Devil's Advocate a la Tom Gradgrind

I think it's unnecessary for Barbauld's Meditations to take us where it does. She meditates and reflects on the happenings of places far away that she can only imagine. She imagines 'the womb of chaos' and 'unkindled suns' that have no basis in reality. Why didn't she reflect on the beggar who pleaded for change that she passed earlier that day? or the neighbor who lost her mother to a terminal disease? Barbauld's head in the clouds could potentially be a counter measure against reality. In order to avoid reflection of her own actions in this life, she decides to think about things unreal. Nature and the cosmos is what it is and we see what we see and there's not much we can do about it. Barbauld is her own hand unseen that pushes her through her own imagination. It's unfortunate that she doesn't base her senses in reality and present us with a factual poem about things we know. It is unnatural for her to speculate on "the glories of the world unknown" because she doesn't know that there are glories waiting for her after she dies. She doesn't know if she's on her way to Heaven or Hell. It is best for her to focus on the happenings of here and now. The mind is fact, and should only be comprised of facts. Not imagination or soul.

At this still hour the self-collected soul
Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there
Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ;
An embryo GOD ;

Barbauld is wrong to speak of turning inward and finding God or anything of 'more than mortal rank', God is only to be found by looking outward from the self. Perhaps she was not God-fearing.

titles be limitations

In Confessions, DeQuincey's credibility is altered by the fact that he's addicted to opium. The title of Confessions is in itself a strange irony as DeQuincey never fully quits the drug. Even if he had, he would've gone through withdrawal symptoms and these would have influenced his writing about opium in either a positive or negative way; and even then he would always have the experiences of opium under his belt. This relates back to Thel and when we pondered as a class if she ever really wipes her hands clean of the things she saw and learned, I feel that in DeQuincey we easily say, "No, once an addict always an addict." and question his state of being in relation to his works. And with Thel I feel it's the same case. She learns what she learns, and can never forget it. At the same time, Thel isn't 'real' and may or may not go by the rules of humans like DeQuincey must.

From the last couplet,

The Virgin started from her seat, & with a shriek
Fled back unhinder'd till she came into the vales of Har.

I'm reading this as Thel fleeing unhindered until she reaches Har. Once she finds herself back in Har she's free to reflect on what she knows and she'll never be what she was before.
Of course the paradox here lies with Thel's desire to know more than she did, which is in itself a form of 'non-innoncence.' Unless the culprit isn't Thel but in fact, Har. Train of thought: Something needs to happen in order for Thel to desire, and unless she was born with it, she picked it up from her surroundings.

Is anything actually perfect in this life? Or after this life? Was anything perfect before this life? If there was perfection before this life, why would we leave it? and then once we know change, how can we go back to perfection? If there wasn't perfection before and isn't perfection after and certainly this life isn't perfect, is there perfection anywhere other than in our minds? Is perfection an abstract or concrete idea? Probably not concrete because nothing is perfect. If it's abstract then it's not real. Perfection must be constant because it need not change. But if everything is changing and nothing is perfect then change can be the only constant. (Duh, right?)
To round back to DeQuincey, once he consumed the opium he lost his innocence to that drug. It becomes or takes over his senses and he is a prisoner to it for the rest of his days. Innocence and perfection are subjects of the past and only exist to those who know the difference between innocence and the future.

To age and become innocent is impossible and then the ultimate paradox, Death.

I have to agree with what Amy had posted about the struggle of Romantic poets to create a place for themselves, somewhere between the natural world and logical transcendence, where these two ideas could be one in the same. The conflict reflected in Romantic poetry derives from the painful realization that man-made logic defies nature, and that the two cannot be reconciled. Percy Shelley's Mont Blanc spoke to this idea, but due to its later arrival in the Romantic forum, I feel the idea is more refined, the appeal to nature more sincere, and the sentiments deeper reaching. As we said in class, the poet is confused about whether he is projecting perceptions onto Mont Blanc, or if the mountain itself has the power to project impressions upon him. We addressed a "larger power," a sort of universal mind which acts in the lives of man, yet is inaccessible. This "everlasting universe of things/ flows through the mind" is the same entity, the same place from "where secret springs/ The source of human thought its tribute brings" (1-4). I would argue that nature itself is this "source" or "power," we of course cannot exist without nature, but Shelley speaks of our perception, our imagination not being able to exist without nature to reflect our perceptions back to us.
Yet, there is that inevitable conflict, the human inability to sincerely feel the gravity of or to be Mont Blanc--a disconnect, "Power dwells apart in its tranquility/Remote, serene, and inaccessible," and "The limits of the dead and living world/Never to be reclaimed" (96-97, 113-114). Our imaginations have grown past the harmonious connect of man and nature, Shelley is looking in on this from the outside, he knows that we cannot go back. I like to think about how this very same landscape would have inspired Shelley and his wife Mary, how they would have discussed such ideas, and how this all was reflected in their writings. The scenery is fantastic, breath-taking, overwhelming, yet it makes one feel alone, left behind. As we will later read Frankenstein, I would like to carry my thread about the setting of the story and this poem, how the imposing mountain faces alienated the writers' imaginations, and how man, in an effort to reconcile this severance from his source, continues to make horrible mistakes.

