Proof That I Spend My Time Wisely

My laptop has returned to me after a 6 week absence. Yes, it apparently takes that long to repair a broken screen (really I'm not angry, but I went through some major withdrawals and have not yet fully recovered).

Anyhoo, now that it's back I can finally share my productiveness with the world. Here is an outline of Maleficent from Disney's Sleeping Beauty that you can color:

That I took from this picture:

Why do this, you ask? Because, I answer. Just because.

I didn't do the background even though it's awesome because that was going to take way to long. I want to get started on other pictures.

I'm terrified of the Copyright Law so let me emphasize that Maleficent, Sleeping Beauty, and almost everything else you can think of are copyrighted by Disney. Please, Disney, do not gore me with your long and savage claws.

Because Nobody Wanted My Opinion...

I completely agree with this guy about American Idol:

http://www.mercurynews.com/music/ci_12429811

Trailokya Nath Mukharji - A Visit to Europe

Mukharji simultaneously made me laugh and feel ashamed for my forefathers. Most of my ancestors were British, and to read about their ignorant hijinks from the perspective of an intelligent, witty foreigner made me cringe a little even as I was chuckling. Stuff like this always strengthens, at least temporarily, my resolve to be a better example.

Good Quotes

"The number of wives we left at home was also a constant theme of speculation among them, and shrewd guesses were sometimes made on this point, 250 being a favourite number. You could tell any amount of stories on this subject without exciting the slightest suspicion. Once, one of our number told a pretty waitress--"I am awfully pleased with you, and I want to marry you. Will you accept the fortieth wifeship in my household which became vacant just before I left my country?" She asked--"How many wives have you altogether?" "Two hundred and fifty, the usual number," was the ready answer. "What became of your wife, number 40?" "I killed her, because one morning she could not cook my porrige well." The poor girl was horrified, and exclaimed--"O you monster, O you wretch!"'

Actually, I'm not going to include anymore because I find myself wishing to type way too much than is good for me. Suffice to say, the little we read for class was a fun, easy read that I did not expect, and I plan on reading the rest someday.

Dylan Thomas - "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night"

This poem was written to Thomas' father whose eyesight and health were failing at the time. Thomas may also have been thinking of himself, for as a teenager he had an illness and his doctor gave him four more years to live. Indeed, this poem was published in 1951, and Thomas died in 1953 at the age of 39, due in part to alcoholism and pneumonia (it's pretty complicated. Look him up in Wikipedia if you're curious).

In this poem Thomas does not deny that death is inevitable, but he presses the belief that all men should fight it as best they can. Although I agree that people shouldn't just give up on life, Thomas' father was in his eighties and it seems like he had a pretty good run. For me, a person who believes in God and heaven, it seems a little silly to try to prolong something when the next step is going to be much better. However, I certainly understand Thomas not wanting to see his father become frail and eventually leave him. I'm not looking forward to that with my parents either (and I plan on outliving them).

The Poem

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

William Butler Yeats - "No Second Troy"

It is true that learning more about Yeats' life gives greater understanding to his poetry. The description in this poem of a woman that teaches men violent ways and is the source of constant misery to the poet fits perfectly with Maud Gonne, who rejected all four offers of marriage that Yeats made to her. She was also an ardent Irish nationalist, and Yeats declined to be as active as she was. "No Second Troy" is evidence of his critical views.

The Poem

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Coventry Patmore - "The Angel in the House"

I have to admit, there is an appeal to being considered an angel. It's very romantic. But angels don't make mistakes. As we have said in class, a woman-angel is allowed no story arc, no journey of self-discovery and improvement. I need that badly, so I have to disagree with Patmore. Also, though it would flatter me to be married to a man who considered me an angel, I ultimately want a best friend for eternity and not a worshipper. Also also, the man who considered me an angel would have to be crazy.

A Snippet

No mystery of well-woven speech,
No simplest phrase of tenderest fall,
No liken'd excellence can reach
Her, the most excellent of all,
The best half of creation's best,


For she's so simply, subtly sweet,
My deepest rapture does her wrong.
Yet is it now my chosen task
To sing her worth as Maid and Wife;
No happier post than this I ask,
To live her laureate all my life.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning - "Mother and Poet"

Well. This poem made me cry. However, I'm not sure how much of my initial reaction can be attributed to my reading the poem after midnight. I was once told that how you behave when you've been awake for a long time is akin to how you behave drunk. If this is true, then a drunk me would be very emotional.

