Catch-22.3

Well here we are: the third and final blog entry for Catch-22. The good news is I’ve finally gotten a handle of the five-million characters in the novel. The bad news is….actually, there is no bad news. Here’s some more observations on Catch-22:

1.
Besides its sardonic wit, one of the most noteworthy aspects of Catch-22 is the use of the suspension of time and reality. By crafting a plot that does not follow chronologically and does not come full circle until the end of the novel, Heller is able to highlight the sense of skewed reality created by war and keep the reader in the dark about aspects of Yossarian’s true nature.

Throughout the novel, Heller uses representations of people and things in place of the actual object in order to twist reality. Names stand in place of actual characters and create confusion. For example, Major Major has an identity crisis when he finds out in kindergarten that his name is not Caleb Major, and Yossarian instigates a full investigation when he assumes the pseudonym “Washington Irving” to censor letters. In the letters themselves, Yossarian “obliterates” modifiers, punctuation, and names of people and places, as though they were actual objects. Furthermore, Yossarian postpones the attack on Bologna by moving the line on the map, creating the illusion that the city had already fallen. By referring to actual things by mere representations, Heller furthers the sense of confusion in wartime.

2.
While reading, I found a quote that completely sums up Yossarian’s views on war and mortality:
“Catastrophes were lurking everywhere, too numerous to count. When he contemplated the many diseases and potential accidents threatening him, he was positively astounded that he had managed to survive in good health for as long as he had. It war miraculous. Each day he faced was another dangerous mission against mortality. And he had been surviving them for twenty-eight years (175).

3.
Yossarian is often identified with the powerless everyman in war, subject to the whims of his superiors; however, it is Yossarian who is responsible for virtually every major event and catastrophe in the novel. Yossarian’s signing of “Washington Irving” to letters creates a world of trouble for Major Major. He indirectly poisons all of the men in the camp with soap flakes, provides the fruit for Milo’s business dealings, postpones the attack on Bologna, kills Kraft and the rest of his crew over Ferrara, and gets the chaplain kicked out of the captain’s club. The novel’s convoluted and discontinuous plot keep the reader in the dark about Yossarian’s true abilities until he is fully able to realize them at the end of the novel.

4.
Something else I noticed while reading Catch-22 was the frustratingly absolute nature of the corrupt military administration that causes all of the problems. Colonel Cathcart is able to arbitrarily increase the number of missions in order to simultaneously increase his reputation among his superiors. War so completely changes reality that even doctors are disillusioned about saving lives, as Doc Dankeea says, “It’s not my business to save lives” (174). Yossarian turns against religion, saying that God isn’t “working at all. He’s playing. Or else He’s forgotten all about us” (179).

5.
And I still think the novel is one of the funniest things I have ever read.



And here are some sources:
The Night Journey in Catch-22
Minna Doskow
Twentieth Century Literature, Vol. 12, No. 4 (Jan., 1967), pp. 186-193
Published by: Hofstra University

"Catch-22" and the Language of Discontinuity
Gary W. Davis
NOVEL: A Forum on Fiction, Vol. 12, No. 1 (Autumn, 1978), pp. 66-77
Published by: Novel Corp., Brown University


"It Was All Yossarian's Fault" Power and Responsibility in Catch-22
Stephen L. Sniderman
Twentieth Century Literature, Vol. 19, No. 4 (Oct., 1973), pp. 251-258
Published by: Hofstra University

You Must Be Crazy

I read a good portion of Catch-22 while sitting on a train in New Jersey. It was quite lovely, zipping past huge flowering trees and fields of grass while reading a classic American novel. How romantic. I will admit I was constantly forced to refocus my attention on Catch-22 and away from the flora of the American Northeast.

But anyway, I’ve found that Catch-22 discuses how the experience of war alters our perception of sanity. Heller uses the words “crazy” and “insane” many times throughout the text, especially in the dialogue between the characters. Clevinger yells, “You must be crazy!” (20, Nately asks Yossarian, “are you crazy?” (125), and Havermeyer additionally tells Yossarian, “you must be crazy” (47). Even a light bulb is described as “swinging crazily on its loose wire” (130). Heller’s constant repetition of this idea signifies the importance of insanity in the text.

