"Nothing stayed the same for two seconds together."
(Woolf, pg 1225, from ...Looking Glass...)
This sentence seems to be a summary of Virginia Woolf's personality. I did like this story, but I couldn't help finding it crazy while brilliant. She is a very clever writer and uses exceptional language, imagery, style, and tone; however, the further I read into this piece, the more I found it to be delusional. The line above reminds me of a mind racing from one thought to the next with little clarity. As she watches Isabella in the mirror, I think she sees her as another part of herself. I don't mean literally a reflection, but more like a vision. She sees strength. This character is independent, wealthy, and confident. At first I wondered if she was representative of who Woolf wanted to be, but she is also alone. The narrator part of Woolf definitely doesn't like to be alone. When the room comes to life through personification, metaphor and simile, I sense some extremely erratic thoughts. It is how I imagine it would feel to be in the mind of a crazy person.
"The room that afternoon was full of such shy creatures, lights and shadows, curtains blowing, petals falling--things that never happen, so it seems, if someone is looking."
(pg 1225)
I continually get the sense that the narrator is trapped. The mirror is the only contact for the narrator. This creates an extreme case of paranoia. When the postman comes, there is a strong sense of fear.
"Suddenly these reflections were ended violently and yet without a sound. A large black form loomed into the looking-glass; blotted out everything"
(pg 1226)
I thought some scary character was entering the story, but it turned out to be just paranoia. That paranoia is not only present in the sense of fear, but it continues as the narrator feels separated or cut-off. The letters are thought to hold some secret meaning and will probably be hidden. Here I found connection to the real world of Woolf as she probably struggled with emotions and writing. She seems to have been very paranoid on many levels.
"The thought served as a challenge. Isabella did not wish to be known--but she should no longer escape."
(pg 1226)
The fact that the story ends rationally does not make me feel any more confident that any sanity exists here. Very interesting writing, but very different thought process. I like this story and the others by Woolf, but I did not enjoy trying to think like her. I am surprised that she wrote as clearly as she did in the midst of all that strangeness that she displayed in the narrator. I guess that clarity through eccentricity is what made me prefer the first story to A Room of One's Own.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Thomas Hardy
"My fellow-climber rises dim
From her chilly grave--"
(Hardy, pg 1079, from Logs on the Hearth)
I am forced to look at these lines in a dark and dim way. The poem is a display of sadness, but I also get a great sense of joy from it. Although Hardy is saddened by the loss of his sister, his words are strengthened by her memory. He paints a solid picture of age. He details the apple tree changing with time. He was able to watch that growth just as he watched the growth of his sister. It is clearly sad for him that her time passed by, but he seems to take pride in having been her brother. He points out that she stood beside him on the limb. I think this is his way of relating that she is still by his side (from the grave). He describes the tree having wounds that have healed with time just as he knows that his wounds will heal. His wife Emma had died three years before and it must have been an unwelcome, familiar feeling. I like that he ends the poem with a happy thought of her after throwing in those two dark lines.
"Just as she was, her foot near mine on the bending limb,
Laughing, her young brown hand awave."
(pg 1079)
I found Wessex Heights to be pretty dark throughout. It was actually a little creepy at times. When I read the lines about the ghosts, I start looking over my shoulder as I get the chills. He reminds of the kid from the Sixth Sense!
"There is one in the railway train whenever I do not want it near,
I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear."
(pg 1074)
I don't know, but I think he may have the gift. Perhaps, it's just the gift for poetry. I feel sorry for him when he talks about the woman thinking, or not thinking, about him. He is so blunt about the issue. There is very little said, but it is clearly understood how they both feel.
"I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers"
(pg 1074)
I feel sorry for him, but maybe if he wasn't so creepy with the ghost business things would be different!
I was not at all surprised to see another poem with another Epitaph. I love the first two lines of his, but I don't believe him.
"I never cared for Life; Life cared for me,
And hence I owed it some fidelity."
