Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of O'Brien's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
Lieutenant Jimmy Cross was not accustomed to the warm greetings he received when he returned to the States, nor had he anticipated the sudden kiss of a woman he did not know. Her lips were soft, round, and yet forceful in welcoming him back from the war. He noticed the scent of gardenia, but did not dwell on its sweetness. She broke away from him, confused that he did not wish to continue. His attention was elsewhere. His pack was heavy as it tugged down upon his shoulder, and his back bent left in his attempt to keep the luggage from falling. The things he carried were much too fragile to be dropped. If they touched the floor at just the right angle, a crucial piece of his life and himself as a man could be destroyed forever. He looked left, then right – caution always directing his actions. He chose left and moved in that direction, head set forward for a mission that had not quite made itself clear yet.
He moved through the streets like a ghost, noticed by all, oblivious to his surroundings. He carried his pack through the throngs of busy people leading busy lives that had been uninterrupted by war. Within his pack was stuffed a canteen half-full of water, the remnants of his first aide kit, a tiny bottle of unused hot sauce, a pair of rusted tweezers, his father’s old pocket knife, and Lavender’s name badge –stolen right before the burial – which served as a bookmark for the found copy of Frankenstein now jabbing into his left shoulder blade. Providing insulation for these mismatched items of seeming unimportance were a fleece blanket covered with spattered red stains, his green poncho which he had used to keep his copy of Frankenstein safe, and three yellowed and wrinkled undershirts that smelled of mud, dead fish, and iron.
The pockets bulged with nothings, nothings that were somethings to Lieutenant Cross. A piece of long grass from one of the fields they took cover in during a small, but intense battle; a lock of hair from the body of a dead girl who had accidentally run out of her home while a fire fight was going on (she reminded him of his deceased sister); the bullet that had lodged itself in Lavender’s chest right before his team had burned Then Khe; a sketch he had drawn of a dog running rampant, apparently untouched, in Than Khe immediately after the fire; a small Hohner pocket harmonica Rat Kiley had chucked into the mud after Lieutenant Cross had played “a little too much” that night; Norman Bowker’s thumb trinket that he had cut from that dead boy’s hand – he had died a month after that. And last of all, Lieutenant Cross’s largest outside pocket was stuffed with a rope that measured about four and a half yards long.
05 September 2011
CE 1 - based from "Incarnations of Burned Children" by David Foster Wallace
Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from David Foster Wallace's "Incarnations of Burned Children" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Wallace's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
The Daddy returned to the house carrying lump of cloth in one hand and a bottle of freshly purchased scotch in the other, and the inevitable confrontation with the Mommy was waiting for him inside. The Daddy cared very little for scotch, but his taste buds were broken from biting his tongue raw in the waiting room, and his mind was practically numb from the silent screaming which ran like a pack of wild wolves through his head. The Mommy looked blankly at the Daddy when he entered the kitchen, which was still awash with the water that had spilled from the burning pot and onto his son. The Mommy’s face retained the anguished and mangled expression it had displayed prior to the Daddy’s frantic exit from the house, and though she was just as young as she had been when the Daddy left, the Mommy seemed to have aged twenty years in the three hours that the Daddy had been away. The Mommy had not sat down, nor had she attempted to clean the water from the tile floor, which was now deeply soaked into the grout between the white, square foot stones. The Daddy stood facing the Mommy, displaying a look upon his face which matched the contempt and rage in his heart, and as he turned to open the cabinet door to pull down a small glass, the Mommy made a deep guttural sound akin to that made by a boiling pot of water. The Daddy glanced at the Mommy’s thin and transparent face, shook his head which withered on its stem, and strode out of the kitchen with the bottle of scotch and its glass companion in both of his fists.
The Mommy slowly began to turn her head from where it had been positioned for three hours and commenced her wide gaze upon the room where the incident had occurred. Her neck, once strong and supportive, was now like the Daddy’s: fragile and flimsy. The Mommy took in the sights: the water spilled upon the floor, the black pot which had fallen from her incapable hands, and the tiny diaper that had been left behind as a souvenir of their son’s last agonizing moments. The Mommy began to clean. She picked up the prone pot and washed it in the sink, making sure to wash it thoroughly. And again. And again. And again. She mopped up the water and hand dried the floor. Twice, just to be sure. She saved the diaper for last, having mopped and dried around the swollen object to avoid moving it, fearing that she would experience a sudden shock if she so much as brushed its outer cotton lining. The Mommy stood up, ventured toward the drawer where the utensils were kept, and pulled out a pair of salad tongs, and edging ever so carefully along the wall, she finally reached the diaper and gingerly picked it up between the cold metal fingers of the instrument. After this job had been completed, the Mommy sat down at the kitchen table, letting the tongs drop, clattering, to the floor. She stared blankly ahead as she had been doing when the Daddy first entered the room, and began breathing in short, shallow breaths. Her chest, now sunken from sorrow, disbelief, and guilt, was now hollow.
The Mommy thought she saw a small person out of the corner of her eye peek around the corner of the kitchen door. She could have sworn she heard the Daddy come back in from outside and turn the television on. The Mommy smiled to herself and weakly rose from her chair to fetch plates, knives, forks, and spoons from the cabinet. She set the table, and, when she had completed her task, sat down again, but no food appeared on the plate in front of her nor the plates adjacent to hers. Equally, the Daddy thought he heard the Mommy laughing. After finishing his third glass of scotch, he turned his head around to look through the porch door. He thought he saw the Mommy smiling while she sat at the kitchen table, feeding herself and another person, although this other individual was either out of view or too short for the Daddy to see. The Daddy felt quite drowsy, and he also thought he heard the sound of the radio as it played the short, whining, and jittering sounds of jazz through its small speakers. His leg started to bounce along with the music, although a little off tempo from the rhythm.
The Daddy returned to the house carrying lump of cloth in one hand and a bottle of freshly purchased scotch in the other, and the inevitable confrontation with the Mommy was waiting for him inside. The Daddy cared very little for scotch, but his taste buds were broken from biting his tongue raw in the waiting room, and his mind was practically numb from the silent screaming which ran like a pack of wild wolves through his head. The Mommy looked blankly at the Daddy when he entered the kitchen, which was still awash with the water that had spilled from the burning pot and onto his son. The Mommy’s face retained the anguished and mangled expression it had displayed prior to the Daddy’s frantic exit from the house, and though she was just as young as she had been when the Daddy left, the Mommy seemed to have aged twenty years in the three hours that the Daddy had been away. The Mommy had not sat down, nor had she attempted to clean the water from the tile floor, which was now deeply soaked into the grout between the white, square foot stones. The Daddy stood facing the Mommy, displaying a look upon his face which matched the contempt and rage in his heart, and as he turned to open the cabinet door to pull down a small glass, the Mommy made a deep guttural sound akin to that made by a boiling pot of water. The Daddy glanced at the Mommy’s thin and transparent face, shook his head which withered on its stem, and strode out of the kitchen with the bottle of scotch and its glass companion in both of his fists.
The Mommy slowly began to turn her head from where it had been positioned for three hours and commenced her wide gaze upon the room where the incident had occurred. Her neck, once strong and supportive, was now like the Daddy’s: fragile and flimsy. The Mommy took in the sights: the water spilled upon the floor, the black pot which had fallen from her incapable hands, and the tiny diaper that had been left behind as a souvenir of their son’s last agonizing moments. The Mommy began to clean. She picked up the prone pot and washed it in the sink, making sure to wash it thoroughly. And again. And again. And again. She mopped up the water and hand dried the floor. Twice, just to be sure. She saved the diaper for last, having mopped and dried around the swollen object to avoid moving it, fearing that she would experience a sudden shock if she so much as brushed its outer cotton lining. The Mommy stood up, ventured toward the drawer where the utensils were kept, and pulled out a pair of salad tongs, and edging ever so carefully along the wall, she finally reached the diaper and gingerly picked it up between the cold metal fingers of the instrument. After this job had been completed, the Mommy sat down at the kitchen table, letting the tongs drop, clattering, to the floor. She stared blankly ahead as she had been doing when the Daddy first entered the room, and began breathing in short, shallow breaths. Her chest, now sunken from sorrow, disbelief, and guilt, was now hollow.
The Mommy thought she saw a small person out of the corner of her eye peek around the corner of the kitchen door. She could have sworn she heard the Daddy come back in from outside and turn the television on. The Mommy smiled to herself and weakly rose from her chair to fetch plates, knives, forks, and spoons from the cabinet. She set the table, and, when she had completed her task, sat down again, but no food appeared on the plate in front of her nor the plates adjacent to hers. Equally, the Daddy thought he heard the Mommy laughing. After finishing his third glass of scotch, he turned his head around to look through the porch door. He thought he saw the Mommy smiling while she sat at the kitchen table, feeding herself and another person, although this other individual was either out of view or too short for the Daddy to see. The Daddy felt quite drowsy, and he also thought he heard the sound of the radio as it played the short, whining, and jittering sounds of jazz through its small speakers. His leg started to bounce along with the music, although a little off tempo from the rhythm.
