the jaded man - he sat indoors,
ignoring norms, abhorring chores;
he hated everything that moved:
subscribers to archaic rules-
the ones that exalt ignorance,
disregarding dissonance,
bound by by some outdated law,
being visceral, acting raw...
he sought a surge of new cognition,
and met tradition: crucifixion.

I didn't read either of them but I intend to someday.

The title of the paper is "Madness," and I got an A- despite handing it in two weeks late.

Throughout the history of American literature, writers have used their works as platforms to subtly express some of their own opinions regarding politics, religion, psychology, and just about anything else under the sun. Sometimes the messages are blatant and intended for easy interpretation, though other times one may have to read between the lines to expose the true nature and purpose behind the text. On the exterior, stories like The Yellow Wallpaper and The Turn of the Screw could appear to be written simply for the purpose of entertainment, but under scrutiny one might derive a different meaning. Throughout this essay I will attempt to elaborate on these alternative interpretations within the two aforementioned works. Specifically, I would like to discuss the psychological implications of the governess as well as the feminist themes within The Yellow Wallpaper.
The Turning of the Screw
First, I would like to address the question of the governess’ sanity in The Turn of the Screw. I have little doubt that, rather than being haunted by specters, the governess was the victim of a psychotic break. I suspect that the condition that caused this tragedy was none other than paranoid schizophrenia. Though the term “schizophrenia” was not officially coined until the year 1908, the concept of madness has been prevalent throughout the ages, and judging by the symptoms present in the governess, we can assume that these two terms are synonymous. Let us consider the things that we know about the governess and the variety of symptoms she displayed during her stay at the House of Bly. First of all, she is twenty years old – a prime onset age of schizophrenia. She is, by nature, a very neurotic individual and prone to indulge in fantasy. Here is a fine example of that:
“I had the view of a castle of romance inhabited by a rosy sprite, such a place as would somehow, for diversion of the young idea, take all color out of storybooks and fairytales. Wasn't it just a storybook over which I had fallen adoze and adream?” (Screw, * [Chapter 1])
Having spent so much of her leisure time reading romance literature, we can quickly come to the conclusion that this only contributed to her imaginative capacity. Much like Editha, the governess becomes consumed with ensuring that she can conform her reality to the standards of the literature that continually allows her to be swept away. Such an endeavor can only lead to disappointment and poor choices in the future. She ultimately lets her fancies get the best of her, and that leads to delusional thinking.
There are several different types of delusions that a person can come to fully embrace after a psychotic break. The major delusions that the governess exhibited were those of persecution and grandeur. She considered herself the sole guardian of Flora and Miles against the forces of darkness, yet she also had the habit of thinking that perhaps those same children were conspiring with ghosts against her. The governess acknowledged that she may sound psychotic, but by that point, she had little doubt that her thoughts were deceiving her:
“I declared; ‘they're talking of them -- they're talking horrors! I go on, I know, as if I were crazy; and it's a wonder I'm not. What I've seen would have made you so; but it has only made me more lucid, made me get hold of still other things’” (Screw, * [Chapter 12]).
Her self-affirmation of this lucidity tells us that, in her mind, these reflections are completely well founded; there can be no mistake because she is absolutely certain that she observed real apparitions. While present-day delusions generally deal more with fears of law enforcement and alien entities, this is merely a reflection upon the culture in which we live. During the late nineteenth century, the same concepts were far less threatening and less likely to cause irrational fear; instead, especially with a woman like the governess, romance literature was abundant and much more likely to influence those who use it for stimulus. She was much more likely to suspect ghosts, witches, or vampires as the enemy rather than government or extraterrestrial conspiracies simply because of her environment.
Finally, we come to the evidence that the governess needs to further purport her claims: the sighting of ghosts. Without this strange occurrence, there would be no foundation for the rest of her hysterical behavior. The unusual thing about these ghosts was that only the governess could see them. This leads me to think that the only possible explanation for her paranormal experiences is hallucinations. Visual hallucinations are very common in schizophrenia, and they only reinforce the symptoms that follow. Having thought she’d seen actual ghosts, the governess’ mental state only continued to deteriorate. In the end, her paranoia manifested in a violent manner: she posed a threat to Flora’s health and she actually killed Miles. Ironically, the woman who thought that she was the only hope for the children actually managed to psychologically torture them. Those who live with schizophrenics are familiar with the distress that is caused by those affected by this illness. Who is to blame for the turning of the screw? I maintain that the culprit was simply the brain chemistry of the governess herself, augmented by a catalyst like romance literature.
The Yellow Wallpaper
There’s no question that the woman in The Yellow Wallpaper eventually succumbs to madness. Personally, I suspect postpartum psychosis, but I digress. I intend to address an entirely different matter within the text: feminist themes. In this short story, the protagonist, named Jane, is sent to live by herself in a room covered in yellow wallpaper because her husband (John), a physician, holds the opinion that rest and confinement can treat her “temporary nervous depression”. Though it is suggested that the cause of her condition is a result of a recent pregnancy, it is ludicrous for anyone – especially a medical professional – to suggest isolation as a treatment of any disorder containing the word “depression.”
Jane silently expresses her apprehensiveness to her husbands approach by saying “Personally, I disagree with their ideas. Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good” (Yellow Wallpaper, **). She wouldn’t dare vocalize her doubts because of gender roles in that time period. In fact, she submits to his every whim because the society that she has the misfortune of living in happens to be barbarically chauvinistic in nature. Men were considered to be more rational and suited for working while women were regarded as fragile – prone to neurotic behavior.
The most disturbing fact about this relationship is that John actually doubts that there is anything wrong with his wife. This, to me, illustrates a lack of trust and respect on his behalf. If anything will provoke negative feelings in someone who is suffering, it’s the absence of support (especially from family) and the solitude to reflect upon this fact. Jane must suppress her emotions because there is no system of understanding between the couple and the norm of the culture is to adhere to the rules set by the man of the house. She (along with most of the women during this time) have been brainwashed into depriving herself of anything that would displease their spouse. John is hardly concerned about his wife’s emotional state; instead of being there for her during a difficult time, he is more zealous about his own prerogative.
In the time that Jane spends by herself, her resentment for this treatment is projected upon the yellow wallpaper that surrounds her. With no other stimulus, she studies the wallpaper scornfully and creates a history for the people who were unlucky enough to share this room in the past. Instead of confronting John (though it would seem to be futile), she directs her hatred toward the pattern scrawled upon the walls. Through unmolested rumination, she focuses all of her attention on the wallpaper, developing fantastic ideas about the substance of this pattern. She becomes consumed with the wallpaper, becoming increasingly unstable, until finally she has a psychotic episode. One could argue that perhaps this is an epiphany – a realization that she no longer has to be subservient. Jane rips the wallpaper off of the wall and laps around the room in a creeping manner. In a final image of a woman overcoming adversity, she responds to the fainting of her husband by walking over his limp body.


