Edgar Allan Poe’s “The City in the Sea”

citysea

Much of Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry tends to personify Death as the final, and therefore, most powerful of entities conceivable. In “The City in the Sea,” a young Poe dreams up a dwelling for Death to reign as sovereign, and illustrates the trademark gothic imagery that will come to identify the poet’s literary career.

Poe gives clear and detailed descriptions of this city of Death:

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

The second to last line above is the most intriguing, as it suggests that the moral character of a person is of no importance in determining one’s future destination in Death’s lonely kingdom. This contrasts sharply with Western conception of an afterlife that claims to take into account one’s moral standing. Adding to this is the suggestion that Death is not just a transitional figure between realities (as commonly believed), but an eternal presence for the souls who pass into his city; Poe’s Death is all-encompassing in his reign, and like Hades, disinterested in our mortal nuances, as seen by the images that accompany his city:

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing in ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

Death’s dwelling is of no comparison to anything we can conceive of, for ours is a world of motion, his of eerie calm. And despite the fact that both good and bad reside within his place of sovereignty, his city is one of gloom for all:

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out of the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently–

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free–

Up domes–up spires–up kingly halls–

Up fanes–up Babylon-like walls–

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers–

Up many and many a marvelous shrine

Whose wretched friezes intertwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Death city is one of elegance, and glamor, but ultimately it lies cold in sight. The sun does not shine on its inhabitants, and the lights that do breach the city walls come as a haunting reminder of that beyond the melancholy shores, lies a livelier place. The structures are impressive, but they are empty in tone, serving as no substitute to the artistic touch that the warmth of a living soul can create.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

This is the second time that Poe has bothered to pen these lines to emphasis how even the seemingly unbound sea lies restrained by the city’s lifeless hold.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

While all else in the city murks into one endless sea of melancholy, Death stands clearly visible to his subjects. He is the true constant keeping all else still–the inescapable Lord of his domain.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with luminous waves

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol’s diamond eye–

Not the gaily-jewelled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

Poe’s intent is to subtly impress onto the reader the horror of timelessness that accompanies this city. It is more imposing than the force of gravity, for at least gravity allows its subjects the privilege of feeling the passing of time through its affects. Also, by taking away the value of finite existence, all the petty values that give our minds rest are deprived from our very being. To exist in such a state is not to exist at all.

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass–

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea–

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

To move with no feeling of motion, to breathe with no sensation of breath, is a sentence worse than physical torment could ever be. In such a realm, one would eager wish to endure all the flames of Hell, just so one can know to have felt something again. What are we as living beings in this world, if we are forbidden from feeling the world around us?–Nothing! Nothing, but empty phantasms. Forced serenity is the most dehumanizing form of torture to a lively mind.

But lo, a stir in the air!

The wave–there is motion there!

As if the towers had thrust aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide–

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

Besides the shift in imagery, a reader should take note of the prose Poe uses in this half of the stanza. It is the towers which appear to hold the ultimate power over the forces of nature, and all else. But the towers are inseparable from the city, which is inseparable from its sovereign and creator, Death. Therefore, Death’s dominion extends further beyond the gates of his city–possibly even above that of “filmy Heaven”? For if all souls are subject to Death’s domain, what purpose lies there for Heaven, at all?

The waves have now a redder glow–

The hours are breathing faint and low–

A shift in imagery is still occurring, as Poe is continuing to introduce the concept of motion into this once motionless world. However, even though the first six lines of the stanza are ambiguous about the malevolence of the changing scenery, the two that follow above end any positive impressions the reader may have forged about the coming events. (At no time are reddening seas, and faint breathing a sign of benignity.)

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence,

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.

Hell has risen on earth, out of the same melancholy sea. But what took Hell a thousand thrones to rule, Death did with just one. For that, even the Devil must pay his respects to his ominous superior, whose authority not even beneficent Heaven can reprimand.

Bibliography

Poe, Edgar Allan. “The City in the Sea,” 1831.

Alfred Tennyson’s “The Poet’s Song”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson | Poetry Foundation

It has always somewhat saddened me how, whenever I casually inquire a group of minds as to the authorship of the lines, “Tis better to have lost and loved, Then never to have loved at all,” the most likely response (at least, in my experience) is to attribute the words to William Shakespeare, or even Charles Dickens. Although his influence within the realm of British poetry and the common anglophone vernacular are enough to place Alfred Tennyson’s name amongst the giants of what makes up early modern literature, the fact remains that the man is relatively unknown to the layperson who more than likely has made use of one or more of his charming phrasings.

Tennyson’s poetic talents were best displayed through his idylls, which intimately capture the world through the senses of the subject narrating the simple, yet engaging, prose. Tennyson excelled when he wrote candidly of the world he observed around him, often without resorting to the great emotionalism of the Romantics he admired, preferring instead to employ a reserved tone to inspire the feeling he wished his writing to convey to the reader. His lesser discussed prose, “The Poet’s Song,” is a perfect illustration of Tennyson’s artistic approach.

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,

He pass’d by the town and out of the street,

A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,

And waves of shadow went over the wheat,

And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet,

That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,

And the lark drop down at his feet.

Tennyson’s opening lines work to convey the movement’s of the poet in tune with the harmony of nature; hence, the explicit indication of the poet’s scant interaction with the urban world he passes by, in contrast to the vivid details given about the natural world he observes. The reason for this distinction suggest that the poet is by virtue of his character more in touch with the underlying order of life, rather than the artificial constructs that compose metropolitan living. His chanting of a melody into this tranquil world further symbolizes his interest to gain a oneness with its features, so much so that it awes the creatures who come to hear it. The poem goes on to state:

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,

The snake slipt under a spray,

The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,

And stared, with his foot on the prey,

There is a subtle shift in the tone here (carried on from the last two lines of the previous stanza). Whereas the poem began indicating the desired unity of the poet with the natural world, this same unity is now causing an obvious break in the normal flow of this natural order. Thus, although the poet is harmonized with the natural world, he nevertheless is distinct from its actual cycle.

And the nightingale thought, “I have sung many songs,

But never a one so gay,

For he sings of what the world will be

When the years have died away.

The poet’s role within the natural order is to capture the moment for the posterity of those who will yet be born to enjoy the times. He is an observer to it, but ultimately also the source that defines it. The sweet song of the nightingale, passing and unrecorded by time, do not compare to the gravity of the poet’s song, which serves as the reference–the very embodiment of the era of the days, and world he observes. So much so that, once the years have died away, the poet’s prose will come to simply be the moment for those who look back on it from the perspective of what will by then be a changed world.

Tennyson’s “A Poet’s Song,” is a testament to the first person who chose to sing his words rather than state them. And the reason why such song’s still remain with us to this day, rather than having been lost to time.