04 June 2011
29 April 2011
Taking Charge and Falling Hard: The Dichotomy of Gender Stereotypes in Hope Leslie
Catharine Maria Sedgwick’s novel, Hope Leslie, or Early Times in the Massachusetts, is an extraordinary rendering of the relationships that existed between men and women in early New-England Puritan society. Feminine and masculine gender stereotypes, both positive and negative, are exhibited in the text by Sedgwick’s characters to point out the “proper” and “improper” methods of conducting oneself in Puritan society. These stereotypes are then contradicted by Hope Leslie, the novel’s main protagonist, and Sir Philip Gardiner, the novel’s central antagonist; their actions provide proof that gender stereotypes are not limited to solely men or women, and may and do alter conventional perceptions of traditional gender roles and patriarchal social standards. Through textual references to behavior, individual actions, and dialogue, the characters of Hope Leslie and Sir Philip Gardiner provide striking evidence that the traditional virtues of men and traditional vices of women cross gender lines, and furthermore reveal a distinct difference between conventional gender stereotypes and true individual actions.
To begin, Hope Leslie is repeatedly referred to throughout the novel as being radically different from those “modern belle[s]” of the 17th century, allowing herself to act beyond the normal social constraints of Puritan society and pursue a freer and more adventurous behavior (Sedgwick 126). Her conduct, in return, is constantly called into question by her superiors; included in this group is Sir Philip Gardiner, who, though he is no superior in government, represents the masculine superiority which constantly hovers over Hope and the other women in the novel. The first instance in which the reader is intimately introduced to Hope is through her letter from herself to Everell Fletcher, who “presently [resides] in England” (Fetterley; Sedgwick 99). In her narration of the events at Bethel, Hope relates to Everell that her aunt Grafton expressed much displeasure with her intent to go hiking, saying that Hope’s venture into the wilderness was improper “for a young person, like me, to go out exploring a new country” (102). Dame Grafton’s disapproval of Hope’s intentions punctuate the uncommon desires of a young Puritan girl who is expected, if not required, to adhere to the strict Puritan moral code of remaining steadfastly “pious, modest, submissive, and invisible to the public eye” (Garvey). In Hope’s reply, she “urged, that our new country develops faculties that young ladies, in England, were unconscious of possessing” (Sedgwick 102). By providing this excuse for joining her male elders, Hope expresses her desire for education and knowledge of the world around her (Fetterley). In addition, her intention to venture into nature mirrors a desire to enter into a larger field of participation; by leaving the confines of her home, and then her own society, she is entering not only into a more public sphere, but a world sphere, while “yearning for social and natural unity” (Singley). Typically, men from this era are given freedom to explore and act upon these desires because they are thought to possess the skills to do so. However, Sedgwick invites the reader to consider the possibility that a woman, who is confined within a society that does not invite her to explore her surroundings, may do so, and furthermore, may enjoy doing it (Garvey). References to Hope’s social irregularity are further alluded to by Dame Grafton in her own letter to Everell when she says, “Hope, I am sorry to say, is as obstinate as ever” (Sedgwick 120). Hope’s obstinacy is rather a determination to break away from socially constructed stereotypes which have been imposed upon her by men. Governor Winthrop is equally adverse to Hope’s free spirit, asserting that she “hath not…that passiveness, that, next to godliness, [that] is a woman’s best virtue” under the dictations of Puritan culture (160). Hope, rather than submitting to the wishes of her superiors, “follows the dictates of her heart rather than the dictates of her elders” (Bell 221). Willful determination and stubbornness, often attributed to intelligent or ambitious men, is a rare sight in Dame Grafton’s mind, and in order to maintain the social norm, Grafton and Winthrop discourage this nature.
Other instances continually arise in which Hope’s behavior is shown as deviating from traditional feminine social norms. The traditional masculine qualities of courage and progressive thinking appear in Hope’s actions when they are alluded to by the omniscient narrator. Chief among these occasions are those wherein Hope is described as supportive of parties whose character is called into question. When Nelema is jailed as a witch for using herbal remedies on Cradock to cure him of a snake bite, Hope fervently “declare[s] her belief in Nelema’s innocence”, and is “inspired with a sudden resolution to set her free” when she spies the key the Nelema’s cell door lying conveniently nearby (Sedgwick 123-124). In professing her belief in Nelema’s innocence and simply considering the possibility of breaking her friend out of prison, Hope is in danger of being labeled a sympathizer; her virtue as a Puritan woman and trustworthiness as an individual would be brought into question by, first, the reader, and second, by the administers of justice should they discover her plot (Fetterley). However, her belief in true justice is defended to the reader by the sympathetic narrator: “Hope Leslie took counsel only from her own heart…the rights of innocence were paramount to all other rights” (Sedgwick 124). This thought is also linked with Hope’s forward-thinking personality, which is “superior to some of the prejudices of the day” (127). Without these social limits on her mind, Hope is further able to enjoy “the capacities of her nature, and [permit] her mind to expand beyond the contracted boundaries of sectarian faith” (128). Hope’s progressive way of thinking is characteristic of educated men of the 17th century, though there were few of the middle class who were privileged with such an advantage. Although most American gentlemen were not of the mindset that equality was meant for all people, men who had attended an institution of higher learning were more apt to consider the possibility of equality for all than those who had not entered a college or university. Through associating these masculine attributes with Hope, Sedgwick further invites her readers to consider that thoughts, typically associated with men, may also be found within the minds of women who see justice as belonging to the race of humans rather than the race of white men.
Another feature of Hope Leslie’s deviation from strict Puritan society lies in her overt actions, which are related to the reader through Hope’s words in her retelling of events, or through frank narration. Hope eagerly tells Everell in her letter that each member of the hiking party “reached the summit, without scathe to life or limb,” including Hope herself (103). This instance is an example in which Hope performs in a masculine way; she scales a mountain, which presents a highly un-feminine image. The action of climbing a mountain requires intense physical labor, endurance, and tremendous willpower; all three qualities function within a realm of traditional male physicality. Additionally, man’s conquering of a land structure usually parallels with his conquering of a female subject since the earth is predominantly referred to as “Mother Earth.” The image of Hope, a woman, instead presents a different view of mankind’s attempt to scale a mountain; she is representative of a daughter of the earth, endeavoring to become one with nature and the world around her.
Furthermore, the actions of freeing Nelema and Magawisca from jail provide Hope with the traditionally masculine trait of moral authority. Hope tells Magawisca, “I have come to release you,” and does so very craftily by disguising Cradock in a blanket and Magawisca in Cradock’s clothing, and then ushering Magawisca out very carefully so as to avoid the light of Barnaby’s lantern (326). Hope’s belief that Nelema and Magawisca are innocent and good stems from her deeply rooted belief that these women had genuinely done nothing wrong; since the male community has failed to see these captive women as innocent, Hope is forced to “intervene on behalf of the innocent” (Garvey). With this belief, Hope adopts a moral superiority over her male friends and social superiors who believe that they possess the ultimate moral superiority (Emerson). By doing this, Hope elevates herself to the level of Winthrop, William Fletcher, Cradock, Barnaby, and Sir Philip Gardiner, each one a male superior, and develops a stance of fearlessness along with moral dominance. Hope’s fearlessness is also addressed in her choice to risk her life even when she cannot anticipate impending dangers. After the meeting with Faith Leslie has been sabotaged by Sir Philip and his men, Hope is carried away by Oneco, and once they reach the shore of an island, Hope “forget[ting] her fear and danger in the sublimity of the storm…bound[s] away” into the night (Sedgwick 248-249). She is unaware of the impending danger that awaits her, but willing to brave whatever peril is presented to her, Hope willingly runs away. This action, although seemingly irrational, is the most rational thing Hope can do at that moment to avoid physical captivity, motivated by rational thought and affective feelings of fearlessness, she flees (Emerson). Her encounter with a group of malicious-minded sailors is her reward, but as she escapes from these men, she stumbles upon Antonio, the drunken sailor who thinks she is a saint. This new situation could also have ended poorly, but through quick thinking, Hope escapes detection of her actual persona. The quality of fearlessness is often common in brave male soldiers, strong fathers or brothers, or men who rank high in political office; however, it is not common among young Puritan women who, after being kidnapped, run blindly into a forest. The quality of fearlessness must also be accompanied by some degree of confidence in social ability and physical strength, for if the former fails in protecting the safety of one’s person, the latter must be implemented to avoid capture, injury, or death.
Finally, Hope’s words, whether written in epistle form or spoken aloud, serve to present the protagonist as an independent woman, capable of speaking for herself. Hope relates to Everell that she refused to be “plucked up and cast away” and insists “she [will] not go” to Boston (Sedgwick 118). Her defiance of William Fletcher, along with being unusually petulant, is also a vehicle through which her desire for personal independence is carried. During this period, independence is usually a freedom only given to men; since women possessed virtually no rights and were seen as property, they were treated as such and moved at the convenience of the man they were dependent upon (Fetterley). Michael Bell offers that though Hope is willful, the reader should see her as independently motivated instead of selfish (Bell 221). By denying Fletcher’s suggestions that she should be removed to Boston, Hope violates the traditional “boundaries of her place as a Puritan” woman, and openly admits that she wishes to own herself as an individual, and that her quest for individuality ultimately begins in frankly dictating that she has control over her own whereabouts (Garvey).
