"Kinetics"
I am ghosting.
Ripples of sound control this form:
a lingering, gasping spirit.
Now, only an observer.
Never a participant.
I have drifted, a breath,
silent,
into air,
invisible,
unheard on the wind.
Unseen.
The rustle of sheets,
the echo of a fly’s wing.
Greed, covetous rage
devour a frail existence:
This thing is famished, starved,
a yard of translucent gauze;
it paws against my chest, rasping,
“Dye me. Paint me.
Fix my pallid color.
I am not yet gone...”
I,
always hunting,
always hungry,
witness mobile comrades
breathe, see, touch, look, gesture, move,
feel.
Devils stalk within this desire.
These hands,
they reach for them, though.
I call out,
eyes upturned,
arms outstretched,
knees collapsing,
“Take me. I miss this. I need this.”
Pathetic desperation,
as disappointing as
watered-down milk,
weak, faded, tasteless.
Then I hear.
He,
in all his flames and iridescent glory,
comes stampeding into me.
His steed’s hooves pound, slam the earth;
the singed cotton of his tabard sears my nostrils.
My Knight of Wands,
my pursuer,
my tutor,
has found me once again.
In his fevered chase
he propels my shape forward,
hurling my form into the spinning atmosphere.
I take these agitated molecules.
Moved by their voices,
their actions,
their emotions,
the air surrounds
my penitent knees,
my pleading hands,
my longing eyes.
I will spread it thick,
like spider’s silk,
across my arms
across my stomach
across my face:
a mask.
Like I used to do.
How I used to be.
I will.
Again.
(Be)
my bygone era.
16 November 2011
05 September 2011
CE 4 - based from Russell Banks' "Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story"
Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Russell Banks' "Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Banks' short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
[This text should be explained. It is written from the point of view of Sarah Cole, not Banks' narrator. The writing style is tailored to her personality. If the short story is read in conjunction with this text, it should match up with her character. If not, I apologize for being a terrible writer. We all start somewhere.]
His name was Ron. I had met him in the bar, at Osgood’s. He was definitely a looker: blonde hair, kind of skinny, not so old and not so young, but definitely worth a few minutes of my drunken time. The gals from work suggested (on a dare) that I go up and talk to him. So I did. I did the talking mostly, and he just sat there, looking at me and nodding and smiling, but he still held onto the paper, as if it was waiting for him. I went to the bar again two nights later, and when I had enough drinks and thought it was time to hit the road he walked me out to my car, and we discovered that my car was damaged. God, I thought, this is embarrassing as a cried into his chest, into his strong, kind, intelligent, good looking, button-up shirt chest. I had told him about my ex-husband, and he sympathized. He once drove me to his place, and while I sat in the living room waiting for him to come in from the kitchen, I got scared, and I walked out the front door after he offered me a white Russian. One time, he was so nice that he carried my groceries up my stairs to my apartment, and when we got inside, he didn’t say a word about how much of a mess the place was. He was polite, appropriate. I kissed those kind and thoughtful lips, and then he left. I was hooked, hooked on a man whose age I didn’t even know. I was hooked because I really needed a kind man in my life. I became obsessed with his kindness. We made love at his place every time, and every time I grew more attached. Until, finally, he seemed to grow cold and distant. Eventually he broke it off with me. I think the word “broke” is appropriate. He didn’t just end it. He broke it, my heart. He broke my heart. I didn’t see him for some time, and then, when I finally grew enough courage to drive up to his place and get out of the car and walk up to the door and knock…he let me in. I sat down. I still wanted to see him, although I was living with my ex-husband. He didn’t want to see me anymore, though. I grew angry. What a bastard; what a son-of-a-bitch. What a fucking low-life, good-for-nothing piece of shit. And then he said it. He called me an ugly bitch because he could. Then I disappeared because I wanted to.
[This text should be explained. It is written from the point of view of Sarah Cole, not Banks' narrator. The writing style is tailored to her personality. If the short story is read in conjunction with this text, it should match up with her character. If not, I apologize for being a terrible writer. We all start somewhere.]
His name was Ron. I had met him in the bar, at Osgood’s. He was definitely a looker: blonde hair, kind of skinny, not so old and not so young, but definitely worth a few minutes of my drunken time. The gals from work suggested (on a dare) that I go up and talk to him. So I did. I did the talking mostly, and he just sat there, looking at me and nodding and smiling, but he still held onto the paper, as if it was waiting for him. I went to the bar again two nights later, and when I had enough drinks and thought it was time to hit the road he walked me out to my car, and we discovered that my car was damaged. God, I thought, this is embarrassing as a cried into his chest, into his strong, kind, intelligent, good looking, button-up shirt chest. I had told him about my ex-husband, and he sympathized. He once drove me to his place, and while I sat in the living room waiting for him to come in from the kitchen, I got scared, and I walked out the front door after he offered me a white Russian. One time, he was so nice that he carried my groceries up my stairs to my apartment, and when we got inside, he didn’t say a word about how much of a mess the place was. He was polite, appropriate. I kissed those kind and thoughtful lips, and then he left. I was hooked, hooked on a man whose age I didn’t even know. I was hooked because I really needed a kind man in my life. I became obsessed with his kindness. We made love at his place every time, and every time I grew more attached. Until, finally, he seemed to grow cold and distant. Eventually he broke it off with me. I think the word “broke” is appropriate. He didn’t just end it. He broke it, my heart. He broke my heart. I didn’t see him for some time, and then, when I finally grew enough courage to drive up to his place and get out of the car and walk up to the door and knock…he let me in. I sat down. I still wanted to see him, although I was living with my ex-husband. He didn’t want to see me anymore, though. I grew angry. What a bastard; what a son-of-a-bitch. What a fucking low-life, good-for-nothing piece of shit. And then he said it. He called me an ugly bitch because he could. Then I disappeared because I wanted to.
CE 3 - based from "Boys" by Rick Moody
Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Rick Moody's "Boys" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Moody's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
The boys enter the house, fresh, alive, jubilant, and forgetful. Their mother stands aside to let them pass into the living room where their father is waiting, expecting. A girl trails behind the blonde boy; she is shy, although educated and secretly opinionated. She reaches out to grasp the hand of the blonde boy, but her pale, thin wrists and dainty hand only brush along his rolled shirt sleeve, just missing his lightly haired fingers by centimeters. She is disappointed for a moment, a brief moment, but then lets the thought go as the mother approaches her in welcome; they begin to converse.
The boys make their way to their father, who is standing next to the beat up leather couch. They embrace, although the brunette boy holds back in favor of allowing his brother to hug their father; the blonde son and his father are much closer than the brunette son and his father. The father steps back to admire how much his sons have grown: grown up men who wear grown up clothes and eat grown up things and speak grown up thoughts and have grown up girlfriends. The father spies the blonde son’s sweetheart over the son’s shoulder. She is talking to his wife, who is holding the sweetheart’s hands in hers and saying, “Welcome to our home.” She is pretty, but not overly so; she is plain, homely, but looks intelligent. He wonders if his son has been thinking of marrying this girl. Then he wonders why his brunette son has not brought home a girl.
“I’m very glad to meet you, your son has told me so much about your family.” The sweetheart beams with thankfulness at the mother.
“You are welcome to anything in the house as long as you stay. We have a nice room set up for you down in the basement.” The mother says this with authority. She says it with the authority of a mother to her blonde son, and with the authority of a rich, giving, and cautious distant aunt to the girl. The girl beams; she loves basements and their quietness and cool atmosphere. The quiet is good for reading, thinking, dreaming. The blonde son is agitated.
“She has to sleep in the basement?” He is growing incredulous.
“We have no others rooms, dear. Besides, the basement has its own kitchen and a television. The folding bed is much more comfortable than the couch.” The mother makes the eyes at her son which say You must not do this here or now.
“It really is no trouble, babe. It’s alright. I’ll be fine.” The girl, the sweetheart, the now-basement-dweller holds out her hand to the blonde boy, gesturing to him that It’s okay, babe.
The father begins to approach the girl and introduce himself as her boyfriend’s father; he is interrupted by the blonde son’s breathy sigh and expletive. The father turns around in surprise, and he gives a look of warning, caution, and mild fury to the son, who shrivels under his father’s intense glare.
“Son, enough.” His eyes say You will not do this here or now.
“This is ridiculous. Completely stupid. I thought – I thought we had agreed over the phone. Over the phone you said that she would sleep in my room.” He keeps persisting under the glare of his father. He turns into a child now, his face contorting into convulsed grimaces and reflections of a spoiled infant. “What about Clarissa’s room?”
The family is silent. The girl is confused.
The brunette brother arms himself with dignity and grace.
“Stop.”
The blonde boy, child, brother now listens. He listens to his brother.
“Be glad you have her. Be glad she has to sleep in the basement. Be glad she’s with us. And not laying far below the topsoil.” Poetic.
Silence.
The brunette brother stares at his blonde reflection; his eyes say This has ended, here and now.
The boys enter the house, fresh, alive, jubilant, and forgetful. Their mother stands aside to let them pass into the living room where their father is waiting, expecting. A girl trails behind the blonde boy; she is shy, although educated and secretly opinionated. She reaches out to grasp the hand of the blonde boy, but her pale, thin wrists and dainty hand only brush along his rolled shirt sleeve, just missing his lightly haired fingers by centimeters. She is disappointed for a moment, a brief moment, but then lets the thought go as the mother approaches her in welcome; they begin to converse.
The boys make their way to their father, who is standing next to the beat up leather couch. They embrace, although the brunette boy holds back in favor of allowing his brother to hug their father; the blonde son and his father are much closer than the brunette son and his father. The father steps back to admire how much his sons have grown: grown up men who wear grown up clothes and eat grown up things and speak grown up thoughts and have grown up girlfriends. The father spies the blonde son’s sweetheart over the son’s shoulder. She is talking to his wife, who is holding the sweetheart’s hands in hers and saying, “Welcome to our home.” She is pretty, but not overly so; she is plain, homely, but looks intelligent. He wonders if his son has been thinking of marrying this girl. Then he wonders why his brunette son has not brought home a girl.
“I’m very glad to meet you, your son has told me so much about your family.” The sweetheart beams with thankfulness at the mother.
“You are welcome to anything in the house as long as you stay. We have a nice room set up for you down in the basement.” The mother says this with authority. She says it with the authority of a mother to her blonde son, and with the authority of a rich, giving, and cautious distant aunt to the girl. The girl beams; she loves basements and their quietness and cool atmosphere. The quiet is good for reading, thinking, dreaming. The blonde son is agitated.
“She has to sleep in the basement?” He is growing incredulous.
“We have no others rooms, dear. Besides, the basement has its own kitchen and a television. The folding bed is much more comfortable than the couch.” The mother makes the eyes at her son which say You must not do this here or now.
“It really is no trouble, babe. It’s alright. I’ll be fine.” The girl, the sweetheart, the now-basement-dweller holds out her hand to the blonde boy, gesturing to him that It’s okay, babe.
The father begins to approach the girl and introduce himself as her boyfriend’s father; he is interrupted by the blonde son’s breathy sigh and expletive. The father turns around in surprise, and he gives a look of warning, caution, and mild fury to the son, who shrivels under his father’s intense glare.
“Son, enough.” His eyes say You will not do this here or now.
“This is ridiculous. Completely stupid. I thought – I thought we had agreed over the phone. Over the phone you said that she would sleep in my room.” He keeps persisting under the glare of his father. He turns into a child now, his face contorting into convulsed grimaces and reflections of a spoiled infant. “What about Clarissa’s room?”
The family is silent. The girl is confused.
The brunette brother arms himself with dignity and grace.
“Stop.”
The blonde boy, child, brother now listens. He listens to his brother.
“Be glad you have her. Be glad she has to sleep in the basement. Be glad she’s with us. And not laying far below the topsoil.” Poetic.
Silence.
The brunette brother stares at his blonde reflection; his eyes say This has ended, here and now.
CE 2 - based from "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien
Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of O'Brien's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
Lieutenant Jimmy Cross was not accustomed to the warm greetings he received when he returned to the States, nor had he anticipated the sudden kiss of a woman he did not know. Her lips were soft, round, and yet forceful in welcoming him back from the war. He noticed the scent of gardenia, but did not dwell on its sweetness. She broke away from him, confused that he did not wish to continue. His attention was elsewhere. His pack was heavy as it tugged down upon his shoulder, and his back bent left in his attempt to keep the luggage from falling. The things he carried were much too fragile to be dropped. If they touched the floor at just the right angle, a crucial piece of his life and himself as a man could be destroyed forever. He looked left, then right – caution always directing his actions. He chose left and moved in that direction, head set forward for a mission that had not quite made itself clear yet.
He moved through the streets like a ghost, noticed by all, oblivious to his surroundings. He carried his pack through the throngs of busy people leading busy lives that had been uninterrupted by war. Within his pack was stuffed a canteen half-full of water, the remnants of his first aide kit, a tiny bottle of unused hot sauce, a pair of rusted tweezers, his father’s old pocket knife, and Lavender’s name badge –stolen right before the burial – which served as a bookmark for the found copy of Frankenstein now jabbing into his left shoulder blade. Providing insulation for these mismatched items of seeming unimportance were a fleece blanket covered with spattered red stains, his green poncho which he had used to keep his copy of Frankenstein safe, and three yellowed and wrinkled undershirts that smelled of mud, dead fish, and iron.
The pockets bulged with nothings, nothings that were somethings to Lieutenant Cross. A piece of long grass from one of the fields they took cover in during a small, but intense battle; a lock of hair from the body of a dead girl who had accidentally run out of her home while a fire fight was going on (she reminded him of his deceased sister); the bullet that had lodged itself in Lavender’s chest right before his team had burned Then Khe; a sketch he had drawn of a dog running rampant, apparently untouched, in Than Khe immediately after the fire; a small Hohner pocket harmonica Rat Kiley had chucked into the mud after Lieutenant Cross had played “a little too much” that night; Norman Bowker’s thumb trinket that he had cut from that dead boy’s hand – he had died a month after that. And last of all, Lieutenant Cross’s largest outside pocket was stuffed with a rope that measured about four and a half yards long.
Lieutenant Jimmy Cross was not accustomed to the warm greetings he received when he returned to the States, nor had he anticipated the sudden kiss of a woman he did not know. Her lips were soft, round, and yet forceful in welcoming him back from the war. He noticed the scent of gardenia, but did not dwell on its sweetness. She broke away from him, confused that he did not wish to continue. His attention was elsewhere. His pack was heavy as it tugged down upon his shoulder, and his back bent left in his attempt to keep the luggage from falling. The things he carried were much too fragile to be dropped. If they touched the floor at just the right angle, a crucial piece of his life and himself as a man could be destroyed forever. He looked left, then right – caution always directing his actions. He chose left and moved in that direction, head set forward for a mission that had not quite made itself clear yet.
He moved through the streets like a ghost, noticed by all, oblivious to his surroundings. He carried his pack through the throngs of busy people leading busy lives that had been uninterrupted by war. Within his pack was stuffed a canteen half-full of water, the remnants of his first aide kit, a tiny bottle of unused hot sauce, a pair of rusted tweezers, his father’s old pocket knife, and Lavender’s name badge –stolen right before the burial – which served as a bookmark for the found copy of Frankenstein now jabbing into his left shoulder blade. Providing insulation for these mismatched items of seeming unimportance were a fleece blanket covered with spattered red stains, his green poncho which he had used to keep his copy of Frankenstein safe, and three yellowed and wrinkled undershirts that smelled of mud, dead fish, and iron.
The pockets bulged with nothings, nothings that were somethings to Lieutenant Cross. A piece of long grass from one of the fields they took cover in during a small, but intense battle; a lock of hair from the body of a dead girl who had accidentally run out of her home while a fire fight was going on (she reminded him of his deceased sister); the bullet that had lodged itself in Lavender’s chest right before his team had burned Then Khe; a sketch he had drawn of a dog running rampant, apparently untouched, in Than Khe immediately after the fire; a small Hohner pocket harmonica Rat Kiley had chucked into the mud after Lieutenant Cross had played “a little too much” that night; Norman Bowker’s thumb trinket that he had cut from that dead boy’s hand – he had died a month after that. And last of all, Lieutenant Cross’s largest outside pocket was stuffed with a rope that measured about four and a half yards long.
CE 1 - based from "Incarnations of Burned Children" by David Foster Wallace
Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from David Foster Wallace's "Incarnations of Burned Children" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Wallace's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
The Daddy returned to the house carrying lump of cloth in one hand and a bottle of freshly purchased scotch in the other, and the inevitable confrontation with the Mommy was waiting for him inside. The Daddy cared very little for scotch, but his taste buds were broken from biting his tongue raw in the waiting room, and his mind was practically numb from the silent screaming which ran like a pack of wild wolves through his head. The Mommy looked blankly at the Daddy when he entered the kitchen, which was still awash with the water that had spilled from the burning pot and onto his son. The Mommy’s face retained the anguished and mangled expression it had displayed prior to the Daddy’s frantic exit from the house, and though she was just as young as she had been when the Daddy left, the Mommy seemed to have aged twenty years in the three hours that the Daddy had been away. The Mommy had not sat down, nor had she attempted to clean the water from the tile floor, which was now deeply soaked into the grout between the white, square foot stones. The Daddy stood facing the Mommy, displaying a look upon his face which matched the contempt and rage in his heart, and as he turned to open the cabinet door to pull down a small glass, the Mommy made a deep guttural sound akin to that made by a boiling pot of water. The Daddy glanced at the Mommy’s thin and transparent face, shook his head which withered on its stem, and strode out of the kitchen with the bottle of scotch and its glass companion in both of his fists.
The Mommy slowly began to turn her head from where it had been positioned for three hours and commenced her wide gaze upon the room where the incident had occurred. Her neck, once strong and supportive, was now like the Daddy’s: fragile and flimsy. The Mommy took in the sights: the water spilled upon the floor, the black pot which had fallen from her incapable hands, and the tiny diaper that had been left behind as a souvenir of their son’s last agonizing moments. The Mommy began to clean. She picked up the prone pot and washed it in the sink, making sure to wash it thoroughly. And again. And again. And again. She mopped up the water and hand dried the floor. Twice, just to be sure. She saved the diaper for last, having mopped and dried around the swollen object to avoid moving it, fearing that she would experience a sudden shock if she so much as brushed its outer cotton lining. The Mommy stood up, ventured toward the drawer where the utensils were kept, and pulled out a pair of salad tongs, and edging ever so carefully along the wall, she finally reached the diaper and gingerly picked it up between the cold metal fingers of the instrument. After this job had been completed, the Mommy sat down at the kitchen table, letting the tongs drop, clattering, to the floor. She stared blankly ahead as she had been doing when the Daddy first entered the room, and began breathing in short, shallow breaths. Her chest, now sunken from sorrow, disbelief, and guilt, was now hollow.
