Battle of Literature

I have an urge to write, but only nebulous ideas for a subject. This sudden outburst of undefined creativity is inspired by Edgar Allen Poe, whom I have more or less despised since 4th grade.

For at least a few months now, I've been reading through American Tradition in Literature: Volume 1. It's an overview of our country's history through the writings of of its prominent citizens. Currently I am at Poe, and it's highly fascinating in some ways. See, I view literature as a chance to  become acquainted with the author, and Poe is definitely a study! His writings range from slightly dark/strange poetry, to grotesque stories of the occult/insane, to perfectly rational critiques of other authors' works. And I think I've figured him out.

Poe has a decent helping of PTSD, plenty of bipolar to go around, and a pinch of Satan worship.

In any case, I just finished an article Poe wrote- a favorable critique of Nathaniel Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales. It piqued my interest because some of their styles have a bit of overlap, in fact, some of their writings are super similar, but I prefer Hawthorne WAY more.

And of course, since I'm (borderline) obsessed with introspection and psychology, I had to delve into my own psyche.

Both Poe and Hawthorne wrote stories of the darkly mysterious, where reality and symbolism are all tangled up together until you start to question both. But Hawthorne's stories always have an insinuated point/moral, or a slight glimmer of hope, or both. On the other end of things, Poe, at least in his darker writings or emotional states, just ends his stories at the bleakest, most confusing moment. I think this style was designed to create a certain, strong emotional effect, but for me the emotion is too straightforward (always gotta complicate things!) and somehow incomplete. Poe can horrify and confuse me, but Hawthorne can hold me, hovering halfway between hope and despair with horror; he can let his characters into my head/heart where they find our commonalities. Their evil reflects my own, their struggles mirror mine. And this second effect is much more powerful for me. It's just way more captivating and well-rounded.

And you should read The Scarlet Letter.

I also think I trust Hawthorne more. While he dives into the supernatural realm, he does it with a bit of balance. He writes of fiends (demons) and Satan and witches, but with at least a vague sense of the Divine (God) in the background. Wrong and right are kept firmly in place even while they are tested and questioned. Poe's exploration into the invisible is off-kilter. Rationality is thrown unceremoniously out the window and hope is entirely dismissed. He chokes up his own talent by choosing to write with fear and confusion rather than the much more powerful literary tool of contrast.

Of course, I'm not an expert, just a nerd. 😅 And since my English IV class this past year went through The Scarlet Letter, I've studied Hawthorne much more than Poe. I'll probably go back and reread some of Poe's stories to see if I can understand them (and him) better, and then update you of any changes in my opinions stated here.

Happy Reading! (Remember the assignment I gave ya'll? 😉)

~Dolly

P.S. After some rereading, I'm only slightly less confused than I was originally. My point still stands, as far as I'm concerned.

Empty Places

A memoir assignment in English IV landed around the one-year anniversary of my grandparent's death. Here's what I wrote:

"I love you Grandma!" a little girl exclaimed while rolling out sugar cookie dough. Flour and sugar dusted the table, as well as most of her lime-green jumper and one small eyebrow. 

"I love you Grandpa," that same girl, a little older now, thought as she climbed out of a farm truck. Her eyes sparkled as she thought of the joke they'd just shared.

That little girl was me. Years later, as I stood beside a pair coffins, part that little girl still inside me. . . died.

I clearly remember the weeks leading up to the car wreck. Grandpa and Grandma were going to go on a road trip across the United States, stopping in at friends' and family's houses on the way. Spring was coming- Easter was soon. Grandma talked of almost nothing else, and Grandpa talked of almost nothing (as usual). He still showed anticipation though, in his quiet way. Everything reflected hope.

Just a few days before they left, we stopped in for a quick visit. Grandma excitedly beckoned Mom and me over and pulled something out of her dress pocket- a cell phone! She showed us how it worked, told us how many minutes they had rolled over. Her excitement was contagious, and we all laughed before she gave me and Mom each an enthusiastic hug.

