Final Chapter

The final chapter of the novel continues to feature some key themes of the novel: death and aging, love and sickness.

When Florentino receives Fermina's harsh letter, he lies on his bead, "more dead than a dead man." This is in part true, as a part of him seems very near to death, for his immediate reunion with his love is ruined by her curses. Florentino is as much a victim of aging as Urbino was, and every moment that passes brings him a little closer to his deathbed. And as he ages, he falls into the stereotype of age, that an old person is limited both in mental capacities and physical ones. His time is beginning to run out. When America laughs at him for declaring his intention to marry, it is because the thought of two people far past their prime, past the age of 70, marrying and doing the things married people do, is a little odd.

For many years, Florentino has suffered in anguish from his unrequited love, and has drowned his anguish in the indulgences of his sexual lifestyle. Now that his love is returned by the woman he so desired, he feels ready to die. This shows a certain irony, as if one had asked Florentino a mere year beforehand, he would have said death was still far off, and had no intention of dying anytime soon. Florentino's willingness to die shows that it is not the experience of Fermina's love, but rather the quest to obtain that love, that gave his life purpose.

In addition, someone pointed out to me an interesting comparison, one which I wish to share. The plague known as cholera has long been a theme of the novel, and many times Florentino's love is compared to the symptoms of cholera. Florentino tells the captain of the New Fidelity to raise the cholera flag, signifying the infection of a passenger with cholera. This is true. Florentino has been infected by a burning, unshakable passion for Fermina since the day she rejected him, a passion that has persisted much like a deadly plague of cholera. His plagued by his love and passion his whole life, and the raising of the flag shows that at long last, Florentino has surrendered to Fermina's love, just as a sufferer of cholera surrenders to death (392).

Love ♥

So our conversation today got me to thinking. I thought to myself, "This would be a good thing to write my blog about, since I forgot to write it last night and have been wondering what topic I could write about." So this was quite convenient for me.

So, tonight we'll be talking about love ♥

I'd first like to talk about the subject of today's class: primarily love vs. obsession. Florentino Ariza is clearly the embodiment of both sides, and represents a unique fusion of the two. When first declares, "Fermina, I have waited for this opportunity for more than half a century, to repeat to you once again my vow of eternal fidelity and everlasting love," the reader is surprised at the intensity of a love that could withstand the corroding effects of fifty long years, but Fermina's response tells us that it is a love unreturned. It is at this point that we begin to gain some perspective into the type of love exhibited in the case of Florentino Ariza, indicating a slightly troubling situation.

Our first clue lies in the nature of Fermina and Florentino's early love. It is purely naive. They claim to be in love, when in reality they only love an idealized version of the truth, a comforting lie in which each views the other as perfection. Anyone who has ever been in love, or even in a relationship, knows that no one is perfect, but the beauty of love is that one takes the faults in stride, and moves past them to the person beyond. Fermina and Florentino never do this, for neither can know the other's faults. So they live in an imaginary relationship, and as such in a relationship which cannot succeed.

It is also that this point that Florentino's love takes on a new aspect, that of obsession. He allows himself to become possessed by the feeling that have arisen in him, becomes so involved and tied up in those feelings that he becomes ill, and relishes it. He can't get enough, like a druggie who just can't stop. It becomes an addiction for him, these emotions and feelings he has, and they become part of the essence that is Florentino Ariza.

Dr. Urbino, however, is an example of a different kind of love. For Florentino, love is something uncontrollable, something wild and devastating. For Urbino, it is something that is created, not found. For him, it is something that grows as two people become closer out of necessity, just as he and Fermina grew to love one another. For them, love is a constant in their lives, a pillar that stands against the raging waters, whereas for Florentino love is more like a log, being pushed and shoved by the current, helpless and always at the forefront of his mind. Urbino likely never thinks of Fermina unless she is right in front of him, or doing something involving her directly. Yet his love is no less than that of Florentino, albeit in a quieter, less obvious way.

As to the ven diagram proposed in class, I believe it is impossible to confine such a thing as love to a simple math concept. Love is an unfathomable thing, and there is little one can do to affect it, despite Urbino's belief that it will grow if two people spend time together. It is so huge that it would be quite impossible to fully comprehend and facet of it, and anyone attempting to do so would either give up or go crazy. It is more than attraction. It is more than fate.