Love vs. love

Not far from the expansive Danube River sits another European behemoth--the Ulm Münster, an architectural Goliath, the gigantes of gothic cathedrals. Its 161m steeple is the tallest of any cathedral known to man, which allows it to survey Baden-Württemberg's Ulm, the birthplace of Einstein, Bavaria’s Neu-Ulm, and the Alps. Such height would seem to suggest omniscience, at least unlimited knowledge of the happenings in Southwestern Germany. But perhaps on November 10, 1619 the pure German gothic church, not even its distraught-faced chimeras, had any surveillance inside a small, stove-heated room in an Ulm roadside inn where Rene Descartes was inventing modern philosophy, an invention no longer interested in Ancient Greek wisdom but in humanity’s mastery over nature.

At first glance, it may seem strange to begin a piece on love with Descartes’ invention. But if one understands the perniciousness of “love” with a lowercase “l,” one will understand the poignancy and relevance of the introduction. “love” attempts to conquer nature, which is a foolish act since we are intricately a part of nature whether we like it or not. A plethora of examples illustrate this. First, by being in “love” with our material bodies, we attempt to perfect medicine or cryogenically freeze ourselves, so we can live forever. Descartes believed that the improvements of medical science in his time would allow him to live to 200—he died at 50. Secondly, with “love” we grow attached to physical beauty, thinking it not liable to destruction. Even more pernicious, humans consistently try to employ a general, universal “love “ to a world we don’t fully understand to find harmony in nature. It's difficult to apply this since the universe is a positively charged void, where particular things appear when the void's balance is disturbed. As a result, creation is cosmic imbalance. Moreover, we are composed of atoms that are 99.9999% empty space. How can we counteract this unintelligibility with “love”? I think this is the love Žižek is referring to when he describes it as “evil” and a “violent act.” In the end, humans cannot master nature with “love” or anything else for that matter.

“love" failed in its vain attempt to conquer nature, but will “Love” be any different? “Love” with a capital “L,” the essence of “Love,” can be expressed in a variety of different languages: Amour, Liebe, Agape, حب: . No matter what language, "Love" stays true to its encompassing definition. It's virtuous, benevolent, compassionate, merciful, and pure; it’s an Aristotelian telos; it’s a universal Love towards all sentient beings not expecting reciprocation. It’s altruistic and fearless. It’s wise and enlightened, following the beauty of a forceful Socratic quote “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” The utility of “Love” is especially important. In this chaotic and unintelligible universe, one needs, through intrapersonal “Love,” the Other to ground one's being to alleviate existential anguish. If successful, two free, Sartrean consciousnesses will ground the other’s being in order to form one consciousness. Through “Love” they seek the totality of being that is ontologically denied to them at birth. Through “Love” the Other will objectify one’s subjective world. This process gives the two purpose in an "existence preceding essence" universe. This purpose gives them ontological significance. Once this process is completed, both will realize that “Love” must not try to conquer nature, for “Love” is acceptance. In the end, one must accept that “Love” is subject to fail or that “Love” could just be a mammalian drive, a releasing of testosterone and estrogen, pheromones, dopamine, norepinephrine, and serotonin—and nothing more.

