Maintained in Translation?

Reading and discussing Brain Friel's play, Translations for class has provided us with numerous ways in which things can be "lost" in translation--whether those things be meaning, sound, feeling, or something else.

My mission in this blog is two-fold: First, I would like to suggest, using the text of Translations as evidence, that often this phenomenon of "losing" things in translation occurs as a result of human laziness; and, secondly, I would like to provide an example of a "translation" that maintains the integrity of the original in order to prove the point that things don't have to be "lost" in translation if we make the effort to prevent that loss.

Mission Part 1: Human Laziness is to Blame (Surprise, Surprise) There is a scene in Translations that really suggests that sometimes we lose meaning of words (and sometimes the words themselves!) in translation because we, as human beings, have a tendency to be lazy and easily frustrated. This occurs on page 59, while Owen is trying to translate a conversation between Yolland and Maire. As we learn later, Yolland and Maire become romantically involved, and this scene may have been the beginning of their romance, as they attempt to share an "intimate" moment while discussing their waving to each other across the fields: Maire: We wave to each other across the fields. Yolland: Sorry-sorry? Owen: She says you wave to each other across the fields. Yoland: Yes, we do; oh yes, indeed we do. Maire: What's he saying? Owen: He says you wave to each other across the fields. Maire: That's right. So we do Yolland: What's she saying? Owen: Nothing--nothing--nothing. (to Maire) What's the news? (59). It is obvious that Owen has no interest in the awkward flirting going on between Maire and Yolland or the romantic undertones in their words, and he eventually grows frustrated with the whole conversation and stops translating; what could have been a romantic moment turns suddenly business-like. As a result, that nervous, awkward, "butterflies-in-your-stomach" romantic vibe between Yolland and Maire is "lost in translation." This seems to be a direct result of Owen's laziness, lack of interest, and frustration.

Mission Part 2: We Don't Have to Lose the "Feeling" of Words through Translation!



In my poetry class, we are currently studying the work of German poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Rilke has written some amazing poems, and the text we have by him includes both the original German versions and their translations by Stephen Mitchell. Mitchell does such a magnificent job translating the emotion, feeling, and images that Rilke creates in his poems that the English versions are extremely powerful. You can read and listen to both the English and German versions here. I admit, I don't speak German, but I think the fact that I find the English translation so powerful suggests that translation doesn't have to result in a loss of feeling.

For those of you who have studied abroad, have you ever "lost" something in translation due to your own or another person's laziness or frustration? Is maintaining the "feeling" of words worth the extra time and effort it requires?

Death vs. Banishment

After we discussed the differences between the U.S. judicial system and that of the Taiga tribe in the novel Power, I realized one of the critical aspects of a judicial system that we failed to mention: punishment. I would like to briefly address this issue here, with the hope that I may spur some thought or discussion that the rest of you may choose to pick up on via your own blog or a comment on mine.

In Power, the Taiga tribe sentences Ama to be "banished" for her crime of killing the panther and failing to bring them its hide. In the U.S. legal system, we do not really have a "banishment" sentence, although life in prison is probably pretty close. In some states, however, we do have the death penalty; and I would say this, in terms of the "worst" punishment that the convicted can receive, is the U.S. equivalent of "banishment." To the Taiga tribe, "banishment is equal to death" (172). The Taiga believe the most devastating punishment receivable is "to be split from your own people, your self, to go away from the place you so love" (172). In short, the Taiga believe feeling isolated is the worst thing a person can experience. The U.S. legal system takes a different approach, believing that death is the ultimate punishment.

Why (from the U.S. legal system's viewpoint) is death worse than banishment and isolation? Is it because we are so caught up in material wealth and possessions that the prospect of losing them is unbearable? One could argue that death also seems the worst punishment possible because it also results in the loss of relationships with loved ones, but banishment and isolation accomplish that as well. So what are the major differences between the isolation caused by being banished and death itself? In a way, death seems like the easier of the two, especially for someone who is truly guilty of a terrible crime. Both death and banishment result in isolation and loss of relationships, but death--depending on what you believe--may also provide escape and relief. A dead person does not have to relive his guilt and suffer his lack of relationships every day of his life.

Of course, this could easily evolve into a religious issue that hinges on personal belief systems, but I'm still curious: Which is the worse punishment in your opinion?

Running in the Rain

MIAA Cross-Country Conference Championships 2007 (My Freshman Year at SMC)...A Rainy and AWESOME Run!!!

Omishto's connection with nature in the novel Power caused me to reflect on some of my own experiences with nature. I ran cross-country and track all throughout high school (I was also on the Saint Mary's cross-country team last year, but I had to sit out this season due to injury...I am hoping to return to competing next season). Running has always been a major stress-reliever for me, but it also helps me feel connected to nature (one reason that I detest running on treadmills). I have always felt particularly connected to my high school cross-country course, which includes a lot of trails and wooded areas, as well as a very STEEP and infamous hill that has been christened "Agony" (I know we have been discussing analyzing names in order to uncover their significance, but I think this one speaks for itself). Reading about Omishto's experience in the storm as well as some of her amazing imagery and personification of nature compelled me to compose the following prose piece about one of the semi-state cross-country meets that I ran in high school, which was held on our home course at New Prairie High School on a particularly cold and very rainy Saturday morning.