It's just... love (605).

♥

Making fun of Faulkner

It was a sunny day out and I couldn't believe that the desert was so hot. Why he would want to move here, I couldn't say. Fifth grade was not going to be fun. My neck burned slightly from sunburn. I had forgotten to wear sunscreen, probably one of the dumbest things I could have done in Hawaii, and my scalp burned, the bare skin unused to exposure from the sun. I had to turn to one side as a group of freshmen obstinately plodded towards me, unwilling to move out of the way. It was a tight fit in the hallway, and I emerged from the dark, warm comfort of my life into a painfully bright, cold, and strange world. I squeezed my eyes shut against the glare and tried to scream in terror, but I couldn't draw breath. The world spun around, a sharp sensation and suddenly I could breath, and cried out in what I had just learned was pain. I glared at the youngster's
backs as they walked away, rubbing my foot where the fat one had stepped on it. I was crying leaning on my friend. Shut up man, we're almost at Nurse Jewel's office. C'mon, stop crying! It hurt too much. What is it this time? He hurt his foot ma'am. Oh, it's nothing, just a sprain.

"Well, it's definitely broken."

"But the nurse said it was just sprained!"

"Well, she was wrong. And by walking on it for two weeks or so, it's only been made worse. C'mon, let's walk you over to the x-ray."
The nurse grabbed my wrist, rotating into a more satisfying position. Hold it still now! The world blurred as the pain set in. Can't I have a painkiller? "The doctor didn't give me painkillers for about three hours! I lay there the entire time, thinking they had forgotten me."

"How could anyone forget you, mommy? You wouldn't let them." My dad laughed, and she turned her glare to him.

"It is NOT funny, Ben!"

"You're right, I'm sorry. What did the doctor say?"

"If things get worse, I could be paralyzed from the waist down."

Oh my god, it hurts. I can't move my legs. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

"And we all must take God into our hearts, and thank him for all our blessings. Now let us take sacrament." The wine spilled back into my throat, and I recoiled, choking. Which was up? I couldn't see. Water flooded my lungs. Lights flashed in front of my eyes, my head spinning. No air. No nothing. Pain. Arms and legs tangled, green arms clutching at me... then peace.

Peace. For me, peace was not something conventional. Peace is not necessarily silence. It came only when my thoughts and mood were reflected by my music, and I could lose myself in a world unlike my own.

Nooooooo, I want to live!

Humf. You should have thought of that before.

The the man raised his gun, and shot me in the face.

"David! Dinner"

"Damn. It was just getting to the good part." I put the book aside, got up, walked to the door and

and saw nothing. Just black. Hello? Nothing. I stepped into the hall, the floor creaking beneath me. I stood still. Hello? The floor creaked. The clown raised the chainsaw, and bore down upon me. I did nothing. He stopped. He waved the chainsaw in my face. Around me. Whispered in my ear. He never touched me. Man, this place is lame. Why did you bring me here?

How are you not terrified?? I can't stop shaking!

It's obviously not real. There aren't even any spiders here.

"OMYGOD OMYGOD I hate spiders! Ewwwwww!!!" I squished it beneath my foot, cringing at the thought of being that near to such a freaking creepy thing. "Yuck!"

Yuck! I said "This book makes me feel sick. It's like a freaking roller coaster ride. I have no clue what the hell is happening, ever! First I'm here then I'm over here, as a two year old, and then I'm closer to the present but not quite since I'm only fifteen at the moment but I can't tell unless I know the ages of the people around me. Jonny's sixteen, which means it's somewhere between May 5th and May 13th, since he's nine days older than me. But then we lose all progress and go back to the age of five, because thinking about May 14th (my birthday) reminded me of my fifth birthday, and the magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, and then suddenly it's only three hours ago because that reminded me of a little bunny that the dogs cornered behind the shed, and I think of all the fun times I've had with my dogs in an overly long and extended flashback, and then I'm back to the present where I'm writing this blog!" I finished in a rush, out of breath from my long rant.






