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.
02 April 2011
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:
Dystopia: The Atrocious Reality of Utopia
Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, published in 1516, presents and outlines the mechanics and laws of a perfect society, based on equality, obedience, faith, and service. Although Utopia is described superficially as the ideal country to live in, the nation is soon revealed as less than perfect, illustrating to modern audiences that this Utopia is a dystopia. The practices of uniformity, male domination, hypocrisy, rigid social standards, and slavery all condemn this island and its people to the harsh criticism of a twenty-first century viewpoint.
Firstly, Utopia’s cities, all “identical in language, customs, institutions, and laws,” are all exactly alike, and all are built using the same ground plan and architectural styles (More, 32). This conformity, juxtaposed with today’s societies’ penchant for tall buildings and competitive designs, provides little hope for artistically-minded individuals searching for creative freedom in a perfect world. Art is looked down upon and seen as unnecessary, only adding to Pride, a hideous vice (More, 84). Furthermore, each Utopian wears the same style of clothing, regardless of age; however, styles may vary depending on gender or marital status (More, 36-37). Also, each person is given a single cloak, which they wear throughout the year for seven years; they must make use of this thin cloak in winter without any other means of covering besides the clothes they already wear underneath (More, 40). Therefore, the government of Utopia provides its people with little else than the bare minimum to survive the cold, a hardship that citizens of Russia, London, and Alaska would no doubt find deplorable. The lack of private property, reeking of communism in its most basic form, would also be disagreeable to those living in democratic countries such as the United Kingdom, France, and the United States (“Paradise Dreamed”).
Secondly, in this male dominated society, men are given high positions of authority, forcing less powerful males, children, and specifically women to serve them. “Wives are subject to their husbands” in Utopia, a value which has slowly worn out of style in nations where women’s liberation has progressed, expressly in the United States and the United Kingdom (More, 41; “Paradise Dreamed”). Utopian wives and females are expected to cook every night for large masses of people, for “planning the meal, as well as preparing and cooking the food, is carried out by the women alone” (More, 43). When calculated, these women must be the chefs to thirty families which contain at least thirteen adults. Therefore, 390 persons, not counting females under eighteen, males under twenty-two, and slaves must be fed each night by the women of the syphogranty (Adams, 43). Expected to cook without any sort of modern electric or gas appliance, these women are given a nearly impossible task, which would wear on even today’s professional chefs. Finally, on the evening of the “Last-feast”, children and women are made to kneel before their male superiors and confess their sins and beg for forgiveness (More, 80). This act of putting oneself below another individual, especially a man, would be scoffed at by most women and hardly taken seriously by most of today’s audiences.
The third and most interesting dystopian aspect of Utopia is its contradictory social and moral system. Primarily, the notion of “social equality” is completely destroyed as a class system is set in place based on education. This special group of men holds in its ranks “learned men,” who are then chosen to stand as ambassadors, priests, tranibors, or the prince (More, 39). Furthermore, “first consideration goes to the sick” when distributing food, further proving that another section of the populace is better treated than its regular citizens, so much so that the majority of the city populations agree that they would rather spend their meal times in a hospital rather than their own homes (More, 42). Following the preferred treatment of the patients, the aforementioned learned folk are then considered before anyone else (More, 42). At the same time, when dinners are served in homes, the older members of the household are served “with the best food”. Note that the word “best” is used rather than “first,” suggesting that all other persons dining are forced to scrounge for the next best portion (More, 44). There is a clear distinction of class as food, the world’s most valuable resource, is distributed among the social elite before its common citizens (Forward). This contradiction of equality would anger most modern people, for allowing exceptions and excuses when a clear profession of equality stands could result in anarchy and revolution (“Paradise Dreamed”).
Moreover, Utopians contradict their value of life by urging the sick and old to commit assisted suicide (Forward). If an individual is suffering from an “incurable, but excruciatingly and continually painful” disease, a committee of priests and public officials come to their side and remind him that he is unable to continue functioning as a normal citizen: he is “a burden to himself and to others” (More, 60; Adams, 60). This sort of deadly persuasion would seem disgusting and immoral by today’s standards when paralleled with issues such as euthanasia and nursing home abuse.
The fourth highly flawed aspect of More’s Utopia is that of the extremely rigid community standards and laws set in place by the Utopian government. Time and activity constraints are designed with order in mind, but they lack the option of absolute freedom of the individual. Eight hours a night are spent sleeping; six hours are used for work, allowing a one or two hour gap between each half of the working day; the rest of the day is left “to each man’s individual discretion” (More, 37). However, A Utopian’s free time must be spent in some manner that is productive and helpful to the commonwealth; idleness is frowned upon, and each man or woman must keep themselves busy (More, 37). Utopia is seemingly devoid of any sort of beer or hard liquor, having only “wine, apple or pear cider, or simple water” mixed with “honey or licorice” (More, 33; Adams, 33). This absence of alehouses or taverns limits each person’s potential for indulging in sin because every person is in full view of everyone else, thus promoting a “healthy" leisure time (More, 45). In modern society, alcohol is an important aspect of certain cultures, providing relief from a stressful day at work, a tool of initiation, and a celebratory drink at special occasions such as weddings and birthdays. Furthermore, activities such as engaging in premarital sex, hawking, hunting, and gambling are forbidden, causing modern audiences to view these strange customs as breech of personal freedoms (Kumar).
Additionally, even travel within the island of Utopia is a challenge, for each person wishing to take a journey to another city to visit friends or relatives must first consult his syphogrant and tranibor (More, 44). Each man must then acquire a letter from the prince stating that he or she is permitted to travel. If this social contract is broken and a letter is not attained, and if the person is caught without a note, they are brought back to their city and treated as a runaway. If this happens twice, they are subjected to slavery (More, 45). This strict code of travel would baffle most modern people, for if a man in the town of Sikeston, Missouri in the United States were to decide he wanted to travel to Columbia, Missouri, he could do so without permission from any authority, save his own.
Finally, the institution of Utopian slavery raises moral questions and tests modern principles on the subject. The slaves in More’s Utopia “do all the particularly dirty and heavy work,” which includes slaughtering and cleaning the animals that are used for food (More, 42-43). It should be mentioned that the Utopians view the killing of fellow-animals as a danger to one’s humanity, thus suggesting that slaves have little to no humanity at all and are expendable. More states that Utopia’s slaves are comprised of three types of people: citizens who have committed a “heinous act”, prisoners of war, or “hardworking penniless drudges” who come from other lands to live in Utopia (More, 59). These slaves are all made to wear gold chains, gold earrings, gold rings, and even crowns to distinguish themselves from other members of the population; however, if a poor man who has committed himself to slavery wears the same chains as a criminal, then he is immediately put in the same ranks as those who have committed adultery or fought against the Utopians (More, 47). This hardly seems fair considering that a hardworking man is distinctly different than a thief. In nations such as the United States, where slavery has been banned since the introduction of the Thirteenth Amendment in 1865, slavery is deemed immoral and also illegal.
Additionally, one of Utopia’s reasons for declaring war on another country is to liberate their allies from “tyranny and servitude” (More, 66). If Utopians take prisoners of war, they are, ironically, enslaving and forcing their own prisoners into servitude, the unpleasant position from which they freed their allies. In a modern society where slavery and discrimination is looked down upon, this hypocrisy would be, at the very least, laughed at by most people and considered a folly.
Utopia’s impractical notions of an ideal society are far from perfect. From a modern perspective, none of Utopia’s traditions would be deemed at all ideal in the twenty-first century: the island’s identical towns and drab clothing snuff creativity; men are the greater sex; the social structure of the country is presented as equal, yet its citizens are separated by class; severe community principles limit pure individual freedom; the institution of slavery is used as a practical punishment and a prison. To view Utopia as perfect would be a mistake, for if humans cannot freely and truly express themselves because they are oppressed by their communities and government, then they are merely existing, not living, in a dystopia.
Works Cited:
Adams, Rovert M., ed. Utopia. New York: Norton, 1991. Print. Pgs 4-85.