Frigid and penetrating, the icy raindrops cascade down my spine as my toes squishes and squirms through the muck to find its pace along the newly-smeared line of white paint. The crack of the starting gun reverberates through my skull as my nearly-numb feet struggle to push off of the soggy ground and begin navigating the swamp that is left of the course. Sheets of rain create a curtain of hazy gray. My eyes squint and catch glimpses of images that are blurred by the rain and my speed: a fallen orange cone, collecting rainwater; a familiar face, sheltered under a midnight black umbrella, shouting incoherent words of encouragement against the wind's deafening war; and, finally, the sight that evokes that peculiar mixture of dread and adrenaline: Agony.

Pulsating with veins of rainwater, she towers over me: strong, intimidating, seemingly alive, and needing to be conquered. The silver points of my running spikes mercilessly stab her as I begin my ascent. A sudden flush of heat rises to my cheeks, contrasting with the brisk coolness of the unrelenting raindrops. Perspiration steadily trickles from my forehead, stinging my eyes. The scents of sweat and this morning's shampoo invade my nostrils, while my taste buds cringe from a mixture of kicked-up mud and regurgitated Lucky Charms. My pumping arms rub against my cotton uniform, and the friction creates a fire along the inside of my inner biceps. I reach the top of my mountainous foe, my legs cramping from the effort but relieved that she's behind me now.

With the finish line in sight, I sprint through tunnel of brightly multicolored flags. The rains stabs at my face like thousands of little needles, and pinpricks cause me to wonder if Mother Nature has taken up acupuncture. The crowd screams, fueling the lactic acid surging through my muscles. My legs stride out, hungry for the white line ahead of me that will provide them with relief. And then I'm done, and too tired to feel anything anymore.

A Perfect Fit: Lucy's Cover

The painting by Paul Gauguin on the cover of Lucy is a perfect reflection of what lies beneath it: the story of a young woman exploring and embracing her sexuality and discovering who she is. The woman in the painting on the cover of the novel is obviously very open and comfortable with her sexuality, as she is naked from the waist up (this is actually a common form of "dress" in Gauguin's work). Interestingly, a picture of Lucy depicted in nearly the exact same way as the woman on the cover of the novel is described on page 155: "He [Paul] brought us...a photograph he had taken of me standing over a boiling pot of food. In the picture I was naked from the waist up; a piece of cloth, wrapped around me, covered me from the waist down." This picture (and the one on the cover) helps us understand that, although Lucy is very open about her sexuality, she does not use it with the intention of forming relationships with the men she is with. In the painting on the cover, the woman has her hand raised slightly, almost as if trying to distance herself from the people looking at her; she embraces her sexuality but avoids attachment. Similarly, when Paul gives Lucy the photo described on page 155, Lucy says, "That was the moment he got the idea he possessed me in a certain way, and that was the moment I grew tired of him" (155). Lucy loses all sexual interest in Paul as soon as she sees that he thinks he has some kind of ownership or relationship with her. The painting on the cover serves as a visual depiction of Lucy's sexuality and desire for independence throughout the novel.


Another interesting aspect about the cover art of Lucy is the title of the painting, Savage Poems. This has several connections to the novel. First of all, it reminds us of the daffodil poem that Lucy had to recite in school when she was young (for more on this subject, refer to my blog post directly preceding this one). Secondly, the word "savage" takes on several meanings. Perhaps this is how Lucy feels others view her, or maybe this is how the English colonists (like the ones who made her recite the daffodil poem) viewed the people living on the island that she comes from.

I hate to use a cliche, particularly given the fact that I am an English Wrting major (hopefully none of my English profs will read this blog), but sometimes a picture really is worth a million words. To evoke a less corny and overused argument for the power of the cover art, I'll refer you to a question that Lucy poses on page 121 and encourage you to share your responses to it: "Why is a picture of something real eventually more exciting than the thing itself?" Do you agree with Lucy that pictures are often more intriguing than the things depicted in them? Why or why not? How would you interpret this question with regard to the cover art of Lucy or the photograph described on page 155?

Daffodils, Poetry, and "Two-Facedness"

"I did not know what these flowers were, and so it was a mystery to me why I wanted to kill them." --Lucy, page 29

In Lucy, Lucy remembers having to memorize a poem about daffodils when she was young and claims that her recital of it to "parents, teachers, and [her] fellow pupils" marked "the height of [her] two-facedness" (18). Years later, while walking with Mariah and encountering real daffodils for the first time in her life, Lucy asks, "Mariah, do you realize that at ten years of age I had to learn by heart a long poem about some flowers I would not see in real life until I was nineteen?" (30). It seems that the reference to Lucy's "two-facedness" arises from her acknowlegement that, at age 10, she saw herself as a bit of a hypocrite, passionately reciting a poem about something she had neither encountered nor truly understood. Perhaps this is why, when she finally sees the objects that she so wonderfully (and obliviously) described during her poetry recital as a child, she "want[ed] to kill them" (29). The dandelions represent not only the resentment she had for the British colonization of her home and the corresponding oppression it made her feel, but they also remind her of the "two-facedness" she felt after reciting the poem as a child.

