Letters as a Function of Character and Plot in Pride and Prejudice

Letters in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice offer a deeper look into the core of Austen’s characters, as the letters act as pseudo-diaries for each character, portraying events in a light which the narration cannot capture due to the lack of omniscience in the text. Through the use of comprehensive word clouds of each of the full letters sent between characters in the novel (excluding small notes), the character description in the narration of the novel and the actions of the characters can be juxtaposed with the main ideas and words of the characters’ letters. This demonstrates whether the characters’ consistent actions really portray who they are, or if something else lies beneath their surface.

Word clouds make the best representation of the characters because even single words are so powerful, both in secondary character development (narration) and direct character action (speaking or dialogue). In pulling only the key words and ideas from the letters each of the characters writes, the key aspects of that characters core come to the foreground. Using this tool, one can remove the unnecessary, superfluous fluff from the outside of the character profile, and dive into the deeper aspects of the character; in this case, the letters used to make word clouds are considered directly indicative of the character who writes them.

The first letter sent from one character to another is Mr. Collins’s letter to Mr. Bennet, announcing Collins’s impending visit to Longbourn. Textually, Collins appears to be a rather uptight and pompous man, unafraid of continuously and relentlessly milking his relationship with the great and most high Lady Catherine de Bourgh. In his letters, Mr. Collins essentially puts forth the same front (though possibly more pompous and cocky). Of the 371 words in Mr. Collins’s first letter, some of the most common are “duty,” “lady,” “clergyman,” and “Catherine.” Clearly, Collins’s main goal in this letter is to show off his newly acquired status – more than introduce himself to the family, he wants to introduce his position, and though he’ll take over the Bennet estate when Lizzie’s father dies, Collins wants to give the impression that he cares whether the girls get any share in the estate after their father dies. Collins’s second letter (again to Mr. Bennet) doesn’t delve any deeper into his character – obviously a very shallow one at that. The 349-word letter features the words “dear” and “daughter” among the most common, with “Catherine” and “Collins” (in reference to his wife) also on the list. Once again, Collins has demonstrated through his letter that the pompous outside continues on to the inside as well. This time, Collins’s focus leans towards the new acquisition of his wife, and the loss the Bennet daughters have experienced following Elizabeth’s rejection of Collins’s proposal as well as the heinous grievance endured due to Lydia’s indiscretion. Collins becomes extremely patronizing, as the words “dear” and “sir” would suggest. Evidently, not only does Collins represent the single most shallow yet regularly featured character in his dialogue, his letters do little but to reaffirm his completely static character. In this case, the letters tell us what we would have already known.

Mr. Edward Gardiner, the Bennet girls’ uncle, writes letters that give new light to his character. Though we don’t see very much of Mr. Gardiner, this letter helps us to understand a soft spoken character with relatively little page-time. In the text, Mr. Gardiner seems to be a fairly nice man, without much to say or any outstanding character motivations. His letter tells a slightly different story. Mr. Gardiner seems to be a very family-oriented person, committed to making sure everyone in his family is informed as to the current situation, and safe in any and all situations which he can exact control over. All of the most common words in his letter (“niece,” “hope,” “send,” “married,” “particulars”) have to do with the specifics of Lydia’s situation – he wants the family to know exactly what the situation is even though none of them can be there. The same is true for Mr. Gardiner’s second letter. Once again, Mr. Gardiner’s rather introverted character is brought to light. Mr. Gardiner’s demonstrates that his greatest concern is ensuring that although Lydia may not have married into the best situation, she will still have the best possible life. This includes Mr. Gardiner doing everything he can to ensure that Wickham’s credit is clean, as the major words, such as “assurances,” “hope,” and “creditors” would suggest. In this instance, Austen does not as much contradict the character’s presence in dialogue and action as much as actually give the character a personality. Austen’s reluctance to really drastically change anything from the character to the letter demonstrates that keeping the family seem as stable (or, from another view, completely unstable) as possible. Something must remain constant amid the change surrounding Lizzy’s life.

Obviously, Lydia does not have the same consciousness for others that her sisters have; her letter mostly revolves around Lydia and what Lydia has done, is doing, and is feeling, and how she thinks everyone else will react to her situation. This is most likely a result of how her mother brought her up – to think of marriage and nothing else. In her second letter, Lydia once again demonstrates her selfishness isn’t purely a surface matter, but a deep characteristic of her most basic form. Even when her older sister is about to me married, Lydia’s letter focuses more on her own life and husband than congratulations for her dear sister. Where Collins’s letters build a breadth of pompousness, Lydia’s do the opposite – reveal the depth of her narcissism. Again, Austen writes the core characters with a measure of consistency; nothing truly surprising comes to light. However, it is important to note that some people really dislike this consistency in Austen’s work. For example, Ralph Waldo Emerson thought that her work was “sterile in artistic vision.” Clearly, the consistency in characters and plot didn’t please everyone (7 People).


Mr. Bennet sends one letter of which Austen reveals any of the text, and in its entirety has 46 words, and approximately one crap-ton (equivalent to 16 bucket loads) of sass. This letter sums up Mr. Bennet to a tee. He doesn’t mess around, he likes to be simple and quick, and if he can throw in a little sarcasm and sass somewhere, it’s all for the better. Truly, Mr. Bennet’s transparency stands as one of the most undeniable truths of the novel. In this case, Austen stays completely true to the character as portrayed in social interaction in the novel. Mr. Bennet doesn’t deal with anyone else’s baggage.

This letter, from Jane to Lizzy, very clearly illustrates the depth of feeling which characterizes Jane. The major words in her letter have to do with a feeling of anxiety, and are often related to her being the older sister, and feeling a measure of responsibility for her family’s and her own situation. She often tries to explain away others’ actions, and see the best in any given situation. None of the major words in any of Jane’s letters have anything to do with how Jane herself fares, but pertain to other people in the family. Jane’s letters have everything to do with Jane ensuring that everyone else has what they need. Jane generally forgoes telling Lizzy how she (Jane) is, and instead makes sure Lizzy is fully up to speed on recent events, as opposed to Jane venting her feelings to Lizzy. Everything revolves around everyone else for Jane, nothing revolves around Jane herself. As compared to Jane in the text, this actually is a little reversed. In speech, Jane is slightly more willing to talk to Elizabeth about her feelings in certain situations, although she almost never will with anyone else. However, during actual conversation Jane also spends a lot more time finding out about Lizzy’s feelings. Austen most likely spends more time worrying about Lizzy in Jane’s letters because in an actual conversation, Jane would spend much more time talking about Lizzy than herself.

Mrs. Gardiner often speaks up more than Mr. Gardiner, and for the most part seems to be a very caring aunt – possibly the one adult female role model in Jane and Lizzy’s lives who cares for their feelings rather than their being married. Her letter surely confirms that her personality in her small words and actions is indeed true. Though Mrs. Gardiner was not supposed to tell of the events that transpired around the time of Lydia’s marriage, she tells Lizzy anyway, just because Mrs. Gardiner knows that Lizzy is extremely eager to know the details, and just how much her family owes Mr. Darcy. In text, this is also the case. Once again, Austen goes out of the way to demonstrate that nothing has ever truly shaken Lizzy’s life up. Though dysfunctional, her family is constant, which makes the events of the novel that much more extreme. This idea is one of the many beauties of the novel, as Sir Walter Scott wrote in his journal about Austen’s work, “That young lady had a talent for describing the involvement and feelings and characters of ordinary life which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with” (Jane Austen’s Art). The absolute normality of the characters and the novel is what makes Austen’s storytelling so fantastic.

Of all the letters written in the novel, Darcy’s is the only one which demonstrates a major shift in character. Darcy realizes that one of Lizzie’s biggest issues with him lies in the supposed mistreatment of Wickham, so the letter focuses on that particular problem. Darcy himself places a large emphasis on family, though not necessarily seen in his actions, as can be interpreted from the fact that several of the most common words are those relating to family. As such, Darcy would do anything for his family, and anything for his love’s family to keep their standing. Before this moment, Darcy always seems to be haughty and above everyone else. His letter shows that he really wants to explain himself, he wants Lizzy to understand everything behind his motivation and love, and he can’t do that in a conversation. Through all of the consistency in the rest of the letters, this letter and its asymmetry mirror the source of the inconsistency in Lizzy’s life – Darcy himself.