This poem is plenty emotional in its own right. There's not many sadder things than a mother mourning for her child, and this one is mourning for two. I can't know what a mother with two dead sons feels like, because I have no children to lose. Browning's narrator is very adept at expressing her grief, however, so I can make a guess. That she initially supported the war that killed her sons only adds to the drama.

My Favorite Bits

I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained
To the height he had gained.

And letters still came; shorter, sadder, more strong,
Writ now but in one hand, "I was not to faint,--
One loved me for two--would be with me ere long:
And Viva L'Italia!--he died for, our saint,
Who forbids our complaint."


On which, without pause, up the telegraph line
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta:--Shot.
Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother, --not "mine,"
No voice says "My mother" again to me. What!
You think Guido forgot?


Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.
'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall;
And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done
If we have not a son?

William Blake - "The Lamb"

This seems exactly like the sort of poem my mother would have framed on our walls as children. I don't mean to degrade it, it is a sweet and beautiful poem and I may very well frame it on the walls of my future home. The multiple meanings of "lamb" adds a lot of dimension to this poem despite its short length.

The Poem

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb;
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child;
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

Horace Walpole - The Castle of Otranto

We only read some of the first chapter, but it was enough to tell me that I like this story a lot. Giant helmets that fall from the sky and walking portraits are both very good ways to capture a short attention span. An interesting aspect of this story was that it had the power to be both funny (not on purpose of course) and tense. I felt like I was a part of Isabella's flight from Manfred, and completely understand why young women were interested in reading Gothic novels and why fathers were interested in keeping their daughters away from them. Stories where old guys try to seduce (sometimes forcefully) younger women both repel and fascinate. Also, I think it's hilarious that Manfred describes his recently deceased son as a "'sickly puny child"'.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge - The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

I really enjoyed this poem. I can't explain why the Mariner would kill the albatross, and I think Coleridge made that part of the poem very quick and short to leave us confused. That the other sailors flip-flop their opinions of the killing depending on their current state of fortune is a fairly bleak perspective on humanity that I somehow enjoy. Really the whole tone of the story and its dark imagery are things that I take a macabre delight in.

His curse to live instead of die,
and wander with his tale,
is the best part of all, says I
and turns my sister pale.

No, I cannot explain why I just did that.


Some of My Favorite Bits

`God save thee, ancient Mariner !
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
Why look'st thou so ?'--With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.

And I had done an hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe :
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow !

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,
The glorious Sun uprist :
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.


Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink ;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot : O Christ !
That ever this should be !
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.


Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold :
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.


Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns :
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land ;
I have strange power of speech ;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me :
To him my tale I teach.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson - "The Lady of Shalott"

I had never read this poem before but have known about its existence for years. Therefore I had enough time to form some misconceptions about what it was about. At one point I thought this poem was written by Geoffrey Chaucer. Fortunately I had the opportunity to be enlightened, and have enjoyed contemplating the many different interpretations for this poem. I tried to select my favorite parts, but was including about half the poem, so I decided to just post the whole thing here.

The Poem

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

Percy Bysshe Shelley - Prometheus Unbound

I had a hard time understanding this play. Part of the reason was because I was cramming it in before class started. In fact, this is probably the primary reason, but my incomprehension is also a result from the style of the play. I like Greek and Roman mythology, but I am mostly familiar with the romantic myths, which I would not categorize this one as. I do like, however, that Prometheus eventually comes to the conclusion that he wishes "no living thing to suffer pain". That's a pretty dramatic lesson for a god who is continuously tortured to learn.

In order to find good quotes, I think I'd have to read the play again, which I am not willing to do at this time (and indeed, I may never feel willing to do so again).

