part of a narrative, what is its literal function? If the symbol is a person, object, or setting, what physical as¬ pects are described? Are colors included? Shapes? Sizes? Sounds? In light of this description, how applicable is the symbol to the ideas it embodies? How appropriate is the literal condition to the symbolic condition? The answers to questions like these should lead not so much to a detailed account of the meaning of the symbols but rather to an account of their appropriateness to the topics and ideas of the poem. 4. The implications and resonances of symbols and allusions. This type of essay is more personal than the others, for it is devoted to the suggestions and associations—the "implications and resonances"—that the poem's symbols and allusions bring out. The object of the essay is to describe your own responses or chain of thinking that the poem sets in motion. You are therefore free to move in your own direction as long as you base your dis¬ cussion on the symbols and allusions in the poem. If the poet is speaking in general terms about the end of an era, for example, as with the symbol of the "rough beast" in Yeats's "The Second Coming" and the giant fishnets in Jeffers's "The Purse-Seine," then you could apply these symbols to your own thinking. Your conclusion might contain a summary of your main points. If your poem is rich in symbols or allusions, you might also consider some of the ele¬ ments that you have not discussed in the body and try to tie these together with those you have already discussed. It would also be appropriate to intro¬ duce any new ideas you developed as a result of your study.

Illustrative Student Essay

751

Illustrative Student Essay Although underlined sentences are not recommended by MLA style, they are used in this illustrative essay as teaching tools to emphasize the central idea, thesis sentence, and topic sentences.

Jani 1 Sonal Jani Professor Barack English 212 20 March 2011 Symbolism in Oliver’s “Wild Geese”0 Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” can be understood as an extended answer to

[i]

the issue raised in its first line. This idea, to be refuted, is unusual—one might almost say startling—because it is stated so baldly: “You do not have to be good.” It does not seem that many poems begin with a line like that. The rest of the poem is developed through a series of symbols asserting the idea that there is a more significant kind of goodness.* Oliver’s argument is to shun traditional habits of contrition and repentance, and instead to emphasize that goodness exists in the animal and human spirit within oneself, and also everywhere in Nature. She asserts this idea first through a traditional but negative symbol, and second through a series of positive symbols of the natural world.t The first symbol in the poem negatively symbolizes traditional but ineffective approaches to creating goodness within oneself. The picture is that of a hermit-like person actively suffering for contrition’s sake: You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting, (lines 2-3) The notion of “repenting” symbolizes the tradition that human beings must endure punishment to atone for guilt and sins. The vision of knees in the desert

"This poem appears on page 741. ‘Central idea. fThesis sentence.

[2]

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CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

Jani 2 thus symbolizes the deeply ingrained idea that self-denial and suffering are needed to achieve goodness and inner peace. [3]

Before going on with the more detailed symbolism of the poem, Oliver introduces another element of the presumed discussion the speaker is having with a listener who has spoken before the poem begins, but who now just listens. The idea is that goodness can be found within “the soft animal of your body”: You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. (4-5) It is not clear just what sort of animal is described, but the word “animal” is based on the action of breathing, the essential characteristic of living beings. The essence of life is therefore the “soft animal” (not a vicious animal) of the self, which here symbolizes the ethics that are a consequence of love.

[4]

A second part of the poem begins with the seventh line, “Meanwhile the world goes on.” The idea here is that there is a larger existence than the one that is defined by human concepts of goodness or repentance, guilt or despair. The speaker’s argument is carried out with a cumulative set of symbols derived from the natural world. These are “the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain” which are visualized as “moving across” the world—over “prairies,” “deep trees,” “mountains,” and “rivers” (8-11), all of which describe vast expanses of land and wilderness. Because of their virtual infiniteness, these natural objects make human concerns seem small and insignificant. Thus, as symbols, they signify the need for a larger perspective and a more broad dedication than human beings usually make.

[5]

In this context the poet introduces the symbol of “the wild geese, high in the clean blue air” (12). The geese, part of the general symbol of the world going on, are migrating homeward. The idea seems mystical, but nevertheless the symbolism provides a clear analogy for human beings living in our modern troubled and troubling civilization. We are part of the universe, the world. We live here and belong here, just as the wild geese do. We tend to forget our place here, however, as we lose perspective and

Illustrative Student Essay

753

Jani 3 become enmeshed in cultural concerns which lead us only to guilt and loneliness (14). The need is to listen to the inner animal, the outer world, which has a strong pull on our imaginations, just as the wild geese symbolize a natural power that restores the world’s creatures to home and to a sense of belonging. The “world,” in the symbolic fabric of Oliver’s poem, is an active

[6]

participant in the process. It “offers itself to your imagination, / calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—■” (15-16). The idea of the symbol is that we, like the wild geese, should let our imaginations follow the call. While people are traditionally preoccupied with despair, the sentient and nonsentient elements of nature are simply being. We could be like that if only we could perceive the symbolic meaning of the world around us. If we follow the morality of the trees and the sun and the rain, we too will experience the strength of being a part of nature. Our morality will then flow to us as a matter of course because we will have acknowledged our place “in the family of things” (18) just as the geese return home to lead their lives in the landscapes of the world.

Jani 4 Work Cited Oliver, Mary. “Wild Geese.” Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing. Ed. Edgar V Roberts and Robert Zweig. 5th Compact ed. New York: Pearson Longman, 2012. 741. Print

Commentary on the Essay This essay conforms to the first strategy for writing about symbolism (p. 749) inas¬ much as it involves a concentrated explanation of the symbolism in Oliver's "Wild Geese"—symbolism that is mainly drawn from the world of Nature.

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CHAPTER 16 • Symbolism and Allusion: Windows to Wide Expanses of Meaning

The introduction briefly characterizes Oliver's confrontational opening line and goes on to assert that the rest of the poem is developed through a succession of symbols. The central idea is responsive to the opening line—namely, that the poem is to introduce symbols of "a more significant kind of goodness"—and the thesis sentence states that in the body there will be a discussion of a negative sym¬ bol and a set of more positive symbols. Paragraphs 3 through 5 consider the meanings of the poem's three major symbols—the "soft animal" (3), rain, land, and wilderness (4), and the "wild geese" (5). The final paragraph deals with the issue of goodness and the different kind of "good" brought out in the poem's symbolism (that is, being part of the "family of things").

Writing Topics About Symbolism and Allusion in Poetry Writing Paragraphs 1. In a paragraph describe the nature of the symbols in Hardy's "In Time of 'The Breaking of Nations'" or in Whitman's "A Noiseless Patient Spider." How ap¬ propriate are the symbols in bringing forth the major theme of the poem? 2. In a paragraph compare one symbol in Hardy's "In Time of 'The Breaking of Nations'" with one symbol in Whitman's "A Noiseless Patient Spider." What parallels in general topic matter do you discover? How do the poets make the poems diverge, despite the common qualities of the symbols? 3. In a paragraph compare the use of religious symbols in Donne's "The Canon¬ ization" and Herbert's "The Collar." What are the locations from which the poets draw their symbols? How do the symbols figure into the major ideas and arguments of the poems? Writing Essays 1. In an essay analyze the ways in which Keats, Herbert, and Jeffers use symbols to convey the fact and idea of capture and thralldom in "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," "The Collar," and "The Purse-Seine." What major symbols do the three poets use? How appropriate is each symbol in its respective poem? How do the poets use the symbols to focus on the problems they present in their poems? 2. Describe the differences in the ways in which Graham, Viorst, and Yeats use allusions in "The Geese," "A Wedding Sonnet for the Next Generation," and "The Second Coming." How completely can we understand these poems without an explanation of the allusions? How extensive should explanations be? In an essay argue that the allusiveness of the poem makes the poem en¬ riching and interesting. 3. Write an essay describing the use of animals and birds as symbols in this chap¬ ter's poems by Graham, Jeffers, Oliver, and Whitman. How do the poets show the symbolic connection of the animals to human affairs? How faithfully do they consider the animals as animals?

Writing Topics About Symbolism and Allusion in Poetry

755

Creative Writing Assignment 1. Write a poem in which you develop a major symbol, as Jeffers does in "The Purse-Seine" and Cowper does in "The Poplar Field" (Chapter 10). To get yourself started, you might consider symbols like these: • A littered street or sidewalk • A new SUV, or an all-terrain vehicle, or a hybrid • Coffee-hour after religious services • An athletic competition • A computer • The checkout counter at the neighborhood supermarket • The family dog looking out a front window as the children leave for school • A handgun Write an essay describing the process of your creation. How do you begin? How much detail is necessary? How many conclusions do you need to bring out about your symbol? When do you think you have said enough? Too much? How do you decide? 2. Write a poem in which you make your own allusions to your own experi¬ ences, such as attending school, participating in an activity, joining a team, reading a book, identifying with a fictional or a movie character, recalling a passage from a popular song or a poem or story you have read, or going to a recent artistic or political event. What assumptions do you make about your reader when you bring out your allusions? How do you make the allusion (i.e., by a quotation, a name, a title, an indirect reference)? How does your al¬ lusion deepen your meaning? How does your allusion increase your own power of expression? Library Assignment 1. From your library, take out a university press study of Yeats or Jeffers. How much detail is devoted in the study to either poet's use of symbols? How per¬ vasively is symbolism employed by the poet? How does the poet use symbol¬ ism to express ideas about science or nationalism? What other use or uses does the poet make of symbolism?

Chapter 1 7 Four Major American Poets: Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Langston Hughes, and Sylvia Plath

I

n Chapters 10 through 16 we have considered poetry in terms of its elements and ef¬ fects. In this chapter we present collections of poems by four major American poets: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), Robert Frost (1874-1963), Langston Hughes (1902-1967), and Sylvia Plath (1932-1963). As both history and chance would have it, Dickinson, Frost, and Plath were New Englanders, although Plath spent four of her last six years living in England. Hughes was born and raised in the Midwest, but came to New York as an adult, and stayed. Dickinson is one of the most prominent poetic voices of the nineteenth century. Both Frost and Hughes are recognized as poetic giants of the twentieth century. Plath’s poetic career was unfortunately cut short, but the posthu¬ mous edition of her poems received the honor of a Pulitzer Prize when it was published in 1982, almost twenty years after her death. Although the poems included here comprise only a small part of the work of these poets, our hope is that there are enough poems to illustrate the typical concerns and major characteristics that are to be found in the study of their poetic careers.

EMILY DICKINSON S LIFE AND WORK

(1830-1886)

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, who is acknowledged today as one of America's greatest poets, was born on December 10, 1830. She was raised in Amherst, Massachusetts, which in the nineteenth century was a small and tradition-bound town. Dominating the Dickinson family was Emily's fa¬ ther, Edward, a lawyer, a legislator, and a rigorous Calvin¬ ist, whose concept of life was stern religious observance and obedience to God's laws as derived from the Bible. Emily was taken to Sunday School, but late in her teens she declined to pronounce herself a believing Christian. She spent a number of years at primary school and eventually studied classics at Amherst Academy. She also enrolled at the South Hadley Seminary for Women

756

Emily Dickinson's Life and Work

757

Emily Dickinson's room at the family homestead in Amherst, Massachusetts, where she wrote much of her poetry.

(now Mount Holyoke College), but her parents withdrew her after a year be¬ cause of ill health.1 During these years of childhood and youth, she led a normally active life. She saw many people, liked school and her teachers, wrote essays, acquired a number of good friends, gossiped, sang at the piano to her own accompaniment, treasured spring flowers, amused her friends with impromptu stories, studied theology, read Pope's An Essay on Man, did a good deal more reading, and planned to be¬ come the "Belle of Amherst" at the age of seventeen. She also began writing poetry, which consisted mainly of occasional verses and Valentines. After leaving school she returned home. She was to spend the rest of her life there, sharing in family and household duties. In 1856 she won a sec¬ ond prize at the local fair for her recipe for Rye and Indian Bread. She took oc¬ casional trips, including long stays in Boston in 1864 and 1865 to be treated *It would appear that there are four reliable likenesses of Emily Dickinson. The first is a painting of her and her brother and sister, done by Otis A. Bullard in about 1840, showing Emily at the age of about nine. There is a sil¬ houette of her at the age of about fourteen. The first and most reliable photo is a daguerreotype taken of her at about the age of sixteen. This is the photo that is always duplicated. Still another photograph has come to light that may show Dickinson at the age of about thirty to thirty-five. As yet the photo, an albumen print with Dickinson’s name on the back, has not been authenticated, but it is fair to say that its resemblance to the authen¬ tic photo is uncanny. (See The New Yorker, May 22, 2000, pp. 30-31). This photo is included in Alfred Habegger,

My Wars Are Laid A way in Books (2001), where all the likenesses are included. Habegger believes that the photo is authentic. Richard B. Sewall includes a photograph of a young woman as the frontispiece to the second volume of his The Life of Emily Dickinson (1974), and he duplicates this same photo on page 752 of the one-volume Life of 1980. On the back of the original is written “Emily Dickenson [sic] 1860” in an unknown hand, and the features of the portrayed woman are consistent with those in the daguerreotype of Dickinson at sixteen. Although it is tempting to consider this photograph genuine, the attribution has not been validated.

