University of Dallas • Fall 2010

The University Scholar

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The University Scholar

Scholarly Editors Andrew Miller Joseph siMMons

Creative Editors Thérèse CouTure JonAThAn riCklis

Art Editors roseMAry Johnson sTephAnie sToeCkl

Assistant Editors JoshuA Cole nAThAn helMs

Faculty Advisor sTeven sTryer, d. phil

Administrative Assistant ConCeTTA nolAn

Sponsors universiTy of dAllAs phi BeTA kAppA

Fall 2010 • Volume XII • Number 1

University of Dallas • 1845 E. Northgate Dr. • Irving, TX, 75062http://www.udallas.edu/academics/undergrad/majors/english/uscholar

Front Cover:Yesica Moran

TrilogyCeramic and oxides

Scholarly Work

3 Septimus’ and Clarissa’s Transcendent Communication in Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway Sidonie Blanks

19 Memory and Sympathy in Coleridge’s Poetic Imagination: An Exploration of the Soul’s Movement from Deprivation to Joy Maura Shea

25 Bound by Form: Marianne Moore’s Exploration of Freedom Christian Howard

Artwork Front Trilogy Yesica Moran

17 My Universe Yesica Moran

23 Tray with Twigs Bethany Pederson

28 Emergence Jessica Swanner

Back Middle Child Mary Eich

Back Cover:Mary Eich

Middle ChildStoneware, High-Fire Reduction

Creative Work 16 Cinqueterre Alexandra Liebenow

18 Undone Nadia Wolnisty

From Synecdoche

24 Thecrawfishintheriver JohnCorrales

29 Mondrian in the news John Corrales

Contents

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sidonie BlAnks

Winner of the 2010 Sorenson Award

Septimus’ and Clarissa’s Transcendent Communication in Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway

When, at the end of Mrs. Dalloway, Clarissa Dalloway is told of Septimus Smith’s suicide during her party, she thinks, “[o]h!...in the middle of my party, here’s death” (MD 162). What follows is a profound meditation on the meaning of Septimus’ suicide which constitutes the novel’s thematic climax. Clarissa’s reaction here is a problem for many critics because Mrs. Dalloway presents the effects of intersecting “vectors of oppression and privilege” (Rizter 204). Clarissa is a woman both victimized by patriarchal oppression and participatory in the oppression of others through her privileged position within London’s upper-class;Septimusisashell-shockedwarveterandefinedbymasculinesystems but without access to the privileges Clarissa’s wealth affords her. In fact, almost every character in the novel simultaneously participates in and suffers from oppressive behavior that limits their ability to know, relate to, and communicate with each other. Although Clarissa’s wealth causes many to read this climactic scene as a cheapening of Septimus’ death, Woolf insists that they share a common struggle against those who try to “forc[e] your soul” (MD 163). This struggle renders Clarissa cold and divided and prompts Septimus’ plunge out of the window; however, Septimus’ act of self-destruction also preserves his integrity and autonomy and transcends the barriers created by oppression and privilege, resulting in a mystical act of communication and discovery that restores Clarissa’s sense of self. In writing Mrs. Dalloway, Woolf intended to “criticise the social system, and show it at work, at its most intense” (A Writer’s Diary 56). Accordingly, the narrative acknowledges society’s “vectors of oppression and privilege,” which GeorgeRitzerdefinesas“[t]hevariedintersectionsofanumberofarrangementsof social inequality (gender, class, race, global location, sexual preference, and age) that serve to oppress women differentially” (Ritzer 204). This concept, broadly termed intersectionality theory, envisions society and its institutions as rendering individuals simultaneously oppressed and privileged. Intersectionality theory is particular to feminism; however, because gender is just one of many forces in society that contribute to social inequality, it applies to all people experiencing and participating in differing oppressive forces. Ultimately, it suggests that these forces are interrelated and can shape people’s perspectives, assumptions, and interactions with others in complex ways.

Dear Reader,

In the spirit of humility and with a contrite heart, we offer to you this lepidum novum libellum, arida modo pumice expolitum. It is, we feel, a publication of sweetness and light, a precious stone set in a silver sea.

To those few souls who have, as yet, remained outside the radius of our celebrity, we bid welcome; to returning readers of editions past, we extend greeting.

To those authors and artists both, who have poured forth at our beseeching, their bread upon these waters, we give thanks.

We, your editors, have hovered over these waters, exalting valleys, making mountains and hills low, and in general preparing the way. What you see before you is the distillation of a large body of scholarly and creative work. Not all, we feel, of those works deserving have made it into these pages; and being little accustomed to the favors of the great, we are humbled by the dignity of those works which have. Inquirewithin,OReader,uponeverything.Here,youshallfindthatbeauty is truth, truth beauty. Here we hold in mente et memoria the ancient customs of our fathers. This is our escutcheon and great boast beforemen,theflowerofourchivalryandourswordbaredforwar.

We trust it will satisfy your discriminating taste, and thus plus uno maneat perenne saeclo.

“If this be error and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”

The Editors

The Katherine M. Sorenson Award recognizes one student in Literary Study II whose presentation reveals him or her to be a superior reader of the novel, exhibiting in his or her reading, writing, and delivery Katherine’s characteristic virtues: a precise intelligence and wit, a capacious imagination, and a humane learning.

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Because of the wide array of perspectives it portrays, Mrs. Dalloway is well suited to Bakhtinian readings; however, intersectionality theory provides amorespecificvocabularybecauseconflictingperspectivesinthenovelresultspecificallyfromoppressivesystems.Thestory-worldcraftedbyWoolfisadiverse and lively London populated by people of differing genders, disabilities, socioeconomic statuses, and sexualities. Each character occupies a unique position within the narrative’s classist, patriarchal, and heteronormative society and offers a unique perspective depending on that position. Woolf uses free indirect discourse to penetrate the minds of each character, which leads to numerous contested narratives, but Woolf resists privileging any voice over another. In addition to the novel’s main characters, images of “poor mothers of Westminster and their crawling babies” (MD 102), musings on “what could be done for female vagrants” (MD 102), and descriptions of the “exquisite passing to and fro through swing doors of aproned white-capped maids” during lunch saturate the novel and suggest a vision inclusive of London’s entire social stratus (MD 91). Clearly, Woolf intentionally gives voice to London’s diverse population in order to present the personal effects of socially accepted systems of oppression. Yet Woolf also argues through her style that common understandings and genuine communication can and do exist. Concerning Mrs. Dalloway, she wrote, “I shall say a great deal about [it] and my discovery: how I dig out beautiful caves behind my characters…[t]he idea is that the caves shall connect and each comes to daylight at the present moment” (A Writer’s Diary 59). Accordingly, she carefully links the novel’s disparate characters—especially Clarissa and Septimus—through repeated scenes, phrases, and images, the implications of which come together in a visionary moment at Clarissa’s party when she hears about a “young man” who “had killed himself” (MD 162). Upon learning of Septimus’ suicide, Clarissa retreats into an empty room, where“[t]heparty’ssplendourfelltothefloor,sostrangeitwastocomeinaloneinherfinery”(MD 163). The persona of “perfect hostess” melts away (MD 5), leadingtoanawarenessofherartificiality;“party’ssplendour”and“finery”suggest ornament and decadence. She thinks, “[h]e had killed himself—but how?Alwaysherbodywentthroughitfirst,whenshewastold,suddenly,ofanaccident;herdressflamed,herbodyburnt…[u]phadflashedtheground;throughhim, blundering, bruising went the rusty spikes. There he lay with a thud, thud, thud in his brain, and then a suffocation of blackness” (MD 163). Clarissa feels and sees his death even though she has never met him. She compares herself to him with unusual insight, stating that he had preserved something essential that in her life has been “wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured” (MD 163). In contrast to the feelings of alienation or uncertainty that have plagued her throughouttheday,shefindsinSeptimus’suicidestability:shesees“defiance,”“communication,” and “an embrace” (MD163),alldefinitivewordsandideas.Inapassageprolificwithimagesandallusionsthathavepermeatedthenovelup to this point, Clarissa concludes that “she felt somehow very like him—the young man who had killed himself” (MD 165). Ultimately, all signs point to a

