“The Management of Grief” and Theme

The themes of unfinished duty and the necessity of hope are two significant themes in Bharati Mukherjee’s short story “The Management of Grief.” Throughout the piece Mukherjee applies these themes by facing Shaila Bhave with depressing imagery that tests her strength. Shaila’s maternal drive to locate her husband and sons is never relinquished, even when it seems logical to give up. The author uses the themes to express the loss and desperation of Shaila and the grieving victims of the plane accident.

Shaila’s belief and hope is the major theme of “The Management of Grief.” She convinces herself that Vinod was a skilled enough swimmer to save himself and his brother. It is Shaila’s motherly instinct which kicks in and will not let her accept their death. Shaila addresses this in her stream of consciousness when she and Dr. Ranganathan are being shown images of the dead bodies found. “I think he senses that i don’t want to fid my boys. ‘They are the Kutty brothers. They were also from Montreal.’ I don’t mean to be crying. On the contrary, I am ecstatic. My suitcase in the hotel is packed heavy with dry clothes for my boys.” The Inidian mother keeps up the optimism that she may meet with her boys again. She knows that giving up hope is the last thing someone must do if they want to survive.

Going hand-in-hand with the hope theme, the reader can also analyze Shaila’s sense of not being completely satisfied in her relationship with her husband. Throughout the piece, there is a theme of unfinished business. She tells Kusum of this in her house when everyone is commiserating.
“‘I never once told him that I loved him,’ I say. I was too much the well-brought-up woman. I was so well brought up I never felt comfortable calling my husband by his first name.” This passage shows not only the distinctness of Indian culture, but also the fact that Shaila feels that she owes something I her husband who she loved so much. It haunts her that he is gone and she can no longer tell him. In the temple in the Himalayan village, Shaila has a moment with her dead husband that alludes to this theme. “‘Shall I stay?’ I ask. He only smiles, but already the image is fading. ‘You must finish alone what we started together.'” Shaila gets closure in this scene from seeing her husband. She is comforted by having another chance to see him and it helps to complete her unfinished duties with him.

Allegory in “The Yellow Wallpaper”

An intricate and classic tale of horror, Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s story “The Yellow Wallpaper” has great examples of allegory. While its main plot follows the seemingly-insane narrator, the second function of the story focuses around the oppression of women. The allegory in Gilman’s work tells the story of the narrator as an outer layer encompassing the ideas about the suffering of women as a whole.

The allegory in “The Yellow Wallpaper” involves the woman who “creeps” about through the paper. Though it seems that the narrator is just going mad, it really is more than that. It becomes apparent that there is an almost secondary plot when the narrator is left for hours at a time inside we prison-like room. “There are things in the wallpaper that nobody knows but me, or ever will. Behind that outside pattern the dim shapes get clearer every day… And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern” (77). The woman in the wallpaper that the narrator sees represents the way women had been suppressed long ago. The fact that she is locked behind the bars of the repetitive pattern is proof that women were not given the rights they deserved and nothing seemed to change. The narrator is desperate to overcome this and eventually becomes part of the pattern herself which is representative of her succumbing to her impending oppression.

At one point in the piece, the wallpaper and women within seem to be taking control of the narrator’s mind. She admittedly becomes fond of the paper because she is trapped in the same room with it. Like a fungus, the paper infiltrates the narrator and she becomes defensive in regards to it. “I have watched John when he did not know I was looking…. and I’ve caught him several times looking at the paper! And Jennie too. I caught Jennie with her hand on it once. She didn’t know I was in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper– she turned around as if she had been caught stealing, and looked angry….” (79). In this scene, the paper and the women within it come to life beneath the surface of the story. The issues in the narrator’s head become real and take on their on shape, becoming a new aspect of the story. She is plagued with her desire to be free from her husband who will let her do nothing but rot in her room. Her obsession with the woman and the wallpaper arises from a desire to break out, but instead, she falls into the pattern herself.

Literary Criticism of “The Yellow Wallpaper”

In the literary criticism, “Gilman’s Gothic Allegory,” Greg Johnson analyzes “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Though the story seems extremely bizarre and like the memoirs of a crazy woman, Johnson points out that there is more to the piece than just bedridden rants. To Johnson, the madness endured by the narrator is merely a phase for her in order to self-actualize herself and her work as a writer. She is like many artists because she struggles with her own mind as her imagination eats away at her well-being. Johnson relates this back to the author in his criticism. “Gilman is clearly allegorizing her own rage and justifying her defiant choice of art and activism over conventional feminine endeavors.” Though this story is not an autobiography, it is a glimpse at Gilman’s feelings and the sense of power she gains from scratching down her every thought. Both the narrator and Gilman save themselves from their minds in the form of writing.

