Final Paper

The house looked innocent enough, despite its fairytale reputation. The front walk was covered with trailing roses, not trimmed and tame, but curling wildly about their frames. Wildflowers peeked out of the tall grass, bright spots of color in the deep green. A small fountain gurgled happily into a pond just to the left of the door. Small gnomes lounged on the banks, chatting with each other as they fished. The sweet smell of roses filled the tranquil air, wafting down into the open cottage window.

Once inside the house however, the tendrils of succulent smell were at a loss. Pots and pans piled haphazardly threatened to topple into the already overflowing sink. Stacks of newspapers were starting to compost on the kitchen table. Odds and ends spilled out of the drawers that weren’t stuck shut, cascading down in frozen waterfalls to the pool of garbage that was the floor. The gnomes had long since given up on the cottage; the owner accumulated goods faster than even their wily thieving could remove them. No sooner would they snatch away a trinket than he would come back, laden with five more.

Finally, the roses decided they had had enough. What was the use of prettily framing a cottage that was slowly turning into a cesspool? They reached their whippy branches down, poking and stinging the little gnomes into action. Grumbling, the gnomes went out to find a solution. They found an agency and hired a maid.

Rachel was bored. Sure, she thought, those little black and white French outfits were fun, but holding a useless feather duster while dodging the groping hands of lonely old men wasn’t in the job description. She, unlike many of her compatriots, had joined the maid force to clean. Nothing pleased her more than turning a mess into a sparkling, squeaky clean home. A compulsive cleaner since her earliest days, her mother had sent her out in disgust to make her own way in the world after she had found Rachel carefully polishing the cow. With a sigh, Rachel broke from her thoughts, and trudged off to her new assignment: Rose Cottage, 53 Storybook Lane.

Walking up the rose covered path, Rachel eyed the cottage in disdain. Great, she thought, another old man hoping for some poor princess to come along and give him his fairytale ending. Those men were the worst. They had nothing to do while they waited for their dream girl to arrive, so they kept their homes obsessively clean. They simply hired maids as a diversion from the monotony that comes before the fairytale. But when Rachel opened the cottage door, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The place was a mess! Finally, a place she could use her talents. Excited, she pulled back her long, dark hair, rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

The compost heap out back tripled in size in the first five minutes, groaning as it strove to change the old newspapers into food for the roses. The drawers found themselves emptied, cleaned and organized until they once again fit flush into the cupboard. The dishes were scoured until they sparkled, years of accumulated grime giving up in the face of Rachel’s determined scrubbing. The throw-away pile took on a life of its own, sucking small, unwary objects into it, feeding on the junk in the cottage. Rachel would pick up an item, and if there was any doubt at all, she would throw it out. It took her until late afternoon, but the cottage was finally spotless. Happily exhausted, she idly flicked away the dust coming in the open window as she waited for the cottage owner to get home.

The door let out a small sigh instead of its usual creak as it swung open on freshly oiled hinges. The young man looked at it, askance. Shaking his head, he brought in his bundle of newly acquired goods and threw it on the already towering mound on the kitchen table. At least, that’s what he meant to do. Instead, the elephant figurine sailed out the open window, landing in the pond with a splash. The other odds and ends scattered around the empty kitchen, with a chipped Coca-Cola bottle landing in the hand of the waiting Rachel. She promptly threw it away. This angered the young man, who immediately began yelling and gesticulating wildly as he ran around the house, searching for his beloved stuff. This evolved into a wonderful row between Rachel and the young man, who she later learned was named Spencer.

The gnomes shook their heads and stuffed their ears with cotton as the angry cries rang out, late into the night. As darkness faded into day, the arguing finally ceased. The gurgle of the fountain could again be heard. Cautiously, the gnomes pulled the cotton out of their ears. Still quiet. They peeked in the window, giggled, and hastily backed away.

A month later, Rachel and Spencer were married. They were quite happy, for a time. Every day, Spencer would leave on his endless search to collect. Rachel would stay at home, cleaning the house, trimming the roses and chasing the gnomes with a duster. Every night, Spencer would come home with the day’s findings, Rachel would throw them out, they would argue the night away, and make up with the dawn.

One evening, though, Spencer came home without any knick-knacks. Alarmed, Rachel checked him for germs, planning on sterilizing the house the next day, but Spencer wasn’t sick. He just “hadn’t found anything worth bringing home,” he explained with a shrug, like it was no big deal. Awkward and uncomfortable, they went to bed soon after sunset, careful not to touch under the big down blanket.

