From the moment Florentino Ariza first saw Fermina Daza, he ruined his chances to be happy in life. His mad love for her, an obsession that stemmed from the feeling that she was always just out of reach, could not be satisfied by the girl who saw him as no more than a distraction from the boredom of her repetitive life. Florentino Ariza forfeits innumerable opportunities to be happy with love throughout his life in his determination to one day be loved by Fermina Daza.
Because Florentino Ariza chose to see his affairs as only a distraction from his heart’s true love, he overlooks the fact that the affairs could have actually led him into love. The night an unidentified woman takes Florentino’s virginity onboard the Pius V Loayza, Florentino realizes that “his illusory love for Fermina Daza could be replaced by an earthly passion” (143). Throughout the course of his life, Florentino moved on to have over six hundred affairs, not including one-night stands. He becomes a master at seducing, making up for his timid character by using a “trap of pity” that became “the downfall for so many of [his] defenseless victims” (224). Rather than using his careful trap and the knowledge acquired from spending so much time with women to find love, however, Florentino is determined to remain faithful to Fermina in mind and heart. For instance, when love is literally right in front of his face in the form of Leona Cassiani, he denies the chance to be happy until it is too late. Upon first meeting, he accuses her of being a whore; later, after years of working with Leona and coming to respect “the fascinating spectacle of the that fierce black woman smeared with shit and love in the fever of battle”, he begins to regret that she is not a whore so that he could “wipe his ass with his principles and make love to her even if it cost nuggets of shining gold” (187). Florentino Ariza is so consumed by the love he is sure he will one day win over from Fermina Daza that by the time he confronts Leona to seduce her, he discovers that love had given up on them. The maturity she gained with age out grew the immaturity he retained in his love for a girl from his teenage years. Though Leona arguably could have been Florentino Ariza’s soul mate, he throws away his chances because of a miserable obsession that he has allowed to control every aspect of his life.
Florentino Ariza denies yet another invitation into happiness and love when he allows his lover’s insulting of Fermina Daza to affect him personally. Florentino meets said lover, Sara Noriega, at the Poetic Festival where she deeply pities his loss of the contest. They bonded over photograph albums and poetry; they were like-souls who shared the same passions. Once they begin to make love, Florentino “[realizes] that he [has] begun to love her” (196). Their passions are so in line with their love, they even write a poem about their “divided love” together and submit it to the Poetic Festival (199). When the poem loses, however, their five-year relationship also dies; Sara is convinced that Fermina Daza had plotted against them and calls her a whore. Florentino’s heart has always belonged to Fermina, and the fact that she reads off the winners of the Poetic Festival has been his only reason for attending annually. Having the lover he met at the competition insult the woman he was really attending the competition to see forces him to “see her with different eyes” (200). Florentino has never been rejected by any woman but Fermina, and so upon realizing that his relationship with Sara is over, he plans that Sara will “let him into her bed so that he could tell her no, that everything was over” (201). The idea blows up in his face, and he is rejected instead, a suiting punishment for the fact that he gave up not only on a lover, but also on a chance to be content with another woman. Though Florentino’s determined love for Fermina rewards him in the end, it is a miserable victory compared to the love he could have had in his prime and youthful years. (716)
Monday, December 3, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Love in the Time of Adolescence
In the second section of the novel Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez tells us a twisted story of love, obsession, and what it means to grow up. He crafts a setting—nineteenth century Columbia—and uses the binding culture and rule of courtship in said setting to produce a believable tale of desperate young infatuation. Márquez uses powerful language to portray the obsessive love of a meek bastard child named Florentino Ariza for the beautiful, charming, and maturing Fermina Daza.
Surrounded by a culture with a very rigid standard for the behavior of young women, Fermina Daza barely has room to breathe. Every time Márquez tells us about the girl, she is engaged in a routine activity, such as her walk to school or her daily reading lessons with her aunt. Never do we see playing, by herself or with other kids, like children should. She is always with her Aunt Escolástica, “and her behavior indicated that she was permitted no distraction” (56). Her father is so oppressive, he does not even permit her to go to a local dance “a few days after their arrival in the city” (57). When Florentino Ariza appears in her life, he is likely a delightful distraction for the girl. He is her break from her routine. However, caught up in games with her Aunt, like locating which spot Florentino is watching her from each day, Fermina doesn’t notice when “the diversion [becomes] a preoccupation and her blood [froths] with the need to see him” (58). Her intelligence, hindered by boredom from repetition, becomes a breeding ground for curiosity, and said curiosity has the potential to consume her.
Curiosity grows and eventually moves into obsession on both sides when Florentino and Fermina begin exchanging letters. When Aunt Escolástica tells her that Florentino will likely give her a letter, her curiosity is evident in her prayers to God that he will have “the courage to hand her the letter just so she could know what it said” (59). When the exchange finally takes place, the small letter leaves her rereading it and rereading it to try and find more, to satisfy her lust for information about the mysterious suitor. Márquez foreshadows the infatuation to come by saying, “his mysterious resources had awakened in her a curiosity that was difficult to resist, but she had never imagined that curiosity was one of the many masks of love” (66). As their letter exchange becomes a daily happening, they are both infected by love in the form of curiosity, each wondering what the next letter will say. Fermina Daza has found something to occupy her mind rather than school; she often tries to write notes in class. She is either waiting to see what a letter says or wondering what to write back. The need to hide her letters from school nuns and her father also adds a certain thrill. Her life up until the entrance of Florentino Ariza had been dominated by her father’s goal to, “turn his daughter into a great lady” and the “appearance of Florentino Ariza had been an unforeseen obstacle in his hard-fought plan” (81). What is an obstacle to Lorenzo Daza’s is a beautiful form of entertainment for Fermina Daza.
When Fermina's father discovers the love between her and Florentino and takes her away on a long journey, his goal is that she will forget her love of Florentino. In essence, he uproots her entire life. She has no sense of the familiar; on their long mule ride, she laments that she will miss “the consolation of his letters” (83). Stolen from everything she knows, she cannot help but burst into tears when she finally reaches her cousin’s house and find eleven letters from her love waiting for her. Being that all her belongings fell into a ravine with a line of mules on her journey with her father, the letters are literally her only connection to home. Feeling secure in her correspondence with the man she believes she will marry, Fermina “[learns] about herself, she [feels] free for the first time, she [feels] herself befriended and protected” (87). She is learning to live without love; Florentino is no longer her escape from boredom, but rather a comforting tie to what she has left behind. Márquez tells us how Fermina learns that “one could be happy not only without love, but despite it” (87), foreshadowing that Fermina will no longer need Florentino when she finally returns. At age seventeen, her father finally decides to go home, and he “[turns] over to [Fermina] the keys to [her] life” (97). No longer oppressed, free to roam the market, free to live her life with all her god-given grace and beauty, Florentino suddenly becomes an annoying reminder of her younger years. The moment he appears, interrupting her blissful afternoon, she realizes that she no longer has any want or need for the obsessive love of Florentino Ariza in her life. (829)
Surrounded by a culture with a very rigid standard for the behavior of young women, Fermina Daza barely has room to breathe. Every time Márquez tells us about the girl, she is engaged in a routine activity, such as her walk to school or her daily reading lessons with her aunt. Never do we see playing, by herself or with other kids, like children should. She is always with her Aunt Escolástica, “and her behavior indicated that she was permitted no distraction” (56). Her father is so oppressive, he does not even permit her to go to a local dance “a few days after their arrival in the city” (57). When Florentino Ariza appears in her life, he is likely a delightful distraction for the girl. He is her break from her routine. However, caught up in games with her Aunt, like locating which spot Florentino is watching her from each day, Fermina doesn’t notice when “the diversion [becomes] a preoccupation and her blood [froths] with the need to see him” (58). Her intelligence, hindered by boredom from repetition, becomes a breeding ground for curiosity, and said curiosity has the potential to consume her.