(pg 1079)
This is a man who obviously loved his sister. He remarried after his wife's death, which is actually a good sign to me. It means he loved his wife and marriage and doesn't want to be left alone. And of all things, he buried his heart with his first wife. A man who doesn't love life doesn't find that kind of love in it. So, I am not sure what he meant by his Epitaph, but I surely couldn't connect it to him like I could with the others (Keats, Coleridge...).
From her chilly grave--"
(Hardy, pg 1079, from Logs on the Hearth)
I am forced to look at these lines in a dark and dim way. The poem is a display of sadness, but I also get a great sense of joy from it. Although Hardy is saddened by the loss of his sister, his words are strengthened by her memory. He paints a solid picture of age. He details the apple tree changing with time. He was able to watch that growth just as he watched the growth of his sister. It is clearly sad for him that her time passed by, but he seems to take pride in having been her brother. He points out that she stood beside him on the limb. I think this is his way of relating that she is still by his side (from the grave). He describes the tree having wounds that have healed with time just as he knows that his wounds will heal. His wife Emma had died three years before and it must have been an unwelcome, familiar feeling. I like that he ends the poem with a happy thought of her after throwing in those two dark lines.
"Just as she was, her foot near mine on the bending limb,
Laughing, her young brown hand awave."
(pg 1079)
I found Wessex Heights to be pretty dark throughout. It was actually a little creepy at times. When I read the lines about the ghosts, I start looking over my shoulder as I get the chills. He reminds of the kid from the Sixth Sense!
"There is one in the railway train whenever I do not want it near,
I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear."
(pg 1074)
I don't know, but I think he may have the gift. Perhaps, it's just the gift for poetry. I feel sorry for him when he talks about the woman thinking, or not thinking, about him. He is so blunt about the issue. There is very little said, but it is clearly understood how they both feel.
"I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers"
(pg 1074)
I feel sorry for him, but maybe if he wasn't so creepy with the ghost business things would be different!
I was not at all surprised to see another poem with another Epitaph. I love the first two lines of his, but I don't believe him.
"I never cared for Life; Life cared for me,
And hence I owed it some fidelity."
(pg 1079)
This is a man who obviously loved his sister. He remarried after his wife's death, which is actually a good sign to me. It means he loved his wife and marriage and doesn't want to be left alone. And of all things, he buried his heart with his first wife. A man who doesn't love life doesn't find that kind of love in it. So, I am not sure what he meant by his Epitaph, but I surely couldn't connect it to him like I could with the others (Keats, Coleridge...).
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Oscar Wilde
"The moment Art surrenders its imaginative medium it surrenders everything."
(Wilde, pg 845, from The Decay of Lying)
First, I want to say, and I will reiterate, that I love Oscar Wilde. This simple sentence says so much to me about writing. I have always considered the greatest ability of a fiction writer is in his/her ability to lie. Lying is the basis of story-telling. When I was younger and got in trouble for telling a lie, my grandmother didn't call me a liar. She told me to stop telling stories. But making stuff up (fiction/make-believe/pretend) to me was entertaining as it is to the imagination of most children. Thankfully, some people, like Wilde, have the ability to develop those lies into more clever stories. After all, "lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art (pg 846)." I had difficulty understanding Wilde's intentions in the first few pages of Vivian's dialogue. When he says, "A great artist invents a type, and Life tries to copy it," I pictured it all with ease. Each fad and every time period has some significance that most individuals end up wanting. For the longest time, our art copied the French. Even in the beginnings of our intended independent America, we copied the Europeans. The grass is always greener on the other side. Speaking of grass, landscapes even copy each other. If xeriscaping was suddenly huge in the most popular places, everybody would rip out their grass and flowers and praise the dirt and rocks. Even Thoreau agreed with Wilde. His intention at Walden Pond was to find simplicity when everybody else was seeking to copy Europian luxuries.
"The highest art rejects the burden of the human spirit, and gains more from a new medium or a fresh material than she does from any enthusiasm for art, or from any lofty passion, or from any great awakening of human consciousness."