In a way, I can relate to Lucy's feelings about the daffodils and the feelings that her memory of the poetry recital invoke. When I was in junior high, I had to memorize and recite "The Village Blacksmith" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to my literature class (when Prof. Ambrose asked us in class on Thursday if we ever had to memorize a poem for school, I mistakenly said I had to recite a Robert Frost poem...I didn't realize my mistake until I "googled" some of the lines of the poem that I could remember...I apologize for the error). Like Lucy, when I had to recite the poem when I was young, I had no idea what the words of the poem really meant. I wasn't as worried about the meaning of what I was saying as I was about stumbling over words like "sinewy" and having to say the word "sexton" in front of my just-entering-puberty 7th grade peers. However, when I read the poem today after googling it (admittedly, the first time I have done so since that horrid 7th grade experience), I do feel like my recital of it in junior high (complete, like Lucy's, with "special emphasis in places where that was needed" [18]...I did get an 'A' after all) was a bit hypocritical. Now when I read the poem, I am reminded so much of my dad and how hard he has worked a blue-collar job all his life to provide for our family, something that I perhaps took a little for granted when I was younger. In a way, I am a little angry at my junior high self for not taking the time to grasp the meaning of the words I was saying...back then, all I cared about was getting a good grade.

Can you relate at all to the resentment that Lucy feels upon seeing the daffodils? Is there any specific place or object that makes you feel a certain way because it reminds you of something from your past? Do you think that Lucy's admission of being "two-faced" is accurate, or do you think that her recital of the poem without understanding its meaning was just an instance of childhood naivete?

A "Pilgrimage" Story?

I think that Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story, "This Blessed House," is a pilgrimage tale, but perhaps not in the traditional sense of the word. Twinkle does indeed seem to be on a journey in search of great moral significance, but I don't think that is it necessarily the religious qualities of the relics she finds that she is interested in. According to the Wikipedia article about pilgrimage, "Christian pilgrimage was first made to sites connected with the birth, life, crucifixion, and resurrection of Jesus." In a sense, I feel that Twinkle's "pilgrimage" is a journey/attempt to "resurrect" her marriage. It does not seem as if Twinkle is looking for religious answers in her obsession with the search for Christian relics, as she clearly states to her husband that "[they] are good little Hindus" (137). Rather than religious ideas, the objects that Twinkle finds represent hope, beauty, and optimism for the future: when Sanjeev notices the Ten Commandments dishtowel that she finds, Twinkle tells him to "[f]ace it. This house is blessed" (144). In a way, there is a parallel between the condition of their house and the condition of their marriage; both may need "to be dusted" (137) in some spots, but if Sanjeev and Twinkle work/search hard enough, "God only knows what... [they'll] find" (153). The house (and marriage) contain all kinds of hidden treasures. When Twinkle asks Sanjeev if he thinks "the previous owners were born-agains," it is almost as if she is asking him if he thinks they too can be "reborn" in their love for one another (137). In some ways, this "pilgrimage" does lead to great discovery: at the end of the story, Twinkle's discovery of the solid silver bust of Christ leads Sanjeev to have an epiphany of sorts. When he sees that the bust "contain[s] dignity, solemnity, beauty even," he discovers that "to his surprise these qualities [make] him hate it all the more" (157). Perhaps this is suggesting that Sanjeev has finally discovered the "dignity, solemnity, [and] beauty" in Twinkle as well as the silver bust she found, and he realizes that he does not (and perhaps cannot) appreciate these qualities. To summarize, the real "pilgrimage"--the real journey--of the story is the search for true beauty, which is discovered at the end. Twinkle seems to appreciate this beauty, while Sanjeev comes to hate it.

Perhaps I am over-reading the text, but this is just one way in which I think the story can be interpreted as a "pilgrimage tale." I'm sure there are other interpretations out there, as well as counterarguments to my own interpretation, and I would love to hear them; please share. :-)

In closing, I would like to leave you with a brief clip from another "pilgrimage story." I know it would be wrong of me to post a youtube video without tying it into the text we are studying in some way, so I'll do my best. I've posted the similarities I see below the video. This is one of my favorite scenes from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, a "pilgrimage tale" about King Arthur's quest for the Holy Grail. Enjoy!!


Ties to "This Blessed House:"

1. King Arthur is on a pilgrimage, and as I've discussed above, I see This Blessed House as a "pilgrimage tale."
2. King Arthur is in search of the grail, a holy relic, and Twinkle is in search of Christian objects--these are both religiously affiliated.
3. King Arthur tries to recruit the Black Knight to join his search. Twinkle sort of recruits the guest at her party to join her search: "the whole party joined forces and began combing through each of the rooms" (153).
4. The Black Knight reminds me a lot of Sanjeev. He tries to block King Arthur from continuing on his quest, much like Sanjeev discourages Twinkle's search for and display of Christian relics; he refuses King Arthur's offer to join the quest, and Sanjeev "had no desire to join" Twinkle's group in searching for objects; the Black Knight says "I move for no man," which is similar to Sanjeev's stubborn and superior attitude throughout the story; and finally (and this one's a streeeeeeetch), all that remains of the Black Knight after his encounter with King Arthur is his torso, sort of like the silver bust of Christ that Twinkle brings down from the attic (teeheehahaha).
   