Curiosity grows and eventually moves into obsession on both sides when Florentino and Fermina begin exchanging letters. When Aunt Escolástica tells her that Florentino will likely give her a letter, her curiosity is evident in her prayers to God that he will have “the courage to hand her the letter just so she could know what it said” (59). When the exchange finally takes place, the small letter leaves her rereading it and rereading it to try and find more, to satisfy her lust for information about the mysterious suitor. Márquez foreshadows the infatuation to come by saying, “his mysterious resources had awakened in her a curiosity that was difficult to resist, but she had never imagined that curiosity was one of the many masks of love” (66). As their letter exchange becomes a daily happening, they are both infected by love in the form of curiosity, each wondering what the next letter will say. Fermina Daza has found something to occupy her mind rather than school; she often tries to write notes in class. She is either waiting to see what a letter says or wondering what to write back. The need to hide her letters from school nuns and her father also adds a certain thrill. Her life up until the entrance of Florentino Ariza had been dominated by her father’s goal to, “turn his daughter into a great lady” and the “appearance of Florentino Ariza had been an unforeseen obstacle in his hard-fought plan” (81). What is an obstacle to Lorenzo Daza’s is a beautiful form of entertainment for Fermina Daza.
When Fermina's father discovers the love between her and Florentino and takes her away on a long journey, his goal is that she will forget her love of Florentino. In essence, he uproots her entire life. She has no sense of the familiar; on their long mule ride, she laments that she will miss “the consolation of his letters” (83). Stolen from everything she knows, she cannot help but burst into tears when she finally reaches her cousin’s house and find eleven letters from her love waiting for her. Being that all her belongings fell into a ravine with a line of mules on her journey with her father, the letters are literally her only connection to home. Feeling secure in her correspondence with the man she believes she will marry, Fermina “[learns] about herself, she [feels] free for the first time, she [feels] herself befriended and protected” (87). She is learning to live without love; Florentino is no longer her escape from boredom, but rather a comforting tie to what she has left behind. Márquez tells us how Fermina learns that “one could be happy not only without love, but despite it” (87), foreshadowing that Fermina will no longer need Florentino when she finally returns. At age seventeen, her father finally decides to go home, and he “[turns] over to [Fermina] the keys to [her] life” (97). No longer oppressed, free to roam the market, free to live her life with all her god-given grace and beauty, Florentino suddenly becomes an annoying reminder of her younger years. The moment he appears, interrupting her blissful afternoon, she realizes that she no longer has any want or need for the obsessive love of Florentino Ariza in her life. (829)
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
The Lost Savior
Quentin Compson wants to be a hero. He has grown up in a southern family where he was taught southern values—what it means to be a gentleman or a lady. Ladies should be pure, and gentlemen should respect such modesty. Unfortunately, Quentin is a tragic and weak character that is utterly ripped apart by his sister’s failure to adhere to such standards. He is alone in his views and rarely taken seriously. Through Quentin, Faulkner portrays his own view of southern values: they are useless and hopeless.
From a very young age, Quentin is obsessed with the purity of ladies, especially in the case of his sister. When Caddy was only seven, she was playing in the river and realized she was getting her dress wet. Her solution was to take it off; Quentin demanded that she not. When she defies him, “Quentin [slaps] her” (18). His passion for ladylike modesty was not just a phase of his young-adult life, but rather a lifelong obsession. As a Harvard student, his friends mockingly refer to him as the “champion of dames” (167) after he punches a companion for talking indecently about the girls he’s been with. The fight is the second Quentin has gotten into for the sake of defending a lady’s honor, and both times, he’s suffered a miserable defeat. Every time Quentin tries to be the “champion of dames”, he only becomes more and more pathetic in our eyes.
Quentin’s greatest depression comes from the rejection of his beloved ideas from within his own family. Caddy’s promiscuity hurts him deeply. Quentin cannot accept the idea that she willingly lost her virginity outside of wedlock. His first reaction is to start making excuses for Caddy, begging her to tell him, “did he make you then he made you do it let him he was stronger than you and he tomorrow Ill kill him… Caddy you hate him dont you dont you” (151). Quentin’s sense of honor and purity is so warping that he’d rather believe his sister was raped than that she willingly gave herself to the man she loved. Even more devastating to Quentin is how unenthusiastic Caddy is in her responses. He is hysterical, and she is barely paying attention. When Quentin suggests a double suicide as a way to escape, she puts up no struggle, just agrees. As readers, we get the sense she doesn’t even look up when he holds the knife to her throat. Later, when Quentin declares that he wishes Caddy were dead, her only response is, “do you you coming in now” (157). Quentin is trapped in a world where he is isolated by his ideals and never taken seriously. Even when he mentions extremes, such as suicide or wishing Caddy were dead, she barely acknowledges that he’s said anything at all. His words hold no weight. Quentin wants to be the hero, and yet every action in his life is like a rock dropped in a pond that makes no ripple at all.
The isolation that finally drives Quentin over the edge is that he feels from his father. As readers, we know he is most tortured by such memories because they are his first upon waking and his last before the section ends, just before he commits suicide. Still horrified that his sister has lost her virginity, Quentin declares to his father that it was incest. He is trying to be the hero. He wants to take the blame and therefore save his sister from shame and dishonor. Instead of rescuing her, however, he is only ridiculed by his father, who tells him, “you are too serious to give me any cause for alarm” (177). Even more insulting, his father tells him that he will soon forget all about it, and that this only bothering him so much now because, “you cannot bear to think that someday it will no longer hurt you like this” (177). Quentin’s father does not understand that Quentin has been obsessed with southern morals since he was a child. What Quentin sees as serious, his loved ones find trivial; when Quentin tries to take action, he has no effect. In the end, unable to continue being so trapped in his solitude, Quentin chooses to commit suicide. (712)
From a very young age, Quentin is obsessed with the purity of ladies, especially in the case of his sister. When Caddy was only seven, she was playing in the river and realized she was getting her dress wet. Her solution was to take it off; Quentin demanded that she not. When she defies him, “Quentin [slaps] her” (18). His passion for ladylike modesty was not just a phase of his young-adult life, but rather a lifelong obsession. As a Harvard student, his friends mockingly refer to him as the “champion of dames” (167) after he punches a companion for talking indecently about the girls he’s been with. The fight is the second Quentin has gotten into for the sake of defending a lady’s honor, and both times, he’s suffered a miserable defeat. Every time Quentin tries to be the “champion of dames”, he only becomes more and more pathetic in our eyes.
