Monday, May 16, 2011

Reflection Series: Aylmer and Georgiana are alive and well – cheer up?

Based on Nathaniel Hawthorne
     http://www.online-literature.com/hawthorne/125/

"My poor Aylmer," she repeated, with a more than human tenderness, "you have aimed loftily; you have done nobly. Do not repent that with so high and pure a feeling, you have rejected the best the earth could offer. Aylmer, dearest Aylmer, I am dying!"

The last words of Georgiana before her demise are unbearably touching. Perfection has eluded Aylmer as it did many people before and after him to this day. Amidst a bright blooming field, Aylmer had chosen to preoccupy himself with a single sprout of a different flower. A man of science, plagued with the absolute, and flawed by his ideals. Here was something else he could change. Men of Science tend to see the body well, but are blind to the soul. The sweet-hearted trust of Georgiana to her fresh spouse seems flawless. There was no imperfection with this woman. On her face was a mark reminding her man to keep her happy; hence, its disappearance whenever she blushed.

 Once again, I will hit my high horses on the previously emphasized word, 'culture': perhaps, man's biggest achievement and deficiency. By what standards was Georgiana imperfect? Who was the decider? With what was this mark irreconcilable? Georgiana's story sadly lives on today. If only Nathaniel Hawthorne hung around longer, He will see how bigger and more pervasive Aylmer's lab has become. He will witness the evolution of Aylmer's minions - notably, how persuasively they now talk, and fast too; rolling many people into Georgiana's death room. Is cultural perfection only achieved in death? The pervasiveness of culture is grossly underestimated on how it affects our choices and ratings. In further complication of the subject, the media infuses a sense of cohesiveness of a popular culture with society - in an endless reckless loop. Aylmer would even shudder at the sight of the mark. Perhaps he should have considered blinding himself to it. He was indeed the person needing the help he so wanted to offer. How often does society shudder at us today?

Science and technology has always been on the defect of over estimating its power - a power it often acquires at the cost of many mistakes, lives, and property. Aylmer's book was full of failures that dwarfed his famous achievements, yet this man dared to turn his wife to one of his specimen. Saying the Aylmer did not deserve Georgiana would be extreme and out of the context of my attention in this text, but it will certainly be within the explorations of my mind on the subject. There is a saying that to a carpenter everything looks like a nail. Men of technology are like this too, to every problem, the raise the techno whip. For many of these men there are no artistic imaginations. They undermine the idea that humans are much more than mere rational beings.

As convenient as it might be to blame Georgiana's misfortune on her, it could not exactly be her fault. It was an attempt to gain acceptance and identity in her own home. This was her husband mounting the pressure; the only person she would have ever wanted to please and make happy. This man was supposed to protect her and give her an identity. How often does this incident replay itself today? Aylmer's criticism helmed the poor Georgiana in a corner and her decision might have been inevitable considering that she wanted a happy home, and divorce probably was not an option in those days, which is good. However, here, she pays a costly price. Today, peer pressure and industry force people to go on a bandwagon even when they have a gut feeling that their trip is aimless. How many tattoos have Aylmer inspired today? How many premarital sex has his 'be sexy' portion engineered? This will be the Georgiana problem: we have played the Georgiana role at one point or the other, and this is often done to protect an identity or social status. On the otherhand, have you ever played Aylmer?

It is an unfortunate story indeed with a pitiful ending that leaves one thinking and almost mourning. She became perfect in death, and just maybe she was happier too.




Mcmichael, George, and James S. Leonard, comps. "The Birthmark" Concise Anthology of American Literature. 6th ed. New Jersey: Pearson Education, 2006. 641-652. Print.

Reflection Series: Nature Contention

Based on Ralph Waldo Emerson
     http://oregonstate.edu/instruct/phl302/texts/emerson/nature-contents.html



“If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.”
                                                                          Ralph Waldo Emerson 1836

There is a saying that we do not appreciate things until we lose them. I often look at the blue skies and stand in fascination at the grand piece of art exhibited right above us. It has the grandest scale anyone can imagine, displays to small and great alike. It is there - just there. We see it from childhood into our full development. Nonetheless, its splendor hardly catches the curious eye, and its majesty goes mostly ignored.