mystical,symbolicconnectionwithSeptimusfilledwithdiscoverynotonlyofthe self but of another. Clarissa’s feelings of relation to Septimus are provocative to the reader because Woolf emphasizes their differences. That a rich, privileged, and frequentlyself-centeredwomanbenefitsspirituallyfromapoor,madwarveteran’s suicide is indeed hard to swallow. It is not surprising that many criticsfindherundeservingofthevisionaryroleassignedtoherbyWoolf.Forexample,DeborahGuthassertsthat“Clarissa’sidentificationwithSeptimusisspurious” (Guth 20). Herbert Marder, although he recognizes Clarissa’s merits, alsofindsher“moral[ly]obtuse[]”becauseofherconnectionto“fashionablesociety” (Marder 54, 60); and Jeremy Hawthorn claims that Woolf reaches no conclusion because her own economic privilege blinded her to the real effects of classism. Thesecriticsfindsupportinothercharacters’opinionsofClarissaandClarissa’s own comments. Peter accuses her of being “hard” and “sentimental” (MD 42), and derisively labels her “the perfect hostess.” Similarly, Miss Kilman thinks her a “[f]ool” who deserves to be “unmask[ed]” (MD 110). Because Clarissa is rich and they are not, it is tempting to trust these critical assessments, all of which relate to the arrogance that can come with wealth. Several remarks made by Clarissa also suggest insincerity, frivolity, or egoism; she states that “the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps…can’t be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason; they love life” (MD 2). When asked to invite her poor cousin, Ellie Henderson, to her party, she complains to Richard, “[b]ut why should I ask all the dull women in London to my parties?” (MD 105) After Richard leaves to go to a Committee on Albanians, or Armenians—she cannot remember which—she thinks, “no, she could feel nothing for the Albanians, or was it the Armenians? but she loved her roses (didn’t that help the Armenians?)” (MD 106). However, Woolf promotes an intersectional understanding of society by acknowledging the injustice of Peter’s and Kilman’s socioeconomic statuses while simultaneously suggesting that they try to invade the “privacy of the soul” through other means (MD 111). Despite his economic dependence on others—he admits that “it was true he would have, some time or other, to see whether Richard couldn’t help him to some job” (MD43)—Peterexemplifiesthe oppressive effects of male privilege and heteronormative systems. He is a self-proclaimed lover of women, admitting that he “liked…above all women’s society” (MD 140). Most of his thoughts and actions in the novel concentrate on chasing or fantasizing about members of the opposite sex. For example, after Peter leaves Clarissa’s house, an “extraordinarily attractive” young woman catches his eye (MD 45). He imagines her as “the very woman he had always hadinmind,”and,“stealthilyfingeringhispocket-knife,”followsherforseveralblocks (MD 45). The pocket-knife, a phallic symbol that Woolf consistently associates with his character, combined with his decision to follow and idealize this woman, highlights Peter’s oppressive tendencies, his sexual forwardness, and his extreme masculinity.

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These aspects of Peter’s personality affect Clarissa in devastating ways: her decision to adopt the persona of “the perfect hostess” ultimately coincides with Peter’s intrusion on her sexual privacy. He interrupts “the most exquisite moment of her whole life” (MD 30): her kiss with Sally Seton, an interruption Clarissa feels was “like running one’s face against a granite wall in the darkness! It was shocking; it was horrible!” (MD 30) Excepting the novel’s conclusion, Clarissa’s relationship and kiss with Sally constitute her only moments of complete sincerity and intimacy. As Emily Jensen notes, it is in response to this intrusion that “Clarissa agrees to deny her love for Sally Seton, decides marriage to Peter Walsh is impossible, and chooses instead to marry Richard Dalloway and become respectable” (Jensen 162). Clarissa’s “hard” persona, then, stems from an encounter with an oppressor. Woolf reinforces this point when Peter intrudes on Clarissa’s privacy on the day the novel takes place, paralleling his intrusion on her kiss with Sally. The narrator describes their interaction here as a sexualized battle. As Peter again wields his phallic knife, Clarissa “tak[es] up her needle” (MD 38), an image of domesticity and, as the critic Beverly Ann Schlack notes, the means through which she mends the tear in her dress and symbolically maintains the “virginity…which clung to her like a sheet” (MD 26). Thus the passage suggests Clarissa’s reluctance to engage sexually with men while characterizing Peter as the oppressive force that tries to make her do so. Clarissa describes herself here as “a Queen whose guards had fallen asleep and left her unprotected…so that any one can stroll in and have a look at her” (MD 38, emphasis mine). Peter threatens Clarissa sexually and emotionally, and she responds by labeling him an “enemy” (MD 38). It is not surprising, then, that Clarissa rejects Peter and marries Richard Dalloway instead. She states that “with Peter everything had to be shared; everything gone into. And it was intolerable” (MD 5); she prefers Richard because he allows the “gulf” between married people to remain, “a solitude…that one must respect…for one would not part with it oneself or take it, against his will, from one’s husband, without losing one’s independence, one’s self respect” (MD 105). Unlike Peter, Richard allows Clarissa her “attic room” and does not threaten her “virginity preserved through childbirth which clung to her like a sheet” (MD 26). That Peter interprets himself and Clarissa differently only reinforces the notion that Woolf possessed and meant to evoke a nuanced understanding of privilege. Peter sees Clarissa as a woman he passionately loved who treated him with unwarranted coldness: she is “hard” but irresistible (MD 46), in possession of “that woman’s gift, of making a world of her own wherever she happened to be” (MD 66). He believes that “[h]is relations with Clarissa…had spoilt his life” (MD 170), and although he admits that “[h]is demands upon Clarissa…were absurd” (MD 55) on the day the novel takes place, he repeatedly fails to recognize how his male privilege blinds him to the realities of Clarissa’s experience as a woman.

