(From Tuesday, April 7, 2009)
Tyler Durden’s whole purpose as an invented alter-ego was to change what is into what should be. First in the main character’s immediate life, and then much beyond that as well, he sought to radically overturn all the things that were holding people back from being who they were truly meant to be. In our society, how many of us are actually pursuing the things that we really want to pursue? How many of us are gas station attendants instead of veterinarians? But Tyler Durden wasn’t concerned with “people” in general.
For rather than focusing his well-meaning efforts on everyone in society, all of his efforts were geared toward men, and men only. To jump on the scene that Scott brought up last in his argument, there’s a point in the film where Tyler says, “We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.” That quote gets right at it. In his view, true men should have very little to do with the influences of women.
Those men in the movie outside of Tyler’s fight club are pictured as wimpy, drab, effeminate boys working uninspiring jobs and leading all-around meaningless lives. I think of the main character’s boss, or the main character’s catalogue-decorated apartment. This portrayal conveys the message that maleness should have nothing to do with femininity; that masculinity is altogether different in purpose than femininity; and that men chasing un-male pursuits are effectively wasting their lives.
Bob, for example, is first introduced to the audience as a blubbering, big-breasted bambi whose manhood has been eliminated by his testicular cancer. He spends his nights crying about the man he used to be. That is, until he is radically transformed by Tyler Durden’s new definition of a man, as someone who uses his life, even in dying, to pursue a cause worthy of his calling as a man. Even without his male parts Bob is able to die a man.
A feminist, however, would with good reason be appalled at Tyler Durden’s version of a “man”. The only relations Tyler has with women are sexual. Marla’s terrible emotional state doesn’t concern him at all. Although she could definitely use his self-improvement practices just as much as anyone else, she’s disposable sex property. It’s only at the movie’s end, when Tyler Durden and his “men” are done away with, that Marla’s other female qualities are accepted by the masculine. When the main character holds her hand and really means it, we see him understanding the bigger picture of his role as a man. Men actually can benefit from relationships with women. It's a novelty of which Tyler Durden was apparently unaware.
The main character gained a lot from Tyler- an identity and an insight into what makes up life-, but from this crazy, ultra-man alter-ego he could never gain an accurate understanding of what a full man really looks like.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Sula- A True Hero of Femininity (But to a Major Extreme)
(From Tuesday, March 31, 2009)
Sula is a smear of problems over every page of her namesake book, Toni Morrison's Sula.
In the storyline itself Sula is a problematic character. At her death no one cares but one, and leading up to her death no one, including that one (Nel), even likes her. In fact, Nel is the only member of her entire community who even cares enough to emotionally attend her funeral. Sula likes no one but herself, and herself she worships as an ultimate God. In her community, even in her dearest friend, she excites no love, only deep disregard. In the world in which Sula lives, then, she is far from being anything heroic.
Sula is equally as problematic in feminist reading analysis. For despite all of these negative personal and social qualities, she is utterly exemplar- to a major extreme- of a hero of womenfolk everywhere. She is a character of intense personality- strong, hot-headed, and head-strong. She refuses to be anything but herself. Social norms she throws away, including- and especially- the social norm of womanhood. In this sense she represents a feminist hero, a true champion of full womanhood.
But it takes a full reading to accept this view. Before the tale's end, at which Nel finally realizes how socially transcendent and freeing Sula's strong female personality is, the reader can only see how foreign her extreme feminist personality is. Her womanhood proves to be more villianous than heroic. Rather than being socially freeing, it is in fact socially desctructive, a wrecking ball to community, family, and friends. But in light of Nel's final realization, Sula's impact forces a new perspective. For by it Nel is, for the first time in her life, effectively freed from the constraints of womanhood that have always been placed on her. She realizes she doesn't miss her husband, she doesn't need her husband, and she doesn't ever desire another man to love her like her husband had.When Nel realizes this, Sula becomes her feminine hero.
Sula is a smear of problems over every page of her namesake book, Toni Morrison's Sula.