Johnson suggests that the twisted imagery throughout Gilman’s piece is representative of deeper meanings. He states that the repeated symbol of the bed nailed to the floor alludes to “sexual crucifixion.” The narrator is trapped in the barred room and cannot escape — and to make matters worse, she does not receive love from her husband. Another aspect that he mentions is the tangling patterns of the walls that appear to the narrator, with their “broken necks and bulbous eyes.” This bit appears to be only an innocent description to what the narrator envisions, however Johnson believes that it is a reference to suicide victims.

To bring in more depth to his analysis, Johnson compares the real-life scenario of Emily Dickinson’s mother to the narrator in “The Yellow Wallpaper.” He discusses their similarities — both women detested their wallpaper after being confined in a room with it for an extended period of time. Johnson brings in a quote from Cynthia Griffin Wolff to emphasize the stress behind the requests of both women to evade this wallpaper. “The little explosion of defiance signaled fear and distress, and it was the prelude to unhappy, silent acceptance.”

“Gilman’s Gothic Allegory” was an interesting piece to read that definitely helps to understand the story. I found myself able to understand the meaning behind Gilman’s allegory and her seemingly insane details a bit better instead of submitting to the general thought that the narrator had reached a point where she could not be retrieved. Johnson has made it clear that this extremely rough patch in her life is actually more than just a breakdown, but instead a transition to what she can become as a writer.

 

 

So That’s Why Zayn Is So Moody (A Bit of One Direction Fanfiction for the Night)

Of course, at the Malik household tea party , Zayn’s attendance was mandatory. He had perched hesitantly by the door as his mother’s friends made grand sweeping movements, ushering him over. They were like predators, a horde of robed vultures using only their judging eyes to scrutinize his bright purple hoodie and pierced ears.
So he kind of dressed like Justin Bieber. What was wrong with that? It looked better than their frumpy glittered shawls, he thought.
Something about seeing the criticizing, wrinkled old faces gave him the impression that their daughters would one day become equally as unpleasant. That was one thing he was positive he did not wish to be a part of and was keen to ignore their propounding.
He left the squawking old women as soon as his mother would permit.
Perhaps it was the fantasy-infused love stories his mother told him, but something made him fall long ago for his sister’s best friend, Emma Auerbach. How could he even consider anyone else?
Everything about her was magical. He’d loved her for the past five years, since they first met at Thalia’s fifteenth birthday party.
He had become moderately obsessed with Emma, and it was tearing him apart that he would never be more than “Thalia’s little brother” to her. He knew he had wasted his time at all those spend-the-nights Thalia hosted. She would pass out by twelve o’clock from watching movies, leaving Emma to sneak into Zayn’s room, looking for someone to entertain her. It was always a surprise when she tip-toed out from behind the postered door. The friends would begin with light-hearted joking about Thalia’s apparent narcolepsy, to how Emma had almost beat every level in Mario Kart, to Zayn’s ambitions of being on the X-Factor, until the conversation progressed to pouring their hearts out.
And Emma had a lot hidden in there, under those pretty curly locks and dark eyelashes.
She told him of her sick mother’s wilting face in the hospital bed, and the way her boyfriend of several years broke up with her upon finding out her mother’s condition was potentially hereditary.
These kind of secrets weren’t told to just anyone. The bond between the pair was a special one.
Zayn received Thalia and Ezra’s wedding invitation on a Friday afternoon and had a twenty minute screaming fit of rage on the spacious roof of his best friend’s London apartment. Watching birds scatter in fear had never felt quite so satisfying.
Still, it didn’t add up. Zayn had held her at ungodly hours, stroked her silky hair while she sobbed uncontrollably, for this?
Picking out tuxes. Awesome. Because that is what good friends do, and Zayn had been locked in perpetual friend zone.
What kind of name was Ezra, anyway?

I Love Lucy (Just kidding. That snobby brat got what was coming to her.)

In Margaret Atwood’s “Death by Landscape,” Lucy’s disappearance is a very interesting scene. After discussing it in class I decided to analyze the passage more and touch on our theories of the girl who was missing-in-action.

