Frankenstein and Rosenblatt

In 1938, Louise Rosenblatt published Literature as Exploration, a text which discussed the relationship between a reader and the text.  She argued that teachers of literary criticism might find new interpretations of existing works by allowing students to read the text and form their own opinions before presenting the established interpretation.

These ideas are essential pillars of reader-response theory, which argues that meaning is present intrinsically in a work, but is rather created by the reader's response.  (Go figure.)  And, extending this, it may be found that, whether intentionally or not, many authors manipulate a reader's response to have a certain emotional effect or convey a certain theme.

Reader response theory has many interesting models within it, any one of which could take up a blog post of their own, but right now I want to focus on how the theory as a whole applies to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

This book begins with a frame story from the point of view of Robert Walton, a young man who seeks to explore the Arctic.  I found him to be a very sympathetic character; his responses to the various events in the plot seem natural and his curiosity and ambition genuine.  Perhaps Shelley intended us to identify with this character, and thus to consider the events in the story as if they are occurring to us.

As the book transferred perspectives, I found that the responses of everyone in our class diverged somewhat.  I personally sympathized with Frankenstein considerably throughout the novel; while he made many mistakes and bad decisions, and never seemed to realize that he was entirely responsible for the creature's downfall, his intentions remained good throughout.  Others in the class focused more on his mistakes and the creature's blamelessness, and perceived Frankenstein as being closer to a villain.

Differences in perception also appeared to influence the themes that each of us saw in the book.  Common themes included the dangers of scientific development without consideration for ethics and the responsibility that a creator holds towards the creation, both of which are more easily seen if the reader views Frankenstein in a negative light.  It seems quite possible that Shelley deliberately portrayed Frankenstein in this way, introducing unrealistic mistakes and actions, to highlight those themes which she wished readers to take away from the work.

From Pedro to ELIZA

In Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, one of the central themes is the idea that science can lead to harmful results.  This is presented through the hypothetical production of a being much more intelligent and much closer to human than the creator expected.  This 'creature' (referred to as Pedro for brevity) attempts to understand the world, but is often misunderstood, even by his own creator.

(But we've talked about this in class, so I'll try not to reiterate our discussions.)

This situation reminded me of a similar type of symbolic narrative in sci-fi.

Some of you may be familiar with the movie A.I.; if you're not, I'd recommend skimming [[the story on which it is based]] or at least [[a synopsis]].  (And even if you are, the story is worth checking out!)

To review, the movie's premise is fairly simple: a couple's child goes into a coma as the result of a rare disease, and after much soul-searching, they decide to adopt a prototype 'imprinting' AI, which is programmed to feel emotion in much the same way as a human.  This boy, David, lives happily with his 'mother', Monica, and 'father', Henry, until their real son, Martin, is cured; after various conflicts, he is abandoned by his family because Monica can't bring herself to send him to be dismantled.

From this point in the movie, he experiences many forms of discrimination; he is threatened with destruction at an anti-robot Flesh Fair, for instance.  He attempts to find the 'Blue Fairy', inspired by the story of Pinocchio, in order to become a real boy.  However-- (plot twist!)-- he ends up being buried deep in the ocean for several thousand years.

He is revived by highly advanced automatons after the human race has died out.  In an attempt to discover more about the race that created their precursors, these robots ask him various questions and observe his interactions with a revived Monica; unfortunately, their technology can only revive humans for one day.  The end of the movie sees David and the clone going to sleep, or, as David puts it, "that place where dreams are born."

Aside from the entire movie's tear-jerking attributes, there is quite a bit of deeper meaning.

I immediately saw several parallels to Frankenstein.  Like Pedro, David is much more advanced and human than his creators might have expected-- indeed, even the robots without the emotional programming are portrayed as more caring and 'human' than the majority of humans.  Both David and Pedro are abandoned by their creators and face persecution because of their lack of knowledge about the world.  The audience sympathizes much more with David than with his creators, and I have to admit I'm becoming more sympathetic towards Pedro.

The purpose of both stories also appears to be cautionary.  The eerily-human creations show that we have to be prepared to take responsibility for our explorations.  Bioethics and roboethics are emerging fields, and professional advice often urges careful and slow development in ethically-dubious research.

