A Pictoral Preview of Next Month's Mixtape

An Absurdly Over-Ambitious-and-Lofty Term Paper Prospectus

“Wakefield”, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short piece – or how we’ll refer to it at this juncture – is as engaging as it is confounding. It is a psychological piece that utilizes adroit narrative power to prompt the reader to elevated thinking. It is a systematic sequence of words that maneuvers itself on many planes, blurring the lines between sketch and tale and beyond. Within deterministic and labyrinth-like boundaries of “Wakefield” there also lies the enigmatic presence of free will – a setting that we all, at some point or another, feel apart of in this crazy thing called life.

It has been suggested by some that “Wakefield” can be considered an “Illustrated Idea”; A structure composed of an essay-like statement of concept followed by dramatized illustration – and, I like this. It has also been posited that the piece can be considered another one of Hawthorne’s allegories. But, at an extreme level, and considering the text itself, seeing “Wakefield” as an allegory seems too pithy: Solitude makes a person an “Outcast of the Universe”. I propose that there are greater, more significant things at work here - fundamental, philosophical ideas that effect our interactions with the world. Yes. This is about thinking, reasoning, our essence, what separates mankind from dumb beasts. “Wakefield” is Hawthorne embracing the concept of the written word to elevate man’s awareness.

Using the news story of a man abandoning his wife for 20 years (only to return as if from a days absence), Hawthorne’s narrator summarizes the story and then imagines it in detail, hoping to appeal to the “general sympathies of man.” The narrator invites us, the readers, to consider the summary of the news story and come to our own conclusions right there in the piece’s second paragraph; or, we can tag along with the narrator as he imagines the story of Wakefield and together we can work out a moral. Naturally, we continue onward through the narrator’s imagination. But he details with a skillful, seductive, ambiguous and sometimes flat-out contradictory manner that some readers of “Wakefield” may find themselves no better off - no more enlightened - than the title character was during his thoughtlessly executed “whim-wham”.

It is in the examination of the narrator’s treatment of the subject matter – of the dramatized illustration – that we can glimpse the magnitude of what Hawthorne is doing with “Wakefield.” The piece’s technical merit is what elevates and inspires the reader. In researching, it will be necessary to branch out and consult fellow-thinkers in other disciplines such as logic and even epistemology. Likewise, visiting other artisans of narrative structure would help inform this developing argument of text and the necessity of awareness. In a critical approach, we can, perhaps, join beside the many scholarly articles of interpretation of “Wakefield”. The majority of these view different symbolic aspects of the story, touching on themes like Solitude, and Mid-life journeys. While these are worthwhile approaches and useful to filling in details, I suggest that we take a step back and look at the text itself – to see it as a suspended multi-colored Spirograph design, a perpetual work that has no ending nor beginning, but arcs out and returns back to its center.

A Plethora of Pesky Mr. Popper's Penguins Poster

If one has been out and about lately then it shall become quickly apparent, and delightful to assume, that a new motion picture is set to open on June 17, though the release year is not presented. As if at every turn we are goaded with giddiness by the ever-presence of advertisements for the film called Mr. Popper's Penguins. Mr. Popper will be portrayed by, I trust, one Jim Carrey; in which reasoning brings us to the conclusion that this pictorial display is, in fact, one that represents a motion picture and not, say, one for a culinary seminar about the exquisite and delectable penguin. I reckon that Mr. Popper will find himself in a lighthearted 80-to-90-minute situation where, sitting on a bar stool and in front of a white backdrop, he shall be accompanied by many penguins (as signified by their cluttering presence in the posters) that will nuzzle and nip at his face while he looks on into the camera with a mild quizzical expression - as if wondering just what am I to do with all these pesky penguins?

...exerpt of a High School graduation speech

and as we look forward with the memories of the past still fresh in our minds and the emotions and enthusiasm still fueling our passion, it's important to remember that this not the end but rather the beginning - the true initiation - to each of our diverging paths of our lives in which all that we've learned in this High School and the outstanding practices developed herein will help guide us each toward achievement and success and fulfillment and all the highs and lows that come with the journey of life and then you'll die and poop yourself afterward because our bodies do stuff like that.