Quentin’s greatest depression comes from the rejection of his beloved ideas from within his own family. Caddy’s promiscuity hurts him deeply. Quentin cannot accept the idea that she willingly lost her virginity outside of wedlock. His first reaction is to start making excuses for Caddy, begging her to tell him, “did he make you then he made you do it let him he was stronger than you and he tomorrow Ill kill him… Caddy you hate him dont you dont you” (151). Quentin’s sense of honor and purity is so warping that he’d rather believe his sister was raped than that she willingly gave herself to the man she loved. Even more devastating to Quentin is how unenthusiastic Caddy is in her responses. He is hysterical, and she is barely paying attention. When Quentin suggests a double suicide as a way to escape, she puts up no struggle, just agrees. As readers, we get the sense she doesn’t even look up when he holds the knife to her throat. Later, when Quentin declares that he wishes Caddy were dead, her only response is, “do you you coming in now” (157). Quentin is trapped in a world where he is isolated by his ideals and never taken seriously. Even when he mentions extremes, such as suicide or wishing Caddy were dead, she barely acknowledges that he’s said anything at all. His words hold no weight. Quentin wants to be the hero, and yet every action in his life is like a rock dropped in a pond that makes no ripple at all.
The isolation that finally drives Quentin over the edge is that he feels from his father. As readers, we know he is most tortured by such memories because they are his first upon waking and his last before the section ends, just before he commits suicide. Still horrified that his sister has lost her virginity, Quentin declares to his father that it was incest. He is trying to be the hero. He wants to take the blame and therefore save his sister from shame and dishonor. Instead of rescuing her, however, he is only ridiculed by his father, who tells him, “you are too serious to give me any cause for alarm” (177). Even more insulting, his father tells him that he will soon forget all about it, and that this only bothering him so much now because, “you cannot bear to think that someday it will no longer hurt you like this” (177). Quentin’s father does not understand that Quentin has been obsessed with southern morals since he was a child. What Quentin sees as serious, his loved ones find trivial; when Quentin tries to take action, he has no effect. In the end, unable to continue being so trapped in his solitude, Quentin chooses to commit suicide. (712)
The Simple View
Because of the precision with which William Faulkner crafted The Sound and the Fury, we know that Benjy’s point-of-view coming first out of the four was no accident. Every aspect of Faulkner’s novel—every word, every sentence—has a purpose, a reason for existing. The order of characters’ sections is no exception. Benjy is drastically different from the other characters; his mind has not evolved beyond that of a two-year-old’s. So why did Faulkner choose his point-of-view over any of the other Compson children’s? Because of Benjy’s mental condition, his ideas concerning what has happened in his lifetime will be the simplest, the least judgmental, and the first impressions Faulkner wants us as readers to establish in our minds.
One of the primary reasons Benjy’s point-of-view is used first is to establish a love and respect in our minds for Caddy. Benjy adores his older sister; as children, he would wait every day at the front gate for her to come home from school. Versh, Benjy’s caretaker when they were children, tells Caddy on one such day that nobody “[could] keep him in…. He kept on until they let him go and he come right straight down here, looking through the gate” (7). Caddy showers Benjy in love and affection. She sleeps with him even after the parents tell Benjy he’s too old to share a bed with Caddy and beats Jason up on the night he cuts up Benjy’s paper dolls. She is his beloved hero. Through Benjy’s eyes, our first glimpses of Caddy are from her younger days when she would outwit the other children into doing whatever she said. She was a bossy little troublemaker that we learned to love because of how sweet she always was to Benjy. In her quote, “It’s a party. Frony dont know anything about it. He wants your lightning bugs, T.P. Let him hold it awhile” (36), we see Caddy caring for Benjy even in the midst of being a know-it-all brat. The scenes involving Caddy entrance the reader; the section revolves around her, even though the thoughts and memories belong to Benjy.
Faulkner’s reason for creating such a positive image of Caddy at first is that her downfall and eventual departure become all the more tragic for us as readers. As Benjy’s mind switches from present to past, we eventually realize that Caddy is gone from his life, and after loving her along with Benjy, we miss her too. Benjy is longing for her in every moment of his day; he cries when he hears the golfers calling to their caddies. Through Benjy’s progressing memories, brought on by his longing, we watch his beloved childhood Caddy becoming a young woman. The fact that Caddy is growing older and Benjy can only stay the same age causes and irreparable separation between the two. For example, the first time Caddy wears perfume, Benjy is horrified; throughout his fondest memories of Caddy, he constantly tells us that “Caddy smelled like trees” (42). The fact that she has a new smell scares Benjy, because he doesn’t want his big sister to change. Unfortunately, neither of them can do anything to stop her changing. Benjy has no way of understanding that Caddy is eventually married off and sent away because she has shamed her family. He just wants his playmate—the girl who gave him the only true love he ever received—to come home. As readers, our hearts break to know that Caddy can never come home. Even if she did, she wouldn’t be the same girl Benjy remembered. He has lost her forever and is doomed to live his life in his memories of her. (612)
One of the primary reasons Benjy’s point-of-view is used first is to establish a love and respect in our minds for Caddy. Benjy adores his older sister; as children, he would wait every day at the front gate for her to come home from school. Versh, Benjy’s caretaker when they were children, tells Caddy on one such day that nobody “[could] keep him in…. He kept on until they let him go and he come right straight down here, looking through the gate” (7). Caddy showers Benjy in love and affection. She sleeps with him even after the parents tell Benjy he’s too old to share a bed with Caddy and beats Jason up on the night he cuts up Benjy’s paper dolls. She is his beloved hero. Through Benjy’s eyes, our first glimpses of Caddy are from her younger days when she would outwit the other children into doing whatever she said. She was a bossy little troublemaker that we learned to love because of how sweet she always was to Benjy. In her quote, “It’s a party. Frony dont know anything about it. He wants your lightning bugs, T.P. Let him hold it awhile” (36), we see Caddy caring for Benjy even in the midst of being a know-it-all brat. The scenes involving Caddy entrance the reader; the section revolves around her, even though the thoughts and memories belong to Benjy.
Faulkner’s reason for creating such a positive image of Caddy at first is that her downfall and eventual departure become all the more tragic for us as readers. As Benjy’s mind switches from present to past, we eventually realize that Caddy is gone from his life, and after loving her along with Benjy, we miss her too. Benjy is longing for her in every moment of his day; he cries when he hears the golfers calling to their caddies. Through Benjy’s progressing memories, brought on by his longing, we watch his beloved childhood Caddy becoming a young woman. The fact that Caddy is growing older and Benjy can only stay the same age causes and irreparable separation between the two. For example, the first time Caddy wears perfume, Benjy is horrified; throughout his fondest memories of Caddy, he constantly tells us that “Caddy smelled like trees” (42). The fact that she has a new smell scares Benjy, because he doesn’t want his big sister to change. Unfortunately, neither of them can do anything to stop her changing. Benjy has no way of understanding that Caddy is eventually married off and sent away because she has shamed her family. He just wants his playmate—the girl who gave him the only true love he ever received—to come home. As readers, our hearts break to know that Caddy can never come home. Even if she did, she wouldn’t be the same girl Benjy remembered. He has lost her forever and is doomed to live his life in his memories of her. (612)
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Manipulation
In “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been” by Joyce Carol Oates, the author explores how conceit coupled with naïveté can be dangerous factors of one’s personality. Connie, the main character, meets a terrible fate as a result of the duo characteristics. Her obsession with her looks as well as her naïve and trusting view of men makes her easily manipulatable. In the short story, Oates shows how such susceptibility to manipulation leads Connie to a terrifying downfall.
Connie’s constant fussing over her looks and tendency to always check her reflection gives us an insight into her insecurities. Desperate to fit in, like any girl, Connie takes pride in the fact that she is beautiful. Unfortunately, she is so reliant on her looks to keep her at her current standing in life that her own appearance controls her life. She is oblivious the dangers her lovely image might attract. While out on the town with her friends, Connie shows no fear about getting in the car with a boy she just met. We get the sense that the attention she receives from boys feeds her fragile confidence. As a result, Connie’s life revolves entirely around her outward appearance and the nameless boys that adore her.
When Arnold Friend, a creepy man Connie saw one night with her friends, drives up to Connie’s house, her reaction is strikingly odd. Rather than puzzle over who this strange man is, how he found her house, and why he is there, Connie whispers, “’Christ, Christ,’ wondering how bad she looked” (15). While our mental alarms are blaring, Connie merely “[dawdles] in the doorway,” wondering “if she liked him or if he was just a jerk” (35). She is gauging the situation, all the while maintaining her charm by little flirtatious actions, such as “[smirking] and [letting] her hair fall loose over one shoulder” (23). We get the impression that Connie uses her conceit about her looks to override her insecurities in her everyday life; now, she is accidentally letting her conceit override her ability to judge the situation as well. We don’t encounter any actual suspicion until Arnold reveals that he knows Connie’s name and other facts about her life. She does not express any real fear until she realizes that he is much older than she, and “her heart [begins] to pound a little faster” (79). Suddenly, Connie finds herself overwhelmed in a situation that came about from her own naïve trust of men.
The story takes a turn as Connie finally becomes afraid of the two strangers on her doorstep. After realizing how much older Arnold Friend and his strange friend Ellie are, she finally suggests that they leave. However, she is already falling prey to Arnold’s tactics of terror. She starts to tell him that her father is coming home, but Arnold shuts her down immediately, reciting more and more facts about her life, such as where her family is and what they are all doing at the exact moment. He is using fear to control Connie. He starts talking casually about what it will be like to rape her, claiming that he is her lover, and Connie is overcome by her terror. He keeps her from calling the police by threatening to come inside if she touches the phone, then warns that he will kill her family if they get home before she comes outside. By scaring her, he successfully cuts Connie off from her only two methods of salvation: the police or her family. He has convinced her that neither will save her. The quick decent of panic over Connie—first when she realizes that she is in a situation well over her head, second when she feels like she has no way to escape—overwhelms her psyche until she cannot function, think, or reason clearly. By manipulating Connie’s conceit and then backing her into a corner, Arnold ensures that she will eventually walk automatically out the door an into his arms. (661)
Connie’s constant fussing over her looks and tendency to always check her reflection gives us an insight into her insecurities. Desperate to fit in, like any girl, Connie takes pride in the fact that she is beautiful. Unfortunately, she is so reliant on her looks to keep her at her current standing in life that her own appearance controls her life. She is oblivious the dangers her lovely image might attract. While out on the town with her friends, Connie shows no fear about getting in the car with a boy she just met. We get the sense that the attention she receives from boys feeds her fragile confidence. As a result, Connie’s life revolves entirely around her outward appearance and the nameless boys that adore her.
When Arnold Friend, a creepy man Connie saw one night with her friends, drives up to Connie’s house, her reaction is strikingly odd. Rather than puzzle over who this strange man is, how he found her house, and why he is there, Connie whispers, “’Christ, Christ,’ wondering how bad she looked” (15). While our mental alarms are blaring, Connie merely “[dawdles] in the doorway,” wondering “if she liked him or if he was just a jerk” (35). She is gauging the situation, all the while maintaining her charm by little flirtatious actions, such as “[smirking] and [letting] her hair fall loose over one shoulder” (23). We get the impression that Connie uses her conceit about her looks to override her insecurities in her everyday life; now, she is accidentally letting her conceit override her ability to judge the situation as well. We don’t encounter any actual suspicion until Arnold reveals that he knows Connie’s name and other facts about her life. She does not express any real fear until she realizes that he is much older than she, and “her heart [begins] to pound a little faster” (79). Suddenly, Connie finds herself overwhelmed in a situation that came about from her own naïve trust of men.
The story takes a turn as Connie finally becomes afraid of the two strangers on her doorstep. After realizing how much older Arnold Friend and his strange friend Ellie are, she finally suggests that they leave. However, she is already falling prey to Arnold’s tactics of terror. She starts to tell him that her father is coming home, but Arnold shuts her down immediately, reciting more and more facts about her life, such as where her family is and what they are all doing at the exact moment. He is using fear to control Connie. He starts talking casually about what it will be like to rape her, claiming that he is her lover, and Connie is overcome by her terror. He keeps her from calling the police by threatening to come inside if she touches the phone, then warns that he will kill her family if they get home before she comes outside. By scaring her, he successfully cuts Connie off from her only two methods of salvation: the police or her family. He has convinced her that neither will save her. The quick decent of panic over Connie—first when she realizes that she is in a situation well over her head, second when she feels like she has no way to escape—overwhelms her psyche until she cannot function, think, or reason clearly. By manipulating Connie’s conceit and then backing her into a corner, Arnold ensures that she will eventually walk automatically out the door an into his arms. (661)
Friday, September 28, 2007
Overactive Imagination
For any writer, a vivid imagination can be not only the greatest gift, but also the most terrifying curse. Catch a writer daydreaming and immediately, one can assume that said writer is creating entire worlds behind the typical distant gaze. The slightest inspiration can spark entire volumes of fictional characters and situations. Unfortunately, such an ability can prove dangerous. As exemplified in the short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, an imagination stuck on just one subject can insight anywhere between a loss of focus to total insanity. The main character, left with no outlet for her creativity, was forced to occupy her mind with a horrid pattern on the yellow wallpaper that covered her room; in the end, it drove her to insanity.
The narrator’s husband, a physician named John who loves his wife dearly, is unknowingly the cause of her downfall. Because she suffers from “temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency” (9), her husband has commanded that she does not write at all and remain in bed for as much of the day as she can. Such orders have devastating consequences for a woman with such a big imagination. Our first clue about her creative ability comes in the very beginning of the story, when she clings to the idea that the mansion they have moved into is haunted. Forced to rest all the time, the poor woman is looking for anything to occupy her mind. Once she is moved to her room, the narrator immediately tells us about the wallpaper, “one of those sprawling, flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin” (32). As the story picks up, the narrator talks less about the house or John and more about the wallpaper. We are forced to stare at it with her, trying to follow its terrible curves and drops and stops, all the while writhing in the wretchedness of its yellow color. As time passes on, the wallpaper gains a disgusting allure; the narrator “[follows] that pattern by the hour. It is as good as gymnastics” (93). When she is not talking of the decoration, the narrator tells us about how she is not supposed to be writing. She has to hide her work whenever John or one of the servants comes to check on her. While she secretly writes on occasion—“But I must say what I feel and think in some way—it is such a relief!” (105)—we can easily detect the guilt she feels for doing so. Thus deterred from using writing as a relief and release for her imagination, the narrator spends more and more time trying to decipher the wallpaper.
Near the final month of the couple’s three-month lease on the house, we finally learn of the narrator’s growing hallucinations. Her insanity begins when she imagines seeing a “woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern” (121). At first, the creeping woman is a casual mention, something easy for us to understand. Our eyes can easily play tricks on us if we stare at an object for too long. The narrator, however, begins to talk more about the shapes she is discovering in the wallpapers; she becomes more convinced that the woman in the wallpaper is real, not just a trick of the eyes. Her imagination, forced to contain itself almost entirely in her upstairs room, clings to the idea of the wallpaper containing a deeper mystery. She has lost control. The narrator, so imprisoned by an illness that no one can make sense of, is consumed by the idea of another woman imprisoned by a pattern that no one can make sense of. The creeping woman hides in the daylight, but “in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard” (187); similarly, the narrator pretends she is not miserable when anyone is around, but as soon as she is alone, she too shakes her metaphorical bars. Every piece of information that we are told about the creeping woman can be paralleled by the narrator’s life.
By the end of the story, the narrator has been driven completely crazy by the multiple physicians’ attempts to suppress her imagination. She has completely lost touch with reality and can no longer distinguish between herself and the woman trapped inside the wallpaper. Her desperation to escape her own prison of boredom drives her to “free” the woman. In a sense, she is living out her own desire through the character of her imagination. By slipping into the mind of the creeping woman, the narrator’s room turns from a symbol of imprisonment to a symbol of freedom. The power of the narrator’s imagination—focused only on her delusions of another being longing for escape from the patterns in the wallpaper—leads to her ultimate downfall. (809)
The narrator’s husband, a physician named John who loves his wife dearly, is unknowingly the cause of her downfall. Because she suffers from “temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency” (9), her husband has commanded that she does not write at all and remain in bed for as much of the day as she can. Such orders have devastating consequences for a woman with such a big imagination. Our first clue about her creative ability comes in the very beginning of the story, when she clings to the idea that the mansion they have moved into is haunted. Forced to rest all the time, the poor woman is looking for anything to occupy her mind. Once she is moved to her room, the narrator immediately tells us about the wallpaper, “one of those sprawling, flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin” (32). As the story picks up, the narrator talks less about the house or John and more about the wallpaper. We are forced to stare at it with her, trying to follow its terrible curves and drops and stops, all the while writhing in the wretchedness of its yellow color. As time passes on, the wallpaper gains a disgusting allure; the narrator “[follows] that pattern by the hour. It is as good as gymnastics” (93). When she is not talking of the decoration, the narrator tells us about how she is not supposed to be writing. She has to hide her work whenever John or one of the servants comes to check on her. While she secretly writes on occasion—“But I must say what I feel and think in some way—it is such a relief!” (105)—we can easily detect the guilt she feels for doing so. Thus deterred from using writing as a relief and release for her imagination, the narrator spends more and more time trying to decipher the wallpaper.
Near the final month of the couple’s three-month lease on the house, we finally learn of the narrator’s growing hallucinations. Her insanity begins when she imagines seeing a “woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern” (121). At first, the creeping woman is a casual mention, something easy for us to understand. Our eyes can easily play tricks on us if we stare at an object for too long. The narrator, however, begins to talk more about the shapes she is discovering in the wallpapers; she becomes more convinced that the woman in the wallpaper is real, not just a trick of the eyes. Her imagination, forced to contain itself almost entirely in her upstairs room, clings to the idea of the wallpaper containing a deeper mystery. She has lost control. The narrator, so imprisoned by an illness that no one can make sense of, is consumed by the idea of another woman imprisoned by a pattern that no one can make sense of. The creeping woman hides in the daylight, but “in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard” (187); similarly, the narrator pretends she is not miserable when anyone is around, but as soon as she is alone, she too shakes her metaphorical bars. Every piece of information that we are told about the creeping woman can be paralleled by the narrator’s life.
By the end of the story, the narrator has been driven completely crazy by the multiple physicians’ attempts to suppress her imagination. She has completely lost touch with reality and can no longer distinguish between herself and the woman trapped inside the wallpaper. Her desperation to escape her own prison of boredom drives her to “free” the woman. In a sense, she is living out her own desire through the character of her imagination. By slipping into the mind of the creeping woman, the narrator’s room turns from a symbol of imprisonment to a symbol of freedom. The power of the narrator’s imagination—focused only on her delusions of another being longing for escape from the patterns in the wallpaper—leads to her ultimate downfall. (809)
Thursday, September 20, 2007
The Wrong Path
Note: The spelling errors in the quotes are not careless errors on my part; they appear in the story as such.
Of all the factors present in our lives, none can so completely affect or alter our final outcome as much as the element of choice. For centuries, choice has been an object of debate—what is free will, what is destiny, and can they coexist? If we choose the wrong path, will there be any way to retrace our steps? Authors have tackled such questions in great multitudes. In “A Good Man is Hard to Find”, Flannery O’Conner gives us a small glimpse of a man named Misfit and where his choices have led him. However, what originally seems to be just an account of an emotionally disturbed criminal can, on deeper inspection, be viewed as a parable about the affect choice has on our lives.
The Misfit first comes in contact with the main characters after they have had a car accident that leaves them stranded on a deserted road in Georgia. After a few tense minutes of strange conversation, the Grandmother screams that she recognizes the Misfit as the murderer from the newspapers. Unfortunately for the family, her outburst might be the reason they are all killed in the end, as is hinted when the Misfit says, “but it would have been better for all of you, lady, if you hadn’t of reckernized me” (84). Instantly, the story’s pace accelerates. Misfit’s accomplices take the father and the son out to the woods to kill them while the Grandmother, who seems panicked and unable to think clearly, starts shouting at the Misfit that he is a good man. He responds nonchalantly, “Nome, I ain’t a good man” (100), leading the reader to wonder if his morality is something he’s forced himself to accept. His easy response sounds almost automatic, pre-rehearsed so that he could give it quickly, without having to think about the deeper meaning. His acceptance that he is not a good man is further illustrated when he denies Jesus and declares, “I don’t want no hep…. I’m doing all right by myself” (122); he is stubborn because he doesn’t want to admit that there is another way to live his life. His quick dismissal of there being any good in him at all—any shred of evidence of another side to him—shows just how much he is trying to ignore a part of himself. To acknowledge that he has a good side, or at least some good in him, would be to acknowledge that he had once made a choice—he could have followed his heart in either direction, good or bad. He doesn’t want to regret his choice to live his life by the darker side of his soul, and so he denies that he ever had a choice by proclaiming that there was never any good in him.
Not until the end of the story does the Misfit finally allude to having a choice in life. The grandmother is desperately trying to tell him to pray to Jesus in order to find the good in himself, but the Misfit seems almost lost in his own world. His first mention of a choice is when he tells the grandmother, “if [Jesus] did what He said, then it’s nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow Him, and if He didn’t, then it’s nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can” (135). In a sense, he’s shifted the blame to Jesus; if he had any proof that Jesus had truly raised the dead, then of course he would follow Jesus and be a good man. Because he has no proof, however, he believes one’s faith determines how they will live their life. He is trying to convince himself that he doesn’t believe Jesus raised the dead, which is why he is living his life in “meanness” (135). His uncertainty becomes perfectly clear, however, when he says to the grandmother, “It ain’t right that I wasn’t there because if I had been there, I would of known…. and I wouldn’t be like I am now” (137). Through the quote, the Misfit accidentally expresses his wish that he had solid proof of Jesus raising the dead because the proof would have given him a reason to be a good man. His emotions are bursting out of him right then; he has likely forgotten that he’s talking to the grandmother at all. He seems like he has tried to forget that he once had a choice and that he personally elected to follow a life of meanness, but the grandmother’s persisting that he is a good man has forced his regret to the surface. He is so lost in his self-confession that it is not until the grandmother touches his shoulder that he is snapped back to reality and shoots her. After his sudden awakening, he immediately puts his guard back up, forcing himself to be numb to his own acts of meanness. However, his final declaration of regret, which only us readers can understand for what it is, occurs when Bobby Lee says that he sees “[shooting the grandmother] every minute of her life” (141) as fun. The Misfit retorts, “Shut up, Bobby Lee…. It’s no real pleasure in life” (368), an inference to his reluctant belief that if he had chosen to be a good man, not a murderer, he might have actually found some “real pleasure in life” (368). (917 words)
Of all the factors present in our lives, none can so completely affect or alter our final outcome as much as the element of choice. For centuries, choice has been an object of debate—what is free will, what is destiny, and can they coexist? If we choose the wrong path, will there be any way to retrace our steps? Authors have tackled such questions in great multitudes. In “A Good Man is Hard to Find”, Flannery O’Conner gives us a small glimpse of a man named Misfit and where his choices have led him. However, what originally seems to be just an account of an emotionally disturbed criminal can, on deeper inspection, be viewed as a parable about the affect choice has on our lives.
The Misfit first comes in contact with the main characters after they have had a car accident that leaves them stranded on a deserted road in Georgia. After a few tense minutes of strange conversation, the Grandmother screams that she recognizes the Misfit as the murderer from the newspapers. Unfortunately for the family, her outburst might be the reason they are all killed in the end, as is hinted when the Misfit says, “but it would have been better for all of you, lady, if you hadn’t of reckernized me” (84). Instantly, the story’s pace accelerates. Misfit’s accomplices take the father and the son out to the woods to kill them while the Grandmother, who seems panicked and unable to think clearly, starts shouting at the Misfit that he is a good man. He responds nonchalantly, “Nome, I ain’t a good man” (100), leading the reader to wonder if his morality is something he’s forced himself to accept. His easy response sounds almost automatic, pre-rehearsed so that he could give it quickly, without having to think about the deeper meaning. His acceptance that he is not a good man is further illustrated when he denies Jesus and declares, “I don’t want no hep…. I’m doing all right by myself” (122); he is stubborn because he doesn’t want to admit that there is another way to live his life. His quick dismissal of there being any good in him at all—any shred of evidence of another side to him—shows just how much he is trying to ignore a part of himself. To acknowledge that he has a good side, or at least some good in him, would be to acknowledge that he had once made a choice—he could have followed his heart in either direction, good or bad. He doesn’t want to regret his choice to live his life by the darker side of his soul, and so he denies that he ever had a choice by proclaiming that there was never any good in him.
Not until the end of the story does the Misfit finally allude to having a choice in life. The grandmother is desperately trying to tell him to pray to Jesus in order to find the good in himself, but the Misfit seems almost lost in his own world. His first mention of a choice is when he tells the grandmother, “if [Jesus] did what He said, then it’s nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow Him, and if He didn’t, then it’s nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can” (135). In a sense, he’s shifted the blame to Jesus; if he had any proof that Jesus had truly raised the dead, then of course he would follow Jesus and be a good man. Because he has no proof, however, he believes one’s faith determines how they will live their life. He is trying to convince himself that he doesn’t believe Jesus raised the dead, which is why he is living his life in “meanness” (135). His uncertainty becomes perfectly clear, however, when he says to the grandmother, “It ain’t right that I wasn’t there because if I had been there, I would of known…. and I wouldn’t be like I am now” (137). Through the quote, the Misfit accidentally expresses his wish that he had solid proof of Jesus raising the dead because the proof would have given him a reason to be a good man. His emotions are bursting out of him right then; he has likely forgotten that he’s talking to the grandmother at all. He seems like he has tried to forget that he once had a choice and that he personally elected to follow a life of meanness, but the grandmother’s persisting that he is a good man has forced his regret to the surface. He is so lost in his self-confession that it is not until the grandmother touches his shoulder that he is snapped back to reality and shoots her. After his sudden awakening, he immediately puts his guard back up, forcing himself to be numb to his own acts of meanness. However, his final declaration of regret, which only us readers can understand for what it is, occurs when Bobby Lee says that he sees “[shooting the grandmother] every minute of her life” (141) as fun. The Misfit retorts, “Shut up, Bobby Lee…. It’s no real pleasure in life” (368), an inference to his reluctant belief that if he had chosen to be a good man, not a murderer, he might have actually found some “real pleasure in life” (368). (917 words)
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Hopes Laid to Waste
While I was reading “Teenage Wasteland,” I was struck by how many different techniques the author used to break our hearts. In telling the story of one young boy’s downfall, Anne Tyler brilliantly uses the power of hope to disguise the ending. Though she capitalizes on many different scenes, moments, and methods to give the story its depth, Tyler’s greatest achievement is the reaction she evokes by telling the story through the eyes of the mother.
From our first impression of Daisy, we feel sympathetic towards her. Right from the beginning, Tyler portrays Daisy as a woman who has good intentions but can never quite pull it all together. Our first image of Daisy is that of her “clutching her purse” (2) and feeling ashamed as she sits on the principal’s couch, listening to him talk about Donny’s shortcomings. We see Daisy’s attempts to help her son, such as supervising his homework, and easily share her disappointment in his minimal efforts. Daisy is, in fact, so caught up in helping Donny that she has little time for anything else. Her daughter is ignored, and Daisy usually starts supper late. All within the first page, Tyler paints the portrait of a struggling mother who is completely exhausted from trying to help her son, frustrated by his lack of improvement despite her sacrifices, and unappreciated for her efforts.
As we watch and sympathize with Daisy’s struggles, the continuing bad news about her son becomes even harder to bear. After two pages of no progress, we logically cling to Donny’s tutor, Calvin Beadle, as our hope for the boy. To hope for Donny’s progress is to hope for his mother to not feel so defeated. Tyler feeds us bits and pieces to raise our spirits, such as Donny’s teachers noticing and commenting on his attitude improvements. Unfortunately, all-too-quickly, the story takes a turn for the worse: Donny’s grades are slipping, Cal and his students are becoming increasingly questionable, and finally, Donny is expelled. As we read, we can only anticipate the disappointment Daisy must feel. Strangely enough, Tyler describes Daisy’s physical actions and inner dialogue much more than her actual emotions. We are left to fill in the blanks.
An interesting question concerning “Teenage Wasteland” is why Anne Tyler chose to tell it through Daisy’s eyes. Though the story is in third person, Daisy is clearly the main character, and we are made to follow her take on what has happened. Tyler, however, could have easily told the story from Donny’s perspective, in which case we would probably not sympathize with Daisy at all. From his point of view, Daisy would be controlling and oppressing; Donny says his parents, “acted like wardens” (34). Through Daisy’s eyes, we start to feel a little bitter towards Cal, the way wins over Donny’s affections, and the way he replaces Daisy. In the eyes of Donny, however, Cal would be a hero, the one adult who believed in him and understood him. Instead, Tyler wants us to see Daisy’s struggle. She tells us how Daisy lays awake at night, wondering where she went wrong. We are not made to see Daisy’s mistakes. We’re supposed to see how hard she works, how much she loves her son, and how much she’s willing to give up for him. Daisy is what Donny would call “controlling” because she wants to keep her son safe. We can appreciate how tough it must be for her to turn the power over to Calvin. Donny, however, shows no appreciation; he continues to call her controlling just to get what he wants. Despite Daisy’s every best effort, she just cannot do anything to get ahead. With the story told from Daisy’s point of view, we ignore any other character’s struggles; we care only about Daisy.
