Edifice 2015 by Portsmouth Abbey School

edifice The Academic Journal of Portsmouth Abbey School

Spring-Summer 2015 portsmouthabbey.org

editors The words used to describe essays often sound out of place. Most people would not describe an essay as flowy, tepid, agitated, or collapsing. Of course, to most people criticism and textual analysis do not come naturally. In fact, the very idea of writing an essay about someone else’s words seems somewhat redundant to the uninitiated, those not yet required to forge sentences and logic about a literary work lying before them. Words, at first, seem limp and lifeless, like type plucked from printer’s cases. And what do dead things have to do with us? Soon enough the words quicken before the writer’s very eyes – Shakespeare’s hilarious insults, St. Thomas Aquinas’ rock-solid logic, Dante’s dancing verse – and books become acquaintances. Can I write in this? Am I allowed to laugh and cry? Actually, I kind of think I disagree. Is that okay? Then the writer’s words pour forth, halting and straightforward at first, describing the newfound life before him. But then something wondrous happens. The essay’s words gain a life of their own: they attack, build up, ridicule, support, disagree, and investigate something crafted entirely from words as well. This is the subject of edifice. Here we present the most vital and animated pieces Portsmouth Abbey’s scholarship has to offer.

We also intend to do something different this year: instead of simply publishing the best papers we receive, we have decided to change this journal’s relationship with the students. You have found this journal with your style guide, and we hope that you will use the essays within to improve your own writing and to guide your growth as a writer. Scarlett Shin’s essay shows how her editing much improved the quality of the paper, and the other essays in this journal can be used as models for citation formatting. With work and focus, your own work might appear in edifice in the years to come. Good luck, and enjoy. Douglas Lebo, Editor-in-Chief

Editors: Douglas Lebo Helen Nelson George Sturges Jennifer Yates Johanna Appleton Emmalene Kurtis Sydell Bonin Photography: Front & Back Covers – Grace Benzal ‘17 Inside Covers – Stefan Navarro ‘15 Editing by Ms. Joney Swift Faculty Advisor: Mrs. Corie McDermott-Fazzino

contents 5 Eternal Love in “Those Winter Sundays” Scarlett Shin ‘18 10 The Gospel According to Maudie Sydell Bonin ‘18 13 A Brief Historiography of the French Revolution Emmalene Kurtis ‘17 17

Clarity of a Fleeting World: Hamlet’s Struggle to Define the Universe George Sturges ‘16 21 Safe and Sound: Ophelia’s Madness in Hamlet A. Brandt Matthews ‘16 25 Queequeg: Civilization and Savagery Carly Johnston ‘16 27 Starbuck: Fate and Righteousness Claire Doire ‘16 29 Stubb: The Hunter and the Hunted Rosie Randolph ‘16 31

Sound & Sense: Differing Approaches to Irish Traditional Music Dylan Bedford ‘15 36

Christ in the Desert: The Grapes of Wrath as an American Gospel Douglas Lebo ‘15

Eternal Love in “Those Winter Sundays” Scarlett Shin ‘18 The following essay was presented to the editors as meritorious of publication, but we determined that it needed serious editing. We have decided to present the original essay first, followed by the edited final version, in order to show how a paper can be much improved by a bit of polish. Editing facilitated by Johanna Appleton. Nothing can exceed parents’ love toward their sons or daughters. They work under harsh conditions and sacrifice themselves in order to benefit their children. Although their children do not know of their effort, parents accomplish their work without complaint. Robert Hayden uses poetic devices such as tone and imagery to express a father’s love and sacrifice in his poem “Those Winter Sundays.” Hayden delineates a scene of the father polishing his son’s shoes with his chapped hands after several hours of harsh work. Behind the love and care inherent in the selfless act of polishing, Hayden uses careful diction to subtly suggest the loneliness and silent suffering of the father. Through the quote “then with the cracked hands that ached” (3), the author demonstrates the suffering of the father. The onomatopoetic words such as “cracked” and “ached” represent the harshness of the father’s work, while “cracked” also suggests that despite the pain of hands with split skin, the father still polishes the shoes. Similarly, “no one ever thanked him” (1-5) illustrates the father’s loneliness. Despite the infinite love the father shows toward his son through working, no one, including his son, notices and cares about his effort. Additionally, the careful choice in diction of “love’s austere and lonely offices” (3-5) describes the indifference of the son and the father’s endeavor by using connotation. “Offices” frequently represents places of

employment where people concentrate on their own work and compete with each other; It also means “duties” and both definitions of the word contribute to the depiction of the father’s burden. In addition, the use of “austere” symbolizes coldness and a lack of luxury. This line, in very few words, portrays a father who lives a life of selfless sacrifice without expecting gratitude or reward. The use of “blueblack cold” (1-3), which is imagery, intensifies the sense of the loneliness and hardship of the father, while “chronic angers” and “indifferently” (3, 1) reveal the apathy shown in return for his endeavor and suffering. However, the poet does not limit his use of poetic devices to diction and imagery. In addition to the careful selection of vocabulary and creation of vivid images, the change in perspective contributes to the tone of the poem by creating a sense of looking back to a different time and feeling regret. By utilizing different tenses to shift the perspective of the speaker through the three stanzas, the poet shows how the speaker’s thoughts change over time. Hayden narrates the first and the last stanzas with the past tense to illustrate the son’s childhood. Then, in the second stanza, the son becomes older and reveals his shame that he could not notice his father’s love during his childhood. The repetition of the question “what did I know”(3-4) also develops the tone. The author effectively portrays the grief of the son and repeatedly links this grief to the lack of recognition of his father’s sacrifices. Despite this, the overall tone of the poem does not only portray regret; the tone created by the author also implies respect and admiration for his father. Through the description of the father’s harsh conditions, specifically the description of his hands as “cracked” while working selflessly, the speaker forms a tone filled with respect for the father’s love and sacrifice. Throughout the poem, by means of several poetic devices such as metaphor, diction, imagery, repetition, perspective and tone, Hayden magnifies and

strengthens the father’s loneliness and describes the son’s regret at not acknowledging his father’s efforts. In this heart-warming but connoting regret poem, Robert Hayden exploits the apathy and lack of understanding of a young man during puberty, as well as several poetic devices in order to describe a father’s love toward his family. The lack of reward for his efforts, which verge on oblations, only intensifies the depiction of this love. The son could not appreciate his father’s care in the past, but now he finally understands how much his father sacrificed and, in the end, that nothing can surpass parents’ love.