Lizzy generally doesn’t send letters in this book, as her thoughts and feelings are most intimately known through Austen’s commentary. However, Lizzy’s letter sheds an interesting light on her character. Lizzy seems to be one of the most down to earth characters, and yet her major word is “world.” Perhaps she is, in fact, more of a dreamer than we might initially think, and really all she wants is her world to be a dream one. She really feels that she has the best life in the world, after she marries Darcy. As a direct compliment to Darcy’s letter, Lizzy’s shows not how her personality is different in the letter than in her commentary, but how her personality has changed since the beginning of the novel. Of all the letters, this proves to be the most revealing. From the beginning of the novel to Lizzy’s letter at the end, Lizzy develops from a hyper-realistic and cynical person to someone with the capacity to have a hyper-active sense of superlatives. If anything qualifies as fantastic, that had better. Austen uses a few characters with little variation in personality to supplement one girl’s transformation from realistic to less realistic, and people all over the world love her book. What else qualifies as success?

Through the use of letters in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and an analysis by way of word cloud, it can be determined that Austen’s novel does not have a cut-and-dry rule for how letters represent their writers. One thing, however, is definite: those characters who do write letters (with the exception of Darcy) find themselves accurately represented within those letters. Very little core differentiation occurs. Literarily, this represents the consistency in Lizzy’s life gained from her family members, and the resulting instability which entered her life at the same time as Darcy. Darcy changed Elizabeth’s life.


Works Cited

"7 People Who Hated Pride and Prejudice." Mental Floss. N.p., 3 Jan. 2013. Web. 16 Dec. 2013. <http://mentalfloss.com/article/32099/7-people-who-hated-pride-and-prejudice>.

Austen, Jane, and Donald J. Gray. Pride and Prejudice. New York: W.W. Norton, 1993. Print.

"Jane Austen's Art and Her Literary Reputation." Jane Austen's Art and Her Literary Reputation. N.p., n.d. Web. 16 Dec. 2013. <http://www.pemberley.com/janeinfo/janeart.html>.

Letters and Word Clouds in Pride and Prejudice

Chapter 13, Collins to Mr. Bennet

Clearly, Collins’s main goal in this letter is to show off his newly acquired status – more than introduce himself to the family, he wants to introduce his position to the family, and though he’ll take over the Bennet estate when Lizzie’s father dies, Collins wants to give the daughters a chance to atone for the terrible misfortune of the Bennets’ not having a son.

Chapter 26, Jane to Lizzy

This letter, from Jane to Lizzy, very clearly illustrates the depth of feeling which characterizes Jane. The major words in her letter have to do with a feeling of anxiety, and are often related to her being the older sister, and feeling a measure of responsibility for her family’s and her own situation. She often tries to explain away others’ actions, and see the best in any given situation.

Chapter 35, Darcy's Letter

Darcy realizes that one of Lizzie’s biggest issues with him lies in the supposed mistreatment of Wickham, so the letter focuses on that particular problem. Darcy himself places a large emphasis on family, though not necessarily seen in his actions, as can be interpreted from the fact that several of the most common words are those relating to family. As such, Darcy would do anything for his family, and anything for his love’s family to keep their standing.

Chapter 46, Jane to Lizzy

This letter particularly expresses Jane’s devotion to her family, and their issues, as opposed to just her own feelings in any matter. Notice how none of the major words have anything to do with how Jane herself is faring in light of this matter, but most pertain to other people in the family, or the situation as a whole.

Chapter 46- Jane to Lizzy Number 2

Once again, this sequence of letters has much to do with Jane ensuring that everyone else has what they need, and knows everything going on. Jane once again forgoes telling Lizzy how she (Jane) is, and instead makes sure Lizzy is fully up to speed on the goings-on of the last few days. Everything revolves around everything else for Jane, nothing revolves around Jane herself.

Chapter 47, Lydia to Mrs. Gardiner

Obviously, Lydia does not have the same consciousness for others that her sisters have; the letter mostly revolves around Lydia and what Lydia has done, is doing, and is feeling, and how she thinks everyone else will react to her situation. This is most likely a result of how her mother brought her up – to think of marriage and nothing else.

Chapter 48, Collins to Mr. Bennet

Once again, Collins has demonstrated through his letter that the pompous outside continues on to the inside as well. This time, Collins’s focus leans towards the new acquisition of his wife, and the loss the Bennet daughters have experienced following Elizabeth’s rejection of Collins’s proposal. He becomes extremely patronizing, as the words “dear” and “sir” would suggest.

Chapter 49, Mr. Gardiner to Mr. Bennet

Though we don’t see very much of Mr. Gardiner, the Bennet girls’ uncle, this letter opens up a character who doesn’t say very much in common conversation. Mr. Gardiner seems to be a very family-oriented person, committed to making sure everyone in his family is informed as to the current situation, and safe in any situation which he can control.

Chapter 50, Mr. Gardiner to Mr. Bennet Number 2

Once again, Mr. Gardiner’s rather introverted character is brought to light through his letter to his brother. Mr. Gardiner’s greatest concern in this letter is ensuring that although Lydia may not have married into the best situation, she will have the best possible life out of that situation. This includes Mr. Gardiner doing everything he can to ensure that Wickham’s credit is clean, as the more major words, such as “assurances,” “hope,” and “creditors” would suggest.

Chapter 52, Mrs. Gardiner to Lizzy

Mrs. Gardiner often speaks up more than Mr. Gardiner, and for the most part seems to be a very caring aunt – possibly the one adult female role model in Jane and Lizzy’s lives who cares for their feelings rather than their being married. Her letter surely confirms that her personality in her small words and actions is indeed true. Though Mrs. Gardiner was not supposed to tell of the events that transpired around the time of Lydia’s marriage, she tells Lizzy anyway, just because Mrs. Gardiner knows that Lizzy is extremely eager to know the details, and just how much her family owes Mr. Darcy.

Chapter 60, Lizzy to Mrs. Gardiner

Lizzy generally doesn’t send letters in this book, as her thoughts and feelings are most intimately known through Austen’s commentary. However, this particular letter sheds an interesting light on her character. Lizzy seems to be one of the most down to earth characters, and yet her major word is “world.” Perhaps she is, in fact, more of a dreamer than we might initially think, and really all she wants is her world to be a dream one. She really feels that she has the best life in the world, after she marries Darcy.

Chapter 60, Mr. Bennet to Mr. Collins

This letter sums up Mr. Bennet to a tee. He doesn’t mess around, he likes to be simple and quick, and if he can throw in a little sass somewhere, it’s all for the better. Truly, Mr. Bennet’s transparency stands as one of the most undeniable truths of the novel.

Chapter 61, Lydia to Lizzy

Once again, Lydia demonstrates that her selfishness isn’t purely a surface matter, but a deep characteristic of her most basic form. Even when her older sister is about to me married, Lydia’s letter focuses more on her own life and husband than congratulations for her dear sister.

War-Torn Poet

More than just representing the physical pain of a soldier wounded in battle, the poem “Disabled,” by Wilfred Owen, describes quite accurately the mental and emotional pain one experiences after losing something vitally important in one’s life.

The speaker describes the subject as having, “waiting for dark, and shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,” using potent figurative language through the use of the color words “dark” and “grey” to elucidate something more than just the colors themselves (567). Black and grey often associate themselves with emptiness, a lack of presence of one or more things. In this case, the subject of the poem (a fallen soldier) lost not only his physical might and ability, but also his mental awareness and desire. That the soldier not only sees these colors, but in fact waits for and wears them demonstrates his complete emptiness. Waiting for the dark has become easier than simply looking into it; one might even say the soldier welcomes the emptiness. The soldier has lost the desire to fight the darkness he feels from losing his physical capabilities.

For soldiers with tour-ending injuries, I would submit that often the hardest part of recovery is the mental one. Evidently, this soldier signed on very young, just out of high school, and feels he lost his youth when he was injured in the war. Because Wilfred Owen only lived 25 years, and the poem is about a wounded soldier, and Owen himself was a soldier in the British Army during WWI, it’s safe to assume that the subject of the poem is Owen himself, and the poem deals with his depression and shell-shock following his first tour in the Army. He feels that he lost his youth in the blood of war, saying, “There was an artist silly for his face, for it was younger than his youth, last year” (568). The alliterative sound of “younger than his youth last year” emphasizes the fleeting youth Owen feels he had; at only 23 years of age he was institutionalized for what we now call PTSD, and he quickly lost all the illusions and dreams that often come with a youthful spirit. Though he hasn’t been significantly physically broken, the war truly broke something fundamental about Owen’s being, and sometimes it simply isn’t possible to recover from a break that big.

