I think the next three movies that are in my que are John Huston movies. I'm leaning toward him as my favorite American Director. He's slightly ahead of Wes Anderson, who loses simply because he hasn't filmed as many movies as Huston; on a side note it is of note that Anderson uses Angelica Huston in his movies. The Darjeeling Limited was great. I feel almost as good about it as the Royal Tenenbaums. Well, that might be pushing it. But I do want to see it again. I also love Sofia Coppola's work, but she too has yet to put even five films under her belt. I really loved Marie Antionette. But when I browse through Huston's titles, I can't believe I never made the connection.
The African Queen
Chinatown
The Maltese Falcon
The Misfits
The Man Who Would Be King
Moby Dick
The Night of the Igauna
I really like what Houston was able to pull from Bogart, Ava Gardener, and Gregory Peck. I never thought I could get emotional about anything that Clark Gable does, but his performance in The Misfits disturbed me for days. Although many may feel that Bogart's performance in Casablanca was his finest, but I really remember his best for African Queen. I dont think that I'm an expert -- I just love movies, and the image of a cranky Bogie floating down a river, love-hating Katherine Hepburn sticks. I think the emotion in that movie seriously rivals that of Rick in Casablanca. The first time I saw Iguana I couldn't believe the issues that were raised in this film -- until I realised that it was a Willams play. This of course leads me to a conclusion I came to a while ago, that I also love Elia Kazan, who is responsible for:
Streetcar Named Desire
On the Waterfront
East of Eden
Baby Doll
The Last Tycoon
I mean THAT is a list.
I think Hitchcock's list is also overwhelming. I love North By Northwest.
I found out that you can get a package on Netflix where you get like, 40 movies at a time. Hmm. Anything to get out of writing this novel. I was so enthused for National Novel Writing Month, and now I'm afraid I'm out of steam. Maybe watching some John Huston will inspire me to squeeze out some paragraphs.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
Spermcetti -- With Meatballs, Please
Actually, I'm not sure if Melville ever gets to whale meatballs, either as a dish or location. It is interesting, though, that the sperm whale is called such becuase of the vast amounts of spermaceti in its head, and they called it spermaceti, that is, sperm of the whale, because it was originally thought that it was whale sperm, or whale spawn, that is, eggs.
My point? Ha. Well, I have to say that Melville's work reads as a thoroughly provacative work discussing and laboring over male sexuality. I couldn't possibly be the first to have this reation, but the work does scream phallocentrism to me in the worst way. I don't know that Melville knows what his argument is. I know the interaction and descriptions of the interaction between Ishamel and Queequeg are so giggle worthy, but I don't think the whole reason for their closeness is to reveal male sexuality as played out between males so much as the capacity for males to have a closeness, but the dread or the threat of homosexuality that it arouses in the reader is Melville's trap -- like, see! I knew you would go there with your judgemental mind! It's hard to me to make sense of what I feel is an impression that Melville constantly sets you up to reveal how your reaction to the novel is precisely what is wrong with society. I don't know if I think that Ishmael and Queequeg's relationship is supposed to expose the sexual nature of men in a ranked order, free from the immediate influence of women, or if it's to show that Queequeg is someone to revere, not to abhor, for his "savage" nature. But the depictions of the whale hunt, and the conversations about the whale, and there seem to be so many phallic references, that the work becomes a sort of portrait of a man struggling with desire. I have only read Bartleby and only skimmed Benito Serino (sorry Blythe), and of course, per our drawn out banter about Bartleby, I think that where Hawthorne was obsessed with the outward manifestations and restrictions on desire, Melville appears to be drowning in desire, shaken by its very existence within himself. Perhaps Melville feared that his penis was the very matirix of his desire, and all subsequent actions were controlled by it. Ahab is maimed, and although it is a leg, we, okay, me, suggested that he lost his OTHER leg as well. The loss of his member has resulted in a quashed lust for life, he only thinks of the whale, his ability to enjoy life at all lost with his penis. The knowledge of this, and the search for meaning either within this notion or outside of this notion, makes Ishmael an outcast, and causes him existential pain.
It's the most sense I can make out of the novel as a whole.
