And I keep hearing from the cellar bin/The rumbling sound/Of load on load of apples coming in.

What to say about “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.” Well, I’d first commend Tom Stoppard for coming up with the idea for the play–it’s quite original in thought (and deed). Second, I’d like to point out the dismay I met when I read the back cover and realized my comparison of the play to “Waiting for Godot” won’t seem all that novel. That said, I still feel the need to expand upon this relationship.

There is of course the obvious similarity in the styles of the two plays–they both subtly (or not so subtly) question meaning. Both also include two protagonists of arguably equal significance, and in both cases, these two seem to be sitting around, doing nothing for much of the time. Given the later publishing date of “Ros and Guil,” it seems reasonable to assume that Stoppard was influenced, if not inspired, by Beckett’s play.

However, the differences between the two plays are more important than they may seem. The fact is that Stoppard’s play is a sort of sequel to another–namely, “Hamlet.” Beckett’s play is entirely of the playwright’s creation. I don’t think that this is a bad thing for Stoppard–perhaps it is a positive considering his play’s reception. But it defines an inherent difference between the two, possibly redeeming Stoppard for his debatable inspiration.

On a more personal note, I’ve been enjoying the play greatly so far and look forward to reading more tomorrow. It’s fascinating to try to unravel the significance of some of the conversations–especially considering the idea that there may be no significance at all.

On the whole, I found the ending of the novel to be depressing. Here’s why.

Throughout Mrs Dalloway, I felt very close to Septimus–I understood some of what he felt, and I understood why he killed himself. Richard (of the “Mrs Dalloway” chapters in The Hours), being the “Septimus” of the novel, also had qualities, feelings and thoughts sometimes similar to my own, so I identified with him greatly as well. However, while Septimus’ suicide only saddened me because I enjoyed reading his sections of the novel, Richard’s suicide affected me greatly. I found this part of the novel to be one of the realest–anxious Clarissa begging Richard to get down from the window sill; Richard acting as if it were an ordinary afternoon, simply enjoying the breeze; the calmness he maintained right up to his “slide” off the window sill.

Frankly, it was difficult for me to finish the novel after this happened. Here I am, nine hours later, and I still feel for Richard–I doubt that this feeling will leave soon.

Laura (of the “Mrs Brown” chapters) also left me with feelings of unrest. Death for her was an escape, and it seems that she chose to continue life despite her unhappiness. The blatant dishonesty she exhibits in continuing to live her life as wife and mother makes me sick. Cunningham sets up an incredibly compelling dynamic in the character of Laura Brown. Essentially, she must choose between escape from unhappiness but the unhappiness of her husband and son, or her continued unhappiness and the “happiness” of her family. (I put happiness in quotes here because I don’t think that it is true happiness since it’s origin isn’t genuine.) It is an awful decision to make–obviously an example of picking one’s poison–and frankly, I strongly dislike Cunningham for including it.

I’m not sure how I feel about the end of the novel in the life of Virginia Woolf. I think this is due to the fact that I know that she kills herself later on–any happiness or self-realizations or reconciliations mean nothing. In saying that, I want to make it clear that I don’t think the end of one’s life always defines the significance his actions during it. However, I think that Woolf is a perfect example of someone for whom “the hours” of which Cunningham speaks at the end of the novel are not enough–not enough to make anything and everything worth it.

I wonder if I will feel the same way in twenty years.

I’m actually quite glad that I didn’t post Thursday night. In class on Friday, I realized that there were a lot of things my classmates were saying that I found provocative, and I’m glad that I have the opportunity to respond. (I suppose I could just comment.)

Matt mentioned how he thought that Cunningham was essentially copying Mrs Dalloway in The Hours. I think to a certain extent, this is true. Much of the plot in the “Mrs. Dalloway” chapters is similar to the plot of Woolf’s novel. The use of Woolf’s names is also an example of their close relationship. Despite this closeness, however, I think that there is a distinction between the two novels. Cunningham seems to be writing a sequel to Mrs Dalloway in that he continues the essences of the characters in his novel. When I’m reading, I feel like I’m still reading about Mrs Dalloway.

That said, I can understand why there are a lot of folks who aren’t enjoying The Hours. Unless you are someone who can enjoy a book simply by understanding its brilliance–and regularly do so–this one might be a struggle. It’s about appreciating what Cunningham does–his fantastic ability to simultaneously emulate Woolf’s writing style so fantastically and maintain his own style and the originality of his novel is what I find most remarkable.