The next morning, Spencer was late going out. He even offered to help tidy up the breakfast dishes before he left. Disgusted, Rachel shooed him out the door. As if she needed, or even wanted, his help tidying up. Rachel cleaned morosely, half-heartedly sweeping the floor, even though the day was beautifully dusty. What was the matter with Spencer, she wondered, could she really get along with a man she couldn’t clean up after?

This continued for days, sometimes he would bring home a trinket or two, sometimes nothing at all, but she could tell his heart just wasn’t in it. The cottage was still clean, but the night no longer resounded with their angry cries, and they no longer fell in love again each morning.

One morning, as the rose scented tendrils crept in through the window, concerned about the people in their cottage, Spencer made his biggest mistake. “I think I’ll just stay home today, maybe tidy up the vegetable garden.” This was the last straw for Rachel. Wildly waving her duster, she chased Spenser out of the cottage, down the rose-lined path, and slammed the gate behind him.

For a time, she waited in the spotless cottage, spending her days tidying the garden, polishing the furniture and dusting the gnomes, waiting for the perfectly messy man to come along, one she can clean up after and be happy with. But each time a new man came, hoping to be messy enough for the beautiful Rachel, he began to falter, she began to doubt, and he, too, was thrown out of her immaculate cottage.

But the roses, oh those meddlesome roses, were growing impatient. Without a man to clean up after, Rachel had turned her attention to them. Despite their best efforts, they were becoming tamed. The gnomes, too, were growing sick of her ministrations. Instead of playfully chasing them and their muddy feet out of the house, she was actually doing their laundry, mending their clothes and darning their socks. They were gnomes, for goodness’ sakes, they were supposed to be dirty! This time, when spurred into action by the prickly roses, there was no grumbling from the gnomes. They went out willingly, hoping to find Rachel the perfectly messy man.

The gnomes ventured out into the city, casting nervous glances at the cars whizzing by on the busy streets. Dodging from corner to overturned pot to empty can, they avoided the gaze of the bustling, towering people. They knew exactly where to go. Darting across busy streets, ducking under cover whenever anyone came near, they made their way straight across the city to the local college. Full of messy students, it must hold someone who could live up to even Rachel’s exacting standards.

Settling themselves down in the bushes on campus, the gnomes waited for the right man to walk by. They saw plenty go by with their shirts untucked, shoelaces untied, wearing mismatched socks, but none of them seemed quite messy enough. The gnomes had seen better men than these crack under the pressure to be constantly messy. Chattering amongst themselves, they waited patiently, sure that these students wouldn’t let them down.

Suddenly one exclaimed, “Look, there! There he is!” They fell silent as the sun broke free from the clouds, its golden rays caressing his spiky tufts of hair, giving him an unkempt halo. His plaid buttoned shirt, really more holes than cloth, was crooked, held together by mismatched, misbuttoned buttons. His jeans were old and ragged, faded almost to whiteness, on the verge of crumbling into dust. Socks, one blue and one green, peeked out from sneakers held together with safety pins, the laces knotted into a ball near his toes. It was his backpack that gave the gnomes their final clue. Filled to the bursting, bits of paper trailed behind him as books, pens, pinecones and old juice bottles peeked out at the seams. Bending down, the young man stopped to pick up a shiny blue marble, shoving it in to the already groaning knapsack. Excited, the gnomes trailed him, following his haphazard journey across campus as he stopped to collect odds and ends. Finally, they followed him to his class where they learned his name was Mitchell.

Later that night, the gnomes snuck into the records office. Perusing his file and giggling, they discovered he was “a bright boy” but a “collector” to the point of distraction, his favorite excuse being, “um… my room ate my homework?” Specializing in paranormal studies, he was about to get his masters and join the work force. With a wicked smile, the gnomes began crafting a letter, inviting him out to the rose covered cottage to investigate some “unusual activity.” Slipping the letter into his mailbox, they hurried home to create some paranormal events.