A similar contest of narratives takes place between Clarissa and Miss Kilman. Miss Kilman detests Clarissa, thinking, “she came from the most worthless of all classes—the rich, with a smattering of culture” and that “she should have been in a factory; behind a counter; Mrs. Dalloway and all the other fineladies!”(MD108-109).Unjustlyfiredduringthewarbecause“shewouldnot pretend that the Germans were all villains” (109), she is “degradingly poor” and feels that “she had a perfect right to anything that the Dalloways did for her” because “[s]he had been cheated” (MD108).Herpovertymakesherjustifiably“bitter and burning” (MD 109), and she interprets Clarissa’s attitude towards her asa“condescending”flauntingofwealthandsocialstatus(MD 108). However, Miss Kilman also fantasizes about achieving “a religious victory” over Clarissa; she wants to make her “soul and its mockery…feel her mastery” (MD 110), words which echo the sentiments of the narrative’s most powerful figuresofoppression:Dr.HolmesandDr.Bradshaw.Clarissathinksthatsherepresents “[l]ove and religion!...[t]he cruellest things in the world…seeing themclumsy,hot,domineering,hypocritical,eavesdropping,jealous,infinitelycruel and unscrupulous, dressed in a mackintosh coat, on the landing” (MD 111). Although Clarissa overlooks the role class plays in their interactions, she rightly believes that Kilman uses “love and religion” to “destroy…the privacy of the soul,” and reacts to her with hostility for that reason (MD 111). As evident from her relationship with Miss Kilman, Clarissa is privileged, not “morally obtuse.” Her behavior towards Ellie Henderson coincides with her desire to appear as the wealthy, upper-class wife during a party attended by the Prime Minister. However, Woolf emphasizes that this is still cruel and suggests that Ellie is acutely aware of Clarissa’s reluctance to invite her. Her statement concerning Armenians and roses highlights her privileged views, although it is curiously echoed by Sally and Peter. Peter says twice in the novel thathe“prefer[s]mentocauliflowers”(MD 1, 171), while at the party Sally statesthatshe“gotfromherflowersapeacewhichmenandwomennevergaveher” (MD 171). That these sentiments correlate with gender may suggest that intimacy is a freedom belonging largely to men, who have less to lose from it. Although Clarissa’s reasoning is simplistic, the narrative supports her notion that Parliament cannot help the poor. At her party, she hears Dr. Bradshaw telling Richard that “[t]here must be some provision in the Bill” about “the deferred effects of shell shock” in light of Septimus’ “case” (MD 162). Bradshaw only acts to increase his power over others, never to help them. Clarissa’s wealth limits, but does not erase, her ability to grasp the realities of others outside her class; although she knows that Parliament is useless, her “roses” are hardly a viable alternative. To protect her privacy, Clarissa divides herself into two parts: one that conveys the characteristics of “the perfect hostess” to others and accounts for her coldness; and the rich, vibrant personality Woolf provides the reader with insight into through her use of free indirect discourse and depiction of Clarissa’s thoughts. By adopting a persona, Clarissa becomes wholly incapable

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of intimacy: she avoids Sally, repeatedly declining invitations to visit her, and when Richard seems about to tell her he loves her, she thinks, “What? Why? There were the roses” (MD 105). The arrogance that coincides with her persona seeps into her thoughts and impulses, as seen in her privileged viewpoints. These constitute real problems in Clarissa’s character which she must confront before the novel’s conclusion. However, the reader knows that where others see foolishness in, for example, Clarissa’s parties, she sees “an offering; to combine, to create”; to her, they are “a gift” (MD 107). Despite her failings, Woolf insists that she is far more complex than she appears. Septimus’classandhismentaldisabilityexacerbatehisdifficultiesanddifferentiate him from Clarissa; however, they share similar struggles that stem from the same oppressive structures. Septimus suffers from patriarchal systems thatdefineandcategorizemenasmuchastheydowomen.Beforethewar,hewas an imaginative and inquisitive young man interested in literature and eager for greatness: he was full of “vanity, ambition, idealism, passion, loneliness, courage, laziness, the usual seeds, which all muddled up…made him shy, and stammering, and anxious to improve himself, made him fall in love with Miss Isabel Pole, lecturing in the Waterloo Road upon Shakespeare” (MD 74). He enlists “to save an England which consisted almost entirely of Shakespeare’s plays and Miss Isabel Pole in a green dress” (MD 75). However, during the war, “he developed manliness” (MD 75), and after his best friend Evans dies, he realizes with terror that “he could not feel” (MD 76). As Lee R. Edwards notes, “[h]owoddthatwhatamanisshouldnotbesufficienttodefinehimasaman”(Edwards 105). His society’s expectations of masculinity destroy his ability to express his emotions; and, as Edwards writes, “the world of culture…which had served Septimus by giving his imagination form died in the War and can now exert itself only as part of the paraphernalia of madness” (Edwards 105). He sees phantoms, has visions, and cannot convey his reality to anyone. Septimus does not divide himself or adopt a persona as Clarissa does, and his obvious madness leaves him more vulnerable to those who would “force his soul.” While Clarissa contends with those who intrude on “the privacy of [her] soul,” Septimus must face the only characters unambiguously labeled as oppressive and cruel: Dr. Holmes and Dr. Bradshaw, who are inhuman in their merciless silencing of people like Septimus. In the novel, they represent the pinnacle of repression and power. It is they whom Clarissa accuses of wanting to “force your soul” (MD 163), and it is they whom the narrator directly condemns when she charges them with worshipping the goddesses Proportion—which through Bradshaw “made England prosper, secluded her lunatics, forbade childbirth, penalised despair” (MD 87)—and Conversion, who “feasts on the wills of the weakly” and “offers help, but desires power” (MD 88). The religious language here parallels that used to describe Miss Kilman, who is also guilty of the crime of conversion. These men are, however, far more menacing: it is ultimately the threat of Holmes and Bradshaw “forcing his soul” that causes Septimus to kill himself. Before doing so, he exclaims, “[s]o he was in their power! Holmes and Bradshaw were on him! The brute with the red nostrils was

snuffingintoeverysecretplace!”(MD 130) These characters invade Septimus’ privacy, just as Peter and Miss Kilman invade Clarissa’s. In addition to these more tangible similarities that exist between Clarissa and Septimus, Woolf constructs a symbolic connection between these two characters through her style. Repeated phrases saturate this novel, but Clarissa’s and Septimus’ consciousnesses overlap in ways that can only be described as uncanny. For example, Woolf employs the same imagery when both characters meditate on death; at the very beginning of the novel, Clarissa thinks,

She remembered once throwing a shilling into the Serpentine. But every one remembered; what she loved was this, here, now, in front of her; the fat lady in the cab. Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? but that somehow in the streets ofLondon,ontheebbandflowofthings,here,there,shesurvived,Petersurvived, lived in each other, she being part, she was positive, of the trees at home; of the house there, ugly, rambling all to bits and pieces as it was; part of people she had never met; being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, who lifted her on their branches as she had seen the trees lift the mist, but it spread ever so far, her life, herself. But what was she dreaming as she looked into Hatchards’ shop window? What was she trying to recover? What image of white dawn in the country, as she read in the book spread open:

Fear no more the heat o’ the sunNor the furious winter’s rages. (MD 6-7)

This passage introduces several themes essential to understanding both the relationship between Clarissa and Septimus and the mechanism behind the novel’s thematic climax. Clarissa’s suspicion that, in death, a part of her survives “ontheebbandflowofthings”andissharedwith“thetrees”tiesherdirectlytoSeptimus and characterizes death as a fundamentally communicative act. Woolf uses the allusion to Shakespeare’s Cymbeline,firstencounteredinthepassage above, throughout the novel in connection with these two characters. The lines are part of a dirge sung over a woman dressed as a man who appears, but is not actually, dead. Therefore, the allusion connotes distortion of identity and suggests both a living death and resurrection. The dirge begins,

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. (Cymbeline 4.2.258-263)

Althoughdifferentsignificationsassociatedwiththeselinesareemphasizedin different places, the lines ultimately insist that death should be envisioned as a release and thus should not be feared. Life consists of toil and suffering—suggested by “heat o’ the sun” and “furious winter’s rages”—while death results