I was reminded of something we talked about in class while I was travelling back from Georgia after spending the duration of my spring break there with my fiance, Andy. Before break, we spent a good portion of one of our classes discussing the concept of "displacement" and what it means. When I looked back at some of the definitions we came up with during my THIRTEEN HOUR DRIVE BACK to good 'ole Indiana (yes, I took my HUST notes with me so I could study for the midterm...I know, I'm a nerd), I realized that I had experienced, witnessed, or talked about several of them over the course of my time in Georgia. I think the most efficient way for me to explain/demonstrate this is through some type of bullet list, so here we go. I've listed some of the definitions we came up with in class in red and followed them with the way in which I encountered that definition in blue (color coding that's both efficient AND patriotic...I know, I know, even I am impressed at my ingenuity sometimes):

• Being away from home : When I was in Georgia, I was away from my geographic home of Indiana. I have only been to Andy's apartment in Georgia one other time, and I definitely felt a little out of place in the area because it was still pretty unfamiliar. I didn't know what streets led to where, where the nearest grocery/convenient stores were, or how to navigate the area; it was definitely an unsettling feeling.
• Lonely : Okay, so saying I felt "lonely" sounds like a major bash to my fiance. I was never lonely while I was with him, but there were a few times when he had to report to base for work (he's a 2nd LT in the army), and without him around, I definitely felt a little lonely, especially since I was in an unfamiliar setting. This kind of makes me think that displacement can be both a physical AND emotional sensation, and that feeling "displaced" in one of these areas has a direct effect on the feeling of "displacement" in the other. My emotional sense of displacement was exacerbated by my physical one.
• Forced to leave; unsafe : Ok, so I was not FORCED to go to Georgia and I certainly wasn't "unsafe" there, but I did encounter this definition through a conversation with Andy, who had just finished Ranger School (I was there for his graduation). For those unfamiliar with the Army, I'll give a very brief, layman's definition of Ranger School: two months of hellish survivor training in which the participants are deprived of food, sleep, and any communication with the "outside" world apart from letters. So, when Andy was roughing it out in the mountains in -18 degree wind chills, tired and hungry, I would definitely qualify him as being "unsafe." He told me that he has never been that cold in his life and that there was actually a point during which he felt like he was actually going to die. I am definitely glad I only had to hear about this type of "displacement" rather than experience it for myself.
• A break in routine : Ok, so this was a BIG one for me. Usually, my routine is what keeps me sane throughout the day (I'm kind of anal), and when it's broken, I feel like everything is just crashing down on me. When I went to Georgia, everything about my routine changed: when, where, and how I worked out; when and what I ate; how I spent my free time; etc. This also ties in to another definition our class came up with: feeling out of sorts, which happened to me when my routine got messed up.

I have already probably surpassed my ramble quota in this blog, but I want to do a quick follow-up on these definitions of "displacement" that I encountered on my trip by answering a question that was posed to us in class and using the answer to that question to tie into something that Scott Russel Sanders said in his essay, "Writing from the Center." The question posed in class regarding displacement was "Can it be temporary?" My experience in Georgia proved to me that it can. Although there were times that I felt a "break" in my routine, "out of sorts," "lonely," and "away from home"--in other words, that I felt "displaced"--there were also times that I felt just as safe and as firmly in place in Georgia as I do when I am at Saint Mary's or at my actual home with my family. When I was spending time with Andy watching movies, laughing, or just hanging out, or when I was writing poetry (something I enjoy doing), I felt totally at ease. This proves that the feeling of displacement--whether emotional or physical--can be overcome. In "Writing from the Center," Sanders tells us that "[n]o matter where we live, the energy of creation flows in each of us, every second" (162) and that"we already dwell in the place worth seeking" (164). This implies that if we do lose ourselves--if we do find ourselves suddenly "displaced"--we can overcome that condition by tapping into "the energy of creation" that dwells within us and using it to discover the things that make us personally feel most firmly in place.

Why Julia Stiles?

While I was perusing some of our classmates' blogs, I noticed that Casey inlcuded a clip from 10 Things I Hate About You, an adaptation of Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew starring Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles. You can check out both the clip and Casey's thoughts about it on her blog at http://caseyslivesandtimes.blogspot.com/.

Of course, I'm not simply blogging to rave about Casey's blog (which I quite enjoyed by the way). Watching the clip from 10 Things I Hate About You called to my attention that Julia Stiles has been in several movie adaptations of Shakespeare's plays. This got me thinking about the casting choices for O. Was Julia Stiles chosen simply because she has a history of acting in Shakespeare adaptations? What makes her so suited for those roles? Obviously, she plays the leading lady in O as Desi, an adaptation of Desdemona; Casey points out that she also plays the leading lady in 10 Things I Hate About You as Katrina; and check out this clip of her as Ophelia (with Ethan Hawke as Hamlet) in the 2000 movie adaptation of Hamlet:



I wonder if Julia Stiles was chosen for her roles in O and Hamlet because directors believed she performed well in her first role in a Shakespeare adaptation as Kat in 10 Things I Hate About You, or if directors simply see something "Shakespearean" in her as an actress. All three of these movies came out in a relatively short time frame: 10 Things I Hate About You in 1999, Hamlet in 2000, and O in 2001; however, they all had different directors: Gil Junger (10 Things I Hate About You), Michael Almereyda (Hamlet), and Martin Scorsese (O). Why do you think Julia Stiles was cast as the leading lady for all three?

