19 July 2004 at 2:56 PM, post #213

Woo! Guess who forgot to respond to Charlotte Temple?

I think one of the most interesting things in this novel is the treatment of class and the likening of poverty to (as well as the coexistence with) sexual ruin. The female characters seem completely ignorant of "real" poverty: the good Mrs. Beauchamp "had never before beheld such a scene of poverty" (112) as when she goes to see the dying Charlotte, and Charlotte, despite her supposedly exemplary upbringing, "knew so little of the way of the world that she had never bestowed a thought on the payment for the rent of the house" (102) (please!). At moments like the latter, or when the Medusa-like landlady responds to Charlotte's "what will become of me?" by telling her to "go to the barracks and work for a morsel of bread; washing and mend the soldiers cloaths, an cook their victuals, and not expect to live in idleness on honest people's means" (103-104), I can't help applying a little 21st-century hindsight and wonder if, despite the villification of the speaker, the author is not on some level criticizing the complete inability of a woman of Charlotte's station to even conceive of living off her own industry instead of depending on a man. To Charlotte, the idea of working at the barracks (which, admittedly, might suggest prostitutoin) is even more horrifying than being turned out onto the street, and the near-Gothic horror of the image of working women is repeated when Montraville comes back to town and must pass their huts. The novels seems franticly fearful of what will happen if innocent young (female) things fall into the clutches of either seduction or poverty.

While Charlotte Temple's characters fear poverty, or (god forbid) work, above nearly all other things, the text also seems to frown on opulence and excessive displays of wealth. For example, when Charlotte's virtuous father first sees Lucy, her "simple attire" renders her "more irresistibly charming to such a heart as Temple's, than she would have been, if adorned with all the splendor of a courtly belle" (13). In Chapter V., Temple waxes on about the simple country life they will lead, even without much money. Later, the wicked La Rue (is her name some kind of pun?) lives in "splendor and affluence" (100), setting all the fashions and generally being decadent and irresponsible. The book seems to celebrate a certain kind of lifestyle which is quite leisurely, modest, rural, sees itself as relatively disadvantaged in comparison to affluent society and is completely ignorant of real poverty. Can we assume that Rowson's readers generally fell into this privileged "middle class" group, and that the readers might read a justification of their own class standing in the text?

05 July 2004 at 11:35 AM, post #200

Edgar Huntly , unlike most of the other works we've read thus far, really lacks a clear villian. The only people who act nefariously (besides Arthur Wiatte in the back story) are the savage Indians, who seem to be treated as something between human and non-human, simply part of the harsh landscape and natural forces acting to foil Edgar and other characters. Having nearly non-human villains allows for a very different portrayal of evil than we've seen thus far. While, in books like The Monk, The Italian and Caleb Williams, the villains' actions must be justified, making for some of the most psychologically interesting characters, the concept of savages allows the writer to present an evil which is irrational and unjustified.

The only other potential candidate for villainy is Clithero, who Huntly portrays sympathetically and seems to "believe in" throughout the narrative. However, in the end, Huntly is unable to redeem Clithero, and his death, described as a suicide by Sarsefield, is necessary for the happiness and well-being of the other characters. This ending was disconcerting and left me feeling slightly uncomfortable: it seemed to go against the grain of most of the book, at least as seen through Edgar's lens. What, then, is the lesson to be taken from it? If Edgar is roughly analagous to some kind of "American character," is his belief in Clithero indicative of some kind of reproachable American innocence and faith in people?

I can't quite pin down exactly what about the ending made me so uncomfortable (maybe I'm just an optimist, and, like Edgar, really believe that everyone is redeemable), but I'm curious whether others had a similar reaction to the ending. If so, to what did you attribute it?

Just another short note, that as Brockton Brown has been described as one of the big followers of the "Godwinian novel" the parallels between his novel and Caleb Williams are obvious. However, I remember for one of my annotations reading about how Brockton Brown, like Shelley, supposedly turned Godwinian novel devices into a critique of rampant individualism. Do you see that here? I'm not quite seeing it.

Ooo, and another note, that in this novel, it seems as though the Gothic, in traveling across the Atlantic, picking up some Godwinian devices and becoming some type of loose parable for the U.S., completely lost it's romance-, love- or lust-driven plot line. In doing so, women become even less necessary as characters. Poo male centrism.

