Monday, April 20, 2009
Close Reading, My Own Thoughts
In reviewing for the Roundtable discussion, I have been reviewing particular critics and have identified what interests me most. I am intrigued by the historical examination of the moment such as wit Said or Barthes, but I am also intrigued by this idea of consciousness - perhaps with Lowes and his desire for unconscious process and privileging the experience of poetry, or perhaps Auerbachs fascination with a multi-personal representation of consciousness. I guess I am most fascinated by it because I don't enirely grasp it, I understand wanting to situate a text within it's time period but what's to be said of the author's intention for the piece? My own proposal for a method of close reading will surround something that examines this - perhaps having to do with the process of poetry. I sometimes wish I could examine a piece from the authors eyes, was there a political masking that was intentional? Of conservatism? Was the piece merely a moment and the interpretations fell in later? I know I couldn't possibly answer these questions on my own but I am hoping my own method, in examining a writers conscious v. unconscious state, will help me come to better conclusions about close reading. I have also wondered how a particular place in a moment would affect this. If there were ways to determine where an author was in their writing state - outdoors, inside their bedroom - how would placement in a moment affect the conscious (or unconscious) state? This is a brainstorm.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Reflections on Close Reading
Having completed the requirements for an English major at Penn, for me, reading Rabinowitz made a lot of sense because I’ve experienced most of it. It’s true that we are taught that “good reading is slow, attentive to linguistic nuance and [especially] suspicious of surface meanings” (230). At some point, we are conditioned to believe that the best papers are the most subversive to an author’s intention, if that intention is clear, or at least subversive to the norms of the historical period. Also, the idea that close reading can allow a student to reclaim a work to conform to their beliefs is absolutely true. Part of the temptation of being a critic, both in class discussions and in papers, is to make your own soap box and espouse your personal philosophies on life. Interpreting literature is not like math where there is only one right answer.
Two musings on possible ways to go beyond close reading:
1) What does it mean to “read” a text? From Rabinowitz’s observation that the New Critics’ assume the production of texts comes the idea that the physical text is infallible—the words on the page are not to be questioned. We merely assume “that the text we have are the texts the authors wrote, thus conveniently ignoring the interference of publication as an economic and cultural institution” (231). Questioning intentionality, historical context, and the instability of language itself is fair game, but not the materiality of the text. What if we began to think about the meaning behind the print as a way to construct new meanings about a text? What if instead of the relevant literature of the time, we looked at the history of printing and publishing? Thinking specifically about the plays of Shakespeare, and the idea of publisher as author, there are material constraints that limit plot and drastically affect the text we take for authority. There is meaning in the physical process that is often overlooked.
2) In the Well Wrought Urn, Cleanth Brooks argues that all good poetry, preconditioned by an ability to close read it, is not only paradoxical but meta-poetry. What if we used that same theory to think about epistolary novels as intrinsic commentaries about modes of reading? Without the benefit of narrative voice, a novel comprised entirely of letters necessitates that everyone is a reader. Can parallels be drawn between reading and hermeneutic practice and the way we conceive personal character? Whether it is a detective novel or an early novel of sentiment, how does reading the very act of reading incriminate a plot outside of the one the author may or may not have intended?
Two musings on possible ways to go beyond close reading:
1) What does it mean to “read” a text? From Rabinowitz’s observation that the New Critics’ assume the production of texts comes the idea that the physical text is infallible—the words on the page are not to be questioned. We merely assume “that the text we have are the texts the authors wrote, thus conveniently ignoring the interference of publication as an economic and cultural institution” (231). Questioning intentionality, historical context, and the instability of language itself is fair game, but not the materiality of the text. What if we began to think about the meaning behind the print as a way to construct new meanings about a text? What if instead of the relevant literature of the time, we looked at the history of printing and publishing? Thinking specifically about the plays of Shakespeare, and the idea of publisher as author, there are material constraints that limit plot and drastically affect the text we take for authority. There is meaning in the physical process that is often overlooked.
2) In the Well Wrought Urn, Cleanth Brooks argues that all good poetry, preconditioned by an ability to close read it, is not only paradoxical but meta-poetry. What if we used that same theory to think about epistolary novels as intrinsic commentaries about modes of reading? Without the benefit of narrative voice, a novel comprised entirely of letters necessitates that everyone is a reader. Can parallels be drawn between reading and hermeneutic practice and the way we conceive personal character? Whether it is a detective novel or an early novel of sentiment, how does reading the very act of reading incriminate a plot outside of the one the author may or may not have intended?
Translational Close Reading
The problem with many recent close reading methods is their excessive reliance on extrinsic practices. If we are to follow Jameson's methodology we set ourselves up to read into the text with our ideological precondition, an act the I.A. Richards warned against with the onset of New Criticism. In focusing on a particular interpretive procedure, that of analyzing the narration of metaphorical translation, we would be able to simultaneously historicize the given text while also considering the intention of the author. This method depends upon the breaking down of the modes of translation (idiomatic or literal) in contrast to aspects of Jameson's work. Unlike the political UNconscious, an understanding of moments in which characters relied upon idiomatic rather than literal interpretation would reveal something of the Political Conscious. As Marcus relies on what is on the surface of the text rather than what is absent, this method of dissecting the narration of translational processes could reveal how a character's modes of interpretation/performance correlate with those of the time. For example, Fanny's dependence (as the most moral character) on the literal in contrast to Sir Thomas' dependence (as the most "proprietous" character) on the idiomatic enables interpretation on varying degrees and levels, rather than only what is absent/unconscious. For we can understand the characters themselves in terms of their adherence to the necessity of dependence on idiom, we can say something regarding the mores of the time of setting/composition via what the characters feel needs to be idiom-ized, and we can hypothesize about the author's views on propriety/cultural morality by checking which characters are successful and correlating this success with their method of translation.
Reading Too "Close": Invading Other People's Personal Space
There are so many methods of reading, each of which will produce a unique and different reading from a single text. While I by no means am advocating the school of thought which says "You're reading too much into it," I think we need to take a step back as readers.
We carry around our own messages to project onto our readings of texts, a collection of all our personal experiences and our knowledge base. This sort of reading can be valuable on a personal level because you, as an individual, are finding something you value within the text from your own life.
However, when we study close reading through the medium of literary criticism, we are being given readings secondhand. D.A. Miller's book is an enjoyable read and highly thought provoking, but is it too close in a personal sense to be taken as a good model for future readings? The personalization that such an essay projects onto an analysis can be misleading.
When Said capitalizes on the casual references to Antigua of Mansfield Park, he is passing over the reference to the Quarterly Review that allows for a reading of opposite political leaning. His personal history led him to ignore certain facts when historicizing.
Since we all do have histories, we need to recognize that we carry them with us in our writing and reading. As such, close reading cannot be universalized, it needs to be acknowledged as an intensely personal form of analysis. That being the case, when we read criticism we must keep in mind that it is a personal perspective on a written work and not a reading at large. It is a work of art in its own right.
We carry around our own messages to project onto our readings of texts, a collection of all our personal experiences and our knowledge base. This sort of reading can be valuable on a personal level because you, as an individual, are finding something you value within the text from your own life.
However, when we study close reading through the medium of literary criticism, we are being given readings secondhand. D.A. Miller's book is an enjoyable read and highly thought provoking, but is it too close in a personal sense to be taken as a good model for future readings? The personalization that such an essay projects onto an analysis can be misleading.
When Said capitalizes on the casual references to Antigua of Mansfield Park, he is passing over the reference to the Quarterly Review that allows for a reading of opposite political leaning. His personal history led him to ignore certain facts when historicizing.
Since we all do have histories, we need to recognize that we carry them with us in our writing and reading. As such, close reading cannot be universalized, it needs to be acknowledged as an intensely personal form of analysis. That being the case, when we read criticism we must keep in mind that it is a personal perspective on a written work and not a reading at large. It is a work of art in its own right.
The Boat in the Bottle; The Ancient Tree
Initially, the formalist studies from the first half of the course excited my intellect a great deal. I saw poetry as a linguistic form of music, carrying its own unique flavor of resonance. This is how I thought...
Looking back on 2nd-half-of-the-semester dive into historicist criticism, I see no coincidence that our studies shifted from the poem to the novel. The novelist does something different than the poet: he plants a seed in the soil of his culture, and from this original act of creation, a tree grows forth. If the novelist worked closely with the rigorous exigencies of his cultural clime, and if critics continually cultivate the trees growth through canonization and criticism, then the tree will break nature's threshold and live into sustenance. Every harvest will then bring new seeds that resemble the first seed, and so the original intent is preserved paradoxically as the tree grows and transforms in real time. A valuable novel will thus give readers a window into another time. Readers must put forth much effort in order to draw out the novel's reward, because, like with a tree, the novel's conception is hidden behind countless layers of opacity.
However, if readers have the right tools, they can peel back the layers and gain a view upon a world that is not their own. This is why continual criticism is so important for the novel: the novel was planted using different instruments than the ones available today, and so we have to keep re-inventing new interpretive instruments in order to receive the novel's ever-expanding meaning.
While the poem carries a timeless experience forward in the formalist vessel--maybe like a miniature boat in a bottle--the good novel preserves the feeling of an age by working its materials into fruition. This is to say that the intentions of a poem or a novel--represented by the boat and the seed, respectively--are protected by materials that are durable and fragile at the same time. Glass is hard but breaks if abused; trees stand tall but are susceptible to fire.
As the written composition or the digital recording leads to certain resonances in a specific and unique pattern, so the words on the page leads to a specific imaginative experience. The poetic experience is neither higher nor lower than the musical experience; it just uses different materials and excites different cerebral components. We might assume that no one person experiences a recording in exactly the same way; likewise, we can say that no recording/composition is ever heard the same way twice because it always resonates in a different environment. So the poem probably affects each person differently, and these differences are probably related to the setting of experience. Musicians who listen to other compositions will here the different elements clearer and will have a deeper appreciation along with the more immediate emotional resonances; likewise the poet/student of poetry will have his poetic experience enhanced by paying close attention to the individual elements working in concert.
So the formalist would say that with music and poetry, these materials were used together in this way/in this pattern, and afterwards, this work was the result. Poets, given that they must work with a language bound by time and space, mean to make timeless works, and so they use their time-bound language in a struggle against itself. This is not so different from music: musicians struggle to draw forth beautiful sounds from an otherwise chaotic array of physical vibrations.
So the formalist would say that with music and poetry, these materials were used together in this way/in this pattern, and afterwards, this work was the result. Poets, given that they must work with a language bound by time and space, mean to make timeless works, and so they use their time-bound language in a struggle against itself. This is not so different from music: musicians struggle to draw forth beautiful sounds from an otherwise chaotic array of physical vibrations.
Looking back on 2nd-half-of-the-semester dive into historicist criticism, I see no coincidence that our studies shifted from the poem to the novel. The novelist does something different than the poet: he plants a seed in the soil of his culture, and from this original act of creation, a tree grows forth. If the novelist worked closely with the rigorous exigencies of his cultural clime, and if critics continually cultivate the trees growth through canonization and criticism, then the tree will break nature's threshold and live into sustenance. Every harvest will then bring new seeds that resemble the first seed, and so the original intent is preserved paradoxically as the tree grows and transforms in real time. A valuable novel will thus give readers a window into another time. Readers must put forth much effort in order to draw out the novel's reward, because, like with a tree, the novel's conception is hidden behind countless layers of opacity.
However, if readers have the right tools, they can peel back the layers and gain a view upon a world that is not their own. This is why continual criticism is so important for the novel: the novel was planted using different instruments than the ones available today, and so we have to keep re-inventing new interpretive instruments in order to receive the novel's ever-expanding meaning.
While the poem carries a timeless experience forward in the formalist vessel--maybe like a miniature boat in a bottle--the good novel preserves the feeling of an age by working its materials into fruition. This is to say that the intentions of a poem or a novel--represented by the boat and the seed, respectively--are protected by materials that are durable and fragile at the same time. Glass is hard but breaks if abused; trees stand tall but are susceptible to fire.
According to this model, then, I posit four types of artistic works:
The Good Poem: provides the raw materials for a super-rational experience by juxtaposing otherwise disparate mental shades and timbres. The project of superseding rationality coordinates with the desire to step outside cultural limits. Incredible attention is payed to making "the boat" so that future generations will be careful with its glass case.
The Bad Poem: pines for a state of affairs without making it explicit that its language of pining is exactly the thing to be shirked. The glass will break from neglect.
The Good Novel: planted in fertile cultural soil; tilled by the author in his final stages of editing; continually protected, expanded, and altered by critics of the future who preserve the tree in order to look into the past.
The Bad Novel: planted in rocky, culture-less soil. Either overly-schematic to the point of cultural blind faith, or else so explicitly satirical that critics had no desire to protect the tree using constructive/deconstructive criticism. It gets cut down; either forgotten or chopped to pieces by evil super-intendents with a capitalist agenda.
Musings on Close Reading
It was only in my senior year of high school in AP English Literature that I learned about close reading. In fact, my teacher was shocked that we hadn’t learned about it sooner. Hitherto, I was expected to read for plot detail and perhaps obvious themes. It was only after I learned how to close read that I appreciated poetry because I was easily frustrated by my inability to immediately glean the poem’s “message” (I assumed that all poems had a moral, or message). In high school, close reading a poem meant identifying all of the literary devices and discussing how they all contribute to the poem’s “purpose”. To argue that a poem was in fact, metapoetry was considered a “cop out,” what English students argued when they didn’t understand the poem. Even in my poetry class last year at my old school (I transferred as a sophomore this year to Penn), this metapoetry argument was laughable and there was such a thing as “reading too closely” to the point of making things up and seeing what you wanted to see in the text for the sake of a paper.
I think that with all works of art, including literature, sometimes the meaning that we derive from the text and how the text is used is more important than those that the author intends. I remember hearing from an ethnomusicology lecture that Aretha Franklin’s song “Respect” was used in some Women’s Rights movements despite the lyrics’ references to prostitution. The point was that the people paid attention to the word “respect” of the chorus and derived their meaning from it, independent of its lyrics or of the composer’s intention. In the end, it didn’t matter what the song actually said, but how it was used/how it was read by its audience. Similarly, while Uncle Tom’s Cabin was intended to be an abolitionist novel, “Uncle Tom” is now used to describe blacks that sympathize with whites. But this method of reading/or understanding music is obviously specific to the reader. In my case, I don’t listen to the lyrics of a song and its significance to me comes from its rhythm/mood, if I can dance to it. I suppose that I approach some literary texts in the same manner. While I can objectively see the value in all literary texts (I can appreciate the author’s experimentation with a new sort of narration, for instance), I am particularly fond of texts in which I have discovered a personal significance, at least initially. Deriving personal meaning from a text is especially useful when attacking a dense work of fiction—it becomes less intimidating and has helped me examine the text more critically without qualms. This personal approach to reading is how D.A. Miller approaches Austen. He finds that he, like Austen herself, is a master of Style for he does not subscribe to societal norm of heterosexuality and of a man disliking Jane Austen. Miller does not sacrifice Style in exchange for Personhood just as Austen’s narrative voice remains neuter in not engaging in the marriage plot of which it narrates.