Of course I want to hear what all of you think, but this wouldn't be a true "Sam-style" blog post if I didn't elaborate on my own opinion a bit. First of all, I should probably admit off the bat that anything I say is bound to be a tad bit biased because I love Julia Stiles as an actress, and thus believe she is pretty magnificent in ANY role she plays. However, I think she is particularly suited for Shakespeare adaptations due to both her physical appearance and her acting abilities. First of all, I think (and this is personal opinion) that Julia Stiles has kind of an innocent and unique look. The innocence suits Shakespeare roles very well, as he tends to often paint the women in his plays as victims. The unique quality (which I can't quite put my finger on, but I think it is something about her eyes, perhaps) also suits Shakespeare roles, as his plays usually involve manipulation, and the uniqueness of Stiles's look adds a sense of mystery to her character. As far as her acting ability goes, she is amazing in dramatic situations. Scenes that involve her crying or in a frantic state do not come off as forced, fake or overly dramatic (see the above clip as well as the clip on Casey's blog for two examples). I think these qualitites made her the perfect casting choice for Desde in O. What does everyone else think?

2 Two-Faced Iagos

Okay, so call me immature, but the first thing I thought of when I started reading Othello and saw that the name of the villain was Iago was my all-time favorite Disney character--the parrot in the movie Aladdin (yes, the one with the annoying voice). By the way, Aladdin is undoubtedly THE greatest Disney movie of all time, and if any of you dare to challenge me on that, I am more than open to the idea of starting a blog war regarding Disney movies.

ANYWAY, back to the point of my blog (yes, it does have a point!!). I find a lot of similarities between the Iago in Othello and the one in Aladdin (okay, yes, one is kind of a bird, but trust me, there ARE similarities). I think the easiest way to point these out to everyone is to show you a clip of what is probably my favorite scene from the movie and then to list the similarities I see between our Iagos. So here it is, enjoy!!

Similarities I see:

(1) We will begin with the obvious. They are both named Iago. Quite insightful, I know.

(2) They are both villains (another brilliant deduction).

(3) Note Iago's (cartoon version) ability to imitate Princess Jasmine in the clip. It's uncanny. This reminds me of how Iago in Othello is able to trick everyone around him into believing that he is someone that he's not (i.e. Othello says "Iago is most honest" [2.3.7]).

(4) Iago (cartoon version again) says "And to think we gotta keep kissing up to that chump and his chump daughter." This is similar to how the Iago in Othello seems to always be kissing up to pretty much everybody in the play, including Brabantio.

(5) Cartoon Iago devises an evil plot to take over a position of power when he suggests to Jafar that he marry Princess Jasmine and become Sultan. This is kind of similar to Othello's Iago devising a plan to overthrow Othello because he is upset that he did not get the promotion to lieutenant (even though we are never technically very clear on Iago's true motivations).

(6) Cartoon Iago has persuasive powers that are demonstrated when he talks Jafar into his plan. These powers are mirrored in Othello's Iago's ability to convince multiple characters to take part in his plan (for example, when he convinces Roderigo that he is the perfect candidate for “knocking out [Cassio’s] brains” [4.2.229]).

(7) Cartoon Iago's plan involves murder. 'Nuff said.

I also want to point out that the end of this scene is utterly hilarious, as it ends with Jafar and Iago cackling evilly back and forth. This has absolutely no relevance, but I can't help laughing hysterically every time I watch it.

Displacement: Applying a Physics Perspective to a Literary Concept

You guys are going to have to forgive me: I may be an English Writing Major, but I am also a Chem/Math double minor, so I do have a tendency to sometimes think about abstract or literary concepts in a "scientific" manner. When we started our brainstorming of the term "displacement" in class on Thursday, the scientist in me immediately jumped to the physics definition, which refers to "how far out of place an object is." I know, I know, you are probably all uttering something along the lines of "ummm...duh?!" I realize this definition of the word is pretty much explicitly implied in the word itself: DIS-PLACE-ment; but I think there is more to the definition than what appears on the surface. I started explaining my interpretation in class as taking this to mean a kind of journey, as in how one might actually get from her starting point to her destination. After class, I realized that I had the concepts of "displacement" and "distance" flip-flopped (thank God I decided to go with the English thing, right?), and the difference between the two in physics is actually what allows the scientific definition to be applied for our purposes. So, for a clarification, check out

http://www.glenbrook.k12.il.us/GBSSCI/PHYS/CLASS/1DKin/U1L1c.html.