In the storyline itself Sula is a problematic character. At her death no one cares but one, and leading up to her death no one, including that one (Nel), even likes her. In fact, Nel is the only member of her entire community who even cares enough to emotionally attend her funeral. Sula likes no one but herself, and herself she worships as an ultimate God. In her community, even in her dearest friend, she excites no love, only deep disregard. In the world in which Sula lives, then, she is far from being anything heroic.
Sula is equally as problematic in feminist reading analysis. For despite all of these negative personal and social qualities, she is utterly exemplar- to a major extreme- of a hero of womenfolk everywhere. She is a character of intense personality- strong, hot-headed, and head-strong. She refuses to be anything but herself. Social norms she throws away, including- and especially- the social norm of womanhood. In this sense she represents a feminist hero, a true champion of full womanhood.
But it takes a full reading to accept this view. Before the tale's end, at which Nel finally realizes how socially transcendent and freeing Sula's strong female personality is, the reader can only see how foreign her extreme feminist personality is. Her womanhood proves to be more villianous than heroic. Rather than being socially freeing, it is in fact socially desctructive, a wrecking ball to community, family, and friends. But in light of Nel's final realization, Sula's impact forces a new perspective. For by it Nel is, for the first time in her life, effectively freed from the constraints of womanhood that have always been placed on her. She realizes she doesn't miss her husband, she doesn't need her husband, and she doesn't ever desire another man to love her like her husband had.When Nel realizes this, Sula becomes her feminine hero.
Flowing Disarray All Down Toomer's Seventh Street
(From Friday, March 6, 2009)
The repeated use of "flowing", "wet", and "soggy" strikes my attention. It creates a consistent image of a river, or a flood, even, pouring through a city. But this is no ordinary river: through this city is flowing a flood of blood. The blood all over Seventh Street is of unnatural origin. It's shown to arise from the "bastard of Prohibition and War", flowing from the splintered and shattered world of Washington. We get a picture of this splintered world in the list: "shanties, brick office buildings, drug stores, restaurants, cabarets." Similar to the scene of Toomer's "Theater", the city holds a stark juxtaposition of poor and prosperous, but the river of blood flowing through blends these two together, so that the whole scene reeks of death. The flow exposes the rotten aspects of the city, the pocket-burning money, the bootleggars and the zooming Cadillacs that are at the backdrop of the scene. Toomer calls this to shame: "Who set you flowing? ...Swirling like a blood-red smoke up where the buzzards fly in heaven? Who set you flowing?"
The repeated use of "flowing", "wet", and "soggy" strikes my attention. It creates a consistent image of a river, or a flood, even, pouring through a city. But this is no ordinary river: through this city is flowing a flood of blood. The blood all over Seventh Street is of unnatural origin. It's shown to arise from the "bastard of Prohibition and War", flowing from the splintered and shattered world of Washington. We get a picture of this splintered world in the list: "shanties, brick office buildings, drug stores, restaurants, cabarets." Similar to the scene of Toomer's "Theater", the city holds a stark juxtaposition of poor and prosperous, but the river of blood flowing through blends these two together, so that the whole scene reeks of death. The flow exposes the rotten aspects of the city, the pocket-burning money, the bootleggars and the zooming Cadillacs that are at the backdrop of the scene. Toomer calls this to shame: "Who set you flowing? ...Swirling like a blood-red smoke up where the buzzards fly in heaven? Who set you flowing?"
The Pillowman in McDonagh's Pillowman
(From Monday, March 2, 2009)
I was greatly intrigued by Katurian’s short story about the Pillowman, and why McDonagh chose it as the namesake of his entire production. I did not understand the story the first time I heard it, nor the second time, but only after it was explained to me by a friend. After putting some thought to it now, though, and looking at how it applies to the rest of the play, I’ve come to hold a little stronger grasp of it.