With his broken spirit, I don’t think Owen ever really recovered, or was able to tape together the salvageable pieces of himself after his first few years of war. He says, “Tonight he noticed how the women’s eyes passed from him to the strong men who were whole” (569). Now, clearly the poem doesn’t refer to any major and lasting physical deficiency, as Owen wasn’t permanently injured physically, but an important point on the topic of psychological wellbeing and wholeness comes up. He feels as if even psychological scars are evident and telling, and feels set apart from the other men because of his mental scars. Because he can very clearly see his injuries, Owen believes that others can as well. I think he completely loses his will to do anything but meekly exist until someone or something comes to take him away. He asks, “Why don’t they come and put him into bed? Why don’t they come?” (569). I think this is extremely indicative of the severity mental injuries can have on a person. Owen, when he was injured, was completely capable of taking care of himself, but he was so far gone mentally that he couldn’t really bring himself to complete even the simplest task. In essence, I think the poem may be asking more about why someone won’t come and put the soldier from the poem out of his misery, rather than just “to bed.”

Overall, this poem brings up important questions about being mentally broken, and how much it really takes to completely de-commission someone just through psychological injuries. The human brain tends to be pretty resilient, so for Owen to be so damaged that he essentially wrote a poem describing his want for the pain to be all over, I think he really must have had too many pieces to be able to tape them all together and come out looking like a normal person ever again. I even wonder if maybe he wasn’t too upset about dying – some think he sought out a position on the front lines in 1918 to imitate one of his admired friends, but I think maybe he wanted something to validate all that pain: either victory or death. 

"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" and its Ties to Lucifer

We spent Wednesday in class talking about the poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Coleridge, and after the class discussion I spent a lot of time thinking about it. After some careful consideration and re-reading the poem, I came to a rather interesting conclusion.

Throughout the poem, the action seems to bounce between good and evil, the Mariner never sure exactly which side he lies on. The very beginning of the Mariner’s story talks about the beauty of the sun, how “he shone bright,” for all the men on his ship (378). However, the story takes a dark turn when the Mariner shoots and kills a good omen, the albatross.

I would submit that the entire first half of the poem, if not the whole thing, is a telling of Lucifer’s fall, and God’s punishment afterwards. Now, going on this analysis there are two distinct alternatives for how the telling plays out. The first option is that the Albatross represents Lucifer, and the Mariner represents God; shooting the albatross with the crossbow is a physical representation of the angel Lucifer falling from grace, and his punishment is to not be present in the world to see humanity take its shape. While this is a very good argument, I’m much more partial to the second option. The second (and more probable) option is that the Mariner is Lucifer, and the Albatross a representation of God. The mariner, “with [his] crossbow” shoots the Albatross from the sky, killing it (380). The use of a crossbow in killing the Albatross is instrumental, because of its relationship with the cross. Lucifer, when he was cast to Hell, believed he fell because he loved God too much. The Mariner kills the physical representation of God with an item of significant religious imagery, physically demonstrating Lucifer’s overwhelming love for his Father, so much so that it hurts God.

Moreover, when the Mariner thinks all is lost, and he’ll never find home, he sees life, and says:

“Beyond the shadow of the ship,

I watched the water-snakes:

They moved in tracks of shining white,

And when they reared, the elfish light

Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship

I watched their rich attire:

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,

They coiled and swam; and every track

Was a flash of golden fire” (386).

That the Mariner welcomes the snakes and fire is no hallucination, or “just happy to see something” attitude. In essence, this can be seen as Lucifer accepting his place in Hell, and welcoming the gates to him, because he realizes that his power is indeed great enough to bring the gates of Hell to him. The Mariner delights in seeing these signs of evil, instead of cowering away, which greatly supports the hypothesis that the Mariner represents Lucifer, and the poem is a loose telling of his fall from grace.

Furthermore, the Mariner’s ultimate fate is to live in agony, so people know his story. He says, “That agony returns:/ And till my ghastly take is told,/ This heart within me burns” (396). This, really, would be Lucifer’s Hell on Earth. Rather than being allowed to rule his domain in Hell, no matter how dislikeable that really is, God forces Lucifer to live on the planet among those whom he refused to love in the first place (Lucifer told God that he could not love man more than God because they were violent creatures who didn’t deserve the love Lucifer had to give), and teach them of his Father, try to make them see why God is great. Because, Lucifer believes he still loves God, that God is great no matter the situation, or what he did to Lucifer. The Mariner even says, “For the dear God who loveth us,/ He made and loveth all” (397). Even in his greatest punishment, Lucifer sees how much God loves, and yet still refuses to love humanity with all the strength and conviction with which he loved God, and that is why he is doomed to his Hell, teaching those he hates about God and his love.

In a nutshell: the mariner is Lucifer (not Satan/the Devil, but Lucifer. Important distinction, because Lucifer is the archangel that fell from grace, Satan and Devil are the names we give to him to embody the evil we believe is in his soul) and the Albatross a physical representation of Lucifer’s betrayal of God and fall from grace. 

Revisiting Brave New World

In my last blog, I talked about Huxley’s persuading that individual thought is like a cancer for the proverbial “social body” of Brave New World. In this post, I’d take that both forwards and backwards, and propose that Huxley persuades not that individual thought acts as this cancer, but individuality in a much broader sense. Additionally, the social body of the World State must do whatever is required to ensure the survival of the body.

The Director most adequately describes the danger to the World State which comes from individuality, stating, “’Unorthodoxy threatens more than the life of a mere individual; it strikes at society itself’” (137). Most slyly, Huxley places in the metaphor of the snake, in saying that unorthodoxy “strikes” society. This metaphor plays a key role in the understanding of how much this society relies upon uniformity. The proverbial snake of individuality can, at times, slither in unnoticed, and wreak havoc on the World State, first causing the body to panic, then, if the snake is allowed to “bite” the metaphorical body, causing widespread damage. Because of the immense danger individuality poses to the society as a whole.

Due to the danger associated with individuality, those in power within this society must act quickly and swiftly to remove anyone whose independence of thought and action may pose a threat to the stability of the society. Because of this, the Director quickly acts when he sees Bernard becoming too independent, and states that “’In Iceland he will have small opportunity to lead others astray by his unfordly example”’ (139). Bernard’s punishment is to be removed, so much like the cancer he could be to this social body, and placed somewhere else, in a sterile container full of others like him, where the cancer can’t spread to “civilized” society. That society removes Bernard as opposed to just killing him says a lot – the stability is so fragile, they have to make everything seem well and good for the lower castes, going to Iceland to them just seems like a change of location, not the punishment it’s intended to be. They must, at all costs, maintain the outward appearance of being completely stable in ideals and the human makeup of the upper division of humanity, lest the lower division become restless and follow those with ideas contrary to the hypnopædic teachings of the Conditioning Centre.

Truly, the rights of the individual fall under the pressure to keep society stable, which the Director most adequately describes when he says “’It is better one should suffer than that many should be corrupted’” (137). More than characterizing the mindset of the Director, this statement characterizes the society as a whole. Where, especially in our society, the “one” has a high value, especially for those close to the proverbial “one,” this society places stability of the many above the comfort and wellbeing of any one person, or even a small group of individuals, those with differing viewpoints are treated as well as any malignant cancer can be expected to be treated - - with hostility and the intent to remove the tumor as quickly and efficiently as possible. For Linda, the doctors let her drug herself to death on soma, for Helmholtz and Bernard, those in charge shipped them away, to a place where others like them lived, but couldn’t touch the social body.

