Marxist Criticism- -Group 5

Well I must admit that when it was announced what school of criticism I would be studying, I wasn't too thrilled with the news that I was placed in the Marxist group. Why couldn't I have the joy of studying something that I knew a bit about, such as feminism or psychoanalysis? Essentially it came down to the reality that I was clueless about Marxism, a state of being which I am not especially fond of. There are two upsides to this story, however, which I discovered later.

First, I got placed with some really amazing students who have a passion for literature, great personalities, and the ability to get things accomplished. Ben-thank you for filming and editing and for your constant (and contagious) smile. Chelsea- you are a blast and I will always remember that shake of you head which says "you guys are ridiculous and I love it." Lisa-your cheerfulness and go-get-em attitude was such a pleasure to work with. Kyle- I don't know where to start, your beard was awesome and I hope Karl won't be upset that you didn't give it back. Heather-umm...I mean Don Quixote, you are a kick in the pants...you make me laugh all the time and you played your part perfectly. Danielle-I am glad you were willing to work things out so that you could be a part of this group, and you did a commendable job with the narration.

Second, I was able to learn something new. Learning is a gift and I am so thankful that I got the chance to dive into Marxist criticism and not only discover what it was but also see it throughout works of literature. Marxist criticism stems from the dialectical and socialist theories of Karl Marx. The focus is on the social class of the author and how that is reflected in his/her work, as well as the social hierarchies that are seen throughout the texts. Essentially, Marxists believe that a work of literature is not a result of divine inspiration or pure artistic endeavor (such as someone like Samuel Coleridge believes), but that it arises out of the economic and ideological circumstances surrounding its creation. When you put on the Marxist spectacles, you can see that many texts exhibit Marxist ideals. As we discussed on Wednesday, Don Quixote shows that struggle between the classes, especially when looking at the interactions between DQ and Sancho Panza. DQ is of the upper class so he believes himself to be above such things as paying for lodging...it is Sancho who ends up paying, suffering, and taking beatings that belong to his master because he is of the lower class.

Thank you Dr. Sexson, I admit that you knew what you are doing in making us complete all of these assignments and I acknowledge that you made the right choice when placing me in the Marxist group, thank you! =)

Group 5 - - From Story to Reality!

It was early Saturday morning as I pulled up to International Coffee Traders and walked inside for my group meeting. I was slightly overwhelmed and frustrated knowing that our group had almost no idea what we were doing and I had more than a bit of homework to accomplish. We all grabbed a hot beverage and sat down to discuss possibilities and nail down specifics. After several minutes of talking about everything BUT Marxist criticism and our presentation, the thought came to me that since Dr. Sexson says tangents are the truly important parts of conversations, we should just get up in front of class and go off about whatever we choose. On second thought, however, we came to the general consensus that improvisation would be a better alternative and more entertaining. So off we went in our separate directions to gather props and then rendezvous at Kirk Park.

No one would believe what took place at that park.....how can I explain the transformation that we all made from normal, "boring," college students, to critics and characters from the great novel "Don Quixote."All of a sudden it was no longer about a mere project, it became about taking on the characteristics of those characters that we were imitating. Don Quixote was spot on when he assumed that you could become like someone or something else simply through imitation. The line between who I was and who I was trying to be began to fade....Slowly I became less of myself and developed the mindset and the actions of Don Quixote's squire Sancho Panza. The things I said and did were not planned out or organized, they were random and explosive and somehow quite befitting of the little squire. Filming that day is something I will never forget for countless reasons; so many memories were made and laughs were shared, yet I learned more than I ever would have expected. I actually have to admit that it was worth putting in the time, even though, upon first hearing about another assignment, I was loathe to do it.



This experience taught me something very valuable about reality. We have often entered into discussion about stories that aren't "real" and how uneducated individuals consider them "useless" because they are so far fetched. What truly is far fetched though? Isn't anything possible if you "suspend disbelief" and allow it to become a part of your reality. I have learned that the answer is yes. A story such as Don Quixote is nothing short of far fetched and untrue if you choose to view it that way, yet, if you give it a chance, it can become so much more. Stories come alive if we let them, if we embody them, if we enter into them. Some may argue with me on this but I know that I experienced Don Quixote, I was not just an observer but a part of the story. I could have read that book a hundred times and not have understood it as much as I did when I acted it out. So...this is how I would now enter into a conversation with someone who asked me the all to famous question....

Uneducated/none English major: "Sarah, what is the point of stories that aren't even true?"

Me: "What do you mean?"

Uneducated/none English major: "I just don't see how they have a point!"

Me: "Do you have a point?"

Uneducated/none English major:"Yes what does that have to do with this?"

Me: "Every story is true, it happened; in fact, these stories are as real as you!"

Uneducated/none English major:"You are crazy, you must be an English major."

Me: "Actually I'm not, I have just come to realize that the characters in every story are just as real as you and I. They may fill the pages of a novel, yet they can step off the page and walk beside you, offer you an apple, make you drink disgusting balm, fly with you on a fake horse that isn't really flying, and fight with you to open a bottle of champagne!"

