Eyes

After having spent valuable time of my life reading The Invisible Man by Herbert George Wells on my kindle and being inspired to the point of lunacy, I have come to the realization that a book can’t have two different modern covers (Unless there is a movie based on it which will deem the book susceptible to be plagued by the cheap-looking cover of the actors such as a demure Kristen Stewart and a constipated and sparkly James Patterson on the cover of Twilight).

Well.

So my previous blog entry was actually written on The Invisible Man and not, Invisible Man. And so. Complaining aside, here it goes.

“I am an invisible man.” Whoa. If that’s not a direct and life-altering way to start a novel, I do not know what it. The direct, statement/no-questions-asked, matter-of-fact diction creates a character that is very sure of what he is talking about. The imagery when he says he is very much “flesh and bone. Fiber and liquids,” takes away the expectation of his invisibleness being transparent and useable, a physical invisibility and in actuality, real flesh. His “people just refuse to see me” creates a more deep concept of invisibility. His allusion to Edgar Allen Poe’s usually creepy ghosts and his negating the fact this his is like that of the former’s characters clears the idea that he is not the invisible ghost/transparent perceived entity, but more one who is invisible because people decide to view him as such. When he says this, his tone is accusatory and point-blank, almost as if criticizing the reader for even thinking otherwise, for even imagining his invisibility as anything but figurative.

The character uses irony when he says, “I might even be said to posses a mind.” He is sarcastically giving other people the right to judge what he can rightfully judge himself, the obvious fact that he does, indeed, possess a mind. His sarcasm serves to create an antagonistic relationship with those who happen to say he does, giving them a kind of unrightfully gained authority. In this case, the reader might take the authority to be racist America, ignorant in their judgment of him. Their ignorance is described when he eloquently and formally says his invisibility is not a product of a biochemical accident, but that “to which I refer occurs because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of those with whom I come in contact,” who choose not to see him. And so ‘eyes’ become a symbol for the obvious, perspective, but also of poor-vision and near-sightedness to the extent of being narrow-minded and blind in ignorance and blindfolded by prejudice.

But he seems pretty uncaring of this fact, as seen when he says, “I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.” In his diction we can see he is all accepting of the fact that he is invisible. He speaks almost casually.

The imagery and his comparison of his being like those “Bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as if I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorted glass.” The imagery encases his point that he is in full possession of a mind but is constrained by society, his lack of body and lack of presence in society.

But apparently, he is not a real person lacking rights. He is solely a vision of people’s dreams. Just like when he pounds a white man to a bloody pulp on a deserted street below a lamplight, the scene being that of common mystery TV shows. The setting then adds to the surreal aspect of it all and to emphasize the character’s point that he is, indeed, just figment of people’s dreams. And we see his belief of this when he snorts at the news reports the day after about the blonde man reporting being mugged, and responds, “Poor fool, mugged by an invisible man.”

He believes it.

A Cold Wintry Day

And so it all starts on a cold, wintry February.

What an enticingly way to begin a novel. It’s oh-so-very different from the usual, “ A fine summer day,” and the customary, “One hot, sweltering evening,” etc. Actually. It is.

Herbert George Wells uses personification to make this expected beginning an aberration from the usual. The “biting” wind and the “driving” snow serve to create a wind so powerful, menacing, piercing with whatever invisible teeth seem to grasp flesh, and with so much drive and powerful intent. The setting being cold and dark and the “stranger” walking down the icy streets create an aura of suspense, mystery and wonder. The imagery when the author describes the stranger as being wrapped from head to foot covering creates a shield that is protecting himself from his surroundings. And maybe he’s not just using that thick cloth wrapping as an armor to protect himself from the biting wind, but also everything else in the bitter outsides that is not the stranger. The people, the human inefficiencies, mistakes, his own bitter curiosity biting him in the ass.

Curiosity that is symbolized by the fact that every part of his body is covered except his nose. Like when he was walking in the beginning of the novel, “he was wrapped up from head to foot, and the brim of his felt hat hid every inch of his face except the tiny tip of his nose.” And later, in the warm confines of the room he finds housing in, “It was the fact that all his forehead above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another covered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose.” The repetition of his nose being the only scrap of his face that is visible remaining through the day emphasizes the existence of his nose, a nose usually representing nosiness and curiosity. So said stranger is a character that is stamped by his curiosity, which is probably the reason he decided to become invisible in the first place. (The back of the cover said so.)Hmm.

The fact that when the stranger gets into the “Coach and Horses” he exclaims “A room and a fire!” the diction and how he exclaims such simple things leads the reader to infer that this guy has been living without a room and without a fire. Probably homeless. Probably a sad drunk that got kicked out of his house due to his constant pummeling of random dishes during dinnertime? Ah, no. It’s the fact that he did everything possible to become invisible and apparently not being seen by humanity is just not all that it’s cracked out to be.

