The Oracle - 2015 by Lindsey

Southeastern University 2014-2015

COPYRIGHT © 2015 The Oracle Undergraduate Literary Journal of Southeastern University is a trademark used herein. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means–graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, taping, web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems–without the written permission of The Oracle Undergraduate Literary Journal of Southeastern University. Contact Information: Southeastern University, College of Arts & Media Department of English & Foreign Languages (863) 667-5237 Contact Information: Professor Marlon M. Dempster, Department of English and Foreign Languages (863)-667-5237, College of Arts & Media, Southeastern University. The Oracle receives submissions annually beginning in September and ending in December. Undergraduate students of Southeastern University are invited to submit creative work, digital images, and critical work from across the disciplines. The Oracle is a learning tool for undergraduate writers and editors.

Lindsey Messenger 1

Creative Works Team Georgia McMillen Editor-in-Chief Lindsey Messenger Managing & Layout Editor Christian Faux Creative Works Editor Kami Rose Creative Works Editor Clayton Gilbert Creative Wroks Editor Michelino Ricci Creative Works Editor Erica Piper Creative Wroks Editor Priscilla Velez Creative Works Editor 2

Critical Works Team Marissa Klippenstein Editor-in-Chief

Lindsay Zayas Marketing Editor Christian Faux Managing Editor

Tyler Campell Literary Critical Editor Jon Geniese Interdisciplinary Editor

Andrea Quezada Photography & Art Editor Chelsea Miller Literary Critical Editor

Contents 4

Introduction Meet our Staff Entire Staff | 2 Letter From the Editors Georgia McMillen & Marissa Klippenstein| 6

Critical Works Introduction Critical Team | 68

The Anxiety of Blind Spots: David R. Dickens on Derrida Stephanie Bontell | 69

Bakhtinian Dialogism in the Book of Job Jon Geniesse | 78 Big Fish: A tale about a Fish and his Signified Abilene Helms | 89 Achieving Atonement: The Act of Reading as Redemption Chad Loving | 99

The Horror: Imperialist Discourse in The Heart of

Darkness

Shawn Meek | 119 5

Letter from the Editors

We first met through mutual friends and have since bonded over our many mutual interests. When we first discovered that we would be working together as joint editorin-chief of this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edition of the Oracle we were thrilled to be embarking on this new adventure together. Though our respective sections were constructed separately, we often had reason to meet with each other in an effort to smooth out the wrinkles that come with publishing. Each of us were willing to yield where necessary, but more often than not our thoughts coincided. We are grateful for having had the opportunity to be joint editors-in-chief and to gather the works of art within this volume for you to enjoy. We hope that they bring you joy in the days and years to come, if possible, even more than we had in creating it. We would also like to thank all of those who helped behind the scenes to make our dream of the Oracle come true. To Professor Dempster and Doctor Cotton for consulting with us as we waded through unfamiliar water. To Doctor Hackett for sharing in our vision of creating an academic section of our journal and providing funding for it to become a reality. To the authors who let us share their works. To our readers who have chosen to support us. Finally, we would like to thank all of the professors in the English department who have fostered our abilities and who have had faith in us when we might not have had faith in ourselves. The Oracle Editorial Board dedicates this annual to Doctor David Smith (see page 131) who served Southeastern University from 2009-2014 and worked diligently toward creating the Critical Works Section. Doctor Smith was the faculty supervisor for the Honors Reading Group and much of his dedication to reading literary classics and challenging students was pivotal in creating the momentum for its launch.

Georgia McMillen & Marissa Klippenstein Co-Editors-in-Chief

Creative

Works

No matter how great or how small—the yearning for creative expression runs through a writer’s blood. It demands to be expressed in any way it can. Many have found their outlet in the writing process. In the following section, that yearning to put thoughts and emotions into words has been gathered in part for your enjoyment. Students across the disciplines of Southeastern University are featured in this 2015 annual; we trust that our selections will please you as much as they have pleased us. We chose to begin the reader’s journey with poetry. The first eight poems reflect the range of emotions from works entitled “Bliss” and “Broken.” The aim of each of these poems is to help the readers reflect on their own past confronting on one heartache and on the other embracing hope. The six poems following the set of eight are ekphrastic poems featured from “Art to Art.” These poems were read publicly at the Polk Museum of Art this spring by students such as Kami Rose and staff such as Hannah Benefield. Gabriella Wu Lee and Kathy Sosa’s paintings were the touchstones for the poets. Gabriella Wu Lee’s paintings were impressionistic with a use of bold and deep colors that spoke to the soul while Kathy Sosa reached into her Hispanic cultural heritage, bringing the viewers into her world and into her mind. In the two short stories that follow the ekphrastic poetry the struggle of rebuilding is addressed. In both stories readers will see different ways that a family may fall apart and how the road to recovery may be reached. Though recovery offers rough and curving paths, in the end hope and love are what can lead to a new life. To finish the creative works section, we chose three creative non-fiction essays. Each of these essays touch upon different events that have occurred within the students’ lives. They range from happier memories spent laughing and playing, as well as discovery. Some of the works feature the jarring and scarring memories that will affect a person for the rest of her or his life. We hope that the readers will enjoy what we have gathered here. May you keep this collection on your shelf for years to come, coming back to it when you feel the need for inspiration or to delve into moments from the past. One thing is for certain. The works of art found within this section is an expression of the creativity running through our blood and our history.

Bliss Karah Beaver

The moon shines brightly against the black velvet sky like a brilliant diamond making its debut. Its light beams against the sand and the water on the distant horizon; the waves are tumultuous and topple over one another as a black silhouette dances barefoot on the beach. The moon creates highlights in her hair and a new flicker of light in her eyes. She curtsies and twirls and laughs as though the clock will be forever stuck in this moment; no past to regret and no future to take away from her dance. She throws her head back in bliss and watches the stars only to look back at me, watching her, and smiles. My stomach drops and all that is within me wants to do whatever it takes to keep that smile on her face for the rest of her life.

Loser Dana Davis

Today, the marks on my wrist taunt about my weight, and my ugly face, and gossip about my dad and my ex-mom playing tug-of-war, fighting over how much money one owes the other and I carve new lines to shut them up; push harder to show them that I am in control, only I— IpushedtoohardnowIjustneedtocalmdown I call the only person who really loves me and she arrives with worried eyes, begins stitching up the word, “Loser…” My wounds betrayed me and unknowingly branded me with what I really am. I pay attention to her meticulous work, I won’t make this mistake again. Next time, I will win.

To the Father of

my Unborn Daughter Dana Davis

When you begin to doubt your abilities as a father, remember this: There is a light that is brighter than any darkness our daughter will ever walk through. You aren’t the only one to think your child hates you. You don’t always have to rely on your own strength— you’ve got me, and your father, and your Father to help you along the way. Thank-you’s may seem as though they’ve disappeared forever, but she loves you, everything you do, and will one day learn how to show it. Boys aren’t the devil. Remember you were one when you met me. When she has a bad day, sometimes she just wants an ear, not an answer. You are the most important man in her life, at least for now, never forget that you are the example to which she will compare all suitors to and that is a great thing because you are an amazing man, an amazing father… When you begin to doubt your abilities as a husband, remember this: I said I do. I will love you even when you doubt yourself. I trust you. I need you. You are more than you think. And when you begin to doubt your abilities as a grandfather, remember this: You can conquer anything as long as you don’t forget this: You are amazing.

Rewriting Clayton Gilbert

Pristine, white, & crisp thoughts flowing from pen to paper like penguins propelling down the precipice of ice. Writing, more like pouring these ideas down on this transfigured tree. Exhaling, more like unearthing my corpse from its grave. Is this good? Writing, or rather, rewriting. Finally, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s completeâ&#x20AC;Ś My grocery list.

Alzheimer’s Jordan Glindomrong

She sits there Perched on her shiny new bike Hair pulled neatly through her hat, Shimmering in the sunlight Jersey caked in victory An inquisitive eye A confident smile, curved slightly I stand there Smiling wide to hide my fear Holding my glove above my left shoulder, Hoping to create a defensive line between us, But she’s winning

I don’t think my bat can hold me up much longer

Everything is white Then, Everything is black

And we

talked

once

But

as I

some memories

grow older

grow

talk a

louder lot

often

The Bottom Taylor Lyon

For years I feared the fierce finality The cold reality of the bottom Falling fast to a cacophonous crash Fighting my inevitable end But now Listless, defenseless, I inhabit the depths Smashed aspirations at my feet A solid foundation cradling my head, I see That I quite like the bottom No more sickening sinking sensations No more dreading that fateful fall Unknown now known, I settle safely in This abyss, my ephemeral home The bottom is A blanket of space on a new, precious page Upon which new hope can rewrite The shattered dreams undone at the seams Recharge, regroup, and recollect I glance at the faint rays of light from the top Examine the rocky footholds for the climb Feel the fractured wings on my back to remind me That I’m damaged but far from destroyed And now There’s nothing to lose, the whole world to gain Nothing to fear from this hard, dusty ground All I have left in this place full of pain is The climb—the struggle—to reach the top

Broken Lindsey Messenger

Inspired by Royal Family Kids Camp

They said I was worthless They said I was no good They said I was unlovable They said I deserved it They said itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my fault I am broken. They tell me I am worth more than Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll ever know They tell me I am perfect in His eyes They tell me I am wholly and dearly loved They tell me I deserve the world They tell me I am pure and faultless through Him. I am broken, but I am mending

Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t

Forget to Breathe Lindsey Messenger

Inhale, Think about my worries Think about my dreams

Inhale, Take a step back Take a look

Exhale, Release my tears Release my fears

Exhale, Tilt my head to the left Tilt my head to the right

Ask myself, How will this canvas bare life?

Ask myself, Does my art bare life?

Breathe in, Pick a color Pick a brush

Breathe in, Life is love Life is sacrifice

Breathe out, Dipping into the paint, whilst Dipping into my soul

Breathe out, My life has shown love My life has shown sacrifice

A slight gasp An insignificant wince, Remember to breathe in life Remember to breathe out feeling Watch my world swirl free

A slight gasp A noteworthy grin, Remember the insignificant details Remember to watch the colors Swirl free the dust of everyday life

To My Sunshine State Hannah Benefield

Full of colors I had never seen You welcomed me And led me on the road to discovery You opened up my heart to untapped freedoms to walking barefoot when the North is frozen over And watching birds descend upon the water from both perspectives teaching me new ways of life Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve harmonized my breath with ocean rhythms with surrender to the ebb and flow of change And youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve taught me that home is not a birthplace but where you land when you finally learn your name

Depth Christian Faux

The unseen The mountains stand tall Firm and frozen against the boiling rocks below Icy and proud Betraying nothing, but that which has been heaped upon them. Yet look deeper See what lies beneath the cool embrace of the clouds and the snow. A greater monument lies beneath the ice Its silhouette barely visible Beneath the weighty clouds The sky plays And the clouds dance around the cliffs Above the peaks, and valleys. And the mountain carries it all

To My Sunshine State Georgia McMillen

I never imagined fire and water in coexistence, Until I came to Florida. The air saturated with moisture, burning earth spotted with rivers-And everglades. The people are like the phoenix, reborn with each magnificent dawn, Rising to soar despite the heat-And hurricanes. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve grown to love the sunshine state With its golden beaches and contradictions, With its fire, its water, and its phoenixes.

Revelation on Healing Kami Rose

finding healing in silence is easy only a few breaths here and there suddenly you’re floating over the Earth and you realize just how insignificant your life truly is a passing wind moment of epiphany that in an instant you’re not missed, but beautiful with inexistence. white fabric blanketing winter’s body the stillness hovering over the ocean that is you.

Mon Âme

Rachel Tackett

I rest along the shoreline tuning out the chaotic voices around me. My body is in a daze, captivated and unmoving, observing the most beautiful dance. The dauntless waves sway back and forth in rhythm, swirling against each other. The creatures underneath waltz to the same song, synchronized in step, celebrating in the presence of the moon. The sand leans in closer, watching intently as the golden, glittering moonlight stretches out his hand, bowing for the next dance with the sea. He wraps his delicate, golden arms around her and they dance together, no longer listening to the other voices, dancing and swaying to a marvelous song— a song that I cannot hear, but I can see. The silent ballad keeps playing and they dance in the same way gentle hands glide against ivory keys— fervent and strong, yet delicate. They sing together as they dance, a symphony of earth and sky. The golden moonlight permeates into the darkness of the ocean, allowing light to touch what once was forsaken. The light seeps into the depths of her soul. Into my soul, mon âme.

La Mujer in Purple Priscilla Velez Ya no estas sola, mi mujer soñadora You are not alone, my woman of dreams… You were unreciprocated, too complicated. Wearing your tsunamis and battles with a zig-zag like a ribbon that colors your braid You no longer run, you stand. Confident. Having arrived at the meeting place for your desire… Las ganas de vivir te motivan al sufrir Your suffering is overcome by your great yearnings to live… you smile with your quiet, saddened eyes… You are the goddess of all who seek to overcome. La mujer, unfolding her hands, opens her mouth of blood, reaches out her arms like a huipil of warmth… With her nail, she taps, then scratches the painting and Pushes out of the canvas… She pierces you with her eyes of bronze and without saying a word, you know you’ve heard her spirit speak into your ear, subtly–almost silently–whispering que en un sueño viviremos los dos…los dos

Sunflowers for the Fall Jordan Glindomrong

An autumn leaf falls with the wind and brushes against my right cheek. Everything is a conglomerate of yellows, reds, and oranges. Once there were men with trumpets here, playing belligerently against the sadness worming its way through the spectators. Once there was a shiny black car, its trunk opened wide to match my feeling of vulnerability. Once I had believed that everything would last forever. That was once and this is now. It’s ten years since I’ve left the country for New York, and it’s strange to be back: it’s the homecoming I never wanted; this place is a wasteland. The rolling hills had once instilled some wonder in me, but now, when I look out from my rearview mirror, I can only think of much farther I had to fall if I had stayed. The house looks the same: all the boards on the porch are neatly lined and lacquered, inviting and warm. The third step up could still use some work though. It smells the same, too - Jen’s still the best cook I know. She must’ve gotten it from you; I know she didn’t get it from Dad. It’s funny how familiar places never change much the walls are painted a darker shade of blue, there are new noises that creak out of the attic, and there are posters of One Direction where my posters of Zeppelin used to be — Jen’s kids no doubt; however, in spite of how much

has changed, it still feels how it used to feel — it’s like trying to get the smell of cigarette smoke out of a couch from the flea market: it’ll never leave. I wish Jimmy could’ve known you. He’s been getting into a lot of trouble lately. Last Wednesday he told a boy in his class that he was gonna blow up Cuba. I’m not sure why he chose Cuba. Mrs. Sandoval said that he threw two plastic trains at his classmates, claiming that they were missiles, and opened his mouth wide, showing his teeth like a hungry lion. The other kids cried. I wonder if he was thinking about the Cuban Missile Crisis; maybe I should stop watching the History Channel with him. Mrs. Sandoval was worried — psychiatrists say that children who exhibit themselves like Jimmy eventually grow up to be suicide bombers or terrorists. She might have just said “threats to society.” I don’t remember. I know what you would say: “Mrs. Sandoval, I understand that you feel that way, but boys will be boys.” You always gave me the benefit of the doubt, anyway. I remember hearing those words before we left the office back when I hit Rico during lunchtime in fourth grade. “I didn’t mean to hit him, Mom.” Your face paused for a moment and grew tense. Your lips curled up, readying themselves to let loose. I thought I was done for, like that time I threw all of my clothes into the swimming pool because I didn’t want to wash them. Instead, a single tear rolled down your eye. Things were hard with Dad working long hours. I think that I always took your strength for granted; I thought that it was something you were born with. Now I know better. You weren’t born that way: you were made that way. You were a lot poorer when you were a kid, and, although you never admitted it, I think you felt like the whole world was against you. Somehow, you still found hope.

When Mrs. Sandoval called me into her office for Jimmy’s crime against humanity, I sat there, listened to every word, said “thank you” softly, and left the building. Truth be told, when we got in the car I thought about crying and leaving a mark on him like you did for me, but I was too exhausted to try. Instead we just got ice cream and talked about baseball. It’s been hard since Terra left, harder for me than Jimmy, I think. He seems mellowed out most of the time. He gets an escape through baseball; on occasion, he’ll even go outside and swing the bat around before bed by himself. It’s better than blowing up a country. Sometimes, I’m afraid to bring him to the park, because I don’t want him to see the other kids’ moms: smiling, laughing — picnicking the day away. Then again, I’m not too fond of seeing them myself. I miss her. “Are you sure about this?” Your glance was fixed on me across the living room table, your fingers clasped loosely to the tablecloth. “What do you want to hear, Mom?” I leaned back in the wooden chair, preparing for the next line. “I want to hear that you know what you’re doing.” You leaned in to compensate for my movement, your grip tightening on the tablecloth. I paused and fixed my eyes on the clock, ticking away. “I know it hasn’t been a long amount of time,” I said, “but she’s it, Mom.” The truth is, I wasn’t all that sure — I had been stuck in place for a long time, and I wasn’t sure how to get myself into the world. I started making hasty decisions left and right, hoping that one of the choices would stick, marriage being one of them. You got up from the chair — it squeaked softly as the bottom of the chair brushed the floor. “It’s not going to be easy,” you said. Your words turned out to be prophetic. “Your father and I — it wasn’t

Sunflowers easy for us, and it won’t be easy for you. You’re young: you’ll make mistakes.” “You can’t live life without making mistakes,” I retorted. You paused, again. It’s funny — I thought I had landed a final blow; I thought I had rendered you speechless. Looking back, I think you were silent because you knew I was making a mistake. If anything, you knew one thing: you couldn’t convince me otherwise. You reluctantly accepted, and, after two happy years, I reluctantly signed away half of everything I owned when she left. “She’s leaving, Mom.” The muffled sound of your breathing stopped. I covered my face with my left hand, as if I had something to hide from you on the other end of the phone. “I’m so sorry, baby.” Her voice was like rain on a hot day. “You told me, Mom — you warned me it would be hard; why didn’t you stop me?” I already knew why. You never answered me. “You should take some time off, come back here for a vacation. You can bring Jimmy, too.” “I can’t pull Jimmy out — we just got moved in.” You could’ve said a lot of things to play hero. I think part of me wanted a quote that I could write on a note and put in a box or a line that I could turn into a magnet and put on my fridge, but I didn’t get one. “I’m so, so sorry,” you said. You always knew what to say. When I look at you now, I wish I had known what to say: I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry. “Mom’s not doing too well.” “Define ‘not doing too well.’” “She,” Jen paused, “She has 2 months.” I stopped typing my report and pushed myself up

Sunflowers from my chair, making my way to the break room. “Does she know?” I said. “They told her first,” said Jen, choking up. “There has to be something that—“ “—There’s nothing else they—“ “—Then what are we paying them for?” My voice boomed and the room fell into silence. My ears were buzzing. “Treatment is treatment, John,” she said. “It’s not gonna cure her completely.” You smiled when I cracked open the door to your room. I did, too, but it was hard seeing you bedridden. “I haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving — it’s so good to see you.” “It’s really good to see you too, Mom,” I said. “I’m sure it’s not that good to see me without all of my hair.” “You still look beautiful to me,” I said. You chuckled, but I couldn’t bring myself to follow. You were vulnerable — you knew it. You still tried to play it cool, cracking a few more jokes than usual. “Those flowers for me?” “Yeah,” I said, taking the sunflowers and placing them into a vase next to a pair of roses. “Dad brought me the roses,” she said. “You’d think Dad would know sunflowers are your favorite after all these years.” “Well,” she said, “that’s okay.” No it wasn’t. “It’s not okay, Mom,” I said. “You’re in the hospital, and he can’t even bring you the flowers you like.” I sat on the edge of your bed. “He should know,” I said gently, looking off. A hush washed after the room, interrupted occasionally by the beeps of your heart monitor and the muffled sound of doctors’ feet shuffling down the east wing. “I’m not gonna make it much longer.”

