Article from Dr. Sexson

This is a fantastic article that I actually already used for my first foray into Wallace Steven's Course of a Particular. Dr.Sexson asked me to post it. It is a must read.

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m0403/is_3_50/ai_n12413255

Some More Music From the American Muse

Since I've encountered Stevens' Muse singing to the ocean, the central theme to me is the American use of music to form and move their self image. Jerry Garcia formed a pivotal backbone of the American psyche, during what was considered by many to be the high-water mark of America (See Hunter S.Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas). As I was working of O'Connor's novel the flowing song came on my iPod. Not originally by Jerry, I realize, but still it was a piece of art he clearly left his mark upon. Interestingly, he died before he had truly become old. At age 55, he had begun to return to his roots and in fact the roots of american music with Bluegrass. Jerry was a massive fan of traditional music. Constantly he was reinterpreting americana music made popular by men like Woody Guthrie. Garcia was a type of muse, performing the songs that identified what is was to be living on the space. He sang past the genius of the land. Was he successful, in some part, due to his humanity?

The Harder They Come

Well they tell me of a pie up in the sky
Waiting for me when I die
But between the day you're born and when you die
They never seem to hear you even your cry.

So as sure as the sun will shine
I'm gonna get my share now, what's mine
And the harder they come, the harder they fall
The harder they come, the harder they fall one and all.

Well the oppressors are trying to keep me down
Trying to drive me underground
And they think that they have got the battle won
I say forgive them Lord they know not what they've done.

Cause as sure as the sun will shine
I'm gonna get my share now, what's mine
And the harder they come, the harder they fall
The harder they come, the harder they fall one and all.

And I'll keep on fighting for the things I want
Though I know that when you're dead you can't
But I'd rather be a free man in my grave
Than living as a puppet or a slave.

So as sure as the sun will shine
I'm gonna get my share now, what's mine
And the harder they come, the harder they fall
The harder they come, the harder they fall one and all.

A little bit of Darkness from Flannery O'Connor

No lies being told, I’m half way through Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood. One major thought is simply how dark this woman writes. I’ve always been aware at how dark and brooding devout Catholics can be, but this is stepping a little beyond what I realized they could be. Anyhow, here are five of the similies/metaphors that we requested last class:

1.” She had theseyer brown glasses and her hair was so thin it looked like ham gravy trickling over her skull.” (O’Connor 47)

2. “The reflection was pale and the eyes were like two clean bullet holes.” (O’Connor 98)

3. “He had on the same kind of uniform as Enoch and he looked like a dried-up spider stuck there.” (O’Connor 97)

4. “…his face had a fragile look as if it might have been broken and stuck together again, or like a gun no one knows is loaded.” (O’Connor 68)

5. “….. a waspish old man who had ridden over three counties with Jesus hidden in his head like a stinger.” (O’Connor 20)

Yep, no doubt, this women is of the dark brooding type.

Some Ramblings on Wallace Stevens "Course of a Particular"