(pg 842)
When I first read this, I disagreed. I thought about all of the poets we have read and I wanted to believe differently. Wilde is most definitely onto something here though. Are you more likely to get your true impressions from a painting if someone is sitting next to you, judging you? Or are you more honest with your impressions on your own, when nobody has to know? I can look at a Dali and think it is eccentrically beautiful, but sometimes I see one and think that it is horrendous. Wilde is saying that it doesn't always have to be about a hidden meaning. It can be all about the aestheticism, the first reaction, or the way it makes you feel without delving into the artist's personal life. Sometimes you feel like a comedy, sometimes a tragedy, sometimes you don't want any hidden messages. I met a lady who is about 65 years young and used to teach at Mercer. (I met her in a hair salon in FL and I don't know her name.) I was ear-hustling her conversation about movies. She was really upset that her friend wanted to see Stomp the Yard. She said that she was sick of these movies with morals. I will never forget her shouting, "I wanna see god-damned Snakes on a Plane." I laughed, but now I get her point. She only wanted to be entertained. Clearly, as one of our wonderful Mercer professors, she has learned enough about morals!
"There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.
Books are well written, or badly written."
(pg 846, Dorian Gray)
I enjoyed everything that the book had to offer from Mr. Wilde. The Importance of Being Earnest is possibly the most clever thing that I have ever read. It even made me rethink Shakespeare as my first choice. I will be reading everything Oscar Wilde in the near future as this is 100% perfection along with his Aphorisms and I too declare his genius.
(Wilde, pg 845, from The Decay of Lying)
First, I want to say, and I will reiterate, that I love Oscar Wilde. This simple sentence says so much to me about writing. I have always considered the greatest ability of a fiction writer is in his/her ability to lie. Lying is the basis of story-telling. When I was younger and got in trouble for telling a lie, my grandmother didn't call me a liar. She told me to stop telling stories. But making stuff up (fiction/make-believe/pretend) to me was entertaining as it is to the imagination of most children. Thankfully, some people, like Wilde, have the ability to develop those lies into more clever stories. After all, "lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art (pg 846)." I had difficulty understanding Wilde's intentions in the first few pages of Vivian's dialogue. When he says, "A great artist invents a type, and Life tries to copy it," I pictured it all with ease. Each fad and every time period has some significance that most individuals end up wanting. For the longest time, our art copied the French. Even in the beginnings of our intended independent America, we copied the Europeans. The grass is always greener on the other side. Speaking of grass, landscapes even copy each other. If xeriscaping was suddenly huge in the most popular places, everybody would rip out their grass and flowers and praise the dirt and rocks. Even Thoreau agreed with Wilde. His intention at Walden Pond was to find simplicity when everybody else was seeking to copy Europian luxuries.
"The highest art rejects the burden of the human spirit, and gains more from a new medium or a fresh material than she does from any enthusiasm for art, or from any lofty passion, or from any great awakening of human consciousness."
(pg 842)
When I first read this, I disagreed. I thought about all of the poets we have read and I wanted to believe differently. Wilde is most definitely onto something here though. Are you more likely to get your true impressions from a painting if someone is sitting next to you, judging you? Or are you more honest with your impressions on your own, when nobody has to know? I can look at a Dali and think it is eccentrically beautiful, but sometimes I see one and think that it is horrendous. Wilde is saying that it doesn't always have to be about a hidden meaning. It can be all about the aestheticism, the first reaction, or the way it makes you feel without delving into the artist's personal life. Sometimes you feel like a comedy, sometimes a tragedy, sometimes you don't want any hidden messages. I met a lady who is about 65 years young and used to teach at Mercer. (I met her in a hair salon in FL and I don't know her name.) I was ear-hustling her conversation about movies. She was really upset that her friend wanted to see Stomp the Yard. She said that she was sick of these movies with morals. I will never forget her shouting, "I wanna see god-damned Snakes on a Plane." I laughed, but now I get her point. She only wanted to be entertained. Clearly, as one of our wonderful Mercer professors, she has learned enough about morals!
"There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.
Books are well written, or badly written."
(pg 846, Dorian Gray)
I enjoyed everything that the book had to offer from Mr. Wilde. The Importance of Being Earnest is possibly the most clever thing that I have ever read. It even made me rethink Shakespeare as my first choice. I will be reading everything Oscar Wilde in the near future as this is 100% perfection along with his Aphorisms and I too declare his genius.