I think these messages are important to consider, no matter what you think about research and development in artificial intelligence or other controversial fields.  Interestingly enough, we are already seeing parallels to parts of these stories in the real world.

Cyberpunk and Postmodernism

On Thursday, we watched the play And They Dance Real Slow in Jackson.  In case you didn't attend the play, I'll write a quick summary.

The main character, Elizabeth Ann Willow, suffers from polio and is effectively an outcast in her small Southern town.  While she is good-natured and constantly attempts to connect with others, she is continually rebuffed and discussed behind her back.  When she asks Skeeter to prom, for instance, he rejects her despite appearing to like her.  Soon after, she goes down to the river and is attacked by a mob of frightened children who have convinced each other that she can take off her leg braces ("metal legs") and send them walking.  This results in a complete withdrawal into her mind.

One of the most interesting features of the play was the way that information about what happened to Elizabeth was slowly revealed.  Based on several perspectives (Elizabeth as a 24-year-old, trapped inside her head; Elizabeth as an 18-year-old; and the townspeople, observing her condition at 24 years old), the audience is able to slowly understand the full scope of the story.  This reminded me considerably of something that we read last year.

The Things They Carried also jumped around a lot, changed narrators, and used surreal storytelling techniques.  The overall impressions I received from the two works were similar; confusion was the first response, followed by gradual comprehension and an abrupt ending.  Similar techniques were used in other books I've read, like Cloud Atlas and If on a winter's night a traveler; these I've discussed previously, so I won't waste space reiterating my points.  However, I haven't discussed Neuromancer.

If you're not familiar with the novel, it's a disjoint account of a hacker's attempts to crack a highly-developed AI.  The setting is quite foggy, and few details are given, contributing to a sense of unreality; the narration is also disorienting, and makes less and less sense as the plot progresses.  However, by the end of the book, a good number of the hanging ends have been resolved, and even without understanding exactly what has happened, a reader can feel a sense of completion.

Still, I didn't deeply enjoy any of the above works.  Perhaps it's an effective use of reader response theory-- but I can't say this kind of manipulation of confusion particularly appeals to me as a reader.

Parallels: Wuthering Heights and Beyond

One of the major elements of Wuthering Heights that we discussed in class was the parallel between generations.

The first generation, composed of Edgar, Cathy 1.0, and Heathcliff, was driven by the wrong impulses, made bad decisions, or otherwise generally screwed things up.  The second generation, composed of Linton, Cathy 2.0, and Hareton, was initially affected by the decisions of the first; however, by the end of the book, Cathy 2.0 and Hareton have found happiness, in a way redeeming the faults of the first generation.

That being said, the parallel between generations reminded me of another work.

In the Star Wars universe, there are many similar parallels.  In the first generation, Anakin and Padme's love doesn't exactly work out, to say the least.  Multiple other errors are made by that first generation.  Anakin is analogous to both Heathcliff and Edgar in that he makes foolish decisions because of his love; as a result, everybody loses.

By contrast, in the second generation, Luke and Leia avoid making those same mistakes.  Luke and Leia learn that they are siblings, and Leia falls in love with Han Solo instead; in this respect, they're luckier than the Wuthering Heights trio, who had to go through a lot more before Hareton and Cathy 2.0 fell in love.  In a more broad sense as well, Luke's generation fixes the mistakes of Anakin's generation by destroying the Empire.

Essentially, both Wuthering Heights and Star Wars involve a second generation which rectifies the errors of the first, providing resolution to the story.

Crab Canon

I started to write this blog post about Wuthering Heights' recent plot developments-- but I thought about it, and if I did that, I'd just make some lackluster comparison to LotR.

So, instead, let's talk about the use of language.

Wuthering Heights has some great imagery and word choice in it. There is a certain art to fitting together words and sentences to form a coherent whole-- and I must admit that Emily Brontë is a master of the art.  Joseph's indecipherable dialect aside, she produces sentences such as:

One time, however, we were near quarrelling. He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That was his most perfect idea of heaven's happiness — mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright white clouds flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze; and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with joy. He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive, and he said mine would be drunk; I said I should fall asleep in his, and he said he could not breathe in mine. (237)

Brontë's skill clearly exceeds my own.  She has good control of a reader's response and the flow of the writing; by using a long list of birds for Catherine's heaven and a simpler one with more gradual phrases for Linton's, for instance, she influences the reader's mood and impression.