Uneducated/none English major:"I still don't understand, you are not making any sense!"

Me: "Maybe you should join an English class on literary criticism, you could learn a thing or two (or a hundred). If you prefer, however, you can just stay in your state of ignorance. In the meantime I am off to find Don Quixote- I did, after all, promise to follow him to the ends of the earth!!

--The End

The Idea of Order at Key West- - - - Wallace Stevens

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard.
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.



I was thinking about this poem tonight and decided that my blog would simply not be complete without it. I am amazed at how much this poem has become a part of me-like breathing in and breathing out. When the words come out of my mouth, they are not forced, nor do I need to rack my brain for what comes next, instead they flow out like the tide and surprise me with their clarity. I never would have imagined that this would be the case when I first sat back, closed my eyes, and listened to Dr. Sexson’s enchanting voice as he recited the poem to us for the first time. I find that I am very thankful that he “forced” the memorization of these words upon us because no matter how the seasons change and the winds of affliction blow, only death or disease can rob these words from the place they have taken root in my heart and mind.

Reader Response

I found myself quite impressed with the presentations today made by each group. The were didactic and entertaining and solidified the main thoughts of feminism and reader response criticism in my head forever. Claire A.K.A. "Rosie" brought up an interesting point about how you can read something completely different when looking through the eyes of a feminist. Jon A.K.A. "Mary" added that the glasses you wear decide what you will or will not see in a work. This seems to be where one group begins reaching its finger tips into the other, because it is through the reader response critics that one is given the "right" to read a text through the eyes of a feminist or any other mentality one desires. I am thankful for the permission, haha, because I often find myself reading something in a way that relates it to my own experiences. I also enjoy melding works of literature to fit my emotions in a way that allows me to meet certain needs I have. Were this to be a crime, I would likely be in prison the rest of my life. In fact, it occurs to me that if the only way that people read a text was through the perspective of new criticism, they would eventually find that reading would lose some of its appeal. It seems that what can draw us so deeply into a work is the ways that we can interpret and discover new meanings through it.

Dr. Sexson made the point that there is a value to looking at the text purely for what the text is, as well as looking at it for what it is to you personally. I completely agree with this and feel that there is a time and a place for each kind of criticism to rear its claws and fight for its point of view.

During the reader response presentation a poem was read and elaborated on, yet I didn't get a chance to gather my thoughts on it because hearing it once is not enough. As a result I am posting it here for the benefit of anyone else who wishes to read it a bit slower and spend some time mulling over its contents.

THE FLEA.
by John Donne

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

---

Source:
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 1-2.


I even found a youtube video of a man reciting this poem if you are interested.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3yrSGRWTOzQ&feature=related

Truth in the eye of the myth!

“Myth is the name of a way of seeing, a way of knowing. Not fantasy, not lies, but things coming to us from beyond the walls of this world.” –Waking the Dead

Something has been stirring in my mind for several weeks now. Once I began thinking about how to make my apology for poetry, a new train of thought was opened up before me. I am not an English major so I have never had the incessant need to defend my position on stories that aren’t true. Our assignment, however, challenged me to investigate my beliefs on this subject and ask myself some hard questions about what I really do believe. Do I think that there is a point to studying English as a major? Do I agree that there is a purpose in reading poetry, fiction, and myth? I had never really stopped and considered where I stood….I ended up diving into many ideas that I was able to incorporate into my defense. Through my thoughts, a light bulb began to turn on, at first very dimly, yet gaining brightness the more I contemplated it……I wasn’t ready to write about it in my paper (and even now I may not be ready to discuss it) but I am going to attempt to share with you what I discovered.

I had to stop and ask myself, why are people so attracted to myth? When I think about some of the great myths that have been written over time, Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia come to mind. I am sure we can all think of many others as well. The point is that these stories are certainly NOT true, yet they seem to draw people in by the millions. In order to discover the reason for their powerful pull, I decided the best place to start was with myself. I know everything isn’t always about me, but just maybe, if I could find out why I am drawn to them, it might give me a clue into why others are as well. From here my quest began and it led me to a highly unlikely place (insert sarcastic tone here) a book! Waking the Dead is a book by John Eldredge that, I must admit, I have only read parts of. I became enthralled with it this time around because of its strong focus on myths and what they teach us. The book delves into the thoughts that I have been experimenting with… I sense that the beauty of myth is that is opens the pathway for the discovery of some very important truths. There are so many things in life that we hear are supposedly “true” yet to grasp onto them can be very difficult sometimes. What I realized when looking at myths is that, through them, I am able to accept truths about life. The book talks about one of the truths being that “some great struggle or quest or battle is well under way….."


When the four children stumble into Narnia, the country and all its lovely creatures are imprisoned under the spell of the White Witch and have been for a hundred years. In another story, Jack and his mother are starving and must sell their only cow. Frodo barely makes it out of the Shire with his life and the ring of power. In the nick of time he learns that Bilbo’s magic ring is the One Ring, that Sauron has discovered its whereabouts, and that the Nine Black Riders are already across the borders searching for the little hobbit with deadly intent. The future of Middle Earth hangs on a thread.