Did you know what was going on? No? Exactly my point. (859)

5:48 Be ye therefore perfect

John Cheever’s story all tend to follow a two central themes: guilt and redemption, themes that are generally taken from the bible. In the book of Matthew, 5:48 says, “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your father which is in heaven perfect.” Though this does not necessarily seem to pertain to Cheever’s “Five-Forty-Eight,” it can be used as a contrast to the central character, Blake, and the morals he represents.

The story seems to be set up as trial. There’s the defendant, Blake, the prosecution, Ms. Dent, and the judge or jury, whose positions can be interpreted in many in many different ways. The defendant, Blake, originally captures the readers sympathy as a defendant would attempt to appeal to the judge or jury. The reader feels for this poor man, hunted and stalked by this unrelenting prosecuter. But as soon as the word “guilt” (1) is mentioned, the reader realizes that Blake might not be as innocent as he appears. After that, he experiences a mind set reminiscent of “The Tell-Tale Heart,” his own fear creating meanings and intents in everything, his own guilt revealing his emotions in a way that this normally “normal” man would never normally do, saying the water down his neck, “felt unpleasantly like the cold sweat of fear” (3).

As the story progresses, Blake’s true character and the nature of his guilt are revealed to the reader. The history between Blake and Ms. Dent is told, and Blake’s intentions to use her to satisfy his cravings, show that Blake is not them man the reader thought he was. This becomes utterly clear to the reader when it is said, “The next day, he did what he felt was the only sensible thing. When she was out for lunch, he called personnel and asked them to fire her” (9). The fact that the “sensible” thing, in Blake’s mind, was to go behind her back and ask someone else to fire her, shows a serious character flaw. Suddenly, the prosecution seems to be in the right.

The reader also more sympathy for Blake when his history with his neighbors is shown, especially with Mr. Watkins. He feels contempt for Mr. Watkins just because he rents, or the way he dresses. He says, “Mr. Watkins’ long and dirty hair and his corduroy jacket reassured Blake that he had been in the right” (14), as if one’s clothing was what decided right and wrong in the world. This is further demonstrated in his marriage life. He says of his wife, “The physical charms that had been her only attraction were gone.” Blake has descended to a new level of shallowness, to the point that now he won’t even talk to his wife because he no longer feels attracted to her.

Now that Blake’s guilt is no longer in question, the question of redemption must be addressed. According to the bible, no man os beyond redemption. The second half of the story, with Blake’s encounter with Ms. Dent, has an almost angelic, supernatural feeling to it. Ms. Dent talks of devils, saying, “if there are devils in this world…is it our duty to exterminate them?” (51) Ms. Dent seems to be in dilemma. She at once feels it is her duty to exterminate the “devil” Blake, but at the same time she doesn’t really want to do so. She says “I ought to feel sorry for you” (60) as if he might be worthy of some redemption, and she claims to want to give him redemption, but at the same time believes he is incapable of obtaining it. “I want to help, but when I see your face it sometimes seems to me that I can’t help you” (62). She forces him to humble himself, burying his face in the dirt and mud, dirtying his suit of the “sumptuary laws.” She then says, “Now I can wash my hands of you” (62). This provides a startling contrast between the now-dirty Blake, and the now-clean Ms. Dent, the roles switched from what they were in the beginning. However, after this, Blake is unemotional, and displays no change in his demeanor.

Cheever’s ambiguous ending makes it difficult to see if Blake was redeemed in any way. His manner, dismissive and uncaring, is the same as the very beginning of the story, only now he has the stain of guilt and sin upon his soul. He is a devil, in that he doesn’t even think of what he does as “wrong,” but merely as “sensible” and “natural.” How can a man such as this, a man of such vicious nature, ever hope to achieve redemption? (782)

The Things They Carried

"The Things They Carried," by Tim O'Brien, is, in my mind, the best short story we've read so far. Not only because it was written in a way that grabs my attention and makes me feel every pound added onto the soldiers' body and minds, but also because the genre (for lack of a better word) greatly appeals to me. That doesn't mean war novels in general, but rather those that can fall under the category of realism. The gritty details, mannerisms, and nuances of the individual soldier combined with such detail that "makes you want to dodge the bullets" are some of the qualities that help to make such stories truly great in my mind. Of course, "The Things They Carried" is not strictly fall under the realism category, but also under the category of psychological realism. In fact, this might indeed be a more appropriate classification for this story, as the point of the story is not necessarily the physical weight they carry, rather the weight of the psychological burden they carry.