However, I think it would be fascinating to consider what Brontë could do in a different writing environment.

This is a piece called Crab Canon, by the renowned graphic artist M. C. Escher, also known for such gems as Waterfall and Drawing Hands.  It may have been inspired by a Bach piece of the same name, one of the Musical Offerings:

This piece is interesting in that it is completely reversible; indeed, the reversed part may be overlaid on the first part to create harmony as well.  In addition to showcasing Bach's musical talent, this piece also presents the foundation for a certain type of literary challenge, also called a crab canon.  A crab canon is a piece of literature which can be read in either direction and present a coherent story.  It is usually presented as a dialogue, as in the original literary crab canon, but can also be presented in other forms:

Authors like Emily Brontë tend to be comfortable with the manipulation of phrases, sentences, and tone.  They've clearly demonstrated what they can do in the framework of a novel-- but, at the same time, I believe that writing within constraints can show entirely different facets of a writer's talents.

For instance, though they can be frustrating to write, haikus are some of the most expressive poems; the feeling that ordinarily would be spread across many verses must be compressed into a mere 17 syllables.  Meaning must be overlaid, implied, and hidden.  The same could be said for the six-word stories we discussed in class.  And although a crab canon does not necessarily need to hide meaning-- Hofstadter's doesn't-- the form lends itself to the reinforcement of certain themes, and the Lost Generation video certainly takes advantage of that.  Given the many past / present parallels in Wuthering Heights, perhaps Brontë could have done the same.

What do you think?  Would her literary talents be wasted on a restrictive form of writing?  Or would the restrictions create a more intriguing and lasting piece?

Wuthering Heights and the Enterprise

One of the most notable features (at least, to me) of Wuthering Heights is the near-complete lack of interaction with the world outside of Thrushcross Grange, Gimmerton, and the titular estate.  It is a phenomenon shared by Jane Eyre, with only a small number of characters involved throughout the plot, and has been conjectured to be due to the Brontë sisters' isolation.

However, upon some pondering and investigation, it occurred to me that this is one of several features that Wuthering Heights shares with many science fiction and fantasy series.

For instance, Star Trek.  The one common denominator between episodes is the setting-- the starship Enterprise.  There are few significant characters (with many red-shirts filling in the background) and, for all intents and purposes, those characters and settings not directly associated with the Enterprise are quite transient.  Like Wuthering Heights, the ship is an isolated bubble containing (or at least directly associated with) all important events.

Though Heathcliff and Cathy may not be learned in starship navigation, they do recall some archetypes of sci-fi (and fantasy) characters.  Many fictional genres rely upon general categories of understandable, relatable stock characters, and, in some ways, so does Wuthering Heights.

Heathcliff is proud, aloof, and rude; he is often classified as a Byronic hero, but on a simpler level, I interpreted Heathcliff as a somewhat-immature man who acts based on his individualistic ideas and strong affection for Catherine.  He doesn't wish to be controlled and follows his instincts, but also doesn't like to show his feelings, seeing them as soft.

Catherine seemed very similar.  She is spirited and passionate, feeling a full range of emotion, from love to jealousy.  When frustrated in her desires (as when Heathcliff begins to court Isabella and Nelly tells Edgar she is faking a fit), she flies into a rage and even occasionally becomes sick; like Heathcliff, she doesn't want to be controlled, and is certainly impulsive, but also puts consideration for her future over her love for Heathcliff, ultimately resulting in the unhappiness of an entire generation of Wuthering Heights inhabitants; the next generation redeems itself, however, by --spoilers--.

This theme of one generation's mistakes being fixed by the next (or a later generation in general) is a common one in science fiction and fantasy as well.  A few examples might include Dune, Star Wars, and The Lord of the Rings.  Arguably, this is a common theme throughout all literature, though it seems more proliferate in sci-fi to my mind.