A.S. Byatt - Possession

I really respect A.S. Byatt's talents. She made me wonder if her fictional poets were real because their letters and poetry seemed so unique and different from the rest of Byatt's writing. If I were to attempt something similar, it would take me many, many years. Mostly because I am not a poet. However, I didn't care much for this book. This may surprise those who link it with Jane Austen's novels, because those (especially Persuasion and Pride and Prejudice) are some of my favorite books, but I thought Possession (It even started with a P!) was very boring. I didn't like most of the characters. The only ones I had any sympathy for were Maud, Roland, and Ellen Ash, and my sympathy for these three was mostly comprised of pity for their crappy lives. I think I would have liked the book more if it wasn't so realistic - if the discoveries were more exciting, if Maud and Roland had become legendary for said discoveries, or if there was a battle sequence that ended in fiery explosions and lots of casualties. Unfortunately, there was a lot more whimper than bang. I still want to see the movie though, because it has Jennifer Ehle in it, and she was Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice.

I do have to say though, I love the fairy tales in Possession. Writing this has reminded me that I want a copy of them.

Good Quotes

"What is it my dear?"
"Ah, how can we bear it?"
"Bear what?"
"This, For so short a time. How can we sleep this time away?"
"We can be quiet together, and pretend -- since it is only the beginning -- that we have all the time in the world."
"And every day we shall have less. And then none."
"Would you rather, therefore, have had nothing at all?"
"No. This is where I have always been coming to. Since my time began. And when I go away from here, this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run. But now, my love, we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere" (309).

"He carried out his dying in style. She watched him working it out, fighting the pain, the nausea, the fear, in order to have something to say to her that she would remember later, with warmth, with honour. Some of the things he said were said as endings. "I see why Swammerdam longed for the quiet dark." Or, "I tried to write justly, to see what I could from where I was." Or, for her, "Forty-four years with no anger. I do not think that many husbands and wives can say as much."
She wrote these things down, not for what they were, though they were good things to say, but because they reminded her of his face turned towards hers, the intelligent eyes under the damp creased brow, the frail grip of the once-strong fingers. "Do you remember--dear--when you sat--like a water-nixie on that stone--on that stone in the weeds at the--the name's gone--don't tell me--the poet's fountain--the fountain--the Fontaine de Vaucluse. You sat in the sun."
"I was afraid. It was all rushing."
"You did not look--afraid." 487-8

Here's just a taste of what the fairy tales are like:

"Then came the silver lady, with a white crescent burning palely on her pale brow, and she was all hung about with spangled silver veiling that kept up a perpetual shimmering motion around her, so that she seemed a walking fountain, or an orchard of blossom in moonlight, which might in the day have been ruddy and hot for bee kisses, but at night lies open, all white to the cool, secret light that blesses it without withering or opening" (170).

Virginia Woolf - A Room of One's Own

I love Virginia Woolf's style of writing. Her sense of humor is compatible to mine, and I enjoy the way she constructs her arguments. This section of her novel seemed so long, however, that I had to rush a little in reading it and missed some undoubtedly good parts. The part where she describes the fictional Judith was one of my favorites of the passages that I paid attention to. I had never thought of this before, but I agree with Woolf that even if a woman had Shakespeare's genius (although I doubt that anyone in any time, man or woman, could have Shakespeare's genius besides Shakespeare himself), she wouldn't have been able to express it.

Woolf's account of her contemporary struggles also opened my eyes a little. I hadn't thought about this either, but it makes sense that women would not have been temporarily satisfied with the vote. Certainly this was a good thing, but Woolf was still frustrated that she couldn't enter a library without an escort and disapproved of the different levels of morality expected of men and women.

Good Quotes:

"Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of a man at twice its natural size" (Ch 2).

"Indeed, if woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of the utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man, some think even greater. But this is woman in fiction. In fact, as Professor Trevelyan points out, she was locked up, beaten and flung about the room. A very queer, composite being thus emerges. Imaginatively she is of the highest importance; practically she is completely insignificant. She pervades poetry from cover to cover; she is all but absent from history" (Ch 3).

"It would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare." (Ch 3).

"Now and again an Emily Bronte or a Robert Burns blazes out and proves its presence. But certainly it never got itself on to paper. When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman" (Ch 3).

"For masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice" (Ch 4).

"Literature is open to everybody. I refuse to allow you, Beadle though you are, to turn me off the grass. Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind" (Ch 4).

"I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee's life of the poet. She died young--alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the crossroads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here tonight, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh" (Ch 6).