*** Parents sacrifice themselves for love, working under harsh conditions for their children’s benefit. Although their children do not know of their effort, parents accomplish their work without complaint. Robert Hayden uses poetic devices, such as tone and imagery, to express a father’s love and sacrifice in his poem, “Those Winter Sundays.” Hayden delineates a scene of the father polishing his son’s shoes with hands chapped from hours of harsh work. By careful choice of diction, Hayden subtly suggests the loneliness and silent suffering of the father, which lie behind the love and care implicit in the act of polishing. As seen in the quote, “then with the cracked hands that ached,” Hayden demonstrates the difficulty of the father’s ordeal (3). The onomatopoetic words “cracked” and “ached” represent the harshness of the father’s work. “Cracked” also suggests the determination of the father to polish the shoes, despite the pain of hands with split skin. Similarly, “no one ever thanked him” illustrates the father’s loneliness (5). Despite the infinite love that the father shows toward his son, no one, including his son, notices or cares about his effort.

Additionally, the intelligent diction of “love’s austere and lonely offices” connotes the indifference of the son towards the father’s endeavor (14). The word “offices” frequently refers to places of employment where people concentrate on their own work and compete with each other; it also means obligations or duties. Both definitions of the word contribute to the depiction of the father’s burden. In addition, the use of “austere” brings to mind coldness and a lack of luxury. The imagery of “blueblack cold” intensifies the sense of the loneliness and hardship of the father, who lives a life of selfless sacrifice without expecting gratitude or reward (3). On the other hand, “chronic angers” and “indifferently” reveal the apathy shown in return for his endeavor and his sacrifice (9, 10). However, the poet does not limit his use of poetic devices to diction and imagery. The change in perspective also contributes to the tone of the poem because it creates a sense of looking back to a different time and feeling regret. By utilizing different tenses to shift the perspective of the speaker through the three stanzas, the poet shows how the speaker’s thoughts change over time. Hayden narrates the first and the last stanzas with the past tense in order to illustrate the son’s childhood. Then, in the second stanza, the son becomes older and reveals his shame that he could not notice his father’s love during his childhood. The repetition of the question “what did I know” also develops the tone (13). Hayden effectively portrays the grief of the son and repeatedly links this grief to the lack of recognition of his father’s sacrifices. Despite this, the overall tone of the poem does not only portray regret; it also implies respect and admiration for the father. Through the description of the father’s harsh conditions (specifically the description of his hands as “cracked” while working selflessly), the speaker forms a tone filled with respect for the father’s love and sacrifice. Throughout the poem, by means of several poetic devices such as metaphor, diction,

imagery, repetition, perspective and tone, Hayden magnifies and strengthens a sense of the father’s loneliness and describes the son’s regret for not acknowledging his father’s efforts. Throughout the poem, Robert Hayden explores the apathy and lack of understanding of a young man during puberty as well as utilizing several poetic devices in order to describe a father’s love toward his son. The lack of reward for his efforts, which verge on oblations, only intensifies the depiction of this love. The son cannot appreciate his father’s care in the past, but now he finally understands how much his father has sacrificed. In the end, despite their own loss and dedication, parents’ inherent love toward their children continually exists and never disappears. Work Cited: Hayden, Robert. “Those Winter Sundays,” 1962. Poets, <http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem /those-winter-sundays>. Web.

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The Gospel According to Maudie Sydell Bonin ‘18 With her acerbic tongue and depth of perspective, Miss Maudie provides the town with paramount lessons that reach countless characters and force readers to reconsider their perception of piety. Myriad opportunities present themselves to reveal the irony of calling Maudie Atkinson “unholy,” as her morals throughout prove otherwise. Her teachings, integrity, and honesty better the town as a whole. Miss Maudie acts as a vessel for teaching Maycomb’s citizens the true meaning of Christianity, and calls into question their fundamental beliefs on doctrine. Miss Maudie’s ability to recognize Atticus’ holiness in taking on Tom Robinson’s case displays her own personal zeal. The clarity with which she understands, and agrees with, his morals concerning Tom proves that she possesses these same beliefs. An icon of pride for Maycomb, Atticus’ revered, and eventually, respected, decision to take on this case shows that the citizens do, in fact, prize intelligence and morals: “We’re so rarely called on to be Christians, but when we are, we’ve got men like Atticus to go for us” (Lee 246). In the moral sense, Miss Maudie parallels Atticus. However, the lesson Atticus tries teaching Scout and Jem on the importance of taking Tom’s case must be reinforced by an outside figure whom the children esteem. Miss Maudie fills this role. Scout and Jem’s youth disallows Atticus from instilling this lesson, as outside opinions still form their whole persons. His intensely close relationship with his children makes this edification heard, but not fully convincing. Despite being the same as those of Atticus, Miss Maudie’s teachings sit with Scout and Jem because she provides the necessary outside opinion to corroborate his counsel. This ability to understand and translate morality expresses her true Christianity.

Faced by a dire situation, one’s immediate reaction often expresses one’s true personality. While watching her house and belongings burn to the ground, Miss Maudie’s positive outlook surprises most. However, according to her, this fire just gives her “more room for my azaleas now!” (75). Without saying much, Miss Maudie tutors Maycomb on true sanctity. Her optimistic fortitude displays two palpable Christian virtues: integrity and courage. These valuable traits serve her well on multiple occasions, especially when forced to find sunshine in even the darkest of predicaments. While a house fire can be extinguished, drenching the wildfire-like gossip in a small town requires a certain panache. The blatantly un-Christian hearsay spread in the Maycomb, Alabama Methodist Episcopal Church South group can only be battled with verbal fire: “His food doesn’t stick going down, does it?” (266); Miss Maudie’s acidic sense of humor and moral views quell Mrs. Merriweather’s ironic criticism of Atticus’ work that pays for the food she eats. Despite its harshness, this comment works to shock the ladies out of their polite complacency, even for a minute, and bring the reality of their undeserving malice to light. The ladies’ façade of holiness can only be broken by something as equally stinging as their gossip. Miss Maudie’s acerbity displays her true Christian conviction: honesty. Only wit and a strong dose of perspective can pierce the cocoon of Maycomb’s small-town beliefs. Scout’s moral framework suffers a blow when her “confidence in pulpit Gospel lessened at the vision of Miss Maudie stewing forever in various Protestant hells” (49). Miss Maudie’s desperately-needed intellect and her ability to express her beliefs equip Maycomb with the bona fide meaning of Christian virtue and shake the preconceived stereotype of holiness.