Edgar Allan Poe’s “A Dream Within a Dream”: An Analysis

dream

It is not a hyperbole to say that the final year of Edgar Allan Poe’s life also produced some of the darkest and most sensitive work composed by the poet. Reading through “A Dream Within a Dream” one is almost inclined to believe that the man understood that his days were coming to an end. The prose is always reflective, laced with a somber dose of melancholy; yet, filled with unavoidable regret and frustration. Moreover, it is impossible to ignore the prevailing anger of the hopeless writer at the various circumstances that have brought him to his lowly point.

The poem begins like a dying man’s final plea for understanding from a life that has granted him so much torment during his time within its clutches:

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow–

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

The poet appears to be prepared to say his farewell through these opening lines, but also offer a last elucidation into his troubled mind. The last two lines may read as a concession to the frivolous pursuits of one’s past interests, but if read with the line that precedes it the message takes on a much more affirmative tone than a reader might expect from a shame induced defense. The man understands that it is too late to bother with vacuous humility about one’s misdeeds, and instead opts to simply give his closing testament of his dire state of mind–offer his own epitaph, if you will.

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

The question asked is much more complex than its simple framing might suggest. When a man reaches a point in which his past desires, dreams, and ambitions are no longer feasible goals for him to pursue, should it matter by what means or length these hopes have left, since they are presently nothing more but mere memories anyway? Is it not true how this will eventually be the fate of all our current pursuits and hopes? And if so, is there any use in pursuing one’s hopes to begin with? Or as Poe puts it:

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

Every matter we dedicate ourselves to will some day decay to nothing more but a faint memory–a dream within a dream. Although it seems apparent when stated in such terms, the actual prose of this first stanza of the poem presents the blatant fatalism of its message in a much subtler tone. The sort a dying man might present to ease the misfortunes that have haunted his life.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand–

Now, the reader is given a clearer description of the poet’s current circumstance. The usage of “roar” and “surf-tormented” brings up images of anguish, but the poet’s allusion to an unruly sea as the source implies that the troubles of his life are ultimately pangs that life has thrust upon him (and not the result of self-inflicted foolishness). The last two lines here are important, for they reference the poet’s still vivid recollection of past valuables amidst his gloomy memories. But rather than give him solace, these few redeeming moments are the most painful of all to bear:

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep–while I weep!

Edgar Allan Poe is a man whose life is filled with more tragedies than his writings could ever express. Having lost his parents, his wife, seen much of his literary career dismissed to the margins by his colleagues, reduced to the state of an impoverished drunk, he now stands crying in isolation, trying to hold on to the tiniest of golden moments he can recall in life, but finding himself powerless in capturing them for any meaningful comfort:

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Whereas the poet began his prose in collective reflection, the endeavor appears to have been too much for his fragile mind, as he now tries to plea with the phantoms of his past. The desperation in these final gasps reveals much about the writer’s final mental state. Far from being ready to make peace with his life’s torments and losses, and despite his previous insistence how his hope has flown away, his self-pity still prevents him from giving into the apathy he seems at times to crave. This is evident by how he finishes his prose by repeating his once exclamatory statement, as a hopeful question for mercy from some undisclosed fate:

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

For someone like Edgar Allan Poe, who at this point in his life had nothing more to hold onto but his dreams–his fading memories–nothing would have been more desirable than the reassurance that this sole valuable of his was more than a mere intangible thought. But given how the poet’s life ended within the same year that this poem was published, I am skeptical as to whether he ever managed to truly convince himself of this dying wish.

George Orwell’s 1984 and Perfect Hoplessness

All-Knowing State: 2015 Isn't Very Different from Orwell's 1984

I believe that George Orwell’s 1984 is one of the most important pieces of social commentary of the 20th Century. Unlike other dystopian novels, 1984 is unique in its narrative of hopelessness and despair, by virtue of the author’s refusal to grant his protagonist a final means of escape. Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, is an earlier novel that follows a similar theme of the lone individual trying to hold on, both physically and mentally, against a totalitarian power that is seeking to subdue his will. But, even though some might view the fate of Huxley’s protagonist John as tragic, in comparison to the fate of Orwell’s protagonist, Winston Smith, Brave New World actually concludes on a moment of defiance by the individual against the oppressive system–a faint murmur of hope in human dignity is still salvaged. Orwell’s 1984, leaves no room for such salvation.

To me, this message was not apparent the first time I read the book, not until I finished it all the way through. Witnessing the glimmers of defiance Winston shows throughout his interrogation, convinced me that somehow, by some means, he would be able to combat against his oppressors and triumph over them in the end. This feeling was intensified to its peak when Winston, feebly, abandoning all care for argument or rationale, lashes out at the source of his misery, “I don’t know–I don’t care. Somehow you will fail. Something will defeat you. Life will defeat you” (p.269). The retort of a man that has been taken to breaking point, but is still trying to push forward for the sake of something–anything–better, than what is presently staring him in the face. The novel implies that even Winston’s interrogator was fleetingly taken aback at the sudden burst of indignation, causing him to launch into an array of verbal battery battery against the defiant prisoner:

“Do you see any evidence that this is happening? Or any reason why it should?”

“No. I believe it. I know that you will fail. There is something in the universe–I don’t know, some spirit, some principle–that you will never overcome.”

“Do you believe in God, Winston?”

“No.”

“Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?”

“I don’t know. The spirit of Man.”

“And do you consider yourself a man?”

“Yes.”

“If you are man, Winston, you are the last man. Your kind is extinct; we are the inheritors. Do you understand that you are alone? You are outside history, you are nonexistent / And you consider yourself morally superior to us, with our lies and our cruelty?”

“Yes, I consider myself superior” (p. 269-270)

What I love about this scene is the sheer insubordination show by the wholly helpless Winston. The resolve to forgo all pretense of humility, and openly declare his superiority to the authority that is eager to rob him of his humanity. Unfortunately, without wanting to give too much detail away, the enthusiasm raised in this dialogue disappears as quickly as it comes. The world Orwell has created is perfectly hopeless, one in which the future can only be accurately described as, “a boot stamping on a human face–forever” (p. 267). But none of this can truly sink in to the reader, even through all the torture and pain and anguish, not until the haunting final four words are read.

Bibliography

[All quotations used from the following citation]

Orwell, George. 1984. “Part Three: III,” (Signet Classic: New York), 1949, 1977 reprint.

Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death” and the Theme of Class Inequality

Edgar Allan Poe is the undisputed master of horror fiction [suck on it, Stephen King]. In his short story, “The Masque of the Red Death,” Poe explores the depth of self-indulgence, health paranoia, and the futility of the affluent members of society attempting to survive a social crisis by gating themselves off from the rest of the suffering masses.

Poe begins the plot of his story by informing the reader how, “The ‘Red Death’ had long devastated the country.” The severity of this disease is so dire that for those unfortunate enough to contract it:

There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men.