18 June 2004 at 6:25 PM, post #188

I, too, was interested in the similarities between Ambrosio and Falkland. Besides the fact that they both do horrible, horrible things, the authors of each work goes out of his way to point out his character's virtues. In both cases, these are men who not only appear valorous, but who, according to the author, would have been magnificent citizens under different circumstances. Though in each case, most readers, by the end of the novel, are probably less likely to cut Falkland and Ambrosio some slack than the authors, both characters express moments of repentence even after their most heinous crimes. In both cases, these men are esteemed as pillars of the community and hold their reputations in highest regard. Their crimes involve pursuits and giving in to various passions.

I doubt whether the author was consciously making any argument for androgyny, especially considering that the heroes and heroines seem to exemplify the virtues of their own sexes (a.k.a., timid women, brave men, etc., etc.), though an exception to that may be Agnes's fortitude throughout her tribulations. If she had been one of The Power of Sympathy's characters, she would have expired or descended into hysteria less than halfway through her trials. However, I think a certain amount of gender-bending is going on subconsciously throughout the book, which must be repressed. The obvious example, of course, is the cross-dressing novice, who turns out to be a tool of the devil. Characters who cross gender, and other, boundaries must be punished, but it is the possibility of transgressing boundaries which drives so much of the plot. Questions like "What terrible thing is Ambrosio going to do next, and how?" are what keep one reading, and the author certainly seems to enjoy the descriptions of perverse and horrifying actions. In the appeal of witnessing transgressions, do we have a depiction of a tempting devil a la Milton here, or do we have a Blakean call for the conflation of good and bad, heaven and hell?

Ah, the incest obsession continues. That disclosure just seemed excessive!

17 June 2004 at 5:48 PM, post #181

This book never ceases to positively scandalize me!

That said, today's entry is going to be a lot of random, unconnected observations.

I keep wavering between looking at this work as a comedy (in the sense that it'll end in happy marriage for its good characters) and the expectation that it will end in wrack and ruin.

I think there's an interesting tension between the excess of sexuality with an expectation that women are sexually timid and innocent. Take, for example, Ambrosio's loss of desire for Matilda once she becomes quite wanton, or the desirability of Antonia, who's continually described as shy and quiet. "[H]ow enchanting was the timid innocence of her eyes! and how different from the wanton expression, the wild luxurious fire, which sparkles in Matilda's!" Ambrosio thinks (218). Later he scorns her for her "bold... language" (238), especially disgusting coming from a woman's mouth.

References to "superstition" continue to abound, as do references to how climate affects people. For example, the West Indies' climate is credited with causing disease, and at one point Spain's warm climate is described (to a northern English audience) as exciting the passions. Ah, Orientalism.

This entry is bad and short. Sorry.

16 June 2004 at 5:15 PM, post #172

Hmmm... I'm curious about Lewis's attitude towards superstition. He seems to look scathingly upon it in the first pages, talking about Madrid as a "city where superstition reighs with such despotic sway" (39) and having heroic characters such as Alphonso d'Alvarada laugh at superstitions such as a the bleeding nun. But the bleeding nun comes back to haunt a character who disbelieved in such her, making one wonder if the author is instead mocking disbelief in the supernatural.

Lewis also looks negatively on religion through out at least the part I've read so far. The nunnery seems an awful place to be confined, and in the church-going scene at the beginning, the laity are no more hypocritical than members of monastic orders: "[T]he sermon might have been omitted altogether, certainly without their being disappointed, and very probably without their perceiving the omission."

This novel seems like SUCH a departure from everything that we've read so far. It seems unconcerned with virtue or leading the reader to a moral lesson, and instead positively revels in its descriptions of sin. Was this novel shocking? It seems to unconsiously express a cultural backlash against moralistic concerns, somewhat like what someone sometime said about sex being obsessively present in Victorian literature because it was suppressed.

Once again, there seem to be conflations between familial and romantic relationships, as in Ambrosio looking on Rosario as if he were his father (yeah right). And, in a new twist, the religious and sexual are conflated as well, with Ambrosio's longing for and praying to a picture of the Virgin Mary which turns out to be Matilda. O my.

All in all, great fun.

14 June 2004 at 5:19 PM, post #164

Oooo... shnazzy new options!

Also, just to admit, I haven't made it through all of Equiano (though it's really interesting!), and didn't get through all of the Age of Federalism, either. Other people have the same problem?

To start with The Power of Sympathy , I'm initially interested in the idea, repeated throughout, that SEDUCTION leads to the complete ruin of life, usually a woman's life, as in the cases of Ophelia, Fidelia, and Maria. While the text is certainly strong in its condemnation of SEDUCTION, male seducers are never really punished for their actions as are the fragile objects of their attentions. The elder Mr. Harrington is left bereaved, but the real revenge for his actions is enacted against his offspring, and I wonder what purpose the feminization of Harrington (possible evidence for this located in his suicide, placing him squarely within the intertextual tradition of ruined ladies, and his sensibility, also a feminized trait) serves in the novel.