Although the other characters in the novel view Yossarian as being mad, his is the most appropriate response to war. A captain whose goal is to avoid flying the ever-changing number of required missions, he is one of the few characters who seems to understand the realities of war. He says, “They’re trying to kill me” (16), and argues that even though everyone is being shot at, people whom he does not even know are trying to kill him. He is one of the only characters who questions the arbitrary decisions of the military bureaucracy, saying of Colonel Catchcart, “He never sends anyone home, anyway. He just keeps them around waiting for rotation orders until he doesn’t have enough men left for the crews, and then raises the number of missions and throws them all back on combat status.” (102).

Similarly, the characters who are in positions of power are the ones who are the most out of their minds. Captain Black’s Glorious Loyaty Oath Crusade is excessive to say the least (112), and the only time Major Major feels good about his decisions is when he has lied (97). When Clevinger is put on trial, Major Metcalf and Lieutenant Scheisskopf (I looked up the meaning of his name—a comment on military administration in itself) make little sense and treat Clevinger completely unfairly (75).

The crazy, backwards logic of “Catch-22” itself is a testament to the mixed-up nature of war. According to Catch-22, insanity constitutes grounds upon which a soldier can be discharged, but he must ask to be released; however, as soon as he asks, he is proven to be sane. Thus, the army is full of crazy people like Hungry Joe who probably should not be handling planes or guns.

Through Catch-22, Heller is able to comment on the insanity of both the administration in war and the effect combat has on the soldiers. By portraying the characters that are the most “crazy” as the ones whose responses are the most appropriate, he paints a chaotic picture that reveals much about the nature of war.

P.S. Mr Coon: I am currently out of town and am having trouble accessing JStor. As such, I will have my sources up on my next blog. Thanks, Lauren.

HAHA....I don't get it.

As of right now, I am really enjoying Catch-22. It is absolutely hilarious, but in that “intellectual I have to go back a re-read that sentence to fully get the joke” kind of way. The book’s hilarity lies in the sarcastic tone in which Joseph Heller describes the horrors of war. Nothing is safe from his dark humor,

I will admit, the book was a little difficult to get into. Yossarian, Dunbar, Clevinger, Orr, and all of the others appear to make little sense and talk about seemingly random things; however, after reading more, I began to realize that Heller discusses events from multiple perspectives. For example, the Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade that is mentioned in passing at the beginning of the book is not fully explained until Chapter 11. Additionally, there are so many characters that it is hard to keep them all straight. Everyone is a Colonel or a Major or has such a small role when first mentioned that I forget all about him by the time he appears later on in the book.

The story is focused on the bombardier Yossarian, a man who is constantly trying to get out of flying his never-ending number of missions. He is one of the only characters who questions the hierarchy of the military, the arbitrary nature of command, and the ridiculousness of war. During one of his vain attempts to get out of flying, Major Major asks him if he would like to see his country lose the war. Yossarian replies, “We won’t lose. We’ve got more men, more money and more material. There are ten million men in uniform who could replace me. Some people are getting killed and a lot more are making money and having fun. Let somebody else get killed” (103). His observations can come across as joking (although not so much in this example) but give depth to the story.

It is Heller’s astute observations that give a dark edge to his humor. His descriptions of the characters such as Major Major Major Major who “had a difficult time from the start” (82) literally had me laughing out loud as I read the book. Heller’s humor can be very telling, however. For example, when, before the “Bologna incident,” Dr. Stubbs says, “I used to get a big kick out of saving people’s lives. Now I wonder what the hell’s the point, since they all have to die anyway” (109). In the context of the up-beat conversation, the comment is slightly funny but speaks of the cruel realities of war.

And then there’s the issues of “Catch-22,” a contradiction that prevents men from ever leaving the army. Yossarian describes it simply by saying, “That’s some catch, that Catch-22” (46). The confusing paradox speaks to the twisted and misleading nature of the army administration itself. The army administration is embodied in Colonel Cathcart, the man who arbitrarily increases the number of flights each bombardier must go on and who appoints Major Major to squadron commander and forces him into the life of a recluse. In other words, Cathcart is “the man.”

The true essence of Catch-22 comes from Heller’s satiric sense of humor. The irony with which he approaches all aspects of the book allows him to effectively criticize the mechanisms of war through a fast-paced story. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble getting through the book, as long as I find a way to keep all of the characters straight. (577)

The Art of Losing (may or may not be hard to master)

In her poem “One Art,” Elizabeth Bishop explores the struggle of coping with loss. She utilizes a variation of the villanelle as a vehicle for demonstrating the gap between her outward portrayal of her feelings and what she really means. At first glance, the poem appears to be a spiteful renunciation of her relationship, an almost writing-off of the pain of love lost; however, a shift in tone and a deviation from the standard rules of the villanelle in the sixth stanza of the poem indicate a different sentiment.