I think that with all works of art, including literature, sometimes the meaning that we derive from the text and how the text is used is more important than those that the author intends. I remember hearing from an ethnomusicology lecture that Aretha Franklin’s song “Respect” was used in some Women’s Rights movements despite the lyrics’ references to prostitution. The point was that the people paid attention to the word “respect” of the chorus and derived their meaning from it, independent of its lyrics or of the composer’s intention. In the end, it didn’t matter what the song actually said, but how it was used/how it was read by its audience. Similarly, while Uncle Tom’s Cabin was intended to be an abolitionist novel, “Uncle Tom” is now used to describe blacks that sympathize with whites. But this method of reading/or understanding music is obviously specific to the reader. In my case, I don’t listen to the lyrics of a song and its significance to me comes from its rhythm/mood, if I can dance to it. I suppose that I approach some literary texts in the same manner. While I can objectively see the value in all literary texts (I can appreciate the author’s experimentation with a new sort of narration, for instance), I am particularly fond of texts in which I have discovered a personal significance, at least initially. Deriving personal meaning from a text is especially useful when attacking a dense work of fiction—it becomes less intimidating and has helped me examine the text more critically without qualms. This personal approach to reading is how D.A. Miller approaches Austen. He finds that he, like Austen herself, is a master of Style for he does not subscribe to societal norm of heterosexuality and of a man disliking Jane Austen. Miller does not sacrifice Style in exchange for Personhood just as Austen’s narrative voice remains neuter in not engaging in the marriage plot of which it narrates.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Self-Awareness of Character in "The Type-Writer Girl"
One of the most noticeable characteristics of Juliet’s conscience (and narration) is her rationalization of her reality to literature. In this she often superimposes her own “Homeric” adventures onto those of characters that she deems worthy of emulation or at least notice. Nowhere is this more evident that in her naming of most of her characters from past literature. This is especially important because her own name is that of one of Shakespeare’s heroines. Because of this fact she is, perhaps unwittingly, forced into this methodology of life and, in particular, to her self-proclaimed search for a Romeo: “My name is Juliet; you may well believe I have had moments when I thrilled with the expectation of a Romeo” (74). This proves to be an essential aspect of her character, as Allen must have clearly known in providing us with a main character keenly aware of her “character-ness”.
This fact is precisely what complicates her style as that of a “new woman”. Though she exhibits many of the attributes that are meant to characterize her as such (bicycle riding, her dress, smoking, etc.), she harbors these sentiments of a Shakespearean Juliet in her search for a man and in her own awareness that “woman is plastic till the predestined man appears” (85). From her narration we see that with the arrival of her “Romeo”, she becomes far more aware of the character-like quality that each of them are meant to play. She adopts somewhat of a persona even upon their first meaning, trying her best to maintain and fulfill her role as the “employee” when she sees that he is willing to give her undue treatment with regard to the carrying of her typewriter. Such intentional self-characterization may equally be said to stem from her awareness of her self as a literary Juliet or have provided her with later insight into her behavior as such. Either way, the notion of her modernity is brought into question with this adoption of the quintessentially female persona.
This fact is precisely what complicates her style as that of a “new woman”. Though she exhibits many of the attributes that are meant to characterize her as such (bicycle riding, her dress, smoking, etc.), she harbors these sentiments of a Shakespearean Juliet in her search for a man and in her own awareness that “woman is plastic till the predestined man appears” (85). From her narration we see that with the arrival of her “Romeo”, she becomes far more aware of the character-like quality that each of them are meant to play. She adopts somewhat of a persona even upon their first meaning, trying her best to maintain and fulfill her role as the “employee” when she sees that he is willing to give her undue treatment with regard to the carrying of her typewriter. Such intentional self-characterization may equally be said to stem from her awareness of her self as a literary Juliet or have provided her with later insight into her behavior as such. Either way, the notion of her modernity is brought into question with this adoption of the quintessentially female persona.
The "Modern Woman" and Her Irrationality
In The Type-Writer Girl, Grant Allen assumes not only a female voice for narration but a female persona for author as well. Instead of a man writing as a woman, Allen presents the novel as a woman writing as a woman. Since the protagonist’s concerns are those of what the Introduction calls “Modern Woman” –financial independence, freedom from male-oriented social constraints, et al. – it would be hard to accept as genuine if attributed to a man: the author would be emasculating himself.
Through the use of a female pseudonym Allen is able to skirt this problem for the most part, but his true identity, at points, shines through. The natural equality of the sexes that Juliet purports to believe in is contradicted by her own actions. When she goes to the auction house she bids on a piece of art even though she has no money to her name simply because she “could not bear to think that that coarse-looking dealer with the vulgar laugh” should own her favorite piece (72). From there, she is quickly overcome by her emotions – “I could no longer contain myself…. With an effort I gasped out”(72).
She has now, through her impetuousness, put herself in an irreconcilable position. Thank God, then, for “the young man with the sweet voice” who approaches her and offers to buy the Fra Angelico from her – and for more than she bid in the first place (73). The “Modern Woman” was saved from her irrational behavior by the benevolent and levelheaded male.
Through the use of a female pseudonym Allen is able to skirt this problem for the most part, but his true identity, at points, shines through. The natural equality of the sexes that Juliet purports to believe in is contradicted by her own actions. When she goes to the auction house she bids on a piece of art even though she has no money to her name simply because she “could not bear to think that that coarse-looking dealer with the vulgar laugh” should own her favorite piece (72). From there, she is quickly overcome by her emotions – “I could no longer contain myself…. With an effort I gasped out”(72).
She has now, through her impetuousness, put herself in an irreconcilable position. Thank God, then, for “the young man with the sweet voice” who approaches her and offers to buy the Fra Angelico from her – and for more than she bid in the first place (73). The “Modern Woman” was saved from her irrational behavior by the benevolent and levelheaded male.
Juliet's bicycle
Juliet’s bicycle is the literal and metaphorical vehicle by which she creates relationships with others. (Juliet makes a similar comparison between herself and her bicycle when she dismounts it to “tighten her loose joints”—that is, those of her bicycle and her own.) The bicycle allows her to obtain her first typewriting job quickly thereby hearing of the anarchist commune later that very day at lunch. Juliet’s fellow anarchist comrades warmed up to her because they were interested in learning how to bicycle. Upon leaving the commune, she crashes into Michaela who we, the reader, learn to be Meta, the fiancé of Juliet’s love interest Romeo.
At the opening of chapter eight, Juliet mentions “bicycle face” along with other disadvantages of her beloved bicycle—its loosened screws as well as the inability for calm reflection whilst riding it. The shift in Juliet’s attitude about her bicycle marks the end of its life—crashing into Michaela about in corner. Here too, Juliet realizes that she is indeed a woman before she is a cyclist because she looks at her own wounds before those of her bicycle; an observation that separates her further from the independent, progressive, bicycling woman in a cycling suit.
When she had her bicycle, Juliet was essentially alone (with the exception of Commissioner Lin). It was a vehicle meant for one person and as such, it is during this time in the novel where Juliet does not have any meaningful (human) relationships. The death of Juliet’s bicycle and her use of trains and gondolas later in the novel coincide with her emotional involvement with Romeo and Michaela (Meta). Even when Juliet must leave Venice, she depends on Meta to return to London (or more specifically, she depends on Meta’s funds).
While the novel begins with a bicycle, it ends with a romantic image of Juliet revealing her identity and bidding goodbye to Meta on a gondola. The gondola, unlike a bicycle with its clunky, mechanical gears and chains, is more aesthetically simple with a smooth, traditionally wooden, body that glides along the Venetian canals. It is noteworthy that the novel’s most dramatic action surrounding Juliet’s emotional affair is discussed with Romeo and Meta on the more aesthetically simple of the two vehicles.
At the opening of chapter eight, Juliet mentions “bicycle face” along with other disadvantages of her beloved bicycle—its loosened screws as well as the inability for calm reflection whilst riding it. The shift in Juliet’s attitude about her bicycle marks the end of its life—crashing into Michaela about in corner. Here too, Juliet realizes that she is indeed a woman before she is a cyclist because she looks at her own wounds before those of her bicycle; an observation that separates her further from the independent, progressive, bicycling woman in a cycling suit.
When she had her bicycle, Juliet was essentially alone (with the exception of Commissioner Lin). It was a vehicle meant for one person and as such, it is during this time in the novel where Juliet does not have any meaningful (human) relationships. The death of Juliet’s bicycle and her use of trains and gondolas later in the novel coincide with her emotional involvement with Romeo and Michaela (Meta). Even when Juliet must leave Venice, she depends on Meta to return to London (or more specifically, she depends on Meta’s funds).
While the novel begins with a bicycle, it ends with a romantic image of Juliet revealing her identity and bidding goodbye to Meta on a gondola. The gondola, unlike a bicycle with its clunky, mechanical gears and chains, is more aesthetically simple with a smooth, traditionally wooden, body that glides along the Venetian canals. It is noteworthy that the novel’s most dramatic action surrounding Juliet’s emotional affair is discussed with Romeo and Meta on the more aesthetically simple of the two vehicles.
"The Bacilli at Flor and Fingleman's"
Juliet Appleton, upon accepting her post as a typewriter (female), comments on the copious amounts of dust that saturate every nook and cranny of the small office at Flor and Fingleman's. "The bacilli," she says, "flew about me visibly whenever I lifted a book; they settled in myriads on my poor black dress; they invaded my hair and required to be daily dislodged by violent hostilities."
Appleton leaves, and after negotiating "complicated topography," she achieves her temporary end at the anarchist colony in Sussex. That colony, in contrast with the London offices, could be best figured by the "bald, bare dining hall" that stood at its center. Here, the influence of women is nearly totally absent. Families exist, but the women and children blindly follow the doxy of the men.
Somehow, simplicity has become foreign (hence the anarchist "furriers,") and complexity has become familiar.
With Austen, we read the austerity of the countryside as a feature that symbolizes and culminates the 19th century nationalist spirit of England. With Allen's novella, however, this austerity typifies the opposite: now, national character is linked with the complex and the accumulated, and the austerities of anarchy and futurism--male dominated phenomena--are marginalized. To borrow a trope from Moretti: In its (moral) emptiness, the simple countryside is inverted as the site of complication in the unfolding plot.
The mechanics of inversion shine yet brighter in the case of narrative voice. A man, Grant Allen, has assumed the first person limited omniscient point of view of a woman, albeit a somewhat independent (masculine) one. Where Austen took a neutered and highly distant position, Allen works the opposite angle by getting moving the narrative voice so close to his character that it moves across the gendered divide. This intense closeness is accentuated time and time again in the novella when Appleton describes moments of "penetration": we feel the dust in her nostrils, the stares upon her figure, the dirt on her dress, the cuts in her hands.
Finally, to tie all this together, the inversion of narrative voice and the inversion of national character simultaneously signify the new-mystical experience of urban modernity. In London, "the phantom-crowded Strand, [the] streaming street full of those hurrying, scurrying men with black bags, bound as ever for the Unknown," offers a brilliant after-image of the "vagueness, the elusiveness, the melting, hazy charm of feminine craft" found in The Odyssey. For wherein the country, peoples and structures lie far from one another, in London experience is condensed. And given the new socialized structure, whereby Woman is to compete with the men, the city re-emerges as the site of nationalism. With its condensation of personalities, ideas, and genders, like bacilli heaped upon old books, London can replace the countryside as the space of mystery and possibility. As Allen looks through new eyes with Juliet Appleton, so we are to understand the urban space as the best place to look mystically through the eyes of others.
Type-writer (not male, but more than female)
When Juliet first enters Flor and Fingelman, she is ignored by all three clerks. In their “ostentatious unconsciousness” of her presence, “[t]heir talk turned upon that noble animal, the horse” (29). They don’t dwell on the horse, instead they turn to talking about Fleet Street. Yet interestingly, once their attention does turn to Juliet, she describes the “pulpy youth” running his eyes over her “as if [she] were a horse for sale” (30). They have stripped her of her personhood and naturalized her into their discussion of horses. As a response to their impersonal scrutiny, she reverts to style since she cannot be a legitimate person in their eyes. Instead, she is a horse—no different from any other horse from their earlier conversation. In being conscious of their gaze, she subsumes their gaze into her own narrative voice, weighing herself as a scientific specimen with her attractiveness in her little black dress and hat.
Rather than reject their condescending gaze and attempt to persuade the reader otherwise, Juliet allows the reader to read her in the same way. She adopts the clerk's perspective, even though she does not endorse that particular view of herself. Thus, she becomes a detached animal in the eyes of the reader, if only for a short time. In the struggle for life, she permits the episode, showing herself humbled, yet knowing enough to read their reading of her. When the pulpy clerk turns to his fellows and pronounces her “good enough” (30), Juliet suspects it as a reference to her outward face and figure rather than her typing skills. She is powerless at this moment to distinguish herself from a horse. At same time, she ironically turns their own kind of gaze against them as she observes the straight black hair, features modeled after an oysters, hairy hands, and goggle-eyes. In that sense, her retaliation wins back part of her personhood, by using the authoritative objectifying gaze usually reserved for men looking at women to look at men.
Coming from an audacious type-writer (female), the power of narration makes any gaze or pronouncement from the clerks secondary. Though Juliet never achieves the privilege of (male), as the author and narrator of her own story, she can definitely claim the authority of a more than female.
Rather than reject their condescending gaze and attempt to persuade the reader otherwise, Juliet allows the reader to read her in the same way. She adopts the clerk's perspective, even though she does not endorse that particular view of herself. Thus, she becomes a detached animal in the eyes of the reader, if only for a short time. In the struggle for life, she permits the episode, showing herself humbled, yet knowing enough to read their reading of her. When the pulpy clerk turns to his fellows and pronounces her “good enough” (30), Juliet suspects it as a reference to her outward face and figure rather than her typing skills. She is powerless at this moment to distinguish herself from a horse. At same time, she ironically turns their own kind of gaze against them as she observes the straight black hair, features modeled after an oysters, hairy hands, and goggle-eyes. In that sense, her retaliation wins back part of her personhood, by using the authoritative objectifying gaze usually reserved for men looking at women to look at men.