In contrast to Hope Leslie’s possession of positive masculine qualities, Sir Philip Gardiner’s possession of traditionally negative feminine qualities also begins with allusions provided by the omniscient narrator. In Gardiner’s first major description of his character, “he looked much like a dainty Quaker”; in this sentence, focus is centered on the verb “looked” (Sedgwick 129). Throughout the second half of the novel, Gardiner’s appearance is repeatedly called into question by the narrator and other characters in the story. Jennet calls him a “godly appearing man”; the narrator mentions that “he [has] nothing of the puritan but the outside” and that “he [plays] the gallant magician with two faces” (146, 175, 275). These references are intermittently dispersed to remind the reader that Gardiner is not what he seems to be, and is in fact something else entirely. The quality of being “two-faced” is predominantly associated with women, who have been portrayed as gossips, back-stabbers, and manipulators both historically and in literature (Kalayjian 64). This notion could come from the fact that, because women were not permitted to fully enter the public sphere until the middle of the 20th century, their time was occupied by activities such as quilting bees and luncheons where conversation would inevitably return to the people who participated in such events.
Additionally, Gardiner is portrayed as rash and irresponsible. While in court, Gardiner realizes that his “fool-hardiness, which he had rushed unnecessarily and unwittingly” has exposed him to public scrutiny (Sedgwick 300); he becomes “entangled in the meshes of his own weaving” through constantly lying about the particulars concerning his observance of the meeting between Hope Leslie and Magawisca (333). His plot to capture Hope Leslie is fueled by lust, vengeance, and greed, qualities which are commonly associated with older, irresponsible femme fatales who court and wed men for their money. These women are also portrayed as fickle, and usually betray their acquaintances due to some minor disagreement (Kalayjian 68). The same can easily be said for the rakish Gardiner, who abandons faithful Rosa to pursue Hope, and only returns to use Rosa’s complete trust in him to his own advantage.
Furthermore, Gardiner’s deliberate actions reflect dishonest and manipulative intentions. He follows Hope “at a prudent distance” when she ventures to meet with Magawisca and then “[enlists] against Magawisca…merely to advance his own private interests” (Sedgwick 259, 300). Though Gardiner’s actions are stated less frankly than descriptions of his character, his intentions are listed blatantly throughout the text, and his motive to undermine the court of Boston and the Fletcher and Winthrop families is clearly represented in “his bad mind” (312). His plot to capture the fleeing Magawisca and helpful Hope is even more disturbing when he plans on kidnapping Hope, forcing her to comply with his demands of marriage. Manipulation, a common negative action associated with ambitious, male-dependent women, is clearly a weakness of Gardiner, who desperately attempts to force his own advantageous means through manipulation of circumstances and people (Kalayjian 65).
Finally, Gardiner’s dialogue reflects a scheming personality that places blame on other individuals for his personal moral crimes. Before Gardiner meets Hope and Esther, he says that “women have cunning devices” with to change their appearance (Sedgwick 134). Ironically, Gardiner has, in fact, changed his own appearance to cunningly deceived members of the Boston government and the governor’s household. The very same actions which Gardiner seems to condemn and question are the same he uses to fool those around him; they therefore present him as a hypocrite, whose opinion is now invalid to the reader (Emerson). Later, as he drags the woman who he thinks is Hope into the recesses of the ship, he says to her, “Do not struggle thus…you have driven me to this violence. You must forgive the madness you have caused” (Sedgwick 341). Despite the fact that the woman being led away is Jennet, Gardiner’s message to her is clear: he marks the woman in his arms as the cause of his misery. In actuality, his misery has been caused by himself and his wretched actions against others. Labeling another individual as a scapegoat is highly popular among women who have fallen from grace, either socially or economically, and their misfortunes are placed (by them) on the person whom they have either depended or continually despised (Kalayjian 64). Gardiner’s situation runs parallel to that of the fallen, irresponsible woman, and eventually ends in Jennet’s, Rosa’s, and his own death.
The unusual predicaments surrounding Hope Leslie and her sister may provide a reason for breaking free of gender stereotypes, and why Sir Philip Gardiner has the motivation to commit acts of intrigue. Christopher Castiglia discusses the possibility that an “eccentric” story may pose the option to its female characters to act outside the normal gender constraints of their time (110). Hope Leslie belongs to a disordered family unit: her mother and father are deceased; her sister is missing; her only peer and childhood friend is across the Atlantic Ocean; and her best friend, Esther, is nothing like the free and unhindered protagonist. This disorder invites Hope to act irregularly in order to create stability; although she is surrounded by surrogate parents, she must provide inner strength and confidence for herself since her true emotional providers are absent, and by so doing, she is able to “ ‘flout’ plausible gender conventions” which stray outside the norm (Castiglia 110).
When placed within the larger context of captivity narratives, this historical captivity romance draws on the topic of captivity as how women and men operate within rigid ideals of any structured society. Captivity is not necessarily defined as physical confinement, and may therefore be used when stating that Hope and Sir Philip Gardiner are in captivity within the strict social conventions of Puritan society. Hope’s words, ideas, and actions are protested by her superiors because they are masculine in nature and do not “fit” typical feminine stereotypes; Gardiner’s actions, though condemned because of their outright immorality, are seen as feminine. Together, the positive masculine and negative feminine are instead positive and negative human traits; Sedgwick’s aim is to allow readers to experience both sides of the sexes and present humans rather than traditional, stereotypical men and women (Emerson). This becomes a common link in any captivity narrative where a woman is taken prisoner by a group larger than herself, whether it is being placed in physical captivity by the Narragansett or social captivity by her male brethren. In these situations, women come to stand as “complex models of democracy, adventure, mutuality, and sympathy” (Singley).
Sedgwick’s Hope Leslie carries an authoritative stance within the world of 17th century Massachusetts, and while the text displays various characters made of traditional Puritan values, Sedgwick makes a leap into the unconventional by inserting a female character who embodies positive masculine qualities, and a male character who exhibits negative feminine qualities. By providing textual references to character personality, revealing individual actions, and presenting clear dialogue to the reader, Sedgwick creates a discussion that challenges the traditional gender stereotypes of the hyper-courageous man and hyper-submissive woman. Hope Leslie provides a thoughtful discussion of gender constraints in both 17th century and modern-day America, and proposes an alternate view of how traditional gender stereotypes can and will be challenged by emerging exceptions to widely held beliefs.
Works Cited
Bell, Michael D. "History and Romance Convention in Catharine Sedgwick's "Hope Leslie"" American Quarterly 22.2 (1970): 213-21. JSTOR. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Castiglia, Christopher. "The Wilderness of Fiction: From Captivity Narrative to Captivity Romance." Bound and determined: captivity, culture-crossing, and white womanhood from Mary Rowlandson to Patty Hearst. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. 106-136. Print.
Emerson, Amanda. "History, memory, and the echoes of equivalence in Catharine Maria Sedgwick's Hope Leslie." Legacy: A Journal of American Women Writers 24.1 (2007). Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Fetterley, Judith. "'My Sister! My Sister!': The Rhetoric of Catherine Sedgwick's Hope Leslie." American Literature 70.3 (Sept. 1998): 491-516. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Garvey, T. Gregory. "Risking Reprisal: Catharine Sedgwick's Hope Leslie and the Legitimation of Public Action by Women." American Transcendental Quarterly 8.4 (Dec. 1994): 287-298. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Kalayjian, Patricia L. "Revisioning America's (Literary) Past: Sedgwick's "Hope Leslie"" NWSA Journal 8.3 (1996): 63-78. JSTOR. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Sedgwick, Catharine Maria. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts. New York: Penguin Books, 1998. Print.
Singley, Carol J. "Catharine Maria Sedgwick's Hope Leslie: Radical Frontier Romance." Desert, Garden, Margin, Range: Literature on the American Frontier. Ed. Eric Heyne. Twayne Publishers, 1992. 110-122. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
To begin, Hope Leslie is repeatedly referred to throughout the novel as being radically different from those “modern belle[s]” of the 17th century, allowing herself to act beyond the normal social constraints of Puritan society and pursue a freer and more adventurous behavior (Sedgwick 126). Her conduct, in return, is constantly called into question by her superiors; included in this group is Sir Philip Gardiner, who, though he is no superior in government, represents the masculine superiority which constantly hovers over Hope and the other women in the novel. The first instance in which the reader is intimately introduced to Hope is through her letter from herself to Everell Fletcher, who “presently [resides] in England” (Fetterley; Sedgwick 99). In her narration of the events at Bethel, Hope relates to Everell that her aunt Grafton expressed much displeasure with her intent to go hiking, saying that Hope’s venture into the wilderness was improper “for a young person, like me, to go out exploring a new country” (102). Dame Grafton’s disapproval of Hope’s intentions punctuate the uncommon desires of a young Puritan girl who is expected, if not required, to adhere to the strict Puritan moral code of remaining steadfastly “pious, modest, submissive, and invisible to the public eye” (Garvey). In Hope’s reply, she “urged, that our new country develops faculties that young ladies, in England, were unconscious of possessing” (Sedgwick 102). By providing this excuse for joining her male elders, Hope expresses her desire for education and knowledge of the world around her (Fetterley). In addition, her intention to venture into nature mirrors a desire to enter into a larger field of participation; by leaving the confines of her home, and then her own society, she is entering not only into a more public sphere, but a world sphere, while “yearning for social and natural unity” (Singley). Typically, men from this era are given freedom to explore and act upon these desires because they are thought to possess the skills to do so. However, Sedgwick invites the reader to consider the possibility that a woman, who is confined within a society that does not invite her to explore her surroundings, may do so, and furthermore, may enjoy doing it (Garvey). References to Hope’s social irregularity are further alluded to by Dame Grafton in her own letter to Everell when she says, “Hope, I am sorry to say, is as obstinate as ever” (Sedgwick 120). Hope’s obstinacy is rather a determination to break away from socially constructed stereotypes which have been imposed upon her by men. Governor Winthrop is equally adverse to Hope’s free spirit, asserting that she “hath not…that passiveness, that, next to godliness, [that] is a woman’s best virtue” under the dictations of Puritan culture (160). Hope, rather than submitting to the wishes of her superiors, “follows the dictates of her heart rather than the dictates of her elders” (Bell 221). Willful determination and stubbornness, often attributed to intelligent or ambitious men, is a rare sight in Dame Grafton’s mind, and in order to maintain the social norm, Grafton and Winthrop discourage this nature.