Truly, more than anything else, this society focuses on smashing down individuality, and making the overall body of people as much like one continuous person as possible. From the very beginning, this is so. The lower castes are made up of so many identical people, hundreds upon hundreds genetically identical, and thousands upon thousands genetically related. Then, all people from each caste are engineered mentally, to have the same thought processes, the same intellectual identity. And, finally, they take away the intellectual free time of each individual in the society, balancing just enough work with just enough play, supplementing that play with soma, so no one has the time or forethought to really even think about why society acts the way it does, or who they are individually. Most certainly, Huxley aims to point out how each individual truly is just a cell in the body, and those with the mentality and thought to act as individuals are the better off for it. They are sent to places where other like them exist, where intellectuality and thought and creativity exist, and where they can be themselves, free of the rigorous hypnopædia and conditioning which takes away the beauty from the world, and replaces it with infantile gratification, instant happiness, and general stagnancy of being. (774 words) 

A Touch of Cancer

Thus far into A Brave New World, major themes are as yet still building, and for the most part the key to the novel has remained elusive. However, the novel seems to be highly interested in the negativity of individuality and personal identity. Social continuity and homogeneity maintain themselves as society’s stability, and individuality threatens the entity which is this World State.

The first instance which begins to explore the instrumentality of stripping society of individuality comes in the very beginning of the novel, when the students tour the Central London Hatchery and Conditioning Centre. The new process for fertilizing eggs and then making embryos results in, for all castes other than Alphas and Betas, results in “Making ninety-six human beings grow where only one grew before. Progress” (Huxley 17). Syntactically, these statements represent much of the philosophy of the society. It (the society) does not need to be made up of “complete” individuals, ones with independent mindsets, goals, and outlooks on life. Like these near-sentences, the people of the society can carry out their function without having a full consciousness. This encourages the retraction of individuality, and substitution with hive-minded people, for the sake of a more efficient system. Much like the way Huxley uses only fragments to describe the lack of genetic individuality within the World State, the geneticists and breeders strip the people down to only the necessary elements for their castes. Intelligence, psychological preferences and predispositions, and social mindset are precisely engineered to ensure the human contains only what is exactly necessary to give meaning to the situation, but not enough for any extraneous meanings or opinions to form from the information planted in that person.

Because the society actively puts down individuality, any appearance of difference is heavily ridiculed. Even the individual who appears or thinks differently than the rest of the society notices the difference, and extreme self-consciousness of the difference results. Bernard Marx, while intellectually equal to anyone else of the Alpha-Plus caste, is slightly shorter than the rest of his caste, and as such feels out of place. Because of this difference, “feeling an outsider he behaved like one,” directly characterizing Marx as someone in direct conflict with the goal of the World State society (69). In the case of the type of characterization Huxley employs to expose Marx, the use of direct as opposed to indirect characterization supersedes the importance of the explicit word choice of the statement. Though the others of his caste and his general society have an awareness of the difference between Marx and others conditionately equal to him, Marx has the greatest awareness of this difference. Marx internalizes his difference from others, and even works to make it larger. He consciously separates himself from the rigorous hypnopædia propaganda he was exposed to as a child. He wants to get to know the women he sees, as opposed to having lots of one night stands. His interests directly conflict with the society, and when people see this, they look down on him, more so than they do simply because of his physical “defect,” as it were. Any form of individuality maintains itself as alien to this society.

Furthermore, this individuality greatly threatens the society as a whole, whether Marx knows it or not. The society as a whole cannot function properly if a member becomes different enough to challenge the norms, although, as the Director states, “the social body persists although the component cells may change” (95). Marx’s mentality and challenging of the norms and hypnopædia represents something far more dangerous than simply a component cell dying and being exchanged in the metaphorical body of the World State. Newness of thought, innovation of opinion and tradition have the potential to spread like a cancer through this society, destroying it from the inside. Truly, the most dangerous occurrence for this society lies in the possibility that hypnopædia could be overcome, and the past freedom of thought come back. Especially dangerous, because the only people physically capable of this kind of thought are in the upper castes, and as a result, the differences in thought would manifest in the most important parts of the proverbial body, the reproductive system, the brain, the vital organs. A cancer of the support system of the body, the lower castes that keep the infrastructure going, a bone or skin cancer that is slow growing and not quick to metastasize, that can be cut out, cut off, and the body can keep going. But, when a cell in the brain, in the heart, in the major systems of the body becomes cancerous and begins to spread and grow, to overtake the mother organ and then move to others, it takes down the whole body, cannot be removed because as surely as the cancer will kill the body, so would the surgery necessary to remove it. This cancer is fatal. Huxley points out that even when highly conditioned, individuality, social cancerousness exists; to a society completely reliant on uniformity and the stripping of individual identity, the danger this cancer poses is real, and could spread to Stage IV before the body even realizes it’s there. (859 words)

Mr. Ramsay as Seen Through His Children

I am a firm believer that, more often than not, children give the most honest and comprehensive description of people they know. Thus, I find that the best way to truly delve into the fabric of a character lies in dissecting how the children surrounding the character in question indirectly characterize him or her. However, I have found that in looking for his true character through his children and through Lilly, Mr. Ramsay becomes not clearer as a character, but more muddled and confused, such are the contradictory statements which his children give about him.

These contradictory opinions and views become especially clear in the end of the novel, when Mrs. Ramsay is no longer the focus of attention, and isn’t there to buffer the children’s opinions. In the boat on the way to the lighthouse, James thinks that he “kept dreading the moment when he [Mr. Ramsay] would look up and speak sharply to him about something or other” (Woolf 187). The dialectic use of the word “sharp” reinforces the stern nature of Mr. Ramsay; “sharp” in this context could mean that Mr. Ramsay either reproaches James intelligently, with a measure of intellect and high achievement mentally, or with a mean tone, in a way designed to make James feel badly for whatever infraction he made. However, an interesting point about James’s outlook on the possibility of Mr. Ramsay saying something on James’s conduct is that James doesn’t actually do anything to warrant a negative comment. Mr. Ramsay constantly seems to blame James for the slow going of the boat, but, in reality, the wind is to blame for that issue. It seems, that from James’s point of view, Mr. Ramsay is unreasonable and overly critical of situations often outside human control.

On a completely different side of the spectrum, we find Cam’s opinion of Mr. Ramsay. In fact, “she thought... he was not vain, nor a tyrant, and did not wish to make you pity him” (193). This idea directly contradicts most of the opinions of the rest of the novel concerning Mr. Ramsay, and indeed makes a bold statement. Cam, as one of Mr. Ramsay’s youngest children, has only known him as a parent; Mrs. Ramsay died when Cam was not yet seven, so she knew her mother very little. Cam’s statement suggests that Mr. Ramsay, contrary to the stern and military-esque persona James perceives, is rather intellectual and soft as a human. That Mr. Ramsay acts this way to two of his children – both within a year of age – indicates that he must have some secondary feelings towards each of them which would cause him to act differently to each of them.

One very plausible explanation for the distinct disconnect in characterization between James’s and Cam’s ideas of Mr. Ramsay could be explained in their actions towards him, and his reciprocations in action. When James was a young boy, Mr. Ramsay famously said no, they cannot go to the Lighthouse today. In keeping with the norm of the human mind, it became James to only remember the negative of Mr. Ramsay’s actions. Mr. Ramsay didn’t like it when Mrs. Ramsay spoke her mind, Mr. Ramsay didn’t like it when something was done in a fashion he didn’t agree with, and Mr. Ramsay dashed James’s hopes and wouldn’t take them to the Lighthouse. James has a predisposition to only remember the negatives, because so many of his experiences with his father have been rather negative. On the other hand, Cam only remembers good things of her childhood with Mr. Ramsay. She talks extensively about her experiences sitting in the reading room with Mr. Ramsay and Mr. Carmichael, while Mr Carmichael would read The Times and Mr. Ramsay would write in his journal, or read a book. She fondly remembers the sound of the paper turning its page, and when one would make a comment to the other and would start some sort of discussion. Her positive remembrances directly influence the positivity in which she sheds Mr. Ramsay.

In conclusion, it would be wise to say that Mr. Ramsay never actually has his character really fleshed out and discovered, because none of the accounts of his character are from people who can separate their personal interactions with Mr. Ramsay from the man himself. His character is extremely subjective, dependent upon how the other characters feel about certain moments in time, where he happened to factor in. His children’s opinions, then, are of the most importance, because in each child’s different opinion, we see not necessarily how Mr. Ramsay acts as a character, but who the child is as a character.