The Mommy thought she saw a small person out of the corner of her eye peek around the corner of the kitchen door. She could have sworn she heard the Daddy come back in from outside and turn the television on. The Mommy smiled to herself and weakly rose from her chair to fetch plates, knives, forks, and spoons from the cabinet. She set the table, and, when she had completed her task, sat down again, but no food appeared on the plate in front of her nor the plates adjacent to hers. Equally, the Daddy thought he heard the Mommy laughing. After finishing his third glass of scotch, he turned his head around to look through the porch door. He thought he saw the Mommy smiling while she sat at the kitchen table, feeding herself and another person, although this other individual was either out of view or too short for the Daddy to see. The Daddy felt quite drowsy, and he also thought he heard the sound of the radio as it played the short, whining, and jittering sounds of jazz through its small speakers. His leg started to bounce along with the music, although a little off tempo from the rhythm.
The Daddy returned to the house carrying lump of cloth in one hand and a bottle of freshly purchased scotch in the other, and the inevitable confrontation with the Mommy was waiting for him inside. The Daddy cared very little for scotch, but his taste buds were broken from biting his tongue raw in the waiting room, and his mind was practically numb from the silent screaming which ran like a pack of wild wolves through his head. The Mommy looked blankly at the Daddy when he entered the kitchen, which was still awash with the water that had spilled from the burning pot and onto his son. The Mommy’s face retained the anguished and mangled expression it had displayed prior to the Daddy’s frantic exit from the house, and though she was just as young as she had been when the Daddy left, the Mommy seemed to have aged twenty years in the three hours that the Daddy had been away. The Mommy had not sat down, nor had she attempted to clean the water from the tile floor, which was now deeply soaked into the grout between the white, square foot stones. The Daddy stood facing the Mommy, displaying a look upon his face which matched the contempt and rage in his heart, and as he turned to open the cabinet door to pull down a small glass, the Mommy made a deep guttural sound akin to that made by a boiling pot of water. The Daddy glanced at the Mommy’s thin and transparent face, shook his head which withered on its stem, and strode out of the kitchen with the bottle of scotch and its glass companion in both of his fists.
The Mommy slowly began to turn her head from where it had been positioned for three hours and commenced her wide gaze upon the room where the incident had occurred. Her neck, once strong and supportive, was now like the Daddy’s: fragile and flimsy. The Mommy took in the sights: the water spilled upon the floor, the black pot which had fallen from her incapable hands, and the tiny diaper that had been left behind as a souvenir of their son’s last agonizing moments. The Mommy began to clean. She picked up the prone pot and washed it in the sink, making sure to wash it thoroughly. And again. And again. And again. She mopped up the water and hand dried the floor. Twice, just to be sure. She saved the diaper for last, having mopped and dried around the swollen object to avoid moving it, fearing that she would experience a sudden shock if she so much as brushed its outer cotton lining. The Mommy stood up, ventured toward the drawer where the utensils were kept, and pulled out a pair of salad tongs, and edging ever so carefully along the wall, she finally reached the diaper and gingerly picked it up between the cold metal fingers of the instrument. After this job had been completed, the Mommy sat down at the kitchen table, letting the tongs drop, clattering, to the floor. She stared blankly ahead as she had been doing when the Daddy first entered the room, and began breathing in short, shallow breaths. Her chest, now sunken from sorrow, disbelief, and guilt, was now hollow.
The Mommy thought she saw a small person out of the corner of her eye peek around the corner of the kitchen door. She could have sworn she heard the Daddy come back in from outside and turn the television on. The Mommy smiled to herself and weakly rose from her chair to fetch plates, knives, forks, and spoons from the cabinet. She set the table, and, when she had completed her task, sat down again, but no food appeared on the plate in front of her nor the plates adjacent to hers. Equally, the Daddy thought he heard the Mommy laughing. After finishing his third glass of scotch, he turned his head around to look through the porch door. He thought he saw the Mommy smiling while she sat at the kitchen table, feeding herself and another person, although this other individual was either out of view or too short for the Daddy to see. The Daddy felt quite drowsy, and he also thought he heard the sound of the radio as it played the short, whining, and jittering sounds of jazz through its small speakers. His leg started to bounce along with the music, although a little off tempo from the rhythm.
04 June 2011
29 April 2011
Taking Charge and Falling Hard: The Dichotomy of Gender Stereotypes in Hope Leslie
Catharine Maria Sedgwick’s novel, Hope Leslie, or Early Times in the Massachusetts, is an extraordinary rendering of the relationships that existed between men and women in early New-England Puritan society. Feminine and masculine gender stereotypes, both positive and negative, are exhibited in the text by Sedgwick’s characters to point out the “proper” and “improper” methods of conducting oneself in Puritan society. These stereotypes are then contradicted by Hope Leslie, the novel’s main protagonist, and Sir Philip Gardiner, the novel’s central antagonist; their actions provide proof that gender stereotypes are not limited to solely men or women, and may and do alter conventional perceptions of traditional gender roles and patriarchal social standards. Through textual references to behavior, individual actions, and dialogue, the characters of Hope Leslie and Sir Philip Gardiner provide striking evidence that the traditional virtues of men and traditional vices of women cross gender lines, and furthermore reveal a distinct difference between conventional gender stereotypes and true individual actions.
To begin, Hope Leslie is repeatedly referred to throughout the novel as being radically different from those “modern belle[s]” of the 17th century, allowing herself to act beyond the normal social constraints of Puritan society and pursue a freer and more adventurous behavior (Sedgwick 126). Her conduct, in return, is constantly called into question by her superiors; included in this group is Sir Philip Gardiner, who, though he is no superior in government, represents the masculine superiority which constantly hovers over Hope and the other women in the novel. The first instance in which the reader is intimately introduced to Hope is through her letter from herself to Everell Fletcher, who “presently [resides] in England” (Fetterley; Sedgwick 99). In her narration of the events at Bethel, Hope relates to Everell that her aunt Grafton expressed much displeasure with her intent to go hiking, saying that Hope’s venture into the wilderness was improper “for a young person, like me, to go out exploring a new country” (102). Dame Grafton’s disapproval of Hope’s intentions punctuate the uncommon desires of a young Puritan girl who is expected, if not required, to adhere to the strict Puritan moral code of remaining steadfastly “pious, modest, submissive, and invisible to the public eye” (Garvey). In Hope’s reply, she “urged, that our new country develops faculties that young ladies, in England, were unconscious of possessing” (Sedgwick 102). By providing this excuse for joining her male elders, Hope expresses her desire for education and knowledge of the world around her (Fetterley). In addition, her intention to venture into nature mirrors a desire to enter into a larger field of participation; by leaving the confines of her home, and then her own society, she is entering not only into a more public sphere, but a world sphere, while “yearning for social and natural unity” (Singley). Typically, men from this era are given freedom to explore and act upon these desires because they are thought to possess the skills to do so. However, Sedgwick invites the reader to consider the possibility that a woman, who is confined within a society that does not invite her to explore her surroundings, may do so, and furthermore, may enjoy doing it (Garvey). References to Hope’s social irregularity are further alluded to by Dame Grafton in her own letter to Everell when she says, “Hope, I am sorry to say, is as obstinate as ever” (Sedgwick 120). Hope’s obstinacy is rather a determination to break away from socially constructed stereotypes which have been imposed upon her by men. Governor Winthrop is equally adverse to Hope’s free spirit, asserting that she “hath not…that passiveness, that, next to godliness, [that] is a woman’s best virtue” under the dictations of Puritan culture (160). Hope, rather than submitting to the wishes of her superiors, “follows the dictates of her heart rather than the dictates of her elders” (Bell 221). Willful determination and stubbornness, often attributed to intelligent or ambitious men, is a rare sight in Dame Grafton’s mind, and in order to maintain the social norm, Grafton and Winthrop discourage this nature.
Other instances continually arise in which Hope’s behavior is shown as deviating from traditional feminine social norms. The traditional masculine qualities of courage and progressive thinking appear in Hope’s actions when they are alluded to by the omniscient narrator. Chief among these occasions are those wherein Hope is described as supportive of parties whose character is called into question. When Nelema is jailed as a witch for using herbal remedies on Cradock to cure him of a snake bite, Hope fervently “declare[s] her belief in Nelema’s innocence”, and is “inspired with a sudden resolution to set her free” when she spies the key the Nelema’s cell door lying conveniently nearby (Sedgwick 123-124). In professing her belief in Nelema’s innocence and simply considering the possibility of breaking her friend out of prison, Hope is in danger of being labeled a sympathizer; her virtue as a Puritan woman and trustworthiness as an individual would be brought into question by, first, the reader, and second, by the administers of justice should they discover her plot (Fetterley). However, her belief in true justice is defended to the reader by the sympathetic narrator: “Hope Leslie took counsel only from her own heart…the rights of innocence were paramount to all other rights” (Sedgwick 124). This thought is also linked with Hope’s forward-thinking personality, which is “superior to some of the prejudices of the day” (127). Without these social limits on her mind, Hope is further able to enjoy “the capacities of her nature, and [permit] her mind to expand beyond the contracted boundaries of sectarian faith” (128). Hope’s progressive way of thinking is characteristic of educated men of the 17th century, though there were few of the middle class who were privileged with such an advantage. Although most American gentlemen were not of the mindset that equality was meant for all people, men who had attended an institution of higher learning were more apt to consider the possibility of equality for all than those who had not entered a college or university. Through associating these masculine attributes with Hope, Sedgwick further invites her readers to consider that thoughts, typically associated with men, may also be found within the minds of women who see justice as belonging to the race of humans rather than the race of white men.
Another feature of Hope Leslie’s deviation from strict Puritan society lies in her overt actions, which are related to the reader through Hope’s words in her retelling of events, or through frank narration. Hope eagerly tells Everell in her letter that each member of the hiking party “reached the summit, without scathe to life or limb,” including Hope herself (103). This instance is an example in which Hope performs in a masculine way; she scales a mountain, which presents a highly un-feminine image. The action of climbing a mountain requires intense physical labor, endurance, and tremendous willpower; all three qualities function within a realm of traditional male physicality. Additionally, man’s conquering of a land structure usually parallels with his conquering of a female subject since the earth is predominantly referred to as “Mother Earth.” The image of Hope, a woman, instead presents a different view of mankind’s attempt to scale a mountain; she is representative of a daughter of the earth, endeavoring to become one with nature and the world around her.
Furthermore, the actions of freeing Nelema and Magawisca from jail provide Hope with the traditionally masculine trait of moral authority. Hope tells Magawisca, “I have come to release you,” and does so very craftily by disguising Cradock in a blanket and Magawisca in Cradock’s clothing, and then ushering Magawisca out very carefully so as to avoid the light of Barnaby’s lantern (326). Hope’s belief that Nelema and Magawisca are innocent and good stems from her deeply rooted belief that these women had genuinely done nothing wrong; since the male community has failed to see these captive women as innocent, Hope is forced to “intervene on behalf of the innocent” (Garvey). With this belief, Hope adopts a moral superiority over her male friends and social superiors who believe that they possess the ultimate moral superiority (Emerson). By doing this, Hope elevates herself to the level of Winthrop, William Fletcher, Cradock, Barnaby, and Sir Philip Gardiner, each one a male superior, and develops a stance of fearlessness along with moral dominance. Hope’s fearlessness is also addressed in her choice to risk her life even when she cannot anticipate impending dangers. After the meeting with Faith Leslie has been sabotaged by Sir Philip and his men, Hope is carried away by Oneco, and once they reach the shore of an island, Hope “forget[ting] her fear and danger in the sublimity of the storm…bound[s] away” into the night (Sedgwick 248-249). She is unaware of the impending danger that awaits her, but willing to brave whatever peril is presented to her, Hope willingly runs away. This action, although seemingly irrational, is the most rational thing Hope can do at that moment to avoid physical captivity, motivated by rational thought and affective feelings of fearlessness, she flees (Emerson). Her encounter with a group of malicious-minded sailors is her reward, but as she escapes from these men, she stumbles upon Antonio, the drunken sailor who thinks she is a saint. This new situation could also have ended poorly, but through quick thinking, Hope escapes detection of her actual persona. The quality of fearlessness is often common in brave male soldiers, strong fathers or brothers, or men who rank high in political office; however, it is not common among young Puritan women who, after being kidnapped, run blindly into a forest. The quality of fearlessness must also be accompanied by some degree of confidence in social ability and physical strength, for if the former fails in protecting the safety of one’s person, the latter must be implemented to avoid capture, injury, or death.
Finally, Hope’s words, whether written in epistle form or spoken aloud, serve to present the protagonist as an independent woman, capable of speaking for herself. Hope relates to Everell that she refused to be “plucked up and cast away” and insists “she [will] not go” to Boston (Sedgwick 118). Her defiance of William Fletcher, along with being unusually petulant, is also a vehicle through which her desire for personal independence is carried. During this period, independence is usually a freedom only given to men; since women possessed virtually no rights and were seen as property, they were treated as such and moved at the convenience of the man they were dependent upon (Fetterley). Michael Bell offers that though Hope is willful, the reader should see her as independently motivated instead of selfish (Bell 221). By denying Fletcher’s suggestions that she should be removed to Boston, Hope violates the traditional “boundaries of her place as a Puritan” woman, and openly admits that she wishes to own herself as an individual, and that her quest for individuality ultimately begins in frankly dictating that she has control over her own whereabouts (Garvey).
In contrast to Hope Leslie’s possession of positive masculine qualities, Sir Philip Gardiner’s possession of traditionally negative feminine qualities also begins with allusions provided by the omniscient narrator. In Gardiner’s first major description of his character, “he looked much like a dainty Quaker”; in this sentence, focus is centered on the verb “looked” (Sedgwick 129). Throughout the second half of the novel, Gardiner’s appearance is repeatedly called into question by the narrator and other characters in the story. Jennet calls him a “godly appearing man”; the narrator mentions that “he [has] nothing of the puritan but the outside” and that “he [plays] the gallant magician with two faces” (146, 175, 275). These references are intermittently dispersed to remind the reader that Gardiner is not what he seems to be, and is in fact something else entirely. The quality of being “two-faced” is predominantly associated with women, who have been portrayed as gossips, back-stabbers, and manipulators both historically and in literature (Kalayjian 64). This notion could come from the fact that, because women were not permitted to fully enter the public sphere until the middle of the 20th century, their time was occupied by activities such as quilting bees and luncheons where conversation would inevitably return to the people who participated in such events.
Additionally, Gardiner is portrayed as rash and irresponsible. While in court, Gardiner realizes that his “fool-hardiness, which he had rushed unnecessarily and unwittingly” has exposed him to public scrutiny (Sedgwick 300); he becomes “entangled in the meshes of his own weaving” through constantly lying about the particulars concerning his observance of the meeting between Hope Leslie and Magawisca (333). His plot to capture Hope Leslie is fueled by lust, vengeance, and greed, qualities which are commonly associated with older, irresponsible femme fatales who court and wed men for their money. These women are also portrayed as fickle, and usually betray their acquaintances due to some minor disagreement (Kalayjian 68). The same can easily be said for the rakish Gardiner, who abandons faithful Rosa to pursue Hope, and only returns to use Rosa’s complete trust in him to his own advantage.
Furthermore, Gardiner’s deliberate actions reflect dishonest and manipulative intentions. He follows Hope “at a prudent distance” when she ventures to meet with Magawisca and then “[enlists] against Magawisca…merely to advance his own private interests” (Sedgwick 259, 300). Though Gardiner’s actions are stated less frankly than descriptions of his character, his intentions are listed blatantly throughout the text, and his motive to undermine the court of Boston and the Fletcher and Winthrop families is clearly represented in “his bad mind” (312). His plot to capture the fleeing Magawisca and helpful Hope is even more disturbing when he plans on kidnapping Hope, forcing her to comply with his demands of marriage. Manipulation, a common negative action associated with ambitious, male-dependent women, is clearly a weakness of Gardiner, who desperately attempts to force his own advantageous means through manipulation of circumstances and people (Kalayjian 65).
Finally, Gardiner’s dialogue reflects a scheming personality that places blame on other individuals for his personal moral crimes. Before Gardiner meets Hope and Esther, he says that “women have cunning devices” with to change their appearance (Sedgwick 134). Ironically, Gardiner has, in fact, changed his own appearance to cunningly deceived members of the Boston government and the governor’s household. The very same actions which Gardiner seems to condemn and question are the same he uses to fool those around him; they therefore present him as a hypocrite, whose opinion is now invalid to the reader (Emerson). Later, as he drags the woman who he thinks is Hope into the recesses of the ship, he says to her, “Do not struggle thus…you have driven me to this violence. You must forgive the madness you have caused” (Sedgwick 341). Despite the fact that the woman being led away is Jennet, Gardiner’s message to her is clear: he marks the woman in his arms as the cause of his misery. In actuality, his misery has been caused by himself and his wretched actions against others. Labeling another individual as a scapegoat is highly popular among women who have fallen from grace, either socially or economically, and their misfortunes are placed (by them) on the person whom they have either depended or continually despised (Kalayjian 64). Gardiner’s situation runs parallel to that of the fallen, irresponsible woman, and eventually ends in Jennet’s, Rosa’s, and his own death.
The unusual predicaments surrounding Hope Leslie and her sister may provide a reason for breaking free of gender stereotypes, and why Sir Philip Gardiner has the motivation to commit acts of intrigue. Christopher Castiglia discusses the possibility that an “eccentric” story may pose the option to its female characters to act outside the normal gender constraints of their time (110). Hope Leslie belongs to a disordered family unit: her mother and father are deceased; her sister is missing; her only peer and childhood friend is across the Atlantic Ocean; and her best friend, Esther, is nothing like the free and unhindered protagonist. This disorder invites Hope to act irregularly in order to create stability; although she is surrounded by surrogate parents, she must provide inner strength and confidence for herself since her true emotional providers are absent, and by so doing, she is able to “ ‘flout’ plausible gender conventions” which stray outside the norm (Castiglia 110).
When placed within the larger context of captivity narratives, this historical captivity romance draws on the topic of captivity as how women and men operate within rigid ideals of any structured society. Captivity is not necessarily defined as physical confinement, and may therefore be used when stating that Hope and Sir Philip Gardiner are in captivity within the strict social conventions of Puritan society. Hope’s words, ideas, and actions are protested by her superiors because they are masculine in nature and do not “fit” typical feminine stereotypes; Gardiner’s actions, though condemned because of their outright immorality, are seen as feminine. Together, the positive masculine and negative feminine are instead positive and negative human traits; Sedgwick’s aim is to allow readers to experience both sides of the sexes and present humans rather than traditional, stereotypical men and women (Emerson). This becomes a common link in any captivity narrative where a woman is taken prisoner by a group larger than herself, whether it is being placed in physical captivity by the Narragansett or social captivity by her male brethren. In these situations, women come to stand as “complex models of democracy, adventure, mutuality, and sympathy” (Singley).