Other instances continually arise in which Hope’s behavior is shown as deviating from traditional feminine social norms. The traditional masculine qualities of courage and progressive thinking appear in Hope’s actions when they are alluded to by the omniscient narrator. Chief among these occasions are those wherein Hope is described as supportive of parties whose character is called into question. When Nelema is jailed as a witch for using herbal remedies on Cradock to cure him of a snake bite, Hope fervently “declare[s] her belief in Nelema’s innocence”, and is “inspired with a sudden resolution to set her free” when she spies the key the Nelema’s cell door lying conveniently nearby (Sedgwick 123-124). In professing her belief in Nelema’s innocence and simply considering the possibility of breaking her friend out of prison, Hope is in danger of being labeled a sympathizer; her virtue as a Puritan woman and trustworthiness as an individual would be brought into question by, first, the reader, and second, by the administers of justice should they discover her plot (Fetterley). However, her belief in true justice is defended to the reader by the sympathetic narrator: “Hope Leslie took counsel only from her own heart…the rights of innocence were paramount to all other rights” (Sedgwick 124). This thought is also linked with Hope’s forward-thinking personality, which is “superior to some of the prejudices of the day” (127). Without these social limits on her mind, Hope is further able to enjoy “the capacities of her nature, and [permit] her mind to expand beyond the contracted boundaries of sectarian faith” (128). Hope’s progressive way of thinking is characteristic of educated men of the 17th century, though there were few of the middle class who were privileged with such an advantage. Although most American gentlemen were not of the mindset that equality was meant for all people, men who had attended an institution of higher learning were more apt to consider the possibility of equality for all than those who had not entered a college or university. Through associating these masculine attributes with Hope, Sedgwick further invites her readers to consider that thoughts, typically associated with men, may also be found within the minds of women who see justice as belonging to the race of humans rather than the race of white men.
Another feature of Hope Leslie’s deviation from strict Puritan society lies in her overt actions, which are related to the reader through Hope’s words in her retelling of events, or through frank narration. Hope eagerly tells Everell in her letter that each member of the hiking party “reached the summit, without scathe to life or limb,” including Hope herself (103). This instance is an example in which Hope performs in a masculine way; she scales a mountain, which presents a highly un-feminine image. The action of climbing a mountain requires intense physical labor, endurance, and tremendous willpower; all three qualities function within a realm of traditional male physicality. Additionally, man’s conquering of a land structure usually parallels with his conquering of a female subject since the earth is predominantly referred to as “Mother Earth.” The image of Hope, a woman, instead presents a different view of mankind’s attempt to scale a mountain; she is representative of a daughter of the earth, endeavoring to become one with nature and the world around her.
Furthermore, the actions of freeing Nelema and Magawisca from jail provide Hope with the traditionally masculine trait of moral authority. Hope tells Magawisca, “I have come to release you,” and does so very craftily by disguising Cradock in a blanket and Magawisca in Cradock’s clothing, and then ushering Magawisca out very carefully so as to avoid the light of Barnaby’s lantern (326). Hope’s belief that Nelema and Magawisca are innocent and good stems from her deeply rooted belief that these women had genuinely done nothing wrong; since the male community has failed to see these captive women as innocent, Hope is forced to “intervene on behalf of the innocent” (Garvey). With this belief, Hope adopts a moral superiority over her male friends and social superiors who believe that they possess the ultimate moral superiority (Emerson). By doing this, Hope elevates herself to the level of Winthrop, William Fletcher, Cradock, Barnaby, and Sir Philip Gardiner, each one a male superior, and develops a stance of fearlessness along with moral dominance. Hope’s fearlessness is also addressed in her choice to risk her life even when she cannot anticipate impending dangers. After the meeting with Faith Leslie has been sabotaged by Sir Philip and his men, Hope is carried away by Oneco, and once they reach the shore of an island, Hope “forget[ting] her fear and danger in the sublimity of the storm…bound[s] away” into the night (Sedgwick 248-249). She is unaware of the impending danger that awaits her, but willing to brave whatever peril is presented to her, Hope willingly runs away. This action, although seemingly irrational, is the most rational thing Hope can do at that moment to avoid physical captivity, motivated by rational thought and affective feelings of fearlessness, she flees (Emerson). Her encounter with a group of malicious-minded sailors is her reward, but as she escapes from these men, she stumbles upon Antonio, the drunken sailor who thinks she is a saint. This new situation could also have ended poorly, but through quick thinking, Hope escapes detection of her actual persona. The quality of fearlessness is often common in brave male soldiers, strong fathers or brothers, or men who rank high in political office; however, it is not common among young Puritan women who, after being kidnapped, run blindly into a forest. The quality of fearlessness must also be accompanied by some degree of confidence in social ability and physical strength, for if the former fails in protecting the safety of one’s person, the latter must be implemented to avoid capture, injury, or death.
Finally, Hope’s words, whether written in epistle form or spoken aloud, serve to present the protagonist as an independent woman, capable of speaking for herself. Hope relates to Everell that she refused to be “plucked up and cast away” and insists “she [will] not go” to Boston (Sedgwick 118). Her defiance of William Fletcher, along with being unusually petulant, is also a vehicle through which her desire for personal independence is carried. During this period, independence is usually a freedom only given to men; since women possessed virtually no rights and were seen as property, they were treated as such and moved at the convenience of the man they were dependent upon (Fetterley). Michael Bell offers that though Hope is willful, the reader should see her as independently motivated instead of selfish (Bell 221). By denying Fletcher’s suggestions that she should be removed to Boston, Hope violates the traditional “boundaries of her place as a Puritan” woman, and openly admits that she wishes to own herself as an individual, and that her quest for individuality ultimately begins in frankly dictating that she has control over her own whereabouts (Garvey).
In contrast to Hope Leslie’s possession of positive masculine qualities, Sir Philip Gardiner’s possession of traditionally negative feminine qualities also begins with allusions provided by the omniscient narrator. In Gardiner’s first major description of his character, “he looked much like a dainty Quaker”; in this sentence, focus is centered on the verb “looked” (Sedgwick 129). Throughout the second half of the novel, Gardiner’s appearance is repeatedly called into question by the narrator and other characters in the story. Jennet calls him a “godly appearing man”; the narrator mentions that “he [has] nothing of the puritan but the outside” and that “he [plays] the gallant magician with two faces” (146, 175, 275). These references are intermittently dispersed to remind the reader that Gardiner is not what he seems to be, and is in fact something else entirely. The quality of being “two-faced” is predominantly associated with women, who have been portrayed as gossips, back-stabbers, and manipulators both historically and in literature (Kalayjian 64). This notion could come from the fact that, because women were not permitted to fully enter the public sphere until the middle of the 20th century, their time was occupied by activities such as quilting bees and luncheons where conversation would inevitably return to the people who participated in such events.
Additionally, Gardiner is portrayed as rash and irresponsible. While in court, Gardiner realizes that his “fool-hardiness, which he had rushed unnecessarily and unwittingly” has exposed him to public scrutiny (Sedgwick 300); he becomes “entangled in the meshes of his own weaving” through constantly lying about the particulars concerning his observance of the meeting between Hope Leslie and Magawisca (333). His plot to capture Hope Leslie is fueled by lust, vengeance, and greed, qualities which are commonly associated with older, irresponsible femme fatales who court and wed men for their money. These women are also portrayed as fickle, and usually betray their acquaintances due to some minor disagreement (Kalayjian 68). The same can easily be said for the rakish Gardiner, who abandons faithful Rosa to pursue Hope, and only returns to use Rosa’s complete trust in him to his own advantage.
Furthermore, Gardiner’s deliberate actions reflect dishonest and manipulative intentions. He follows Hope “at a prudent distance” when she ventures to meet with Magawisca and then “[enlists] against Magawisca…merely to advance his own private interests” (Sedgwick 259, 300). Though Gardiner’s actions are stated less frankly than descriptions of his character, his intentions are listed blatantly throughout the text, and his motive to undermine the court of Boston and the Fletcher and Winthrop families is clearly represented in “his bad mind” (312). His plot to capture the fleeing Magawisca and helpful Hope is even more disturbing when he plans on kidnapping Hope, forcing her to comply with his demands of marriage. Manipulation, a common negative action associated with ambitious, male-dependent women, is clearly a weakness of Gardiner, who desperately attempts to force his own advantageous means through manipulation of circumstances and people (Kalayjian 65).