Isabella and Lorenzo’s relationship in “The Pot of Basil” is contradictory, for they exhibit both “love” and “Love.” Simply stated, Isabella cannot live without Lorenzo. She physically cannot exist without Lorenzo or some representation of him. At the beginning, when Lorenzo hasn’t confessed his “Love” to her, she becomes ill. When Lorenzo leaves and is murdered, she becomes ill. And when her brothers take the basil from her, which is a regeneration of Lorenzo, she dies. In the text, to show her “Love,” she exhumes his head from underground, places it in a pot of basil, and cries inside the pot to continue the cycle of regeneration. He is transmogrified into the basil. Since she is trying to conquer nature, this is an example of “love” with a lowercase “l.” However, when her brothers take this beautiful piece of creation away from her, her death does not suggest a clichéd romance where lovers cannot live without each other. Rather, she is denied an ontological purpose. If she can’t have Lorenzo, she can’t have an ontological purpose. In this case, Isabella expresses the ontological purpose needed to reach the totality of “Love.” Without a purpose, “Love” becomes an insurmountable idea. But this becomes irrelevant since everything is slowly but surely moving towards decay. From this, we understand the beauty of romance, the beauty of an enduring romance that last beyond the boundaries of the material world. The natural world grounds this vision for us. When she finds his decrepit head and kisses it, she is neither hesitant nor disgusted, acting as the anti-thesis of Thel. The text produces a grotesque affect to show “Love” is not just about clichéd everlasting love, chivalry, or questing. Rather, it’s about decay, a seedy underbelly. This is “Love” as acceptance and truth. The poem unhesitatingly accepts that death and decay are a part of an intra-personal relationship's journey, for they need the matter of decay to reach the immateriality of "Love." Our imagination is born out of this decay and corruption, too. “Fair reader, at the Old Tale take a glance/For here, in truth/to speak:--O turn thee to the very tale/And taste the music of that vision pale.”

A Humbling Experience

As an English major, it is always interesting to study at the University level those poems and novels which you read for the first time in high school, many of which made you want to major in literature in the first place. At my high school, especially junior and senior year, I was the "English kid". I don't think I was or am an especially gifted scholar, but I loved reading and always went above and beyond in my papers. I remember in my senior year AP English class writing a response to Blake's "The Sick Rose". It ended up being nine pages long, seven pages longer than the requirement. It was thorough if anything. I went line by line, word by word almost, discussing every possible meaning of every element of the poem. I have no idea if I was anywhere near the mark. My teacher was blown away, thinking I had basically solved the poem and, as no one was around to pop my ever inflating English ego, I thought I had too.

College has a way of humbling you. I remember realizing, the first day of my reading poetry class with John Biguenet, that I was in the presence of an incredible professor who knew a hell of a lot more about literature than I did. I would be wise to shut up and listen. This has been my approach to studying literature ever since and, two and a half years later, I am relooking a "The Sick Rose" with this humility in mind. I am going to briefly discuss the poem and my ideas about it, but I'm going to end with more questions than conclusions.

I remember the central thesis of my nine page response was that the poem was about prostitution. Rereading, I am still pretty certain that it is. Blake wrote about the social ills of London in his day and prostitution was definitely on that last. The sickness of the rose is some sort of venerial disease brought about by the worm who is a client of the prostitute. The invisibility of that worm "That flies in the night / In the howling storm" (3-4) represents his anoyomity as a client, probably a rich and respectable gentleman by day, who seeks the "bed" (5) of a prostitute in the midst of all the social evils of London nightlife. The bed of crimson joy is obviously a description of a rose and its pedals, but also is a metaphor for the feminity of the prostitute. Her life is destroyed by her degrading work as a prostitute, most especially in her having to risk contracting horrible diseases to eek out a living. But I could be wrong.

The biggest complication I see in my interpretation of this poem is that, in light of what I've learned in this class so far, the worm is a more complex character than I previously thought. Worms instinctively conjure up images of death and decay, but Blake and the romantics understand the creative, life giving functions of the worms as well. As far as the poisoning of a rose or a prostitute might be life giving, I can't imagine it. And so I am asking for insights. Am I totally off base in the prostitution interpretation? Or does Blake see social evils such as prostitution bringing forth good in a harmony of opposites? Contradictions and cycles of good and evil, life and death are what the Romantics are all about after all. And worms can't fly, can they? Anyway, I'm asking for help on this one.

mary mary quite contrary...

