The Conditioning of Losing

Imagine, just for a moment, a tube of lipstick. It sits, a silver bullet in the darkness of a closed drawer, abandoned and forgotten. Surrounding its shell filled with ruby cream, lays an assortment of odds and ends. A hairbrush, a compact mirror, maybe even an antique family watch.

The lipstick print was bright red on the white coffee cup. She glanced at the clock – it had been an hour already, and still she sat, legs crossed, eyes blank, fingers strangling her paper receipt. Suddenly, a busboy appeared. Her expression changed in the twitch of a second hand. Would she like anything else? The woman beamed at the young boy, shaking her head no. As though recalling the time, she reached for her purse and felt for her lipstick. She struggled for a moment, frustrated with the idea of being unable to reapply her make up, but then gave up and left the café, losing her print on the cup to the busboy and the last dregs of coffee within.

On a shining granite countertop sits a shining set of keys. They wait, rather dejectedly, on the little island in the middle of an unorganized kitchen. When the sun hits them, they sparkle.

While walking hurridly through the streets, she began to dig through her bag, until she stopped and sighed in exasperation. A stranger passed and asked if she was alright. Again the smile, the bright eyes appearing where seconds ago there was dark. Its nothing, she said, its just I think I may have lost my keys again – her feigned laugh kissed the air – thank you though.

Now picture this: a picture frame. Instead of on its side, like the lipstick, or splayed out in the open, like the keys, the picture frame rests on its glass face. It sits on the top shelf of a closet, up where even the dust doesn’t dare collect. Though if you were to look for it, all you would see was the black sheet of cardboard holding the picture in its place, I can tell you what’s underneath. The picture is of a man and a woman. The woman is laughing – as though at a wonderful joke – her lips, ruby red, and her eyes laughing as hard as her mouth. To her left, stands a man. His posture is relaxed and his eyes full of the easy confidence that comes naturally to a rare few. His hand rests on her waist, and her eyes rest on the world in his smile.

In the death rattle of her carefree laugh to this stranger, she saw him. Her him. Fluid and solid, strong and soft. He moved towards the stalling taxi cab as though he were meant to sit in its leather seats all along. His steps seemed soaked with confidence, the air left in his wake, saturated with ease. With each inaudible twitch of the ever-moving second hand on the antique watch in the closed drawer, her smile fell a fraction of an inch. The light in her eyes was extinguished like a candle, the smoke rising in the dark blankness of her face. His voice –it rang with the promise of a picture perfect joke - was the last thing she heard before the yellow metal door closed on her life. She stood on the sidewalk. Turning back to the now empty space once occupied by the stranger, she flipped on her composure with all the artificial quality of a cool electric light.

Hiding Behind His Title: From Both His Name and His Conscience

Though seemingly enveloped in a shroud of unique benevolence, it is upon deeper scrutiny that another side of the Magistrate’s dual personality becomes apparent. By use of the rather harsh Colonel Joll as foil to our narrator, J.M Coetzee first casts the Magistrate in a flattering light: when Joll demands the investigation of the old man and young boy caught as prisoners, the Magistrate begins to openly question the orders, thus simultaneously protecting the two as well as instantly separating himself from the “antagonist” Joll. Not only do we as readers behold this flout of political power in the name of justice, but we remain privy to the Magistrate’s thoughts as he himself realizes “I grow conscious that I am pleading for them.”
This concept of the Magistrate’s “good” versus Joll’s “evil” occurs several times throughout the book: when Joll tortures the prisoners, the Magistrate sneaks down to aid them. When Joll starts out to find more prisoners, the Magistrate does what he can to impede the journey. When Joll sends home the captive river people, the Magistrate grows openly angry at the injustice of it all and demands bread for the people. By drenching his character in both public geniality and personal intelligence (evident in the many sections concerning the Magistrate’s inner drive for answers and history, such as his excavation of the buildings in the desert), Coetzee effectively blindfolds the reader into feeling sympathy and pride for the Magistrate. However, this assessment is incorrect. Though perhaps not able to be rightfully called “evil”, the Magistrate proves himself to be no more than a coward on several occasions. He may begin his response to Joll’s injustices with apparent humanity and compassion, however as soon as the situation begins to get difficult, the Magistrate (who has “not asked for more than a quiet life in quiet times”) switches faces. The man who once risked his own safety and position to check on the tortured prisoners, does nothing more than temporarily help the young boy before leaving for his “military stew and his comfortable bed”. The man who once seemed to embrace the morality of taking in the innocent river people, only “flees for refugee to the furthest corner of [his] apartment” when sickness and misfortune hit. Instead of living up to his title as apparent protagonist, the Magistrate prefers to hide from the problem (just as he hides from the crying and coughing baby) and bury himself within his inner thoughts and self pity, behaving as though the moral strife that comes with his position is not, in fact, his responsibility, nor his concern, rather, was thrust upon him as a cruel fate for after all, he “did not mean to get embroiled in this.” What is the purpose of creating such a flawed narrator? Is the Magistrate any better than Joll?