Forward, Stephanie. "A taste of paradise: Thomas More's Utopia." The English Reviews Apr. 2001: 24. General Reference Center Gold. Web. 1 Dec. 2009.
Kumar, Krishan. "Utopia on the map of the world." The Hedgehog Review 10.1 (2008). Expanded Academic ASAP. Web. 1 Dec. 2009.
More, Thomas. Utopia. 2nd ed., Ed. Robert M. Adams. New York: Norton, 1991. Print. Pgs 4-85.
"Paradise Dreamed: How Utopian Thinkers Have Changed the Modern World." New Statesmen & Society. 26 Nov. 1993. Expanded Academic ASAP. Web. 2 Dec. 2009.
Firstly, Utopia’s cities, all “identical in language, customs, institutions, and laws,” are all exactly alike, and all are built using the same ground plan and architectural styles (More, 32). This conformity, juxtaposed with today’s societies’ penchant for tall buildings and competitive designs, provides little hope for artistically-minded individuals searching for creative freedom in a perfect world. Art is looked down upon and seen as unnecessary, only adding to Pride, a hideous vice (More, 84). Furthermore, each Utopian wears the same style of clothing, regardless of age; however, styles may vary depending on gender or marital status (More, 36-37). Also, each person is given a single cloak, which they wear throughout the year for seven years; they must make use of this thin cloak in winter without any other means of covering besides the clothes they already wear underneath (More, 40). Therefore, the government of Utopia provides its people with little else than the bare minimum to survive the cold, a hardship that citizens of Russia, London, and Alaska would no doubt find deplorable. The lack of private property, reeking of communism in its most basic form, would also be disagreeable to those living in democratic countries such as the United Kingdom, France, and the United States (“Paradise Dreamed”).
Secondly, in this male dominated society, men are given high positions of authority, forcing less powerful males, children, and specifically women to serve them. “Wives are subject to their husbands” in Utopia, a value which has slowly worn out of style in nations where women’s liberation has progressed, expressly in the United States and the United Kingdom (More, 41; “Paradise Dreamed”). Utopian wives and females are expected to cook every night for large masses of people, for “planning the meal, as well as preparing and cooking the food, is carried out by the women alone” (More, 43). When calculated, these women must be the chefs to thirty families which contain at least thirteen adults. Therefore, 390 persons, not counting females under eighteen, males under twenty-two, and slaves must be fed each night by the women of the syphogranty (Adams, 43). Expected to cook without any sort of modern electric or gas appliance, these women are given a nearly impossible task, which would wear on even today’s professional chefs. Finally, on the evening of the “Last-feast”, children and women are made to kneel before their male superiors and confess their sins and beg for forgiveness (More, 80). This act of putting oneself below another individual, especially a man, would be scoffed at by most women and hardly taken seriously by most of today’s audiences.
The third and most interesting dystopian aspect of Utopia is its contradictory social and moral system. Primarily, the notion of “social equality” is completely destroyed as a class system is set in place based on education. This special group of men holds in its ranks “learned men,” who are then chosen to stand as ambassadors, priests, tranibors, or the prince (More, 39). Furthermore, “first consideration goes to the sick” when distributing food, further proving that another section of the populace is better treated than its regular citizens, so much so that the majority of the city populations agree that they would rather spend their meal times in a hospital rather than their own homes (More, 42). Following the preferred treatment of the patients, the aforementioned learned folk are then considered before anyone else (More, 42). At the same time, when dinners are served in homes, the older members of the household are served “with the best food”. Note that the word “best” is used rather than “first,” suggesting that all other persons dining are forced to scrounge for the next best portion (More, 44). There is a clear distinction of class as food, the world’s most valuable resource, is distributed among the social elite before its common citizens (Forward). This contradiction of equality would anger most modern people, for allowing exceptions and excuses when a clear profession of equality stands could result in anarchy and revolution (“Paradise Dreamed”).
Moreover, Utopians contradict their value of life by urging the sick and old to commit assisted suicide (Forward). If an individual is suffering from an “incurable, but excruciatingly and continually painful” disease, a committee of priests and public officials come to their side and remind him that he is unable to continue functioning as a normal citizen: he is “a burden to himself and to others” (More, 60; Adams, 60). This sort of deadly persuasion would seem disgusting and immoral by today’s standards when paralleled with issues such as euthanasia and nursing home abuse.
The fourth highly flawed aspect of More’s Utopia is that of the extremely rigid community standards and laws set in place by the Utopian government. Time and activity constraints are designed with order in mind, but they lack the option of absolute freedom of the individual. Eight hours a night are spent sleeping; six hours are used for work, allowing a one or two hour gap between each half of the working day; the rest of the day is left “to each man’s individual discretion” (More, 37). However, A Utopian’s free time must be spent in some manner that is productive and helpful to the commonwealth; idleness is frowned upon, and each man or woman must keep themselves busy (More, 37). Utopia is seemingly devoid of any sort of beer or hard liquor, having only “wine, apple or pear cider, or simple water” mixed with “honey or licorice” (More, 33; Adams, 33). This absence of alehouses or taverns limits each person’s potential for indulging in sin because every person is in full view of everyone else, thus promoting a “healthy" leisure time (More, 45). In modern society, alcohol is an important aspect of certain cultures, providing relief from a stressful day at work, a tool of initiation, and a celebratory drink at special occasions such as weddings and birthdays. Furthermore, activities such as engaging in premarital sex, hawking, hunting, and gambling are forbidden, causing modern audiences to view these strange customs as breech of personal freedoms (Kumar).
Additionally, even travel within the island of Utopia is a challenge, for each person wishing to take a journey to another city to visit friends or relatives must first consult his syphogrant and tranibor (More, 44). Each man must then acquire a letter from the prince stating that he or she is permitted to travel. If this social contract is broken and a letter is not attained, and if the person is caught without a note, they are brought back to their city and treated as a runaway. If this happens twice, they are subjected to slavery (More, 45). This strict code of travel would baffle most modern people, for if a man in the town of Sikeston, Missouri in the United States were to decide he wanted to travel to Columbia, Missouri, he could do so without permission from any authority, save his own.
Finally, the institution of Utopian slavery raises moral questions and tests modern principles on the subject. The slaves in More’s Utopia “do all the particularly dirty and heavy work,” which includes slaughtering and cleaning the animals that are used for food (More, 42-43). It should be mentioned that the Utopians view the killing of fellow-animals as a danger to one’s humanity, thus suggesting that slaves have little to no humanity at all and are expendable. More states that Utopia’s slaves are comprised of three types of people: citizens who have committed a “heinous act”, prisoners of war, or “hardworking penniless drudges” who come from other lands to live in Utopia (More, 59). These slaves are all made to wear gold chains, gold earrings, gold rings, and even crowns to distinguish themselves from other members of the population; however, if a poor man who has committed himself to slavery wears the same chains as a criminal, then he is immediately put in the same ranks as those who have committed adultery or fought against the Utopians (More, 47). This hardly seems fair considering that a hardworking man is distinctly different than a thief. In nations such as the United States, where slavery has been banned since the introduction of the Thirteenth Amendment in 1865, slavery is deemed immoral and also illegal.
Additionally, one of Utopia’s reasons for declaring war on another country is to liberate their allies from “tyranny and servitude” (More, 66). If Utopians take prisoners of war, they are, ironically, enslaving and forcing their own prisoners into servitude, the unpleasant position from which they freed their allies. In a modern society where slavery and discrimination is looked down upon, this hypocrisy would be, at the very least, laughed at by most people and considered a folly.
Utopia’s impractical notions of an ideal society are far from perfect. From a modern perspective, none of Utopia’s traditions would be deemed at all ideal in the twenty-first century: the island’s identical towns and drab clothing snuff creativity; men are the greater sex; the social structure of the country is presented as equal, yet its citizens are separated by class; severe community principles limit pure individual freedom; the institution of slavery is used as a practical punishment and a prison. To view Utopia as perfect would be a mistake, for if humans cannot freely and truly express themselves because they are oppressed by their communities and government, then they are merely existing, not living, in a dystopia.
