18 July 2004 at 10:49 AM, post #210

Chronology:
I agree with Betsey about the chronology thing. Her entry is a pretty good summary of what we talked about in our editing session. Another thing we also talked about was maybe having one person be a general timeline editor just to make sure that all entries are consistant in time and style. Other than that, I think that's all. The timelines look pretty good!

Bibliography:
I think this also is going pretty well. I was a little unsure at the beginning of the week exactly what to do with the bibliography, but then just assumed that it was just for more annotations. I'm also a little curious about the website and webpage component of the bibliography page. How are we supposed to find these sites and what kind of things would be good. Also, how do you annotate a website?

Ok, I think that's it. See you all tomorrow morning.

15 July 2004 at 11:37 PM, post #208

I'm interested in the almost complete lack of revenge in Charlotte Temple. In almost all the Gothic novels, revenge has played a pretty large role. If a character does something bad to a good character, it's almost certain that he will get his comeupance, either by direct actions or supernatural means.

So it's really interesting that in Rowson's novel, the worst characters fare much better than the heroine, Charlotte. Granted, Charlotte is far from perfect. However, despite her obvious flaw(s), she is definitely morally superior to most of the main characters we come into contact. La Rue, Montraville, and Belcour are all pretty despicable people. However, of the three, only one dies, and even he dies instantly (read: almost no pain, whatsoever) at the hand of one of the other guilty characters.

I think Rowson has two main reasons for this complete avoidance of revenge in her novel. First, when you take into account the many times Rowson addresses her reader as her "dear young readers" (54), it's seems that she'd be pretty keen to avoid any scenes of gore or vice, in order to protect these gentle young women. However, more importantly, one of the main themes of Charlotte Temple seems to be that forgiveness, friendliness and "disinterested" charity are the highest of all virtues and can do wonders in saving what look to be lost souls. These things are the only reasons La Rue and Montraville do so well, and the lack of the availability of friendship is the main reason Charlotte perishes so miserably.

To conclude, it's interesting that Rowson, and American writer, seems to be so convinced of her character's ability to be saved and forgiven. In the most idealistic and positive views of Rowson's young country, this is exactly what one can find in America: a constant ability to start over and a lack of judgement of the faults of years or generations past.

02 July 2004 at 11:52 AM, post #197

Wow. It feels like a long time since I've done this. (Mostly because it is.) I think I'm out of practice.

What's really fascinating about this novel is that the reader's relationship to the author is so confusing. For most of the novel (unless I missed something) we don't really know who Edgar is talking to. We know that he is familiar with his reader (he refers to himself as "your brother" and when he talks about himself, he says "as you already know"). It isn't until quite late in the book that we find out that he is writing to Mary, a woman who he wants to marry. (Is this right? I feel a bit like I'm missing something here.)

In addition to this somewhat mysterious readership, I got the feeling almost from the beginning that Edgar wasn't quite a narrator to be trusted. He seems too eager to talk about what a wonderful, and almost superhuman character he is. What's more, he does some genuinely bad things in the course of the novel, all the while seeking (I think badly) to make himself look good. Example: When he opens Clithero's trunk, just because he's really curious about what's inside, he says "I looked upon this [box] therefore with the eye of an artist, and was solicitous to know the principles on which it was formed" (741). So he has an academic curiosity about the box, and not what's in it? Somehow I don't think so.

This example, coupled with Edgar's disturbing willingness to leave the little girl who has been captured by the Indians, make me, as a reader, really dislike him. Brown seems to have hit on one of the worst characters a narrator can have: untruthfulness. But what's really interesting is irregardless of how much I disliked Edgar throughout, I nevertheless felt sympathetic for him. After all, the things that happened to him were pretty bad-- who couldn't feel sorry for him?