Oscar Wilde - The Importance of Being Ernest

Oscar Wilde is one of my favorite writers. I love his wit and all the great little quotes that he so consistently spews out. Almost everything that every character says sounds like something that should be repeated. Having said that, however, this is not my favorite of his works. I like An Ideal Husband more because I like the characters better. I understand that The Importance of Being Ernest was poking fun at the aristocratic society of the day, but I still find the major characters unbearably silly. But some of my favorite quotes by Wilde are in this play, and here they come:

Good Quotes

"Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn't. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn't read." Act 1

"I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square." Act 1

"All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his." Act 1

"The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if she is pretty, and to some one else, if she is plain." Act 1

"An engagement should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant as the case may be." Act 1

"It is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don't mind hard work where there is no definite object of any kind." Act 1

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility!" Act 1

"What you really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know." Act 1

"Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn't. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn't read." Act 1

"Relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die." Act 1

"To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune--to lose both seems like carelessness." Act 1

"The chin a little higher, dear. Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn. They are worn very high, just at present." Act 3

"And what makes his conduct all the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware from the first that I have no brother, that I never had a brother, and that I don't intend to have a brother, not even of any kind. I distinctly told him so myself yesterday afternoon." Act 3

Joseph Conrad - Heart of Darkness

The first time I read this was my senior year of high school two years ago, and I could feel the words flowing in a consistent stream over my head. I don't know what the problem was, because I understood it a lot better this time and I'm not much smarter. I really like the dark, vaguely creepy tone of this book. I'm not a big fan of horror movies, but sometimes I want to feel a little creeped out and this really hit the spot.

I liked Marlow as a narrator because he was flawed, but his flaws were such that I might have had them in similar circumstances. He isn't necessarily kind to the Africans, but he doesn't want them beaten and worked to death either. He remains distant from his companions, which is a problem that I feel I have had before and I wasn't even in Africa. The devices Conrad uses to keep us separate from the story were also appreciated, because I can become uncomfortably emotionally involved sometimes. I'm not kidding. A few months ago I read the book Blade Dancer by S.L. Viehl (I'm pretty sure that's right), and after one character's death scene I just exploded. I shocked myself with how violent my reaction was. I don't tend to explode often, but I do cry a lot. And often unnecessarily.

Good Quotes:

"The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marches was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.
And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men" (p. 1 in our version).

I still remember this from high school. I thought it was one of the most poetic prose passages I had ever come across.

"The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much." (p. 7)

"Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything? It seems I am trying to tell you a dream--making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is the very essence of dreams...no, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream--alone..." (p. 23)

"...Mr. Kurtz lacked restraint in the gratification of his various lusts [...] there was something wanting in him--some small matter which, when the pressing need arose, could not be found under his magnificent eloquence. Whether he knew of this deficiency himself I can't say. I think the knowledge came to him at last--only at the very last. But the wilderness found him out early, and had taken vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him things about himself which he did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took counsel with this great solitude--and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core..." (p. 51)

"'The horror! The horror!" (p. 69)

So the Journey Begins

For my English 292 class I have to do a timeline project. I'm posting it here because I prefer the format in which I'll be able to arrange everything. Bethany, if you get email reminders that I have posted, I am terribly sorry for what I am about to do to you and I give you full license not to read anything for the next week.

I'm going to post my personal reactions to many of the texts we read for this semester, and as time goes by I will add in other events and literature and artwork and what-have-you from similar time frames so that I can figure out how everything fits in with each other.

Quotes will also be frequently included, because unlike Emerson I love them and horde them aplenty.

Eh. Yeah. I'm Back.

Nobody but my best friend has ever read this, but I still feel guilty for ignoring the polar bear side of me for five months. Perhaps I was hoping that someone would inquire as to whether or not Marianne Bunt had caught me yet, but alas.

I'm studying several different humanities-type classes right now, and sometimes whilst studying I forget which class I'm doing homework for. This leads to some cool connections in my brain (How does 14th Century European art relate to the work of Chaucer? Is that a valid question? Wait a minute, I'm reading about Deaf Culture!) but also a lot of confusion. I'm still waiting for that moment in one of my classes where another class really applies and then I burst forth with a monologue full of insight and expertise and explode the heads of my peers.

Yep, any day now.