I have a funny story to share:
My first college experience, like many others, was peppered with the discovery and development of strong emotions, opinions, and self revelations. These formative years lend themselves to this kind of exploding into the world; attaching oneself to edifying beliefs and philosophies, and distancing of the outdated, archaic modalities that defined adolescence, our "parents ways", and who we "used to be". In short, when you are first learning who you are in the world, there is a fervent nature to what you ascertain. I cradled my ideals as if they were my blood, my life force, my soul. I was a feminist, a radical, maybe even a communist!! (haha, I have matured my ideas since then) This was in fact how I came to know myself, and I had such a deep desire to be empowered, intelligent, opinionated, well-spoken, and useful.

Accompanying all the energy of these revelations of insight through higher education, we find, I found there exists a juxtaposition, an antithesis if you will, of combative thoughts and opinions that dare thwart your new found self edification. It can sometimes be jarring.

This came for me once at the end of my first year, chugging along full of hope and idealism, my best friend and I were in the dorm collecting the clothes people were throwing away, in that we might donate them to the homeless shelter down the street. I came across a pile of shirts, some blue and some pink outside one of the rooms, and before I stuffed it into the garbage bag I decided to investigate. I noticed immediately that these were left over materials from the Wittenberg University College Republicans group on campus, and in an effort to promote themselves, coined catchy little phrases for the back of their shirts. I don't rightly remember what the blue "male" shirt said, undoubtedly something offensive (given the nature of what the other one said). I do remember distinctly what the pink "female" shirt said. In cutesy pink script it read, "Oh your a feminist? Isn't that cute!"

I don't mean to offend any republicans reading this, for I understand any one of HALF-WITTED intelligencia might slightly consider how offensive this could be, but I felt as if someone had stabbed me in the eyes with a red hot rusted iron poker, and dashed all my new revelations about the world. THE NERVE?? How could any woman say that? If she had only known what kind of adversity, trial, distress, grief, wretchedness, woe, and misery women had to go through to even allow her to speak that opinion publicly! I was appalled at both the ignorance and audacity of this statement--I was already peeved at the College Republicans for a public debate they recently held with the College Democrats, where they argued vehemently against gay rights with a vindication build on sand, and to me, with my new though rudimentary understanding of the world, seemed based in nothing rational.

These shirts were definitely NOT going to the homeless shelter! I would be damned before I let Wittenberg be represented that way!

This is the story I am reminded of as I read Mary Wollstonescraft. I return now as I did then to reflecting on the massive amount of strife it must have required, the courage, and the endless years of suffering hopelessness of our foremothers to get us where we are today. The seemingly innocuous statement made by the "marketing committee" of the Wittenberg College Republicans failed to even consider the massive amount of love these women must have had, not only for themselves and their own freedom, but for us and future generations,the minds of "a woman who has thinking powers", as we continually crash up against the patriarchal hierarchy. But how much more difficult or different for these pioneers I wonder?

After reading about Wollstonecraft's failed marriage to Imlay, and her attempted suicide, I reflected on the term W.E.B. Dubois coined and elaborates on in his collection of essays The Souls of Black Folk in order to describe the African experience in America. He states that the "double consciousness" is “this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity” (2).
This concept of "double consciousness" is three fold. First, the power of white stereotypes on black life and thought (being forced into a context of misrepresentation). Second, the racism that excluded black Americans from the mainstream of society, being American or not American. Finally, and most significantly, the internal conflict between being African and American simultaneously.

Double consciousness is an awareness of one's self as well as an awareness of how others perceive the self.

I find this to also be valid for women of the time; the development of a double consciousness of female and womenhood where, as Wollstonecraft states ,"the minds of women are enfeebled by false refinement." Were women also not considered fully human, unable to own property, or gain even their own inheritance? The idealism of the French Revolution celebrated the "universal rights of MAN" not including WO-man in those rights. It seemed a woman could only find validation in marriage. It was only in marriage she could access her inheritance, acquire some stability, and her personage ratified, thus only furthering her subjugate dependence on men, and their perspectives of her.

Externally, and from a 21st century perspective, Mary Wollstonecraft may have seemed schizophrenic or demented for attempting to kill herself after loosing the love of her husband Gilbert Imlay. With chocolate, I would mosey to her dwelling with words of comfort, "Girl, c'mon, don't you waste one more moment of your beautiful soul on this infidel, this vagrant. Girl you are strong and amazing, do not shed blood for his sorry ass; there are other fish in the sea! Let's go out dancing!" But no, I am privileged to respond this way because I know my worth does no depend on a man. I am privileged to define myself for myself, and even if someone as passionate, intelligent and intense as Mary Wollstonecraft would have recognized this, her society would have thwarted her. Was she clawing desperately to Imlay because she loved him, or she did not want to loose the only worth and validation in identity society gave her, even if she knew in herself it was not so. Thus a Double Consciousness; a class of people whose "values and behavior have been distorted because their social roles prevent them from becoming fully human."