Friday, June 22, 2007
T. S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
(my new favorite poem)
"I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."
(pg 1196)
Who wouldn't you want to be a cat? They sit around all day, not daring to face rejection in any way. Oh, but poor old Mr. Prufrock. As the poem starts, Prufrock is speaking to himself in encouragement to muster the courage to speak to a lady. Or perhaps, he is anticipating the conversation. Either way, he wants no questioning, let's just go.
"Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit."
(pg 1195)
The scene is clearly unreal, "like a patient etherised upon a table." It is like a daydream that Prufrock is suffering as the women around continue in conversation of Michelangelo. I can picture them spitting back and forth words on David. It is the next stanza that first grabbed my attention. The extended metaphor of the cat begins and lazily continues to be brilliantly woven into Prufrock's inadequacies. If a cat could talk, it would definitely speak, "and indeed there will be time" as it rubs itself on a window or something. I have always jealously pictured cats saying things like this. I don't even like cats! As this cat is stroking him self comfortable, Eliot is sharing in Prufrock's inadequacy.
"There will be time to murder and create"
"And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions"
(pg 1195)
This displays Prufrocks torment in his quest, but also hints at Eliot's difficulties as a writer. At first I pictured the cat killing a mouse, but then I realized that Eliot speaks of murdering or creating a poem. The most sensible explanation of the lines is in Prufrock's murdering his pursuit. He puts it off, thinking of new ways to ask. The description of him as a balding man leads the reader to a further understanding of this poor man's inadequacy. Eliot portrays this character so pitifully.
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."
(pg 1195)
Same crap, different day. I'm dying for this guy to take a risk already. He feels so awkward he compares himself to an insect in study.
"When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall"
(pg 1195)
I picture Eliot feeling this same way with all the critics. When the poem approaches the end, I get excited for Prufrock, but then Eliot lets me down again. Poor old Mr. Prufrock couldn't cut it. I can not decide if he is dreaming in the end or just that miserable. The way that Eliot spins his abilities into this poem is fantastic. I love the character and how in depth the reader is with him. The hints at Eliot's own truths bring in the expressive feeling that is often sought after in a poem. This is an excellent read, but like Don Juan, it must be read aloud. I found rhyme where I first thought it was missing and a rhythm that really sucked me in. Perhaps, if I hadn't first read silently though, I might have missed that cat!
I really like this Eliot and some that is not listed in the book, but some of his stuff is waste. No offense to Ezra Pound, but I think he ruined some of Eliot. I could not get into The Wasteland at all. I didn't even feel like I was reading Eliot anymore.
(my new favorite poem)
"I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."
(pg 1196)
Who wouldn't you want to be a cat? They sit around all day, not daring to face rejection in any way. Oh, but poor old Mr. Prufrock. As the poem starts, Prufrock is speaking to himself in encouragement to muster the courage to speak to a lady. Or perhaps, he is anticipating the conversation. Either way, he wants no questioning, let's just go.
"Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit."
(pg 1195)
The scene is clearly unreal, "like a patient etherised upon a table." It is like a daydream that Prufrock is suffering as the women around continue in conversation of Michelangelo. I can picture them spitting back and forth words on David. It is the next stanza that first grabbed my attention. The extended metaphor of the cat begins and lazily continues to be brilliantly woven into Prufrock's inadequacies. If a cat could talk, it would definitely speak, "and indeed there will be time" as it rubs itself on a window or something. I have always jealously pictured cats saying things like this. I don't even like cats! As this cat is stroking him self comfortable, Eliot is sharing in Prufrock's inadequacy.
"There will be time to murder and create"
"And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions"
(pg 1195)
This displays Prufrocks torment in his quest, but also hints at Eliot's difficulties as a writer. At first I pictured the cat killing a mouse, but then I realized that Eliot speaks of murdering or creating a poem. The most sensible explanation of the lines is in Prufrock's murdering his pursuit. He puts it off, thinking of new ways to ask. The description of him as a balding man leads the reader to a further understanding of this poor man's inadequacy. Eliot portrays this character so pitifully.
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."