And yes, I'm starting to understand the "obsession with incest" during this period which was discussed last week.

Equiano: what a rip-roaring adventure! I'm curious about whether this narrative was targeted towards a particular gender: I would tend to expect an abolitionist audience to be somewhat womanly, but the adventure-story style seems so, well, masculine. I'm also interested in the ways he establishes his authority, through the obvious Christian character of his narrative, as well as through being well-traveled and quoting classics like Milton. At times, Equiano's language seems tricky in a way similar to Phillis Wheatley's. "Are their not causes enough to which the apparent inferiority of an African may be ascribed, without limiting the goodness of God...?" he writes (60), slyly asking the reader if this is the case instead of accepting it himself. Though it seems like, and was probably most often taken, as a rhetorical question with an assumed answer, Equiano doesn't quite ally himself in the question of African inferiority, as is elsewhere apparent throughout his attempt at a non-judgmental discussion of his early life and his attempt to connect certain Africans with early Jews.

Also notable: his use of rhetorical questions elsewhere in making his arguments and the lack of his internal thoughts in telling about his life. There's very little "I felt" or "I thought" statements here, unless his internal happenings were externally apparent or influenctial.

10 June 2004 at 5:35 PM, post #149

Federalist Paper #10 is primarily concerned with "factions," which Madison defines as "a number of citizens, whether amounting to a majority or minority of the whole, who are united and actuated by some common impulse of passion, or of interest, adverse to the rights of other citizens, or the permanent and aggregate interests of the community" (542). (Sorry for mega-long quote, kids.) What an interesting definition through which one can view current debates! Take, oh, an obvious and easy one: gay marriage, which through Madison's definition can easily be argued as
a. a group who see a ban on gay marriage as the work of a "faction" and "adverse to the rights of other citizens," or
b. a group arguing that gay marriage is the work of a "faction" and should not be allowed because it works against the "aggregate interests of the community."
What an interesting way of breaking down the tension between what is considered beneficial for a community versus what should be guaranteed an individual. The arguments behind his definition of a faction are obviously employed in tons of other current debates as well, one springing to mind being "security v. liberty."

The main problem I have with #10 is that Madison tries to contend that a correctly formed republic is itself the answer to factionalism. Ummm, I don't think that quite holds up historically. It's a rhetorically clever argument, but it never answers the question of what to do when factions DO arise in a republic, as they have. Sadly, this absence limits the document. Sigh.

09 June 2004 at 7:09 PM, post #147

No one else (at least when last I looked) has talked about Abigail Adams' letters, so I'll start there. First, the difference between her spelling and diction and that of "the men" is immediately apparent; though she seems somewhat familiar with the classics and is obviously writing in a less formal form, she seems in need of some more of the education that Wollstonecraft is talking about: her arguments to "remember the Ladies" are well-put and succinct and seem an interesting thread in letters to one's husband, though more understandable within the general discussion of rights circulating in her context.

Along the lines of education, I was interested in Jefferson's letter to Peter Carr, especially what their respective positions were which led Jefferson to write such a didactic and specific letter detailing a program for moral and intellectual education. The presumption of such a letter seems to contrast strongly with the humility expressed by both Jefferson's inaugural address and Washington's farewell. Why was humility considered the politically correct discourse of the time, when a modern politician would (assumedly, since I can't think of any modern examples) be blasted for not presenting himself in THE best and most self-assured terms possible. These guys' humility seems both a more humane and self-serving move: it admits human fallacy and political failures, and it allows politicians to make mistakes while still maintaining their honesty and virtue in the eyes of the public.

What's this about Jefferson's equation of agriculture with virtue?

As for Mr. Paine's little letter on women, whew! What an easy victim of modern, feminist, postcolonial, etc. critiques! Just a few short notes...
-He starts out with the acceptance that women are morally superior to men. Does anyone remember the scene in the Little Women movie about this?
-He argues, in classic Orientalist mode, that the forms of oppression in different parts of the world is different, since the climate lends itself to passion, bla, bla, bla. Is he trying to argue that the situation of Euro-American women is better than their Othered sisters (a classic justification for empire), or is he saying that they are of equal degrees but different qualities?

