The Bible, Beckett, and the German Literary Tradition

   In William Quirk's article about The Sunset Limited expressed that it was obviously about literature. Most of the conversation Black and White partake in is about books. I thought it was very interesting when William made the observation that the way we break down the conversation between the two is how we will break down and understand McCarthy's text. 

           

                                       

  

    I feel like this observation can also explain Black and White's thought process and how we understand them. Most of their conversation is about pieces of literature that have been prominent in their lives.  With the back and forth questions and answers revealed that White is/was a firm believer in literature in general. Black on the other hand, is a firm believer in a piece of literature. Maybe that is White's problem? He puts his faith in such a broad category that when pieces of it start to fail he believes that the few/one left cannot hold their own. I feel like White thinks that one piece of literature can not stand alone and provide suitable knowledge. However, Black believes that with this one piece of literature, the Bible, comes great strength and stability. 

The Sunset Limited

I feel like there are so many different meanings behind the back and forth dialogue of this novel/ play that I had a hard time trying to figure out what to write this post on. However, something that caught my attention was White's downward spiral in talking about his need for routine culture. White expresses to Black that everything is constantly changing, and everything he once believed to be true was either already gone or slowly disappearing. I feel like that is very relatable to us today. Technology is such a great addition to our society, but it is also diminishing other amenities that some people prefer more. 

For example, most everyone older than 12, remembers going into a Blockbuster or Hollywood video to grab a movie for a sleepover they were having that night. Now you just go on Netflix or Apple Tv and stream whatever you want to watch.  Granted, this isn't a way of life, or knowledge that White taught everyday that's changing, but some changes that could eventually lead to others. I can't even remember the last time I actually hand wrote a letter, addressed it, and mailed it out. Almost everything is becoming digital. Personally, I love to read actual books that are not online or downloaded to your Kindle. I love to fold the pages, bend the binding, and physically turn each pages. Sadly, I think in the next couple of years, I will not be able to do that. 

I think this is what White was talking about, but on a much larger scale. I think he feels if he doesn't have a routine, or if things he lived were constantly changing all throughout his life, he was felt to feel as if he was surrounded by darkness. The unknown. 

"Nevermore"

The Raven- Edgar Allen Poe Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! This image is the big picture. The Raven as it is perched upon the head of Athena, casts an unforgiving shadow on the narrator.   This image is a closer look at the Raven and it's resting spot of choice. Here is where you can listen to James Earl Jones recite The Raven. I personally love his voice and the combination of sounds he is forced to make as he reads each word.  Listening and reading this poem is such a treat. I absolutely love everything about this poem and the emotion it evokes as well as its hard, repetitive sound.  The entire poem is pretty much alliteration and repetition. Wherever Poe was able to fit it in, he did.  Giving it the blunt and hard, but also fluent sounds. I believe this is what gives the poem its morose tone.    The Raven is not only the title of the poem, but the main character so to speak.  Here it says that a raven is a symbol of a variety of things depending on the context as well as the culture. In Greek culture, the raven is a messenger of the God Apollo. With this reference, it would tie together the reasoning as to why the raven is perched on the top of Athena's head. In many other cultures, the raven is a symbol of hard times, battle, and destruction.  After doing some research it is more apparent why Edgar chose to use a raven. In the poem the raven gives a message provoking horrible feelings which in return causes difficult change. Nevermore is the love Poe once had with Lenore. This causes Poe's shadow (soul?) to detach itself from his body, lying floating on the floor.

Sex Without Love // Our Love

Sex Without Love - Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers, gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the 
come to the come to the God come to the 
still water, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as the steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the 
preist instead of the God, They so not 
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are the great runners: they know they are aline
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fir of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health- just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the 
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.

Our Love - Diamelen Partridge

Love, thick as thieves, yet
as delicate as the paper you write it on.
Unfolding.
I open it up, I lay my eyes upon it.
Upon you.
So fragile are the actions we engage in,
wondering if the palpitations are mutual.
Shocked is my cheek from the spark of your lips.
This is no longer a simple admiration, but a skipping
of my heart. Stopped with your words,
started with your smile. It a viscous ongoing cycle.
Is this love? Your head as it rests in my lap?
Different is this love that we have. I feel it
in your smile, in your laugh. Not in the way
my friends so constantly rave about.
Your hand so much larger than mine
but made just for me. We've gone from
a shy glance to you so generously rubbing my sore feet.
Im convinced.
I can see it, it's as thick as the blood that fuels
my internal flame for you.
For us.



**Please forgive me for I have no reason why the first poem is in a different color.**

A Beginning to an End

Where the Sidewalk Ends:
Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
and before the street begins,
and there the grass grows soft and white,
and there the sun burns crimson bright,
and there the moon-bird rests from his flight
to cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
and the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
we shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow
and watch where the chalk-white arrows go
to the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
and we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
for the children, they mark, and the children, they know,
the place where the sidewalk ends.

Response: A Beginning to an End

This is where is all begins 

it's the place where the sidewalk ends.

Where dreams arise and find the light,

where the sun comes up from the night,

and were all amazed by our new sight

of the world and yet to come.

We are all to take the leap into the new world,

and to find our blossoming niches.

This can be somewhat bizarre, 

similar to driving a brand new car,

but amongst the stars we find who we are

past where the sidewalk ends.

Sure, it may take a push, and a shove,

but wonder is what we find plenty of,

our family emitting tons of love,

this is where it all begins.

We Grow Accustomed to the Dark

   To be honest, I have tried to steer clear of Poetry. However, I felt that Emily Dickinson's poem We Grow Accustomed to the Dark lured me when we read it in class. The words not only had a punch when spoken, there was also a softness to them.

  That being said, I feel like the subject of the poem was mysterious yet beautiful.

  The absence of light, to me, in the beginning seems to try and invoke fear. As we go along, we are given a glimpse of hope. The moon comes out and there is a possibility for a star to shine within. One looks forward to this sliver of light.

   I think the reason I found this the concept so fascinating is because dark is unknown. People today find thrill and excitement from the dark. From the unknown.


This clip is from a T.V. show on the Syfy channel. Contestants compete in the dark to win a grand prize. This is an example where darkness produces fear.

This link is to a popular restaurant where customers can dine in the dark. They are able to experience food in a whole new light (haha). 

                                           
                                            http://www.darkdining.com/index_main.php

A Very Old Man, Continued.

   A Very Old Man with Enormous wings is a heart wrenching tale. An old man is cast down into a village of fault finders. A family in need of a savior. The old man unknowingly happened to be their light. Miraculously, their child was healed but did not know how and were left to wonder.  Heedless to the actions of the old man, they stripped him of pride, selling it to eager vultures for a pretty penny. Over seasons, a seed of faith grew inside the aching heart of the frail man. As did his feathers. One morning, with the rising sun, his wings followed and he soared. The village shrank with every flap of his pride.