Works Cited:
Adams, Rovert M., ed. Utopia. New York: Norton, 1991. Print. Pgs 4-85.
Forward, Stephanie. "A taste of paradise: Thomas More's Utopia." The English Reviews Apr. 2001: 24. General Reference Center Gold. Web. 1 Dec. 2009.
Kumar, Krishan. "Utopia on the map of the world." The Hedgehog Review 10.1 (2008). Expanded Academic ASAP. Web. 1 Dec. 2009.
More, Thomas. Utopia. 2nd ed., Ed. Robert M. Adams. New York: Norton, 1991. Print. Pgs 4-85.
"Paradise Dreamed: How Utopian Thinkers Have Changed the Modern World." New Statesmen & Society. 26 Nov. 1993. Expanded Academic ASAP. Web. 2 Dec. 2009.
The Failure of Sir Gawain: Fall of the Knight
Throughout Anglo-Saxon history, romantic tales, and literature, knights have borne the immense responsibility of dedicating their lives equally to their lord, lady, family, friends, religion, and own reputation. This standard, however, is impossible to achieve and foolish to strive for. When duty to one’s self interferes with duty to each of the five other aspects of knighthood, the balance of all six is ultimately unattainable. With each moral question that is presented to the knight, a choice must be made to either uphold or release responsibility from one or more of his six loyalties. Gawain from “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight” pursues the ultimate achievement: to become the ideal knight, yet fails miserably when responsibilities toward his six loyalties conflict. The tragedy of Gawain’s downfall is attributed to his disregard for Christian values, overwhelming pride, and blatant selfishness.
Gawain’s abandonment of moral and Christian principles begins with his acceptance to the Green Knight’s challenge. He is met with a request that the Green Knight “shall bide the first blow” of a weapon that he himself provides (“Gawain” 168). However, the Knight does not indicate that the blow be lethal; this is the decision of Gawain. He intentionally ignores the peaceful options available to him, those of negotiation and dismissal of the Green Knight (Sharma). Christian values indicate that the taking of a life is morally wrong and is a Cardinal Sin. Considering that the Knight made no threats or direct advances to injure any man or woman present, it seems illogical that Gawain would take this course of action instead of using diplomacy to solve the problem at hand. If the situation escalated into something more violent, then Gawain’s actions could be considered appropriate, however, this is not the case.
Furthermore, Gawain’s shield is adorned on the exterior with the “pentangle”: a five pointed star that “is linked and locked with the next / For ever and ever” (“Gawain” 175). These five points of the star have the opportunity to represent the knight’s five virtues: generosity, courtesy, chastity, chivalry, and piety, five natural senses, the five wounds of Christ, or the “five joys” of the Virgin (Whiteford). Furthermore, the interior is decorated with an image of the Virgin Mary. The pentagram, however, is an ancient symbol primarily pagan in nature (Muszkiewicz). It therefore presents Gawain as a Christian who is living with pagans and attempting to keep his knightly duties aligned by remaining courteous to his hosts. The superficial image of the pentangle and the inward facing image of the Virgin become the manifestation of Gawain and his difficulty in maintaining balance between outward generosity towards his friends and private dedication to his religion (McClain).
Gawain’s pride first arises when he offers to accept the Green Knight’s challenge in Arthur’s stead. He comes before the court and proclaims that “this folly befits not a king, / And ‘tis I that have asked it, it ought to be mine” (“Gawain” 169). He proclaims that this foolish request is waste of time, and should therefore be left for Arthur’s subordinate to deal with (Sharma). With Gawain’s acceptance of the Green Knight’s request, he is doomed to endure each trial of character that is subsequently forced upon him, including donning his two-sided shield and, later, facing Lady de Hautdesert’s advances.
Secondly, while dining with Bertilak de Hautdesert’s men, they ask him from where he originates. He confesses that he “comes from the court, / and owns him to the brotherhood of high-famed Arthur, / the right royal ruler of the Round Table” (“Gawain” 181). Through this statement, he establishes a parallel between himself and an esteemed group of people, namely, the most influential fellowship in Europe. Moreover, instead of answering their queries directly, he places emphasis on Arthur’s “high-fame”, therefore alluding that his reputation should be directly linked with that of Arthur’s. This is not, by any means, a humble assertion, and results in the host and his men praising him further, a welcome outcome, for he does not object to such adoration.
Additionally, Gawain’s attitude towards women is ineffably appalling. Following Hautdesert’s discovery of Gawain’s lack of loyalty and the host’s subsequent pardon, Gawain fails to accept responsibility for his actions and searches frantically for a scapegoat – the female sex (McClain). He then begins on a tirade condemning women and comparing himself to these “proud princes” who were “wooed into sorrow” by the “wiles of a woman” (“Gawain” 211). He blames Eve, Solomon’s wives, Delilah, Bathsheba, Lady de Hautdesert, and Morgan le Faye for the downfalls of their proud companions, while forgetting, or perhaps failing to mention, that the flaw of each unfortunate man was his own hubris or lust (Sharma). At last ending his tantrum, Gawain claims that if he has been deceived, that he should “be excused,” a pathetic argument for one who has knowingly and willingly chosen the path he has taken (“Gawain” 211).
Finally, Sir Gawain loses all credibility when his selfish desire for life over loyalty overtakes him in the presence of Lady de Hautdesert. He is caught in the dangerous web of the chivalric code, having to choose between showing respect for his host’s wife and saving his own life, or remaining faithful to his generous host. In attempting to show friendly affection towards Lady de Hautdesert, he inadvertently invites her to continue her advances. During the Lady’s first visit to his bedchamber, he replies to her flirtations with a promise to “kiss” at her command “as becomes a knight” (“Gawain” 189). Whether or not kissing “as becomes a knight” is platonic in nature, it opens up the possibility for the lady to take advantage of Gawain’s poor self restraint. What’s more, in her second visit to his chamber, Gawain fails to include his role as a knight when speaking of kissing, and instead states that he is hers “to command”, and that she may kiss him whenever she desires (“Gawain” 193). On her third visit, Gawain is tested beyond his limits and offered the Lady’s girdle. Fearing for his own life and simultaneously gripped with the fear of betrayal, he accepts the girdle, thus abandoning his loyalties and surrendering to his desire for a future. The Lady and Gawain agree “That not a soul save themselves shall see it thenceforth with sight” (“Gawain” 200). She then kisses him three times and departs. Ironically, the acceptance of the girdle is a breaking point in which Gawain loses his identity as a knight and gains the mark of an adulterer, for with the donning of the girdle comes the stripping of his internal virtues (Myeer).
Gawain’s disloyalty can later be proven as the Green Knight strikes his blows upon Gawain’s neck. Each blow of the Green Knight’s axe stands parallel to each visit of Lady de Hautdesert. Through correspondence with his wife, the Green Knight, later revealed as Bertilak de Hautdesert, gains the knowledge of her nightly visits to Gawain’s chamber, and therefore is aware of the number of kisses bestowed upon Gawain and the knight’s “conduct too” (“Gawain” 210). The first and second kisses, though given by the Lady, allowed for Gawain to keep his honorable standing with the Green Knight. He states that “For both of these there behooved two feigned blows by right” (“Gawain” 209). With the third blow, however, Gawain is faced with his actions of adultery and falseness through kissing the Lady and finally taking her garter. Failing “at the third throw”, he must endure the small wound provided by the “barb at the blade’s end” (“Gawain” 209). Following Hautdesert’s pardon, Gawain wears the “braided girdle” as a symbol of his errors, admitting that he is “faulty and false” (“Gawain” 210).
It is no small wonder that Gawain finds himself a broken knight and a broken man. He has knowingly, from the first word he offers to the Green Knight, placed himself in a precarious position. His Christian values escape him as his pride devours his senses, and his selfish actions to preserve his own life instead of remaining loyal nearly damn him when he is tested by his foe. If an ideal knight fails to maintain his six loyalties, it is impossible for him to possess all five Knightly Virtues, and therefore it is impossible for the ideal knight to be called such. Morality requires the knowledge of virtue and vice and the ability to choose between them. It is presented through Gawain that to strive for absolute perfection and balance will ultimately result in utter catastrophe and the loss of one’s self-worth.
