What art thou thrusting that thief-catcher into my face for, man?

An emotion recognizable and pertaining to all of us is one which presides over our irrational, unconscious mind: temptation. I would classify such a state of mind as an emotion, because it limits and–to some extent– controls our rational everyday actions. It is that clawing emotion with such a grip on one’s soul that it wins out over morality and cordiality more often than not. After all, why would humans choose to cheat, steal, lust after each other, and live beyond their means?

I believe that temptation controls both  Haze’s and Enoch’s lifestyle: having a distorted view of morality and semblance of ambition, such characters are the most apt to cave into the most primitive of human mindsets. Including Haze’s desire to lust after Asa’s daughter, visit Mrs. Watts, harm Enoch, and declare his departure from morality by refuting the redemption and very existence of Jesus in his Church Without Christ. While he does not possess any “Wise Blood” as articulated by Flannery O’Connor, Haze is just as irrational and spontaneous a character as Enoch, a character who self-proclaims his “Wise Blood” status.

Enoch Emery yields to the same genre of temptations as his apparent idol, Haze: spying on female bathers in the park and plotting to steal an ancient creature from a museum are not so noble ambitions to be held in high esteem, especially not by a character who claims to be special and divine–seemingly possessing knowledge above the rest of humanity.

One question I have for Flannery O’Connor is the emotion associated with “Wise Blood.” Perhaps it is most comparable to intuition than temptation, but I base my temptation hypothesis on the flaws of the two characters with whom O’Connor has already made me acquainted. Perhaps upon finishing the novel, I will have a more clarified definition of “Wise Blood.”

Every class discussion in AP Lit, some foreign image will always appear on the smart board screensaver connected to Dr. Crumley’s computer.  Every time following such an occurrence,  Dr. Crumley–in all his beige-jacketed glory–will dive out of his chair placed in the discussion circle in a vain attempt to dispel the personal/family images that have materialized. Gathering his bearings, Dr. Crumley will then proceed to calmly walk back to his seat and resume the discussion like nothing happened.

Repeat procedure every 10 minutes.

Now, this little comedic anecdote that I brought to light actually has a point: you see, I find that Dr. Crumley’s purpose is to discourage the malaise of a lackadaisical Monday morning book discussion. I always appreciate certain actions taken to enliven the lulls of the day, especially on a Monday, and I cannot  help but smile slightly at Dr. Crumley’s interruption of the discussion to conceal the images pertaining to his secret, underground existence. In the same fashion, I appreciate the little climaxes and lulls of the plot line of The Moviegoer: before the malaise settles in, Percy’s little subtleties intrigue the reader and pique his interest. Hitting a plateau with his relationship with Sharon, the rash decision to whisk bottle-toting Kate off to Chicago with him during Mardi Gras is totally unwarranted in Binx’s previous thoughts and cause the reader to do a double-take or at least furrow his brow. A concise, sentimental epilogue regarding the loss of a mild-mannered, gentle character serves to emphasize the tender qualities Binx possesses that remained unexpressed during the regular course of the novel. Every decision Percy makes regarding plot reflects upon both Binx and the reader in a profound, emotional fashion: sometimes Percy dispels the excitement of the screensaver, and sometimes he lets the little windows into Binx’s life pan out for the reader to observe in contemplative reverence.

“Are we being silent for the tsunami victims in Japan?” I ask Dr. Crumley impetuously as I ponder why our class has started keeping a sixty second vigil.

As luck would have it, the Minute (as it will now be referred to) is to take a physical and mental break. As a Providence Day student, this concept is completely foreign to me, perhaps more so to me than to a large number of my peers, who actually know when to have fun.

I have, by nature, an ambitious, go-getter personality. A productive hour is never an hour wasted, in my book. However, I found the concept of taking a minute out of my day to “check in” with myself and organize my thoughts beneficial.

Similarly, my change of heart in my grueling academic pace mirrored my change of heart towards Percy’s The Moviegoer. At first, I read the first thirty pages and rolled my eyes: I was going to be occupying my time in AP Lit for the next two weeks reading a mildly quirky novel about a not-so-young protagonist with no ambitions who simply meanders through life.

Presently, I’ve realized that the world around me may be (gasp!) not only conducive to productivity and having a work ethic of steel. Binx seems to manage just fine pondering the “bigger questions,” such as being an accurate judge of others’ character, contemplating the cold reality of societal expectations, and inquisitively analyzing his interesting surroundings. Binx enjoys perpetuating happiness among his fellow compatriots and has a natural tendency to yearn for the affections of others, romantically and otherwise. Personally, I believe Binx represents humanity in his desire for love, his need for acceptance in society–despite his stating otherwise–and his ongoing quest to discover bliss. He is, for the most part, receptive to others–never ceasing to be susceptible to his voluptuous secretaries and also never ceasing to heed the words of his Aunt in helping Kate. As cliche as “enjoyment of living” is perceived to be today, such ecstasy may be the sweetest part of life.