Darth Vader just about has the universe under his evil fist when a pair of droids fall into the hands of Luke Skywalker. Luke has no idea what is unfolding, what great deeds have been done on his behalf, or what will be required of him in the battle to come. Sitting in a sandstone hut with old Ben Kenobi—he does not know this is the great Jedi warrior Obi-Wan Kenobi—Luke discovers the secret message from the princess: “This is our most desperate hour. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”


In all of these stories there is the underlying truth that a battle exists that must be fought, someone must step up, and it can be anyone that makes the difference….we can hear about the truth that we have a role to play in the world that is important and has the potential to make a huge impact on civilization, but how many of us actually believe this? Especially the idea that little (seemingly insignificant) you and I each have the ability to change something significantly. That is one of the reasons I am drawn to The Lord of the Rings, even if I don’t at first realize it, because reading about a little hobbit named Frodo who stepped out and saved the world, gives me the ability to see that it doesn’t take a big person to make a big impact on the world.
The book again seems to echo my feelings on this by discussing that every mythic story shouts to us that in this desperate hour we have a crucial role to play. It goes into several myths (not just in books) that point at this truth--


For most of his life, Neo sees himself only as Thomas Anderson, a computer programmer for a large software corporation. AS the drama really begins to gear up and the enemy hunts him down, he says to himself, “This is insane. Why is this happening to me? What did I do? I’m nobody. I didn’t do anything.” A very dangerous conviction, though one shared by most of you, my readers. What he later comes to realize—and not a moment too soon—is that he is “the One” who will break the power of the Matrix.

Frodo, the little Halfling from the Shire, young and naive in so many ways, “the most unlikely person imaginable,” is the Rind Bearer. He, too, must learn through dangerous paths and fierce battle that a task has been appointed to him, and if he does not find a way, no one will. Dorothy is just a farm girl from Kansas, who stumbled into Oz not because she was looking for adventure but because someone had hurt her feelings and she decided to run away from home. Yet she’s the one to bring down the Wicked Witch of the West. Joan of Arc was also a farm girl, illiterate, the youngest in her family, when she received her first vision from God. Just about everyone doubted her; the commander of the French army said she should be taken home and given a good whipping. Yet she ends up leading the armies to war.


Myths remind us that we are not just ordinary people as we seem to be and that things around us may not be exactly what they seem to be. We talk all the time about the fact that we live in “reality” which is often boring or mundane as well as uninteresting; however, I find that we really live in a world of unending adventure and excitement. The issue ensues when we hide this truth in familiarity. As C.S. Lewis points out, “The value of…myth is that it takes all the things we know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by ‘the veil of familiarity.’”

Even if all that I have written does not fully make sense to you, I am hoping it at least engages your minds and causes you to consider something that you may not have previously given time to. Regardless, I am thankful for the truths that “stories that aren’t even true” have taught me. Even Don Quixote had a truth to teach, that you can be whoever you want to be regardless of whether people call you crazy or accept who you are. In this “real” world that we live in, we often live in fear of people. We try to hide or change who we are so that people will accept us, yet we love to dive into books because, in them, we CAN be those people that we dream of being. Myths like that of Don Quixote teach us that it is ok, and even admirable, to follow that which we want to be, even when it isn’t necessarily the safest or most fruitful pursuit. What matters is that you go after it, and you fight to show others that a dream can be made into a reality. The beauty of a story is that it does inspire us to be more than we have dared to be because someone in the story shows us that it is indeed possible. In a way, as the book title suggests, a story has the power to “Wake the Dead”.




**All quotes from "Waking the Dead" by John Eldredge, Thomas Nelson Publishers 2003

A chance encounter....or was it....

Last week I had an experience that I will not soon forget! It was Monday afternoon and I had just given my presentation in our class which, as we all know, was to apologize for poetry. As I walked into the Sub I spotted my friends still sitting where I had left them, so I joined them. They were all aware that I had just given a presentation in my English class so they asked me how it had gone. My friend Dan said, "now what exactly was it about again?" I laughed and tried to quickly explain that I was defending poetry or, in other words, trying to explain the point of studying and reading stories that aren't necessarily true. The crazy thing was that he in turn began telling me that he himself has never understood the point.....he said that reading novels and other such pieces of literature seemed like a waste of time. I shook my head at him as I thought to myself "here we go again." On this occasion, however, he asked if I would give a summary of what I had said in class because he honestly wanted to know my opinion on the subject. (side note: he is an engineering major) I began telling him about Plato, Sydney, Frye, etc. and was able to deliver a very convincing case for why it is important to study and experience literature. After I finished, he looked at me and thanked me very sincerely because he was now convinced that it not only makes sense, but that it is important too! It was so amazing to take all of the things that I have learned in this class, and that I already felt in regards to literature, and share it with someone who was not at first inclined to agree with me. What an amazing opportunity to put into practice that which I had previously only written about-I will forever be grateful for such a chance!

