Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

Brilliant poem. I think it describes war in an interesting context. Essentially, I read it as the life story of an unnamed soldier (unnamed because, in the military, you are not an individual. You are part of a unit) in five lines. Its succinct nature shows how short this guy's life really was. He was probably very young--18, 19, 20--when he enlisted and was subsequently shot to bits. The poem opens with his birth and then immediately  (within the same line, in fact) speaks of him in the military, almost as those he went straight from being born to fighting in a war. Like he never had any time to grow up and really live. It's chilling really. Then at the end, when he dies, they wash him out of the turret with a hose. It's not a personal thing at all. It brings to mind a cold, unmoved feeling. It doesn't say they mourned. It doesn't say there was a funeral. Only that they washed him out of the turret with a hose, in preparation for another young man to take his place, almost like nothing had happened at all.

Diving Into the Wreck

I know no one agrees with me, but I still don't see this as a feminist poem. I think she's literally diving ito a shipwreck. The "book of myths" is just that: a book of stories surrounding the shipwreck, which have been written by sailors and explorers of times passed. The "merman in his armored body" represents the explorers that came before her (indicating that, perhaps, the wreck was discovered by a man--though that has no bearing on the meaning). The reason that "our names do not appear" in the book of myths is because even though Rich has gone into this wreck, and explored every crevice, just as explorers before her did, she will get no credit. Her name, nor the names of other modern explorers, will ever be credited for diving into the same wreck. If the book of myths were the Bible, the line "our names do not appear" would not make sense. There were tons of women in the Bible, and many had names. Now you're going to say "Many, but not all." Well, I'll point out then, that many men have names in the Bible, but not all. It's not about sexism. It's about a shipwreck and how Rich has explored said wreck, and she feels a little sad that textbooks won't list her among those who discovered the wreck.
I don't think your sexual preferences have any bearing on whether or not you like to go diving.

Hands

It was debated in my group, and we were kind of split down the middle, but I don't thnk Wing was gay. Affectionate, sure. Caring, absolutely. When he touched George, he withdrew his hands. Not for fear that he would go too far, but for fear that the action would be misinterpreted. He was just an affectionate, caring, loving teacher with feminine characteristics. It says in the story, that a young boy  "imagined unspeakable things." This boy dreamed that Wing had touched him or done inappropriate things and then "went forth to tell his dreams as facts." He didn't abuse those children at all, but when an accusation like that is made, it's a fucking witch hunt. You can't prove you didn't touch the kids, and that's apparently evidence enough to burn you at the stake. Or in Wing's case, beaten in the school yard.

Death of a Salesman

There seems to be a lot of debate around which character is the protagonist. Personally, I see it two ways: First, the play is a tragedy, and in all tragedies, the protagonist is destroyed by his or her fatal flaw. Therefore, Willy is the protagonist. He is the titular character, after all. And he is destroyed by his obssession with success. Second, the protagonist is the character who changes and the antagonist is the character who causes the protagonist to change. Therefore, Bif is the protagonist. Willy and Happy are the antagonist, because they bring about all the change that Bif has to face. Even time could be an antagonist, because as Bif grows older, his views and opinions change. However, time has also changed Willy. So... Screw it, there is no protagonist...
Anyway, all character confusion aside, the play is very interesting. It presents a take on the dark side of the American Dream, the people who failed to be the Great Gatsby, if you will. Willy is a picture of someone who worked hard and long, and for what? A run down house, a history of domestic violence, an affair, and a kid who doesn't love him--barely respects him. It's dark, gruesome (in the sense that the American Dream is slaughtered before our very eyes). It's a true picture of America. Reminds me of Watchmen, the scene where Nite Owl and the Comedian are fighting rioters--American citizens--and Nite Owl asks "Whatever happened to the American Dream?" to which the Comedian replies "It came true. You're looking at it."
Powerful stuff.

Invisible Man

The narrator had choices.