(pg 1195)
Same crap, different day. I'm dying for this guy to take a risk already. He feels so awkward he compares himself to an insect in study.
"When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall"
(pg 1195)
I picture Eliot feeling this same way with all the critics. When the poem approaches the end, I get excited for Prufrock, but then Eliot lets me down again. Poor old Mr. Prufrock couldn't cut it. I can not decide if he is dreaming in the end or just that miserable. The way that Eliot spins his abilities into this poem is fantastic. I love the character and how in depth the reader is with him. The hints at Eliot's own truths bring in the expressive feeling that is often sought after in a poem. This is an excellent read, but like Don Juan, it must be read aloud. I found rhyme where I first thought it was missing and a rhythm that really sucked me in. Perhaps, if I hadn't first read silently though, I might have missed that cat!
I really like this Eliot and some that is not listed in the book, but some of his stuff is waste. No offense to Ezra Pound, but I think he ruined some of Eliot. I could not get into The Wasteland at all. I didn't even feel like I was reading Eliot anymore.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
"Glory be to God for dapples things--
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (Who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him."
(Hopkins, pg 775-776, Pied Beauty
At first read, this is a simple little poem. At close inspection, it is a small masterpiece. I love the repetition in describing just how different things are in life. Hopkins portrays different colors, shapes, sizes, breeds, purposes... all in 11 lines. He makes the reader look at all the differences, consider the similarities, and then ponder how they came to be. I think by putting the question, "Who knows how?" in parentheses made this poem worth talking about. The question can be rhetorical. It can be to make the point that the reader will automatically be drawn to the answer Hopkins desires, whether believer or not. It could be just for the sake of giving it attention. Either way, it succeeded with this reader. He draws an excellent picture of nature and God's hand in it. I like that he divided the lines in the ninth line. My attention was forced to focus on the antonyms. I focused on what I was reading and realized the importance again of differences and originality. In nature, every individual thing encountered has its own mark as said in line seven. I am glad that he was included in the class for this poem, but I do not find him an equal to the others. He in my opinion is quaint. He is certainly no match in argument with Blake.
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (Who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him."
(Hopkins, pg 775-776, Pied Beauty
At first read, this is a simple little poem. At close inspection, it is a small masterpiece. I love the repetition in describing just how different things are in life. Hopkins portrays different colors, shapes, sizes, breeds, purposes... all in 11 lines. He makes the reader look at all the differences, consider the similarities, and then ponder how they came to be. I think by putting the question, "Who knows how?" in parentheses made this poem worth talking about. The question can be rhetorical. It can be to make the point that the reader will automatically be drawn to the answer Hopkins desires, whether believer or not. It could be just for the sake of giving it attention. Either way, it succeeded with this reader. He draws an excellent picture of nature and God's hand in it. I like that he divided the lines in the ninth line. My attention was forced to focus on the antonyms. I focused on what I was reading and realized the importance again of differences and originality. In nature, every individual thing encountered has its own mark as said in line seven. I am glad that he was included in the class for this poem, but I do not find him an equal to the others. He in my opinion is quaint. He is certainly no match in argument with Blake.
Robert Browning
"Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?"
(Browning, pg 686, from Andrea del Sarto)
These two lines could be an anthem for all artists. All of these writers we have studied faced critics and beliefs that they could not be great, yet here we are reading their work years later. I am glad that they endeavored to reach beyond their grasps. I find a lot of Browning's life throughout Andrea del Sarto; although, that was not his norm. His words are difficult for me, but I couldn't help thinking about his life story as I read this poem. Along with his unwillingness to conform, his eccentricity kept him from the status he desired. I think the boasting painter in this work is very similar to his own character.