I could go on for hours....

I indubitably reckon that the designers of the Wittenberg University College Republican's shirts of 2004 ever considered any of these things when deciding on a motif. I really wonder who they were meaning or offend exactly? People like me? Or are they somehow inferring that people like Mary Wollstonecraft were actually just out of line and out of mind, and I can only guess, but they probably had no idea who she was anyway.


Either way, my best friends and I made a bonfire that weekend, where we held an effigy burning of the shirts, and celebrated being female. Thanks Mary. The End.

Words that may never leave these eyes.

This Grave contains all that was mortal, of a YOUNG ENGLISH POET, who on his Death Bed, in the Bitterness of his heart, at the Malicious Power of his enemies, desired these words to be Engraven on his Tomb Stone:

 

“Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water”

To do justice to the name of John Keats is impossible. A name that while unknown and almost camouflaged during most, if not all, of his life still garnered a great deal of respect from those who knew him and learned of his truly powerful abilities with the written word. If his life had had more time than what was given to him, would the face of writing be changed more than it already had after his death? Would his name be spoken of at the same caliber as Shakespeare, for example, if it had not already been done before?

 

It seems like with only 25 years of life, our world gained perhaps a tap instead of a push in a progressive direction in writing. And yet, it only took him 25 years to make this much of an effect. Praise and depression are what bring me to write of him. Praise for his ability. Depression for his early passing.

 

While Shelley wrote in his poem Adonais, thinking of Keats near the end, lines such as:

 

“Peace Peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep

He hath awakened from the dream of life”

 

and these words may be true, it does not change the effect he could no longer induce upon the world with new writing.

 

One day, I will be unable to find more to learn of John Keats. I will not find anymore of his writings to read. No more of his words will I be able to read and feel inspired. To this end I do not search for them specifically, although I never find fault in those writings that I come across by chance in life.

 

The words give more emotion, in anticipation, fear, and many others, that no other writer in the history of mankind has done. Not Blake. Not Wordsworth. Not Shelley. Not Frost. Not Hemmingway. Not Shakespeare. Not Faulkner. Not Tolkien. And certainly not my own.

 

While I do not envy the shortness of his life, I envy his passion and the people who stood next to him although he could not see them. For while he wrote his name in water, his friends wrote it in the stones of history.

Similarities...

I find it strange that in John Keats' writing of Isabella, there seemed to be parallel moments and emotions pertaining to the deaths of he and Lorenzo.

 

In history (or at least what we know of it to the best of our ability, from historiographies, diaries, accurate biographies and letters between he, friends and one Fanny Brawne), John Keats died of tuberculosis, a disease that had plagued both him and the entirety of his family in body and in mind. Although, he found a love before he died (not too long either) which became deeper and deeper to the point of bringing pain to the both of them while they knew that John only grew sicker and closer to death.

 

Although this poem was written in 1818 and published in 1820 along with many other works, it reflects (perhaps unconsciously) a connection between him and Fanny Brawne.

 

To be specific, the love between Isabella and Lorenzo seems unaffected, or perhaps transcends, death. While the two were alive there was love, and although Lorenzo died, still did Isabella love him. And in her love for him, she found purpose and the will to live until it too was taken from her, leaving her to die.

 

In this, the love between John Keats and Fanny Brawne was strangely similar, although not exactly so. Specifically, the love between the two was strong although fairly short and the two did not get the chance to marry (although they were engaged). After John Keats died, Fanny Brawne mourned as a widow would mourn. She dressed in black and took long walks for many years after, reading poems and letters of her love.

 

 Perhaps, and this is simply speculation, John Keats thought of this love as something that he would dare to hope for. That this was a love he considered true and something to strive for. And at the same time, perhaps that the natural order of things must continue even after the death of someone close.

 

Isabella would have died even with a purpose given to her by the pot of basil, her brothers simply sped the process. Her death was the natural order of life, even with the strength of a strong and undying love. Similarly, Fanny Brawn would become Frances Lindon by marrying one day and be forced to move on from outwardly mourning the death of her love. 

