Books

Henry James is nature.

In re-reading Turn Of The Screw and Other Short Stories this past week, I have come to realize that no matter how ridiculous it may sound, the above statement is wholly true. My previous experience with Mr.James had come in the form of several short stories, mainly reading Daisy Miller:A Study eight times for five different classes. With each reading, I came to like Henry James less, as his prose to me seemed to resemble a mirror that fogged with condensation. The image I saw was always initially striking, but quickly became clouded in a haze of unnecessary detail and flowery language.

Upon delving into this small volume again last week, I made a promise to myself that I would not only finish each and every story, but that I would also forge several connections between Mr. James and the topics I am covering in my coursework. Imagine my surprise when everything in Washington Square somehow related back to the natural world. In what might be one of the most cosmopolitan transatlantic short stories of the 1800's, yet I was somehow able to tie James's sense of clouded human motive into a more primal tradition of patriarchal dominance in nature. It struck me about halfway through the story, in the middle of somesuch thought, exactly how much this quarter's Environment and Literature has course redefined my methods of reading the novel. Rather than seeking to solely focus on the human motives in a work, I have expanded my eye to the outer edges of the text, seeking any implicit or explicit connection between the characters and a larger presence outside their insulated thoughts. This connection seems to be flowing through most books- Henry James's romanticized Europe, Faulkner's skeletal trees, Thomas Pynchon's frosted visions of Italy in V. all indirectly expose an atuhorial connection to the natural world. Whether these moments are intentional is another matter altogether. That is what makes Eco-Criticism so fascinating. There is ambiguity, but within this ambiguity is a piece of the human consciousness that has evaded any sort of literary definition for countless generations. Critics working in within the Eco school are striving to lend shape to this abstract concept of nature, in everyone from Shakespeare to Delillo, from Milton to Amiri Baraka. Nature is relevant in almost every work, and it is about time for us to note it.

Entropy

Entropy- a short story built on alcohol, a scientific theory and random combinations of East Coast philosophising and a dying bird. To be clear, and for the sake of full disclosure, Thomas Pynchon is one of my favorite American authors working today. There is very little about the elusive Mr. Pynchon that I do not like, or at least find endearing on a literary level. With that being said, I think those who do not proclaim to enjoy his densely manipulative texts have a valid reason for feeling ill at ease when seeing Entropy's plot do black flips and jumping jacks across the page in strangely beguiling patterns. Pynchon was once quoted as saying "Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength". Many people reading this work for the first time could probably come to that conclusion without reading a single biographical note about it's author. Yet, the question always arises when I am reading Pynchon in a group setting- Where does weird end and genuis begin? Seeing the dubious looks of my classmates made me wonder, as I described the plot of the novel in a concise fifteen line summary. Regardless of one's reaction to Pynchon's narrative tornado, it is undeniable that he has a sickening knack for pulling hundreds of disparate topics into a coherent, although rarely embraced, literary form. The end result may not always be pretty to read, but it is clever and more than a little self-aware, ready to pump you full of facts and leave you breathlessly wondering what the hell just happened. Pychon is a man with an infinite amount of intellectual trivia and the ability to spill it on the page using sentences that both contradict and support one another. Today was one of the best group discussions I have ever had about a novel, and there were many interesting points I has failed to consider in any of the previous five readings of this text. The party is entropy, the characters are entropy, the narrative is entropy, moving forward until it can sustain itself on new ideas no longer. Brilliant.

Poetry and Politics

The discussion was raised in class on Thursday, as it usually is at some point in an American Lit course-"Should poetry be political?"

There are two ways to answer such a question. Giving my opinion is one way, but there is also another way, which is less easily defined, but more legitimate in the eyes of most readers. This second method is founded upon a lineage of poets writing for change, whose voices were acknowledged in all corners of society. These poets, who have sustained a proven historical impact, i.e. poets who are taught in schools decades, or in some cases, centuries after their active period of writing, are hard to argue against, even if you are a poetic figurehead like Billy Collins or Rita Dove. If you break social and societal barriers with your poems, then there is a truly unique, and often undefinable force at work within them. Whether you view this force in a positive or negative way depends largely on your political stance and investment in literature as an agent for change.

It is my belief that all poets are inherently political, as each is writing in a language that has been acquired across generations of violence and unrest. For instance, I am an American poet writing in English. In it's most primary form, English came to the British Isles with multiple Germanic tribes sometime around 5 AD. The language previously spoken in this string of islands was a version of the Celtic, possibly with a Britannic dialect. Through savage violence, the English Speaking tribes displaced the Celtic speaking natives, forcing their language and beliefs upon the land. The new way of writing and speaking was introduced violently, leaving the population no choice but to conform.