Work Cited: Lee, Harper. To Kill a Mockingbird. New York: Harper & Row, 1960. Print.

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A Brief Historiography of the French Revolution Emmalene Kurtis ‘17 While none of Alexis De Tocqueville, Simon Schama, or Jackson J. Spielvogel’s methodologies present a perfect and complete history of the French Revolution, all provide essential insight into understanding the era. Although each of these three historians writes extensive volumes investigating and exploring the French Revolution, each contains its own unique flaws and strengths. Through literature, we know history. A competent author writes history for his audience. Understanding the mindset of his reader allows him to create a work that not only provides information, but entertains. As Jackson J. Spielvogel, author of Western Civilization: A Brief History, says of his textbook: “I sought to keep the story in history.” 1 When the historian records history as a collection of adventures and outcomes, the past comes alive. History books should include a captivating language to keep the reader engaged, but more importantly, a true presentation of specific events. Alexis De Tocqueville’s book, The Old Regime and the French Revolution, uses broad topics to outline the Revolution, rather than pointing out actual incidents. His over-determinist point of view on history detracts from the reader’s appreciation and full understanding of the French Revolution. As he asserts: “Chance played no part in the outbreak of the Revolution … it was the inevitable outcome of a long period of gestation.” 2 Therefore he makes no

Jackson J. Spielvogel, Western Civilization: A Brief History (Boston: Wadsworth, 2014), xxi. 2 Alexis De Tocqueville, The Old Regime and the French Revolution (New York: Doubleday, 1955), 20.

mention of the fall of the Bastille because for him, it holds no direct link to the Revolution. According to De Tocqueville, another event could easily take the place of the fall of the Bastille and this interchange would make no difference in history. His over-deterministic views contribute to his incomplete accounting of the French Revolution. In not mentioning anything about the fall of the Bastille, De Tocqueville reveals the makeup of his audience, those who experienced the aftermath of the French Revolution and who already possess firsthand knowledge of the event. He states in the preface: “I hope and believe that I have written the present book without any parti pris, though it would be futile to deny that my own feeling were engaged.” 3 His own personal opinions cloud his writing, but in the best way possible. Instead of writing about events of which his audience already lived through, he writes of the “spirit of the age.” This provides a more truthful account of the country’s state of mind. He conveys the emotions of the general public without falsifying their stories. Simon Schama’s narrative, Citizens: A Chronicle of the French Revolution, utilizes drama to describe very specific events that are historically unfounded. This underdeterminist view of history relies heavily on certain key characters as the stars of the French Revolution. Instead of merely presenting information, his elaborate approach undermines the reader’s perception of what remains fact and what becomes fiction, and therefore opens the door to doubt. He attempts to justify his style by proclaiming, “As artificial as written narratives may be, they often correspond to ways in which historical actors construct events.” 4 The reader

3 4

Ibid., xii. Simon Schama, Citizens: A Chronicle of the French Revolution (New York: Vintage Books, 1989), xvi.

questions the integrity of his work because of his novel-like language. Since Schama’s stories originate from a place of fantasy, they entice the reader to stay engaged with the text. His narrative style invites his audience to take pleasure in reading as it mimics the content of mainstream books today. He clarifies: “Narratives have been described, by Hayden White among others, as a kind of fictional device used by the historian to impose a reassuring order on randomly arriving bits of information about the dead.” 5 He resurrects important historical figures and makes them come alive, encouraging the reader to more intimately relate to history by seeing the characters as real people. Unlike most history books that are dry and dense, his work never bores his audience. Jackson J. Spielvogel’s book, Western Civilization: A Brief History, follows a strict, repetitive, and chronological order through history. He mentions in his preface that, “One of my goals was to write a well-balanced work in which the political, economic, social, religious, intellectual, cultural, and military aspects of Western civilization would be integrated into a chronologically ordered synthesis.” 6 While he achieves his goal, he misses the mark on providing any entertainment value for the reader. Rather than presenting a lively history to his audience, he focuses his efforts on writing a quality history textbook. His style leans to neither an under-determinist nor an over-determinist view, creating a relatively unbiased account of the French Revolution. The works of De Tocqueville, Schama, and Spielvogel all succeed in providing unique snapshots of the French

5 6

Ibid., vi. Spielvogel, Western Civilization, xxi.

Revolution. As De Tocqueville eloquently notes, â&#x20AC;&#x153;If we wish to get a true understanding of the French Revolution and its achievement, it is well to disregard for the moment the France of today and to look back to the France that is no more.â&#x20AC;? 7 Each author imagined himself as living in Revolutionary France, and although the methodologies of their works differed, each historian capitalized on his chosen style. Though impossible for any one author to produce a perfect history of a specific time period, the combined efforts of these three writers provide a more complete understanding of the French Revolution. De Tocqueville, Schama, and Spielvogel each offer their reader a different perspective of the same time in history. Reading and following all three works proves vital to our true understanding of the events that occurred and unfolded. If we fail to read literature written about a certain time period, how can we know enough about it to form an opinion? Works Cited: De Tocqueville, Alexis. The Old Regime and the French Revolution. New York: Doubleday, 1955. Schama, Simon. Citizens: A Chronicle of the French Revolution. New York: Vintage Books, 1989. Spielvogel, Jackson J. Western Civilization: A Brief History, 8th ed. Boston: Wadsworth, 2014.

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De Tocqueville, The Old Regime and the French Revolution, vii.