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in freedom. Woolf’s characterization of death as an act of communication, a type of preservation, and a path to freedom introduced in the passage above is a vital part of the novel’s primary thematic concerns. Woolf evokes similar images in relation to Septimus while he is trapped within the throes of madness. Septimus feels in the present an acute version of Clarissa’s imaginings concerning death. He thinks,

Why could he see through bodies, see into the future, when dogs will become men? It was the heat wave presumably, operating upon a brain madesensitivebyeonsofevolution.Scientificallyspeaking,thefleshwasmeltedofftheworld.Hisbodywasmacerateduntilonlythenervefibreswere left. It was spread like a veil upon a rock. Helaybackinhischair…[t]heearththrilledbeneathhim.Redflowersgrewthroughhisflesh;theirstiffleavesrustledbyhishead.(MD 59)

Theimageofhisfleshlessbodyasitbecomesonewiththenaturalworld—“spreadlikeaveiluponarock”as“[r]edflowers”grow“throughhisflesh”—evokes the image of Clarissa “being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, who lifted her on their branches.” Septimus’ madness allows his mind to occasionally free itself from the constraints of society and even from the body; thus he feels a communion with nature and the dead—as seen in his repeated visions of Evans—that Clarissa hopes for only in death. Because Septimus is still living and is thus subjected to social and physical limitations whether he recognizes it or not, his connection to this communal, spiritual world is tenuous at best. Woolf parallels Septimus’ and Clarissa’s thoughts to highlight the shared effects of oppression on both characters. When Clarissa is sewing right before Peter bursts in on her, she thinks,

So on a summer’s day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; and the whole world seems to be saying “that is all” more and more ponderously, until even the heart in the body which lies in the sun on the beach says too, That is all. Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall. And the body alone listens to the passing bee; the wave breaking; the dog barking, far away barking and barking. (MD 33-34)

This metaphor evokes Clarissa’s split sense of identity, the result of her reaction to oppressive forces. Her “body alone” acknowledges “the passing bee; the wave breaking; the dog barking,” which are images and sounds that suggest activity and daily life. Meanwhile, her heart, declaring “[t]hat is all” and “[f]ear no more,” releases “its burden to some sea,” which suggests a total relinquishment of the spirit to an ethereal, eternal presence. Beverly Ann Schlack observes that the allusion to Cymbeline in the context of this metaphor implies that this relinquishment is comparable to a kind of death, and highlights Clarissa’s fascination with and occasional attraction to death: characteristics she shares with Septimus. Clearly, it also reinforces Woolf’s suggestion that death is a peaceful and even liberating process. The image of the sun, as Marilyn Schauer Samuels

notes, works with the Cymbeline allusion to suggest Clarissa’s fear of death and her fear of the reality of life, qualities again mirrored in Septimus’ story. Septimus has these same thoughts before he regains lucidity, helps Rezia make a hat, and then commits suicide. Woolf writes, “[e]very power poured its treasures on his head, and his hand lay there on the back of the sofa, as he hadseenhishandliewhenhewasbathing,floatingonthetopofthewaves,while far away on shore he heard dogs barking and barking far away. Fear no more, says the heart in the body; fear no more” (MD 123). The repetition here is remarkable. As with Clarissa, these thoughts appear before an oppressor, Dr. Holmes, tries to enter the room. The Cymbeline allusion combines with the image of the sun to suggest Septimus’ reentrance into activity and life and to foreshadow his steadily approaching death. Therefore, the passage highlightstheresultofSeptimus’fightagainstoppression—hissuicide—asitdoes with Clarissa. That Septimus’ heart and body together proclaim “fear no more,” while Clarissa remains divided in that declaration, highlights Septimus’ greater unity of being throughout the narrative and correlates with the action of the story: Septimus, not Clarissa, experiences death. As evident from these parallel passages, the connection between these two characters cannot be attributed merely to Woolf’s style or her need to make the narrative cohere; it is mysterious, symbolic, and relentlessly reinforced. Clearly, Woolf constructed a solid basis for the novel’s thematic climax. Returning to this pivotal scene, Woolf brings together the implications of Clarissa’s and Septimus’ parallel struggles against oppression and their more spiritual connection. Clarissa’s meditations initially consist of insights and comparisons possible only when two people share daily struggles. She thinks,

She had once thrown a shilling into the Serpentine, never anything more. Buthehadflungitaway.Theywentonliving(shewouldhavetogoback;the rooms were still crowded; people kept on coming). They (all day she had been thinking of Bourton, of Peter, of Sally), they would grow old. A thing there was that mattered; a thing, wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter.Thishehadpreserved.Deathwasdefiance.Deathwasanattempttocommunicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded; one was alone. There was an embrace in death. (MD 163)

Clarissa’s recollection that “[s]he had once thrown a shilling into the Serpentine” connects this passage with her meditations on death at the beginning of the novel, when she envisioned it as an act of sharing oneself. Clarissa immediately realizes that, while she allows part of herself to “let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter” by adopting a persona, Septimus successfully “preserve[s]” his integrity and autonomy by killing himself. Notionsof“defiance,”“communication,”and“anembrace”arefoundinthepassagenarratingSeptimus’death:whenheflingshimselfoutofthewindow,he boldly shouts, “I’ll give it you!”; before he does so, he thinks, “[i]t was their idea of tragedy, not his or Rezia’s (for she was with him),” which connotes

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theintimacyevokedbytheword“embrace”;finally,theimageofthewindowimplies communication (MD 132). Clarissa’s acute awareness of these concepts involved in Septimus’ suicide, combined with her intuitive understanding of the implications it has for her self, suggests that death does allow both characters a path to communion that had “mystically evaded them” throughout the novel. Clarissa then wonders, “this young man who had killed himself—had he plunged holding his treasure?” (MD 163). The word “treasure,” often associated with Septimus, suggests the integrity of the soul. Clarissa describes her kiss with Sally as if it were a treasure: “she felt that she had been given a present, wrapped up,andtoldjusttokeepit,notlookatit—adiamond,somethinginfinitelyprecious” (MD 30). As stated previously, her passionate love for Sally represents her most sincere moment, when she was capable of intimacy, an ability which hassincebeenobscuredbecauseoffigureslikePeterWalsh.Woolfsolidifiesthe association between this moment and Septimus’ “treasure” when Clarissa recalls the allusion to Shakespeare’s Othello, “[i]f it were now to die, ’twere now to be most happy” (MD163),firststatedinrelationtothisloveaffair.Clarissacorrectly believes Septimus has kept something of this magnitude in killing himself that she has lost in living. Her kiss with Sally is inextricably linked to Peter’s interruption of it; thusClarissa’sthoughtsshifttotheoppressiveDr.Bradshaw.Shefindshim“obscurely evil…capable of some indescribable outrage—forcing your soul” (MD 163). She rightfully imagines Septimus as one of “the poets and thinkers” and proposes that “if this young man had gone to him, and Sir William had impressed him, like that, with his power, might he not then have said (indeed she felt it now) Life is made intolerable; they make life intolerable, men like that?” (MD 163). This leads Clarissa into a confrontation with her privilege and its consequences. Becoming “the perfect hostess” as a means of protection was possible only because of her class. She declares it “her disaster—her disgrace…her punishment to see sink and disappear here a man, there a woman…and she forced to stand here in her evening dress” (MD 164). Her attempt to gainsecuritythroughtakingadvantageofherprivilegebenefitspeoplelikeBradshaw, however indirectly; thus she sees herself as complicit in Septimus’ suicide. Clarissa’s acknowledgment of her relation to Septimus, combined with recognition of her privilege, is redemptive. She “had never been so happy. Nothing could be slow enough, nothing last too long. No pleasure could equal…this having done with the triumphs of youth, lost herself in the process of living, tofindit,withashockofdelight”(MD 164). She has rediscovered “herself,” who she was during “the triumphs of youth” when she received her own treasure and could be honest with another person. Woolf suggests a transcendent act of communication with and discovery of Septimus when Clarissa looks out of her window and sees “in the room opposite the old lady star[ing] straight at her!” (MD 164) Windows and rooms have symbolicsignificance;theysuggestthemysteriousandprivatepartofanother.