Granted, the above example may be an oversimplification, yet when thinking about the dominance and cross pollination of languages within any society, it is hard not to read or write EVERYTHING in a slightly political context. If we really want to think about languages and their political undertones, we need go no further than a novel written by an author in a post colonial country, a place where a dominant language has changed every aspect of the way a people read, think and write. Or, we could look at the counter culture's use of slang in the American 60's and 70's, a phenomenon born out of anti-war movements, sit-ins, and the growing drug culture. Language changes with the times. In many cases, these times share the symptoms of a turbulent political climate. Sometimes words protect a people from an oppressive government, other times they protect that government's military from it's people. The tide goes both ways, but no two waves ever look or sound exactly the same.


My opinion is just that-one man's idea about a subject. Yet, I am using language to put these ideas out there, to share information, to symbolically open myself up to the world. What I say is different from what one of my seventy year old professors would say. Language has changed drastically in a few decades, and will continue to change, just like politics. I have a political slant, as do you, and it has changed with the passing of birthdays. No one is really as "apathetic" as they might wish to believe, especially when it comes to choices impacting their lives. Those choices are changing everyday, whether we are for them, or against them. It's the way we live, day to day, thought to thought.


Many poets have become famous on political grounds,-Allen Ginsberg, Amiri Baraka, Gregory Corso, Niki Giovanni,Robert Lowell, the list goes on and on. Of these same poets, many have been publicly reprimanded for using poetry to air their political grievances. There seems to be levels of social acceptability within the ranks of modern political poetry. Amiri Baraka, for instance, was removed as Poet Laureate of New Jersey for "Somebody Blew up America," while we read some of Shakespeare's sonnets aimed at the throne and laud them for being audacious. Although a disparate comparison, it still drives me crazy that these levels exist. In twenty years will "Somebody blew up America" be read as reverently as "Howl?" In five hundred, will it be acclaimed for as a poetic snapshot of a pivotal moment in American history? It is hard to guess. Maybe Baraka's race and vitriol will cast him into obscurity within two decades, causing someone like Denise Levertov to rise and assume his place. Perhaps this poem will be seen as a point in which America had to change, as it coincides with Obama's election. The future is infinite, but will always be political, until the sun burns out. This is such an interesting subject. I am all written out, and have to go to work now. Bye.

Plath/Sexton/Baraka

So, Osama Bin Laden is dead. Millions of different opinions collide in the air over large and small cities alike, people shudder in either joy or disgust, and our nation is divided once again.Regardless of one's political or ethical stance surrounding the melee, one thing is certain- the tumultuous events of the past weekend have created an ideal backdrop for examining liberation poetics, or what I have come to think of as poetry for those marginalized, disenfranchised, and just plain enraged by mainstream cultural values*.

I will attempt to chronicle my experiences first with Sylvia Plath, a poet I enjoy greatly, and am equally pained by, and feel pain for. I discovered the work of Sylvia Plath by accident, while perusing my 8th grade teachers "personal" bookshelf. Graciously, she allowed me to borrow the book, and in turn, blew my mind. Although I understood little of what Plath was saying or why she was saying it, the gut level pain and alienation were undeniable, even to a slightly apathetic 8th grader. I needed to know more about her, and fast.
In High School, through reading Her Husband, an outstanding Plath/Hughes biography by Diane Middlebrook Wood (read it...seriously) I discovered Wood's Anne Sexton biography, and after reading that, purchased The Awful Rowing Toward God. If an author could win the Pulitzer Prize on the basis of a chill inducing poem or Book title, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath would've been consistent contenders. I always thought Sexton somewhat subordinate to Plath, Lowell and at times, Snodgrass, even after reading the book in it's entirety. It wasn't until a few years ago that I really started to absorb and appreciate Sexton's gift for crafting blindingly gorgeous imagery that makes your heart happy and terrified at the same time..like the summer sun being coated in ice. Now, I count Sexton amongst my favorite poets ever, Confessional or otherwise.
As for Amiri Baraka...wow. The most angry and arguably, most fluid poet of this bunch has always given me positive chills, even in his most cringe inducing moments. Somebody Blew Up America owned my mind when it was first read aloud. The ensuing controversy, in my opinion, only served to strengthen Baraka's most recent poetic efforts, as it seemed he needed a shot in the arm. The way New Jersey's Governor handled the entire situation serves as a direct illustration of the perceived oppressive force Baraka has been battling for close to thirty years. Be it with the Beats, The Black Panthers, or the Black Mountain Poets, Baraka can blend in and lash out with the best writers of his, or any generation.

Also of note: Baraka's daughter was murdered in the early 2000's in Newark. I always wondered if this horrific event occurring in his mythic hometown had any impact on his later poetry. Poor guy.

*I realize that Plath and Sexton are not conventionally labeled Poets of Liberation, but their contrasting representations of gender dynamics cause me to think of them as two of the original Feminist poets in America, besides Rich.