Also, one minor sidenote: One of the more interesting themes in this book was characters' ability to control sleep. I don't have too much too say on this, but it's interesting that the more refined characters (Edgar and Clithero) have almost no control of when sleep comes and what they do when they are asleep. The "savages" or Indians, on the other hand, seem to have complete control. As Edgar notices when he runs into the the Indian camp in the woods, "Sleep usually comes at their bidding, and if, perchance, they should be wakeful at an unseasonable moment, they always sit upon their haunches, and, leaning their elbows on their knees, consume the tedious hours in smoking" (792).

18 June 2004 at 4:48 PM, post #186

I just wanted to point out that this is the best book I have ever read. Ever.

But seriously, folks, I'm interested that Lewis gives us such an intimate view of his antagonist -- Ambrosio. Not only is this guy nasty, but he's really nasty. Completely depraved actually. (On a side note, it's really pretty awesome that Elvira and Antonia turned out to be his mother and sister.) But contrary to novelistic tradition (or at least novelistic tradition as I perceive it), we actually get to hear what Ambrosio is thinking. It might be going a little bit overboard to say that you feel sorry for him, but the reader definitely at least understands where he's coming from. Which, I guess, is the reason Ambrosio is so awful. By giving us insight into Ambrosio's thoughts, Lewis shows his ultimate self-centeredness and his complete disregard for the tenets of his religion and even the laws of morality.

It's this self-centered character, then, that Lewis seems to find most despicable. Ambrosio's most awful deeds (killing Elvira, raping and killing Antonia) happen because Ambrosio has a flagrant disregard for what effect his actions will have on other people. This characteristic seems a bit obvious in criminal characters, but in Ambrosio, his "self love" is even more hightened than that of the average criminal. Following the plot to the end, the highest crime and the most exaggerated example of a self centered action is when Ambrosio sells his soul to the Devil. Not only is he subverting the interests of justice to his own immediate interests, but he ignores those of God. Not the best idea in the world if you're a monk.

Ok. I'd just like to conclude by saying that while reading this novel, I was gasping and whispering "oh no!" to myself while sitting alone in the library. The ultimate mark of a good, trashy page turner.

17 June 2004 at 5:38 PM, post #180

Sorry, guys. I completely forgot to post yesterday. So today I'll compensate with a doubly long entry. Here goes:

I'm also interested in the role of women in The Monk. I agree with Betsey that women seem to be extreme characters in the ways that men aren't, but I would also argue that the female characters are the most interesting. With the exception of Ambrosio (who is both endlessly interesting and creepy), it's been around the female characters that this story has revolved. Agnes gets pregnant, Antonia is loved (by everyone), Leonella is comic relief, and the Baroness is the tyrannical overseer. The men seem to be more pawns in the hands of these women than in control of their own lives. Even Ambrosio, the main character, is basically at the mercy of a female character. Matilda is immensely conniving. Although you feel sorry for her at the beginning (threats of suicide and professions of the deepest love), by the end of Volume Two, most of that sympathy has worn away.

Which leads me to the point of the book that I found hardest to swallow. Matilda, who has risked literally everything she possibly can to woo and be with Ambrosio, is suddenly perfectly fine with his lusting after another woman. We see none of the jealousness previously apparent in the character of the baroness and none of the silliness of Leonella. Instead, Matilda not only accepts that she has lost the attentions of Ambrosio, but offers to help him to basically rape Antonia. What's more, she goes to great lenghts to do this, even sacrificing herself (as far as the reader can discern) to the devil.

After being dismayed at what looks like Lewis' complete abandonment of Matilda's character, however, I think I've decided that this seemingly irrational action makes a lot of sense. Lewis has commented throughout The Monk both explicitly and implicitly that women are silly, inconstant, and above all, not to be trusted. So in a way, Matilda is merely an exaggeration of all these other women. Her influence over Ambrosio is closely tied to that of Eve over Adam. She, through her likeness to the Virgin Mary, offered the forbidden fruit of sex to the previously (at least relatively) pure Ambrosio, and is now taking him even further down the path toward sin, hell, and the devil.