1902 Encyclopaedia Britannica

*Article from the Encyclopedia Britannica that details the state of informed public opinion about the Congo (one of the largest political divisions of Equatorial Africa) the year “Heart of Darkness” appeared in book form
*Breaks down the history of the Congo in terms of history, physical features, population, stations, constitution, judicial machinery, religion, finance, defense, land, minerals, animal products, agriculture, industries, commerce, communications, waterways, and shipping
*The political history states that in the General Act, the deliberations following the International Conference at Berlin, the Congo was given a list of provisions concerning the relationship between it and Europe under King Leopold, trade monopolies, and the civilization of the natives
*The geographic information outlines the physical features, such as the various streams, rivers, and mountains. The climate varies only slightly year round, and violent storms wrack the area – points out that “Europeans are subject to the usual tropical diseases, and the country is not suited for European colonization”
*The European population at the end of 1886 was 254
*Mentions that “the native population are pagans, fetish worshippers, and on a very low plane of civilization” – mentions colonies set up to train 500 boys up to the age of 14 who are neglected, orphans, or rescued from slavery for the sole purpose of providing recruits for the armed forces of the State – “Missionaries have displayed great activity on the Congo”
*Trivializes agricultural feats: “Until the advent of Europeans the natives…did little more than cultivate small patches of land close to their villages”
*Focuses on the “splendid navigable waterways” of the Congo as the “most powerful instrument in the development of its resources”

A Parallel of Inferiority

An inflated sense of self-importance, a desperately skewed perception of reality, an intrinsic lack of the capacity to truly love another: though perhaps different in some aspects, the fundamental reason behind Mother and Jason’s intimacy lies not within what is independent of each, but rather, that which is held in common. Upon close evaluation of her character through both Quentin’s and especially Jason’s chapter, it is evident that Mother (along with all her selfishness and distorted opinions) is a woman within whose very core lays the fear of inferiority. This fear is interlaced within each of her “relationships” with both children and husband: Benji is her “punishment” from God, thus representing retribution for her “sins”, Quentin an undervalued stranger in her eyes, the embodiment of a true “Compson”, Caddy her catalyst to happiness and familial pride, and Jason, her husband, a man she feels is unrightfully superior to herself. However, Mother is not the only character whose primary concern seems to be combating (and often denying) this overwhelming sense of inferiority. As evidenced through his desperate need for public acceptance, unwavering desire for monetary accumulation, and twisted craving for every facet of control he could possibly obtain, Jason Compson serves as a mirror in which his mother’s potent reflection is exposed. The two share several negative attributes and it is this that ultimately binds them together tighter than they perhaps realize: their individual lack of inner competence is thus translated into a mutual bond that strengthens with every passing flicker of inferiority. What are Mother and Jason’s differences? Is there another explanation for their relationship?