Rachel whistled tunelessly as she trimmed the roses in the early morning light. Even the gnomes had left her, for awhile, and since they’d come home she’d hardly seen them. They were tiptoeing around the house, wiping their feet on the doormat, not leaving a trace. Was everyone conspiring against her? Why couldn’t anyone be messy anymore? She brooded as she pruned, ruthlessly grabbing the tendrils that were flailing wildly to escape her shears. She heard footsteps on the path and turned. Who would be calling at this hour? She saw a tall young man, nicely dressed in a suit and tie, blonde hair smoothed down, suitcase in hand. Great, she thought, another young professional who wants to “seek my hand.” They always come here in their pressed suits and shiny shoes and what do they leave? Nothing! If they could only just make a mess, then at least I’d have something to do for awhile. Much to Rachel’s surprise, however, Mitchell explained that he was there to investigate a rumor of paranormal activity. That was it. Slightly disgruntled (the attention was flattering, after all), she invited him to stay as long as he needed, even though there was nothing unusual about the cottage.

The gnomes were scared. Why was he so clean? They decided to do their best to keep Mitchell interested long enough for his innate messiness to shine through. That night, bumps and moans filled the attic, interspersed with muffled giggles. Mitchell was overjoyed and began setting up recording equipment; his first real ghost! Pulling her pillow over her head with a groan, Rachel tried to sleep through the noise. What were those crazy gnomes up to now?

This went on for weeks, with Mitchell getting more and more excited. Finally, Rachel couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep. When the bumps and moans started up that night, she stormed up the stairs and flung open the attic door, ready to kick those gnomes out once and for all. She was greeted not by the tidy, dust free attic she was expecting, but by a disaster zone and, standing in the middle, a panicking, guilty-faced Mitchell.

“I-I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I promise I’ll clean it all up!”

Rachel twirled around, overjoyed. Piles of papers stacked precariously on boxes threatened to tip and add to the snowy mounds already covering the floor. Bits of glass bottles, marbles and old doorknobs hid beneath the papers, threatening to trip an unwary walker. Mitchell’s camera and recorder were covered in sticky notes, buried beneath mounds of food wrappers and old bits of newspaper. “You’re messy!” Rachel exclaimed, and ran downstairs to get her mop and broom.

Dumbfounded, Mitchell watched as Rachel cleaned the night away, tidying his piles, tossing the trash, scrubbing the floor. He didn’t even notice that the mysterious noises had disappeared. She finished cleaning as dawn broke. With a triumphant smile, she tucked a few stray strands of hair behind her ears. As Mitchell watched, he realized he was in love. Finally, a woman who didn’t nag, but actually loved messiness! As they kissed, he thought he heard giggling coming from the walls, but he wasn’t sure, it was hard to hear over the pounding of his heart.

The roses framing the cottage regained their wild tendrils and the gnomes went back to their carefree life of fishing by the pond. Mitchell could create enough mess to keep Rachel happy and then some. His collections of papers, haunted objects and unusual finds spilled over the house each day, and were tidied by Rachel each night. They had finally found their fairytale ending, but sometimes Mitchell wondered where those strange noises had gone, and why he sometimes heard the sound of giggling floating in on the rose-scented breeze.

Averno Reading Journal

In which time period is Louise Gluck’s Averno set?

It seems like this is set in a fairly current time, maybe WWII. (see pg. 28)

What is the tone of this book?

The tone is melancholic and solemn.

Describe the narrator(s) and what is of value to them?

The narrator is a melancholic female looking back at her childhood, love life and ancient mythology. They value expression of self, nature, the reality of love, souls, recalling memories, and personal identity.

What kind of relationship does the Persephone narrator have with the earth in Gluck’s work? Cite at least one passage to back up your argument.

Their relationship is a little strained. Instead of it all being sweetness and light, there is the bitterness and jealousness on the part of the earth while Persephone is in hell and a bit of obliviousness on Persephone’s part. This relationship is exemplified in the passage that says:

“It is snowing on earth; the cold wind says

Persephone is having sex in hell.

Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t know

what winter is, only that

she is what causes it.”

To what does the final verse on page 16 refer?

It refers to her eating of the pomegranate and possibly blood from her rape.

Cite a passage in the text where the narrator second guesses her own voice by reconsidering the way in which to describe something. Why would an author show such a thing?

She second guesses herself when she says, “Did I say ‘suffered’? That was my parents’ way of explaining

tastes that seemed to them

inexplicable: better ‘suffered’ than ‘preferred to live with the dog.’”