The first five stanzas of “One Art” are told in a firm, determined tone. Bishop is so adamant in her belief that “the art of losing isn’t hard to master,” that she repeats it three times in the first fifteen lines of the poem. Only in the final stanza does Bishop’s resolute attitude falter. Subtle changes in the repeated lines of the poem reveal her true feelings. She pauses (as denoted by the dash) before beginning to talk about “losing you.” Rather than her classic adage, she says, “it’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master.” When saying “it’s evident,” it is almost as though she is trying convince herself of the insignificance of her loss. By saying it’s “not too hard to master,” she concedes that the mastery of “the art of losing” was somewhat difficult. Furthermore, when she says “Even losing you,” she gives the reader yet another clue as to how much she valued the love.

Throughout the poem, Bishop lists things she has lost. As the poem progresses, the size and importance of the lost possessions increases. They go from the mundane, such as door keys and a watch, to the more complex, like places and names, to “vast” realms and cities, and finally, to love. That Bishop builds the poem to culminate with the loss of love demonstrates the importance she places on it even though she addresses each item with a similar nonchalance. Although she would like us to believe otherwise, Bishop does not really view house keys and love as being comparable; however, through such comparisons she attempts to convince herself that they are equals as a means of coping with the overwhelming loss.

As per classic villanelle conventions, the final line of each stanza is an alternating word of opposing meaning (think back to the repetition of “night” and “light” in “Do Not Go Quietly into That Good Night”). Bishop is either the “master” of her pain or it will cause “disaster.” Only in the final line is this pattern broken when Bishop repeats the word “disaster” alluding to her true feelings. Also in the final line of the poem, the speaker interrupts herself with a parenthetical command, one that is italicized, capitalized, and followed by an exclamation point. Clearly, it is an important interjection. By having to order herself to “Write it!” it is as though she is resistant to saying that losing a love is not hard to master, but forces herself to do so.

“One Art” demonstrates a method of coping with the pain of loss. By convincing herself that the loss of a love was “not a disaster,” and trivializing and masking her grief, Bishop forces herself to survive. By using an altered villanelle form, she draws attentions to the clues that reveal her true feelings, giving the reader insight into what she really means.

Discussion Questions:

1. What does Bishop mean by the cities, realms, rivers, and continent? Should these possessions be meant literally? If not, what do they represent?

2. What do you think Bishop means when she says “I shan’t have lied”?

3. Do you think the speaker has successfully convinced herself?

4. How is the speaker portrayed? Do you like her or dislike her by the end of the poem?

You've Been Out Riding Fences

In class, we learned that August Wilson, the author of Fences, wrote a different play about African American culture for each decade of the 20th century. Fences is his play about the 1950s, the decade of the “calm before the storm” of the full-blown Civil Rights Movement. The story centers on Troy, a man who was born in the late eighteen hundreds and has seen his fair share of hard times. He is stubborn, has questionable morals (e.g. when he cheats on his wife, Rose, with Alberta), and is extremely resistant to change. To be honest, I found myself strongly disliking Troy as the play progressed. So my question is, why would Wilson choose Troy to be a representation of African American culture in the 1950s? Why, of all the archetypes he could have chosen, would Wilson discuss the life of a bitter man?

I think that part of the answer lies in Troy’s resistance to change. He represents the “in between” generation that came after the Civil War, but before the Civil Rights Movement. Much like today’s adults’ unwillingness to learn how to text message, Troy is unable and reluctant to acknowledge the changing social climate. Troy’s resistance is demonstrated through his dealings with his son, Cory. Cory is growing up in a world that is beginning to desegregate, a world that is just beginning to give opportunities, like football scholarships, to African Americans. Troy is completely against Cory’s accepting the scholarship and refuses to sign the form. Not only is Troy incapable of accepting the fact that times are changing, but he is also bitter that he was not given the same opportunities as Cory is receiving (although his won’t admit it).