And maybe bitter ending and crash of his expectations ended in his becoming totally bitter and unapproachable human being. I mean, with his dry comments and monosyllabic answers, something must have affected him in some way. I mean, his answers range on “No,” and “Thank you” and have the overall dry tone and described as ‘with emphasis,’ ‘with aggressive brevity,’ ‘concisely’, and ‘drily’ describing each and every word that comes out of his lips. His manner of speaking mixes to create such a tough manner and wonder at what might have happened to make him this way.

Tun. Tun. Tun.

And we wonder.

Reading

Thoreau describes reading as the art of getting away from confusion, distractions, as well as the means towards achieving knowledge. He builds nature to symbolize the beginning of art, seeing as art is a way of interpreting our emotions and feelings about whatever happens to exist and so that would be nature. He describes the reading of classics as laborious and time-consuming, and difficult, using personification to describe their language as “dead”, adding to the intangibility of their whole being, but in the end those are the works that end up contributing to a more culture-aware person. Thoreau uses simile to liken the task of reading to a noble exercise like that of training that athletes undergo. He uses imagery when he says, “the noblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the fleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the clouds,” to get the reader to fully grasp the gap between the written language and spoken word. The spoken words are always altered in a way that will fulfill and satisfy the audience, while the written words are existing solely for the author. Basically, reading is an entirely more intricate thing than just genres of entertainment.

Comin Back Ower The Border

Mary McCabe uses archaism to set the setting and context of her poem “Comin Back Ower The Border” which is then Scotland and it emphasizes the point of the poem, which is coming back home. The dialect helps the reader relate more with the poet’s journey because the usage of language creates a deeper bond between the latter and their home. Mary uses a bc rhyming scheme to highlight the “hame” and “stane”, the stone that characterizes her home. She uses alliteration when talking of the “craggies, cleughs an corries” to show that it wasn’t easy coming home, past the rocks and over the cliffs. The imagery of the pastels and the weather-gleam and the wind create a peaceful, windy atmosphere that carried freedom along with the wind. She has crossed the border and has traipsed through a hard and arduous journey to come back to the freedom of her haven, her home.

Constantly Risking Absurdity

“Constantly Risking Absurdity” is a poem in which Lawrence Ferlinghetti uses metaphor to liken being a poet to being an acrobat, in that they hang on a string before an audience that entertains in their every move and watches them if they happen to slip and fall. And so being a poet is an occupation that is built on having an audience and people’s take on your work determines your success or lack thereof. He uses imagery to show how poets balances “on eyebeams above a sea of faces”, so that the reader can picture the poet being subject to the gazes of the audience, depending on their view, on their judgment, for his perfect balance or for his eventual fall from success. The structure of the poem is jagged and spaced out, in the like of ropes leading a zigzagged path through which the poet walks, which emphasizes the poet’s uncertainty, dependence, and need to take risks.

Hills Like White Elephants

The title of this particular work by Ernest Hemingway is so random that it is evident that it is of huge importance to the piece. Hills are tiny little imperfections in the Earth’s rather straight plains. They are rather unique impositions on the earth’s surface. The simile that compares them to white elephants compares the burden of a mountain to a white—pure, innocent—elephant, nature. Hemingway uses simile and symbolism in just the title to capture just what is happening, which is the natural imposition of a baby coming along the way.

Besides simile and symbolism, Hemingway also uses characterization and dialogue to capture how words don’t always mean getting a point across and to emphasize a very common situation, but in different circumstances. The obvious love and care the man feels towards Jig is palpable as well as Jig’s stubbornness and almost uncaring persona. The way the man cares about Jig’s opinion and her overall well-being serves to make the decision of the operation less grating and more open and understanding. This demonstrates how certain obstacles and the stress they cause are not just because of certain events in our lives, but how we choose to deal with them.

In a Station of the Metro

Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” is a metaphor that likes faces in a crowd to petals on a black bough. The comparison serves to make out the faces to be delicate and harmless, symbolized by the flower petals, and yet they’re tied to a much more imposing a possibly powerful entity which is the crowd, the black bough and its sturdy essence symbolizing a stable and commanding force. The metaphor states the idea of people seeming so powerless and incapable of making change, just bits of grains of sand, but they are all connected to bigger truth in which, when everyone stands for the same thing, they can achieve unimaginable things.