Barbauld and Meditations

In his "short-lived rage," the sun seeps away leaving room for what we have been waiting many long hours for. Nighttime. Thoughts become visible and clear, even in their fury, and life awaits. Running free through the caverns of her mind, wandering through woods under Dian[a], the goddess of woodlands and the moon herself, wondering about the upwards that lies in the sky above her, she lives this moment of her life through her poem, "A Summer Evening's Meditation." As I read this I could feel the light dissipating in a gradient as the curtain of night is pulled over the poem. She accomplishes this by using imagery such as "with sweetest beam/Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood/Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks./The shadows spread apace ; while meeken'd Eve/Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires/Thro' the Hesperian gardens of the west,/And shuts the gates of day." Even in those phrases alone, the reader gets the feeling of a gradual change from day to night, and also is able to feel the impatience for the night's arrival which Barbauld references. Deepest thought and experience can occur during the darkest of hours, when the world seems empty in places, and more alive than ever in other places, remaining all the while a seemingly limitless world of possibilities. This could be represented by her journey to the stars, grasping on to the farthest realities, feeling she is able to reach them because of the freedom her mind is experiencing. There was a pattern in this poem of personifying nature, as well as characterising such abstract concepts as Contemplation and Thought. Barbauld also mentions gods, goddesses, and stars by their names. These aspect of the poem bring an other-worldly and mystical quality to this work as well. The natural imagery seen throughout becomes her muse and her inspiration, which inspires her to return home with a more open and enlightened mind, with a new mode of change now available to her. I like it when she returns to the natural world, back to the comfortable and familiar woods, the nature growing around her. Her soul is able to find peace in its original form; gaining the most from the nature around it, and protected from the wonders that lie far beyond the soul and which are profound and impossible to understand.

“What are men compared to Rocks and Mountains?”

“What are men compared to rocks and mountains?” These famous lines from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (1813) resonate with many of the Romantics’ ideologies. Nature is nature; it simply is. Man, on the other hand, attempts to create an original or simply exist, and fails exceedingly. So why is there all this narcissism? From Blake to Wordsworth, these men proclaim themselves to be a “Poetic Genius.” They adore the outstanding ability of the natural world but turn into self-centered pricks because supposedly they alone can decipher nature or create an original. Wordsworth, for instance, believes that the poet is the translator for common man because it takes a particular talent (that he so happens to posses). However, the common man who he is speaking to does not care about poetry, so Wordsworth creates his own audience and redefines the common man. DeQuincy’s narcissism is also clearly present in his essay Confessions of an English Opium Eater. He is marginalized from even the marginalized Romantics like Wordsworth. His “gutter punk” persona seems to be crying out, “I am different! Pay attention to me!” so he creates a new group in society.

Are these Romantics right to be understood as better, smarter people? The complexities of these Romantic works require a great deal of interpretation and decipherability. I admit that I needed someone else to tell me what they were trying to say. These Romantics had a different view of the world, but the question still remains is different the equivalent of better? The Romantics were able to transcend outside of themselves through logic. (Think Kant diagram.) Nature, nonetheless, cannot do this. It cannot extend beyond itself but merely regenerate what once was. Does logic go against nature? If so, then it is harder to go against one’s nature. What is nature compared to Man?*

*Seen in Percy Shelley's "Mont Blanc." The poet puts his perceptions onto the mountain, which is then reflected to himself. In the beginning of the poem, it seems as if the mountain is putting meaning on the person, but this notion is flipped by the end.

In regards to Pansies:

When I saw this course was available way back when, I remember thinking, “Now here is a class that I want to take, a class about a bunch of pansies who write about, well… pansies.” I like pansies. I would admire them, for although they did nothing particularly useful, they actually got their heads out of the clouds for a minute and wrote down a poem or two; they weren’t total procrastinators (like I am, see: this post date), but a group who chose to avoid real life like I do, who lived in their own little bubbles floating along a river somewhere deep in an enchanted forest. I could connect with them.

Had I misjudged them, or what?

I did vaguely recall from high school that there were more to these pansies than what meets the eye as reactionaries against the Great Enlightenment Figures of Reasoning. But what struck me the most was the immense complexity of the poems. I’d walk out of class even more confused than when I went in, but I liked it! Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. It was all that I could do. By grappling with these texts I was forced to think about my life and life in general. Paradoxes that were logical: A fragment made whole, an original from imitation. The Hegelian dialectic applied to more than just History. All these poems shocked me into thinking, none more so than Blake. For example, in “Thel” we are imprisoned by our senses and yet what do we know without our senses? How would we experience things without them? Do we bring them with us to the afterlife even though we have no body? Or do we have a body? What is our purpose in life? Is it to be food for worms? Is there such a thing as a static figure because everything changes and transmutes? In “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell” Blake turns everything I learned as a child upside down, but it makes perfect sense. If Heaven is perfect, it is therefore unalterable. If Hell is not perfect, then it is changeable and there is a sense of progression, which takes on a positive connotation for me (a positive corrosion). Blake attempts to answer these questions through his mythology, but I still have no answers.

I have come to the conclusion that these poets were special pansies. Their lives were rather depressing (Not pansy like). They pushed the limits more than anyone else in history, more so than those of the Enlightenment (Not pansy like). They were a bit weird; they tended to live in their heads after exposing themselves to life. Their ideas are so unique. (Every pansy has his/her own eccentricity). They left us without answers to their questions. But it is their thoughts that push us forward into the realm of thinking and bring us back to the real world. The cycle continues; pansies come and pansies go (both flowers and people). We live. We die. We become fertilizer for future flowers. We think about what the Special Pansies thought… we come back down… and write about what we think for future generations to come. Maybe they’ll be able figure it all out…

What We Want II: A Poem

"Peaceful" wills the homeless heart.
Towards soft essence then tearful part.
Hold close once more a sigh so sweet,
An open door, a steady beat.

Lose you again takes years to do,
The road will bend our love so true.
A swell of faith or mind of fear,
Both for souls sake, both cause tears.

To touch once more would be divine,
So on the floor I'd crawl to find.
This door may come, but enter my choice.
For where I'm from, death is the voice.

Take hands to lead and arms to pray,
A hunger to feed, but - love stay away.

Where Does Man Fit in Nature?

Wordsworth's "Lines Written in Early Spring" is uniquely powerful and characteristically Romantic poem. As Professor Schwartz pointed out, it is incorrect to say the romantics simply wrote about nature. Rather, they wrote about nature as experienced by man and about man's relationship to it. Romantic literature addresses the questions of where man fits into nature, of whether or not a harmony between nature and man is possible, of whether nature is sympathetic or indifferent to human concerns, and if man is the summit of creation or a perversion of it. In this poem, Wordsworth takes a stab at answering those questions, but in the end is more sadly confused than he began.

The twice repeated line "What man has made of man" (8, 24) is first a declared statement and later asked as a question. In between, the poet reflects on the beauty and happiness in nature and how alienated man is from that happiness. The poem begins with the narrator (presumably Wordsworth) reclining in a grove, engaged in a reflection moving from sweet to bitter thoughts. The beauty of nature he metaphorically hears as "a thousand blended notes" (1) of sweet music. I don't think I'm off base when I claim that Wordsworth sees an original unity between man and nature. As he says "To her fair works did Nature link / The human soul that through me ran" (5-6). Man is of nature and ought to play his part. But something has gone wrong. Man has made something of himself (or tried to) which nature never intended for him to be. Wordsworth never specifies what it is, but the reader's imagination immediately conjures up images of war and poverty, hatred and oppression, environmental degradation and urban jungles that humans were never meant to live in. Stanzas 3-5 artfully describe the beauty of flowers, birds and baby trees as they grow and thrive. The narrator believes there to be a "pleasure" in every moment of the lives of these creatures, as short as their existence might be. He admits that he "cannot measure" (14) the thoughts of these creatures and this can be taken as evidence that there is a fundamental separation between man and other parts of nature. The poet cannot empathize with what it means to live every day for the beauty of it, accepting all parts of existence, even death. Humans don't do this. Rather, they plan and plot for the future and seeks immortality through religion, through potions and through glory.

Reading this poem left me agreeing with Wordsworth in part, but mostly with questions for him. Does he think there is a solution, a way for man to unmake himself and become natural again. If so, what is it? The poem has a feel to it which echoes the creation story of Genesis and the fall of man. Is Wordsworth saying that the fatal flaw in man is really his inability to accept himself as a part of nature and be content with it? If so, is there a way back to the garden? Additionally, Wordsworth seems to regard the ideas this poem expresses as revelations from a higher power. What is that power and what relevance does it have for both man and nature? It's a good poem, but reading it left me wondering.