The last words in that passage are particularly important to the narrative. Unlike many of the stories being composed at the time (and even now), in which social turmoils are depicted as experiences of moral growth for most of the characters, Poe is willing to explore the limited extend of our moral virtues; concluding that there exists a point at which human decency and empathy will be easily abandoned in favor of self-preservation. The sovereign of the land, Prince Prospero is the base embodiment of the aristocratic, affluent few in society, who in time of need do not reach out to alleviate the suffering of their subjects, but instead find it more convenient for their own survival to horde the necessities to survive from the dying masses:

When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys.

The Prince, and his aristocratic peers, closed themselves off in happy oblivion within their gated community, indifferent and unconcerned about the horrors that dwell beyond their blissful experience. So lost do they become in the fanciful, carefree world they have created for themselves that, years into the epidemic, “while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad,” the now fully secluded Prince still manages to, “entertain his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.” It is important for a reader to pause and reflect at the message the author is trying to convey. The world is literary dying around the last few people who have the means to fortify against the affliction, and their primary interest is in vainly entertaining themselves with balls and masquerades. Not worrying about finding a cure to the ailment, or constructing a plan by which society is to be preserved and protected through the crisis. Nothing but a relentless desire to indulge in the splendors of life with equally heedless peers. Never have the words out off sight, out off mind been more apropos than they are to this scene.

Throughout the prose, Poe spends a significant amount of time detailing the eloquent and expensive features of the castle the aristocracy has confined itself in. Primarily, this is done to fully draw the reader into the features of the plot; secondarily, it serves to demonstrate the vanity of the upper-class characters, who see no peril, no anguish, no need, as important as their want to remain undisturbed and unaware about the worries of the sickly masses. However, behind this mode of self-sustained obliviousness, lies a state of constant paranoia for the affluent citizens. This is best illustrated by the way Poe uses the motion of a gigantic ebony clock (time serving the role of a commodity that no amount of wealth or power can control) as a source of anxiety for the masqueraders. With every noise and movement emitted by the ebony clock, “it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation.” And with the passing of each such moment, the occupants of the castle vowed mirthfully to each other not to let the ominous thing have the same affect on them again, only to fail as soon as, “there came yet another chiming of the clock.”

Having demonstrated the state of badly concealed apprehension exhibited by the party guests, the narrative goes on to suggest how the main distraction that exists for the masqueraders is Prince Prospero’s eccentric decorative feats created specially for the evening. Both the Prince, and his fashionable embellishments of the seven chambers making up the ballroom halls, are described as “bold and fiery,” but also repeatedly referred to as mad (either directly, or by implication). To suit his taste for the evening, the Prince had made it a requirement for the masqueraders to disguise themselves as grotesquely as possible; a request that appears to have been wholly lived up to by the attendees. (The reason for this request appears to have little cause other than for the Prince to further illustrate his eccentric flair, but it cannot be ruled out that the underlying cause could have something to do with the Prince’s desire to show how he is unaffected by the nervousness about death that his fellow aristocrats seem to be displaying.)

As the night wanes on, the aristocratic masqueraders find themselves more and more confined, as they densely pack into one chamber, while abandoning others. The source for this behavior is the arrival of a guest no one had previously noticed, despite his striking appearance:

And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive, of disapprobation and surprise–then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.

The physical appearance of the mysterious figure was one that deeply disturbed the otherwise grotesquely shrouded party attendees, because, “his venture was dabbed in blood–and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.” His costume was that of the Red Death. Here, the aristocrats, who have spent years hiding away blissfully from the terror and despair that surrounds them, are at last forced to see firsthand the image that is the cause of their self-imposed confinement–the real source of their relentless anxiety. Prince Prospero’s reaction towards the stranger was immeasurable rage: “Who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him–that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise.” This expression of outrage is noteworthy, because it is coming from a man who showed no consideration for the suffering of his own subjects, who holds no regard for anything beyond his own self-indulgence, but is now screaming in all righteousness about being mocked–about being offended–eager to uphold to some murky semblance of principle. Nonetheless, despite the Prince’s stern command, no one dared move towards the intruder, causing the Prince himself to “rush hurriedly through the six chambers / He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure.” The chase did not last long, as the figure suddenly turns to face the Prince, “upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero.” All pretense has now been abandoned by the masqueraders, for the stranger was not a costumed intruder, for “now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death.” The disease the inhabitants of the castle had spent so long to shelter from had at last penetrated through their iron gates, “and the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”

If there is one theme that Poe pointedly captures in his haunting story, it is that, ultimately, when it comes to disease carrying pathogens, it doesn’t matter how much wealth or power you possess. It doesn’t matter who–or what–you are, or where you reside in your social pecking order. Disease does not, and cannot, care about the arbitrary caste system or social mores your particular culture has decided to embrace; it is nature’s perfect equalizer. The only thing disease knows is to spread and kill indiscriminately. And once the pathogen carrying corpses of the lower classes begin to pile up all around your gated community, no amount of affluence will protect you from the fate that it carries. It’s very poetic, in an eerie way.

Oscar Wilde’s Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray: The Threat of Art

Oscar Wilde temple in New York honours gay rights trailblazer

To mention the word controversial in the same sentence with Oscar Wilde is to be repetitive. And the Irish writer’s The Picture of Dorian Gray–his only published novel–is nothing less but a testament to the man’s gift for astute social observation and spectacular prose. If you have not read the work, I would advise you to do so immediately, as it stands as a superb contribution to the ranks of both romantic and gothic literature.

Upon its initial publication in 1890, The Picture of Dorian Gray was instantly denounced by critics for its espousal of homoerotic and hedonistic indulgences. So much so that Oscar Wilde saw it necessary to add a Preface to the original text as a defense of his work. But the short Preface should not be seen as just a rebuttal to Wilde’s critics, instead it reads as a promulgation of art as a whole, and a denunciation of the cynic whose mindset is too narrow to grasp the fact that even though great (as well as bad) works of art are on display for the public, the true power lies in its strength to move the individual’s heart and mind.

Wilde begins the Preface by stating, “The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim,” adding, “Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.” Here, Wilde is addressing the specific critics of his novel, noting that it is not he, the writer–the artist–who is to blame for the offense taking by the audience of his work. For, any perverse imagery that is elicited by the sensitive reader is a demonstration of the perversity of the reader’s own mind, and not necessarily that of the author or his prose. Wilde’s further scoff against the fault of being corrupt without being charming is clearly an allusion to his title character Dorian Gray, who through all of his moral corruption at least manages to remain charming (and beautiful) to the world, something that his real life critics–who see fit to designate themselves as his moral superiors–don’t manage to do, in Wilde’s eyes.