Blood and Whispers and the Balance Therein

Stirring thought processes going on here...

The Name of the Rose is Umberto Eco’s first novel, published in 1980. It is, essentially, a whodunnit set in an abbey in 13^th century northern Italy. Eco is part historian – part architect – part literary theorist – all awesome. Therefore, one can assume and trust that the material for this book has been meticulously researched and creatively presented. Yes. Truly, a great read – one of those quintessential “hard-to-put-down”-ers - Very appealing. It has been a fantastic way to celebrate the beginning of summer. However, with great resolve I am abandoning The Name of the Rose, and I’m doing it for several reasons. First, reading a novel of this magnitude requires utmost dedication and consistency. This I upheld for two weeks, making my way to the book’s 550-page half-way point. But I have since been distracted by other matters. Days have now gone by since revisiting my friends at that certain medieval Italian abbey. There are heavy things on my mind and I am unable to allot my faculties to these deserving logician monks. They are now strangers of whom I have been removed emotionally, however little. Momentum has been lost. The second reason being that I’m taking the “Studies in American Literature: American Gothic” course this summer, and I will not attempt to mingle these reading duties. It’s one or the other at this point. The likes of Hawthorne, Poe, Melville, James are priority. Plus, it may be a disservice to my precious – oh so precious – intellect to be sloshing together the grounded logical methods of Brother William with the internal dialog of Poe’s characters – characters driven by the logic of madness. Being a parent of a 3 y/o and 5 m/o churns my brain into cream corn enough as it is.

The next reason is that I am stirred by this following excerpt, which just so happens to be the conclusion of the last chapter I’ve read of The Name of the Rose, and therefore a good place to end:

“True,” I said, amazed. Until then I had thought each book spoke of things, human or divine, that lie outside of books. Now I realized that not infrequently books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves. In the light of this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then the place of a long, centuries-old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue between one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be ruled by a human mind, a treasure of secrets emanated by many minds, surviving the death of those who had produced them or had been their conveyors.

“But then, “ I said, “what is the use of hiding books, if from the books not hidden you can arrive at the concealed ones?”

“Over the centuries it is no use at all. In the space of years or days it has some use. You see, in fact, how bewildered we are.”

“And is a library, then, an instrument not for distributing truth but for delaying its appearance?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Not always and not necessarily. In this case it is.”

Indeed. My thoughts turn to my own personal library; imagining that the occupants of these bookshelves whisper and murmur, but do so against me. Here are all these newly-acquired books, purchased at Half-Price or at even greater discount from what the dust jacket or back cover suggests, covering subjects and ideas that I’m interested in. Others are long standing members, authors whose style and content fuel my own personal endeavors into the written word. All of these parchments stand side by side and look out at their owner. What do they observe? The results of which Nibley whispers to Borges who relays to Hawthorne who motions to Hesse who romanticizes to Thompson who contorts to Aristotle, and back again, criss-crossing between upper and lower shelf. Yes, these books murmur. And they do so, in part, against all of those library books that fill my school bag – The Name of the Rose included. Why spend the cash on books only to turn around and sign out others? Illogical. For this reason, I shall return all library materials and give attention to my own humble, mini-library.

Rose is good stuff - It has perked my curiosity in, among other things, medieval heresy and into an overall survey of this history of Northern Italy. It was gratifying to recognize the times when Eco incorporate his theories of semiotics into the plot. But where my interest in these subjects are now just light-hearted whims of fancy, there are other topics, now more concrete, that occupy my mind. Style, rhetoric, semantics, logic, critical theory, self-discipline: These books know this, and they are eager for their owner to web together the knowledge therein – perhaps, even, make a graduate career out of whatever the process of such a webbing may entail. And also for this reason do they grumble. I must appease them.

But, as attractive as books may seem, one mustn’t let them clutter his or her conscience. Consider, then, one of my favorite quotes; a personal law by Hermann Hesse, one whose message is far more critical in application than anything any book may suggest or whisper in advice to another.

“I do not consider myself less ignorant than most people. I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books. I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are; It has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams—like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves.”