By the end of the second volume, Ambrosio's original sin of being attracted, then sleeping with Matilda, seems like childsplay. He's now lusting after Antonia, a completely innocent virgin. He's tried to rape her and will try again. And to top it off, he's now using dark magic and allowing Matilda to sacrifice herself (and probably also Ambrosio) to the devil. And, the best part -- it's all Matilda's -- a woman's -- fault.

While this book is certainly much more complicated than a glorified Adam and Eve story, it seems that the role of women as temptress is certainly one of its main points. Hmm.

Finally, to sum up, I'd like to know a little more about this novel's relation to Shakespeare's works. Elisa's comments were helpful, and while reading, certain characters and situations jumped out at me as being very Shakespearean. It also seems that, by opening many chapters with quotes from Shakespeare's plays, Lewis is very consciously linking his work to Shakespeare's. Why? And in what other ways does he do this?

14 June 2004 at 8:09 PM, post #169

I agree with Sarah about Equiano: one of the most interesting parts of his novel is that he is obviously writing to lend legitimacy to the customs of his African peers. What makes this especially interesting would be to contrast it to other writers' opinions of the same people. From various history classes, I've formed the impression that writers of this time (and for some time after) held the belief that blacks -- especially African blacks -- were inherently barbaric and inferior to whites. Equiano refutes this but in an interesting way. He's not saying that blacks aren't inferior to whites, he's saying that this inferiority is not, in fact, inherent. In other words, if white Christians who are civilized put forth the effort, blacks will cease to be an inferior race.

One of the ways Equiano seeks to flesh out this argument is by comparing to the Africans customs to those of the Jews. In the very first chapter, he notes that one can see "in the manners and customs of my countrymen and those of the Jews, before they reached the Land of Promise ... an analogy, which alone would induce me to think that the one people had sprung from the other" (58). In other words, the Africans, like the Jews, are on their way to civilization. They're just a few steps behind the Western Christians.

Ok, moving on to "The Power of Sympathy." This book was a lot of fun to read, especially after some of the other, more subtle things we've been reading. I like the choice of names (Mr. Worthy, Ophelia) and the blatant didactic message sent -- it's pretty obvious that this was intended for mass consumption. (How popular was it?) That said, the message is still pretty interesting, and fairly complicated. I thought it was interesting that adultery was absolutely the worst of all sins. (See Hon. Harrington's dream sequence.) But it's interesting that Brown chooses to articulate suicide as another big sin. Was suicide a big issue in the 1790s? Also, what are we supposed to think of Harrington the younger once he kills himself? He's been presented throughout as a somewhat silly figure, but is he necessarily bad? It seems that, at least in this book, a sinful person is not so much to be despised as to be pitied. Is this right?

Finally, as a side note, I've kind of been thinking for the past few weeks about Jane Austen novels in comparison to the literature we've been reading. These novels came at basically the same time, but they're really different. I'm starting to realize just how bizarre it is politics play practically no role in Austen novels at all. In comparison to everything we've read, this makes her novels seem almost alien.

10 June 2004 at 8:43 PM, post #153

Oops ... totally forgot about the whole journal-thing.

One of the most important principles on which the American Revolution was based was that, rather than an autocracy, America should be a meritocracy. People should, in other words, have a role in government not because of their geneaology or access to money but rather because of their skills.

Although at first glance, it would seem that these ideas might only apply to the men who run the government, what I really like about this period is that certain people were willing to extend these ideas to women.

Judith Sargent Murray, argues that women's mental faculties, if cultivated, are equal to mens'. She approaches this argument in an interesting way, however. Almost off the bat, she concedes that women are physically inferior to men and argues that men should be in charge of the physical domain. Women's domain, on other hand, should still be the house and home, but both parties should have access to education.

These ideas of universal education were really important in this time (ex: Jefferson's strong and lasting belief in free, universal education), and many (though certainly not all) early Americans believed strongly that the right to an education should be extended to women. Thomas Paine agreed with Murray, as did Wollestonecraft and Godwin (I think), as did Abigail Adams.