The length of the poem is so short that the reader wonders just what it is the writer can fit so easily into two lines. The shortness then interlocks with the assuredness of the speaker. Being able to state something in such few words creates a tone of security, as well as the obvious meditating and deep quality of anyone who would compare a pack of faces to flower petals. But the certainty makes the metaphor to be even more impacting, given the fact that the writer is sure it means something. And so the message that people in mass can be extremely imposing and powerful becomes more prevailing.

Fog

Fog is a cloudlike mass that limits visibility. In Sadburg’s “Fog”, Sandburg uses personification to give the lingering mass of humidity and blurriness the ability to crawl on “little cat feet” and sit, lingering, and then move on. The human qualities that encompass it give fog the importance of anything human. In other words, fog is of vital importance.

The way Sandburg describes it as coming, lingering, and eventually moving on, it becomes a metaphor for whatever happens to cloud our minds, making us stumble and rendering us disoriented, in the same way everyday problems and obstacles seem to affect as.

The structure of the poem goes along with its overall meaning, a couplet correctly interpreting the “little cat feet” as well as the quickness with which it comes, and the other stanza, a quatrain, signaling the staggering lethargic pace with which humans let their problems engulf the, and the time it takes them to overcome them, or deal with them, to the point where they eventually fade away.

A Very Short Story

Hemingway’s “A Very Short Story” is a piece that incorporates irony, symbolism, and hyperbole to create a satirical and thought-inducing work.

The overall meaning of this story is a tad baffling, seeing as it starts out well and drives on to become absurd and negatively surprising. The beginning begins with the “He” we never know the name of, and Luz in their escapades and shared moments of love. The word ‘luz’ in itself is Spanish for light, light being a symbol of brightness, guidance, and assurance. So taking into account the way the male protagonist seems daydream and think of Luz, she is his only hope in a dreary hospital, which usually stands for hopelessness and death. Luz is his hope in a place where there is anything but.

Just from that simple detail, the reader can already tell that the relationship between the two is less having to with actual love, and more drenched in the basic search for fulfilling one’s needs, in this case, the search for hope, and in Luz’s case, an attempt at doing some good-willed acts driven on pity. This is why their so-called ‘love’ is a hyperbole in itself. It is not the long-lasting entity they like to believe it is. And this is seen when the piece states that even though they felt like were married, “they wanted everyone to know about it.” It is childish and in a way shows the opposite of what they are trying to demonstrate. If they really loved each other, they would marry each other for their own benefit, not to assuage their peer’s second thoughts or doubts.

It is at the very end that the reader finds Luz ditching the male character for a an Italian, after which she tells the former that theirs was only a “boy and girl” love, and proceeds to expect a wedding proposal from the latter. She knew it was for the best.

But that is not the case, as seen when the major fails to marry her and contracts “gonorrhea from a sales girl in a loop department store while riding in a taxicab through Lincoln Park.”

That ending was like meshing a love story and then placing a paragraph from a satirical, cynical and caustic version of happily-ever-after short essays. You just don’t expect it. The gag-inducing term “gonorrhea”, the unpredictable affair of a major with a mere “sales girl” and all of that occurring in a very public, very slutty venue of a taxi cab is just absurd. The fact that this is how this formerly positive and bright story comes to an end is both bizarre and sad.

It blends to make an ironic tale of how sometimes when people choose to let go of their morals or let others go because of one’s unprecedented rise to the top of whatever it may be, life just might leave them with everything but.