Clarity of a Fleeting World: Hamlet’s Struggle to Define the Universe George Sturges ‘16 In William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Hamlet assumes he can define his surroundings, and examples to the contrary obscure his thought. As the world changes before his very eyes, he abandons his self-empowering viewpoint, and scrambles to ground himself in an unchanging reality. Hamlet’s need to create a permanent world drives him mad as he understands his inadequacy to do so. Although clever in wit, Hamlet’s simplification of the world reveals his childlike ignorance. Radicalizing his views, Hamlet paints a picture of his father as “Hyperion to a satyr,” contorting his image into that of a demigod (I.ii.140). Shortly after, he brands his mother Gertrude as a “villain, villain, smiling, damnèd villain,” reducing her to a single word (I.v.106). In Hamlet’s mind, Gertrude is the villain; his father is the noble hero. Like a child, he labels people the “good guys” or the “bad guys,” lowering them to the archetypes of their behaviors. By doing so, Hamlet reinforces his respect for his father, and justifies his hatred of his mother. This deluded mentality portrays others in the way that Hamlet wants to portray them: radical and permanent. The encounter with the ghost initiates Hamlet’s descent into madness as he begins to see the error of his mindset. At first, Hamlet proclaims “I’ll call thee Hamlet, / King, father, royal Dane,” declaring the perceived authority to name and characterize his own father (I.iv.44-45). By doing so, he gives the ghost his father’s identity, “royal” status and all (I.iv.45). However, when the ghost announces that he must soon return to “sulph’rous and tormenting flames,” Hamlet instinctively retracts the earlier statement identifying the

ghost as his father, responding only with “Alas, poor ghost!” (I.v.3, 4). As this fate does not suit a man as noble as how he perceives his father, Hamlet chooses not to identify him as such, as if his decisions could shape the world. However, the harsh truth unfolds itself to Hamlet as the ghost confirms that “I am thy father’s spirit” (I.v.9). This piece of damning evidence directly contradicts Hamlet’s mentality; purgatory cannot punish purely noble men. This experience threatens his worldview, which resists the relatively sensible reality he sees in his father. As he realizes the invalidity of his simplification, he encounters an internal disorder manifesting itself in madness. Acknowledging the current state of his “distracted globe,” he employs his maddened state to find another, more accurate, philosophy (I.v.97). Although in a state of chaos regarding his method of finding truth, Hamlet takes on “an antic disposition” in order to unfold the deceit surrounding him (I.v.175). While Hamlet’s sanity deteriorates, his rationale utilizes this state to fuel his interior transformation in what Polonius calls “madness, yet there be method in’t” (II.ii.204). Later, Ophelia’s complete insanity highlights this concept by comparison; while Hamlet employs his madness, her “unshaped use of it doth move / the hearers to collection; they aim at it, / and botch the words up to fit their own thoughts” (IV.v.8-10). Ophelia does not know the meaning of her madness; only others can attempt to derive any semblance of logic in it. In contrast, Hamlet manipulates his language, leaving others befuddled by its layered strategy. By separating himself from the “sane” inner workings of society, Hamlet frees himself to examine it. Detached from society, Hamlet uncovers deception and misconception from multiple sources, catalyzing his internal transformation. When he sees Claudius praying in supplication, Hamlet sees a different side of him. Previously,

Claudius had doctored his speech and manipulated his audience; in his speech regarding his brother’s death, he transitions from “our dear brother’s death” to the political issue of “young Fortinbras, / Holding a weak supposal of our worth,” in just sixteen lines, glossing over Gertrude’s marriage in between (I.ii.1, 17). In contrast, Hamlet now finds him crying “Help, Angels! Make assay. / Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the newborn babe” (III.iii.69-71). When he sees this display of Claudius’s honesty and guilty conscience, he stalls, acknowledging the complexity of another human being and refusing to give them an extreme definition. Later on, he discovers trickery during the meeting with his mother, and thoughtlessly thrusts through a curtain and kills Polonius. Unlike his other drawn-out attempts to kill Claudius, Hamlet does not think, or add his own personal connection at all to the matter. He merely recognizes “a rat? Dead for a ducat, dead!” (III.iv.24). In this regard, Hamlet plays the role of an agent of fate and justice, impartially striking to enforce the principles of righteousness. In contrast with his former inaction, Hamlet surrenders the power that he thought he had to define another human being, now realizing his role subservient to fate. Hamlet completes his metamorphosis as he grasps death both in concept and in actuality, solidifying the overarching role of fate in his mind. Holding Yorick’s skull in his hand, Hamlet sees himself. As Yorick played the role of the king’s jester, his life mirrored the one Hamlet currently leads. Despite his “infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,” his skull lies buried, indiscernible from all other skulls (V.i.175). Regardless of material title, death equalizes all life. Only a memory lives on in the material world to serve as the sum of a person. In comparison to fate, Hamlet lacks the authority to define a life.

Seeing himself in the context of death, Hamlet relinquishes the self-given power to label and define the truth and accepts the universal extent of fateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grasp. For Hamlet does not shape the world, but rather, the world shapes Hamlet. Work Cited: Shakespeare, William. The Tragical History of Hamlet Prince of Denmark. New York: Penguin, 2001. Print.

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Safe and Sound: Ophelia’s Madness in Hamlet A. Brandt Matthews ‘16 The choice between action and thought is one that presents itself in many forms; risk oneself to help others or stay out of harm’s way, stand behind an unstable point or be passive and avoid embarrassment, or act boldly to avoid potential regret. In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Ophelia is faced with this timeless decision in the form of reflecting on the events transpiring around her, or simply believing what her father tells her and acting on his accord. As the stakes rise and the rot of Denmark spreads, she becomes more and more a part of her father’s plots while contemplating their consequences less and less. While those around her fall, Ophelia is able to keep safe through her fear of action, disregarding her father’s advice to be true to herself and favoring her brother’s warning that the “best safety lies in fear” (Shakespeare I.iii.42). Only when she is forced to look upon things herself and face her own fear does she succumb to the same faults as those around her. Ophelia, beginning as a thoughtful individual, soon becomes caught up in her father’s thoughts rather than her own. Upon receiving advice from Laertes, she is sincere yet wary in accepting it, reminding him to not be one who “recks his own reed” (I.iii.50). She, however, proves to be just as great a hypocrite as her brother by immediately abandoning original thought and subscribing to that of Polonius once he reminds her that “you do not understand yourself so clearly” (I.iii.95). In quickly abandoning her retort and resolving to do as Laertes instructs, she trusts her father’s judgment over her own and begins to fear analyzing her life in order to avoid tarnishing her honor as well as her father’s. This makes itself very clear after Hamlet appears in a disheveled fashion before Ophelia. She immediately runs to Polonius to find meaning in this before attempting to do