Then a few days after they left, a Friday- Good Friday- Mom and Dad called my brother and I downstairs. Somewhere in Wisconsin, there had been a random car wreck. But for us, it wasn't so random. Because Grandpa had died immediately. Because Grandma was in a hospital somewhere far away, on life support. This wasn't just a random wreck on the news. This was pain. Loneliness and uncertainty, yes; but nothing at all like random.

At first, there were no reactions. Just silence- then came quiet crying that morphed into sobbing; this was real. Dad flew out to Wisconsin that day. He came back and got me a week or so later, I think. Time blurs around these memories: there are clear scenes and moments, but no full, coherent timeline.

The hospital was comforting. Sterilely white; white walls, white hospital beds with white sheets, white ceiling, white tile floor that reflected the blindingly white lights. There were no emotions here. Everything moved on a schedule, everything was structured. Everything would be fine.

I spent a lot of time in Grandma's hospital room, and often there was just the two of us. I'd sit in an office chair that was about as tall as me and I'd color and pray. I also brought a paperback, spiral-bound hymnal and my Bible, and sang out of one and read out of the other. Days at Grandpa and Grandma's house had always been bookended with Bible reading, and Grandma and I used to sing together while washing dishes. I hung on to hope that those things would happen again.

Then on Dad and my last day in Wisconsin, a cocky young intern or something came in and started unhooking the tangle of wires and cords attached to Grandma's head. I asked why.

"Because she's just doing so much better!" he replied cheerfully, barely glancing up from what he was doing.

Hope! Maybe God wanted to help us!

We flew home shortly after that. Driving away from the airport, Mom and Dad started discussing what would happen when Life Support was pulled off. I freaked out. Uncontrollable crying; intense, sharp jabs of pain through my heart and stomach. Complete helplessness. Everyone knew this was coming. But Dad was dealing with so much that he'd forgotten to inform me of what was going on. So, I had no introduction chapter to grief- not for the wreck that killed Grandpa- not for the sustained injuries that killed Grandma.

Coming home was hard. As in, it-would-not-be-Christian-to-punch-this-person-in-the-face, kind of hard. Whom did I want to punch? Those relatives who put on an elegant display of tragic grief, the people I didn't know at all who introduced themselves just to force their grief on me, and definitely that lady who looked at me so sympathetically and insisted that things were absolutely terrible for me and I was completely miserable from being reminded of my horrible loss at every turn. "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy. . . long-suffering. . . " Sigh.

Now, as I sit in what used to be Grandma's kitchen and write about her, as I gaze out at the washroom where Grandpa used to come in to clean up and I write about him, I realize how much they taught me and how much their death changed me. From Grandma I learned industriousness, how to respectfully disagree, and the importance of loving those people you disagree with. From Grandpa I learned to wait for others to speak, to value words, to talk (safely!) to a stranger, and how to say things without speaking.

In losing them, I utilized what they taught me. I had to love those people I wanted to punch, and to express that love by letting them speak their grief. I had to learn to say, "I get it. I'm dealing with this loss, too," without talking, to use a simple facial expression to communicate openness and sympathy. I learned that people struggle, and I need to have patience and love them anyway. I learned that hurt doesn't come all at once, but in waves. Even now, over year later, some residual grief will wash over my heart, and its salt will sting the places that are still cut open.

But I can look back, back over what my grandparents taught me without saying a word, and forward- forward to seeing them again sometime, who-knows-when, and saying "thank you" for all the things they taught and still teach me.

You are honored, missed, still loved and forever(?) remembered. 

On Reason and Reactions

Well, that last post didn't do so well. Apparently me writing a big, long thing about my animals isn't the quality content you've gotten used to on this blog. So this is a deep, emotional and intellectual post, as you can see by the scholarly-sounding title. 😄

First, though, I might as well give you a little background.