At the end of Tyler’s rollercoaster, we are given one last peak of hope: Daisy takes back the control. She resists manipulation on the part of Donny and Cal, both of whom are arguing that the beer and cigarettes found in Donny’s locker were not his fault. Rather than rushing to do anything to prove to Donny that she trusts him, Daisy finally listens to her own common sense. She enters him into a public school instead of the Brantly School mentioned by Cal and Donny, then withdraws him from his tutoring sessions with Cal. We start to hope that Daisy’s ability to finally take a stand will lead to improved conditions with her son. Such hope, however, is short lived. The worst tragedy of all hits us the moment we learn that Donny has run away. Suddenly, every struggle we fought through with Daisy becomes meaningless. Despite her every effort and all our sympathy, she has lost her son. The story closes with Daisy still wondering “what went wrong, where they made their first mistake” (112). We have been given just enough small glimpses of hope throughout the story that such an ending is truly heartbreaking. By telling the story from the mother’s perspective, Tyler uses every technique possible to make the story a hauntingly powerful and sad recount of human failure. (854)
From our first impression of Daisy, we feel sympathetic towards her. Right from the beginning, Tyler portrays Daisy as a woman who has good intentions but can never quite pull it all together. Our first image of Daisy is that of her “clutching her purse” (2) and feeling ashamed as she sits on the principal’s couch, listening to him talk about Donny’s shortcomings. We see Daisy’s attempts to help her son, such as supervising his homework, and easily share her disappointment in his minimal efforts. Daisy is, in fact, so caught up in helping Donny that she has little time for anything else. Her daughter is ignored, and Daisy usually starts supper late. All within the first page, Tyler paints the portrait of a struggling mother who is completely exhausted from trying to help her son, frustrated by his lack of improvement despite her sacrifices, and unappreciated for her efforts.
As we watch and sympathize with Daisy’s struggles, the continuing bad news about her son becomes even harder to bear. After two pages of no progress, we logically cling to Donny’s tutor, Calvin Beadle, as our hope for the boy. To hope for Donny’s progress is to hope for his mother to not feel so defeated. Tyler feeds us bits and pieces to raise our spirits, such as Donny’s teachers noticing and commenting on his attitude improvements. Unfortunately, all-too-quickly, the story takes a turn for the worse: Donny’s grades are slipping, Cal and his students are becoming increasingly questionable, and finally, Donny is expelled. As we read, we can only anticipate the disappointment Daisy must feel. Strangely enough, Tyler describes Daisy’s physical actions and inner dialogue much more than her actual emotions. We are left to fill in the blanks.
An interesting question concerning “Teenage Wasteland” is why Anne Tyler chose to tell it through Daisy’s eyes. Though the story is in third person, Daisy is clearly the main character, and we are made to follow her take on what has happened. Tyler, however, could have easily told the story from Donny’s perspective, in which case we would probably not sympathize with Daisy at all. From his point of view, Daisy would be controlling and oppressing; Donny says his parents, “acted like wardens” (34). Through Daisy’s eyes, we start to feel a little bitter towards Cal, the way wins over Donny’s affections, and the way he replaces Daisy. In the eyes of Donny, however, Cal would be a hero, the one adult who believed in him and understood him. Instead, Tyler wants us to see Daisy’s struggle. She tells us how Daisy lays awake at night, wondering where she went wrong. We are not made to see Daisy’s mistakes. We’re supposed to see how hard she works, how much she loves her son, and how much she’s willing to give up for him. Daisy is what Donny would call “controlling” because she wants to keep her son safe. We can appreciate how tough it must be for her to turn the power over to Calvin. Donny, however, shows no appreciation; he continues to call her controlling just to get what he wants. Despite Daisy’s every best effort, she just cannot do anything to get ahead. With the story told from Daisy’s point of view, we ignore any other character’s struggles; we care only about Daisy.
At the end of Tyler’s rollercoaster, we are given one last peak of hope: Daisy takes back the control. She resists manipulation on the part of Donny and Cal, both of whom are arguing that the beer and cigarettes found in Donny’s locker were not his fault. Rather than rushing to do anything to prove to Donny that she trusts him, Daisy finally listens to her own common sense. She enters him into a public school instead of the Brantly School mentioned by Cal and Donny, then withdraws him from his tutoring sessions with Cal. We start to hope that Daisy’s ability to finally take a stand will lead to improved conditions with her son. Such hope, however, is short lived. The worst tragedy of all hits us the moment we learn that Donny has run away. Suddenly, every struggle we fought through with Daisy becomes meaningless. Despite her every effort and all our sympathy, she has lost her son. The story closes with Daisy still wondering “what went wrong, where they made their first mistake” (112). We have been given just enough small glimpses of hope throughout the story that such an ending is truly heartbreaking. By telling the story from the mother’s perspective, Tyler uses every technique possible to make the story a hauntingly powerful and sad recount of human failure. (854)
Friday, August 31, 2007
Curious Trust
Powerful, gripping, widely-loved novels are characterized by many different writing techniques. Of these techniques, one of the most effective is an author’s ability to create a character that any reader can identify with. Even if the character thinks and acts differently than the reader would, a reader’s ability to recognize human reactions and instincts in the character will help to cement the connection. In the case of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon, the author is faced with the difficult task of making an identifiable character out of a boy who is autistic and therefore very set apart in his way of thinking. As Haddon recounts a story through Christopher Boone’s eyes, he finds ways to emphasize the familiar human traits present in the teenager’s autistic mind through the element of trust.
Christopher’s life revolves around patterns and similarities. He trusts that life will stay the same. He trusts concepts such as math and time because they can never change. For example, when Christopher is arrested at the beginning of the novel for hitting a policeman, he is taken to jail and asked to remove is personal belongings. Christopher tells his readers, however, that when they try to take his watch, he tells them, “that I needed to keep my watch on because I needed to know exactly what time it was. And when they tried to take it off me, I screamed” (13). In strange and unfamiliar surroundings, time is the only constant the boy can trust.
Christopher likes knowing what is going to happen and how he should react. For example, he later talks about how if he sees a classmate on the ground, he checks them for signs of an epileptic attack. Christopher can place a certain level of trust in being able to identify what is wrong with a classmate and what is the appropriate reaction. Patterns, whether in math or reality, of action and reaction give Christopher a feeling of safety. He explains to the reader on page 33 that he does not believe in Heaven or God because nobody knows where Heaven or God is. He cannot see or prove either concept for himself, and therefore, he has no reason to place his trust in them.