This is a groovy little tutorial that does a really good job explaining the difference between "distance" and "displacement." And NOW, for my probably over-reaching and annoyingly lengthy interpretation:

I think it's important to note that distance refers to "how much ground an object has covered," whereas displacement refers to where the object actually is in relation to where it began. So, technically, an object (or a person, for our purposes) may travel a great distance, undergo a long, hard, and complex journey, and still find itself right back where it started. I like this idea of displacement being independent of a person's ventures in life. It suggests that we can make mistakes and have regrets but still ultimately have a sense of and be able to return to where we started and where we belong. The only way we can truly be "displaced" is if we venture out, lose our way, and don't find a path that takes us back to where we started; in essence, if we "lose ourselves completely." Also, the website says that displacement is "the object's overall change in position," which we can apply in both a literal and figurative sense. A person may find herself diplaced if her physical location changes, but also if her political, religous, or any other personal belief ("position") changes. For example, I believe that Othello finds himself "diplaced" when his position regarding human nature changes. Iago originally portrays Othello to be of a generally optimistic and trusting nature, saying that "[t]he Moor is of a free and open, nature,/That thinks men honest that but seem to be so" (lines 382-83). Iago then notes a change (a "displacement") in Othello after he as planted the seed of jealousy in his mind: "The Moor already changes with my posion" (line 342). Invoking the physics definition, we interpret Othello's "position" regarding human nature to have undergone an "overall change," i.e., jealously has caused him to lose his generally trusting nature, and we thus consider him "displaced."

Girl, Interrupted: A "Christian" Perspective

I have my own opinions and reactions to the film Girl, Interrupted, which I could easily share here, but I feel as if I have done a sufficient job in shoving my opinion down everyone’s throats in my last few blog entries. Thus, I set out on a quest to find another individual’s response to the film, preferably one which looked at it from an angle or perspective which I had not considered. Low and behold, thanks to my amazing Googling abilities, it took little effort on my part to find what I was looking for…

Now, I realize that just because we happen to attend a Catholic University, not everyone here is Catholic or Christian. However, I think that a review of the film from a Christian perspective may serve as interesting for members of any religion. So here it is: http://www.christiananswers.net/spotlight/movies/2000/girlinterrupted.html.

This article reviews Girl, Interrupted from a Christian perspective. In it, the reviewer, Bob MacLean, comments on how the movie does (and does not) uphold Christian beliefs and values. He makes a lot of bold arguments and often calls the film “offensive,” referencing the profanity, sexual content, frequent drug usage, and the suicide scene. True, from a Christian viewpoint (and probably from a lot of non-Christian viewpoints as well), these things are surely considered “offensive,” but wasn’t that the point? By being “offensive,” didn’t these scenes effectively convey the intensity and difficulty involved in trying to recover from a mental illness?

One of MacLean’s major criticisms of the film, which I believe makes some unfair assumptions, is this:

“Since Susanna is not a Christian, she cannot, and the film does not, offer any real answers to some very important questions. Rather [it] raises the human spirit up as the answer to our problems. I find this solution curious. If we had such great spirit, why do we repeatedly put ourselves into these terrible situations?”

MacLean implies that the only way to recover from a mental illness is through religion, and that “the human spirit” alone is not strong enough to overcome the struggles associated with such disorders. So, according to MacLean, are we to assume that there is no hope for non-Christians who suffer from mental illnesses? If this is the case, then why have so many antidepressant medications been developed by researchers, approved by the FDA, prescribed by doctors, and taken by patients suffering from depression? Would people really be taking them if they were ineffective? Also, in his final question, MacLean basically assumes that those suffering from mental illnesses inflicted the condition upon themselves. To ask “why we repeatedly put ourselves into these terrible situations?” is basically an attack on the identity of mental illnesses as medical conditions. Would you ask a diabetic why he gave himself diabetes? Would you ask a brain cancer patient what she was thinking when she put a tumor in her head? MacLean does admit that “the movie forces one to understand the horror of having to deal with mental illness and does not glamorize being insane,” but then goes on to say that “God knows and deals with the deepest horrors we visit upon one another and forgives us,” which again implies that mental illness is caused by human behavior and something that needs to be “forgiven.” True, perhaps by “the deepest horrors we visit upon one another,” MacLean may be referring to the cruel ways some of the women in the film treated one another, but couldn’t that behavior also be considered a symptom of the mental illnesses they were suffering from?

Do you think that mental illness is an issue that needs to be treated from a religious standpoint, a medical standpoint, or a combination of the two?

Give Me Some Room to Think!!