Works Cited:
McClain, Lee Tobin. "Gender anxiety in Arthurian romance." Extrapolation 38.3 (1997): 193+. Academic OneFile. Web. 2 Apr. 2011.
Muszkiewicz, Jo. "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: Slaying Student Resistance." The Once and Future Classroom 5.2 (2007). TEAMS: The Consortium for Teaching the Middle Ages. Web. 15 Oct. 2009..
Myeer, Thomas. "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, line 1771." The Explicator 53.4 (1995): 188+. Academic OneFile. Web. 2 Apr. 2011.
Sharma, Manish. "Hiding the harm: revisionism and marvel in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight." Papers on Language & Literature 44.2 (2008): 168+. Academic OneFile. Web. 2 Apr. 2011.
"Sir Gawain and the Green Knight." The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. 8th ed. Vol. A. New York: W.W. Norton, 2006. 162-213. Print.
Gawain’s abandonment of moral and Christian principles begins with his acceptance to the Green Knight’s challenge. He is met with a request that the Green Knight “shall bide the first blow” of a weapon that he himself provides (“Gawain” 168). However, the Knight does not indicate that the blow be lethal; this is the decision of Gawain. He intentionally ignores the peaceful options available to him, those of negotiation and dismissal of the Green Knight (Sharma). Christian values indicate that the taking of a life is morally wrong and is a Cardinal Sin. Considering that the Knight made no threats or direct advances to injure any man or woman present, it seems illogical that Gawain would take this course of action instead of using diplomacy to solve the problem at hand. If the situation escalated into something more violent, then Gawain’s actions could be considered appropriate, however, this is not the case.
Furthermore, Gawain’s shield is adorned on the exterior with the “pentangle”: a five pointed star that “is linked and locked with the next / For ever and ever” (“Gawain” 175). These five points of the star have the opportunity to represent the knight’s five virtues: generosity, courtesy, chastity, chivalry, and piety, five natural senses, the five wounds of Christ, or the “five joys” of the Virgin (Whiteford). Furthermore, the interior is decorated with an image of the Virgin Mary. The pentagram, however, is an ancient symbol primarily pagan in nature (Muszkiewicz). It therefore presents Gawain as a Christian who is living with pagans and attempting to keep his knightly duties aligned by remaining courteous to his hosts. The superficial image of the pentangle and the inward facing image of the Virgin become the manifestation of Gawain and his difficulty in maintaining balance between outward generosity towards his friends and private dedication to his religion (McClain).
Gawain’s pride first arises when he offers to accept the Green Knight’s challenge in Arthur’s stead. He comes before the court and proclaims that “this folly befits not a king, / And ‘tis I that have asked it, it ought to be mine” (“Gawain” 169). He proclaims that this foolish request is waste of time, and should therefore be left for Arthur’s subordinate to deal with (Sharma). With Gawain’s acceptance of the Green Knight’s request, he is doomed to endure each trial of character that is subsequently forced upon him, including donning his two-sided shield and, later, facing Lady de Hautdesert’s advances.
Secondly, while dining with Bertilak de Hautdesert’s men, they ask him from where he originates. He confesses that he “comes from the court, / and owns him to the brotherhood of high-famed Arthur, / the right royal ruler of the Round Table” (“Gawain” 181). Through this statement, he establishes a parallel between himself and an esteemed group of people, namely, the most influential fellowship in Europe. Moreover, instead of answering their queries directly, he places emphasis on Arthur’s “high-fame”, therefore alluding that his reputation should be directly linked with that of Arthur’s. This is not, by any means, a humble assertion, and results in the host and his men praising him further, a welcome outcome, for he does not object to such adoration.
Additionally, Gawain’s attitude towards women is ineffably appalling. Following Hautdesert’s discovery of Gawain’s lack of loyalty and the host’s subsequent pardon, Gawain fails to accept responsibility for his actions and searches frantically for a scapegoat – the female sex (McClain). He then begins on a tirade condemning women and comparing himself to these “proud princes” who were “wooed into sorrow” by the “wiles of a woman” (“Gawain” 211). He blames Eve, Solomon’s wives, Delilah, Bathsheba, Lady de Hautdesert, and Morgan le Faye for the downfalls of their proud companions, while forgetting, or perhaps failing to mention, that the flaw of each unfortunate man was his own hubris or lust (Sharma). At last ending his tantrum, Gawain claims that if he has been deceived, that he should “be excused,” a pathetic argument for one who has knowingly and willingly chosen the path he has taken (“Gawain” 211).
Finally, Sir Gawain loses all credibility when his selfish desire for life over loyalty overtakes him in the presence of Lady de Hautdesert. He is caught in the dangerous web of the chivalric code, having to choose between showing respect for his host’s wife and saving his own life, or remaining faithful to his generous host. In attempting to show friendly affection towards Lady de Hautdesert, he inadvertently invites her to continue her advances. During the Lady’s first visit to his bedchamber, he replies to her flirtations with a promise to “kiss” at her command “as becomes a knight” (“Gawain” 189). Whether or not kissing “as becomes a knight” is platonic in nature, it opens up the possibility for the lady to take advantage of Gawain’s poor self restraint. What’s more, in her second visit to his chamber, Gawain fails to include his role as a knight when speaking of kissing, and instead states that he is hers “to command”, and that she may kiss him whenever she desires (“Gawain” 193). On her third visit, Gawain is tested beyond his limits and offered the Lady’s girdle. Fearing for his own life and simultaneously gripped with the fear of betrayal, he accepts the girdle, thus abandoning his loyalties and surrendering to his desire for a future. The Lady and Gawain agree “That not a soul save themselves shall see it thenceforth with sight” (“Gawain” 200). She then kisses him three times and departs. Ironically, the acceptance of the girdle is a breaking point in which Gawain loses his identity as a knight and gains the mark of an adulterer, for with the donning of the girdle comes the stripping of his internal virtues (Myeer).
Gawain’s disloyalty can later be proven as the Green Knight strikes his blows upon Gawain’s neck. Each blow of the Green Knight’s axe stands parallel to each visit of Lady de Hautdesert. Through correspondence with his wife, the Green Knight, later revealed as Bertilak de Hautdesert, gains the knowledge of her nightly visits to Gawain’s chamber, and therefore is aware of the number of kisses bestowed upon Gawain and the knight’s “conduct too” (“Gawain” 210). The first and second kisses, though given by the Lady, allowed for Gawain to keep his honorable standing with the Green Knight. He states that “For both of these there behooved two feigned blows by right” (“Gawain” 209). With the third blow, however, Gawain is faced with his actions of adultery and falseness through kissing the Lady and finally taking her garter. Failing “at the third throw”, he must endure the small wound provided by the “barb at the blade’s end” (“Gawain” 209). Following Hautdesert’s pardon, Gawain wears the “braided girdle” as a symbol of his errors, admitting that he is “faulty and false” (“Gawain” 210).
It is no small wonder that Gawain finds himself a broken knight and a broken man. He has knowingly, from the first word he offers to the Green Knight, placed himself in a precarious position. His Christian values escape him as his pride devours his senses, and his selfish actions to preserve his own life instead of remaining loyal nearly damn him when he is tested by his foe. If an ideal knight fails to maintain his six loyalties, it is impossible for him to possess all five Knightly Virtues, and therefore it is impossible for the ideal knight to be called such. Morality requires the knowledge of virtue and vice and the ability to choose between them. It is presented through Gawain that to strive for absolute perfection and balance will ultimately result in utter catastrophe and the loss of one’s self-worth.
Works Cited:
McClain, Lee Tobin. "Gender anxiety in Arthurian romance." Extrapolation 38.3 (1997): 193+. Academic OneFile. Web. 2 Apr. 2011.
Muszkiewicz, Jo. "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: Slaying Student Resistance." The Once and Future Classroom 5.2 (2007). TEAMS: The Consortium for Teaching the Middle Ages. Web. 15 Oct. 2009.