*Both texts were available online and I used them instead of buying the book. If you’re looking for a specific quote that I’ve cited, you can use the CTRL+F function to search the page for it.

Works Cited

** Gilman, Charlotte. "The Yellow Wallpaper." Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper. 28 April 2009 .
* James, Henry. "James, Henry . The Turn of the Screw." The Turn of the Screw. Electronic Text Center, University of Virginia Library. 28 April 2009 .

http://www.youtube.com/user/bagles

Contempt for a Season… or Lack Thereof

If spring offers hope,
Then I hope it comes quicker.
I’ve searched far and wide,
But the trees are all withered.
I sought out a blossom-
A beacon in winter.
Though all I can see
Is a desolate future.

===============================

Criminal Indifference

Why would someone kill themselves
With years left in their lives?
How could someone be so selfish
To submit into their strife?

I knew a guy, some years ago,
Who couldn’t take the pain.

He’d waste away in meditation,
Slowly fade through rumination,
Trapped in passive introspection,
Sitting on his porch.

How could God just leave him there
With avolition and underwear?

I wish I recognized this burden and offered him some help.

An unrelenting melancholy crippled him each day
Until the gloaming manifested in a macabre way.
Alas, this outcast saw no fruit by simply yearning;
We could have saved his life had we just been a bit discerning.


============================

what is pantheism?

My life could be a reverie:
A wicked sadist makes me real.
Or perhaps this is a comedy,
And I am at the wheel.

I don’t know why I’m here,
Or that I really am.
I could live my life in fear
That this world is just a sham.