Obviously, the focus of the story lies on First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross's psychological progression concerning his love for and thoughts on Martha. The story is split up into different sections, dealing in turn with the dual meaning of the title: first focusing on the details of the things they carry, as well as the actual events that take place, then on the thoughts and revelations of Jimmy with regard to his love. By doing this, O'Brien lends emphasis to what is said of the physical weight and what is not said about the psychological weight. The juxtaposition of the mental and actual weight allows the reader to get an actual feel of Jimmy's mental stress as if it were an actual weight on their shoulders.

Jimmy's focus is constantly slipping away from his current situation, flying across the ocean to join the woman he loves. He knows, or at least suspects, that she does not love him in return, but he allows himself to indulge in thoughts of her nonetheless. Even when he really should be concentrating on the safety of Lee Strunk in the title, he drops back into his sanctuary that is his reveries. But as soon as Lavender is killed, everything changes.

Lavender's death is not necessarily Jimmy's fault. But in Jimmy's mind, Lavender's death took place when Jimmy wasn't doing his job. Because of this, Jimmy creates a correlation between Lavender's death and his inattention, thereby placing the blame square on his already burdened shoulders. It's as if the added weight is just too much. His once precious love is now tainted by this travesty, and the fact that Martha has no love for Jimmy becomes the main focus of his thoughts. He attacks and digs at the earth, as if to create a crypt in which to bury his love, as dead as if the shot had pierced it along with Lavender.

The psychological weight of war is a very real thing, as any veteran will tell you. Those of us who have not experienced it can only view a shadow of it through the stories those veterans describe, or for the mass public the films that Hollywood produces. Granted, some of these allow the public to experience some form of what soldiers go through (good movie examples include Jarhead and Saving Private Ryan, according to those veterans I know who have watched it), but an account made by a vet has so much more meaning, so much more value, because it is made by someone who has experienced that same weight. Though I shouldn't say "same," that implies that every soldier experiences the same thing in war. Just like the physical weights for each soldier is different, depending on any lucky charms they carry, the equipment, or extra ammunition, so is the weight that each soldier feels bearing down on his psyche. (652)

In society, we are lowering our standards to accommodate the lowest common denominator. We promote mediocrity in order to give those who are less able and talented the chance to succeed rather than promote a policy of improvement and progress. In such a society, the ambition to take initiative and improve oneself disappears, and life becomes stagnate and complacent. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.'s short story "Harrison Bergeron" demonstrates such a society. The talented are forced to suppress their, the beautiful are made to mask their beauty, and the exceptional are crippled in order to hide that which makes them exceptional.

"The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. They were equal in every which was" (1). This how "society" is in the story. Apparently, perfect. But the idea is not original. It has been promoted before, in the form of communism. As it is plain to see, the idea just does not work. Without any possibility of social and economic advancement, there is no cause to take initiative and improve. No matter how hard you work, you'll always be paid the same amount. There's no reward for the extraordinary, and those who attempt to advance are pushed back down, and those who wish to express new ideas are brutally and often violently suppressed.

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. takes even this a step further. His use of the future allows for the ideas he expresses to become actual possibilities, for who can know what the future actually holds for us? Suddenly, the means of control that he alludes to may actually exist. For example, take George Bergeron. His is an impressive intellect, but because of the constraints placed upon him he cannot but think on the same level as those such as his wife, those who set the lowest standard for intelligence. George has the potential to exceed in his life, but he cannot move beyond the level that society has decided for him.

Harrison Bergeron personifies the ideals that his society lacks: ambition, excellence, perfection, advancement, individuality. When the news report refers to Harrison, the announcer calls him a "genius and athlete" and deems him "under-handicapped" (42). Just the fact that they feel the need to emphasize these things tells the reader how uncommon such attributes really are.