In Katurian’s story, the Pillowman is a character whose job it is to convince young children to commit suicide before they become adults. He assumes that all children are unhappy- and if happy, only deceivingly so- and that their unhappiness will only grow as they grow older, until eventually as thoroughly unhappy adults they will take their lives anyway. He sees it as his mission to rescue them from the tragedies of life. Unfortunately he is often unsuccessful, a fact that breaks his heart over and over again. He realizes that in order to keep his own heart from breaking thus he must go back in time and convince his own young boy-self to erase the possibility of adulthood tragedy by burning himself, the Pillowman, to death. It’s quite gruesome. But when he does this, he hears the piercing cry of the thousands of young children who never would receive the refreshing comfort of his soft and happy-looking Pillowman-self, and would go on to die later in life unhappy and alone. He disappears in smoke to the shriek their cries.
Since the play is titled The Pillowman, this story must in some clever way reverberate throughout it. Its theme of unhappy children is obvious: none of the characters in the story- Katurian, Michael, Michael’s three victims, Tupolski, and Ariel- has a pleasant, happy-go-lucky childhood with a good ending. The Pillowman’s assumption is right. However, he doesn’t seem to come to life in any individual character. Obviously none of the characters fully takes on the job of “designated Pillowman,” for none of them frequently goes back in time to convince young children to die. However, there are bits of Pillowman-personality in many of them.
For example, Katurian does kill Michael with the intent of saving him from later torture and brutal execution. And both Ariel and Tupolski have devoted their lives to protecting children from the sad tragedies of life. In these aspects of their lives these characters possess the vulgar heroism of the Pillowman. In other aspects they possess also his final irony. For Katurian’s murder of his brother only serves to come against him later as providing the authorities a reason to burn his stories, and Tupolski and Ariel, despite their best efforts, at the end of the day are still left with grief and tragedy on their hands.The message of Katurian’s short Pillowman story- that is, the futility of attempting to dispel unhappiness from the world- thus becomes the message of the greater story as well. It’s a strange twist, and a strange method to reinforce a theme, but it certainly works. After watching The Pillowman there was hardly a feeling of hope or happiness within me.
(After doing some research I found that McDonagh very likely wrote the play immediately after the September 11, 2001, attacks in New York and Washington D.C. Perhaps he was trying to convey that initial overwhelming dismay and disbelief in the goodness of the world. If so, this he quite convincingly achieved.)
I was greatly intrigued by Katurian’s short story about the Pillowman, and why McDonagh chose it as the namesake of his entire production. I did not understand the story the first time I heard it, nor the second time, but only after it was explained to me by a friend. After putting some thought to it now, though, and looking at how it applies to the rest of the play, I’ve come to hold a little stronger grasp of it.
In Katurian’s story, the Pillowman is a character whose job it is to convince young children to commit suicide before they become adults. He assumes that all children are unhappy- and if happy, only deceivingly so- and that their unhappiness will only grow as they grow older, until eventually as thoroughly unhappy adults they will take their lives anyway. He sees it as his mission to rescue them from the tragedies of life. Unfortunately he is often unsuccessful, a fact that breaks his heart over and over again. He realizes that in order to keep his own heart from breaking thus he must go back in time and convince his own young boy-self to erase the possibility of adulthood tragedy by burning himself, the Pillowman, to death. It’s quite gruesome. But when he does this, he hears the piercing cry of the thousands of young children who never would receive the refreshing comfort of his soft and happy-looking Pillowman-self, and would go on to die later in life unhappy and alone. He disappears in smoke to the shriek their cries.
Since the play is titled The Pillowman, this story must in some clever way reverberate throughout it. Its theme of unhappy children is obvious: none of the characters in the story- Katurian, Michael, Michael’s three victims, Tupolski, and Ariel- has a pleasant, happy-go-lucky childhood with a good ending. The Pillowman’s assumption is right. However, he doesn’t seem to come to life in any individual character. Obviously none of the characters fully takes on the job of “designated Pillowman,” for none of them frequently goes back in time to convince young children to die. However, there are bits of Pillowman-personality in many of them.