For example, Clarissa states earlier that “the supreme mystery which Kilman might say she had solved, or Peter might say he had solved, but Clarissa didn’t believe either of them had the ghost of an idea of solving, was simply this: here was one room; there another” (MD 112). Thus they signify what Septimus and Clarissa labored to guard from oppressive characters like Peter, Holmes, or Bradshaw,wholiterallyandfigurativelytrytointrudeontheseroomswithoutconsent. That Septimus leaps out of a window suggests an act communicating thisself,andClarissaandtheoldwoman’sabilitytoseeeachotherforthefirsttime indicates the act of transcending barriers and peering into and achieving communion with another’s private world. Despite their differences, Clarissa has successfully comprehended Septimus’ communicative act; thus Mrs. Dalloway stands as a testament to the power of human communication and its ability to transcend the barriers created by oppressive institutions. Like many of the novel’s other passages, Clarissa’s revelations end with the striking of the clock. Woolf writes,

The young man had killed himself; but she did not pity him; with the clock striking the hour, one, two, three, she did not pity him, with all this going on. There! the old lady had put out her light! the whole house was dark now with this going on, she repeated, and the words came back to her, Fear no more the heat of the sun. She must go back to them. But what an extraordinary night! She felt somehow very like him—the young man who had killed himself. She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away while they went on living. The clock was striking. The leaden circles dissolved in theair.Butshemustgoback.Shemustassemble.ShemustfindSallyandPeter. And she came in from the little room. (MD 165)

She does not and should not pity Septimus because he successfully preserved his “treasure,” the integrity of his soul. His death was not his and Rezia’s idea of tragedy, nor is it Clarissa’s. The allusion to Cymbeline repeated here after coming to terms with life and death implies that she no longer fears the entire human experience. The phrase “the leaden circles dissolved in the air,” which in the novel typically follows the striking of the clock, reminds the reader that her life will continue. Because Clarissa has now rediscovered in herself the integrity Septimus never lost, her feelings of relation to him seem especially appropriate. Woolf’s symbolism and stylistic structuring of the narrative characterizes Septimus’ suicide in and of itself as a fundamentally communicative act: death is not merely an “end”; it is also an implementation of human freedom that allows one unity with man and nature. However, if Clarissa’s reception of Septimus’ suicide is to be judged sincere—and thus, if the novel itself is to be taken seriously—the reader must be willing to acknowledge each character in the narrative as both oppressed and oppressor; concurrently, he or she must recognize that even these two labels together cannot adequately describe the sum total of their being. It would, then, be worthwhile to consider the ethical implications of Mrs. Dalloway. Ultimately, Woolf’s complex and subtle portrayal of individuals living within a hierarchical social world, which I have described as a representation of the implications of intersectionality theory,

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extends beyond merely a method of narrative structuring; it challenges the reader to expand their sympathies to characters like Clarissa who initially appear undeserving of them. If the reader is receptive to Woolf’s suggestions, he or she is allowed a vision of the novel’s characters that is comparable to the vision with which Clarissa is provided at the novel’s climax. I do not think it unreasonable to suggest that Woolf intended to persuade her readers to apply this attitude outside of the context of reading the novel. She seems to advocate a moral approach to others that insists on accounting for theirperspectives,andthusactivelyresistsrigidcategorizationordefinitionofthem; at the same time, the fact that Clarissa must confront her privilege before the novel’s conclusion implies that one should be willing to recognize oneself as an oppressor and actively work to challenge that. Although I would not go so far as to say that, if this outlook were implemented on a wider scale in society, it would afford everyone a view of others as profound as the one Woolf attributes to Clarissa through her symbolism—it appears that death is an instrumental part of that—the novel convincingly suggests that it would promote a more sincere, more empathetic world that embraces, rather than silences, men like Septimus and celebrates, rather than represses, women like Clarissa. Mrs. Dallowaypresentsasweepingvisionofthedifficultiesfacedbyindividuals attempting to live with, and relate to, others in modern society. It provides not only an intense examination and criticism of that society, but also an argument for the power of the individual to overcome the barriers put in place by it. Through a careful control of stylistic devices, Woolf connects two disparate characters: Clarissa Dalloway and Septimus Smith. To protect herself from oppressive forces, Clarissa adopts a persona, and although she maintains her privacy, she jeopardizes her integrity. Septimus commits suicide and preserves both. Through his death, he communicates himself and redeems Clarissa, allowing her to reconnect with the part of her soul marred by societal institutions.Therefore,thelastlines,inwhichthenarratordefinesClarissaasawhole rather than as a combination of parts, are especially appropriate:

What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? [Peter] thought to himself. What is itthatfillsmewithextraordinaryexcitement?It is Clarissa, he said.For there she was. (MD 172)

Works CitedEdwards, Lee R. “War and Roses: The Politics of Mrs. Dalloway.” Clarissa

Dalloway. Ed. Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House, 1990. 99-112. Guth, Deborah. “‘What a Lark! What a Plunge!’: Fiction as Self-Evasion in Mrs.

Dalloway.” The Modern Language Review 84.1 (1989): 18-25. Hawthorn, Jeremy. Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway: A Study in Alienation.

London: Sussex Univ., 1975. Jensen, Emily. “Clarissa Dalloway’s Respectable Suicide.” Comp. Jane Marcus.

Virginia Woolf: A Feminist Slant. Lincoln: University of Nebraska, 1983. 162-79.

Marder, Herbert. “Split Perspective: Types of Incongruity in Mrs. Dalloway.” Papers on Language and Literature: A Journal for Scholars and Critics of Language and Literature 22.1 (1986): 51-69.

Ritzer, George. Contemporary Sociological Theory and Its Classical Roots: The Basics. 2nd ed. New York: McGraw-Hill Humanities/Social Sciences/Languages, 2006.

Samuels, Marilyn Schauer. “The Symbolic Functions of the Sun in Mrs. Dalloway.” Modern Fiction Studies 18 (1972): 387-99.

Schlack, Beverly Ann. “Mrs. Dalloway.” Continuing Presences: Virginia Woolf’s Use of Literary Allusion. University Park: Pennsylvania State UP, 1979. 51-76.

Shakespeare, William. Cymbeline. Ed. J. M. Nosworthy. New York: Methuen, 1980.

Woolf, Virginia. Mrs. Dalloway. London: Vintage, 2004.______. A Writer’s Diary: Being Extracts from the Diary of Virginia Woolf. Ed.

Leonard Woolf. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982.

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Maybe in one wishing, swirling remembranceof drinking in the moment like a shot of pure gin—

we won’t let plump pearsshrivel in the June heat,but will unwrap these gifts,juice on our chins—and we will revel in it.