One idea that seems to be consistently popping up in the literature that we’ve recently been studying is the suggestion that suppression of expression can—and did, in the past—lead to psychological problems. In layman’s terms, some of our authors have suggested that the patriarchal society was responsible for the minds of brilliant women being figuratively “lost.” In Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper,” we are introduced to a woman who is sick with “temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency” (368). However, as the story progresses, we see that the narrator is allowed very little freedom by her husband, who she also says “hates to have me write a word” (370). She tells us that her husband’s sister “thinks it is the writing which made [her] sick,” (371). However, I would like to suggest the exact opposite: that it was not her writing that made her “sick,” but rather her lack of freedom to do so openly. The narrator seems to have some of the most distinguishable qualities of a writer imbedded in her, but her “imaginative power and habit of story-making” are “a nervous weakness” in the eyes of her husband (371). Like the character of Judith Shakespeare introduced to us by Virginia Woolf in A Room of One’s Own, this woman’s gift for writing and freedom of expression are suppressed by the patriarchal society around her. Woolf tells us that “it needs little skill in psychology to be sure that a highly gifted girl who had tried to use her gift for poetry would have been so thwarted and hindered by other people, so tortured and pulled asunder by her own contrary instincts, that she must have lost her health and sanity to a certainty” (49). Indeed, we see that Judith Shakespeare winds up killing herself, and the narrator of “The Yellow Wallpaper” basically loses her mind. Perhaps when Woolf spoke of the imperativeness of “a room of one’s own” to the writer, she was speaking of more than just a physical room. We began exploring this idea in class by suggesting that the mind itself can be seen as a “room of one’s own,” but I would like to take this one step further. I think that the word “room” can be interpreted in two different ways here. It refers to the actual physical space in which an author has to work, but I think it can also refer to figurative space for her mind to wander and explore. A writer’s mind needs “room” to think, or it just might lose itself.

The Writing LIFE???

I have to admit that when Annie Dillard, in her essay “The Writing Life,” mentioned that she had written a “complex narrative essay about a moth’s flying into a candle, which no one had understood but a Yale critic,” a part of me (probably the pride/self-esteem part) wondered if, indeed, the essay was too deep for a mere non-Yaleian (yes, I made that word up) to appreciate. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the article in its entirety online without having to pay for it, but I did manage to find an excerpt at http://poetryparsnip.blogspot.com/2003_05_01_archive.html , in case any of you are interested in checking it out.

So here are some of my raw thoughts and reactions to the snippet of the essay that I was able to read. Granted, I’m not “trained as a critic” (to quote Dillard in “The Writing Life”), but, as a writer myself, I have a natural tendency to analyze anything I read. I’d like to start off by noting that I think Dillard may have underestimated her readers when she claimed that her work is “too obscure, too symbolic, too intellectual…[and] not available to people.” True, the underlying message of her moth essay is a little obscure and perhaps difficult to extract, but I think it is safe to make the assumption that most people who read it realize that it has something to do with death; even the simplest of readers probably realize that Dillard would not devote her time and effort to writing about a burning moth without some kind of underlying message. From there, I think the essay really becomes a matter of personal interpretation. That’s the great thing about writing: its ambiguous nature allows readers to interpret it in different ways depending on what makes the most sense to them. It’s beautiful, really, how one essay, one sentence, one word, can affect so many different people in so many different ways.

That being said, here are some of my interpretations of the excerpt from “Death of a Moth,” and if you disagree with them, I encourage you to refute them with your own. My initial gut reaction (and we are often encouraged to trust our guts) was that Dillard is not being as obscure as she thinks she is. Sometimes in our society, especially among writers, death is kind of glorified. Sanders, in his essay “Writing from the Center,” goes so far as to say that “[w]e have often taken moodiness, madness, or suicide to be evidence of genius.” In “Death of a Moth,” Dillard describes the moth flying into the candle and burning in a descriptively grotesque manner. I don’t want to type out the entire essay for you--if you are interested you can follow the link above--but take the following passage as an example: “[The moth’s] six legs clawed, curled, blackened, and ceased, disappearing utterly. And her head jerked in spasms, making a spattering noise; her antennae crisped and burnt away and her heaving mouthparts cracked like pistol fire.” What is Dillard doing here? I think that she is refuting that glorified image of death by, as the old saying goes, “saying it like it is.” Death is not pretty; it’s as simple as that. My interpretation is either very enlightening or embarrassingly simple-minded. Of course, this is just one tiny aspect of Dillard’s essay; there are plenty of other themes to be analyzed, but for the sake of time (as well as for the sake of not swaying your opinions), I’ll leave that up to you.

I just want to make one quick final note about the “Death of a Moth” essay in relation to Dillard’s “The Writing Life” essay—a connection that I saw between the two. In “The Writing Life,” Dillard compares writing to visiting a dying friend or taming a wild animal, saying, in both cases, that “[i]f you skip a visit or two, a work in progress will turn on you.” This implies the necessity of returning to your writing every day if you want to keep it under control, if you want to avoid “death” (whether it be the death of that “dying friend” or your own death when attacked by the “feral” beast that your writing becomes). Interestingly enough, however, in “Death of a Moth,” Dillard implies that writing every day will also result in death. While the moth is burning, she says its head becomes “a hole lost to time” and that “[t]he moth’s head was fire.” She later adds that “Rimbaud in Paris burnt out his brain in a thousand poems.” It seems Dillard is giving us mixed messages here. We imply from “The Writing Life” that neglecting to write often will result in a “death” of sorts, while “Death of a Moth” suggests that the writing itself results in death. Is Dillard suggesting that the nature of the life of a writer sentences her to a life of misery, a “death” of sorts, no matter how she approaches her work? As you consider this, keep in mind another quote from Dillard’s “The Writing Life”: “The mind of a writer does indeed do something before it dies, and so does its owner, but I would be hard put to call it living.”