08 June 2004 at 5:15 PM, post #141

On the topic of the published v. the unpublished ending: VERY interesting. I'm wondering about the implications of both endings, especially considering the book's role as an expose of the (in)justice system and its social commentary on the English class system of the time. At first glance, the unpublished ending, (I won't give away more!), seems a far stronger way of illustrating the injustices to which Caleb is exposed.

The unpublished ending provides a much more straightforward resolution than the published ending, which leaves Caleb physically free but ruined by his conscience. In this ending, Caleb is, for the moment, left with his faculties, but, if Falkland is any example, his guilty conscience does not bode well for his future mental health. This ending seems to complete the connection between Falkland and Caleb developing throughout the book: in the end, he believes he has committed murder, ruining his virtue just as Falkland did. Another example of this occurs when someone (I presently forget exactly who) comments on how Williams was of an extraordinary character during his youth, but that the slightest of circumstances can turn this character towards extraordinaryly bad acts. To me, this seemed to scream "Falkland!" once again making Caleb a growing mirror image of his master.

What do you guys think? Do you think that the published ending is some kind of backing off of Godwin's socially critical guns? Or do you think it's the more damning for being all the more insiduous?

I also felt that Caleb's high regard for Falkland and his long, long protection of Falkland's dirty secret were completely ridiculous and nigh-unjustifiable. Is this me bringing modern morals to the text? Or was this maybe what Godwin was trying to lead the reader towards?

Along the lines of my previous posting about Caleb's lack of interaction or interest in women, I guess his interactions with Laura's family gave him a taste of this type of normalcy, though even then, it's a little weird. Caleb really focuses a lot on Laura, while admitting that at some point he might want to marry her unnamed daughter, mainly because she reminds him of her mother. Can we say Oedipal?

07 June 2004 at 5:10 PM, post #133

Yes, the absence of mothers and females in general in this homosocial (trendy academic vocab!) world is definitely weird, as is, I believe, the complete absence of any kind of sexual awareness. I'm not arguing that a book like this would necessarily include sexuality or romance, etc., but it seems remarkably absent in this one. The main characters seem completely unconcerned with any form of female interaction. Caleb's in the prime of life: you would think at least in the beginning when his situation was more normal that he would be thinking about marriage and babies and all that, at least a little. But I suppose his lack of concern over women or sexuality (how ideologically uncomfortable this grouping is, but nevertheless...) is necessary for him to be wholly devoted to something else (in the beginning, his curiosity, and later, more understandably, his independence). In fact, both him and Falkland (and perhaps other characters?) are, as pointed out by previous posters and repeated multiple times in quite explicit language throughout the book, the victims of passions beyond their control. I think a very cynical reader might even see something like Falkland's obsessive concern with honor as some weird kind of subverted and misplaced sexuality.

To sort-of-answer the question I posed in my last response, I think that Godwin IS critiquing chivalry and the codes of honor and attention to "fame" or reputation with which Falkland is so concerned. I think he's trying to tie this in with his critique of the justice systems and other systems, but I haven't quite teased out how yet. Perhaps, just as Falkland's concern with honor and subsequent good name serve to mask the truth, allowing his torment of our good hero, Godwin is implying more generally that codes of honor and gentility serve to mask the inequalities within British systems. When characters speak such things as "how could this man rob his master, who has treated him so well?" (not an exact quote), his critiques seem most biting, but at other times Godwin seems to fall into the trap of equating class with virtue. Or is this just Caleb's narrative voice talking?

Whoops, I'm out of time! The library's closing!

04 June 2004 at 5:11 PM, post #127

In Caleb Williams, the vast majority of the novel, despite the first few pages in which the narrator bemoans Mr. Falkland's ruin of his life, seems to have been devoted to the development of the shining Falkland as a darn good guy. Such praise of Falkland may undermine later occurences in which he proves not to be such a nice guy. On the other hand, I'm sure that because we're reading Godwin, he's going to use his tale for the purposes of social commentary, and making a gentleman who seems to posses all possible virtues and then debunking him may indicate a more complete criticism of the landed gentry than would be possible through the character of someone like the boorish Tyrell.

I'm wondering if a similar strategy might be at work against chivalry. The previous works by Godwin which we read were in strong opposition to Burke's embrace of chivalry, which seems to be very close to that of Falkland. Will Falkland's later behavior invalidate the virtue of his chivalric values? Or is Godwin to be taken at face value as agreeing with Falkland's ideas of honor, contradicting some of his other writings capitulating to the literary conventions of the day?