so herself. She does not attempt to handle her own affairs but lets her father work them out for her, accompanying him to see the king and address how her denial of Hamlet’s affections “hath made him mad” (II.ii.109). It is, however, in Ophelia’s involvement in Claudius and Polonius spying on Hamlet to see “if’t be th’ affliction of his love or no / That thus he suffers for” that her lack of reflection takes full form (III.i.36-7). While Hamlet speaks plainly to her of the danger she is involving herself in with Polonius, Claudius and himself, and begs she escape to the safety of a nunnery, she instead sticks to the theories of her father that Hamlet is “blasted with ecstasy” (III.i.160). While Hamlet gives her clear warning that “we are arrant knaves all” and that the upper class men are the danger in Denmark, her lack of foundational thought of this sort makes it impossible for her to comprehend, leaving her to interpret his speech as nothing but mad rambling (III.i.129). This miscommunication is something Ophelia is doomed to encounter again but this time from an opposite perspective, when her father is no longer present to think for her. After Polonius’ death, Ophelia is swept into madness with no ability to make sense of the events going on around her, except for the shattered pieces of Polonius’s philosophy she holds onto. Much like Hamlet, Ophelia’s speech in madness “is nothing, / Yet the unshaped use of it doth move / The hearers to collection; they aim at it, / And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts” (IV.v.7-10). However, unlike Hamlet who used the method within his madness to expose the truth of others around him, what little method employed by Ophelia is used only to expose the warped sense of reality she believes to be true. She speaks of how she has wronged Hamlet, recounting his responses to the question of marriage: “So would I ’a’ done, by yonder sun, / And thou hadst not come to my bed” (IV.v.65-6). She feels

guilt for tempting Hamlet and speaks of what could either be the death of her father, or the death of her relationship with Hamlet, buried upside down in an unchristian burial since it has harbored pre-marital sex. The deaths of both of these relationships are what, in effect, lead to her demise. When Ophelia speaks to the court for the last time, she distributes flowers. However, she distributes no violets for “they withered all when my father died” (IV.v.179). She quickly dismisses herself afterwards, and proceeds to commit suicide. With her father no longer present to interpret Hamlet’s behavior for her, she is forced to use the information she has and finds herself solely responsible for his madness. She believes she tempted him to sleep with her and therefore dissolved his ability to marry her in the church. This inability to marry the woman he loves thus drives him mad, in her mind, leaving only herself at fault. Overcome by this, she performs a final act of loyalty to Hamlet in killing herself. Thus Laertes upon her burial implores that “from her fair and unpolluted flesh / May violets spring” for her loyalty to the man she loved (V.i.229-30). Laertes’s advice to his sister proves valid, with Ophelia only endangered by her misinterpretation of the events going on around her. In fearing her own power to analyze, Ophelia temporarily remains safe from herself and what she believes to be the solution to the issues at hand. It is, however, her dependence on her father and his belief that Hamlet’s madness arises from love that force her to turn blame on herself. When Polonius’ death removes Ophelia’s fear of action, it releases the danger of her assumptions. Work Cited: Shakespeare, William. The Tragical History of Hamlet Prince of Denmark. New York: Penguin, 2001. Print.

Snapshots from Moby-Dick Carly Johnston ’16 Claire Doire ’16 Rosie Randolph ‘16 The following short essays analyze minor characters in Moby-Dick who often act as foils for Ahab or Ishmael through their actions and moralities. The length limitation required the authors to write with increased attention to brevity and clarity, a task which is often hard to accomplish. Taken together, the essays should be read as a lesson in how to argue well in textual analysis. The truth is simple, and while your ideas as a writer should not be, the language which presents them must keep the audience engaged and ensure they understand your reasoning. Work Cited: Melville, Herman. Moby-Dick; or, The Whale. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1967. Print.

Queequeg: Civilization and Savagery Carly Johnston ‘16 “Now, there is this noteworthy difference between savage and civilized; that while a sick, civilized man may be six months convalescing, generally speaking, a sick savage is almost half-well again in a day. So, in good time my Queequeg gained strength; and … poising a harpoon, pronounced himself fit for a fight.” (Melville 366) Herman Melville proves to his audience that savagery does not lessen, but rather strengthens faith through displaying “savage” Queequeg’s sudden resurrection from his deathbed. The “savage” lifestyle lacks the modern conveniences that the “civilized” lifestyle has. Although one could see this as a disadvantage because of all the benefits that the “civilized” man receives, these modern conveniences also deplete faith and generate cynicism. After making numerous distinct preparations for death, including the creation of a handmade coffin, “Queequeg gained strength,” and soon he nearly feels “fit for a fight,” claiming that he resurrects because of a duty on land he had just remembered. As a result of civilization’s incredible advancements, such as medicine, “a sick, civilized man may be six months convalescing.” Because the “civilized” man has physical antidotes to his problems, he dilutes his faith, and no longer believes that he could survive on his own without these conveniences. In contrast, “a sick savage is almost half-well again in a day.” Without modern antidotes for the “savage” man to depend on, he must have complete faith in himself if he wants a recovery from an illness or a solution to any other problem.

By having Queequeg “resurrect,” Herman Melville depicts Queequeg as a Christ-like figure, further portraying the idea that the “savage” man has greater faith than the “civilized” man. Though the “savage” man may not have faith in the same God that the “civilized” man claims to believe in, or even any God at all, Melville teaches his audience that without civilized advancements, the “savage” man can tune in more to his inner human spirit, and rely on his faith in himself.

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Starbuck: Fate and Righteousness Claire Doire ’16 “ ‘Flat obedience to thy own flat commands, this is all thou breathest. Aye, and say’st the men have vow’d thy vow; say’st all of us are Ahabs. Great God forbid!’ ” (Melville 387) Starbuck constantly demonstrates a reluctance to submit to Ahab’s concept of a divinely-fixed destiny, and encourages him to turn the Pequod around on multiple occasions. However, when presented with the opportunity to kill Ahab and take control of the Pequod’s course in “The Musket,” Starbuck never pulls the trigger, remaining faithful not only to Ahab, but also to a non-determinist view of fate. Well into the voyage and caught in the middle of a destructive typhoon, Starbuck, about to relate a routine update to Captain Ahab, suddenly finds himself fighting an internal war. Already under physical and mental strain, the muskets hanging outside of Ahab’s cabin present Starbuck with an unprecedented opportunity to reverse the fatal trajectory of the ship. Starbuck pensively contemplates the choice that confronts him and the history of his interaction with the maddened captain, holding the very musket with which Ahab almost killed him. He voices again in the quote above his dread of assimilating and accepting Ahab’s concocted fate, and giving up his own belief that the way of righteousness will prevail. Ultimately, Starbuck lowers the musket and retreats, unwilling to participate in an act of vengeance in order to achieve his will. His failure to follow through with Ahab’s murder exemplifies Starbuck’s sense of responsibility to the good and virtuous, contrasting with Ahab’s narrow-minded mania.