Rose is the voice of reason in the play. She points out to Troy that times are changing, that Cory’s scholarship is legitimate, that Troy should allow Cory to play. She represents the realist, the older person who can see that, as Bob Dylan would say, “the times they are a’changing.” Furthermore, Troy’s downfall ultimately occurs when he turns his back on Rose (by sleeping with Alberta), demonstrating the stabilizing force she provides.

But enough about the story itself. Let’s talk about Sandy Koufax. He was mentioned in the play and his name struck a chord in my memory because I have always heard that he was my dad’s hero growing up. As a little baseball-playing Jewish boy, my dad was kind of obsessed with Koufax (even though he was quite young when Koufax retired in 1966). My dad grew up on stories of the Brooklyn-born Jewish pitcher who was named World Series MVP in 1963 when the Dodger’s beat the Yankees in only four games. Sandy Koufax, the sixth pitcher of the modern era to throw a perfect game, was the inspiration for my dad, a little boy in Woodland Hills, California, to throw his first baseball. So what does this have to do with Fences? Admittedly, not much. But I think it goes to demonstrate the importance of baseball in Troy’s life. I personally am not an avid baseball fan so I had problems relating to that part of the story. But after talking to Daddy Motzkin about it, I was able to appreciate Troy’s obsession with baseball, and thus the story itself, a little more.

Subtext is Fun (Formatting this blog entry is NOT)

**Disclaimer: All of my comments are in bold. Also, the formatting got a little messed up after I saved so some of the lines are double spaced, others are not.

SCENE IV. The Queen's closet.

Enter QUEEN MARGARET and POLONIUS

LORD POLONIUS
He will come straight. Look you lay home to him:
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,
And that your grace hath screen'd and stood between
Much heat and him. I'll sconce me even here.
Pray you, be round with him.
Acting out of loyalty to King Claudius

HAMLET
[Within] Mother, mother, mother!

QUEEN GERTRUDE
I'll warrant you,Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming.
Motions to arras, indicating that Polonius should hide

POLONIUS hides behind the arras

Enter HAMLET

Hamlet speaks in a mocking tone (though not obviously mocking), while the Queen is scolding

HAMLET
Now, mother, what's the matter?

QUEEN GERTRUDE
Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

HAMLET
Mother, you have my father much offended.

QUEEN GERTRUDE
Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

HAMLET
Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

QUEEN GERTRUDE
Why, how now, Hamlet!

HAMLET
What's the matter now?

QUEEN GERTRUDE
Have you forgot me?

HAMLET
No, by the rood, not so:
You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife;
And--would it were not so!--you are my mother.

QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak.

HAMLET
Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge;
You go not till I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you.
Motions to bed. Referencing what he believes to be the Queen's questionable morals in marrying Claudius.

QUEEN GERTRUDE
What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?
Help, help, ho!
Panicked, throws arms up as if to protect self

LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] What, ho! help, help, help!

HAMLET
[Drawing] How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!
Enraged

Makes a pass through the arras

LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] O, I am slain!

Falls and dies

See an arm out from the arras as he falls

QUEEN GERTRUDE
O me, what hast thou done?
Softly, almost sympathetically, clearly still cares for / is concerned about Hamlet

HAMLET
Nay, I know not:
Is it the king?
With an almost boyish hopefullness

QUEEN GERTRUDE
O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
shaking head

HAMLET
A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
scornfully

QUEEN GERTRUDE
As kill a king!

HAMLET
Ay, lady, 'twas my word.
Walks toward arras but still looking toward Queen when speaking

Lifts up the array and discovers Polonius

Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!
I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune;
Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger.
Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down,
And let me wring your heart; for so I shall,

If it be made of penetrable stuff,

If damned custom have not brass'd it so

That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

Thinking both of Polonius's present intrusion and with Ophelia


QUEEN GERTRUDE
What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me?

HAMLET
Such an act
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,

Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose

From the fair forehead of an innocent love

And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows

As false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deed

As from the body of contraction plucks

The very soul, and sweet religion makes

A rhapsody of words: heaven's face doth glow:

Yea, this solidity and compound mass,

With tristful visage, as against the doom,

Is thought-sick at the act.

QUEEN GERTRUDE
Ay me, what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?
Truly unaware of the maliciousness of her marriage as seen by Hamlet

HAMLET
Look here, upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
Motions to a painting of the royal family with a young King and Claudius, first indicates the King
See, what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;

A combination and a form indeed,

Where every god did seem to set his seal,

To give the world assurance of a man:

Has a high opinion of his father

This was your husband. Look you now, what follows:

Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,

Motion's to Claudius's image, Referencing his father's death with "ear"

Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?

Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,

And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?

You cannot call it love; for at your age

The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,

And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment

Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,

Else could you not have motion; but sure, that sense

Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err,

Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thrall'd

But it reserved some quantity of choice,

To serve in such a difference. What devil was't

That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?

Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,

Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,

Or but a sickly part of one true sense

Could not so mope.

O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,

If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,

To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,

And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame

When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,

Since frost itself as actively doth burn

And reason panders will.


QUEEN GERTRUDE
O Hamlet, speak no more:

Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;

And there I see such black and grained spots

As will not leave their tinct.

Beginning to realize errors



HAMLET
Nay, but to live

In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,

Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love

Over the nasty sty,--

Angrily but quietly, words "like daggers"



QUEEN GERTRUDE
O, speak to me no more;

These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;

No more, sweet Hamlet!

Covers ears



HAMLET
A murderer and a villain;

A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe

Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;

A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,

That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,

And put it in his pocket!

Getting louder, encouraged by the fact that his words are having the desired effect



QUEEN GERTRUDE
No more!

shakes head, presses hands harder over ears



HAMLET
A king of shreds and patches,--


Enter Ghost



Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,

You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?

In Act I, Hamlet questions whether the ghost in an instrument of the devil, now he is completely convinced that the ghost is good



QUEEN GERTRUDE
Alas, he's mad!



HAMLET
Do you not come your tardy son to chide,

That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by

The important acting of your dread command? O, say!

Slightly frightened, unsure why the ghost has come



GHOST
Do not forget: this visitation

Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.

But, look, amazement on thy mother sits:

O, step between her and her fighting soul:

Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works:

Speak to her, Hamlet.

Still does not want mother physically harmed



HAMLET
How is it with you, lady?

kindly



QUEEN GERTRUDE
Alas, how is't with you,

That you do bend your eye on vacancy

And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?

frightened

Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;

And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,

Your bedded hair, like life in excrements,

Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son,

Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper

Sprinkle cool patience.

Whereon do you look?

softens, moves toward Hamlet



HAMLET
On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares!

Points to ghost, moves away from mother abruptly

His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones,

Would make them capable. Do not look upon me;

Lest with this piteous action you convert

My stern effects: then what I have to do

Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.



QUEEN GERTRUDE
To whom do you speak this?



HAMLET
Do you see nothing there?

motions to ghost



QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.



HAMLET
Nor did you nothing hear?

looks to mother questioningly, almost pleadingly - beginning to doubt own sanity



QUEEN GERTRUDE
No, nothing but ourselves.



HAMLET
Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!

My father, in his habit as he lived!

Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!
Points to ghost as it extis



Exit Ghost



QUEEN GERTRUDE
This the very coinage of your brain:

This bodiless creation ecstasy

Is very cunning in.



HAMLET
Ecstasy!

My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,

And makes as healthful music: it is not madness

That I have utter'd: bring me to the test,

And I the matter will re-word; which madness

Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,

Lay not that mattering unction to your soul,

That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:

It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,

Whilst rak corruption, mining all within,

Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;

Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;

And do not spread the compost on the weeds,

To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue;

For in the fatness of these pursy times

Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg,

Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.
looking at mother concernedly, pleadingly


QUEEN GERTRUDE
O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
grief-stricken, puts hand on heart, sits on bed


HAMLET
O, throw away the worser part of it,

And live the purer with the other half.

Good night: but go not to mine uncle's bed;

Assume a virtue, if you have it not.

That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat,

Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,

That to the use of actions fair and good

He likewise gives a frock or livery,

That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night,

And that shall lend a kind of easiness

To the next abstinence: the next more easy;

For use almost can change the stamp of nature,

And either [ ] the devil, or throw him out

With wondrous potency. Once more, good night:

And when you are desirous to be bless'd,

I'll blessing beg of you. For this same lord,


Pointing to POLONIUS



I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so,

To punish me with this and this with me,

That I must be their scourge and minister.

I will bestow him, and will answer well

The death I gave him. So, again, good night.

I must be cruel, only to be kind:

Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.

One word more, good lady.
thinks is working for Queen's own good


QUEEN GERTRUDE
What shall I do?