In sum, I noticed a few common traits between Wuthering Heights (and Romantic literature in general) and sci-fi.  While they are usually quite different in purpose, the two categories share motifs and character types, and while sci-fi is much more enjoyable to me than WH, I have to admit that perhaps-- just perhaps-- there are some deep underlying traits that make E. Brontë's novel similarly interesting.

Day 44

When I was in elementary school, my family went fishing every so often.  My father loved to get out the fishing rod [ true facts: I accidentally typed "fishpole" ] and try to land a few.  He always threw them back, and occasionally let me reel in the smaller ones.  I always admired his patience.  Sitting in the summer sun and waiting for the line to twitch is not exactly something that I excel at.  Nevertheless, even when I waited with him, I never seemed to land a single fish.

Five years later, I learned that [ surprise! ] different sizes of hooks catch different sizes of fish.  I had always randomly picked a hook out of the tackle box, not noticing the difference.

This is very similar to how I often dealt with literature in those days: casually, carelessly, and cursorily.  I skimmed through books without paying attention to the oceans lying beneath the waves.

At some point in middle school, I began to dip my toes in the water.  For the first time, I analyzed books and short stories in class; I vaguely remember being impressed by "Harrison Bergeron".  Perhaps it also helped that my teacher was a huge fan of Star Wars, the Lord of the Rings, and several other franchises that I also approved of.  By connecting literature basics such as the hero archetype to the familiar stories that I had grown up with, I learned to step back and take a look at what I was reading.  Soon, I was seeing underlying techniques in everything-- so much, in fact, that I entered a somewhat-involuntary phase of literary snobbishness.  Nobody had ever warned me about overshooting and crashing into the bottom of the ocean!

After three years of pretentiously flaunting books such as Anna Karenina and Atlas Shrugged, I had an epiphany.  Not anything too literary-- but I realized that the books that I was reading, purportedly full of deep meaning, were honestly not that enjoyable.  Beginning to read commercial fiction again was like surfacing after diving; turning the first page of the urban fantasy thriller that I would have shunned before was like taking the first breath of sweet, fresh air.  Soon, I was able to find a healthy balance of engaging commercial fiction and more exploratory and historical literary works.  Fortunately, learning to appreciate both worlds is like learning to tread water; you never quite forget, and I certainly haven't stopped enjoying the ride.

Admittedly, there are some books that I still can't seem to get into.  Ulysses is one [ sorry, Mr. Mullins! ], and Gravity's Rainbow is another.  I have no doubt that Finnegan's Wake is worse.  Maybe I just don't have a penchant for the exploratory genre-- but Pynchon is definitely not up my alley.

But even now, I sometimes pause to wonder whether my interpretations are short-sighted.  After all, sometimes what appears to be a pond is really a deep, majestic ocean.

Past, Present, and Future

In class, we talked about themes, and spent some time on the idea that themes weren't like lessons or morals; stories usually aren't written for the express purpose of getting a message across, though that may be one part of the author's intention.  Most stories are primarily written to entertain (for the purpose of this post, I'll sweep parts of postmodernism under the rug briefly).

This is kind of a weird idea; in elementary and middle school English, most of us were taught that the theme was a sort of "lesson" (later replaced by "observation") about human nature or the world around us.  But when I started thinking about it, I realized that perhaps this view had always skewed my thematic interpretations.  Take, for example, the science fiction genre.

Most science fiction begins as an attempt to construct marginally-possible visions of the future, whether dystopian or not, often involving space travel, robots, and the like.  A notable number of these visions approximate the truth of the future; for instance, 'cyberspace' is a term which originated in William Gibson's fiction, interplanetary travel is about a decade away (caveat emptor), and robots have been developed quite significantly.

Additionally, while it may seem that sci-fi novels intend to present a survey of technological benefits or, alternatively, a horrifyingly-dystopian world, and thus attempt to influence the reader to support or oppose technological development, perhaps their themes are closer to simply predicting the future as the author sees it, and leaving readers to judge that future for themselves.

With that in mind, consider the following quote from a Paris Review interview with William Gibson in which he describes potential "plot drivers" of sci-fi novels in the 1980s:

           "Fossil fuels have been discovered to be destabilizing the planet’s climate, with

           possibly drastic consequences. There’s an epidemic, highly contagious, lethal

           sexual disease that destroys the human immune system, raging virtually uncontrolled 

           throughout much of Africa. New York has been attacked by Islamist fundamentalists,

           who have destroyed the two tallest buildings in the city, and the United States in

           response has invaded Afghanistan and Iraq."