Coming from an audacious type-writer (female), the power of narration makes any gaze or pronouncement from the clerks secondary. Though Juliet never achieves the privilege of (male), as the author and narrator of her own story, she can definitely claim the authority of a more than female.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Metaphorical Act of Translation in Austen's Work
In consulting various texts regarding the history of English translation, I have been able to understand the progress of what was considered the “proper” form of translating foreign texts. Throughout much of the 18th century, general critical and popular consensus held that the most important thing for a translator to do was catch the “spirit” of a given piece rather than to focus on literal translation. This feeling can be understood quite easily through Alexander Tytler’s seminal work on translation Essay on the Principles of Translation (1791) in which he states of many works that only deal with “literal and servile transcript”. This feeling gradually began to give way with the turn of the century and up until the end of the 19th century there was a general trend towards more literal translations. The era that Austen lived and wrote in, then, was only at the beginning of this transformation of the translational process, but as the topic was widely debated, it would be safe to assume that she had at least minimal exposure to it.
The importance that this debate has to Austen’s text is then to be understood via Inchbald’s own self-proclaimed concern with the style of Kotzebue’s work rather than any form of literal translation. She explicitly states in her preface to Lovers’ Vows that she is primarily concerned with representing his work in a proper fashion to a British audience. This act of catering a translation to an audience becomes very important for Austen in her use of the play and as it reflects the characters throughout her work.
Austen quite clearly considers the play itself as quite improper, a fact which highlights the inefficacy of Inchbald’s supposed concern over British propriety. Fundamentally, then, this may be read as Austen’s belief that no matter the type of translation proffered, the underlying “spirit” is not to be eradicated. This concern gives way to the metaphorical act of translating that each of Austen’s characters undergoes in various forms. Every character deals differently with the act of relaying unknown information to an audience. What is most noteworthy in this is Fanny’s exceptional ability (or inability) to consider only literal speech and behavior. From her very first appearance she is taken in more by Lady Bertram’s smile than by the implicitly intended graciousness of Sir Thomas (43). This behavior is manifest throughout the novel, as seen in Fanny’s objection to the play based on its actual contents rather than what her compatriots tell her is the “spirit” of the play. Equally, Fanny’s literal interpretation of impropriety of the act of Maria’s giving away her brother’s present, Fanny’s unwillingness to adhere to Edmund’s interpretation and justification of Mary’s behavior (90), Fanny’s immediate disavowal of Mary’s plea to overlook the literal aspects of Henry’s behavior (436), and many more instances all reveal Fanny’s adherence to the literal aspects of reality rather than subjective speculation and “translation”.
This analysis becomes even more intriguing when considering Mrs. Norris’s primary joy in life: relaying information of shocking events. This metaphorical “translation” to her intended audiences is the exact opposite of Fanny’s tendencies, and deepens the judgment that Austen’s narrator implicitly gives this most loathed aunt. Ultimately, it may be understood that the debate of Austen’s time regarding the nature of the act of translation has a direct effect on the behavior of the character’s that live in such a time.
The importance that this debate has to Austen’s text is then to be understood via Inchbald’s own self-proclaimed concern with the style of Kotzebue’s work rather than any form of literal translation. She explicitly states in her preface to Lovers’ Vows that she is primarily concerned with representing his work in a proper fashion to a British audience. This act of catering a translation to an audience becomes very important for Austen in her use of the play and as it reflects the characters throughout her work.
Austen quite clearly considers the play itself as quite improper, a fact which highlights the inefficacy of Inchbald’s supposed concern over British propriety. Fundamentally, then, this may be read as Austen’s belief that no matter the type of translation proffered, the underlying “spirit” is not to be eradicated. This concern gives way to the metaphorical act of translating that each of Austen’s characters undergoes in various forms. Every character deals differently with the act of relaying unknown information to an audience. What is most noteworthy in this is Fanny’s exceptional ability (or inability) to consider only literal speech and behavior. From her very first appearance she is taken in more by Lady Bertram’s smile than by the implicitly intended graciousness of Sir Thomas (43). This behavior is manifest throughout the novel, as seen in Fanny’s objection to the play based on its actual contents rather than what her compatriots tell her is the “spirit” of the play. Equally, Fanny’s literal interpretation of impropriety of the act of Maria’s giving away her brother’s present, Fanny’s unwillingness to adhere to Edmund’s interpretation and justification of Mary’s behavior (90), Fanny’s immediate disavowal of Mary’s plea to overlook the literal aspects of Henry’s behavior (436), and many more instances all reveal Fanny’s adherence to the literal aspects of reality rather than subjective speculation and “translation”.
This analysis becomes even more intriguing when considering Mrs. Norris’s primary joy in life: relaying information of shocking events. This metaphorical “translation” to her intended audiences is the exact opposite of Fanny’s tendencies, and deepens the judgment that Austen’s narrator implicitly gives this most loathed aunt. Ultimately, it may be understood that the debate of Austen’s time regarding the nature of the act of translation has a direct effect on the behavior of the character’s that live in such a time.
Mansfield Park and the Archeology of Values
"England" is an entity ripe for accurate historical interpretation because so much cultural innovation took place in such a relatively condensed time and space. Here, I want to focus my lens on the transformation of public values in England as represented through its main works of architecture. My journey begins with Medieval England, when parish churches were first introduced, and it moves swiftly through towards the turn of the nineteenth century, when the house estate became the final locus of public activity, and thus of values.
In "Sensing and believing: exploring worlds of difference in pre-modern England: a contribution to the debate opened by Kate Giles," Pamela C. Graves' archeological analysis of church structures affords scholars the opportunity to imagine the interface between values and experience in public life at that time. She notes that "past understandings of the senses and their role in social construction, embodiment and body emplacement" can be the subject of prolonged scrutiny, and thus we learn how "sights, movements and sounds are imbued with meaning and carefully hierarchized [in Medeival eccliastic experience] so as to express and enforce the social and cosmic order." Given the extramission/intromission theories of sensation and perception, by which to sense phenomenologically is to make spiritual contact, the "ritualized...interactions with these material environments [expose] the nexus of piety, social identity, individual and institutional strategies such practices helped to create, as well as the limits of authority and dissidence." Without going into too much detail, the ritualization of otherwise everyday objects was supposed to a.) provide for the laiety, clergy, and nobility alike, an authentic interaction with Communion, and b.) to remind and enforce all peoples to look for the spiritual aspects of physical creation. The latter effort aimed for good Christians to reject outward curiosities and extraneous details by looking always inward towards their True Selves.
Fast forward to the turn of the 1800s, and we see quite a different value system, as evidenced by George Dyer's "A dissertation on the theory and practice of benevolence." In his first chapter, he establishes a variety of points which show the dramatic shift in social attitudes
1.) Humans of like mind are to seek refuge from the imperfections of the physical world in each other's social help: to live otherwise is to subscribe to the superstitions of 'dark ages.'
2.) If a man is superior in his independence, given that he is moral and rational, he may as well be his own god; he does not require the mediation of religion.
3.) It is the responsibility of the nation to ensure the stability of this way of private independence.
4.) No one of true virtue is to be enslaved in his family or to be enslaved by other families, unless of course, the original sins of despotism or corruption lurk by the wayside.
5.) Only through honesty and inward reflection can a person look through cracked customs and peer at the corruption/despotism beneath.
6.) No one is to discriminate based off of extraneous detail such as race or creed: the buck ends at universal human virtue.
7.) Self-righteousness reaches beyond the boundaries of proper inward reflection; to practice thus is to be like the Pharisees, and so mercy in its correct form is of highest value.
What we see from Dyer essentially is a clever transformation: what institutions existed to make G-d the center of life are now reconfigured to make the beneficiary and patron the god of his own household. Mansfield Park, then, is like a living archeological record of Dyer's theories unfolding. As the characters move through space in a ritualized fashion, we see, in sharper and sharper degrees, the extent to which Sir Thomas plays the role of the indepentent benefactor. Oftentimes, his despotism and corruption overshadow his proper role, as shown through the inward-looking Fanny.
The scene at Sotherton where Fanny is disappointed with the simplicity of the private chapel is no value judgment: it is more an objective exhibition of the state of things. Given our awareness of this state and its ability to saturate the most mundane aspects of life, readers of Austen's work are to move forward and evaluate whether or not this state is satisfactory, and why.
So we have a new reading of the following exchange, and we can essentially read outwards from this moment in order to best read the rest of the novel:
***
"Very fine indeed!" said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It must do the heads of family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away"
"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Every body likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes: and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have forseen that the time would come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different--especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now."
***
According to Dyer, Miss Crawford's logic would be infallible. Her sentiments would reflect a humanistic liberation from the shackles of religious slavery. The order achieved by that old system is now superimposed in a secularized realm. There would be nothing wrong with her emphasis on the aesthetics of the human form (project that Mrs. Eleanors would gaze away from the priest and turn a lusty eye towards her husband); such is her choice, so long as she is rationally virtous. Moreover, we learn in Graves that the architectural features that enforced inner reflection would often inadverntly highlite, aesthetically, class distinctions and wealth. So, Fanny could not justify her qualms with Miss Crawford's logic on purely spiritual grounds; after much inner reflection, she would arrive at the conclusion that the system of beneficience is only being mishandled at Mansfield.
In "Sensing and believing: exploring worlds of difference in pre-modern England: a contribution to the debate opened by Kate Giles," Pamela C. Graves' archeological analysis of church structures affords scholars the opportunity to imagine the interface between values and experience in public life at that time. She notes that "past understandings of the senses and their role in social construction, embodiment and body emplacement" can be the subject of prolonged scrutiny, and thus we learn how "sights, movements and sounds are imbued with meaning and carefully hierarchized [in Medeival eccliastic experience] so as to express and enforce the social and cosmic order." Given the extramission/intromission theories of sensation and perception, by which to sense phenomenologically is to make spiritual contact, the "ritualized...interactions with these material environments [expose] the nexus of piety, social identity, individual and institutional strategies such practices helped to create, as well as the limits of authority and dissidence." Without going into too much detail, the ritualization of otherwise everyday objects was supposed to a.) provide for the laiety, clergy, and nobility alike, an authentic interaction with Communion, and b.) to remind and enforce all peoples to look for the spiritual aspects of physical creation. The latter effort aimed for good Christians to reject outward curiosities and extraneous details by looking always inward towards their True Selves.
Fast forward to the turn of the 1800s, and we see quite a different value system, as evidenced by George Dyer's "A dissertation on the theory and practice of benevolence." In his first chapter, he establishes a variety of points which show the dramatic shift in social attitudes
1.) Humans of like mind are to seek refuge from the imperfections of the physical world in each other's social help: to live otherwise is to subscribe to the superstitions of 'dark ages.'
2.) If a man is superior in his independence, given that he is moral and rational, he may as well be his own god; he does not require the mediation of religion.
3.) It is the responsibility of the nation to ensure the stability of this way of private independence.
4.) No one of true virtue is to be enslaved in his family or to be enslaved by other families, unless of course, the original sins of despotism or corruption lurk by the wayside.
5.) Only through honesty and inward reflection can a person look through cracked customs and peer at the corruption/despotism beneath.
6.) No one is to discriminate based off of extraneous detail such as race or creed: the buck ends at universal human virtue.
7.) Self-righteousness reaches beyond the boundaries of proper inward reflection; to practice thus is to be like the Pharisees, and so mercy in its correct form is of highest value.
What we see from Dyer essentially is a clever transformation: what institutions existed to make G-d the center of life are now reconfigured to make the beneficiary and patron the god of his own household. Mansfield Park, then, is like a living archeological record of Dyer's theories unfolding. As the characters move through space in a ritualized fashion, we see, in sharper and sharper degrees, the extent to which Sir Thomas plays the role of the indepentent benefactor. Oftentimes, his despotism and corruption overshadow his proper role, as shown through the inward-looking Fanny.
The scene at Sotherton where Fanny is disappointed with the simplicity of the private chapel is no value judgment: it is more an objective exhibition of the state of things. Given our awareness of this state and its ability to saturate the most mundane aspects of life, readers of Austen's work are to move forward and evaluate whether or not this state is satisfactory, and why.
So we have a new reading of the following exchange, and we can essentially read outwards from this moment in order to best read the rest of the novel:
***
"Very fine indeed!" said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It must do the heads of family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away"
"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Every body likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes: and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have forseen that the time would come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different--especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now."
***
According to Dyer, Miss Crawford's logic would be infallible. Her sentiments would reflect a humanistic liberation from the shackles of religious slavery. The order achieved by that old system is now superimposed in a secularized realm. There would be nothing wrong with her emphasis on the aesthetics of the human form (project that Mrs. Eleanors would gaze away from the priest and turn a lusty eye towards her husband); such is her choice, so long as she is rationally virtous. Moreover, we learn in Graves that the architectural features that enforced inner reflection would often inadverntly highlite, aesthetically, class distinctions and wealth. So, Fanny could not justify her qualms with Miss Crawford's logic on purely spiritual grounds; after much inner reflection, she would arrive at the conclusion that the system of beneficience is only being mishandled at Mansfield.
Portsmouth Close Reading: Mansifeld Park
"William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before she went out of harbour--the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in the service--and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her."
This is the best example of a shift in time in the novel, demonstrating the years since Fanny had been home last. In narrowing a focus, it is easiest to spend time understanding changes in the closest seaport, Portsmouth. Upon examining the word "improvement" in this excerpt, one must examine the definition of said word, stating that an improvement is the betterment of space. Portsmouth during this time period was often perceived as being a place of debauchery and dysfunction and it is interesting to trace how that significance impacted the novel, especially since Fanny herself experienced a change in demeanor as well, from Portsmouth to Mansfield Park.
The Quarterly Review and Progressive Politics
During the episode at Sotherton Mrs. Norris, Mrs. Rushworth and Fanny go back to the house ahead of the rest of the party. Austen writes: “On this rencontre they all returned to the house together, there to lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of dinner.”
From the journal’s very first volume, the Quarterly Review adopts a strong stance against the slave trade and its prominent place in the West Indian colonies. In a review of a history of Barbados from that first issue, the QR writes that the trade “has proved a moral evil of enormous magnitude.” The publications politics are anything but ambiguous.
Austen’s reference to the Quarterly Review is made in as offhanded a manner as her references to Antigua. It is mentioned in a list with, and therefore on the same level as, lounging on sofas and chit-chatting – normalized and everyday activities for whiling away the time before dinner.