“There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” It must have been telling for Wilde how all the critiques being leveled against his novel only focus on what are perceived to be obscenities within the text, and never the text itself. If a book is rubbish than let it be shown how it fails to meet the value of worthwhile literature, and we can move on to better things. But to deride a novel because it presents a topic a person does not wish to be discussed, or raises issues the public would rather be kept out of sight, is to reveal more about one’s own flimsy convictions than that of the author’s. Or, as Oscar Wilde put it, “No art is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.” Any moral foundation that is distraught in the process couldn’t have been too sturdy to begin with.

“All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.” We are the arbitrators of the mediums we choose to entertain ourselves with, thus when we feel repulsed by a piece of art, it is our responsibility to step away from it in bad taste–not to dictate to others about the need to stifle the offensive material. If I shout out a cry of fear that something will corrupt society, you can rest assured that what you’re hearing is nothing more but a deep-seated panic that something will corrupt me. But if a person is already at this stage, then he is already completely corrupted by the source of his worry. He has already embraced the splendor of the art’s power, drawn into it to the point of drowning within it, and is now paddling anxiously to get back to the safe shore–away from the sea of unknown euphoria.

“We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless.” Unlike other disciplines, art holds no immediate pragmatic worth to the structural progress of human societies. Buildings are not art for the sake of being art, they have an intended use. Same goes for nonfiction books, whose goal is to inform, and not necessarily inspire the reader’s imagination. Wilde was right that art, created solely for the sake of being admired and revered, is objectively useless. Because its use resides within the subjective mind of those who care to indulge within its beauty. And for those who don’t, any harm perceived is only made viable by the internal recesses of one’s own depraved mind. That is the real threat of art.

Bibliography

Wilde, Oscar. The Portrait of Dorian Gray. “The Preface,” Barnes & Nobel Classics (New York: 2003), pages 1-2.

Ayn Rand’s Atlass Shrugged: Analysis and Critique

Part One: Analysis

Exposing the means by which the looters of a nation are able to exploit the abilities of the productive members of society lies at the heart of Ayn Rand’s novel Atlas Shrugged. The plot of the novel makes a clear distinction between the two factions through the values each side exhibits for their worldview, and more importantly the imagery by which they express such ideals. This is best illustrated in a dialogue that occurs halfway through the novel, in which the pirate character Ragner Danneskjöld—speaking to industrialist Hank Rearden—declares his intent to destroy the person of Robin Hood from human consciousness. To him, Robin Hood is the embodiment of the misplaced mentality modern society has come to embrace. He claims that it s through the legacy surrounding his exploits that the looters of today are offered a convenient excuse to promote their detrimental moral superiority, which encourages that the need of one man justifies the sacrifice of another. Ragner Danneskjöld’s aim to eradicate the ideals, legend, and righteousness of Robin Hood, as a means to free mankind from his own self-imposed deprecation and provide him with the independent morale necessary to survive, stands as a perfect metaphorical expression to illustrate Rand’s philosophical stance for the virtue of self-interest over the misguided value of self-sacrifice.

Right from the start Ragner Danneskjöld makes it abundantly clear how his worldviews contrasts that of the man he is out to destroy, Robin Hood, and why these differences create an odious contempt against the man, and the ideals which are embodied by him. He explains that where Robin Hood sought to take from the rich and give to the poor, he in turn is “the man who robs the thieving poor and gives back to the productive rich” (page 532). Here, Danneskjöld is careful with his diction, as not to give a misconstrued representation of his words. He uses thieving to describe the needy underprivileged poor and illustrate his belief that a group who seeks compensation, without the intent of earning their imbursements, is in fact robbing from those who have accumulated their wealth through relentless labor and resourcefulness (the productive rich). The idea of Robin Hood, Danneskjöld states, creates a false warrant of merit where it is the inept who are justified in demanding aid from the skilled, a logic which holds little ground against objective reasoning, based on the notion that strength and intellect are factors of dominance not servitude. Danneskjöld’s views differ in that he sees each man responsible for his own wellbeing, but realizes that this is challenged by the faux guilt hanging over the conscience of the productive few, and the widespread assurance that those with manufacturing ability have a responsibility to provide for the survival of others with lesser capabilities. He encapsulates this partiality as, “the need of some men is the knife of a guillotine hanging over others—that all of us must live with our work, our hopes, our plans, our efforts, at the mercy of the moment when that knife will descend upon us” (p.532). Such a grim depiction further serves to emphasize the intense abhorrence Danneskjöld feels for the looter’s ideology. He sees the admiration of men like Robin Hood as a prime factor society has become to delude itself of the supposed inherent justice of altruism that is being offered as the only humane quality necessary for people to posses. By encouraging these sentiments, the looters render any counterargument as nonsensical simply through the public impression that all other takes on the matter are immoral by definition. Hence, leaving the producers and providers of society to be drained and deposed of as the needy masses see fit.

Ragner Danneskjöld’s vehement reproach towards Robin Hood stems not so much from the actual reality of the man, but the pretense which has come to symbolize him. On page 532 he says, “It is said that he fought against the looting rulers and returned the loot to those who had been robbed, but that is not the meaning of the legend which has survived.” Clearly, Danneskjöld is able to differentiate between the folk hero image Robin Hood represented as someone who stood against an abusive ruling authority—and even accept the gallantry associated with it—from what he sees as a prevarication created by those seeking to use his actions to elevate their own ideology amongst the populace. His contempt is not so much aimed at eradicating the man, but the myth of him that has come to serve the plunderers of society. Nonetheless, Danneskjöld also understands that in order to free the world from the self-deprecation brought on by the legend, no distinction can be made between man and myth. The reason being that as long as a man like Robin Hood exists to serve as a guiding example for the looters, it is necessary to deal with the two entities as one and the same, due to the extend the myth has come to overtake every aspect of the man’s personhood. Danneskjöld explains his rationale plainly when he gives his assessment of what Robin Hood has become, “He is held to be the first man who assumed a halo of virtue by practicing charity with wealth which he did not own, by giving goods which he had not produced, by making others pay for the luxury of his pity” (p.532). It is through his selfless servitude that Robin Hood’s legacy evolved into the defender of the poor, rather than the robbed. Such an image caused the distortion which Danneskjöld hopes to destroy; the idea that the true nature of mankind involves the demand for self-sacrifice. And, although, Danneskjöld considers it complete folly, he understands the depth to which man is capable of falling if such nonsensical sentiment continues to be valued as morally correct.