Despite the differences in character between the Pequod’s captain and first mate, both Ahab and Starbuck are steadfast in their convictions. Starbuck’s humane worship of the good provides a lens of sensibility by which to view Ahab’s maddened journey. In the end, neither achieves their desired goal, but they remain faithful to their respective duties: Ahab, to chase Moby Dick for eternity; and Starbuck, to stand by his principles in the face of adversity for the sake of righteousness.

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Stubb: The Hunter and the Hunted Rosie Randolph ‘16 “About midnight that steak was cut and cooked; and lighted by the lanterns of sperm oil, Stubb stoutly stood up to his spermaceti supper at the capstan-head, as if that capstan were a sideboards. Nor was Stubb the only banqueter on whale’s flesh that night. Mingling their mumblings with his own mastications, thousands on thousands of sharks, swarming round the dead leviathan, smackingly feasted on its fatness. The few sleepers below in their bunks were often startled by the sharp slapping of their tails against the hull.” (Melville 236) When Stubb decides to devour the whale, he invites a direct comparison of himself to a shark, demonstrating how easily men can cross the narrow line separating humans from animals. Whalemen do not eat whale meat; instead, they take the blubber and leave the eating to the sharks. Stubbs’ desire to eat whale flies in the face of this civilized tradition, and the fact that he eats his meal “lighted by the lanterns of sperm oil” makes his feast all the more macabre as he uses the whale for the light by which he consumes its very flesh. The sentence, “nor was Stubb the only banqueter on whale’s flesh that night,” portrays Stubb as eating together with the sharks in the manner that people eat together at a party, implying equality and even a camaraderie of sorts. Throughout this passage, Melville effectively uses alliteration to emphasize the comparison of Stubb with the sharks. Eating the whale “cut and cooked” and “lighted by the lanterns,” he joins with the killer fish as they “feast on its fatness.” By “mingling their mumblings with his own mastications,” Stubb becomes indistinguishable from the

thousands of hungry sharks, combining his grisly meal with theirs in a ghastly symphony of animalistic savagery. He does not sit down at a table for a meal; instead Stubb “stoutly stood up to his spermaceti supper,” eating in the manner of an animal, just as the sharks continue to swim in their feeding frenzy so that the sailors “below in their bunks were often startled by the sharp slapping of their tails against the hull.” As the novel continues, the whalemen of the Pequod continue to toe the line between civilization and savagery. Stubb’s feast with the sharks serves as an indicator of the hidden barbarism that persists in blurring the boundary between the whalemen and the whale, ultimately dragging both the hunter and the hunted to the bottom of the ocean.

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Sound & Sense: Differing Approaches to Irish Traditional Music Dylan Bedford ‘15 Ciarán Carson's experiential insight in Last Night's Fun surpasses pedantic academic analysis of the nature of Irish music. In a sensory journey that manipulates memory and time, Carson explores the boundaries of tradition in a way contemporary musicological approaches fail to capture. Carson's methodology defies categorization. Memory plays a significant role in the nature of Irish traditional music, and Carson's wander through the mental world best illustrates this phenomenon. In “Boil the Breakfast Early,” Carson presents a hazy yet detailed memory of dining at “the cafe you always found by accident, above a haberdashery or alterations shop,” and draws from this profound concept: speaking of finding the venue again, he says “the universe is often stumbled on by accident, or visualized in dreams. Only when the stars concur do we 1 arrive.” Carson's abstractions coalesce into an image of the nature of not only Irish music, but the universe itself – and how the two relate. For instance, he compares the moving stars to musicians playing a tune, saying “we too have moved, or have been moved to know that until now we had not played this tune … nor had we realized the marks of 2 other hands that knew it,” suggesting that, paradoxically, players both remember tunes from the past and create them anew with each repetition. The fluidity of Carson's recollections illustrates how memories can be modified.

Ciarán Carson, Last Night's Fun: In and Out of Time with Irish Music (New York City, North Point Press, 1996), 21. 2 Ibid.

Although they still emphasize the significance of memory, other musicological analyses reach limited meaning compared to Carson's approach. Breandán Breathnach, a music collector and authoritative academic writer on Irish tradition, defines “folk music” as “a heritage which is passed on from one age to the next – hence the term 3 ‘traditional.’ ” This definition presents only one facet of memory's importance. Breathnach only later adds that “the way, then, is open for reshaping in transmission,” and still 4 emphasizes the inheritance of the tune. In the documentary Water from the Well, Paddy Moloney, the leader of the traditional Irish band The Chieftains, also points out tradition. The film juxtaposes Moloney recounting his memories of house parties at the House of Conroy with 5 contemporary footage of such a party. While this serves to illustrate the continuation of tradition, an important function of memory, it barely suggests the flexibility that Carson presents. In the same time it takes others to explain and define one aspect of Irish music, Carson reveals several. Carson also excels in relating how time weaves into the nature of Irish music. Through the image of a settling Guinness, he proves how traditional music features “endless 6 variety within a fixed framework,” when within the “interlude” runs a stream of consciousness which fills the

Breandán Breathnach, Folk Music and Dances of Ireland: A Comprehensive Study Examining the Basic Elements of Irish Folk Music and Dance Traditions (Cork, Mercier Publications, 1971), 2. 4 Ibid., 120. 5 The Chieftains: Live Over Ireland: Water From the Well, directed by Maurice Linnane (2000; Chatsworth, CA: Image Entertainment, 2001), DVD. 6 Carson, Last Night’s Fun, 29.

moment of time with infinite detail. In his discussion of poteen, a far more mystical beverage, he tells a story of playing “The Mountain Road” over and over again, and points out “there is no chronological time, because the tune invents its own dimensions … Miles of time go by in less 8 time than it takes to tell.” Carson's imagery elucidates his ideas. Meanwhile, in Breathnach's exhaustive list of traditional carols and dances, he explains how a carol “consisted of a verse and chorus of four lines, … two strains, 9 each consisting of four bars in 2/4 time,” and proceeds to define further boundaries. Again, Breathnach clarifies a possible misconception in his conclusion by emphasizing that tunes should not always be played to an exact standard, 10 and that room exists for variation. However, he fails to fully portray the ephemeral nature of time in Irish traditional music because of his strict definition of boundaries. Carson's view of traditional boundaries most accurately defines their indefinite nature. Because of the subjectivity of time and memory, the boundaries only provide a general framework – and yet, “while there is no ultimate correctness 11 in traditional music, there is wrong.” Here, 'wrong' means lacking the indescribable character that comes closest to the true nature of Irish music: “that particular undefinable something in the tone and swing of an Irish reel, for