Exploring Keats

After both reading and enjoying Keats’ “Isabella, or the Pot of Basil,” I decided to scan through some more of his poetry in our Norton text so that I could see how my interpretations of the readings have either gotten better, worse, or stayed about the same. Here goes my understanding of “Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell.”

Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:
No god, no demon of severe response,
Deigns to reply from heaven or from hell.
Then to my human heart I turn at once—
Heart! thou and I are here, sad and alone;
Say, wherefore did I laugh? O mortal pain!
O darkness! darkness! ever must I moan,
To question heaven and hell and heart in vain!
Why did I laugh? I know this being's lease—
My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads:
Yet could I on this very midnight cease,
And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds.
Verse, fame and beauty are intense indeed,
But death intenser—death is life's high meed.

Instantly, Keats presents the reader with a question that proves unanswerable by gods and demons, two polarities. Realizing that these two external forces are unable to provide an explanation for Keats’ laughter, the poet suddenly believes he has found the source for this plaguing question: the heart. Feeling both excited and assured, this realization marks an important turning point in the poet’s quest for answers; he pleads for an answer from within. However, as the poet searches within, he discovers only darkness that once again leaves Keats answerless. The source for the answer is neither wholly external nor wholly internal.

Keats poses his question for the third and final time, though this time he comes across as more composed as he begins to discover the reason for his laughter. While he recognizes the fact that happiness can be found through different outlets in life—particularly through “verse, fame, and beauty”—he nonetheless would leave it all behind, life ended. The image of the “word’s gaudy ensigns” all shredded up paints a particularly apocalyptic scene.

In the final line, Keats acknowledges the fact that while there may be sources of intense joy throughout life, death nonetheless overshadows the things most important to all of us; death is life’s greatest reward. At first I had trouble understanding this line because never had I heard death described as such. Most often, death is viewed negatively as it reminds us of our mortality, ultimately all of the limitations that bound us to some degree. However, Keats takes another approach. By describing death at “life’s high meed,” the poet portrays death as a reminder that in this moment we are alive.

Throughout the poetry we have been reading in class, man’s ability to reflect has come across as a nuisance, a burden to our existence; however, in this poem, Keats seems to celebrate this ability. We can recognize that death represents an end, and because of this, people can live. People can laugh.

What We Want

Something that caught my interest from the piece, "Isabella," by John Keats is the relationship between Isabelle and Lorenzo. Their passion and love is so strong that it is obvious that nothing can break it. It reminded me of all the stories that we have been taught over the years. Its all about LOVE. Whether a childhood story about princesses and magic carpets, movies with notebooks, or songs on the radio that "bleed love," this idea of timeless love is universal and unwavering. Regardless of generation or artistic outlet, we are as a race, obsessed with love.
We use it as a reason to live- in hopes that we will have the perfect family, to do certain things- like going out to a bar seeking a connection, we concentrate on it as if it will solve all of our problems, fears, and doubts. But will it really do all of that? Certainly Isabella didn't get the perfect family or have her problems solved.
So what did Isabella and Lorenzo have that could possibly make up for all their pain? They lived a passionate life which consumed their souls until and beyond death. As "nice" as that all sounds, its not exactly what dreams are made of . Even "Romeo and Juliet," that's not the real title. Its called, "The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet." People want to be in this romantic state where they find someone who they can't bear to live without, but in the end, it always destroys. This is because along with passion and love is obsession and rage and destruction.
Although we know this we still want it. We focus on all the goodness of the story, on the maybe two scenes where the lovers were happy and hope that we could have that one day. But what we really want it to have that and have the happy ending as well. We want to have the story of Romeo and Juliet and be strong enough to fix the ending- to get Romeo the letter before its too late. Theres always little factors we think we could fix if it was us. Isabelle should have stopped Lorenzo from going out with her brothers; she should have seen something. But love isn't this ever powerful essence that we can control or conform to our will.
Love is hard. Love is painful. I'm no literary character, but that much I know. In real life love is almost always confused with lust, love can seem clinging to the other party, or love can destroy the good that was already there. In real life someone if not both parties loose.
Call me pessimistic or a Debbie Downer, but art imitates life and vice versa and art has been telling us a message. Maybe we should pay attention.