The righteousness of Robin Hood is the ultimate goal Ragner Danneskjöld wishes to remove from human consciousness. Considering it a personal duty to relieve man of the foul virtues he has accepted through centuries of fanciful tales, which have caused the discarding of realistic sensibility. Danneskjöld argues against an ideology that considers the preservation of the self immoral, yet praises the believe that, “in order to be placed above rights, above principles, above morality, placed where anything is permitted to him, even plunder and murder, all a man has to do is to be in need” (p.533). The championing of need is in Danneskjöld eyes the greatest depravity luring mankind away from realizing the importance of personal interest. A world where all men are held accountable to provide for themselves, Danneskjöld argues, is a world where every member of society will labor to achieve highest proficiency, rather than depend on someone else’s productive output. He sees the preservation of egotism not just as a necessity for his own values to survive, but the existence of mankind as a whole. This is best summarized by Danneskjöld in his closing words, “Until men learn that of all human symbols, Robin Hood is the most immoral and the most contemptible, there will be no justice on earth and no way for mankind to survive” (p.533). To remove Robin Hood from the moral pedestal society has set him on, would deprive the looters of a functioning symbol to hold over the head of men striving to earn their wealth instead of waiting for free hand-outs. As long as the idolization of someone like Robin Hood persists amongst the general public, no hope lies for the true providers of society—working not to serve another man’s needs, but solely their own interest.

The fundamental plot of Ayn Rand’s novel Atlas Shrugged exhibits the struggle between those few in society who have rejected the moral superiority of altruistic self-sacrifice, and the looters who use the concept of need to subjugate any trace of personal interest and basic individuality. The character of Ragner Danneskjöld serves to illustrate the idea of what man should strive to be; resourceful, fearless, and nondependent on other men’s capabilities. He declares Robin Hood as the one man he is out to destroy as his personal mission to rid the world of its unyielding thirst for need. He views the ideals, legend, and righteousness of the Sherwood Forest archer as the primary symbol serving the looters false ethical cause. Ragner Danneskjöld reasons that the fatal blow necessary for man to see through the gilded façade the looters have erected to cover their noxious ideology is the death of their idol, the original offender against the nature of man, Robin Hood.

Part Two: Critique

Although the brief exchange between Hank Rearden and Ragner Danneskjöld is meant by Ayn Rand to logically outline her philosophical position concerning the destitute nature of altruism, a number of apparent logical faults can be found right in the midst of the impassioned dialogue. On page 532, Ragner Danneskjöld explains how he has never robbed a single private or military vessel during his pirate campaigns against the looters of society. The reason for the first is self-evident by the stance of Rand’s ideals on capitalism, as to why military vessels are not to be attacked, Danneskjöld notes, “because the purpose of a military fleet is to protect from violence the citizens who paid for it, which is the proper function of a government” (p.532). However, on the same page, the pirate names his ideological foe as “the idea that need is a sacred idol requiring human sacrifice.” The problem with this line is that it seemingly negates the point he has made about the necessity of preserving the military, since the military is a prime example of an institution that operates primarily on the notion of self-sacrifice for the sake of a particular society/country/community as a whole. Danneskjöld’s acceptance of the need for such an establishment runs counter to his vehement promotion of individual self-interest.

Rand might argue that this is irrelevant, on account that Ragner Danneskjöld specifically mentions that the military is supposed to protect those who “paid for it,” but such a rationalization does not solve the philosophical dilemma at hand, and even leads to a number of more conundrums. Namely, it does not address the fact that in a world where self-interest is heralded as the ideal standard of behavior, the fundamental principles of military combatants will be eradicated, because it is universally understood that a soldier is expected to give his life for his brothers in arms, and for his country, if the situation calls for it; the interests of the individual are secondary to the interest of the unit as a whole. And, on the point of the military serving those who paid for it, one is left bemused by what exactly Danneskjöld means by this. He mentions that such is the proper function of government, thus it implies he does support the notion that the government is to be the arbitrator of the armed forces. However, further on in the text, Danneskjöld firmly rejects taxation as a form of robbery (p.534), suggesting that the method by which citizens are to pay for their military protection must come from some other means—more than likely, what is implied is a direct payment of some sort. This leads to a major problem that is left ignored by Rand throughout the dialogue; the possibility that if the military is privatized to protect those who have paid for their service, the result will be unmanageable disparity that can lead to losses amongst all economical sectors of society.

As a thought experiment, say, for example, that the East Coast of the U.S. is the more affluent part of the country (let us assume it is due to it having more entrepreneurs investing into a growing industrial economy) and uses its affluence to thoroughly protect its shores from any possible threats that might harm its source of wealth; while the West Coast is significantly less affluent, and, as a result, cannot afford as much military protection for its shores. Let’s also set that the material resources the industrial centers on the East Coast use to produce their wealth is located on the uncultivated areas of the West Coast. Since, presumably, the entrepreneurs of the East Coast would have a vested interest in keeping the West Coast as nonindustrial as possible, so as to keep the production costs of their products lower than the selling price. But, because the West Coast cannot afford to properly protect its shores, their material resources (which are used by the East Coast) lie more vulnerable to external threats of theft. Should the East Coast pay for the needed military protection of the West Coast? And, if so, in whose individual self-interest is it to cover the cost? Ideally, the West Coast should be expected to cover the cost itself, but in order for it to produce the wealth necessary to properly protect its shore it will need to increase prices on its material goods; at the expense of the East Coast. Thus, it would appear, the East Coast is left picking up the bill no matter the angle one chooses to lock at this dilemma.

Now, since the government is the arbitrator of the military (as implied by Danneskjöld), one would be justified in proposing that it should also bear the responsibility of paying for the expenses that go into deploying its forces. But where would the government get the revenue to make such payments? Presumably taxes, but Danneskjöld has already established that taxation is equivalent to robbery, therefore for the government to tax its citizens would be criminal in nature. It is true that the average worker has some interest in keeping the resources of their employer protected, lest they risk losing their place of employment. However, to what degree should a menial employee be expected to pay for the protection of resources, whose total revenue potential he will only receive a fraction of (in comparison to the individuals who run the company)? Perhaps, the wealthy entrepreneurs and industrialists, who have the greatest interest in protecting the West Coast, can be expected to provide the greatest payment to the government in order to finance the needed military protection (and, yes, it would have to be given through the government, since Danneskjöld has already acknowledged that the government’s function is to be in charge of the military). Thus, the burden to pay falls on those who earn the most from the protected resources. This seems like a viable position, but the question then becomes, how, in practice, is this any different from taxation? It would appear that the only difference would be a lack of coercion on behalf of the wealthy, and maybe that’s the underlying point, but if the end result is still the same as before, what sense is there in pretending that the current system is a form of tyranny since the solution will essentially be the exact same thing only promoted by the tenets of a different ideological principle?

Another major point of contention arises through the message Ayn Rand is trying to present through Ragner Danneskjöld’s condemnation of Robin Hood (and altruism in general). In his dialogue with Hank Rearden, Ragner Danneskjöld makes the case that wealth is an inherent indication of productivity. Implying that due to the competitive nature of the market those who are wealthiest will also be those who possess the greater intellect and talent, and, thereby, are by definition the most deserving of all the riches and power they can accumulate; while those who occupy the lower ranks of society do so by the merits of their own failures. However, this is clearly not as absolute as Danneskjöld is making it sound, and as the Robin Hood fables are meant to convey. The rich Robin Hood stole from were corrupt monarchs who demanded servitude from the lower classes of society, not because they had gained their wealth by the merit of their work, but due to an arbitrary right of birth. In this scenario, the most productive members of society were the underprivileged poor, the looters as Ragner Danneskjöld would call them, but who had no means to benefit from their productivity due solely to the fact that they were born in poor households. Hence, in such a system, it would be fundamentally disingenuous to claim that the lower-classes lack of economic motility is the result of a lack of productivity, just as it would be insincere to proclaim that wealth to be a representations of intellect or work ethic.