At the time of Mansfield Park’s writing and publication, the Quarterly Review was the premiere literary and political journal in England, surpassing the Edinburgh Review that it was set up to combat in both readership and influence. It is the only periodical to be mentioned by name in the novel, and any contemporaries reading Austen’s reference would be quick to associate it with progressive, abolitionist politics.
The result is the residents of Mansfield Park read one politics while relying on another for their livelihood. The disjunction could be explained as Austen equating Sir Thomas’ lack of progressive politics abroad and the resulting troubles in Antigua with his lack of progressive parenting and the problems that arise with his daughters eloping.
From the journal’s very first volume, the Quarterly Review adopts a strong stance against the slave trade and its prominent place in the West Indian colonies. In a review of a history of Barbados from that first issue, the QR writes that the trade “has proved a moral evil of enormous magnitude.” The publications politics are anything but ambiguous.
Austen’s reference to the Quarterly Review is made in as offhanded a manner as her references to Antigua. It is mentioned in a list with, and therefore on the same level as, lounging on sofas and chit-chatting – normalized and everyday activities for whiling away the time before dinner.
At the time of Mansfield Park’s writing and publication, the Quarterly Review was the premiere literary and political journal in England, surpassing the Edinburgh Review that it was set up to combat in both readership and influence. It is the only periodical to be mentioned by name in the novel, and any contemporaries reading Austen’s reference would be quick to associate it with progressive, abolitionist politics.
The result is the residents of Mansfield Park read one politics while relying on another for their livelihood. The disjunction could be explained as Austen equating Sir Thomas’ lack of progressive politics abroad and the resulting troubles in Antigua with his lack of progressive parenting and the problems that arise with his daughters eloping.
Edmund's Tainted Deeds
While only Members of Parliament had the privilege of franking letters, its abuse was frequent because post was expensive. Upon searching through primary documents from Austen’s era (and before and after), several documents that outlined Parliamentary privileges and also complaints about the abuses thereof surfaced. People would forge the signatures of Members of Parliament with, or without, their knowledge. In the former, even if the MP gave them permission to do so, it was still blatant forgery as in the latter case.
In “A Letter from a Freeholder in the Country to a Member of Parliament Concerning Franking of Letters” from 1738, the author (signed "Frank Yeoman) claims that about 1/5 or 1/7 of all inland letters are franked “one way or other” which he concludes proves the abuse of franking and that some made a profit from it.
With this in mind, my interpretation of the scene in Chapter 2 where Edmund offers Sir Thomas’s franking privilege to Fanny has altered slightly. Fanny responds to Edmund’s supposedly kind suggestion with a “frightened look” and “thought it a bold measure”, for what I now understand to be with good reason because Edmund was breaking the law—his kind gesture is tainted with the abuse of his father’s Parliamentary privilege (MP 47). Previously, I attributed Fanny’s reaction to her overly appreciative, sensitive manner. Despite Fanny’s initial negative reaction however, she so fully trusts Edmund that she offered “no further resistance” to his suggestion and gratefully accepts his help with her letter writing. Additionally, Edmund sent half a guinea under the letter’s seal to Edmund, thus doubling the cost of post were it not franked. In this scene, we are inclined, just as Fanny is to be grateful to Edmund for reaching out to Fanny.
But this theme of Edmund’s heroic kindness to Fanny tainted by a “bending of the rules” appears elsewhere in the novel. Edmund forgets that it was time for Fanny to ride while accompanying Miss Crawford hers. Fanny herself, for all her gratefulness, even acknowledges this fact, “…if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered. (MP 94)” While Miss Crawford was apologetic, Edmund “added in his conviction that she [Fanny] could be in no hurry. (MP 95)” Similarly, Edmund acts against his initial better judgment when he finally concedes to take part in “Lover’s Vows.” Fanny is “more sorry to see [Edmund] drawn in to do what [he] had resolved against, and what [he knew] to think disagreeable to [her] uncle. (MP 174)” In both cases, Edmund rationalizes his decisions while Fanny still idolizes him. Like Fanny, we are tempted to accept Edmund’s rationalization and remain fond of him and his care for her.
From here, I hope to find more instances of Edmund’s “bending of rules” and perhaps explore Johnson’s references to Edmund’s “double-talk” or his opinions disguised as unselfish advice to Fanny.
In “A Letter from a Freeholder in the Country to a Member of Parliament Concerning Franking of Letters” from 1738, the author (signed "Frank Yeoman) claims that about 1/5 or 1/7 of all inland letters are franked “one way or other” which he concludes proves the abuse of franking and that some made a profit from it.
With this in mind, my interpretation of the scene in Chapter 2 where Edmund offers Sir Thomas’s franking privilege to Fanny has altered slightly. Fanny responds to Edmund’s supposedly kind suggestion with a “frightened look” and “thought it a bold measure”, for what I now understand to be with good reason because Edmund was breaking the law—his kind gesture is tainted with the abuse of his father’s Parliamentary privilege (MP 47). Previously, I attributed Fanny’s reaction to her overly appreciative, sensitive manner. Despite Fanny’s initial negative reaction however, she so fully trusts Edmund that she offered “no further resistance” to his suggestion and gratefully accepts his help with her letter writing. Additionally, Edmund sent half a guinea under the letter’s seal to Edmund, thus doubling the cost of post were it not franked. In this scene, we are inclined, just as Fanny is to be grateful to Edmund for reaching out to Fanny.
But this theme of Edmund’s heroic kindness to Fanny tainted by a “bending of the rules” appears elsewhere in the novel. Edmund forgets that it was time for Fanny to ride while accompanying Miss Crawford hers. Fanny herself, for all her gratefulness, even acknowledges this fact, “…if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered. (MP 94)” While Miss Crawford was apologetic, Edmund “added in his conviction that she [Fanny] could be in no hurry. (MP 95)” Similarly, Edmund acts against his initial better judgment when he finally concedes to take part in “Lover’s Vows.” Fanny is “more sorry to see [Edmund] drawn in to do what [he] had resolved against, and what [he knew] to think disagreeable to [her] uncle. (MP 174)” In both cases, Edmund rationalizes his decisions while Fanny still idolizes him. Like Fanny, we are tempted to accept Edmund’s rationalization and remain fond of him and his care for her.
From here, I hope to find more instances of Edmund’s “bending of rules” and perhaps explore Johnson’s references to Edmund’s “double-talk” or his opinions disguised as unselfish advice to Fanny.
Reading Femininity through Horses
In light of the fact that women riding horses enhanced cultural capital for women but threatened their claims of traditional female domesticity, the distinctions between Fanny and her cousins/Mary Crawford become clearer. Edmund’s mare factors prominently in the triangulation of Edmund, Fanny and Mary, drawing attention to the contrast between Fanny and Mary. Their different responses to horses can not only be connected with their different temperaments (which also carries significance, since positive horse attributes in the 19th century were also connected with desirable female attributes), but also with their relationship to the sequestered female sphere. Immediately after Mary receives her first lesson in horsemanship, initiated by her for pleasure, the old coachman accompanying Fanny praises Mary’s giftedness saying “I never see one sit on a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began…Lord bless me! how you did tremble…” (95). The Miss Bertrams take especial interest in Mary’s natural affinity for riding since “her early excellence in it was like their own” (95). Horsemanship draws Mary and the Bertram girls together at the expense of excluding Fanny.
There is also the question of motivation. Fanny rides for health whereas the other women ride for pleasure. By leaving the confines of the house, symbolically leaving the “feminine roles of passivity, submissiveness, and non-physicality” (Dorre 78), the Bertram girls and Mary unbecomingly embrace independence and freedom from the patriarchal rule, making them less womanly. It is harder to make a judgment on Fanny because she, in general, has less freedom to choose what she wants to do or what she is allowed to like. There is no point in the novel where Fanny explicitly expresses her enjoyment for riding. The narrator describes Fanny’s old grey poney as a “valued friend” (64) and subsequently talks about Fanny’s “delight” (66) in the new mare calculated for her use. Most of that delight seems to derive from the “consideration of that kindness…beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example of everything good” (66). With her delicate health, Fanny has necessity in riding, but remains a homebody. In that sense, she escapes the censure that comes from denouncing traditional femininity. She remains, in Claudia Johnson’s words, “conventionally feminine” (Johnson 95).
NB. There are a lot more readings of horses that I could pursue in the novel: 1) the relationship of ideal woman to ideal horse and how that influences female education and the reading of Edmund’s “gentling” vs. “breaking” of Fanny, 2) Tom’s obsession with horses, Mary Crawford’s jealousy, and the idea that Tom successfully replaces women with horses, 3) the economic significance of horses and the way it distinguishes class, i.e. how Fanny can’t own a horse and Henry gives a costly loan horse to William, etc.
There is also the question of motivation. Fanny rides for health whereas the other women ride for pleasure. By leaving the confines of the house, symbolically leaving the “feminine roles of passivity, submissiveness, and non-physicality” (Dorre 78), the Bertram girls and Mary unbecomingly embrace independence and freedom from the patriarchal rule, making them less womanly. It is harder to make a judgment on Fanny because she, in general, has less freedom to choose what she wants to do or what she is allowed to like. There is no point in the novel where Fanny explicitly expresses her enjoyment for riding. The narrator describes Fanny’s old grey poney as a “valued friend” (64) and subsequently talks about Fanny’s “delight” (66) in the new mare calculated for her use. Most of that delight seems to derive from the “consideration of that kindness…beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example of everything good” (66). With her delicate health, Fanny has necessity in riding, but remains a homebody. In that sense, she escapes the censure that comes from denouncing traditional femininity. She remains, in Claudia Johnson’s words, “conventionally feminine” (Johnson 95).
NB. There are a lot more readings of horses that I could pursue in the novel: 1) the relationship of ideal woman to ideal horse and how that influences female education and the reading of Edmund’s “gentling” vs. “breaking” of Fanny, 2) Tom’s obsession with horses, Mary Crawford’s jealousy, and the idea that Tom successfully replaces women with horses, 3) the economic significance of horses and the way it distinguishes class, i.e. how Fanny can’t own a horse and Henry gives a costly loan horse to William, etc.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
((FRIENDLY RESEARCH ADVICE))
Dear Engl261,
I just wanted to share with you that JSTOR, which is found next to the link for EBSCO at the Van Pelt website, has just given me a ton of hits for my search: private chapel + England. I also found it particularly helpful to sort the results from oldest to newest in order to separate primary sources from secondary criticisms. See y'all tomorrow.
-Michael
I just wanted to share with you that JSTOR, which is found next to the link for EBSCO at the Van Pelt website, has just given me a ton of hits for my search: private chapel + England. I also found it particularly helpful to sort the results from oldest to newest in order to separate primary sources from secondary criticisms. See y'all tomorrow.
-Michael
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Franking letters and letter-writing
While I’ve only read Pride and Prejudice aside from Mansfield Park, I remember that the information revealed in letters in the former were pivotal in Elizabeth Bennet’s understanding of Mr. Darcy. In fact, Mr. Darcy’s one letter quelled all of Lizzie’s reservations about Mr. Darcy, making him a sympathetic character to her and the audience. Similarly, in the last book of Mansfield Park, letters appear with greater frequency and at greater length from Edmund, Lady Bertram and Miss Crawford to Fanny while she is at Portsmouth to tell her of the news from her true home--Henry Crawford’s affair with Maria, Julia elopement with and Tom Bertram’s illness. The importance of letters in Austen’s novels, what they accomplished for the plot and character development in comparison/and or contrast to their usage in Mansfield Park would be interesting for biography critics and zeitgeist critics alike note Mansfield Park’s uniqueness.
Letter-writing was also personally important to Austen, which was a reflection of her own character and also of the times. She wrote letters over the course of several days to keep her friends informed of her shopping details, gossip, visits and progress on her latest writing project. During Austen’s lifetime, the British post improved greatly from mounted postboys to a system of armed mailcoaches. Despite such an improvement though, post was relatively expensive and was only free for Members of Parliament and Members of the House of Lords who could “frank” letters. Around 1813, the recipient of letter paid four pence for letter from 15 miles away. The price of the letter varied with weight, distance, whether it was paid for on dispatch or on receipt. Because of the cost, resourceful methods of letter writing to conserve paper arose like folding the letter into its own envelope as well as turning the paper sideways to write in the opposite, intersecting direction. Also, letter-writers crammed as much text as possible into one sheet of paper by writing very small texts with very little space between the lines—such letters would contain news of what had occurred over the past few days.
With all of the cost-saving methods in mind, I am interested in researching how this affected the nature and prominence of letter-writing/epistolary relationships in Mansfield Park and other writings of the Regency Era. Perhaps so much information was contained in each letter that moved the plot along quickly in the final five or so chapters of the novel because of cost of sending a letter.
Letter-writing was also personally important to Austen, which was a reflection of her own character and also of the times. She wrote letters over the course of several days to keep her friends informed of her shopping details, gossip, visits and progress on her latest writing project. During Austen’s lifetime, the British post improved greatly from mounted postboys to a system of armed mailcoaches. Despite such an improvement though, post was relatively expensive and was only free for Members of Parliament and Members of the House of Lords who could “frank” letters. Around 1813, the recipient of letter paid four pence for letter from 15 miles away. The price of the letter varied with weight, distance, whether it was paid for on dispatch or on receipt. Because of the cost, resourceful methods of letter writing to conserve paper arose like folding the letter into its own envelope as well as turning the paper sideways to write in the opposite, intersecting direction. Also, letter-writers crammed as much text as possible into one sheet of paper by writing very small texts with very little space between the lines—such letters would contain news of what had occurred over the past few days.
With all of the cost-saving methods in mind, I am interested in researching how this affected the nature and prominence of letter-writing/epistolary relationships in Mansfield Park and other writings of the Regency Era. Perhaps so much information was contained in each letter that moved the plot along quickly in the final five or so chapters of the novel because of cost of sending a letter.
The Quarterly Review
The Quarterly Review was founded in 1809 as a liberal-conservative political and literary journal to combat the Edinburgh Review. While the Edinburgh Review espoused the ideas of the Whig Party and supported a laissez-faire economy, the Quarterly Review identified with the Tories and the gradual abolition of slavery.
The journal was not necessarily helpful in influencing actual government policy, but it quickly surpassed the Edinburgh Review in readership and exercised a strong influence over the opinion of the majority of the reading public. The same went for literary influence. In fact, the Quarterly Review was the journal that published the scathing review of Keats’ “Endymion” that Shelley blamed for his death. The publication printed influential reviews of Jane Austen’s work as well.
There were several reviews and articles published in 1811, the year Austen began writing Mansfield Park, that concern works about plantations and slavery in Jamaica and the East Indies.
