So Long and Good Night

Many in our class chose to write their last posts about the class as a whole, so I decided to follow suit. From our ridiculous dramatic interpretations to nursery rhymes, to passionate debates about feminism in "The Princess Diaries," somehow I learned some great strategies for analyzing and contextualizing literature. Also, this is the first class in which I've actually UNDERSTOOD Shakespeare, so Dr. Reed deserves a gold star sticker for that one. While I am not a fan of the incestuous undertones of Hamlet, I now can at least appreciate it as a major work of literature.

When I first declared an English major, I didn't really have a gauge of what I was signing up for, but after this class, I feel confident in my decision and ability to grow in this field.

Since our class was so small, I really feel like I got to know all of you on a more personal level, and I really hope we find each other in the same classes in the future. Thanks for a great semester everyone!

I Wear the Bottom of My Trousers Rolled

TS Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" feels like reading a fever dream. Opening with an excerpt from Dante's Inferno (aka the bane of my high school existence), I started out with instant confusion.

My favorite couplet, though, is near the end of the poem, after quite a wild ride. It reads, "I grow old... I grow old... / I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."

As someone who frequently rolls the bottoms of her pants, not only was I called out by the poem, but forced to reckon with the fact that I can relate to such a seemingly nonsensical poem. Perhaps this is supposed to show the inexplicable confusion of life? Or, maybe, every seemingly disconnected bit of the poem is meant to be relatable to someone, and even though to me the whole thing doesn't make the most sense, we are all meant to see a bit of ourselves in it.

John Donne: an artfully complex bastard

Perhaps my most angry post to date is "Carpe Diem Poetry" where I artfully shred to pieces two particular poems, "The Flea" and "To His Coy Mistress."

So, you can imagine my shock and surprise upon discovering that one of my favorite poems of the semester, "Batter my heart, three- personed God" was written by the same poet as "The Flea": John Donne.

Based solely on "The Flea," I had expected this man to be a Godless, lust-driven player, certainly not someone who had the capacity to desire God's complete domination of his life as seen in "Batter my heart."

I could interpret this in two ways, I suppose. I could take this as a lesson to not judge a poet based only on one work and accept that my reading isn't the only correct interpretation out there- OR I could take this to mean that even the most "holy" are at their core horny bastards. I haven't decided which just yet.

On Death as a Character

We have read Emily Dickinson's Because I could not stop for Death twice now. Both times I was reminded of Marcus Zusak's The Book Thief, but each time for different reasons.

After the first read, I noticed the treatment of Death as a character. Rather than fear or hate Death, Dickinson treated him as an inevitability that should be embraced. In a way, he is even treated as a friend to go on a fun road trip with. In The Book Thief, Death is the narrator. His insights into the nature of humanity are often profound, with a considerable amount of empathy. I wonder what Death in Dickinson's poem might say about the wanderings he partakes in.

On my second reading, I was called more to the structure of the poem. Dickinson's infamous dashes and rhythm starkly contrast the perhaps grim concept of death by treating the experience as an equal exchange between the narrator (presumably Dickinson) and the great and terrible force of nature, Death. It's in a way very empowering.

I'm sure that upon further readings in the future, more and more intricacies of the poem will reveal themselves to me, which makes me consider going back to reread other favorites of mine.

When I Consider How My Light is Spent: A Poem to Catalyze and Existential Crisis

For our poetry presentations, I had one major thought about John Milton's "When I consider how my light is spent" that I didn't feel really fit with my presentation, so I thought I would share it here instead. This poem seriously forced me to critically analyze what I choose to spend my time on.

It doesn't really feel like an existential decision when I end up watching Netflix instead of studying, or sleeping instead of spending time with my family. But every little does more than spend that specific chunk of time; it also contributes to forming habits.

It's as if my life is happening on accident, and I'm sure most college students, and maybe even most people feel the same way. In some ways, it's easier like this, because when life doesn't feel like a result of your own choices, you can blame someone else for the outcome.

I feel compelled by this poem to consider where I choose to spend my time and my "light," and hopefully make some changes for the better.

Carpe Diem Poetry

How would you respond if some guy slid into your dms saying "hey cutie, don't know if u heard but like...this flea bit both of us so we're basically married and we might as well get down to business HAHA JK JK...unless ;)"

Creeped out?? Me too!!

Carpe Diem poetry is nothing more than horny guys writing out pleas for sex using ridiculous imagery to create an illusion of humor to seem less intimidating. I would love to see statistics on the success ratio for these poets' attempts to flirt with women, and I'm betting they're not high.

This poetry only exists because of the oppressive structures in place that silenced the female responses to it. Fleas are not sexy, and worms taking your virginity are downright insulting. I'm not sure what it is about these men and bugs, but their approaches could certainly use some improvement.

The Trifles of Women

Nothing is more satisfying than marginalized people capitalizing upon their oppressors' oversights. I felt like I was in on the cover-up with Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters in Susan Glaspell's Trifles. The insignificant womanly matters turning out to be precisely what the male detectives should have paid attention to is exactly the kind of irony I live for. The solidarity of women is nothing to mess with.

Let's look into some of Mrs. Wright's trifles. From dead birds, to the kitchen, to quilting, her goings on are all discussed as things in the way of the "real" investigation, when this was actually all of the evidence.

The best (and worst) part of the irony is that the two men are following Mr. Wright's footsteps during their investigation. It's set up that the motive behind the murder is Mr. Wright's distaste and neglect of the things important to his wife. He most likely killed her pet bird, and he isolated her to the house without appreciation of her domestic work. When the investigators ignore those same things that were important to her, they miss what would be damning evidence.

Since the women empathize with Minnie and are willing to conceal evidence on her behalf, it is worrisome that their husbands are guilty of the same as Mr. Wright. Perhaps they will be inspired by Minnie's bid for freedom from her cage, and maybe even be willing to risk getting their necks wrung for trying the same.

The American Dream Is Dead

In Death of a Salesman, Willy Loman's descent into madness and probable suicide mark the perils of capitalism and the American Dream. Unlike system-wide dystopias in which individuals criticize its pitfalls, the Loman family's microcosm dystopia is suffered through without the characters ever realizing what the true antagonist is.

Willy cares so much about how he is perceived in terms of wealth, status, and being "well liked," without ever realizing that the best way to be seen as wealthy and successful is to put your nose to the grindstone and stop talking about wanting to be wealthy and successful. My favorite part of the whole play is when Willy says to Charley about Bernard, "The Supreme Court! And he didn't even mention it!" to which Charley replies, "He don't have to-- he's gonna do it" (Norton 1753).

The American Dream in Willy's life is all about the illusion of success, which is exactly what gets in his way of true success. Money and materials can't be the end goal, because in the process he loses everything that he realizes he's missing at the end of his life- happy marriage, independent children that still love him, and a meaningful career.

Because the American Dream makes success the end goal, like Willy does, the appearance of success matters more than the substance. So, is a mannequin replica closer to the living, or the dead?

Bartleby: The Man, the Myth, the Legend

There is something intensely bold and stupid and admirable about Bartleby looking his boss in the face after a request is made of him and replying "I would prefer not to," not once, but twenty times through Herman Melville's short story, "Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street." 

At first, it's all responses to the boss/narrator asking him to review his work, which was always perfect. Then, the contexts of the statement escalate to conversations about basic duties of his job, leaving the office once he stops work (where he is essentially a squatter), and finally saying, "No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all." Savage, but also sad.

Bartleby is the best at what he does, to the point where he is almost robotic. He is both a perfect specimen of a worker, and lacking all motivation required to follow through. He exemplifies what society's "ideal" in the corporate world of excellent workers would fully entail, including the underbelly of the spirit such a system would suffocate out of workers. While Nippers and Turkey clearly have their faults, they don't suffer breakdowns like Bartleby, and their single defense against having the same experience is their imperfection.

Bartleby is a warning against the sacrifice corporate America demands of us, and I think we may already be halfway there.

When it comes to preferences, I would also prefer not to do pretty much anything asked of me, as would nearly everyone if they're honest. The inclination is already there, but we don't have the perfection needed to act on it, which is all that keeps us doing what we need to do.

Why Don't We Memorize Poetry Anymore?

Apparently Wordsworth's "I wandered lonely as a cloud" is commonly memorized by schoolchildren in East Asia, at least according to Dr. Reed. This got me thinking about the few times in school I had to memorize poetry. In third grade, I memorized a poem called "Johnny Stuck Jellybeans Up His Nose" that I remember to this day- a thrilling tale of peer pressure and death by Jellybean. In fifth grade, I memorized the Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll, because I was on an Alice in Wonderland kick. I don't remember all of that one anymore, except a few lines that included frightfully weird words like "bandersnatch" and "brillig". I've memorized a few poems since then, never on purpose, but always from the urge to repeat a string of words that feel good together.

Should we memorize poems more? Maybe the practice in elementary school stemmed from some memory development technique rather than the appreciation of poetry itself-more a means than an end. Or maybe we don't feel the same magic of beautiful words that we did before it became embarrassing to be un-ironically enthusiastic about an art that so vulnerably connects us to something bigger. After all, there's a reason the most heartfelt prayers are silent.

Regardless, I want to memorize more poetry.