The question of inherited vs. earned wealth is an issue that Ayn Rand never dwells into in Atlas Shrugged, even though any defense of her philosophy demands a clarification on this point; especially if one branches out to the greater narrative of the novel. For example, two of the main characters in the novel, Dagney Taggert and Francisco d’Anconia (both of whom are presented throughout the prose as the epitome of the productive capitalist) lay claim to their fortune strictly by an accident of birth. Both have inherited their wealth through the work of their productive ancestors, not through, shall we say, the sweat of their brow. It is true that they are shown to be ardent entrepreneurs (although, for the aristocratic d’Anconia, this is more a matter that the reader is just suppose to grant as a given for the sake of the narrative; he is never actually shown creating anything industrially successful throughout the plot), but the question of how these characters would have succeeded if they had not been born in such a privileged position remains open to question. This is particularly noteworthy, since the majority of the named antagonists in the novel (who seek to undermine all the values the Rand’s protagonists hold dear) are also wealthy industrialists, thus, the plot subtly acknowledges the point that the possession of wealth is not an ideal indicator of productivity.

The pivotal event Atlas Shrugged is leading up to is the point at which the productive few of society unanimously go on strike, and allow the looters of society to fully see the catastrophic fate that their self-sacrificing policies will inevitably lead to; i.e. the complete collapse of civilization. Although the novel ends at this point, in his dialogue with Rearden, Danneskjöld gives the reader a glimpse of what is to follow thereafter. He states, “When we are free and have to start rebuilding from out of the ruins, I want to see the world reborn as fast as possible” (p.535). Here, he is giving justification for his work as a pirate, he is simply collecting the money that has been looted away from the productive to be utilized by them to remold society after the coming collapse (ironically drawing parallels with the criminal aspects of Robin Hood). He continues, “If there is, then, some working capital in the right hands—in the hands of our best, our most productive—it will save years for the rest of us and, incidentally centuries for the history of the country” (p.535). Thereby, those productive few who currently are held down by the looting majority will be well compensated in the imminent future. However, this once again brings up the topic of earned vs. inherited wealth. While those who Danneskjöld sees worthy today are bound to continue accumulating their wealth in this approaching utopia, what exactly will happen to those who might possess the potential to be entrepreneurs, but were unfortunate enough to have been born amongst the looting majority? The narrative seems to imply that once the virtue of self-sacrifice has been thoroughly annihilated in favor of self-interest, those who deserve to rise through the social ladder will be able to do so. However, it goes without saying that, whether or not the potential advancement exists, few will be able to actually occupy the ranks of the rich, simply because the number of available spots will always pale in comparison to the number of lower-ranking poor. Therefore, most people will have to be content with the lower position they occupy in society, and these will be the ones upon whom the fortunes of the rich few will be founded on; meaning that, once more, the social reality that is to arise from the coming collapse will not be much different from the society that exists today.

Furthermore, the question is still open as to how someone such as the aristocratic Francisco d’Anconia, who has never been shown to produce anything of worth, whose entire fortune is based on the merits of his last name, deserves to be amongst the ranks of the productive few, other than strictly through his association with the other protagonists in the narrative? How is someone born poor in this post-looter society, expected to compete with the generations worth of wealth that d’Anconia has inherited from his ancestors? (This point still stands even if one takes into account the fact that d’Anconia’s mission is to undermine the current social order by wasting the wealth he has, because Danneskjöld’s words to Rearden clearly imply that he will be reimbursing all the productive rich in the coming era for their present losses.) While a reader can speculate one scenario after another, the truth is that all of these points remain unaddressed by the plot itself.

Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged is meant to convince the reader of the superiority of promoting strict capitalism in all aspects of a person’s life. It is a simple philosophy, best articulated by the pirate character Ragner Danneskjöld, in his dialogue against the legend of Robin Hood, and the virtue of self-sacrifice the looting masses have accepted as morally viable. Although there are times in which Danneskjöld seems to be conveying a deeper truth pertinent to the advancement of an industrial society, upon scrutiny, much of the foundation that he sets to build this new ideology of self-interest on is based on flimsy premises that leaves too many factors unexamined (two of which, the proper function of government and the dilemma of inherited vs. earned wealth, are pointed out here). As such this simple philosophy comes across as overly simplistic to hold any practical application.

Bibliography

Rand, Ayn. Atlas Shrugged. Signet Book (New York: 1992, original 1957).

Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee”

In the sepulchre there by the sea – On the Rox

Like much of Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry, “Annabel Lee” tells the story of a man’s painful longing for a deceased love. The strength of the poem comes from the seamless nature by which Poe utilizes repetition to instill the darkly impassioned imagery into the reader’s mind, forcing him to feel the heartbreaking despair of the narrator’s loss.

The poem’s emotional impact, I believe, comes through largely due to our knowledge of Poe’s personal history, particularly having to watch his wife, Virginia, die of tuberculosis just two years prior to the publication of the work (the poem itself was published just days after Poe’s own death in 1849). Hints of Virginia’s sickness can be found throughout several notable lines, “A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee,” and similarly reiterated later, “That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.” Chills are a common symptom of the (then) little understood disease, thus Poe’s metaphorically attributing the illness as being brought by the wind is a strong allusion to its sudden and mysterious nature.

By far, the strongest aspects of “Annabel Lee” is the way by which Poe conveys his anguish over his lost love. In the first stanza, he introduces the title character by stating, “this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me,” shortly thereafter reaffirming the same sentiment, “But we loved with a love that was more than love–I and my Annabel Lee.” However, the man is not just filled with hopeless sorrow, he is also filled with raging anger. Throughout, he curses the heavens for taking his love:

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me–

Yes!–that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind blew out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

It is the last refuge of someone who has exhausted all the limits to his pain, and lashes out at unseen forces for having taking the source of his happiness. This is the accumulation of the misery Poe must have felt watching his wife suffer for five long years, leaving him with nothing but the desire to keep the last glimpses of his wife’s image with him, declaring, “neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”

Besides the heavy emotion of pain and misery, there also resides a great deal of fortitude in “Annabel Lee.” This is especially clear in the final stanza of the poem:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling–my darling–my life and by bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Yes, there is resolve in these closing words, but it is a sunken sort of resolve; more of a refute, needed to combat the utter despair of the tragedy. It is the hope to carry forward, but inability to let go of someone that meant more to you than life itself; someone that for so long encompassed all of life itself. For Poe, the pain of watching his wife Virginia suffer and die inspired this simple and great poem. For the rest of us, his pain gives us a source to lose our own sorrows in; or to just reflect, appreciate, and empathize with the lose of an other. And teaching readers to feel, is the only lesson any poet could ask and strive for.