Harrison's claim of emperor may seem to us to be an almost tyrannical thing, something to be frowned upon. But in a reality of the mediocre and unexceptional, the ambitious and talented may rule. It brings to mind the old saying: "In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king." In this light, Harrison's claim to power is not uncalled for, for he is truly exceptional, and has the audacity and the mettle to make that claim in a society where such competition is thought of with revulsion and fear.

This is present in our society today, albeit in a less intense way. It is readily seen in the media. Shows such as Jerry Springer and Maury, shows on which the pain, sadness, humiliation, and real troubles of others are used merely for entertainment, appeal to what is known as the lowest common denominator. Reality TV, that bane of intellectuals, seems to some to reach even past the level of the lowest common denominator. Affirmative action calls for the promotion of hiring merely based on race or religion, rather than the merit of talents. In this way the truly competent are ignored in favor of the less qualified but more diverse.

Humans are not replaceable. No one can be easily exchanged for another. We are not equal. Our very nature calls for us to be competitive, to survive using our talents. We're more than carbon and chemicals. That's a line from a song by Thrice, calling for the uprising of the individual. I've been listening to it while writing this piece, and it seems to be the soundtrack of "Harrison Bergeron." I think it'll be nice way to close. Here are the lyrics to "Image of the Invisible," by Thrice. (679)

We're more than carbon,
And chemicals.
We are the image of the invisible.
Free will is our's and,
We can't let go.
We are the image of the invisible.
We can't allow this,
The quiet cull.
We are the image of the invisible.
So we sing out this,
Our canticle.
We are the image of the invisible.

We all were lost now we are found.
No one can stop us or slow us down.
We all are named and we are known.
We know that we'll never walk alone.

We're more than static,
And dial tone.
We are the image of the invisble.
We're emblematic,
Of the unknown.
We are the image of the invisible.
So raise the banner,
Bend back your bows.
We are the image of the invisible.
Remove the cancer,
Take back your souls.
We are the image of the invisible.

We all were lost now we are found.
No one can stop us or slow us down.
We all are named and we are known.
We know that we'll never walk alone.

Though all the world may hate us,
We are named.
Though shadow overtake us,
We are known.

We're more than carbon,
And chemicals.
Free will is our's and,
We can't let go.
We are the image of the invisible.
We're more than carbon,
And chemicals.
We are the image of the invisible.
Free will is our's and,
We can't let go.
We are the image of the invisible.
We can't allow this,
The quiet cull.
We are the image of the invisible.
So we sing out this,
Our canticle.
We are the image of the invisible.

We all were lost now we are found.
No one can stop us or slow us down.
We all are named and we are known.
We know that we'll never walk alone.
We all were lost now we are found.
No one can stop us or slow us down.
We all are named and we are known.
We know that we'll never walk alone.

Raise up the banner,
Bend back your bows,

Remove the cancer,
Take back your souls...

(1030)

Am I Sammy?

I first read John Updike's "A&P" about a year ago, in Ms. G's writing class. We read it as an example of description, and focused mainly on Sammy's description of Queenie. We concluded that while his description seems a little odd and creepy--not focusing on the parts one would normally describe--it was well-written and well-executed.

With this backround in mind, I sat down to read the story thinking that I wouldn't need to pay much attention, having read the important part already. But as I reread it I came to a slightly shocking discovery: Sammy and I are very similar in our thought process. Very similar, in fact. This shocked and astounded me, for I was of the impression that Sammy was lewd, perverted, and a chauvinistic pig. Then I realized I was describing myself.

I kid, I kid. That's not how I am. But still, the fact remains that Sammy and I are more alike than I had thought. Let me explain.

From the outset of the story Sammy displays certain attitudes and views about the people around him and his surroundings. He calls the customers in the store "sheep" (2) and paints a picture of them as dull, uninteresting, conformist, and orthodox. He says, "I bet you could set off dynamite in a A&P and the people would by and large keep reaching...." (5). And the reactions of the sheep at the sight of three scantily clad girls walking down the aisle is to look at them, do a double take, then pretend nothings out of the ordinary. This is the reaction I would normally expect out of a modern orthodox priest or an Islamic fanatic, not from everyday people. Sammy notes all of these reactions, and files it all under the term "sheep" that he has given to the populous in general.