I have more thoughts, but this is already getting rather lengthy. I want to hear yours.

Writing Metaphor, Part II

Ok, I am not trying to be some kind of suck up or goody two shoes or what have you by posting two assignments; I realize that I have already posted the writing metaphor assignment, but as I was driving over to swim at Notre Dame this afternoon, inspiration STRUCK (thank God it was inspiration that struck me and not my jalopy of a car striking some innocent bystander as I was failing to pay much attention to what I was doing, so overcome was I with this amazing idea for my HUST blog post). Who am I to deny inspiration an outlet through which it may share itself with the rest of the world? Given the nature of my epiphany, I feel justified in claiming that I am merely acting as a mediator here, a link between that brilliant thought that STRUCK me this afternoon and all of you lovely blog-readers.

Before I share with you that STRIKING thought, I feel maternally inclined to protect my car's pride (and, by extension, my own) from any mockery that may result from this post. I'm sure that several of you have seen it around campus...it's the rust-encroached '85 Buick with a handwritten sign christening it "The Cowmobile" visible from the back windshield. I know it's a piece of crap, but it's my piece of crap, so please refrain from posting any scathing remarks regarding its appearance.

Anyway, by now you are probably wondering if I truly was STRUCK by inspiration or simply
desired a place in which I could ramble aimlessly for hours on end as a means of entertaining myself. I assure you, we will get to the STRIKING part shortly; but first, some brief exposition...

As we all very well know, walking around campus last week was basically the equivalent of trekking through an arctic tundra (all to experience the joys of learning, what dedicated scholars we are!). Not only did this frigid weather affect our health (I am still coughing up massive amounts of mucous), but it took quite a toll on a lot of students' vehicles as well. Now, the Cowmobile is quite aged, and I have the occasional problem getting it to run when it's not -3150 degrees out (an exaggeration? Ok, perhaps, but it was pretty freaking cold), so you have to realize that trying to get my baby running last week was quite an undertaking. It didn't help matters that I have a tendency to get very cranky when I'm cold, or that I had forgotten my snow brush at home and thus had to use my jacketed arm (which I am just now recovering the functionality of...ok, perhaps another slight embellishment) to scrape off the foot of snow that had accumulated on top of my car. By the time I got inside the dang thing, I was very cold, very wet, and very unhappy.

Things got progressively worse (as they often seem to do in these situations) when I realized that I had set my keys on the hood of my car while brushing the snow off of it. This does not seem like a big deal, I know: Why couldn't I just open my car door, grab the keys, and start the engine? I'll tell you why--because God hates me. Well, actually, it's because I'm a moron and, by prying open the frozen door earlier, I had somehow managed to break the door handle in such a way that prevented it from being able to function from the inside. Thus, I had to roll down my window (old-school style--by cranking a handle), subject my already freezing arm to the elements, and open my door from the outside. I then proceeded to grab my keys and attempt (note my word choice there) to start my car.

I could ramble on for a few more paragraphs about my multiple futile attempts to get the thing running, but I'm sure you're all bored with my incessant complaining by now. The bottom line is this: With persistence and a willingness to try different methods when the previous ones didn't work (and, ok, quite a few swear words), I finally managed to get my car running and, subsequently, made it to my desired destination (Starbucks, for some much needed caffeine).

Moral of my story? Writing, for me, is very similar to what happened with my car. Sometimes I get stuck, and it seems like everything is working against me. Sometimes I know exactly where I want to go and just can't seem to get there. But if I force myself to just grit my teeth, work through the issues, and look at things from different angles (and, ok, yes, again, perhaps utter a few swear words), I can usually get things running smoothly. It always pays off in the end.

That, my friends, is what STRUCK me today. Just thought I'd share. :-)

Gone Fishin'

A Fisher of Words


Equipped with nothing
but the thin rod
grasped in my right
hand, I face the expansive

sea of potential.
A hook
baited only with
a wriggling idea—

exposed—cast
into the unknown.
Reeling. The return
is smooth, and I—

I’ve got nothin’.
I toss the line again
and will myself
to practice patience,

as I cast and reel,
cast and reel,
cast and reel—
methodic and unrewarding.

Not until I relax my effort
and divert my focus
do I feel the snag of inspiration
on my end of the line.

And I am satisfied
with the day’s catch,
however small
it may be.

Jesus fed five thousand
with a few loaves of bread
and only
two small fish.



Hey everybody! So, while I feel like I've come to be quite the pro "facebooker," I admit I'm a rookie "blogger." Please be patient with me as I get accustomed to the format. On the writing issue (assuming I--in my technologically handicapped capacity--can actually get this thing posted and thus enable you to respond to the question I am about to pose), does anybody else feel like the harder you try to write something inspiring/powerful/non-crappy, the harder it is? I hate writing under pressure...it stifles the muses, ya know? :-) Like when I was in high school, we always had to write these timed literary essays in class without being given the topic ahead of time, and it just made me panic. I was wondering if anyone has any specific coping/relaxation techniques that kind of help them in the writing process.