The journal was not necessarily helpful in influencing actual government policy, but it quickly surpassed the Edinburgh Review in readership and exercised a strong influence over the opinion of the majority of the reading public. The same went for literary influence. In fact, the Quarterly Review was the journal that published the scathing review of Keats’ “Endymion” that Shelley blamed for his death. The publication printed influential reviews of Jane Austen’s work as well.
There were several reviews and articles published in 1811, the year Austen began writing Mansfield Park, that concern works about plantations and slavery in Jamaica and the East Indies.
Austen's Use of "Lovers' Vows"
So much of modern criticism regarding Austen's use of Inchbald's "Lovers' Vows" focuses on the emphasis the acting scenes place on the immorality of the Bertram children and how this reflects their impropriety. I decided to research the reviews and critiques of the play upon its first performances in English and compare these comments with the idea that "Lovers' Vows" was a horribly scandalous play for the time and featured very provocative subject matter. I consulted the database of 18th century newspapers and searched for "Lovers' Vows". The majority of the results were from October of 1798, which corresponds to the plays first performances in Covent Garden. I was surprised to find that almost all of the reviews proclaimed it to be a marvelous adaption and very properly and tastefully done. Even more surprising perhaps, was the mention of "Kotzebue's considerable partiality for this country". Many of the critics praised the preface that Inchbald added to her play, as it justified her morality. She herself, in the preface, states the necessity of alteration because of its "original unfitness for an English stage" and that it would have been "revolting to an English audience". The newspapers even mention specific alterations, like the removal of a smoking scene, that Inchbald thought necessary. I then briefly researched the public perception of smoking during this period and found that it was indeed considered a vice to Christians, though not so horrible as to warrant open criticism. With these discoveries in mind, I am beginning to believe that Austen used the play not so much to emphasize the individuals' immorality, but rather to show the excessive priggishness of certain characters. There were a number of more "scandalous" German plays of the time, famously Goethe's Faust, that would have provided Austen with a considerably less ambiguous symbol, if that was her goal. Equally, in considering the assertion that it is not so much the content of the play, but rather the idea of these women acting that was improper, I came upon a series of Austen's work known as the "Juvenilia". These were written in her youth, for supposedly home performance, and often featured rather "racy" subject matter. Though I still intend to review the Anti-Jacobin perceptions of the play, it is beginning to seem to me that the play's tremendous success upon its introduction to England and the critics' praise of Inchbald's alterations reveal Austen's intentions as wholly those of satire. Even further, I quickly looked at the character that Fanny was supposed to play, the cottager's wife, and this is one of the most moral and praiseworthy characters. This may even further this idea that Fanny's actions were misguided to the extent of near inarticulateness by the excessive prudishness of her family's expectations.
Church Interiors: Parish vs. Private
In Chapter 9 of Mansfield Park, Fanny is disappointed upon entering the private family chapel at Sotherton.
"I am disappointed," said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. "This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the night wind of heaven.' No signs that a Scottish monarch sleeps below."
"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for the banners and the achievements."
-Fanny's emotions relate space, vision, and values: the layout of the family chapel signals to Fanny, at the very least, an absence of value in the religious sphere. Now, whether Fanny is simply disappointed that the chapel is not as pretty or interesting as its Medieval counterpart is not so important. Generally, the parish church carries some special import that is missing in the Sotherton chapel.
My research will spring from C. Pamela Graves' article "Sensing and believing: exploring worlds of difference in pre-modern England: a contribution to the debate opened by Kate Giles." This article explores the relationship between church space and the phenomenological experience of the Medieval subject as he his situated in a social hierarchy. The belief was that the specific construction of the church interior allowed the laiety to touch the Lord by viewing carefully contrived images, sculptures, and structures depicting Divinity. Essentially, the masses felt that when they entered the church at Mass, they were entering a space where Divinity resides.
In contrast, the plain layout of the family church sends a quite different message about space and divinity. This space is not G-d's; it is the family's. Such a distinction in church usage is rooted deeply in history, specifically in the short rain of James II and the Glorious Revolution. As the chapel was built during this reign, it carries extra symbolic import for this discussion. Furthermore, as the chapel is part of the estate, it is viewed merely as a branch of a larger entity. The chapel loses its position as the House of the Lord, and instead the space bends to the wills of its legitimate owners.
An application of this historicization to the text of Mansfield Park should lead to interesting conclusions. What I would like to specifially address: how do the spatial and visual constructions of buildings and estates within the novel clue us in to the phenomenological experience of early 19th century Britannia? Further, how do these experiences point to values inherent in that society? Finally, what can we surmise is Jane Austen's evaluation based on these findings, or if she means to espouse no opinion on the matter, what does this mean?
"I am disappointed," said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. "This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the night wind of heaven.' No signs that a Scottish monarch sleeps below."
"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for the banners and the achievements."
-Fanny's emotions relate space, vision, and values: the layout of the family chapel signals to Fanny, at the very least, an absence of value in the religious sphere. Now, whether Fanny is simply disappointed that the chapel is not as pretty or interesting as its Medieval counterpart is not so important. Generally, the parish church carries some special import that is missing in the Sotherton chapel.
My research will spring from C. Pamela Graves' article "Sensing and believing: exploring worlds of difference in pre-modern England: a contribution to the debate opened by Kate Giles." This article explores the relationship between church space and the phenomenological experience of the Medieval subject as he his situated in a social hierarchy. The belief was that the specific construction of the church interior allowed the laiety to touch the Lord by viewing carefully contrived images, sculptures, and structures depicting Divinity. Essentially, the masses felt that when they entered the church at Mass, they were entering a space where Divinity resides.
In contrast, the plain layout of the family church sends a quite different message about space and divinity. This space is not G-d's; it is the family's. Such a distinction in church usage is rooted deeply in history, specifically in the short rain of James II and the Glorious Revolution. As the chapel was built during this reign, it carries extra symbolic import for this discussion. Furthermore, as the chapel is part of the estate, it is viewed merely as a branch of a larger entity. The chapel loses its position as the House of the Lord, and instead the space bends to the wills of its legitimate owners.
An application of this historicization to the text of Mansfield Park should lead to interesting conclusions. What I would like to specifially address: how do the spatial and visual constructions of buildings and estates within the novel clue us in to the phenomenological experience of early 19th century Britannia? Further, how do these experiences point to values inherent in that society? Finally, what can we surmise is Jane Austen's evaluation based on these findings, or if she means to espouse no opinion on the matter, what does this mean?
Historical Research: Portsmouth & Navy
On October 21st, 1805 the Battle of Trafalgar brought victory to the British fleet, specifically gaining a win over Spanish and French troops. Tension continued amongst both British and United States troops, increasing the need for naval officers in their fleets. In 1812, around the time that Austen was going to begin Mansfield Park, the United States invaded Canada. Between 1793 and 1815 the Royal Navy had lost 344 of its vessels and more than 100 seamen. It seems William Price was lucky to have entered the navy at the tail end of a somewhat disastrous era for the Navy.
Fanny's relationship with William as well as Austen's own relationship with her brother's (who were both serving in the navy) often circulated around the area of Portsmouth. Not only did it serve as a major port for those training in the navy during the time, but it was also Fanny and William Price's hometown. Austen would often meet her brother's in Portsmouth when they came home from sea. The atmosphere in the military town was notorious for being dysfunctional - riots, debauchery and gang violence were some of the few delinquencies that the area was most famous for. The naval dockyard specifically mentioned in Mansfield Park was actually located in a nearby town called Portsea. Many sailors during the time would wait in the Isle of Wright for orders, five miles from Portsmouth, blockading it from the English Channel.
Historical Research: Horses
Almost fifty years after the publication of Mansfield Park, Queen Victoria’s physician prescribed her fresh air and exercise by means of horseback riding. This began a long and intimate relationship between the queen and her groom (who was later promoted to be her personal attendant). Gina Dorre, the author of Victorian Fiction and the Cult of the Horse, attributes part of the scandal that arose in court to the “provocative collusion of gender and class issues that the horse [engendered] in the nineteenth century” (Dorre 3).
Both before and after the creation of the railroad, the horse was important to English society. It was the main power behind transportation, whether by horseback or by some kind of horse drawn carriage. It, as well as the dog, was considered among the most noble of animals. Representing nobility and aristocratic values, the horse ennobled humanity by its servitude to an even more noble creature, man. The kind of horse was tailored to the kind of work it was required to do. As a noble beast, the horse and his relationship to man came to illustrate the model relationship between man and compliant servant. By opening acknowledging masterly superiority, the horse set an example among animals for men to follow.
Practically it was very expensive to keep a horse. Stabling, feeding, and maintaining horses was reserved for people with capital, which explains its early associations with aristocracy and landed wealth. Horse racing was very popular in the nineteenth century, more for the gambling aspect than for love of the animal. Women could ride horses, but horses were always initially associated with the masculine. On one hand, horses were seen (as in the Queen Victoria story) as ideal for exercise and fresh air. On the other hand, it took women from their culturally assigned place in the home and away from the idea of the passive, meek, non-physical angel in the home. Exemplary horse qualities were also involved in discourses of female desirability throughout the nineteenth century, including posture, gait, breeding, class standing, and disposition. From these traits, monetary market value was determined in the respective marketplaces, for the horse, in the literal marketplace and for the woman, in the marriage market.
Both before and after the creation of the railroad, the horse was important to English society. It was the main power behind transportation, whether by horseback or by some kind of horse drawn carriage. It, as well as the dog, was considered among the most noble of animals. Representing nobility and aristocratic values, the horse ennobled humanity by its servitude to an even more noble creature, man. The kind of horse was tailored to the kind of work it was required to do. As a noble beast, the horse and his relationship to man came to illustrate the model relationship between man and compliant servant. By opening acknowledging masterly superiority, the horse set an example among animals for men to follow.
Practically it was very expensive to keep a horse. Stabling, feeding, and maintaining horses was reserved for people with capital, which explains its early associations with aristocracy and landed wealth. Horse racing was very popular in the nineteenth century, more for the gambling aspect than for love of the animal. Women could ride horses, but horses were always initially associated with the masculine. On one hand, horses were seen (as in the Queen Victoria story) as ideal for exercise and fresh air. On the other hand, it took women from their culturally assigned place in the home and away from the idea of the passive, meek, non-physical angel in the home. Exemplary horse qualities were also involved in discourses of female desirability throughout the nineteenth century, including posture, gait, breeding, class standing, and disposition. From these traits, monetary market value was determined in the respective marketplaces, for the horse, in the literal marketplace and for the woman, in the marriage market.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Historical Detail 2 Posting
This week, we learned how to use a variety of databases to do historical research. By midnight on Sunday (3/22) please post a summary of what you have discovered about your chosen (or newly chosen) historical detail from Mansfield Park. For models, you might look specific paragraphs (and footnotes) within the selections we've read by Edward Said or Marilyn Butler in which Said and Butler synthesize and analyze their own historical research.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The historical area I would like to examine is located in Chapter 5 of Mansfield Park, and pertains to the bringing up of young women and the concept of being "out," as Miss Crawford asks Edmund of Fanny and her behavior as a young eighteen year old woman. This seemingly was very typical of society at the time, and the chapter seems to focus on the appropriate behavior associated with being a woman of society. This particular section interested me particularly because of Fanny's role as a confused part of her family structure, and particularly because Sir Thomas makes it very clear in earlier chapters that Fanny should always remember that she is not a Miss Bertram, despite her upbringing with their family. however, Miss Crawford seems fascinated by how Fanny is expected to fit into the social strata, especially because her two cousins are considered to be the most "handsome" girls in the county, attending balls and considering suitors to wed. Edmund does not want to speak for Fanny. They discuss how women are "ill brought up" which is also definitive of the time period, the expectations young ladies were inclined to uphold as an obligation to their family names. The quotation that was most interesting is spoken by Edmund:
"The error is plain enough," said the less courteous Edmund; "such girls are ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the beginning. They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is no more real modesty in their behaviour before they appear in public than afterwards."
This "appearing in public" could ruin a young ladies entire image and her upbringing was a direct reflection of being "out." This is why this particular historical moment strikes me as it does.
"There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand."
Chapter 9:
"They entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared her for something grander than a mere, spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of devotion...'but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are.'"
Such a passage discusses the revolution in consciousness that had undergone in British society. Grace, salvation, and authority lay no longer in Christ, but in the pound. In Jane Austen's time, the gradations of society and its well-ordering seems now to lay against a wholly secular template, as evidenced by the opinions of Miss Crawford, as well as the exacting, monetary language that courses through the entire text.
A study of the shift from non-secular to secular society, as presented in Mansfield Park, can raise interesting topics in the close reading of mythological language specifically. A lot of talk in the novel is focused on harmony and distance: with more distance, temporally (and perhaps spatially), characters in the novel are able to better understand the processes of harmony that characterize points of deferance [should I be using difference here, or should I leave Derrida alone, refresher please?!]. Likewise, we read MP from a vantage point of differance; our more liberalized state exposes the monetary myth latent in Austen's language.
This myth surfaces powerfully in the way that the narrator is not necessarily omniscient; while the narrator cannot really read private thoughts, the narration makes assertions which would depend on wholly submitting to a certain mythological system of reading the world. By not making this recognition explicit, the mythological status of the language and the thoughts employed by the characters becomes ever stronger. Oftentimes, disharmony arises when they, the characters, become lost in the heat of myth and are unable to take a distance from social norms and recognize the harmonizing attempts of that system.
So, in the initial disharmony between Edmund and Mary, we see Mary unable to step outside of her time and place and recognize the harmonizing effects of the church in a bygone Age.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Coming Out
In Chapter 3, on page 58 of Mansfield Park Mrs. Crawford raises the question of whether Fanny is out or not. Fanny, the reader assumes, is not out. To an outsider like Mrs. Crawford, however, it is difficult to discern because of Fanny’s quiet nature that conflicts with the fact that she dines along with her cousins who are. The state of being out is an important one to establish because in this era marriage is a given for all women, lest they be social pariah. While mention of out-ness appears a few times throughout the novel, there is never a formal coming out for Fanny. This reader was surprised to discover in Chapter 22, that “her being out was known only to her two aunts.” I had assumed that there were formal “coming out” parties during the Regency Era, just as there were popular just a few decades ago in the upper crust of American Society (my friend’s mum, for instance). The closest sort of coming out occasion that we see for Fanny occurs at the Mansfield ball that Sir Thomas throws for her and William, where she and Mr. Crawford led the dance. The question of Fanny’s outness coincides with her growth in personal constitution and courage. With further research, I’d hope to find the particulars of the coming out ritual (if there was one during the Regency Era) and how this was to affect the behaviors of women and potentially interested men.