Sedgwick’s Hope Leslie carries an authoritative stance within the world of 17th century Massachusetts, and while the text displays various characters made of traditional Puritan values, Sedgwick makes a leap into the unconventional by inserting a female character who embodies positive masculine qualities, and a male character who exhibits negative feminine qualities. By providing textual references to character personality, revealing individual actions, and presenting clear dialogue to the reader, Sedgwick creates a discussion that challenges the traditional gender stereotypes of the hyper-courageous man and hyper-submissive woman. Hope Leslie provides a thoughtful discussion of gender constraints in both 17th century and modern-day America, and proposes an alternate view of how traditional gender stereotypes can and will be challenged by emerging exceptions to widely held beliefs.
Works Cited
Bell, Michael D. "History and Romance Convention in Catharine Sedgwick's "Hope Leslie"" American Quarterly 22.2 (1970): 213-21. JSTOR. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Castiglia, Christopher. "The Wilderness of Fiction: From Captivity Narrative to Captivity Romance." Bound and determined: captivity, culture-crossing, and white womanhood from Mary Rowlandson to Patty Hearst. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. 106-136. Print.
Emerson, Amanda. "History, memory, and the echoes of equivalence in Catharine Maria Sedgwick's Hope Leslie." Legacy: A Journal of American Women Writers 24.1 (2007). Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Fetterley, Judith. "'My Sister! My Sister!': The Rhetoric of Catherine Sedgwick's Hope Leslie." American Literature 70.3 (Sept. 1998): 491-516. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Garvey, T. Gregory. "Risking Reprisal: Catharine Sedgwick's Hope Leslie and the Legitimation of Public Action by Women." American Transcendental Quarterly 8.4 (Dec. 1994): 287-298. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Kalayjian, Patricia L. "Revisioning America's (Literary) Past: Sedgwick's "Hope Leslie"" NWSA Journal 8.3 (1996): 63-78. JSTOR. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Sedgwick, Catharine Maria. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts. New York: Penguin Books, 1998. Print.
Singley, Carol J. "Catharine Maria Sedgwick's Hope Leslie: Radical Frontier Romance." Desert, Garden, Margin, Range: Literature on the American Frontier. Ed. Eric Heyne. Twayne Publishers, 1992. 110-122. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
To begin, Hope Leslie is repeatedly referred to throughout the novel as being radically different from those “modern belle[s]” of the 17th century, allowing herself to act beyond the normal social constraints of Puritan society and pursue a freer and more adventurous behavior (Sedgwick 126). Her conduct, in return, is constantly called into question by her superiors; included in this group is Sir Philip Gardiner, who, though he is no superior in government, represents the masculine superiority which constantly hovers over Hope and the other women in the novel. The first instance in which the reader is intimately introduced to Hope is through her letter from herself to Everell Fletcher, who “presently [resides] in England” (Fetterley; Sedgwick 99). In her narration of the events at Bethel, Hope relates to Everell that her aunt Grafton expressed much displeasure with her intent to go hiking, saying that Hope’s venture into the wilderness was improper “for a young person, like me, to go out exploring a new country” (102). Dame Grafton’s disapproval of Hope’s intentions punctuate the uncommon desires of a young Puritan girl who is expected, if not required, to adhere to the strict Puritan moral code of remaining steadfastly “pious, modest, submissive, and invisible to the public eye” (Garvey). In Hope’s reply, she “urged, that our new country develops faculties that young ladies, in England, were unconscious of possessing” (Sedgwick 102). By providing this excuse for joining her male elders, Hope expresses her desire for education and knowledge of the world around her (Fetterley). In addition, her intention to venture into nature mirrors a desire to enter into a larger field of participation; by leaving the confines of her home, and then her own society, she is entering not only into a more public sphere, but a world sphere, while “yearning for social and natural unity” (Singley). Typically, men from this era are given freedom to explore and act upon these desires because they are thought to possess the skills to do so. However, Sedgwick invites the reader to consider the possibility that a woman, who is confined within a society that does not invite her to explore her surroundings, may do so, and furthermore, may enjoy doing it (Garvey). References to Hope’s social irregularity are further alluded to by Dame Grafton in her own letter to Everell when she says, “Hope, I am sorry to say, is as obstinate as ever” (Sedgwick 120). Hope’s obstinacy is rather a determination to break away from socially constructed stereotypes which have been imposed upon her by men. Governor Winthrop is equally adverse to Hope’s free spirit, asserting that she “hath not…that passiveness, that, next to godliness, [that] is a woman’s best virtue” under the dictations of Puritan culture (160). Hope, rather than submitting to the wishes of her superiors, “follows the dictates of her heart rather than the dictates of her elders” (Bell 221). Willful determination and stubbornness, often attributed to intelligent or ambitious men, is a rare sight in Dame Grafton’s mind, and in order to maintain the social norm, Grafton and Winthrop discourage this nature.
Other instances continually arise in which Hope’s behavior is shown as deviating from traditional feminine social norms. The traditional masculine qualities of courage and progressive thinking appear in Hope’s actions when they are alluded to by the omniscient narrator. Chief among these occasions are those wherein Hope is described as supportive of parties whose character is called into question. When Nelema is jailed as a witch for using herbal remedies on Cradock to cure him of a snake bite, Hope fervently “declare[s] her belief in Nelema’s innocence”, and is “inspired with a sudden resolution to set her free” when she spies the key the Nelema’s cell door lying conveniently nearby (Sedgwick 123-124). In professing her belief in Nelema’s innocence and simply considering the possibility of breaking her friend out of prison, Hope is in danger of being labeled a sympathizer; her virtue as a Puritan woman and trustworthiness as an individual would be brought into question by, first, the reader, and second, by the administers of justice should they discover her plot (Fetterley). However, her belief in true justice is defended to the reader by the sympathetic narrator: “Hope Leslie took counsel only from her own heart…the rights of innocence were paramount to all other rights” (Sedgwick 124). This thought is also linked with Hope’s forward-thinking personality, which is “superior to some of the prejudices of the day” (127). Without these social limits on her mind, Hope is further able to enjoy “the capacities of her nature, and [permit] her mind to expand beyond the contracted boundaries of sectarian faith” (128). Hope’s progressive way of thinking is characteristic of educated men of the 17th century, though there were few of the middle class who were privileged with such an advantage. Although most American gentlemen were not of the mindset that equality was meant for all people, men who had attended an institution of higher learning were more apt to consider the possibility of equality for all than those who had not entered a college or university. Through associating these masculine attributes with Hope, Sedgwick further invites her readers to consider that thoughts, typically associated with men, may also be found within the minds of women who see justice as belonging to the race of humans rather than the race of white men.
Another feature of Hope Leslie’s deviation from strict Puritan society lies in her overt actions, which are related to the reader through Hope’s words in her retelling of events, or through frank narration. Hope eagerly tells Everell in her letter that each member of the hiking party “reached the summit, without scathe to life or limb,” including Hope herself (103). This instance is an example in which Hope performs in a masculine way; she scales a mountain, which presents a highly un-feminine image. The action of climbing a mountain requires intense physical labor, endurance, and tremendous willpower; all three qualities function within a realm of traditional male physicality. Additionally, man’s conquering of a land structure usually parallels with his conquering of a female subject since the earth is predominantly referred to as “Mother Earth.” The image of Hope, a woman, instead presents a different view of mankind’s attempt to scale a mountain; she is representative of a daughter of the earth, endeavoring to become one with nature and the world around her.
Furthermore, the actions of freeing Nelema and Magawisca from jail provide Hope with the traditionally masculine trait of moral authority. Hope tells Magawisca, “I have come to release you,” and does so very craftily by disguising Cradock in a blanket and Magawisca in Cradock’s clothing, and then ushering Magawisca out very carefully so as to avoid the light of Barnaby’s lantern (326). Hope’s belief that Nelema and Magawisca are innocent and good stems from her deeply rooted belief that these women had genuinely done nothing wrong; since the male community has failed to see these captive women as innocent, Hope is forced to “intervene on behalf of the innocent” (Garvey). With this belief, Hope adopts a moral superiority over her male friends and social superiors who believe that they possess the ultimate moral superiority (Emerson). By doing this, Hope elevates herself to the level of Winthrop, William Fletcher, Cradock, Barnaby, and Sir Philip Gardiner, each one a male superior, and develops a stance of fearlessness along with moral dominance. Hope’s fearlessness is also addressed in her choice to risk her life even when she cannot anticipate impending dangers. After the meeting with Faith Leslie has been sabotaged by Sir Philip and his men, Hope is carried away by Oneco, and once they reach the shore of an island, Hope “forget[ting] her fear and danger in the sublimity of the storm…bound[s] away” into the night (Sedgwick 248-249). She is unaware of the impending danger that awaits her, but willing to brave whatever peril is presented to her, Hope willingly runs away. This action, although seemingly irrational, is the most rational thing Hope can do at that moment to avoid physical captivity, motivated by rational thought and affective feelings of fearlessness, she flees (Emerson). Her encounter with a group of malicious-minded sailors is her reward, but as she escapes from these men, she stumbles upon Antonio, the drunken sailor who thinks she is a saint. This new situation could also have ended poorly, but through quick thinking, Hope escapes detection of her actual persona. The quality of fearlessness is often common in brave male soldiers, strong fathers or brothers, or men who rank high in political office; however, it is not common among young Puritan women who, after being kidnapped, run blindly into a forest. The quality of fearlessness must also be accompanied by some degree of confidence in social ability and physical strength, for if the former fails in protecting the safety of one’s person, the latter must be implemented to avoid capture, injury, or death.
Finally, Hope’s words, whether written in epistle form or spoken aloud, serve to present the protagonist as an independent woman, capable of speaking for herself. Hope relates to Everell that she refused to be “plucked up and cast away” and insists “she [will] not go” to Boston (Sedgwick 118). Her defiance of William Fletcher, along with being unusually petulant, is also a vehicle through which her desire for personal independence is carried. During this period, independence is usually a freedom only given to men; since women possessed virtually no rights and were seen as property, they were treated as such and moved at the convenience of the man they were dependent upon (Fetterley). Michael Bell offers that though Hope is willful, the reader should see her as independently motivated instead of selfish (Bell 221). By denying Fletcher’s suggestions that she should be removed to Boston, Hope violates the traditional “boundaries of her place as a Puritan” woman, and openly admits that she wishes to own herself as an individual, and that her quest for individuality ultimately begins in frankly dictating that she has control over her own whereabouts (Garvey).
In contrast to Hope Leslie’s possession of positive masculine qualities, Sir Philip Gardiner’s possession of traditionally negative feminine qualities also begins with allusions provided by the omniscient narrator. In Gardiner’s first major description of his character, “he looked much like a dainty Quaker”; in this sentence, focus is centered on the verb “looked” (Sedgwick 129). Throughout the second half of the novel, Gardiner’s appearance is repeatedly called into question by the narrator and other characters in the story. Jennet calls him a “godly appearing man”; the narrator mentions that “he [has] nothing of the puritan but the outside” and that “he [plays] the gallant magician with two faces” (146, 175, 275). These references are intermittently dispersed to remind the reader that Gardiner is not what he seems to be, and is in fact something else entirely. The quality of being “two-faced” is predominantly associated with women, who have been portrayed as gossips, back-stabbers, and manipulators both historically and in literature (Kalayjian 64). This notion could come from the fact that, because women were not permitted to fully enter the public sphere until the middle of the 20th century, their time was occupied by activities such as quilting bees and luncheons where conversation would inevitably return to the people who participated in such events.
Additionally, Gardiner is portrayed as rash and irresponsible. While in court, Gardiner realizes that his “fool-hardiness, which he had rushed unnecessarily and unwittingly” has exposed him to public scrutiny (Sedgwick 300); he becomes “entangled in the meshes of his own weaving” through constantly lying about the particulars concerning his observance of the meeting between Hope Leslie and Magawisca (333). His plot to capture Hope Leslie is fueled by lust, vengeance, and greed, qualities which are commonly associated with older, irresponsible femme fatales who court and wed men for their money. These women are also portrayed as fickle, and usually betray their acquaintances due to some minor disagreement (Kalayjian 68). The same can easily be said for the rakish Gardiner, who abandons faithful Rosa to pursue Hope, and only returns to use Rosa’s complete trust in him to his own advantage.
Furthermore, Gardiner’s deliberate actions reflect dishonest and manipulative intentions. He follows Hope “at a prudent distance” when she ventures to meet with Magawisca and then “[enlists] against Magawisca…merely to advance his own private interests” (Sedgwick 259, 300). Though Gardiner’s actions are stated less frankly than descriptions of his character, his intentions are listed blatantly throughout the text, and his motive to undermine the court of Boston and the Fletcher and Winthrop families is clearly represented in “his bad mind” (312). His plot to capture the fleeing Magawisca and helpful Hope is even more disturbing when he plans on kidnapping Hope, forcing her to comply with his demands of marriage. Manipulation, a common negative action associated with ambitious, male-dependent women, is clearly a weakness of Gardiner, who desperately attempts to force his own advantageous means through manipulation of circumstances and people (Kalayjian 65).
Finally, Gardiner’s dialogue reflects a scheming personality that places blame on other individuals for his personal moral crimes. Before Gardiner meets Hope and Esther, he says that “women have cunning devices” with to change their appearance (Sedgwick 134). Ironically, Gardiner has, in fact, changed his own appearance to cunningly deceived members of the Boston government and the governor’s household. The very same actions which Gardiner seems to condemn and question are the same he uses to fool those around him; they therefore present him as a hypocrite, whose opinion is now invalid to the reader (Emerson). Later, as he drags the woman who he thinks is Hope into the recesses of the ship, he says to her, “Do not struggle thus…you have driven me to this violence. You must forgive the madness you have caused” (Sedgwick 341). Despite the fact that the woman being led away is Jennet, Gardiner’s message to her is clear: he marks the woman in his arms as the cause of his misery. In actuality, his misery has been caused by himself and his wretched actions against others. Labeling another individual as a scapegoat is highly popular among women who have fallen from grace, either socially or economically, and their misfortunes are placed (by them) on the person whom they have either depended or continually despised (Kalayjian 64). Gardiner’s situation runs parallel to that of the fallen, irresponsible woman, and eventually ends in Jennet’s, Rosa’s, and his own death.
The unusual predicaments surrounding Hope Leslie and her sister may provide a reason for breaking free of gender stereotypes, and why Sir Philip Gardiner has the motivation to commit acts of intrigue. Christopher Castiglia discusses the possibility that an “eccentric” story may pose the option to its female characters to act outside the normal gender constraints of their time (110). Hope Leslie belongs to a disordered family unit: her mother and father are deceased; her sister is missing; her only peer and childhood friend is across the Atlantic Ocean; and her best friend, Esther, is nothing like the free and unhindered protagonist. This disorder invites Hope to act irregularly in order to create stability; although she is surrounded by surrogate parents, she must provide inner strength and confidence for herself since her true emotional providers are absent, and by so doing, she is able to “ ‘flout’ plausible gender conventions” which stray outside the norm (Castiglia 110).
When placed within the larger context of captivity narratives, this historical captivity romance draws on the topic of captivity as how women and men operate within rigid ideals of any structured society. Captivity is not necessarily defined as physical confinement, and may therefore be used when stating that Hope and Sir Philip Gardiner are in captivity within the strict social conventions of Puritan society. Hope’s words, ideas, and actions are protested by her superiors because they are masculine in nature and do not “fit” typical feminine stereotypes; Gardiner’s actions, though condemned because of their outright immorality, are seen as feminine. Together, the positive masculine and negative feminine are instead positive and negative human traits; Sedgwick’s aim is to allow readers to experience both sides of the sexes and present humans rather than traditional, stereotypical men and women (Emerson). This becomes a common link in any captivity narrative where a woman is taken prisoner by a group larger than herself, whether it is being placed in physical captivity by the Narragansett or social captivity by her male brethren. In these situations, women come to stand as “complex models of democracy, adventure, mutuality, and sympathy” (Singley).
Sedgwick’s Hope Leslie carries an authoritative stance within the world of 17th century Massachusetts, and while the text displays various characters made of traditional Puritan values, Sedgwick makes a leap into the unconventional by inserting a female character who embodies positive masculine qualities, and a male character who exhibits negative feminine qualities. By providing textual references to character personality, revealing individual actions, and presenting clear dialogue to the reader, Sedgwick creates a discussion that challenges the traditional gender stereotypes of the hyper-courageous man and hyper-submissive woman. Hope Leslie provides a thoughtful discussion of gender constraints in both 17th century and modern-day America, and proposes an alternate view of how traditional gender stereotypes can and will be challenged by emerging exceptions to widely held beliefs.
Works Cited
Bell, Michael D. "History and Romance Convention in Catharine Sedgwick's "Hope Leslie"" American Quarterly 22.2 (1970): 213-21. JSTOR. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Castiglia, Christopher. "The Wilderness of Fiction: From Captivity Narrative to Captivity Romance." Bound and determined: captivity, culture-crossing, and white womanhood from Mary Rowlandson to Patty Hearst. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. 106-136. Print.
Emerson, Amanda. "History, memory, and the echoes of equivalence in Catharine Maria Sedgwick's Hope Leslie." Legacy: A Journal of American Women Writers 24.1 (2007). Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Fetterley, Judith. "'My Sister! My Sister!': The Rhetoric of Catherine Sedgwick's Hope Leslie." American Literature 70.3 (Sept. 1998): 491-516. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Garvey, T. Gregory. "Risking Reprisal: Catharine Sedgwick's Hope Leslie and the Legitimation of Public Action by Women." American Transcendental Quarterly 8.4 (Dec. 1994): 287-298. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Kalayjian, Patricia L. "Revisioning America's (Literary) Past: Sedgwick's "Hope Leslie"" NWSA Journal 8.3 (1996): 63-78. JSTOR. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Sedgwick, Catharine Maria. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts. New York: Penguin Books, 1998. Print.
Singley, Carol J. "Catharine Maria Sedgwick's Hope Leslie: Radical Frontier Romance." Desert, Garden, Margin, Range: Literature on the American Frontier. Ed. Eric Heyne. Twayne Publishers, 1992. 110-122. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
17 April 2011
Bookmark
A few years ago, I ordered some items from the Globe in London, and the envelope had a really cool postmark on it. I had cut it out and used it as a bookmark for a long time until this past summer when it disappeared. I figured it was time for a new one, so I made one myself.
The idea came after studying creation myths in my American Literature class. In the last three panels at the top, the figures switch roles and each is representative of the next step in the process of escaping confinement.
The idea came after studying creation myths in my American Literature class. In the last three panels at the top, the figures switch roles and each is representative of the next step in the process of escaping confinement.
09 April 2011
UCF Conservatory Theatre Review: 'Into the Woods'
The energy is high, the voices are bright, and the stories are as memorable as where they originate from. UCF’s Spring production of Stephen Sondheim’s “Into the Woods” brings together some of the most beloved Grimm’s fairy tales (“Cinderella”, “Rapunzel”, “Red Riding Hood”) along with other well-known children’s stories (“Jack and the Beanstalk” and a twist on “Thumbelina”) to create a story of love and hardship that ultimately addresses morality and questions of responsibility.