Throughout the whole story, Sammy is contemptuous of the sheep, in his interactions with the witch at the checkout and his description of the "old party in baggy gray pants" (11). He even seems disdainful of his friend Stokesie, thinking, "Stokesie's married, with two babies chalked up on his fuselage already" (8). This statement connotes the feeling that Stokesie's already over the hill, so to speak, even though he's only three years older than Sammy.

I listen to Rage Against The Machine and System Of A Down. Need I say more? If I do, RATM is well known as an anti-conformist group and for their unconventional ideals, and SOAD no less so. I try not to move with the flow, to be different, but that can difficult sometimes, as Sammy would agree.

Sammy finds himself in a difficult position. From what Lengel suggests, Sammy and his family need this job, and the only way for Sammy to keep it is to conform to the ideals of Lengel. So Sammy is confronted with the unenviable choice between the job he needs, and the ideals he holds. It seems as though Sammy already recoils at the idea of working at the A&P, otherwise he wouldn't have been so quick to quit the jobs, with not a thought as to the consequences until after the action. And he's right when he says, "it seems to me that once you begin a gesture it's fatal no to go through with it." Once you decide to be different, to be a nonconformist, it becomes difficult to go mainstream, as is often seen in the music industry. Once you become a sell-out, few people who knew of you before the mainstreaming will respect you.

Some people think that Sammy only quit because he wanted to impress Queenie. There's some truth to this, I won't deny that. However, even if this is the case, so what? The three girls, Queenie especially, expected to attract the attention of men, and that's why they dressed as they did. But even if Sammy quits because of the girls, does that not also say something good of his character? He sees a woman embarrassed, and he decides to stick up for her, to show Lengel what he thought of his treatment of her. My father raised me to never hit a lady, under any circumstances, to always open the door for a lady, and to never treat them badly. Just the thought of a man abusing a woman infuriates me, and I dislike Lengel's lack of tact when it comes to Queenie. I think, in a similar situation, I would have acted in a very similar way.

So what have we learned? We've learned that David thinks of himself as a nonconformist, and that he likes RATM and SOAD, and now you know two more acronyms for bands you might not even listen to. Hasn't this been a productive time? (796)

Thoughts on Everyday Use

I would just like to first point out that I did not write this when it says I did, but rather wrote it earlier and didn't get around to submitting it. So I did not procrastinate and put this off in favor of conversing with the opposite sex. I am not doing this last minute. Are we clear? Good. Now I can get started.

I find it interesting that in "Everyday Use," there is quite a bit of sly irony. Dee comes to visit after a long absence, and Mama recalls how Dee always hated her life at home, to the point that she once set fire to the house, nearly killing her sister and scarring her for life. And then she goes off to school, with the money that Mama raised for her. But you probably already know all this, so I'll stop summarizing.

When Dee returns home, she is educated and appreciative of the family heirlooms, but at the same is incredibly selfish, patronizing, and rude. She claims to have a greater appreciation for the heirlooms than the rest of her family, yet she acts like a tourist, taking pictures of her family and her house, the same house that she once tried to burn to the ground. She is commodifying the objects of her family, valuing them only now that she knows they have value, rather than for their familial history. She represents a materialistic, complex, and modern way of life where culture and heritage are to be valued only for their “trendy-ness” and aesthetic appeal.

To Dee, heritage is the past - something to frame or hang on the wall, a mere artistic, aesthetic reminder of her family history. In contrast, Alice Walker emphasizes that a people's heritage needs to be a living, dynamic part of the culture from which it arose and not a frozen timepiece only to be observed from a distance (I like that sentence). It is ironic that the ones that appreciate and agree with this philosophy are the ones with little education in the ways of history, rather than Dee, who has such an education. The way the story is set, it is very clear that Mama shares Alice Walker's philosophy. To Mama, her culture and history is a way of life, whereas Dee's idea of culture entails mostly material goods.