Kim also said something that I found interesting. She commented on Septimus’ absence in Cunningham’s novel. I think this comes back to what I said before about maintaining the essences of each character. Here, it seems that Septimus’ corporal existence ends somewhere between Mrs Dalloway and The Hours, but his character remains. Clarissa’s husband Richard seems to have replaced Septimus. I think this is a deliberate action of Cunninham’s–an effort to emphasize the fact that this is still his novel, not Virginia Woolf’s.

Rachel struck me with one line: “Mrs Dalloway felt like a reason to be alive.” Word.

Woolf, in her superhuman ability, seems to have captured the answers to all the questions that some of us existentialist folks think about and sweat over in Mrs Dalloway. That said, I’m not sure that any number of re-reads or years will bring me any closer to understanding where these answers are–I’m not even sure if I know all of the questions. However, it’s quite evident that Woolf wrote her novel with a unique depth that is almost certainly incomparable.

In knowing this, a lot of people might say: “Well, Cunningham seems like a smart enough fellow–why is he even trying? Just because you can match a writing style doesn’t mean your book is worth reading (or worth being the subject of a comparative-analytical essay in an AP class).” Frankly, I’m hesitant to do anything other than agree with them. But I think that there is a chance that Cunningham can do more than we might first believe. As I continue reading, know this: I have hopes for you, Mr. Cunninham. I pray that you deliver. I have a grade riding on it.

I have thoroughly enjoyed the first 30 or so pages of Faulkner’s novel. The stream of consciousness method of writing is fairly easy for me to read, and the “southern” dialect is one I naturally understand. Unfortunately, neither of these helps the constant POV changes and multitude of characters, relationships, etc. That said, I know that I can’t expect to understand who each of the characters is this early in the novel. I have high hopes in that respect as I continue to read.

The paradoxically subtle yet large presence of religion in the novel is really interesting to me. Cora, Jewel and Darl all mention God/our Lord/Jesus pretty often, but never in a way that stands out as overly religious. But examining what we have read so far as a whole, it seems that the characters’ faiths will play a huge role in the novel.

I look forward to seeing what happens!

Over the past few days, I’ve been reading two Frost poems over and over: Home Burial and After Apple-Picking. Home Burial is fascinating because Frost takes an alternate approach to death. Rather than write about the death of the speaker (as is often done), Frost chooses to write about the death of someone related to the speaker. This, along with the fact that he gives not one, but two viewpoints of this death (both the father’s and the mother’s), allows the reader to see how death affects those around it. The man seems to accept the death of his son as something about which he can do nothing and acts accordingly. On the other hand, the mother is not anywhere near being over it. She is greatly offended by the father’s cavalier attitude toward the event. Perhaps it was the death itself that caused the two to act this way. That is, the father retreated into himself and began to deny the significance of his son’s death, and the mother became extremely sensitive regarding the event. That said, both of them may have acted like they do before the death of their son.

After Apple-Picking is notable for its casual attitude. Speaking about going to hell (the “cellar”) in such an apathetic way is slightly disturbing. I use the word “apathetic” loosely, as I’m not sure that the speaker doesn’t care about death. It seems more that he has accepted its coming. However, it’s quite evident that the speaker is not aware that he is going to hell. He merely knows that he is going to die (“But I am done with apple-picking now.). Frost also chooses to call death a “sleep.” Given that, I think it would be interesting to ask Frost what he thought that sleep would be like (within the context of his poem)–is the afterlife a dream? Are we even conscious? Do we ever wake up?

Pathology of Colors-Dannie Abse

I know the colour rose, and it is lovely;

but not when it ripens in a tumour;

and healing greens, leaves and grass, so springlike,

in limbs that fester are not so springlike.

I have seen the red-blue tinged with hirsute mauve

in the plum-skin face of a suicide.

I have seen the white, china white almost, stare

from behind the smashed windscreen of a car.

And the criminal, multicoloured flash

of an H-bomb is no more beautiful

than an autopsy when the belly’s opened -

to show cathedral windows never opened.

So in the simple blessing of a rainbow,

in the bevelled edge of a sunlit mirror,

I have seen, visible, Death’s artifact

like a soldier’s ribbon on a tunic tacked.

This poem preys upon the familiarity of conventional symbols and imagery. We are presented with something we know and think of as positive (or beautiful, or wonderful, and so on), and then that thing is turned into something negative (here, death). These cruel juxtapositions are interesting because, generalized, they say: “Any good, pretty thing can be twisted into something bad and ugly.” A depressing sentiment.