Finally, Gardiner’s dialogue reflects a scheming personality that places blame on other individuals for his personal moral crimes. Before Gardiner meets Hope and Esther, he says that “women have cunning devices” with to change their appearance (Sedgwick 134). Ironically, Gardiner has, in fact, changed his own appearance to cunningly deceived members of the Boston government and the governor’s household. The very same actions which Gardiner seems to condemn and question are the same he uses to fool those around him; they therefore present him as a hypocrite, whose opinion is now invalid to the reader (Emerson). Later, as he drags the woman who he thinks is Hope into the recesses of the ship, he says to her, “Do not struggle thus…you have driven me to this violence. You must forgive the madness you have caused” (Sedgwick 341). Despite the fact that the woman being led away is Jennet, Gardiner’s message to her is clear: he marks the woman in his arms as the cause of his misery. In actuality, his misery has been caused by himself and his wretched actions against others. Labeling another individual as a scapegoat is highly popular among women who have fallen from grace, either socially or economically, and their misfortunes are placed (by them) on the person whom they have either depended or continually despised (Kalayjian 64). Gardiner’s situation runs parallel to that of the fallen, irresponsible woman, and eventually ends in Jennet’s, Rosa’s, and his own death.
The unusual predicaments surrounding Hope Leslie and her sister may provide a reason for breaking free of gender stereotypes, and why Sir Philip Gardiner has the motivation to commit acts of intrigue. Christopher Castiglia discusses the possibility that an “eccentric” story may pose the option to its female characters to act outside the normal gender constraints of their time (110). Hope Leslie belongs to a disordered family unit: her mother and father are deceased; her sister is missing; her only peer and childhood friend is across the Atlantic Ocean; and her best friend, Esther, is nothing like the free and unhindered protagonist. This disorder invites Hope to act irregularly in order to create stability; although she is surrounded by surrogate parents, she must provide inner strength and confidence for herself since her true emotional providers are absent, and by so doing, she is able to “ ‘flout’ plausible gender conventions” which stray outside the norm (Castiglia 110).
When placed within the larger context of captivity narratives, this historical captivity romance draws on the topic of captivity as how women and men operate within rigid ideals of any structured society. Captivity is not necessarily defined as physical confinement, and may therefore be used when stating that Hope and Sir Philip Gardiner are in captivity within the strict social conventions of Puritan society. Hope’s words, ideas, and actions are protested by her superiors because they are masculine in nature and do not “fit” typical feminine stereotypes; Gardiner’s actions, though condemned because of their outright immorality, are seen as feminine. Together, the positive masculine and negative feminine are instead positive and negative human traits; Sedgwick’s aim is to allow readers to experience both sides of the sexes and present humans rather than traditional, stereotypical men and women (Emerson). This becomes a common link in any captivity narrative where a woman is taken prisoner by a group larger than herself, whether it is being placed in physical captivity by the Narragansett or social captivity by her male brethren. In these situations, women come to stand as “complex models of democracy, adventure, mutuality, and sympathy” (Singley).
Sedgwick’s Hope Leslie carries an authoritative stance within the world of 17th century Massachusetts, and while the text displays various characters made of traditional Puritan values, Sedgwick makes a leap into the unconventional by inserting a female character who embodies positive masculine qualities, and a male character who exhibits negative feminine qualities. By providing textual references to character personality, revealing individual actions, and presenting clear dialogue to the reader, Sedgwick creates a discussion that challenges the traditional gender stereotypes of the hyper-courageous man and hyper-submissive woman. Hope Leslie provides a thoughtful discussion of gender constraints in both 17th century and modern-day America, and proposes an alternate view of how traditional gender stereotypes can and will be challenged by emerging exceptions to widely held beliefs.
Works Cited
Bell, Michael D. "History and Romance Convention in Catharine Sedgwick's "Hope Leslie"" American Quarterly 22.2 (1970): 213-21. JSTOR. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Castiglia, Christopher. "The Wilderness of Fiction: From Captivity Narrative to Captivity Romance." Bound and determined: captivity, culture-crossing, and white womanhood from Mary Rowlandson to Patty Hearst. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. 106-136. Print.
Emerson, Amanda. "History, memory, and the echoes of equivalence in Catharine Maria Sedgwick's Hope Leslie." Legacy: A Journal of American Women Writers 24.1 (2007). Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Fetterley, Judith. "'My Sister! My Sister!': The Rhetoric of Catherine Sedgwick's Hope Leslie." American Literature 70.3 (Sept. 1998): 491-516. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Garvey, T. Gregory. "Risking Reprisal: Catharine Sedgwick's Hope Leslie and the Legitimation of Public Action by Women." American Transcendental Quarterly 8.4 (Dec. 1994): 287-298. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Kalayjian, Patricia L. "Revisioning America's (Literary) Past: Sedgwick's "Hope Leslie"" NWSA Journal 8.3 (1996): 63-78. JSTOR. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
Sedgwick, Catharine Maria. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts. New York: Penguin Books, 1998. Print.
Singley, Carol J. "Catharine Maria Sedgwick's Hope Leslie: Radical Frontier Romance." Desert, Garden, Margin, Range: Literature on the American Frontier. Ed. Eric Heyne. Twayne Publishers, 1992. 110-122. Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Juliet Byington and Thomas J. Schoenberg. Vol. 98. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Mar. 2011.
17 April 2011
Bookmark
A few years ago, I ordered some items from the Globe in London, and the envelope had a really cool postmark on it. I had cut it out and used it as a bookmark for a long time until this past summer when it disappeared. I figured it was time for a new one, so I made one myself.
The idea came after studying creation myths in my American Literature class. In the last three panels at the top, the figures switch roles and each is representative of the next step in the process of escaping confinement.
The idea came after studying creation myths in my American Literature class. In the last three panels at the top, the figures switch roles and each is representative of the next step in the process of escaping confinement.
09 April 2011
UCF Conservatory Theatre Review: 'Into the Woods'
The energy is high, the voices are bright, and the stories are as memorable as where they originate from. UCF’s Spring production of Stephen Sondheim’s “Into the Woods” brings together some of the most beloved Grimm’s fairy tales (“Cinderella”, “Rapunzel”, “Red Riding Hood”) along with other well-known children’s stories (“Jack and the Beanstalk” and a twist on “Thumbelina”) to create a story of love and hardship that ultimately addresses morality and questions of responsibility.
The play opens with a hearty “Once upon a time!” from the Narrator (Trevin Cooper) who stands as a living footnote throughout the performance. He narrates the story of Jack (Benjamin Smith), Cinderella (Lauren Butler), Little Red Riding Hood (Julie Frost), and the Baker (Josh Wise) and his Wife (Kelly Kilgore): Jack and his mother are poor and need to sell their cow, Milky White; Cinderella is abused by her step-mother (Veronica Horta) and step-sisters, Lucinda (Rebecca Galarza) and Florinda (Lindsay Clemmons), and longs to go to the ball; Red Riding Hood is on a journey to see her grandmother (Rachel Schimenti); the Baker and his Wife are childless and long for a baby to enter their lives. Each character is in the process of at least attempting to complete their own missions, when the Witch (Vicky DiSanto) interrupts the first song to explain the reason why the Baker has no children; she placed a curse upon his father and mother after his father stole the Witch’s beans and vowed that his family tree “would always be a barren one.” She tells him that in order to remove the curse they must attain a cow as white as milk, a cape as red as blood, a slipper as pure as gold, and hair as yellow as corn. Thus begins each character’s journey into the woods: Jack to sell Milky White; Cinderella to see her mother (Danielle Barnes); Little Red to see her grandmother; and the Baker and his Wife to find their objects. A chase ensues between the couple and each of the other travelers. As the chaos ensues, Jack sells Milky White for five “magic” beans; Little Red is led astray by the Wolf (Joshian Morales) and eaten along with her grandmother, only to be saved by the Baker; Cinderella is being chased by her prince (David Paul Kidder); and the Baker and his Wife only possess two of the four things they require. While all this is happening, Jack has felled a giant in his backyard; he has stolen a harp and a hen that lays golden eggs. Eventually the Baker and his Wife acquire their items and give them to the witch. She mixes them together (with the help of Milky White), and drinks the brew. The result is regaining her former beauty, but losing her powers. Milky White is given back to Jack; Cinderella is found by her prince and married to him; and Little Red now possesses a new, fur cape instead of her old red one. The Baker and His wife are assumed to be expecting a child soon; all seems to be going according to plan at the end of the first act, but as the second act approaches, we see that not every character is happy with the situations they find themselves in. Cinderella must face a cheating husband; the Baker and his Wife and their child need a larger home; and Jack is running from the Wife of the angry giant (Kristin Shoffner).
There are almost too many characters to keep up with, but when you stop and take a moment (which is rarely given to catch one’s breath) and think about the story, it’s not all that convoluted. The beauty of Sondheim’s musical is that each character’s story is interrelated, and there are no gaps of information. It also represents the message that director Kate Ingram is trying to get across: that each human being is connected through the human condition and our dependence on nature. She explains in her director’s note that the woods are where humans find themselves, and if our forests are depleted by “a sense of greed and entitlement,” humans will lose connection with one another as well as with the earth.
Ingram’s vision is equally represented in the set design by Vandy Wood, which consists of a solid foundation and airy-like draperies made of thin and transparent fabric. The entire production possesses an organic quality; scenes are easily transitioned between with the use of portable frames with the fabric attached (these are carried by puppeteers). The lighting, designed by Bert Scott, provides appropriate atmospheres for each scene, whether it requires an eerie, mystical, or peaceful ambiance. The orchestra is almost visible behind the scrim at the rear of the stage, but is not distracting in the least, and the costumes are unique for each character; though the only flaw mentionable would be their striking resemblance to the clothing worn in most of Disney’s fairy tale-based movies. If an organic theme is going to be carried through the show, its costumes styles should complement and not compete with the separate style of the set.