James is the sad and lonely boy who lost his loving mother, and was left with a bitter, mean man to care for him in her place. Cam is loving, girlish, probably the utmost stereotype of the man-pleasing woman. She remembers her father’s intelligence, how he used to make her feel at peace, and so even when she wants to see something bad, see Mr. Ramsay form James’s point of view, she can’t because the positivity of her own life makes the negativity in James’s viewpoint alien to her. The children’s judgments of Mr. Ramsay are of more use in telling who the child is than who the man behind the judgments is. 

Mrs. Ramsay - A Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma, Squeezed Into a Book That's Just a Little Too... Tight.

Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse holds a myriad of characters, the most interesting and enigmatic of whom would probably be Mrs. Ramsay. The mother of eight and wife to a rather dry intellectual, Mrs. Ramsay consistently contradicts herself. She finds ways to belittle herself next to her husband, and in the same chapter raise herself up as a beautiful, almost goddess-like woman. She both feels powerful and powerless, in an interesting mix of feelings which, if anything, makes her more difficult to understand, rather than shedding light on her personality.

When she reads to her child, James, Mrs. Ramsay contemplates her relationship with her husband, and concludes that “she did not like, even for a second, to feel finer than her husband” (Woolf 42). Interestingly, she even feels that she can’t trust the truth of her thoughts around her husband, as if having true thoughts would make her better than her husband, who prides himself on his intellectualism. That she doesn’t like to feel as if she’s better than her husband points to a classic ideal of the nineteenth century (and even into the twentieth and sometimes today) that the woman was less than the man in a relationship – property for the man to do with as he pleases. It would appear that Mrs. Ramsay conforms to this ideal, that she must always be lesser than her husband – the greater of the two parts of the marriage. However, this represents only one side of Mrs. Ramsay’s proverbial coin. When she isn’t in close proximity to her husband (in either body or mind), she has a very different view of herself. When Mr. Carmichael is over, she admits that, “She bore about with her, she could not help knowing it, the torch of her beauty,” and goes on to describe her own beauty in a very positive sense (44). This first person description, coming again directly from Mrs. Ramsay, depicts the startling foil within Mrs. Ramsay herself. On one side, she adamantly wishes to be lesser than her husband, on the other she clearly knows she’s a very fine, beautiful woman. That she feels two extremes of the spectrum indicates that she really doesn’t know how to feel about herself, and as allows others to define her self-image.

Once more, when Mrs. Ramsay plays with James and thinks about his later life, she thinks how he won’t ever be as happy later as he was when he was a child, but , she “stopped herself, remembering how it angered her husband that she should say that” (62). Even in thought, Mrs. Ramsay has a sense of apprehension towards doing something which might make her husband upset – in this moment, she’s fully incapable of having an independent thought. Society and a very, very long marriage have indoctrinated her to completely accept her husband’s values, even when they are completely different from her own. This Mrs. Ramsay has a completely different outlook from the one who flaunted and openly acknowledged the bright torch that is her beauty. And yet, when Mr. Ramsay leaves her mind, she asserts, “No happiness lasted; she knew that” (67). It would seem that her only encumbrance to being able to form her own thoughts and ideas is her cynical, dry, and even childish husband. As Mrs. Ramsay features prominently in the novel (one could even say her character is the most important), clearly her relationship with Mr. Ramsay is also pivotal. Mr. Ramsay drives her character to be so enigmatic, and quite paradoxical, even. Mrs. Ramsay’s twistedness of character provides an un-grounding point for the rest of the characters. Where everyone else has a set of characteristics that do not seem to change, Mrs. Ramsay finds herself in a constant state of flux depending upon whom she surrounds herself with. As the main character, how, then, can she become dynamic if she already changes her state of mind and being just because of the people she surrounds herself with??

I’d propose (and I’m going out on a limb here, because I’ve never read Woolf before), that she may find a state of steadiness – she can no longer change her mind every so often, but comes to a point where she must choose something and stay with it, thus making a reverse in the world of dynamic characters, and coming to rest in one place rather than finding many new ideas to change her perspective. But, that last bit we’ll have to leave to the novel and each one’s own imagination!

Misery in Marriage

Today in class, a certain question was raised about a certain someone being happy in her marriage to Mr. Collins. I intend to answer the question with the utmost clarity and decisiveness.

I’m going to make this perfectly clear: the word “happiness” does not apply in any way, shape, or form, at any point in time, to Charlotte after she marries Mr. Collins. In fact, a better word to describe the Collins’ marriage would fall more under the scope of absolute misery.

Let’s begin with the object of Charlotte’s eternal misery, Mr. Collins. From the very outset of the engagement (not the marriage, the engagement), Charlotte demonstrates that she clearly understands the horrific entity that is Mr. Collins. In a rather colorful demonstration of indirect characterization on Austen’s part, Charlotte describes Collins as “neither sensible nor agreeable, his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary” (Austen 83). As almost all negative commentary on Collins’s personality comes from indirect characterization, everyone but Collins knows that he’s basically the single person that no one wants to be around (with the exception of Lady Catherine). Charlotte’s certainly not a fan, and she knows that part of Collins’s interest in her is due to the fact that he wants to get back at Lizzy. Charlotte doesn’t even care. All she wants is to be secure in life, happiness was never part of the equation. She willingly sacrifices her happiness to be a part of Collins’s game with Lizzy.

With the event of her marriage, Charlotte’s potential happiness takes a downward turn, as Elizabeth observes during her visit to Rosings Park. When Collins talks about working in his garden, “Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible” (104). So, basically, Charlotte does everything she can to kick Collins out of the house so she can have time to herself. She desperately needs an escape. Charlotte and Collins have been married less than six months at this point in the novel, and already Charlotte does everything she can to escape the union (barring actual divorce. This is the late 18^th century, divorce is still a no-no, and only possible under certain very explicit situations. See this link if you wish to learn more). Though she thought she was prepared for a loveless marriage, one that might potentially grow love in the future, Charlotte clearly underestimated the supreme awfulness of the situation at hand. Society never taught her how to handle something of this nature, so she runs away from it.

Moreover, she has to deal with Lady Catherine, arguably one of the most intolerable women of any fictional era, and, coincidentally, a historical allusion to Catherine the Great of Russia. Catherine the Great, though very powerful and well-known, was not often well-liked. In fact, she had a small circle of people who liked her very much, and a large conglomeration of people who didn’t like her at all. Lady Catherine de Bourgh intentionally mirrors her historical predecessor to the very last, to emphasize the utter misery in which Charlotte must spend the rest of her life. One night when playing cards after dinner, “Lady Catherine was generally speaking – stating the mistakes of the three others or relating some anecdote of herself” (111). This represents Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s general action and attitude. She’s self-important and haughty, and the only person who likes her is Collins (that’s her “small circle” which parallels that of Catherine the Great). Pretty much everyone else can’t stand her, but they’re nice to her because she has money. Charlotte has to deal with this woman at least once weekly, sometimes more if Lady Catherine is feeling condescending and ambivalent enough. That alone in and of itself would be enough to make any person with half a rational brain – which Charlotte most certainly has – miserable for all of eternity. Out of propriety, society requires Charlotte to interact with the woman and seem as if she likes Lady Catherine, but, in reality, the woman is completely intolerable.

In conclusion, security and happiness are very different concepts. While Charlotte has the money and stability she wanted, she doesn’t have anything to facilitate a feeling of happiness or felicity. Her husband, from the very beginning, isn’t described as an agreeable person. Charlotte has to actively work to get almost-happy time to herself, and is constantly confronted with a nasty woman who adamantly feels the need to criticize everything everyone else round her does and says. These are not the elements of a happy marriage, or even a happy life situation. Charlotte is secure, not happy. These are two completely different ideas, of which only one can apply to the new Mrs. Collins. 

Society - The Monster or the Master?

The late and great Jane Austen penned many an insightful, witty novel, perhaps none more insightful and witty than the classic Pride and Prejudice. While some might deign to say that it’s just another trashy romance, in reality it combines humour, high society, and relationships into a tightly-packed, socially relevant novel about the trials and tribulations of growing up as a woman during the transition from the eighteenth to nineteenth centuries.