My point? Ha. Well, I have to say that Melville's work reads as a thoroughly provacative work discussing and laboring over male sexuality. I couldn't possibly be the first to have this reation, but the work does scream phallocentrism to me in the worst way. I don't know that Melville knows what his argument is. I know the interaction and descriptions of the interaction between Ishamel and Queequeg are so giggle worthy, but I don't think the whole reason for their closeness is to reveal male sexuality as played out between males so much as the capacity for males to have a closeness, but the dread or the threat of homosexuality that it arouses in the reader is Melville's trap -- like, see! I knew you would go there with your judgemental mind! It's hard to me to make sense of what I feel is an impression that Melville constantly sets you up to reveal how your reaction to the novel is precisely what is wrong with society. I don't know if I think that Ishmael and Queequeg's relationship is supposed to expose the sexual nature of men in a ranked order, free from the immediate influence of women, or if it's to show that Queequeg is someone to revere, not to abhor, for his "savage" nature. But the depictions of the whale hunt, and the conversations about the whale, and there seem to be so many phallic references, that the work becomes a sort of portrait of a man struggling with desire. I have only read Bartleby and only skimmed Benito Serino (sorry Blythe), and of course, per our drawn out banter about Bartleby, I think that where Hawthorne was obsessed with the outward manifestations and restrictions on desire, Melville appears to be drowning in desire, shaken by its very existence within himself. Perhaps Melville feared that his penis was the very matirix of his desire, and all subsequent actions were controlled by it. Ahab is maimed, and although it is a leg, we, okay, me, suggested that he lost his OTHER leg as well. The loss of his member has resulted in a quashed lust for life, he only thinks of the whale, his ability to enjoy life at all lost with his penis. The knowledge of this, and the search for meaning either within this notion or outside of this notion, makes Ishmael an outcast, and causes him existential pain.
It's the most sense I can make out of the novel as a whole.
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Beginning of the End
Today I looked at the deadlines for Cal States, and the deadline for application for Cal State Long Beach was August 31. So. I applied at Cal State Dominguez Hills. I know I've been a little ambivalent about going to University, and it's true, I'm not really concerned where I get my Bachelor's from, truth be told, I really don't care. At least, if I wanted to go to Long Beach, it's not the end of things if I go to Dominguez Hills. At least they are accepting applications. I mean, should I really be more concerned with this? Isn't a BA kind of general thing to get? I can't afford to go a private University, simply because I can afford to, and I won't shell out all this money to learn the same material, just so the visiting speaker can be someone like the President of Iran and I get a ticket. I mean, if I really cared about things like that, I wouldn't be at Fullerton, right? And look what I would have missed. I would have missed out on all you fabulous people. Plus, I might be able to get my other degree there, African American studies, or they might call it Afro-Ethnic studies, at the same time. That would be great. And I may see if I can apply for the Fall 2008 term at Long Beach, and only go for one semester at Dominguez Hills. I'm not sure how that works, but I figure it might because it's all the same Cal State system.
So I applied. It's exciting, but scary. Since every semester at Fullerton got better and better, with this being my favorite so far, I'm sad to go. Of course I'll KIT, but there will be a closeness, an intamacy, that is lost. I've loved being a part of your lives, in moments so fleeting but ever meaningful. I've been one of thousands of faces for you, but you are part of a select few that I will remember forever.
So I applied. It's exciting, but scary. Since every semester at Fullerton got better and better, with this being my favorite so far, I'm sad to go. Of course I'll KIT, but there will be a closeness, an intamacy, that is lost. I've loved being a part of your lives, in moments so fleeting but ever meaningful. I've been one of thousands of faces for you, but you are part of a select few that I will remember forever.