"Lovers' Vows" in Austen's Work
A significant part of the text is taken up with the intended performance of the play "Lover's Vows". Having very briefly read the synopsis of the play, and considering the "scandalous" nature of the play in the eyes of Austen's characters, researching contemporary criticism on the impropriety of the play may offer interesting interpretations on what the characters in Austen's work think of as improper. Furthermore, in looking at the actual plot and meaning of the play, the casting of certain characters, like Edmund as Anhalt might provide further insight into Austen's portrayals of the characters. My research then would consider the play itself, and perhaps the reception it received upon its initial release and in its subsequent translation into English. The edition of Austen's text that I was given also has a footnote revealing that the supposedly improper subject matter of the play was typically perceived of German plays of the time. As each of the characters in Austen's work have varying degrees of perception on what is proper, notably those of Henry and Maria vs. Fanny and Edmund, the actual perceptions of Austen's day may reveal much about the logic of their oppositions.
Fanny's Coming Out
At the end of chapter five, Ms. Crawford and Edmund have a conversation about whether Fanny is “out” or not. Based on Fanny’s class, age, dress, and sense of propriety, Mary Crawford seems to be confused about Fanny’s status in the family and society. The fact that Fanny has never been to a ball affirms to Ms. Crawford that she clearly is not.
The question of what it means to come out seems to be strongly related to social class, since it implies that the young lady is marketable for marriage or at least independent enough to make her own decisions about her behavior in public. For Fanny this is more complicated since, on one hand, she must always see herself as lower than her cousins, and on the other hand, she attracts the attentions of upper class men like Henry Crawford and eventually Edmund Bertram. The narrator also neglects to ever specifically tell us whether Fanny is officially “out” or not and at what point she makes that shift.
Historically, what does it mean to be “out” or not? Does it only apply to women? As long as you’re out does that put you on equal footing with other women who are out? Is Fanny even qualified to be out given her poor background? Ms. Crawford is often very flippant about her opinions and so far, we only have her opinion. Knowing the context would help explain the gender politics active throughout the novel and shed light on where exactly Fanny fits in her community. Can the novel be read as Austen’s critique on “coming out” as societal norm?
The question of what it means to come out seems to be strongly related to social class, since it implies that the young lady is marketable for marriage or at least independent enough to make her own decisions about her behavior in public. For Fanny this is more complicated since, on one hand, she must always see herself as lower than her cousins, and on the other hand, she attracts the attentions of upper class men like Henry Crawford and eventually Edmund Bertram. The narrator also neglects to ever specifically tell us whether Fanny is officially “out” or not and at what point she makes that shift.
Historically, what does it mean to be “out” or not? Does it only apply to women? As long as you’re out does that put you on equal footing with other women who are out? Is Fanny even qualified to be out given her poor background? Ms. Crawford is often very flippant about her opinions and so far, we only have her opinion. Knowing the context would help explain the gender politics active throughout the novel and shed light on where exactly Fanny fits in her community. Can the novel be read as Austen’s critique on “coming out” as societal norm?
Circulating Libraries and Their Influence on the Publishing Industry
In chapter 40, while living with her parents in Portsmouth, Fanny uses some of the money she was given by her uncle to purchase a subscription to a “circulating library” for her and Susan. My edition of Mansfield Park includes a note on circulating libraries, writing that free libraries were rare and books prohibitively expensive to purchase. Therefore these circulating libraries “exerted enormous influence over the kinds of books that could be published.”
The proprietors of these libraries being in control of what literature was made available to the public would have certainly affected the form and content of Austen’s writing. It may be fruitful to examine the author’s background and beliefs as well as those of the library administrators.
The mention of the reading of Quarterly Reviews as a typical evening activity could further elucidate the leanings of the novel’s characters from researching the topics and stances taken on political issues by the publication during the period.
The proprietors of these libraries being in control of what literature was made available to the public would have certainly affected the form and content of Austen’s writing. It may be fruitful to examine the author’s background and beliefs as well as those of the library administrators.
The mention of the reading of Quarterly Reviews as a typical evening activity could further elucidate the leanings of the novel’s characters from researching the topics and stances taken on political issues by the publication during the period.
Monday, March 9, 2009
"her strange severity, her extreme courtesy" vs. "the image of stark and uncomprimising severity"
Spotlight on James:
"Since he belonged, even at the age of six, to that great clan which cannot keep this feeling seperate from that, but must let future prospects, with their joys and sorrows, cloud what is actually at hand... he appeared the image of stark and uncomprimising severity, with his high forehead and his fierce blue eyes, impeccably candid and pure, frowning slightly at the sight of human frailty"
Spotlight on Mrs. Ramsay:
"She was now formidable to behold, and it was only in silence, looking up from their plates, after she had spoken so severely about Charles Tansley... her strange severity, her extreme courtesy, like a Queen's raising from the mud to wash a beggar's dirty foot, when thus she admonished them so very severely about that wretched atheist who had chased them--or speaking accurately, been invited to stay with them--in the Isles of Skye."
OED on Severity: 1. Strictness or sternness in dealing with others; stern or rigorous disposition or behaviour; rigour in treatment, discipline, punishment, or the like.
In the opening passages of To the Lighthouse, the concept of 'severity' is placed between Mr. Ramsay, his wife, and his son James, and this placement creates interesting spectra and paradoxes.
"Since he belonged, even at the age of six, to that great clan which cannot keep this feeling seperate from that, but must let future prospects, with their joys and sorrows, cloud what is actually at hand... he appeared the image of stark and uncomprimising severity, with his high forehead and his fierce blue eyes, impeccably candid and pure, frowning slightly at the sight of human frailty"
Spotlight on Mrs. Ramsay:
"She was now formidable to behold, and it was only in silence, looking up from their plates, after she had spoken so severely about Charles Tansley... her strange severity, her extreme courtesy, like a Queen's raising from the mud to wash a beggar's dirty foot, when thus she admonished them so very severely about that wretched atheist who had chased them--or speaking accurately, been invited to stay with them--in the Isles of Skye."
OED on Severity: 1. Strictness or sternness in dealing with others; stern or rigorous disposition or behaviour; rigour in treatment, discipline, punishment, or the like.
In the opening passages of To the Lighthouse, the concept of 'severity' is placed between Mr. Ramsay, his wife, and his son James, and this placement creates interesting spectra and paradoxes.
Mrs. Ramsay exemplifies the first kind of severity mentioned in the OED. She strictly adheres to English customs, making sure always to display chivalry by allowing many of her husbands fans to stay over. She likewise keeps a tight hold on her daughters so that they will receive and reflect this English severity. Her strict adherence to custom paradoxically leads her towards circumstances of high judgement and criticism; hence, she judges Tansley severely, though her customs bid her keep him at her guest house. Thus we may read 'severity' through Mrs. Ramsay as pure and almost fanatical attachment to chivalrous tradition, even when this attachment is contradictory.
James Ramsay exemplifies severity from the opposite spectrum. At his young age, he yet displays childish wisdom by belonging to that 'great clan' of young wizards. They understand, sans accuracy, that 'the moment at hand' is fleeting and cannot ever quite be captured, and that it is the prospect for the future that will always shade the present moment. He frowns severely in his judgement upon the frail figures of the recent past--his father, the analytic philosopher--for attempting to capture reality exactingly and with public language. Thus he exemplifies the third kind of severity mentioned in the OED, and he hopes to punish--with a hot poker perhaps--those calculating souls who are 'stern or rigorous in disposition or behavior.'
Sunday, March 1, 2009
"He was incapable of untruth..."
On page 11 of "To the Lighthouse," Woolf describes Mr. Ramsay as being "incapable of untruth, never tampered with a fact; never altered a disagreeable word to suit the pleasure or convenience of any mortal being, least of all at his own children, who, sprung from his loins, should be aware from childhood that life is difficult..." The entirety of the first chapter revolves around this "untruth," as Mr. Ramsay informs James that he will not be able to go to the lighthouse like he had planned before, even though his mother had promised him that this would be a possibility. The OED provides several definitions for the word "untruth," including "unfaithfulness, unbelief, falsehood, and inexactness. Mr. Ramsay's character believes in the "inexactness" aspect of these several definitions, which is what makes his own children despise him. Childhood should be about celebrating that life then, isn't as difficult as Mr. Ramsay makes i t out to be, but he is overbearing and convinced that informing them of life's future pains is the best way to go about it. This definition of "inexactness," is one of the newest and most evolved definitions of untruth, as one of the first was the idea of "unfaithfulness." In a way, Mr. Ramsay is doing this to be faithful to his children in the way he feels is the most effective, to refrain from telling lies about the plausibility of events. Knowing that definition adds depth to the word and sentence, as he is not only incapable of being unfaithful but he is also incapable of inexactness, much to his children's dismay.
Ramsey's Reliance on "Nonsense"
In chapter VIII Mr. Ramsey considers the fleeting nature of human presence and unavoidability of human ignorance. While weighing these lofty ideas in his mind, he is guiltily lead off topic to consider the “trifles” of his own life that give him genuine happiness. The narration begins to list off the many seemingly trivial sources of this happiness: “he had his wife; he had his children; he had promised in six weeks’ time to talk ‘some nonsense’ to the young men...all had to be deprecated and concealed under the phrase ‘talk nonsense,’ because, in effect, he had not done the thing he might have done” (44-45). Mr. Ramsey’s reliance upon this concealment leads to a questioning of his character: whether the criticisms of William Bankes and Lily Briscoe are properly founded. The OED provides two primary definitions for “nonsense” and suggests that both have existed concomitantly with little historical precedence given to one or the other. “Nonsense” can be defined as either that which is lacking sense or absurd; or as foolishness, silliness, lacking proper behavior. Thus Mr. Ramsey’s use of “nonsense” may either instill the reader with a sense of pity, insofar as Ramsey is unable to reconcile his philosophical life with his corporeal life and is forced to rely on the deprecation of his philosophy, or merely as William and Lily see him as too “timid in life” to do “the thing he might have done”. The former reading is undoubtedly the more generous, as the narration presents him as an eminent philosopher that is just short of greatness. Perhaps it is his unavoidable reversion to the absurd form of “nonsense” that both enables him his familial happiness and hinders his advancement in thought. If, however, “nonsense” is read as silliness or foolishness, then Ramsey is no longer foregoing what he may indeed have been capable of for the appreciation of his family, but is rather mentally unequipped to deal with the unconcealed “all”.
"she holding her parasol erect"
On page 25 of “To the Lighthouse” by Woolf, is (at least) the second mention of the erect parasol. Upon my first reading, I understood the word “erect” to have the denotative meaning of “upright,” to reflect the proud air with which Mrs. Ramsay carries self—self-confidence that all of her male guests seem to, in addition to her beauty, be so attracted to. The choice of the word erect is unusual for in literature, umbrellas or parasols are usually described as being held “upright.” Today’s strong sexual connotation of erect though, clouded this reader’s initial interpretation. By Woolf’s second usage of the word, we see that erect is very appropriate indeed in reflecting Charles Tansley’s invigorated romantic feelings for Mrs. Ramsay. Following the description of erect parasol, Tansley “for the first time in his life [he] felt an extraordinary pride” a phrase which is repeated twice in the paragraph. Erect also connotes the erect tail or tuft of feathers of animals. This secondary connotation compounds the peculiar sight of Mrs. Ramsay with her erect umbrella. Umbrellas are generally held against the shoulder so that they may rest there and protect the back of the head. So, instead of being seen as confident, perhaps Mrs. Ramsay appears arrogant and bizarre like a rooster strutting about with her male friend holding her bag. The animal connotation of erect adds a texture of irony for it is Tansley who feels proud walking beside this seemingly beautiful woman.
"Some one had blundered."
This line is uttered by Mr. Ramsay and reiterated multiple times in the first few sections of To The Lighthouse, so it is worth giving extra attention. The two most recent quotations in the OED for the verb "blunder" correspond to the definition "To bring or cause to fall into a state by clumsy or inept behaviour." This is the common usage we encounter, with a blunder being a mistake resulting from carelessness or some other oversight.
However, the older definitions of "To confound, distract (in understanding)," and " To confound (in one's mind) stupidly," offer a much different meaning of the sentence. The implication is of being mentally overthrown, destroyed. In this case, there is no clumsy behavior. The blunderer is simply overpowered in his or her understanding.
Reading this statement coming from a character who is a philosopher may shed some light on the episode that takes place in the beginning of the novel. "The Ramsays were not rich, and it was a wonder how they managed to contrive it all." Mr. Ramsay raised his eight children on philosophy alone. If he were to suffer a defeat in his reasoning or understanding, it would be catastrophic to his livelihood. If the blunder was perpetrated by some other philosopher whom Ramsay based his own work off, it could create a philosophical crisis for him -- what he based his life on could be disassembled at a moment's notice.
However, the older definitions of "To confound, distract (in understanding)," and " To confound (in one's mind) stupidly," offer a much different meaning of the sentence. The implication is of being mentally overthrown, destroyed. In this case, there is no clumsy behavior. The blunderer is simply overpowered in his or her understanding.
Reading this statement coming from a character who is a philosopher may shed some light on the episode that takes place in the beginning of the novel. "The Ramsays were not rich, and it was a wonder how they managed to contrive it all." Mr. Ramsay raised his eight children on philosophy alone. If he were to suffer a defeat in his reasoning or understanding, it would be catastrophic to his livelihood. If the blunder was perpetrated by some other philosopher whom Ramsay based his own work off, it could create a philosophical crisis for him -- what he based his life on could be disassembled at a moment's notice.
"exceptionally able" young men and the Ramsays
“…she could not bear incivility to her guests, to young men in particular, who were poor as churchmice, "exceptionally able," her husband said, his great admirers, and come there for a holiday.”
In describing the numerous house guests that Mrs. Ramsay brings in, Mr. Ramsay uses the word able. At first glance this would sound like a compliment, since now the word is used as a synonym for someone who is competent and has a high capacity for achievement. In context, this would make sense, since Mr. Ramsay uses it to describe his own admirers. By complimenting them, he indirectly compliments himself. However, according to the OED, able in the 14th and 15th centuries meant facile—simplistic, shallow, or easily attained—and complaisant. Other obsolete meanings encompass the idea of decorum (including suitable, proper and appropriate) and advantageous possessions such as wealth, influence and power.