Besides the sometimes-ridiculous plot turns, the characters seem to be described in very absolute terms, as paragons of virtue or boorishness, which sometimes seems silly to a modern reader not used to people being described in such ways. Do you think that readers read these characters as being just as over-the-top as they are described? Or perhaps did these descriptions serve as coding for ways in which readers could imagine the characters as believable? Or maybe that's the style in which one would describe one's friend during the 1790s...

03 June 2004 at 3:00 PM, post #119

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr........... I just posted mine, went to send it, and it said my password wasn't authenticated and sent me back to a blank page. So I'll just quickly try to reproduce what I said, which is sad, b/c I actually kind of liked my original, more thoughtfully articulated version :{

First, thanks for explaining a little about his use of Milton, guys, because I was a little lost on that.

In "The Marriage of H&H," Blake's use of binaries, as alluded to in class, is immediately apparent, though sometimes confusing. He seems to accept that contraries are necessary to human experience, while later contending that binaries set up in religion, such as Good/Bad, Body/Soul, and Energy/Reason, don't really exist, but are rather intertwined.

I guess in order to make sense of his seemingly contradictary uses of contraries, one must accept his lovely, lovely aphorism that "Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth." His philosophy in "The Marriage of H&H" is sure hard to analyze through mere rational means, which goes along with his whole project of removing Reason from the pedestal on which Godwin, Wollstonecraft and so many others placed it.

I also wonder if Blake is using his RADICAL (I know we keep using this word, but the scale of his radical-ness just keeps surprising me) visions of Heaven, Hell, good and evil, etc. as an extreme illustration of his aforementioned aphorism. I think, even more than the moralities (or amoralities) described in the Proverbs of Hell, Blake is calling upon the reader to embrace a philosophy which accepts multiple truths and to interrogate the concept of Reason, Virtue, etc. as bound definable "things," which seems to be accepted in everything else we've read so far.

In doing so, he predicts a lot of much later, mostly 20th century, philosophical developments. It's not surprising that he became adopted by later bards of excess and revolt (I'm thinking specifically about Allen Ginsberg's inspiring dream of Blake here).

Did he do drugs?

How did Blake avoid getting stoned (in the religious mob sense, not the terrible pun I realize too late is implied by the previous sentence)?

And I'd like to know a little more about the isolated working-class genius image of Blake that Erik alluded to in class.

02 June 2004 at 4:58 PM, post #114

Like Sarah, I was struck by how (obviously), philosophic thought at the time allowed the usage of such broad, general concepts as "virtue" and "liberty" as if they were concrete. What's interesting to me is how this seemingly fixed way of looking at concepts interacts with ideas that are radical even in today's philosophical context. How many modern-day thinkers would be able to refute marriage as much as Godwin does or condemn the military to the extent of Wollstonecraft?

I had a few questions along these lines:
Did Godwin write this piece before or after his marriage, if before, did his views change, or, if after, how did he justify his own marriage?
Was Wollstonecraft's comments on the military prompted by any particular political circumstances. In other words, are her comments generalized commentary on any political specifics?
Wollstonecraft's and Godwin's comments on property seem especially radical. Honestly, I've never really thought about it much (and it's pretty obvious considering the French Revolution), but I'd always sort of assumed that Marx originated the idea of redistributing property as an theme in European philosophical thought.
On a completely different note, I accidentally read the Introduction to Vindication of the Rights of Woman, and she talks about how France was more cultured than the rest of Europe in part because of greater discourse between the sexes, then goes on to claim that she's not defending or supporting gross French immodesty and libertinism (I think I made that word up.). She never explains her comment about greater discourse between the sexes, however, and I was wondering if she explained herself later in the book somewhere, or whether that was assumed knowledge at the time. Or maybe she just didn't defend her point well. (It's amazing to see some of the logical jumps that writers could make at the time, that we would get completely blasted for writing in a student paper now :} )

02 June 2004 at 2:32 PM, post #106

Maybe I'm cursed.

Maybe I'll try another table.

But first, linkage.

I went to Galena High School, though not

this one

or this one.

02 June 2004 at 2:23 PM, post #102

Let's try this again.

THIS COLOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

02 June 2004 at 2:19 PM, post #99

That didn't work

02 June 2004 at 2:17 PM, post #96

When I was 12, I painted my bedroom

THIS COLOR

O my.

02 June 2004 at 2:08 PM, post #82

A table?

I think this is wrong.

02 June 2004 at 1:55 PM, post #73

This is cool.

It's Grinnell!

02 June 2004 at 1:49 PM, post #67

This time, I'm trying a
And a paragraph

break.

02 June 2004 at 1:48 PM, post #65

Hello. How are you?

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