"...You don't understand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people speak:
And that cartoon, the second from the door
--Is the thing, Love! so such things should be--
Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep--"
(pg 685)
I realize that this could be true of any artist and their work. But I like to think that something he wrote reflected him! The painter even says of the great painters, "My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here (pg 685)." The fact that Browning was so happy that he had societies named for him and that people celebrated him so much means that he thought himself worthy. I wonder if the reason that he first published anonymously was out of the fear of bad reviews. Perhaps, he was a man who always wanted the fame. I will never know. I think Mark Twain, who shared the anonymity idea, must have had some restricted insight when he said, "I can read Browning so Browning himself can understand it." Browning is still a mystery to me. I am also curious as to what his wife thought of his work as she was so gifted herself. I have to say that I do not appreciate Browning's style very much. The syntax is nerve-racking at times and I feel like I am listening to Yoda. I do commend him in his endeavors to be unique. He brings a different approach and I wish that I was able to connect to it more, but I find myself vexed by reading the "standard" for so long.
I may be weird, but I really like Porphyria's Lover for it's eccentricity. I like the way the poem raises so many questions and the hairs on the back of your neck. I probably am alone on this, but I don't think he killed her. I know, I know... See, he says that he strangled her, but then he looks at her eyes.
"I warily opened her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain"
(pg 663)
Asphyxiation causes blood to fill the eyes. I think that was what he was looking for when he opened them. I figure that they would be stained if she was dead. I guess I am just hoping that she passed out. The end made me think it again.
"And yet God has not said a word!"
(pg 663)
It is like he is expecting to be struck by lightning, or waiting for angels to come and get her. Meanwhile, nothing happens. Maybe she really is just passed out?
Or what's a heaven for?"
(Browning, pg 686, from Andrea del Sarto)
These two lines could be an anthem for all artists. All of these writers we have studied faced critics and beliefs that they could not be great, yet here we are reading their work years later. I am glad that they endeavored to reach beyond their grasps. I find a lot of Browning's life throughout Andrea del Sarto; although, that was not his norm. His words are difficult for me, but I couldn't help thinking about his life story as I read this poem. Along with his unwillingness to conform, his eccentricity kept him from the status he desired. I think the boasting painter in this work is very similar to his own character.
"...You don't understand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people speak:
And that cartoon, the second from the door
--Is the thing, Love! so such things should be--
Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep--"
(pg 685)
I realize that this could be true of any artist and their work. But I like to think that something he wrote reflected him! The painter even says of the great painters, "My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here (pg 685)." The fact that Browning was so happy that he had societies named for him and that people celebrated him so much means that he thought himself worthy. I wonder if the reason that he first published anonymously was out of the fear of bad reviews. Perhaps, he was a man who always wanted the fame. I will never know. I think Mark Twain, who shared the anonymity idea, must have had some restricted insight when he said, "I can read Browning so Browning himself can understand it." Browning is still a mystery to me. I am also curious as to what his wife thought of his work as she was so gifted herself. I have to say that I do not appreciate Browning's style very much. The syntax is nerve-racking at times and I feel like I am listening to Yoda. I do commend him in his endeavors to be unique. He brings a different approach and I wish that I was able to connect to it more, but I find myself vexed by reading the "standard" for so long.
I may be weird, but I really like Porphyria's Lover for it's eccentricity. I like the way the poem raises so many questions and the hairs on the back of your neck. I probably am alone on this, but I don't think he killed her. I know, I know... See, he says that he strangled her, but then he looks at her eyes.
"I warily opened her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain"
(pg 663)
Asphyxiation causes blood to fill the eyes. I think that was what he was looking for when he opened them. I figure that they would be stained if she was dead. I guess I am just hoping that she passed out. The end made me think it again.
"And yet God has not said a word!"
(pg 663)
It is like he is expecting to be struck by lightning, or waiting for angels to come and get her. Meanwhile, nothing happens. Maybe she really is just passed out?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
"'Guess now who holds thee?'--'Death,' I said. But, there,
The silver answer rang,--'Not Death, but Love.'"
(E.B. Browning, pg 530, from Sonnets from the Portuguese)
After reading the few sonnets posted and life history of E.B. Browning, I wonder if love spared her life some extra years. I mean the happiness from love of course. Most people, as we saw with Keats, did not recover strength after being deathly ill with tuberculosis. She was not young for those days when Robert first wrote to her and had been sick for some time. The lines above show her own surprise in the matter. I think the world is lucky to have caught a tale of real-life love in writing like this. This unexpected addition to her life makes for a fantastic story in such expressive language.