Ghostlier Demarcations, Keener Sounds

It is a crisp fall day as groups of people from around the world crowd into the Civic Center in downtown Great Falls, Montana. The excitement is high as each person settles into their seat and watches with breathless anticipation as the crimson curtain is drawn back to reveal a full orchestra. A cello begins the strains of Bach’s cello suite No. 1 and soon every instrument is moving together, creating such a blend of sound that the beauty captures everyone who listens. Thoughts of life and its troubles melt into the distant past as each person is caught up in the perfection of the moment. It never occurs to anyone to stop entering into the experience and ask “I wonder what the composer intended or meant by this piece?” or “What is the purpose of listening to this?” That is because they recognize the aesthetic quality that the music gives to each moment. Why is it that many people can understand this concept when it relates to music, and then stand in judgment of literature saying that if it isn’t true (such as history is considered), then it has no use? Just as Walter Pater writes, “all the arts aspire to the condition of music” (Glazer). Literature doesn’t have to mean something, teach something, or even be truthful. In fact, the beauty of literature is that it offers us a golden world, becomes the voice by which order is created, and it gives everything the best possible quality that it can have.

Before entering into a discussion on the arguments against literature, it is important to define what is considered literary. According to Northrop Frye, “All structures in words are partly rhetorical and hence literary, and the notion of a scientific or philosophical verbal structure free of rhetorical elements is an illusion” (Frye 350). Therefore, texts written on science and history alike would be considered literary. The difference that I would like to point out is that most people consider literature, such as these, to be very useful and “didactic.” When looking at poetry, fiction, etc. that does not necessarily fit into this definition, many people will claim that they serve no purpose. (For the purpose of this paper I am going to refer to all literature that doesn’t fall under this definition as “poetry.”) This argument has been around for a number of years. In fact, Plato himself considered the poet to be both “useless” and a “liar.”

When confronted by some peers, who are studying engineering, about my choice to pursue English, their response was quite unanimous and similar to this. Why study English? What is the point? They also like to imply that even if someone reads poetry as a means of enjoyment, it is still pointless because it is unrealistic and doesn’t teach you anything. On page 411 of the book Don Quixote by Cervantes, a similar discussion can be found. The canon describes his idea of books on chivalry (such as novels) and how that kind of writing and composition “belongs to the genre called Milesian tales, which are foolish stories meant only to delight and not to teach, unlike moral tales, which delight and teach at the same time” (Cervantes 411). In other words, he would agree with the engineering students that literature has no purpose if it only delights and does not teach. He also believes, as seen in later lines, that if someone is going to write fictional tales, they must “engage the minds of those who read them” (Cervantes 412) and restrain from exaggeration while also moderating impossibilities. The style of books that do not adhere to these constraints are considered by the canon to be-

“fatiguing, the action incredible, the love lascivious, the courtesies clumsy, the battles long, the language foolish, the journeys nonsensical, and, finally, since they are totally lacking in intelligent artifice, they deserve to be banished, like unproductive people, from Christian nations” (Cervantes 412).

This view may seem a bit harsh in its assessment, however, it is not unlike the flippant remarks made by those who fail to see what kind of a world the poet can offer, regardless of whether it imitates real life or not.

Consider a woman who is falsely accused of murder and is thrown into jail for life; within her womb, rests a child. Eight months later a baby girl is born, only she is without sight. Over the next ten years the mother and daughter live together in a small cell with cold stone walls, a worn mat, a rickety old bed, a nightstand, and a small candle. Their greatest treasure, apart from each other, is a tattered book of poetry that the mother has read to the little girl almost since the day she was born. As a result, the girl has grown up only knowing the world which was described and created for her through the poems. Despite her circumstances and the brazen world that she is a part of, she only knows the world as beautiful, complete, and perfect. Many people look at the world through a blindfold, they only see the imperfections, the harshness, and even if they do see beauty, it is only a shadow of what it could be. Sir Philip Sydney explains this by pointing out that nature only gives us a brazen world, whereas the poet delivers a golden one (Sydney). This is because the poet is not limited by reality, he gives us a world that expands the rises of imagination and is without constraints. To those people that claim that being didactic is the key to literature’s usefulness, I would agree with Shelley that imagination is often superior to logic and reason (Shelley). We have enough people in the world that allow themselves to stay in the arena of that which is reasonable and logical, yet there is a whole world of possibilities out there that we fail to comprehend without the poet’s help.

Not only does the poet give us a golden world, but through the poet’s words, things within life can take on more meaning and come into alignment and order. There is power in words. In fact they can create a whole new world, and things that previously had little meaning are given a purpose as they take on whatever characteristic the poet wants to give them. The poet is not unlike the woman in the poem “The Idea of Order at Key West,” by Wallace Stevens, who uses words to create her world.

“She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker”( Stevens ).

When she sang, objects that previously stood alone came together through her voice and became a part of the world that she was creating. Through her words, a transformation took place and even nature itself submitted its will to her voice.