Yesica MoranMy Universe

Ceramic and glazes

AlexAndrA lieBenow

Cinqueterre

I want to grow my hair outand,flying,swirling,swishing,swooshing, sweeping me up, let ittake me back to the terraced earthwhosefive-fingeredhandtouchesocean. I want long hair and shaking it slyly,findingcroutonsinmysalad,mushrooms, a cup of wine—I want to taste herbs and minerals.

Sandals on smooth stoneslake like clouded crystals,at the edge of the water I awaken echoes.

Picnic, lipstick, sprinting down the dock—jumpin,franticfishswimmingatmyfeetlike actors gesturing around their lines Pines, and mayonnaise sandwiches,hiking,therufflesofmyskirtdancing—locks of my love moving in the wind. Papers, the boatmen lounging, reading,speaking in Italian,love letters blowing away with afternoontowards dusky evening. Planted napkins in packed dirt, hide theevidence, walk away—back to conundrums and corporate working zones

no afternoon pauses for sleep,nor new food savored by the delighted palate—forgetting the glory of the infancy of moment.

We returned, we regressed,to living in white boxes,wishing for longer linensto throw on the closet's mess,wasting away in later lingering lulling events

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MAurA sheA

Memory and Sympathy in Coleridge’s Poetic Imagination: An Exploration of the Soul’s Movement from Deprivation to Joy

Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote “This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison” on the occasion of the visit of some friends, during which time, due to an injury, he was unable to accompany them as they walked outside. While they savored thenaturalbeautysurroundingthem,heremainedconfinedtohisbower.Inthis complex poem, he meditates on this experience and reveals a mysterious connection between deprivation and joy, a connection he discovers through his engagement with memory and sympathy. Though deprived of his friends’ company and nature’s solace, Coleridge is nonetheless connected to his own past experiences of nature through memory, and connected to his friends’ present experience of nature through sympathy, both of which are contemplative acts of the soul that bring the speaker out of himself and his loneliness. Coleridge’s lovingly precise descriptions of the landscapes he cannot immediately see reveal the ability of memory to treasure sensory perceptions of nature, allowing the soul to draw upon them in times of deprivation. Out of this recollection comes an imaginative act whereby the poet attempts to share in the present beauties his friends are experiencing outside the bower, which, in turn, brings forth his sympathetic response to a particular friend’s experience of loss. The poem culminates in Coleridge’s discovery of profound and liberating joy amidst his isolated circumstances, suggesting that deprivation, when attended to by contemplative memory and sympathy, can bear the fruit of delight. This mysterious, unbidden joy is the movement of a soul nourished by nature and friendship. Thefirstverseparagraphintroducestheroleofmemoryasawayofparticipating in things absent to immediate sensory perception. The speaker describes his feelings of loneliness after his friends leave to go explore the beauties of nature and laments being trapped in “this lime-tree bower my prison” (2, emphasis added). His sense of entrapment is compounded by his sense of loss: “I have lost /Beauties and feelings, such as would have been /Most sweet to my remembrance” (2-4). However, as we see in the next few lines, he has not wholly lost “beauties and feelings,” for his memory is able to recall the beautiful images so precisely that it as almost as if he is actually looking at them—though such remembrance is not yet “sweet” to him. Ruefully, perhaps even with jealousy, he imagines his friends “wander[ing] in gladness” amid the gorgeous natural landscape (8), and descending

To that still roaring dell, of which I told; The roaring dell, o’erwooded, narrow, deep,And only speckled by the mid-day sun;Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rockFlings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash,Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leavesNe’er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still … (9-15)

nAdiA wolnisTy

Undone

Blocks of cathedraldelete the sidewalkin shadow.

I am too bright, too uptight.I ought to have hunched back and shoulders.

And I should weep, we should all weep,at a force that can undo concrete.

I clutch my memories,what I promise, what is promised.

Make me small, Lord, small and colorless.

Selections from Synecdoche

The HostYou seem much too comfortable in that chair.Here, let me get you another.

The GuestI think my room is xenophobic. It staresat my noise, my smells, my luggage.

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The poet repeats certain phrases as if to suggest an echo: “that still roaring dell…the roaring dell o’erwooded” (9 and 10), “the ash… that branchless ash”, (12 and 13), and “yellow leaves” that “Ne’er tremble” but “tremble still” (15, emphases added). The resulting echoing sounds suggest the poet’s own act of remembrance, which produces powerful echoes that vividly recall the sights he ispreventedfromseeingfirsthand. In the second verse paragraph, the poet describes how his imaginative act of memory gives birth to an imaginative act of sympathy, and he suggests for thefirsttimetheconnectionbetweendeprivationandjoy.Histonebecomesincreasingly excited as he becomes emotionally involved in the scene he is describing, and his preoccupation with his own plight diminishes—indeed, he does not mention it at all in the second verse paragraph. The poet enthusiastically engages the vast open shore his friends are encountering as he remembers the “wide wide Heaven” and “the sea” with its “slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles / Of purple shadow!” (21-26). He imagines his friends’ happyresponseanddescribesitashedidinthefirstverseparagraph—“Yes!They wander on / In gladness all” (26-27, emphasis added)—although this time he does not begrudge them that gladness. Here an important shift in focus occurs. Coleridge’s attention turns to a particular friend in the group, Charles, whom he apostrophizes directly, discerning that this friend’s response to the beauty of the natural scene would be even more joyful than those of the others:

… but thou, methinks, most gladMy gentle-hearted Charles! for thou has pinedAnd hungered after Nature, many a year,In the great City pent, winning thy way With sad yet patient soul, through evil and painAnd strange calamity! (27-32)

Two important transitions occur in these lines: there is a shift in voice from the firstpersontothesecondperson,andthereisashiftinimaginativedescriptionfrom that which is remembered to which is understood through sympathy. These two transitions are simultaneous and intimately connected. Coleridge’s memory of the scene his friends are seeing with their own eyes prompts him to imagine their response, and then to perceive sympathetically that Charles’ response would be more intense than those of the others. Charles is the “most glad” of all them because he has experienced deprivation in a way that perhaps the others have not. In this way the poet moves beyond consideration of his own plight to that of his friend. Interestingly, he characterizes Charles’ deprivation in the same way he does his own: Charles has been previously trapped in the “great City” just as Coleridge is now imprisoned in his bower. The poet perceives his friend’s sadness and patience of soul (31) since he has undergone “evil and pain / And strange calamity” (31-32). He recognizes that Charles has cultivated a greater desire for nature precisely because he has “hungered after [it] many a year” while being deprived of it in the city (29). Coleridge thus suggests that

withgreaterdesirecomesagreatercapacityforfulfillment,aninsightthatwillblossom in his own experience towards the end of the poem. Another crucial shift occurs halfway through the verse paragraph. Coleridge turns his attention back to the remembered natural scene, but instead of merely recounting it in detail as before, he addresses it directly, apostrophizing nature and imploring it to be even more beautiful for the sake of his friend:

Ah! Slowly sinkBehind the western ridge, thou glorious sun!Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,Yepurpleheath-flowers!richlierburn,yeclouds!… And kindle, thou blue ocean! So my FriendStruck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing roundOn the wide landscape… (32- 40, emphasis added)