I know that I can feel.
It matters not if I’m alone.
My gospel is appreciation –
Not who holds the throne.

Of the vast amount of questions one can themselves within a lifetime, one in particular seems to be the most important. If a satisfying answer can never be found, the person will surely live in despair. The question, of course, is “Why do I exist?” It seems like it would be at the forefront of any sentient being’s mind, but people may often find it complex and overwhelming. This metaphysical query can sit latently in the back of the mind for a while, but it will certainly be evoked in the face of challenging times. I surmise that the adult protagonist of The Road often found himself asking this very question on a daily basis as he barely managed to get through the trials of a post-apocalyptic life.

The possible answers for this question directly reflect the vast amount of people asking it and the unique lifestyles that they lead. Some may lean towards the idea that life exists so that we may indulge in our hedonistic desires. In this case, I highly doubt that the man in The Road thrived on the pleasures of life. Others may offer a less radical view that life is simply an opportunity to experience and feel. Though less of a stretch, I maintain that the protagonist is simply too deprived of positive events to merit such a worldview. The religious will tell you that life is about pleasing your deity and possibly evangelizing. Again, I can hardly imagine this man as a missionary – holding onto his dear life in hope that he might convert a lost soul on the road or preach of God’s blessings.

The most realistic conclusion that the man could have come to is that he exists for the welfare of his son. His wife expressed these same sentiments by telling him that he wouldn’t survive for himself. The boy was his “world entire,” and he confessed that he would want to die if his son was stripped from him. I can say with little doubt that the man would kill himself or at least cease efforts to live if his son were to die. The man exists to propagate; to nurture and instruct his child so that he will grow up to be a healthy and possibly happy adult. Perhaps in earlier days, the man lived by a different philosophy, but I believe that once he became a father his values changed. Not only was he left as the sole guardian of his child, but he had to provide for him in a world of ashes and decay. His good intentions for the future of his boy manifest into willpower, and he appears to be optimistic – if only to encourage his son and inspire hope.

By no means am I trying to oversimplify the thought processes of the man. I think he sees the glass half full, regardless of who he’s trying to reassure or what condition the world is in. His perseverance is extraordinary, and he exhibits more mental conditioning than most of the people remaining. Despite the decreasingly low amount of food sources, he commits to his values and never stoops to cannibalism. He instills this ideology in his child, and refers to “the fire” as a physical symbol of this system of living. I’ve considered the fire as an embodiment of hope in the past, but now I see it more as a benevolent lifestyle. The concept of the fire may have seemed abstract to the tracker when the boy first asked him if he was carrying it. However, the tracker managed to relate with this somewhat universal theme and essentially told the boy that he was one of the good guys. When I hear of “the fire,” the image of the Olympics immediately comes to mind, and I think of the worldwide unity associated with carrying the torch and participating in the games. One could even speculate that the Olympics or something similar provided the man with the necessary analogy.

Ultimately, the man realized his purpose and did everything in his power to prepare his son for the difficult journey ahead. If he thought his child had no hope to survive, he probably wouldn’t have passed away in the night. He might have tried to hang on longer or leave the world with him, but it would be uncharacteristic of him. He pressed on, and so will his legacy.