HAMLET
Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:

Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed;

Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;

And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,

Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers,

Make you to ravel all this matter out,

That I essentially am not in madness,

But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know;
Wants Claudius to understand his adversary (Hamlet)
For who, that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise,

Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,

Such dear concernings hide? who would do so?

No, in despite of sense and secrecy,

Unpeg the basket on the house's top.

Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,

To try conclusions, in the basket creep,

And break your own neck down.



QUEEN GERTRUDE
Be thou assured, if words be made of breath,

And breath of life, I have no life to breathe

What thou hast said to me.
Hamlet's words have had their desired effect

The Caged Bird Sings

I know why the caged bird sings
by Maya Angelou

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.



The Rock Cries Out to Us Today
by Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers--
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.




The beginning of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T.S. Eliot

ET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Varsity English Discusses Morality

I would say that our discussion in class today was one of the best ones we’ve had all year: it was heated and passionate and contained many a reference to literature and historical events. Mr. Martin would be proud. At the same time, however, it was a bit disturbing. It seemed as though everyone was advocating a somewhat similar point, and yet we were still unable to reach a consensus. Did our failure to agree stem from a flaw in our arguments? I would say not. The problem is that there really is no answer to the question of whether it is okay to disobey laws that are morally wrong. First of all, morality is subjective. As we are learning in Psychology, morals vary from culture to culture, making the moral compass of, for example, a Muslim extremist, very different from that of an American teenager living in Arizona. If this is true, on what should be base morality?

Like Varsity English, Sophocles too explored the differing systems upon which to base one’s decisions. In Antigone, we see the conflicting perspectives of Creon and Antigone. Creon’s values are based on obedience to authority and loyalty to one’s country. He advocates strongly against anarchy, saying “Anarchy, anarchy! Show me a greater evil! / This is why cities tumble and the great houses rain down, / This is what scatters armies!” (42). He speaks of the importance of having a strong central government and asserts that obedience (even blind obedience) is the most necessary of attributes. Creon’s values do not allow room for sympathy towards Polyneices’s soul as Polyneices was disloyal to Thebes. He seems to be making an example out of Polyneices, using his culturally harsh treatment of the corpse as a deterrent for other potential dissenters.

Antigone, the protagonist of the story, lives her life according to different principles. She is loyal to her family, performing the funeral rites necessary to put her brother’s soul to rest, even at great personal risk. She is also loyal to the gods, claiming obedience to a higher power than the king. She says, “You will remember / What things I suffer, and at what men’s hands, / Because I would not transgress the laws of heaven” (78). Antigone is so strong in her convictions that she is willing, even eager, to die for her cause. She represents the Ghandi, the Thoreau, or the Martin Luther King Jr. of Ancient Greek Tragedy, peacefully disobeying a law she sees as immoral and accepting the consequences.

Both Creon and Antigone are unwavering in very their different sets of beliefs. Similarly, both Martin Luther King Jr. and the white supremacists of the 1960s believed they were correct in their morals. For us, there is an obvious right and wrong option when dealing with civil rights; however, in the case of Antigone, there is no clear answer. Both sets of values work in differing circumstances and both can seem reasonable. So the question is, which system does Sophocles advocate? Surely not that of Creon: even the Chorus speaks out against his stubbornness. However, Antigone dies at the end of the play, so her way cannot be the correct one either. Perhaps, like us, Sophocles too struggled with the idea of a universal moral compass. Perhaps the only true way to determine what is moral is on a situational or personal basis: as Ernest Hemingway said, “I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.” (539)

The Benefits of Having an Exoskeleton

Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis is probably the weirdest book I have ever read. The premise is simple enough: a young man turns into a giant bug. But there must be something more to the story, right? Either that or Kafka was completely insane. Perhaps it’s a little of both. One interpretation of the text is that Gregor wants to be an insect to escape his pathetic life. I think that this notion has some merit as both Gregor’s familial relationships and his work life are horrible. At the end of the story, Gregor even wills himself to die, hoping to relieve his family of the burden that he believes he has become (89). Someone who views himself in such a light is clearly capable of rationalizing and instigating his turning into a bug.