For example, Katurian does kill Michael with the intent of saving him from later torture and brutal execution. And both Ariel and Tupolski have devoted their lives to protecting children from the sad tragedies of life. In these aspects of their lives these characters possess the vulgar heroism of the Pillowman. In other aspects they possess also his final irony. For Katurian’s murder of his brother only serves to come against him later as providing the authorities a reason to burn his stories, and Tupolski and Ariel, despite their best efforts, at the end of the day are still left with grief and tragedy on their hands.The message of Katurian’s short Pillowman story- that is, the futility of attempting to dispel unhappiness from the world- thus becomes the message of the greater story as well. It’s a strange twist, and a strange method to reinforce a theme, but it certainly works. After watching The Pillowman there was hardly a feeling of hope or happiness within me.
(After doing some research I found that McDonagh very likely wrote the play immediately after the September 11, 2001, attacks in New York and Washington D.C. Perhaps he was trying to convey that initial overwhelming dismay and disbelief in the goodness of the world. If so, this he quite convincingly achieved.)
Appearance vs. Reality in Theater
(From Monday, February 23, 2009)
My chosen binary for exploration and deconstruction is that between appearance and reality. In the initial setting it appears that greater privilege is given to appearance. This can be seen in the character John. “Light streaks down upon him from a window high above… Life of the house and of the slowly awakening stage swirls to the body of John, and thrills it” (Toomer, 52). Pictured in this light John is immediately the hero of the scene. We learn, however, that the reality of his personality is the stronger actor.
The appearances of the beautiful Dorris, also, at first are more privileged than her actual characteristics: “Above the staleness, one dancer throws herself into it. Dorris… Her own glowing is too rich a thing…” (53). Dorris dances, Dorris dances, Dorris dances. Her physicality is apparently a very strong actor in the scene.
By all appearances these are two solid characters. To the viewers of this setting in the Howard Theater, appearances are given privilege over reality. But to the reader just the opposite is the case. For underneath these appearances, reality is the greater actor in the story.
It is clear that “John’s body is separate from the thoughts that pack his mind” (52). Because of this, he is able to realize that the same is true of Dorris. He observes her subtle indications, “The leading lady fits loosely in the front. Lack-life, monotonous” (53), and sees that “Her suspicion would be greater than her passion.” Behind Dorris’ apparent physical passion, the real thoughts in her mind reveal what really is going on: “[I] can’t win him to respect [me]…” (55). Her physical passion is just a face.
The weight of this reality holds the greater privilege over appearance in this classic binary. An old proverb (that I'm sure exists) comes to mind: "The heart of a man is the man."
My chosen binary for exploration and deconstruction is that between appearance and reality. In the initial setting it appears that greater privilege is given to appearance. This can be seen in the character John. “Light streaks down upon him from a window high above… Life of the house and of the slowly awakening stage swirls to the body of John, and thrills it” (Toomer, 52). Pictured in this light John is immediately the hero of the scene. We learn, however, that the reality of his personality is the stronger actor.
The appearances of the beautiful Dorris, also, at first are more privileged than her actual characteristics: “Above the staleness, one dancer throws herself into it. Dorris… Her own glowing is too rich a thing…” (53). Dorris dances, Dorris dances, Dorris dances. Her physicality is apparently a very strong actor in the scene.
By all appearances these are two solid characters. To the viewers of this setting in the Howard Theater, appearances are given privilege over reality. But to the reader just the opposite is the case. For underneath these appearances, reality is the greater actor in the story.
It is clear that “John’s body is separate from the thoughts that pack his mind” (52). Because of this, he is able to realize that the same is true of Dorris. He observes her subtle indications, “The leading lady fits loosely in the front. Lack-life, monotonous” (53), and sees that “Her suspicion would be greater than her passion.” Behind Dorris’ apparent physical passion, the real thoughts in her mind reveal what really is going on: “[I] can’t win him to respect [me]…” (55). Her physical passion is just a face.
The weight of this reality holds the greater privilege over appearance in this classic binary. An old proverb (that I'm sure exists) comes to mind: "The heart of a man is the man."