In looking at Wallace Steven’s poem “The Course of a Particular” one quickly becomes aware of critical questions of what it is to exist. I examined some interesting secondary source criticism that brought to bear the conscious analytical powers of venerable Northrop Frye and the always insightful Harold Bloom. It was a tad bit wordy, but offered at least one fascinating thread of thought. Within a singularity, the entire web of interconnectedness collapses. Such a collapse precipitates an annihilation of meaning. This comes about due to the fact that meaning is created and relies upon the comparison and connection with the other. An electron is only an electron because it shares certain aspects of its existence with other objects, and differs from others in certain senses. Without meaning there is nothing. As such nothing literally stands alone. In so much as there is an interconnection between objects, there is an existence and hence meaning. There is a Wallace Stevens, because there is another creature that has existed within the same plane of existence as him. It is the interconnectedness that provides of the chance to exist. Laws of the physical universe run according to the same philosophy. If one thinks about a black hole, aka a point of singularity, it is the sole place where all the rules of existence breakdown. The underlying principles of dynamics that orchestrate the runnings of universe collapse under its solitary existence.
That said, how does this theory apply to Stevens’ The Course of a Particular”. A dark piece of work, his poem deals with the demise of solitary leaf in the encroaching winter. The leaf is important as long as it exists; it is part of the fabric that defines the meaning of existence. In so long as it contains a divine consciousness, that is an off shoot of the great oversoul (see Thoreau or transcendentalism), it has meaning. As the leaf cries, it cries only as its divine soul remains part of its faltering material existence. The poem ends referring to the cry as one that concerns no one at all. This is because it fades and no longer relates to us, and what it means to existence. It is a solitary cry, and lacks that connectedness that is required to provide meaning. As it is the last leaf, there is no longer anything to measure it by.
“And though one says that one is part of everything, There is a conflict a resistance involved; And being part is an exertion that declines: One feels the life of that which gives as it is.” This is the struggle between defining oneself as an individual and as a collective of existence. The individuality of the person, inbred within the psyche of what it is to be American is forever at odds with what it is to be one’s self, yet part of the whole. In the French language, the term individual is actually quite derogatory. Such is not the case in the American lexicon. This brings us to an interesting path of thought. What it is to be American can only exist in relation to everything else. It means that there is an interrelation between individuals that, more or less, define themselves by their individualism. Odd, but very interesting. Does this mean that the American ideal of individualism brings about collectivity which defines them as a whole? What does this say about American literature? I’m still working through this.

Short Story Written About American

I wrote this story shortly after my arrival in Detroit. I thought it may be interesting in terms of the mythology of America from the viewpoint of a Canadian and a landed resident.
http://glimpsesofblue.blogspot.com/

Idea of Order at Key West

An excerpt from a paper I recently wrote:

Wallace Stevens was the essential American writer on many levels. It is perhaps on the physical level that he most aptly brings body to our image of the contemporary writer. Hailing from the New England urban center of Hartford, Connecticut he provided for his time amongst us primarily as an insurance salesman and secondarily as a poet. It would be difficult to look at Stevens’ footprint upon our collective psyche solely in terms of his experience as salesman. It was poetry that contributed both delight and understanding to even those, he failed to meet personally. Horace likely would have embraced the words of Wallace Stevens as excellent and very concrete examples of ideal poetry. Stevens’ works, and primarily “The Idea of Order at Key West”, has much to do with the very act of creation. Creation lies at the heart of poetry and imitation lies at the heart of creation.
Stevens opens “The Idea of Order at Key West” with the archetypical image of the Muse singing. There is no need to incite the Muse to song, she has already begun for us. While Stevens does not call her by name, her true identity is cleverly revealed. In the third stanza, Wallace writes: “For she was the maker of the song she sang” and “It was the spirit that we sought and knew.” (Stevens 1993, pg.61) Only a Muse can be the maker of song. She is divine and it is through her inspiration that we humans are capable of the arts that we craft. The Muses are spirits that we know and seek to such ends. Thei song, the root of Greek enthusiasm[1] and hence the art of mankind, has no conceivable place on this plane of existence. This is the level of the ocean. It is the realm of barbaric beast, an environment devoid of reason. One is drawn to the multi-layered, hierarchal universe of Shakespeare’s King Lear.[2] This is the oft forgotten ladder of universal existences that Plato would likely have openly embraced[3]. The level of nature and the level of gods are two distinctly different places with vastly opposing ideas of order. The gods of the upper level have no power to exude their sense of order upon this level of nature. This can only be done through man. A creation that, since the fall, has been descending through these layers of existence. Muses are an outward aspect of the divine realm and must utilize the descended man to produce their order. Both the Muse and the ocean blatantly represent what they truly are: “The sea was not a mask. No more was she.” (ibid.)
The Muse is this higher level descended upon the base level of nature. Yet, as stated before, this creature has no power here. Order must be created through man. The ocean, and view from shore, is that window upon nature’s level. The genius of the ocean is the root of that order. It is an order that nothing from the upper levels of the universe can understand. As fallen creatures of the gods, we still try to impose an unnatural order upon something that rejects it. Temporarily, an imposed order may reign. Given time, however, nature’s order will persist. This is not our level of existence. The Muse regards order in a much different sense than we do. Familiar with only existence solely at the divine level, nature is obscured and confused. One can look at Douglas Adam’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for aspects of such confusion. Due to this confused sense of order she sings beyond the heart of order on the level of nature. “She sang beyond the genius of the sea.” (ibid.) She has no conception of order here and because of it our muse tries to sing past the pinnacle of that order. Only as residents of this realm can the narrator (and hence ourselves) see the genius at the centre of nature’s order.
The heart of that natural world responds to the muse with a cry that Stevens refers to as “Inhuman.” (ibid.) Nature and humanity stand polarized. They have different concepts of order, from different realms. If an idea of order were to be represented in the same light upon both levels of the universe, then their combined cries would become a medley. This they do not: “The song and water were not medleyed sound …” (ibid) These are two forces quarreling over a sense of order a meaning to their existence. The indigenous to this plane, appears to be winning this battle of cries. One man’s cry is another’s song. Such is the case in this poem. Alas, as the genius of the sea refuses to submit to the song of our Muse it becomes clear that no external order can be placed upon nature or at least a lasting order implemented from on high. Akin to a poem, this sense of order lies within its creator. It is a vain attempt by the Muse up to place a sense of being upon a reality in which it does not exist. This is the “Idea of order’ that Stevens plays witness to at Key West. Order lies within its particular level of the universe. The descended man may temporarily and rather sporactically place his own sense of order[4] upon nature. The alien Muse is incapable of such a feat. Order is created from within the human, because of the ordeal of what it is to be a transcendent being in these realms. The supreme level of the Muse is powerless in nature. The Golden Age is passed, and no longer do the ancient gods have the supreme power they once enjoyed. All aspects of the universe are now more or less disjointed, and because of this the only true power lies in that of the transcend man. He draws his creative powers from all the levels that he will or has at one time crossed. Man is the divine source of creation.
[1] Literally, in translation, to be filled with spirit.
[2] Due to the brevity of the particular paper, it may be necessary for the reader to look at examine Northrop Frye’s Northrop Frye on Shakespeare (Yale University Press, 1986). His essay on King Lear gives a succinct examination of the subject. See pg. 106.
[3] Hierarchal view of the universe as laid out in his discussion on poets.
[4] A hybrid sense of order created according to each man’s concept of order taken from both higher planes of existence and baser levels such as nature herself.

New World Utopia vs. Old World Consumption

Towards the end of Daisy Miller we are given the memorable line by Mrs. Costello “She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour as they did in the Golden Age.” (Miller, Pg 48) She, of course, refers to Daisy and more interestingly points to her origins in Utopia. The Golden Ages leaps from classic mythology of the innocent and pure world before the steady fall of mankind from the grace of the gods. This Utopia is the America that Europeans and Americans alike recognize. It is the land, exempt of the wars and hatred of the old world. It is new, fresh and endowed with a material wealth and plenty that could only be imagined in European terms. It lacks the history of plagues and death that mark the past of the old world. It is new, young, and innocent in comparison to the universe of Mrs. Costello. The harsh rules of society and public order are lacking amongst even the “elites” of America. This is from whence Daisy Miller descended. As Persephone she was drawn to Hades, kidnapped by both her family and those Italian men she surrounded herself with. It is an alien world she refuses to conform to: “The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don’t see why I should change my habits for them.” (Miller, pg. 40).
It is also a dark, hellish existence that in the end consumes her innocent soul. She tempts the demons of the ancient of the world be placing herself upon Death’s path. Her trip to the ruins of the ancient coliseum, a place of itself witness to countless life extinguishing moments, during the twilight and late evening hours is one that opens the final gates for the consumption of her innocence. Celtic cultures were well aware of the danger of these portal areas to the past and other worlds. Winterbourne, himself was of the same awareness referring to the air as a “villainous miasma” (Miller, pg. 54). In the end, it is the dark underside of the old world that destroys Daisy.
As a citizen of the Utopian existence of the New World, she has no understanding nor place in the Dark existence that has descended upon the Old World. The innocence finds itself consumed and destroyed by the plotting and hungry forces of the ancient and animalistic world.