“Jen told me,” I said, looking at you. “Your gonna have to look after Jen with your father.” “He’s not gonna give—“ “—with your father,” you said. I could’ve erupted, but I calmed myself. You looked off at the flowers. I couldn’t stop looking at you — it was one of the last times I’d be able to. I thought of everything you had done for me: when you would cheer for me loudly at my baseball games to my embarrassment, all the times we went to Annie’s and split meatball subs, all the moments I spent doing things I wasn’t proud of while I left you home by yourself. Next thing I knew, you were cradling me in your arms — just like the first time we met. I think that was the longest I’ve ever hugged anyone. “What he did to you, Mom — the hell he put us through, all of us,” I said, tears running down my face. “It was hard for me, too, son,” you said, running your fingers through my hair, “that doesn’t mean we give up.” The guilt I felt in that moment — I won’t forget it. “I’ll try,” I said. I made you a promise, and I’m here to keep it — I’m finally listening to you. It makes me think of all the little times when I didn’t listen to you: all the times I didn’t want to bring my sweater to school, even though you had insisted that I bring it to stay warm. All the times you tried to talk me out of my anger as I hid my face beneath my blanket. It’s amazing — that I never learned to listen to you until you couldn’t talk to me at all. So here you are — still taking me to school every day from six feet under. Your gravestone makes you look so cold; I hate it. I half-jokingly asked you if I could release your ashes into a mountain wind, but you threw the TV remote at me and said you preferred something simpler.

You always liked this place. “Did Dad bring the sunflowers?” I asked. “Yeah — he must’ve been here yesterday,” said Jen. “You ready to go?” It’ll probably be a while before I come back. I could take a picture, but it’s such a dark place; I’d rather remember you how you were. “Yeah,” I said. We began to walk back toward her SUV, leaves crunching underneath the soles of our boots. “Is it strange to be back?” “Kinda,” I said. “It’s good to have you,” she said as she came to a slow stop. Jen’s head hung low to the ground as she gently kicked her left boot in front of her right, moving a few leaves in the process before setting it back on the ground. Her right hand squeezed her left arm, poised behind her back, and her back straightened for a moment before her mouth opened: “Did you ever tell Mom?” “About what?” “Why Terra left?” “No,” I said, “I never did.” “Right,” she said, continuing her walk. She made her way past the black gate and I followed. The words were a fire in my bones. “Jen?” She turned around and looked at me, adjusting her purple padded jacket in the process. My right hand clenched into a fist, making it’s way behind my back to show no vulnerability. I kept my eyes on the colored leaves that had fallen to the ground before I summoned the courage to look at her. “Do you think—“ I started, “Do you think that Mom held it against me? What I did to Terra? Do you think—“ I paused. “Do you think she looked at me like she looked at

Sunflowers Dad? For what I did?” I wanted Jen to rip me apart — I wanted her to confirm that I was as terrible as I thought I was; I wanted to settle on being labeled as the outcast of the family rather than wondering about my status with them for the rest of my life. I wanted to be able to leave this place and still hate it. She didn’t rip me apart. She made her way toward me with her arms extended. She wrapped them around me and squeezed me tightly. It felt like we were kids again — rolled up in a blanket, ready to launch ourselves across the living room rug. She lifted her eyes to look into mine. “She loved you. She loved you very much.” She pulled away gently with a smile on her face. “We better get going — Dad’s waiting for us at Patsio’s.” She grabbed my hand and we crossed the street toward the SUV. I looked back at where I was, smiled, and blew a kiss. I’ll always miss you. I’ll always love you.

The Hopeful Mind Taylor Lyon

I. Ink stains on the desk blemished the otherwise spotless room. Spotless? More like empty, Dr. Ewing thought to herself. Still, it would have to do, as it was the only room left in the facility. Veiny hands clutched the clumsy oak chair to stop from trembling as her head jerked toward the open door where they were waiting. This could be the start of her long-awaited success or it could culminate her demise—there was no way of knowing until she plucked out her last speck of hope and planted it into someone else. Her grey eyes narrowed in resolve as her sharp voice announced, “I’m ready. Bring in the patient.” Scuffling feet and rustling fabric were the only sounds that invaded the silence. The assembly of about a dozen physicians, psychiatrists, and psychologists stepped away from the middle of the hallway: a parting of the white sea of lab coats to allow safe passage for the 18-year-old girl. But she didn’t move. Her face was almost parallel to the ground, halfway hidden by side-swept black hair that cascaded like a thick veil down her right shoulder. It came to an abrupt, choppy halt at her waist. Posture wilted, feet pointed inward, arms hanging limply, she remained in place with her eyes to the polished floor, silent breathing causing her hair to sway ever so slightly like branches and leaves of a weeping willow.

“Amelia, you can come in now,” urged Dr. Ewing impatiently, smoothing her hair as if it wasn’t already pulled back into a tight, blonde bun. Uncomfortable silence returned her invitation without so much as a glance upward. Sandra Ewing’s eyebrows crouched dangerously low over her eyes, the corners of her thin lips twitching downward. “Amelia, look at me!” Her astringent tone prompted a bulky man that was part of the white-coated sea—who had been inching toward the girl this whole time—to move more intentionally. He closed the distance in one stride, tenderly placing a large, calloused hand on the girl’s shoulder. His caramel skin glowed with warmth and his eyes were melted chocolate. Dr. Ewing shivered involuntarily at his display of compassion. “She goes by Li,” the man said gently, as if the very sound of his voice would shatter this fragile girl—and perhaps he was right. Li’s head snapped up at the sound of her name, dark willow eyes panicked, glancing in every which direction before closing altogether to shut out her surroundings. Her thin body began to tremble and sway as if it would collapse without warning, and her skin matched the color of her white, wrinkled patient gown that swallowed up most of her body. It was as if those parts of her didn’t exist underneath the itchy fabric, leaving four quaking half-appendages and a veiled face. The doctor shook the strain out of her voice, forcing the corners of her mouth upward. “Li,” she tried through gritted teeth. The girl’s trembling intensified. “Li, please come here.” The man slowly removed his hand as Li, with her eyes still shut, hesitantly wobbled forward a few steps, placing her mere inches from where she had started. “Oh, for goodness sake!” blurted Dr. Ewing, heels forcefully striking the hallway tile as she marched up to Li and roughly grabbed her hand. Despite the anxious protests of the caramel man, Dr. Ewing dragged the stumbling girl into the bedroom and firmly sat her onto the

plain, cream-colored bed. “Leave us!” she shouted without even looking at her staff, but before the echoing footsteps faded completely, she added, as a second thought, “Please.” Arms crossed, the doctor briefly locked eyes with her patient for the first time, observing quivering, damaged irises stained with blues and greens like the ink stains on the writing desk. Feelings of dread and horror and something else—was it pity?—welled up inside of her. Ah yes, she thought, struggling to remain logical. I remember reading about this. Ink. Needles. Self-mutilation. The records had described how Li had attempted to permanently change her eye color years ago. Still, Sandra Ewing had not expected the result to be so frighteningly mesmerizing: irritated pink veins had taken on the faintest of teal shades, making the whites of Li’s eyes a red-blue network of pathways to the solid hues in the center—a horrifying mixture of swamp and sky and ocean and ivy, surrounded by a soft halo of golden-brown, her original color. Li averted her eyes almost immediately, but not before Dr. Ewing had recoiled with a sharp inhale. “This is your room,” stated the doctor, breathless. “I’ll leave you to yourself then, and bring your stuff up later.” She left in a hurry, not knowing whether or not she had even been heard, her feet struggling to match the pace of her heartbeat. II. “Amelia! Amelia!” the voices hollered at her from outside. “Come out and play with us!” “I’ll come out when I wanna!” she retorted with an independent toss of her red hair. “Oh come on, Amelia!” a voice shouted above the rest. It was Michael. She skipped to her window, grinning, and pushed back the curtains. There he was, waiting expectantly, his dark, messy hair contrasting his emerald eyes and matching the mischievous curl of his lip.

Hopeful Mind “Michael?” He raised an eyebrow. “Amelia?” “You gotta catch me first!” Out the front door and down the street, she ran shoeless and careless in her flamboyant summer dress, him trailing behind but quickly closing the distance between them, both of them laughing so hard that they could hardly run straight. The neighborhood kids cheered Michael on, but it was Amelia who persevered, her face red and warm, each freckle soaking in sunlight and expelling it through her 10-year-old legs. The sky was so clear and so perfect, so vast and inviting that she almost forgot about—but now she remembered. Images flashed through her mind, blurring, blending with sounds and feelings: the condescending eyes of her father, the shrill screams of her mother, the arguments, a young girl cowering under the bedcovers, reading books to avoid the fear, to avoid reminders of her inadequacy and worthlessness, the divorce, being aloof, daydreaming, avoiding reality, fading friendships and misunderstandings leading to more books, piles of books, bullies, abrasive pavement against her face, bruises, laughter, reading, escaping, forgetting, pretending, black hair-dye dripping from her fingertips, etching ink into her skin, into her eyes, to be someone else, like a character in a story, counseling, parental intervention, more isolation, that aching loneliness, wanting to disappear, needing to disappear, wishing she had never been— “STOP IT!” Li’s tormented scream echoed through the laboratory, her eyes wide open with comprehension as if seeing everything for the first time. She became aware of the sticky plastic of the patient bed upon which she was lying. She became aware of the tunnel-like machine surrounding her, full of lights and bundles of wires that seemed to be attached to her head. Reaching up, she felt the metal of a bulky helmet that surged with warmth as if its tangled tubes were alive. Paralyzed by shock, Li

Hopeful Mind merely stared through the open mouth of the tunnel and observed doctors rushing about, flipping switches, and reciting unfamiliar terms. A pair of hands reached toward her and the helmet was promptly lifted off her head. Another switch was flipped and the patient bed groaned, mechanically sliding out of the tunnel. Like a conveyor belt, she thought, feeling nauseous. And I’m the specimen. Every eye in the chilly laboratory was focused on the girl, wide in surprise at her sudden outburst. Had it not been for the furious scribbling of Sandra Ewing as she eagerly documented this occurrence, a thick, uncomfortable silence would have permeated the facility. Li was a cornered animal, scared and alone, underneath the blinding florescent lights. Tears rushed over her plain face, dripping from her bright lips and quivering chin. Plastic squeaked as her shaking arms pushed her thin body to a sitting position. Her drowning eyes gaped at Dr. Ewing in horror. “What did you do to me?” she gasped, before falling forward into a heap of sobs. “Wait, what did you see?” Dr. Ewing demanded, hastening toward her in anticipation. But Li was gone again, unable to be reached. Her sobs filled the laboratory while the rest of the personnel stood still like lab puppets awaiting instruction. With a frustrated groan, Dr. Ewing spun toward her lab assistants and sighed, “Call in Dr. Clemens, the counselor.” “I’m right here,” a voice from the corner answered. The doctor tensely turned toward the noise, her eyebrows furrowing when she beheld the caramel man from the day before. “What? Who let you in?” “The board of ethics granted me full observation rights, remember? That means I also have full access to every area in this facility—even the laboratories.” A pained exhale came from Dr. Ewing as her eyebrows ventured lower than they had ever gone before. Perceiving that she was at a loss for words, Dr. Clemens continued, calmly, “Besides, I’m the only person who knows Li’s case, and her

parents trust me to—” “Oh, who cares about her parents!” Dr. Ewing spat at him, startling Li out of her sobs and allowing the thick, uncomfortable silence that had been waiting to ensue. The silence caused the doctor’s eyebrows to spring up in surprise and embarrassment. She took a step back and smoothed her lab coat, straining her face into a stony smile. “I mean,” she continued coolly, “I wouldn’t put much confidence in their judgment. They thought the girl was autistic, after all.” The counselor’s patience didn’t waver. “They made the best guess they could.” “Oh really? And what about doing their research? Getting a professional opinion? They waited until after Amelia had tried to kill herself three times. Three times!” “Sandra!” interrupted the head physician, who had discarded his lab puppet role. His earnest blue eyes searched hers, pleading with her to stop. Dr. Ewing’s rage drained from her face as she slumped back into her chair, defeated. “Forgive me,” she uttered. Her worn hands covered her face in exhaustion. “I was just hoping that the board would trust me to make the best call. The fact that you’re here is a constant reminder of my past failures.” She gestured toward Li. “In any case, Dr. Clemens, she’s all yours for the time being. If I was able to put my trust into one person, I might as well make it two.” The kindness that had never left his eyes was even more apparent now when he flashed her his glowing smile. “Thank you, Dr. Ewing.” III. For the first time in years, Li knew exactly where she was when she woke up. He—the counselor—had told her. He had explained everything to her, and she had listened instead of escaping into her own mind again. Her imaginary world wasn’t safe anymore now that it had been invaded by reality. Transcranial affective imagery

stimulation, he had called it. A new, innovative treatment for psychological disorders. Their conversation kept repeating in her head. “It was developed by Dr. Ewing,” explained Dr. Clemens. “A type of transcranial direct current stimulation that targets emotion and memory.” “But how…” she mumbled to herself, not used to asking questions out loud. “Well, we aren’t entirely sure,” he admitted. “We can’t see inside the minds of our patients, so we can’t know exactly what they’re experiencing. All we know is that certain areas of the brain associated with emotion and memory are stimulated, such as the hippocampus in the limbic system. Depending on the—am I making sense?” Li flinched, startled by his attention to her mannerisms and expressions. She nodded vigorously, eyes still on the ground, but from his silence it seemed like he was waiting for a spoken answer. Her beautifully mangled eyes glanced up at him before traveling back to the brown carpet of his office. “Yes,” she whispered, not even sure if he could hear her. He smiled warmly, even though she couldn’t see him. “Good, I’m glad. So, depending on the particular area we stimulate, patients can experience memories that are associated with strong positive or strong negative emotions.” He let her process this, as if he knew that she would have more questions. He seemed to have a knack for reading her, and it was unsettling. “So this…thing…makes people face issues they’d rather forget?” “Sort of,” he said, “But not exactly. It allows the most painful memories to be re-experienced and reexamined, which brings up issues that patients were often not aware of.” “But you said…” her voice trailed off. “Go ahead,” he prodded. “You said it also stimulates positive memories?”

Hopeful Mind He nodded. “It can, yes. In previous trials, they tried mixing positive memories with negative ones to prevent patients from being overwhelmed.” “And… did it…?” “It worked—at least at first. But patients became dependent on the machine to provide positive memories, and they were so threatened by negative memories that their body would experience extreme states of stress— sometimes shock. Some patients would lose track of what was real and what wasn’t. One time—” his voice cut off suddenly, as if the words had choked him. “Well, I promised her I wouldn’t mention it. All I can say is that this method of treatment has serious risks.” Li’s head was spinning, wondering, working in dangerous ways. Already overwhelmed by this situation, she longed so desperately to drift off into a daydream or to read a story, to fantasize about finding romance and love—about loving herself, even. But she was forced to keep her mind on reality in order to avoid those dangerous memories lurking beneath the surface, memories waiting to poison her make-believe world. Li had one more question, and he was ready for it. “Why me?” Dr. Clemens waited until she fearfully looked up at him once more. This time he managed to hold her gaze for more than a few seconds. “Because you’re different.” Her mouth twitched in amusement, finally displaying something other than fear and pain. “You know you are,” he insisted, “and so do I. I’ve never had anyone with a case—a struggle—like yours.” “A struggle like… mine,” she repeated. He leaned forward, speaking softly, carefully. “Li, your mind is very fast, very sensitive. You’ve experienced intense anxiety since a very early age, and things are more traumatic for you than the average person. You dealt with it the only way you knew how: fantasy. But you became consumed by it.”

Hopeful Mind Li shut her eyes to stop any unwanted tears. “But why…” “The Ewing Center for Unspecified Psychological Disorders was notified of your case, but Dr. Ewing was interested in more than just admitting you into her facility. She chose you, Li, because your strength lies in your imagination. You can regulate your mind better than any patient we’ve ever had, even though the methods you use are harmful.” Li shook her head, not comprehending what he was saying, not able to perceive herself as a person with strength. The counselor placed a hand on her shoulder in the same manner he had done yesterday in the face of Dr. Ewing. “Li,” he said, “they need you. You were able to break away from your memories in our preliminary test, which is unheard of. It’s like this type of treatment was made for you. Look at what it’s already done: We’re having a conversation for the first time, and you’re listening! So please listen to what I’m saying now.” He leaned even closer to her, dark eyes piercing her with their compassionate gaze. “You can get better. We all believe in you here. You just have to pass one more preliminary test. In the end, it’s your choice to go through with the final experimental treatment, but I hope you’ll consider it.” The reverberating conversation finally faded from her mind as she slid out of bed and onto the hardwood floor, surveying the empty white walls of the plain, dark room. Sunlight struggled to peek through the sheer pink curtains, so Li pushed them aside, pale skin illuminated and stained eyes glowing. Her mind made one last desperate attempt to jump back into fantasy. “I am an angel,” she said out loud, “and I will fly away to paradise once my wings become strong enough.” Her lips quivered upward into a brief expression that resembled a smile. But then she fell apart. Her face crumbled, eyes cracking and leaking, mouth open with an

inaudible scream echoing from her core, and eyebrows drawn, reaching for one another, to meet in the middle and hold everything together. She pounded on the warm, sunlit window, weakly, defeated, deflating until she collapsed to the floor. Warm face aching against unforgiving ground, Li heard voices from below seeping through her otherwise impenetrable fortress. No. Not a fortress. A dungeon. And she put herself there. Not an angel, but a demon, demented and in need of protection—protection from herself. Her body shook as it bore the weight of a lifetime of repressed memories, as reality took the place of fiction against her helpless cries. “Why,” Li whispered, to God, to anyone who could answer, “Does reality have to be so painful? I’m not strong enough… not strong enough…” Pain shot through her to the point that it was unbearable, forcing her to look up at the button on the wall that would send the white-coats running to her rescue. She hesitated, reached, hovered, and then pressed before convulsing in her screams. In they came, the white-coated assistants, pulling her to her feet against her body’s will and supporting her with arms under her shoulders because her legs refused to be of any use. “Kill me,” she begged. “Kill me, please!” Her voice grew continually louder until it penetrated all walls of the third story. “KILL ME!” The girl was carried, kicking and screaming, to the counselor on call. The staff members set her down gently on a cushioned chair before leaving her to her persisting screams. Through her tears she saw the blurred figure of Dr. Clemens, and he was smiling. Smiling? She stopped mid-scream in confusion. “Congratulations, Li,” he said. “You pressed the button.” “What?” “You passed the test.”