This also becomes clear when Dee informs Mama that she has changed her name, claiming, "I couldn’t stand it anymore, being named after the people that oppress me.” Mama points out that Dee was named for her aunt, who was named for her grandmother. While the name "Dee" might not be African in origin, as Wangero Leewanika Kemanjo appears to be, it holds with the idea of honoring your ancestors, heritage, and family history, rather than picking and choosing which bits you do or don't want.

When Dee declared her admiration and desire for the quilts, deeming them priceless, Mama recalls offering
Dee a quilt to take to the university, and Dee turning her down, saying the quilts were old fashioned and out of style. But now that they appear to be priceless, Dee can't live without them (clearly an exaggeration, in case you were a little confused).

This story helps to demonstrate a problems that occurs often. People try so hard to show that they're cultured that they take objects of their culture, frame it, and put it on a wall. Alice Walker is trying to show the reader that that's not always the best option. Items have history and meaning because they have been used and appreciated, not just looked at and used as a centerpiece to impress your friends (622).

I Like Tigers

In Life of Pie, Yann Martel uses an interesting blend of human characters that, while completely human, lack any real definition or insight, and animals, while not actually human, emit human emotions and insights in greater amounts than many of the other characters. The animals occupy a more important role in the story than any other human except for the narrator, Pi Patel.

In looking at these characters, there is one that must be examined first and foremost: Richard Parker. And there the examination must start, with his name. See, with just a name, the reader has no idea who, or in this case, what, is being talked about. Someone who has never read the book would assume that the one being mentioned is a person. This, from the very outset, gives Richard Parker, a 450-pound adult Bengal Tiger, a human aspect. Richard Parker is not just some nameless creature, but is an active force in the novel, and one that the reader finds himself becoming attached to, because he has a name. But just because he has a human name, does not make him human. He is an animal, a carnivore, a predator.

When Pi is first in the life boat, just after the Japanese ship sank, Richard Parker is not depicted in the light of a dangerous predator. Instead, he is shown as almost pathetic, weak in the raging waters. Pi describes when he first sees Richard Parker, "He looked panic-stricken. He started swimming my way. The water about him was shifting wildly. He looked small and helpless." Pi tosses a lifebuoy to him, to try and help him reach the boat. Richard Parker is dependent upon Pi to bring him to safety. This is important in bringing human characteristics to Richard Parker. Throughout the novel, Richard Parker becomes increasingly dependent upon Pi for survival, in the way of food and fresh water. This not only lessons the threatening presence of Richard Parker in the eyes of the reader, but it puts Pi in a position of equality with Richard Parker, which not only brings Pi up to Richard Parker's level of superiority, but also brings Richard Parker to Pi's level of humanity.

Another powerful piece that really clarifies Richard Parker as a almost humane character appears towards the end of the novel. After Pi tells the Japanese investigators the story of what happened to him, he is confronted with doubt and disbelief. So, to satisfy them, he tells a different, shorter story involving humans instead of animals. However, one of the investigators, Mr. Okamoto, finds similarities between the two stories in the actions of the people and the animals, and the ultimate fate of everyone in the boat. The actions of Pi on the second story are the same as those of Pi and Richard Parker in the first. Realizing this, Mr. Chiba exclaims, "...which means [Pi]'s the tiger!"

Those these actions take place at the end of the novel, they have a profound influence on how one views the book. Richard Parker is personified through Pi in the second story he told the investigators, and in this way the reader looks back on the novel and thinks of the similarities of Pi and Richard Parker. Thanks to the ending passage, the reader can't help but think of Richard Parker as nearly human. And by combining the actions of Pi and Richard Parker into a new story, one with characters that parallel each other, the reader begins to question whether what was thought of Richard Parker the tiger was in reality human all along, in the form of Pi.

Ultimately, the reader has a choice to make, one which Pi gives Mr. Okamoto and Mr. Chiba: "Which story did you like better?" You can choose either a story of a miracle of survival, or a story of utter tragedy, one which leaves an almost bitter taste in the mouth after reading the first.

For me, I like tigers (661).

What reading/writing means to me.