She might choose to show this as a way of showing her thought process. At first she just accepted what her parents told her, but after thinking about it, she realizes their word was not her word. Instead it served as a way to disguise a truth they didn’t like.

What are some key differences between Part I and II of the book; how is Persephone the Wanderer figured differently in each?

In part one, Persephone is pictured as a slightly bewildered girl on the cusp of womanhood who was abducted and now is not sure if she’s a child or a woman. The poems themselves are full of doubt, confusion and forgetfulness. In part two, Persephone is a young woman who feels she offered herself to her lover. She is not a child and wishes to remember the child she once was to understand how her offering could be twisted into an abduction. The poems are about the journey through memory to find one’s self, Persephone’s actual experiences and the realities of aging and death.

How do you understand the ancient myth differently after reading Gluck’s interpretation?

I don’t think I understand the myth differently after this interpretation. Gluck gave two or three different takes on the Persephone myth, but I really prefer the original, ancient (Greek) version, and I’m choosing to use that as my basis for understanding the myth. Gluck was trying to make it have more connections to modern times, but I don’t think the myth needs that. I think it works just fine as a stand alone story, and I like the connections the original gives to the ancient world.

Fake Sad Event

So many prayers for the souls lost at sea,

Those who wander the ocean floor.

But who will remember those who survived?

Those who endured, rebuilt, cried?

For all those lives their caring hands touched

A prayer for you, and I wish you good luck.

The last golden rays of the warm summer sun beat down on Jenny’s face as she lay stretched out on the wooden planks of the deck. Her simple, single-cabined boat rocked gently in the incoming tide, tethered to a small weather-beaten dock. As the sun set in the blood red sky, she played with the ring on the chain around her neck as her thoughts went back to that day six years ago, the day she lost her husband in the fishing boat accident.

It was the last day before their annual vacation. He’d left early that morning; he said he needed to tidy up the shed before they could leave. Something had gone wrong, no one knew what, and when the rest of the fleet came back that night, he was missing. The search went on for days, they scoured every inch of the waves in the gulf. They found nothing. Nothing but blue sky, blue sea. On the last day, one man in the fleet stumbled across a life preserver and tied to it was a small Ziploc bag, bearing her name. Somber faced, the young man brought it to her door. Inside was a folded up note. Inside the note was his wedding ring. With shaking fingers, she smoothed out the note, reading the words, blurred by water and tears.

“My dearest,

If this note reaches you, it is because I could not make it home myself. My motor is broken and I see a squall forming on the horizon. Know that I love you, and that I tried my best. Send my love to my parents and know that I’ll always be with you in your heart.

Love and Kisses,

Johnny”

With a sigh, she pulled her thoughts back to the present. She sometimes wondered why she kept going on these vacations. Her friends and family told her she needed to move on, get over it, start again, but these two weeks every summer, when she was all alone, anchored off a small Mexican village, were the only times she felt close to Johnny, when she felt like she had anything real in her life. Two weeks of no radio, no TV, no newspapers. No death and destruction, no depression, just two weeks alone with her thoughts. Two weeks to find herself and get back her calm. As a kindergarten teacher, she sometimes felt overwhelmed by the need to be on and happy all the time, no matter how she was feeling. As she prepared herself for sleep, she didn’t notice the dark smudge lurking in the Northern sky.

The next two weeks passed in relative calm. One day the swells were higher than usual, and a few days later, some debris started washing up on the shore. Some planks and a few shingles, but nothing too unusual. This part of the Gulf of Mexico was prone to high winds and little coastal towns were always reshingling their roofs. She spent the days reading, basking in the healing sunlight and wandering the beaches. On the last day, she packed up, melancholy as she prepared to return to the emptiness of her daily life.

Setting out for her little apartment in New Orleans, she settled herself in for the long haul. She always timed it just right, arriving at the dock just as the light was fading. The friendly glow from the windows overlooking the bay served as beacons, welcoming her home. Her window was always dark and empty: there was no one to welcome her home. Other lights and the happy chatter of families, they lit the darkness; their warmth made her forget her own empty home, if just for a little while.

Tonight, though, as she came within range of the docks and harsh white light illuminated the bay. Beds, boards and random pieces of flotsam littered the wine colored sea. The friendly apartments no longer stood friendly, their broken, jagged edges reached towards the sky like broken teeth. Stunned, she numbly followed the Coast Guard’s orders to dock and move to a rescue center. Wandering around the aimlessly milling crowds, she tried in vain to figure out what happened. No one could, or would, give her a coherent account, but she picked up snatches of lucid conversation. Somehow, she’d missed the whole thing, the warnings, the hurricane, the breaching of the levies, the damage, the destruction.

Seeing all of the small children, all alone and apart from their families struck a chord in her and awoke something she hadn’t felt in years. With a determined glint in her eyes she pushed up her sleeves and went in search of blankets and water. Gathering the supplies she picked up straggling children on her way, bringing them to a corner and wrapping them in the blankets. To distract them, she began telling stories: fairy tales, fables, anything she could think of to pass the time. As dawn broke, the last little girl fell into a fitful doze. With a smile on her face Jenny tucked the blanket more snugly around the sleeping child. Bemused, she realized that amidst all the destruction she had found a purpose again. In caring for these children she remembered why she had become a teacher in the first place. As New Orleans began to heal, Jenny would heal along with it.

Writing Journal

What are the implications of designing a piece which joins the imaginary (characterization) and the real (current event)?

The implication is that all stories about current events are imaginary and that nothing can be trusted. I think this takes away from people who really have lived through events like this and want to write about their experiences. There’s an historical fiction category for this purpose in writings about the past. If people are going to make imaginary stories about contemporary events, there should be a separate category for them, too.

Have you read any authors who do this regularly in their writing? If so, which authors?

Nope. I find current events depressing, and I don’t like being depressed.

As a reader, how can one determine how reliable the depictions are in a piece of literature which presents itself as autobiographical?

If a piece claims to be autobiographical, I think it should be taken as such. However, some people write fake autobiographical pieces, so some factors to look for to see if it’s true are: emotional impact, accuracy of details, and realistic voice.

Are there more “reliable” forms for depicting/communicating real historical events, especially to future generations, than the personal account? If so, what might they be? If not, why not?

I think personal accounts are best for conveying the emotional impact and providing something that future generations can relate to. However, personal accounts will always provide slightly different interpretations of events and opinions, so I think the dry, historical textbook style of recording events has its place, too. The best way to communicate events to future generations is to provide them with as much varied information about the event as is possible, allowing them to form their own, personal interpretation of the event. This way it will impact them more and stick with them longer.

What impression did the writings on the walls of the Museo Storico della Liberazione di Roma have on you?

Some of them seemed too scripted. If I was writing my last words, I would want it to be an “I love you,” not a rousing political speech. I thought the simple inscriptions, the “Britian Forever” and the “send my love to…” were much more powerful, they seemed more real and had more emotional impact. I thought they were very sad, and it made me wonder why so little has been publicized (at least in the mainstream) about these events.

Why did you choose to write about the event you did for this piece?

I really know almost nothing about current events and for some reason I had the idea of the ocean stuck in my head. So, I wrote about the one current event dealing with the water that I knew of, the hurricane. Restricting the event to within the last 50 years made this assignment really hard for me, I’m an ancient history major, and the most recent event I’ve studied was WWII. Let’s face it, I’m ignorant and I don’t know what’s going on in the world, but I like it that way.

Primo Levi Reading Journal

How does the poem opening Primo Levi’s work affect how you read the main body of the text?

This poem actually put me on the defensive. I liked the beginning, but the end, where he curses you if you don’t repeat “these words,” whatever they are, I didn’t like. I felt it was an awkward way to try to gain the audiences’ sympathy, especially since he didn’t define what the “words” were. I especially think this was an odd contrast to his introduction, which did successfully gain my sympathy.

Sum up what the poem is saying in one sentence.

Be aware of those less fortunate than you? I don’t know, this poem annoyed me.

What are the key characteristics of the narrator which Levi chooses to present in this work; how would you describe the narrator? Does this add to or take away from your ability to sympathize with the narrator?

Levi chooses to portray his narrator as a naïve pessimist. He takes what he now knows and translates it onto his former self (the pessimism) but stays true to his early naivety. He also seems to be a reflectful, observant person. I think it adds to my ability to sympathize with him, since he’s putting his later feelings on his younger self, it adds a layer of depth that might otherwise not be there. It also gives a sense of knowledge and trustworthiness, as well as sadness, that makes him a more compelling character.

Which moment(s) in the text stand out or make the strongest impact on you? Why?

The part in the beginning when he talks about how Emilia died, the part where he meets the 16 year old German Jew, and the part at the end where he says it was no longer worth it to meet with his fellow Italians stood out the most to me. These seemed to have the most emotion in them and were in a more personal tone than the rest of the piece. Levi seems to distance himself from most of the events in the story, but in these it seemed like he couldn’t, so they were written with more life in them, or more feeling, or something.

Painting Dialogue

The pale winter sun shone merrily through the window, casting striped shadows across the reclining lion. Rolling on his back in the dirt, he wriggled back and forth, acting more like a kitten than the lean killer he was reputed to be. “Will you hold still already? Relax and quit blocking my light.”

The lumbering brown bear growled his annoyance. “Go eat your tail.”

“My my, someone’s grumpy this morning. Get up on the wrong side of the cell?” Rolling, the lion stretched out his paws, snatching at the bear’s receding feet.

“Why don’t you ever take anything seriously? Don’t you ever feel bad about what we do?” The bear snarled, frustration oozing from his voice.

“Why should I? I get fresh meat three times a day, a nice sunny room and a chance to run and play a few times a week.”

“Because we’re killing people! Those aren’t mice or gazelles or whatever you used to chase, those are intelligent people who are imprisoned, just like us.”

“What do I care? They run just like the gazelles. They can get away if they’re any good. I always give them a fighting chance.” Flipping onto his stomach, the lion began to stalk the still pacing bear.

“Hamstringing doesn’t count as a fighting chance.” The bear sighed and rolled his eyes. Sometimes his friend just didn’t get it.

“Admit it – at least it beats being a rug on some Senator’s floor. Don’t forget what happened to the last one of us who refused to fight.” The lion wriggled closer, sneaking up on the unsuspecting bear’s paws. Crouching down, his mouth dropped, teeth chattering in the ancient hunting song. Just as the bear turned, the lion sprung, flying through the air to land on the him, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Growls and snarls filled the air as they battered each other with carefully sheathed claws.

“Enough, enough!” the bear panted, “I give!”

“Of course you do,” the lion purred. Sitting on his heels, he spat on his paw and began to slowly groom his ears. “Now, why are you so upset?”

The bear shook his head, somehow the lion could always pull him out of his moods and make him articulate his problems. “It’s just that we keep eating all these people, and for what? At least if they kill us they have a chance at freedom. All we get are cheers and an escort back to our cell. I just don’t see the point.”

“The point is that we don’t end up as rugs. Besides, someday they might get tired of us and just forget and let us go.” The lion continued washing his face, something about the repetitive motion helped him think.

“Quit kidding yourself. They’ll never let us go. We’ll just keep going out, killing, coming back, over and over again until we slip up and get ourselves killed.” Turning away, the bear plodded to his corner and curled up in a ball, depressed.

The shadows cast by the bars in the window crawled across the floor, marking the passage of the sun. As the light faded, the shadows began to blur, blending into the falling night. Disquieted, the lion sat, Sphinx-like, staring at nothing.

The moon rose, casting its healing light over the slumbering bear, casting deep pools of shadow on the lion’s unblinking face. Still nothing moved.

Dawn began to break, casting a rosy glow on the stone walls of the cell. Finally, the lion blinked. Determined now, he stalked over to the bear and roughly prodded him awake.

“W-what’s going on? Why is it so early?” The bear stammered as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Wake up and listen up. I have a plan.” Excited now, the lion began to pace as he spoke, tail lashing with emotion. “We have a light day today, some more of those pious folk. They never attack us willingly. So we wait. Today, we don’t attack first. When the guards come down to prod the people and give them swords, we make our break for it - out the doors and south to freedom.”

The bear was dumbfounded. “Where did all this come from? Last night you were happy to stay caged and chase your tail.”

“I don’t know, I just thought about what you said. Besides, if I have to be a rug, I don’t want to be an old rug.”

“Ha, figures. I like the sound of this, though, but I think we need to work out some details…”

Heads bent, the lion and the bear cemented the details of their plan, talking through the dawn and well into the day. With a last furtive glance around their cell, they curled up in the sunlight, trying to rest.

As the shadows stretched in the afternoon light, the lion and the bear stalked out into the arena, tense with anticipation. The crowd was unusually subdued, they hardly got any cheers.