The way in which Stoppard presents his characters, plot themes, and overall meaning lies mostly independent of Shakespeare’s original work. Most modern adaptations of Shakespeare’s work mirror either the plot summary and/ or the way in which Shakespeare uses language to display emotion and action. The only premise of the original plot that Stoppard uses is the invitiation to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern by Claudius and Gertrude to determine the cause of Hamlet’s misery and later insanity. the way in which Rosencrantz and Guildenstern ponder chance, living, and death is a dramatic departure from Shakespeare’s work, and does not feature any principal characters emphasized earlier by Shakespeare. In a different fashion, Stoppard’s work detracts from Shakespeare’s original in that the elegant language Shakespeare creates to transcend time is actually upstaged. Stoppard’s own existentialist language is far different than Shakespeare’s flowery iambic pentameter, and the two clash together like ketchup and chocolate syrup (Shakespeare’s language being the chocolate, of course). As Stoppard transitions from his own language to Shakespeare’s, the shifts in mood and language result in abruptness and discord, as the elite meter-speaking characters vanish from the stage as quickly as they arrive. It is my hope as I continue reading about the rationale of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern that Shakespeare’s language will not be abused and its beauty neglected in the fashion that has prevailed for a great majority of the novel.

Last night, I clenched my hands in vain

and whistled my frustration onto deaf ears.

salvation exists, though as a very

fleeting wisp of innocence.

Heaven–a mysterious entity in itself–

makes no guarantees

bestows no indulgences–

yet He will love unconditionally.

Where lies my eternity?

The mission–in living–to be fulfilled

in days of jubilance

in days of rancor

in tumult and revelry–

to breathe and to die.

In death I exhale my wants

in intensity, in piety

To cast not a care to Earth

in all its material deviousness.

While reading Mrs. Dalloway, I found that I was not able to identify very well with Clarissa. However, I still wanted to speculate on whether or not she would ultimately succumb to the strains of a stagnant, comfortable life and choose to truly live in ending it all a la Septimus. Some of the best novels serve the same role as poetry–the author of the work trusts the reader enough to enable them to formulate their own interpretations and to venture to guess the fate of the characters still living at the end.

I feel betrayed that Michael Cunningham did not trust me. Coming towards the end of the novel, I was intellectually curious about the outcome of Laura Brown’s depression. Would she gulp down the thirty-some-odd pills in the medicine cabinet and put herself “out of her misery?” Or would she simply exist in suburbian LA without truly living? By synthesizing Laura’s account with Clarissa’s account, Cunningham leaves nothing to the imagination.

The answer for me lies in the little subtleties of Virginia Woolf’s original work–the intrigue of the plot which led to the intriguing of the reader. Cunningham, while paralleling the novel, falls short.

In analyzing Cunningham’s work outside the context of the original Mrs. Dalloway, it still does little to stimulate the reader in its ending. I suppose due to the fact that Cunningham is selling his novel to the impulsive, leave-nothing-untouched generation in which we reside, he accomplishes his goal. Yet my mind still desires to be seduced by the whimsical authors of past generations.

I can justify my detachment.

She is honest, pure

crisp as a bestseller novel–

with an aura of decency.

Virginal in her warm demeanor

she is coldly overlooked.

(The world of human nature

blinks out of its

apathetic stare.)

She is met with a flurry of regrets

from those around her.

Good intentions, good rationale

fighting to stay uncorrupted.

How can I justify my detachment

when the world estranges her

casting upon her a rueful smile?

Promise me

Stay innocent in the fight

the struggle to be curious.

(What shall become of me

should she succumb

to the incoming tide

of deception?)

Head above the water

baptized, she matures.

While aging is not among the most central themes in Cunningham’s novel, I feel as if it’s the elephant in the room that ought to be addressed. Why are all three main characters seemingly discontent with the adequate course of their lives? Perhaps because Time does not allow for them to start anew.

I am eighteen, idealistic, and optimistic about the course of my life, be it in the next few years or in the next few decades. I am not resigned to any one course of life in neither literally, socially, nor emotionally. I am entering a transient new phase of my life that will be laden with as much change as a Knights of Columbus collection box outside of the Morrocroft Harris Teeter. Yet I am excited and filled with anticipation to see what both God and fate have in store for me. Apparently, the secret has been revealed to Laura, Clarissa, and Virginia, and I am not surprised at their yearning for more. It is basic human nature, I suppose, to want more than what has been given to you, or to simply want a fresh start by wishing a few crow’s feet and parentheses off of your face.

The Hours inspires me to attempt to secure the most desirable direction of my life–so I am not in the same boat as any of the three protagonists. The drawback to being young is, most likely, being naive–while I want to live a desirable life, I know little else besides having a loving family, a good-natured demeanor, and physical–and financial–health. However, I’ve heard it said that the thrill of youth is the thrill of the chase and unpredictability. I may be able to respond better to such an assertion ten years from now, but I would have to say presently that it is the chase itself that is wholesome and fulfilling, not the mere “thrill” of youth.

Beauty is Everywhere.

It welcomes, creating

a flourish of swallows

an exquisite joy

flinging itself

in and out,

the greenery lush in Regent’s Park.

long streamers of sunlight

manifest themselves

radiant, they chime

the hour of Noon.

(I have been dead

succumbing to the undertow

then, a drowned sailor.)

Now, alive, let me rest

to do my bidding

in silent repentance.