When we consider these ideas through the lens of the world in 1981, they seem outlandish and unrealistic-- but here we are, in 2013.  The same kind of perspective can be seen with essentially all technology that we take for granted today.

In the same vein.

As a second example, imagine that you are reading a hypothetical science fiction novel describing a world in which machine augmentation (everything from artificial arms to minds hosted in computers) has become commonplace.  In fact, suppose that in this novel, characters express distaste at the idea of being fully human, and that the closer to a pure machine someone gets, the higher their sociopolitical (and perceived moral) status is.  Other than these details, the novel is a simple adventure story, perhaps with a vague ending or something of that nature.

I would expect three "classes" of reader reactions:
1. The premise seems ridiculous to this kind of reader, and the story seems uninteresting.
2. This type of reader interprets the story as a cautionary tale rooted in the ethics of keeping humans separate from machines, and reacts negatively to the premise.
3. This type of reader approves of the basic premise, if not of the idea that humanity is something to be rejected; to this reader, the story constructs a plausible (and somewhat awesome) view of the future.

I fall into the third class of reader; I'd gladly trade in my arm for a mechanical one.  (Provided that I saw the specs first, anyway.)

It seems that these basic subtypes of readers can be found with regard to any type of futurist fiction.  There are those who aren't all that into the genre (or, at least, that particular section of the genre), those who like the way the world is now or have ethical doubts, and those who wholeheartedly support technological development regardless of concerns.

So, after this oblong tangent, I will return to my initial point.  Let's consider the themes that each type of reader will retrieve from this story.  I'd venture that reader type 1 would not glean much in the way of a theme from the story; to them, it would not be very meaningful.  Reader type 2 would carry away the theme that technology can be dangerous to the structure and fundamental ideas of our society, and reader type 3 would say that the story demonstrates the enormous potential of technology, and that (citing mentioned circumstances such as the total disappearance of disability and crippling injury) technology will tend to improve the quality of life.

However, I think that these themes are produced more from the reader than from the author.  The story itself is close to neutral, or, at the very least, closer to neutral than its interpretations are; in this hypothetical, the author has no intent to persuade readers one way or another.  Still, readers pull meaning from the setting of the story and their own personal views.

Though of course there is essentially a consensus on the themes and intentions of some fictional works (e.g. 1984), I think that many modern works of literature, especially in science fiction, tend to be interpreted in different ways than the author intended, and that we should exercise caution in interpretation.  After all, perhaps we can learn more about the work-- and about our own beliefs-- if we stop for a moment to play Devil's Advocate and look at the story from other points of view.

Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore

Or, why I don't really like Cloud Atlas.

This topic came to mind when we were discussing chronological manipulation and the nature of plot and story in class.  A bit of background first-- last year, in Mrs. Turner's English class, I elected to read Cloud Atlas, a book by David Mitchell which was recently developed into a film.  It did win several prizes and all that jazz (although so did Wolf Hall), and after reading a brief description, I was hooked.

In short, Cloud Atlas is split into sections which differ in viewpoint.  The first section is narrated by Adam Ewing, an incredibly gullible American notary.  Halfway through his 'Pacific Journal', though, the section ends mid-sentence and is replaced by a series of 'Letters from Zedelghem', written by Robert Frobisher, a young composer.  These literary shenanigans continue, with the only interrupted section being in the middle; subsequently, the stories complete themselves, with the book ending with Ewing's record of his recovery from sickness.  Each section proves to be rife with foreshadowing and flashbacks, primarily for use in connecting the sections.

At the time of my reading, I was quite impressed by Mitchell's style.  I had never read a book of this sort before, and I found the interweaving chronologies captivating.  However, the themes struck me as somewhat uninspired; nothing from the different responses of characters upon encountering evil to the flowery language in the final chapter had particularly interested me.