This is truly one of the loveliest parts of the poem, where we see the poet’s imagination drawing from his memory and yet moving beyond it as he asks nature to shine forth in greater beauty than he remembers, not as a gift for himself, but for his friend. Coleridge effectively makes a kind of prayer that Charles “may stand as I have stood.” All traces of jealousy at the good fortune of others, perceptible in verse paragraph one, have vanished. He prays that Charles may respond contemplatively to the sunset, that he may be “silent with swimming sense… gazing” (39-40, emphasis added). This receptive gaze is brought about by being “struck with deep joy” at the sight of the sun sinking and the clouds “richlier burn[ing].” In this sense the poet gives nature a certain agency, an active nurturing capacity that can be accessed by “the gentle heart.” His engagement with memory and sympathy has opened up the poet’s own imagination generously, so much so that in describing his hope that Charles will befilledwithjoyincontemplationofthesunset,ColeridgehimselfintimatestheDivine presence:

… gaze till all doth seemLess gross than bodily; and of such huesAs veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makesSpirits perceive his presence. (40-43)

It is the contemplative gaze that is able to discern the spiritual in the natural, divinity in the “bodily” world. The “Almighty Spirit” reveals himself to the “gentle-hearted” soul who is receptive to the beauty of nature, who can therefore “perceive his presence.” The argument of the poem, however, does not stop here. While Coleridge is certainly advocating receptivity to nature’s beauty when it is offered, he originally began his poem by examining his own experience of deprivation, of not being offered that beauty. How does he reconcile himself to his personal experienceofunfulfilleddesire?Thethirdverseparagraphreturnstothisinteriormediation by describing an unexpected experience of joy: “A delight / Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad / As I myself were there!” (43-45) The act

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of sympathy that the lonely poet describes in verse paragraph two has now yielded in him a sharing in his friend’s joy. Moreover, he discovers that his bower (which he now affectionately calls his “little lime-tree bower”) is not a prison after all, and does not cut him off completely from nature; rather, he can now describe, not by memory but by sight, the “transparent foliage,” the “broad and sunny leaf” with its “shadows… dappling its sunshine,” the “richly tinged walnut-tree” and the “deep radiance” of the “ancient ivy” which surrounded him all along (48-53). He discovers that while mourning his inability to accompany his friends outside, he has been inattentive to the bounty all around him. His new recognition of the natural beauties surrounding him helps him to realize

That Nature ne’er deserts the wise and pure;No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,No waste so vacant, but may well employEach faculty of sense, and keep the heartAwake to Love and Beauty! (60-64)

Coleridge’s assertion that the “wise and pure” are never abandoned by Nature seems problematic, however, since we have been told that “gentle-hearted” Charles (who according to his epithet surely does not lack either wisdom or purity) has been nonetheless deprived of Nature for “many a year” until now. Perhaps, however, in his meditation on the response of the soul to natural beauty and its intimations of the divine, the poet is suggesting that “Nature” encompasses more than merely the natural world of trees, sunsets and landscapes—it is somehow accessible even in narrow plots and vacant wastes, such as those found in the “great city.” Charles’ heart indeed has been kept “awake to Love and Beauty,” for even in plots “so narrow” and wastes “so vacant” Nature can employ “each faculty of sense”; he has had access to Nature primarily through desire. Similarly, Coleridge’s imaginative act of recalling natural scenes through memory is a similar avenue to Nature by desire, by a longing contemplation of things absent. In some deeper way Nature has been accessible to them in their very deprivation. Perhaps Coleridge is suggesting that wisdomandpuritycomefromacertainpurificationoftheheartbydesire. The poet realizes that the experience of deprivation itself can yield a cultivated “gentle heart” which can share in a profound delight. By sympathizing with his friend, he discovers that

… sometimes‘Tis well to be bereft of promised good,That we may lift the Soul, and contemplateWith lively joy the joys we cannot share. (64-67)

Indeed these lines describe the entire movement of his soul in the poem. Coleridge, in his loneliness, feels trapped and isolated, as expressed in his initial image of imprisonment; but he nonetheless lifts his soul with memory and sympathy to contemplate the joys of his friends and, in so doing, receives his own “lively joy”—and, with it, a profound freedom. This sense of freedom in the lifting up of the soul is beautifully expressed by the image of the rook soaring overhead, “beat[ing] its straight path along

the dusky air / Homewards” (69-70). In his delight, the poet blesses the bird and prays that it may give that blessing to “gentle-hearted Charles,” who in his suffering has cultivated that deep desire for and profound appreciation of the giftsofnature’sbeauty.Thus,asexpressedbytheflightofthebirdfromoneman to the other, he and his friend, though physically separated, are profoundly connected by their mutual appreciation of nature. The poem concludes by describing the spiritual unity of the two friends in their mutual delight: the poet hopes that the humble “creeking” song of the bird will be received generously and joyfully by Charles, “to whom / No sound is dissonant which tells of Life” (75-76), and perhaps is also hopes that his own words will be similarly received.

Bethany PedersonTray with TwigsClay, raku fired

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John CorrAles

The crawfish in the river

All condensing into it—theintroductionofcrawfish,andthen

it—havingfilleditselfwithmeatin the river, swollen-into membrane

hardened like rock, skipping through thecurrent not knowing when it’s out

of the seen through weight it’s against. Lethe,where is our experience? Without

choppy rhythms carrying forwardthe I that is ours and swum toward.

ChrisTiAn howArd

Bound by Form: Marianne Moore’s Exploration of Freedom

In “What Are Years?” Marianne Moore uses highly abstract and theoretical language to grapple with existential questions. Moore forms these questions within a series of repetitions, parallels, and metaphors that enhance the meaning of the poem itself, allowing for layers of interpretation based upon both literal andfigurativereadings.Thesereadingsrevolvearoundtheconceptofexistencewithinconfinementandthestruggletoachievefreedomwithinimprisonment,and these ideas are both enhanced and resolved through the form and structure of the poem itself. Overthecourseofthefirsttwostanzas,Moorejuxtaposesideasthatembody the struggle of man with his mortality. This tension is revealed as one between body and soul—the death of the former and the imprisonment of the latter. Moore emphasizes this point in the third sentence, in which the soul is upheld against death by courage: “in misfortune, even death, … [courage] stirs / the soul to be strong” (7, 9-10). This description sets up a contrast between death and the soul, between mortality and the limitations of the body. It is only through courage that man, a composite of body and soul, can reconcile himself to his fate.1Indeed,Mooreconfirmsthisideaofentrapmentinthenextsentenceby essentially equating man’s “mortality” with “his imprisonment” (12, 13). Nevertheless, in this same sentence, Moore states that, while man cannot escape hisconfinement,hecanachievealevelofhappiness(hecanbe“glad”)byaccepting his state of imprisonment and “ris[ing] / upon himself” (11, 13-14). But what is this rising? And how can man rise “upon himself”? Moore likens this act to the “sea in a chasm,” which, ever raging against the rocks surrounding it,continuesitsebbandflowthroughsubmissiontoforcesbeyonditscontrol(15). Moore furthers this comparison through the use of a subtle pun: when man “sees deep,” he recognizes his mortality, just as the “sea in a chasm” surrenders to its fate of remaining in a deep gorge (11). In this manner, Moore states that man must have courage to face his limitations as a mortal being; after accepting this fact, he can move on and turn to other aspects of his life.

1 Though it does not have a direct bearing on the thesis of this paper, Moore’s descrip-tion of courage is interesting to note. She calls courage “the unanswered question, / the resolute doubt,– / dumbly calling, deftly listening” (4-6). This depiction reveals that Moore understands courage to be opposed to logic and reason. Courage, in fact, is only present when one acts contrary to the promptings of the intellect—hence, courage cannot be explained or understood. It is for this reason that the nature of courage will remain an “unanswered question” and a “resolute doubt,” for man is unable to comprehend it. Moore further states that she knows not whence courage springs, even though she holds it to be a necessary factor in reconciling man to his mortality. This tension between courage andtheintellectseemstotestifytoMoore’sbeliefintheinsufficiencyofman’sreasoningabilities, a belief that further emphasizes man’s limitations. Unfortunately, Moore’s un-derstanding of the relationship between these intellectual limitations and man’s physical limitations is beyond the scope of this essay.