Perhaps one of the most important and relevant messages in Pride and Prejudice – even for today’s audience – lies in that a person (particularly a woman) must choose to be active in her life, and not allow the constraints of society and money to shape her expectations of life and herself. This especially comes through in the very evident juxtaposition between Charlotte and Elizabeth. Both of these women want to be secure in later life, but each takes a surprisingly different approach to gaining this security. In fact, both women have very different definitions of what security means.

Austen’s message most prominently comes to light in the two girls’ reactions to Mr. Collins. Charlotte very clearly states that, “Marriage had always been her object, it was the only honourable provision for well-educated women of small fortune” (Austen 83). At twenty seven years old, Charlotte literally does not care. She simply requires a reasonably well-matched marriage; the feelings, specific situation, and other details are of absolutely no consequence to her. Charlotte absolutely conforms to society. Elizabeth, on the other hand, refuses to allow society’s design to shape her life. Upon Collins proposing to her, Elizabeth exclaims, “You could not make me happy,” clearly articulating that, contrary to Charlotte’s idea of security, Elizabeth believes security to lie in happiness rather than monetary value and comfort (73). More than juxtaposing only Charlotte, Elizabeth juxtaposes all of English society. Austen essentially employs Elizabeth as one huge slap in the face for English society, stating that a woman should have (and does have) the power to choose a partner for love over money, in the same way that a man can. Austen uses this juxtaposition to articulate that although the everywoman (Charlotte) will consistently follow society, there is another way (Elizabeth).

Clearly, both of these women want the same result out of life – some form of security. However, the word “security” emanates different meanings for each. Charlotte rides with the generally accepted, socially farmed-out meaning: a comfortable income and husband who can provide said income = security. Elizabeth, the rebel child, takes a completely different road. For her, security begins with love, none of this “the love will grow from the relationship” crap that people who arrange marriages have been spouting since the beginning of time. The money, for Elizabeth, grows (hopefully) secondary to picking the right man to love. She refuses to be unhappy in a societally secure relationship over being happy in a possibly less wealthy situation.

Moreover, even each woman’s situation seems to grow into a juxtaposition of the other’s, after Charlotte’s marriage to Collins. When Elizabeth observes Charlotte’s air when Mr. Collins is not present in their home she notices that, “When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really a great air of comfort throughout” (105). Clearly, Charlotte does not find any happiness in her current situation. Had she felt any positive feelings at all for her marriage (above convenience and relief), Charlotte might endeavor to be slightly closer to her new husband, as a newlywed and all. However, she actually does her best to get him out of the house, forget about him, and go about her own work! Following society’s guidelines becomes one of the least emotionally rewarding decisions Charlotte makes, and she has no choice but to live in this discomfort for the rest of her life. Elizabeth, however, finds herself enjoying life after she rejects Collins. She finds herself often fraternizing with Mr. Wickham, and openly admits “Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom,” which arose from the departure of Bingley and his family from Netherfield, in addition to recent events with Collins (93). Lizzy quickly moves on with her life, and her decision to flaunt authority and go against society has, thus far, worked very well for her. Austen demonstrates that sometimes, though it may seem wrong to go against society, defying society comes out with the best individual results.

And, to conclude, isn’t the individual result more important than the conglomerate result which society desires? The fact is, not all the women in a society can hope to marry up and have comfortable livings in nice parishes where stuck up rich women tell those young ladies how to properly arrange their living room furniture. There simply aren’t enough good, rich men for that. So, instead, Austen proposes that a better way to gain happiness and security in life is to do something that makes you happy, rather than trying something which society dictates you should try, in the minute hope that maybe everything turns out okay. 

Milton's Evolution

Well, I know this post is technically 2 days late, but, as they say, better late than never!!

Today, I thought I’d talk about the radically different tones between Paradise Lost and Milton’s poem “When I Consider How My Light Is Spent.” Quite frankly, I’m surprised at how different the two are. As I discussed in one of my earlier posts, Milton basically holds nothing back in his massive preaching of God in Paradise Lost, but in this poem, Milton takes a much different tone. Rather than the high and mighty path we see in the epic, this short poem is much more solemn, and Milton uses it to reflect upon his purpose in life, and discover whether he was meant to work harder that he did, or if he was meant to do something less.

The very first clue that Milton is using this poem to reflect on his life comes in the very first line, when he says, “When I consider how my light is spent,” indicating clear and knowing contemplation of life and his part in it (Milton, 1). More importantly than showing a fleeting, momentary event of contemplation, Milton here demonstrates that he often thinks about his place in the world, in the use of the word “when.” Milton appears to genuinely care what his purpose in life is, and he wants to go on a journey to find out. As a good, Christian man, this actually follows quite well along the Cristian faith, falling in with the idea of using life to learn what God’s purpose for you is. Through this poem, Milton demonstrates his good Christian character. However, the tone put forth in this poem is very different from the tone in Paradise Lost, even from the very beginning. In the beginning of Book 1, Milton states that he will “justify the ways of God to men,” essentially setting himself up as a priest, someone with utmost authority (1.26). Milton also says this in a way to assert that he knows his purpose – to tell man why God does what He does. Historically, this makes sense, because “When I Consider How My Light Is Spent” dates at around 1655, while Paradise Lost was published in 1667. It can then be assumed that, sometime between 1655 and 1667, Milton discovered his purpose, and began to fulfill it through writing and publishing Paradise Lost.

One could even say that Milton began his spiritual journey through the poem “When I Consider How My Light Is Spent.” Milton asks whether he should be expected to do hard labour for God, without his sight or a physical light to guide him, and he receives this response: “Who best bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best” (Milton, 10-11). Evidently, Milton begins to see that, though he cannot do hard labour, or work in the way that he used to, when he could see, he can still serve God in his own way. Milton begins to find himself again, and regains the purpose that he lost when his sight failed. Now, Milton can be a part of humankind again, not hindered by his blindness. Milton can belong. Belonging is, often, the most important part of life. A person can have all the food, shelter, and warmth in the world, but a life without belonging, purpose, and human contact can literally cause a person to die. Studies have shown that people – especially children and infants – actually require a sense of purpose and belonging to live, otherwise the person in question (especially babies) can actually give up on life and simply die. The poem “When I Consider How My Light Is Spent” is Milton’s attempt at continuing his search for a sense of belonging and purpose. As a continuation, Paradise Lost would be the ultimate culmination of Milton’s journey.

So, in a sense, Paradise Lost is not Milton’s journey to self-knowledge, but rather a demonstration of what he now knows because of his journey. The tone of the poem “When I Consider How My Light Is Spent” is unknowing, unsure, and searching. Milton doesn’t yet know what he is supposed to do to serve God, and he wants to find out, and begins to. Conversely, Paradise Lost oozes sureness, confidence, and trust. Milton knows exactly who he is and what he wants, and he doesn’t fear what people might say about his high and mighty personality. The God Complex, so evident in even just Book 1, isn’t an accident or fluke of how Milton was writing, but actually is purposeful and meaningful. Milton meant for his epic poem to come off in the way it does, because Milton truly believes that he has learned his one true purpose, and that purpose is to define God and His ways for the likes of man. 

Milton and the God Complex

Milton’s Paradise Lost includes many aspects of the epic poem, and while there are those who would argue otherwise, I propose that the most evident aspect of his epic that seems to follow in the steps of others which I’ve read (especially Dante’s Inferno) is the overwhelming God Complex the author demonstrates in his message. As does Inferno, Paradise Lost has a highly predominant and religious message, in which the text (Book 1, especially) attempts to persuade that power trumps righteousness.

Let’s begin with Book 1, where Milton clearly sets up his entire thematic message, and (rather inadvertently) demonstrates that he has a huge God complex that he’s incapable of writing around or omitting from anything he puts on paper. In fact, within the first thirty lines of the epic, Milton states, “… to the heighth of this great argument/ I may assert Eternal Providence/ and justify the ways of God to men” (1.24-26). Essentially, in this very brief section of Milton’s opening aside, he declares his all-knowingness of God’s work. Additionally, the fact that he did this in an aside makes this even more potent. Milton sets the stage for the entire epic in this one sentence. He writes not about Adam and Eve, not about Satan, not about good and evil, or even the bible. All of these concepts are present, yes, but in reality, Milton writes this epic for the sake of showing off his knowledge of God, and to persuade everyone who reads Paradise Lost that Milton’s opinions and positions on God, creation, paradise, and anything and everything else biblical are to be taken as of the highest regard. And, Milton declares this directly to his audience, without the mask of dialogue, distraction of setting, or confusion of characters. Milton clearly thinks himself greater than man. While Milton may be righteous in his actions, his intent is to demonstrate his – as opposed to His – power.