Most people look at nature as engulfing-they feel that they are a part of it instead of it being a part of them. In other words, the general view is that nature is the container which holds every living thing. Northrop Frye suggests that, through certain levels of poetry, we can move into a new phase where-

“Nature becomes, not the container, but the thing contained……… Nature is now inside the mind of an infinite man who builds his cities out of the Milky Way. This is not reality, but it is the conceivable or imaginative limit of desire, which is infinite, eternal, and hence apocalyptic” (Frye 119).

The word apocalypse literally translates to “the lifting of the veil” (Apocalypse). In other words, who else but the poet gives us the courage to remove the veil or constraints and see things however we want- through the eyes of our desires which stem from the limitless supply of imagination. Through the voice of the poet, a whole new way of looking at things around us is realized; Wineskins become a giant’s head, peasant girls become noble maidens, and stinky fishing docks become “emblazoned zones and fiery poles” (as described in The Idea of Order at Key West). One can choose to look at this chaotic word, shielding their eyes from seeing order within it, or the choice can be made to read literature that removes the veil, and allows us to see a rose among the thorns, a crystal among the shattered glass, or order among the tangled mess of reality.

The truth of the matter is that we do live in a world that can be chaotic, bleak, harsh, and gloomy; people would love to see things change, yet they lack the conviction that things could ever be different. The historian tells us that things have always been this way, the philosopher tells us that according to our best knowledge we can’t change the way things are; yet the poet, offers an alternative. The poet paints the picture of the potential beauty that everything has. Without the poet we may never see this beauty because we are afraid to dream, afraid to imagine outside the realm of possibility- afraid to build our cities out of the Milky Way. That is because we live in reality; people only want to dream up to what is “realistic” and possible. Yet when we read a story, even if there is little reality to it, we can begin to look for the beauty and possibilities in every moment. Right now I wish so badly that I could stop writing this paper and instead go hike way up in the mountains, follow fresh tracks in the snow, build a shelter out of pine branches, start a fire, and sing until stars come out and dance across the sky; however, all of that requires time and a great deal of it. Here is where poetry finds its way into my hands and reminds me that I can dive into pages and pages of outdoor adventures, travel around the world and, in fact, live an entire lifetime, in the span of only an hour. A few words by William Blake describe this phenomenon perfectly:

“To see a world in a grain of sand
And heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour “(Blake).

Through poetry, I can experience eternity in an hour all while gaining moments that are at their best possible quality because they belong to a world with no faults. If I was to trek through the mountains right now I would be up to my knees in snow, and there would be the possibility of encountering numerous annoyances. By reading about such an adventure I not only cut down on time, but there would be no wet feet, cold wind, bugs, interruptions, etc. only an experience complete with all the beauty possible when not constrained by “reality.”

People need to stop asking what the use is of literature that isn’t true or “realistic”. They need to suspend their disbelief when reading and instead gain from everything they read, the aesthetic quality that it offers. When we enjoy music, we do not focus on what it is teaching us because it is not about the didactic quality, it is about the experience. This concept can be applied just as well to literature as it is to music. When I pick up a piece of poetry, I read it for the experience whether it teaches me anything or not. This experience takes place in a golden world; one that is created without constraints or limits placed on the imagination, it creates and reveals order in the midst of chaos, beauty in the midst of disaster, and gives our moments immortality and the very best possible quality that they can have. As Stanley Fish pointed out, “Poetry is that which one sees with poetry seeing eyes” (Mecklenburg); those who do not wish to smell the roses will walk right past them, just as those who do not wish to see the aesthetic quality that poetry gives to the world will not read it. We all have the choice to see poetry for its value or to turn our backs on it and call it useless; however, my English Professor Dr. Sexson would probably say that if you have an issue with a piece of poetry, the real problem lies not with the work itself, but with you.

References

"Apocalypse." Babylon. 18 Nov. 2008 .

Blake, William. "William Blake (1757-1827)." 2000. 20 Nov. 2008 .

Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel De, and Harold Bloom. "Chapter XLVII." Don Quixote. Trans. Edith Grossman. New York: HarperCollins, 2005. P. 411-12.

Frye, Northrop, and Harold Bloom. "Tentative Conclusion." P.350. “Theory of Symbols.” P. 119. Anatomy of Criticism : Four Essays. New York: Princeton UP, 2000.

Glazer, Lee. Reviewed work(s): Painting the Musical City: Jazz and Cultural Identity in American Art, 1910-1940 by Donna M. Cassidy. American Music, Vol. 16, No. 2 (Summer, 1998), pp. 230-232

Mecklenburg, Rosanna. "9 specific critics." Weblog comment. Decluing, vigilence and chalis. 3 Nov. 2008. 22 Nov. 2008 .

Shelley, Percy B. "A Defence of Poetry." Bartleby.com. 18 Nov. 2008 .

Stevens, Wallace. "The Idea of Order at Key West." 18 Nov. 2008 .

Sydney, Sir Philip. "The Defense of Poesy." Bartleby.com. 19 Nov. 2008 .