Particularly enjoyable numbers were the “Opening,” ; it grabs the attention of the audience from the first robust word, courtesy of Cooper. “Our Little World,” though wordless, includes harmonies between Noelle Sundrene Adderton (who plays Rapunzel) and DiSanto ; these are captivating, and it’s a shame that Rapunzel does not appear more heartily in the within the musical numbers. “Agony” and “Agony Reprise” are pleasant releases from watching the breathless confusion of the other characters. These numbers, and their artists, Kidder and Mickey Bahr (who plays Rapunzel’s Prince) have perfect comedic timing, and portray the princes as the plastic, haughty, and clueless men they are. (In addition to their vocal abilities, Kidder and Bahr’s physicality is humorous, as they add extra hops, leaps, and bounds to their gaits.) “No One Is Alone” brings tears to the eyes as two sets of characters console each other before slaying Shoffner’s Giant. “Moments In the Woods” stands as Kilgore’s only true solo number, and is absolutely beautiful. Her voice is fit for the music, and her portrayal of the Baker’s Wife brings sympathy and humor to the role. The only number that stood alone as a less than stellar was “Hello Little Girl”; however, it was not because of Morale’s voice. On the contrary, his voice was suited well for the role and his physicality was…appropriate for a lascivious wolf preying on a little girl. His mask was the real issue, for it muffled his voice and made him sound out of breath.
Many other aspects of the show draw the audience in further and further “into the woods” with the cast. The use of shadow puppetry in the Little Red rescue scene enhances the story and introduces another aspect of childhood into the show. The interactions between Little Red and other characters are bold and entertaining; there are numerous bits in the show that provide plenty of comic relief. Galarza’s Lucinda is comical with her nearly-insane reactions to Cinderella. Smith plays an endearing and loveable Jack, who begs audience sympathy even though his character is as dull-witted as his cow.
Overall, UCF Conservatory Theatre’s production of “Into the Woods” presents a children’s story for adults that addresses issues of responsibility, right, and wrong, while keeping the simplicity of the original stories. A must-see, “Into the Woods” is a memorable trip into the hearts of Sondheim’s characters; each of them possess love, compassion, anger, fear, and hope, feelings with which each audience member can identify and be connected by.
The play opens with a hearty “Once upon a time!” from the Narrator (Trevin Cooper) who stands as a living footnote throughout the performance. He narrates the story of Jack (Benjamin Smith), Cinderella (Lauren Butler), Little Red Riding Hood (Julie Frost), and the Baker (Josh Wise) and his Wife (Kelly Kilgore): Jack and his mother are poor and need to sell their cow, Milky White; Cinderella is abused by her step-mother (Veronica Horta) and step-sisters, Lucinda (Rebecca Galarza) and Florinda (Lindsay Clemmons), and longs to go to the ball; Red Riding Hood is on a journey to see her grandmother (Rachel Schimenti); the Baker and his Wife are childless and long for a baby to enter their lives. Each character is in the process of at least attempting to complete their own missions, when the Witch (Vicky DiSanto) interrupts the first song to explain the reason why the Baker has no children; she placed a curse upon his father and mother after his father stole the Witch’s beans and vowed that his family tree “would always be a barren one.” She tells him that in order to remove the curse they must attain a cow as white as milk, a cape as red as blood, a slipper as pure as gold, and hair as yellow as corn. Thus begins each character’s journey into the woods: Jack to sell Milky White; Cinderella to see her mother (Danielle Barnes); Little Red to see her grandmother; and the Baker and his Wife to find their objects. A chase ensues between the couple and each of the other travelers. As the chaos ensues, Jack sells Milky White for five “magic” beans; Little Red is led astray by the Wolf (Joshian Morales) and eaten along with her grandmother, only to be saved by the Baker; Cinderella is being chased by her prince (David Paul Kidder); and the Baker and his Wife only possess two of the four things they require. While all this is happening, Jack has felled a giant in his backyard; he has stolen a harp and a hen that lays golden eggs. Eventually the Baker and his Wife acquire their items and give them to the witch. She mixes them together (with the help of Milky White), and drinks the brew. The result is regaining her former beauty, but losing her powers. Milky White is given back to Jack; Cinderella is found by her prince and married to him; and Little Red now possesses a new, fur cape instead of her old red one. The Baker and His wife are assumed to be expecting a child soon; all seems to be going according to plan at the end of the first act, but as the second act approaches, we see that not every character is happy with the situations they find themselves in. Cinderella must face a cheating husband; the Baker and his Wife and their child need a larger home; and Jack is running from the Wife of the angry giant (Kristin Shoffner).
There are almost too many characters to keep up with, but when you stop and take a moment (which is rarely given to catch one’s breath) and think about the story, it’s not all that convoluted. The beauty of Sondheim’s musical is that each character’s story is interrelated, and there are no gaps of information. It also represents the message that director Kate Ingram is trying to get across: that each human being is connected through the human condition and our dependence on nature. She explains in her director’s note that the woods are where humans find themselves, and if our forests are depleted by “a sense of greed and entitlement,” humans will lose connection with one another as well as with the earth.
Ingram’s vision is equally represented in the set design by Vandy Wood, which consists of a solid foundation and airy-like draperies made of thin and transparent fabric. The entire production possesses an organic quality; scenes are easily transitioned between with the use of portable frames with the fabric attached (these are carried by puppeteers). The lighting, designed by Bert Scott, provides appropriate atmospheres for each scene, whether it requires an eerie, mystical, or peaceful ambiance. The orchestra is almost visible behind the scrim at the rear of the stage, but is not distracting in the least, and the costumes are unique for each character; though the only flaw mentionable would be their striking resemblance to the clothing worn in most of Disney’s fairy tale-based movies. If an organic theme is going to be carried through the show, its costumes styles should complement and not compete with the separate style of the set.
Particularly enjoyable numbers were the “Opening,” ; it grabs the attention of the audience from the first robust word, courtesy of Cooper. “Our Little World,” though wordless, includes harmonies between Noelle Sundrene Adderton (who plays Rapunzel) and DiSanto ; these are captivating, and it’s a shame that Rapunzel does not appear more heartily in the within the musical numbers. “Agony” and “Agony Reprise” are pleasant releases from watching the breathless confusion of the other characters. These numbers, and their artists, Kidder and Mickey Bahr (who plays Rapunzel’s Prince) have perfect comedic timing, and portray the princes as the plastic, haughty, and clueless men they are. (In addition to their vocal abilities, Kidder and Bahr’s physicality is humorous, as they add extra hops, leaps, and bounds to their gaits.) “No One Is Alone” brings tears to the eyes as two sets of characters console each other before slaying Shoffner’s Giant. “Moments In the Woods” stands as Kilgore’s only true solo number, and is absolutely beautiful. Her voice is fit for the music, and her portrayal of the Baker’s Wife brings sympathy and humor to the role. The only number that stood alone as a less than stellar was “Hello Little Girl”; however, it was not because of Morale’s voice. On the contrary, his voice was suited well for the role and his physicality was…appropriate for a lascivious wolf preying on a little girl. His mask was the real issue, for it muffled his voice and made him sound out of breath.
Many other aspects of the show draw the audience in further and further “into the woods” with the cast. The use of shadow puppetry in the Little Red rescue scene enhances the story and introduces another aspect of childhood into the show. The interactions between Little Red and other characters are bold and entertaining; there are numerous bits in the show that provide plenty of comic relief. Galarza’s Lucinda is comical with her nearly-insane reactions to Cinderella. Smith plays an endearing and loveable Jack, who begs audience sympathy even though his character is as dull-witted as his cow.
Overall, UCF Conservatory Theatre’s production of “Into the Woods” presents a children’s story for adults that addresses issues of responsibility, right, and wrong, while keeping the simplicity of the original stories. A must-see, “Into the Woods” is a memorable trip into the hearts of Sondheim’s characters; each of them possess love, compassion, anger, fear, and hope, feelings with which each audience member can identify and be connected by.
06 April 2011
Animosity, Abuse, and Ambition: Dysfunctional Family Relationships in As I Lay Dying
In William Faulkner’s epic novel, As I Lay Dying, the author presents a highly dysfunctional family whose members exhibit violent and self-centered personalities rooted in jealousy and greed. The Bundren family’s mission to bury their dead mother ultimately turns into a showcase of fraternal rivalry accompanied by mental instability and struggles with abuse. Each member of the Bundren family holds some ill will towards another member of the tribe, and because of this resentment, the family is eventually broken apart. Throughout the novel, the Bundren clan individually expresses their personal attitudes through multiple brief monologues, in which each character highlights various episodes of familial opposition, individual acts of violence, and selfish ulterior motives to travel to Jefferson where the family must bury Addie, their dead matriarch.