Milton’s persuasion that power overrides morality goes even further when, through Satan, Milton states, “To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: / Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven!” (1.263-64). Satan, and through him Milton, admits that though Hell is indeed a terrible place, the power allowed for the fallen angels in Hell poses a better option than any form of servitude in Heaven. Now, for most Christian people, this statement would make absolutely zero sense. In the Christian faith, one’s purpose in life is to serve God and be saved after death, resulting in an eternity serving God in Heaven. Milton completely discounts one of the founding ideals of the Christian faith, instead substituting that servitude, no matter how righteous, is lesser compared to any form of power. The idea of serving in heaven, regardless of the glory and grandeur and other generally positive perks, is so repulsive to Satan, that Milton would go so far as to raise Hell above Heaven in an effort to push home that power is the ultimate goal, even when power involves denouncing God and righteousness, and turning to sin.

Interestingly enough, the concept of power overriding a person’s sense of morality and righteousness aligns well with the Italian philosopher Machiavelli’s ideas on power and the corruptness of so-called “Divine Right.” Niccolo Machiavelli was born in Florence, Italy, during 1469, and today people consider him to be the father of modern political theory. In essence, his book The Prince, written in 1532, outlined the flaws in the justification of the monarchy’s actions. He said that monarchs (and leaders in general) can and will resort to any means for the establishment and preservation of their authority, using the end to justify the means. He also stated that most often, a ruler often justifies his worst acts by citing wickedness and treachery of his subjects. In essence, Machiavelli stated that “Divine Right” was often used as a means to gain power, a ruler could say that God put him in place to fix the corruptness of the people, then that selfsame ruler would be corrupt in himself. The only real goal is power. The same idea comes into play with Satan, Milton, and the relationship that each of them has with God (because Satan’s relationship with heaven runs parallel to, but is different from, Milton’s own relationship to God and Heaven). Satan purposefully steps away from the designated path of righteousness to gain a measure of power which he wanted but couldn’t have as a slave of Heaven; Milton professes his power through Satan, claiming that he (Milton) really is an all-knowing authority on God. In a way, Satan is the personification of Milton: both step away from Heaven to demonstrate their power, with a disregard for the fact that this action takes them away from the coveted righteousness and into a place of power and greed for more, acting not unlike Machiavelli’s concepts of the ruler with a false concept of “Divine Right.”

So, the question to ask is, does Milton really believe he is the foremost authority on God, even equal to one in knowledge, and close in power, or is he portraying himself and Satan in a light that would cause others to exercise caution in the realm of self-promotion and power-grabbing? Does he do this to call a change in human nature, or is he simply an arrogant person with a God complex, writing an epic in the same way that countless other men suffering from the infamous God complex have? Your choice. Choose wisely.

Kreis, Steven. "Niccolo Machiavelli, 1469-1527." The History Guide. N.p., 13 Apr. 2012. Web. 27 Sept. 2013. <http://www.historyguide.org/intellect/machiavelli.html>. 

Beauty, From the Eyes of the Beholder

Hello, again!! I do know that my blog last week was quite formal, and I’ve decided to change it up a bit, and post something a little more personal and fun for our British Lit blog this week.

So, I’ve just recently finished reading a few of Shakespeare’s many sonnets, and a specific one stood out to me. Sonnet 18, to be exact. Now, it didn’t stand out because of its beautiful language, or lovely message, or any literary component at all, which might strike some as odd (especially because I spent two years being trained to only see the literary qualities of works of literary merit). In truth, this particular sonnet struck me because of the television show Doctor Who. In rather a funny turn of events, the show makes out that Shakespeare wrote the sonnet for the lovely Martha Jones, a 21^st century doctor who travels with the actual Doctor for a period of time, meeting Shakespeare in the process. And that’s the only reason I really recognized the sonnet.

However, upon reading further into the sonnet, I realized how pure and true the sonnet is in regards to falling in love with something. It especially came through for me in that the sonnet perfectly describes the feeling of knowing you’ll always be in love with something, no matter how old either party gets. Shakespeare says, “… thy eternal summer shall not fade”, which somehow perfectly elucidates that when someone loves something (or someone), that love never really goes away, if it’s a true, pure love (like the season of summer) (Shakespeare, 9). As most people would tend to agree, this particular sonnet definitely pervades with the theme that love conquers all.

Even, as Shakespeare says, “Nor shall Death brag thou wandr’st in his shade,” demonstrating the everlasting idea that death can’t claim love or beauty for his own (11). Evidently, though Shakespeare sees the imminence of this mysterious love of his leaving (or, for those Doctor Who fans, Martha Jones taking the TARDIS away with the Doctor), he knows she will be beautiful for all of time, and so his love will last with her everlasting beauty. 

Although this really is quite a sappy ideal, and in most cases I might scoff, and say that no person is that good, this really gets to me, because the wording is so romantic and idealistic. The use of a summer day to symbolize the woman’s beauty is quite apt, in my opinion. I feel that, beyond the fact that this is Shakespeare, and recognized all over the world as one of the most romantic poems in all of history, there is a purity and sincerity behind the words that simply can’t be explained.

In many ways, this sonnet is one of the best ways I could explain something I love, such as cheerleading. There never was anything I loved more, and Shakespeare’s words explain the depth of love so perfectly. He says towards the end, “So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, / So long lives this, and this gives life to thee” (13-14). In the end, his love for this woman and her beauty conquered everything else for Shakespeare, just as my love for cheerleading has always (and will always) last. Often, in both people and things, there’s a beauty that others can’t often see, unless they love that person or thing the same as you. And the beauty within the thing or person gives it immortality, just as Shakespeare’s woman’s beauty gives her everlasting life (in his eyes). But, explaining this beauty can be very difficult. For example, if I just give you these videos (please watch them, they’re less than 3 minutes apiece), and told you they were beautiful, you wouldn’t understand.

But, to a seasoned veteran of cheerleading, they each epitomize what the sport is about. The first, a video of the Top Gun Jags from Worlds this spring, is essentially a tribute to their teammate, Omar, who died last year. Every person in that stadium is with the team and cheering for the team, even the ones competing with a rival team. The Jags did worlds for Omar, and even though it’s the highest honor to even make it to Worlds, they stick the entire routine like their cheer careers depend on it, as if this world title could be their last gift to Omar. And it’s beautiful. In all the ways a person could never express beauty, the Jags routine from Worlds 2013 is absolutely, totally, unequivocally beautiful. It’s beautiful in the same way Shakespeare’s mysterious woman is beautiful, “more lovely and more temperate” than the most beautiful thing Shakespeare could possibly imagine, a summer’s day (2).

The second video I threw in is of the Lady Bullets from Worlds this year. They take beautiful to a completely different place than the Jags did. The Bullets are just… well, gorgeous. They all take such pride in their routine, and put their whole selves into the routine (as it should be). You can tell that they wouldn't want to be anywhere else but on that floor, and that excitement and drive and passion alone makes the routine beautiful. Then, they top it off by being nearly perfect, technically.

In both cases, it’s a beauty not well explained or told, and can only be experienced, as they say, in the eye of the beholder. But, isn't that what beauty is? Hasn't every classical author since the dawn of time tried valiantly to explain the beauty of something, only to fail because the words just didn't exist?

So, my parting question to you: If it really is beautiful, is there ever a way to adequately describe it so someone else can see the same beauty as us? I could try for several thousand more words to explain the beauty of the Jags and the Bullets, and goodness knows I’d fail fantastically. Could Shakespeare ever really show us just how beautiful his mysterious woman was, how deep his love was because of her beauty? Or are real beauty and true love two things that we may never find words to adequately describe? 

I Have Me, But I Am Not Me

French theorist Guy Debord once said, “Behind the masks of total choice, different forms of the same alienation confront each other.” Through characterization, syntax, and imagery, William Shakespeare’s The Tempest callously demonstrates that an individual who is alienated from society and power will futilely attempt to re-connect to society and their previously-known power.