~Innocence~

Over the last several days there is a song that I have played over and over.....finally today, it occurred to me why I am so drawn to this song, and that it has ties to what we have discussed in English 300. The song is "Innocence" by Avril Lavigne (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ir2Sg_8hC3w) and the lyrics go like this:


Waking up I see that everything is OK
The first time in my life and now it's so great
Slowing down I look around and I am so amazed
I think about the little things that make life great
I wouldn't change a thing about it
This is the best feeling

[Chorus]
This innocence is brilliant
I hope that it will stay
This moment is perfect
Please don't go away
I need you now
And I'll hold on to it
Don't you let it pass you by

I found a place so safe, not a single tear
The first time in my life and now it's so clear
Feel calm, I belong, I'm so happy here
It's so strong and now I let myself be sincere

I wouldn't change a thing about it
This is the best feeling

It's a state of bliss, you think you're dreaming
It's the happiness inside that you're feeling
It's so beautiful it makes you wanna cry
It's a state of bliss, you think you're dreaming
It's the happiness inside that you're feeling
It's so beautiful it makes you wanna cry

It's so beautiful it makes you wanna cry
This innocence is brilliant
Makes you wanna cry
This innocence is brilliance
Please don't go away
Cause I need you now
And I'll hold on to it
Don't you let it pass you by


How very interesting that this song speaks to the same ideas that are brought up in both "My Book and Heart Shall Never Part," and "Don Quixote." The song shows the emotions that get stirred up when discussing innocence and its loss. When we are innocent, we look at everything as beautiful, we "think about the little things that make life great." It is a reality that we will indeed lose much of our innocence, however, I have found that many people (including myself) wish to remain in that beautiful state. The chorus of this song echos a place that I have often been, wishing that my innocence would stay forever, never go away, and that I could hold onto it because I need it. Innocence allows you to look at the world the way that DQ does....in fact the other characters in Don Quixote have let there innocence drift so far away, that they simply cannot relate to DQ's desire to see the world the way it used to be- before the veil of innocence was removed from their eyes. I am realizing, however, that we still encounter moments of innocence. They can be recognized by this --

It's a state of bliss, you think you're dreaming
It's the happiness inside that you're feeling
It's so beautiful it makes you wanna cry

When we encounter these moments, we must grasp onto them and then proceed to carry them with us into the harsh reality of life as we have come to know it.

Touchstone....

"I began by seeing how man was formed by circumstances--and what are circumstances but touchstones of his heart? And what are touchstones but provings of his heart, but fortifiers or alterers of his nature? And what is altered nature but his Soul? --and what was his Soul before it came into the world and had these provings and alterations and perfectionings? --An intelligence without Identity--and how is this Identity to be made? Through the medium of the Heart? And how is the heart to become this Medium but in a world of Circumstances?"

-John Keats

In response to Dr. Sexson's request, I will now share with you a poem that, upon using the above description from Keats, would be referred to as a "touchstone" for me. My understanding of what Keats is depicting may not be exactly what he intended, however, I would hate to fall into the intentional fallacy by failing to share my response to this concept, so here it is.

When we look at our past and then look to our future, we must understand that from birth until death, our lives will be made up of circumstances. These circumstances serve to teach us, alter our nature, impact us, and mold our hearts- they also prove what our hearts contain and are made of. The alterations of our nature are really the alterations of who we are at our core, in our souls. When we were created in our mother's wombs, our souls held the opportunity for intelligence yet they did not yet have an identity. What forms our identity? What else but the very circumstances that build our lives-the emotional ways that we respond to them; anger, fear, joy, etc. things that we carry in our hearts from one circumstance to another. It makes sense then to say that our heart is the medium used to create our identity. However, without the circumstances, our hearts would be nothing more than an empty slate, a potential tool, a place void of identity and passion....

With this fresh insight, I have began to examine my circumstances to see what has given them meaning. I have found that, indeed, the way that my heart is touched and what it carries, gives them meaning and the ability to be a building block in my life.

In all honesty, my heart has been carrying hurt and sadness....a "touchstone" of my heart that is serving to alter me, perfect my strength, and form my identity at this point in my life is going through the experience of my grandfather's Alzheimer's with him. I live in my grandparents home and, as a result, am confronted with the reality of the situation on a regular basis. You may not be following me at this point, and instead wondering why I am sharing my life with you, but I do so because it provides the background for what my touchstone poem at this point is.

When I was reading through one of my old literature books, I came upon this poem that can be described as something that alters my life and touches my heart because of its familiarity.

Alzheimer's

"He stands at the door, a crazy old man
Back from the hospital, his mind rattling
Like the suitcase, swinging from his hand,
That contains shaving cream, a piggy bank,
A book he sometimes pretends to read,
His clothes. On the brick wall beside him
Roses and columbine slug it out from space, claw the mortar.
The sun is shining, as it does late in the afternoon
In England, after rain.
Sun hardens the house, reifies it,
Strikes the iron grillwork like a smithy
And sparks fly off, burning in the bushes--
The rosebushes--
While the white wood trim defines solidity in space.
This is his house. He remembers it as his,
And the garage, the rhododendron he planted in back,
A younger man, in a tweed hat, a man who loved
Music. There is no time for that now. No time for music,
The peculiar screeching of strings, the luxurious
Fiddling with emotion.
Other things have become more urgent.
Other matters are now of greater importance, have more
Consequences, must be attended to. The first
Thing he must do, now that he is home, is decide who
This woman is, this old, white-haired woman
Standing here in the doorway,
Welcoming him in."