First, family conflict is seen most predominantly in relationships where Jewel is involved. His speech beginning on page fourteen is this character’s sole emotional declaration, pure of any outside influence, even from Darl, who seems to have an uncanny knowledge of present events and personal secrets (Lowe). The attitudes Jewel expresses toward his siblings and father in this section illuminate his frustration and anger towards his family; though short and angrily monotonous, this speech solidifies the tone of Jewel’s relationships between himself and his father, mother, and siblings. Jewel expresses his annoyance at Cash for constantly sawing away at Addie’s unfinished coffin, an act Jewel perceives as Cash attempting to overtake Jewel in family dominance (Lowe). He satirizes this attempt by referring to Cash’s childhood when Cash brought Addie a “bread pan […] full of dung” to grow flowers in; Jewel uses “dung” as a metaphor for a disgusting gift, which is how Jewel sees the coffin (Faulkner 14; Lowe). Jewel continues on to express his disdain at Dewey Dell’s constant fanning of Addie, suggesting “if you’d just let her alone” (Faulkner 15). Dewey Dell, however, is abandoned for more worthy adversaries: Cash and Anse. Jewel fantasizes about situations in which he would have been the only onlooker, such as when Cash “fell off that church” and when “pa laid sick with that load of wood fell on him” (Faulkner 15). “If it had just been” Jewel, he would have possessed power over those who had oppressed him: his eldest brother competing for his mother’s affection, and his father who overpowers him automatically in the family hierarchy (Faulkner 15; Delville).
Next, Addie’s central role in the family is made clear by her posthumous monologue in which she outlines her relationship with Anse and her children. Addie repeatedly expresses her hate towards Anse for “trick[ing]” her, saying she “believed that [she] would kill Anse” (Faulkner 172). She even goes so far as to say that she “gave Anse the children. I did not ask for them” (Faulkner 174). This statement immediately labels Addie as a woman who, tied into a loveless marriage, reluctantly bears four children against her own wishes: first Cash and Darl, then Dewey Dell and Vardaman. The births of her first two sons may account for the illicit affair with Whitfield: to escape her dispassionate union. Nevertheless, while attempting to rid herself of her connection with her legal family, she finds herself pregnant with a child, the one who will save her “from the water and from the fire” (Faulkner 168). Addie’s rebellion and defiance for tradition is transferred into Jewel, and recognizing herself in him, she has found a soul to whom she can attach, even after death (Hayes). Darl, who comments on page seventeen that Jewel “is a head taller than any of the rest of us,” recognizes Jewel’s distinction and sees through the guise that Addie and perhaps Jewel have attempted to establish (Faulkner 17). This is the basis on which Darl mentally tortures his step-brother; Darl perceives a flaw in a member of the family who is competing for household dominance. Therefore, he attempts through mental manipulation to oust Jewel from his place within the family by using his illegitimacy against him (Bockting 126).
Furthermore, the tension exhibited between Darl and Jewel is profound. Blatant hostility is seen throughout the text from both sides; however, each party uses different tactics to antagonize the other. Beginning on page seventeen, the reader catches a first glimpse of Jewel’s aggressive strategies to silence his brother: “Shut up, Darl” (Faulkner 17). Since Darl had not previously shown any animosity toward Jewel in direct physical or verbal form, the reader can safely assume that Jewel has harbored resentment against Darl, but a specific reason is left unaddressed this early in the novel. It is not until much later that the reason for this brewing animosity is discovered: the events which determine Jewel’s birth. The negativity between the two brothers continues when Jewel tells Darl to “shut [his] goddamn mouth” (Faulkner 18). Finally, following Darl’s cruel jabs at Jewel’s legitimacy, Jewel responds with “you goddamn lying son of a bitch” (Faulkner 213). In contrast, Darl adopts a passive aggressive approach; knowing of Jewel and Addie’s relationship, Darl harasses Jewel by telling him three times, beginning on page forty, that “Addie Bundren is going to die.” As previously noted, near the end of the novel after Jewel’s illegitimacy has been established, Darl indirectly confronts Jewel about his parentage, slyly suggesting that he knows of Addie’s affair with Whitfield. Twice in conversation he asks Jewel in some form the identity of his father, knowing that this kind of taunting will anger Jewel and eventually emotionally deteriorate him (Faulkner 212-213).
Secondly, the violence and abuse demonstrated by each character only adds to the family’s mental dysfunction, proving that the only way to achieve mental satisfaction is through the torture of another individual. Addie confesses that she would “look forward to the times when [the students] faulted, so [she] could whip them” (Faulkner 170). When comparing her aggressive nature to that of Jewel’s, it is clear that Jewel is the male equivalent of Addie (Hayes). Additionally, Dewey Dell shows her own violent streak on page 121, picturing a fantasy where she kills Darl. This is followed by her attack on Darl in Jefferson where she “jumped on him like a wild cat” after he resisted detainment (Faulkner 237). Both of these startling episodes seem oddly placed, especially next to a seventeen year old, newly-pregnant female. However, these acts of violence stem from Darl’s knowledge of Dewey Dell’s pregnancy; through Darl’s knowledge of her secret, Dewey Dell is in danger of being revealed. Darl knows of the unspoken hold he has over Dewey Dell and twists the unfortunate predicament around on her, saying, “You want her to die so you can get to town: is that it?” (Faulkner 40). Darl’s abuse takes on a mental and verbal manifestation rather than a physical form. He collects information that he knows will be vital in manipulating and torturing his siblings while preying on their most private obsessions: Jewel’s illegitimacy and Dewey Dell’s pregnancy (Bockting 126).
Curiously, the violence is not limited to the human family; it is extended to the livestock, which are a part of the Bundren farm. There are three instances in the novel where an animal has been made to suffer for the grief of a member of the Bundren clan. First, following Jewel’s ride on his horse, the man and the beast retreat into the barn where, after the horse kicks at Jewel, Jewel “kicks him in the stomach” and “strikes him across the face with his fist” (Faulkner 13). Second, after Addie’s death, Vardaman escapes into the barn and begins whipping the horses with a switch, hearing the “stick striking […] hitting their heads” (Faulkner 54). Third, Anse unleashes his anger on the horse in the barn, striking it “upon the face with the back of the curry-comb” (Faulkner 183). The horse, as a symbol of male strength and vitality, is used to represent multiple male figures. The abuse of a horse is symbolic for the rage felt towards another male member of novel. Jewel’s rage stems from loathing Darl; Vardaman’s anguish branches from his misinterpretation of Peabody’s presence, seeing Peabody as Addie’s murderer; Anse’s anger stems from his frustration with himself, who cannot uphold his family’s dignity and his own pride because of his own stubbornness and stupidity. The Bundren family has no healthy way of dealing with their all-consuming rage, save for Cash, who never once lifts a hand to human nor horse.
Finally, the pilgrimage to Jefferson is not only a mission to bury Addie with her birth family, but a mission for the rest of the Bundren clan to gain what they most desire. Selfish reasons of all but two members of the family are clearly expressed in various sections of the novel. Repeatedly, Anse has told himself and others that he gave her his “promise” to bury her with her family (Faulkner 115). What he fails to mention to others is that he has planned ahead of time to purchase a new set of teeth while in the city, and ultimately, find a new wife to replace his deceased one. Vardaman, however innocent he is, still possesses a desire for an item that has nothing to do with his mother’s death. He fantasizes about eating “bananas” and seeing a train behind the glass of a store in Jefferson (Faulkner 66). Furthermore, Cash’s reason for traveling to Jefferson is not strictly reserved for a burial ceremony; his conscience is marked with the motivation to purchase a gramophone. Additionally, Dewey Dell’s reason for accompanying her family is more vital than those of her male siblings’. Her desperation for an abortion easily overshadows her mother’s death which is reflected on page 120 when she casually says, “I heard that my mother is dead”.
Collectively, the father, the oldest son, the youngest son, and the sole female have their own personal selfish reasons for venturing to Jefferson. Anse can finally “get them teeth”; Vardaman can get the train “behind the glass, red on the track”; Cash will be able to buy “that talking machine from Suratt”; and Dewey Dell can “get something at the drug store” for her intended abortion (Faulkner 52, 65, 190, 202). These selfish reasons beg the reader to ask, What family would place convenience to themselves over the burial of their dead mother? The answer is obvious: a dysfunctional group of emotionally stained individuals whose hearts have been damaged by jealousy and lives tainted by greed.
Throughout the novel, Faulkner’s characters display a wide range of emotions, all stemming from deep within their psyches which have been marred by dishonesty, familial corruption, and mental abuse. The dysfunctional Bundrens, led by a self-centered oaf and comprised of vain siblings, fall among the worst kind of family: one whose deceitful, manipulative, and cruel qualities know no bounds. It is made clear that the Bundren clan is nothing more than a group of survivalists who will stop at nothing to obtain what they desire, even if the journey to attainment is rife with fraternal contention, verbal and psychological cruelty, and dishonesty in the face of a parent’s death.
Works Cited:
Bockting, Ineke. "3 - Multiple Voices in As I Lay Dying." Character and Personality in the Novels of William Faulkner: a Study in Psychostylistics. Lanham, Maryland: University Press of America, 1995. 122-26. Print.
Delville, Michel. "Alienating Language and Darl's Narrative Consciousness in Faulkner's As I Lay Dying." The Southern Literary Journal 27.1 (1994). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
Faulkner, William. As I Lay Dying. Vintage International ed. New York: Vintage, 1985. Print.