“She has gone over and over it in her mind since, so many times that the first, real shout has been obliterated like a footprint trampled by other footprints. But she is sure (she is almost positive, she is nearly certain) that it was not a shout of fear. Not a scream. More like a cry of surprise, cut off too soon. Short, like a dog’s bark.
‘Lucy?’ Lois said. Then she called ‘Lucy!'” (342).

Unlike most tales, “Death by Landscape” lacks closure. We know Lucy is gone but have no idea where she went. The plot leaves much room for the imagination to wander, yet it subtly suggests outcomes of her fateful trip to the bathroom.
All of our ideas in class were extremely plausible. While some of us argued that Lucy committing suicide was completely explanatory, others debated that a kidnapping would make some sort of sense, and one person pointed out that it could have been a reckless accident.
To me, the solution that seems to satisfy all factors was that Lucy had pushed herself a bit too far. Though it seems to hold the answer to the problem, I think that this option is overlooked because our drama-seeking human nature will accept anything but a simple accident. We would much rather jump to the conclusion that Lois had pushed her friend off the cliff. It seems to me that we are reading too much into the event, and that a daring venture to the edge of the land and an accompanying slip must have been the issue.
There was much dispute between our assumptions and we will never know for sure what happened to Lucy, but this is part of the mystique of the story. If we knew exactly what happened to Lucy, we would not have the fun of figuring it out and dreaming up different options to please our story-loving minds. The secrecy adds an interest to the piece that being upfront just cannot replicate.

I can’t get over autumn! :)

I was trapped in the confines of the metal. Locked in a pure white room, for what seemed like forever. A cold stare entranced me as I shrunk in the seat and numbly anticipated the torture that was about to encompass me.
I was startled by an abrupt slap to the wood.
A wild SAT booklet had appeared.
Just as I had assumed, the math section was worse than being persecuted. I was caught between going over the same problems again and again, and finishing the work before time ran out.
I was condemned to a life of shoddy math skills and an undying passion for English.
The very moment that our proctor released us from captivity, the herd of tiny buffalo and I stampeded from our test taking rooms to the parking lot. I leaped into the passenger seat of my friend’s car and away we flew to Garside’s Ice Cream in Saco where I devoured a much-needed treat; a scoop of chocolate stacked on a scoop of coffee. The delicious ice cream disappeared quickly and left behind the ghost of a stomachache — it was so rich, I knew I’d have to wait for a bit before I ingested anything else.
My best friends and I topped off the night with a celebratory bonfire created by Katie’s dad. He kindled the flames, throwing on humongous logs and dried out wooden planks to the pile. The sparks were carried on gusts of wind, with smoke emanating from the source to conceal us in a force field of ash. To get out our energy, Katie, Renée, Laura, Hannah and I bounded over each other on the trampoline while rain began to cascade from the dark clouds. Our giggles echoed merrily through the orange and red trees as if to wake the faeries as goblins of the ghost stories we would tell later on.
The day sure started off with a bang (though that was more of a defeaning gunshot, and what’s more, at seven in the morning) and ended with an even greater one full of friends, food, and fire.
And I’ll be honest; those are definitely my favorite “F’s!”

Seasonal Reading

The presence of the ghost in Hamlet seems appropriate for this time of year. One look out through the glass doors beside me offers a beautiful view (no matter how water-logged) of the autumn foliage as the dark creeps in and rain slips from the waxed leaves. As always, I get my favorite haunting-yet-familiar feeling from the fall that I am addicted to, and the ghost of Hamlet’s father seems to fit in perfectly with my surroundings.
In particular, I enjoyed the passage in which Horatio pleads with the ghost to ensure it does not float away into the night before his eyes once again.

“But soft, behold! Lo, where it comes again.
I’ll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion.
If thou hast any sound or use of voice,
Speak to me;
If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease and grace to me,
Speak to me;
If thou art privy to thy country’s fate,
Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid,
O, speak!
Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life,
Extorted treasure in the womb of earth,
Speak of it, stay and speak” (5).

It is expected of Shakespeare to write something so eloquent and amazing, even if it is his more simple dialogue. Horatio’s speech to Hamlet’s phantom father is worded perfectly — and nothing less is to be expected of the brilliant English author who coined it. Having not read any Shakespearean plays in at least a year, I was moved by the eloquence of his writing and read it hungrily. I loved how I could practically see a handsome Horatio dramatically calling upon the figure before him; a spooky apparition flickering in and out of sight.

Yeah, I’m a little bit scared to go to bed tonight.