Sonny's Blues

James Baldwin is a true master of what I have come to call "Fiction of the American Psyche ." Having read this story for a past course, and I still find it relevant in discussing the construction, and loss of identity in Modern American culture. In Sonny's Blues, the vanishing of innocence is propelled by the geography in which the story unfolds, and the oncoming realities of aging. The process of growing older often leads to the death of childhood dreams, especially in the fictions of James Baldwin. There are references (I am paraphrasing from memory) to children's expectations growing into the ceilings of their realities, as well as countless mentions of dirty streets, and the darkness that gradually encapsulates the narrator's surroundings. When I think of James Baldwin's true artistic power, one particular scene, in which Sonny is explaining his life philosophy to his brother, always comes to mind. In this exchange, the narrator refers to his brother as "baby." Sonny then proceeds to gesture aimlessly with his hands, rubbing and poking at his clean-shaven face, calling to mind the image of a helpless newborn baby. Baldwin consistently succeeds at giving the reader chills throughout this story, slowly drawing Sonny and the narrator's hazy paths through a dark, post-industrial Harlem. The idea of "the storm inside" and a "great block of Ice that settled in my belly and kept melting there all day long" are hugely important images that emphasize the hopelessness of the story's characters. As the ice melts and trickles into the author's "veins," I can't help but wonder if Baldwin is referencing the rivers and tributaries leading in and out of New York City. These polluted bodies of water trickle across the country, only to be heaved into a roaring ocean. The waters have no control over where they are lead, they just coarse haphazardly across America. To me, the characters in this story move in similar patterns, raging, grasping and rushing for anything that might lessen their pain. This story, much like it's Author's life, explores the limits of control- control over one's identity, the control of one's surroundings upon their lives, a substance controlling a human through addiction, the examples become a story in themselves. Baldwin felt the U.S., New York City particularly, was keeping him down, both creatively and socially. Most of his life was spent between Paris, Switzerland and Germany, a fact there are countless echoes of, both across this story and within it's themes. Despite Baldwin's expatriate status, one thing is for sure: the Blues are a purely American art form, and this story strives desperately to find out why.

Edward Abbey/Monkey Wrench Gang 1

This blog is quickly becoming a clearinghouse for my reflecting on literature. If I were to let these thoughts linger, without promptly recording them, I fear they would drift away forever.

On to Edward Abbey...why I had never come across The Monkey Wrench Gang in my past reading/coursework/Internet dwelling is almost incomprehensible. There was a distinct moment in which I realized this author, and his book of eco-terror crossed with a mid seventies national lampoon sensibility was a truly great Nature..no,...a great American Novel. This moment occurred somewhere within the first three pages, in a flickering instant, between the images of Doc lighting a billboard on fire and Albuquerque being described in terms of a neon-glassed cement tomb. Something in those pages drew me in and refused to let go...but what? I'm still looking for an answer, but I think I might be getting warmer.
Now, being close to halfway through the novel, I would like to think myself capable of reflecting on my initial impressions of Abbey's characters, and analyzing how wrong I was and for what reason. Such a task is certainly easier said than done. A constant motion invades the lives of the four "environmental" crusaders, making them hard to pin down from one page to the next. Doc is up and down emotionally, Hayduke is by turns bloodthirsty and lonely, Abbzug is a brain pricked by meditative visions and Smith...well, Smith is Smith, an anchor of sorts for the entire collective, and a lusty anchor at that.
The two concepts that make it hard for me to quit reading this book are relatively simple: a sense of it's geography, and the blurry motives of it's characters. Having recently lived in the Southwest, many of the locations described in the novel are near and dear to my heart. Constructing a mental image is much easier when you have driven through the locations featured in Chapters 3,4,5,6 and 7 all within the last six months. Adding to that is my growing empathy for the characters, and my hoping against hope that they are carrying out their plan for the same reasons I (hypothetically) would. Being a peace loving English major, I have never personally considered eco-sabotage as a viable option in relation to our countries pillaging of undeveloped terrain. I would be lying however, if I was to tell you I had never walked the streets of Tucson on a summer night, mumbling to myself: "why would anyone build a damn city here? Too hot, not meant for us to invade..ugh...another thorn, ow." That is precisely why I find the question of personal motive so fascinating within this book. Maybe the characters are thinking the same way I was last summer or maybe we are a million miles apart. Only the next 125 pages will tell me for sure.
For me, an Ohio transplant, it was easy to view the Desert as a ghost of American civilization, littered with abandoned mining towns and soiled cities. Now, after returning to the Midwest, and reflecting on my expieriences and this book, I am viewing the Desert more in terms of being the last remaining hope for a boxed in people.