Every time I sit and absorb myself with the environment; every time I smell the fragrance after a rain; even every brief second I use to look at the birds in flight, I stand in great admiration of our world. It seems like the human taste has reduced greatly to petty flickering lights. Their obsessions with the progressive discoveries in a shabby effort to mimic nature preoccupy their minds, and leaves no room for anything that is not man made. A man of wealth will pay a great deal to have a near nature installation in his home, but will not as much as take a walk in his yard. It fascinates me how abundant beauty is around us, and how blind we are to it - almost as a curse on humanity for their little appreciation for nature's providence. The world of imperfection is preferred over the world of absolute bliss. This separation with nature has made man almost allergic to nature or any natural environment. One starts to wonder who the ancestors of this species are. They condemn any 'unprocessed' item as poisonous even though, by the same, their fathers bore them. They are a very different race.

Only the fear of loss draws their attention. When an organism is about to get extinct they buzz and protest about it as though they know the significance of the creature - until five years after extinction, then they move on never concerned with the loss, but for the fear of another loss. They never want to play outside until deprived of it. Nothing natural sparks much attention until a benefit is observed; then processed, and finally abused. They die of hunger whilst being surrounded by 'unprocessed' food. Now their dogs put on cloths, and shiver in its absence. Living among nature, nature has become their outcast; only known for unforgiving strength and disaster - if only they could learn to wield that too. Nonetheless, nature is relentless with its offer of reconciliation.

Nature still rises as the sun in the morning and beholds the inattentive world of people as they hurry to work and their kids to school - to learn to be like them. Nature pours as the rain and snow, and these people either celebrate the day-off or curse the bad weather. They get their fancy umbrellas to keep nature away. They are impossible, but nature is relentless and sometimes impatient. Nature decides to pull down their artificial refuges and rips their manmade shelters apart. It blows their shabby creations away in an angry appearance that is just as fascinating to behold. After nature's rage, it brings a gentle morning over the creatures who by now are disheartened and seeking comfort. Before long, they mobilize and restore their synthetic empire.

Notwithstanding, every night comes out with these envoy of beauty and lights the universe with their admonishing smile. 


Emerson, Ralph W. "Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson." Oregon State University. Web. 05 Mar. 2011. <http://oregonstate.edu/instruct/phl302/texts/emerson/nature-emerson-a.html>.

Reflection Series: Science, Romance, Mystery

Based on three poems of Edgar Allan Poe:
       http://www.online-literature.com/poe/580/
       http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/annabel-lee/
       http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html


Ellen Poe's stories are pleasurable reads. His sonnet on science though makes me wonder how he knew about Diana in the 1800s. His works, however, are a true art and reflect the concerns of his day - especially with science. They are true examples for the age of romanticism and emphasizes on feeling rather than reason. From science to romance, and then to mystery: all are charged with emotions and exoteric communication.

Poe recognizes the undeniable power of science. He describes her as the unavoidable daughter of man's many years of observation and civilizations. I imagine her to be elderly too; with 'peering eyes,' which I imagine to be a dense glass over her eyes. Full of years and experience she carefully 'preys' on objects in some kind of arbitrary sequence. Poe feels endangered; he knows that he is on this queue and he is nervous. I envision my grannies - from my childhood eyes; how I saw them treat a sibling that was sick or injured. They were often too carried away with the benefit of their therapy that their old ears barely heard the screams of pain by the hurting kid; nor their feeble hands sensitive enough to soothe a painful spot. I still remember my edginess whenever I was on the menu. I would vow never to be sick again - especially when granny is around. Poe also recognizes the limitations and delusions of science, and he considers nature less unnerving. In fact, he thinks of nature as the jewel and shelter for the afflicted of science. The balance of nature and its harmony is unparalleled. Its flawlessness faults the shabby science on every count. Poe is uncomfortable, and so are many.

Poe's Annabelle Lee picks on the ranting of a romantic heart. The expression, “…in a kingdom by the sea,” makes the story sound like a folktale. I like the proclaimers words, “… a maiden there lived whom you may know…” It comes across as though the maiden is so popular to this fellow that he thinks the world might as well know her. Apparently, they were childhood lovers in this kingdom by the sea. Their love and commitment to each other grew with them, and, not surprisingly, invited even the envy of celestial beings. Everyone probably admires the unrelenting affection of any couple and covets it - even the gods. It seems like these gods are notorious for wanting true love for them only - notorious enough to become serial killers. Annabelle Lee's lover is undaunted by this conspiracy, and convince that no one, not even deity, can separate their love for each other: even nature sings and twinkles to their affection. He is going to be with his lover, even if it means taking the challenge to the realms of the gods.