Lars and the Real Girl
Ryan Gosling is kind of getting the Edward Norton treatment. "The best actor of our time..." "Plays sociopaths with great ease and delicate care..." I feel so bad for actors, good actors, when they get this kind of treatment from lazy journalists. The article I read most recently about Gosling was in GQ, and I almost gagged while reading it. I don't know what's happened to journalism and/or men's magazines. The article was crap: a drug out bio padded with flattery and meaningless details about the setting of the interview itself. The only part of the interview that was interesting was this fable Gosling wove about his ascent to success which invovled a "Move," a dance move which he started performing at seven which was highly sexual and hurtled him toward stardom. It was amusing, and played a great joke on his success, especially with The Notebook, which had/has women from all over creation dreaming about his sad eyes and true love, and probably wanting a piece of that action that had his love interest blurt after sex -- that was what I was missing this whole time? It was a nice movie, and I bawled like a baby, I admit, but that is all. Gosling's story about his overtly sexual "Move" was a slap in the face to this journalist who was drooling all over him as a wunderkind, giving him all sorts of inappropriate attention and acceptance. Yes, Gosling's done really well. I haven't seen The Believer yet, but it appears that Gosling did it justice. His turn in Half Nelson was really good. I recommend that movie to anyone who wants to make a difference in the world but feels trapped, not only by the mob of inactive and unthinking people in this country, but also by our own inadequacies and compulsions to both self-comfort and self-destruct. A pretty time worn idea for a film, but Gosling translates the script in a refreshingly modern way. But that's it. He's not a god. He's not finished with his body of work, so any reference to him being the best actor of our time is premature and stupid. This journalist was going along with everything Gosling was saying, everything about authenticity and how the media machine is not really desireable, and how rediculous celebrity is, while titalating the reader with what Gosling eats, how he eats it, what he says to the waitress, his angelic face, and how Gosling and the journalist hung out after the interview and sped off into the night together. I could have barfed, really.
But I'm not really sure what I want from an actor. What do I want him to talk about? The characters, I guess. The experience of acting. An analysis of character and film. But they aren't really experts, are they? They aren't analysts, they're actors. I'm still so dissatisfied with the interview. Maybe it's because I adore what Larry King said about interviewing -- that the interviewer should never say "I" at any point. The interview is NOT about the interviewer. Now with that said, I don't want to know what Gosling eats, unless it's relevant to a character or a film, or unless Gosling for some strange reason wants me to know. I don't want extensive commentary on where they eat, because I don't really care. I don't want this journalists impression of Gosling or the interview -- I just want the facts. I don't want a thick filter on what happened. And I don't want to know about some hack journalist and how he got to hang out with the celebrity. Aside from the facts about Gosling's life, the reader could have inserted any other young actor out there into this piece. That makes it really crappy journalism, if you ask me.
With that rant out of the way, I saw Lars and the Real Girl, which stars Ryan Gosling as an emotionally repressed young man unable to relate to people around him, even when he wants to do so. He buys a Real Doll, a silcone mold of a woman that is anatomically correct, and proceeds to present her to the world around him, his family and small town, as a living woman from Brazil, who is an orphan missionary, bound to a wheelchair. Of course some expected antics ensue, but basically after the town psychologist decides that Lars' delusion is harmless, everyone who cares for him goes along with it.
This film was really great. Gosling was superb. He wasn't charming or romantic or cute. He was tragic, and hopeful, and effective. The supporting cast worked. But Gosling's performance was the most moving and relateable.
There are moments in the film that were so wonderfully painful. In a scene where Lars takes Bianca to an office party, he ends up dancing with her (as many of the characters at the party are already well acquainted with Bianca, and have brought her out on the dance floor). He looks comical at first as the camera pans to Lars on the floor, music blaring, people close to him -- he is sawying back and forth with one hand in a loose fist and held up in a dance fashion, eyes screwed shut, but as the camera stays with the image, with Bianca hinted upon in the far right corner, you realise that this is very painful for Lars. Lars doesn't like loud music, it hurts his ears. Lars doesn't like people close to him, and avoids contact, because it hurts his skin. Lars sits in the back of the church, avoiding most conversation -- dancing in a crowd would be emotionally painful for him. But he LOVES Bianca, and is so HAPPY to be dancing WITH HER. The happiness he is experiencing is so painful, but he doesn't run from the pain, he embraces it, and by paying that price, he earns happiness. After you are done smiling at his goofy dance, you realise that he is growing, and you see how his delusion, however uncomfortable it makes us, is his vehicle to happiness. But that is cliche, is it not? Isn't this an age-old tale? Sure. But Gosling is so poignant and so believeable, the tale is fresh and emotion is stirred anew. Feeling Lars' pain is pivotal to this movie working, and it is the actor's repsonsibility to provide that communication, which Gosling does well.
This does not make me want to eat dinner with Gosling, or be his friend, or have rainy, drippy sex with him in a restored antebellum mansion. It makes me want to see him act more, again, for a long time. I would have liked to hear him comment on the complexity of the character, how he arrived at the physical charateristics of Lars, as the character is largely physical, and must have taken immense discipline to create. I would like to hear him comment on the experience of translating pain through a characters personality. I would like a little humanity -- these journalists are such schmucks, mucking up opportunity to bring some of the actor's true essence to a piece.