Knowing these definitions makes Mr. Ramsay’s usage of it both ironic and reinforcing. It’s ironic because Mr. Ramsay is indirectly showing himself to be a self-centered authority, surrounding himself with weaker men to make himself look relatively better. The wealth and influence part is especially ironic considering that these men are “poor as churchmice.” The men themselves might not be very impressive, but they fulfill a need in both Mr. Ramsay and his wife. For Mrs. Ramsay, the hint of her male guests’ complaisance and simplicity justify her need to protect them. For Mr. Ramsay it explains the kind of admirers he attracts. He describes his guests the way he would like to be perceived, powerful, influential and proper, but the word carries much more.
In describing the numerous house guests that Mrs. Ramsay brings in, Mr. Ramsay uses the word able. At first glance this would sound like a compliment, since now the word is used as a synonym for someone who is competent and has a high capacity for achievement. In context, this would make sense, since Mr. Ramsay uses it to describe his own admirers. By complimenting them, he indirectly compliments himself. However, according to the OED, able in the 14th and 15th centuries meant facile—simplistic, shallow, or easily attained—and complaisant. Other obsolete meanings encompass the idea of decorum (including suitable, proper and appropriate) and advantageous possessions such as wealth, influence and power.
Knowing these definitions makes Mr. Ramsay’s usage of it both ironic and reinforcing. It’s ironic because Mr. Ramsay is indirectly showing himself to be a self-centered authority, surrounding himself with weaker men to make himself look relatively better. The wealth and influence part is especially ironic considering that these men are “poor as churchmice.” The men themselves might not be very impressive, but they fulfill a need in both Mr. Ramsay and his wife. For Mrs. Ramsay, the hint of her male guests’ complaisance and simplicity justify her need to protect them. For Mr. Ramsay it explains the kind of admirers he attracts. He describes his guests the way he would like to be perceived, powerful, influential and proper, but the word carries much more.
Week 7 Posting
By midnight on Sunday (3/1), please post about Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse. Look up a word from the novel in the Oxford English Dictionary (type "OED" into the library search engine and it will come up in the electronic database section). How does understanding the word's meanings (and the historical shift they have or have not undergone) inform your interpretation of the novel, or at least the portion we've read so far?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Deconstructionist Reading of Keats
The use of the word “form” in the very first line undermines the possibility a cohesive unity to the poem as a whole. Read superficially, the speaker seems to wish to be male so that her/his/its message may have the appropriate effect upon the listener. However, in wishing for “a man’s fair form” the speaker is, perhaps unconsciously, obfuscating the potential for any meaning within the desire. The word form, which is derived from the ancient Latin forma, has come to include nearly antithetical meanings. In its earlier sense it means a primary shape or configuration; later on its meanings came to include an image, representation, or likeness. Such a duality of almost dichotomous meanings calls the speaker’s actual desire into question. Taking the word in its binary state, the speaker seems to desire either the fundamental essence of manhood or, rather, merely representative characteristics of manhood. Such a Structuralist division no doubt sufficiently complicates the nature of the longing, but it misses the impossibility of separating manhood and manly characteristics. From this then, the question of what characterizes the “essence” of manhood is raised. For if the speaker wishes to possess a sufficient quantity of the representative characteristics of manhood, then surely this “sufficiency” can only be had under a complete transformation into a man. Of further note is Aristotle’s division of all entities into two elements: form, that with which it has in differs from others, and matter, that with which it is similar to others. Form then, is taken to be the thing that cannot be missing in order to be considered a certain something: in this case, a man. Furthermore, in theological considerations of the sacrament, the bread and wine are labeled the matter, whereas the form is the essential formulary words. Both the philosophical and theological definitions of form lead to the belief that it encapsulates a certain something that is essential to distinctive existence. Then the speaker’s desire to possess merely the “form” of man begs the question of why the speaker does not seek to be a man. If, on the other hand, we take the contrary definition of form, that meaning an image or representation, then the desire to possess the form of man may indicate that it is a non-organic speaker, most feasibly the poem itself. Such a deconstruction of the poem renders the meaning nearly unintelligible, as the antithetical definitions of form lead to many possible interpretations that any possibility of accuracy of portrayal is completely foregone.
In this piece, there is a sense of absence, even from the beginning., with the blotting out of letters in the name of the person the piece is being written for. There is a lack of identity there, an absence of person. This in turn, makes the piece more universal in ways, but holistically less personal and unidentifiable in terms of placement. It also creates a gap in presence, whether or not the poem was originally intended for anyone specific is unclear. Keats spends the entire poem talking about himself if he were someone else, there is never a sense of definitiveness in identity in himself or in whomever he is speaking to. ("Had I a man's fair form", "I am no happy sheperd of the dell") There are references to "thee," which are not specific, predicting future happenings such as "I'll gather some by spells, and incantation," which are uncertain as well. His desire towards this person marks another spacing between, as they are seemingly not together and there must exist reasons for why they are not, why the poet decided to blot out the name of the person he was speaking to.
Putting the Wo- back in Man
In Keats' sonnet the opening line, "Had I a man's fair form," sets the poem up to be a statement of the logos of the primacy of the male over the female. If the speaker were a man, then the speaker would be able to adequately express his or her love and act on it. However, even in those first six words, the poem begins to unravel its own thesis through the use of feminine language when describing the masculine.
Describing a man's form as "fair" calls up the idea of beauty, "chiefly with reference to the face, almost exclusively of women"(OED). Sighs also belong to the realm of women. The strong male concepts that appear in the poem are presented in negation -- "no knight," "no...shepherd." Knight also possesses the meaning of "one devoted to the service of a lady as her attendant." No armor is found on the speaker's "bosom's swell," an allusion to the breasts of a woman.
"Dell" possess the alternative definition of "a wench," and maiden also refers to a man without experience in sexual intercourse. Using these definitions, the "shepherd of the dell / Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes" can be read as a role reversal -- now the man is filled with fear of the sexual prowess of the woman as opposed to the traditional idea of the contrary.
By the end of the poem, the purported primacy of the male has undermined itself by deferring to the language of the female to describe itself.
Describing a man's form as "fair" calls up the idea of beauty, "chiefly with reference to the face, almost exclusively of women"(OED). Sighs also belong to the realm of women. The strong male concepts that appear in the poem are presented in negation -- "no knight," "no...shepherd." Knight also possesses the meaning of "one devoted to the service of a lady as her attendant." No armor is found on the speaker's "bosom's swell," an allusion to the breasts of a woman.
"Dell" possess the alternative definition of "a wench," and maiden also refers to a man without experience in sexual intercourse. Using these definitions, the "shepherd of the dell / Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes" can be read as a role reversal -- now the man is filled with fear of the sexual prowess of the woman as opposed to the traditional idea of the contrary.
By the end of the poem, the purported primacy of the male has undermined itself by deferring to the language of the female to describe itself.
A Short Deconstruction of a Keats' Sonnet
In Keats’ sonnet "Had I a man's fair form..." the word "meet" in the antepenultimate line is an inherent binarism. Upon an initial reading, I assumed that “meet” was a noun--perhaps a pun on "meat" as to echo the phrase before it, "I will taste the dew." The verb form of meet “to encounter or experience" is generally the privileged form or definition, for example, “I will meet her here at 3 o’ clock”. However in this case, the adjective meaning of “meet” as "proper, fitting or suitable" is privileged for it makes the most contextual sense—tasting the dew is proper, perhaps pleasant. These two meanings of “meet” though, are not naturally hierarchized oppositions but are constructed, implied by the poem’s usage. For to meet someone, as given in the example, often suggests the harmonious, face-to-face gathering of two people. This positive connotation is suggestive of the union of two similar or complementary elements that are compatible with each other as to be “proper, fitting or suitable”. The two definitions are dependent on each other. The adjective denotation and connotation of “meet” is strained however, by the previous line where the dew is referred to as “rich to intoxication” but remains “meet’ to the speaker. Intoxication has a negative connotation of infatuation or obsession with a person or object, which thereby distances you from others and disrupts emotional balance.
Deconstructing Keats
For Keats’ love sonnet (and most other love sonnets), the most basic binary structuring the poem is male/female. Heterosexual desire drives the man to address the nameless woman and woo her with his words. However, through the underlying purpose of the sonnet is to bridge absence between lovers, neither of them are clearly present in the poem. As a paradoxically invisible addressee, the woman is merely denoted as a series of asterisks, showing from the outset of the poem that the binary may not be as clearly defined as the structure and assumptions behind the poetic form might suggest. For the man, rather than describe himself as what he is, he spends the poem explaining what he is not and the actions that will occur in the future rather than the present. This implies a lack even within the stable category of “man” that, in a patriarchal society, is always privileged above the woman.
He begins the poem, “Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs/ be echoed.” From the outset, he blurs the distinctions between male and female. The quality of being “fair” as well as “sighs” are not instinctively associated with men, but with women. According to the OED, fair is often applied to women, expressing a quality characteristic to their sex (i.e. the fair sex). Here in the poem, the speaker applies it to himself in addition to the sighs that define feminine sentimentality. The very negation of reality created by “Had I…” describes a masculine insufficiency in the speaker that he will perpetuate throughout the poem. Perhaps the most obvious example of this is when he evokes the knight/maiden complementary pairing. “I am no knight,” but at the same time, his lips do not tremble “with a maiden’s eyes.” He is neither maiden nor knight. But he has shown from the outset, that the privileging of one sex over the other is unstable, since he contains attributes of both and emphasizes his effeminate manhood. Yet, heterosexual passion requires both male and female, so in deconstructing gender, the speaker also can be said to deconstruct the idea of love as a unified entity.
He begins the poem, “Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs/ be echoed.” From the outset, he blurs the distinctions between male and female. The quality of being “fair” as well as “sighs” are not instinctively associated with men, but with women. According to the OED, fair is often applied to women, expressing a quality characteristic to their sex (i.e. the fair sex). Here in the poem, the speaker applies it to himself in addition to the sighs that define feminine sentimentality. The very negation of reality created by “Had I…” describes a masculine insufficiency in the speaker that he will perpetuate throughout the poem. Perhaps the most obvious example of this is when he evokes the knight/maiden complementary pairing. “I am no knight,” but at the same time, his lips do not tremble “with a maiden’s eyes.” He is neither maiden nor knight. But he has shown from the outset, that the privileging of one sex over the other is unstable, since he contains attributes of both and emphasizes his effeminate manhood. Yet, heterosexual passion requires both male and female, so in deconstructing gender, the speaker also can be said to deconstruct the idea of love as a unified entity.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
((Keats))
To ******: to the unnamable Essence, but why six asterisks? Perhaps to draw together completeness and in-completeness, thereby dispelling the dichotomy. Six signifies Earthliness, a totally bound system, as one divides into two, two couples with one to make three, and three interacts with two to make six, and ad infinitum; Seven is the crown, somehow set off from six, yet the asymptotic goal beyond that system, constantly drawing it near (these ideas come from Philo).
So let’s imagine an aquarium. Fish swim about in the water, eating food and each other, copulating, moving about amongst the coral and anemone. Objects interact, but water holds them. Water is the ethereal Essence, and its waves and vibrations control all action, paradoxically, by receiving all action. Water captures the interactions that are ungraspable, since they unfold in time and space, yet water is eternal and cannot be captured. As the crown of Seven receives all asymptotic strivings of the six-systems, yet they never reach Seven. Moreover, objects interact only because Seven exists beyond the boundary.
The sonnet, then, is the water of the fishbowl: ungraspable yet unified, lucid, clear, and tasteless. Concepts hang suspended like water, unable to reach out, only able to receive and react to movements as a pure matrix.
“Had I a man’s fair form,” the sonnet says, “then might my sighs/ Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell/ Thine ear, and find they gentle heart.” Had water some source of will, it would move fish, yet fish move themselves only by pushing against water. Thus the sighs of the sonnet cannot echo but may only receive the thoughts of the reader, out there in the Ether, as he throws a stone into its pond, making ripples. Some irony surfaces: men are but shells, as are their ears.
To place Essence in passionate communication-out-there—speaking, stabbing (“I am no knight whose foeman dies”), wearing armor—because it reaches the frail, temporary heart is to miss the point.
“Essence” is the inability of matter to fuse essentially, no matter how hard the atoms fuse. Real fusion occurs through metaphor, in the literary space of the poetic matrix, separated off into the Crown of Seven through differance. Thus, the shepherds lips may only tremble with maiden’s eyes, and not into them.
The shepherd offers the maiden the poem (“Yet must I [the sonnet] dote on thee”) as if he could offer her water in an envelope, or a pond in his hand. It can only give to her what she throws into the deep, and each rippling never occurs the same way twice. The poem can call her “Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses/ When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication.” Only the poem captures metaphor; only the poem can fuse matter in the set-off space of Essential Concept. Yet the Essence falls away without isolated objects. Objects give meaning to the Essence by reaching wildly into its infinitely receptive waters. When the interior Earth-world reaches for the isolated, eternal, unified space of metaphor and difference, the differance reaches back with incantations and the ‘face of the moon.’
So let’s imagine an aquarium. Fish swim about in the water, eating food and each other, copulating, moving about amongst the coral and anemone. Objects interact, but water holds them. Water is the ethereal Essence, and its waves and vibrations control all action, paradoxically, by receiving all action. Water captures the interactions that are ungraspable, since they unfold in time and space, yet water is eternal and cannot be captured. As the crown of Seven receives all asymptotic strivings of the six-systems, yet they never reach Seven. Moreover, objects interact only because Seven exists beyond the boundary.
The sonnet, then, is the water of the fishbowl: ungraspable yet unified, lucid, clear, and tasteless. Concepts hang suspended like water, unable to reach out, only able to receive and react to movements as a pure matrix.
“Had I a man’s fair form,” the sonnet says, “then might my sighs/ Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell/ Thine ear, and find they gentle heart.” Had water some source of will, it would move fish, yet fish move themselves only by pushing against water. Thus the sighs of the sonnet cannot echo but may only receive the thoughts of the reader, out there in the Ether, as he throws a stone into its pond, making ripples. Some irony surfaces: men are but shells, as are their ears.
To place Essence in passionate communication-out-there—speaking, stabbing (“I am no knight whose foeman dies”), wearing armor—because it reaches the frail, temporary heart is to miss the point.
“Essence” is the inability of matter to fuse essentially, no matter how hard the atoms fuse. Real fusion occurs through metaphor, in the literary space of the poetic matrix, separated off into the Crown of Seven through differance. Thus, the shepherds lips may only tremble with maiden’s eyes, and not into them.
The shepherd offers the maiden the poem (“Yet must I [the sonnet] dote on thee”) as if he could offer her water in an envelope, or a pond in his hand. It can only give to her what she throws into the deep, and each rippling never occurs the same way twice. The poem can call her “Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses/ When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication.” Only the poem captures metaphor; only the poem can fuse matter in the set-off space of Essential Concept. Yet the Essence falls away without isolated objects. Objects give meaning to the Essence by reaching wildly into its infinitely receptive waters. When the interior Earth-world reaches for the isolated, eternal, unified space of metaphor and difference, the differance reaches back with incantations and the ‘face of the moon.’