As always, when examining death within literature, it’s important to consider time. In the first quatrain, we are presented with imagery that has no real significance in time–that is, it could’ve occurred at any point in the history of the earth. The second quatrain, however, includes mention of a car, something which is definitely 20th century. H-bombs and autopsy  in the third quatrain bring us even closer to the 21st century. This trend of moving forward in time is ended, possibly, with soldiers and tunics. While “soldier” makes me think of modern-day warriors, “tunic” inspires the image of Templar Knights. Perhaps Abse didn’t intend this forward-moving trend, in which case this backward movement is insignificant. However, if he did, I would be interested to know why he suddenly changed the trend.

With my character, Polonius, dead, it’s difficult for me to comment on his role in Hamlet in respect to our recent reading. However, during his life, it seemed to me that Polonius’ presence was key in the development of negative feelings between Claudius and Hamlet and Laertes and Hamlet. Because of the obvious results of these negative feelings, it is easy to see why Polonius’ influence was important.

I also found Polonius’ wordplay to be quite humorous, not to mention difficult to read cold. His bigoted persona was very entertaining, especially in the serious context in which his humor is often placed. I’m not really sure what Shakespeare was trying to accomplish in having the character of Polonius present in certain scenes. For instance, is it not true that someone else could easily turn Claudius against Hamlet and make everyone believe the latter is mad? Why did Shakespeare choose to make that character a silly, pompous ass? I’m hesitant to say that he did so for entertainment value alone, so I would love to hear some others’ thoughts.

I chose Brave New World by Aldous Huxley as my outside novel. I’ve read it before, but I think that I understand better the implications of the book now than in 10th grade. Instead of simply noticing that the dystopia in which the protagonist (Bernard Marx) is similar to that of George Orwell’s 1984 (although written at a later date), I ask what Huxley was trying to accomplish in creating this “perfect” world. I suspect that, like his contemporary, Orwell, he was attempting to predict the conditions of society at a later date. The only other guess that seems plausible is that his dystopia is a version of what many people wished the world to be at that time.

Either way, what Huxley intimates is incredibly interesting to read in 2010. With all of the research regarding stem cells and talk of cloning, it seems that the science of today, as it relates to reproduction, is becoming like the science of Huxley’s world (if it isn’t already). The standardization of this vital aspect of our culture is fascinatingly provocative–engineering children to be of certain physical, mental and emotional conditions is a morally disturbing but  (admittedly) intellectually compelling idea. It’s like one of those TV shows that is so sick that you just have to watch it. But beyond how perverted Huxley’s world is, we also can investigate the irony of his dystopia.

One of the ways in which birth is standardized in the novel is to “condition” children by repeating different maxims underneath their pillows as they sleep. “Everyone is happy now,” and “Civilization is sterilization” are two such phrases. From a purely cerebral point of view, Huxley’s society is perfect–a true Utopia. Socio-economic classes are blatantly defined through clothing color, meticulous conditioning means that everyone does what they are supposed to (except for Bernard and arguably Helmholtz), and sex is reduced to an emotionally lacking, solely physical act. However, upon reviewing the moral, emotional and ideological implications of many of the supposed “freedoms” of Huxley’s world, we find that it is in fact a definite Dystopia. Great irony, indeed.

Needless to say, none of this was clear to me in my sophomore year. I absolutely love reading this book two years later with so much more insight and experience.

The poem we read in class called “Love Poem” was by far my favorite. I enjoyed the alternatively archaic and modern language Nims used (“shipwreck” vs. “taxi drivers” and “traffic”). Perhaps it’s having read Moby-Dick so recently which causes me to see “shipwreck” as archaic–but it’s no matter. I loved how the poem can be interpreted in two ways: one, that the author loves the woman for her faults, or two, that the author loves the woman despite her faults. Either way, it is quite evident that the man’s love for the woman is one of great passion. Personally, I prefer the former interpretation. Also, I thought he is quite clever in using the pronoun “our” instead of “my” or “your.” This idea of joint ownership is little spoken of and was very satisfying as a reader.

What may be my favorite phrase is his address: “My clumsiest dear.” I am quite familiar with the idea of loving someone because of the way she is even though her characteristics may be looked upon as negative (clumsy has a negative connotation in most cases). My experience with this notion made the poem many times more enjoyable to read.