Myeer, Thomas. "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, line 1771." The Explicator 53.4 (1995): 188+. Academic OneFile. Web. 2 Apr. 2011.
Sharma, Manish. "Hiding the harm: revisionism and marvel in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight." Papers on Language & Literature 44.2 (2008): 168+. Academic OneFile. Web. 2 Apr. 2011.
"Sir Gawain and the Green Knight." The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. 8th ed. Vol. A. New York: W.W. Norton, 2006. 162-213. Print.
Life and Death in Leningrad: The Power of Literary Techniques
In Sharon Olds’ strikingly dark poem, “Leningrad Cemetery, Winter of 1941,” the author presents the reader with the historical siege of Leningrad near the beginning of World War II. During this unforgiving winter, at least 641,000 people perished from either hypothermia or starvation, or a combination of the two (“The 900-day Siege”). Through the use of vivid visual imagery, literary symbolism, and juxtaposition, Olds captures the harsh struggles of the 900-day siege and presents the reader with an unexpected glimmer of hope for new life.
Beginning in line 1, Olds’ use of visual imagery has already begun with the second word of the poem: “winter” (Olds). This tells the reader immediately that the atmosphere is dark, cold, and icy. The speaker of the poem furthermore explains that the “dead could not be buried. / The ground was frozen” further proving that the season in which the poem is set is so hostile that even the soil is immovable (Olds). As history notes, over 600,000 people in total perished in Leningrad when the siege was finally over, and most of these poor souls were buried in mass, unmarked graves (“The 900-day Siege”). The horror of this fact is further brought to light by the images of bodies “wrapped in dark cloth”; the image of this brings about thoughts of makeshift burial shrouds and the number of people that Death so indiscriminately chooses to follow him (Olds). In line 9, the speaker talks of “pale, gauze, tapered shapes” (Olds). The word pale, as defined by Dictionary.com, means “lacking intensity of color; colorless or whitish”; this image of a colorless, body covered by a thin white wrapping brings to mind the image of a ghoul, hardly a positive spirit in the afterlife.
Moreover, in lines 13 and 14, the speaker tells of bodies whose wrappings have fallen from their cold limbs, revealing “naked calves / hard as corded wood” (Olds). This saddening description forces the reader to realize that their dignity has also been taken away from them by the unfortunate and harsh reality of war, starvation, and a brutal winter. These brave and persistent souls, who died even after defying Death’s call, are now lying half-naked in the frigid cold. The author uses images such as this to remind the reader of what a horrible ordeal the citizens of Leningrad endured while attempting to defend their city.
Continuing to use the power of imagery, the author uses lines 15 and 16 to create an image of a troubled spirit reaching out for help. “A hand reaching out / with no sign of peace” faces us with two symbols: one, of a person reaching out for assistance while in a state of distress, and the other of a haunted spirit who has not yet reached peace in the afterlife. The image of a hand being extended towards another individual has long represented a need for assistance whether it is spiritual or physical (Thorns). The line “with no sign of peace” tells the reader that the spirit of the deceased has not yet reached a place in the afterlife where they can find closure with the issue of the life they led or their untimely death (Olds). The speaker also tells of the dead in line 16: “wanting to come back/ even to the bread made of glue and sawdust, / even to the icy winter, and the siege” (Olds). This statement brings about the harsh realization that death is not a comfortable alternative to the siege. It is instead a dreadful and lonely position to be trapped in; these souls would rather stand alive and feed on false nourishment while defending their city rather than lie dead in an unmarked ditch waiting for the cold to consume them.
Next, the intense use of literary symbolism is seen throughout the poem, beginning also with the word “winter” (Olds). Commonly, each of the seasons represent a different stage of the human experience: spring is paired with birth and new life, the heat of summer is paired with adolescence and the discovery of sexual desires, the fading leaves of autumn are associated with middle age, and the process of death is linked with winter (Thorns). The dark cloths mentioned in line 6 can be most effective if paired with the colors brown or black. These colors generally reflect the absence of life and represent fatality and the unknown (Thorns). These dark cloths also represent the constancy of death, for every person eventually meets their death one way or another. The image of a “child’s sled” in line 4 takes on an image of innocence, and is abruptly set into a world full of chaos and destruction (Olds). It further proves that even the innocent are affected by the struggles of war.
Finally, Olds successfully uses images of life and rebirth juxtaposed with those of death to stress the importance of each life process; she brings the darkness of the poem around to present a glimmer of hope. The image of a “tree’s ball of roots” in line 7 suggests that each individual being laid to rest will become part of nature, even the trees that they are compared to (Olds). Even in lines 10 and 11, Olds compares the dead to “cocoons that will split down the center / when the new life is prepared” (Olds). Cocoons represent new life; both physical and mental rebirth is commonly associated with this image of nature (Thorns).
In January of 1943, the siege was lifted, leaving thousands dead and thousands more still starving and close to their final breaths. The reader is struck with a sense of sadness and general loss, but is introduced to the idea that out of such loss emerges the promise of hope and renewal. Sharon Olds effectively pairs both the horror of the historical siege of Leningrad and the potential for rebirth through visual imagery, common literary symbolism, and the pairing of two of life’s greatest events. In this poem about the horrific battle for Leningrad, the reader witnesses the sadness of death and the miracle of life.
Works Cited
Olds, Sharon. "Leningrad Cemetery, Winter of 1941" Norton Introduction to Literature. Ed. Alison Booth , J. Paul Hunter and Kelly J. Mays. Shorter 9th ed. New York: Norton, 2006. 717. Print.
"pale." The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2004. 17 Feb. 2010.
"The 900-day Siege of Leningrad, Russia (The Leningrad Blockade)." Saint-Petersburg.com - travel and event guide for St Petersburg, Russia. The City of Saint Petersburg. Web. 12 Feb. 2010..
Thorns, Chris. "Literary Symbolism." Web. 14 Feb. 2010..
Beginning in line 1, Olds’ use of visual imagery has already begun with the second word of the poem: “winter” (Olds). This tells the reader immediately that the atmosphere is dark, cold, and icy. The speaker of the poem furthermore explains that the “dead could not be buried. / The ground was frozen” further proving that the season in which the poem is set is so hostile that even the soil is immovable (Olds). As history notes, over 600,000 people in total perished in Leningrad when the siege was finally over, and most of these poor souls were buried in mass, unmarked graves (“The 900-day Siege”). The horror of this fact is further brought to light by the images of bodies “wrapped in dark cloth”; the image of this brings about thoughts of makeshift burial shrouds and the number of people that Death so indiscriminately chooses to follow him (Olds). In line 9, the speaker talks of “pale, gauze, tapered shapes” (Olds). The word pale, as defined by Dictionary.com, means “lacking intensity of color; colorless or whitish”; this image of a colorless, body covered by a thin white wrapping brings to mind the image of a ghoul, hardly a positive spirit in the afterlife.
Moreover, in lines 13 and 14, the speaker tells of bodies whose wrappings have fallen from their cold limbs, revealing “naked calves / hard as corded wood” (Olds). This saddening description forces the reader to realize that their dignity has also been taken away from them by the unfortunate and harsh reality of war, starvation, and a brutal winter. These brave and persistent souls, who died even after defying Death’s call, are now lying half-naked in the frigid cold. The author uses images such as this to remind the reader of what a horrible ordeal the citizens of Leningrad endured while attempting to defend their city.
Continuing to use the power of imagery, the author uses lines 15 and 16 to create an image of a troubled spirit reaching out for help. “A hand reaching out / with no sign of peace” faces us with two symbols: one, of a person reaching out for assistance while in a state of distress, and the other of a haunted spirit who has not yet reached peace in the afterlife. The image of a hand being extended towards another individual has long represented a need for assistance whether it is spiritual or physical (Thorns). The line “with no sign of peace” tells the reader that the spirit of the deceased has not yet reached a place in the afterlife where they can find closure with the issue of the life they led or their untimely death (Olds). The speaker also tells of the dead in line 16: “wanting to come back/ even to the bread made of glue and sawdust, / even to the icy winter, and the siege” (Olds). This statement brings about the harsh realization that death is not a comfortable alternative to the siege. It is instead a dreadful and lonely position to be trapped in; these souls would rather stand alive and feed on false nourishment while defending their city rather than lie dead in an unmarked ditch waiting for the cold to consume them.