--Kelly Cherry


It is my belief that touchstone passages and moments do not only flow from a place of elevated joy and happiness, but from a place of understanding; Where you encounter something that strikes you hard, gives you new insight, redefines who you are, and overall touches you deeply.

~The Sublime~

This whole idea of the "sublime" is a fascinating one. Sublime comes from the Latin word sublimis, which means "to look up from." In other words, this is experienced when we encounter something that elevates our thoughts, emotions, etc. above the natural, or above our consciousness, taking us into what (if I understand right) Frye would call the world of anagogy.

I have a very special place in my heart for music and, throughout my life, I have had trouble expressing what music does to me- what it makes me feel and experience. It has previously been something that no words could define and to which nothing could be compared or given justice to. Now, however, certain possibilities are coming together in my mind. When I listen to music, I become wrapped up in emotions and into the powerful sensation that I am flying, dancing, swirling with a force that takes my heart and lifts it up and outside of myself. Now to explain that to the average person may prove to be quite difficult...through the discussions in our class and the insight of Chris, I have come to realize that what happens to me when I encounter music can be summed up in the word "sublime."

This realization is exciting to me because it wraps up all of my emotions, thoughts, and expressions relating to music, putting them into a word which allows everyone (or at least those who understand the sublime) to know that music stirs my heart to look up from my daily circumstances, reality, problems, and fears, separating myself from them and allowing me to have, what I would call, a divine/religious experience. Some of the music that has the greatest affect on me in this way is from artists such as Celtic Woman. In order to enter into the sublime with me, I will post a link for one of their videos. Sit back, close your eyes, and enjoy.........


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfO6JpR5Ip8

Today in class!

Today in class we were introduced to more fascinating literary critics: Hélène Cixous, Wolfgang Iser, Sigmund Freud, and Edward Said.


Heather
Hélène Cixous

-Born in Algeria, 1937

-Jewish

-Wrote without a genre

-Most famous theory "Le rire de la méduse" which encouraged women to communicate with their bodies and not with words.

-Said "It is impossible to define a feminine practice of writing, and this is an impossibility that will remain, for this practice can never be theorized, enclosed, encoded, coded -- which doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. But it will always surpass the discourse that regulates the phallocentric system: it does and will take place in areas other than those subordinated to philosophical-theoretical domination. It will be conceived of only by subjects who are breakers of automatisms, by peripheral figures that no authority can ever subjugate"

Brittini

Wolfgang Iser

-Born in Germany
-PhD in English
-Interested in intercultural exchange
-Believes that meaning are not crated solely by the author

Kyle
Sigmund Freud

-Born in the Australia empire, 1856
-Developed the idea of the id, ego, and super ego
-Godfather of psychoanalysis
-Believed that literature always had sexual desires, phallic symbols, etc. as its underlying theme or motivation.

Jiwon
Edward Said
-Jewish
-Believed any history is not standardized but idealistic
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-Matthew Arnold-

*Poetry as a "criticism of life"
*Poetry deals with the questions in the meanings of life
*Poetry as a substitution for religion
*"More and more mankind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to provide for us, to console us, to sustain us, and to interprit life for us."
*Notions to take away from the essay:
-Notion of "Touchstones"
-Poetry as a religion

What you should know!

Hayden White has made many contributions to literary criticism, however, here are what I believe to be the most important.

1) Hayden believes that the techniques and strategies that historians and imaginative writers use in the composition of their discourses can be shown to be extremely similar. Essentially his opinion is that the writing of history is a poetic act and that historians and poets have "mutual implicativeness" in their respective techniques of composition, description, imitation, narration, and demonstration.

2) They key words to remember for Hayden White are "Master Tropes." He believes that Master tropes are the basis-the mode of consciousness-for all interpretation; and they resonate with modes of representing the world:

1. Metaphor
2. Metonymy
3. Synecdoche
4. Irony

Too bad this may not make much sense....

As I was going through my notes today, something grabbed my attention in a new way--the word "Apocalypse." In essence, this word means to "remove the veil." The more that we have studied literature and discussed it in class, the more I have come to see how poetry is essentially an apocalypse. This goes right along with our discussion on innocence, because poetry has a way of removing the veil of innocence from our eyes and allowing us to see things in a very new and revealing light. For example, in the movie "My Book and Heart Shall Never Part," the children new little of the world except for what they had seen or been told. When they learned to read and opened up books, however, they began to learn about lust, death, racism, etc. In other words, poetry (used as a metonymy here) slowly pulls away the veil that keeps a child innocent, and opens up their eyes to the reality of what really exists in the "real" world.

Spoken poetry also has a way of removing veils, giving us the ability to see the the true beauty of the world. This can be seen in the poem "The Idea of Order at Key West."