IV. Raindrops gently caressed the windowpane as Dr.

Ewing woke to distant rumbles of thunder and a cloudy, gray sky. She sat up in bed stiffly. This was just the sort of weather to foreshadow a dismal fate—but no, she shouldn’t think like that. She forced her body to a standing position and began going through the procedures in her mind: first provide the briefing, then perform the preliminary physical tests, then prep the neuronal activity monitors, and then… She continued her thoughts as her body went through the routine motions of getting ready. Only when she was at the door did she come to a halt, veins protruding from the hand that clutched the faded metallic knob. It was those eyes. That girl. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the image, but it continued to dominate her consciousness. What was she thinking? How could she ever live with herself if another patient was harmed by her beloved innovation? And this girl wasn’t just any patient. She was… Well, she was… “What’s wrong with me?” Sandra Ewing asked herself out loud, as if expecting the answer to come from another source. Hand still gripping the doorknob, she touched her forehead to the dirty door. “What makes her special, hmm?” she asked splinters and chipped paint. Now that she was actually about to go through with the experiment, now that Li had voluntarily agreed to it yesterday, Dr. Ewing couldn’t shake her unease. The board would be there. If all of this succeeded, her instrument would be approved, she would be funded for further research, and she would be spared from further shame and humiliation. But what did any of it matter if she risked the health of a girl who had already suffered enough? Those stained eyes spoke of so much heartache, reminded her of something dear to her—but what was it? What was it? Oh! Her body jolted upright as she realized: the stained desk! Yes, it was her old room that she had given to Li in the facility. She had stayed there during the early years of the institution, had bled her heart onto paper with pens of green and blue. And now she realized why she

Hopeful Mind just couldn’t do it: she saw herself in those eyes. She saw the painful life she had used to fuel her research, to prevent that pain from ever being felt by another. And yet, pain was exactly what she was causing. She couldn’t stimulate that pain again, not even one more time. I must end it, she thought as she stepped into the rain with no umbrella and no inhibition. Li was waiting for her in the lab, dressed in another plain patient gown, seated on the mechanical bed with fingers intertwined but trembling all the same. Lab assistants prepped the equipment and Dr. Clemens paced back and forth in an uncharacteristic display of nervousness. “Amelia—I mean, Li!” the doctor called as she entered, running toward her until she was only mere inches from the girl’s face. “Don’t do this. It isn’t safe, and you’re too valuable.” Though Li’s eyes opened wide in confusion, it was Dr. Clemens who threw up his hands in bewilderment and exclaimed, “WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” Taken aback, Dr. Ewing smoothed her already perfect hair to regain her composure. “I’ve had second thoughts about my experiments, and I’ve finally come to the conclusion that this project needs to be shut down for good.” Everyone in the lab froze at this statement, unsure of whether to continue prepping the equipment or to turn everything off. “You can’t just decide this last minute!” the counselor argued. She raised her eyebrows in amusement. “And who are you talking to, Mr. Clemens?” His caramel skin grew pink in embarrassment, but he persisted: “Li wants to—” “This experiment is not in Li’s best interest.” “I disagree wholeheartedly,” he proclaimed, “and beg you to reconsider!”

Hopeful Mind “I’m sorry, but I’ve made up my—” “Why did you start the project?” asked a soft, shaky voice. They both turned to Li, whose eyes were darting about the room rather than settling on the floor—a conscious effort to be present in her surroundings. “I beg your pardon?” responded the surprised Dr. Ewing. “Why…” repeated Li, before trailing off. She bit her lip and played with her hands, shivering more intensely as she built up the courage to speak. Squeezing her eyes shut, she asked again, “Why did you start this project?” Dr. Ewing sat beside Li, at a loss for words. Her expression became soft enough to reignite the compassionate gaze of Dr. Clemens. “Because I wanted to help people,” she said at last, disappointed in her cliché answer but aware that it sufficiently summed up her entire goal. “Then please help me,” pleaded Li, voice trembling. “You need me for this project, but I also need you. Nobody ever believed in me before, so please… Please believe in me!” With a deep breath, Dr. Ewing locked eyes with her patient for a second time. This time she noticed the resolve fighting through the uncertainty, the strength hidden in the weakness with the slightest, faintest bit of hope in those eyes. They trembled, but they refused to look away. Drops of sweat formed on Li’s temples as she fought to maintain eye contact, to prove her worth. After a few minutes, Dr. Ewing nodded. “I will put my faith in you, if this is what you really want.” She clapped her hands, standing up with renewed vigor. “Alright everybody, we have work to do! The board will be here any minute to observe the procedure!” V Distant clicking, tapping, and shifting of machinery, soft buzzing and humming of engines and instruments,

muffled voices and hurried footsteps: as much as she tried to tune them out, the sounds were fog in Li’s mind, causing hazy and muddled cognition. She could see neither the past nor the journey ahead. There was only right now. There was only survival. The lights overpowered her weak eyes, and they closed to recover as red and yellow dots danced across her eyelids. Li felt the cold plastic of the bed on her legs and arms, she felt the itchy cotton gown resting against her torso and protecting her core from the chilly air conditioning, and she felt the throbbing of her heart with every pained breath she forced in to her lungs. But she couldn’t feel her protective black hair. It had been pulled back, restrained from sheltering her. She was exposed. She was vulnerable. She had voluntarily filleted herself open for all to see, revealing the aching heart underneath. Li struggled to see through the fog. Why was she here? What was she about to do? She remembered that confounding smile on Dr. Clemens’s face when he had told her that she passed the test. She hadn’t even known what the test was, but she had passed it. “The fact that you pressed that button, that you called for help even when you were at the very worst of your suffering,” he had informed her, “means that you must have had some sort of hope, some amount of faith, some reason or another to keep living. It shows your strength.” At the time, she was in too much pain to comprehend what the counselor was trying to tell her. The next day, however, his words made their way into the vulnerable and scared parts of her consciousness. They pushed a small seed of hope into the dry, dusty ground of her mind, ravaged and wasted by the fear and the hatred she felt for herself. Though she could have let the seed die, she decided to water it, giving the first bit of nourishment to her hope by agreeing to the experiment. Li remembered now, despite her disheveled, fuzzy thoughts: she was here because she had always had that hope within her. She had

always fought to protect it, and now was the time to bring it to life, to birth something more. Was happiness real? She didn’t know. But she hoped it was, and that hope was enough for her. “Li! Li!” a voice was calling her. Who was it? What did it want? The voice came closer until it was inches from her face. “Li, it’s time. Are you ready?” It was the voice of Dr. Ewing. Li kept her eyes closed, but nodded twice. An audible sigh was the response, and then: “Are you sure about this?” Li parted her lips, trying to remember how to form words. The sound of a single word whistled through her teeth like wisps of wind through willow branches: “Yes.” The uncomfortable bed began to slide backward into the tunnel. Slowly. Agonizingly. She could feel the power of the machine through the vibrations in the bed. The seat crunched to a halt and silence leaped into the air like an uncoiled spring. All movement and all breathing ceased, telling Li that everyone was watching her, waiting on her. The fog was gone. The fear took the forefront of her emotions and her thoughts. I can’t do this, she thought as the helmet was positioned over her head and the electrodes were carefully connected to it. Panic seized everything— body, mind, soul, spirit—and shook her entire being. There was nothing she could do. She was helpless. She was inadequate. And she was alone, just like she had always been. “Amelia, can you please pass the salt?” her mom asked through clenched teeth. Amelia’s hand twitched but refused to move, terrified of making a mistake. “Come on Donna, just ask me to do it. You know she doesn’t handle directions well,” complained her father. They had had this conversation many, many times. “That’s why I’m helping her learn,” returned her mother, already exasperated. He rolled his small, critical eyes. “Okay. Fine. Have it your way. Amelia, please pass the salt to your mother.”

Hopeful Mind Amelia knew that this was another inevitable breaking point, and just like all of the times before, she would be unable to stop it from happening. No matter what she did— whether she passed the salt or remained still—it would turn into a fight. It always turned into a fight. And it was always connected to her. She put her head down, eyes glued to her faded jean shorts and hands trembling with indecision. We believe in you. A voice echoed through her mind that wasn’t hers. It was a warm voice. She had to have heard it before. Amelia glanced up at her mother and father, but it was apparent that neither of them had said anything. We believe in you. She pushed back her chair suddenly, standing up unsteadily and taking a few steps back to observe the scene of her parents. This was all too familiar. Ah! This had happened before. This was the moment that her father had left them, and it had all started with a simple request to pass the salt. “I’m sick of this, Donna,” her father said in a deep, dangerous voice. It was happening, just as she remembered. Soon the shouting would start. But what was she doing here? Why did she need to see this again? She turned slowly, silently, and quickly moved away, out the door, down the steps, and across the yard, not stopping to see where she was going. She didn’t need to be a part of this. It had nothing to do with her. What? She gasped, realization coming to fruition—It had nothing to do with her! The sound of a revving car engine and the screech of old tires confirmed her thoughts: This would have happened whether or not I was involved. But there was still something off; in the original memory, she hadn’t walked away. Why was she able to now? Why was she even here in the first place? And then she realized. “Li! Li!” Dr. Ewing called to the girl repeatedly, shaking her shoulder. “What’s happening?” Demanded Dr. Clemens. “I-I don’t know...” stammered Sandra Ewing. “It’s

Hopeful Mind like she—” “Fell asleep and started dreaming,” finished a member of the ethics committee, walking closer to observe. His expression spoke of business and the notepad he carried was full of critiques. “That’s close enough,” cautioned Dr. Ewing, her expression fierce. “I’m warning you—” “Dr. Ewing!” one of the lab assistants interrupted, hands running through his bushy red hair in confusion. “The scanner says that she’s asleep and awake at the same time!” “What?” Dr. Ewing demanded sharply. “The scanner says—” “I heard what you said! I’m asking you WHY?” Her voice became deadly as she pushed him aside to view the scans for herself. Li’s wavelengths varied from long to short, as if she was both conscious and in a dream-like state. “Ah…” Dr. Ewing said to herself, leaning closer to the machine, recalling her previous research—her theories of brain stimulation possibilities. Her eyes shined in horrified fascination, filling up with tears. “Aaaahhhhh.” “Turn it off,” stated Dr. Clemens. “I don’t care what insights you just had. Turn it off.” Dr. Ewing turned to him, face haunted by unspoken realizations that he had yet to comprehend. She motioned for her assistants to shut down the scanner. The metallic buzzing slowed until it faded away altogether. “It’s okay, Li,” whispered Dr. Clemens to the girl. “You can open your eyes now.” “You can’t reach her.” The doctor’s strained voice cracked as she said it. “I failed. I failed to protect her. Her mind is her own reality now.” The counselor’s face grew dark and threatening. “What do you mean her mind is—” “I mean, Dr. Clemens, that it will be her own decision whether or not to wake up.”

VI Darkness. Cold, consuming darkness. Direction and time did not exist in this forsaken place, so black and empty that she might as well not be there at all. But there she was—suspended in nothingness, with nothing to hold on to but the mere question: where am I? Li opened her eyes—she hadn’t even realized they were closed—and saw her floating body. How? She glanced to each side and saw her arms outstretched, pale hands open, fingers slightly curled, intertwined with strands of her weightless, black hair. She still wore the patient gown that she had been given in the laboratory. Ah. So this is where I am. I’m in my— Bubbles escaped her lips as she was swept into a current, air knocked from her lungs as saturated pressure replaced the void and encapsulated her body with water: cold, wet, powerful water. Her arms clutched one another for protection, eyes searching for the source of adversity. She found nothing. The dark void had become a dark ocean, with only the bottoms of her feet glimmering from distant sunlight. All at once, her senses came into full focus: She was upside down, in the depths of an infinite sea, caught in a current, running out of air. But she wasn’t terrified. Somehow, it was familiar. It was home. Li uncrossed her arms and swam with the current, scanning the watery depths for something to show itself. Out the darkness a familiar lavender-colored book emerged—the first book she had ever read as a child. It darted past her right side, quickly followed by hundreds of books, blurred and disfigured by the swirling currents, surrounding her, circling her like paper vultures and blocking out what little bit of sun shone through the crepuscular waters. Undeterred, Li reached out to touch one of her companions, lightly, with nothing but the tip of her pointer finger: a single touch that sent a surging shock, cutting through the current and paralyzing all movement but her own. The ocean sat still. The books now floated

aimlessly. It was time to keep searching, but for what Li was still unsure of. Maybe I won’t know until I find it, she thought. In the dead water, the girl maneuvered past her precious literature, turning herself so that she faced the sunlight. But before she swam toward the surface, she noticed a rhythmic thumping coming from down below, shaking the otherwise motionless sea and providing her with a choice: either go toward the light or explore the depths. There was no right or wrong. It was her choice, and she didn’t hesitate to make it. She repositioned herself toward the bottom. She swam. Because the light had faded until she could barely see herself or where she was going, Li judged her progress according to whether or not the continuous beating grew louder. Quite soon, her entire body was tingling from vibrations sent through the ocean with each beat and she began to see a brightness emanating from the bottom. Li swam more vigorously, arms outstretched to make contact with the murky ground of sand and dirt and—was that paper? A brush of her hand against the glowing ground confirmed her thoughts, and she closed her fingers around one of the many pages protruding from the muddy layer. “I will never be good enough,” said the writing on the page—audibly, her own voice leaping from the paper and echoing as if she were in an empty hallway. Startled, she let go of the page, allowing it to float to the surface. Li gingerly picked up another one. “I’m unlovable,” the next page whispered to her, stinging her eyes with tears. She hugged it against her chest and then released it so it could join the first page at the surface. This became her mission; one by one, she picked up the pages—the thoughts—and listened as they read themselves to her. “I’m scared!” a desperate voice called out. “It hurts to feel so alone,” admitted another. Li nodded, feeling the rhythmic thumping of the ocean floor

Hopeful Mind match the thumping of her chest. Yes it does. As each page floated away, the light from the bottom shone a little bit brighter, until the girl began to see what was underneath the sand. She cleared a spot completely, removing all of the clutter, to find glass: thick, clear glass pulsating from the sound and bending rainbows of colors from the light emitted beneath it. What is it? Li pushed on the glass, pounded on it, and kicked it, but it would not give way. It looked as though nothing would be able to penetrate this beautiful yet terrible shield. Her pulse quickened. So did the beat below. She placed a hand on her chest and a hand on the glass to feel the matching sound, finally understanding. This is my heart. The light from below grew stronger at her recognition, luminous enough for her to glimpse her own reflection in the glass. Li’s eyes traced her malnourished figure, the sickly face that had always been so terribly plain, the coral lips that rarely ever moved, and those dreadful eyes. She observed her hair floating around her like the dark frame of a sad portrait. For years she had avoided looking at herself, had neglected the physical. And as for the mind, she had merely pretended it was something other than it was—lonely, longing, anguished. The broken girl didn’t need to reach the heart to know how it ached. It had been neglected for such a very long time, untouched beneath the glass barrier. Such a beautiful heart, she thought with sorrow. If only she had taken better care of it. You survived the only way you knew how, a familiar voice reminded her—a male voice, powerful, kind, and soothing. She was amazed that a voice other than her own could make its way down here, but the voice bounced off the glass all the same and floated away. Li realized that she, too, was beginning to drift, and that she had nothing to hold on to. Panicked fingernails scraped against glass and legs kicked frantically against moving water, determined to remain with the lonely heart. Everything else was being swept away, revealing an endless

Hopeful Mind expanse of glimmering glass. “Kill me!” pleaded a voice from down below. “I can’t bear it! Please kill me!” Li continued to fight her way back to the glass. “No!” she shouted defiantly into the dark, swirling ocean. “Now let me inside!” “It’s no use,” the voice whispered, fading away. “It’s no use...” As the current began to die down once again, it occurred to Li that this would happen over and over—an endless cycle of grief and anguish, repeated as long as the heart kept beating. It knew nothing else. Swelling with both compassion and agony, she gently placed both of her hands on the glass, and without thinking, lowered her face to the impenetrable barrier and kissed the cold, hard surface under which rested her tender heart. Warmth seeped from her lips and spread across the glassy ocean floor, causing it to tremble and surge with energy. Li pulled back, startled, as the entire surface shook violently, glowing red and exuding heat, glass screeching and groaning as cracks ripped across its surface. Up through the cracks the steamy heat forced its way, giving birth to more cracks, more networks of lines on a once seamless surface. With each passing moment the waters churned more urgently, awaiting the impending explosion. But Li wouldn’t leave. Instead, she stretched out her right hand, extended her pointer finger, and touched the glass. Like a dragon shedding its scales, rainbow shards broke away from the floor until there was no floor left at all, filling the water with dazzling, glittering fragments as everything was pushed up, up, toward the surface. Surrounded by warmth and colors and light, Li flew up as if there was no water at all, as if she had wings—and it turned out she did! With a brilliant burst out of the ocean, her strong, angelic wings carried her into the sky, droplets of water and shards of glass and speckles of sand and shreds of pages spraying into the atmosphere all around her. She didn’t know where she was headed, and she

didn’t know what would be waiting for her when she got there. But this time she was ready to face it. She tossed the darkness out of her hair, cried the stains from her eyes, and continued flying, her ivory skin glowing from the sun, freckles reignited, red hair burning with new passion and hope. And her eyes—oh, her eyes—were so warm, so lovely, so clear. They were the golden-brown color of the rich soil from which her seed of hope had grown. “Li!” the familiar voice called to her. Gravity returned. An uncomfortable plastic chair. Cold air. The helmet with wires. But Amelia didn’t open her eyes yet. No, she was savoring what she saw: the future she had created with her own mind, the future that was waiting for her. She inhaled the stale air, body rising, inflating until she could no longer contain it all. Two pairs of arms lifted her from the chair—one pair large and warm and strong, the other pair small and cold and trembling against her. Amelia exhaled, relaxing into her support, and opened her eyes to an imperfect and beautiful reality.

Bloodless Hands Christian Faux

On December 27th, 2014, I didn’t do anything, and nothing has been haunting me since that night. Christmas break was strange that year. Normally on the four weeks I have off from university I spend a great deal of time with my best friend, Jaimy. We don’t do a whole lot of anything. Mostly I’ll watch him play games on his handmade computer and talk about things-- literature, movies, philosophy--whatever we feel like at any given moment. So when the first chance I have to spend time with him is at the end of the penultimate week of break I’m excited. We hadn’t spent time just hanging out since his Halloween party, where he and I spent the party dressed as the entirety of the sober population. He called around 9 PM, my family was going to be going to bed soon, and I was more than happy to burn the late night hours that Saturday. After all, church started at 11, so I wouldn’t exactly be pressed for sleep the next morning. My mother is always concerned when I go out late at night, but only ever demanded I return home once, never out of anger, just concern. But nothing had ever happened, all we do is talk, hang out, of course I understand where her concern comes from, but it grew a little old over time. But I never complained, and as always promised to keep her up to date on the events of the night. I got to Jaimy’s house quickly and chatted with him and his dad while he put together a model he got for Christmas. It was

very relaxing, as the whole break had been; very laid back and chill. Shortly after I arrived a mutual friend followed, Cody. When he showed up we decided to go walk around one of the local parks for a bit. Cody drove us, with Jaimy in the front seat and me taking the back. We listened to Frank Sinatra through the car speakers on the way to the park, stopping at Chipotle’s to get something to eat as we walked around. Cody parked the car behind an office building and we walked the short path to Lakes Park. It was nights like these that I was typically the quiet one. Cody and Jaimy talked at length about punk and hardcore music, about movies with overt musical themes and ideas. That wasn’t a culture I ever really got into, but I was more than happy to eat my burrito and listen to the conversation. We walked around the park, avoiding all the security cameras, as we were there after hours. Jaimy and Cody told stories about a band of Gypsies that gather in the park some times, and how they would yell at my friends not wanting them to draw attention to their illegal congregation, while the Gypsies were much more likely to get them in trouble. Jaimy is about my height. For years he had long, very curly hair, but recently he has been wearing it short, almost professional, which if you knew Jaimy would be a joke all in and of itself. It’s not that Jaimy couldn’t be professional. In fact he often excelled whenever he was pressed, making excellent impressions wherever he worked. But in social contexts he had little care for petty rules and societal proprieties. He was himself at all costs. He always smiles, almost in a state of perpetual happiness when he’s with friends, and he has many. That night he was wearing a pair of jeans and a dark grey t-shirt, likely from some band he greatly enjoyed but I had never heard of. He walked with a casual pace, generally at the center of the three of us. He and Cody knew where we were going, so at all times they were the leaders as we walked around the park on a night so dark I could hardly see the path in front

of me. I’ve known Jaimy for most of my life. When I was born I lived in New Jersey. My family moved to Fort Myers in 2000 and Jaimy was my first friend. Little had changed since then. Back then I was the shy new kid who hardly spoke a word, while Jaimy was regularly getting in trouble for disturbing his classmates with whatever was on his mind at the given moment. Our second grade teacher, Mrs. Couch, thought that by placing Jaimy, the highly talkative student, next to the shy new kid, that he would grow quieter, and I would learn to speak up a little. I did learn to speak up, and made my first, and longest friend. He and I were best friends though elementary and middle school, even though I wasn’t the best friend in return. I had a hard time maintaining friendships, but it didn’t matter to Jaimy, no matter how long it had been since I made an effort he would always text me or give me a call to hang out. When high school came he and I drifted apart for a time, having no classes together. Once we graduated we started hanging out more regularly, over summer and Christmas breaks. He’s been there for me through thick and thin, the best friend a man could ask for. About halfway through the walk the subject finally changed to something about which I could contribute, literature. We talked at length about Harry Potter specifically, and how our middle school banned the books. Being an Assemblies of God school, they considered the books to be dangerous. My friends are Agnostic at best, and know me as the fundamental Christian of the group. As such they asked me if I could explain that theology, one I staunchly disagree with, which was just a good chance to talk about something with which I was well versed. The discussion of censorship carried on through the rest of our walk, moving from books, to games, and the violence parents allow their kids to see before they’re ready. Thus far the night had been only mildly nerve wracking (what with the trespassing and all) but ultimately relaxing and

Bloodless Hands enjoyable excursion with good friends. Then midnight struck And everything kind of changed. We returned to Cody’s car and drove down the main highway that ran through Fort Myers, US 41. At the very first light, at Andrea Lane I notice a guy, laying on the grass on the side of the road. As we approach the light, almost alone, barring the one car to our right, a man, about our age, wearing a white shirt runs out into the street, waving his arms, shouting for help. Jaimy rolled down his window and called out, “Hey, do you guys need help?” I thought the guy on the ground had been riding his bike and maybe got hit by a car, or ran into a light post, or maybe was even going into an alcoholic shock. I was never expecting what followed. The man in white shouted back, “HE WAS SHOT MAN!” Jaimy immediately whipped out his phone and called 911 as Cody pulled the car around to help. There seemed to be a couple people with him from the start, and the car next to us also pulled over to help. There wasn’t much we could do at that point, there was already someone applying pressure to the wound, and someone else desperately, so desperately trying to keep him awake. That was one of the things that stuck with me, everyone at the scene seemed to be in their early to midtwenties, but the two who were already with the shot man seemed like they had seen more than their fair share of pain. They were smoking the entire time and the light from the cigarettes didn’t help the mood. The way they smoked seemed desperate, like they were searching for anything to calm them down and just kept failing. Maybe they thought that blowing smoke in the guy’s face would wake him up, I’m honestly not sure. The worst part was the woman in red. It was dark where we were and I can only hope that the red was how the shirt came. Again, I don’t remember. What I do remember are her words. She had the victim, Vinny’s,

Bloodless Hands head in her lap, cradling his face in her hands, constantly slapping him to keep him awake. I hadn’t, and have yet to hear since then, such desperation in a human beings voice. She screamed, over, and over, “Stay awake man! Stay with me Vinny!” She kept trying to get him to breathe, to keep him awake. Vinny kept shouting these agonizing cries, screaming how much it hurt to breathe at all: “It hurts! It hurts!” he shouted, “I can’t breathe! It hurts!” Vinny stopped breathing once, and passed out more than once, and the fear- oh God the terror in his friend’s voice as he begged the 911 operator for help, for something to do. And I couldn’t do anything. None of the three of us could. We weren’t trained as first responders, we didn’t even know basic first aid. All we could do was stand there. All I could do was pray. It felt like eternity, but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before the police and EMT’s arrived. It was the most terrifying experience I had ever had, not knowing why Vinny had been shot, if the shooter would come back to finish the job, not knowing if my friends and I were going to die that night. That was the night I hated myself. I felt so cowardly, so afraid. All I could think as we stood there, waiting for the police and ambulance is, “What if he returns?” “We’re so exposed out here.” “I don’t want to die tonight!” “I just want to see my parents one last time, tell them I love them.” And that night, in the grip of the fear and terror, I did what I thought I would never do- what I could never do- as a good friend, as a good Christian man. I hid behind my best friend. I did it multiple times, each time I half stopped myself, cursing myself for stepping behind him. I always thought of myself in these situations as the hero, as the one who would make the sacrifice. But all I could do was stand there. I had never felt such relief as I did when the police arrived, armed and obese. The lights from the ambulance and squad cars lit up Vinny, and the first thing I noticed was the wound. They say that “Hollywood” is learning

how to make more and more realistic violence, but that’s far from the truth. Real violence doesn’t sell, glorified, ridiculous violence does, but real violence? Real violence is quiet, almost clean. That’s what I noticed about the wound. It was a clean hole in his chest, almost no blood. Vinny was lifted onto the stretcher, placed in the ambulance, and that was the last I saw of him. The police began to question the people at the scene, but since we arrived after the shooting took place Jaimy and Cody and I had nothing to offer but second hand information. We were allowed to leave, dismissed by a cop, who was unknowingly standing in a small puddle of blood in the grass. I intended to spend much more of the night at Jaimy’s place, with a few more friends who arrived later. I thought I was fine, after all I hadn’t actually seen Vinny get shot; all I saw was the wound and a little blood. When we got back to his place I had to use the bathroom, when I was finished I looked at myself in the mirror, adjusted my fedora, took a deep breath and washed my hands. I was staring at my eyes in the mirror and in the peripheral I would swear to heaven and back that my hands were covered in a thick coating of blood, from fingers to wrist, dripping in blood. My eyes snapped down to the clear water running over my clean hands. I shut my eyes, clenched my fists, took another deep breath, and said to myself, “You’re ok, you’re ok.” I opened my eyes and red, so much red on my hands, again I panicked. I shut the water off, quickly dried my hands, and a moment later made my excuses and drove home. Most nights my mother is listening for the door to open, no matter how late it is that I’m out. Tonight I was hoping she would be there, I needed to not be alone that night. I opened the door and was greeted with darkness. I quietly undressed, crawled into bed, and tried not to cry as I fell asleep. I have no idea if Vincent Borrusso is alive or dead.

Spinning & Falling Kelly Kaylee Holland

The first time I learned to fall was an excruciatingly hot Christmas day circa 1999. I am caught by my big brother Luke while trying to sneakily open my stocking before anyone in the house wakes up. Yet instead of berating me, he picks me up. Soon I am spinning in circles. At six, spinning means fun. It means freedom and laughter and joy. I am all pink cheeks, curly hair, missing teeth, and smiles. For me, everything is perfect. “Spin me faster Lukie!” I shriek in excitement. My brother Luke is my best friend. About thirteen years older than me, he is my hero. My mother says he’s going through a “stage.” He wears all black-t-shirts with skeletons and bats and his combat boots are scuffed from the concerts he attends. My favorite part about this “stage” is his hair. As long as a girls’, it’s a rainbow of colors. Sometimes he even spikes it with Elmer’s Glue making it look like the statue of Liberty’s crown. Today it hangs against his face in ribbons of noodles. Luke spins me faster, holding tightly to my wrists. My feet fly parallel to my body, high, high in the air. My Christmas nightgown twirls with me. I am Superwoman, a jet plane, and Rainbow Bright all in one. Everything is perfect. SNAP. I scream. Luke drops me. THUD.

I am no longer in my self-proclaimed sky. My mother runs to the room. BLACK. I wake up in a hospital room. I know it’s a hospital because of the sounds. There are so many noises. Footsteps running. Screams. Laughter. But the loudest ones are coming from the machines. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. They sound so loud. I can’t take it. I put my hands over my ears and my face contorts itself into a grimace. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. “Kayburger, how ya feelin’?” I feel a hand on my arm. My hero is all half-smiled and sags into the chair adjacent to the hospital bed that I am swallowed up in. “What happened?” I strain. My throat is dry. I sound like a much older version of myself. I’m about to ask for water when another voice intercedes. “Sweetheart, you and Luke were horsing around and you dislocated your arm.” My mother is beautiful. She’s blonde and glows. That’s what my grandfather—my father’s father—says about her. Blonde and glow-y. Her glow is a little dimmer now, replaced by a gray sheen. I don’t know if it’s from the hospital lights or from seeing her youngest daughter in the hospital. My father is next to her, arm on her shoulder, and smiles with his eyes. They’re blue and wrinkled at the edges. Kind eyes. The rest of my family squeezes through the room; Holly, chewing her favorite wintergreen bubble gum, Michael, standing quiet and solemn, Jennifer, deflating from baby. The weight being now in her arms, my niece Ilyssa. I inwardly vow to myself that I will teach my niece to spin someday. Like my noodle-haired-hero taught me. Everything is perfect. The next time I truly spin is my first high-school

party. This time, I’m watching the spinning—a bottle full of beer. I was chosen to bring this particular party favor. I snagged a beer from my father’s cooler to bring to the party. Of course, being afraid that he would find out I stole it in the first place, I couldn’t risk it being empty so it stayed how it was: full and cold. Due to the fullness of the bottle, it spins a little slower and wobbles a bit like a toddler first learning to walk, but nobody really cares. We sit in a circle, playing an adult-game of duck-duck goose, and watch with baited breath and anticipation as the bottle picks its next target. I look around at everyone’s faces. Some people are crossing their fingers, others are praying. Most, however, are just intently eyeing the wobbly bottle. Next to me is my best friend Katie Gurly. She wouldn’t let me go to the party without dressing my face with makeup. She has painted my face with expert skill, trying to help cover up my inherently and obvious chubby cheeks in an attempt to make me look more adult. Katie looks like my mother. She’s all blonde and glow-y. “OOOOOOOOHHHH” “KAYLEE! LOOK!” I do. The bottle is pointed at me. I look up and see the spinner directly across from me. We are western cowboys at a draw, we are Arrow and Target. Everything is not perfect. Brady Luttfring. The most attractive, popular boy on the high school JV soccer team. This can’t be happening to me. I feel my brow moisten. My palms are sticky with sweat. I can’t move. I feel a nudge. It’s my mother’s glowing blonde doppelgänger. “GO” she mouths. The rules of “Spin-the-Bottle” are pretty clear. Someone spins the bottle and it stops on a partner. You and that partner then kiss. In front of everyone.

Spinning & Falling I know all of these things and yet I somehow cannot move. I am super Gorilla-glued to the floor in fear and sweat. I must be a drenched puddle by now. I feel my second false face, made of concealer and eye shadow melt. How could anyone ever kiss me, let alone Brady Luttfring? Even over the music coming from the blaring speakers, anyone can hear the awkwardness that resonates itself in silence. And then Brady smiles. It’s a kind smile. He does it with his eyes. Like my kind father does. His eyes are also blue and remind me of marbles I used to play with as a kid. I am a kid no more though, after this, after tonight. These are the thoughts I think of as Brady moves closer to me, his beautiful tanned face getting closer to my dripping one. This must be taking too long for my best friend Katie Gurley. She pushes me, but her helpful push backfires, as my sweaty hands reach out to catch myself and we both fall. CLING CRASH I am drenched in beer and broken bottle and sweat. Everything is not perfect. There comes a time later when I learn to appreciate the art of watching things spin. This feeling comes when I am nineteen and reckless with my heart. We lay and watch the record spin and wobble in circles. It’s a soothing dance, and the lead singer warms the air with his smooth voice. My best friend’s arm is around me and I study his face. It is a beautiful face—but one that you would have to give a second glance to in order to see it’s beauty. His hair, thick and black—nearly blue—rests against his tanned golden face. His eyes, dark and tilted rest on perfectly high, level cheek bones. His nose is wide and flat and tells the tale of his heritage. His lips are too full and his white teeth are a crooked smile. He is mine. “What. Are. You. Looking. At.” He playfully jabs my

Spinning & Falling collarbone, sending waves of goose bumps. I blush, caught in the act, and roll my eyes in response. I never thought I could love someone as much as this. Tom and I had been through a lot together in only a short time. He helped me move four times in the past year. He was there for me when I cried my eyes out about my fear of finances and going back to my Junior year of college. We’ve fought over serious things and stupid things; we’ve laughed at ridiculous movies and ridiculous people; we’ve watched the stars come out and the sun set and rise. He is mine. My heart is spinning out of my chest. Everything is perfect. Tom suddenly gets a huge smile on his face, and I know what’s coming next. His hand comes out from around my shoulder and he makes a claw like motion, a tiger getting ready to pounce. I wince, and try to duck under a pillow, for I know what’s coming next. And then, I’m in a fit of laughter and hysterics. “STOP…STOP…PLEASE!” I plead as I feel his hands tickling the soft spot under my neck, his other hand at my hip, his fingers rampant against my skin. He tickles me and tickles me and tickles me. I try to fight him off but he is too strong. I give in and laugh and scream and beg for him to quit. RIP PLOP I have torn his blanket and ended up on the floor near his bed in an attempt to get away. He stops and I think I may have found a way out of this cruel torment. And then, in a swift hop, he’s on the floor with me and his claws are out again. “Ten second rule!” He smiles, eyes filled with amusement. He tickles me for what feels like another hour and I kick and scream and flop.

Then he brushes his lips against mine and I fall once more. Only a few weeks later, I find myself falling out of sleep and waking up in Leesburg, Florida. It’s a Tuesday night. I lay on the couch, watching— but not really watching—television. My arms are dangled on the side of the cushions, my fingers nearly brushing the floor. I want to sleep, but my head is too dizzy with thoughts. It was a busy semester between waitressing and working in the children’s ministry and participating in a theatre production and trying to maintain a 4.0 GPA and coming home to an even more broken family. My noodle-haired hero is going through the hardest time of his life. Long gone are the days of his holey shirts and care-free colorful spikey hair. Surely these days brought him holes and spikes, but no longer are they on his head, but rather, through his heart. Luke’s wife has just divorced him, leaving a messy house, a note, and no Christmas tree. To be honest, I think that’s what boggles me most, even more so than her abandoning her daughter and writing a note explaining why she left him. She took their Christmas Tree. Like the Grinch, swooping in one night, taking all the canned pudding, the gifts, and stuffing the tree in his pseudo Santa pack. “Aunt Ya-Ya, You can help me with my Princess Elsa braid?” I come up from my thoughts to see my three-year old niece. Ariana is looking at me with her big brown eyes as though the answer I give will change the course of history. “Sure, Banana, come sit up here with me.” I shift my body to a sitting position and my niece climbs on my lap. Can I really do a Princess Elsa braid? No. There’s not a chance. But she’s too little to tell the difference between a regular braid and one that takes much

more skill than I will ever have. Even at three, her hair is long. It’s blonde and straight down her shoulders. It’s nothing like her father’s noodles. I take my time, trying my best to make sure each piece of hair is paired with its corresponding twist. Each strand spins around the other, and is pulled tight enough so it won’t come loose. SWISH SWISH SWISH I braid my niece’s hair with much more patience and skill than I would have ever put in my own. I braid her hair so well and pray that she will forget that she doesn’t have a Christmas tree this year or a mother. I braid her hair and hope that when she grows up she never feels hurt, that she never falls. I braid her hair and feel my anger grow at her mother, my sister-in-law, for leaving her. I braid her hair and my face starts getting wet. I’m crying; my tears are soaking into her hair. I keep braiding, perfectly, each strand spinning around the next. When I’m done, I quickly dry my eyes with the back of my hands, and then take her off of my lap. She runs to her room, to her play mirror to see the work that I’ve done. She runs back into the living room with a huge smile. “I look booooooooootiful!” She exclaims, spinning around in circles, her ruby pajama dress twirling in the air. “Thank you, Aunt Ya-ya!” My giggling little niece rewards me with a hug. Everything isn’t perfect. But she is.

Chasing the Stars Emily Pickles

In the years I spent growing up to the old age of five many things happened to me and far more events happened around me. Unfortunately, I remember very few of them. I remember moving into apartment E, made out of white bricks, when I was four years old – something I didn’t believe existed having grown up in a house constructed of red bricks. I remember reading my first books while sitting on top of my father’s shoulders. I remember hiding a PB&J sandwich underneath my sofa and getting away with it (at least until the ants showed up). I remember collecting rocks from the nearby train tracks and piling them one after the other under my front porch. I remember running for my life from sharks that lived in my grandmother’s carpet and leaping from chair to rug to avoid lava. I remember believing with the conviction of a new convert that butterflies were poisonous, but most of all I remember the first time I saw the stars. In large cities and towns the stars don’t often visit – it’s too loud for them, too many people, or I suppose it could be that it’s too bright and they know they’re not needed. Luckily, that night I was far from any sized civilization. Back then, we lived in the middle of nowhere just outside of I-think-we-might-be-lost. The nearest K-Mart was twenty-five minutes away, and the closest Winn Dixie was even farther. Any shopping trip was an adventure worthy of great excitement. That night was warm, like most Florida nights, and comfortable. Unlike most Florida nights, I was outside. For

Chasing Stars what reason, I have no idea. Perhaps, my family had just returned from visiting my Granny or we had just returned from church. Regardless of why, I found my three and a half year old self outdoors and looking out into the ebony blanket nestled around my house. As my parents released me from my car seat, something drew my attention. For the first time in my life I noticed pin pricks of light scattered through the night sky, hovering in the air. Having grown up just outside of I-think-we-mightbe-lost, I was well acquainted with the vast area of grass and trees that made up my yard. I knew what was supposed to be there and what wasn’t, but I’d never seen these stars in my yard before. I didn’t have a name for those points of harmless fire, but I did know that I wanted to hold them, to capture them in a jar and use them to light up my room at night. They were the prettiest lights I’d ever seen and I wanted to touch them even if I couldn’t keep them. The bright dots pierced the shadows near me. They weren’t that far away, just out of reach. Maybe if I ran fast enough I could catch them before they flitted farther away from me. I could catch them. I was the fastest in my preschool class whenever we raced, at least when no one cheated. I could catch them! Without a second thought I ran. Ignoring the calls of Mom and Dad I plunged into the blackness reaching out my tiny hand toward the floating embers. But the closer I got the farther away they were. I wasn’t afraid of the dark woods that encompassed my yard, but I wasn’t dumb enough to go exploring on my own either. However, that common sense that my parents had faithfully attempted to install left my head the second I had noticed the stars. I continued to run. The tiny suns had flickered to a new location on the edge of my yard, but I could still reach them. If I tried hard enough I could catch them. Their yellow glow made my backyard a magical place and I wanted them to stay forever. I was drawn to them in a way I had not experienced before. I needed to hold them close to my chest and examine what made them glimmer like my favorite night light, what made them dash back and forth so quickly. Still, I ran.

I was nearing them now. If I stretched just a bit farther… Too slow! They darted away, making my task more impossible. And yet, I was still so close. I could have sworn my finger tips felt the warmth of their glow. They were just out of my reach. Just a few more feet and I would have them.... I froze. Suddenly I had become aware of how far away my parents were. I whipped myself around to face the spot I had stood moments before, searching for the silhouettes of my parents in the darkness. I remembered now why I shouldn’t run away from mom and dad and how close I was to heading straight into the woods. However, to my surprise my parents had followed me into the unknown, albeit at a slower and more relaxed pace. I grinned at my mom, happy that she wanted to see the lights too. I turned back around to face the stars and giggled. Breathing hard from my run I pointed towards the lights. I was thrilled to be outside in the darkness chasing the stars, even though I now knew I (probably) couldn’t catch them. “What are they?” I wondered out loud. I needed to know what the lights were even if I couldn’t possess them. My mom extended her hand towards mine, wanting to take my hand. “Come on,” she said “It’s late and you should be in bed already.” I wasn’t tired at all, but I needed to know what the stars in my yard were called. “But what are they?” I insisted. My mother laughed to herself and crouched down next to me, “They’re fireflies.” “Fireflies,” I repeated in hushed wonder, “They’re pretty. Like stars.” “Yes they are, sweetheart. Now come inside,” said my mom while rising from her crouch next to me. “But they’ll leave!” “Maybe, but they’ll come back tomorrow.” “Promise?” “Promise.” “Okay,” I relented and took her hand. Together we walked back towards the house, our way lighted by my own personal stars.

Critical

Works

The following selection of undergraduate critical works has been submitted by both previous and current Southeastern undergraduate students. The student writing has been nominated by professors; thus, the works are derived from a variety of courses and levels. The theoretical concerns expressed in this annual are three-fold, from the performative (in textuality and genre) and audience-centered (in Reader-Response and film), to the culturally negotiated (in postcolonialism and novel). Stephanie Bontell’s article shares with Jon Geniesse’s the performative critique of genre as to how meaning hinges upon a text’s use as well as content. Bontell’s “The Anxiety of Blindspots: David R. Dickens on Derrida,” is in its form a deconstruction of MLA style’s use in expressing deconstruction. Her text performs “broken rules” while it discusses Dicken’s Bloomian anxiety with Derrida. In the end her own work is implicated, like Dickens himself, by a heritage from MLA. Different than Bontell’s text, Jon Geniesse’s reexamines the biblical Book of Job in its performativity of dramatic structure that shows its uniqueness in the biblical canon. The selection of audience-centered criticism comes from Abilene Helms and Chad Loving. Helms’ text, “Big Fish: A Tale about a Fish and His Signified” uses a readerly and deconstructive lens to explore how the characters in the film Big Fish negotiate relationships and reflect on life through narratives and truths or lies. The text portrays the possibility of numerous possible interpretations. In Loving’s “Achieving Atonement: The Act of Reading as Redemption,” he poses and answers a crucial question as to whether an audience, or readers can offer redemption to their author. The last work of of the selection, Sean Meek’s “The Horror: Imperialist Discourse in The Heart of Darkness” explores the crucial issue of the “global village” and whether the pull of universalism will homogenize ethical principles and moral behavior. Meek looks to The Heart of Darkness as the test case of hegemonic control over the values of a culture. We hope you enjoy these thoughtful pieces and that they encourage you to think critically within your own reading.

The Anxiety of Blind Spots: David R. Dickens on Derrida Stephanie Bontell

Meta Intro This following discourse exposes the limitations of authorial ingenuity that result from writing, especially when conforming to the MLA style. As particularly exemplified in David R. Dickens’ study Deconstruction and Marxist Inquiry, current MLA standards fail to consider the post-structural potential and interpretative possibilities of a text by instituting mythical generalities resulting from an outdated model of formalism. With regards to the use and integration of certain sources, Dickens relies upon his precursor’s work to complement “his” ideas while such sources deemed viable by MLA style do not sufficiently provide the full content of the precursor’s work in its originality, thus violating a standard of authorial ethic. Because the ambiguity arising from MLA style neither provides Dickens nor the readers of his study with a substantial level of accountability in order to enhance contextual transparency, plagiarism1 has actually become more prevalent while the misconstrual of the intentions from an influential text has become more frequent. Despite the emergence of post-structural analyses, MLA’s current prototype is anything but current, having yet to attempt reform or welcome deconstruction in light of a dawning literary era.

Blind Spots In the largely controversial yet groundbreaking work, “The Anxiety of Influence,” Harold Bloom integrates the example of Oedipus, the blind King of Thebes in Greek Mythology, to bluntly depict the extent to which a writer assumes the identity of his or her literary forefathers (10). Bloom argues that authorial content is additionally structured by ancestral influences. Although the “precursor” (Bloom 14) of a text is not directly acknowledged, the writer naturally “misprisions” (Bloom 7) himself to complement the writing of the seemingly ambiguous. According to Bloom, this belief is otherwise known as the “Tessera’’ (14). Outlined in his “six revisionary ratios,” (14) the Tessera is recognized as “completion and antithesis” (14) where “a poet antithetically ‘completes’ his precursor, by so reading the parent-poem as to retain its terms but to mean them in another sense, as though the precursor had failed to go far enough’’ (14). For example, in the study Deconstruction and Marxist Inquiry, David R. Dickens, a PhD from the University of Nevada, expresses this dialectic notion of originality as he antagonistically questions the merit of Jacques Derrida’s deconstruction. Throughout his discourse, Dickens accuses Derrida of interdependency only to avoid admitting to his own hypocrisy. While explaining the reasons for the frequent violation of authorial ingenuity, Bloom writes, “Every disciple takes away something from his master’’ (6). After all, Plato was once his own “Aristotle” before adopting the role of “Socrates.” Unlike Dickens, whose unwillingness to mention his influences might be regarded as unethical, Derrida still manages to recognize what he dubs, “THE DISTANT VOICE’’ (572). As he “records” his own conversation, Derrida conjures up unanswered questions regarding the unknown person “on the other end of the line” (572). In order to preserve the legacy of

his forefathers, then, Dickens must transmit their message through his “own” voice. Derrida further realizes, “that one is there, present, and listening ’’ (572). Haunted by his own influences, Dickens, though incredibly obstinate, must drag himself to the reality that his writing is characterized by banality, only recognizable as one of a mere descendant (Dickens 151). Because the “master” and the “disciple” are now one, (6) he can never totally distinguish himself as a singular entity. By projecting “his” voice, Dickens pays homage to his ancestors while the reader cannot help but hear the presence of the ominous “other” chiming in (Lacan). During his deconstruction of the word, “yes,” Derrida remarks, “Yes must preserve itself, and thus reiterate itself, archive its voice in order to give it once again to be heard and understood’’ (576). Throughout Dickens’ work, repetition is inside the message, not necessarily present in the delivery (152). As his discourse begins, Dickens espouses, “The purpose of this essay is to examine the merits of the case for attempting to include deconstruction as a supplement to Marxist theory’’ (147). Yet, can deconstruction really serve “as a supplement to Marxist theory?” Is this Dickens’ true purpose? Bloom claims otherwise, stating, “This is the anxiety of influencing, yet no reversal in this area is a true reversal’’ (6). Written in MLA style, Dickens’ writing is already censored, undergoing little variety. In an attempt to establish structural balance, Dickens restates his purpose practically verbatim as he later affirms, “The radical indeterminacy contained in Derrida’s Saussurean concept of meaning as arbitrary and relational is seen as providing an important corrective to the teleological tendencies of classical Marxism” (152). Dickens only reminds the reader that while he so desperately tries to escape the influence of his forefathers, the impossibility of his dialectic message is

only perceived “with a certain ear, with a certain hearing’’ (Derrida 587). For Dickens to “hear” what he wants, he must misprision (Bloom 7) himself to nurture his own biases over Derrida’s. In the book, Points: Interviews, Derrida himself prominently declaimed, “we are all translators, mediators’’ (116). Regardless of the professional writing standard of MLA and the authorial integrity it supposedly prioritizes, literary obscurity is a form of mere invisibility to Dickens. Detectable only by the reader, Dickens’ failure to recognize the hermeneutics of his text is not supported by MLA’s required footnotes and reference pages. While analyzing Derrida’s interpretation of what constitutes the “logocentric bias” (148) Dickens affirms, “Each of these concepts, according to Derrida, contains a notion of presence, and all have been used by philosophers to establish original foundation or first principles for their ideas” (149). Derrida’s own observation indicates the behavioral and contextual limitations of Dickens’ work (116). In Dickens’ defense, if all writers were accused of plagiarism, would they ever admit to it? When discussing this paradox, Bloom lists several examples of writers including Shakespeare and Milton who are guilty of the same crime who, perhaps, have not been properly indicted (11). The interests of the writer prevail over the verdict of the audience. Although Derrida suggests that “only [the] visible remains,” (574) the “language of eyes” (574) has yet to support a standard of accountability. Form as an explanatory device, then, does not suffice. Through his structural mention of Nietzsche and Saussure, (148) Dickens fails to formally declare how they were instrumental in forming his own antithesis. For instance, when discussing Derrida’s fascination with Hegelian dialectics, Dickens notes, “In his work on phenomenology, Derrida refers favorably to the concept of

Blind Spots mediation in Hegel’s dialectic’’ (153) to later assume that “Derrida associates the Hegelian dialectic with the desire to repress the dissemination of reference and foster a false reconciliation of contradiction and difference” (153). Confirming Derrida’s deconstructive prerogatives, the message of Dickens’ excerpt is already programmed and continues to be permeated by an institutionalized sense of ancestral hierarchy. While Dickens cannot identify his paternal complex, the presence of the ambiguous is still heavily breathing on the other line of the ‘programaphone,’ Derrida’s representation of encoded writing. Derrida describes this linguistic concoction of influence “as an alpha and omega-programaphone in which all histories, all stories, discourses, knowledge, all the signatures to come [….] are computed in advance outside the scope any effective computer, understood in advance” (587). Not only is the dissociation from dialectic thinking a mere impossibility for Dickens, but also emblematically serves as a testimony to the deconstructive possibilities of a text. Because Dickens remains overshadowed by his linguistic forefathers, his credibility and account of Derrida begins to corrode, gradually declining as Dickens sings the remaining refrain of a lingering choir. In conjunction with Bloom’s theory of misprisoning and Derrida’s concept of the programaphone, Dickens’ work embodies how the ancestral forces behind his discourse only perpetuate the inevitable banality resulting from individualistic reticence. Bound by the hegemony ordained through linguistic conformity, Dickens’ work verifies the deconstructive capacity of his writing. As Derrida himself notoriously declared, “there is nothing outside the text” (Derrinda 158). Writing often deconstructs itself, synergistically connecting the intergenerational responsibilities of the present to the patriarchal priorities of the past. To avoid confronting his

Blind Spots own theoretical preferences, Dickens, tritely returning to his traditional strategy of mocking Derrida, writes, “The basic unit of all languages, according to Saussure, is the linguistic sign, which for him consists of two components: an acoustic component he called the signifier, and a mental component which is the signified, itself representing something in the world” (148). Realizing that his work is never really his is a truth Dickens cannot bear. Distorting the words of Derrida is aligned with Lacan’s theory of the “Object” signifier in which he states, “a sign is not the sign of something, but of an effect that is what is presumed as such by a functioning of the signifier” (49). To Dickens’ dismay, the relationship between the Lacanian idea of the subject, to which he pertains, and the object, the role in which his literary forefathers assume, continues at Dickens’ consent. Without the perpetuation of his ancestral influences, Dickens would be forced to forgo his parental tactics to gain approval and essentially motivation from the previously rebuked Derrida. Arguably, Dickens already does this, to his great unawareness, as he constantly relies on his forefathers, presumably Saussure, Nietzsche, and Marx, not to criticize Derrida, but to advance his sentimentality towards certain ancestral ideologies. His attachment to the literature of his forefathers or his anxiety of influence (Bloom 6) cannot exist without the presence of the hermeneutics. This understanding, therefore, inspires transference, the Freudian notion of repetition to ensure reassurance. After Dickens repeats these words to himself, he leaves the legacy of his forefathers for those willing to uphold “his” beliefs. Amidst this paradox the blind Oedipus remains, whose inclination and promiscuous desires eventually lead to the death of his own father. 1

Endnote

“Plagiarism.’’ Def. 1. Oxford English Dictionary. 3rd ed. 2006.

Works Cited Bloom, Harold. “Introduction.’’ The Anxiety of Influence. New York: Oxford UP, 1997. 6-14. Print. Derrida, Jacques. “The exorbitant. Question of method.’’ Of Grammatology. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1976. 157 – 164. Print. Derrida, Jacques. A Derrida Reader: Between the Blinds. New York: Columbia UP, 1991. 572-587. Print. Dickens, David. R. “Deconstruction and Marxist Inquiry.’’ Sociological Perspectives. 33, (1990) 147-158. JSTOR. Web. 19 January 2013. Lacan, Jacques. “Livre XVII.” Le Seminaire. Paris: Ed. du Seuil, 1998. 139. Print.

Bakhtinian Dialogism in the

Book of Job

Jon Geniesse

Of all the books contained within the biblical canon, perhaps no other matches the literary quality of Job. Its tragic dialogue on the meaning of suffering is both probing and profound while its comedic conclusion that restores to Job all of what he lost (and more) offers hope that all will be well in the end. However, in recognizing the tension that arises between the bookâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tragic and comedic elements, one may begin to approach its problematicâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;that is, the irresolution of meaning. It is a plurivocal drama that resists any reductionistic attempts to extract a singular principle or meaning from the text. That is, Job paints a portrait of the human condition in such a way that one cannot find a fulfillment of meaning to satisfy the inconsistency of belief in a God who is both immanent and benevolent with undeserved suffering. For this reason, many people are troubled by the book. In reading Job, we undergo an experience which we cannot explain because it offers us no true explanation of the dilemma of theodicy, which we so often take to be its intended topic. What then can we say we learn from Job? It is my contention that the Book of Job is unique among the constituents of the biblical canon because, like a drama (with which it has generic consistencies) it performs its meaning rather than stating it directly. Job demonstrates the theological project of attempting to understand a mysterious God and world. This process is

discursive in nature. The speeches of the characters in Job are thrust forward as both authoritative and internally persuasive discourses. Tension is engendered by the disagreements between the satan and God concerning religious altruism, between Job, Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar concerning the moral order of the universe, between Job and God concerning justice, and between God and the narrator concerning all of these things. When the discourse of each of these speakers meets with the others, however meaningful their individual arguments may be, the cacophony of dialogic exchanges obscures their monologic assertions. We watch the central speaker Job reject the authoritative discourses presented to him because his experiences will not be accounted for by them. In this manner, The Book of Job performs the discursive development of an ideological consciousness of God and the world via the rejection of authoritative discourse and assimilation of persuasive discourse that Mikhail Bakhtin propounds in his The Topic of the Speaking Person from Discourse in the Novel. In order to substantiate this assertion, in what follows, I will provide a step-by-step commentary of a Bakhtinian reading of Job. To begin with, in the first two chapters of Job, we are presented with the confrontation of authoritative and persuasive discourse through the characters of God and the satan (the Hebrew text uses the definite article before “satan,” indicating it was not used as a proper name but as a title). When the satan arrives at a gathering of the heavenly host, God inquires of him his recent occupations, to which, the satan replies that he has been surveying the earth and its people (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version, Job 1.6-7). God continues his line of questioning by asking whether the satan has noticed Job, a blameless and upright servant of God (1.8). The satan challenges God’s authoritative evaluation of the character of Job by arguing that God’s protection and blessing of Job are the only reasons the man is obedient (1.9-10). The argument

hinges on the assertion that if God were to afflict Job, then Job would curse his Lord openly (1.11). Authorization to destroy all the blessed possessions of Job is then given to the satan by God for the purpose of proving the matter (1.12). When reading this, we must wonder why God initiates the argument at all, and, more importantly, why God, the supreme authority, seems to be unsure of God’s own claim to the extent that he accepts the challenge that the satan persuasively raises. All this seems rather capricious on the part of God and, even as God’s authority is demonstrated in the authorization of the satan to test Job, God’s authority is made suspect by the possibility that God may be wrong. That is, in acquiescing to challenge, the God character allows the distance an authoritative discourse requires to be reduced to some extent (Bakhtin, 581). The persuasive discourse of the tempter makes direct contact and God’s speech is no longer fully sufficient on its own—the authoritative word’s supposedly static, singular meaning opens up to the possibility of change (581). This shift presents us with dialogic exchange rather than monologic pronouncement. After this initial discussion with God, the satan proceeds to have his way with Job’s possessions, annihilating all of the man’s 7,000 sheep, 3,000 camels, 500 yoke of oxen, and 500 donkeys. The servants of Job, his 7 sons and his 3 daughters are tragically killed as well (Job 1.13-19), but Job, as God predicted, maintained his integrity (2.4). Of course, the satan is not satisfied and raises the ante by betting that if Job’s flesh were afflicted then he would surely curse God (2.4-5). Again, the satan is permitted to test Job (2.6). Then, having been stricken with terrible sores, Job mourns atop a heap of ashes, scraping his boils with a potshard (2.7-8). The narrator records Job’s wife tempting him to curse God and Job’s stubborn refusal to sin with his lips (2.10). The dialogic pattern from first chapter is retained in this second chapter, and if the book ended here, one might conclude that God had proven

Book of Job to the satan that religious altruism was not only possible but actual. Yet, the book does not end at this juncture, and the narrator introduces new speaking persons who will converse with Job for another 39 chapters in a discourse given from the lower human perspective as opposed to the lofty sphere of the heavenly host. When Bildad, Eliphaz and Zophar do arrive on the scene at the end of chapter 2, they observe 7 days of silence with their lamentable friend Job according to the mourning rituals of their Ancient Near Eastern culture (Job 2.11-13). After the seven day period of mourning, Job breaks the silence to curse the day of his birth (3.1-26). Eliphaz is the first to respond to Job’s wailing. He seems offended that the wise Job who had so often counseled many and who feared God would forget his own advice (4.1-6). Job is implored to remember that the innocent are preserved by God and that the guilty are destroyed—each receives according to what he or she deserves (4.6-9). This is exemplary of what is now called “retribution theology.” Eliphaz is arguing that there is a moral order to the world, and the implication of his argument is that Job deserves what has befallen him for whatever transgression(s) he has committed against God. This is absurd enough in its own right, but the rhetorical move that Eliphaz makes to establish the irrefutable truth of his ideology of the moral order of the world borders on blasphemous. He claims to have been personally spoken to by God on this matter through a theophanic vision (4.12-21). Thusly, the authority of God’s voice is said to corroborate Eliphaz’s discourse. The desired effect on the part of this selfproclaimed prophet is to distance his word from any others so that it cannot be challenged—establishment of authority is the intention. On that note, we have already seen that the authority God’s own word was willfully destabilized in God’s discourse with the satan, and this puts Eliphaz at odds with God. Job’s subsequent response to the claim of Eliphaz

Book of Job is cast in poignant language. In chapter 6, he remarks on the treachery with which his friend has treated him by dismissing his right, even his necessity, to grieve for the pains he has endured at the hand of God (v.1-20). Turning his reproach directly toward Eliphaz, Job declares that his friend is in fact afraid of the sight of calamity (Job 6.21). The thrust is that Job’s undeserved suffering throws a wrench in the augers, pinions, gears, and levers that drive the mechanistic understanding Eliphaz maintains of moral order in the world. Eliphaz fears the dissolution of stability when he witnesses his broken friend and so reverts to axiomatic dogma to make sense of the inexplicable. Job despises this internally unpersuasive word in light of the obvious chaos of his situation; however, he avoids the error of averring his own word’s authority by saying, “Teach me, and I will be silent; make me understand how I have gone astray” (6.24). Job here exhibits his openness to development through dialogic discourse—if, and only if, the word is internally persuasive. This is remarkably congruous with the God character who likewise gave the satan the opportunity to demonstrate the persuasiveness of his word. All this is demonstrated within the first 6 chapters, but the book goes on. As if one berating with dogmatic truth principles was insufficient, Bildad proffers his wisdom to Job as well. The second friend of Job reaffirms the moral order to which Eliphaz attested in chapter 4 (8.3-4). He adds that Job should repent so God will restore him to his rightful habitation (8.5-7). Just like his counterpart Eliphaz, Bildad appeals to authority in order to substantiate his contention: For inquire, please, of bygone ages, and consider what the fathers have searched out. For we are but of yesterday and know nothing, for our days on earth are a shadow. Will they not teach you and tell you and utter words out of their understanding? (8.8-10) Bildad is perhaps less bold than Eliphaz who staked the

authority of his argument on direct revelation from God, but he commits the filial fallacy. He suggests, as monologic authoritative discourses do, that what he has said is already acknowledged in the annals of history. Because of its condition of being prior, it is situated in the lofty spheres above all other discourses and ought never to be profaned by the contestations of them (Bakhtin 581). In this manner, Bildad too has deviated from the character of God. Naturally, Job can stand no more for Bildad’s platitudes than Eliphaz’s, but his response to Bildad is not concerned with his right to grieve as it was with Eliphaz. This time, Job’s reply is that he is fully aware of what tradition says about repenting and being upright to return to God’s favor, but insists that to be right before God is impossible (Job 9.2). He gives no indication that he would intend to repent, for he is certain that he is blameless for the catastrophe that has consumed him. This fact has already been established by the narrator and God heretofore (1.1; 1.8; 2.3). Thus, for Job to be upright before God, it would mean to prove his blamelessness to the deity rather than to recant or change his ways. Furthermore, God’s hierarchical supremacy precludes the possibility of answering God in such a way (9.3-14). That is, what can Job possibly say or do to prove his uprightness to the very God who determines what is right? Indeed, Job thinks that there are no words or deeds which can restore him to rightness before God, and that his only recourse is an appeal to mercy (9.15). Job points out the injustice of such a hierarchical system. It is a tyranny because when one’s word is elevated above all others as authoritative, it automatically subdues the others regardless of their rightness or persuasiveness (9.19-35). Job’s argument against Bildad’s understanding of the relationship between God and people is internally persuasive for Job himself if not Bildad. Interestingly, what we have already seen as the

reader, but Job has not, is that God is not the domineering authority figure he and his friends suppose. God has proven, even while exercising actual power (by authorizing the satan’s assault on Job), that God lays no a claim to absolute discursive authority (by granting the satan the opportunity to persuade God). Thus, God has already demonstrated his dialogic openness, and Job seems to be working this out for himself on logical grounds, since, in chapter 10, he proceeds to lodge the complaint against God which he said would be futile if Bildad’s argument were true. This complaint is comprised of numerous rhetorical questions and emphatic declarations that challenge the justice of a creator punishing his creation for its malfunction (Job 10.1-22). In turn, as did the other friends, Zophar seizes the opportunity to express his own indignation with Job’s discourse. The Naamathite has no substantial argument, but attempts a rhetorical attack on Job’s speech. Job’s words are a multitudinous babble of mockery (11.2-3). His claims to pure doctrine and cleanliness are boastful and lacking all humility according to Zophar (11.4). The sense is that to argue with God is irreverent, and Zophar desires deeply that the deity would deign to reply to Job in order to set him in his proper place: But oh, that God would speak and open his lips to you, and that he would tell you the secrets of wisdom! For he is manifold in understanding. Know then that God exacts of you less than your guilt deserves. (11.5-6) Notice the suggestion that Job lacks wisdom, and the puffery of the statement that God is “manifold in understanding.” Zophar assumes that declaring God’s plenitude and Job’s paucity makes him correct—it apparently agrees with his religious prejudices concerning the disparity between deity and humanity. His certitude is such that, in the last line of the quote above, his rhetoric shifts from inciting God to speak to pronouncing on

Book of Job behalf of God. In consonance with the other two friends of Job, Zophar has also affirmed a strict moral order of the world in that same line. The following lines continue Zophar’s rhetoric on the omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence of God as contrasted with the worthlessness and stupidity of humanity as if such flattery would necessarily earn God’s endorsement (Job 11.7-17). Then, Zophar’s concluding lines buttress Bildad’s insistence that Job must repent (11.13-10). Pointing to the disparity—or distance—between God and humanity while concomitantly presuming to speak for God has the rhetorical effect of claiming the authority of his discourse over Job’s. The irony of this method bares its ugly maw again. Now that a full cycle of the argumentation of his friends has completed, Job reasserts his own discourse with further amplified force. Sarcastically, Job concedes that his friends must be the very sort of wise people who know and do as they have argued and that their wisdom will die with them (12.1-2), for they have claimed to have divined the great secrets of wisdom they pronounced only God could possess. On the contrary, not only does Job already know these things, but also does everyone else (12.3). The authoritative discourses that Bildad, Eliphaz and Zophar have reiterated with indefatigable zeal are not unknown but unpersuasive. Job urges them to ask the beasts, the birds, the bushes, and the fish for counsel in the matter (12.7-8). Moreover, he insists for them to discern wisdom by actual experience, rhetorically asking “Does not the ear test words as the palate tastes food?” (12.11). Wisdom is developed, according to Job, through the accrual of experiences and reflection on those experiences, for “Wisdom is with the aged, and understanding in length of days” (12.12). Job’s attestation is that for any ideology to be coherent it must be developing by the assimilation of any and every persuasive discourse, even the discourse of the material world which he personifies in verses 7 and 8 of chapter 12.

Book of Job As chapter 13 opens, we find that Job has begun to realize through this dramatic dialogue that he can and must, as a matter of integrity, argue his case with God himself (13.1-3). Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar, in attempting to defend traditional, authoritative, and orthodox ideologies in the name of God, are actually (and ironically) lying on Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s behalf by denying the observable truths of the world (Job 13.4-7). If they seek favor by defending this God of their ideology they will have to answer to the true God directly for their blatant denial of truth because God will not be deceived by their reified words (13.8-12). Job finally finds the full confidence that in the honest pursuit of truth, even should he miss the mark, he will find salvation on the grounds that only a person who puts his hope in the God of wisdom and truth can challenge that God with the truths he or she has discerned (13.13-16). The apotheosis of his becoming a multi-voiced ideological consciousness begins when Job attempts to provoke God to a formal legal hearing in which their discourses can meet and their internal persuasiveness be judged for assimilation (13.17-22). From this point onward in the book, Job and his friends continue in cycles of argumentation much like what has been explicated thus far. Those discourses need not be commented upon for the purposes of this paper, and the next discourse of interest is that which occurs when God manifests to answer Job and his friends. In the 38th chapter of The Book of Job, the long awaited arrival of God on the scene finally comes to fruition. God, from within a whirlwind concealing his form, proceeds to interrogate Job concerning his knowledge of and power over the world (38.2-39.30). Demonstrating what seems to be an inconsistency of character (based on Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s openness to the satanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s challenge), God has rhetorically created the authoritative distance between humanity and deity that Zophar argued. The critical reader must ask why. A possible answer is that Job, in

his refutations of his friends’ discourses has become as monologic and as authoritative as they were. Indeed, this seems to be the case when, in chapter 40, Job promises to attend the words of the deity without further argument (v. 3-5). Apparently, Job had forgotten to listen to his counterparts and had become as dogmatic. Then, after Job’s concession to hear the deity out, God continues in the same line of rhetorical questions as before (40.634). While some readers suggest that the thrust of God’s interrogation is to disprove Job, it is more likely that God is simply reminding Job that, for all his experience and wisdom, his knowledge and power are finite—he has no more claim to authoritative discourse than do Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar. A reading which would suggest God’s disproving of Job ignores the fact that God never addresses the moral order of the world or undeserved suffering. The deity’s demonstration of sovereignty has more to do with authority than with being right, and this, in tandem with the numerous references to speaking and listening (e.g., Job 38.1; 38.3; 38.4b; 38.18b; 40.1-9), suggests that the remonstration is against Job’s conduct of discourse. The conclusion is that Job has exceeded his discursive limitations in the authoritative manner that he has spoken with his friends and God. The opening verses of chapter 42 of The Book of Job drives home this point: Then Job answered and said: “I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted. ‘Who is this that hides counsel without knowledge?’ Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know. ‘Hear and I will speak; I will question you and you make it known to me.’ I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you; therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes.” [emphasis added] (v.1-6) In this speech of repentance, Job quotes the cruxes

of God’s speech toward him and he admits that his knowledge is limited and that what he has proclaimed to be authoritatively irrefutable knowledge was actually the assimilation of various discourses he had heard of God. If it seemed uncertain that God’s complaint against Job was in fact due to Job’s misconduct in dialogue, then Job’s repentance of such must solidify the point. The issue at stake is not Job’s correctness. Indeed, God goes on to confirm what Job has said of the deity to Eliphaz (Job 42.78). However, at this juncture the problematic I first spoke of—the unfitting comedic end of this tragic drama— comes to the foreground. Collectively, Job’s speeches denounce the notion of a moral order and retribution theology which Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar aver is authoritative. So, if Job is correct, why then are Job’s fortunes restored and, actually, in double the quantity that they were before (42.10; 42.12)? His latter days were reportedly more blessed than his early days. God gave Job 7 more sons and 3 more daughters, who were the most beautiful women in the land and whom he gave inheritances among his sons (42.13-15). Job also goes on to live another 140 years. The narrator’s voice in this last chapter of prose that closes the book in much the way it began contradicts the proclamations of God and Job. As readers, we are now left wondering what the point of the story might be because the conflict between moral order and undeserved suffering—that is, between authoritative and internally persuasive discourses—is left decidedly unresolved. Even when God’s discourse seems to establish that there is no mechanical operation of such order in the world, the narrator’s ending shows just the opposite. The only decisive conclusion one can draw from this conflict of ideology and experience is that the two must remain dialogic. In other words, the evolutionary development of ideological consciousness of God and the world operates on the discernment and subsequent assimilation of internally

Book of Job persuasive discourses (whether those discourses are tradition or experience). In sum, The Book of Job performs a Bakhtinian development of consciousness through dialogic discourse by not resolving its discussions once and for allâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;by ending without ever explicitly declaring a timeless truth principle. The discourses recorded in Job remain radically open to interaction with further persuasive discourses in order to progress human understanding of the Godworld relationship. Furthermore, the book invites us to extrapolate this model of open discursivity and apply it to the whole of the biblical canon and theological orthodoxy in two ways. Firstly, Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zopharâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arguments are based on both orthodox theological tradition and are exemplified in the canonical books Deuteronomy, Proverbs, and Psalms, but Job and God both denounce these discourses. Secondly, The Book of Job is formally similar to a metafiction with its narrative framework in chapters 1, 2, and 42 that bookends and contradicts the internal dramatic dialogues. In this manner, the book draws attention to the relationship between ideology and reality by posing questions and employing irony and self-reflection. Perhaps the lesson to be learned from The Book of Job, in a Bakhtinian reading of the text, is that religious ideology concerning God and the world should never become reified authoritative word things, but should remain dynamic, open dialogues that consciously develop via the discernment and assimilation of internally persuasive discourses.

Book of Job Works Cited The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. Eds. J. I. Packer, Wayne Grudem, Ajith Fernando. Wheaton, Illinois: Crossway, 2001. Print. Bakhtin, Mikhail. “The Topic of the Speaking Person from Discourse in the Novel.” The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. 3rd ed. Ed. David Richter. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2007. 578-87. Print.

Big Fish:

A Tale about a Fish and His Signified Abilene Helms

Jacques Derrida once wrote, “[W]e will not listen to the source itself in order to learn what it is or what it means, but rather to the turns of speech, the allegories, figures, metaphors, as you will, into which the source has deviated, in order to lose it or rediscover it—which always amounts to the same” (Derrida 280). In other words, when someone is describing an event either through verbal communication or written text, the listener inadvertently interprets the meaning behind the author’s words. For example, I recently had the opportunity to read Daniel Wallace’s book Big Fish—a fanciful tale about a father (Edward Bloom), his son (William Bloom), and philosophy, or more appropriately a theory about truths, facts, and identity. Through dialogue between father and son and flashbacks, readers realize that William is not an example of proairetic interpretation; rather, he becomes the storyteller who reveals the deconstructed and reconstructed components behind his father’s elaborate tales. Derrida is generally referred to as the “father of deconstruction,” deconstruction being a literary method that analyzes texts, hidden agendas (like Derrida’s

Big Fish exposure of the “binary”), and assumptions about the readership and rhetorical methods of language (Richards 54). Language is a complex structure; it is the source of communication that mediates the individual experience and the world (Tyson 253). These individual experiences yield multiple interpretations depending on who experienced the event and who witnessed it (Iser 1525). This phenomena nullifies a “pure” perception and creates a dynamic and dyadic relationship between the individual and the texts (Iser 1525). Oftentimes, one interprets concepts through the analysis of binaries—the idea that all words have a “supplement” to convey the unstable relationship between two terms (i.e., speech | writing) whether consciously or subconsciously (Raman 86). These binaries create a hierarchical system where one term in the pair is always privileged (usually the term read first in a left to right sequence), or so it appears. Theoretically, identifying which member of the binary is privileged will aid in the discovery about the ideology promoted between the binaries (Tyson 254). For example, Edward narrates a “fish story” (an allegory about a big fish in a little pond to signify his life’s adventures) using mythical language so that William can relate to his experiences. His language paints fantastic pictures of his absurd travels throughout his life-time. Conversely, William prefers the monotonous account of truths; that is, he prefers the hard facts that cannot be disputed. Readers immediately sense the tension between these two individuals. This tension is, as one may interpret, a direct result of conflicting binaries: Father (Edward) | Son (William) and Objective (William) | Subjective (Edward). Already this binary relationship is unreliable: one cannot possibly place “father” in the primary position in one then logically place him in the secondary (subordinate) “subjective” category. Edward uses speech to tell a story;

William writes the story on paper. Edward is clearly subjective, or perhaps one can interpret his character’s “play” as hermeneutic. He reacts to experiences based on his emotions and the personal relationships he had created through his years collecting stories. William is objective throughout the novel, or perhaps one can interpret his character as literally minded; he refuses to participate in his father’s imaginative world because he prefers to remain signified and rational. Furthermore, this tension is illustrated during “My Father’s Death: Take 3” when William confesses his frustration for not knowing the objective view of Edward’s stories—no imagery, no sarcasm, and most importantly no jokes. In one account, William was re-telling the time he discovered he could predict when someone dies. Edward is compelled to listen to the story because Edwards begins the account as if it were factual. However, William is disappointed in Edward because he strays from the expected story-line of realistic facts to mischievous rhetoric: [Edward talking] ‘For a few weeks I didn’t have another dream. Then I did, I had another, and Father came and asked me what I had dreamed and I told him: I dreamed that my father had died. …. ‘You think you’ve had a bad day,’ she says. ‘The milkman dropped dead on the porch this morning!’ …. [William talking] ‘I slam the door behind me when I leave, hoping he has a heart attack, dies quickly, so we can get this whole thing over with. I’ve already started grieving, after all’ (Wallace 116). The above quote illustrates the tension between father | son and the subjective | objective. Evidently William’s objective view could not tolerate Edward’s playful metaphors. Ironically, William’s dictation of his father’s death yields multiple metaphors, specifically the “fish”

metaphor. As soon as William begins to tell the story about his father’s death, he falls into the trap of interpretation. Each death scene is a fragment of the whole metaphor: a fish—represented by Edward’s death; paradoxically as reincarnation. However, the reader will not fully understand this metaphor until each part has been reconnected by linguistics. Raman explains the linguistic connection (i.e., speech act) in three levels: locutionary, illocutionary, and perlocutionary (88). This is important because only through the speech act can someone fully understand the purpose of metaphors. For example, Edward always retained William’s attention through the speech act: “‘I’ve heard about the two-headed lady,’ I say, shaking him gently by the shoulder. ‘I don’t want to hear about her anymore, Dad. Okay?’ ‘I wasn’t going to tell you about the two-headed lady, Mr. Smarty-pants,’ he says [locutionary: gain the attention of the audience] ‘You weren’t?’ ‘I was going to tell you about her sister.’ [perlocutionary tactic: producing an effect on the listener] ‘She had a sister?’ …. ‘Would I kid you about something like that’” (Wallace 23). [Illocutionary: he “swears” that what he is about to say is truth] Here, although frustrated by his father, William has the desire to understand his father, in order to relate to his experiences, and the only way to do so is consistently entertaining Edward’s speech acts. Additionally, readers are attracted to William through his speech acts about his father’s death. Death scenes 1 through 3 all begin with a dry statement, “It happens like this” (Big Fish). This draws readers attention

Big Fish to the story by appealing to those who feel most fulfilled with an objective account about Edward’s death. Yet even though this statement appears to be fact-specific, it is never-the-less a means to disrupt the reader’s expectation through hidden metaphors. For instance, the metaphor of the fish is not fully revealed until the end of the story. William and Edward both allude to this metaphor several times. Edward is constantly asking William to grab his some water: “A glass of water. Do you mind?” (17); “A glass of water would really hit the spot about now” (67). These statements foreshadow the end of the story when Edward does not die a “normal” death, but is transformed into a fish desperate for water. During death scene three, William tells his readers that “the metamorphosis that has occurred would be too much to believe if I hadn’t seen it myself. …. [H]is skin has become hard and shiny—indeed, almost scaly like a second skin” (109). William interprets all these actions as Edward’s looming death because he is a direct product of what the proairetic system indicates: an event that just happens; it is not inherently mysterious. However when William takes over his father’s narrative, he breaks from a traditional signifier of death (dry, parched, negative change) and incorporates a positive reaction: “He was just changing, transforming himself into something new and different to carry his life forward in. All this time, my father was becoming a fish. I saw him dart this way and that, a silvery, brilliant, shining life” (180). Therefore, as suggested above, Edward tropes the proairetic both in how we read him from a position of a synecdoche and what he can potentially signify hermeneutically as a metaphor of that principle. Ironically, William becomes the elaborate story-teller which proves that human identity is fragmented. Tyson commented that Deconstruction reveals “[t]he self-image [as] a stable identity that many of us have is really just a comforting self-delusion, which we produce in collusion with our culture, …. When in reality it is highly

Big Fish unstable and fragmented.” Throughout the story William was always defining himself against his father. He was the objective individual in the family. He knew the facts. He stuck with the facts. However, this identity, as readers discover, is only a delusion. He becomes more like his father by his re-telling of his father’s stories. William is not the only example. He expresses this idea with Edward after Edward asked William to explain what a good man is. When William regurgitated the information society had given him, Edward could only respond with, “Ah, those parameters,’ he says, stumbling over the world, all of a sudden seeming slightly woozy. ‘Never thought about it in those terms, exactly.” Likewise, humanity’s identity is consistently fragmented because culture is changing: words that once meant one thing have been deconstructed and reconstructed to signify something entirely new. Humanity is the direct product of a deconstructed society where all ideas, interpretations, hunches, and theories are generally accepted as truth. As a result, humanity, especially Western cultures, are always searching for the center of structure; that is, the being, essence, substance, truth, form, beginning, end, purpose, consciousness, man, God, and so on (Raman 84). Readers can observe this idea when William argues with his father about essence: “(William) ‘By that I mean the essence of things, the important things, the things that matter. Somehow it’s just too hard for him, and maybe a bit dicey, a chore for this very intelligent man who has forgotten more facts about geography and math and history than I’ve ever learned” (70). In other words, if readers view Edward as a hermeneutical expression of the text, then he cannot express any truth of essence because he does not have the authority to do so: all interpretations are limited to his own experiences. Likewise, William is programmed to work proairetically. He has been shaped to respond “appropriately” to metaphors he is accustomed

to. That is, he sees the signified only through the lens of a signifier. For instance, Edward talks about a man who had a son who led a quiet life, went through the most unusual birth and later a great transformation, and was the most remarkable thing about the man’s life. “Jesus” is the expected answer within a Christian community, and was the answer William expected; but Edward shakes the foundation that society has comfortably built and surprises William by saying the son was the fairy-tale character “Pinnochio” (Wallace 70-71). Last, Big Fish is representative of the conflict between Bloom’s “death of an author” and Derrida’s “revival of the author.” The entire story is told from William’s perspective even though it is an account of Edward’s life. This expresses that the author is dead and gone. However, William uses the same expression Edward uses whenever retelling a story, “Stop me if you’ve heard this one” indicating that the original author’s stories are still in circulation. Furthermore, William personifies the idea that speech, just like writing, can function without its author or presence; although the metaphors or signifiers used by the author are undoubtedly changed in tone, inflection, and structure by the interpreter (i.e., William’s interpretation of his father’s death). This transfer from father to son may also be interpreted to represent Bloom’s idea of the Oedipal Complex. William could be viewed as a son who was trying to reach his father’s expectations and live in his father’s footsteps. Because Edward would not divulge just the facts of the story, William felt castrated, or cut off, from the essence of his father who he felt he should have had access to as a “son of the poet.” However, because the author’s stories are still in circulation, William realizes that he is not restricted to his father’s stories, but rather his identity is emerging in the midst of his father’s legacy. Finding actual, cold hard “truths” to determine the

“facts” robs the author of creativity and leads readers on a fool’s errand (Metaphors in Big Fish). Deconstructionists would argue that language—the means used to tell a story or communicate—can break down to multiple meanings: on the one hand Big Fish can simply be an elaborate tale about adventures; on the other hand, it can be interpreted the way Daniel Smith found—William’s insecurities about his father’s fidelity to both his mother and himself. Additionally, this father-son tale may expose Bloom’s “Oedipal-complex”, or it could be interpreted to mean a story about William’s rise of identity yet still bound to his father’s characteristics of story telling to communicate “facts”. All of these assertions are developed through deconstruction. Wolfgang Iser’s theorizes that “[L]iterary work has two poles, which we might call the artistic and the aesthetic: the artistic pole is the author’s text, and the aesthetic is the realization accomplished by the reader.” (1525). In other words, all of these theories are created by readers’ interactions with text based on their individual perception. Therefore, discovering true meaning behind dyadic interaction cannot be reduced to a “fact” because all “facts” are preconceived interpretations (Iser 1525). Obviously, there are multiple ways a reader may interpret Big Fish. Raman stated, “[W]riting can be repeated (printed, re-printed and so on) and this repetition invites interpretations and re-interpretation.” Likewise, this present interpretation is limited by my own understanding of language. I have come to this conclusion not by what was explicitly stated, but the implications asserted by “the gaps arising out of the dialogue” between father and son (Iser 1526). There are those who will read my account and challenge what I never declared as certain truths, or even facts, but as certain theories. Regardless, any opposition will simply be an individual’s interpretation of the text based on his or hers personal preconceptions and interaction with the narrator, the characters, and the plot. Like Laing opined in his essay The Politics of

Big Fish Experience, “your experience of me is invisible to me and my experience of you is invisible to you” (Iser 1526). In the same way, my experience of the text will be different that another’s experience.

Big Fish Works Cited Atkins, Douglas, and Michael L. Johnson. Writing and Reading Differently: Deconstruction and the Teaching of Composition and Literature. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1985. 101 114. Print. Derrida, Jacques. Margins of Philosophy. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1982. 280. Print. Iser, Wolfgang. Interaction Between Text and Reader. The Norton Anthology of Theory & Criticism. 2nd Ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2010. 1520-1532. Print. Metaphors in Big Fish. www.johnaugust.com, February 4, 2004. Date accessed, April 15, 2012. Raman, Selden. A Reader’s Guide to Contemporary Literary Theory. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1986. 84-89. Print. Richards, Grahm. Psychology: The Key Concepts. New York: Routledge, 2009. 54. Print. Smith, Daniel. Narrative, Historicity, and Verisimilitude in the Passion Narratives; or, What I Learned from “Big Fish” about Reading the Bible. London: Huron University College, February 2012. Web. Tyson, Lois. Critical Theory Today: A User-Friendly Guide. 2d Ed. New York: Routledge, 2006. 250 260. Print. Waugh, Patricia. Literary Theory and Criticism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. 298-318. Print.

Achieving Atonement: The Act of Reading as Redemption Chad Loving

How many films have we seen that fascinate in every moment and then, in the last moments, pose a question about all that has gone before, one that forces us to think deeply about what betrayal and atonement might really entail? - Roger Ebert, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Atonementâ&#x20AC;? (2007)

Atonement

In his review of Joe Wright’s film, Atonement, Pulitzer-Prize-winning film critic Roger Ebert addresses the question at the core of the film: what does atonement entail? This cinematic adaptation of the eponymous novel by Ian McEwan answers this question beneath the surface story of love and betrayal. The jarring “last act” of this film brings into question the history, events, and characters of the entire preceding narrative. It begs the audience to view Atonement as more than a film or novel or a novel-withina-film; Atonement poses the question of whether or not atonement and redemption are possible, or even exist. The main character of the film, Briony Tallis, writes a novel to atone for crimes committed in her life. From whom or what does she seek this atonement? Who does she appeal to for this redemption? Those against whom her offenses were committed are not capable of pardoning her because they are dead; it is because of her offenses that they are unable to do this. In writing her novel, she manipulates her readers in an effort to assuage her guilt. Can her readers grant her this redemption, or is her novel a narcissistic and futile attempt to soothe her own guilt-ridden conscience? To answer this ultimate question, we readers must become aware of the processes at play in this story. First, a differentiation must be made in vocabulary; although often used interchangeably, I will be using the words “atonement” and “redemption” as two different ideas. The Oxford English dictionary defines “atonement” as: “the condition of being at one with others; unity of feeling, harmony, concord, agreement”; redemption is defined as: “the action of freeing a prisoner, captive, or slave by payment; the fact of being freed in this way” (Oxford). Redemption refers specifically to the act of being freed, or payment of a debt being fulfilled. Atonement is more than this; it refers to the state of unity or homeostasis between the offending and offended parties. For Briony to receive atonement for her actions, she must be granted redemption. Her novel itself is not enough to

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do this, having come from her own hand. She leaves her redemption and atonement to be granted by her readers. The power of Briony’s readers will be determined by utilizing reader-response theory. Wolfgang Iser and Stanley Fish feature prominently in this literary theory; their lenses through which to view literature combined with Linda Hutcheon’ s views on metafiction will allow readers to know whether or not they can grant Briony the redemption and atonement which she seeks. Considering the world of Atonement, we must distinguish between three eponymous texts. The first is fictional character Briony Tallis’ novel, Atonement, found within the narrative of the second text, the actual novel Atonement written by Ian McEwan in 2001, on which the third text, the 2007 film Atonement, directed by Joe Wright, is based. Unknown to readers interacting with the text for the first time, both McEwan’s novel and Wright’s film are Briony Tallis’ narrative until their final scenes. We discover in that final chapter that she has written her novel based on events which occurred within her own life. I will begin by applying these theories to the film and the metanovel, or novel-within-the film; juxtaposing these two iterations of the story of Atonement will clearly illustrate the authorial tools used to manipulate the reader. I will revisit McEwan’s novel at the end of the paper, but until then I will discuss what is represented in Wright’s film against what is represented in Briony Tallis’ novel. When discussing the answers to our questions concerning Atonement, I will be providing visual cues to distinguish the level of narrative in which we find ourselves. When primarily discussing Briony’s novel, the text will appear like this: Two bars will flock either side of the analysis specifically and exclusively concerning Briony Tallis’ novel.

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When primarily discussing Joe Wright’s film, the text will appear like this: One bar will flock either side of the analysis specifically concerning Joe Wright’s film. When the discourse involves all three layers of the narrative, the text will appear formatted normally. As a young girl in 1930’s England, Briony witnesses several events between her sister, Cecilia Tallis, and her friend, the son of the family housekeeper, Robbie Turner. These events provoke her precocious imagination, and she mistakenly believes that her sister is being sexually abused. One night, when a cousin staying at the Tallis house is sexually assaulted, Briony swears that she witnessed Robbie commit the act. He is sent to prison. Appalled at her family’s ability to cursorily believe Briony with such little evidence, Cecelia severs all connection with them. She leaves her affluent position in society and becomes a nurse in a London hospital. Four years later, she reunites with Robbie, newly released from prison to join the British

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Atonement army fighting in France during the Second World War. Aware of her mistake, Briony denies herself a promising career as a writer and works as a nurse to earn atonement for her actions. She finally confronts her sister and Robbie in their meager flat in Balham to receive forgiveness, which is not freely given; Cecelia and Robbie require her to write their story as a way to clear Robbieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name (Atonement). At this point in the narrative, when we leave the final confrontation in the flat and follow Briony onto the train, we are in the last pages of her semi-autobiographical novel. The final view of her face, blinking in the absence of the unreliable train lights, mimics our turning the final pages of her novel; we hear the machinery of a typewriter as the last strokes of its keys brand the paper, and the mechanical clink of the final return. Up to this point, we have been immersed in two texts: the film, and the metafictional novel. With the subsequent blackout, we have exited Brionyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s novel and remain only in the film.

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Atonement Until the final scene of the film, we—as the readers of Briony’s text— witness a tragic love story that perseveres, however altered from its original state, through whatever might obscure its path. We have an entertaining movie, complete with sex, lies, and betrayal; sickness, war, and death; romantic love, familial love, and forbidden love; love unspoken, realized, betrayed, torn apart, and mended. Although masterfully and movingly executed, this text—at this point—is a film created for entertainment, or for those seeking a cathartic emotional experience of love lost and regained. Readers are provoked to consider the journey the two main characters have endured and the struggle of another with her realization of truth, lies, and their consequences. However, other than what takes place after we view Briony on the train, we are not left with any gaping holes or major blanks to fill; the story makes sense. With characters developed, plot arced, and scenes skillfully acted and shot, this story is

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complete and could even be considered a great film. But the last scene is still waiting to be watched. And it ruins our story. Briony, now seventy, sits before a camera. She’s being interviewed concerning her novel, Atonement, (which, in the film, we have just finished experiencing). It is her final novel, we learn, because she has recently discovered that she is dying; it’s also just as accurate to call it her first novel, she says, being the first one she ever began to write. We know this novel as Two Figures by a Fountain, rejected by a publisher during her time as a nurse during the Second World War. When she began writing the novel, it was strictly and accurately autobiographical, with all names and events being truthfully derived from her own experiences. As that, it failed. She explains: You’ve read the book, you’ll understand why. I got first-hand accounts of all the events I didn’t personally witness […] but the effect of all this honesty was rather... pitiless, you see. I couldn’t any longer imagine what purpose would be served by [brutal honesty…] or reality. Because, in fact, I was too much of a coward to go and see my sister [and Robbie…] so the scene in which I confess to them is imagined…invented. Any of that could never have happened, because Robbie Turner died of septicemia […] the last day of the evacuation [of

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Dunkirk] and I was never able to put things right with my sister, Cecilia, because she was killed […] by the bomb that destroyed the gas and water mains of Balham tube station. So, my sister and Robbie never had the time together they both so longed for and deserved, which, ever since, I’ve...always felt I prevented. But what sense of hope or satisfaction could a reader derive from an ending like that? So, in the book, I wanted to give Robbie and Cecilia what they lost out on in life. I’d like to think this wasn’t weakness or evasion, but a final act of kindness. I gave them their happiness. (Hampton 95-98) The shot cuts from Briony’s face to the towering Seven Sisters. We see Cecilia and Robbie walking up the beach and finally entering the cottage that was promised to them before his deployment to France. The screen goes black, and the film ends (Atonement). The information presented in this final scene of the film devastates our experience with the preceding narrative. Our previous views of the lives of Briony, Robbie, and Cecilia, we realize, are not just fiction in the sense that this is a film that we are watching, but is fictional fiction, or metafiction. On one hand, Briony is a fictional author and therefore working metafictionally in the text; however, on the other, she herself is writing a metahistory. Theorist Linda Hutcheon describes this type

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Atonement of literature, historiographical metafiction, as “novels that are intensely self-reflective but that also both re-introduce historical context into metafiction and problematize the entire question of historical knowledge” (qtd. in Orlowski). Stating that the earliest existing histories were written in this fashion (combining fact and myth), she argues that historiographical metafiction bridges the gap between fiction and history, and could reveal more about the ideological concerns of the time than a purely objective and factual account. She further states that “to re-write or to re-present the past in fiction and in history is, in both cases, to open it up to the present, to prevent it from being conclusive and teleological” (qtd. in Orlowski). Briony’s account of her childhood and adolescence in Atonement serves to both alter her history and assuage her culpability in it. By employing this technique in her writing, Briony has rerecreated the world where she committed her sins, allowing for Cecilia’s and Robbie’s lives to continue and the opportunity for her crimes to be forgiven in the minds of her readers. In this final scene, we realize that our knowledge of what took place in their lives was misinformed. We are now provoked to search for the truth of what happened to the characters in the world of the film. If we suspend reality, exist in that final layer of fiction where Briony is the author of Atonement, and contemplate the initial story she presents to us, we see that it is not entirely true; Cecilia and Robbie

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Atonement are dead, and at her hand. She attempted to resurrect them with this hand, creating a touching panorama of their long-awaited reunion and life together. Because of the final scene of the film, however, we know too much and cannot accept this as truth. Because of the “fictional” nature of their life together, many see Briony’s attempt for redemption to have failed; the audience knows that they never saw each other again, and thus deem Briony’s atonement as unachievable. As readers, we possess this power, and as an author, Briony knows it; this is why she appeals to the endless source of life that exists in her audience’s imaginations. According to reader-response theorist Stanley Fish, in a …sequence where a reader first structures the field he [or she] inhabits and then is asked to restructure it . . . there is no question of priority among his [or her] structurings; no one of them, even if it is his [or her] last, has privilege; each is equally legitimate, each equally the proper object of analysis, because each is equally an event in his [or her] experience. (Fish 1982) Applying Fish’s claims to our interaction with Briony’s novel, we cannot value our later, more informed interactions with the text as superior to our former ones. These former interactions have contributed to the creation of the later ones, and serve as a foundation for our “more informed” experiences. We unquestionably accepted

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Robbie and Cecilia as in love and alive, and, according to Fish, cannot devalue that acceptance simply because it was first and less informed. In our minds as readers, Robbie and Cecilia lived. Later in his analysis, “Interpreting the Variorum,” he elaborates on how text exists and possesses meaning independently from the reader: …the reader’s activities are at the center of attention, where they are regarded not as leading to meaning, but having meaning. The meaning they have is a consequence of their not being empty; for they include the making and revising of assumptions, the rendering and regretting of judgments, the coming to and abandoning of conclusions, the giving and withdrawing of approval, the specifying of causes, the asking of questions, the supplying of answers, the solving of puzzles. (Fish 1982) When we read of Cecilia and Robbie’s reunion over tea before his deployment to France, or of their poor-but-passionate life in their tiny flat on the outskirts of London, they are alive in our minds because the text exists as a separate entity, receiving life through our interaction with it; for the moments we engage them in the text, Cecilia and Robbie live, and thus have meaning and value outside of the reader’s mind. Through the act of reading, these two people regain the lives that they lost; these lives, existing

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independently from the reader, have inherent value and meaning, just as they did when their physical bodies were alive. If our act of reading possesses meaning apart from what we allow it to mean, then Briony does not need us to “grant” her forgiveness; the possibility for her atonement may exist in the very act of our reading of her novel. Based on Fish’s claims concerning the meaning and value of our reading interactions with texts, it seems possible for Briony to receive the atonement for which she seeks through our simple act of reading her novel, regardless of whether or not we want to grant her redemption and allow her to achieve atonement. In our reading, Briony Tallis wants us to believe and share in the lasting relationship of Robbie and Cecilia. If text exists through its interaction with the reader, then within that interaction lays the experience—and independent life—of the narrative (Fish qtd. in Tyson 176-7). Through this life, no matter how brief or gossamer or artificial it may seem, Briony aims to achieve her atonement. She gives “Robbie and Cecilia what they lost out on in life…[she gives] them their happiness” and in doing so, aims to atone for her actions that led to their separation—and eventual deaths—by giving them the life she believes they deserved (Hampton 97-8). She relies on the reading of her text for receiving redemption, so she writes the novel in which Robbie and Cecilia live; she, in a sense, is the god of that world, creating and combining the elements that will provoke

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Atonement the reader into bringing the martyrs back to life (Felch 146). When her readers enter that world—in which Briony is the “god”—and engage Robbie and Cecilia in the life that they did not experience, the readers are performing the will of the author. Does Briony’s motivation behind her novel have an effect on our reading? In the essay mentioned before, Fish claims that the author’s intent cannot be divorced from a text: I describe the experience of a reader who in his strategies is answerable to an author’s intention, and I specify the author’s intention by pointing to the strategies employed by that same reader. […I]ntention and understanding are two ends of a conventional act, each of which necessarily stipulates (includes, defines, specifies) the other. […I]f the content of the reader’s experience is the succession of acts he [or she] performs in search of an author’s intentions, and if he [or she] performs in search of those acts at the bidding of the text, does not the text then produce or contain everything—intention and experience…? (Fish 1984) Briony causes her readers to bring Robbie and Cecilia to life in their minds, and therefore controls their experience with the text. Due to her control over the world of the reader, and the motivation fueling the creation of this world, has Briony