Then, a fateful moment: looking for the date of publication, I happened to read in the Wikipedia page that the style of Cloud Atlas, which had so drawn me in, was actually almost entirely derived from an earlier work, Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore (or, if you prefer, as I do, If on a winter's night a traveler.)

This book is not quite what it seems, and yet it presents its ideas clearly and simply.

(Although I honestly didn't think it was all that possible to spoil Cloud Atlas because of the detailed nature of the different parts, I take a different view of this novel, and so my synopsis will be cursory and nonspecific.)

If on a winter's night a traveler is about the reader-- you!  Yes, the greater part is in second person, something that was disconcerting at first, but was clearly demonstrated as a powerful tool in Calvino's capable hands.

Essentially, though the book does involve the splitting of viewpoints, it is quite different in nature (and reading experience) from Cloud Atlas.  The latter is exactly as it sounds-- weighty, complex, and just a little difficult to immerse oneself in.  By contrast, Calvino's book is much like a puzzle cube.  It mimics more common strategies of literature, such as continuity, and then turns them on their heads.  The author says to himself, and to the reader-- aha, you didn't expect that, did you?

Reading If on a winter's night a traveler is like playing a game of chess with a Grandmaster.  You feel interest, then confusion at a turn of events, mild irritation, and increasing engagement as you try to figure out what is going on; after a while, you feel intense rage at your failure to comprehend what was going on when it first happened, and in the end, you accept your lot in life.  You are the reader, and you have just been tricked into reading a book about reading a book.

That being said, I have never met anyone who, after reflecting on the book, did not enjoy it thoroughly.  There aren't heavy themes like Cloud Atlas, just a playful demonstration of style.  It was genuinely a fun book to read, which was weird, because it was postmodern.

In summary, the manipulation of chronology and continuity can be wonderful literary techniques-- when used by the right authors.  To me, Cloud Atlas was overly-ambitious, and though it was a very good read, it did not deliver the revolutionary impact that it had intended to.  By contrast, If on a winter's night a traveler knows exactly what it is trying to be.  It wasn't a life-changing work; after all, it wasn't intended as such.  But it was perfectly tailored to appeal to a careful, thoughtful reader.

To end this post, I'll make a shameless sales pitch!  If you haven't ever heard of Calvino, and you enjoy reading, I would highly recommend giving him a try.  You won't regret it.

Tolkienian Symbolism

All of this discussion on the symbolism of Hills Like White Elephants and Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been? got me thinking about hidden symbolism in some of my favorite works-- more specifically, the Lord of the Rings.  And the more I thought about it, the more meanings I uncovered.

Searching Google still blew my mind, though.

The obvious symbolism is that of good and evil; however, there is a great deal of underlying similarity to influences ranging from Beowulf to Tolkien's central moral and religious principles.  Tolkien was a devout Christian and enthusiastic linguist for much of his life, and so that wasn't a huge surprise.  (Fun fact-- Tolkien actually invented the languages first, and wrote the stories to complement them.)

From lotr.wikia.com

(I was able to come up with the Beowulf similarities on my own, but the religious symbolism flew right over my head.  I think it was subtle enough that if I weren't looking for it, I wouldn't have found it.)

The similarities to Beowulf are mostly shallow in nature.  Gollum, and the orcs, are thought to have been inspired by Grendel; likewise, many of the events in The Hobbit and LotR parallel plot points in Beowulf.  By contrast, the religious symbolism (I've used that word too many times, but Tolkien repeatedly stated that he hated allegory) is a little more deeply interwoven with the themes.

Some Google searches revealed that several of the characters are actually thought to represent common archetypes in religion, though no one character is a Christ-figure (as in the case of Aslan.)

First, and most evidently, Gandalf.  He is introduced as a wanderer, in the form of Gandalf the Grey.  He dies in a battle against a Balrog, sacrificing himself to allow the rest of the Fellowship to escape, and is later resurrected.  This appears as an immediate parallel to the death and resurrection of Jesus in Christian beliefs.

Aragorn is thought to represent the 'King' aspect.  Like Gandalf, he undergoes a transformation, but in his case, it is a change from the inconspicuous ranger Strider to the king of Gondor; this transformation chiefly occurs at a figurative 'death', when he convinces the dead men to fight for him.