Christopher’s father is a key character in showing just how momentous his son’s trust or lack-there-of can be. The boy has learned to trust his father’s habits. He knows his father is quick to anger, and he recognizes when to be quiet because he has made his father angry: action and reaction. In Christopher’s life, where consistency—a pattern what is going to happen every day that he can count on—is absolutely key, his father provides the most stability. For this reason, when Christopher discovers that his father has lied to him about his mother’s death, a part of his world shatters. Suddenly surrounded by the unfamiliar, the idea that his mother is alive and that he cannot trust his father, Christopher shuts down. Right after his father confesses to killing Wellington, Christopher thinks to himself, “Father had murdered Wellington. That meant he could murder me, because I couldn’t trust him, even though he had said “Trust me,” because he had told a lie about a big thing” (122). Christopher has no logical reason to think he is in any danger from his father, but his life is broken down into two categories: what he can trust and what he cannot trust. There is no middle ground. Haddon elegantly crafted situations and thought patterns up to this point to show the reader how fundamental trust is in Christopher’s life. By the time the reader reaches the scene where Christopher loses all confidence in his father, the reader has learned to understand the boy’s reaction and sudden distance from the parent.
Haddon very eloquently presents the inner workings of Christopher’s mind to the reader so that he becomes an identifiable character. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is a gripping novel because as the reader gets deeper into the novel, he or she becomes able to understand Christopher’s thinking and motive-for-action as well as feel sympathetic towards the father and his struggle to regain Christopher’s precious trust. Such fundamental human concepts help to make the book one that will linger in any book-lover’s heart. (723)
Christopher’s life revolves around patterns and similarities. He trusts that life will stay the same. He trusts concepts such as math and time because they can never change. For example, when Christopher is arrested at the beginning of the novel for hitting a policeman, he is taken to jail and asked to remove is personal belongings. Christopher tells his readers, however, that when they try to take his watch, he tells them, “that I needed to keep my watch on because I needed to know exactly what time it was. And when they tried to take it off me, I screamed” (13). In strange and unfamiliar surroundings, time is the only constant the boy can trust.
Christopher likes knowing what is going to happen and how he should react. For example, he later talks about how if he sees a classmate on the ground, he checks them for signs of an epileptic attack. Christopher can place a certain level of trust in being able to identify what is wrong with a classmate and what is the appropriate reaction. Patterns, whether in math or reality, of action and reaction give Christopher a feeling of safety. He explains to the reader on page 33 that he does not believe in Heaven or God because nobody knows where Heaven or God is. He cannot see or prove either concept for himself, and therefore, he has no reason to place his trust in them.
Christopher’s father is a key character in showing just how momentous his son’s trust or lack-there-of can be. The boy has learned to trust his father’s habits. He knows his father is quick to anger, and he recognizes when to be quiet because he has made his father angry: action and reaction. In Christopher’s life, where consistency—a pattern what is going to happen every day that he can count on—is absolutely key, his father provides the most stability. For this reason, when Christopher discovers that his father has lied to him about his mother’s death, a part of his world shatters. Suddenly surrounded by the unfamiliar, the idea that his mother is alive and that he cannot trust his father, Christopher shuts down. Right after his father confesses to killing Wellington, Christopher thinks to himself, “Father had murdered Wellington. That meant he could murder me, because I couldn’t trust him, even though he had said “Trust me,” because he had told a lie about a big thing” (122). Christopher has no logical reason to think he is in any danger from his father, but his life is broken down into two categories: what he can trust and what he cannot trust. There is no middle ground. Haddon elegantly crafted situations and thought patterns up to this point to show the reader how fundamental trust is in Christopher’s life. By the time the reader reaches the scene where Christopher loses all confidence in his father, the reader has learned to understand the boy’s reaction and sudden distance from the parent.
Haddon very eloquently presents the inner workings of Christopher’s mind to the reader so that he becomes an identifiable character. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is a gripping novel because as the reader gets deeper into the novel, he or she becomes able to understand Christopher’s thinking and motive-for-action as well as feel sympathetic towards the father and his struggle to regain Christopher’s precious trust. Such fundamental human concepts help to make the book one that will linger in any book-lover’s heart. (723)
Monday, August 27, 2007
Writing and Balance
Dear Mr. Coon,
I have spent the better part of my seventeen years falling in love with reading and writing. I adore being able to submerge myself in a novel; I become oblivious to the world around me. I used to spend entire baseball games with my dad eating peanuts and reading. Not even the fans, screaming as they jumped to their feet around me, could distract me from my book. During episodes of boredom where a book was not permitted—such as church, thanksgiving, or math class—I brought stories to life inside my own mind. By fifth grade, writing had become my favorite hobby and was largely responsible for the missing homeworks that showed up on my report cards. While the other kids aspired to be astronauts or doctors or movie stars, I set my heart on becoming an author.
When I entered the high school at PCDS, I finally had to learn about this funny thing called “balance.” I couldn’t just read and write; I needed to study too. Getting lost in a book has since become a luxury I save for holidays and summer. After a few grueling months of academics, I love rewarding myself with page-turning thrillers or mysteries, such as Maximum Ride by James Patterson or The Lake of Dead Languages by Carol Goodman. Writing, however, is my true passion. Six years ago, I dreamt of a world dominated by Street-Kids who had been orphaned during WWIII and were now banding together to survive. For six years, the idea has grown inside my imagination and my computer’s hard drive. While I sometimes digress to write short stories or school papers, my book dominates most of my writing time. Besides my half-finished novel, I also take pride in the papers I wrote last year during Ms. Garagiola’s composition class. Her class was my only way to continue writing during Junior Year, and I loved the way she challenged my style and forced me to rethink every word I put on the page. Through that class, I was able to identify my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. I believe my strength lies in my ability to project any image or emotion directly onto my readers; I love to describe. My weakness lies in my love of words; I occasionally use them too much. I am still growing as a young author. I want to succeed, and the only way to do that is to keep writing.
As Sean Connery so brilliantly stated in Finding Forrester, “Writers write.” (421)
I have spent the better part of my seventeen years falling in love with reading and writing. I adore being able to submerge myself in a novel; I become oblivious to the world around me. I used to spend entire baseball games with my dad eating peanuts and reading. Not even the fans, screaming as they jumped to their feet around me, could distract me from my book. During episodes of boredom where a book was not permitted—such as church, thanksgiving, or math class—I brought stories to life inside my own mind. By fifth grade, writing had become my favorite hobby and was largely responsible for the missing homeworks that showed up on my report cards. While the other kids aspired to be astronauts or doctors or movie stars, I set my heart on becoming an author.
When I entered the high school at PCDS, I finally had to learn about this funny thing called “balance.” I couldn’t just read and write; I needed to study too. Getting lost in a book has since become a luxury I save for holidays and summer. After a few grueling months of academics, I love rewarding myself with page-turning thrillers or mysteries, such as Maximum Ride by James Patterson or The Lake of Dead Languages by Carol Goodman. Writing, however, is my true passion. Six years ago, I dreamt of a world dominated by Street-Kids who had been orphaned during WWIII and were now banding together to survive. For six years, the idea has grown inside my imagination and my computer’s hard drive. While I sometimes digress to write short stories or school papers, my book dominates most of my writing time. Besides my half-finished novel, I also take pride in the papers I wrote last year during Ms. Garagiola’s composition class. Her class was my only way to continue writing during Junior Year, and I loved the way she challenged my style and forced me to rethink every word I put on the page. Through that class, I was able to identify my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. I believe my strength lies in my ability to project any image or emotion directly onto my readers; I love to describe. My weakness lies in my love of words; I occasionally use them too much. I am still growing as a young author. I want to succeed, and the only way to do that is to keep writing.
As Sean Connery so brilliantly stated in Finding Forrester, “Writers write.” (421)
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