One final point about education: I found the Philis Wheatley section to be extremely unsettling. Yeah, it's nice that Wheatley, who was undoubtedly very intelligent, was able to gain access to an education, it was the implication of that education that I found most upsetting. It seems that white slave-owners and non-slave-owners alike used the fact that Wheatlely was brought from "dark" Africa and educated to argue that because she was brought into slavery, her life became better and more wholesome. What's more, Wheatley herself even buys into this: "'Twas mercy brought me from my pagan land, / Taught my benighted soul to understand / That there's a God -- that there's a savior too; / Once I redemption neither sought not knew." Creepy.

09 June 2004 at 6:43 PM, post #145

Sorry this is so late in coming, guys -- I had a few errands to run. Anyway...

I really enjoy reading political literature, particularly that from America, from this time period. The excitement and the newness of the period really come through in all of these writers' words. Reading Thomas Jefferson, for example, it's blatantly obvious that this man loves America and is really excited about working hard to make sure he leaves behind a great country. It really makes me smile that fairly complicated and (at the time) controversial ideas about government are interspersed with observations about the beauty of the Virginia landscape and the behavior (recorded in a much more respectful manner than we've seen previously) of the American Indian.

Another common thread that I found to be pretty interesting in these readings was that many of the writers, especially Washington and Jefferson, were extremely wary of forming any sorts of political alliances with other countries. Although both make it clear that it is necessary and helpful to trade with other countries, they don't want anything to do with the kind of political conflicts they strongly associate with intensely interconnected European politics. It's interesting, too, that this isolationism extends as far as to wish to cut off all ties with Britain, which at the time is the country to which many of these people still have really strong ties. This is especially apparent in Jefferson's autobiography and his original version of the Declaration of Independence, where much of the wording changes have to do with making the document more friendly to the British people, even if it's still pretty angry toward the crown. My favorite quote: "The pusillanimous idea that we had friends in England worth keeping terms with, still hanuted the minds of many. For this reason, those passages which conveyed censures on the people of England were sturck out, lest they should give them offence" (432).

Another reason I really respect people is that although they obviously fiercely love their new country, they are still very willing to criticize it. This flies directly in the face of the ideas of Burke, and even a lot of what we're seeing come out of Washington today. Crevecoeur, for example, waxes poetic in one letter about America, only to follow this praise with really pretty biting criticism in the next. His principle is the same: that egalitarianism is the highest principle, and that America is great because it aspires to this. However, he's spotted a flaw -- slavery -- and is willing to speak out and write against this "evil" in order to help America to become a better place. Not to editorialize or anything, but I think Crevecoeur got patriotism right: love your country, but make a lot of noise when you want to change something that you think is wrong about it.

08 June 2004 at 4:50 PM, post #138

At first I was really disappointed by the ending of Caleb Williams. I felt like Godwin had done such a good job of representing the flaws in the British judical system, while at the same time providing an interesting story and actually making the reader think. And then in the last few pages, Caleb just cops out and goes over to the other side. The thing is, though, that I don't think that's exactly what Godwin is getting at.

In classic 1984 style, Caleb Williams is one of those books that throughout provides a very intellectual and convincing critique of society. So, I think that, also like in 1984, the main character essentially loses to the unbeatable system in the end. Actually, this comes across much more strongly in the alternate ending to the novel than in the published one. But assuming that Godwin didn't change his mind between writing the two versions, the same ideas can be applied to both.

I think the most important line of the alternate ending is the one on page 440: "Alas! alas! it too plainly appears in my history that persecution and tyranny can never die!" So the character that represents these characteristics (Falkland) can never die or be defeated -- in fact, his health is actually improving. This increasingly healthy Falkland can also be inferred in the published ending when, after Caleb's change of heart, he literally jumps out of his seat, something the previously described Falkland could never accomplish.

