In terms of any patterns throughout my commonplace book entries, I’ve realized that I have always shown an interest in the characters of our readings. Although at times I consider larger questions and themes that may appear within a text (e.g. the purpose of the artist in Emerson’s “Nature,” natural divinity in Thoreau’s “Walden”), I have always been more interested in the characters that further a fictional narrative. I spent a great deal of time considering Captain Ahab’s personality when we were reading through Moby-Dick. I obsessed over the male narrators in all of Poe’s short stories. I believe I’ve always loved character-driven narratives, especially because I’ve always wanted to be a writer and I love exploring how characters can interact with and complicate one another in my own pieces—but it was just so astonishing to see that interest shine through in my commonplace book project.

I’m impressed by the fact that Whitman was writing about reincarnation during a time when the faiths around him (ahem, Christianity) were so focused on the possibility of eternal damnation after death. As someone who was raised as a devout Catholic, I recognize the fear of death that comes with Catholicism—we are taught that if we don’t do enough good in life (and even then our definition of what is ‘good’ is so subjective), God will be disappointed in us and will send us to Hell. Whitman proposes a much more forgiving alternative to the afterlife—that is, that an afterlife does not exist, and that death should not be something to be feared. I love how Whitman describes the act of dying as “luckier”, and how he emphasizes the non-ceasing nature of life. The image of a “sprout” is such a strong one, as it symbolizes how life is a continuous process—it’s circular, not linear (Emerson influence? wink wink~).

I just thought that this was such a beautiful quote. I remember in high school psychology, we were taught that our memories are built to intentionally fail us. Our minds are unique, capable things, but they weren’t made to hold onto every detail. To make room for more important information, our minds remember what we deem “important” at the time and let go of everything else. As time goes on and we get busier and busier, we will let go of more and more things. I remember being terrified of this fact—we will eventually forget most of the past. I can barely remember how I spent my time yesterday, let alone what I was like ten years ago, who I used to love, who I used to want to be. I feel that Poe taps into this existential horror perfectly as he plays with the malleable, fallible, play-dough-ish nature of memory. He focuses on the struggle of remembering, specifically how, although we may try our hardest to find a memory, it may never come back to us.

It took me an embarrassing amount of time to figure out that sunshine was another important symbol in The Scarlet Letter 🙃. At first I assumed it was a term of endearment, an inside joke between Hester and her daughter, Pearl. But after a little more reading (and way more thinking), I realized that Hawthorne uses sunshine sparingly in Hester’s life and showers it upon Pearl’s. As Hester points out, she has no sunshine to give her daughter—her time in the sun has long since passed, representing her supposed fall from grace and her growing age.  She is no longer as innocent, as hopeful, as optimistic, or even as full of potential as her daughter—she has passed on all these traits to her. Pearl has inherited all of her mother’s “sunshine,” having yet to be marred by a cruel and judgemental world. For, as Pearl also points out (and perhaps naively, because she is still a child and could not have known how words can sting), she wears nothing on her bosom yet. 

However, Stowe immediately counters her own perfect picture with the above passage. She points out how it doesn’t matter if it looks like all is well and utopic on a plantation—beneath that facade, the law ultimately decides who is in charge and who is helpless. Stowe argues that so long as the law allows for slavery to continue, the lives of slaves will continue to be in the hands of their masters. For, as Stowe asserts, slaves under the “kindest owner” could still be easily sold into a life of “hopeless misery and toil” upon the misfortune or death of their master.

I chose this passage because it shows how Stowe, as a writer, can effortlessly play with the different paradigms of the same image. Throughout the novel, Stowe seems to weave between two opposing narratives—the narrative popular at the time, which condoned and applauded slavery (“mildest form” and otherwise), versus the true narrative, which shined a bright light on the immoral, violent, and horrifying nature of slavery.

When Jacobs speaks directly to her readers, she does so with such a level of directness, strength, and honesty that it can only be described as badass. Although she may apologize for her “deficiencies” as a writer, it is clear from her tone that she isn’t actually asking for an apology. The assertiveness in Jacobs’s chosen words demonstrates how unapologetic she is of her experiences as a slave. In fact, I could go so far as to argue that Jacobs is daring readers to question the credibility of her life story, challenging them to doubt the trauma and violence she herself has been through. It is in these moments of direct conversation with the reader that I think Jacobs’s power as a writer really shines through. Perhaps recognizing how her readers “never knew what it is to be a slave,” and thus would be unable to recognize the truth in her horrific accounts of true events, Jacobs saw the need to regularly speak to readers throughout her text. These moments of direct address are Jacobs nudging the reader to say: “This is all true. I am reminding you that this is true. I lived it, so I know that it is true.”

 

 

It has been such a delight to read Dickinson’s poetry. Do I understand all of it? No. Should I try to understand all of it? Perhaps. But I believe Dickinson writes some of the best poems when her aim is to poke fun at something. In the case of Poem 236, Dickinson is taking a jab at how Christians practice their faith. “Some keep the Sabbath going to Church —/ I keep it, staying at Home—” opens the poem, immediately establishing Dickinson’s contrast of Sunday service to her own version of worship. She seems to be calling for a more natural and authentic act of devotion using images such as the “Bobolink” (a blackbird) and an “Orchard” subbing in for a “Chorister” (choir) and “Dome” (alluding to the church’s dome). I especially enjoy the last stanza: by experiencing faith from the comfort of her own garden and home, Dickinson hints that she has the best Clergyman of them all— God—and that rather than waiting to get into Heaven (“at last”), she has been going “all along.”

Although Poem 138 is not one of my favorites of Dickinson’s, I felt that this second stanza was incredibly moving when the poem is read as a sort of love letter to all the unrecognized soldiers who have fallen in battle. Dickinson highlights how these soldiers are reduced to the shadows, for “nations do not see,” “none observe,” and “no Country/ Regards with patriot love” the sacrifices these soldiers have made for their respective countries. I know there are other poems that honor the soldiers who lose their lives on the battlefield (e.g. Whitman’s “A March in the Ranks…”, a great number of Wilfred Owen’s poetry), but it’s the way that Dickinson so gently but directly conveys this loss that makes this poem such a chilling one.