Next, the intense use of literary symbolism is seen throughout the poem, beginning also with the word “winter” (Olds). Commonly, each of the seasons represent a different stage of the human experience: spring is paired with birth and new life, the heat of summer is paired with adolescence and the discovery of sexual desires, the fading leaves of autumn are associated with middle age, and the process of death is linked with winter (Thorns). The dark cloths mentioned in line 6 can be most effective if paired with the colors brown or black. These colors generally reflect the absence of life and represent fatality and the unknown (Thorns). These dark cloths also represent the constancy of death, for every person eventually meets their death one way or another. The image of a “child’s sled” in line 4 takes on an image of innocence, and is abruptly set into a world full of chaos and destruction (Olds). It further proves that even the innocent are affected by the struggles of war.
Finally, Olds successfully uses images of life and rebirth juxtaposed with those of death to stress the importance of each life process; she brings the darkness of the poem around to present a glimmer of hope. The image of a “tree’s ball of roots” in line 7 suggests that each individual being laid to rest will become part of nature, even the trees that they are compared to (Olds). Even in lines 10 and 11, Olds compares the dead to “cocoons that will split down the center / when the new life is prepared” (Olds). Cocoons represent new life; both physical and mental rebirth is commonly associated with this image of nature (Thorns).
In January of 1943, the siege was lifted, leaving thousands dead and thousands more still starving and close to their final breaths. The reader is struck with a sense of sadness and general loss, but is introduced to the idea that out of such loss emerges the promise of hope and renewal. Sharon Olds effectively pairs both the horror of the historical siege of Leningrad and the potential for rebirth through visual imagery, common literary symbolism, and the pairing of two of life’s greatest events. In this poem about the horrific battle for Leningrad, the reader witnesses the sadness of death and the miracle of life.
Works Cited
Olds, Sharon. "Leningrad Cemetery, Winter of 1941" Norton Introduction to Literature. Ed. Alison Booth , J. Paul Hunter and Kelly J. Mays. Shorter 9th ed. New York: Norton, 2006. 717. Print.
"pale." The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2004. 17 Feb. 2010.
"The 900-day Siege of Leningrad, Russia (The Leningrad Blockade)." Saint-Petersburg.com - travel and event guide for St Petersburg, Russia. The City of Saint Petersburg. Web. 12 Feb. 2010.
Thorns, Chris. "Literary Symbolism." Web. 14 Feb. 2010.
31 March 2011
UP-date
As in I'm putting new things UP on the site.
I just realized that I haven't posted some essays from Valencia and/or a couple essays from last semester (and/or because I'm unsure, per usual).
Also, coming soon is the character college from The Crucible. (Which took a horrible amount of time to actually get around to making and then photographing.)
Titles include:
The Melancholy Minister and the Mischievous Cherubim
Dystopia: The Atrocious Reality of Utopia
The Failure of Sir Gawain: Fall of the Knight
A Release into Madness: Symbolism and Female Repression in "The Yellow Wallpaper"
Animosity, Abuse, and Ambition: Dysfunctional Family Relationships in As I Lay Dying
Life and Death in Leningrad - The Power of Literary Techniques
I just realized that I haven't posted some essays from Valencia and/or a couple essays from last semester (and/or because I'm unsure, per usual).
Also, coming soon is the character college from The Crucible. (Which took a horrible amount of time to actually get around to making and then photographing.)
Titles include:
The Melancholy Minister and the Mischievous Cherubim
Dystopia: The Atrocious Reality of Utopia
The Failure of Sir Gawain: Fall of the Knight
A Release into Madness: Symbolism and Female Repression in "The Yellow Wallpaper"
Animosity, Abuse, and Ambition: Dysfunctional Family Relationships in As I Lay Dying
Life and Death in Leningrad - The Power of Literary Techniques
14 March 2011
Acculturation versus Assimilation: Jemison and Rowlandson
Deborah Larsen’s novel, The White, depicts the capture of the sixteen year old Mary Jemison by a tribe of Seneca in Pennsylvania and her acculturation into their society. Mary Jemison’s capture and residence with the Seneca lies parallel to Mary Rowlandson’s historical captivity narrative only through the event of their kidnappings. Jemison’s capture is followed by a complete submersion into Native American culture while Rowlandson’s experience following her capture is filled with much of her own resistance; the juxtaposition of these two characters also provides differing perspectives on the ways in which both women view their Native American captors. Both texts also differ in sentence structure, use of the first-person point of view, and chapter division. In observing the events that follow their captures, the differences between both experiences are seen in highly dissimilar reactions to captivity, feelings toward others including God, and use of writing styles.
First, Larsen’s depiction of Jemison’s captivity begins with the young woman chopping wood outside her own home in south-central Pennsylvania. She is confronted by a Shawnee who grabs her arm and begins to drag her away; Jemison’s reaction appears apathetic, and she responds by thinking “Let him jerk her, let him jerk her arm until it hung loose at her shoulder” (Larsen 6). It is not until she sees her family and neighbors being dragged away that she reconsiders the prospect of death. Following her capture, Jemison does not speak until around the fourth day, when she tells the Shawnee and Frenchmen, “I want to die” (18); her lack of speech continues until she arrives at Fort Duquesne and is asked her name, and she answers, “My name is – Mary” (38); these are the only two instances in which Jemison speaks after her capture and before she injures herself on page 47. Her muteness is a result of initial shock, acute observation, and finally, apathy; however, following the discovery of her own voice within the text, she begins to slowly accept the Seneca culture. She observes that she had been named Two-Falling-Voices, “was already speaking Seneca” with the tribe, and “stood in a brother’s place” between two sisters who had lost their sibling in a battle with the English (48). Through these two minute actions, her acculturation begins and is progressed even further with her marriage to Sheninjee, a member of the Delaware. With him, she gives birth to a stillborn baby and then produces a healthy child who she names Thomas. By the time Thomas is born, Jemison is nearly submersed in Native American culture; she wears clothing similar to theirs and observes the land more acutely, smelling “animal dung on a path minutes before she saw it” and comparing her hair to “new fern foliage” (86). She is content with Sheninjee, her children, and the Seneca culture, and after Sheninjee has died and Jemison marries Hiokatoo, she proclaims her membership in the Seneca culture to Simon, an escaped slave: “‘But Simon. I am one of the Indians. I am a Seneca’” (154). Her conversion and acceptance of the Seneca culture presents Jemison as a brave, observant, and open-minded individual who is willing to acculturate into a society that is significantly unlike her own.
In contrast, Mary Rowlandson’s reaction to capture is drastically different; she writes that she used to think that “if the Indians should come, I should chuse rather to be killed by them than be taken alive” (Rowlandson 70). However, once the Narrhagansett arrive “with great numbers upon Lancaster,” she reconsiders, saying that when the “tryal [arrived] my mind changed…I chose rather to go along with those ravenous Beasts…” (70). This response is completely contrary to Mary Jemison’s tale, and depicts Rowlandson as a frightened child against Jemison’s initial obstinate and courageous demeanor. The first time the text indicates that Rowlandson speaks is when she asks her captors where her dead child is and “what they had done with it?” (75). Following this, she receives a Bible from “one of the Indians that came from the Medfield fight” and asks him if he thinks the Indians will “let [her] read”; he says yes (76). During her time with the Indians, Rowlandson is treated both harshly and kindly at different times by her master and various other members of the tribe; here, despite some negative interactions, she does not actively pursue her escape, but rather endures her captivity enough so that she remains a Christian among “the heathen” while temporarily adapting to their way of life (79). While with the Native Americans, Rowlandson begins to assimilate herself into the tribe as a temporary member and merchant, making “stockins”, a “shirt” and a “cap” for her mistress, King Philip, and a “sorry Indian” (79, 82-82). She is finally ransomed for “Twenty pounds,” but as she steps away from the Narrhagansett, many members of the tribe are disappointed to see her go, “shaking [her] by the hand, offering [her] a Hood and a Scarfe to ride in” (107). Rowlandson’s brief assimilation into the Narrhagansett tribe and subsequent return home show an unwillingness to permanently partake in Native American culture and the desire to stay within the bounds of Christianity.