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

The question being asked here is why, after hearing her sing, did the town suddenly look so much more beautiful, enchanting, and magical. It seem as if, through her words, the town itself did not change, but the way that people looked at the town changed. The veil had been removed from their eyes and gave them the sight needed to see the real potential that the world can have when seen through the eyes of poetry.

What is a child??

I wasn't exactly sure what to expect the other night when I walked into the Emmerson and sat down to watch "My Book and Heart Shall Never Part." First of all I was taken in by the beauty of the old books with their stunning covers strengthened or mended with bits of cardboard, newspaper, pictures, or whatever else people had lying around. I have always been fascinated with things from the past, especially when they are very old--one of the books in the movie was from 1790, almost 219 years old!! The little children made the books come alive, their looks of awe and excitement probably mirrored mine as they searched through fading pages and found themselves immersed in the stories.

The question that really stuck in my mind as I watched the movie was, "What IS a child?" The first time they pick up a book, a whole new world is opened up for them. In fact, I just walked into the room when my grandparents were watching the movie "Love Comes Softly," just in time to hear a woman telling a child that "once you can read, you can have every adventure that you dream of." How very true that statement is; books open a child's eyes to things they only ever imagined. The potential problem with that is, are they learning about some things too early? The answer may depend on a person's answer to the question--what is a child?--It occurred to me during the movie that we can either view a child as a symbol of innocence to be cherished, or a new mind to be molded, shaped, and influenced. Honestly I don't find much wrong with seeing how ripe a child's mind is for learning new things, however, if we choose to focus only on what we can teach them we have a greater potential of destroying their innocence too early.

In class we have discussed how wonderful it would be to read things innocently as a child once again.....do we really want to take that experience away from children early on in their lives?? My answer would be no, but unfortunately the media's answer seems to be becoming a stronger and stronger yes. The movie by Dr. Sexson and his wife, opened my eyes to the power that is in the hands of the writer when it comes to shaping the next generation......I hope that they make the right choice in what they decide to teach.

Opera!!

I have been sick for several weeks, and when I woke up this morning I was feeling especially awful! As a result, I decided the best course of action, to keep up my moral, was to put in some opera music and and crank up the volume. As the magnificent music filled my room, my heart began to sore and flood with emotions. I pictured myself sitting in a balcony with an elaborate ball gown, drinking in the beauty of the music as it blended with the performance transpiring onstage before my eyes....then it suddenly occurred to me (like it has started to a few times before) that I, like Gabryelle, am a romantic and love to imagine myself in that world......I will soon be imagining myself as a damsel in distress being saved by Don Quixote no doubt! haha

At the end of class today, amidst the shuffling of chairs and clatter of books being put away, Dr. Sexson suggested that we enjoy our "day off" from class on Friday and go spend some time in the mountains/nature. My response to that suggestion is that I certainly have no time to go anywhere....... Sir Philip Sydney would probably suggest we just stay home and read about such a place because it would be an enhanced experience without all the possible flaws (bad weather, bugs, exhaustion, etc). He says something to this affect in his "Defense of Poesy"

"Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subjection, lifted up with the vigor of his own invention, doth grow, in effect, into another nature, in making things either better than nature bringeth forth, or, quite anew, forms such as never were in nature, as the heroes, demi-gods, cyclops, chimeras, furies, and such like; so as he goeth hand in hand with nature, not enclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging within the zodiac of his own wit. Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done; neither with pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the too-much-loved earth more lovely; her world is brazen, the poets only deliver a golden."


So.....I thought I would post a picture I took of a beautiful place I love going (and would like to be this Friday) and write about what I would be doing there-- that way I can read about it and have an experience surperior (according to Sydney of course) to the actual one, without having to even leave my house......



Friday afternoon has arrived. As I open my eyes, the first thing that greets them is brilliant sunshine pouring from the big windows behind my bed. I know at once that it is going to be a glorious day......I pull the covers off of my warm body and swing my legs to the floor, anticipating the chai tea I am going to stop by and pick up from Rockford on my way to the golden pond (as I like to call it during this time of year). It isn't long before I have arrived, looking in awe at the bronze, gold, and red leaves scattered about the path down to the water, and falling from the trees onto my cozy blue knitted hat. I slowly walk forward, taking a deep breath and savoring the scent of cinnamon coming from the paper cup in my hand, mixed with the woodsmoke floating in the air. My camera is around my neck so I swing it up and capture the beauty that's surrounding me-ducks gliding across the smooth water leaving quiet ripples in their wake, birds singing as they fly overhead, and children as they giggle, tossing leaves into the sky and dancing as they fall back down like snow. After awhile I spread a soft quilt on the cool and delicate grass as I pull out the homemade spicecake and fresh strawberries from my satchel. I lay down after eating and look up at the blue sky, stretching to the expanses with no end in sight. It's not long before my body and mind are so relaxed that the warm rays of the sun across my face put me into a deep sleep..........


Wow......I actually feel like I just had that experience.......Sir Philip Sydney, you may be onto something after all! =)