We are studying Fyodor Dostoyevsky in English. Our class just started Crime and Punishment, but I read The Dream of a Ridiculous Man as well, just to cover my bases. I'd definitely advise everyone to read The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, since it's super short and pretty intriguing. Anyway, Dostoyevsky was a romanticist Christian in a Russia full of nihilists. The two views contrast each other pretty sharply: Romanticism involves looking towards a goal of perfection, and nihilism sees everything as hopeless and meaningless, and perfection as impossible. Obviously, I'm not a well-researched philosopher or anything. These are just my generalized views of nihilism and romanticism.

As far as I can tell, Dostoyevsky's writing seems to involve a satirical view of nihilism that points to romanticism as the answer to the problems he sees in nihilism. The Dream of a Ridiculous Man shows this writing technique very obviously and concisely.

Moving on: Another belief system we've discussed in English class is that of Utilitarianism, which pretty much states that whatever pleases the majority becomes morally right. It's apparently closely related to nihilism. Our teacher posted this question:

In Tuesday's class, we discussed how Fyodor Dostoevsky wrote in an anti-nihilistic style. We also discussed that utilitarianism is closely linked to nihilism. Again, utilitarianism is the doctrine that actions are right if they are useful or for the benefit of a majority. In this discussion post, describe some of the pitfalls of utilitarianism.

I'm actually pretty satisfied with my response. On a high-school level only, of course. I still would love to have a LOT more knowledge about argument styles and making a strong argument for or against any subject. Anyway, here's my response:

Utilitarianism can sound good on the surface, especially to people whose natural tendency is to try to keep everyone happy. After all, no one can please everyone, so a majority's happiness is kind of the best one can hope for.

However, (and it's a big however) utilitarianism, as all human attempts to reconstruct morality, has at least one very big problem. Here's one problem for this belief system to answer: What if the minority in a specific setting is a majority in a larger sense?

One example of the problem this presents is the Salem Witch Trials, a gruesome and tragic historic event. The majority of people in Salem were living in terror of witchcraft. This fear was alleviated by the legalized murder of anyone thought to be a witch. However, the witch-hunting craze in Europe was ending, and in other parts of the world, witchcraft was viewed as powerful and not to be messed with; people went to witch doctors for help with their physical, emotional, or spiritual problems. So the 'majority' in Salem that wanted to kill "witches" was probably really a minority in the bigger scope of things.

On which would a utilitarian base his or her morality?


Obviously definitely not beyond a high-school level. But for where I'm at in life, I think it's not TOO bad. 😁 I mean, for once in my life, I made a point somewhat concisely! 😆

What do you guys think? This stuff majorly fascinates me, for sure! In fact, when I finish Crime and Punishment, you just might hear more on the subject. This is more of an introduction-to-the-subject post. 😉

Hope you have a wonderful day! And please, keep a balanced view of life. If you're a romanticist or nihilist, I'd love to know! Because we need to talk, hahaha! 😅

Writing from the heart (or mind?),

~Dolly

Hello, World!

Greetings to everyone (the one person. . . thanks, Mom!) who will read this!

Thanks for being here! What can you expect? I'm not really sure yet.

I don't have anything deep to teach you. I don't have any smart life hacks or great advice. All I have are my late-night ramblings of thought and prayer. I haven't lived long enough to learn a lot, but long enough to learn a little. I don't go on fantastic adventures with Instagram-worthy pictures for you to "ooh" and "ah" over and wish you could have that freedom.

I'm just a teenager who enjoys English class and is struggling to figure out this exhilarating, bewildering, fantastic, terrible thing called life. I'm learning a lot about God, myself, and other people, and want to learn more. I want to grow as a person, as a Christian, and as a writer. Maybe you want to grow yourself in some of these areas as well. If you do, you can read this blog! Or just start your own blog. That would probably be more enjoyable. :) Or, oh hey! You could do both! How's that for an idea?

Anyway, . . . where was I going with this? Oh whatever, I forgot entirely.

Have a good day! Love you, Mom! :D

~Dolly