The play opens with a hearty “Once upon a time!” from the Narrator (Trevin Cooper) who stands as a living footnote throughout the performance. He narrates the story of Jack (Benjamin Smith), Cinderella (Lauren Butler), Little Red Riding Hood (Julie Frost), and the Baker (Josh Wise) and his Wife (Kelly Kilgore): Jack and his mother are poor and need to sell their cow, Milky White; Cinderella is abused by her step-mother (Veronica Horta) and step-sisters, Lucinda (Rebecca Galarza) and Florinda (Lindsay Clemmons), and longs to go to the ball; Red Riding Hood is on a journey to see her grandmother (Rachel Schimenti); the Baker and his Wife are childless and long for a baby to enter their lives. Each character is in the process of at least attempting to complete their own missions, when the Witch (Vicky DiSanto) interrupts the first song to explain the reason why the Baker has no children; she placed a curse upon his father and mother after his father stole the Witch’s beans and vowed that his family tree “would always be a barren one.” She tells him that in order to remove the curse they must attain a cow as white as milk, a cape as red as blood, a slipper as pure as gold, and hair as yellow as corn. Thus begins each character’s journey into the woods: Jack to sell Milky White; Cinderella to see her mother (Danielle Barnes); Little Red to see her grandmother; and the Baker and his Wife to find their objects. A chase ensues between the couple and each of the other travelers. As the chaos ensues, Jack sells Milky White for five “magic” beans; Little Red is led astray by the Wolf (Joshian Morales) and eaten along with her grandmother, only to be saved by the Baker; Cinderella is being chased by her prince (David Paul Kidder); and the Baker and his Wife only possess two of the four things they require. While all this is happening, Jack has felled a giant in his backyard; he has stolen a harp and a hen that lays golden eggs. Eventually the Baker and his Wife acquire their items and give them to the witch. She mixes them together (with the help of Milky White), and drinks the brew. The result is regaining her former beauty, but losing her powers. Milky White is given back to Jack; Cinderella is found by her prince and married to him; and Little Red now possesses a new, fur cape instead of her old red one. The Baker and His wife are assumed to be expecting a child soon; all seems to be going according to plan at the end of the first act, but as the second act approaches, we see that not every character is happy with the situations they find themselves in. Cinderella must face a cheating husband; the Baker and his Wife and their child need a larger home; and Jack is running from the Wife of the angry giant (Kristin Shoffner).
There are almost too many characters to keep up with, but when you stop and take a moment (which is rarely given to catch one’s breath) and think about the story, it’s not all that convoluted. The beauty of Sondheim’s musical is that each character’s story is interrelated, and there are no gaps of information. It also represents the message that director Kate Ingram is trying to get across: that each human being is connected through the human condition and our dependence on nature. She explains in her director’s note that the woods are where humans find themselves, and if our forests are depleted by “a sense of greed and entitlement,” humans will lose connection with one another as well as with the earth.
Ingram’s vision is equally represented in the set design by Vandy Wood, which consists of a solid foundation and airy-like draperies made of thin and transparent fabric. The entire production possesses an organic quality; scenes are easily transitioned between with the use of portable frames with the fabric attached (these are carried by puppeteers). The lighting, designed by Bert Scott, provides appropriate atmospheres for each scene, whether it requires an eerie, mystical, or peaceful ambiance. The orchestra is almost visible behind the scrim at the rear of the stage, but is not distracting in the least, and the costumes are unique for each character; though the only flaw mentionable would be their striking resemblance to the clothing worn in most of Disney’s fairy tale-based movies. If an organic theme is going to be carried through the show, its costumes styles should complement and not compete with the separate style of the set.
Particularly enjoyable numbers were the “Opening,” ; it grabs the attention of the audience from the first robust word, courtesy of Cooper. “Our Little World,” though wordless, includes harmonies between Noelle Sundrene Adderton (who plays Rapunzel) and DiSanto ; these are captivating, and it’s a shame that Rapunzel does not appear more heartily in the within the musical numbers. “Agony” and “Agony Reprise” are pleasant releases from watching the breathless confusion of the other characters. These numbers, and their artists, Kidder and Mickey Bahr (who plays Rapunzel’s Prince) have perfect comedic timing, and portray the princes as the plastic, haughty, and clueless men they are. (In addition to their vocal abilities, Kidder and Bahr’s physicality is humorous, as they add extra hops, leaps, and bounds to their gaits.) “No One Is Alone” brings tears to the eyes as two sets of characters console each other before slaying Shoffner’s Giant. “Moments In the Woods” stands as Kilgore’s only true solo number, and is absolutely beautiful. Her voice is fit for the music, and her portrayal of the Baker’s Wife brings sympathy and humor to the role. The only number that stood alone as a less than stellar was “Hello Little Girl”; however, it was not because of Morale’s voice. On the contrary, his voice was suited well for the role and his physicality was…appropriate for a lascivious wolf preying on a little girl. His mask was the real issue, for it muffled his voice and made him sound out of breath.
Many other aspects of the show draw the audience in further and further “into the woods” with the cast. The use of shadow puppetry in the Little Red rescue scene enhances the story and introduces another aspect of childhood into the show. The interactions between Little Red and other characters are bold and entertaining; there are numerous bits in the show that provide plenty of comic relief. Galarza’s Lucinda is comical with her nearly-insane reactions to Cinderella. Smith plays an endearing and loveable Jack, who begs audience sympathy even though his character is as dull-witted as his cow.
Overall, UCF Conservatory Theatre’s production of “Into the Woods” presents a children’s story for adults that addresses issues of responsibility, right, and wrong, while keeping the simplicity of the original stories. A must-see, “Into the Woods” is a memorable trip into the hearts of Sondheim’s characters; each of them possess love, compassion, anger, fear, and hope, feelings with which each audience member can identify and be connected by.
The play opens with a hearty “Once upon a time!” from the Narrator (Trevin Cooper) who stands as a living footnote throughout the performance. He narrates the story of Jack (Benjamin Smith), Cinderella (Lauren Butler), Little Red Riding Hood (Julie Frost), and the Baker (Josh Wise) and his Wife (Kelly Kilgore): Jack and his mother are poor and need to sell their cow, Milky White; Cinderella is abused by her step-mother (Veronica Horta) and step-sisters, Lucinda (Rebecca Galarza) and Florinda (Lindsay Clemmons), and longs to go to the ball; Red Riding Hood is on a journey to see her grandmother (Rachel Schimenti); the Baker and his Wife are childless and long for a baby to enter their lives. Each character is in the process of at least attempting to complete their own missions, when the Witch (Vicky DiSanto) interrupts the first song to explain the reason why the Baker has no children; she placed a curse upon his father and mother after his father stole the Witch’s beans and vowed that his family tree “would always be a barren one.” She tells him that in order to remove the curse they must attain a cow as white as milk, a cape as red as blood, a slipper as pure as gold, and hair as yellow as corn. Thus begins each character’s journey into the woods: Jack to sell Milky White; Cinderella to see her mother (Danielle Barnes); Little Red to see her grandmother; and the Baker and his Wife to find their objects. A chase ensues between the couple and each of the other travelers. As the chaos ensues, Jack sells Milky White for five “magic” beans; Little Red is led astray by the Wolf (Joshian Morales) and eaten along with her grandmother, only to be saved by the Baker; Cinderella is being chased by her prince (David Paul Kidder); and the Baker and his Wife only possess two of the four things they require. While all this is happening, Jack has felled a giant in his backyard; he has stolen a harp and a hen that lays golden eggs. Eventually the Baker and his Wife acquire their items and give them to the witch. She mixes them together (with the help of Milky White), and drinks the brew. The result is regaining her former beauty, but losing her powers. Milky White is given back to Jack; Cinderella is found by her prince and married to him; and Little Red now possesses a new, fur cape instead of her old red one. The Baker and His wife are assumed to be expecting a child soon; all seems to be going according to plan at the end of the first act, but as the second act approaches, we see that not every character is happy with the situations they find themselves in. Cinderella must face a cheating husband; the Baker and his Wife and their child need a larger home; and Jack is running from the Wife of the angry giant (Kristin Shoffner).
There are almost too many characters to keep up with, but when you stop and take a moment (which is rarely given to catch one’s breath) and think about the story, it’s not all that convoluted. The beauty of Sondheim’s musical is that each character’s story is interrelated, and there are no gaps of information. It also represents the message that director Kate Ingram is trying to get across: that each human being is connected through the human condition and our dependence on nature. She explains in her director’s note that the woods are where humans find themselves, and if our forests are depleted by “a sense of greed and entitlement,” humans will lose connection with one another as well as with the earth.
Ingram’s vision is equally represented in the set design by Vandy Wood, which consists of a solid foundation and airy-like draperies made of thin and transparent fabric. The entire production possesses an organic quality; scenes are easily transitioned between with the use of portable frames with the fabric attached (these are carried by puppeteers). The lighting, designed by Bert Scott, provides appropriate atmospheres for each scene, whether it requires an eerie, mystical, or peaceful ambiance. The orchestra is almost visible behind the scrim at the rear of the stage, but is not distracting in the least, and the costumes are unique for each character; though the only flaw mentionable would be their striking resemblance to the clothing worn in most of Disney’s fairy tale-based movies. If an organic theme is going to be carried through the show, its costumes styles should complement and not compete with the separate style of the set.
Particularly enjoyable numbers were the “Opening,” ; it grabs the attention of the audience from the first robust word, courtesy of Cooper. “Our Little World,” though wordless, includes harmonies between Noelle Sundrene Adderton (who plays Rapunzel) and DiSanto ; these are captivating, and it’s a shame that Rapunzel does not appear more heartily in the within the musical numbers. “Agony” and “Agony Reprise” are pleasant releases from watching the breathless confusion of the other characters. These numbers, and their artists, Kidder and Mickey Bahr (who plays Rapunzel’s Prince) have perfect comedic timing, and portray the princes as the plastic, haughty, and clueless men they are. (In addition to their vocal abilities, Kidder and Bahr’s physicality is humorous, as they add extra hops, leaps, and bounds to their gaits.) “No One Is Alone” brings tears to the eyes as two sets of characters console each other before slaying Shoffner’s Giant. “Moments In the Woods” stands as Kilgore’s only true solo number, and is absolutely beautiful. Her voice is fit for the music, and her portrayal of the Baker’s Wife brings sympathy and humor to the role. The only number that stood alone as a less than stellar was “Hello Little Girl”; however, it was not because of Morale’s voice. On the contrary, his voice was suited well for the role and his physicality was…appropriate for a lascivious wolf preying on a little girl. His mask was the real issue, for it muffled his voice and made him sound out of breath.
Many other aspects of the show draw the audience in further and further “into the woods” with the cast. The use of shadow puppetry in the Little Red rescue scene enhances the story and introduces another aspect of childhood into the show. The interactions between Little Red and other characters are bold and entertaining; there are numerous bits in the show that provide plenty of comic relief. Galarza’s Lucinda is comical with her nearly-insane reactions to Cinderella. Smith plays an endearing and loveable Jack, who begs audience sympathy even though his character is as dull-witted as his cow.
Overall, UCF Conservatory Theatre’s production of “Into the Woods” presents a children’s story for adults that addresses issues of responsibility, right, and wrong, while keeping the simplicity of the original stories. A must-see, “Into the Woods” is a memorable trip into the hearts of Sondheim’s characters; each of them possess love, compassion, anger, fear, and hope, feelings with which each audience member can identify and be connected by.
06 April 2011
Animosity, Abuse, and Ambition: Dysfunctional Family Relationships in As I Lay Dying
In William Faulkner’s epic novel, As I Lay Dying, the author presents a highly dysfunctional family whose members exhibit violent and self-centered personalities rooted in jealousy and greed. The Bundren family’s mission to bury their dead mother ultimately turns into a showcase of fraternal rivalry accompanied by mental instability and struggles with abuse. Each member of the Bundren family holds some ill will towards another member of the tribe, and because of this resentment, the family is eventually broken apart. Throughout the novel, the Bundren clan individually expresses their personal attitudes through multiple brief monologues, in which each character highlights various episodes of familial opposition, individual acts of violence, and selfish ulterior motives to travel to Jefferson where the family must bury Addie, their dead matriarch.
First, family conflict is seen most predominantly in relationships where Jewel is involved. His speech beginning on page fourteen is this character’s sole emotional declaration, pure of any outside influence, even from Darl, who seems to have an uncanny knowledge of present events and personal secrets (Lowe). The attitudes Jewel expresses toward his siblings and father in this section illuminate his frustration and anger towards his family; though short and angrily monotonous, this speech solidifies the tone of Jewel’s relationships between himself and his father, mother, and siblings. Jewel expresses his annoyance at Cash for constantly sawing away at Addie’s unfinished coffin, an act Jewel perceives as Cash attempting to overtake Jewel in family dominance (Lowe). He satirizes this attempt by referring to Cash’s childhood when Cash brought Addie a “bread pan […] full of dung” to grow flowers in; Jewel uses “dung” as a metaphor for a disgusting gift, which is how Jewel sees the coffin (Faulkner 14; Lowe). Jewel continues on to express his disdain at Dewey Dell’s constant fanning of Addie, suggesting “if you’d just let her alone” (Faulkner 15). Dewey Dell, however, is abandoned for more worthy adversaries: Cash and Anse. Jewel fantasizes about situations in which he would have been the only onlooker, such as when Cash “fell off that church” and when “pa laid sick with that load of wood fell on him” (Faulkner 15). “If it had just been” Jewel, he would have possessed power over those who had oppressed him: his eldest brother competing for his mother’s affection, and his father who overpowers him automatically in the family hierarchy (Faulkner 15; Delville).
Next, Addie’s central role in the family is made clear by her posthumous monologue in which she outlines her relationship with Anse and her children. Addie repeatedly expresses her hate towards Anse for “trick[ing]” her, saying she “believed that [she] would kill Anse” (Faulkner 172). She even goes so far as to say that she “gave Anse the children. I did not ask for them” (Faulkner 174). This statement immediately labels Addie as a woman who, tied into a loveless marriage, reluctantly bears four children against her own wishes: first Cash and Darl, then Dewey Dell and Vardaman. The births of her first two sons may account for the illicit affair with Whitfield: to escape her dispassionate union. Nevertheless, while attempting to rid herself of her connection with her legal family, she finds herself pregnant with a child, the one who will save her “from the water and from the fire” (Faulkner 168). Addie’s rebellion and defiance for tradition is transferred into Jewel, and recognizing herself in him, she has found a soul to whom she can attach, even after death (Hayes). Darl, who comments on page seventeen that Jewel “is a head taller than any of the rest of us,” recognizes Jewel’s distinction and sees through the guise that Addie and perhaps Jewel have attempted to establish (Faulkner 17). This is the basis on which Darl mentally tortures his step-brother; Darl perceives a flaw in a member of the family who is competing for household dominance. Therefore, he attempts through mental manipulation to oust Jewel from his place within the family by using his illegitimacy against him (Bockting 126).
Furthermore, the tension exhibited between Darl and Jewel is profound. Blatant hostility is seen throughout the text from both sides; however, each party uses different tactics to antagonize the other. Beginning on page seventeen, the reader catches a first glimpse of Jewel’s aggressive strategies to silence his brother: “Shut up, Darl” (Faulkner 17). Since Darl had not previously shown any animosity toward Jewel in direct physical or verbal form, the reader can safely assume that Jewel has harbored resentment against Darl, but a specific reason is left unaddressed this early in the novel. It is not until much later that the reason for this brewing animosity is discovered: the events which determine Jewel’s birth. The negativity between the two brothers continues when Jewel tells Darl to “shut [his] goddamn mouth” (Faulkner 18). Finally, following Darl’s cruel jabs at Jewel’s legitimacy, Jewel responds with “you goddamn lying son of a bitch” (Faulkner 213). In contrast, Darl adopts a passive aggressive approach; knowing of Jewel and Addie’s relationship, Darl harasses Jewel by telling him three times, beginning on page forty, that “Addie Bundren is going to die.” As previously noted, near the end of the novel after Jewel’s illegitimacy has been established, Darl indirectly confronts Jewel about his parentage, slyly suggesting that he knows of Addie’s affair with Whitfield. Twice in conversation he asks Jewel in some form the identity of his father, knowing that this kind of taunting will anger Jewel and eventually emotionally deteriorate him (Faulkner 212-213).
Secondly, the violence and abuse demonstrated by each character only adds to the family’s mental dysfunction, proving that the only way to achieve mental satisfaction is through the torture of another individual. Addie confesses that she would “look forward to the times when [the students] faulted, so [she] could whip them” (Faulkner 170). When comparing her aggressive nature to that of Jewel’s, it is clear that Jewel is the male equivalent of Addie (Hayes). Additionally, Dewey Dell shows her own violent streak on page 121, picturing a fantasy where she kills Darl. This is followed by her attack on Darl in Jefferson where she “jumped on him like a wild cat” after he resisted detainment (Faulkner 237). Both of these startling episodes seem oddly placed, especially next to a seventeen year old, newly-pregnant female. However, these acts of violence stem from Darl’s knowledge of Dewey Dell’s pregnancy; through Darl’s knowledge of her secret, Dewey Dell is in danger of being revealed. Darl knows of the unspoken hold he has over Dewey Dell and twists the unfortunate predicament around on her, saying, “You want her to die so you can get to town: is that it?” (Faulkner 40). Darl’s abuse takes on a mental and verbal manifestation rather than a physical form. He collects information that he knows will be vital in manipulating and torturing his siblings while preying on their most private obsessions: Jewel’s illegitimacy and Dewey Dell’s pregnancy (Bockting 126).
Curiously, the violence is not limited to the human family; it is extended to the livestock, which are a part of the Bundren farm. There are three instances in the novel where an animal has been made to suffer for the grief of a member of the Bundren clan. First, following Jewel’s ride on his horse, the man and the beast retreat into the barn where, after the horse kicks at Jewel, Jewel “kicks him in the stomach” and “strikes him across the face with his fist” (Faulkner 13). Second, after Addie’s death, Vardaman escapes into the barn and begins whipping the horses with a switch, hearing the “stick striking […] hitting their heads” (Faulkner 54). Third, Anse unleashes his anger on the horse in the barn, striking it “upon the face with the back of the curry-comb” (Faulkner 183). The horse, as a symbol of male strength and vitality, is used to represent multiple male figures. The abuse of a horse is symbolic for the rage felt towards another male member of novel. Jewel’s rage stems from loathing Darl; Vardaman’s anguish branches from his misinterpretation of Peabody’s presence, seeing Peabody as Addie’s murderer; Anse’s anger stems from his frustration with himself, who cannot uphold his family’s dignity and his own pride because of his own stubbornness and stupidity. The Bundren family has no healthy way of dealing with their all-consuming rage, save for Cash, who never once lifts a hand to human nor horse.