Finally is Poe's intriguing raven story. When I was a child visiting the villages with my parents and surrounded by nature's wild, I remember a similar experience. The residents had told me about the different sounds that dogs make when the see dead people walking around. I had believe these tales. One night, our dog started out this chorus, and soon the neighboring dogs joined. I was never more uncomfortable being among the living. I felt so weak and vulnerable, and could not wish more for the morning. In this condition, I too would have thought of a raven as having special abilities. Its crowing would very much sound like whatever word it matches best within my language: “Nevermorrrrrre!”

I love these poems: I feel very connected with their stories. It is often good to hear someone else describe certain effects of life that one would normally never speak about to other people because they may laugh at the assumed paranoia of the speaker, and make jokes about the stories that are sure to dawdle. After all, as a quiet room is more daunting in the dark, so are the stories of the night best left to the night. 




Poe, Edgar Allen. "YouTube - Annabel Lee." YouTube - Broadcast Yourself. Web. 05 Mar. 2011. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C4bb_6MmgZo>.
Poe, Edgar Allen. "The Raven." 1854. Print.
"Sonnet: To Science by Edgar Allan Poe." The Literature Network: Online Classic Literature, Poems, and Quotes. Essays & Summaries. Web. 05 Mar. 2011. <http://www.online-literature.com/poe/580/>.

Reflection Series: Amontillado

Based on The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe:



Poor Fortunato. Amontillado. What was he thinking? Amontillado. How did he fall so easily? Amontillado. Striding to his death so foolishly: Amontillado! Poe is a great writer! I love the way he builds this story. It is dramatic - and touching.

“THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge.”

The beginning of this story could not be more enthralling! It finishes the story even before it starts. The first paragraph goes on to put the reader in the mind of the reporter and explain his rationale for the malevolence he is about to commit. The language and decisiveness of the speaker is compelling and - at least for me - almost amusing in the somewhat bitter expression of the speaker's resolve, but the end of the story leaves a soft reader with awe and quietness: the speaker meant business.

“At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk.”

I could imagine the flaming eyes of the speaker as he reported this account: unforgiving even after the death of Fortunato. He would not be appeased. The heat of his resolution seems like what precluded the 'idea of risk.' Fortunato did not live to serve punishment.

“I must not only punish but punish with impunity.”

 The speaker was also resolved to be guiltless no matter the length he went. Fortunato's blood was upon his crime and his children could blame his misfortune on him. He was going to serve time for his insensitive words, and only a sudden distaste for wine could save him. Unfortunately for Fortunato, help was not within his instincts.

“I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.”

A weird sense of the speaker's pleasure as he describes here gripped me until I pricked myself. His satisfaction was sinister, but I could well identify with it. It was the gratification of an idea before its employment, the ease of the problem at the thought of a good fix. In the midst of a great festival, Fortunato was in deep trouble, but he did not know. Help was all around, but the speaker's accomplice was within Fortunato. Amontillado.

"Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.

"Come, let us go."

"Whither?"

"To your vaults."

The conspirator plays a good act, and Fortunato's ego thrives. There was no room for suspicion even in a catacomb. Oh Fortunato! How blind could you be? Your world must be as sweet as your taste!

Bells kept jingling in the procession of Fortunato's last walk. His conspirator remained as patient and persuasive, leading his quarry to his con.

"Come… we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible.”

I imagine Fortunato's head swelling. This was the ultimate medicine for his cough.

“Besides, there is Luchresi -“

This was the peak of the yet uninterrupted praise, and Fortunato quickly interrupt the new direction toward his rival,

"Enough… the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."

Yes Fortunato. A cough cannot kill your majesty, but this man will. Therefore, it was that as a silly prey Fortunato was led to his trap; baited by his egotistical virtuoso. Seeing the dead around him, but exalted above reason by his counterpart and intoxication.

After the last brick was put in place, much after the last joke was told, Fortunato was quiet - perhaps, now among the dead. Amontillado. What started as a riveting story with a witty proclamation of a man's rage and threat ended with the silence of shock. I cannot stop wondering if he really left Fortunato there to die.

“A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.”

Amontillado. In pace requiescat!


Poe, Edgar Allen. "The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe." Edgar Allan Poe, Short Stories, Tales, and Poems. Web. 03 Mar. 2011. <http://www.poestories.com/read/amontillado>.