Oh, you want more? That's not enough information for you?... *Sigh* Okay. See, the way I see it, everything that happens to us is the result of a choice. Almost everything. Sometimes, people do things to us, but we have the choice of letting them, stopping them, or running away from them. In the eyes of mortals, our free will is infinite, unlimited. Not so much in the eyes of deities, but that's a different subject for a different time.
"They forced him," you say. "He had no choice but to get in the ring and fight."
Not true. It was simply the best option. The narrator says he has no choice in the matter when really, he just knows that the alternative is that he gets the shit kicked out of him by a bunch of drunk, angry white guys. He <i>chooses</i> the better option. Plus, he was conscious enough to realize that some of the guys were jumping out of the ring, so he could have chosen to do the same. He could have chosen not to go after the money. He could have chosen to lose the battle royale altogether. But he didn't. Because he kept choosing the self-preserving options. He didn't want fifty angry white guys beating him into Jell-O.
All in all, I liked it. Maybe it wasn't about race, but there were certainly some racial aspects of it. Like the illusion of success in the black community. The white guys gave him a scholarship for his talent in speech-writing, but it was to a Negro college. They chose a college for him, they didn't hand him a check and say "Pick any college you like, son. You've earned it." Nope, they said "Go to this black school and be a good boy." It's condescending. They send the smart black kids off to college so they don't cause trouble for the white folk. Then they're free to push around the more uneducated ones. Sad but true.

Gertrude Stein

"Tender Buttons" is an interesting piece of work. In a way, it reminds me of Charles Simic, a poet who immigrated to America as a boy during World War II. Simic write prose poetry--which is sort of what Stein does, only without coherent sentences--but the thing about Simic is that he writes these cryptic freaking poems that, without significant analysis of every word, make no sense whatsoever.
The difference is that Stein doesn't set out to make meaning out of her poems, as far as I can tell. It's all modern art. It's a Rothko painting, or some abstract sculpture that means something different to everyone, because whatever you get out of it is whatever you project onto it. Darren Arnofsky's "The Fountain" is a great example of this. The movie has a definite meaning to its director, but Arnofsky has not commented on that meaning, rather hoping everyone will draw their own conclusions. And there are many interpretations of the movie, not all of which do I agree with, nor would some have even occured to me. (I highly recommend that movie, by the way.)
I didn't get Stein most of the time, but some of her poems clicked immediately. I still prefer her to Simic, because at least I can just appreciate Stein's alliteration and word association without having to search desperately for meaning.

Mowing

The class' favorite poet, apparently, was Robert Frost. Who would've guessed? I recited "Mowing," which has invaritably become my favorite of Frost's poems. The consonance of the repeated "s" sound throughout the poem, as well as the isolated imagery, give this sense of hushed, calm tranquility. The poem really shouldn't be read aloud. Whispered, only half-spoken, maybe. Frost has the uncanny ability to take something as boring as mowing (with a scythe) alone in a huge field, and turn it into a poetic masterpiece.
The poem also teaches us that only humans would do work for some kind of reward (he mentions rest and money), whereas the scythe takes its only pleasure in the work itself. "The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows." Truer words. By the end of the poem, the speaker has adopted the scythe's philosophy, and he takes pleasure in his work, not for thought of reward, but in the fact that his work is done.

Stopping by Woods On a Snowy Evening

This poem is chilling. Haunting. I really like it. It seems to me that the woods represent death. The speaker, who has perhaps had a long, trying life, is tempted to stop in the woods--to rest (eternally). But he has promises to keep. From this line, we can say that there is someone for whom he must stay alive. It could also mean he simply has things he needs to finish before he "sleeps."
I feel like there are times in everyone's life when we wish things would just slow down, or even stop altogether. Like the weight of the world is bearing down on us, and it gets difficult to breathe. In these times, the woods are thoroughly tempting. But we cannot give up. There are always those who need us, things that we must complete before resting. Frost says through this poem "We all want to give up sometimes, but we must press on with our journey."
Beautiful poem.

Y: The Last Man

So, I guess this doesn't technically count as something we read during the quarter, but I thought I'd post the information for Y: The Last Man in case anyone was interested in reading the series. It's currently available as a 60-issue individual magazine series, but you can also get the trade paperbacks. There are 10 volumes of trade paperbacks (all of which are available through Dayton Metro Library), collecting all 60 issues. If they had a rating, it would be R. No question. There is a ton of swearing (seriously, it's like Scarface...), bloody violence (bullets, axes to faces, etc.), and nudity (both male and female). So if you're offended by any of that... Well, don't read it, obvisouly. The author of the series is Brian K. Vaughan, who also wrote the Ex-Machina series, if any of you are familiar with it.
Also, another great comic series that deals with what it means to be human is Robert Kirkman's The Walking Dead. I know what you're thinking: Zombies? Well, it's got zombies, sure, but the humans turn out to be scarier in most situations. Also rated R (violence, language, some nudity).
Also anything by Alan Moore. He's a great socio-political comic writer, and he's explores the psyche like you wouldn't believe. His work is also geared toward adults... Wow, I sound like a weirdo, reading all these "adult" comic books... Erm, well...
Enjoy!