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, as Allegory to the Terrors of the French Revolution

The Unexpected Twist That Makes Mary Shelley's Frankenstein A Bold, Experimental Work Far Ahead of Its Time | by Spencer Baum | Medium

Although it came to serve as a hallmark for the advent of the Gothic literary genre, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein cannot be separated from its origins in the Romantic tradition. The Romantic movement in literature (circa 1800-1840) was a reaction to the perceived mechanical, stoic approach to viewing the natural world through the logic of Enlightenment rationalism. The aim of the Romantics was to introduce the value of the emotional experience in human expression, especially in its relation towards physical reality. Arguably, it’s historical infusion in English literature can be traced directly to the artistic response to the Reign of Terror (1793-94) which arose out of–and in many ways defined the popular image of–the French Revolution.

The poetry of William Blake and William Wordsworth, which exalts the aesthetic beauty of nature over its rudimentary empirical observations, set the tone for much of the later Romantics who followed. Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Shelley’s husband, was another key figure in the Romantic movement, who heralded the naturalistic worldview, without making reference to the lifeless trappings of cold rationalism. This is the environment Shelley was surrounded by as she penned her novel in 1818. Despite often being overlooked as a mere accomplice to Percy’s more provocative work and demeanor, it was Shelley who expressed most poignantly the Romantic horror towards the Revolutionary elements that sparked the literary appeal for a greater appreciation for the aesthetics.

In the novel, Dr. Victor Frankenstein is a passionate man, enamored by the creative possibilities offered by scientific thought and rigor:

None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies you go so far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there is food for discovery and wonder (Chapter 4, page 49).

He is the quintessential child of the Enlightenment, not content with merely contributing to the understanding of life, but seeking to challenge the conventions that have traditionally constituted the definition of life itself:

Whence, I asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice and carelessness did not restrain our inquiries (page 50).

In this pursuit he labors, and theorizes, and experiments, until his desire for reanimating life in the lifeless is actualized. The philosophical origins of the French Revolution followed a similar intellectual path. The Enlightenment writings of Voltaire, Diderot, Paine, and Locke (among numerous others), too, sought to instill the spark of life in a lifeless body; the lifeless body being the decaying corpse of the common populace, whose dire condition was sustained through the traditional conventions that maintained its own authority by reducing the worth of the powerless to little more than a living death. Like the feverish thrill of excitement that accompanied Dr. Frankenstein’s climactic success in creating life, the uprising of the lower caste of society against the social order that governed them–most vividly symbolized by the popular storming of the Bastille in 1789–served as a reinvigorated yelp of life echoing the labors of the minds that planted the seeds of its ascent; or, as articulated in Dr. Frankenstein, “After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter” (page 51).

Within the context of Shelley’s narrative, Dr. Frankenstein isn’t a malicious figure. Indeed, he is a rather sympathetic character, whose intellectual feats and desire to push the frontiers of knowledge are quite admirable; even benign. However, the man allows his zeal to take control of his reason, causing him to lose track of the reality he is bringing about before him:

But this discovery was so great and overwhelming that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the results (page 51).

The excitement of the event blinded the young scientist from contemplating either the means by which he was arriving at his desired results, or the possible consequences that these results would bring to fruition. Thus, upon reaching the final hour of his work, Dr. Frankenstein at last stood back to observe and reflect on his creation, only to gasp in horror at what he had brought about into the world:

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! / I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. / I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart (Chapter 5, page 56).

Unable to deal with the reality of his creation, Dr. Frankenstein abandons it in disgust and fear. Forcing the creature to venture into the world without order or guidance to nurture his maturity.

One can imagine the philosophical architects of the French Revolution having a similar reaction to the Reign of Terror that arose out of the hopeful revolt in 1789. The events that disposed of the royal ruling order of France were instigated by the widespread uprising of the exploited masses against the forces that sought to keep them in chains. It was seen as the will of the people at long last triumphing over the tyranny of their rulers. Oppression and persecution at the hands of the monarchy was at an end, and the calendar could be set back to Year One, to symbolize the dawning of a hopeful new era of liberty and justice.

Lessons of the French Revolution

Unfortunately, the hope for change proved short-lived, as the concept of liberty and justice, rather than being put to practice, became mere cult devotions in the new regime, which swiftly began to denounce all who failed to properly adhere to the new revolutionary system as heretics to both. Therefore, like Frankenstein’s creature, the Revolutionary model was arguably created with the most virtues of intentions, assembling together the most intellectually viable parts and ideals available. Yet, outside of the containment of philosophical musings, where hypothetical entities and situations obey the whim of the ponderer, this idealistic goal turned into a nightmare. Or, more astutely, once “rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived” (page 57).

Frankenstein’s creation begins life innocently, but the grotesque circumstances of his existence fuel within him an unyielding destitute and hate. At first, he wants to uphold the greater aspects of the human spirit (and contribute to it positively, if possible), but his abandonment by his creator, and the scorn leveled at him for his monstrous appearance, causes him to become evermore vengeful and destructive: “Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable and they shall share my wretchedness” (Chapter 10, page 96). His creation came about through the feverish frenzy of a strained mind, and his continued presence, incapable of assimilating with his greater surroundings, must therefore be justified by virtue of force and, if need be, destruction. Particularly towards the person that gave him life and subsequently wishes to deprive him of it.

Similarly, the Revolutionaries who spearheaded the rise of the new order, and had zealously advocated the use of terror as an instrument against all possible dissenters, began to see their creation turn against them, as even the most powerful of them were duly marched to the blade of the guillotine. Signifying how, in the end, the Terror ultimately managed to subdue even its own makers, who failed (or refused) to restrain it when they still held the power to do so. This shift in control between creator and creation is a sentiment best captured when Frankenstein is confronted by his creature’s haunting words against him, “Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master; obey!” (Chapter 20, page 160).

In Frankenstein, Mary Shelley gives a body to the monstrous history that spurred the Romantic literary tradition she was an immutable figure in. However, in doing so, she also diverting from the standard premise promoted by her Romantic counterparts, by emphasizing on the fact that while man’s creative nature and passions can bring about unspeakably valuable works of creation and wonder, allowed to go unrestrained, this same nature can bring about monstrous consequences; for both the innocent and guilty alike. No matter how well-intentioned the initial motivations may be.

Bibliography

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein; Or The Modern Prometheus, (Signet Classics: New York), 1818. 1983 reprint.

Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451& the People’s Tyranny

They Tried to Ban Fahrenheit 451 and Replace It With. . . My Book | Literary Hub

Like the dystopian novels that precede it (i.e. 1984, Brave New World, etc.), Ray Bradbury’s 1953 Fahrenheit 451 is set in an ambiguously dated future, where human society has become subjugated by an undisclosed oppressive force. The book depicts a future whose technological feats have advanced to a high enough pace that it allows the common citizenry to live in relative comfort and bliss–televisions are bigger and brighter, drugs and antidepressants are easily available to ease whatever malady a person may be feeling. But, despite all of these luxuries, the outwardly happiness feels empty and artificial; something is missing from the humane experience. Guy Montag is aware of this void in his life, but is initially unable to determine its source. His occupation as a fireman provides the reader the vital insight necessary to explain the destitute state of the novel’s environment. Because houses (and presumably other structures, too) are designed to be completely fireproof, the duty of the firemen in Fahrenheit 451 is strikingly different from what we normally expect it to be; namely, they start–as opposed to prevent–fires. Moreover, firemen serve to specifically find and burn books (the forbidden contraband in the novel), due to the items having been banned in the distant past.

It doesn’t take long for the reader to realize that the message the author is trying to convey is the importance of imagination and creativity (i.e. literature) in making mankind feel wholly human. Thus, the book’s protagonist, Montag, represents the isolated figure in society, who is being deprived of something he requires to truly function and understand the world around him properly (in this case, that something is the rigor and critical thinking invoked by the at times inspiring, at times agonizing, words of literature). Although this theme of being unable to live a fulfilling life absent of books and substantive prose is an interesting concept to explore, the part that really makes the novel stand out from others in its genre is the way the author chooses to detail the genesis of the decadent state his characters are living in.

Early on, the narrative vaguely implies that the source of the repression of books in Montag’s society is some sort of governmental power, as seen by the comment his superior, Captain Beatty, makes about the state of mind of any person that sees fit to challenge the ban in place, “Any man’s insane who thinks he can fool the government and us” (page 33). The mention of the “government” seems to indicate that the oppressor is the standard Big Brother type, ruling decrees from above. However, as the story progresses, the reader quickly finds out that this initial assumption, though reasonable, is completely false in light of the reality of things.

Montag’s anxiety about his life and work eventually causes him to start to explore the written words in the books he has up to that point ignited for a living. It is suggested that Captain Beatty is fully aware of Montag’s illegal activities, leading to a revealing exchange between the two, which sets the tone for the narrative from there on out, and sets Fahrenheit 451 apart from its dystopian precursors.

The exchange begins with Beatty openly telling Montag about the origins of the nationwide ban on books:

“Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of pastepudding norm / Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending” (page 54).

What Beatty is essentially describing is the advent of the modern life. As technology has become faster, and our dependency on technology has forced us to adapt our pace right along with it (i.e. our attention spans have decreased significantly). Readers in the 21st Century will have no problem understanding this, as we trace the impact technological feats like the internet have had on the way we communicate, retain, and process information. [What makes the parallel even more interesting is the fact that Bradbury wrote his book in 1953, with little knowledge of just how much more tech-dependent we were to become in the subsequent decades.] Beatty goes on to explain how this change in technology influenced the way society prioritized itself:

“School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophy, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts?” (page 56).

The focus on simply learning the menial tasks one needs to get by in a job takes away the individual’s burden to challenge, or even contemplate, her/his surroundings with any real depth; one does what one knows, because no one is taught to do anything more. Of course, this routine also leaves people with a certain amount of leisure time, which must be filled with enough distractions, lest someone gets tempted to analyze the surrounding world too seriously. And this is where luxuries come into play–to keep people content, happy, and too comfortable to start upsetting the balancing for everybody else:

“You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can’t have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, What do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn’t that right? Haven’t you heard it all your life? I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren’t they? Don’t we keep moving them moving, don’t we give them fun? That’s all we live for, isn’t it? For pleasure, for titillation? And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these” (page 59).

The source of the censorship in Montag’s world is not some ominous government figure or organization, it is the people themselves who urged for the ban. As information became readily available to a growing population, the opportunity for offense increased, and the prevalence of offensiveness leads to a decrease in happiness (which can have detrimental affects on the governing order). Books are a cesspool of offensiveness. While the right book–with the right message–can inspire a person to great things, no book’s primary goal is to keep peace amongst differing ideas. Books challenge the person, ridicule his beliefs and convictions, and in turn make him less peaceful. Or as Beatty puts it, “The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their navel to be kept clean” (page 57). In a pluralistic society, the desire not to offend is very prominent. But in a free marketplace of ideas the act is practically unavoidable (that which is inspirational and uplifting for one, is insulting to another).

The simple truth is that some ideas are better than others; and some positions are less viably defensible. However, the means by which we determine which is which, is to debate and challenge one another in the public place of ideas. But to challenge is to confront, to confront is to antagonize, and it takes little effort for antagonizing to lead to warring. To fully remove the agitation ideas cause, it is best to remove the incentive for them altogether–make each man “the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are mo mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against” (page 58). Yet, even characters like Beatty understand that the artistic spirit of the human mind is naturally drawn to formulating ideas (even if it is often just a recycling of other people’s ideas), thus he explains the prominence of feeding mundane trivia facts to the populace (that offer no opportunity for controversy or critical thought):

“Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so damned full of ‘fact’ they feel stuffed, but absolutely ‘brilliant’ with information. Then they’ll feel they’re thinking, they’ll get a sense of motion without moving” (page 61).

[I feel the need to add as a side note that, while I can appreciate Bradbury’s appeal for the need books provide in creating minds that can evaluate the world critically, it should also be mentioned that simply reading works of literature, and than regurgitating trivial quotes back to others as your own is not the standard of a critical thinker; more than read, one must learn to dissect and scrutinize the words of books.]

The reason why I consider Fahrenheity 451 as separate from books like Orwell’s 1984, is the fact that it challenges the popular notion that oppression always stems from the ruling class’s thirst for power. The will of the people can be equally tyrannical, and when convinced enough of its own sanctity, it won’t hesitate to impose its will on those who dare deviate from the established program. The common man is not necessarily the noble spirit of humanity, but the oppressor looking to subjugate others for the sake of keeping himself content:

“It didn’t come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. Today, thanks to them, you can stay happy all the time” (page 58).

Once public opinion submits to its desire to be censored and guarded and watched over, it doesn’t take much for opportunistic would-be rulers to step in and erode away at the individual’s liberties to consolidate their own power. But one should not forget who sanctions their authority to begin with, and laid the foundation for the systematic coercion that follows. In Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury makes it clear who he considers “the most dangerous enemy to truth and freedom, the solid unmoving cattle of the majority. Oh God, the terrible tyranny of the majority” (page 108). The question that remains now is, how readily can oppression be recognized (let alone combated) if it is being sustained from the bottom-up?

Bibliography

Bradbury, Ray. Fahrenheit 451. Ballantine Books: New York, 1953 (1996 reprint).