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CHAPTER 17 • Four Major American Poets

for an undisclosed eye ailment. Eventually, however, she stopped traveling altogether. Although Dickinson had written poems since her schdol days, she did not de¬ vote herself to poetry until her late twenties—beginning in about 1858. After this time her poetic output expanded, almost miraculously. Many of her poems are quite short, consisting of no more than a single stanza, but some are much longer. No more than ten of them were published during her lifetime, mostly against her wishes. Instead, her "publication" consisted of making fair copies of the poems in handwriting that is difficult to read. In the privacy of her own room she put num¬ bers of poems together in "fascicles," which consist of folded sheets of stationery bound with thread. These handwritten copies were for her eyes only, although she frequently sent copies in letters and also sent batches of poems to friends. The poems she didn't prepare carefully for her fascicles were kept in little packets. She locked away all these private literary treasures, which were discovered only after her death. In total, 1,775 to 1,789 of her poems have been recovered. The figure 1,775 is the number of poems included by Thomas H. Johnson in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson (1955), the first major complete edition of Dickinson's poetry. The figure 1,789 is the number included by Ralph W. Franklin in The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Variorum Edition (1998). Both editions are based on exhaustive studies of all the documentary evidence available at the times when the editors were doing their research. Beyond these major scholarly editions, a number of brief poems have been mined from Dickinson's letters, and these were published, in 1993, as 498 new poems, on the theory that parts of the letters reach a succinctness and rhythm more characteristic of poetry than prose. These poems are short, some being no more than two lines long. If one accepts them as additional Dickinson poems, they bring the total count above 2,280. Although a surprising amount of biographical information is available about Dickinson, the connections between events in her life and her poems are missing. For example, it seems obvious that a real and powerful sadness underlies the poignant conclusion of "I Cannot Live with You," just as a sense of personal inad¬ equacy or reproach may have caused her to write "I Felt a Funeral in My Brain." We can only guess, however, about the specific situations, if any, that led her to write such poems. Nevertheless, the general occasions inspiring some of her poems are clear. The world she lived in was small, and she found subjects in her surroundings: house, garden, yard, and village. A lowly snake is the topic of one of her poems—one of the few published when she was alive—as are butterflies, a singing oriole, and a vibrating hummingbird. She even wrote a poem about the railroad locomotives servicing her home town of Amherst. Sometimes no more than a recollection, a single word, a concept, or a paradox that arose from her own interior monologue enabled her to originate poems. Such inspirations account for topics such as a haunted mind, a memory, a state of solitude, the nature of truth and beauty, the condition of self-reliance, the angle of winter light. For one of the poems, "My Tri¬ umph Lasted Till the Drums," one may postulate a connection with her thoughts about the Civil War. She was at the height of her poetic power during this time.

Emily Dickinson's Life and Work

759

and she expresses feelings about the horrors of the war in these ironic lines: 'A Bayonet's contrition / Is nothing to the Dead." Dickinson s poems on death and dying probably had occasional sources also, even though these sources may be far removed from the time and circumstance of the poems. One of Dickinson's dearest childhood friends was Sophia Holland, who died in 1844. Perhaps the loss of Sophia was one of her memories when she wrote I Never Lost as Much But Twice," and "The Bustle in a House," together with her other poems on death. Much of her other poetry may have a similar occasional origin. She wrote poems about love and the psychology of personal relationships, even though she never married or had a love affair that we know about. We may therefore wonder about the internal necessity that caused her to write poems like "Wild Nights-Wild Nights!" and "I Cannot Live with You," which portray states of sex¬ ual ecstasy and final renunciation. And what sorts of personal experience and in¬ trospection underlay such poems as "After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes," "The Soul Selects Her Own Society," and "I Dwell in Possibility"? In the absence of specific details linking her life to her poetry, therefore, the oc¬ casions of her poems must remain no more than peripherally relevant—themselves unseen, though in the effects they remain. We are left to conclude that her inspira¬ tion rose from within herself. She is a contemplative and personal poet, whether she herself is the omnipresent "I" of her poems or whether the "I" is an objective speaker to whom she assigns all the strength of her imagination and her dreams. This speaker possesses bright wit, clever and engaging playfulness, acute powers of observation, deep sensitivity, intense introspection, and tender responsiveness. She is alive, quick, and inventive. She enjoys riddles. She leads readers into new and unexplored regions of thought and feeling. All these characteristics are to be discovered everywhere in her poetry. Her speaker expresses a vital joy and delirious energy in the quizzical poem "I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed," an insouciant bluffness in "Some Keep the Sabbath Going to Church," and overwhelming tenderness and regret at the end of "The Bustle in a House." In the last stanza of "I Cannot Live with You" she captures the deep an¬ guish of a relationship that is ending: So We must meet apart You there -1 - here With just the Door ajar That Oceans are - and Prayer And that White Sustenance Despair -

She is also reverent, and a number of poems introduce the topics of God, im¬ mortality, scripture, and the final judgment. But she is sometimes saucy and flip¬ pant about religion. Going to church on Sunday, for example, was expected of the dutiful Christian, but she explains why she prefers staying home with "a Bobolink for a Chorister." So instead of getting to Heaven, at last I'm going, all along.

760

CHAPTER 17 • Four Major American Poets

Undeniably, Dickinson's external daily life was uneventful. Her inner life was anything but uneventful, however, for she was always reflecting and thinking. What we know about her is that her inquiring and restless mind was the source of her compulsive poetic strength, and that her poetry expresses the vital personal feelings and psychological insights that emerged from her thoughts about life, love, death. Nature, and God. It is not possible to read her poems without revering her as a person and as a poet. After Emily Dickinson died, in 1886, her sister, Lavinia, was astonished to find the many fascicles and packets of poems that she had left. Lavinia recog¬ nized the significance of this work and eventually turned much of it over to Thomas Higginson and Mabel L. Todd for editing and publication. They pub¬ lished three separate volumes of Dickinson's verse (in 1890,1891, and 1896), each containing about a hundred poems. In these volumes, the editors eliminated slant rhymes, smoothed out the meter, revised those metaphors that struck them as outrageous, and regularized the punctuation. These well-intentioned editorial "adjustments" remained intact until 1955, when the Harvard University Press published Thomas H. Johnson's three-volume complete edition. Johnson also published a single-volume edition of the poems in 1961 and, in addition, a paperback selection titled Final Harvest: Emily Dickinson's Poems (1961). Johnson's pioneering edition has been followed by the ambitious and comprehensive The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Variorum Edition in three vol¬ umes (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1998), edited by Ralph W. Franklin, who also edited the facsimile edition of the handwritten poems. The Manuscript Books of Emily Dick¬ inson (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1981). Franklin's edition has also been published in one volume as The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Reading Edition (Cambridge: Har¬ vard UP, 1999). The poems that have been extracted from Dickinson's letters were edited by William H. Shurr, with Anna Dunlap and Emily Grey Shurr, as New Poems of Emily Dickinson (Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1993). Definitive biographies of Dickinson are Richard B. Sewall, The Life of Emily Dickin¬ son (New York: Farrar, 1974; rpt. [Harvard UP] 1980; rpt. 1994); Alfred Habegger, My Wars Are Laid Away in Books: The Life of Emily Dickinson (New York: Random House, 2001); and Cynthia Griffin Wolff, Emily Dickinson (New York: Knopf, 1986). Interesting details are contained in Brenda Wineapple, White Heat: The Friendship of Emily Dickin¬ son and Thomas Wentworth Higginson (New York: Knopf, 2008) and Lyndall Gordon, Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family's Feuds (New York: Viking, 2010). A useful book containing biographical, critical, and many other details is Jane Donahue Eberwein, ed.. An Emily Dickinson Encyclopedia (Westport: Greenwood, 1998). The numbers of important critical studies are legion. Some of these are Albert J. Gelpi, Emily Dickinson: The Mind of the Poet (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1966); Joanne F. Diehl, Dickinson and the Romantic Imagination (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1981); David Porter, Dickinson, the Modern Idiom (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1981); Susan Juhasz, The Undiscovered Continent: Emily Dickinson and the Space of the Mind (Bloomington: U of In¬ diana P, 1983); Donna Dickenson, Emily Dickinson (Leamington Spa: Berg, 1985); Sharon Leder and Andrea Abbott, The Language of Exclusion: The Poetry of Emily Dickin¬ son and Christina Rossetti (New York: Greenwood, 1987); Cristanne Miller, Emily Dick¬ inson: A Poet's Grammar (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1987); Joanne Dobson, Dickinson and the Strategies of Reticence (Bloomington: U of Indiana P, 1989); Paula Bennett, Emily

Topics for Writing About the Poetry of Emily Dickinson

761

Dickinson: Woman Poet (Iowa City: U of Iowa P, 1990); Gary Lee Stonum, The Dickinson Sublime (Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1990); Joan Kirkby Emily Dickinson (New York: St. Martin's, 1991); Judith Farr, The Passion of Emily Dickinson (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1992); Claudia Ottlinger, The Death-Motif in the Poetry of Emily Dickinson and Christina Rossetti (Frankfurt: Lang, 1996); and Paul Crumbley, Inflections of the Pen: Dash and Voice in Emily Dickinson (Lexington: U of Kentucky P, 1996). Collections of essays on Dickinson are Paul J. Ferlazzo, ed.. Critical Essays on Emily Dickinson (Boston: Hall, 1958, a historical collection); Richard B. Sewall, ed., Emily Dickinson: A Collection of Critical Essays (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, 1963); Judith Farr, ed., Emily Dickinson: A Collection of Critical Essays (Upper Saddle River: Prentice Hall, 1996); and Gudrun Grabher et al., eds. The Emily Dickinson Handbook (Amherst: U of Massachusetts P, 1998). One of the hour-long programs in the PBS Voices and Visions series (1987) features Dickinson's work.

Topics for Writing About the Poetry of Emily Dickinson 1. Dickinson's characteristic brevity in the explanation of situations and the ex¬ pression of ideas. 2. Dickinson's use of personal but not totally disclosed subject matter. 3. Dickinson's use of imagery and symbolism: sources, types, meanings. 4. Dickinson's humor and irony. 5. Dickinson's ideas about love, separation, personal pain, war, death, faith, reli¬ gion, science, the soul.

6. Dickinson's power as a poet. 7. Dickinson's poems as they appear on the page: the relationship of meaning to lines, stanzas, capitalization, punctuation, the use of the dash. 8. The structuring of a number of Dickinson's poems: subject, development, conclusions. 9. The character of the speaker in a number of Dickinson's poems: personality, things noticed, accuracy of conclusions. If there appears to be a listener in the poems, what effect does this listener have on the speaker? 10. Dickinson's verse forms and use of rhymes. 11. Themes of exhilaration, sorrow, pity, triumph, and regret in Dickinson.

Poems by Emily Dickinson (Alphabetically Arranged) For ease in locating the selections included here, the poems are arranged alphabetically by the first significant word in the first line. There are two numbers following the title of each poem. The first number (e.g., J501) refers to the poem numbers in Thomas H. Johnson's The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Critics since Johnson's edition have unanimously employed these numbers. The second number (e.g., F373) refers to the new numbering in Ralph W. Franklin's The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Variorum Edition. It would appear that future Dickinson criticism will need to include both numbers if the poem under discussion is to be properly identified, as with the following title: After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes (J341, F372).

762

CHAPTER 17 » Four Major American Poets

A single mark resembling a hyphen or short dash, following a brief space, was Dickinson's most-used punctuation. For Dickinson's poems appearing in this book, the mark is represented by an en dash (-).

After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes (J341, F372). 762 Because I Could Not Stop for Death (J712, F479) (See Chapter 10, p. 488) The Bustle in a House (J1078, F1108). 763 I Cannot Live with You (J640, F706). 763 I Dwell in Possibility (F466, J657). 764 I Felt a Funeral in My Brain (J280, F340). 764 I Heard a Fly Buzz - When I Died (J465, F591). 765 I Like to See It Lap the Miles (J585, F383). 765 I Never Lost as Much but Twice (J49, F39). 766 I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed (J214, F207). 766 Much Madness Is Divinest Sense (J435, F620). 767 My Life Closed Twice Before Its Close (J1732, F1773). 767 My Triumph Lasted Till the Drums (J1227, F1212).767 Safe in Their Alabaster Chambers (J216, FI 24). 767 Some Keep the Sabbath Going to Church (J324, F236). 768 The Soul Selects Her Own Society (J303, F409). 768 Success Is Counted Sweetest (J67, F112).769 There's a Certain Slant of Light (J258, F320). 769 Triumph May Be of Several Kinds (J455, F680), . 769 Wild Nights-Wild Nights! (J249, F269). 770

After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes (J341, F372)

(1929. c.1862)

After great pain, a formal feeling comes The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs The Stiff Heart questions 'was it He, that bore,' And 'Yesterday, or Centuries before'? 5

The Feet, mechanical, go round A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought0 Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone -

10

This is the Hour of Lead Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow First - Chill - then Stupor - then the letting go -

anything, nothing

I Cannot Live with You

9

763

Because I Could Not Stop for Death (J712, F479) (See Chapter 10, p. 488)

H'

The Bustle in a House (J1078, FI 108)

(i890,c.1865)

The Bustle in a House The Morning after Death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon Earth The Sweeping up the Heart And putting Love away We shall not want to use again Until Eternity -

M'

1 Cannot Live with You (J640, F706)

5

(1890, c.i863)

I cannot live with You It would be Life And Life is over there Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to Putting up Our Life - His Porcelain Like a Cup -

5

Discarded of the Housewife Quaint - or Broke A newer Sevres0 pleases Old Ones crack I could not die - with You Lor One must wait To shut the Other's Gaze down You - could not And I - Could I stand by And see You - freeze Without my Right of Lrost Death's privilege?

10

a fine French porcelain

15

20

Nor could I rise - with You Because Your Lace Would put out Jesus' That New Grace Glow plain - and foreign On my homesick eye -

25

764

CHAPTER 17 • Four Major American Poets

Except that You than He Shone closer by -

30

35

40

They'd judge Us - How For You - served Heaven - You know. Or sought to I could not -

>

Because You saturated sight And 1 had no more eyes For sordid excellence As Paradise And were You lost, I would be Though my name Rang loudest On the Heavenly fame And were You - saved And I - condemned to be Where You were not That self - were Hell to Me -

45

50

So We must meet apart You there -1 - here With just the Door ajar That Oceans are - and Prayer And that White Sustenance Despair -

I Dwell in Possibility (F466, J657) (1929, c. 1862) I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior - for Doors 5

10

Of Chambers as the Cedars Impregnable of eye And for an everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky Of Visitors - the fairest For Occupation - This The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise -

# I Felt a Funeral in IVIy Brain (J280, F340) (1896, c.i862) I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading - treading - till it seemed That Sense was breaking through -

I Like to See It Lap the Miles

765

And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum -

5

Kept beating - beating - till I thought My mind was going numb And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul

10

With those same Boots of Lead, again. Then Space - began to toll. As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here And And And And

m

15

then a Plank in Reason, broke. I dropped down, and down hit a World, at every plunge. Finished knowing - then -

20

* I Heard a Fly Buzz - When I Died (J465, F591)

(1896, c.1863)

I heard a Fly buzz - when I died The Stillness in the Room Was like the Stillness in the Air Between the Heaves of Storm The Eyes around - had wrung them dry And Breaths were gathering firm For that last Onset - when the King Be witnessed - in the Room -

5

I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away What portion of me be Assignable - and then it was There interposed a Fly -

i0

With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz Between the light - and me And then the Windows failed - and then I could not see to see -

1 Like to See It Lap the Miles (J585, F383)

i5

(i89t, c.1862)

I like to see it lap the Miles And lick the Valleys up And stop to feed itself at Tanks And then - prodigious step Around a Pile of Mountains And supercilious peer

5

766

CHAPTER 17 • Four Major American Poets

In Shanties - by the sides of Roads And then a Quarry pare To fit its sides And crawl between Complaining all the while In horrid - hooting stanza Then chase itself down Hill And neigh like Boanerges0 Then - prompter than a Star Stop - docile and omnipotent At it's own stable door °14 Boanerges: a surname meaning “the sons of thunder” that appears in Mark 3:17.

I Never Lost as Much but Ttoice (J49, F39) (i890; c.1858) I never lost as much but twice And that was in the sod. Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God! Angels - twice descending Reimbursed my store Burglar! Banker - Father! I am poor once more!

% I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed (J214, F207) (1861; c.I860) I taste a liquor never brewed From Tankards scooped in Pearl Not all the Frankfort Berries0 Yield such an Alcohol!

gr

Inebriate of Air - am I And Debauchee of Dew Reeling - thro endless summer days From inns of Molten Blue When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee Out of the Foxglove's door When Butterflies - renounce their "drams" I shall but drink the more! Till Seraphs swing their Snowy Hats And Saints - to windows run To see the little Tippler From Manzanilla0 come °16 Manzanilla: a pale sherry from Spain. Dickinson may also have been thinking of Manzanillo, a Cuban city known for rum.

Safe in Their Alabaster Chambers

767

^ Much Madness Is Divinest Sense (J435, F620) (i890: c.1863) Much Madness is divinest Sense To a discerning Eye Much Sense - the starkest Madness 'Tis the Majority In this, as all, prevail -

5

Assent - and you are sane Demur - you're straightway dangerous And handled with a Chain -

My Life Closed TWice Before Its Close (J1732, FI 773) (1896) My life closed twice before it's close; It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me. So huge, so hopeless to conceive As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven. And all we need of hell.

"

5

My Triumph Lasted Till the Drums (J1227, FI 212) (1935; c.1871)

My Triumph lasted till the Drums Had left the Dead alone And then I dropped my Victory And chastened stole along To where the finished Faces Conclusion turned on me And then I hated Glory And wished myself were They. What is to be is best descried When it has also been Could Prospect taste of Retrospect The Tyrannies of Men Were Tenderer, diviner The Transitive toward A Bayonet's contrition Is nothing to the Dead.

% Safe in Their Alabaster Chambers (J216, FI 24) (1862; c.1859) Safe in their Alabaster Chambers Untouched by Morning And untouched by Noon -

S

10

15

768

5

io

CHAPTER 17 • Four Major American Poets

Lie the meek members of the Resurrection Rafter of Satin - and Roof of Stone! Grand go the Years - in the Crescent - above them Worlds scoop their Arcs And Firmaments - row Diadems - drop - and Doges0 - surrender Soundless as dots - on a Disc of snow -

°9 Doges: Rulers of Venice and Genoa, Italian city-states during the Renaissance.

Some Keep the Sabbath Going to Church (J324, F236) (1864; c.1861) Some keep the Sabbath going to Church I keep it, staying at Home With a Bobolink for a Chorister And an Orchard, for a Dome -

5

io

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice I, just wear my Wings And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church, Our little Sexton - sings. God preaches, a noted Clergyman And the sermon is never long. So instead of getting to Heaven, at last I'm going, all along.

^ The Soul Selects Her Own Society (J303, F409) (1890; c.1862) The Soul selects her own Society Then - shuts the Door To her divine Majority Present no more s

Unmoved - she notes the Chariots - pausing At her low Gate Unmoved - an Emperor be kneeling Opon° her Mat -

io

I've known her - from an ample nation Choose OneThen - close the Valves of her attention Like Stone -

France. Image courtesy of The Art Renewal Center.

Compare Moreau's The Thracian Girl with Brueghel's Peasants' Dance (Plate 1-8) and David's The Death of Socrates (Plate 1-10).

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Frida Kahlo (1907-1954), The Two Fridas, 1939. Oil on canvas. 5' 8 1/2" x 5' 8 1/2". Museo Nacional de Arte Moderno, Mexico City, D. F„ Mexico/ Schalkwijk/ Art Resource, NY. © 2010 Banco di Mexico Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo Museums Trust/Artist Rights Society (ARS), NY.

This painting is discussed in Chapter 12 (p. 548). Compare with Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily" (p. 91), Gilman's "The Yellow Wallpaper" (p. 419), Plath's "Mirror" (p. 811), and Shakespeare's Sonnet 146, "Poor Soul, the Center of My Sinful Earth" (p. 861).

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Leonardo da Vinci. Mona Lisa. Louvre, Paris, n.d. Web. 12 Dec. 2010. Posting to a Discussion List

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2 Title

The Illusion of Intimacy; Discovering John

Ashbery by Randall M ai

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Randall Mann

Randall Mann Is the author of Complaint in the Garden (Zoo Press, 2004), winner of the Kenyon Review Prize, and the co-author of

Seven years ago, I grew obsessed with "Errors"-the poem, that is, in Ashbery'* first book. Some Trees. In particular, the first line fascinated me: "Jealousy, Whispered weather reports.” I can, with what someone might call critical distance, tell you that I probably loved the strangeness of It) the abstract particulars) the things unsaid) the benign obscurity, to borrow a phrase from Donald Justice. But truthfully I was just seduced, and It didn't much matter why. During my lunch break, I would walk down to Ninth Avenue Books In the Sunset in San Francisco, thumb to “Errors" and stare and stare at the poem. This went on for weeks. I didn't know what to do with this line, and since I wished I had written It, I Just stole It and started my own poem with it The poem is called, cunningly, "Poem Beginning with a Line by John Ashbery," After It was published, I received a brief note from him, in which he wrote that he was "intrigued"-I like that, mtriguedby my theft. He also wrote that it took him a while to remember where the line came from , which I read a sidelong reference to both his age and his prolific output.

1 Author

A few years later, I was walking on Polk Street In San Francisco, past the rent boys and sex shops, and I stopped into Acorn Books, where I picked up a faded pink and green Poetry magazine, August 1974, Adam and Eve and the serpent in all their Seventies glory, Inside’ "Self-Portrait In a Convex Mirror." What It must have been like I can only guess (since I was aged two in 1974), reading that new poem in a magazine, one of the greats, so exquisite it makes me tear up, one of the few poems 1 share when I share poems. (There's a peculiar pleasure coming across an Ashbery piece In a lit mag, when It no doubt makes the poor poems around It turn green and kick and squirm,' a critic friend of mine once posited that this is where Ashbery is served best), In one of the most moving parts of "Self-Portrait," Ashbery writes that we accomplish things, "but never the things / We set out to accomplish and wanted so desperately f To see come Into being." Because of the humility, the charity, of such words, they have the force of knowledge-though of course Ashbery has always been suspect of the very idea, he who would write soon after, in "Houseboat Days," that there is very little to learn "once the stench of knowledge has dissipated,"

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Mann, Randall. “The Illusion of Intimacy: Discovering John Ashberry.” Academy of American Poets, 2007. Web. 20 June 2007. 4

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

This glossary presents brief definitions of terms and concepts that are boldfaced in the text. Page references indicate where readers may find additional detail and illustration in the text itself, together with discussions about how the concepts can be utilized in studying and writing about literature. Generally, words italicized as parts of various definitions are also separately glossed in their own right. abstract diction Language describing qualities that are rarefied and theoretical (e.g., "good," "interesting," "unusual," and so on); distinguished from concrete diction. 289,514 absurd See comedy of the absurd. actions or incidents The events or occurrences in a work. 889 actors Persons who perform as characters in a play. 893 allegory A complete narrative that may also correspond to a parallel set of moral, philosophical, political, religious, or social situations. 81, 323-370, 893 allusion Unacknowledged references and quotations that authors make while assuming that readers will recognize the original sources and relate their meanings to the new context. Allusions are hence compliments that the author pays to readers for their perceptiveness, knowledge, and awareness. 328, 715-755 anagnorisis or recognition Aristotle's term describing that point in a play, usually the climax, when a character experiences recognition and understanding. 959 analysis See commentary. analytical sentence outline A scheme or plan for an essay, arranged according to topics (A, B, C, etc.) and with the topics expressed in sentences. 37 anaphora ("to carry again or repeat") The repetition of the same word or phrase throughout a work or section of a work. The effect is to lend weight and emphasis. 587 ancillary characters Characters in a story or play who set off or highlight the protagonist

and who provide insight into the action. The foil, choric figure, and raisonneur are all ancillary characters. 888 antagonist (one who struggles against) The person, idea, force, or general set of circumstances opposing the protagonist; an essential element of plot. 67,161, 887 antimetabole See chiasmus. antithesis A rhetorical device of opposition in which one idea or word is established, and then the opposite idea or word is expressed, as in "I burn and freeze" and "I love and hate." 519, 670 apostrophe The addressing of a discourse to a real or imagined person who is not present; also, a speech to an abstraction. 588 apron or thrust stage A stage that projects into the auditorium area, thus increasing the space for action; a characteristic feature of Elizabethan theaters and many recent ones. 894 archetypal/symbolic/mythic critical approach The explanation of literature in terms of archetypal patterns (e.g., God's creation of human beings, the search for paradise, the sacrifice of a hero, the initiation or "test" of a young person). 1363 archon, eponymous archon In ancient Athens, the Eponymous Archon, or Archon Eponymous, was a leading magistrate, after whom the year was named. He made arrangements for the tragedies and comedies to be performed at the yearly festivals in honor of the God Dionysus. 955 argument The development of a pattern of interpretation or thought with an intent to persuade. In most writing about literature, the 1435

1436

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

persuasive situation is to show the validity of a particular idea or circumstance in a story poem, or play. More broadly, the term argument applies to any situation about which there may be disagreement. Although sometimes argumentative discourse may become disputatious, one should never forget that true arguments should stem from the reasonable interpretation of correct and accurate data. 31-37,1395-1400 aside A speech, usually short and often witty or satirical, delivered by a character to the audience or to another character, the convention being that only the intended characters can hear it, along, of course, with the audience. A more extensive speech that is delivered only to the audience when the character is alone on stage is a soliloquy. 1008 assertion A sentence putting an idea or argument (the subject) into operation (the predicate); necessary for both developing and understanding the idea. 371 atmosphere or mood The emotional aura invoked by a work. 211, 892 audience or intended reader or listener (1) The people attending a theatrical production. (2) The intended group of readers for whom a writer writes, such as a group of religious worshippers, or a group of rocket scientists. 896 auditory images References to sounds. 551 authorial symbol See contextual symbol. authorial voice The voice or persona used by authors when seemingly speaking for themselves. The use of the term makes it possible to discuss a narration or presentation without assuming that the ideas are necessarily those of the author in his or her own person. See also speaker, point of view, and third-person point of view. 125

blank verse, as is the poetry of Milton's Paradise Lost and many of Wordsworth's longer poems. 4, 669 blocking In the performance of a play, the director's plan foe.the grouping and movement of characters on stage. 893 blocking agent A person, circumstance, or attitude that obstructs the plans of various characters, such as the parental denial of permission to marry, as in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. 1122 brainstorming The exploration, discovery, and development of details to be assembled for use in a composition. 21-31 burlesque A form (dramatic, fictional, poetic [and also musical]) designed to create humor through the extreme exaggeration of situations, responses, gestures, and speech. Ridicule is the intention of burlesque, in which nothing is held sacred as long as laughter is achieved. Even the most sedate and holy characters are not spared the exaggeration of burlesque, for no holds are barred creating responses of laughter. 1183 business or stage business The gestures, expressions, and general activity (beyond blocking) of actors onstage. Usually, business is designed to create laughter. It is often done spontaneously by actors. 893 Elegantly laced boots (kothomi or cothurni) worn by actors in ancient Greek tragedy. Eventually the buskins became elevator shoes to stress the royal status of actors by making them seem especially tall. 966 buskins

The narrative drawings, with balloon-enclosed speeches, that make up graphic narratives and graphic novels. 69-78 cartoon

ballad, ballad measure

A narrative poem, originally a popular form, composed of quatrains in ballad measure- that is, a pattern of iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter and rhyming x-a-x-a. 4, 485, 674 ballad opera An eighteenth-century comic drama, originated by John Gay (1685-1732) in The Beggar's Opera (1728), featuring lyrics written for existing and usually well-known tunes, such as "Greensleeves." See also comic opera. 1182

The "overturning" of the dramatic plot, the fourth stage in the structure immediately following the climax; the denouement of a play, in which things are explained and put into place. 891,1124 catharsis (purgation) Aristotle's concept that tragedy, by arousing pity and fear (eleos and phobos), regularizes and shapes human emotions, and that therefore tragedy, like literature and art generally, is essential in civilized society. 958

A narrative, usually short, featuring animals with human characteristics. 327

central idea, central argument, or central

beast fable

blank verse Unrhymed iambic pentameter. Most of the poetry in Shakespeare's plays is

catastrophe

statement (1) The thesis or main idea of an essay. (2) The theme of a literary work. 32 character An extended verbal representation of a human being, the inner

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

self that determines thought, speech, and behavior. 4, 23, 61, 66,156-207, 887, 888 character, comic Comic characters tend to be characters who are unrealistic and sometimes exaggerated, representing classes, types, and generations. 4, 66,160, 887 chiasmus or antimetabole A rhetorical pattern in which words (and also ideas) are repeated in the sequence abba, as in "I lead the life I love; I love the life I lead," and "When the issue deteriorates to violence, violence becomes the issue." 519 choragos or choregus The sponsor or financial backer of a classical Athenian dramatic production. Often the Athenians honored the choragos by selecting him to serve as the leader (koryphaios) of the chorus. 963 choric figure A character who remains somewhat outside the dramatic action and who provides commentary when appropriate. See also raisonneur. 888 chorus In ancient Athenian drama, the chorus was composed of young men—fifteen in tragedies and twenty-four in comedies— who chanted or sang, probably in unison, and who performed dance movements to a flute accompaniment. The chorus was, in effect, a major (and also collective) character in the drama. 953-954 chronology (the "logic of time") The sequence of events in a work, with emphasis on the complex intertwining of cause and effect. 889 City Dionysia See Dionysia. clerihew A comic and often satiric closedform poem in four lines, rhyming abab, usually on the topic of a famous real or literary person. 676 climax (Greek for "ladder") The high point of conflict and tension preceding the resolution or denoument of a story or play; the point of decision, of inevitability and no return. The climax is sometimes equated with the crisis in the consideration of dramatic and narrative structure. 239, 890,1124 closed-form poetry Poetry written in specific and traditional patterns produced through control of rhyme, meter, line length, and line groupings. 669-677, 708 close reading The detailed study of a poem or passage, designed to explain characters, motivations, similarities and contrasts of sound, situations, ideas, style, organization, word selections, settings, etc. 508 close-up (film) A camera view of an actor s head and upper body, designed to emphasize

1437

the psychological makeup and reactions of the character being portrayed; contrasted with long shot. 1417,1418 comedy A literary genre which, like tragedy, originated in the Dionysia festivals of ancient Athens. Derived from the Greek komos songs or "songs of merrymakers," the first comedies were wildly boisterous. Later comedies became more subdued and realistic. In typical comedies today, confusions and doubts are resolved satisfactorily if not happily, and usually comedies are characterized by smiles, jokes, and laughter. 897, 1119-1200 comedy of the absurd A modern form of comedy dramatizing the apparent pointlessness, ambiguity, uncertainty, and absurdity of human existence. 1127 comedy of manners A form of comedy, regular (five acts or three acts), in which attitudes and customs are examined and satirized in the light of high intellectual and moral standards. The dialogue is witty and sophisticated, and characters are often measured according to their linguistic and intellectual powers. 1125 comic action A pattern of action, including funny situations and language, that is solvable and correctible, and therefore satisfying. 1120 comic opera An outgrowth of eighteenthcentury ballad opera, but different because in comic opera the music is composed for the lyrics. 1182 commedia dell'arte Broadly humorous farce that was developed in sixteenth-century Italy, featuring stock characters, stock situations, and much improvised dialogue. 1126 commentary, analysis, or interpretation Passages of explanation and reflection about the meaning of actions, thoughts, dialogue, historical movements, and so on. 81 See raisonneur. Those interests, concerns, and assumptions that the writer assumes in common with readers so that an effective and persuasive tone may be maintained. 626 common measure A closed poetic quatrain, rhyming abab, in which lines of iambic tetrameter alternate with iambic trimeter. See also ballad measure and hymnal measure. 675 comparison-contrast A technique of analyzing two or more works in order to determine similarities and differences in topic, treatment, and quality. 1371-1400

commentator

common ground of assent

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A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

complete, completeness The second element in Aristotle's definition of tragedy, emphasizing the logic and entirety of the play. 960 complication A stage of narrative and dramatic structure in which the major conflicts are brought out; the rising action of a drama. 239, 890 compound-complex sentence A potentially complicated sentence built not only from two simple sentences but also, theoretically, from three or more. There may be a number of subordinate clauses, and possibly also one or more of them may have a noun clause as subject of one or more of the basic compounded sentences,

Words that describe exact and particular conditions or qualities, such as cold, sweet, and creamy in reference to an ice¬ cream sundae. These words are concrete, while the application of good or neat to the sundae is abstract. See also abstract diction. 289, 321, 514 concrete diction

concrete poetry

See visual poetry.

The opposition or conflict between two characters, between large groups of people, or between protagonists and larger forces such as natural objects, ideas, modes of behavior, public opinion, and the like. Conflict may also be internal and psychological, involving choices facing a protagonist. The resolution of conflict is the essence of plot. 67,110, 889 conflict

connotation The meanings that words suggest; the overtones of words beyond their bare dictionary definitions or denotations, as with "leave," "get away," "depart," "him tail," and "vamoose," which have the same meaning, but differing connotations. 289,520 contextual, private, or authorial symbol A symbol that is derived not from common historical, cultural, or religious materials, but that is rather developed within the context of an individual work. See also cultural symbol or universal symbol. 81, 324, 716, 892 convention An accepted feature of a genre, such as the point of view in a story, the form of a poem (e.g., sonnet, ode), the competence or brilliance of the detective in detective fiction, the impenetrability of disguise and concealment in a Shakespearean play, or the chorus in Greek drama. 30 Corpus Christi play A type of medieval drama that enacts events from the Bible, such as the killing of Abel by Cain, the domestic problems of Noah, the jealous anger of

Herod, and so on. The word is derived from the religious festival of Corpus Christi ("Christ's body"), held in the spring of each year, mainly during the fourteenth century. Also called mystery plays because they were performed by individual craft guilds, or misteries (so named in honor of the Guild "masters"). See also cycle. 900 cosmic irony (irony of fate) Situational irony that reveals a fatalistic or pessimistic view of life. Although individual characters may struggle with great tenacity, their efforts are doomed right from the start (plans cannot be carried out; sickness occurs unexpectedly; friends go back on their words; promises are not kept; meanings are misunderstood; false tales are told, etc.) See irony. 962 costumes The clothes worn by actors, designed to indicate historical periods, social status, economic levels, etc. 896 cothurni See buskins. couplet Two lines that may be unified by rhyme or, in biblical poetry, by complementary ideas or expressions 4,670 creative nonfiction A type of literature that is technically nonfiction, such as diaries, journals, and news features, but that nevertheless involves a high degree of imaginative and literary skill. 5 cretic See amphimacer. crisis The point of uncertainty and tension in a literary work—the turning point—that results from the conflicts and difficulties brought about through the complications of the plot. The crisis leads to the climax—that is, to the attempts made by the protagonist to resolve the conflict. Sometimes the crisis and the climax are considered as two elements of the same stage of plot development. 239, 890 cultural (universal) context

See topical/

historical context approach. cultural or universal symbol

A symbol that is recognized and shared as a result of a common political, social, and cultural heritage. See also contextual symbol. 81, 324, 716,892 cycle (1) A group of closely related works. (2) In medieval religious drama, the complete set of plays performed during the Corpus Christi festival, from the creation of the world to the resurrection. As many as forty plays could make up the cycle. During those times, when not many people were able to read, a complete cycle was one of the means by which stories of the Bible were brought to a wider audience. See also Corpus Christi play. 901

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

deconstructionist critical approach

An

interpretive literary approach that rejects absolutes but stresses ambiguities and contradictions. 1365 The convention or expectation that words and subjects should be exactly appropriate—high or formal words for serious subjects (e.g., epic poems, tragedy), and low or informal words for low subjects (e.g., limericks, farce). 518 decorum

denotation The standard, minimal meaning of a word, without implications and connotations. See also connotation. 289, 519 denouement (untying) or resolution

The

final stage of plot development, in which mysteries are explained, characters find their destinies, lovers are united, sanity is restored, and the work is completed. Usually the denouement is done as speedily as possible, because it occurs after all conflicts are ended, and little that is new can then be introduced to hold the interest of readers. 239, 891,1124 The exposition of scenes, actions, attitudes, and feelings. 80 description

developing character device

See round character.

A figure of speech, such as a metaphor

or a simile. See figures of speech. 583 deus ex machina ("A god out of the machine"; theos apo mechanes in Greek, a

phrase attributed to the ancient Greek playwright Menander). In ancient Athenian drama, the entrance of a god to unravel the problems in a play. Today, the phrase deus ex machina refers to the artificial, convenient, easy, and illogical solution of problems. 964 dialect Language characteristics— involving pronunciation, unique words, and vocal rhythms—particular to regions such as New England, the Midwest, or the South, or to separate nations such as Britain and Australia. 516 dialogue The speeches of two or more characters in a story, play, or poem. 4, 80, 886

Word choice, types of words, and the level of language. 287, 514 diction

diction, formal or high

Proper, elevated, elaborate, and often polysyllabic language. 515 diction, informal or low

Relaxed, conversational, and familiar language, utilizing contractions and elisions, and sometimes employing slang and grammatical errors. 516 diction, neutral or middle

Correct language characterized by directness and simplicity. 515

1439

dilemma, also tragic dilemma

A situation, particularly in tragedy, presenting a character with two choices, either one of which is unacceptable, dangerous, painful, or even lethal. 110,962 Dionysia (also City Dionysia) The religious festivals of ancient Athens held to celebrate the god Dionysus. Tragedy developed as part of the Great, or City Dionysia in March-April, and comedy developed as part of a shorter festival, the Lenaea (in February). 952, 965

The person in charge of guiding and instructing all persons involved in a dramatic production. 894 director

Non-narrative poetry dealing primarily with ideas and personal, social, or political commentary. 4 discursive poetry

discursive writing Distinguished from imaginative writing, discursive writing is concerned with factual presentation and the development of reasonable and logical conclusions. 4 dithyramb An ancient Athenian poetic form sung by choruses during the earliest Dionysia. The first tragedies originated as part of the dithyrambs. 897, 953

A type of dramatic work featuring historical persons and situations, with the intention of bringing past history and politics to life. 897 documentation Granting recognition to the ideas and words of others, either through textual, parenthetical, or footnote references. 458,463 donnee (French for "given") The given action or set of assumptions on which a work of literature is based, such as the unpredictability of love, the bleakness and danger of a postwar world, or the inescapability of guilt. See also postulate or premise. 64 double dactyl A comic closed-form poem in two quatrains, written in dactylic dimeter. The second line must be a proper name, and the sixth or seventh a single word. 676 docudrama

double duple

See dipody.

double entendre (French for "double

meaning") Deliberate ambiguity, usually comic, and often sexual. 291 In a play or longer fictional work, the presentation of two or more different but related, connected, and comparable lines of action. 889 double plot or multiple plot

double take A structural device whereby a concluding event or "surprise

1440

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

brings about a new and more complex understanding of the previous material. 240

epigram A short and witty poem, often in couplets, that makes a humorous or satiric

drama

point. 4, 675

An individual play; also plays

considered as a group; one of the three major genres of imaginative literature. 4, 885-903 dramatic irony A special kind of situational irony in which a character perceives his or her plight in a limited way whereas the audience and one or more of the other characters understand it entirely. 81, 630, 892, 963 dramatic or objective point of view

A

third-person narration reporting speech and action, but excluding commentary on the actions and thoughts of the characters. 79,125 dynamic character A character who tries to assert control by recognition, adjustment, and change. Dynamic changes may be shown in (1) an action or actions, (2) the realization of new strength and therefore the affirmation of previous decisions, (3) the acceptance of new conditions and the need for making changes and improvements, (4) the discovery of unrecognized truths, or (5) the reconciliation of the character with adverse conditions. In a short story, there is usually only one dynamic character, whereas in a novel there may be many. See static character. 161

economic determinist/Marxist critical approach An interpretive literary approach based on the theories of Karl Marx (1818-1883), stressing that literature is to be judged from the standard of economic and social inequality and oppression. 24,1360 editing (film)

See montage.

ekkyklyma In ancient Greek theatrical productions, a platform, normally kept inside the skene, that could be rolled out to show interior scenes. 964 elegy A poem of lamentation about a death. Often an elegy takes the form of a pastoral 4 673 enclosing setting

See framing or enclosed

setting. English (Shakespearean) sonnet A sonnet form developed by Shakespeare, in iambic

pentameter, composed of three quatrains and a couplet, with seven rhymes in the pattern bab, cdcd, efef, gg. 672 epic A long narrative poem elevating character, speech, and action. Some of tire earliest surviving literary works are epics about the exploits of Gilgamesh, the wrath of Achilles, and the wanderings of Odysseus. 4,62

episode or episodia (1) An acting scene or section of Greek tragedy. Divisions separating the episodes were called stasima, or sections for the chorus. (2) A self-enclosed portion of a work, such as a section, or a passage of particular narration, dialogue, or location. 967 epitaph A short comment or description marking someone's death. Also, a short, witty, and often satiric poem about death. 675 essay In writing about literature, an essay is a short and tightly organized written composition dealing with a topic such as a character, a major idea, or a particular point of view. Broadly, writing about literature aside, essays also deal with any and all conceivable topics. 27, passim exam, examination A written or oral test or inquiry designed to discover a person's understanding and capacity to deal with a particular topic or set of topics. 1401-1410

exodos

The final episode in a Greek tragedy, occurring after the last choral ode. 967 explication A detailed analysis of a work of literature, often word by word and line by line; a close reading. 483, 507 exposition The stage of dramatic or narrative structure that introduces all things necessary for the development of the plot. 238, 890

fable A brief story illustrating a moral truth, most often associated with the ancient Greek writer Aesop. See also beast fable. 62,327 falling action

See catastrophe.

fantasy The creation of events that are dreamlike or fantastic, departing from ordinary understanding of reality because of apparently illogical setting, movement, causality, and chronology. Important in unrealistic drama and fiction. 64 farce A word derived from the Latin word

farsus, meaning "stuffed," farce is an outlandish physical comedy overflowing with silly characters, improbable happenings, wild clowning, extravagant language, and bawdy jokes. 902,1126 feminist critical approach

A critical

approach designed to raise consciousness about the importance and unique nature of women in literature. See also gender studies and queer theory. 25,1357

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A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

fiction

Narratives based in the imagination

of the author, not in literal, reportorial facts; one of the three major genres of imaginative literature. 62-118

figurative devices S ee figures of speech. figurative language See figures of speech. figure of speech An organized pattern of comparison that deepens, broadens, extends, illuminates, and emphasizes meaning, and also that conforms to particular patterns or forms such as metaphor, simile, and parallelism. 503-622

film Motion pictures, movies. 1413-1423 film script The written dramatic text on which a film is based, including directions for movement and expression. 1416

first-person point of view The use of a first-person speaker or narrator who tells about things that he or she has seen, done, spoken, heard, thought, and also learned about in other ways. 78,123,127,152

flashback

Also called selective recollection. A

method of narration in which past events are introduced into a present action. 240

flat character

A character, usually minor, who is not individual, but rather useful and structural, static and unchanging; distinguished from round character. 161, 888

foil

A character, usually minor, designed to highlight qualities of a major character. 888

form, poetic

The various shapes and organizational modes of poetry. 669-714

formal diction

See diction, formal or high.

formalist critical approach See new critical/formalist critical approach. formal substitution See substitution. framing or enclosing setting The same features of topic, technique, or setting used at both the beginning and ending of a work so as to "frame" or "enclose" the work. 211

free verse Poetry based on the natural rhythms of phrases and normal pauses, not metrical feet. See open-form poetry. 4, 677 freewriting See brainstorming. Freytag pyramid A diagram graphically showing the stages of dramatic structure. Complication and emotional intensity go upward on the side of the pyramid rising to its peak or point. Once the high point is reached, intensity begins to decrease just as the other side of the pyramid descends to its base. 889

general language

Words referring to broad

classes of persons, objects, or phenomena; distinguished from specific language. 288, 514

gender studies

A critical approach that

brings attention to gender rather than to sexual differences, based on the concept that the masculine/feminine divide is socially constructed and not innate. See also feminist

critical approach and queer theory. 1357 genre A category of literature, such as fiction and poetry. Also, a type of work, such as detective fiction, epic poetry, tragedy. 3

Globe Theatre

The outdoor theater built at the end of the sixteenth century just south of the Thames, where many of Shakespeare's plays were originally performed. The Globe was rebuilt in the 1990s to its original appearance, and once again is a flourishing theater close to where it was at the time of Shakespeare. 1006-1009. For photos of the modern Globe, see plates 15 and 16.

graphic narrative, graphic novel

A narrative

composed of connected artistic or cartoon panels. The essential quality of graphic narrative is the combination of picture and dialogue to convey a story from beginning to end. 69-78

Great Dionysia See Dionysia Greek Drama The drama that was regularly performed in ancient Athens and a number of other Greek city-states after the sixth century BCE. Greek or Athenian drama consisted of tragedy and comedy. There were many writers of tragedy whose works have been lost except for occasional fragments. The Three most significant tragic writers, however, were Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides—thirty-three of whose plays have survived from antiquity. The major writer of comedy—eleven of whose works have survived—was Aristophanes. During the last hundred or so years, a small number of lost works by the Greek comedy-writer Menander (342-292 BCE) have been discovered and are now available for modern readers. 952-1004,1119-1121

gustatory images

References to

impressions of taste. 552

haiku

A verse form derived from Japanese poetry, traditionally containing three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, in that order, and usually treating a topic derived from nature. 4, 675

hamartia

The Greek word for "error or

frailty," indicating the tragic flaw that brings about the downfall or suffering of a protagonist. The same Greek word is translated as "sin" in the New Testament. 961

hero, heroine The major male and female protagonists or protagonists in a narrative or

1442

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

drama. The terms are often used to describe leading characters in adventures and romances. 161 heroic couplet Also called the neoclassic couplet. Two successive rhyming lines of iambic pentameter, a characteristic of much poetry written between 1660 and 1800. Fivestress couplets are often called "heroic" regardless of their topic matter and the period in which they were written. 670

high comedy

Elegant comedies characterized by wit and sophistication, in which the complications grow not out of situation but rather out of character. See also comedy of manners. 1125

standing on line or in line; carrying a pail or a bucket; drinking pop or soda. Also, the habits and structures of particular languages. 516

image, imagery References that trigger the mind to fuse together memories of sights (visual), sounds (auditory), tastes (gustatory), smells (olfactory), sensations of touch (tactile), and perceptions of motion (kinetic, kinesthetic). "Image" refers to a single mental creation, "imagery" to images throughout a work or works of a writer or group of writers. Images may be literal (descriptive and pictorial) and metaphorical (figurative and suggestive). 4, 548-582, 585

imaginative literature Literature based in the imagination of the writer; the genres of

historical context (also cultural context and intellectual context) The historical time

imaginative literature are fiction, poetry, and

when a work was written, together with the intellectual and cultural ideas of this period. To

drama. 3, passim incidents See actions.

study a work of literature in this perspective is to determine the degree to which the work spoke not only to people of its own time but continues to speak to people of the present time (and perhaps to people of all time). 24

incongruity A discrepancy between what is ordinarily or normally expected and

historical critical approach See topical/ historical critical approach. hubris or hybris ("Insolence, contemptuous violence") The pride and attitudes that lead tragic figures to commit their mistakes or offenses. 953

humor In literature, those features of a situation or expression that provoke laughter and amusement. 291

hymn

what is actually experienced. The resulting gap is often, under the right circumstances, a cause of laughter. 291

informal diction See diction, informal or low. intellectual critical approach See moral/intellectual critical approach. interpretation See commentary. intrigue plot The dramatic rendering of how a young woman and her lover, often aided by a maidservant or soubrette, usually foil a blocking agent (usually a parent or guardian). 1122 introduction

See exposition.

A hymn is a religious song, consisting of one and usually many more replicating rhythmical stanzas, designed for religious services. 4

The process of discovering and determining materials to be included in a composition, whether an essay or an

hymnal measure, hymnal stanza

imaginative work; a vital phase of planning and developing a composition. 64

The

hymnal stanza, in iambics, consists of four lines of four stresses or else of four lines of alternating four and three stresses, rhyming xaxa or abab. See also ballad measure and common measure. 675

hyperbole

See overstatement.

hypocrites (pronounced hip-POCK-rih-tayss, meaning "one who plays a part") The ancient Athenian word for actor. Our modem word "hypocrite" is derived from this word. 954

idea or theme A concept, thought, opinion, or belief; in literature, a unifying, centralizing conception or motif. 19, 25, 67, 371-413 idiom (private or personal language)

Usage that produces unique words and phrases within regions, classes, or groups; e.g..

invention

ironic comedy A form of comedy in which characters seem to be in the grips of uncontrollable, cosmic forces. The dominant tone is therefore ironic. 1127

irony A major aspect of literary tone, a means of indirection, based on the proposition that even the simplest events in human life may be seen in multiple ways. Irony therefore deals with contradictions and ambiguities—the shadows underlying human existence. It is conveyed through indirection both in situations and in language. Verbal irony is language that states the opposite of what is intended. Dramatic

irony describes the condition of characters who do not know the nature, seriousness, and extent of their circumstances. See also cosmic irony, situational irony. 80, 212, 291, 627

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

irony of fate See cosmic irony. irony of situation See situational irony. issue An assertion or idea to be debated, disputed, or discussed. Sometimes "issue" refers to a problematic or questionable circumstance; sometimes to an idea; and sometimes to something that is going wrong. 68, 371

Italian or Petrarchan sonnet An iambic pentameter poem of fourteen lines, divided between the first eight lines (the octave) and the last six (the sestet). An Italian sonnet uses five rhymes, unlike the Shakespearean sonnet, which has seven rhymes. 672

1443

variable, changing with the poet's subject matter and rhythmical speech patterns. 669

literary research See research. literature Written or oral compositions that tell stories, dramatize situations, express emotions, and analyze and advocate ideas, and empress ideals. Literature is designed to engage readers emotionally as well as intellectually, with the major genres being fiction, poetry, drama, and nonfiction prose, and with many separate sub-forms. 1-3, passim

low comedy Crude, boisterous, and physical comedies and farces, characterized by sight gags, bawdy jokes, and outrageous

jargon

Language exclusively used by

particular groups, such as doctors, lawyers, astronauts, scientists, computer operators, and football players. 517

journal

A notebook or word-processor file

for recording responses and observations that, for purposes of writing, may be used in the development of essays. 13-18

kinesthetic images

Words describing human

or animal motion and activity. 552,553

kinetic images

Words describing general

motion. 552

kothorni

See buskins.

situations. 1126

low diction See diction, informal or low. lyric (1) A short and concentrated poem or song, usually meditative, often personal, and sometimes philosophical. Traditional lyrics follow a fixed stanzaic form, having been originally intended for a musical setting, such as hymns or texts of dramatic arias. The lyrics of many modern poets, however, are comparatively free and unrestricted, and many modern lyrics are designed not for music at all, but rather for silent reading or spoken delivery. (2) The Aristotelian term for the "several kinds of artistic ornament," such as strophes and antistrophes, that are to be used appropriately in a tragedy. 4, 669, 673

language See words. Lenaia The ancient Athenian early spring festival for which comedy as a form was first created. 952, 965,1119

lighting

The general word describing the

many types, positions, directions, and intensities of artificial lights used in the theater. 895 limerick A brief poem with preestablished line lengths and rhyming patterns, designed to be comic. More often than not, limericks are risque. 4, 675

limited point of view, limited third-person point of view, or limited-omniscient point of view A third- person narration in which the actions and thoughts of the protagonist are the primary focus of attention. 79,126,128

line

The basic unit of length of a poem, appearing as a row of words or sometimes, as a single word or even part of a word occupying the space of a line, and cohering grammatically through phrases and sentences. Lines in closed-form poetry are composed of determinable numbers of

metrical feet-, lines in open-form poetry are

magnitude

The third element in Aristotle's definition of tragedy, emphasizing that a play should be neither too long nor too short, so that artistic balance and proportion can be maintained. 960

main plot

The central and major line of causality and action in a literary work. 889

maj or mover

A major participant in a

work's action who either causes things to happen or who is the subject of major events. If the first-person narrator is also a major mover, such as the protagonist, that fact gives firsthand authenticity to the narration. 120

makeup

The materials, such as cosmetics,

wigs, and padding, applied to an actor to change appearance for a specific role, such as a youth, an aged person, or a hunchback. 896

malapropism

The comic use of an improperly pronounced word, so that what comes out is a real but also incorrect word. Examples are odorous for odious (Shakespeare) or pineapple for pinnacle (Sheridan). The new

1444

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

word must be close enough to the correct word so that the resemblance is immediately recognized, along with the "error." See also pun. 292, 689

Marxist critical approach See economic determinist/Marxist critical approach. masks Face coverings worn by ancient Athenian actors to illustrate and define dramatic characters such as youths, warriors, old men, and women. 966

morality play

A type of medieval and early

Renaissance play that dramatizes how to live a pious life. The best-known morality play is the anonymous Everyman. 902

motivation The ideas and impulses that propel characters to a particular act or course of action. Motivation is the hallmark quality of a round character. 888 multiple plot or double plot A develop¬ ment in which two or more stories are both contrasted and woven together, as in

meaning That which is to be understood in a work; the total combination of ideas,

Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. 889

actions, descriptions, and effects. 371-413

musical comedy

melodrama

A sentimental dramatic form with an artificially happy ending. 903

integrated with lyrics—and also dances—set to specially composed music. Usually, musical

melos

comedies are elaborately and expensively produced. The form is in a line of development from ballad opera and comic opera. 1182

See lyric.

metaphor ("carrying out a change") A figure of speech that describes something as though it actually were something else, thereby enhancing understanding and insight. One of the major qualities of poetic language. 4, 80,583-622

metaphorical language See figure of speech. metonymy A figure of speech in which one thing is used as a substitute for another with which it is closely identified, such as when a speaker says "Dear Hearts" to refer to an audience. 589

middle comedy The Athenian comedies written in the first two-thirds of the fourth century BCE. Middle comedy lessened or eliminated the chorus, and did away with the exaggerated costumes of the old comedy. No complete middle comedies have survived from antiquity. 897,1121

middle diction See diction, neutral or middle. mimesis or representation Aristotle's idea that drama (tragedy) represents rather than duplicates history. 959

miracle play

A modem prose play

muthos Aristotle's word for plot, from which our word myth is derived. 959 mystery play See Corpus Christi play. myth, mythology, mythos A myth is a story that deals with the relationships of gods to humanity or with battles among heroes in time past. A myth may also be a set of beliefs or assumptions among societies. Mythology refers collectively to all the stories and beliefs, either of a single group or number of groups. A system of beliefs and religious or historical doctrines is a mythos. 4, 62, 327

mythical reader See audience. mythic critical approach See archetypal/ symbolic/mythic critical approach. narration, narrative fiction The relating or recounting of a sequence of events or actions. Whereas a narration may be reportorial and historical, narrative fiction is primarily creative and imaginative. See also prose fiction and creative nonfiction. 4, 62, 68,485

A late medieval play

dramatizing a miracle or miracles performed by a saint. An outgrowth of the earlier medieval Corpus Christi play. 902

A poem in ballad measure telling a story and also containing dramatic speeches. 485

monologue (also monolog) A long speech spoken by a single character to himself or herself, to the audience, or to an off-stage character. See also aside, soliloquy. 886

narrator

montage or editing (film)

The editing or

assembling of the various camera "takes," or separately filmed scenes, to make a continuous film. 1419

mood

See atmosphere.

moral/intellectual critical approach interpretive literary approach that is concerned primarily with content and values. 1349

narrative ballad

See speaker.

naturalistic setting A stage setting designed to imitate, as closely as possible, the everyday world, often to the point of emphasizing poverty and dreariness. 895 neoclassic couplet See heroic couplet. neutral diction See diction, neutral or middle. new comedy Athenian comedy that developed at the end of the fourth century

An

bce, stressing wit, romanticism, and twists of plot. The most famous of the new comedy

writers was Menander (342-292

bce).

His

plays were long considered lost, but a small

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

number have luckily come to light in the last hundred years. 897,1121 new critical/formalist critical approach An interpretive literary approach based on the French practice of explication de texte (i.e., tire detailed explanation of a text), stressing the form and details of literary works. 1353 new historicism A type of literary criticism that emphasizes the integration of literature, culture, and history. 1351 nonfiction prose A genre consisting of essays, articles, and books about real as opposed to fictional occurrences and objects; one of the major genres of literature. 5 nonrealistic character An undeveloped and often symbolic character without full motivation or individual identity. 888 nonrealistic setting A staging that is nonrepresentational and often dreamlike and symbolic. 895 novel A long work of prose fiction. 4, 63 objective point of view See dramatic point of view. octave The first eight lines of an Italian sonnet, rmified by topic, rhythm, and rhyme. In practice, the first eight lines of any sonnet. 672 ode A stanzaic poem with varying line lengths and often intricate rhyme schemes that contrast it with songs and hymns. 4,673 Old Comedy or Old Attic Comedy The Athenian comedies of the fifth century bce, featuring song, dance, ribaldry, satire, and invective. The most famous writer of the old comedy is Aristophanes, eleven of whose plays have somehow survived from antiquity. 897,1120 olfactory imagery Images referring to smell. 552 omniscient point of view A third-person narrative in which the speaker or narrator, with no apparent limitations, may describe intentions, actions, reactions, locations, and speeches of any or all of the characters, and may also describe their innermost thoughts (when necessary for the development of the plot). 79,125 open-form poetry Poems that avoid traditional structural patterns, such as rhyme or meter, in favor of other methods of organization. 677-679, 708 orchestra (a part of a theater) (1) In ancient Greek theaters, the orchestra, or "dancing place" was the circular area at the base of the amphitheater where the chorus performed. (2) In modern theaters, the word

1445

"orchestra" now refers to the ground floor or first floor where the audience sits. Obviously, today's usage also refers to a large performing group of musical instrumentalists. 964 organic unity The interdependence of all elements of a work, including character, actions, speeches, descriptions, thoughts, and observations. The concept of organic unity is attributed to Aristotle. 67 outline See analytical sentence outline. overstatement, hyperbole, or overreacher A rhetorical figure of speech in which emphasis is achieved through exaggeration. 291, 590 parable A short allegory designed to illustrate a religious truth, often associated with Jesus as recorded in the Gospels, primarily Luke. 4,327 parados (1) Either of the two front aisles leading from the sides to the orchestra in ancient Greek amphitheaters, along which the performers could enter or exit. (2) The entry and first lyrical ode of the chorus in Greek tragedy, after the prologue. 965 paradox A figure of speech embodying a contradiction that is nevertheless true. 587 parallelism A figure of speech in which the same grammatical forms are repeated. The last words of our Declaration of Independence, for example, are "our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor," with parallel repetition of three nouns, each one modified by the word "our." 519, 670 paranomasia See pun. paraphrase A brief restatement, in one's own words, of all or part of a literary work; a precis. 506 pastoral A traditional poetic form with topic material drawn from the usually idealized vocabulary of rural and shepherd life. Famous English pastorals are John Milton's "Lycidas," Matthew Arnold's "Thyrsis," Alexander Pope's Pastorals, and Edmund Spenser's The Shepheardes Calendar. 673 pathos The "scene of suffering" in tragedy, which Aristotle defines as "a destructive or painful action, such as death on the stage, bodily agony, wounds, and the like." It is the scene of suffering that is intended to evoke the response of pity (eleos) from the audience. 960 performance An individual production of a play, either for an evening or for an extended period, comprising acting, movement, lighting, sound effects, staging and scenery, ticket sales, and the accommodation of the audience. 893

1446

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

peripeteia or reversal

Aristotle's term for a sudden reversal, when the action of a work, particularly a play, veers around quickly to its opposite. 959 persona

See speaker.

personification

A figure of speech in which

human characteristics are attributed to nonhuman things or abstractions. 589 perspective, dramatic The point of view in drama, the way in which the dramatist focuses on major characters and on particular problems. 891

See Italian sonnet. See visual poetry.