So go see Lars and the Real Girl, and don't read GQ.
But I'm not really sure what I want from an actor. What do I want him to talk about? The characters, I guess. The experience of acting. An analysis of character and film. But they aren't really experts, are they? They aren't analysts, they're actors. I'm still so dissatisfied with the interview. Maybe it's because I adore what Larry King said about interviewing -- that the interviewer should never say "I" at any point. The interview is NOT about the interviewer. Now with that said, I don't want to know what Gosling eats, unless it's relevant to a character or a film, or unless Gosling for some strange reason wants me to know. I don't want extensive commentary on where they eat, because I don't really care. I don't want this journalists impression of Gosling or the interview -- I just want the facts. I don't want a thick filter on what happened. And I don't want to know about some hack journalist and how he got to hang out with the celebrity. Aside from the facts about Gosling's life, the reader could have inserted any other young actor out there into this piece. That makes it really crappy journalism, if you ask me.
With that rant out of the way, I saw Lars and the Real Girl, which stars Ryan Gosling as an emotionally repressed young man unable to relate to people around him, even when he wants to do so. He buys a Real Doll, a silcone mold of a woman that is anatomically correct, and proceeds to present her to the world around him, his family and small town, as a living woman from Brazil, who is an orphan missionary, bound to a wheelchair. Of course some expected antics ensue, but basically after the town psychologist decides that Lars' delusion is harmless, everyone who cares for him goes along with it.
This film was really great. Gosling was superb. He wasn't charming or romantic or cute. He was tragic, and hopeful, and effective. The supporting cast worked. But Gosling's performance was the most moving and relateable.
There are moments in the film that were so wonderfully painful. In a scene where Lars takes Bianca to an office party, he ends up dancing with her (as many of the characters at the party are already well acquainted with Bianca, and have brought her out on the dance floor). He looks comical at first as the camera pans to Lars on the floor, music blaring, people close to him -- he is sawying back and forth with one hand in a loose fist and held up in a dance fashion, eyes screwed shut, but as the camera stays with the image, with Bianca hinted upon in the far right corner, you realise that this is very painful for Lars. Lars doesn't like loud music, it hurts his ears. Lars doesn't like people close to him, and avoids contact, because it hurts his skin. Lars sits in the back of the church, avoiding most conversation -- dancing in a crowd would be emotionally painful for him. But he LOVES Bianca, and is so HAPPY to be dancing WITH HER. The happiness he is experiencing is so painful, but he doesn't run from the pain, he embraces it, and by paying that price, he earns happiness. After you are done smiling at his goofy dance, you realise that he is growing, and you see how his delusion, however uncomfortable it makes us, is his vehicle to happiness. But that is cliche, is it not? Isn't this an age-old tale? Sure. But Gosling is so poignant and so believeable, the tale is fresh and emotion is stirred anew. Feeling Lars' pain is pivotal to this movie working, and it is the actor's repsonsibility to provide that communication, which Gosling does well.
This does not make me want to eat dinner with Gosling, or be his friend, or have rainy, drippy sex with him in a restored antebellum mansion. It makes me want to see him act more, again, for a long time. I would have liked to hear him comment on the complexity of the character, how he arrived at the physical charateristics of Lars, as the character is largely physical, and must have taken immense discipline to create. I would like to hear him comment on the experience of translating pain through a characters personality. I would like a little humanity -- these journalists are such schmucks, mucking up opportunity to bring some of the actor's true essence to a piece.
So go see Lars and the Real Girl, and don't read GQ.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
National Novel Writing Month
Last year, Brandon and I and quite a few others attempted to do this. We did it around February, but this time I think I will go with the Nation and write in November. I think you have to write like, three thousand words a day.
Last time, I didn't make the number, nor did I write a novel, per se. I wrote a lot, though, and I really cherish the pressure that the NaNoWriMo places upon my sensibilities. Who knows, at the end of this attempt I may have something to work with. I'm just such a reader. But this time I may also take someone else's idea and run with it. Not exactly original, but it's a start. It's not a truly original idea, anyway, so it's not that dishonest.
At the moment a magenta sun is setting into what looks like a grey dust sky. It's a little "The Morning After" looking. Fires are no good, but they are a fact of life. I always wonder, if I had three minutes to gather my things, what would I grab? Laptop, box of original writing, photos maybe. (this is after the cats, of course) But three minutes is not a lot of time. Losing your home in America is very serious. So much of our life is still so wrapped up in our homes, and even more so because we live in Southern California.