"...A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss."
(pg 532)
She holds back no emotions in these secretive sonnets. She makes herself open and more vulnerable than I would ever dare to be. But I am truly thankful for it. Sonnet 43 is probably one of the most widely known and revered poems ever. It is certainly at the top of the list in poems of love. I myself have had it quasi-memorized since elementary school when I first heard it. I am posting the whole thing because I don't think that this particular poem should ever be broken up. Each line is equally meaningful.
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death."
(pg 532)
I italicized the two lines in the middle because I feel that they really hit hard. She is saying that she loves him as much as a person loves and fights for rights and freedom. And then that she loves him as a humble equal, pure and true. The last line as she knew is what takes the cake. She doesn't just say that she will love him after death, but God-willing, she will love him BETTER! This is a powerful little sonnet that holds a whole lot of meaning in it's 14 lines.
I find Aurora Leigh to be another masterpiece worth mentioning. It says so much about women, their abilities, and other's expectations of them.
"'Not the bay! I choose no bay
(The fates deny us if we are overbold),
Nor myrtle--which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dares not touch
So early o'mornings...
...Ah--there's my choice,--that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow
But thinking of a wreath...
...I like such ivy, bold to leap a height
'Twas strong to climb; as good to grow on graves
As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too
(And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb.'"
(pgs 541-542)
I think that by denying the bay, she is showing humility. She passes up the myrtle because that is too much what is intended of a woman and she wants more than that. She even throws in some humor here with it being to early in the morning for such nauseating things. The lines I omitted reiterate her need for more as she passes up those that are fragrant without additional offerings. Finally, we see her choice is in strength. She is ready to take on anything and prove herself. I think that the trade of the thyrsus for the comb is her way of saying that she can attain this strength and be a lady.
The silver answer rang,--'Not Death, but Love.'"
(E.B. Browning, pg 530, from Sonnets from the Portuguese)
After reading the few sonnets posted and life history of E.B. Browning, I wonder if love spared her life some extra years. I mean the happiness from love of course. Most people, as we saw with Keats, did not recover strength after being deathly ill with tuberculosis. She was not young for those days when Robert first wrote to her and had been sick for some time. The lines above show her own surprise in the matter. I think the world is lucky to have caught a tale of real-life love in writing like this. This unexpected addition to her life makes for a fantastic story in such expressive language.
"...A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss."
(pg 532)
She holds back no emotions in these secretive sonnets. She makes herself open and more vulnerable than I would ever dare to be. But I am truly thankful for it. Sonnet 43 is probably one of the most widely known and revered poems ever. It is certainly at the top of the list in poems of love. I myself have had it quasi-memorized since elementary school when I first heard it. I am posting the whole thing because I don't think that this particular poem should ever be broken up. Each line is equally meaningful.
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death."
(pg 532)
I italicized the two lines in the middle because I feel that they really hit hard. She is saying that she loves him as much as a person loves and fights for rights and freedom. And then that she loves him as a humble equal, pure and true. The last line as she knew is what takes the cake. She doesn't just say that she will love him after death, but God-willing, she will love him BETTER! This is a powerful little sonnet that holds a whole lot of meaning in it's 14 lines.
I find Aurora Leigh to be another masterpiece worth mentioning. It says so much about women, their abilities, and other's expectations of them.
"'Not the bay! I choose no bay
(The fates deny us if we are overbold),
Nor myrtle--which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dares not touch
So early o'mornings...
...Ah--there's my choice,--that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow
But thinking of a wreath...
...I like such ivy, bold to leap a height
'Twas strong to climb; as good to grow on graves
As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too
(And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb.'"
(pgs 541-542)
I think that by denying the bay, she is showing humility. She passes up the myrtle because that is too much what is intended of a woman and she wants more than that. She even throws in some humor here with it being to early in the morning for such nauseating things. The lines I omitted reiterate her need for more as she passes up those that are fragrant without additional offerings. Finally, we see her choice is in strength. She is ready to take on anything and prove herself. I think that the trade of the thyrsus for the comb is her way of saying that she can attain this strength and be a lady.
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