Reading, and writing. Both seem to go together, as one writes so that others may read, and for one to read others must write. It's like a circle. Sort of. Well, it can't be a triangle, since that has three sides, and it can't be a square, as squares have four. Pentagons are just ridiculous, and no one likes hexagons, so we'll stick with a circle for now. If you think I'm wrong-- though I don't know why or how you would, since it really was a silly argument to begin with-- then too bad.

It has been said that, "Books are gateways to new worlds" (Some Guy). But I disagree. I think books are gateways to new imaginations. Some would argue that those are the same thing, but no one cares about what they have to say. The reason I think this is because the imagination is apart of you, and all that occurs within books occurs within you. Your imagination creates the characters, setting, and plot within you. All the writer does is provide an outline, a skeleton. You fill in everything else with your mind. Have you gone to a movie remake of a book, and just been taken aback at how the director's vision of the story was so much different than yours? That is just one example of how the imagination can provide different interpretations of the same story.

When I was much younger, I marveled at how much my older sister read, and how well she did it. So, with my courage gathered and young mind focused, I sat down to pound my way through One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. When the dust had settled, the book was finished, and I, the victor, sat triumphantly on my bed, reveling in my victory. Then my puppy attacked me, and I couldn't just let him get away with that, but that's not the point. The point is, the first book I ever read on my own was One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. Don't look like that. It's not like I jumped right from Doctor Seuss to Hemingway, Chaucer and Milton. No, it was a much more gradual transition, moving on to The Billies Goat Gruff and other such tales.

Mr. Coon, my English teacher, mentioned that after the age of twelve, many people begin to read much less, and when asked some answered that they had read only one or no books in the past year. This, to me, is odd. See, I've read twenty-four books in the past three months, the longest of which was 1256 pages, and the shortest of which was 297. So the idea that anyone could go a year with reading only one book is foreign to me.

With regard to the types of books I enjoy, I can't really say. The genre isn't as important to me as the author, or style of writing. To me, the genre is just the generalization that the books I like are filed under. Generally, the types of books I read are under fiction, horror, fantasy, mystery, and science fiction. It's just coincidence that my favorite authors happen to write under these genres. Some of my favorite authors include Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchet, Robert Jordan, Tom Clancy, L.E. Modesitt jr., S.M. Stirling, Mike Shaara, Jeff Shaara, Thomas E. Sniegosky, Dan Abnett, D.J. Machale, Sergei Lukyanenko, E.E. Knight, Steven King, and Jim Butcher, just to name a few. I've never been a fan of biographies and such books, because there's no real room for imagination. It's all based on fact. Not much creativity there.

Since imagination appears to be a recurring theme so far, lets stick with it and apply it to writing. I have an active imagination. It's all over the place. Maybe that's why my creative writings have always been a step above my other writings, such as my essays and research papers. In my AP US History course, I was told to write a research paper about John Brown. BOR-ing. In my Writing Seminar course, I was told to write about any cultural phenomena the I wanted. I wrote about zombies. That's much more exciting.

As to my favorite writings, there are many. One that was particularly successful is in the hands of my sophomore English teacher, Dr. Carter. I think she still reads it to the class as an example. One of my other favorites would be my sixth grade creative writing assignment. Here's a summery: the cast of Lord of the Rings tries to open a pickle jar. I still go back occasionally and fix it up a bit and add to it.

Often, while lying on my bed, statistics book laying open, homework untouched, I'll be living some scene or imaginative situation in my head, and I'll come upon something that is just so profound that I have to write it down, so I can look at it later and feel proud of myself. I'll then run it through my head for days, weeks, months, even years, and if I find some aspect of it that can be improved, I improve it. This is the source of most of my writings, and the reason I haven't yet written a novel. Although several stories may include characters from previous works.

There's one more thing that should be noted in describing my reading and writing habits: my music. Reading and writing is always accompanied by music, varying depending upon the story or topic, or just how I feel at the time. Even as I write this blog, I'm rocking out to various artists and genres of music (genres do matter to me when it comes to music). I think I even wrote an essay about how music effects me in my Writing Seminar course. I'll have to see if I can find it...

Well, that's all for now (983)(Wow, I got a little carried away. Sorry!)(991).