Playing with Poison

"Faulkner's Use of Folklore in the Sound and the Fury" by Charles D. Peavy introduces a whole new insight into the famous piece of classic literature. By shifting focus from specific nuances of the plot line to a far more in depth observation about both the writing itself and various interests of the author, Peavy sheds a new light on the novel, one which otherwise would have likely gone unnoticed. Peavy points out the minute details almost hidden within The Sound and the Fury that deal with elements of classical folklore and support them with his own notions of Faulkner's apparent interest in the subject. He cites various instances in the author's biography which would support this notion, such as when Faulkner moved into the old Bailey home in Oxford Mississippi and soon after renamed it "Rowan Oak", based upon the folk belief that the Rowan tree is said to protect the inhabitants of a house from various forms of evil. Peavy goes on to say that Faulkner later attempted to grow a Rowan tree on his property, however, he was not successful.
With this brief account of the existence of folklore within Faulkner's personal thoughts and life, Peavy begins to build his argument. He states that the several details evident within The Sound and the Fury are not simply random additions to the text, but instead, placed there purposely to represent symbolic themes which are based off of folklore. The one that intrigued me most was the symbolic importance behind Benji's Jimson weed. Seemingly just a plant name selected randomly to describe the plant which Benji is given to play with time and time again, Peavy counteracts this notion and replaces it with a theory that makes Faulkner's selection of the weed name far most important. Peavy mentions the folk belief history behind the weed (often called a "stinkweed"): "The Jimson weed is quite common in the Arkansas-Louisiana-Mississippi area and has a multiplicity of meanings in the folklore in this region. A course, ill-scented annual plant, the Jimson weed is a member of the nightshade family, and is, of course, quite poisonous." Peavy then goes on to state that the plant is rumored to have poisoned and killed many children who came across its dangerous attributes, and thus, is it surprising that Benji would be allowed to play with such a hazard multiple times throughout the novel. Peavy explains that perhaps the reason Faulkner equipped Benji with so dangerous a poison is symbolic; once Caddy (who "smelled of tress") left his life, all that was left behind was the stench of the stinkweed.
I found this article interesting because it replaces the previously unnoticed with a far more in depth outlook upon Faulkner's writing, one that without Peavy, may have remained hidden within the pages of complex text forever.

• Faulkner's Use of Folklore in The Sound and the Fury
• Charles D. Peavy
• The Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 79, No. 313 (Jul. - Sep., 1966), pp. 437-447
  (article consists of 11 pages)
• Published by: American Folklore Society
• Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/537508

Through the Looking Glass

In order to truly understand the intrinsic (and somewhat neurotic) qualities of Faulkner's Quentin Compson, one must pay special attention to the unmistakable parallelism between Quentin and Benjy. On the most superficial level, their similarities are obvious: both share many of the same memories, both may be classified as reliable narrators based on their rather objective recollections, and both share the same disjointed and chaotic thought process. However, on a deeper level, the brothers mirror each other in two essential ways. The first is a strong, somewhat atypical devotion to their sister, Caddy. Benjy expresses his devout "worship" of Caddy through his inherent reliance upon her throughout virtually every stage of his life. Even at the age of thirty three, Benjy's necessity for Caddy remains, as evidenced in his physical reaction when just her name is mentioned. Quentin's devotion to his sister is also supported continuously throughout the book: he serves as both her protector and confidante and his obsession to her is so prevalent that Quentin subconsciously relates almost every aspect of his existence to hers. Another parallel concerns the senses. It cannot be coincidental that throughout the first chapter of the book, Benjy repeatedly utilizes every sense he has control over to express his surroundings. From the scent of Caddy ("Caddy smelled like trees") to the feel of her "chest going", Benjy compensates for his muteness by relying heavily on his other, more sharpened senses. However, this habit of comprehension through the senses is not unique to Benjy's character; Quentin shares the trait several times throughout chapter two. The language of sensing their external environment through all ways but speech is almost shockingly similar: on page eighty one, Quentin describes Caddy's wedding through his emphasis on hearing "her heels then in the moonlight like a cloud" and later on page eighty nine, he focuses on his sense of smell when he says "I could smell water". This mirrored trait raises a question deeper than a shared method of expression: if Benjy utilizes his controlled senses to compensate for his physical lack of speech, what, psychologically, is Quentin compensating for? Why might Faulkner put such emphasis on the similarities between Quentin and Benjy?

Crazy about Strantzas

Not only have I found a handful of incredible short stories to choose from, but I have found a new favorite writer as well. The writing of Simon Strantzas embodies everything I look for in a story: beautiful language, detailed imagery, and captivating plot. Now add to that a dark, twisted sense of horror, and you have a short story by Strantzas. Before this assignment, I had never heard of the somewhat morbid writer, but as soon as I happened upon it, I noticed a somewhat sinister vibe that is not unlike the writings of a certain Edgar Allen Poe. That was the deal cincher.
Strantzas has quite the collection of short stories, several of which are bound together in two literary compilations: “Cold to the Touch” and “Beneath the Surface’. As though the titles weren’t entrancing enough, both covers depict a livid image (or in the case of “Cold to the Touch”, lack thereof) which define the word “eerie”. Though I almost wish I could spend weeks doing nothing but combing through his short story collections (and quite frankly, I might), I’ve narrowed my choice down to four stories: “Behind Glass”, “Something New”, “Dinner at the Factory”, and “Pinholes in Black Muslin”. I am unequivocally thrilled by and in love with all four.