An American Lullaby - Floating Light in a Desert Theatre

One of my favourite pieces of American composition, this song comes from the same album as the previous post. It had a strange draw upon me, and I believe it fits our class discussion beautifully.

Mrs. Potter's Lullaby

"Well I woke in mid-afternoon cause that's when it all hurts the most

I dream I never know anyone at the party and I'm always the host

If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about ghosts

You can never escape, you can only move south down the coast well,

I am an idiot walking a tightrope of fortune and fame

I am an acrobat swinging trapezes through circles of flame

If you've never stared off in the distance, then your life is a shame and though

I'll never forget your face, sometimes i can't remember my name

Hey Mrs. Potter don't cry

Hey Mrs. Potter I know why but

Hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me

Well, there's a piece of Maria in every song that I sing

And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings

And there is always one last light to turn out and one last bell to ring

And the last one out of the circus has to lock up everything

Or the elephants will get out and forget to remember what you said

And the ghosts of the tilt-a-whirl will linger inside your head

And the ferris wheel junkies will spin there forever instead

When I see you a blanket of stars covers me in my bed

Hey Mrs. Potter don't go

Hey Mrs. Potter I don't know but

Hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me

All the blue light reflections that color my mind when I sleep

And the lovesick rejections that accompany the company I keep

All the razor perceptions that cut just a little too deep

Hey I can bleed as well as anyone, but I need someone to help me sleep

So I throw my hand into the air and it swims in the beams I

t's just a brief interruption of the swirling dust sparkle jet stream

Well, I know I don't know you and you're probably not what you seem

But I'd sure like to find out

So why don't you climb down off that movie screen

Hey Mrs. Potter don't turn

Hey Mrs. Potter I burn for you

Hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me

When the last king of Hollywood shatters his glass on the floor and orders another

Well, I wonder what he did that for

That's when I know that I have to get out cause I have been there before

So I gave up my seat at the bar and I head for the door

We drove out to the desert just to lie down beneath this bowl of stars

We stand up in the palace like it's the last of the great pioneer town bars

We shout out these songs against the clang of electric guitars

You can see a million miles tonight But you can't get very far

Oh, you can see a million miles tonight

But you can't get very far

Hey Mrs. Potter I won't touch

Hey Mrs. Potter it's not much but

Hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me"

- Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows

Imagery of the American "Girl"

Being Canadian, it makes looking at mythic side of America a tad bit easier. I grew up approximately one mile away from the centre of America's tenth largest city, Detroit. Like much of the expansiveness of the United States it dwarfed my side of mythology. As Canadians we were always smaller, and looked towards America as vehicle to exploring ourselves. Most interesting of these aspects was that of the American Girl. Why? Well for one major point that legal age for the consumption of alchohol beverages was such lowered on our side of the Detroit River. As such we would have a massive influx of Americans into our downtown core for weekends of Dionysus debauchery. American girls were always, and always of interest for us. We always considered them beautiful, generally speaking "less jaded" (aka innocent) than women of Canadian linage. Perhaps we all lost our innocence with the death of Tom Thompson in Algonquin Park, or the FLQ attacks in the 1970s, regardless that innocence we lost, we perhaps looked for in those girls from across the border. My first experience with an American, was women of a decidely Hawaiian name and of personality quite parrellel to Miss Miller. It ended rather poorly, but without death by malarial fever. In short, the image of the American girl forever seemed shrouded in the mythic search for beauty and innocence. I recall when I first moved to the United States (perhaps as an aspect of that great Hunt), the Counting Crows released an album with a song entitled "American Girls". What follows are the lyrics from that song:

"She comes out on Fridays every time

Stands out in a line

I could have been anyone she'd seen

She waits another week to fall apart

She couldn't make another day

I wish it was anyone but me

I could have been anyone you see

She had something breakable just under her skin

American girls are weather and noise

Playing the changes for all of the boys

Holding a candle right up to my hands

Making me feel so incredible

She comes out of closets every night

But then she locks herself away

Where she could keep everything from me

I could have been anyone you see

She's nothing but porcelain underneath her skin

American girls are weather and noise

Playing the changes for all of the boys

Holding a candle right up to my hand

Making me feel so incredible

Little shiver shaking me everyday

But I could get this same thing anywhere

So if she goes away

Well, it's alright and I'm ok

Hey, she said come back again tonight

And I said, I might, I might, I might

She said, well that's alright

If it's alright, it's alright with you

If it's alright, if it's alright with me

I waited for an hour last Friday night

She never came aroundShe took almost everything from me

I'm going through my closets

Trying on her clothes, almost everyday

I could have been anyone you see

I wish it was anyone but me

Nothing but pills and ashes under my skin

American girls are weather and noise

Playing the changes for all of the boys

Holding a candle right up to my hand

Making me feel so incredible

If I make you cry, you tell me why

I'll try again, if you'll let me try

American girls are feathers and cream

Coming to bed so edible"

- "American Girls" by Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows

Daisy Miller: Quotes

“Never, indeed, since he had grown old enough to appreciate things he had encountered a young American girl of so pronounced type as this.” Pg. 10
“Some people had told him that, after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told that, after all, they were not.” Ibid
“But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt.”
Coquet(te) – (French) – adjective meaning “vain”. In the case of James’ piece, simply refers to a seductive women who uses her appeal to exploit men.
“But I really think that you better not meddle with little American girls that are uncultivated, as you call them. You have lived too long out of the country. You will be sure to make some great mistake. You are too innocent.” Mrs. Costello to Winterbourne, pg. 15
“It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn’t undertake.” Mrs.Miller about Daisy, pg. 21
“He remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women – the pretty ones, and this one gave a largeness to the axiom – were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with sense of indebtedness. “Winterbourne on Daisy, pg. 32
“I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do.” Daisy to Winterbourne, pg. 36
“It was impossible to regard her as a perfectly well-conducted young lady; she was wanting in a certain indispensable delicacy. It would therefore simplify matters greatly to treat her as the object of one of those sentiments which are called by romantics “lawless passions.”.” Winterbourne, pg. 37
“Daisy …. continued to present herself as an inscrutable combination of audacity and innocence.” Ibid
“”What has she been doing?”
“Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick up; sitting in corners with mysterious Italians; dancing all the evening with the same partners; receiving visits at eleven o’clock at night. Her mother goes away visitors come.” Mrs. Walker to Winterbourne about Daisy, pg. 40
“The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don’t see why I should change my habits for them.” Daisy Miller
“ “I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt” said Winterbourne gravely
“Of course they are,” she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. “I’m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl.”
“You’re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only.”” Pg. 44-45
“Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn’t exist here.” Ibid
“She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can image nothing more vulgar.” Mrs. Costello about Daisy, pg. 48
Golden Age – the stems back to Greek and Roman poets, conjuring up images of the utopian, innocent world where men and women were naked and innocent. This clearly illustrates the view of Europe of 1870s being a lower level existence. It is a place unsuited to the innocent behaviour of someone from “utopia.” Is America presented as a type of utopia?

Image above is from the movie Daisy Miller (1974) starring Cybill Sheppard.

American Gothic a spoof

Title says it all: