Buried in both praise and controversy since 1616, Shakespeare’s wishes on his gravestone have been ignored, for the man who hoped to spend his afterlife undisturbed has been the topic of conversation for hundreds of years since his death. Though we know it is important to study the works of Shakespeare, do we really know why we have been moving his bones against his wishes for the past 395 years? The reason cannot be that he possessed some kind of superior education or intelligence; Shakespeare was a brilliant writer, however he only attended school until the age of fifteen. I think the answer to why we study Shakespeare in English is actually obvious: he was an exceptional; writer. Someone does not need to be particularly intelligent (although great skill in writing does signify intelligence) or highly educated with expert degrees to be influential. Yes, it is true that his works are often probed with controversy. Some conspiracies even suggest that due to Queen Elizabeth’s commendable education and support of the arts, she could have been the penholder behind his masterpieces. These conspiracies, however, cannot be proven; therefore, we must go by what we have learned. It is important to study Shakespeare because of the way he illuminated London’s stages with the perfect combination of history, tragedy, and comedy. It could be said that his works influenced almost every film and story we know today. Where would the tragic failures of romances in today’s romantic comedies be without the comic relief? They would be nothing but depressing and would not even live up to their genre. Where would the substance of novels be if there was no history included to serve as a setting for the plotline? We study Shakespeare because he inspired a world of new possibilities in writing. Still, I wonder if we will continue to study Shakespeare in the decades to come. Will the greatness of his works fade, or will their impact remain immortal?
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Blog #5: The Path Forward
For me, 2011 is going to be the year of self-improvement. My resolutions for the New Year also include helping others and volunteering time to make the world a better place, however how can one benefit the rest of the world if they are not happy with themselves? Living up to the fastidious Leo stereotype, the standards I set for myself often stand higher than I can reach. When I do not meet my own expectations, high or low, I am always disappointed in myself. This year, rather than condemning myself on the occasions that my achievements do not reach my often unattainable merit, I will pat myself on the back and reward myself for doing my utmost. To do so, I will set more realistic and obtainable goals, and if my accomplishments surpass them then I will commend myself. If I do not meet those goals, I will not belabor my shortcoming. Instead, I will make note of my faults and learn from them.
My mother is fortunate enough that she does not have to work for a living. While she may not have a job in the corporate world, she is busier than any working mother I know. She lovingly cares for a family of three plus a dog, a large house, as well as her closest friends. In a sizable house, there are infinite jobs to be done from cleaning to laundry. This year, I am going to help my mom around the house that way she can have more time for herself. Compassionate, generous, and selfless, my mother deserves more time to relax and spend time taking care of herself. While I may not be able to pick up the cleaning and run errands, I can help to keep our home tidy. Always in a rush, I have a tendency to not leave things exactly how I find them. To make household chores easier, I will try harder to keep things in their place. I will also go more out of my way to do carry out facile tasks even when they are not asked of me such as taking out the trash when its full. I hope to make my mother’s life less stressful this year, because more than anyone else she deserves it.
There is no selfish deed more fulfilling than helping someone else. This year, I am going to donate more of my free time to helping others. Ideally, this would include joining a community service program. In the past, I have abstained from community service because I feared it would occupy too much time and would interfere with my schoolwork. Sticking to my first resolution of setting reasonable goals, I will begin helping others one step at a time. Consider the people in the world, even the people in our own communities that are not as fortunate as we. My first step to benefiting others will be cleaning out my closet. Holding onto a sweater that I never wear is not doing any good for myself or for anyone else. The possession that I value so little is of much more worth to someone who needs it. Simple actions like donating a bag of clothes, or making a meal for a struggling family can make such a difference. Even if I cannot devote limitless hours to a shelter, I can still make a positive impact. Through self-improvement and helping others, I am going to make 2011 a year fuller than any other.
Blog #4: Dark, Shocking, and Addicting
In “Clichés, Superficial Story-Telling, and the Dark Humor of Flannery O’Connor’s ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find’”, Robert C. Evans made me view O’Connor’s short story from a completely different perspective. Perhaps I was analyzing the story and characters with the incorrect viewpoint, for I did not place nearly as much significance in the use of clichés as Evans. Surprised by the gravity he placed on hackneyed aspects of the story, dialogue, and characters, I had not considered his point of view. Evans saw the purpose of the clichés and superficiality to be to contrast O’Connor’s writing. He then says that O’Connor’s use of dark humor is meant to be a contrast between her writing and the writing of others when saying, “One reason O’Connor employs this sort of shockingly black comedy is to make a clear contrast between her own kind of writing and the other, far more stale and predictable styles in which language generally tends to be used, especially in modern society” (Evans).
It is with Evans’ formerly stated opinion that I disagree. He makes it seems as if every writing style other than O’Connor’s dark, tragic humor is dry and unpredictable. Evans underestimates the power of language and speaks as if the only way to surprise an audience is through raw and sinister tragedy that shocks the reader like a devastating news broadcast. On the contrary, when used in the manner of authors such as Emily Brontë, language can make an impact without the use of graphic and specific description. Language has the potential to allure and surprise when applied vaguely, therefore Flannery O’Connor’s approach is not the only way to shock readers. I do, however, agree that O’Connor “uses her special brand of dark humor to shake her readers awake and keep them alert” (Evans). The bland and superficial characters do contrast well with the blatant and abominable Misfit and his startling deeds. Just as Evans discusses, “A Good Man is Hard to Find” begins as a series of predictable events, however progresses into a scandalous string of completely unforeseen occurrences.
Blog #3: The French Do It Right
The French, or rather Europeans in general, live their lives with a sense of pleasure and joie de vivre that the average American lacks. The typical American family fastidiously plots their departure for vacation like the VonTrapp family plots their escape from Austria in The Sound of Music. The French, on the other hand, have a more hedonistic approach. A travel day for them is regarded with blithe anticipation and is filled with stops in the country to enjoy meals en famille and sojourns at landmarks along the way. In August of 2010, my family decided to take on the European method of travel as we journeyed from Paris to the medieval walled city of Carcassonne, France. The “road rip” was preceded by a sleep undisturbed by alarm clocks, followed by a leisurely breakfast, and finally one last scenic stroll through city. There was neither a wake-up call meant to galvanize us at the ungodly hours of the morning nor a brown-bagged breakfast or bagel on the go. The car ride itself was not nearly as pleasant.
The scenery of the French countryside was so ravishing that not even the works of Claude Monet in the Louvre could have depicted it properly. Unfortunately, our rental car, a four-door Peugeot, was about two sizes too small for our eight pieces of modest-sized luggage. To make matters more unbearable, the backseat was damp and smelled of must; this was an indication of someone having left the windows of the car open in the rain and the rental company neglecting to clean it. Despite the car’s shortcomings, the trip was to be made as enjoyable as possible, and therefore the hotel bid us au revoir with a parting gift of fluffy, crème brulée-colored towels. I took the front seat for the following six hours while my mom dozed in the back. My dad and I laughed at our French GPS as she mispronounced English words like “intersection”. By nine o’clock at night, our walled destination was in sight. As our compact car rolled through the front entrance, we were presented with ironically, an intersection. A scrawny, tanned man in a striped shirt sat lazily where the two roads met; we believe he was meant to be the night guard. In a mixture of French and English, we communicated that we were headed to the Hôtel de la Cité. Teetering on his leather shoes, the man insisted that we could follow either road to arrive at our destination and eventually directed us to bear left. About five minutes in, the road turned into a dirt path too narrow to turn around in. Out the right window, the ancient wall surrounding the city was close enough to touch. To the left was a staggering cliff, gravel and stones chipping off as our car eased its way forward. Eventually we reached a fork in the road, however one leg was a set of stairs and the other a steep, blocked path. A group of men and women casually walked out of the walls and down the stairs, only to find themselves face-to-face with the frightened Americans attempting to back up. With the directing of the laughing French, who praised us, “Now you can drive anywhere in France,” we managed to turn the car around and made our way back to the intersection where we then turned right.
While we had triumphantly entered the city’s walls, the journey was not over yet. Navigating the walled-city proved to be a challenge as well. All the roads were extremely narrow, making near collisions a common feat. Sooner or later, two cars meet headlight-to-headlight and someone needs to take the initiative to back up. When this situation arose, it was eleven o’clock, and we were not turning around. The stubborn man in front of us seemed to have the same idea, for when my dad shook his head, signifying that we would not be going anywhere but forward, he shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette. Like a knight in shining armor, the hotel concierge arrived to our rescue, flashing the two golden keys on his suit collar like la police flash their authoritative badges. We finally relaxed as he escorted us through Carcassonne’s maze of ancient stonewalls and breathed sighs of relief with the comforting knowledge that from that moment on, the vacation had begun.
Blog #2: Black Leather Shoes
There is nothing quite like buying the perfect pair of shoes. Some people feel exalted when they slip into a pair of five-inch stilettos; others drop to their knees at the first scent of brand new Italian leather. Unfortunately, no bliss can last forever, and eventually the idyll that one lives in with their new pair of shoes looses its luster. When this happens, the only extraordinary aspect of the shoes that remains are the memories they hold. Last summer, my best-loved black leather flats took me on a journey.
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder and I can personally relate; my closest friends live thousands of miles across the Atlantic Ocean in Italy and London. Once a year we meet in the enchanting town of Bellagio, Italy, where we fill ourselves will memories to last until we return again. It was fortunate that my ballet flats were already worn-in by the time we had arrived, or else I may have been reluctant to wear them on the uneven cobblestone streets of Lake Como. Those shoes took me up and down every stairway, alleyway, and town square of our treasured Italian village. I can still remember the sound they made as I ran through the sand to reunite with my best friend after a long winter separated. On a particularly rainy afternoon, the shoes sailed me through the puddles and into a local coffee shop called Bar Sport, where my girls and me spent hours laughing, reveling, and savoring our moments together.
As I look down at my worn leather shoes, I see that their once glossy, lustrous red soles have lost their color. I do not reflect longingly on the days when they were brand new, but I do reminisce on the memories they hold in their fraying stitches. It was not so long ago that my toes were tapping under a table in Italy next to the equally excited feet of my best friends. Every day that I slip my black flats on, I smile and sometimes shed a tear when I recall my adventures in Italy with them. (Of course, it does not hurt that they are handcrafted Italian leather.)
Blog #1: Two Separate Worlds
In the article, “The Flags of Our Sons”, author Billy Shore shares an experience he had while traveling U.S. Airways from Boston to Washington. He, along with a handful of other passengers, observed a silver military hearse being removed from the plane. Also present at the unofficial funeral were Senator Kennedy, a Marine honor guard, and the parents of the fallen Marine. At the end of his article Shore recalls, “The disconnect between those who serve and those of us who are beneficiaries of their service has always felt great to me, but never greater than at that moment”[1]. The purpose of this article is to show the significance that the death of a serviceman has on his beneficiaries. The fallen Marine was a stranger to Shore, for he did not even know his name; however his observations and solemn respect were that of a close friend’s funeral. The difference was that his description was not emotional; rather it was dutiful and courteous. Shore is showing his audience that even as parents, to be on the receiving side of the relationship between a Marine and the people he is fighting for is to be on a separate planet. His observations show that even the Marine’s own parents demonstrated a submissive and passionless respect for their lost son. Their emotions could not have been seen through the hard masks they wore in comparison to a prototype hysterical mother bubbling with emotion over the death of a son she saw every day. This connects to the relationship Paul has with his father in All Quiet on the Western Front. His father’s treats him with the iron respect he might use to salute a passing soldier. Paul may be his son, however he is nevertheless disconnected in the way that Billy Shore describes.
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