A Streetcar Named Desire

So, this was interesting. First of all: Blanche, totally off her rocker. I feel like if I found out my wife was gay, I'd be like "Well, nothing I can do. Time to move on." I don't know, I don't think I'd have had the same inadequacy issues Blanche had. Which makes me suspect some sort of pre-existing condition of psychosis (bi-polar, manic depressive, something).
Also, Stanley's a dick. And Stella's an idiot. Anybody read Twilight? That's this relationship. Or Jane Eyre. It's just the animal magnestism. (By the way, Twilight and Jane Eyre both suck. A lot. And that's not a vampire joke). Anyway, marriage for sex is stupid. Sex for sex is waaaaay smarter. Casual, noncomittal sex. Cuz that way you can just leave and go have sex with other people.
But I digress.
I typically like stories where I hate all the characters, so I think that's why I liked this. Even Mitch. Freakin' Mitch, you thought he was a decent, stand-up guy (unlike the rest of the animal pack called Stanley's friends), and then he's all like "Well, Blanche, I won't marry you... But let's get it on." Dick.
Also, the last line makes me smile. At the end, Stella and Stanley are back together (so to speak), and the guys are playing poker in the next room. Then, one of the guys at the poker table (I can't remember who) says "This game is called seven card stud," or something to that effect. Seven card stud is a risky variation of poker. So Tennessee is basically saying "Stella and Stanley's relationship is risky and dangerous." Clever, Mr. Williams. Very clever.

We Wear the Mask

I know we went over and over and over this poem in class, so there's not a whole lot to be said about it (other than the fact that it's incredible and so emotionally powerful). However, prior to readign the poem, I didn't really have any knowledge of Paul Laurence Dunbar. I don't know if anyone else knew more than I did (I think maybe I've heard the name before...). Anyway, the main thing I'm trying to get across is that I didn't know he was black. That changes the meaning of this poem significantly.
If he was white, he might be talking about society's outcast in general. The odd assortment of misfits that this wonderful world has to offer. They attempt to wear this mask and fit in with regular society (occasionally successfully, often times not so much). But since he's addressing African Americans, the poem's tone shifts drastically. Before, he could have been joking around a little, like "Dude, society totally thinks I'm some weirdo cuz I write poetry... What's up with that?" But it becomes all the more serious when you know the history of the poem and its poet. Anyway, I just thought I'd point that out. It's almost comical if you take it out of its context. Almost.

Free

I liked "Free" because of 1) the narrator, and 2) the fatalistic aspect of it. There's a part where the narrator says something to the effect of "Shouldn't men and women be loyal in marriage, whether they are happy or not?" Just when you think he's passing judgment, he says "The churches said so. Public opinion seemed to agree." It's like he wants to suggest the (im)morality lying in the story, but he leaves it to the reader to determine whether or not Haymaker is a good or a bad person.
Then there's fate. Ah, naturalism. No matter what happened in the end, Haymaker would've been miserable. He's is also kind of stupid. If you're not in love with someone, don't marry them. I don't care how many promises you made. Anyway, regardless of the character's stupidity, it was a very well-written story.

I Saw a Man Pursuing the Horizon

I really like this poem. It definitely says something about humans that is nearly universally true: We chase after pipe dreams, things we can never hope to achieve (sometimes knowingly). When people try to talk sense into us, tell us that we won't be able to do it, we become defensive. The speaker obviously has some sort of prior, outside knowledge that the man pursuing the horizon does not possess. But the man cannot and will not give up his futile efforts--just like most people.
I read a review of this poem that actually states the opposite, more light-hearted opinion of my own. It was about never giving up, and how even when people tell us to give up, we have to keep on striving toward our goals... I don't know. I think the fact that he's chasing the horizon kind of debunks that theory...