Finally, the pilgrimage to Jefferson is not only a mission to bury Addie with her birth family, but a mission for the rest of the Bundren clan to gain what they most desire. Selfish reasons of all but two members of the family are clearly expressed in various sections of the novel. Repeatedly, Anse has told himself and others that he gave her his “promise” to bury her with her family (Faulkner 115). What he fails to mention to others is that he has planned ahead of time to purchase a new set of teeth while in the city, and ultimately, find a new wife to replace his deceased one. Vardaman, however innocent he is, still possesses a desire for an item that has nothing to do with his mother’s death. He fantasizes about eating “bananas” and seeing a train behind the glass of a store in Jefferson (Faulkner 66). Furthermore, Cash’s reason for traveling to Jefferson is not strictly reserved for a burial ceremony; his conscience is marked with the motivation to purchase a gramophone. Additionally, Dewey Dell’s reason for accompanying her family is more vital than those of her male siblings’. Her desperation for an abortion easily overshadows her mother’s death which is reflected on page 120 when she casually says, “I heard that my mother is dead”.
Collectively, the father, the oldest son, the youngest son, and the sole female have their own personal selfish reasons for venturing to Jefferson. Anse can finally “get them teeth”; Vardaman can get the train “behind the glass, red on the track”; Cash will be able to buy “that talking machine from Suratt”; and Dewey Dell can “get something at the drug store” for her intended abortion (Faulkner 52, 65, 190, 202). These selfish reasons beg the reader to ask, What family would place convenience to themselves over the burial of their dead mother? The answer is obvious: a dysfunctional group of emotionally stained individuals whose hearts have been damaged by jealousy and lives tainted by greed.
Throughout the novel, Faulkner’s characters display a wide range of emotions, all stemming from deep within their psyches which have been marred by dishonesty, familial corruption, and mental abuse. The dysfunctional Bundrens, led by a self-centered oaf and comprised of vain siblings, fall among the worst kind of family: one whose deceitful, manipulative, and cruel qualities know no bounds. It is made clear that the Bundren clan is nothing more than a group of survivalists who will stop at nothing to obtain what they desire, even if the journey to attainment is rife with fraternal contention, verbal and psychological cruelty, and dishonesty in the face of a parent’s death.
Works Cited:
Bockting, Ineke. "3 - Multiple Voices in As I Lay Dying." Character and Personality in the Novels of William Faulkner: a Study in Psychostylistics. Lanham, Maryland: University Press of America, 1995. 122-26. Print.
Delville, Michel. "Alienating Language and Darl's Narrative Consciousness in Faulkner's As I Lay Dying." The Southern Literary Journal 27.1 (1994). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
Faulkner, William. As I Lay Dying. Vintage International ed. New York: Vintage, 1985. Print.
Hayes, Elizabeth. "Tension between Darl and Jewel." The Southern Literary Journal 24.2 (1992). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
Lowe, John. "The Fraternal Fury of the Faulkners and the Bundrens." Mississippi Quarterly. 54.4 (2001). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
First, family conflict is seen most predominantly in relationships where Jewel is involved. His speech beginning on page fourteen is this character’s sole emotional declaration, pure of any outside influence, even from Darl, who seems to have an uncanny knowledge of present events and personal secrets (Lowe). The attitudes Jewel expresses toward his siblings and father in this section illuminate his frustration and anger towards his family; though short and angrily monotonous, this speech solidifies the tone of Jewel’s relationships between himself and his father, mother, and siblings. Jewel expresses his annoyance at Cash for constantly sawing away at Addie’s unfinished coffin, an act Jewel perceives as Cash attempting to overtake Jewel in family dominance (Lowe). He satirizes this attempt by referring to Cash’s childhood when Cash brought Addie a “bread pan […] full of dung” to grow flowers in; Jewel uses “dung” as a metaphor for a disgusting gift, which is how Jewel sees the coffin (Faulkner 14; Lowe). Jewel continues on to express his disdain at Dewey Dell’s constant fanning of Addie, suggesting “if you’d just let her alone” (Faulkner 15). Dewey Dell, however, is abandoned for more worthy adversaries: Cash and Anse. Jewel fantasizes about situations in which he would have been the only onlooker, such as when Cash “fell off that church” and when “pa laid sick with that load of wood fell on him” (Faulkner 15). “If it had just been” Jewel, he would have possessed power over those who had oppressed him: his eldest brother competing for his mother’s affection, and his father who overpowers him automatically in the family hierarchy (Faulkner 15; Delville).
Next, Addie’s central role in the family is made clear by her posthumous monologue in which she outlines her relationship with Anse and her children. Addie repeatedly expresses her hate towards Anse for “trick[ing]” her, saying she “believed that [she] would kill Anse” (Faulkner 172). She even goes so far as to say that she “gave Anse the children. I did not ask for them” (Faulkner 174). This statement immediately labels Addie as a woman who, tied into a loveless marriage, reluctantly bears four children against her own wishes: first Cash and Darl, then Dewey Dell and Vardaman. The births of her first two sons may account for the illicit affair with Whitfield: to escape her dispassionate union. Nevertheless, while attempting to rid herself of her connection with her legal family, she finds herself pregnant with a child, the one who will save her “from the water and from the fire” (Faulkner 168). Addie’s rebellion and defiance for tradition is transferred into Jewel, and recognizing herself in him, she has found a soul to whom she can attach, even after death (Hayes). Darl, who comments on page seventeen that Jewel “is a head taller than any of the rest of us,” recognizes Jewel’s distinction and sees through the guise that Addie and perhaps Jewel have attempted to establish (Faulkner 17). This is the basis on which Darl mentally tortures his step-brother; Darl perceives a flaw in a member of the family who is competing for household dominance. Therefore, he attempts through mental manipulation to oust Jewel from his place within the family by using his illegitimacy against him (Bockting 126).
Furthermore, the tension exhibited between Darl and Jewel is profound. Blatant hostility is seen throughout the text from both sides; however, each party uses different tactics to antagonize the other. Beginning on page seventeen, the reader catches a first glimpse of Jewel’s aggressive strategies to silence his brother: “Shut up, Darl” (Faulkner 17). Since Darl had not previously shown any animosity toward Jewel in direct physical or verbal form, the reader can safely assume that Jewel has harbored resentment against Darl, but a specific reason is left unaddressed this early in the novel. It is not until much later that the reason for this brewing animosity is discovered: the events which determine Jewel’s birth. The negativity between the two brothers continues when Jewel tells Darl to “shut [his] goddamn mouth” (Faulkner 18). Finally, following Darl’s cruel jabs at Jewel’s legitimacy, Jewel responds with “you goddamn lying son of a bitch” (Faulkner 213). In contrast, Darl adopts a passive aggressive approach; knowing of Jewel and Addie’s relationship, Darl harasses Jewel by telling him three times, beginning on page forty, that “Addie Bundren is going to die.” As previously noted, near the end of the novel after Jewel’s illegitimacy has been established, Darl indirectly confronts Jewel about his parentage, slyly suggesting that he knows of Addie’s affair with Whitfield. Twice in conversation he asks Jewel in some form the identity of his father, knowing that this kind of taunting will anger Jewel and eventually emotionally deteriorate him (Faulkner 212-213).
Secondly, the violence and abuse demonstrated by each character only adds to the family’s mental dysfunction, proving that the only way to achieve mental satisfaction is through the torture of another individual. Addie confesses that she would “look forward to the times when [the students] faulted, so [she] could whip them” (Faulkner 170). When comparing her aggressive nature to that of Jewel’s, it is clear that Jewel is the male equivalent of Addie (Hayes). Additionally, Dewey Dell shows her own violent streak on page 121, picturing a fantasy where she kills Darl. This is followed by her attack on Darl in Jefferson where she “jumped on him like a wild cat” after he resisted detainment (Faulkner 237). Both of these startling episodes seem oddly placed, especially next to a seventeen year old, newly-pregnant female. However, these acts of violence stem from Darl’s knowledge of Dewey Dell’s pregnancy; through Darl’s knowledge of her secret, Dewey Dell is in danger of being revealed. Darl knows of the unspoken hold he has over Dewey Dell and twists the unfortunate predicament around on her, saying, “You want her to die so you can get to town: is that it?” (Faulkner 40). Darl’s abuse takes on a mental and verbal manifestation rather than a physical form. He collects information that he knows will be vital in manipulating and torturing his siblings while preying on their most private obsessions: Jewel’s illegitimacy and Dewey Dell’s pregnancy (Bockting 126).
Curiously, the violence is not limited to the human family; it is extended to the livestock, which are a part of the Bundren farm. There are three instances in the novel where an animal has been made to suffer for the grief of a member of the Bundren clan. First, following Jewel’s ride on his horse, the man and the beast retreat into the barn where, after the horse kicks at Jewel, Jewel “kicks him in the stomach” and “strikes him across the face with his fist” (Faulkner 13). Second, after Addie’s death, Vardaman escapes into the barn and begins whipping the horses with a switch, hearing the “stick striking […] hitting their heads” (Faulkner 54). Third, Anse unleashes his anger on the horse in the barn, striking it “upon the face with the back of the curry-comb” (Faulkner 183). The horse, as a symbol of male strength and vitality, is used to represent multiple male figures. The abuse of a horse is symbolic for the rage felt towards another male member of novel. Jewel’s rage stems from loathing Darl; Vardaman’s anguish branches from his misinterpretation of Peabody’s presence, seeing Peabody as Addie’s murderer; Anse’s anger stems from his frustration with himself, who cannot uphold his family’s dignity and his own pride because of his own stubbornness and stupidity. The Bundren family has no healthy way of dealing with their all-consuming rage, save for Cash, who never once lifts a hand to human nor horse.
Finally, the pilgrimage to Jefferson is not only a mission to bury Addie with her birth family, but a mission for the rest of the Bundren clan to gain what they most desire. Selfish reasons of all but two members of the family are clearly expressed in various sections of the novel. Repeatedly, Anse has told himself and others that he gave her his “promise” to bury her with her family (Faulkner 115). What he fails to mention to others is that he has planned ahead of time to purchase a new set of teeth while in the city, and ultimately, find a new wife to replace his deceased one. Vardaman, however innocent he is, still possesses a desire for an item that has nothing to do with his mother’s death. He fantasizes about eating “bananas” and seeing a train behind the glass of a store in Jefferson (Faulkner 66). Furthermore, Cash’s reason for traveling to Jefferson is not strictly reserved for a burial ceremony; his conscience is marked with the motivation to purchase a gramophone. Additionally, Dewey Dell’s reason for accompanying her family is more vital than those of her male siblings’. Her desperation for an abortion easily overshadows her mother’s death which is reflected on page 120 when she casually says, “I heard that my mother is dead”.
Collectively, the father, the oldest son, the youngest son, and the sole female have their own personal selfish reasons for venturing to Jefferson. Anse can finally “get them teeth”; Vardaman can get the train “behind the glass, red on the track”; Cash will be able to buy “that talking machine from Suratt”; and Dewey Dell can “get something at the drug store” for her intended abortion (Faulkner 52, 65, 190, 202). These selfish reasons beg the reader to ask, What family would place convenience to themselves over the burial of their dead mother? The answer is obvious: a dysfunctional group of emotionally stained individuals whose hearts have been damaged by jealousy and lives tainted by greed.
Throughout the novel, Faulkner’s characters display a wide range of emotions, all stemming from deep within their psyches which have been marred by dishonesty, familial corruption, and mental abuse. The dysfunctional Bundrens, led by a self-centered oaf and comprised of vain siblings, fall among the worst kind of family: one whose deceitful, manipulative, and cruel qualities know no bounds. It is made clear that the Bundren clan is nothing more than a group of survivalists who will stop at nothing to obtain what they desire, even if the journey to attainment is rife with fraternal contention, verbal and psychological cruelty, and dishonesty in the face of a parent’s death.
Works Cited:
Bockting, Ineke. "3 - Multiple Voices in As I Lay Dying." Character and Personality in the Novels of William Faulkner: a Study in Psychostylistics. Lanham, Maryland: University Press of America, 1995. 122-26. Print.
Delville, Michel. "Alienating Language and Darl's Narrative Consciousness in Faulkner's As I Lay Dying." The Southern Literary Journal 27.1 (1994). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
Faulkner, William. As I Lay Dying. Vintage International ed. New York: Vintage, 1985. Print.
Hayes, Elizabeth. "Tension between Darl and Jewel." The Southern Literary Journal 24.2 (1992). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
Lowe, John. "The Fraternal Fury of the Faulkners and the Bundrens." Mississippi Quarterly. 54.4 (2001). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
The Melancholy Minister and the Mischievous Cherubim
The Scarlet Letter, written in 1850 by Nathaniel Hawthorne, contains two very important yet diametrically opposite characters: Arthur Dimmesdale and Pearl Prynne. Through his actions, Dimmesdale represents a soul that is smothered, weakened, and controlled by Puritanical ideals. Pearl, however, represents a spirit that is free, unafraid, and defiant of Puritanic traditions. Together, these two characters stand as foils to each other and are symbolic of two vastly different attitudes concerning Puritan culture in the 17th century. Dimmesdale stands as an image of human weakness, which makes itself known in his physical appearance as well as his cowardice; Pearl takes on the image of freedom from tyranny through her impish ways and blatant disregard for proper behavior. Dimmesdale’s guilt overpowers him to the point of consuming his life and Pearl openly defies tradition and challenges those around her with an unearthly behavior. Dimmesdale and Pearl are representative of opposite views of Puritan culture through their physical appearances, actions, and spoken words.
First, the superficial image of both characters immediately allows the reader to distinguish the melancholy minister from the mischievous child. Dimmesdale is first introduced as having “large, brown melancholy eyes” and an “apprehensive…startled…half-frightened look” (Hawthorne 61). He is further described as a “ghost” and embodies the idea of a monstrous, inhuman form that is tortured by its own ugliness (Hawthorne 130; Smith). Dimmesdale’s guilt, exacerbated by the Puritan community’s elevated view of him as “the mouth-piece of Heaven’s messages of wisdom,” manifests itself in the reverend’s “deep and troubled eyes” because he does not possess the physical or mental strength to combat the terror of Puritan law (Hawthorne 125, 63; Pimple). His fear of public condemnation and social suicide results in a weakened physical form, which deprives him of his most basic tool for battling a foe: his body. Conversely, Pearl’s “gorgeous robes” bear a striking resemblance to her mother’s scarlet letter (Hawthorne 81; Daniels). Pearl’s color, red, is paralleled with the scarlet letter and is used as a symbol of rebellion, for it distinguishes itself from all other colors by its bright and alarming hue (Nudelman). Furthermore, Pearl, “the brightest little jet of flame,” is endowed with “rich and luxuriant beauty that [shines] with deep and vivid tints” (Hawthorne 90). Her appearance, which is totally opposite from the “sad-colored garments” of the townspeople, appears as a startling image of passion, freedom, and deviation from Puritan society’s strict standards (Hawthorne 45).
Second, the actions of both father and daughter present conflicting feelings toward the religion they are both ruled by. As Keneth Pimple states, “Dimmesdale is caught in a dilemma: he values both his social face and his immortal soul, but he cannot save one without losing the other” (Pimple). Dimmesdale’s refusal to stand with his family on the scaffold on the following day is because of his apparent internal conflict: if he stands, he must face public trial and humiliation of a Puritan society; if he bows out, his soul is tormented further by an untold moral guilt which stands as a sin in Puritan culture. Thus, his Puritan ideals conflict with his pride, and he is forced deny his ridiculed family in favor of social security. Pearl, however, remains completely “unmarked by the patriarchy” and, instead of fearing the consequences of her actions, she openly defies the male-dominated traditions of Puritan Boston (Daniels). By committing such social taboos as “snatching up stones to fling at [the children]” and “putting her fingers in her mouth, with many ungracious refusals to answer [a] question,” Pearl becomes the 17th century poster-child for revolt, and even makes “her mother tremble” with fear at her devilish antics (Hawthorne 84 ,99). Even Pearl’s playtime is “something akin to witchcraft” as she “seemed always to be sowing broadcast the dragon’s teeth” (Daniels; Hawthorne 85). Pearl even “sm[ites] down and uproot[s]” weeds which she has imagined are the village children; through planting these familiar characters into her playtime, she is expressing her disapproval and disgust with the people of Boston and their offspring (Hawthorne 85).
Finally, the words spoken by both characters reflect their individual attitudes toward the strict Puritan society in which they live. In a rush of panic and moral crisis, Dimmesdale openly tells Hester in the forest that he is “most miserable,” and that she knows nothing of the “horrible ugliness of this exposure of a sick and guilty heart to the very eye that would gloat over it”: he is terrified by the prospect of revealing himself to a society that will only revel in his humiliation (Hawthorne 166, 169). Dimmesdale is “under the threat of exposure,” and as he pleads for help from his lover, his fear is manifested in his exclamation that he is infinitely weak before the judgment of God: “The judgment of God is upon me…It is too mighty for me to struggle with!” (Hull; Hawthorne 171). In contrast, Pearl’s outlandish outbursts and responses to her mother’s questions defy the social and moral code of Puritan culture. Pearl’s cheerful reply to the question of her parentage results in her answer that she “[has] no Heavenly Father”; this directly and openly denies the fundamental Christian belief that God exists (Hawthorne 88). Furthermore, while standing with her mother below the scaffold where Dimmesdale is perched, Dimmesdale asks Pearl, “Dost thou mock me now?” Her reply is, “Thou wast not bold! – thou wast not true!” (Hawthorne 137). Her answer is a strong weapon against Dimmesdale’s cowardice; his character lacks a backbone and Pearl recognizes that he has not been the image of personal freedom and self-expression among the Puritan people.
The contrast which exists between father and daughter in The Scarlet Letter represents a striking conflict between the suppression and fear-mongering of Puritanism and the rebellion which it sometimes causes. Together, the sullen disposition of Arthur Dimmesdale and the flighty nature of Pearl Prynne become complementary, allowing these figures to stand in equal importance. In both characters, a specific reaction to Puritan culture is personified and built upon so that, eventually, Dimmesdale and Pearl stand as opposites: Dimmesdale as a man who is crushed by fear of Puritan law, and Pearl as a young girl who is fearless of it.
Works Cited:
Daniels, Cindy Lou. "Hawthorne's Pearl: woman-child of the future." ATQ [The American Transcendental Quarterly] 19.3 (2005): 221+. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter. London: Penguin, 2003. Print.