We start reading Moby Dick this week, children! I already read it half way, so I'm starting over with a pencil in hand. Plus, I'm drafting my paper for American Lit. Something about Dimmesdale and Chillingsworth being at least romantically if not sexually invollved with eachother, and this being why neither really wants Hester. I'm not sure what the arguement is yet, but I'm close.
Last time, I didn't make the number, nor did I write a novel, per se. I wrote a lot, though, and I really cherish the pressure that the NaNoWriMo places upon my sensibilities. Who knows, at the end of this attempt I may have something to work with. I'm just such a reader. But this time I may also take someone else's idea and run with it. Not exactly original, but it's a start. It's not a truly original idea, anyway, so it's not that dishonest.
At the moment a magenta sun is setting into what looks like a grey dust sky. It's a little "The Morning After" looking. Fires are no good, but they are a fact of life. I always wonder, if I had three minutes to gather my things, what would I grab? Laptop, box of original writing, photos maybe. (this is after the cats, of course) But three minutes is not a lot of time. Losing your home in America is very serious. So much of our life is still so wrapped up in our homes, and even more so because we live in Southern California.
We start reading Moby Dick this week, children! I already read it half way, so I'm starting over with a pencil in hand. Plus, I'm drafting my paper for American Lit. Something about Dimmesdale and Chillingsworth being at least romantically if not sexually invollved with eachother, and this being why neither really wants Hester. I'm not sure what the arguement is yet, but I'm close.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Crispin Glover was such a cute Bartleby.
I really like the story. I do. Yet, I'm puzzled, as I was/am with Hawthorne. I don't know what the author is really saying. I know that Melville did try to put a lot of his own personal "code" in his work -- and I think Hawthorne was also feeling out the notion of a "code" in Letter and Goodman Brown and the Minister's Veil. I think Melville's characters are better -- more fleshed out, more interesting in their self torture, and infinitely easier to identify with.
With Bartleby, it seems like Melville is toying with us. Does Bartleby really exist? Is he a metaphor for depression? Of course, almost all literature for me is about depression or psychosis or suicide. But I can't imagine that Bartleby is supposed to be real. And by real, I mean a character on par with Turkey, Ginger-Nut, or Nipper. Nipper is almost my favorite character in the book! I loved the descriptions of him trying to get his desk right, and his sudden jostling of it out of nowhere. I could almost feel that character in my veins. And if we are supposed to identify with the narrator, what does that say about us? (At least that is what Blythe asks.) What would we do with a guy like Bartleby? What do we do with a guy like him. What do I do? Well, if a certain unnamed young girl in our class who enunciates like it's a paying gig, and is, apparently, a Nazarite (at least from the waist down), reminds of Bartleby, well then, I suppose I react by looking at her a little sideways and asking, can this actually be authentic? See, Bartleby was authentic, a real original. I almost like him. The girl? We're a long ways from like.
I have to go back to the part in Bartleby where the narrator goes through his strange employee's desk. The most interesting part is where he is reaching into the far recesses of the desk. This imagery really reminded me of reaching into the far corners of the mind, and not understanding what you come up against.
Bartleby is sort of a hero. He stands his ground. He won't back down. All else that we know about him is what is projected onto him by the narrator. Is Bartleby really lonely? Is he really tortured? Is he even hungry? He is really never believed, nor accepted for who he is. He is not exactly an outcast, but he stands outside of society. He fits in, almost too well, so then he stands out, when he renegs on what makes him fit in. What if all of us just pulled a Bartleby and reneged on everything that makes us keep the machine running? What's so great about Bartleby is that he doesn't take the opposite position, or pursue another course, he just ceases to do what is asked of him, what he is used to doing. There is a passage on passive resistance, and maybe this is really Melville's whole point, that if more people would pull a Bartleby the whole capitalist system would crumble, and that we have more power in saying no stoically than in saying no holding a machine gun, which is really just a new kind of yes. Bartleby wins, doesn't he? Doesn't he get what he wants? I envy Bart, really. I also wish I could stick to his diet.