In a story like this one, where much of the plot is centered on two characters in conflict (Falkland and Tyrrel, Caleb and just about everyone), it seems inevitable that if one character wins in the end, the other must lose. And it seems that this is exactly what happens at the end. Falkland gets stronger and is able to preserve his precious reputation. Caleb, on the other hand, whose good standing is long since gone, finally seccumbs to Falkland, or the system, or whatever, and begins to expound on Falkland's goodness, eventually completely reconciling with his one true enemy. Or, in the more literal words of the alternate ending, "Nobody can complain of me -- all day long I do nothing am a stone -- a GRAVESTONE! -- an obelisk to tell you, HERE LIES WHAT WAS ONCE A MAN!" (443).

07 June 2004 at 4:57 PM, post #132

I really like this book, but I find it pretty weird. I know that's a pretty simplistic thing to say in a journal entry, but I think it's interesting that Caleb Williams is quite different that what has become a standard novel. Example: the relationship between Caleb (the protagonist) and Falkland (the antagonist).

Ok, so we know Caleb is the protagonist. That part, at least, is fairly straight forward. However, to label Falkland as the antagonist is way too simplistic. Firstly, the book starts of with 150 pages of Caleb telling the reader or Falkland's heroism. We literally see this man riding up on horseback and saving the day, on several different occasions. Falkland is honest, upright, fairly selfless. He looks out for Emily and Hawkins, both decidedly below his level, and to neither of whom he has any obligation. What's more, Mr. Falkland's antipathy toward Tryrrel is more than understandable. Tyrrel is tyrannic, selfish, and rash, not to mention mentally inferior to Falkland.

Then, though, only a short ways into Volume Two, where Caleb's story begins, we begin to see another side of Falkland. He starts to act more and more like Tyrrel, first chastising Caleb (on p 193) for presuming to think himself on Falkland's level, then falsely accusing Caleb of robbery (just as Tyrrel did to Emily). By the end of Volume Two, the reader is wholely convinced that Falkner is an evil character.

This could be simple enough of a change -- it's conceiveable that one's opinion of a character could change because of the events of a story. However, what's interesting here is that Caleb's opinion of Falkner doesn't completely change. While he certainly regards Falkner as his only and worst enemy, he also respects Falkner and holds him in the highest esteem. The relationship, at Caleb's most forgiving moments is quite like a father-son relationship, and devoid of much of the derision and hatred that Caleb feels only a few paragraphs later.

So I guess what I'm saying is that Caleb and Falkland's relationship is really complicated. That, and I'll be interesting to see where it ends up by the time the novel finishes. Will they reconcile? Or despise eachother? Or somewhere in between?

04 June 2004 at 5:01 PM, post #126

As Elisa mentioned, it's important to remember here that the story we're reading is not from an objective author. Rather, it's Caleb Williams telling a story as he has heard from Mr. Falkland. So by the time we're reading the story, we're thrice removed frm the real, original story. Needless to say, some skepticism is necessary.

That said, I think one of the most interesting things about the first few chapters of this book is the depiction of Mr. Grimes. Grimes is described as "boorish and uncouth," "scarcely human," and "coarse." Similarly, "his lips were thick, and the tone of his voice broad and unmodulated." This type of description looks a lot like that of African slaves of the period. So, in addition to being an obviously despicable character, Grimes is also reduced to a sub-human level.

By amplifying Grimes' bad qualities, Godwin also amplifies the tyranny of Mr. Tyrrel (I'm guessing that the similarity of these two words is intentional). He is perfectly aware of what Mr. Grimes is, but it seems that he could care less. None of Emily's many protestations against the match make any effect on Tyrrel.

I'm also interested in the connection between Tyrrel and Falkland. As has been previously noted, Tyrrel and Falkland seem to be complete opposites. Tyrrel is rash, arrogant, and selfish, while Falkland is rational and chivalrous. In addition to these implicit hints that Falkland is the better of the two, we get Mr. Clare's dying confirmation of this: "Beware of Mr. Tyrrel. Do not commit the mistake of despising him as an unequal opponent. Petty causes may produce great micheifs. Myr Tyrrel is boisterous, rugged, and unfeeling; and you are too passionate, too acutely sensible of injury."