In addition to both women’s experiences, their attitudes toward their family, captors, and God frequently contrast. Mary Jemison vehemently opposes Thomas, her father, from the start, blaming him for leading his family “like lambs to the slaughter” after settling in an area which was not densely populated by whites at the time (Larsen 4). She even goes so far as to say that “she positively didn’t know him…a man who had mentally abandoned his family” (12). She accuses him of becoming a “child” and further goes on to protest when Sheninjee proposes they name their second child “Thomas” in honor of her father (12, 82). The relationship with her mother is also strained subconsciously; when Jemison speaks of making corn cakes, she remembers “[patting] the meal mixture into what must have been very uneven cakes, for mother would follow me and reshape them, which hurt my feelings” (88). She even dreams that her dead mother visits her but is unsatisfied with Jemison’s life, always approaching “and star[ing] at Hiokatoo and my garb…she would cover her mouth with her hand” (123). Her attitude toward her captors begins as a prisoner-jailor link; however, as she is accepted into the Seneca society in the place of a lost brother, she begins to see her captors as family, and specifically the women, Branch and Slight-Wind, as sisters. Ironically, the Christian captive never once refers to the Native Americans as “savages” or “heathens,” which illustrates a capacity for her to refrain from all-encompassing hatred of her captors. Jemison’s relationship with God begins roughly immediately after her capture when she wonders, “Where was He who kept count of all the hairs of all people? Where was He now?” (17). Her doubt transforms into a mixture of altered religion as she imagines telling Thomas the story of Jonah and the whale, mixing a Christian based tale with elements from Native American culture like the “Good Spirit” (109).
In contrast, Rowlandson sees the attack upon her town of Lancaster as nothing more, or less, than a violent rampage against her Christian community. She fears for the lives of her family, including her sister and her sister’s children, and her neighbors. Immediately following her capture, she is separated from her son and her youngest child dies; these are her only comforts besides her Bible, which she receives from the “Medfield” Indian. Her ties to her family are very strong and positive compared to those of Jemison. Rowlandson’s negative nature toward the Narrhagansetts and other Native American tribes is initially highly vicious, and is peppered with name-calling: “mutherous wretches,” “merciless Heathen,” “Infidels,” and “hell-hounds” (Rowlandson 68-70). These slurs can be found from the beginning of Rowlandson’s narrative until five pages before it concludes; within these pages, however, generosities are presented to Rowlandson and she partakes of them willingly, and even reciprocates the kind deeds. Strangely, while Rowlandson’s jailers are offering her shelter, food, and payment for goods, they are all referred to as “heathens” throughout the first forty pages (68-108). Rowlandson’s relationship with God is very obvious from the beginning of her narrative; her account is called The Sovereignty and Goodness of God, and throughout the text there are innumerable references to scripture. She constantly calls on God in times of need, especially when her young child is dying in her arms. She says, “Oh, I may see the wonderfull power of God, that my Spirit did not utterly sink under my affliction,” and trusts that her prayers will be heard; they are received and they both lived “to see the light of the next morning” (73).
Structurally, Larsen’s novel and Rowlandson’s first-hand account of captivity differ solely in the fact that Mary Jemison’s “removes” or sections are not numbered, named, or suggested as being separate from each other. Rowlandson’s narrative is separated by the listing of twenty “removes” which mark her movement around the region. Jemison’s story is clean of any defining mark of time or place except for the listing of three sections of the novel: “Buchanan Valley, 1758,” “The Ohio Valley, 1758-1762,” and “The Genesee Valley, 1763-1833.” These only notify the reader of a general area and time of the events which take place, not a day by day account of her experience. This structure assists the reader in taking Jemison’s experience as a whole rather than in particular segments and allows for the “losing of time” in the reader’s mind in order to connect with Mary; as Hiokatoo lays sick in bed, a doctor comes to Mary and asks her, “How long have you been married?” (167). She responds, “A long time”; Mary’s perception of time has been blurred by her lack of a need to trace time because she has lived so contently with the Seneca.
Though Larsen’s novel contradicts Rowlandson’s account of her own capture, the book makes sly references to Rowlandson’s narrative as if to mock it. Beginning at the first page, Mary Jemison stares into the face of “what she would later learn was not an ‘Indian’s’ face but that of a Shawnee” (Larsen 3). Throughout Rowlandson’s narrative, she refers to the Narrhagansett, Wampanoag, and Nipmuc people as “Indians” in italics every time the word in the singular or plural form is used. Additionally, as Mary Jemison accidentally cuts herself with a knife and sees her own blood, she suddenly finds her voice in the text and says, “the body belonged to me alone” (Larsen 47). At this point, italics are introduced as a way for Jemison to speak for herself in the first-person point of view while portions of her story are told in the third-person by the omniscient narrator. Conversely, Rowlandson’s italics are used as a way to quote from the Bible; the act of quoting from another source limits Rowlandson’s voice instead of allowing her to elaborate in her own words. Bible passages are even used after Rowlandson has committed an act which portrays her exertion of agency, such as defying her master and transporting “the English man” to a fire to comfort him (Rowlandson 90). The passage that follows is “Pauls prayer, 2 Thess. 3.2. That we may be delivered from unreasonable and wicked men” (Rowlandson 90).
Jemison and Rowlandson present contrasting views in the field of captivity. In Mary Jemison’s experience, the reader is confronted with a stubborn, yet open-minded individual who willingly acculturates into a society very different from her own, and comes to see herself as a member of that culture. Rowlandson, however, presents a portrait of an unwilling, cautious, and skeptical Christian who fears for her life and the lives of her children no matter the circumstance. Although they differ significantly, Larsen’s novel and Mary Rowlandson’s historical account of her own captivity provide fascinating perspectives and insight into drastically different lives which were affected by Native American raids during early American colonization.
Works Cited
Larsen, Deborah. The White: a Novel. New York: Vintage, 2003. Print.
Rowlandson, Mary White. The Sovereignty and Goodness of God: Together with the Faithfulness of His Promises Displayed : Being a Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson and Related Documents. Ed. Neal Salisbury. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 1997. Print.
First, Larsen’s depiction of Jemison’s captivity begins with the young woman chopping wood outside her own home in south-central Pennsylvania. She is confronted by a Shawnee who grabs her arm and begins to drag her away; Jemison’s reaction appears apathetic, and she responds by thinking “Let him jerk her, let him jerk her arm until it hung loose at her shoulder” (Larsen 6). It is not until she sees her family and neighbors being dragged away that she reconsiders the prospect of death. Following her capture, Jemison does not speak until around the fourth day, when she tells the Shawnee and Frenchmen, “I want to die” (18); her lack of speech continues until she arrives at Fort Duquesne and is asked her name, and she answers, “My name is – Mary” (38); these are the only two instances in which Jemison speaks after her capture and before she injures herself on page 47. Her muteness is a result of initial shock, acute observation, and finally, apathy; however, following the discovery of her own voice within the text, she begins to slowly accept the Seneca culture. She observes that she had been named Two-Falling-Voices, “was already speaking Seneca” with the tribe, and “stood in a brother’s place” between two sisters who had lost their sibling in a battle with the English (48). Through these two minute actions, her acculturation begins and is progressed even further with her marriage to Sheninjee, a member of the Delaware. With him, she gives birth to a stillborn baby and then produces a healthy child who she names Thomas. By the time Thomas is born, Jemison is nearly submersed in Native American culture; she wears clothing similar to theirs and observes the land more acutely, smelling “animal dung on a path minutes before she saw it” and comparing her hair to “new fern foliage” (86). She is content with Sheninjee, her children, and the Seneca culture, and after Sheninjee has died and Jemison marries Hiokatoo, she proclaims her membership in the Seneca culture to Simon, an escaped slave: “‘But Simon. I am one of the Indians. I am a Seneca’” (154). Her conversion and acceptance of the Seneca culture presents Jemison as a brave, observant, and open-minded individual who is willing to acculturate into a society that is significantly unlike her own.