With Bartleby, it seems like Melville is toying with us. Does Bartleby really exist? Is he a metaphor for depression? Of course, almost all literature for me is about depression or psychosis or suicide. But I can't imagine that Bartleby is supposed to be real. And by real, I mean a character on par with Turkey, Ginger-Nut, or Nipper. Nipper is almost my favorite character in the book! I loved the descriptions of him trying to get his desk right, and his sudden jostling of it out of nowhere. I could almost feel that character in my veins. And if we are supposed to identify with the narrator, what does that say about us? (At least that is what Blythe asks.) What would we do with a guy like Bartleby? What do we do with a guy like him. What do I do? Well, if a certain unnamed young girl in our class who enunciates like it's a paying gig, and is, apparently, a Nazarite (at least from the waist down), reminds of Bartleby, well then, I suppose I react by looking at her a little sideways and asking, can this actually be authentic? See, Bartleby was authentic, a real original. I almost like him. The girl? We're a long ways from like.
I have to go back to the part in Bartleby where the narrator goes through his strange employee's desk. The most interesting part is where he is reaching into the far recesses of the desk. This imagery really reminded me of reaching into the far corners of the mind, and not understanding what you come up against.
Bartleby is sort of a hero. He stands his ground. He won't back down. All else that we know about him is what is projected onto him by the narrator. Is Bartleby really lonely? Is he really tortured? Is he even hungry? He is really never believed, nor accepted for who he is. He is not exactly an outcast, but he stands outside of society. He fits in, almost too well, so then he stands out, when he renegs on what makes him fit in. What if all of us just pulled a Bartleby and reneged on everything that makes us keep the machine running? What's so great about Bartleby is that he doesn't take the opposite position, or pursue another course, he just ceases to do what is asked of him, what he is used to doing. There is a passage on passive resistance, and maybe this is really Melville's whole point, that if more people would pull a Bartleby the whole capitalist system would crumble, and that we have more power in saying no stoically than in saying no holding a machine gun, which is really just a new kind of yes. Bartleby wins, doesn't he? Doesn't he get what he wants? I envy Bart, really. I also wish I could stick to his diet.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The Scarlet Letter
Of all the anthologies that I have utilized as a student of literature, none of the peices have been so scribbled on as The Scarlet Letter. Every page read so far has underlining and notes. This work is like zooming in on earth from outer space, finidng a planet, then finding a land mass, then a country, then a county, then a city, then a neighborhood, then a house, then a room, then a person, then a face, then a cheek, then a cell, then a molecule in a cell, and then an atom within a molecule. It's that general to personal, and it's that layered. The work says lots of things about lots of things. I'm almost convinced that this novel is the Winchester mansion of literature, all hidden passages and stairs leading up to nowhere, disjointed wings, and, of course, ghosts.
One of Hawthore's arguments in Letter seems to be that of history repeating. When he begins the Letter with a depiction of the prison door, he likens the door to any medieval prison door you are likely to find in England. It probably suffices to say that there are several references to the Old World in the Letter, and that Hawthorne noticed that the ideals of the New World found in historical documents were a source of endless irony in lieu of their practical outcome. This failure to truly change the nature of society by picking it up and plopping it down across an ocean was a great vehicle for Hawthorne -- especially since he was invovled in the failure of a Trancendentalist commune. I mean, those were some people with some IDEAS on how to live, and then couldn't make it happen, for whatever reasons, I'm not sure. I am pretty sure that Hawthorne watched everyone in that commune like the eagle he so pitilessly describes in the opening of the Custom House, just waiting for an opportunity to thrust a talon into someone's bubble and burst it mercilessly.
I think a nice, broad, counry-like assumption about Hawthorne is that he feels mankind is not a trustworthy creature. Everyone in the novel so far can only be relied on to look out for themselves and do whatever it takes to further their own interests. Well, maybe not Pearl. But I haven't read the whole novel, yet. Even the narrator seems to be laughing at us reading the novel so carefully the whole time. Obviously man is a creature of secrets, storytellers included. Hawthorne is so obsessed with secrets I was sure that he was a Mason. And with the Di Vinci Code still lingering in the outer edges of my short term memory, I keep seeing these references to Pearl as a Rose, and the smbol of a Rose, and I can't help but associate this book with the Magdalene and the sacred feminine.
Also, sometimes I begin to think that the infamous badge Hester wears is not there at all. That it is simply a metaphor for how enforcing the concept of sin makes a human being feel and how it affects their role in society. What if the letter is not there at all, but this is how Hester sees herself, and perhaps she is hiding the child? The town may see her as an outsider, but all of the extreme ostracizing is a figment of her imagination. For this could very well be how witches were created out of ordinary women; preach such abandonment from the pulpit, then the women in the audience could tranform into creatures totally aliented from God with a thriving hatred for society.
