I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!

"Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being." - Catherine Earnshaw

It would be impossible to discuss Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights without discussing romance. In one of the strongest and yet most atypical romances in all of literature, Bronte's characters, Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, begin, cultivate, and essentially kill a love affair far from the standards of a classically acceptable relationship. Catherine, a headstrong and self conscious woman, born into mediocrity yet altered until she fit the demands of good society, seems the direct opposite of the darkened outcast known as Heathcliff. Though the greatest friends throughout their adolescence, the two were eventually divided - for why should a lower class adopted orphan boy be the mate of such a pretty young girl destined for upper class greatness? And thus, the story unfolds as a force stronger than any other brings the two together despite Catherine's marriage to another man, despite Heathcliff's destestable cruelty, and finally, despite the death of his love and his soul.

The rest of the book unfolds around this impossible romance. In her wake, Catherine leaves a disconsolate husband, a heartbroken Heathcliff (if he did indeed, ever have a heart), and a beautiful daughter, the mirror image of her blonde curls and stubborn intuition. As Heathcliff schemes and Catherine builds her own fate, the frame narrator of the story (a man living in the house across from Heathcliff's Wuthering Heights who hears the tale of the broken family through an old maid) begins to see the true ruins left behind by the affair, the marriages, and the omnipresent sense of happenings that never should have happened.

The novel is in itself, a whirlwind of activity. Bronte leads the reader down several paths in every chapter: hope, disappointment, impatience, excitement. I couldn't have picked a better novel.

There is No Happiness Where There are No Morals

Though perhaps laden with good intentions, King Creon only proves himself repetitively to be a character of unsound moral and emotional judgment. Undeniably, Creon is a good ruler, in the lawful sense. Throughout the play, he demonstrates this positive role of leadership through several different progressive actions. An example perhaps most commendable is his ability to create laws and jurisdictions and stick to them for the apparent good of the state. After announcing his newly formed law that “Polyneices… is to have no burial” as a symbolic act representing Creon’s loyalty to what he believes is best for the state , he refuses to deter from it, even as it is broken by Antigone, even as his son Haimon fights against it with all his reason, and even after the people of the state ask him to step down from his resolution. Such attributes of determination and passion for the benefit of the state shine through as inarguable evidence that Creon reigns true to his title as king, strictly in the logistical and political sense of the word. However, his unwavering determination acts as both his claim to the throne as well as his immense downfall. In refusing to relent upon his law, Creon only solidifies his moral inadequacy, one which was entirely shattered within his first decree. This is because the law itself was made not out of moral reason or logic, but rather out of an immature need for revenge and punishment, one that crossed both the gods’ will as well as the morals of his son and Antigone. And thus, in tangible proof of Creon’s wrong decision, he is punished. He is punished by the death of Antigone and the suicide of his son, and punished lastly with the words of Choragos: “There is no happiness where there is no wisdom, no wisdom but in submission to the gods. Big words and always punished, and proud men in old age learn to be wise.”

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