I think that's all for now. But like other's, I'm interested to see where these characters go, and if they stick to their original descriptions and personalities.

03 June 2004 at 3:57 PM, post #120

One of the things I really like about Blake's "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell" is that it is complicated. Although the idealism of Wollstonecraft and Godwin is of course commendable, I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable reading them, knowing that their ideas could never really be more than really great theories. And while Blake is unarguably using allegories and symbolism that are really out there, I nevertheless feel that his vision of the world is much more grounded than that of Wollstonecraft and Godwin.

By allowing for the "marriage" of heaven and hell, Blake creates an interesting relationship. "Marriage" implies not only a merger, but one that rests on collaboration and love. In other words, it's not that we just have to have a little bit of each, it's that they must intimately work together, that they must be partners. "Without Contraries is no progression. Attraction and Repulsion, Reason and Energy, Love and Hate are necessary to Human existence."

The very next thing Blake writes is this: "From these contraries spring what the religious call Good and Evil. Evil is the active springing from Energy. Good is Heaven. Evil is Hell." Thus, Good and Evil, Heaven and Hell become characters (rather than places), reinforcing even more their roles as partners in a marriage. What's more, Good is always passive and thoughtful, whereas Evil is always active, rash, and irrational. These characterizations seem to also give gender to Good (female) and Evil (male).

That said, I also had a few questions about the two poems:
- Who is Swedenborg? A real person? If so, what was his relationship with Blake?
- What is the significance of Albion?
- In both pieces we read, there were pictures of people sitting on dead bodies. What's the significance of this? Do they appear in more of Blake's work?

Finally, one or two more unrelated points:
Blake's writing is really sexually charged. Which is interesting, considering his positon that good and evil must be combined. His unwillingness to rely solely on reason and goodness seem to make him much more open to pleasure or sensuality than Godwin and Wollstonecraft, who are much more trusting of reason.
It seems that Blake, in addition to his main point, wants to say that man, in his reliance on religion, has gotten it wrong. Example: "These two classes of men are always upon earth & they should be enemies; whoever tries to reconcile them seeks to destroy existence. Religion is an endeavor to reconcile the two. Note. Jesus Christ did not wish to unite but to seperate them, as in the Parable of sheep and goats! & he says I came not to send Peace but a Sword."

02 June 2004 at 4:36 PM, post #113

Mary Wollstonecraft, in discussing the progression of society, theorizes that society goes through many stages of development. First comes "barbarism," during which fear dominates society. Then comes aristocracy, then monarchy and feudalism ("the dawn of civilization"). Finally, she aruges, man becomes more aware of his surroundings through various means and begins to realize the flaws of the system. In Wollstonecraft's mind, therefore, it is the accumulation of knowledge, experience, and intellect that truly free men from bondage and allow for society to continue in its progression.

This analysis of society can be found at the end of the first chapter of Vindication of the Rights of Woman, thus nicely setting up her argument that in order to truly be the equal intellectual partner of men, women must first be privy to the same educational experiences. It is only education, she believes, that will allow women to be able to see the flaws of society and allow the continued improvement of the world.

In An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, William Godwin makes a similar argument regarding the progression of society. Man (as in all human beings), he argues, must be allowed to think for himself; this is the only way that society may be productive and successful. If man is subjected to a restriction of free thought (for example through cohabitation or marriage), his ability to think freely will suffer, and society as a whole will be the poorer for it.

Finally (because this is getting long), I just wanted to point out that implicit in all of these arguments is the idea that society is mutable and is improved by criticism and change. This idea, of course, is in direct opposition to Burke's conviction that all good rests in past traditions.

02 June 2004 at 2:10 PM, post #84

That didn't work. And it did weird things.

02 June 2004 at 2:02 PM, post #79

Things that smell bad

• My house
• Worms
• My dead goldfish
• Your mom

02 June 2004 at 1:54 PM, post #72

The only website I could think of.

02 June 2004 at 1:49 PM, post #66

This is a journal entry.

My name is Elizabeth.
I can do things on the computer. Like this.

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