Of course the big bad men in authority are truly sadistics. The depiction of the governor's house, and it's strict adherence to the Old World's standards of status, made me think that just as the architecture and the armor, and the other luxuries of the house were there to comfort these men in the New World, the sin which they have so decorously lavished upon Hester is a form of luxury taken with them from the Old World -- what they are doing to Hester is a luxury, a comfort, to their souls.
Speaking of these Governor's and Ministers, there is a passage that I just can't get over. It is concerning "good olf Minister Wilson." This is when he examines Pearl to see whether or not she is being brought up religiously.
"The old minister seated himself in an arm-chair, and made an effort to draw Pearl betwixt his knees. But the child...escaped."
Does this sound perhaps a bit sexual? It is far more sexual than when the child goes to over to Dimmesdale and lays her cheek on his hand, and he kisses her brow. I can't get over the old minister taking the child between his legs. I mean, what else is there for man to have between his legs but, you know? I think it's highly provacative. But I might be jaded from the priest scandals. Still, it's as if they want the child in order to molest it.
Well, that's as far as I am in the novel, so the rest will have to wait.
One of Hawthore's arguments in Letter seems to be that of history repeating. When he begins the Letter with a depiction of the prison door, he likens the door to any medieval prison door you are likely to find in England. It probably suffices to say that there are several references to the Old World in the Letter, and that Hawthorne noticed that the ideals of the New World found in historical documents were a source of endless irony in lieu of their practical outcome. This failure to truly change the nature of society by picking it up and plopping it down across an ocean was a great vehicle for Hawthorne -- especially since he was invovled in the failure of a Trancendentalist commune. I mean, those were some people with some IDEAS on how to live, and then couldn't make it happen, for whatever reasons, I'm not sure. I am pretty sure that Hawthorne watched everyone in that commune like the eagle he so pitilessly describes in the opening of the Custom House, just waiting for an opportunity to thrust a talon into someone's bubble and burst it mercilessly.
I think a nice, broad, counry-like assumption about Hawthorne is that he feels mankind is not a trustworthy creature. Everyone in the novel so far can only be relied on to look out for themselves and do whatever it takes to further their own interests. Well, maybe not Pearl. But I haven't read the whole novel, yet. Even the narrator seems to be laughing at us reading the novel so carefully the whole time. Obviously man is a creature of secrets, storytellers included. Hawthorne is so obsessed with secrets I was sure that he was a Mason. And with the Di Vinci Code still lingering in the outer edges of my short term memory, I keep seeing these references to Pearl as a Rose, and the smbol of a Rose, and I can't help but associate this book with the Magdalene and the sacred feminine.
Also, sometimes I begin to think that the infamous badge Hester wears is not there at all. That it is simply a metaphor for how enforcing the concept of sin makes a human being feel and how it affects their role in society. What if the letter is not there at all, but this is how Hester sees herself, and perhaps she is hiding the child? The town may see her as an outsider, but all of the extreme ostracizing is a figment of her imagination. For this could very well be how witches were created out of ordinary women; preach such abandonment from the pulpit, then the women in the audience could tranform into creatures totally aliented from God with a thriving hatred for society.
Of course the big bad men in authority are truly sadistics. The depiction of the governor's house, and it's strict adherence to the Old World's standards of status, made me think that just as the architecture and the armor, and the other luxuries of the house were there to comfort these men in the New World, the sin which they have so decorously lavished upon Hester is a form of luxury taken with them from the Old World -- what they are doing to Hester is a luxury, a comfort, to their souls.
Speaking of these Governor's and Ministers, there is a passage that I just can't get over. It is concerning "good olf Minister Wilson." This is when he examines Pearl to see whether or not she is being brought up religiously.
"The old minister seated himself in an arm-chair, and made an effort to draw Pearl betwixt his knees. But the child...escaped."
Does this sound perhaps a bit sexual? It is far more sexual than when the child goes to over to Dimmesdale and lays her cheek on his hand, and he kisses her brow. I can't get over the old minister taking the child between his legs. I mean, what else is there for man to have between his legs but, you know? I think it's highly provacative. But I might be jaded from the priest scandals. Still, it's as if they want the child in order to molest it.
Well, that's as far as I am in the novel, so the rest will have to wait.
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