Friday, February 20, 2009
Week 6 Posting
Please post by midnight on Sunday (2/22) your deconstructive (post-structuralist) reading of Keat's sonnet, "To *****."
As we discussed in class, you might look to Derrida's reading of Rousseau or J. Hillis Miller's reading of M.H. Abrams's critical essay for models, but remember: these are readings of critical, or meta-languages and so the goal of Derrida's or Miller's reading is to show how such languages' structuring oppositions (speech/writing, copulation/masturbation, host/parasite) are untenable. The languages of science, philosophy, criticism, and so on (meta-languages in that they purport to speak "about" something) suppress differance where literary language calls attention to it. And so, your reading of Keats might focus on how this poem itself meditates on differance -- what it has to teach us about the writtenness, absence, deferral, difference -- differance -- of all language.
As we discussed in class, you might look to Derrida's reading of Rousseau or J. Hillis Miller's reading of M.H. Abrams's critical essay for models, but remember: these are readings of critical, or meta-languages and so the goal of Derrida's or Miller's reading is to show how such languages' structuring oppositions (speech/writing, copulation/masturbation, host/parasite) are untenable. The languages of science, philosophy, criticism, and so on (meta-languages in that they purport to speak "about" something) suppress differance where literary language calls attention to it. And so, your reading of Keats might focus on how this poem itself meditates on differance -- what it has to teach us about the writtenness, absence, deferral, difference -- differance -- of all language.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Brooks and Stevens
Michael Kleinman
Engl 261 Essay 1
“The Emperor of Ice Cream”
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
-Wallace Stevens
Wallace Steven’ The Emperor of Ice Cream, when analyzed from a Brooksian perspective, creates in the mind a central tension between vibrant concupiscence and austere decay. A close reading reveals two interrelated paradoxes: that mold and decay generates all pleasure and, conversely, that the greatest pleasure is knowing the source of mold and decay. By critically unifying two highly energized and paradoxical scenes, readers experience feelings of satirical irony, shocking repulsion, and finally, enlightened appreciation of the Now Moment.
In order to procure these paradoxes, we must first live within the experience of the poem. By this I mean that we must feel how the different connotative meanings of the poem support one another, as if to draw a defined space for our mind. Now, to procure this ‘architectural meaning,’ it would be wise to look for structural similarities. We have before us two stanzas of nearly identical shape, each containing the same ending line. The two stanzas then procure a same sense, albeit in a different way. Thus they are like two beams supporting the same roof, or two rooms sharing the same house. Ultimately, our goal is to look at the ceiling and feel inspired.
Living in the first room feels like a party, but we sense some paradoxical tension:
“Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds”
The speaker calls out to the reader to fetch a Latino cigar roller. He uses haughty, proper language. Imperialist, aristocratic words like bid, cigar, and concupiscent mix with slave-like words: muscular and whip. The speaker-and-reader, sharing this linguistic bond, yet participates in the party (strange indeed). We let ‘the wenches’ dawdle in housedresses, and we let the ‘boys’ bring flowers wrapped in newspapers. So that when we let be be finale of seem, we are admitting something. Dropping all pretensions, we pay homage to utility and celebrate the democracies of pleasure. Thus, fraternity shines behind paternalism, and the bonds strengthen paradoxically for the fact that paternalism still exists.
But we have to leave the party room, and so we mysteriously enter a bedroom:
“Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once”
The lower-class theme continues: the dresser of deal consists of cheap wood, the knobs have fallen out, the sheet hosts the humble embroidery of someone skilled in manual labor. Perhaps the sheet is for a tablecloth: we don’t want ice cream melting all over the table. But now comes the shocker and the poem’s main dramatic movement. We, the readers, are to take the sheet and cover the face of a cold, pronate woman: a corpse! The language reflects the drama of our discovery: the feet protrude just as we, the readers, discover the nature of our circumstance. We’re reveling at a wake, so let the lamp affix its beam saith the speaker ironically, not only to the democracy of pleasure, but to the totality of concupiscence.
Our curtain lifted for us, we begin to draw metaphorical connections along a structural framework, and the irony only strengthens and bites harder. For instance, the first three lines of each stanza signify an imperative action. Calling the cigar-roller insists indulgence, while preparing the sheet insists resolution, and both actions assume equal significance. Our justified lust “shakes the knobs from the dresser” as the three nails fall from the cross. In this house, we fear not the sins of concupiscence. Further, while the wenches dawdle and the boys bring flowers, the corpse lies stiff. Too bad for her, the ‘dumb’ broad; she had her chance at ‘horniness.’ Now she must have her face covered while her living relatives enjoy exposing themselves.
To tie up a loose end: We may be asking at this point, “Why the class-discussion from the first stanza?” Just to satirize the aristocratic tendency to conceal the unsavory, biological aspects of highly-charged human moments. The wenches display sexual familiarity and slurp down ice cream while dawdling at a wake. This image contrasts sharply with the aristocratic counterpart. There the guests would wear suits and eat hors d’oeuvres with toothpicks. As the upper class aestheticizes death and sex, the lower class draws little distinction, thereby displaying a more open disposition generally toward the crudeness of human realities.
Through all this talk, something draws us closer to that ceiling; we want to really inhabit the space of that affixed lamp; we want to dig deeper into the meaning of let be be finale of seem. That couplet becomes our space of poetic unification, and we read outwards from that point as the reflective line between an object and its image. Sounds nice, but soon our pleasant irony turns disgustingly sour.
The wenches dawdle in such dress as they are used to wear; maybe grandma embroidered some of their clothing. As they wear grandma’s spirit, we begin to see them dawdling in the far future: as senile folk, even corpses dawdling underground. Underneath the affixed beam of the poetic lamp, a suspended moment of young lust becomes unbound from time. We see future carrion engaging in a revolting display of carnality. And it gets worse. Grandma’s human face is covered, but her ‘horny’ feet protrude. Her skin being pale, the feet look kind of like globules of ice cream. Naturally, the ‘concupiscence’ of the ice cream links with the ‘horniness’ of the feet, and sweet food fuses with carrion into a unified Frankensteinian flesh. Now that the ice cream reminds us of flesh, the cigars remind us of phalluses. The anticipated ‘concupiscent’ curds recall semen. Finally, Grandma’s corpse appears as the later stages of huge ejaculation. Let be be finale of seem: ‘knowing’ life requires experiencing it as the drawn-out echo of an un-graspable orgasm. Makes sense, because that’s how life starts. Still, what a revolting way to expose the mold and decay behind all life and pleasure.
This can’t be it: we are doing poetry, and poetry is beautiful. Our lamps affixed on runny, messy comedown, we scramble away from science to the poetic source of the orgasm. Soon we will know, beyond words, the unifying meaning of let be be finale of seem.
Scientific lamps often shine on the corpse, on the semen, on the
metaphysical ‘ice cream’ of reality. In poetry, however, the lamp shines on the whipping of curds, the beautiful dawdling of ladies, the incomprehensible miracle of love that produces Grandmother. Let “be” be [always the] finale of SEEM: allow so-called being to always appear as the constantly unfolding finale of ‘seem,’ which is the ungraspable NOW of perpetual orgasm. Cover the ‘Corpse’s’ face with a sheet and enjoy your ice cream in the moment, before it melts.
Which takes us to the over-looked image: let the boys bring flowers in last month’s newspapers. NOW we see it; it’s not the ice cream, it’s the flower! Wrapped in last month’s newspaper, it feeds off the death printed on the pages as it yet shines forth brilliantly. When it dies, more flowers spring up from the dead carrion. And this is existence. Viewing the flower wrapped up this way, we come asymptotically close to capturing in an image the Godly love-explosion, the life-wrapped-in death and the death-wrapped-in-life.
A final word on poetry: given that ‘reality’ is only the runny, messy residue of divine whipping, what is the poem on the page? Is it just an unholy ejaculation? A cigar rolled up to be smoked? Is it ice cream slowly melting and molding? Yes, it is all three, but it becomes newly alive through close, meditative reading.
Engl 261 Essay 1
“The Emperor of Ice Cream”
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
-Wallace Stevens
Wallace Steven’ The Emperor of Ice Cream, when analyzed from a Brooksian perspective, creates in the mind a central tension between vibrant concupiscence and austere decay. A close reading reveals two interrelated paradoxes: that mold and decay generates all pleasure and, conversely, that the greatest pleasure is knowing the source of mold and decay. By critically unifying two highly energized and paradoxical scenes, readers experience feelings of satirical irony, shocking repulsion, and finally, enlightened appreciation of the Now Moment.
In order to procure these paradoxes, we must first live within the experience of the poem. By this I mean that we must feel how the different connotative meanings of the poem support one another, as if to draw a defined space for our mind. Now, to procure this ‘architectural meaning,’ it would be wise to look for structural similarities. We have before us two stanzas of nearly identical shape, each containing the same ending line. The two stanzas then procure a same sense, albeit in a different way. Thus they are like two beams supporting the same roof, or two rooms sharing the same house. Ultimately, our goal is to look at the ceiling and feel inspired.
Living in the first room feels like a party, but we sense some paradoxical tension:
“Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds”
The speaker calls out to the reader to fetch a Latino cigar roller. He uses haughty, proper language. Imperialist, aristocratic words like bid, cigar, and concupiscent mix with slave-like words: muscular and whip. The speaker-and-reader, sharing this linguistic bond, yet participates in the party (strange indeed). We let ‘the wenches’ dawdle in housedresses, and we let the ‘boys’ bring flowers wrapped in newspapers. So that when we let be be finale of seem, we are admitting something. Dropping all pretensions, we pay homage to utility and celebrate the democracies of pleasure. Thus, fraternity shines behind paternalism, and the bonds strengthen paradoxically for the fact that paternalism still exists.
But we have to leave the party room, and so we mysteriously enter a bedroom:
“Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once”
The lower-class theme continues: the dresser of deal consists of cheap wood, the knobs have fallen out, the sheet hosts the humble embroidery of someone skilled in manual labor. Perhaps the sheet is for a tablecloth: we don’t want ice cream melting all over the table. But now comes the shocker and the poem’s main dramatic movement. We, the readers, are to take the sheet and cover the face of a cold, pronate woman: a corpse! The language reflects the drama of our discovery: the feet protrude just as we, the readers, discover the nature of our circumstance. We’re reveling at a wake, so let the lamp affix its beam saith the speaker ironically, not only to the democracy of pleasure, but to the totality of concupiscence.
Our curtain lifted for us, we begin to draw metaphorical connections along a structural framework, and the irony only strengthens and bites harder. For instance, the first three lines of each stanza signify an imperative action. Calling the cigar-roller insists indulgence, while preparing the sheet insists resolution, and both actions assume equal significance. Our justified lust “shakes the knobs from the dresser” as the three nails fall from the cross. In this house, we fear not the sins of concupiscence. Further, while the wenches dawdle and the boys bring flowers, the corpse lies stiff. Too bad for her, the ‘dumb’ broad; she had her chance at ‘horniness.’ Now she must have her face covered while her living relatives enjoy exposing themselves.
To tie up a loose end: We may be asking at this point, “Why the class-discussion from the first stanza?” Just to satirize the aristocratic tendency to conceal the unsavory, biological aspects of highly-charged human moments. The wenches display sexual familiarity and slurp down ice cream while dawdling at a wake. This image contrasts sharply with the aristocratic counterpart. There the guests would wear suits and eat hors d’oeuvres with toothpicks. As the upper class aestheticizes death and sex, the lower class draws little distinction, thereby displaying a more open disposition generally toward the crudeness of human realities.
Through all this talk, something draws us closer to that ceiling; we want to really inhabit the space of that affixed lamp; we want to dig deeper into the meaning of let be be finale of seem. That couplet becomes our space of poetic unification, and we read outwards from that point as the reflective line between an object and its image. Sounds nice, but soon our pleasant irony turns disgustingly sour.
The wenches dawdle in such dress as they are used to wear; maybe grandma embroidered some of their clothing. As they wear grandma’s spirit, we begin to see them dawdling in the far future: as senile folk, even corpses dawdling underground. Underneath the affixed beam of the poetic lamp, a suspended moment of young lust becomes unbound from time. We see future carrion engaging in a revolting display of carnality. And it gets worse. Grandma’s human face is covered, but her ‘horny’ feet protrude. Her skin being pale, the feet look kind of like globules of ice cream. Naturally, the ‘concupiscence’ of the ice cream links with the ‘horniness’ of the feet, and sweet food fuses with carrion into a unified Frankensteinian flesh. Now that the ice cream reminds us of flesh, the cigars remind us of phalluses. The anticipated ‘concupiscent’ curds recall semen. Finally, Grandma’s corpse appears as the later stages of huge ejaculation. Let be be finale of seem: ‘knowing’ life requires experiencing it as the drawn-out echo of an un-graspable orgasm. Makes sense, because that’s how life starts. Still, what a revolting way to expose the mold and decay behind all life and pleasure.
This can’t be it: we are doing poetry, and poetry is beautiful. Our lamps affixed on runny, messy comedown, we scramble away from science to the poetic source of the orgasm. Soon we will know, beyond words, the unifying meaning of let be be finale of seem.
Scientific lamps often shine on the corpse, on the semen, on the
metaphysical ‘ice cream’ of reality. In poetry, however, the lamp shines on the whipping of curds, the beautiful dawdling of ladies, the incomprehensible miracle of love that produces Grandmother. Let “be” be [always the] finale of SEEM: allow so-called being to always appear as the constantly unfolding finale of ‘seem,’ which is the ungraspable NOW of perpetual orgasm. Cover the ‘Corpse’s’ face with a sheet and enjoy your ice cream in the moment, before it melts.
Which takes us to the over-looked image: let the boys bring flowers in last month’s newspapers. NOW we see it; it’s not the ice cream, it’s the flower! Wrapped in last month’s newspaper, it feeds off the death printed on the pages as it yet shines forth brilliantly. When it dies, more flowers spring up from the dead carrion. And this is existence. Viewing the flower wrapped up this way, we come asymptotically close to capturing in an image the Godly love-explosion, the life-wrapped-in death and the death-wrapped-in-life.
A final word on poetry: given that ‘reality’ is only the runny, messy residue of divine whipping, what is the poem on the page? Is it just an unholy ejaculation? A cigar rolled up to be smoked? Is it ice cream slowly melting and molding? Yes, it is all three, but it becomes newly alive through close, meditative reading.
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