As the three of us made our way across the busy Raleigh Road-Glendale intersection on a bright and cloudless day about seven or eight years ago, we exchanged looks of paranoia, and simultaneously wondered if we’d be caught in the act. Though it was my idea to steal the aluminum bench sitting in a pile of discarded furniture behind Forest Hills Middle School, Chris and Steven agreed to help me do it. After all, if they wanted to skate on it, they’d have to be my accomplices in this improvised heist of epic proportions. As far as I was concerned, this was the Thomas Crown Affair of middle school standards. It took two of us to carry the eight-foot bench across the highway, and even more effort to keep from dropping our bikes that we wheeled at our sides.
Earlier in the robbery, Chris and I suspected that Steven had surely suffered a blow that would render him unable to carry the bench any farther. This occurred when Steven offered to be the sole carrier of the bench and proceeded to hoist the aluminum frame perpendicular to his chest like a cross, unaware of the mailbox that would soon clothesline him. As he fell backwards off of his bicycle, he simply laughed and loaded the prize over his shoulder as to avoid any more roadside hindrances. I was surprised that he persevered after such an accident, but his reaction reflected his enduring nature- the nature that had earned him the nickname, “Beast.” I was glad that he volunteered to carry the bench, for he was larger than Chris or me, and more coordinated on a bicycle.
After hustling across the busy street and entering my neighborhood, we grew eager to return to my house, and regarded it as a home base. We were more than halfway there, and only a few blocks remained before we could safely drop this metallic burden in my yard to skate upon. As we approached the house of one of the more infamous characters of my neighborhood, Fetus, we looked to see if he was outside; as we were sure he would be impressed with our catch. Only months before had he retrieved the piece of plywood that we carried back from a construction site, claiming that it was the property of himself and his equally notorious friend, Jacob. He was nowhere to be seen, but as I turned to look at his house, I caught a glimpse of a police cruiser out of the corner of my eye.
As the cop turned onto the street, we began to pick up our pace, knowing that my house was just over the hill. Steven was understandably worried, being the carrier of the bench, and began to express a great deal of stress by repeating that the cops were going to harass him because he was black. I tried to reassure him that perhaps the cruiser was traveling down this road out of coincidence, but as I finished my sentence, the dreaded blue lights came on, and the car pulled up next to Steven, who had already abandoned his bike and dropped the bench. Sure enough, an obese female officer got out of the car and commanded that Steven assume the position as she placed cuffs over his wrists. Chris and I froze, possibly contemplating the feasibility of escaping the situation, but we ultimately ended up sitting on the curb with Steven in front of Fetus’ house.
As we surveyed the houses lining the street, we kept our eyes peeled for nosey neighbors that would potentially report this to our parents. It was of no matter, though; within minutes backup had arrived for whatever ridiculous reason, and we were blurting out our addresses without hesitation. My friends were almost in tears, and Chris was especially worried, as he wasn’t even allowed to cross the highway in the first place. I maintained the same composure that I always keep when confronted with law enforcement, even to this day: helpless and concerned, yet scheming. As I sat on the curb and thought of the punishment to come for stealing, I began to devise an excuse that could save me from the wrath of my fundamentally Christian mother.
My ability to provide good analogies was still undeveloped, and to this day Chris will remind me of how I tried to compare stealing the bench to stealing a pinecone. However, I remembered that this whole escapade was the result of a decision to continue this theft after previously abandoning the bench in the tall grass behind the school the night before. I quickly assured the officers that we found the bench discarded in the grass surrounding a cul-de-sac near the school, and they decided to let me prove my claims. The conditions of our immediate future relied on showing Wilson’s finest that the grass behind the school lay flat where the bench was originally found.
As we hopped on our bikes and once again loaded the bench onto Steven’s shoulder, we crossed the highway, followed by a procession of four police cars. We were mostly amused by this, and relieved that the disturbed grass would be our source of salvation. Retracing our path, we speculated that one of the houses we originally passed must have harbored busybodies with nothing better to do on the weekend than to report the shenanigans of kids that corrupt their pleasant neighborhood.
Finally approaching the site of our treasure’s origin, we pointed through the reeds towards the patch of flat grass that extended eight feet. The officers reluctantly dismissed us, and suggested that we consult the school if we wanted to take used equipment off of their hands. We were proud of our ability to deceive the law enforcement that day, and we took our youth for granted. I miss the days where just being a mischievous kid excused me from the penalties that would plague an adult.

A black widow spider resides in the niche behind my light switch. I recently learned that Lucifer is translated to mean “Bringer of Light.” Therefore, I have named my arachnid flat mate after the devil himself. The bite of a black widow can kill a man, but in these days it rarely does. The only victims are the young, the old, and the weak. Anti-venom is available, and it saves all but a mere five percent of victims. The Native Americans revered the spider, and there is a Cherokee legend of how Grandmother Spider caught the Sun in a clay pot and brought it back to the other side of the world for all of the other animals to enjoy. The spider was in essence The Bringer of Light.

A common argument in debates regarding predestination is the statement that God gives us a choice instead of making us his blind slaves. If this is true, why did God originally deprive us of this liberty when he created Adam and Eve and told them not to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil? Eventually, Eve was seduced by Lucifer, and “tricked” into enlightenment. Who is the true savior here?