Death Of a Salesman-2

Today's discussion of Arthur Miller's play offered a chance for me to think about some of it's themes from perspectives I hadn't initially considered. Here is a short entry about some of the thoughts I had during, and following class.

I liked that Nathan brought Marxism and/or Marxist Literary criticism into the discussion of what Miller was trying to convey ideologically. The ultimate value of a Marxist critique is that it aims to look at widely accepted systems and beliefs in a work of literature, framing them in a way that exposes, and then analyzes their true values by means of subtraction. What is not said by the author is just as important as what is said. The most essential themes are hidden behind culturally accepted ideals or images, awaiting a deep reading to give them clarity. This form of analysis is perfect for Arthur Miller's play, since as Professor Cassel noted in class (to paraphrase): "Everything has meaning in Miller's work, and nothing any character says can be taken for granted." With this philosophy in mind, I began thinking about Death Of a Salesman from an economic/religious i.e. semi-Marxist standpoint. A few scenes stuck out to me in a different way when considering them from within this new context:

There are obvious entries to thinking in a way that reveals large and small scale oppression peppered throughout the work. Howard, Willy's boss, is a great example, ignoring Willy's pleading, and years of service in order to hire a new "more profitable" salesman. Willy was once controlled by Howard's father and now...he is controlled by Howard, an oppression that stretches across two generations. This opression is built on fear and finances- on Willy's fear of losing his source of income, and Howard's fear of losing money from his bottom line.
Before losing his job, Willy espouses his love for Chevrolet cars, only to denounce them a page later. Was it simply the carburetor making him angry? Or perhaps something more akin to the feeling of helplessness in the face of a towering corporation ? Miller clearly had the American economy on his mind when writing the play, centering a most of it's conflict around a search for the almighty dollar. In a few brief points in the play however, religious ideas and imagery are evoked and rejected, albeit in a more subtle fashion . The scene in which Willy is trying to fix something in the kitchen is a good example, in which Willy denies his worth as a carpenter to Linda and his children. The reader could view this as either an embarrassment about his past working of low level jobs, or read it in a religious context: Jesus was a carpenter, and at that time in the American religious climate, Catholicism and it's value system reigned supreme. In denying this moment of potentially divine recognition (from the audience or reader's view), Willy certainly seems to be rejecting the idea of religion on the whole, as though he knows he is the only being that can ever truly save himself. What is widely accepted is not necessarily right, religious or economically, seems to be Miller's take on mainstream American culture.
Miller was indeed on McCarthy's Hollywood Blacklist. This means little to nothing in the overall importance of the work or it's themes. To me, Marxism is just another way of reading or thinking. In my opinion, it is an ideology that has valuable uses, applicable to both culture and literature. To ignore or denounce Marxism because of what you "think" it may be is to lose out on a host of opportunities for deep thinking and reading. Thanks for bringing it up today, facetious or not, Nathan.

Two other points to consider: Why does Willy keep mentioning the "ceiling" he is building? What about his being "boxed in"? I would write more, but I have to walk the dog.

Big Sur/Kerouac

In the summer of my 8th grade school year, I became obsessed with Jack Kerouac. In May, knowing little about the man or his work, I was goaded into picking up On The Road by a cousin who thought I needed "a more mature taste in literature". By the end of June I was saving pocket change and taking regular trips to the local bookstore (I was usually a browser, not a buyer). That summer just happened to be the year I joined my folks on a trip to San Francisco. Venturing to landmarks like City Lights Bookstore and the coast of Big Sur only reinforced my growing interest in Beat culture and writing. Kerouac was my gateway to several seminal writers of that time period, as it was through his work I learned of William S. Burroughs, Henry Miller, and Allen Ginsberg, among others. Needless to say, I had many great conversations with my English teachers the following school year..."you heard of him how?"..and ..."your parents let you read those kinds of books?" were popular questions. Oh, and of course- "don't imitate him, he died young!" Thankfully, my parents, being the progressive souls they are, figured a book was a book, and that if the subject matter interested me, then I should be allowed to read it and draw my own conclusions. Being young, it was easy to romanticize Kerouac's life and philosophy. Drink, write, take Benzedrine, drink..write. The older I get, the harder it is for me to read Jack's work with the same blind youthful enthusiasm. Where I once saw endless adventure and possibility, I now see aimlessness. What were once fleeting moments of bliss now read like alcohol induced ramblings. For me in the present day, reading Kerouac is something like this: Idealized moment...my friend is a deity, idealized moment...there is hard truth in reality...but it's okay...I will drink more so it all disappears. The later writings seem less spontaneous and more formulaic. It is as though Kerouac was merely roaming the country, looking for something to hold on to, which is why he vested so much faith in the life of Neal Cassady, gradually coming to devalue his own individual beliefs. Kerouac died of cirrhosis at the age of 48, and Cassady froze to death sleeping on train tracks in the borderlands of Mexico. Sad endings to brilliant flashes of life. They started bright, dosed themselves heavily, and drew America's picture in bleary lines. That is how I visualize their lives. I still think On The Road is one of the greatest novels of the time period. Without Jack Kerouac, I may never have been exposed to the wide scope of authors I feel lucky to have read. Wow..I wish The Duluoz Legend would've been completed! There is so much more I could say....

Michael Pollan

In Weeds Are Us, Michael Pollan examines the idea of horticultural vermin as human social construct in an effort to contrast his opinions with those of legendary American nature writers. At first, it is hard to tell which direction Pollan will take, as he is clearly influenced by Thoreau and Emerson, yet seeking his own philosophy concerning weeds and their unshakable presence in the modern world. The author's garden stands as a great metaphor in the essay, with it's terrain transforming much like the author's opinion. First, the presence of vines and other prickly ground dwellers is welcome in his peaceful corner of the yard. There is an air of natural beauty, as Pollan suggests, in their winding and lawless climb toward sunlight. As weeds overtake the garden however, the context of both viewer and viewed is shifted dramatically. Pollan's examination of weeds can, at this point, be read in more than just a literal sense. The imagery of his grandfather killing weeds (hippies)with the fervor of a man rejecting the "summer of love" is a great introduction to the author's wide scope of enviro-cultural exploration. Through the concept of weeds, the reader is able to look at a multitude of American attitudes about our natural surroundings across time. Philosophical/ethical questions abound throughout the piece: Why do weeds (I read this as a symbol for vagrants/the dienfranchised) especially thrive in industrialized cities? Do weeds have a greater right to the land than hybridized plants? How do we as Americans decide what is appealing and what is a weed? What is a weed in the first place? Pollan ultimately feels that weed infestations are a by-product of human civilization, supplying the reader with compelling images of vines shattering a blacktop parking lot. It is the close examination of the everyday which lends power and evidence to his argument. The idea of "the everyday" is central in my reading of the piece. I look at weeds everyday-in cracks, on the driveway, in the yard, in my food, but never gave them a second thought nor considered their origins or omnipresence in our world. This loose idea of the everyday can be applicable to any number of subjects I might not be conscious of: the poor, the marginalized, the sick, stray animals etc. My stance, strictly on weeds in this case,was completely neutral. I had never thought about weeds in connection with Transcendentalist authors or literature. Pollan breaks bravely from Thoreau and Emerson's stance that a weed has more right to this land than a flower or human, and in doing so does a lot more than write about plants. The essay ultimately reflects on American society and it's overbearing social hierarchy, or as Pollan might see it:...the good..the bad..and the weed.

Arthur Miller

Death Of a Salesman is a drama that has made several appearances in my college life. Like Ellison, Arthur Miller created a work that was so disturbing to the common American that it was impossible to ignore. That is probably why it has been taught in three of my classes, and I have been able to gain new insights into it's characters with each reading. The first time I came across Miller's play was in my Junior year of high school. At that time, the kaleidoscopic dialogues and scene changes disoriented me in a way that made it tough to get anything more than frustration from the work. It was, I think, a drama course three years later that re-introduced Arthur Miller to my world, and this time I was ready. Existentialism, as a philosophy/ideology was a set of values and beliefs my skeptical brain immediately aligned itself with. Yet, when reading the play in said drama class, I missed the message. I didn't initially read Death of a Salesman as any type of warning or philosophical manifesto, I only felt sorry for Willy Loman. It took me two years, and lots of personal ups and downs, to finally realize what Miller is writing about in the play. Now, reading the work as a clearer, calmer 26 year old, I notice there are a lot of "should've, would'ves. might haves, maybes, we will's and someday'" trickling through each character's lines. I now read Willy's reflections on the past as less historical fact than mere delusional fantasy. Everything is idealized-the future, the outside world, his sons and their business propositions, the neighbor's life, the past, nothing can be "okay" as it stands. The only thing Willy doesn't idealize is the present. Everything else was, or could be great, but not the moment he is presently experiencing. Each character represents a part of Willy, as he has long given up on his own dreams and now lives vicariously through his children. Rather than being proud of them for trying their best (whatever that may be), Willy makes the same mistake with his children that he has made with himself-blaming everything on forces beyond a human being's control. The paradox lies in that fact that Willy ultimately idealizes these "outside forces" as being pinnacles of human achievement, I.E. his brother's business, Bernard's grades, Charley's wealth. Whether these memories are real or idealized is never truly known. Additionally, there is always an outside reason Willy or his sons didn't achieve things in a similar fashion. Personal responsibility can change lives...sometimes you have to learn that the hard way, or die without choice.

My world

The relationship I have with trees. rocks and grass around my home is one that is hard to define. To me, "home" is a term that is created through fleeting emotion and moments frozen in my brain. For instance, I can look at the Oak tree in my backyard and clearly remember the time my parents brought my dog home for the first time. I looked at the tree that day, and in my mind, it's image will forever be associated with a happy moment in which I made a friend. Another time, when my girlfriend and I had first met, we took a hike through the woods near my home. It was a long walk, maybe three hours. It began to rain about an hour in, and gradually, we became lost. I remember the exact point in the path we were on when she told me she was leaving to go to school in Arizona. For a moment, I was sad, then happy, then sad...but I walked it out. Being lost was what I needed that day, and helped me to forget about the looming departure in our near future. Things eventually worked out, and that trail now represents a turning point in my life. It was a character altering moment, a time (maybe the first time) when I truly put another human's needs ahead of my own. Every tree, rock and blade of grass on that trail reminds me of that. I feel at home in such spaces of memory, in forests that represent personal growth and in fields of tragedy. Every branch and creek represents a thought I have had. To me, it seems that Thoreau felt many of the same spiritual/emotional connections to the natural world, to an even greater degree, perhaps. These pieces of the natural world are essential to my own personal history, and without them, I am lost. When I lived in Arizona for a year, the desert didn't speak to me as did the trees and grass. Nothing seemed to feel right without them. So I moved back to Ohio. Thoreau seems to have built his personal philosophy and mythology out of the natural habitat surrounding him. I have done the same thing, albeit, in a modernized way. It is harder for me to become lost in the woods. Some days, when I really need to think, I drive the desolate country roads, listening to the wind, and sometimes music. I feel like Thoreau might have done the same if he were alive today,well, if he could afford the gas. There are new factors for me to consider in my relationship to nature that Thoreau didn't have to deal with. I'm sure there was plenty he had to be conscious of that I wouldn't give a second thought to. Countless eras and modernity serperate our lifestyles, but our modes of relating to nature seem to be very similar.

Thoreau Journal 1

Thoreau begins “Walking” by saying he wants to “regard man as an inhabitant, or a part and parcel of Nature,” and illustrates this concept through various methods in his writing. In “Walking,” Thoreau makes several distinct comparisons between humans and the natural world. The relationship between nature, humans and animals is portrayed as a symbiotic puzzle in which none of the three entities would exist without the others. Toward the beginning of the essay, Thoreau speaks about living outdoors and how it can produce “a thicker cuticle to grow over some of the finer qualities of our nature, as on the face and hands” (183). Here, Thoreau is comparing humanity to a weathered entity of the forest, eroded and shaped by the elements, like trees or streams. On page 184, Thoreau compares humanity’s mental systems to a narrow field and “road leading to it,” melding human thought and natural imagery into a critique on humanity’s reliance on their political leaders. Thoreau is stressing that humans are a part of nature, and that as natural beings we should wander, not be lead. “I believe there is a subtle magnetism in nature,” Thoreau writes, “which if we unconsciously yield to it will direct us alright” (187). The idea in this sentence is that all humans are instinctively in tune with nature. Such a concept suggests that humans had these instincts planted at the beginning of time, and that the human and natural worlds are distinct and irreplaceable pieces of one another. On page 188, Thoreau compares the westward settlement of the United States with the migratory instinct evident in birds, squirrels and other four legged creatures. This metaphor is used to draw the human and animal worlds closer together using a similarity in behavior. Such a comparison motivates the reader to question why humans and animals move in such close patterns. Does each species truly understand the motives of the other? Maybe our races are moving in harmony for the same reasons, as Thoreau suggests. “Hope” is found in a “quaking swamp,” and not in modern cities or homes on page 193. This view on a human future calls forth the image of a mucky swamp, something most readers would never dream about when thinking of a hope- filled future. Thoreau further describes nature’s perceived “impurities” as “jewels,” metaphorically giving humanity’s precious natural resources an equally precious stone to illustrate their true values. In “Ktaadn,” Thoreau describes himself climbing a mountain, losing his friends, and then becoming a cloud in a “cloud factory” at the foggy peak. The author is protected from the elements such as harsh winds in his place amongst the clouds. Thoreau can hardly see anything through their fog, so he is protected from the outside world as well. With the disappearance of human feeling and sight in this passage, Thoreau is suggesting he has become a drifting could without senses, tying nature and humans together through imagery and imagination. Thoreau describes the mountaintops as “unfinished parts of the globe” on page 207, illustrating through metaphorical comparison, that while humanity values and obsesses over “progress,” nature has a similar, albeit more gradual way of getting important things done. Thoreau is also stating here that some things are best left undone, or given their due course to develop, like human lives. “November Twilight's” are compared to “a piece of art” on page 212. This comparison is followed with the idea that “You cannot see anything until you are clear of it” (213). This calls to mind that humans must take time to appreciate what is before them, for they are a part of it. Such an idea is equally applicable to nature’s harsher elements like tornadoes or storms. There is always calm after a dark period, be it daybreak or the sun reaching out from behind the clouds. Tragedies in human life can be seen in much the same terms. The animal biographies that Thoreau conjures on page 217 make a clear connection between that which human’s value, and natural phenomena that humans cannot explain. The author writes that “in describing brutes, as in describing men, we shall naturally dwell on those particulars in which they are most like ourselves” (217). This concept plays on the fact that humans never really know exactly what makes an animal distinct, and/or different from the human race. The differences between species is examined, and removed, drawing the worlds of men and beasts closer together. Descriptions of ancient animals are used alongside examples of human progress, contrasting old thoughts and ideas with new ones. Thoreau comes to the conclusion that sometimes antiquated thinking is more lively and imaginative, and that perhaps our ancestors were right about humans being similar to animal beings. It might be today’s science and fact driven generation that is wrong.

Thoreau-Ktaadn/Journals

Ktaadn and Thoreau's other Journals present a different sort of reflection on nature than previously seen in Walking. While all three of the works make several assertions, Thoreau's philosophy of nature is more scattered and less focused in these journals than in the essay. Ktaadn describes it's author's ascent and trip down the side of a mountain in terms that verge on surreal. It is easy to imagine the breaking point where the fog and Earth collide, or to see the land for miles around as Thoreau describes it. This entry is brimming with Thoreau's clear love of nature, but there is also evidence of a new fear present in it's entries. In one instance, the Earth questions why the walkers are in such a secluded area, and what they hope to gain by venturing so far off the beaten path. The planet is seen as a mass of materials hanging together, with some corners that are to remain untouched. This idea works as a good metaphor for Thoreau's own life-what did he hope to gain by not traversing the "normal" path of existence? Why would he ever veer off the path his parents set for him? Such a sense of introspection is nothing new for Thoreau, but the degree and method with which he questions himself in The Maine Woods Journal is. The subsequent journal entries are more varied, but deal with major life questions in much the same way. A rotting mushroom is examined, plants and animals are compared to people-in other words, there are certain elements one would expect from a piece of nature writing. What surprises are some of the large philosophical questions Thoreau was able to work into his everyday observations. The entry in which men looking through a viewfinder on a hilltop, and see different things, is clearly dealing with an issue larger than trees and birds. There could probably be an entire course built around this singular illustration of human perspectives and insight. It is the use of such simple, everyday beauty that leads Thoreau to capture complex questions concerning human life. My other favorite piece in the journal was the one dealing with native tribes and their descriptions of animal life. Thoreau clearly champions nature and imagination over science in his writing, and this anecdote illustrates his point well. It seems that these writings work as a whole to emphasize one idea- that the unknown was meant to be walked on, or left alone. To Thoreau, this world was never meant to be explained by science, but only to be felt by the human eye and heart.

Dorothy Wordsworth

Previously, I had only heard Dorothy Wordsworth mentioned in the context of her brother, or with the poetry Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The fact that Ms. Wordsworth was a writer, and a talented one, had not been emphasized. My goal when I began reading this journal excerpt was to separate it's Dorothy Wordsworth from the giants of Romanticism she is so often associated with. I wanted to read Dorothy as writer with individual and unique insights, rather than as a role player in a larger literary movement. Initially, I was successful in focusing on the content, rather than the context of the journals. This feat became slightly harder once William and Samuel began appearing directly in it's entries. The appearance of William Wordsworth did produce one of my favorite moments in the excerpt however, in which compares lying in the grass beneath waterfalls and rocks to lying peacefully in the grave. The writing of Ms. Wordsworth is full of goose bump inducing images such as these: trees become ruins and serpents, the sky and earth become one, everyday reality is repeatedly transposed with surreal visions of the natural world. That is why these journals work so well. The writing shares common traits, stylistically, with her brother and Samuel Coleridge. There is a clear reverence for nature, something I had previously seen in several Romantic Poems of the time period. Ms. Wordsworth is further akin to her contemporaries in the use of nature as a backdrop for more ethereal concerns, such as life, death, birth and love. Where Dorothy differs is in the tone and delivery of her thoughts. There seems to have been no concerted effort to make these entries resemble a poem or lyrical vision, they just emerged that way. It is as though Dorothy was recording her environment for sheer enjoyment, rather than for recognition. Maybe that is why I haven't heard her mentioned more prominently along other writers of this time period. It seems as though Dorothy is every bit as talented and socially conscious as William or Samuel. It's interesting, this piece brings to mind a similar question as that of Gertrude Stein in my American Lit. class. Why was Dorothy Wordsworth not immediately heralded as a great nature and social commentary writer? Why is she not mentioned more often in association with William and Samuel Taylor Coleridge? Maybe it was because of her gender or audience. Perhaps it was the time period she wrote in. Either way,these journals were enjoyable, thought provoking and smooth reading. I would like to see and know more of Dorothy Wordsworth.

Ellison

Ralph Ellison, ah, how we keep meeting this way! I disliked your work at first, but I must say...it has grown on me tremendously. The Invisible Man has made three appearances in my collegiate life. At first, I assumed Lit. Professors were being paid commission to assign the novel at every turn, espousing it's endless merit to my cynical "don't bother me I already know lots about books!" early-twenties brain. Oh how mistaken that brain was, tsk tsk. The reason Professors kept assigning the work is because it was important. But important how? I asked myself one night, after wrapping up it's third chapter. It seemed like a book that would be important for African Americans and white folks in a race relations kind of way (it was). It also seemed like a book that would be important in advocating for disenfranchised groups of people the world over, albeit in a somewhat brutal way (it was). I missed something though. Reading a portion of the work now, four years later, I see that The Invisible Man was more important in the shaping of modern American Fiction than any other title I can immediately recall. Ellison's creative method is stunning and cerebral, disorienting at it's best, ghastly at it's worst. The novel calls uneasy truth to the forefront of thought, forcing the reader to examine it carefully, and with purpose. The storyline lures one in, and then Ellison's world attacks you from an unseen point, turning from a straightforward narrative into a discombobulated beast of fiction. That is how I envision this text in my head, a desperate, wounded person that you are afraid to look in the eye, a person that speaks the truth while you're left sheepishly staring at your feet. The excerpt we read for class is one of my favorites (save the opening diorama of light bulbs and radios, see Jeff Wall's representation, above). True, it is graphic, but it's violence is for the sake of symbolism. The reader sees masks of every kind (the narrator's grandfather, the rosy cheeks of drunken men), humans described in animal terms, and painfully realistic violence, but when we as readers look past the whirring sentences, we see that Ellison is trying to show us something. This is a novel that breaks things down, both socially and artistically into the most base of human instincts. Pain and violence are possible in the author's world as are racism and exploitation. Yet, for Ellison every force has an opposite that becomes apparent as the work progresses. There is hope, equality and comfort buried somewhere in the text, but we must each seek it out for ourselves. Too bad we only get one chapter......

Gertrude Stein

I was first introduced to the works of Gertrude Stein during the summer six years ago. On muggy days, otherwise filled with sweating and drinking water, I became enamored with writers of The Lost Generation. I read several works from writers F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, Ford Maddox Ford and William Faulkner. Thinking back, I can see myself hunched in a corner of the library, reading about how this writer influenced that writer and that writer hated loud drunks (I.E.Hemingway or Fitzgerald). It was a summer of reading at it's finest, but little did I realize, I had only scratched the surface of American expatriate art in Paris. Fall classes began two months later, and a friend of mine in a Lit. course informed me that "a writer named Gertrude Stein totally influenced all those novelists you say you like. She edited Hemingway and was part of the Shakespeare and Co. scene, if you don't know her, you don't know ____ about America's best in Paris. You do know about Shakespeare and Co right? Ms.Beech?". Insulted as I was, the remark prompted me to check out Ms. Stein's works at the library, and that work was, by a sheer matter of coincidence, Tender Buttons. My expectation for the work was something like this: formal poetry, probably akin to Elizabeth Bishop or Mary Oliver...clean imagery, emotionally charged, maybe with human nature or overt sexuality at the heart of the piece....right? WRONG (well, kind of). I had never read anything like Tender Buttons. The poem's words held together in a way that reminded me of ex-girlfriends, old dogs and my grandfather's flannel shirt. There were pictures created without imagery, free association where I expected concrete reality...it was clearly symbolism..or was it? Or was it Post Modern? Maybe it was word association, like in Life Studies....nope, wrong again..maybe. For me, the poem was incredibly easy to read. Every word could be a point of entry to the text. At times, I could almost read Tender Buttons just by looking a a whole paragraph, scanning for words that were important to me. Did I like the work as a whole? Maybe. I did like that the poem allowed me to finally read the way in which I liked: a way open to personal feeling and experience. I wasn't sure about the methods used however, perhaps they were too abstract for my meaning hungry brain. Tender Buttons is a work without rules, a poem that challenges, and at times forces the reader to bring their own personal experience and imagination to the task of reading. As a reader, you must look and look again, constructing meaning with whatever tools exist in your brain, as was said in class, "There is no right or wrong answer." Important writer, important time period. Why is Gertrude sometimes overlooked? Was it the period she came out of? Because she is sometimes dwarfed by her contemporaries? Because she was a woman? Because of the difficulty of framing her works for an academic setting? I don't truthfully know, I'm just glad she is finally included in an anthology.