The roots of Frodo and Sam, as characters, are subject to quite a bit of debate.  Some scholars hold that Frodo represents humanity and Sam represents Jesus (or the Holy Spirit) in a Christian sense; others believe that both represent different types of sacrifice.  I find myself more drawn to the second idea; I do not think that the books were intended to represent religion, but rather that they were written by a religious writer, and thus share some thematic similarity.  Additionally, sacrifice in and of itself is a motif in all of Tolkien's works.  Examples are found throughout the Silmarillion, especially in the case of [Beren and Lúthien], in which the two repeatedly sacrifice things important to them for the sake of the other.

Tolkien also highly developed the mythology of the elves in a way that paralleled Greek mythology.  Many of the principal deities resemble Greek counterparts, and like Greek gods, are separate from the idea of creation.

It is quite easy to see that The Lord of the Rings, together with Tolkien's other works, were highly influenced by various mythologies and earlier literature.  The central structure of the world of Middle-Earth, and the characters who inhabit it, are expressions of the most basic archetypes of Tolkien's beliefs.

Under-stand: Or, why you should have called Entomology Man.

[ Obscure reference? ]  [ Obscure reference. ]

In class, we discussed a few things: most chiefly, at least in my memory, was annotation and strategies for understanding and recalling details.

I have had a long and tumultuous love-and-hate affair with annotation and other strategies.  In middle school, I was forced to do Cornell notes, and worse, they were structured the wrong way.  So began my epic distrust of notation strategies.  After all, Gandalf didn't need notes to know everything, so why would I?

The fact that fictional wizards can do pretty much whatever they want was conveniently overlooked by my young mind.

Later, I began to discover that outline notes were easy to do and organized the material nicely, and happily wrote such notes for the month leading up to the first AP World History test.  However, there was a slight issue; I'm chiefly a skimmer, and rarely read word by word unless I'm analyzing the quality of the text or know that the writer will make it worth my time.  (Bradbury, I'm looking at you!)

This did result in some difficulties paying attention when I tried to study my notes directly, though.  After dozing through about an hour of "study" time, I ended up just reading the textbook over again.

I did just fine on the test.

This strategy first began to fail me in my AP English class last year.  Mrs. Turner's monumentally difficult quizzes broke through my refusal to take notes in fewer than three class periods, and I dutifully took Cornell notes for the remainder of the course (though with a certain twist-- I didn't write down questions or a summary, but shorter and shorter outlines of the notes).  I do remember much of the material to this day.

Which brings me to an interesting question.  What made that note-taking strategy so much more effective for me?  Why could I take Cornell notes and use those to study, while plain outline notes put me to sleep?  Did something about the format help my mind understand the concepts?

What is understanding, anyway?  Remembering things?  Computer programs can do that easily, but they can't synthesize concepts into new information.

To answer this question, we may have to draw on our old friend the dictionary.  The direct definition probably won't do us much good, but the older roots of the word might.  Words are a little bit like equations to me-- they're hard to figure out when they're whole, but if we break them up into pieces, they become more manageable.  (Sometimes, anyway.)

Under-stand, from the Proto-Germanic *under ("between") and *standana ("to stand"). [Wiktionary]

So, understanding means to stand between?  Or, maybe, to stand within a concept?  Not terribly useful to us; words often change in meaning so much that it's hard to glean any insight.

What about a modern language instead?  Spanish doesn't do us much good either-- entender?  A verb from the Latin intendere, but Latin never tells me anything about nuances.

Let's try Korean.

The most basic word for understanding that I know is 이해 (ihae).  I'm not nearly good enough to decipher the etymology, though (it's from these scary Chinese characters) so maybe 알아들어 (araduro) is better?  From my understanding, when used in a sentence, it means something close to understanding or learning; literally, it means "know-hear" or "learn-hear".

Hearing and learning-- or, in my case, reading and learning-- means something a little different from standing within things.

So as a composite definition, maybe understanding is listening or reading carefully, learning the concepts, and trying to look at them from all sides until you know them.

So where do notes come in?  Well, the concept behind Cornell notes is that the reinforcement of material multiple times, each time in a further-compressed format, will help to drive facts firmly into your brain.  But does this really help understanding?

Well, maybe.