Monday, February 16, 2009
A Critique of a Colleague
This piece, "The Canon?" presents the view of the relativist literary critic. “Who determines a classic?” it asks; “If it pulls at my heart and brings me joy, then let [it] be brought forth and my ignorance be dashed on the rocks.” According to this author there is no set definition of what makes a piece of literature classic, let alone ‘good’. He continues, saying “Authors are praise-worthy and great not because of awards, but of the heart and understanding they have put into their books, poems, stories, etc.” This is an interesting point, but one that I believe is fundamentally contradictory to the concept of a literary canon.
It is probably true that to many authors, James Joyce excluded, awards and public acclaim are generally regarded as worthless fluff. Writing, as is any form of art, is primarily a mode of expression for the author’s thoughts and emotions. To the author of this piece, all writing which has been infused with the artist’s heart and understanding should always be regarded as praise-worthy, even great. Yet he goes on to state that the beauty of literature loses its presence as it ages, and becomes eventually stagnant. “Going from these well-known authors to these up and coming [authors] is only natural”, he says. As I interpret this, it seems to say that essentially there comes a time when the viewer of literary art must admit that he has been viewing the same beauty for long enough, and must take up an exploration to find new beauties in writing. At these times, in order to stay up-to-date his personal canon must change. If beauty in writing is thus fleeting and not classifiable as a pertinent quality of canonization, what aspects of writing are?
According to this author the true beauty of good literature, above all else, is cultural relevance: “New voices,” he claims, “[which bring greater exposure of ideas, backgrounds, and lives] must be heard.” Consistent with the relativist concept of beauty in art, it matters little whether these voices are generally regarded as good and meaningful; as fillers of the void of cultural irrelevance left by the fleeting texts of old, they should be studied because they are new and will presumably be more positively applicable than bygone texts written by bygone artists. As this author says, “Our professors’ [choosing of new works], [we must trust] to help us become better people.” Here I do tend to agree, as I still trust the doctorate degrees of my professors. However, the continuance of this worship of modern writing can become a concept tortured with abuse to imply that, ‘Old ideas, because of their cultural irrelevance, are no longer worth reading. They do not contain heart and understanding; they cannot make us think; and therefore, they cannot make us better people.’ The author of this piece of course does not say this, yet his romanticism of modern writing essentially implies this continuance. Cultural relevance as a valid quality of canonization is therefore flawed as well.
I hold that there is more to ‘classic’ or ‘canon-quality’ literature than artists’ application of heart and understanding and cultural relevance. Lasting beauty exists in literature just as it exists in other forms of art. Great works of literary art are those which best display the most artistic qualities of writing: use of creative technique, balance between intended meaning and allowance for interpretation, creation of novel ideas or concepts whose application spans generations, and others. A canon is not just a collection of all the literature that has ever been given “heart and understanding”. Rather, it is a collection of the best of it. Cultural or personal relevance might be an important factor to some degree, but there is more to canon-quality literature than mere newness. I believe that relativism in literary criticism misses this important aspect of literature.
It is probably true that to many authors, James Joyce excluded, awards and public acclaim are generally regarded as worthless fluff. Writing, as is any form of art, is primarily a mode of expression for the author’s thoughts and emotions. To the author of this piece, all writing which has been infused with the artist’s heart and understanding should always be regarded as praise-worthy, even great. Yet he goes on to state that the beauty of literature loses its presence as it ages, and becomes eventually stagnant. “Going from these well-known authors to these up and coming [authors] is only natural”, he says. As I interpret this, it seems to say that essentially there comes a time when the viewer of literary art must admit that he has been viewing the same beauty for long enough, and must take up an exploration to find new beauties in writing. At these times, in order to stay up-to-date his personal canon must change. If beauty in writing is thus fleeting and not classifiable as a pertinent quality of canonization, what aspects of writing are?
According to this author the true beauty of good literature, above all else, is cultural relevance: “New voices,” he claims, “[which bring greater exposure of ideas, backgrounds, and lives] must be heard.” Consistent with the relativist concept of beauty in art, it matters little whether these voices are generally regarded as good and meaningful; as fillers of the void of cultural irrelevance left by the fleeting texts of old, they should be studied because they are new and will presumably be more positively applicable than bygone texts written by bygone artists. As this author says, “Our professors’ [choosing of new works], [we must trust] to help us become better people.” Here I do tend to agree, as I still trust the doctorate degrees of my professors. However, the continuance of this worship of modern writing can become a concept tortured with abuse to imply that, ‘Old ideas, because of their cultural irrelevance, are no longer worth reading. They do not contain heart and understanding; they cannot make us think; and therefore, they cannot make us better people.’ The author of this piece of course does not say this, yet his romanticism of modern writing essentially implies this continuance. Cultural relevance as a valid quality of canonization is therefore flawed as well.
I hold that there is more to ‘classic’ or ‘canon-quality’ literature than artists’ application of heart and understanding and cultural relevance. Lasting beauty exists in literature just as it exists in other forms of art. Great works of literary art are those which best display the most artistic qualities of writing: use of creative technique, balance between intended meaning and allowance for interpretation, creation of novel ideas or concepts whose application spans generations, and others. A canon is not just a collection of all the literature that has ever been given “heart and understanding”. Rather, it is a collection of the best of it. Cultural or personal relevance might be an important factor to some degree, but there is more to canon-quality literature than mere newness. I believe that relativism in literary criticism misses this important aspect of literature.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Barring all pretension...
The question of canonicity as it relates to Wabash is multi-dimensional. The question of what qualifies a work as “great” and worthy of joining the coveted and highly esteemed Great Books List, is separate from the secondary question of which of these supposed great texts should be included in upper level senior Colloquium curriculum. Neither of these questions provides straightforward answers.
The first question should be assessed through blind eyes. Never in the equation should enter race, gender, or any other social construct. The debate of great literature, I believe, should have nothing to do with authorship. In the best sense of things, the fact that the majority of canonized works are written by white males should be a mere coincidence (although whether or not this is the case is legitimately debatable).
A piece of literature is canon-quality if it, well, is canon-quality, and if it reserves this mark over the test of time. If over time its applause fades and its quality turns debatable, its qualification for canonization should obviously be put in dire limbo. The test of time and hot debate among literary elite, a group in which I would include many Ph. D. professors at Wabash, ensures the integrity of the great works canon and keeps it from becoming painfully stagnant in changing times.
It’s a different conversation that surrounds the debate of what canonized works should be included in the senior Colloquium curriculum. This discussion should also have nothing to do with authorship, but rather with which canonized works are most worth the worn-out senior’s careful reading through and studying. By the time the spring semester of their senior year comes around, many students might agree that they have close-read enough random books and put up with enough random discussion through their previous seven semesters, that if their senior seminar proves no different, they, like the author of this Bachelor article, would not be very excited about it at all. However, it shows a remarkable lack of insight to think that this is all senior seminar amounts to and reflects a pretentious ignorance that is, in fact, enraging to many Colloquium professors.
I, too, might not like the thought of professors picking out for me the books that they think I should read, especially in my senior Great Works Colloquium, unless I have first learned the value in surrendering my childish arrogance. If I consistently believe that I have somehow attained the rare ability to pick through the annals of time and genres of all sorts and know the essence of a great work when I see one, and have the enlightened insight to know which of these texts are most worthy of my honored position as a pompous second-semester senior, something along my education track has gone terribly wrong.
Hopefully by the end of my college career I will have come to appreciate more fully the knowledge and insight of my Ph. D. professors. This is, at least, the hope.
The first question should be assessed through blind eyes. Never in the equation should enter race, gender, or any other social construct. The debate of great literature, I believe, should have nothing to do with authorship. In the best sense of things, the fact that the majority of canonized works are written by white males should be a mere coincidence (although whether or not this is the case is legitimately debatable).
A piece of literature is canon-quality if it, well, is canon-quality, and if it reserves this mark over the test of time. If over time its applause fades and its quality turns debatable, its qualification for canonization should obviously be put in dire limbo. The test of time and hot debate among literary elite, a group in which I would include many Ph. D. professors at Wabash, ensures the integrity of the great works canon and keeps it from becoming painfully stagnant in changing times.
It’s a different conversation that surrounds the debate of what canonized works should be included in the senior Colloquium curriculum. This discussion should also have nothing to do with authorship, but rather with which canonized works are most worth the worn-out senior’s careful reading through and studying. By the time the spring semester of their senior year comes around, many students might agree that they have close-read enough random books and put up with enough random discussion through their previous seven semesters, that if their senior seminar proves no different, they, like the author of this Bachelor article, would not be very excited about it at all. However, it shows a remarkable lack of insight to think that this is all senior seminar amounts to and reflects a pretentious ignorance that is, in fact, enraging to many Colloquium professors.
I, too, might not like the thought of professors picking out for me the books that they think I should read, especially in my senior Great Works Colloquium, unless I have first learned the value in surrendering my childish arrogance. If I consistently believe that I have somehow attained the rare ability to pick through the annals of time and genres of all sorts and know the essence of a great work when I see one, and have the enlightened insight to know which of these texts are most worthy of my honored position as a pompous second-semester senior, something along my education track has gone terribly wrong.
Hopefully by the end of my college career I will have come to appreciate more fully the knowledge and insight of my Ph. D. professors. This is, at least, the hope.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Poetic Utility of Language
In doing a close textual analysis of Toomer’s poem “Georgia Dusk”, I was struck immediately by the poem’s remarkable display of utility of language. I became increasingly aware of the consistently careful choice of words, and the level of attention the poet must certainly have paid to the seemingly minor language details of non-rhyming sounds in sentences and the mere spelling of words, all of which I will later explain in greater detail.
Although this masterful use of language became apparent to me through this piece, it first caught my eye while I was reading over the first lines of “Reapers”, another famous Toomer piece:
“Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes…” (1, 2)
Toomer’s powerful use of alliteration here reinforces the underlying tone of reapers’ blood-stained, slicing scythes. This prepared me as I then turned to “Georgia Dusk” to read with eyes aware and ready to notice any more of the poet’s other such subtle uses of language.
I began noticing instances of pleasurably poetic non-rhyming sounds, such as in line 2 of the first stanza, “…too indolent to hold”, and in the fourth stanza, “Sawdust pile…/Curls up…/Where only chips and stumps…/The solid proof…” The use of language thus creates a hidden fluidity of motion that the casual reader likely will not pick up.
Toomer also plays with similar spelling in his words, to a similar affect. In stanza 3 he toys around with words containing double ls.
“The sawmill blows its whistle…/And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill/Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill…”
I find this use of consonance terribly clever.
And further, in the sixth stanza once again he plays with spelling, using in quick succession
“…the pine trees are guitars/Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain…”
Notice once again the repetition of double letters in these words, here a nifty combination of consonance and assonance.
Although the clever play of sounds in this poem is not so noticeable in reading as the alliteration seen in “Reapers”, it certainly adds a similarly subtle sense of poetic flow to the greater rhythm of the piece.
Although this masterful use of language became apparent to me through this piece, it first caught my eye while I was reading over the first lines of “Reapers”, another famous Toomer piece:
“Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes…” (1, 2)
Toomer’s powerful use of alliteration here reinforces the underlying tone of reapers’ blood-stained, slicing scythes. This prepared me as I then turned to “Georgia Dusk” to read with eyes aware and ready to notice any more of the poet’s other such subtle uses of language.
I began noticing instances of pleasurably poetic non-rhyming sounds, such as in line 2 of the first stanza, “…too indolent to hold”, and in the fourth stanza, “Sawdust pile…/Curls up…/Where only chips and stumps…/The solid proof…” The use of language thus creates a hidden fluidity of motion that the casual reader likely will not pick up.
Toomer also plays with similar spelling in his words, to a similar affect. In stanza 3 he toys around with words containing double ls.
“The sawmill blows its whistle…/And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill/Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill…”
I find this use of consonance terribly clever.
And further, in the sixth stanza once again he plays with spelling, using in quick succession
“…the pine trees are guitars/Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain…”
Notice once again the repetition of double letters in these words, here a nifty combination of consonance and assonance.
Although the clever play of sounds in this poem is not so noticeable in reading as the alliteration seen in “Reapers”, it certainly adds a similarly subtle sense of poetic flow to the greater rhythm of the piece.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Seeds of change among changed ground.
The young ploughman of this poem is a hero of the land, a praise the lines "an emblem of impossible prophecy" raise. This phrase is the crux of the poem.
Throughout the poem the author brings out just how seemingly impossible a black man becoming President of the United States is. He begins with the word "turmoil".
"Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving--" This word "turmoil" by itself is vague and paints only a hazy picture. What kind of turmoil was it from which this apparent "emblem" so heroically emerged? The poet, however, does not leave the picture so vague. He quickly sets the scene of a chaotic crowd: "A field of snow-flecked/cotton/forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens/...while lined on one branch, is/a tense/court of bespectacled owls and.../a gesticulating scarecrow."
It is through this crowd that the poet's hero drives his plough: "a crowd/dividing like the furrow which a mule has ploughed,/parting for their president..." To be sure, such a feat is no less than heroic. A field before it is ploughed is tough and dry, and certianly not easily broken up. We can see the hardness of the ground through an understanding of the historical allusions in the text, of which there are many. The very title, "Forty acres" alludes to the Jim Crow Laws of post Civil War America, where freed blacks recieved just forty acres and a mule from their government. Of course, later references such as "a field of snow-flecked cotton" and "the lynching tree" speak more of this. As the ploughman breaks up this ground it cries out in change, "The small plough continues...beyond the moaning ground".
Yet the ploughman realizes this pain, and moreover feels it himself: "and the young ploughman feels the change in his veins/heart, muscles, tendons..." But he plunges on, ploughing "till the land lies open...", regardless of how deep the furrow may lie in the wake behind him.
The piece closes on the hope that may lie in such deeply broken up ground: "till the land lies open like a flag as dawn's sure/light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower." According to this, the deeper the furrow of change that streaks across our nation, the deeper within that new ploughed ground any coming seeds of hope might be planted.
Who will this future sower of hope be? Perhaps from among all the broken up ground a new emblem will arise.
Throughout the poem the author brings out just how seemingly impossible a black man becoming President of the United States is. He begins with the word "turmoil".
"Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving--" This word "turmoil" by itself is vague and paints only a hazy picture. What kind of turmoil was it from which this apparent "emblem" so heroically emerged? The poet, however, does not leave the picture so vague. He quickly sets the scene of a chaotic crowd: "A field of snow-flecked/cotton/forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens/...while lined on one branch, is/a tense/court of bespectacled owls and.../a gesticulating scarecrow."
It is through this crowd that the poet's hero drives his plough: "a crowd/dividing like the furrow which a mule has ploughed,/parting for their president..." To be sure, such a feat is no less than heroic. A field before it is ploughed is tough and dry, and certianly not easily broken up. We can see the hardness of the ground through an understanding of the historical allusions in the text, of which there are many. The very title, "Forty acres" alludes to the Jim Crow Laws of post Civil War America, where freed blacks recieved just forty acres and a mule from their government. Of course, later references such as "a field of snow-flecked cotton" and "the lynching tree" speak more of this. As the ploughman breaks up this ground it cries out in change, "The small plough continues...beyond the moaning ground".
Yet the ploughman realizes this pain, and moreover feels it himself: "and the young ploughman feels the change in his veins/heart, muscles, tendons..." But he plunges on, ploughing "till the land lies open...", regardless of how deep the furrow may lie in the wake behind him.
The piece closes on the hope that may lie in such deeply broken up ground: "till the land lies open like a flag as dawn's sure/light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower." According to this, the deeper the furrow of change that streaks across our nation, the deeper within that new ploughed ground any coming seeds of hope might be planted.
Who will this future sower of hope be? Perhaps from among all the broken up ground a new emblem will arise.
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