Ibid., 34-36. Ibid., 75. 9 Breathnach, Folk Music and Dances of Ireland, 37. 10 Ibid., 123. 11 Carson, Last Night’s Fun, 11. 8

instance.” In an article in the Journal of American & Comparative Cultures, Deborah Rapuano attempts to define these boundaries through her observations of American musicians, and argues that “their intense dentification with the music allows them to feel allied with an important aspect of traditional Irish culture, while remaining only peripherally 13 connected in reality,” and says “these musicians can never 14 be Irish.” However, Irish traditional music, by nature, does not exclude, as evidenced by the collaboration of The Chieftains with groups like Los Lobos, a Mexican-American 15 band. If anything, Irish musical culture explores the deep framework to include all participants. Ultimately, what brings Irish traditional music together, and what the Chieftains were seeking in their 'return to their roots,' Carson knew all along; true seisiún culture unites the listeners and the players into a greater experience, bringing all involved into the infinite world contained within the framework of boundaries. Though conventional approaches attempt to categorize and label specific facets of the tradition, Carson's subjective illustrations best capture its nature. Thus, unexpectedly, the most personal depiction evokes a universal experience.

Francis O'Neill, Irish Minstrels and Musicians (Chicago, Regan Printing House, 1913) ch. xxvi, quoted in Ciáran Carson, Last Night's Fun, 96. 13 Deborah Rapuano, “Becoming Irish or becoming Irish music? Boundary construction in Irish music communities.” Journal of American & Comparative Cultures 24 (2001), 104. 14 Ibid., 108. 15 The Chieftains: Live Over Ireland.

Works Cited: Breathnach, Breandán. Folk Music and Dances of Ireland: A Comprehensive Study Examining the Basic Elements of Irish Folk Music and Dance Traditions. 1971. Reprint, Cork, Ireland: Mercier Publications, 1996. Carson, Ciarán. Last Night’s Fun: In and Out of Time with Irish Music. New York City: North Point Press, 1996. The Chieftains: Live Over Ireland: Water From the Well. Directed by Maurice Linnane. 2000; Chatsworth, CA: Image Entertainment, 2001. DVD. Rapuano, Deborah L. “Becoming Irish or Becoming Irish Music? Boundary Construction in Irish Music Communities.” Journal of American & Comparative Cultures 24, no. 1-2 (2001): 103-113.

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Christ in the Desert: The Grapes of Wrath as an American Gospel Douglas Lebo ‘15 The Grapes of Wrath contradicts traditional American values. At best, Steinbeck condemns the Pharisaic America faced by migrant farmers escaping the Dust Bowl in the 1930s, and at worst, he presents a gospel whose Christ lacks faith in the Christian God. However, by drawing on Transcendentalism, the Old and New Testaments, and Naturalism, Steinbeck creates an intrinsically American novel. Its multivalent plot – a general narration running alongside the deeply moving odyssey of the Joad family – allows for interpretation in each of the above philosophies, as well as developing a moral framework of its own. The Grapes of Wrath, Steinbeck’s American gospel, draws on the nation’s literary traditions to preach the lessons of charity and faith in the midst of a tragedy, reinforcing the tenacity of human dignity. Like the Old Testament, the novel moves swiftly from its verdant opening into the desert and the midst of death and suffering: “As the sharp sun struck day after day, the leaves of the young corn became less stiff and erect,” wilting and losing the sexual vitality to produce more life (Steinbeck 1). With life gone, hope for a resurrection after rain endures, but the dust rises and “the dawn came, but no day” (2). Hope in nature thus disappears as well, only to be replaced by a more radical, soon-to-be-revolutionary one: “After a while the faces of the watching men lost their bemused perplexity and became hard and angry and resistant. Then the women knew that they were safe and that there was no break” (3-4). This anger seethes as the Exodus from the Dust Bowl begins. The force which pushes the people off the land descends with the dust: the owners and their alien concepts

of legal title and calculated productivity. Their embodiment, the tractors, “came over the roads and into the fields, great crawlers moving like insects,” bringing desecration to the land with “twelve curved iron penes erected in the foundry, orgasms set by gears, raping methodically, raping without passion” (35, 36). Mechanical insects replace men, and they substitute the lust and greed of their owners for true love of the land. Paradoxically, as the land dies and its violation reaches its climax, it becomes even more personified: “The land bore under iron, and under iron gradually died; for it was not loved or hated, it had no prayers or curses” (36). The land no longer disappoints the people; now its death marks it for new life in the hands of those who love it. The tenants’ Exodus thus gains a new purpose, one beyond mere animalistic flight. Moses hands down laws in the Book of Exodus, and likewise the novel redefines sin to match a worldview drawn from the cultivation of the earth. Profit drives sin: “A homeless hungry man … could look at the fallow fields which might produce food but not profit, and that man could know how a fallow field is a sin and the unused land is a crime against the thin children” (234). From the perspective of a drunk in the desert, the novel shouts out its Transcendentalism: “The stars are close and dear and I have joined the brotherhood of the worlds. And everything’s holy – everything, even me” (328). Since this holiness pervades the natural world, sin lies in what remains: the misuse of the land and abuse of its people. In defining sin, the novel calls for punishments for sinners. The destruction of crops arouses a righteous anger: “In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage” (349). This sentence, an allusion to Revelations through “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” aligns the “men with hoses” who