In contrast, Mary Rowlandson’s reaction to capture is drastically different; she writes that she used to think that “if the Indians should come, I should chuse rather to be killed by them than be taken alive” (Rowlandson 70). However, once the Narrhagansett arrive “with great numbers upon Lancaster,” she reconsiders, saying that when the “tryal [arrived] my mind changed…I chose rather to go along with those ravenous Beasts…” (70). This response is completely contrary to Mary Jemison’s tale, and depicts Rowlandson as a frightened child against Jemison’s initial obstinate and courageous demeanor. The first time the text indicates that Rowlandson speaks is when she asks her captors where her dead child is and “what they had done with it?” (75). Following this, she receives a Bible from “one of the Indians that came from the Medfield fight” and asks him if he thinks the Indians will “let [her] read”; he says yes (76). During her time with the Indians, Rowlandson is treated both harshly and kindly at different times by her master and various other members of the tribe; here, despite some negative interactions, she does not actively pursue her escape, but rather endures her captivity enough so that she remains a Christian among “the heathen” while temporarily adapting to their way of life (79). While with the Native Americans, Rowlandson begins to assimilate herself into the tribe as a temporary member and merchant, making “stockins”, a “shirt” and a “cap” for her mistress, King Philip, and a “sorry Indian” (79, 82-82). She is finally ransomed for “Twenty pounds,” but as she steps away from the Narrhagansett, many members of the tribe are disappointed to see her go, “shaking [her] by the hand, offering [her] a Hood and a Scarfe to ride in” (107). Rowlandson’s brief assimilation into the Narrhagansett tribe and subsequent return home show an unwillingness to permanently partake in Native American culture and the desire to stay within the bounds of Christianity.
In addition to both women’s experiences, their attitudes toward their family, captors, and God frequently contrast. Mary Jemison vehemently opposes Thomas, her father, from the start, blaming him for leading his family “like lambs to the slaughter” after settling in an area which was not densely populated by whites at the time (Larsen 4). She even goes so far as to say that “she positively didn’t know him…a man who had mentally abandoned his family” (12). She accuses him of becoming a “child” and further goes on to protest when Sheninjee proposes they name their second child “Thomas” in honor of her father (12, 82). The relationship with her mother is also strained subconsciously; when Jemison speaks of making corn cakes, she remembers “[patting] the meal mixture into what must have been very uneven cakes, for mother would follow me and reshape them, which hurt my feelings” (88). She even dreams that her dead mother visits her but is unsatisfied with Jemison’s life, always approaching “and star[ing] at Hiokatoo and my garb…she would cover her mouth with her hand” (123). Her attitude toward her captors begins as a prisoner-jailor link; however, as she is accepted into the Seneca society in the place of a lost brother, she begins to see her captors as family, and specifically the women, Branch and Slight-Wind, as sisters. Ironically, the Christian captive never once refers to the Native Americans as “savages” or “heathens,” which illustrates a capacity for her to refrain from all-encompassing hatred of her captors. Jemison’s relationship with God begins roughly immediately after her capture when she wonders, “Where was He who kept count of all the hairs of all people? Where was He now?” (17). Her doubt transforms into a mixture of altered religion as she imagines telling Thomas the story of Jonah and the whale, mixing a Christian based tale with elements from Native American culture like the “Good Spirit” (109).
In contrast, Rowlandson sees the attack upon her town of Lancaster as nothing more, or less, than a violent rampage against her Christian community. She fears for the lives of her family, including her sister and her sister’s children, and her neighbors. Immediately following her capture, she is separated from her son and her youngest child dies; these are her only comforts besides her Bible, which she receives from the “Medfield” Indian. Her ties to her family are very strong and positive compared to those of Jemison. Rowlandson’s negative nature toward the Narrhagansetts and other Native American tribes is initially highly vicious, and is peppered with name-calling: “mutherous wretches,” “merciless Heathen,” “Infidels,” and “hell-hounds” (Rowlandson 68-70). These slurs can be found from the beginning of Rowlandson’s narrative until five pages before it concludes; within these pages, however, generosities are presented to Rowlandson and she partakes of them willingly, and even reciprocates the kind deeds. Strangely, while Rowlandson’s jailers are offering her shelter, food, and payment for goods, they are all referred to as “heathens” throughout the first forty pages (68-108). Rowlandson’s relationship with God is very obvious from the beginning of her narrative; her account is called The Sovereignty and Goodness of God, and throughout the text there are innumerable references to scripture. She constantly calls on God in times of need, especially when her young child is dying in her arms. She says, “Oh, I may see the wonderfull power of God, that my Spirit did not utterly sink under my affliction,” and trusts that her prayers will be heard; they are received and they both lived “to see the light of the next morning” (73).
Structurally, Larsen’s novel and Rowlandson’s first-hand account of captivity differ solely in the fact that Mary Jemison’s “removes” or sections are not numbered, named, or suggested as being separate from each other. Rowlandson’s narrative is separated by the listing of twenty “removes” which mark her movement around the region. Jemison’s story is clean of any defining mark of time or place except for the listing of three sections of the novel: “Buchanan Valley, 1758,” “The Ohio Valley, 1758-1762,” and “The Genesee Valley, 1763-1833.” These only notify the reader of a general area and time of the events which take place, not a day by day account of her experience. This structure assists the reader in taking Jemison’s experience as a whole rather than in particular segments and allows for the “losing of time” in the reader’s mind in order to connect with Mary; as Hiokatoo lays sick in bed, a doctor comes to Mary and asks her, “How long have you been married?” (167). She responds, “A long time”; Mary’s perception of time has been blurred by her lack of a need to trace time because she has lived so contently with the Seneca.
Though Larsen’s novel contradicts Rowlandson’s account of her own capture, the book makes sly references to Rowlandson’s narrative as if to mock it. Beginning at the first page, Mary Jemison stares into the face of “what she would later learn was not an ‘Indian’s’ face but that of a Shawnee” (Larsen 3). Throughout Rowlandson’s narrative, she refers to the Narrhagansett, Wampanoag, and Nipmuc people as “Indians” in italics every time the word in the singular or plural form is used. Additionally, as Mary Jemison accidentally cuts herself with a knife and sees her own blood, she suddenly finds her voice in the text and says, “the body belonged to me alone” (Larsen 47). At this point, italics are introduced as a way for Jemison to speak for herself in the first-person point of view while portions of her story are told in the third-person by the omniscient narrator. Conversely, Rowlandson’s italics are used as a way to quote from the Bible; the act of quoting from another source limits Rowlandson’s voice instead of allowing her to elaborate in her own words. Bible passages are even used after Rowlandson has committed an act which portrays her exertion of agency, such as defying her master and transporting “the English man” to a fire to comfort him (Rowlandson 90). The passage that follows is “Pauls prayer, 2 Thess. 3.2. That we may be delivered from unreasonable and wicked men” (Rowlandson 90).
Jemison and Rowlandson present contrasting views in the field of captivity. In Mary Jemison’s experience, the reader is confronted with a stubborn, yet open-minded individual who willingly acculturates into a society very different from her own, and comes to see herself as a member of that culture. Rowlandson, however, presents a portrait of an unwilling, cautious, and skeptical Christian who fears for her life and the lives of her children no matter the circumstance. Although they differ significantly, Larsen’s novel and Mary Rowlandson’s historical account of her own captivity provide fascinating perspectives and insight into drastically different lives which were affected by Native American raids during early American colonization.
Works Cited
Larsen, Deborah. The White: a Novel. New York: Vintage, 2003. Print.
Rowlandson, Mary White. The Sovereignty and Goodness of God: Together with the Faithfulness of His Promises Displayed : Being a Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson and Related Documents. Ed. Neal Salisbury. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 1997. Print.
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