Petrarchan sonnet picture poetry

plagiarism (from a kidnapping, capturing

with a net) A writer's use of the language and ideas of another writer or writers without proper acknowledgment. Plagiarism is an exceedingly serious breach of academic honor; some call it intellectual theft, and others call it an academic crime. 452, 461 platform stage A raised stage surrounded by seats for an arena theater or theater-inthe-round. 897,1007 See probability. See drama.

plausibility play

The plan or groundwork for a story or a play, with the actions resulting from believable and authentic human responses to a conflict. It is causality, conflict, response, opposition, and interaction that make a plot out of a series of actions. Aristotle's word for plot is muthos, from which the word myth was derived. 67,110-118, 889 plot of intrigue See intrigue plot. plot

poem, poet, poetry A variable literary genre that is, foremost, characterized by the rhythmical qualities of language. Whereas poems may be short (including epigrams and haiku of just a few lines) or long (epics of thousands of lines), the essence of poetry is compression, economy, and force, in contrast with the logic and expansiveness of prose. There is no bar to the topics that poets may consider, and poems may range from the personal and lyric to the public and discursive. A poem is one poetic work. A poet is a person who writes poems. Poetry may refer to the poems of one writer, to poems of a number of writers, to all poems generally, or to the aesthetics of poetry considered as an art. 4,476-513. point of view Tire speaker, voice, narrator, or persona of a work; the position from which details are perceived and related; a centralizing mind or intelligence; not to be confused with opinion or belief. 78,119-155,482,891

point-of-view character The central figure or protagonist in a limited-point-of-view narration, the character about whom events turn, the focus of attention in the narration. 126 postulate or premise The assumption on which a work of literature is based, such as a level of absolute, literal reality, or as a dreamlike, fanciful set of events. See also donnee. 65 private or contextual symbol

See contextual

symbol. probability or plausibility

The standard that literature should be concerned with what is likely, common, normal, and usual. 162 problem A question or issue about the interpretation or understanding of a work. 1110-1117 problem play or problem comedy A type of play dealing with a problem, whether personal, social, political, environmental, philosophical, or religious. Ibsen's A Dollhouse is a problem play, dealing with the role of women in family and society. 903,1123,1202 procatalepsis or anticipation A rhetorical strategy whereby the writer raises an objection and then answers it; the goal is to strengthen an argument by dealing with possible objections before a dissenter can raise them. Procatalepsis is thus a writer's way of taking the wind out of an objector's sails. Also called a figure of presumptuousness or presupposal. 1111 producer The person in charge of practical matters connected with a stage production, such as securing finances, arranging for theater use, furnishing materials, renting or making costumes and properties, and guaranteeing payments. 894

In ancient Athenian tragedy, the introductory action and speeches before the parados, or first entry of the chorus. 966 prologue

props or properties

The furniture, draperies, and the like used on stage during a play. 895 proscenium, proscenium stage An arch or frame that delineates a box set and holds the curtain, thus creating the invisible fourth wall through which the audience sees the action of the play. See also proskenion. 894

Imaginative prose narratives (short stories and novels) that focus on one or a few characters who undergo a change or development as they interact with other characters and deal with their problems 4 62-64 prose fiction

prose poem A short work, laid out to look like prose, but employing the methods of verse, such as rhythm and imagery, for poetic ends. 678, 687

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

proskenion A raised stage built in front of the skene in ancient Greek theaters to separate the actors from the chorus and to make them more prominent. 964 protagonist The central character and focus of interest in a narrative or drama. 67,161, 887 psychological/psychoanalytic critical approach

An interpretive literary approach stressing how psychology may be used in the explanation of both authors and literary works. 1362 pun, or paronomasia Witty wordplay based on the fact that certain words with different meanings have nearly identical or even identical sounds. See also malapropism. 292, 589 purgation See catharsis. quatrain (1) A four-line stanza or poetic unit. (2) In an English or Shakespearean sonnet, a group of four lines united by rhyme. 4, 672 queer theory An interpretive literary approach based on the idea that sexual orientation is partly ideological and partly social. A number of queer theorists see the heterosexual/homosexual divide as less distinct than has traditionally been understood. The application of the theory is the discovery, often previously ignored, that many works contain either obvious or submerged homosexual elements. 1357-1358 quotation In writing about literature, the use of short passages from a designated work in order to illustrate and strengthen an idea by the writer. 56-60

A character who remains somewhat detached from the dramatic action and who provides reasoned commentary; a choric figure. 888 reader-response critical approach An interpretive literary approach based on the proposition that literary works are not fully created until readers make transactions with them by actualizing them in the light of their particular knowledge and experience. 1368, 1388-1394 realism or verisimilitude The use of true, lifelike, or probable situations and concerns. Also, the theory underlying the depiction of reality in literature. 64, 210 realistic character The accurate imitation of individualized men and women. 888 raisonneur

See ironic comedy. A setting designed to resemble places that actually exist or that might exist. For example, the setting of Wilson's Fences is realistic. 895 realistic comedy realistic setting

1447

See anagnorisis. A play conforming to the traditional rules of drama, particularly the three unities. Usually a regular play contains five acts (as in the Renaissance up through much of the nineteenth century). More recent regular plays contain three acts, although there is nothing hard and fast about this number. See rules of drama. 968 reliable narrator A speaker who has nothing to hide by making misstatements and who is untainted by self-interest. This speaker's narration is therefore to be accepted at face value; contrasted with an unreliable narrator. 123,127 repetition See anaphora. representation See mimesis. representative character A flat character with the qualities of all other members of a group (i.e., clerks, cowboys, detectives, etc.); a stereotype. 162 research, literary The systematic use of primary and secondary sources as the basis of studying a literary problem. 442-471 resolution See denouement. response A reader's intellectual and emotional reactions to a literary work. 1368, 1388-1394 Restoration Comedy English high comedies written mainly between 1660 and 1700, dealing realistically with personal, social, and sexual issues. 1182 revenge tragedy A popular type of English Renaissance drama, developed by Thomas Kyd, in which a person is called upon (often by a ghost) to avenge the murder of a loved one. Shakespeare's Hamlet is in the tradition of revenge tragedy. 1009 reversal See peripeteia. rhetoric The art of persuasive writing; broadly, the art of all effective writing. 519 rhetorical figure See figure of speech. 583 rising action The action in a play before the climax. See Freytag Pyramid. 890 romance (1) Lengthy Spanish and French stories of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. (2) Modem formulaic stories describing the growth of an impulsive, passionate, and powerful love relationship. 4,63 romantic comedy Sympathetic comedy that presents the adventures of young lovers trying to overcome opposition and achieve a successful union. 1125 round character A literary character, usually but not necessarily the protagonist of a story or play, who is three-dimensional.

recognition

regular play

1448

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

rounded, authentic, memorable, original, and true to life. A round character is the center of our attention, and is both individual and unpredictable. A round character profits from experience, and in the course of a story or play undergoes change or development. 160, 888 rules of drama An important concept of dramatic composition among Renaissance and eighteenth-century critics. They were based on ancient practice and theory, particularly the use of the five-act pyramidal (Freytag) structure and the embodiment of the three unities of action, place, and time. Sophocles followed the rules carefully; indeed, the rules were at least partially derived from his example. Shakespeare observed the unity of action, but in the interests of probability he apparently saw no reason to observe the others. See also regular play. 968 satire An attack on human follies or vices, as measured positively against a normative religious, moral, or social standard. 630 satiric comedy A form of comedy designed to correct social and individual behavior by ridiculing human vices and follies. 1126 satyr play A comic and burlesque play submitted by the ancient Athenian tragic dramatists along with their groups of three tragedies. On each day of tragic performances, the satyr play was performed after the three tragedies. See also trilogy. 955 scene In a play, a part or division (of an act, as in Hamlet, or of an entire play, as in Fences) in which there is a unity of subject, setting, and actors. 894 scene of suffering

See pathos.

scenery The artificial environment created onstage to produce the illusion of a specific or generalized place and time. 894 scrim A stage curtain that becomes transparent when illuminated from upstage, permitting action to take place under various lighting conditions. 896 second-person point of view A narration in which a second-person listener ("you") is the protagonist and the speaker is someone (e.g., doctor, parent, rejected lover, etc.) with knowledge that the protagonist does not possess or understand about his or her own actions. Sometimes the "you" of the second person is used popularly and vaguely to signify persons in a general audience, including the speaker. 79,124,127,153 selective recollection

See flashback.

A type of comedy dramatizing how good nature and morality enable characters to overcome their character flaws, which otherwise seem problematic or even incorrigible. ^182 sequence The following of one thing upon another in time or chronology. It is the realistic or true-to-life basis of the cause-andeffect arrangement necessary in a plot. 68 seriousness The first element in Aristotle's definition of tragedy, demonstrating the most elevated and significant aspects of human character. 960 sentimental comedy

(1) A six-line stanza or unit of poetry. (2) The last six lines of an Italian sonnet. 672 sets The physical scenery and properties used in a theatrical production. 894 setting The natural, manufactured, and cultural environment in which characters live and move, including all their possessions, homes, ways of life, and assumptions. 208-237 sestet

See English sonnet. See visual poetry.

Shakespearean sonnet shaped verse

A compact, concentrated work of narrative fiction that may also contain description, dialogue, and commentary. Poe used the term "brief prose tale" before the term "short story" was created, and he emphasized that the form should create a powerful and unified impact. 4, 64 simile A figure of speech, using "like" with norms and "as" with clauses, as in "the trees were bent by the wind like actors bowing after a performance." 584 short story

sitcom A serial type of modern television comedy dramatizing the circumstances, assumptions, and actions of a fixed number of characters (hence "situation comedy" or "sitcom"). 897,1127 situation The given circumstances of a story, poem, or play; a donnee. 4 situational irony or irony of situation

A type of irony emphasizing that,human beings are enmeshed in forces that greatly exceed their perception, comprehension, and control. 81, 628, 892, 962 skene ("tent," "hut") In ancient Greek theaters, a building in front of the orchestra that contained front and side doors from which actors could make entrances and exits. It served a variety of purposes, including the storage of costumes and props. The word has given us our modern word scene. 964 slang Informal diction and substandard vocabulary. Some slang is a permanent part

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

of the language (e.g., phrases like "I'll be damned," "That sucks," and our many fourletter words). Other slang is spontaneous, rising within a group (jargon), and often then being replaced when new slang emerges. 517 slapstick comedy A type of low farce in which the humor depends almost entirely on physical actions and sight gags. 1126 soap opera Also called "soaps," a type of daytime narrative dramatic program, originally created in the 1930s for radio, but which later became popular on television, in which the actions of the various characters take place during not just hours or days, but rather years. The name "soap opera" was given to the drama because many early sponsors were various soap companies. 897 social drama A type of problem play that deals with current social issues and the place of individuals in society. 24, 903 soliloquy A speech made by a character, alone on stage, directly to the audience, the convention being that the character is revealing his or her inner thoughts, feelings, hopes, and plans. A soliloquy is to be distinguished from an aside, which is made to the audience (or confidentially to another character) when other characters are present. 1008 See lyric. sonnet A poem of fourteen lines (originally designed to be spoken and not sung) in iambic pentameter. See Italian sonnet and English sonnet. 4, 672 speaker The narrator of a story or poem, the point of view, often an independent character who is completely imagined and consistently maintained by the author. In addition to narrating the essential events of the work (justifying the status of narrator), the speaker may also introduce other aspects of his or her knowledge, and may express judgments and opinions. Often the character of the speaker is of as much interest in the story as the actions or incidents. 78,119,482 specific language Words referring to objects or conditions that may be perceived, remembered, or imagined; distinguished from general language. 514 song