Hull, Richard. "Sent Meaning vs. Attached Meaning: Two Interpretations of Interpretation in The Scarlet Letter." ATQ [The American Transcendental Quarterly] 14.2 (2000): 143. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
Nudelman, Franny. "'Emblem and Product of Sin': The Poisoned Child in The Scarlet Letter and Domestic Advice Literature." Yale Journal of Criticism 10.1 (1997): 193-213. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
Pimple, Kenneth D. "'Subtle, but remorseful hypocrite': Dimmesdale's moral character." Studies in the Novel 25.3 (1993): 257+. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
Smith, Caleb. "Detention without subjects: prisons and the poetics of living death." Texas Studies in Literature and Language 50.3 (2008): 243+. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
First, the superficial image of both characters immediately allows the reader to distinguish the melancholy minister from the mischievous child. Dimmesdale is first introduced as having “large, brown melancholy eyes” and an “apprehensive…startled…half-frightened look” (Hawthorne 61). He is further described as a “ghost” and embodies the idea of a monstrous, inhuman form that is tortured by its own ugliness (Hawthorne 130; Smith). Dimmesdale’s guilt, exacerbated by the Puritan community’s elevated view of him as “the mouth-piece of Heaven’s messages of wisdom,” manifests itself in the reverend’s “deep and troubled eyes” because he does not possess the physical or mental strength to combat the terror of Puritan law (Hawthorne 125, 63; Pimple). His fear of public condemnation and social suicide results in a weakened physical form, which deprives him of his most basic tool for battling a foe: his body. Conversely, Pearl’s “gorgeous robes” bear a striking resemblance to her mother’s scarlet letter (Hawthorne 81; Daniels). Pearl’s color, red, is paralleled with the scarlet letter and is used as a symbol of rebellion, for it distinguishes itself from all other colors by its bright and alarming hue (Nudelman). Furthermore, Pearl, “the brightest little jet of flame,” is endowed with “rich and luxuriant beauty that [shines] with deep and vivid tints” (Hawthorne 90). Her appearance, which is totally opposite from the “sad-colored garments” of the townspeople, appears as a startling image of passion, freedom, and deviation from Puritan society’s strict standards (Hawthorne 45).
Second, the actions of both father and daughter present conflicting feelings toward the religion they are both ruled by. As Keneth Pimple states, “Dimmesdale is caught in a dilemma: he values both his social face and his immortal soul, but he cannot save one without losing the other” (Pimple). Dimmesdale’s refusal to stand with his family on the scaffold on the following day is because of his apparent internal conflict: if he stands, he must face public trial and humiliation of a Puritan society; if he bows out, his soul is tormented further by an untold moral guilt which stands as a sin in Puritan culture. Thus, his Puritan ideals conflict with his pride, and he is forced deny his ridiculed family in favor of social security. Pearl, however, remains completely “unmarked by the patriarchy” and, instead of fearing the consequences of her actions, she openly defies the male-dominated traditions of Puritan Boston (Daniels). By committing such social taboos as “snatching up stones to fling at [the children]” and “putting her fingers in her mouth, with many ungracious refusals to answer [a] question,” Pearl becomes the 17th century poster-child for revolt, and even makes “her mother tremble” with fear at her devilish antics (Hawthorne 84 ,99). Even Pearl’s playtime is “something akin to witchcraft” as she “seemed always to be sowing broadcast the dragon’s teeth” (Daniels; Hawthorne 85). Pearl even “sm[ites] down and uproot[s]” weeds which she has imagined are the village children; through planting these familiar characters into her playtime, she is expressing her disapproval and disgust with the people of Boston and their offspring (Hawthorne 85).
Finally, the words spoken by both characters reflect their individual attitudes toward the strict Puritan society in which they live. In a rush of panic and moral crisis, Dimmesdale openly tells Hester in the forest that he is “most miserable,” and that she knows nothing of the “horrible ugliness of this exposure of a sick and guilty heart to the very eye that would gloat over it”: he is terrified by the prospect of revealing himself to a society that will only revel in his humiliation (Hawthorne 166, 169). Dimmesdale is “under the threat of exposure,” and as he pleads for help from his lover, his fear is manifested in his exclamation that he is infinitely weak before the judgment of God: “The judgment of God is upon me…It is too mighty for me to struggle with!” (Hull; Hawthorne 171). In contrast, Pearl’s outlandish outbursts and responses to her mother’s questions defy the social and moral code of Puritan culture. Pearl’s cheerful reply to the question of her parentage results in her answer that she “[has] no Heavenly Father”; this directly and openly denies the fundamental Christian belief that God exists (Hawthorne 88). Furthermore, while standing with her mother below the scaffold where Dimmesdale is perched, Dimmesdale asks Pearl, “Dost thou mock me now?” Her reply is, “Thou wast not bold! – thou wast not true!” (Hawthorne 137). Her answer is a strong weapon against Dimmesdale’s cowardice; his character lacks a backbone and Pearl recognizes that he has not been the image of personal freedom and self-expression among the Puritan people.
The contrast which exists between father and daughter in The Scarlet Letter represents a striking conflict between the suppression and fear-mongering of Puritanism and the rebellion which it sometimes causes. Together, the sullen disposition of Arthur Dimmesdale and the flighty nature of Pearl Prynne become complementary, allowing these figures to stand in equal importance. In both characters, a specific reaction to Puritan culture is personified and built upon so that, eventually, Dimmesdale and Pearl stand as opposites: Dimmesdale as a man who is crushed by fear of Puritan law, and Pearl as a young girl who is fearless of it.
Works Cited:
Daniels, Cindy Lou. "Hawthorne's Pearl: woman-child of the future." ATQ [The American Transcendental Quarterly] 19.3 (2005): 221+. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter. London: Penguin, 2003. Print.
Hull, Richard. "Sent Meaning vs. Attached Meaning: Two Interpretations of Interpretation in The Scarlet Letter." ATQ [The American Transcendental Quarterly] 14.2 (2000): 143. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
Nudelman, Franny. "'Emblem and Product of Sin': The Poisoned Child in The Scarlet Letter and Domestic Advice Literature." Yale Journal of Criticism 10.1 (1997): 193-213. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
Pimple, Kenneth D. "'Subtle, but remorseful hypocrite': Dimmesdale's moral character." Studies in the Novel 25.3 (1993): 257+. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
Smith, Caleb. "Detention without subjects: prisons and the poetics of living death." Texas Studies in Literature and Language 50.3 (2008): 243+. Academic OneFile. Web. 4 Dec. 2010.
03 April 2011
The Serpent of Casterbridge
(A short paper for my lit theories class which limited us to "no more than two typed pages". Good God. So much for being verbose.)
In Thomas Hardy’s novel The Mayor of Casterbridge, the main character and antagonist, Michael Henchard, dominates over others, wears himself into social and economic ruin, and finally dies alone, bereft of any true friends or worldly possessions. He exhibits behavior that is influenced by his inner psyche which is comprised of the Freudian concepts of the id, ego, and superego. He also stands in the place of the Jungian archetype of the serpent, which represents dominance, destruction, corruption, and evil as well as wisdom and mystery. By using both the Freudian perspective and the Jungian perspective to analyze Henchard, he transforms from simply an unsavory persona with loose morals to a complex man who struggles with his inner demons in order to gain closure with a disgraceful life.
To begin, Freudian concepts focus on characters’ actions based on psychological motivations; these motivations are directly linked to the subconscious and conscious sexual desires within the psyche of the character in question. The character is provided with three inner dialogues: the id, the sexually active and primal persona; the ego, the outwardly conscious persona; the super ego, the morally heightened and ultra-aware persona. Jung’s focus on archetypes and images places importance on recurrent themes present in mythology and symbols within these mythologies; these symbols portray universally acknowledged characteristics specific to their form.
In the case of Michael Henchard, the psyche’s control over his actions can be monitored over the course of the novel beginning with the id, then the superego, and finally the ego. Henchard’s troubles first arise when he acts upon his first of many id-oriented impulses to add liquor to his furmity, a type of porridge. In fact, the alcohol allows his id to completely manifest itself upon his face: “at the fourth [serving], the qualities signified by the shape of his face, the occasional clench of his mouth, and the fiery spark of his dark eye, began to tell in his conduct;” he then auctions off his wife, Susan, and infant daughter, Elizabeth-Jane, in his drunken state for five guineas. Henchard’s superego makes its appearance nineteen years later when Susan and the grown Elizabeth-Jane arrive in the town of Casterbridge, searching for Henchard. Elizabeth-Jane is unaware of Henchard’s auction, and while Susan and Henchard devise the best plan of action to take, Henchard proposes that, “I meet you, court you, and marry you, Elizabeth-Jane coming to my house as my step-daughter.” Henchard’s superego attempts to mold the circumstances into a proper and socially acceptable method of gaining Susan and his “step-daughter” back. Henchard’s ego finally manifests itself near the end of the novel when he visits Elizabeth-Jane after her wedding. He is confronted with his own reality: he is a drunkard but realizes that he can never be a part of Elizabeth-Jane’s life, and so he leaves accepting his fate.
From a Jungian perspective, Michael Henchard resembles the serpent: highly aggressive and animalistic in nature, morally corrupt, and prone to the mental destruction of others through intimidation. He is also a tempter who seduces his wife and Lucetta, a previous lover, into post-separation relationships, promising security and fortune. His corrupt business practices reflect in the bad bread, a result of selling bad grain in order to save money; he is deceitful, like the serpent in the biblical Garden of Eden. His aggressions and destruction of morale present themselves in his dialogue toward his wife and daughter, telling them that they are “silly” or “simple” among other things.
Through the perspective of both Freudian and Jungian perspectives, Michael Henchard is read as a complex character, representative of a fallen man who allows his id to determine his actions, and consequently becomes the serpent of Casterbridge.
In Thomas Hardy’s novel The Mayor of Casterbridge, the main character and antagonist, Michael Henchard, dominates over others, wears himself into social and economic ruin, and finally dies alone, bereft of any true friends or worldly possessions. He exhibits behavior that is influenced by his inner psyche which is comprised of the Freudian concepts of the id, ego, and superego. He also stands in the place of the Jungian archetype of the serpent, which represents dominance, destruction, corruption, and evil as well as wisdom and mystery. By using both the Freudian perspective and the Jungian perspective to analyze Henchard, he transforms from simply an unsavory persona with loose morals to a complex man who struggles with his inner demons in order to gain closure with a disgraceful life.
To begin, Freudian concepts focus on characters’ actions based on psychological motivations; these motivations are directly linked to the subconscious and conscious sexual desires within the psyche of the character in question. The character is provided with three inner dialogues: the id, the sexually active and primal persona; the ego, the outwardly conscious persona; the super ego, the morally heightened and ultra-aware persona. Jung’s focus on archetypes and images places importance on recurrent themes present in mythology and symbols within these mythologies; these symbols portray universally acknowledged characteristics specific to their form.
In the case of Michael Henchard, the psyche’s control over his actions can be monitored over the course of the novel beginning with the id, then the superego, and finally the ego. Henchard’s troubles first arise when he acts upon his first of many id-oriented impulses to add liquor to his furmity, a type of porridge. In fact, the alcohol allows his id to completely manifest itself upon his face: “at the fourth [serving], the qualities signified by the shape of his face, the occasional clench of his mouth, and the fiery spark of his dark eye, began to tell in his conduct;” he then auctions off his wife, Susan, and infant daughter, Elizabeth-Jane, in his drunken state for five guineas. Henchard’s superego makes its appearance nineteen years later when Susan and the grown Elizabeth-Jane arrive in the town of Casterbridge, searching for Henchard. Elizabeth-Jane is unaware of Henchard’s auction, and while Susan and Henchard devise the best plan of action to take, Henchard proposes that, “I meet you, court you, and marry you, Elizabeth-Jane coming to my house as my step-daughter.” Henchard’s superego attempts to mold the circumstances into a proper and socially acceptable method of gaining Susan and his “step-daughter” back. Henchard’s ego finally manifests itself near the end of the novel when he visits Elizabeth-Jane after her wedding. He is confronted with his own reality: he is a drunkard but realizes that he can never be a part of Elizabeth-Jane’s life, and so he leaves accepting his fate.
From a Jungian perspective, Michael Henchard resembles the serpent: highly aggressive and animalistic in nature, morally corrupt, and prone to the mental destruction of others through intimidation. He is also a tempter who seduces his wife and Lucetta, a previous lover, into post-separation relationships, promising security and fortune. His corrupt business practices reflect in the bad bread, a result of selling bad grain in order to save money; he is deceitful, like the serpent in the biblical Garden of Eden. His aggressions and destruction of morale present themselves in his dialogue toward his wife and daughter, telling them that they are “silly” or “simple” among other things.
Through the perspective of both Freudian and Jungian perspectives, Michael Henchard is read as a complex character, representative of a fallen man who allows his id to determine his actions, and consequently becomes the serpent of Casterbridge.
02 April 2011
A Release into Madness: Symbolism and Female Repression in “The Yellow Wallpaper”
Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story, “The Yellow Wallpaper”, is a gripping example of the effective use of literary symbolism and the depiction of an abused woman, Jane, who is driven to insanity by her lack of psychiatric care. The symbolism expressed in the story combines the strategic placement of colors and objects next to images of femininity, which enhances the relationship between women and the mental and physical abuse they endure at the hands of their male captors. Gilman presents her audience with the harsh realities of nineteenth century treatment of mentally unstable women by using strategic symbolism, limiting Jane’s autonomy, and exposing the mental torture Jane endures while being held as prisoner in a patriarchal society.
First, the use of symbolism can be most clearly seen in the image of the yellow wallpaper itself. Yellow, a color which is most commonly associated with sickness in literature, is used in this piece as a symbol for Jane’s mental illness, postpartum depression, which medical officials had not yet classified during the time the story was published (Wolfe). Her psychological condition is fueled and aggravated by the yellow wallpaper and its “sickly sulphur tint” that occupies her focus for nearly the entire length of the story (Gilman 514). She is constantly consumed by the designs in the paper, proclaiming that they are “sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin” (Gilman 514). Near her final journal entries she writes of herself being “securely fastened now by [her] well-hidden rope,” and through her obsession with the wallpaper, her mental illness devours her soul (Gilman 523). Jane begins to see herself not as the sickly Jane, but as a separate entity that belongs within the wallpaper; she views herself as completely mentally detached from the corporeal body of Jane, John’s wife. Gilman also makes a metaphorical prison of the nursery through fitting the window with bars, a widely used symbol of confinement (Wolfe). John’s refusal to have the room renovated and remove both the wallpaper and the barred windows reflects his willingness to keep his wife trapped in an unstable atmosphere where escape is only possible through a physical door and eventual mental insanity. Jane’s journal, a symbol of mental and emotional asylum, stands as the only image in the story that presents an escape for the main character (Suess). Jane’s relationship with her journal is more layered and honest than the relationship she maintains with her husband, and the release she experiences through writing provides her with the occasional mental freedom she needs to temporarily postpone her insanity.
Furthermore, Gilman’s use of names is an excellent symbol for the universality of male-female relationships. John was a rather common name in England and America during the period this short work of fiction was written (Wolfe). Today, it is still the second most popular first name for males in the United States (Word). When matched with the name John, Jane also holds a place in history as being a common name for females. Gilman’s motivation to give her characters names that are frequently used is fueled by the possibility and the hope that a married reader might find her or himself in place of one of these complex characters. By giving John and Jane common names, Gilman puts forth a story that reaches a worldwide audience.
Second, John’s seemingly gentle treatment of his wife translates into nothing more than that of a jailor who confines his prisoner to her physical and mental cell. John prevents her from gaining autonomy by not allowing her the complete freedom to write her own words (Suess). From the beginning, Jane possesses hardly any independence; she is discouraged by her husband, her brother, and her sister-in-law to write. She then tells the reader that “[she writes] in spite of them […] having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition” (Gilman 513). By discouraging Jane from journaling about her emotions and experiences when she is so distressed threatens the delicate balance of her psyche, something that is already disturbed by the chemical imbalance caused by postpartum depression (Suess). Without being allowed to write, Jane is being robbed of the freedom to record the most personal aspects of her life. She even explains that “congenial work, with excitement and change would do [her] good”: this is shot down by John, who retaliates with his opinion that her “imaginative power and habit of story-making” would only lead to “all manner of excited fancies” (Gilman 515). Jane’s power to make decisions for herself has also been eliminated by John’s wildly undocumented assumptions. If she cannot freely turn to her personal journal or her husband for comfort, then she is forced to confine her disturbing thoughts to her presently fragile mind, which could only result in weakening her wits more.
Additionally, it is not until the last few lines of the story that Jane’s name makes an appearance in the text. From the beginning until the moment she proclaims, “ ‘I’ve got out at last […] in spite of you and Jane,’ ” the main character has no name at all, only a husband and a newly born son with whom to identify (Gilman 524; Suess). Jane is not complete without a name, the thing that identifies a person as an individual, one belonging to themselves, rather than just another animal who’s been gifted with the talent for speech and intelligent thought. Furthermore, as previously discussed in moderation, even though her name is eventually revealed, she is still seen as “Jane,” a name which carries with it different connotations, the first of which being “Plain Jane”. This title, referring to an ordinary and uninteresting girl or woman, is void of any individuality or personal identity which a woman might carry with her if she were free to express herself, a liberty that Jane is not given in “The Yellow Wallpaper” ("Plain Jane"). Additionally, “Jane Doe”, an expression which has been in use since the mid-1850s to describe a woman without a known identity, exhibits the long-standing presence of female oppression and lack of personal female individuality; this has been caused or, at the very least, contributed by the presence of a dominant male ("Jane Doe").
When viewing the relationships between the Jane and her male counterparts, Gilman presents an unmistakable struggle between the two sexes. From the beginning of the story, Jane as the simple, no-named narrator writes that she and John had acquired an “ancestral home”, a “hereditary estate” in which they will spend the summer resting up after the birth of their newly born son (Gilman 513). It is made clear in this first passage that the society in which Jane lives is one of patriarchal dominance (Suess). Common legal practice during this time was for the father to will his possessions to his eldest born son, leaving practically nothing to his daughter or wife. Such is still the case in some cultures today where women’s rights have not been considered or accepted (Wolfe).
Besides being Jane’s husband, John is also her doctor, another position of patriarchal power in which the patient, a woman, is subject to the diagnosis, experiments, and treatments of a man with authority and control over her body, something which should be guaranteed her own (Suess). The position of John as Jane’s husband and practitioner places him in an extremely authoritative and advantageous position, allowing him to mentally manipulate his wife through romantic promises of love and affection while, at the same time, physically caging her from the outside world with the authority and reason of a doctor. He even denies Jane a visit with her cousins, Henry and Julia, a visit she knows will ease her mental suffering. His professional opinion is that she would “not be able to stand it after [she] got there,” an assumption at the very least and a poor excuse for a qualified doctor’s medical reasoning (Gilman 518). He offers this feeble excuse to an honest logical request, one which should be taken into account especially since, ironically, Jane gradually deepens further into a place in her mind where logic has no position of power (Suess). Following this conversation between them, John “gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs […] He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had” (Gilman 518). John once again uses his position as Jane’s husband to influence her perception of him as her trusted confident and caregiver.