William Shakespeare expertly employs direct characterization in his portrayal of Prospero to elucidate Prospero’s alienation and desperation to return to his previous power. When Prospero tells his daughter, Miranda, of the wrongs he suffered so many years ago, he states, “… he was/ The ivy which had hid my princely trunk/ and sucked my verdure out” (Shakespeare I, II 85-88). In speaking with such venom, Prospero shows his anger over losing his power, and his desperation to get it back. He specifically blames one person (His brother, Antonio), and quite obviously sets the stage for some sort of plan, which ensues as the play proceeds. Because Prospero so vehemently desires power, he consequently becomes very dangerous. When speaking to, (or rather, threatening) his slave Ariel, Prospero declares, “If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak/ And peg thee in his knotty entrails till/ Thou hast howled away twelve winters” (Shakespeare I, II 294-296). Ariel really didn’t do anything to warrant such a threat, and yet Prospero sees to it that if his exact orders aren’t followed, he will not hesitate to carry out a punishment. Prospero doesn’t care whether or not people are hurt, scared, or otherwise harmed during his plot to regain power, as long as his end is met. In this, he is possibly the most dangerous and terrifying monster any character from the play could encounter during their stint on the island. Prospero is the monster to end all monsters. Thus, through direct characterization, Shakespeare establishes an individual alienated from power will proceed to become dangerous in his quest to regain power.

Because Prospero feels the need to do anything in his power to regain status and subvert his alienation from so many years ago, he proceeds to use the most valuable asset he has: his cunning. Shakespeare exposes this cunning through equally cunning use of syntax through punctuation. Whilst Prospero is plotting, he uses his slave Ariel most cunningly, and quite often. While planning a trick to further the wedding plans between Ferdinand and Miranda, Prospero tells Ariel, “I must use you/ In such another trick,” thus stating clearly his deceit (Shakespeare IV, I 36-37). The lack of punctuation in the statement demonstrates a clear and simple understanding of the implications of his actions. He knows that he deceives the King, his brother, and even his own daughter. Since Prospero has reduced himself to straight manipulation in order to reach his endpoint, he stops at nothing, deceiving even his own blood. As he observes Ferdinand and Miranda falling in love, he slyly states, “… this swift/ Business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning/ Make the prize light” (Shakespeare I, II 448-450). Prospero, so caught up in his desperation to regain power, will not even stop at deceiving his family. At a time when family was very important to not only the people of England, but people all over the Western world, this is shocking. In his quest to return from alienation, he alienates himself from the only support he has (as demonstrated from the use of comma, as if to try to regain structure where it is slipping away), and begins to lose himself. Thus, through punctuation in syntax, Shakespeare demonstrates the beginning of a loss of self as a result of alienation.

As a direct result of allowing himself to lose his closest support, Prospero experiences a loss of self, finally demonstrating that alienation from power drives the individual to attempt (unsuccessfully) to regain that power. This is done through selective word choice on Mr. Shakespeare’s part. The first aspect of Prospero is one of loving, doting even, over his daughter, as shown when he says, “O, a cherubin/ Thou wast that did preserve me” (Shakespeare I, II 152-153). He clearly loves his daughter, and would do anything for her. This is his first “face,” if you will. He calls her a “cherubin,” a noun which has a connotation of love, and happiness. Having her trust, he is happy. Because he essentially loses her, through such deceit (in his own mind, maybe not in hers), he becomes a completely different person. In his epilogue, he states, “my project fails, / which was to please… /and my ending is despair” (Shakespeare epilogue 13-15). Using the words “fails” and “despair” Prospero clearly shows his loss of self. Though he achieved his end, he no longer lives an honest life (as he asked those who wronged him to do). He is, for all intent and purpose, a completely different man, lost. In this, his final statement, we see the difference between the loving man from the first act and the angry, vengeful one from the end. Truly, he loses himself, his daughter, and his purpose in his attempt to return from alienation. Thus, with imagery through word choice, Shakespeare demonstrates that a successful return from alienation does not come without cost.

Finally, Shakespeare uses characterization, syntax, and imagery to demonstrate that though man is often alienated and attempts to return to the state previous to alienation, often the person loses himself in the process. The process to return from an alienated state is long and requires a person to do things they may not do in an ordinary situation. Thus, the man attempting to become “un-alienated,” if you will, is not the same in his return.

So, I leave you with this parting thought: is it not better to remain alienated with a person or group who loves you and will always stand with you than it is to attempt to regain a past state, but in the process lose the core of who you are, and become someone who would be less-than-liked, despised, even (a monster, if you will)? Is it not better to retain who you are than to prove something to someone else, just for the sake of making a point? 

NEW THEME!!!

So, I am aware that this blog was once for CAS-oriented, IB things. However, I need to use a blog for my Masterpieces of British Literature class, and I was decidedly too lazy and non-creative to come up with a new blog, so I will now be re-naming this blog and using it for whatever I choose, including (but not limited to) posts for my lit class :) Stay tuned for the first of many posts about British awesomeness!!!!! 

Dedicating My Life to a Killer...

Today, I thought I might return to the wonderful world of cheerleading!!!

One of the cheerleaders on my team posted this (or, rather, a picture of something saying this) to twitter today, and I think it pretty much summed up cheerleading for me. The quote is:

You know, sometimes to get over mental blocks you just need to throw it.

Hell, there may be a 90% chance you eat sh**. 

But, doing it once shows you you can. It shows you that "Oh, that's the worst that can happen?"

Then, you throw it again and that 90% becomes 80%, then 70% until you get that one where you stick. 

And you forget about all the falls before. The tears of frustration you cried. 

All from just throwing it once.

Sum up the courage.

Pull up your spandex.

Hit the gym. 

And just do it. It's the only way.

I can't make you do tumble. Your mom can't make you tumble. Your coach can't.

Tumbling is all on you. 

It's about how badly you want it. It's about learning to land on your face and do it again.

Cheerleading, especially tumbling, has increased my awareness of my strengths and areas for growth (not even just in cheer, either). I learned very early on that I was almost exclusively designed to be a cheerleader. I couldn't do ballet, and in gymnastics the only apparatus I even halfway excelled at was the floor. When I joined cheer, it was like I had found my one true sport. The best thing about cheering was finding that I had (and still have) a great mental fortitude. Even when the routine makes my lungs ache, and my body wants to stop, I have always willed my body to push harder, try more, do better. This, I think, is my greatest strength, both when it comes to cheer and the world beyond. When everything tells me I should quit and take what I can get, I will myself to keep going, no matter the cost to my mind or body. 

In a way, though, this is also one of my weaknesses. I don't know when to stop. For cheerleading, I will push my mind and body to the very edge, over and over again, every day, no matter what. I love the sport too much to stop what I'm doing. And, when I don't slow down to see the repercussions my intensity is having, I end up hurt. At the end of December, I kept pushing myself, even though I was already tired out, and I ended up spraining my ankle so badly I couldn't walk for three days, and it took weeks after that for me to even have normal function again. Even now I am still recovering. So, my greatest strength also happens to be my greatest weakness. 

Without cheerleading, I don't think I could have ever learned this about myself, because nothing else I do tests me in the way cheerleading has. Truly, my sport has helped me to see the good and bad of myself, and has forced me to reconcile myself with the fact that I will never be able to change this aspect of myself, because I love the sport too much. Even if I knew that years down the road I would have this lasting injury, or that lasting injury, I would still keep cheering until I couldn't physically manage the intensity anymore. 

In that respect, I suppose I could also say that one of the strengths cheerleading has given me is my obscenely overwhelming and sometimes irrational love for the sport, and capacity to love in general. I could never stop cheering, and I won't until I'm forced to. I have been a cheerleader for ten years, and I don't think it's possible to stop being something that has defined every aspect of who I am for so long. Even when I can't cheer anymore, I will always be a cheerleader. So, cheerleading has also strengthened my ability to love. I love people the same way I love cheer, withe fiery passion and unparalleled dedication. I will do anything for my best friends, and I will do anything for cheerleading, no matter the cost (unless, of course, the cost is some sort of crime. I'm less cool with that). 

So, on that note, I think I'm done for tonight. If the mood so suits you, lets have some comments about activities that have helped you to grow and learn about yourself, or activities you love with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, yes??

Have a fantastic day!!

Jordy