Story of an Hour

I like this story for its psychology. Mrs. Mallard, the woman in the story, feels absolutely liberated when she learns of her husband's death, even though there is no evidence to suggest that he ever mistreated her. She realizes that, with her husband gone (God rest his soul), she can live her life any way she chooses; she can do the things she thought--and perhaps feared--she'd never get the chance to do. Though she loved her husband very much, and did in fact weep at his passing, she realizes that there is a sort of blessing gained in his death. It's like that old adage: "All things work together for good." I think that's in the Bible or something... Anyway, it's like a tally mark on the 19th century women's side of the scoreboard.
On the other hand, I feel that if the same story had been written by a man, we might get a different impression. It would change from a story about feminine freedom to a masogynistic story about how fickle women can be. After all, she grieves for what, twenty minutes? One could argue that she was happier to be rid of Mr. Mallard than to live a pleasant life with him. I never read the story this way, but I think one could construe it as such.
My favorite part of the story, without a doubt, is the last line. "When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills." Brilliant! The irony of it. Not joy over her husband returning home, but of watching the joy of her newfound freedom come spiraling down and crashing around her. One of the best lines in any short story I've read, other than that line in Poe's "Cask of Amontillado," where he's like "No, it won't be the cold that kills you," or something to that effect. But anyway, one of the best.

Trifles

Trifles is a very funny story, and very ironic. "Trifles" are insignificant things. And the whole time the men are searching for clues, they think the women are concerned with minutia and such. "Oh, look how cute you ladies are with your quilting. Ha, they're wondering about her bread! How adorable." During these times, and despite the men's search, they find no clues. All the while, the ladies--concerned with these trifles--unravel the entire mystery. Brilliant.
In the end, the women choose to keep their discoveries to themselves. I think this is a poor moral choice--because, in my eyes, they've just become accomplices to murder--but I understand why they did it. They're proud of Mrs. Wright, perhaps even a tad envious. Women of this time period had little to no rights, and were more or less bound to their husband/family. Now, Mrs. Wright is free, and the other women are happy that she was able to free herself; it gives them hope that one day, maybe they can be free as well.
Not a bad little play, I think.

The Yellow Wallpaper

So. This story. Yea. I first read this about a year ago, and when I saw it on our syallbus, I was actually a little creeped out. (It's following me...) This story sticks with me.
It's awesome--in a really dark, gruesome way. We're basically watching a woman's mind turn to scrambled eggs. Brilliantly written, anyway; it's like the author herself was going insane while writing it. The unnamed narrator fixates on this yellow wallpaper. The words she uses to describe the paper are, for lack of a better word, horrifying. She says it is an unclean, smouldering color, bordering on revolting, with some places colored a "sickly sulphur tint." The pattern she describes as committing artistic sin (which is a beautiful choice of words), and says that if one follows the curves of the pattern long enough they--wait for it--commit suicide... Who the hell thinks of something like that? Then she obsesses over these figures she keeps seeing behind the pattern. She thinks the figure is trapped and that she needs to free it. She's certifiable at this point.
After reading through the entire story, I even felt crazy. The imagery was beautiful; it could not have been more realistic and dark. Possibly more macabre than the movie Se7en. I may be committing literary blasphemy by saying this, but I think this story is darker and more pyschotic than anything Poe ever wrote.
(Forgive me, literature gods)

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

This story was pretty funny. I love irony and sarcasm, and Twain is a master of both. I mean, I don't know much about frogs but I'm pretty sure that you don't have to teach them to jump. They're pretty good at figuring that out themselves. The character of Simon Wheeler was--interesting. He's not someone with whom I'd like to spend a lot of time, but he's definitely someone to gossip about. I recall the scene where the stranger asks what is in his box. He replies "It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it an't—it's only just a frog." What sort of crazy answers a question like that? Come on, Wheeler. And he thinks that every bit of minutia is fascinating. It's not. The story he tells is far-fetched and probably mostly bullshit.
I've been in situations like the narrator: hearing a story you find to be an absolute snooze-fest. You don't wanna be rude about it, but there's not really an etiquette established for telling someone that they're boring. If I were in the narrator's shoes, I think I would have done exactly what he did.
Twain gives very little description of the setting, but it wasn't difficult to imagine the dirty, rundown bar in which they were talking. Or when Smiley stomps around in the swamp looking for a frog for the stranger--which I thought was a very funny scene.