Spunk

Zora Neale Hurston’s “Spunk” is a work that analyzes what courage really is. The title in itself represents the noun that signifies balls, courage and resolution; the character Spunk being a symbol of that bravery act itself. Hurston uses to highlight every word that comes out of each character’s mouth. Especially in the beginning when Elijah Mosley says, “But that’s one thing Ah likes about Spunk Barks—he ain’t skeered of nothing’ on God’s green footstool—nothing!” This embodies Spunk’s person and then renders him a FOIL to Joe Kanty’s measly, door-mat character that nurses a coffee while he’s conscious of the fact that his wife’s run off with the local monster. Spunk’s literary hugeness is so that it highlights Joe’s submissiveness and compliant persona. Their opposing personalities also mixes with the sardonic tone of some parts of the text ---most of which are ironic and questioning of women and their status as well as defects--- like when the narrator states that Spunk’s case was a “clear case of defense” when describing the court case. The obvious sarcasm masking the tone creates an overall hint of antagonism and dislike for the character Spunk, suggesting there must be more to him that suggests him to be the powerful and worship-worthy character that he is.
Hurston also makes allusions to Hamlet and Goliath. The Hamlet aspect might have been coincidental and not at all on purpose, but the perpetual insults towards women such as, “ A woman knows her boss and answers when he calls,” and “He done moved most of Lena’s things—and her along wid’em,” remind the reader of Hamlet’s contempt towards the female gender. When Joe’s wife marries Spunk just after Joe’s death, Walter says, “Joe ain’t even had time to git cold yit,” reminding one of Hamlet’s mother marrying Claudius so soon after her previous husband’s death. This allusion builds to create the revenge and justice theme that is Hamlet around this particular work. Another allusion, and probably the most important of all, is the allusion to Goliath. At the end of the piece, Elijah describes Joe’s father as “leering triumphantly down upon the fallen giant,” fallen giant resonating and portraying that Goliath we all know so well. This reference is made clearer when Walter explains his reasons for why he believes Joe is braver than Spunk. “Lookit whut he done; took a razor an’ went out tofight a man he knowed toed a gun an’ wuz a crack shot, too; ‘nother thing Joe wuz sakeered of Spunk, skeered plumb stiff! But he went jes’ the same. It took him a long time to giet his nerve up. Tain’t nothin’ for Spunk to fight whe he ain’t skeered of nothin.” And so we see Joe as David, a meer kid that pales against Goliath in both size and in accomplishments--- and Spunk as the Goliath that fears nothing and is eventually beaten by David. Joe ups Spunk after his death but the theme is still the same. What makes courage is the ability of one to confront one’s fears. Joe feared Spunk while Spunk never feared anyone and so whatever he did that people assumed was due to “bravery” was not bravery at all if just an idea of badly masked power. Even though Joe died, he dived head first into a battle with someone he feared so very much and that makes him braver than anything Spunk ever did. Courage is facing your fears. Not inspiring them in someone else.

Dis Poem

Mutabaruka’s “Dis Poem” is a work that brings up some controversial ideas. Its patronizing tone as well as the listing of African American leaders and conflicts in said country as well highlights the meaning of the work as one for justice. The repetition of the words “dis poem” mend to create an identity for the poem, and yet a very intricate one seeing as ‘dis poem’ “shall say nothing” and yet contradicts itself and “shall speak of time.” It will “not change things”, “it “has to be changed.” “Dis poem is still not written.” These then demonstrate that poem is a mixture of contradictions, it is a form of time—most likely the present and the future—and it is still not written because while it talks of the past, it begs for another way to bring about the future. A future that does not involve “knives…bombs…guns” like the past did, but that “has to be changed.” The poem is the rebirth of a people arising...awaking...overstanding."
It is sometimes self-mocking, patronizing, and subtly judgmental of the reader, which leads to infer that the reader has to do with most of the past atrocities. The particular rhyme only present when describing “time” accentuates the importance of time in the work. It describes it as “undefined”. And undefined is basically the gist of the entire poem. It is confusing and yet at the same time it’s trying to convey the message that “Dis Poem” is not really a poem. It hasn’t been written, and it “has no poet” and it shall be called, ‘boring’ and ‘stupid’ and ‘senseless’. The poem is “to continue in your mind.” It is urging the reader to write their own poem, to make their own future a better one, to act. The poem is whatever moral values and whatever conscience we hope to obtain in the future. “Dis Poem” is a plea to learn from previous mistakes in the past, and change the prospect of making the same mistakes in the future.

The Final Phase

Everything in excess is destructive.

A man once drank too much water, which inevitably ended up drowning his lungs and swirling down every part of his body, rendering him dead.

Watching so much television may act to brand you immobile and vapid and senseless.

And having some twisted view of freedom displaced onto loosing one’s self in the tide of the ocean is disparaging when you find yourself purposefully drowning in what you think is endless freedom.

“The shore was far beyond her, and her strength was gone.”

She ends up in the same place that started it all. But when the reader expects her to go on in life attempting to mold her new perspective and independence, she just swindles down, like a “bird with a broken wing beating the air above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down, down to the water.”

Disabled. As if it had nothing to do in its current downfall. As if some outside force disabled it and the bird was helpless as to the oncoming events leading to its inexorable death.

As if it didn’t have a choice.

Maybe that’s how Edna would like to see this: something she had no say in. Her suicide being dependent on various causes that even the presence of her own children and the outcome of her absence don’t halt.

She laughs at the thought of what Mrs. Reisz said of an artist having a courageous and brave soul.

She laughs because she knows she has anything but that. Because what she’s about to do, no matter how much she may account it to the freedom of the sea and the escape of ocean, is giving up.

But her giving up is followed by a melodic description of the day in all its colorful and common glory:

“ She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an instant, then sank again. Edna heard her father’s voice and her sister Margaret’s. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the sycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked across the porch. There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinks filled the air. “

It’s almost as if her eventual giving up was expected, just like the hum of bees is expected, in the same way that the odor of pinks fill the air.

And it’s sad and beautiful. It’s disappointing that after everything she is just going to resort to the easiest way out: death. But the way she describes swimming out to the deep tide and recognizing that sense of fear from before but eventually having it sink, is poetic. Poetic not only because of the carefully mended words and imagery-inspiring description, but because of the understanding that the fearful, dependent, careful woman from the beginning of the book is gone. She has timelessly melded into this independent and carefree and fearless facet of her self and the greatest way she demonstrates that is by willingly and simplistically approaching death.

Without fear.

Without second thoughts.

Death being the most unapproachable and potent entity, her approaching it truly captures the theme of the book and the extent of her dynamic transformation.

That doesn’t mean I don’t think her committing suicide is a stupid act from an apparent lapse of judgment. Because I do. And her act is a mindless action that will affect a lot of people and cause their ultimate turmoil.

But even then, her willing death is the perfect way to enclose the premise. Death means letting go of every single social construct, judgment, and dependency. Death means freedom from being anyone but who you truly are.

Death is the final form of Awakening.

Again.

Awkwardness. Period.

I Can't Help My Amazingness

Some people are just gifted with the talent of being endearing and attractive and susceptible to being adored by every human being that happens to come across their existence.

It doesn’t seem fair.

But life isn’t fair.

And now we proceed to pound those people’s heads in with our glares because it just doesn’t seem fair that they twist themselves subtly into people’s hearts without even trying.

That’s Robert for you: the harmless guy that happens to be adored and cared for by every woman out there because he is just that type of guy.

And so when I saw a post commenting on this quote:

If your attentions to any married women here were ever offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not be the gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to associate with the wives and daughters of the people who trust you" (pg 46)


and describing it as the woman demonstrating her jealousy towards Robert’s affections towards Edna and protecting him, I couldn’t help but disagree.

What I think of as I read this passage is not jealousy or protectiveness. What I see is a woman speak matter-of-factly about the truth of who Robert is. She is explaining to him that the only reason men let him engage in conversation with their wives or spend so much time with them, in spite of his palpable charm and unmistakable affableness is the fact that he is unaware of it all.

He may be appealing and charismatic, but he doesn’t act that way with the purpose of obtaining the women’s hearts. He doesn’t exploit his social talents by even thinking of getting one of those few females to fall in love with them.

He just happens to be that way, and that’s what makes him harmless and less of a threat. That is why said husbands let their wives hang around him with no second thought.

That is why he is viewed as a gentlemen and not some playboy extraordinaire that preys on married women.

So this is not Ratignolle expressing jealousy as much as she is stating a warning.

She does care about him, and that is why she is cautioning him to not overstep his “niceties” in regards to Mrs. Pontelliers, because, according to her, they seem to be approaching another level of amiability.

A friendly warning.

That’s just it.

Don't Lean on Me, Fool

We lean on something when we know we need some sort of assistance.

Like when I was climbing Machu Picchu with the sweat pouring down my body and the height suffocating my lungs and the pain searing my legs. When I felt so hopeless and lacking upkeep from myself that I turned to falling in a hopeless pile of burning muscles and annoyed thoughts onto a rock.

To gain support.

And in the same way that when I feel like a batch of pent-up emotions and a quivering mess because the day has all but shot me down, I turn to my mom just because her advice and her presence makes me feel balanced.

We lean on certain things when we know we can’t manage on our own.

And, I mean, it’s fine every once in a while, when times get tough, to admit defeat and admit we need help. But needing support every single day? Living life depending on someone to get us by?

“The Pontelliers and the Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon the arms of their husbands.”

These women wander through life perpetually leaning on their husbands, as if rendering themselves dependent on them to walk on their two God-given legs.

These women meander through life accepting the fact that they need a man in order to get by.

Kate Chopin isn’t just physically stating the slight weight the women displace on their husbands while walking a mere two feet. She is describing a society where women are not viewed as equal—even to themselves—and hang on to a good life by being permanently attached to a man.

Quite frankly, it’s sad.

It is after this that she tumbles into the ocean like child, a ‘feeling of exultation’ overtaking her “as if some power of significant import had been given her to control the working of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength….As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself.”

It is after, for some random instant, she decided to throw herself into the water, careless and oblivious and free, that she manages to awaken to control over herself, while she’s in the water. She reached out for something, for a dream, for a hope, in which to lose herself and find herself.

And it is after she has been in the ocean that “She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly.”

It is after she has meandered into the ocean, the sea of awakening that helps her delve into herself and reach control, that she walks back out and doesn’t seem to lean on Mr. Pontellier, doesn’t recognize the need to find support in his presence, the need to depend on him in order to get on through life.

It is with the sea that she acknowledges, unconsciously, the fact that she does not need to depend on a man.

Which makes me think of a sea that would make government workers acknowledge the lack of need for war and careless civilians the necessity of recycling all the while rendering rapists and serial killers enlightened as to the dreadfulness and pointlessness of their current actions.

But that will be the day.

"What Are You Thinking About?"..."Nothing." Oh. Everyone Thinks About The Same Thing These Days.

It’s funny how every thing we do in life becomes so routine that we barely even think about it.

Someone randomly asks you, “What are you thinking about?” and it is a mechanical reflex to respond, “Nothing.”

Because, of course, we make it a daily habit to practice Buddhism and drift into peace with the Earth while we meditate and raise our bodies into a sea of gravity-less thoughtlessness.

Or maybe it’s just natural that since we have such hollow skulls that obtain no deep thoughts or brain cells whatsoever, we just can’t manage to think.

And so when we answer, “Nothing,” we are speaking the truth.

Right?

Wrong.

Neither of those are true. And if the latter is, well… I wish you the best in life.

You’ll need it.

Kate Chopin questions this every day occurrence when Adele asks Mrs. Pontellier what she’s thinking as they stare out into the sea on the beach—yet again—and Mrs. Pontellier says, “Nothing.” Only to be followed by “How stupid! But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively to such a question.”

And then she goes on to explain—in quite great detail—just what it is she is thinking of:

“ First of all, the sight of the water stretching so far away, those motionless sails against the blue sky, made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit and look at. The hot wind beating in my face made me think—without any connection that I can trace---of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow that seemed as if as the ocean to the very little girl walking through the grass, which was higher than her waist. She threw out her arms as if swimming when she walked, beating the tall grass as one strikes out in the water. Oh, I see the connection now!”

Ladies and gentlemen, please say hello to the direct heir to the kingdom of Plato and Aristotle.

She starts out by declining in mentioning one little thought and then she bursts into an inspirational description of her ever-profound feelings and their intellectual meanings?

Yeah. Okay.

When I walk down the Bogota streets and I feel the wind and the gray clouds above me I think of a day in New York where I was engulfed in a sea of graffiti that felt like being clasped in between an ocean of landscapes and so I stood still, taking it all in, in the same fashion one takes in a magnificent view of snow-covered mountains.

Psh. Happens all the time.

But I can’t deny the fact that Kate Chopin has a way with words. Just this chapter in itself has brought some paragraphs that merely describe a scene or a feeling, like all other paragraphs in all other types of novels, and yet the way she mends her words and crowns the imagery is just lovely.

Did I just say lovely?

I believe I did.

How tastelessly colonial of me.

Oh well.

But lovely, it is. The way you picture a girl walking through a green abyss of shoulder-high grass, delving her hands in front of her as if swimming breaststroke, carving a path through the field like she would were she swimming in the ocean. Almost as if she’s winding a path to somewhere, her path before her unknown, full of mystery and yet exhilarating at the same time.

Like life.

She then goes on to say, “ I could only see the stretch of green before me, and I felt as I must walk on forever, without coming to the end of it. I don’t remember whether I was frightened or pleased. I must have been entertained.”

She describes a goal, an objective, a purpose that one has and yet seems so intangible and almost nonexistent from a certain vantage point. And maybe it seems like such an intricate and unmanageable target, having the road filled with obstacles that make it even less clear and more like an unsolvable puzzle. But while she feels frightened she remembers also a feeling of pleasure. As if the mystery and the ambiguity of it all may come as nerve wrecking but at the same time exhilarating and drenched in fulfillment in knowing you’re doing something to reach a certain goal.
Sometimes that summer she felt as if she were walking “idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided.”

She’s walking through life aimlessly, and even though prior chapters seem to have captured a glimpse into an event where she delves to find more about her self, she has yet to truly understand just who she is, and just where it is she wants to go.

The Voice of the Sea

Someone please enlighten me as to who I am.

Because I have no clue. And neither do you.

And now we proceed to reveal to you just how exactly it is your body came to have your soul plowed from its fleshed encasing so it could serve as a warm-blooded haven to the residents of Mars.

Suspense.

No. Seriously.

Fine.

I have no clue who I am and neither do you because all we know about ourselves is what we are not and what we don’t want. We have absolutely no idea what we do want to happen to us or how to describe ourselves in detail.

If you’re normal, that is.

We have theories for our existence and we have goals. But rarely do we have some sort of epiphany as to our purpose and our presence in this slowly turning earth while it tilts on its axis.

Very rarely do we have epiphanies like that of Edna Pontellier. Moments of wisdom where we catch a glimpse of what our purpose is exactly:

“ In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a ponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of twenty-eight--- perhaps more wisdom that the Holy Ghost is usually pleased to vouchsafe to any woman.”

So here we have Edna finally identifying herself as an individual in this men-clad world. God-knows what Kate Chopin means by her ‘position’ or her ‘relations’ seeing as she doesn’t explore that topic with much detail, but here we see a reference to the title. “The Awakening.” It makes you think of enlightenment and a burst of thought and newfound realization, which in turn leads us to Edna’s emerging knowledge of just who she wants to be and what her purpose is.

The part that aggravates me is how the narrator describes “more wisdom that the Holy Ghost is usually pleased to vouchsafe to any woman.” Notice how it doesn’t say the general ‘man’ which accounts for all people. It specifically says that just the thought of giving any amount of wisdom to a women is an act that would make the Holy Ghost cringe. Here again we have the sexist approach to the world. Here again we have a society where the thought of females acquiring any wisdom is a virtually intangible concept that surpasses our comprehension.

Well.

Chopin moves on to describe the beginning of anything—most specifically the world--- as being “vague, chaotic, tangled, and exceedingly disturbing.” And goes on to state how few of us ever emerge from such a beginning and how “many souls perish in its tumult.”

But if Chopin were just talking about the world, the few of us who emerge would be the few who manage to surpass its hardship and not die in its uproar, if not eventually. Basically, the very few people who make something of themselves in this life despite the obstacles. But the beginning can also be the start of many different things. It can even be the commencement of a type of Awakening. It can be the difficulty that borders the beginning of a life when having come across enlightenment and a new perspective on which road to take. The beginning of life, the beginning of dealing with a decision, the beginning of Edna having come across a new meaning of life and making something out of it.

And then comes the sea.

Again comes the voice of the sea with its never-resting whispers, its clamoring, murmuring, “inviting the soul to wander in an abyss of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of contemplation.”

From the moment I read of the sea having a voice I immediately noted the detail. Because the sea is something that is so bold and intrepid in its vastness and beauty, and it is as exquisite when calm and glittering as when tumultuous and crashing. The sea is a beautiful creature that is moving in both of the senses. Not just the water molecules that drift from one shore to the other, but moving in the sense that its presence can generate peace, or feed anger. It is a very sentient entity that moves us.

It is a voice so powerful that lets the soul relax in peace and solitude and observe the world around them. It is a sort of escape. It is the means by which Edna drifts away for a while, both physically and mentally.

Which is why she can’t turn down Robert’s offer to go to the beach.

“The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.”

The ocean connects the world. It connects cultures and ergo binds knowledge. In a way, the sea is a metaphor for Edna’s contemplation and learning as well as her becoming a little more intelligent in her daily life.

I can’t help but take a look at the quote on the back cover of the book, “She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before,” and ponder this theory. The ocean is the means of enlightenment and of uncovering one’s true self and soul. If Mrs. Pontellier says she wants to swim out far where no woman has ever been, she is using the ocean as a way to say that she wants to reach enlightenment, to reach all of herself and all that she can be, to find a purpose for a role that has been oppressed by a male-ruled society. And, in this way, swim far out to “The Awakening.”

Oppression: Emotions and Men

Sometimes emotions engulf us and we have no other option except to lie there and take it.

Our moods vary and events mark us and scar us.

And yet most of the times it’s extremely hard to give a detailed description of just what it is exactly we’re feeling.

Kate Chopin manages to so avidly capture Mrs. Pontellier’s mood after having an adverse encounter with her adoring husband.

Chopin describes her mood as being:

“An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was
like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul’s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself.”

It’s safe to say strong emotion, especially when that of sadness and suffering, is generally accompanied by a tightening in your throat as your chest constricts and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness surrounds you. Chopin describes an ‘indescribable oppression’ with only those few words directing her thoughts to an almost cruel and repressing entity dominating her consciousness, her soul, and her whole body with anguish.

One would assume that this oppression is the emotion that harbors down on her rendering her a weeping mess. But that same oppression also signifies her husband. It signifies men. It indicates the males that run society and take advantage of women all the while they disregard them and hold them down on a pedestal that’s been crushed to the wooden floor. She is conscious of the tyranny she is subjugated to in a world where women are expected to do certain things and frowned upon when failing at completing them or reaching certain expectations.

She describes this knowledge as being stored in an unfamiliar part of her consciousness because she rarely ever uses said part of her awareness. Because while women may try to act all blasé and indifferent to the injustices that surround them daily, there’s still a part of them deep down that understands just what it is that is happening. And seeing how Grand Isle is a summer holiday resort, when she describes that sense of oppression as “a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul’s summer day” it’s almost ironic in the sense that in the present setting, it’s always summer. Which, apart from the obvious being that it’s existence takes away the happiest of her days and tints them with its being, the fact that it is always summer signifies a shadow that is constantly there. It is a daily oppression.

It turns out to be a mood. Or at least that’s what Kate Chopin says.

Something about Edna Pontellier that strikes me as refreshing in that point is that she admits to being in a mood, and formerly describes the cause as her husband. And yet she does not ensue to reproach her husband in brooding thoughts, or curse Fate for guiding her towards this inevitable path.

“She was just having a good cry all to herself”.

It’s funny how most of the times we cry or feel hurt, we think of the people or the events that hurt us and we sort of curse them out and blame them for our current pity-party.

So Edna admits fully to the whole cause of her salty tears, and yet doesn't lower herself to the former and pin-point her husbands faults, accepting the fact that she is sad, and that thinking negatively or gathering up fury won’t help. So she just cries.

And that’s admirable.

Shed Tears and Twisted Optimism

Maybe it’s just me, but when I happen to come across a male who looks at his wife as if she’s “personal property that has suffered some damage,” I can’t help but question the guy’s existence and its obvious pummel on humanity’s perfect reputation.

Ha. Humanity. Perfect.

Well. That was funny.

Yes, he does happen to see her as valuable property so I guess that redeems his otherwise sexist thought.

Not.

I am on page 15 and I already dislike Pontellier.

I am on page 15 and I can already tell that this novel will deal with the feminist issue of women’s role and how they are regarded by men and society, if acknowledged at all.

And the other men aren’t all too lovable either. Maybe Robert has an endearing sort of essence to him, but for some reason, when it is said that he “talked a good deal about himself” when having a conversation with Ms. Pontellier, I got the annoying vision of those self-absorbed and laughable men who share diatribes of their pointless lives without caring for anyone else’s thoughts.

In other words, I was fairly put down.

But this act is justified by him being “young” and “not knowing any better.” So I wonder just who exactly this guy is and why he is always hanging around with Ms. Pontellier, and just what is going on with that little friendship.

But that is for another day.

Hopefully.

What truly stood out to me was Mr. Pontellier’s audacity when he saw his kid had a fever and so decided that the thing to do was to waltz back into his room, pick a cigar, and inhale those putrid fumes while announcing to his wife said fact.

At her lack of response—or her cavalier one—he gets considerably ruffled and reproaches her inattention and her knack for “neglecting her children.”

Yes. Because it is perfectly attentive of him to smoke back a cigar while his kid is supposedly burning a fever. If he cares as much as he leads us to believe, then one would expect him to take action himself.

But he just complains of his wife’s faults and carelessness while proceeding to act like an arrogant prick.

I can feel the love.

And so does she when she resorts to crying her heart out surrounded by the “everlasting voice of the sea.”

I’ve never heard anyone describe the sea like that. I’ve heard of ‘the rustle of the sea.’ Maybe even the ‘serenade of the waves crashing onto the shore.’ But never have I heard anyone give the sea such an importance, and such a presence as to have its own voice.

Almost as if the sea is a being and actually has a way to passage its power and glory by having it possess a way to express itself.

It’s as if she can relate to the tinted blue and almost melancholy feel of the sea.

It’s as she’s crying that she wonders why it is she is producing tears for such a trite manner as said uncommon experiences in her married life, “seemed never before to have weighted much against the abundance of her husband’s kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood.”

So therein lies the fact that these tirades of complete ass-ness are reoccurring in her married life. But in her society, the good actions and declarations of love and proof of trust are enough to compensate for a man’s wrongdoings. And maybe this is an open perspective when looking at forgiveness. Maybe one very huge and disparaging mistake can be accounted for by a whole day of good deeds.

Maybe being a supercilious and antagonizing teenager every once in a while can be excused by the usual days of being relatively mild-mannered when interacting with one’s parents.

But for some reason, that mindset seems a little twisted in the current situation. Everyone has their bad days and their good days. But when the bad days are more frequent and tainted by harsh remarks of sailing hits to one’s heart, how can the mere thought of the person’s heartfelt acts two years ago excuse that?

It seems as if Mrs. Pontellier makes a point of justifying her husband’s actions and lessening their ability to hurt by comparing it to his overall kindness.

And here we see that Mr. Pontellier makes it a habit to make his wife feel this way, but given the general sense of love he directs her way, she lessens the potency of it all.
She rationalizes it all to be due to certain outside forces because her dear husband is a good guy deep inside.

Because maybe sometimes its just better to be optimistic.