Gregor’s relationship with his family, especially his father, is the source of much of the unhappiness in his life. Gregor is the sole breadwinner in his family. While he wakes up at four each morning in order to catch a five a.m. train, Gregor’s father enjoys a leisurely breakfast that lasts several hours (26). Futhermore, the family expects Gregor to continue working to support them for the rest of his life: “over the years they had come to believe that Gregor was set for life with this firm” (29). Gregor’s father’s reaction to Gregor’s transformation is an indication of his true feelings towards Gregor, and result from his discomfort and misplaced anger regarding the role reversal that has occurred in his life. He glowers and clenches his fist, as if intending to drive Gregor back into his room; “then he looked around the living room with uncertainty, covered his eyes with his hands, and wept so hard his great chest shook” (25). Their relationship is clearly one of conflicting emotions as Gregor’s father does not know whether to respond to the transformation with anger or sadness.

Gregor rationalizes his work-centered lifestyle by telling himself that he has “chosen” such a difficult job. He is incapable of viewing his life in any other way, perhaps because it would be too pathetic to face (4). He tells himself that “there’s hope yet,” that he will be able to “pay back what [his] parents owe” after five or six years (5). Gregor clings to these sentiments in order to simply get through the day. It is in the workplace that Gregor truly acts like the insect he becomes. He fantasizes, “I’d have gone up to the director and told him from the bottom of my heart exactly what I though. That would have knocked him from his desk!” (5). He views himself as insignificant and, like when speaking to the office manager, is constantly defending himself. His behavior is pitiful: rather than getting angry at the office manager’s false accusations, Gregor apologizes.

Gregor’s transformation into a giant insect is almost an act of self-defense. His buggy exoskeleton provides protection both literally and figuratively from the burdens of his life. Only through his metamorphosis is Gregor able to escape the unvarying pattern into which is life has fallen. (516)

Deception in the Life and Death of Ivan Ilych

In his short story “The Death of Ivan Ilych,” Leo Tolstoy provides social commentary on life in Czarist Russia. The story takes places in a world in which death is feared above all else, emotional barriers are erected, pleasantries are extolled, and all are “afraid that the conventional deception [will] suddenly become obvious and the truth become plain to all” (274). Tolstoy gives the reader an understanding of the world of falsity and propriety that serves as the setting, and perhaps the cause, of Ivan Ilych’s demise.

We are first given a glimpse into the deceptiveness of the world in which Ilych lives by his friends’ reactions to his death. Tolstoy employs an ironic tone when addressing these responses, referring to the men as Ilych’s “so-called friends” (18). Rather than grieving for the loss of their friend, the men think of “the changes and promotions it might occasion among themselves or their acquaintances” (5). They also feel a sense of relief, grateful that it was Ilych and not they who has died, and remain emotionally distanced from the situation. The ironic narrator strikes again when describing the “very tiresome demands of propriety” that Ilych’s friends must fulfill, including attending the funeral (a task that, if they really were his friends, would not be considered tiresome). Throughout the first scene, Ilych’s acquaintances even plan a game of cards to take place following the funeral. What good friends!

Ivan’s wife Praskovya Fëdorovna is perhaps the most false of the characters in Ilych’s circle. Their relationship is based solely on social propriety as they married because “it was considered the right thing by the most highly placed on his associates” (70). Throughout their marriage together, Ilych and Fëdorovna fight constantly and lead highly separate lives. During his illness, Ilych notices that “everything she did for him was entirely for her own sake,” and he feels “so surrounded and involved in a mesh of falsity that it [is] hard to unravel anything” (256). Even when Ilych is extremely ill, Fëdorovna asks about Ilych’s health “only for the sake of asking and not in order to learn about it,” that is, only for the sake of propriety (263).

The air of falsity that surrounds the life of Ivan Ilych is what ultimately leads to his downfall. As such, Tolstoy is intentionally vague when it comes to the illness that plagued Ilych. Multiple doctors diagnose his ailment differently and his symptoms are unrecognizable. Furthermore, the aspect of his sickness that distresses him the most is that “everything in the world was going on as usual” (128). Rather than treating him any differently, Ilych’s family and friends continue to live their lives as they normally would, adhering only to the rules of propriety. We are later told that “what tormented Ivan Ilych most was the deception, the lie, which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying by simply ill” (217). The falseness in his life pushes Ilych closer and closer to death when he finally breaks under the burden of so much deceitfulness. As Tolstoy tells us towards the end of Ilych’s life, “this falsity around him and within him did more than anything else to poison his last days” (218). Only through his sickness is Ilych able to see the masks that those surrounding him wear. (555)