"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.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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.”
Thursday, January 14, 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)