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On a more allegorical note, Moore employs the metaphor in the third and finalstanzainordertoparalleltheliteralmeaningofthepoem.Shedescribesabird that “steels / his form straight up” (21-22). Not only does this bird ground the abstractness of the poem in something real and concrete, but the song of the bird recalls the lyrical quality of Moore’s own poetry, thereby identifying the ideaofconfinementwithpoetryitself.Buthowispoetryconfining?Withtheunusual description of the bird who “steels / his form,” Moore indicates that the confiningaspectofpoetryis,infact,itsformorstructure.Theactualmeaningormessageofthepoemistheequivalentofman’sconfinedsoulintheliteralinterpretation; that which strives to attain freedom is the subject of the bird’s “mighty singing” (23). Moore further remarks that, just as man can attain a freedom within himself, poetry can attain its freedom from formal limitations or restrictions through such means as poetic devices and syntax. Having asserted the struggle between the limitations of poetry and its freedoms,Mooreexemplifiesthisconflictthroughthepoemitself.Thepoemis comprised of three stanzas, each of which is divided into nine lines. Though these lines vary in syllabic length, those of each stanza collectively compose aregularchiasmicpattern.Eachstanzafoldsinuponitselfsuchthatthefirstand the ninth lines, the second and the eighth lines, and so on, have the same number of syllables. As such, the lines of each stanza have a syllabic pattern of six syllables for lines one and nine, another six for lines two and eight, seven forlinesthreeandseven,nineforlinesfourandfive,andfiveforlinefive(i.e.6,6,7,9,5,9,7,6,6).Additionally,thefirstandthirdlinesofeachstanzahaveperfect rhyme, and all three stanzas end in a rhyming couplet. This unvarying pattern constitutes the strict form of the poem. Nonetheless, while following this form carefully, Moore manipulates the syntax and the grammar of the sentences to achieve a freedom within this structure. As such, the poem is rife with caesurae, enjambment, repetition, and parallelism, by means of which Moore not only demonstrates the allegorical interpretation of her poem, but also highlights the particular meanings of its constituent sentences. Immediatelyinthefirststanzaofthepoem,Mooreestablishesthetensionbetween an adhesion to the form of the poetry and a desire to break out of that form.Thefirstthreelinesofthepoemare:“Whatisourinnocence,/whatisourguilt?Allare/naked,noneissafe.Andwhence.”Thefirstlineactuallyfollowsthe conventional form, which makes it more of a surprise to the reader when the next few lines defy that form so blatantly: the next two lines both contain at least one caesura, causing the reader to pause unnaturally in the middle of the line, and enjambment, forcing the reader to continue reading when they would naturallypause.Thesefirstfewlinesarealsostartlinginthattheirmeaningisobscure, especially in relation to the rest of the poem. They do, however, serve to establish a parallel that is maintained throughout the poem. This parallel is particularly important, since it makes connections between disparate ideas. These patterns of tension within the form and the parallel of phrases and ideas are continued in the next stanza. In fact, there is a case of enjambment between stanzas one and two that particularly emphasizes this struggle: “And

in its defeat, stirs / the soul to be strong?” (9-10) By including this enjambment acrossstanzas,Mooreblatantlydefiestherulesofform.Nevertheless,thesyllabic pattern of the lines remains unbroken: Moore achieves a freedom, albeit one that is forced and harsh-sounding, within the structure of the poem. The pinnacle of this struggle comes with the use of enjambment and internal rhyme in lines 15-16, where Moore compares man’s imprisonment to the sea in a chasm. Moore states that both these entities are “struggling to be / free and unable to be.” The enjambment brings this moment to a crescendo, causing the reader to lift up his voice just as waves peak—and then come crashing down withasuddenandunexpectedfinalityduetothedoubleinternalrhyme.Thecommaattheendofline16alsocontributestothisfinality,foritforcesthereader to pause right at the end of this moment of collapse. It is after this line, when Moore speaks of man’s “surrendering,” that the unnatural attempts to exercise freedom within the structure of the poem subside, for though there are stillinstancesofenjambmentandcaesurainthethirdstanza,thisfinalstanzaisself-contained as the others are not (17). Inadditiontobeingself-contained,thefinalstanzaisrhythmicallymuchsmoother than the proceeding stanzas, due partly to the soft sibilance of the lines (i.e. “so,” “strongly,” “feels,” “behaves,” “sings,” “steels,” “straight,” “singing,” “says,” “satisfaction”). This sibilance and the repetition within these lines imitate a song, further adding to the rhythmically appealing qualities of the stanza (19-24). The last two lines of this poem comprise a perfect couplet, written in the parallel structure that began the poem. Not only does this device complete the musical quality of the third stanza, but it also brings the poem full circle, which shows the perfection of its formal structure. As at the beginning of the poem, the use of parallelism relates “mortality” and “eternity,” two concepts that Moore has hitherto presented as quite contrary (26-27). In so doing, Moore clearlyanddefinitivelyreconcilestheseideas,areconciliationthatshehasattempted to make over the course of the poem. Furthermore, the overarching parallelism of the poem contributes to the explanation of the initial question: “What is our innocence, / what is our guilt?” When taken with the reference to nakedness in line three, these lines recall man’s initial state in the Garden of Eden (1-2). But what does such a reference have to do with this poem? Because of the poem’s chiasmic structure and parallelism, it is likely that Moore meant todrawanotherparallelbetweentheinitialquestionandthefinalstatement:thatis, she wished to pair “eternity” with “innocence” and “mortality” with “guilt.” This congruence further enhances the reference to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, for before Adam and Eve had partaken of the fruit, they were innocent and would have lived forever, but as soon as they disobeyed God’s command, they not only accrued guilt, but were also sentenced to die. In initially using this reference as a question, Moore sets up the problem in her poem, the struggle between innocence and guilt, mortality and eternity; she then addresses this questionthroughoutthepoembeforefinallyreconcilingitinthelastcouplet. While Moore’s poem “What Are Years?” achieves a unity of meaning and form, this poem nevertheless poses a question regarding its title: Why did

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Moore choose the title “What Are Years?”—especially since it seems to have no relation to the topic of the poem? “Years,” units of time, are never mentioned—infact,theonlytimementionedisunquantifiable:“eternity.”Thisjuxtapositionfurtherdemonstratestheprincipleofconfinement,foryearsessentiallyconfineand make eternity temporal. In this manner, the title embodies the main principle of imprisonment that is expounded upon in the body of the poem, which uses enjambment, caesura, and other poetic devices to exemplify Moore’s message thatapoemcanachieveanaturalfreedomofsyntaxwithintheconfinesofastrict structure.

Jessica SwannerEmergence

Acrylic on canvas

John CorrAles

Mondrian in the news

Reduction is true news. Always leave construction to the reader. A single axiom is responsible for the best of the whole, or part of the whole’s best. Write these on a wall inside where you work, in your mind’s walls. Oh, and mind Mondrian when you lay out your page. Each good page is 66 percent visual and uniform to this set of remembrances. Now make the connection. We have informed art.