John attempts to disguise the fact that he is Jane’s doctor with the fact that he is her husband; his affectionate ploys to win Jane’s trust as her husband are a ruse to make his professional medical opinions appear as husband-like concerns. Since a woman is tied more closely to her husband than her doctor, he uses this natural fact to control her feelings and thoughts and compels her trust him as her husband-doctor, rather than her doctor-husband. Furthermore, since John is both her husband and doctor, Jane is damned twice into the hell of female repression by two male personas that happen to reside in the same individual. John abuses his power as the dominant male through a vicious string of sly psychological manipulations. These manipulations are, at the very least, a heinous form of mental abuse, taking advantage of Jane’s particularly fragile mind to force and maintain medical and masculine authority. Jane is even trapped by the newborn baby, who is strategically written as a male. The main character is confined to the condition of motherhood by two male figures: her newborn son and her husband. However, she does not and cannot enjoy the obligations of motherhood without feeling “nervous” around the baby (Gilman 515).
Finally, As Jane’s psychosis progresses into an animated delirium, the reader sees her becoming part of the wallpaper rather than simply an observer: “I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard” (Gilman 523). She pines for freedom from the oppression she has endured for so long under the reign of her husband, her brother, and most recently, her newborn son. Therefore, she attempts to find freedom in even the most obscure places – the wallpaper which she so fervently proclaimed was “repellant” and “revolting” at the beginning of her summer stay (Gilman 514). Ironically, once she finds her psychological freedom as an individual with a personal identity in the wallpaper, she immediately falls into the trap of being imprisoned by her own superficial lunacy, which is seen immediately by the those people who surround her (Suess). Jane has, unbeknownst to herself, transformed into a mental oxymoron: living in triumph internally, but remaining imprisoned and oppressed by an outward insanity.
Gilman’s “Yellow Wallpaper” displays a colorful feminist proclamation that presents the reader with a deeper understanding of the treatment of women who suffered from postpartum depression were forced to tolerate. The difficult position Jane resides in as depressed mother and subordinate woman is only exacerbated by the presence of her husband-doctor and his insistence that she is perfectly sane. Gilman’s use of symbolism to instill deeper literary meaning, depiction of the narrator as a dependent, and portrayal of a truly male-dominated society all present an accurate and chilling tale of the entirely plausible possibility of madness as a result of mental neglect and psychological torture.
Works Cited:
Gilman, Charlotte P. “The Yellow Wallpaper.” The Norton Introduction to Literature. Shorter 9th Edition ed. Ed. Alison Booth, Kelly J. Mays, and J. P. Hunter. New York: W.W. Norton, 2006. 513-24. Print.
“Jane Doe” ,“Plain Jane”. Dictionary.com. 2009. Web. 05 Apr. 2010.
Suess, Barbara A. “ 'The Writing's on the Wall’ Symbolic Orders in ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’.” Women's Studies 32.1 (2003): 79-98. Academic Search Complete. Web. 1 Apr. 2010.
Wolfe, James. “Symbolism in The Yellow Wall-Paper by Charlotte Gilman.” Review. Associated Content - Associatedcontent.com. 14 Mar. 2006. Web. 1 Apr. 2010.
Word, David L., and Charles D. Coleman. “Putting a Demographic Face on Names from Census 2000.” United States Census Bureau. United States Government, 2003. Web. 01 Apr. 2010.
First, the use of symbolism can be most clearly seen in the image of the yellow wallpaper itself. Yellow, a color which is most commonly associated with sickness in literature, is used in this piece as a symbol for Jane’s mental illness, postpartum depression, which medical officials had not yet classified during the time the story was published (Wolfe). Her psychological condition is fueled and aggravated by the yellow wallpaper and its “sickly sulphur tint” that occupies her focus for nearly the entire length of the story (Gilman 514). She is constantly consumed by the designs in the paper, proclaiming that they are “sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin” (Gilman 514). Near her final journal entries she writes of herself being “securely fastened now by [her] well-hidden rope,” and through her obsession with the wallpaper, her mental illness devours her soul (Gilman 523). Jane begins to see herself not as the sickly Jane, but as a separate entity that belongs within the wallpaper; she views herself as completely mentally detached from the corporeal body of Jane, John’s wife. Gilman also makes a metaphorical prison of the nursery through fitting the window with bars, a widely used symbol of confinement (Wolfe). John’s refusal to have the room renovated and remove both the wallpaper and the barred windows reflects his willingness to keep his wife trapped in an unstable atmosphere where escape is only possible through a physical door and eventual mental insanity. Jane’s journal, a symbol of mental and emotional asylum, stands as the only image in the story that presents an escape for the main character (Suess). Jane’s relationship with her journal is more layered and honest than the relationship she maintains with her husband, and the release she experiences through writing provides her with the occasional mental freedom she needs to temporarily postpone her insanity.
Furthermore, Gilman’s use of names is an excellent symbol for the universality of male-female relationships. John was a rather common name in England and America during the period this short work of fiction was written (Wolfe). Today, it is still the second most popular first name for males in the United States (Word). When matched with the name John, Jane also holds a place in history as being a common name for females. Gilman’s motivation to give her characters names that are frequently used is fueled by the possibility and the hope that a married reader might find her or himself in place of one of these complex characters. By giving John and Jane common names, Gilman puts forth a story that reaches a worldwide audience.
Second, John’s seemingly gentle treatment of his wife translates into nothing more than that of a jailor who confines his prisoner to her physical and mental cell. John prevents her from gaining autonomy by not allowing her the complete freedom to write her own words (Suess). From the beginning, Jane possesses hardly any independence; she is discouraged by her husband, her brother, and her sister-in-law to write. She then tells the reader that “[she writes] in spite of them […] having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition” (Gilman 513). By discouraging Jane from journaling about her emotions and experiences when she is so distressed threatens the delicate balance of her psyche, something that is already disturbed by the chemical imbalance caused by postpartum depression (Suess). Without being allowed to write, Jane is being robbed of the freedom to record the most personal aspects of her life. She even explains that “congenial work, with excitement and change would do [her] good”: this is shot down by John, who retaliates with his opinion that her “imaginative power and habit of story-making” would only lead to “all manner of excited fancies” (Gilman 515). Jane’s power to make decisions for herself has also been eliminated by John’s wildly undocumented assumptions. If she cannot freely turn to her personal journal or her husband for comfort, then she is forced to confine her disturbing thoughts to her presently fragile mind, which could only result in weakening her wits more.
Additionally, it is not until the last few lines of the story that Jane’s name makes an appearance in the text. From the beginning until the moment she proclaims, “ ‘I’ve got out at last […] in spite of you and Jane,’ ” the main character has no name at all, only a husband and a newly born son with whom to identify (Gilman 524; Suess). Jane is not complete without a name, the thing that identifies a person as an individual, one belonging to themselves, rather than just another animal who’s been gifted with the talent for speech and intelligent thought. Furthermore, as previously discussed in moderation, even though her name is eventually revealed, she is still seen as “Jane,” a name which carries with it different connotations, the first of which being “Plain Jane”. This title, referring to an ordinary and uninteresting girl or woman, is void of any individuality or personal identity which a woman might carry with her if she were free to express herself, a liberty that Jane is not given in “The Yellow Wallpaper” ("Plain Jane"). Additionally, “Jane Doe”, an expression which has been in use since the mid-1850s to describe a woman without a known identity, exhibits the long-standing presence of female oppression and lack of personal female individuality; this has been caused or, at the very least, contributed by the presence of a dominant male ("Jane Doe").
When viewing the relationships between the Jane and her male counterparts, Gilman presents an unmistakable struggle between the two sexes. From the beginning of the story, Jane as the simple, no-named narrator writes that she and John had acquired an “ancestral home”, a “hereditary estate” in which they will spend the summer resting up after the birth of their newly born son (Gilman 513). It is made clear in this first passage that the society in which Jane lives is one of patriarchal dominance (Suess). Common legal practice during this time was for the father to will his possessions to his eldest born son, leaving practically nothing to his daughter or wife. Such is still the case in some cultures today where women’s rights have not been considered or accepted (Wolfe).
Besides being Jane’s husband, John is also her doctor, another position of patriarchal power in which the patient, a woman, is subject to the diagnosis, experiments, and treatments of a man with authority and control over her body, something which should be guaranteed her own (Suess). The position of John as Jane’s husband and practitioner places him in an extremely authoritative and advantageous position, allowing him to mentally manipulate his wife through romantic promises of love and affection while, at the same time, physically caging her from the outside world with the authority and reason of a doctor. He even denies Jane a visit with her cousins, Henry and Julia, a visit she knows will ease her mental suffering. His professional opinion is that she would “not be able to stand it after [she] got there,” an assumption at the very least and a poor excuse for a qualified doctor’s medical reasoning (Gilman 518). He offers this feeble excuse to an honest logical request, one which should be taken into account especially since, ironically, Jane gradually deepens further into a place in her mind where logic has no position of power (Suess). Following this conversation between them, John “gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs […] He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had” (Gilman 518). John once again uses his position as Jane’s husband to influence her perception of him as her trusted confident and caregiver.
John attempts to disguise the fact that he is Jane’s doctor with the fact that he is her husband; his affectionate ploys to win Jane’s trust as her husband are a ruse to make his professional medical opinions appear as husband-like concerns. Since a woman is tied more closely to her husband than her doctor, he uses this natural fact to control her feelings and thoughts and compels her trust him as her husband-doctor, rather than her doctor-husband. Furthermore, since John is both her husband and doctor, Jane is damned twice into the hell of female repression by two male personas that happen to reside in the same individual. John abuses his power as the dominant male through a vicious string of sly psychological manipulations. These manipulations are, at the very least, a heinous form of mental abuse, taking advantage of Jane’s particularly fragile mind to force and maintain medical and masculine authority. Jane is even trapped by the newborn baby, who is strategically written as a male. The main character is confined to the condition of motherhood by two male figures: her newborn son and her husband. However, she does not and cannot enjoy the obligations of motherhood without feeling “nervous” around the baby (Gilman 515).
Finally, As Jane’s psychosis progresses into an animated delirium, the reader sees her becoming part of the wallpaper rather than simply an observer: “I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard” (Gilman 523). She pines for freedom from the oppression she has endured for so long under the reign of her husband, her brother, and most recently, her newborn son. Therefore, she attempts to find freedom in even the most obscure places – the wallpaper which she so fervently proclaimed was “repellant” and “revolting” at the beginning of her summer stay (Gilman 514). Ironically, once she finds her psychological freedom as an individual with a personal identity in the wallpaper, she immediately falls into the trap of being imprisoned by her own superficial lunacy, which is seen immediately by the those people who surround her (Suess). Jane has, unbeknownst to herself, transformed into a mental oxymoron: living in triumph internally, but remaining imprisoned and oppressed by an outward insanity.
Gilman’s “Yellow Wallpaper” displays a colorful feminist proclamation that presents the reader with a deeper understanding of the treatment of women who suffered from postpartum depression were forced to tolerate. The difficult position Jane resides in as depressed mother and subordinate woman is only exacerbated by the presence of her husband-doctor and his insistence that she is perfectly sane. Gilman’s use of symbolism to instill deeper literary meaning, depiction of the narrator as a dependent, and portrayal of a truly male-dominated society all present an accurate and chilling tale of the entirely plausible possibility of madness as a result of mental neglect and psychological torture.
Works Cited:
Gilman, Charlotte P. “The Yellow Wallpaper.” The Norton Introduction to Literature. Shorter 9th Edition ed. Ed. Alison Booth, Kelly J. Mays, and J. P. Hunter. New York: W.W. Norton, 2006. 513-24. Print.
“Jane Doe” ,“Plain Jane”. Dictionary.com. 2009. Web. 05 Apr. 2010.
Suess, Barbara A. “ 'The Writing's on the Wall’ Symbolic Orders in ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’.” Women's Studies 32.1 (2003): 79-98. Academic Search Complete. Web. 1 Apr. 2010.
Wolfe, James. “Symbolism in The Yellow Wall-Paper by Charlotte Gilman.” Review. Associated Content - Associatedcontent.com. 14 Mar. 2006. Web. 1 Apr. 2010.
Word, David L., and Charles D. Coleman. “Putting a Demographic Face on Names from Census 2000.” United States Census Bureau. United States Government, 2003. Web. 01 Apr. 2010.
The Trial of Everyman
(This was the product of a paper topic that went along the lines of "Choose a play from a period of history we have covered and describe in full detail how you would direct it." I chose the Medieval morality play "Everyman".)
There is darkness onstage, save for the very faint spotlight shining on an unknown individual standing center. Suddenly the silence is broken by three knocks of a gavel heard from the upstage area. The center spotlight is brought to full, revealing a man wearing dark brown slacks, a white shirt with its sleeves rolled, and a black tie. He adjusts his glasses and speaks as the Messenger, the clerk of the court: “I pray you all give your audience,” He continues on to say, “For ye shall hear how our Heaven-King / Calleth Everyman to a general reckoning” (“Everyman”). The Messenger retreats to his small desk upstage right, the spotlight is reduced, and the entire thrust stage is now lit with an amber glow, revealing a judge, God, sitting upstage center behind an elevated desk. God, an aged gentleman wearing the modern attire for a judge, is busily shuffling documents around and seems distressed. A lonely lawyer, Everyman, is also seen seated at a distance down stage right, wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His feet are lazily propped up on the desk in front of him, and he is drinking a cup of coffee while reading the morning newspaper. He is unaware of the other individuals in the courtroom and makes no effort to hide his grotesque habits, such as slurping his coffee. This figure of Everyman is bizarre, but likeable at the same time, for his salvation, and that of human kind, should be something worth cheering for.
God speaks and displays his papers in front of him, as if they are testaments and records of the lives he has watched over. “I perceive, here in my majesty, / How that all creatures be to me unkind” (“Everyman”). As he speaks, he pulls out a particularly large file from his desk; this document has been slightly scorched and torn in a few places. Dirt is smeared on the cover, and as God opens it, he is struck with a horrible smell. Looking to Everyman, still seated downstage right, he proclaims rather loudly, “Every man liveth so after his own pleasure,” and smartly snaps the file shut, sending scraps of decaying paper to the floor. He heaves a great sigh, and reluctantly says, “Where art thou, Death, thou mighty messenger?” (“Everyman”).
Death, a tall and lanky officer with a dark sense of humor, steps forward from the shadows upstage left and presents himself: “Almighty God, I am here at your will, / Your commandment to fulfill” (“Everyman”). Following his instructions to “Go thou to Everyman,” God exits upstage center with the Messenger, and leaves Death to stalk Everyman, still seated lazily at the downstage right desk. As Death speaks, he swings his baton around and takes great joy in his potential startling of Everyman, for “Full little he thinketh on my coming” (“Everyman”). Everyman, during Death’s monologue, has risen and lit a cigarette. He checks his watch and is just about to leave downstage right when Death proclaims, “Everyman, stand still! Whither art thou going / Thus gaily?” (“Everyman”). Pretentiously, Everyman replies, “Why askest thou? / Why wouldest thou weet?” (“Everyman”). During the ensuing dialogue, Everyman backs away and attempts to escape Death in the courtroom, walking swiftly across the stage, but Death follows, eager to strike fear in Everyman. Finally, Death backs Everyman into the downstage right desk and traps him, saying, “See thou make thee ready shortly, / For thou mayst say this is the day / that no man living may scape away” (“Everyman”). Death, pointing his club at Everyman in a threatening manner, exits downstage right, leaving Everyman frightened and alone.
As Everyman delivers his next monologue he takes off his coat and leaves it on the adjacent desk. The upstage and downstage right desks are now wheeled offstage, leaving Everyman in the center, searching for a way out of his predicament. The lights are now brighter, and the shadow of a window pane, created by a gobo, is seen slanted on the floor. Everyman suddenly spies Fellowship, a fellow lawyer, heading his way from downstage left, fumbling with a stack of books and a briefcase. “Well, met, good Fellowship, and good marrow!” says Everyman, approaching him (“Everyman”). Fellowship, a jovial man wearing a tweed jacket and bowtie, recognizes Everyman and greets him warmly. Setting down his load, Fellowship inquires about Everyman’s plight and states that “Promise is duty,” however, as the conversation reaches the mention of Judgment Day, Fellowship begins to panic, hastily picking up his books and briefcase, saying, “Yea, by my fay! To God I betake thee” (“Everyman”). He then runs offstage through the upstage right exit, and in so doing, drops one of his books. As Fellowship scurries back onstage to retrieve it, Everyman approaches to pick it up. Fellowship snatches at the book, says, “For you I will remember that parting is mourning,” and quickly darts back into the wings (“Everyman”).
Everyman, left alone once again, walks from entrance to entrance, looking for anther person to accompany him on his journey. He loosens his tie partially from distress and partially from the warmth of the day. The lights are dimmer now, and the stage is filled with a light shade of green, suggesting a park. Birds can be heard, along with the sounds of city life: faint sounds of fire engines, cars, and quiet murmurings. He turns to find Kindred and Cousin, both wearing football jerseys and jeans, standing downstage right with beers in their hands. Kindred, a female in the likeness of Everyman, and Cousin, a male, approach Everyman with great enthusiasm. They are very physical with him, and this emphasizes a family relationship. Kindred asks Everyman, “What account is that which ye must render?” and Everyman replies hesitantly, “How I have lived and my days spent; / Also of ill deeds that I have used...Therefore I pray you go thither with me” (“Everyman”). On “ill deeds”, Kindred and Cousin look to each other in desperation, searching for excuses. “No, by Our Lady! I have the cramp in my toe,” says Cousin, laughing (“Everyman”). Kindred pulls a piece of paper and pen from her pocket, jots down a number, and gives the slip to Everyman, saying, “Ye shall have my maid with all my heart …/ Therefore farewell till another day” (“Everyman”). Kindred exits in a hurry upstage left, leaving Cousin to console Everyman. Cousin sighs in regret and says, “Now God keep thee, for now I go” (“Everyman”). Sadly, Cousin walks toward the upstage right exit, pausing briefly to turn and look at the wounded Everyman, then disappears into the wings.
Through his strife with Kindred and Cousin, Everyman’s spirit is cracked. He stands center, baffled, silently looking into the audience for a source of companionship. He finds nothing from the faces and curses, “Ah, Jesus, is all come hereto?” He loosens his tie further and rolls up his shirtsleeves, revealing blasphemous tattoos: a devil and a snake on his right forearm and a voluptuous woman on his left. He wracks his brain for another companion who might accompany him and suddenly thinks of his Goods. “Where art thou, my Goods and riches?” says he, shouting into the air (“Everyman”). Goods saunters forward from upstage right, wearing a trench coat and fedora. As he speaks, he opens his coat to reveal a very large assortment of jewelry and watches, and plucking one of the watches from the lining of his coat, he offers it to Everyman, saying, “Sir, and ye in the world have sorrow or adversity, / That I can help you remedy shortly” (“Everyman”). Everyman accepts the watch. As he speaks of his trial to Goods, the dealer circles Everyman, surveying him. As Everyman concludes his plea, Goods steps forward to confront him, and says, “Therefore to thy soul Good is a thief… / As I have done thee, and all to his soul’s repreef,” promptly grabs the watch he has previously offered Everyman, and shoves it in his own pocket (“Everyman”). Everyman, still desperate for a companion, asks, “But wilt thou not go with me, indeed?” to which Goods’ reply is “farewell and have good day” (“Everyman”). Goods begins to walk towards downstage right just as Everyman clutches onto his arm in desperation. Goods looks at Everyman in disgust and shakes him free, continuing on his way, leaving Everyman utterly broken and on the verge of tears, his hair tousled and general appearance a mess. He looks to the audience for pity, but sees none, and in a state of total shame, he runs upstage, exiting up left.