As it turns out, whenever I take Cornell notes, I end up compressing them into shorter and shorter versions in the various spaces on the sheet each time I look at them.  I simply can't passively read things, especially my own notes, just as I can't listen in class without reading a passage, answering questions, or doing something with my hands at the same time.  (With that in mind, Mr. Mullins, I swear that I'm paying attention in class even if I'm fooling with a piece of paper or something!  I fall asleep if I sit still!)

And when I compress my Cornell notes, I am forced to make connections between facts even as they're hammered into my brain.  When writing down each art piece from the Northern Renaissance, I recall the details that I saw in the book, and make comparisons between pieces.  When writing down things that popped out at me from the Paris Review interviews and briefly looked at them later, I noticed similarities and differences between authors.  In this way, I ended up with a better understanding of the material than if I had written "normal" outline or Cornell notes.

So perhaps writing notes in the ways that I've found, even if they're not perfectly orthodox, helps me "stand inside" the material in a way that just reading the material or annotating the text doesn't.

Or maybe I'm making this far too complicated.  After all, Gandalf didn't need etymology to know everything.  I've found a system of notes that works, and that's good enough for me.

But even Gandalf needed a little upgrade, in the form of new robes.  I'm not ready to declare that grey is the best color-- maybe I just haven't seen white yet.

Of Hobbits and Computers: Could R2D2 Make Art?

One of the first topics that we tackled in class was the quintessential first question of any study of creative works: what is literature? Do we consider The Hobbit to be literature? What about Ulysses? Or a screenplay of an episode of SpongeBob?

Upon attempting to slaughter this particular dragon, I must admit that I ended up wandering into a somewhat different lair. Namely-- what is art?

Merriam-Webster has two definitions of art as a noun:

1. decorative or illustrative elements in printed matter
2. the conscious use of skill and creative imagination especially in the production of aesthetic objects; also works so produced

The first definition is straightforward.  Art is something that is meant to tell a story, describe something, or please the viewer.

The second definition is less clear.  Art is anything that is produced with advanced ability and the intent to create something new, though it doesn't have to be attractive visually.  There is some ambiguity here-- what about 'found art'?  If an artist takes an object out of its original setting and creates a new purpose for it, does it become a piece of art?  Photography is generally considered art, after all.

And, perhaps more importantly, where is the line denoting the "conscious use of skill and creative imagination"?  What if I were to show you an image, and ask you whether it came from a modern artist or a computer program?

Take, for example, the following two images.  One is computer-generated, the other a piece of geometric modern art; do you know which is which?

Perhaps this is not a truly fair test, as those who have studied art history may recognize the work on the right as a composition by Piet Mondrian.  The image on the left is untitled, as it was generated by a genetic algorithm known as Evograph (all credit for Evograph goes to Adam Smith).  Evograph aims to use analysis of the elements of art and data on the attractiveness, or lack thereof, of images to create images that are aesthetically pleasing.

A quick overview of genetic algorithms-- most such algorithms involve the creation of individual solutions to a problem based on building blocks.  Building blocks are selected for fitness, and the most fit building blocks have the chance to pass their 'genes' on to the next generation of building blocks.  Over many generations, the algorithm optimizes and usually surpasses traditional solutions.  In the case of Evograph, users are effectively able to remove ugly images from the breeding pool and leave pretty ones, with the result that the images grow more pleasing over time.

As such images are not directly created by an artist who is using creative intent and skill, are they still art?  I selected the image from a pool of potential images; by recognizing its potential to be art, did I make it art?

I believe that if an experiment were conducted asking people to select which images were created by computer programs and which by modern artists, no significant difference would be found.  If we assume this to be true, does it even matter what we define as art?  If we cannot tell the difference, is there a difference?

We could continue this sort of reaching around in the dark for pages and pages, but at this point I think that further speculation is superfluous.  Art is not something that is easily defined, and perhaps everyone has their own definition of it.  To some people, a Renaissance painting is the epitome of art, with nothing but decline since; some fiercely deny that modern art is art, while others prefer the simple aesthetic of Rothko works.  Many people do not think of website design as art, and even more have never considered the writing of html code to be art; I would beg to differ.  Both are art to me.

What is art to you?