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Atonement rendered the reader’s interaction with her text inconsequential, thereby, once again, trying to grant herself atonement (Childs 172)? Given her control over her possible source for atonement and her acknowledged inability to achieve it for herself, maybe the simple act of reading her text is not enough to meet her goal. After this theoretical discourse of reader-response, text as a separate entity, and author’s intention, we are once again left with the summative—and original—question from our experience with Atonement: can Briony achieve atonement? Wolfgang Iser, another readerresponse theorist, describes the different ways the reader can answer this question, or “fill this blank” in The Act of Reading: …we must bear in mind that a narrative text, for instance, is composed of a variety of perspectives, which outline the author’s view and also provide access to what the reader is meant to visualize… As the reader’s wandering viewpoint travels between all these [perspectives], its constant switching during the time flow of reading intertwines them, thus bringing forth a network of perspectives, within which each perspective opens a view not only of others, but also of the intended imaginary object. Hence no single textual perspective can be equated with this imaginary object, of which it forms only one aspect. (Iser 1528)

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The “imaginary object” to which Iser is referring, in our context, is the meaning of Atonement, and the answer to our question. Through our interaction with the text, we see Briony strive for atonement and the precarious perch above futility for which she aims: she wants her readers to grant her redemption so that she achieve atonement, but in writing a novel for them to read, she places herself as the god of that world and may, in exercising this power over her readers, inadvertently be trying to grant herself the freedom and restoration she so desperately seeks. If the text exists independently from the author and reader, if this text possesses meaning and value and life apart from both the author and the reader, if her creation of the story does not give her the narcissistic control over these independent, living experiences through her readers, and if, through all of these metanarrative and metacognitive layers, Robbie and Cecilia “live” the lives which Briony believes they deserved, then atonement could, for Briony’s purpose in seeking it, be achieved. However, in her novel, Briony does not have Robbie and Cecilia grant her their forgiveness. This is the determining factor in whether or not I believe Briony achieves her goal of redemption. On the deepest levels of cognition and narrative, Briony did not see fit for Robbie and Cecilia to grant her their forgiveness. On this level, she knows that she is guilty, and on this level, she is not granted her atonement. Does this denial of forgiveness leave room for her

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readers to fill in this blank, or does it reflect Briony’s deepest thoughts on her worthiness to be cleared of her crimes? After scouring theories and dissecting vocabulary, the only factor that would seem to rule her readers ineligible to grant her redemption and atonement is the issue of her role as god of her text. According to Fish, the author’s intention cannot be divorced from the text; something outside of Briony’s influence would need to bestow these things upon her. Her readers cannot be removed from her influence, and cannot serve as this objective entity. Her text does exist as a separate entity through her readers’ experiences, but she still influenced the creation of this entity. The objectivity of the text based on its status as an independent entity refers to its freedom from needing permission, not its ability to objectively declare truth. Briony seems unable to be granted redemption through her readers’ experience with her novel. Utilizing the theories of Hutcheon, Iser and Fish, Briony’s account of Robbie, Cecelia, and herself combined with the final scene of the film where her account is exposed as metafiction will not allow her readers the opportunity to grant her atonement by reading her novel. Even though our previous interaction with the text remains as valid, important, and meaningful as our later interactions, Briony’s role as the author of Atonement disqualifies her readers from offering her redemption or atonement. This film turns from a romance-

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Atonement in-spite-of-tragedy into a search for forgiveness and restoration. More subtle than the themes of love and war or the appreciation and importance of time and truth, this theme of denied atonement serves as the base for this narrative and all of its encompassing layers. This question is what separates Atonement from a romantic drama or an epic journey through war and death; long after the credits ascend on the screen, this question of atonement lingers on the minds and weighs on the hearts of its audience. Atonement serves as archetypal exploration of a question that underscores the human experience. The multi-layered experience of Atonement is itself a text born from an author’s intention and a reader’s re-creation. As the author of Atonement, Ian McEwan must realize this. How does he define this concept that underlines his masterpiece? When asked about Briony’s atonement during an interview, McEwan replied: Well, as she says, when the novel will finally be published, which can only be after she’s dead, she herself will become a character, and no one will be much interested in whether she is real or not, she will only exist within the frame of her novel…I wanted to play with the notion of storytelling as a form of self-justification, of how much courage is involved in telling the truth to oneself…and look at, not the crime, but the process of atonement and do it through writing—through storytelling, I should say. (Reynolds 19-20) In a way, McEwan is allowing us to engage Briony in the same way she want us to engage Robbie and Cecilia, as Briony does; he leaves this question of atonement open, without granting an answer for his readers himself. Through our reading of his text, we are asked to

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Atonement consider her atonement where her text does not offer the entire truth to her readers. Again, we are left to respond to what we have read, and again, we are given the opportunity to complete the narrative in the way each of our unique experiences with the text allows us. Each reader is asked to answer the question posed by a deeper reading of Atonement than an entertainment-based viewing will allow. We can try to grant Briony the atonement which Robbie, Cecilia, and McEwan seem to withhold from her and which she withholds from herself, but ultimately, our efforts are futile. We can forgive and allow for Briony to atone for her crimes with the greatest fervor we can muster, but her atonement exists in the hearts of those against whom she committed her crimes, and she is unable to appeal to them. What does atonement entail? It entails a restoration of a unity that was once broken, through the process of redemption. As readers, we can respond to Brionyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unachievable atonement, but we cannot grant it upon one who has no choice but to try and manipulate us to do so.

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Works Cited Atonement. Dir. Joe Wright. Prod. Tim Bevan, Eric Fellner, and Paul Webster. By Christopher Hampton. Perf. James McAvoy, Keira Knightley, and Romola Garai. Focus Features, 2007. DVD. Childs, Peter. Contemporary Novelists: British Fiction since 1970. Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Print. Ebert, Roger. “Atonement.” Rogerebert.com. Ebert Digital, 6 Dec. 2007. Web. 09 Oct. 2013. Ellam, Julie. Ian McEwan’s Atonement. London: Continuum, 2009. Print. Felch, Susan M., and Gary D. Schmidt. “Ian McEwan: The Child in Us All.” The Emmaus Readers: Listening for God in Contemporary Fiction. Brewster, MA: Paraclete, 2008. 160-79. Print. Fish, Stanley. “Interpreting the Variorum.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. 2nd ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2010. 1974-992. Print. Hampton, Christopher. “Atonement: The Shooting Script.” Cinemascopian.com. N.p., 2007. Web. 10 Apr. 2013. Iser, Wolfgang B. “Interaction between Text and Reader.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. 2nd ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2010. 1524-532. Print.

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McEwan, Ian. Atonement: A Novel. New York: Anchor, 2003. Print. Orlowski, Victoria. “Metafiction.” Postcolonial Studies at Emory. Emory University, Spring 1996. Web. 02 Dec. 2013. “The Oxford English Dictionary.” OED.com. Oxford English Dictionary. N.p., n.d. Web. 07 Dec. 2013. Reynolds, Margaret, and Jonathan Noakes. Ian McEwan: The Essential Guide to Contemporary Literature: The Child in Time, Enduring Love, Atonement. London u.a.: Vintage, 2002. Print. Tyson, Lois. Critical Theory Today: A User-friendly Guide. New York: Routledge, 2006. Print.

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The Horror:

Imperialist Discourse in The Heart of Darkness Shawn Meek

The publishing of Joseph Conradâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Heart of Darkness brought the issue of imperial colonization to the popular platform of the novel in the early twentieth century. Along with it came a topic in the world of literary criticism that would directly influence the development of nations while simultaneously questioning the system it was born from. Postcolonial theory, of which Heart of Darkness has been a key work, has progressed through many stages in synchronization with the development of literary criticism. It began in Conradâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time, at the close of the Victorian era1, then refashioned by Frantz Fanon and Chinua Achebe2 in the modern era, on towards the transnational movement advocated by Paul Gilroy3 that has been representative of most current perspectives on the global community. What remains to be decided is whether or not a global society4 will forfeit moral and ethical standards in favor of universal tolerance. Whether in respect to Western enlightenment, African identity, imperial capitalism, or Marxist

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The Horror communism, most postcolonial theorists write from a personal cultural bias in concordance with Edward Said’s definition of being a “distribution of geopolitical awareness into aesthetic, scholarly, economic, sociological, historical, and philological texts” (Orientalism 1875). The key word being “texts”, Said observed that the significant contributors towards a people’s culture were the texts, ideas, or perspectives, those people consumed. This idea of Said’s was built upon Ronald Robinson’s observation that “imperialism was as much a function of its victims’ collaboration or non-collaboration...as it was European expansion” (Culture and Imperialism 356). Said then places the main opponents of colonization, Frantz Fanon and Chinua Achebe, as examples of the very collaboration mentioned previously by first stating: If I have so often cited Fanon, it is because more dramatically and decisively than anyone, I believe, he expresses the immense cultural shift from the terrain of nationalist independence to the theoretical domain of liberation [. . . ]. In any case Fanon is unintelligible without grasping that his work is a response to theoretical elaborations produced by the culture of late Western capitalism, received by the Third World native intellectual as a culture of oppression and colonial enslavement” (Culture and Imperialism 230) This characterization of the writers that head the nationalist movement as mimetic of the very system they aim to be liberated from is very similar to Achebe’s own critique of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness5. By making this observation, Said illustrates that the ethnocentric issues that plague the postcolonial debate are more complicated than Fannon understands. While

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Said’s observation of Fannon’s Western enculturation may be initially read as a dismissal of his work, it should rather be taken as evidence of the global culture that Said’s contemporaries had been imagining. Said looks at Fannon as, albeit unwittingly, the frontrunner to the future of human culture. Continuing with Robinson’s train of thought6, Said questions the nature of the Marxist movement in Eastern Europe. He suggests that the tendency of newly liberated colonies to embrace the Marxist doctrine of communism is an example of the “non-collaboration” Robinson mentions. Here being manifested when a country, in retreat from the perceived oppression of Western capitalist imperialism, flees across the very binary created by the structural thought of Europe in the twentieth century which juxtaposes capitalism with communism (Culture and Imperialism 266). Late twentieth century critics such as Paul Gilroy and Edward Said make this phenomenon the chief criticism of Nationalism. Gilroy, building off the work of Said, identifies specific issues with the growth of Nationalism in the former European colonies. In his work, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, Gilroy evaluates the specific case of Anglo-Africans who were attempting to embrace their nationalities. The issue is that the Anglo culture of Great Britain is inherently racist in their “other”ing of Africans, while the Africans are attempting to both develop a sense of cultural pride and resist the influence of the Anglos (Gilroy 2556). This direct internal conflict of identity illustrates a key issue in the attempt to develop a localized cultural identity in a world full of “others.” Whether an American or Asian, one will be influenced by the texts and ideas experienced from inside and outside of a local culture. So, to accent one in the name of national pride, the other is made into just that, the “other”. In an

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attempt to resist being othered by outside influences, Nationalism defensively “others” all else not included in the difficult to define local culture. In his opposition of nationalist ideals, Gilroy suggests “that cultural historians could take the Atlantic as one single, complex unit of analysis in their discussions of the modern world and use it to produce an explicitly transnational and intercultural perspective” (Gilroy 2570). Ignoring, for a moment, the blatant disregard for any geographic region not directly associated with black culture, this proposition is likely a suggested first step towards the global community that Western contemporaries had been calling for. A similar transnational thought is one proposed in theory, and without confidence of realization, by Said in Culture and Imperialism. He describes the traditions of national pride in the introduction to his commentary on Heart of Darkness, “A new and in my opinion appalling tribalism is fracturing societies, separating peoples, promoting greed, bloody conflict, and uninteresting assertions of minor ethnic or group particularity” (Culture and Imperialism 20). Here, Said presupposes the global population as a society and people, which is being fractured and hindered by “tribalism”, the very form of community that Conrad’s original audience was so affronted to be compared to. Still, Said is too familiar with the process of enculturation that brings about this “tribalism” to propose another doctrine like Gilroy and other postmodern critics. Instead, he acknowledges his own observations of critics, past and present, by attempting to synthesize the two people that Conrad could not stand to identify as one. This is performed by using methods of past generations of writers in a modern application. At the end of his chapter on “Collaboration, Independence, and Liberation”, Said uses the The Black Jacobins as the rare example of

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The Horror how fiction can properly relate two seemingly opposing cultures7. What Said focuses on, however, is not the story itself, but the chapter added some twenty years later. In this chapter, James addresses the question, “How can a non or post-imperial history be written that is not naively utopian or hopelessly pessimistic?” (Culture and Imperialism 280). He presents his solution through the synthesis of two very different poets. James begins by reinterpreting Aimé Césaire’s verses8 as a resolution in the understanding that there is more to success than “the defensive assertion of one’s identity.” He goes on claiming, “The vision of the poet is not economics or politics, it is poetic, sui generis, true unto itself and needing no other truth” (Culture and Imperialism 280). Then, after claiming the Romantic value of verse as expressive genius, rather than the positivist value in empirical truth, he proposes the synthesis of “Man” through the work of T. S. Eliot: Here the impossible union Of spheres of existence is actual, Here the past and the future Are conquered, and reconciled, Where action were otherwise movement Of that which is only moved And has in it no source of movement. (Culture and Imperialism 358) Here Said creatively identifies Césaire’s “truth unto itself” found through expressive genius as the medium for animating and actualizing the “impossible union” of Eliot, creating “the dimension of a social community as actual as the history of a people, as general as the vision of the poet” (Culture and Imperialism 281). Said claims that only a truth such as James displays here could be immune from being transposed into some repeatable doctrine or reusable theory, allowing it to breed the theoretical transnational

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The Horror culture that his postmodern community had so adamantly proposed. The common underlying theme in most writings of a global society is tolerance. Conflict arises when one body maintains a position that is both disagreeable to a second body and immoveable to the first. Accepting that the belief systems of people are a product of the texts inherited or obtained by them, postcolonial critics have worked for over a century to resolve the conflict of cultures. Said claims that for there to be progress in this subject, contemporary Europe and the United States need to move away from systems of theory, doctrine, and orthodoxy towards the freedom found in expression of verse (Culture and Imperialism 281). The presupposition that “theory, doctrine, and orthodoxy” are as arbitrarily bestowed upon a community as the chance of which texts they are exposed to is one too bold to make. As impressive as James’s incorporation of Eliot and Césaire is, such a blend could in no way be conceded when attempted with the Bible and the Quran. The sui generis of Wordsworth, Dante, Milton and Blake added together would not be enough to resolve such “doctrines”. An example of Said’s underestimation of the barrier that religion creates to the global community is seen in one of his visits to Egypt. When speaking at Cairo University on nationalism, independence, and liberation as alternatives to imperialism, Said was prompted to address “the theocratic alternative”. He responds with a tirade on how corrupt and conflicting the ideals of various sects within Islam is, not to mention other religions. Using the extremes of fundamentalist Jihadists and terrorism to display that a uniform global society could not operate under such a doctrine, Said fails in absolving the faith of the audience while revealing how very far removed he is

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from his claimed platform of the Palestinian conflict with Israel9. A supposed victim of the longest lasting religious war of our time, he should know that any devout believer in a higher order would readily choose a world of conflict under his Lord over a world that traded faith for peace. This brings to light the greatest error in a transnational world. For global tolerance in a system outside of doctrine, even the most basic code of ethics must be disowned. While Lord Byronâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s expression in verse may be, at times, sublime, a world in which the way he expresses himself in the corporeal should never be tolerated, much less embraced. The global society aspired to by Said and Gilroy would necessitate the dissolvement of orthodox religion. What they have not offered is a source of ethics and morality in replace of orthodoxy. A world centered on ambivalent tolerance presents an image frighteningly similar to Aldous Huxleyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Brave New World10. The acceptance of such a world would be so far short of unanimous that war and oppression begin to seem a reasonable compromise in favor of the pursuit of virtue and holiness.

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Endnotes The Victorian era marked the rise of criticism as an accepted form of art. Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness was a critique of Western imperialism in novel form, which was one of the first novels to be widely accepted as literature. 2 Fannon and Achebe led the nationalist movement, which aims to reject the view of Western thought (i.e. greek and abrahamic ideals) in favor of a culture that embraces local heritage. This rejection of previously unquestioned norms is an identifying characteristic of the modern era of literature that they were a part of. 3 In his work, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, Gilroy uses various Black cultures around the world as examples of how the national ideals proposed by Fannon and Achebe create an internal conflict that is counter-productive to self realization. 4 The term Transnationalism generally applies to the proposed development of a multinational culture that transcends national boundaries. The idea has become quite popular among scholars today, being adapted to economics under the name of globalization and religion/philosophy as Universalism. While each has its own unique details, this paper aims to comment on the idea of identifying the human race as one people, rather than multiple sects. For that purpose, I hope to group all of these philosophies under the same category of thought. 5 In his lecture “An Image of Africa”, Chinua Achebe criticizes Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness for presenting a racist perspective of Africans. This was a strong statement, particularly because Conrad’s book was previously held to high esteems for questioning the imperial movement. Achebe presents Conrad as a product of the same Western thought he comments on. Said makes a similar criticism of Fannon and Achebe. 6 Previously referenced, in which Robinson distributes the 1

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The Horror blame for imperialization across both the colonizers and the colonized. 7 In C.L.R. James’s work, The Black Jacobins, he compares the Santo Domingo slave uprising to the French Revolution. This is done not in the interest of contrasting, or even relating, Haitian culture to French culture, but rather showing that they are one and the same; at least until the hero of Toussaint was effectively silenced by Napoleon. 8 Aimé Césaire was a black French poet that fronted the Négritude movement, which aimed to use a unique literary style to develop a Black culture independent of Europe and America. The verses that James uses in his appendix were some of Césaire’s earliest published lines, which directly comment on the conflict of race in Europe. In later life, Césaire realized that such a radical rejection was counterproductive to the development of an identity. In his appendix to The Black Jacobins, James applies Césaire’s reformed views to his idealistic verses. 9 In his work, Orientalism, Said deconstructs Europe’s view of the Israel Palestine conflict in order to present the negative perspective of Europe’s interference caused by the “othering” of Palestine. 10 A futuristic novel that presents a world of centered around Fordism and Freudian psychology, in which a central power determines social status and life is propelled by production and supported through shallow and temporary highs. The character (a savage) that represents modern ideals kills himself at the end of the book.

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The Horror Works Cited Achebe, Chinua. “An Image of Africa: Racism in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.” Norton Anthology of Theory & Criticism. 2nd ed. Vol. 1. New York: W.W. Norton, 2010. 1612-623. Print. Fanon, Frantz. The Wretched of the Earth. Norton Anthology of Theory & Criticism. 2nd ed. Vol. 1. New York: W.W. Norton, 2010. 1440-446. Print. Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic. Norton Anthology of Theory & Criticism. 2nd ed. Vol. 1. New York: W.W. Norton, 2010. 2556-575. Print. Said, Edward W. Culture and Imperialism. London: Vintage, 1994. Print. Said, Edward W. Orientalism. The Norton Anthology of Theory & Criticism. 2nd ed. Vol. 1. New York: W.W. Norton, 2010. 1866-888. Print.

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We dedicate the 2014-2015 Oracle to Professor David Smith. Professor Smith joined our faculty in 2009 dedicated to improving scholarship in the English Department and at SEU. He served on the Grants and Proposals Committee and also started the Honors Reading Group while in the Department of English and Foreign Languages. As pictured below, Professor Smith, accompanied by Professor McNabb, took a group of students on a study abroad trip to England. One of his last efforts, with Professor Marlon Dempster, was to publish student essays from our Literary Critical Symposium. Our Provost, Dr. Hackett generously agreed to fund this effort; the Oracle that has been running for 30 years as a creative writing magazine, is now combined with a Critical Writing section into an undergraduate journal. We thank Professor David Smith for his years spent getting classes and writing projects in place so this hybrid could occur. David Smith will be missed. His passing has impacted the Southeastern community significantly.

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