See dialogue. stage business See business. stage convention See convention. speeches

stage directions A playwright's instructions concerning blocking, movement, action, tone of voice, entrances and exits, lighting, scenery, and the like. 886

1449

A group of poetic lines corresponding to paragraphs in prose; stanzaic meters and rhymes are usually repeating and systematic. 669 stasimon (plural stasima) A choral ode separating the episodes in Greek tragedies. Because of the word's derivation, it would seem that the chorus remained stationary in the orchestra and watched during the episodes, and then stood before speaking or chanting its designated odes. 967 static character A character who undergoes no change; aflat character; contrasted with a dynamic character. 161, 888 stereotype A character who is so ordinary and unoriginal that he or she seems to have been cast in a mold; a representative character. 162, 888 stichomythy In ancient Athenian drama, dialogue consisting of one-line speeches designed for rapid interchanges between characters. 967 stock character Aflat character in a standard role with standard traits, such as the irate police captain, the bored hotel clerk, the sadistic criminal, etc.; a stereotype. 162, 888 story A narrative, usually fictional, and short, centering on a major character, and rendering a complete action. 64 structuralist critical approach An interpretive literary approach attempting to find relationships and similarities among elements that might originally appear to be separate and discrete. 1355 structure The arrangement and placement of materials in a work. 67, 211, 238-341, 281-282, 889 style The manipulation of language; the placement of words in the service of content. 78, 286 subject The topic that a literary work addresses, such as love, marriage, war, death, and social inequality. 893 subplot A secondary line of action in a literary work that often comments directly or obliquely on the main plot. See also multiple plot. 889 symbol, symbolism A specific word, idea, or object that may stand for ideas, values, persons, or ways of life. 80, 81, 323-370, 715-755, 888, 892 symbolic character A character whose primary function is symbolic, even though the character also retains normal or realistic qualities. 88 symbolic critical approach See archetypal/symbolic/mythic critical approach. stanza

1450

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

synecdoche A figure of speech in which a part stands for a whole, or a whole for a part. 589 synesthesia A figure of speech uniting or fusing separate sensations or feelings; the description of one type of perception or thought with words that are appropriate to another. 590 syntax Word order and sentence structure. An important mark of style is a writer's syntactical patterning (regular patterns and variations), depending on the rhetorical needs of the literary work. 517 tactile imagery Images of touch and responses to touch. 552 tenor (figure of speech) The ideas conveyed in a metaphor or simile. See also vehicle. 586 tense Besides embodying reports of actions and circumstances, verbs possess altering forms—tenses—that signify the times when things occur, whether past, present, or future. Perfect and progressive tenses indicate completed or continuing activities. Tense is an important aspect of point of view because the notation of time influences the way in which events are perceived and expressed. Narratives are usually told in the past tense, but many recent writers of fiction prefer the present tense for conveying a sense of immediacy. No matter when a sequence of actions is presumed to have taken place, the introduction of dialogue changes the action to the present. See point of view. 126 tercet or triplet A three-line emit or stanza of poetry, usually rhyming aaa, bbb, etc. 4, 671 terza rima A three-line stanza form with the interlocking rhyming pattern aba, beb, ede, etc. 671

A line of four metrical feet. 875 theater In ancient Athens, a theater was a place for seeing." Today it is the name given to the building in which plays and other dramatic productions are performed. It is also a generic name for local or national drama in all its aspects, as in "Tonight we're going to the theater," and "This play is the best of the New York theater this year." 894,963 tetrameter

Theater of Dionysus The ancient Athenian outdoor amphitheater at the base of the Acropolis, where Greek drama began. Today, the remains at the location are not those of the ancient Greek theater, but are those of a later Roman-built theater. 963

A theater arrangement, often outdoors, in which the audience totally surrounds a platform stage, with all actors entering and exiting along the theater-in-the-round

same aisles used by the audience. Also known as an arena stage. 894. theme (1) The major or central idea of a work. (2) An essay a short composition developing an interpretation or advancing an argument. (3) The main point or idea that a writer of an essay asserts and illustrates. 67, 371-413, 893 See deus ex machina. An introductory sentence which names the topics and ideas to be developed in the body of an essay. 34 theos apo mechanes

thesis sentence or thesis statement

third-person point of view A third-person method of narration (i.e., she, he, it, they, them, etc.), in which the speaker or narrator is not a part of the story, unlike the involvement of the narrator of a first-person point of view. Because the third-person speaker may exhibit great knowledge and understanding, together with other qualities of character, he or she is often virtually identified with the author, but this identification is not easily decided. See also authorial voice, omniscient point of view. 79,125,128,153 third-person objective point of view

See

dramatic point of view. three unities Traditionally associated with Aristotle's descriptions of drama as expressed in the Poetics, the three unities are those of action, place, and time. The unities are a function of verisimilitude—the creation of literary works that are as much like reality as possible. Therefore a play should dramatize a single major action that takes place in a single place during the approximate time it would take for completion, from beginning to end. During the Renaissance, some critics considered the unities to be essential aspects, or rides, of regular drama. Later critics considered the unity of action important, but minimized the unities of place and time. See also regular play. 968 thrust stage

See apron stage.

An enclosed area in an Elizabethan theater in which actors changed costumes and awaited their cues, and in which stage properties were kept. The word tiring is derived from attire (e.g., clothing or costumes). 1007 tiring house

tone The techniques and modes of presentation that reveal or create attitudes. 80, 238-285, 623-668, 892 topic sentence The sentence determining or introducing the subject matter of a paragraph. See also historical context. 34, 37

A Glossary of Important Literary Terms

An interpretive literary approach that stresses the relationship of literature to its historical period. 1350 tragedy A drama or other literary work that recounts the fall or misfortune of an individual who, while undergoing suffering, deals responsibly with the situations and dilemmas that he or she faces, and who thus demonstrates the value of human effort and human existence. 897,952-1118 tragic dilemma See dilemma, tragic flaw See hamartia. tragicomedy A literary work—drama or story—containing a mixture of tragic and comic elements. 902 trait A typical mode of behavior; the study of major traits provides a guide to the description of character. 156 trilogy A group of three literary works, usually related or unified. For the ancient Athenian festivals of Dionysus, each competing tragic dramatist submitted a trilogy (three tragedies), together with a satyr play. 955 triplet See tercet. trope A short dramatic dialogue inserted into the church mass during the early Middle Ages. 898 Tudor Interlude Tragedies, comedies, or historical plays performed by both professional actors and students during the reigns of Henry VII and Henry VIII (i.e., the first half of the sixteenth century). The Tudor Interludes sometimes featured abstract and allegorical characters and provided opportunities for both music and farcical action. 1006 topical/historical critical approach

See flat character. A figure of speech by which details and ideas are deliberately underplayed or undervalued in order to create emphasis—a form of irony. 291, 591 unit set A series of platforms, rooms, stairs, and exits that form the locations for all of a play's actions. A unit set enables scenes to be changed rapidly, without the drawing of a curtain and the placement of new sets. 895

unchanging character understatement

See three unities. universal symbol See cultural symbol. unreliable narrator A speaker who through ignorance, self-interest, or lack of capacity may tell lies and distort details. Locating the truth in an unreliable narrator's story

unities

1451

requires careful judgment and not inconsiderable skepticism. See also reliable narrator. 124,127 unstressed syllable See light stress. value, values The attachment of worth, significance, and desirability to an idea so that the idea is judged not only for its significance as thought but also for its importance as a goal, ideal, or standard. 372 vehicle The image or reference of figures of speech, such as a metaphor or simile; it is the vehicle that carries or embodies the tenor. See also tenor. 586 verbal irony Language stressing the importance of an idea by stating the opposite of what is meant. Verbal irony may convey humor, but as often as not it also reflects serious criticism and even bitterness and mockery of particular facets of life and the universe. See irony. 81, 291, 628, 892 verisimilitude (i.e., "like truth") A characteristic whereby the setting, circumstances, characters, dialogue, actions, and outcomes in a work are designed to seem true, lifelike, real, plausible, and probable. See also realism. 64,162, 210 villanelle A closed-form poem of nineteen lines, composed of five tercets and a concluding quatrain. The form requires that whole lines be repeated in a specific order and that only two rhyming sounds occur throughout. See also tercet. 4,672 visual imagery Language describing visible objects and situations. 550 visual poetry Poetry written so that the lines form a recognizable shape, such as a pair of wings or a geometrical figure. Also called concrete poetry or shaped verse. 679-687 voice See point of view and speaker. well-made play (la piece bien faite)

A form developed and popularized in nineteenthcentury France by Eugene Scribe (1791-1861) and Victorien Sardou (1831-1908). Typically, the well-made play is built on both secrets and the timely arrivals of new characters and complications. The protagonist faces adversity and ultimately overcomes it. Ibsen's A Dollhouse exhibits many characteristics of the well-made play. 1203 words The spoken and written signifiers of thoughts, objects, and actions—the building blocks of language. At the latest count, the editors of the Oxford English Dictionary estimate that there are more than a million words in the English language. 286-322,514—547

Credits

TEXT Agueros, Jack. "Sonnet for You, Familiar Famine" is reprinted from SONNETS FROM THE PUERTO RICAN, © 1996 by Jack Agueros, by permission of Hanging Loose Press. Ai. "Conversation." Copyright © 1986 by Ai, from VICE: NEW AND SELECTED POEMS by Ai. Used by permis¬ sion of W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. Akhmatova, Anna. "Willow" from The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, translated by Judith Hemschemeyer. Reprinted by permission of Zephyr Press. Albee, Edward. Edward Albee, THE SANDBOX. Copyright © 1959, renewed 1987 by Edward Albee. Reprinted by permission of William Morris Agency, LLC on behalf of the author. CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that THE SANDBOX is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America and of all countries covered by the International Copyright Union (including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth), the Berne Convention, the Pan-American Copyright Conven¬ tion and the Universal Copyright Convention as well as all countries with which the United States has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including professional/amateur stage rights, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, pub¬ lic reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound recording, all other forms of mechanical or electronic repro¬ duction, such as CD-ROM, CD-I, information storage and retrieval systems and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved. Particular emphasis is laid upon the matter of readings, per¬ mission for which must be secured from the Author's agent in writing. Alexie, Sherman. "This is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona" from THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO FISTFIGHT IN HEAVEN, copyright © 1993 by Sherman Alexie. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Angelou, Maya. "Still I Rise", copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou, from AND STILL I RISE by Maya Angelou Used by permission of Random House, Inc. Auden, W. H. "Musee des Beaux Arts" copyright 1940 and renewed 1968 by W. H. Auden from COLLECTFD POEMS OF W. H. AUDEN by W. H. Auden. Used by permission of Random House, Inc. GULLhC ED Bambara, Toni Cade. "The Lesson", copyright © 1972 by Toni Cade Bambara, from GORILLA, MY LOVE by Toni Cade Bambara. Used by permission of Random House, Inc. Elizabeth. "The Fish" and "One Art" from COMPLETE POEMS: 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop. Copyright © 1979,1983 by Alice Helen Methfessell. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC Bogan, Louise. "Women" from THE BLUE ESTUARIES: POEMS 1923-1968 by Louise Bogan. Copyright © 1968 by Louise Bogan. Copyright renewed 1996 by Ruth Limmer. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC Bontemps, Ama. "A Black Man Talks of Reaping" by Arna Bontemps. By permission of Harold Ober Associates Incorporated. From PERSONALS. Copyright © 1963 by Arna Bontemps. Borges, Jorge Luis. "The Art of Poetry" from A PERSONAL ANTHOLOGY by Jorge Luis Borges, copyright © 1967 by Grove Press, Inc. Used by permission of Grove /Atlantic, Inc. b 5 Boyk, T. Coraghessan. "Greasy Lake", from GREASY LAKE AND OTHER STORIES by T. Coraghessan Bovle copyright © 1979^1981,1982,1983,1984,1985 by T. Coraghessan Boyle. Used by permission of Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. & & ' FT T7arpth:RPPwcVcDWioaaeoI.