Suddenly, a woman is seen in the downstage left entrance, sitting in a wheelchair with blankets in her lap. She is as old as she is dirty, weak and haggard with wild hair and a wild face. She has the appearance of a forgotten woman, alone and neglected. During this transition, the lights have moved from green to dark blue, suggesting an alley way. A sewer grate, simulated by a gobo, is positioned on the floor to the left of center. The woman, Good Deeds, wheels her way around the stage in search of a place to sleep. Finally, she finds a suitable spot to rest upstage left and stops. She tosses the blankets down on the floor and, in an awkward movement, slips out of the chair onto the ground and lays her head down. The lights are dimmed around her, and brought up on the entering Everyman who steps forward from downstage right, clearly out of breath. His shirt is un-tucked and his shoes have been discarded somewhere along his way. He stops to catch his breath just inside the limits of the stage, and wearily pleads, “Oh, to whom shall I make my moan for to go with me in that heavy journay?” (“Everyman”). He takes a seat right of center, pauses to think, and suddenly remembers with fondness his Good Deeds, saying, “Till that I go to my Good Deed. / But alas, she is so weak… / Yet will I venture on her now. / My Good Deeds, where be you?” (“Everyman”).
From her corner, Good Deeds speaks: “Here I lie, cold in the ground.” As she speaks, the lights around her brighten, revealing her features. This startles Everyman, for he expects a younger version of his good gestures, and as he pleads he remains distanced from her. “I pray you that ye will go with me,” he reluctantly asks. Good Deeds appraises him, and says that she will accompany him, but proclaims, “Though on my feet I may not go” (“Everyman”). She therefore calls on her sister, Knowledge, who enters downstage right, donning a short red dress and black fishnets. Her hair is just as wild as Good Deeds’, however she is younger and her figure is slimmer and mildly appealing. She speaks to Everyman as though he is a friend, not a customer, and promises, “Everyman, I will go with thee and be thy guide” (“Everyman”). As Knowledge leads Everyman downstage to converse with him, the lights are dimmed from center to upstage, masking the setting of a short podium and another member of the ensemble. Knowledge takes Everyman’s hand and brings him to center, where a matronly nun stands ready to take the sinners in. This woman is Confession, her arms open wide, welcoming both Knowledge and Everyman as they kneel before her. As he is healed, Everyman turns to face the audience and a joy is seen in his eyes. The podium and Confession are engulfed in blackness once again as they exit, and Everyman and Knowledge join Good Deeds as she tells of Everyman’s other friends.
Everyman then calls forth Discretion, Strength, Five-Wits, and Beauty, and, lit by an amber radiance, they appear from upstage behind a short wooden partition, all wearing neutral toned street clothes. Discretion, a middle aged woman, Strength, a toned young man, Five-Wits, a small boy of 10, and Beauty, a girl of 16, stand before Everyman as a people’s jury. However, though each of them at first proclaim their loyalties, one by one Beauty, Strength, Discretion, and finally Five-Wits betray him and leave the stage through alternating wings. Everyman is left with only Good Deeds and Knowledge by his side, and as he stands center, he breaks down and cries out, “O Jesu, help, all hath forsaken me!” (“Everyman”). Knowledge stands upstage left with Good Deeds as the haggard old woman says, “Nay, Everyman, I will bide with thee.” Knowledge assists Good Deeds into her wheelchair and pushes her over to Everyman, who has sunken to his knees on the floor. Knowledge states reluctantly that she cannot go with him, but will accompany him until it is his time to leave. Taking Good Deeds by the handles of her chair, Everyman implores into the air, “Have mercy on me, God most mighty,” to which Good Deeds’ comforting reply is, “Fear not: I will speak for thee” (“Everyman”). She places her hand on his as he wheels her about and directs both of them upstage, declaring, “Forever commendo spiritum meum” (“Everyman”). They disappear into the dimming lights upstage center and all is quiet. “Now hath he suffered that we all shall endure, / The Good Deeds shall make all sure,” says Knowledge with conviction as she stands center (“Everyman”).
An angel’s voice is heard from in the wings upstage, proclaiming that “Thy reckoning is crystal clear,” and Knowledge, satisfied, takes a seat on a chair which has been placed upstage right (“Everyman”). She directs her attention towards the downstage left wing, where the Doctor, a man wearing doctoral graduation gown and cap, enters. He is the same actor who portrayed God as the judge in the beginning of the play, and when he sees her, he salutes, as if to commend her recent labors. He speaks with purpose and reason, addressing the audience like a professor would address his graduates at a commencement, saying, “Ye hearers, take it of worth, old and young,” and finally, he concludes with, “Amen, say ye, for saint charity” (“Everyman”).He then turns to Knowledge, who has risen, and takes her hand warmly. Smiling he exits upstage right, leaving Knowledge alone waving after him. As she stands center, facing upstage where the Doctor has exited, the lights around her dim and finally fade into blackness.
This contemporary portrayal of a late 15th-century morality play holds its universality in the lives of every individual, young or old, who find themselves on a path to self-destruction. Through placing each aspect of Everyman’s life in a solid relationship, the play’s messages of sin, doubt, abandonment, and finally salvation become clearer to today’s current audiences, especially in a time of war, drugs, sex, and violence. It is important that the set be nothing more than a stage with a few set dressings, along with light and sound effects for the sole purpose that each person’s life does not take place in a single atmosphere, but rather many; the world is where a person’s relationships are formed. Since a complete set is lacking in this production, the importance of costuming is stressed. Costumes provide identity and personality to each character, and through identification, audiences will more easily understand and relate with Everyman’s plight. Finally, leaving religion aside, the moral trial of Everyman is a universal concept, drawing on universal moral principles, and through presenting this text in a contemporary context, audiences may come to find that their lives are not so different from that of every other man.
Costume Sketches:
There is darkness onstage, save for the very faint spotlight shining on an unknown individual standing center. Suddenly the silence is broken by three knocks of a gavel heard from the upstage area. The center spotlight is brought to full, revealing a man wearing dark brown slacks, a white shirt with its sleeves rolled, and a black tie. He adjusts his glasses and speaks as the Messenger, the clerk of the court: “I pray you all give your audience,” He continues on to say, “For ye shall hear how our Heaven-King / Calleth Everyman to a general reckoning” (“Everyman”). The Messenger retreats to his small desk upstage right, the spotlight is reduced, and the entire thrust stage is now lit with an amber glow, revealing a judge, God, sitting upstage center behind an elevated desk. God, an aged gentleman wearing the modern attire for a judge, is busily shuffling documents around and seems distressed. A lonely lawyer, Everyman, is also seen seated at a distance down stage right, wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His feet are lazily propped up on the desk in front of him, and he is drinking a cup of coffee while reading the morning newspaper. He is unaware of the other individuals in the courtroom and makes no effort to hide his grotesque habits, such as slurping his coffee. This figure of Everyman is bizarre, but likeable at the same time, for his salvation, and that of human kind, should be something worth cheering for.
God speaks and displays his papers in front of him, as if they are testaments and records of the lives he has watched over. “I perceive, here in my majesty, / How that all creatures be to me unkind” (“Everyman”). As he speaks, he pulls out a particularly large file from his desk; this document has been slightly scorched and torn in a few places. Dirt is smeared on the cover, and as God opens it, he is struck with a horrible smell. Looking to Everyman, still seated downstage right, he proclaims rather loudly, “Every man liveth so after his own pleasure,” and smartly snaps the file shut, sending scraps of decaying paper to the floor. He heaves a great sigh, and reluctantly says, “Where art thou, Death, thou mighty messenger?” (“Everyman”).
Death, a tall and lanky officer with a dark sense of humor, steps forward from the shadows upstage left and presents himself: “Almighty God, I am here at your will, / Your commandment to fulfill” (“Everyman”). Following his instructions to “Go thou to Everyman,” God exits upstage center with the Messenger, and leaves Death to stalk Everyman, still seated lazily at the downstage right desk. As Death speaks, he swings his baton around and takes great joy in his potential startling of Everyman, for “Full little he thinketh on my coming” (“Everyman”). Everyman, during Death’s monologue, has risen and lit a cigarette. He checks his watch and is just about to leave downstage right when Death proclaims, “Everyman, stand still! Whither art thou going / Thus gaily?” (“Everyman”). Pretentiously, Everyman replies, “Why askest thou? / Why wouldest thou weet?” (“Everyman”). During the ensuing dialogue, Everyman backs away and attempts to escape Death in the courtroom, walking swiftly across the stage, but Death follows, eager to strike fear in Everyman. Finally, Death backs Everyman into the downstage right desk and traps him, saying, “See thou make thee ready shortly, / For thou mayst say this is the day / that no man living may scape away” (“Everyman”). Death, pointing his club at Everyman in a threatening manner, exits downstage right, leaving Everyman frightened and alone.
As Everyman delivers his next monologue he takes off his coat and leaves it on the adjacent desk. The upstage and downstage right desks are now wheeled offstage, leaving Everyman in the center, searching for a way out of his predicament. The lights are now brighter, and the shadow of a window pane, created by a gobo, is seen slanted on the floor. Everyman suddenly spies Fellowship, a fellow lawyer, heading his way from downstage left, fumbling with a stack of books and a briefcase. “Well, met, good Fellowship, and good marrow!” says Everyman, approaching him (“Everyman”). Fellowship, a jovial man wearing a tweed jacket and bowtie, recognizes Everyman and greets him warmly. Setting down his load, Fellowship inquires about Everyman’s plight and states that “Promise is duty,” however, as the conversation reaches the mention of Judgment Day, Fellowship begins to panic, hastily picking up his books and briefcase, saying, “Yea, by my fay! To God I betake thee” (“Everyman”). He then runs offstage through the upstage right exit, and in so doing, drops one of his books. As Fellowship scurries back onstage to retrieve it, Everyman approaches to pick it up. Fellowship snatches at the book, says, “For you I will remember that parting is mourning,” and quickly darts back into the wings (“Everyman”).
Everyman, left alone once again, walks from entrance to entrance, looking for anther person to accompany him on his journey. He loosens his tie partially from distress and partially from the warmth of the day. The lights are dimmer now, and the stage is filled with a light shade of green, suggesting a park. Birds can be heard, along with the sounds of city life: faint sounds of fire engines, cars, and quiet murmurings. He turns to find Kindred and Cousin, both wearing football jerseys and jeans, standing downstage right with beers in their hands. Kindred, a female in the likeness of Everyman, and Cousin, a male, approach Everyman with great enthusiasm. They are very physical with him, and this emphasizes a family relationship. Kindred asks Everyman, “What account is that which ye must render?” and Everyman replies hesitantly, “How I have lived and my days spent; / Also of ill deeds that I have used...Therefore I pray you go thither with me” (“Everyman”). On “ill deeds”, Kindred and Cousin look to each other in desperation, searching for excuses. “No, by Our Lady! I have the cramp in my toe,” says Cousin, laughing (“Everyman”). Kindred pulls a piece of paper and pen from her pocket, jots down a number, and gives the slip to Everyman, saying, “Ye shall have my maid with all my heart …/ Therefore farewell till another day” (“Everyman”). Kindred exits in a hurry upstage left, leaving Cousin to console Everyman. Cousin sighs in regret and says, “Now God keep thee, for now I go” (“Everyman”). Sadly, Cousin walks toward the upstage right exit, pausing briefly to turn and look at the wounded Everyman, then disappears into the wings.
Through his strife with Kindred and Cousin, Everyman’s spirit is cracked. He stands center, baffled, silently looking into the audience for a source of companionship. He finds nothing from the faces and curses, “Ah, Jesus, is all come hereto?” He loosens his tie further and rolls up his shirtsleeves, revealing blasphemous tattoos: a devil and a snake on his right forearm and a voluptuous woman on his left. He wracks his brain for another companion who might accompany him and suddenly thinks of his Goods. “Where art thou, my Goods and riches?” says he, shouting into the air (“Everyman”). Goods saunters forward from upstage right, wearing a trench coat and fedora. As he speaks, he opens his coat to reveal a very large assortment of jewelry and watches, and plucking one of the watches from the lining of his coat, he offers it to Everyman, saying, “Sir, and ye in the world have sorrow or adversity, / That I can help you remedy shortly” (“Everyman”). Everyman accepts the watch. As he speaks of his trial to Goods, the dealer circles Everyman, surveying him. As Everyman concludes his plea, Goods steps forward to confront him, and says, “Therefore to thy soul Good is a thief… / As I have done thee, and all to his soul’s repreef,” promptly grabs the watch he has previously offered Everyman, and shoves it in his own pocket (“Everyman”). Everyman, still desperate for a companion, asks, “But wilt thou not go with me, indeed?” to which Goods’ reply is “farewell and have good day” (“Everyman”). Goods begins to walk towards downstage right just as Everyman clutches onto his arm in desperation. Goods looks at Everyman in disgust and shakes him free, continuing on his way, leaving Everyman utterly broken and on the verge of tears, his hair tousled and general appearance a mess. He looks to the audience for pity, but sees none, and in a state of total shame, he runs upstage, exiting up left.
Suddenly, a woman is seen in the downstage left entrance, sitting in a wheelchair with blankets in her lap. She is as old as she is dirty, weak and haggard with wild hair and a wild face. She has the appearance of a forgotten woman, alone and neglected. During this transition, the lights have moved from green to dark blue, suggesting an alley way. A sewer grate, simulated by a gobo, is positioned on the floor to the left of center. The woman, Good Deeds, wheels her way around the stage in search of a place to sleep. Finally, she finds a suitable spot to rest upstage left and stops. She tosses the blankets down on the floor and, in an awkward movement, slips out of the chair onto the ground and lays her head down. The lights are dimmed around her, and brought up on the entering Everyman who steps forward from downstage right, clearly out of breath. His shirt is un-tucked and his shoes have been discarded somewhere along his way. He stops to catch his breath just inside the limits of the stage, and wearily pleads, “Oh, to whom shall I make my moan for to go with me in that heavy journay?” (“Everyman”). He takes a seat right of center, pauses to think, and suddenly remembers with fondness his Good Deeds, saying, “Till that I go to my Good Deed. / But alas, she is so weak… / Yet will I venture on her now. / My Good Deeds, where be you?” (“Everyman”).
From her corner, Good Deeds speaks: “Here I lie, cold in the ground.” As she speaks, the lights around her brighten, revealing her features. This startles Everyman, for he expects a younger version of his good gestures, and as he pleads he remains distanced from her. “I pray you that ye will go with me,” he reluctantly asks. Good Deeds appraises him, and says that she will accompany him, but proclaims, “Though on my feet I may not go” (“Everyman”). She therefore calls on her sister, Knowledge, who enters downstage right, donning a short red dress and black fishnets. Her hair is just as wild as Good Deeds’, however she is younger and her figure is slimmer and mildly appealing. She speaks to Everyman as though he is a friend, not a customer, and promises, “Everyman, I will go with thee and be thy guide” (“Everyman”). As Knowledge leads Everyman downstage to converse with him, the lights are dimmed from center to upstage, masking the setting of a short podium and another member of the ensemble. Knowledge takes Everyman’s hand and brings him to center, where a matronly nun stands ready to take the sinners in. This woman is Confession, her arms open wide, welcoming both Knowledge and Everyman as they kneel before her. As he is healed, Everyman turns to face the audience and a joy is seen in his eyes. The podium and Confession are engulfed in blackness once again as they exit, and Everyman and Knowledge join Good Deeds as she tells of Everyman’s other friends.
Everyman then calls forth Discretion, Strength, Five-Wits, and Beauty, and, lit by an amber radiance, they appear from upstage behind a short wooden partition, all wearing neutral toned street clothes. Discretion, a middle aged woman, Strength, a toned young man, Five-Wits, a small boy of 10, and Beauty, a girl of 16, stand before Everyman as a people’s jury. However, though each of them at first proclaim their loyalties, one by one Beauty, Strength, Discretion, and finally Five-Wits betray him and leave the stage through alternating wings. Everyman is left with only Good Deeds and Knowledge by his side, and as he stands center, he breaks down and cries out, “O Jesu, help, all hath forsaken me!” (“Everyman”). Knowledge stands upstage left with Good Deeds as the haggard old woman says, “Nay, Everyman, I will bide with thee.” Knowledge assists Good Deeds into her wheelchair and pushes her over to Everyman, who has sunken to his knees on the floor. Knowledge states reluctantly that she cannot go with him, but will accompany him until it is his time to leave. Taking Good Deeds by the handles of her chair, Everyman implores into the air, “Have mercy on me, God most mighty,” to which Good Deeds’ comforting reply is, “Fear not: I will speak for thee” (“Everyman”). She places her hand on his as he wheels her about and directs both of them upstage, declaring, “Forever commendo spiritum meum” (“Everyman”). They disappear into the dimming lights upstage center and all is quiet. “Now hath he suffered that we all shall endure, / The Good Deeds shall make all sure,” says Knowledge with conviction as she stands center (“Everyman”).
An angel’s voice is heard from in the wings upstage, proclaiming that “Thy reckoning is crystal clear,” and Knowledge, satisfied, takes a seat on a chair which has been placed upstage right (“Everyman”). She directs her attention towards the downstage left wing, where the Doctor, a man wearing doctoral graduation gown and cap, enters. He is the same actor who portrayed God as the judge in the beginning of the play, and when he sees her, he salutes, as if to commend her recent labors. He speaks with purpose and reason, addressing the audience like a professor would address his graduates at a commencement, saying, “Ye hearers, take it of worth, old and young,” and finally, he concludes with, “Amen, say ye, for saint charity” (“Everyman”).He then turns to Knowledge, who has risen, and takes her hand warmly. Smiling he exits upstage right, leaving Knowledge alone waving after him. As she stands center, facing upstage where the Doctor has exited, the lights around her dim and finally fade into blackness.
This contemporary portrayal of a late 15th-century morality play holds its universality in the lives of every individual, young or old, who find themselves on a path to self-destruction. Through placing each aspect of Everyman’s life in a solid relationship, the play’s messages of sin, doubt, abandonment, and finally salvation become clearer to today’s current audiences, especially in a time of war, drugs, sex, and violence. It is important that the set be nothing more than a stage with a few set dressings, along with light and sound effects for the sole purpose that each person’s life does not take place in a single atmosphere, but rather many; the world is where a person’s relationships are formed. Since a complete set is lacking in this production, the importance of costuming is stressed. Costumes provide identity and personality to each character, and through identification, audiences will more easily understand and relate with Everyman’s plight. Finally, leaving religion aside, the moral trial of Everyman is a universal concept, drawing on universal moral principles, and through presenting this text in a contemporary context, audiences may come to find that their lives are not so different from that of every other man.
Costume Sketches:
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