Hayes, Elizabeth. "Tension between Darl and Jewel." The Southern Literary Journal 24.2 (1992). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
Lowe, John. "The Fraternal Fury of the Faulkners and the Bundrens." Mississippi Quarterly. 54.4 (2001). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
First, family conflict is seen most predominantly in relationships where Jewel is involved. His speech beginning on page fourteen is this character’s sole emotional declaration, pure of any outside influence, even from Darl, who seems to have an uncanny knowledge of present events and personal secrets (Lowe). The attitudes Jewel expresses toward his siblings and father in this section illuminate his frustration and anger towards his family; though short and angrily monotonous, this speech solidifies the tone of Jewel’s relationships between himself and his father, mother, and siblings. Jewel expresses his annoyance at Cash for constantly sawing away at Addie’s unfinished coffin, an act Jewel perceives as Cash attempting to overtake Jewel in family dominance (Lowe). He satirizes this attempt by referring to Cash’s childhood when Cash brought Addie a “bread pan […] full of dung” to grow flowers in; Jewel uses “dung” as a metaphor for a disgusting gift, which is how Jewel sees the coffin (Faulkner 14; Lowe). Jewel continues on to express his disdain at Dewey Dell’s constant fanning of Addie, suggesting “if you’d just let her alone” (Faulkner 15). Dewey Dell, however, is abandoned for more worthy adversaries: Cash and Anse. Jewel fantasizes about situations in which he would have been the only onlooker, such as when Cash “fell off that church” and when “pa laid sick with that load of wood fell on him” (Faulkner 15). “If it had just been” Jewel, he would have possessed power over those who had oppressed him: his eldest brother competing for his mother’s affection, and his father who overpowers him automatically in the family hierarchy (Faulkner 15; Delville).
Next, Addie’s central role in the family is made clear by her posthumous monologue in which she outlines her relationship with Anse and her children. Addie repeatedly expresses her hate towards Anse for “trick[ing]” her, saying she “believed that [she] would kill Anse” (Faulkner 172). She even goes so far as to say that she “gave Anse the children. I did not ask for them” (Faulkner 174). This statement immediately labels Addie as a woman who, tied into a loveless marriage, reluctantly bears four children against her own wishes: first Cash and Darl, then Dewey Dell and Vardaman. The births of her first two sons may account for the illicit affair with Whitfield: to escape her dispassionate union. Nevertheless, while attempting to rid herself of her connection with her legal family, she finds herself pregnant with a child, the one who will save her “from the water and from the fire” (Faulkner 168). Addie’s rebellion and defiance for tradition is transferred into Jewel, and recognizing herself in him, she has found a soul to whom she can attach, even after death (Hayes). Darl, who comments on page seventeen that Jewel “is a head taller than any of the rest of us,” recognizes Jewel’s distinction and sees through the guise that Addie and perhaps Jewel have attempted to establish (Faulkner 17). This is the basis on which Darl mentally tortures his step-brother; Darl perceives a flaw in a member of the family who is competing for household dominance. Therefore, he attempts through mental manipulation to oust Jewel from his place within the family by using his illegitimacy against him (Bockting 126).
Furthermore, the tension exhibited between Darl and Jewel is profound. Blatant hostility is seen throughout the text from both sides; however, each party uses different tactics to antagonize the other. Beginning on page seventeen, the reader catches a first glimpse of Jewel’s aggressive strategies to silence his brother: “Shut up, Darl” (Faulkner 17). Since Darl had not previously shown any animosity toward Jewel in direct physical or verbal form, the reader can safely assume that Jewel has harbored resentment against Darl, but a specific reason is left unaddressed this early in the novel. It is not until much later that the reason for this brewing animosity is discovered: the events which determine Jewel’s birth. The negativity between the two brothers continues when Jewel tells Darl to “shut [his] goddamn mouth” (Faulkner 18). Finally, following Darl’s cruel jabs at Jewel’s legitimacy, Jewel responds with “you goddamn lying son of a bitch” (Faulkner 213). In contrast, Darl adopts a passive aggressive approach; knowing of Jewel and Addie’s relationship, Darl harasses Jewel by telling him three times, beginning on page forty, that “Addie Bundren is going to die.” As previously noted, near the end of the novel after Jewel’s illegitimacy has been established, Darl indirectly confronts Jewel about his parentage, slyly suggesting that he knows of Addie’s affair with Whitfield. Twice in conversation he asks Jewel in some form the identity of his father, knowing that this kind of taunting will anger Jewel and eventually emotionally deteriorate him (Faulkner 212-213).
Secondly, the violence and abuse demonstrated by each character only adds to the family’s mental dysfunction, proving that the only way to achieve mental satisfaction is through the torture of another individual. Addie confesses that she would “look forward to the times when [the students] faulted, so [she] could whip them” (Faulkner 170). When comparing her aggressive nature to that of Jewel’s, it is clear that Jewel is the male equivalent of Addie (Hayes). Additionally, Dewey Dell shows her own violent streak on page 121, picturing a fantasy where she kills Darl. This is followed by her attack on Darl in Jefferson where she “jumped on him like a wild cat” after he resisted detainment (Faulkner 237). Both of these startling episodes seem oddly placed, especially next to a seventeen year old, newly-pregnant female. However, these acts of violence stem from Darl’s knowledge of Dewey Dell’s pregnancy; through Darl’s knowledge of her secret, Dewey Dell is in danger of being revealed. Darl knows of the unspoken hold he has over Dewey Dell and twists the unfortunate predicament around on her, saying, “You want her to die so you can get to town: is that it?” (Faulkner 40). Darl’s abuse takes on a mental and verbal manifestation rather than a physical form. He collects information that he knows will be vital in manipulating and torturing his siblings while preying on their most private obsessions: Jewel’s illegitimacy and Dewey Dell’s pregnancy (Bockting 126).
Curiously, the violence is not limited to the human family; it is extended to the livestock, which are a part of the Bundren farm. There are three instances in the novel where an animal has been made to suffer for the grief of a member of the Bundren clan. First, following Jewel’s ride on his horse, the man and the beast retreat into the barn where, after the horse kicks at Jewel, Jewel “kicks him in the stomach” and “strikes him across the face with his fist” (Faulkner 13). Second, after Addie’s death, Vardaman escapes into the barn and begins whipping the horses with a switch, hearing the “stick striking […] hitting their heads” (Faulkner 54). Third, Anse unleashes his anger on the horse in the barn, striking it “upon the face with the back of the curry-comb” (Faulkner 183). The horse, as a symbol of male strength and vitality, is used to represent multiple male figures. The abuse of a horse is symbolic for the rage felt towards another male member of novel. Jewel’s rage stems from loathing Darl; Vardaman’s anguish branches from his misinterpretation of Peabody’s presence, seeing Peabody as Addie’s murderer; Anse’s anger stems from his frustration with himself, who cannot uphold his family’s dignity and his own pride because of his own stubbornness and stupidity. The Bundren family has no healthy way of dealing with their all-consuming rage, save for Cash, who never once lifts a hand to human nor horse.
Finally, the pilgrimage to Jefferson is not only a mission to bury Addie with her birth family, but a mission for the rest of the Bundren clan to gain what they most desire. Selfish reasons of all but two members of the family are clearly expressed in various sections of the novel. Repeatedly, Anse has told himself and others that he gave her his “promise” to bury her with her family (Faulkner 115). What he fails to mention to others is that he has planned ahead of time to purchase a new set of teeth while in the city, and ultimately, find a new wife to replace his deceased one. Vardaman, however innocent he is, still possesses a desire for an item that has nothing to do with his mother’s death. He fantasizes about eating “bananas” and seeing a train behind the glass of a store in Jefferson (Faulkner 66). Furthermore, Cash’s reason for traveling to Jefferson is not strictly reserved for a burial ceremony; his conscience is marked with the motivation to purchase a gramophone. Additionally, Dewey Dell’s reason for accompanying her family is more vital than those of her male siblings’. Her desperation for an abortion easily overshadows her mother’s death which is reflected on page 120 when she casually says, “I heard that my mother is dead”.
Collectively, the father, the oldest son, the youngest son, and the sole female have their own personal selfish reasons for venturing to Jefferson. Anse can finally “get them teeth”; Vardaman can get the train “behind the glass, red on the track”; Cash will be able to buy “that talking machine from Suratt”; and Dewey Dell can “get something at the drug store” for her intended abortion (Faulkner 52, 65, 190, 202). These selfish reasons beg the reader to ask, What family would place convenience to themselves over the burial of their dead mother? The answer is obvious: a dysfunctional group of emotionally stained individuals whose hearts have been damaged by jealousy and lives tainted by greed.
Throughout the novel, Faulkner’s characters display a wide range of emotions, all stemming from deep within their psyches which have been marred by dishonesty, familial corruption, and mental abuse. The dysfunctional Bundrens, led by a self-centered oaf and comprised of vain siblings, fall among the worst kind of family: one whose deceitful, manipulative, and cruel qualities know no bounds. It is made clear that the Bundren clan is nothing more than a group of survivalists who will stop at nothing to obtain what they desire, even if the journey to attainment is rife with fraternal contention, verbal and psychological cruelty, and dishonesty in the face of a parent’s death.
Works Cited:
Bockting, Ineke. "3 - Multiple Voices in As I Lay Dying." Character and Personality in the Novels of William Faulkner: a Study in Psychostylistics. Lanham, Maryland: University Press of America, 1995. 122-26. Print.
Delville, Michel. "Alienating Language and Darl's Narrative Consciousness in Faulkner's As I Lay Dying." The Southern Literary Journal 27.1 (1994). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
Faulkner, William. As I Lay Dying. Vintage International ed. New York: Vintage, 1985. Print.
Hayes, Elizabeth. "Tension between Darl and Jewel." The Southern Literary Journal 24.2 (1992). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
Lowe, John. "The Fraternal Fury of the Faulkners and the Bundrens." Mississippi Quarterly. 54.4 (2001). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Apr. 2010.
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