“squirt kerosene on the oranges” and the capitalists causing the “decay [spreading] over the State” with the damned at the end of time (349, 348); likewise it equates the migrants’ anger with wine, through which Christ establishes the New Covenant. Through this anger, soon to be expiating blood, the guiltless migrants will attain salvation, and the pillagers of the land will find only punishment. With the more personal story of the Joad family, Steinbeck introduces rich and moving imagery of the New Testament. Tom Joad, whom Casy compares directly to “ ‘the prodigal in Scripture’,” returns home from prison directly into the family’s westward voyage (29). Rose of Sharon, whose hair “made an ash-blond crown” like the Crowned Virgin’s, daintily carries a child within her (95). Most obviously, Jim Casy, whose initials blatantly coincide with those of Jesus Christ, leads the twelve Joads to California and shares his own version of evangelical Christianity on the way. This Christ figure, however, says that he “ ‘ain’t got the call no more. Got a lot of sinful idears – but they seem kinda sensible’ ” (20); Steinbeck uses Jim Casy to present a gospel with a Transcendentalist Christ. Casy reforms his spirituality through the course of the novel. He states early on that “ ‘There ain’t no sin and there ain’t no virtue. There's just stuff people do. … Maybe all men got one big soul ever’body’s a part of’ ” (23-24). He struggles with faith in God and his own sin: “He looked over at Joad and his face looked helpless. His expression asked for help,” revealing his human vulnerability (22). Later, faced with Ivy Wilson’s suffering and imminent death, he states, “ ‘I got no God,’ ” only for Ivy to rebuke him: “ ‘You got a God. Don’t make no difference if you don’ know what he looks like’ ” (218). Thus Casy arrives in California, reminded that he believes in God and affirmed in his Transcendental faith in humanity. He has confidence that all

humans should do good for one another, a message that strikes a chord with the fledgling labor movement in California. In Biblical terms, if the migrants have completed their Exodus from the Dust Bowl, then they will now fight for California, the Promised Land where Christ carries out His ministry. Casy steps into this responsibility when he defends the Joads and goes willingly into custody: “Between his guards Casy sat proudly, his head up … On his lips there was a faint smile and on his face a curious look of conquest” (267). He disappears from the narrative for a time, and then reappears in charge of the strike outside the peach camp. His death is punctuated with a stirring exclamation from one of his murderers: “ ‘Jesus, George. I think you killed him’ ” (386). Strengthened by Casy’s death – as the ultimate expression of dedication to a cause – Tom goes on to finish the preacher’s work. He quotes Ecclesiastes to Ma, once again uniting the Transcendental view of humanity’s holiness with Christianity: “ ‘Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him, and a threefold cord is not quickly broken’ ” (418, Ecclesiastes 4:9-12). He draws solace from the unity of mankind in its “ ‘great big soul’ ” and encourages Ma to as well: “ ‘I’ll be aroun’ in the dark. I’ll be ever’where – wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there’ ” (418, 419). Tom leaves to complete Casy’s mission, but the other Joads learn the same lessons in faith as well. The Joads’ spiritual experiences in California chiefly occur with Rose of Sharon and Ma. Lisbeth Sandry interrogates Rose of Sharon, and says of the people she perceives as sinners that “ ‘God’s a-watchin’, an’ I’m awatchin,’ ” placing herself squarely with the Pharisees (309). She describes the causes she perceives for the

miscarriages in the camp, but it requires Evangelism’s longwinded rhetoric of damnation. The manager of the camp explains the same facts in simple, straightforward phrases: “ ‘Listen to me. I know them too. They were too hungry and too tired. And they worked too hard. And they rode on a truck over bumps. They were sick. It wasn’t their fault’ ” (310-1). The simplicity of the truth plays a large role in the new spirituality of the Joads, which Steinbeck continues to explore through the women who take over control of the family in this time of crisis. Ma regains faith in humanity at the peach camp, in the face of repression. She asks the cashier for 10¢ of sugar, and he refuses out of concern for his own job: “ ‘I can’t do it ma’am. … They always catch fellas. Always. I can’t’ ” (376). Immediately after that, however, “his face lost its fear,” and he pays for Ma’s sugar from his own pocket (376). Wary at first, Ma cautiously leaves the store, but her parting words reveal a burgeoning faith: “ ‘I’m learnin’ one thing good … If you’re in trouble or hurt or need – go to poor people. They’re the only ones that’ll help – the only ones’ ” (376). Kindness strengthens Ma’s faith and thus her resolve to keep going. Ma takes over the family in the boxcar, much to Pa’s chagrin. She explains why her sex gives her the necessary determination: “ ‘Man, he lives in jerks … Woman, it’s all one flow, like a stream, little eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right on’ ” (423). Then she responds to Uncle John’s question about their purpose, what will “ ‘keep ever’thing from stoppin’,’ ” with a teleology for perseverance: “ ‘Ever’thing we do – seems to me is aimed right at goin’ on. Seems that way to me. Even getting’ hungry – even bein’ sick; some die, but the rest is tougher. Jus’ try to live the day, jus’ the day’ ” (423). This strength allows Ma to take over the family, and in doing so she gives

their trials an ultimate purpose. The Joads can go on independent of tangible success, strong in hope and faith. Rose of Sharon’s experiences add charity to these two virtues. Rose of Sharon’s spiritual growth comes with her maturation. Ma pierces her ears, an act representative both of her entrance into womanhood and of Christ’s piercing. Meaning is relative: “ ‘Very near let you have a baby without your ears was pierced. But you’re safe now.’ ‘Does it mean somepin?’ [she replied.] ‘Why, ’course it does,’ said Ma. ‘’Course it does’ ” (355). While picking cotton, Rose of Sharon’s final defiant, adolescent act gives her a chill, and Ma’s anxiety suggests that it causes her miscarriage, “a blue shriveled little mummy” in an apple box (444). In religious terms, the rest of the family’s reactions reveal their new humanist spirituality: Pa kneels before Rose of Sharon, in worship before her as a source of life, and Ma tells Ruthie that “ ‘They ain’t no baby. They never was no baby,’ ” allegorically saying that there never was a Christ (446). They no longer need a God, because they have one another and can rely on others for help. Even without a breathing child, Rose of Sharon’s pregnancy finds new meaning. Uncle John takes the child, ostensibly to bury it, but “he set the box in the stream and steadied it with his hand. He said fiercely, ‘Go down an’ tell ’em. Go down in the street an’ rot an’ tell ’em that way’ ” (448). If the child cannot redeem mankind, it can at least find a kind of rebirth in heralding its message of this sin against humanity. Providing new life then reinvents Rose of Sharon’s very body: in “the whispering barn” she looks into the anonymous man’s “wide, frightened eyes” and has him drink her milk (455). Thus the novel ends in a scene of enigmatic triumph: “She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously” (455). This

image of unabashed charity might otherwise smack of shame and vulnerability, but as the capstone of Rose of Sharonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s maturation it affirms the dignity of man in aid of his fellow human being. The gospels have a twofold goal: to simultaneously redefine the understandings of the Old Testament and herald a new morality derived from this worldview. The Grapes of Wrath does this in the American West by abandoning the Christian God and rebuilding a deeply humanist system of faith and morality. Rain comes after the drought, and life is born again. Work Cited: Steinbeck, John. The Grapes of Wrath. New York: Penguin, 1939. Print.

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