The lion was jittery, bouncing from paw to paw, even his voice shook. “Something’s wrong. What’s going on?”

The bear stopped, confused. “I don’t know. Let’s just wait and see what happens, calm down. It’ll be alright.”

With a few final murmurs, the crowd fell silent. Two men entered, walking slowly. They were speaking quietly, seemingly unconcerned. Confused, the lion and bear glanced at each other. This had never happened before.

“Are we still on?” the lion whispered.

“Let’s just wait and see what happens.”

The men approached, not threatening, but not slowing. The lion and bear stood their ground, waiting to make their escape.

“Alright,” the bear said, “if they attack, let’s just kill them and run for it. If they do nothing, we wait and stick to the plan.”

The men came closer and closer until they stood over the lion and bear, arms raised. Trembling with anticipation, the lion and bear crouched down, ready to spring.

Writing Journal

I chose to write about option c (Gentileschi’s St. Januarius) because it was the one option that didn’t have to be about religious figures. I don’t feel comfortable writing about religious figures in a mocking way, and I don’t know enough about the religious stories to base them on that. Besides, I thought it would be fun to write a story from a gladiator animal’s point of view.

I get bored writing this much dialogue, just because I know I would be bored reading it. I need some description in there, but I tried not to add too much for this assignment. It was also hard to show with dialogue; I feel like so much of actual dialogue is telling, not showing, except in the tone of voice, and tone of voice is hard to convey in stories.

Seeing the pictures didn’t really help me to be creative, but I think that’s just because they weren’t topics I particularly wanted to write about. I also don’t like the way it makes the story end so abruptly, especially since most people will be reading this without seeing the picture.

Naples had much more contrast than Rome. They dirt, the thugs, the locked gate to our hotel, they are all at odds with the beautiful view from the waterfront and St. Elmo’s Castle. The people in Naples were more friendly than those in Rome, which I thought was weird, especially since they are smiling while they try to shortchange you. I do think that location can change the way a person writes, but I don’t think I was in Naples long enough for it to impact me to that extent. The attitudes and scenery in your location can change the way you describe events and your take on them.

Journal Entry #7: Juvenal

How is the concept of wealth developed in Juvenal’s satires?

Juvenal shows wealthy people as spoiled and unfit for their money. He compares them to the brave poor, who have only their weapons left to fight with, not their money. He implies that wealth leads to hypocrisy, greed and unkind behavior.

How is this different or similar to that of Twain’s development of the same subject in Innocents Abroad?

Twain refers to the wealth of the church and the ephemeral wealth of the state. Like Juvenal, Twain believes, in the church’s case, that wealth leads to hypocrisy and greed. The churches want more and more decoration, while the beggars starve outside. The state, however, is a well-intentioned bumbler, not meaning to be unkind. They spend their wealth on unnecessary projects, but they mean well, as opposed to Juvenal, who has his wealthy spending money on bad feasts for their inferiors, being deliberately mean.

What role does hypocrisy play in relation these concepts of wealth in both authors’ satirical works?

Wealth leads to hypocrisy. Juvenal’s rich throw “parties” for their inferiors, but feed them the dregs. They also praise the poets and soldiers and mature members of society, but act like small children and won’t pay. Twain’s rich church spends money on decorations, but lets its flock starve.

How are the themes of sedition and free speech in Juvenal similar/different to those in Twain’s satire?

Twain tends to take free speech for granted, and satirizes the Italians for not having it. He does this by having the plebe speculate about travels in America, and how no one would believe him if he told them. Juvenal, however, sees free speech in a mixed light. He satirizes the nobles for being so corrupt that a slave has to call them out, but he doesn’t think that it was a good thing for the slave to talk. He warns the nobles against sedition on the part of the slaves, and warns them against large gatherings of poets.

How are artists, poets, and patrons of the arts depicted similarly/differently by the two authors?

Twain mocks them through his tourist, saying they design too much, they sponsor too much, they want too much glory so they try to hard. It’s an affectionate for of mocking, though, he doesn’t discredit their works, he just tries to moderate his tourist’s reaction to it. Juvenal warns poets away from patrons, depicting patrons as greedy, self-absorbed people. He takes the side of the poets and artists, mocking the patrons in a very harsh light. He does say, however, that the artists cater too much to their patrons, so he mocks them for that.

What is “noble” according to Juvenal’s narrator?

Being “noble” is not being selfish, not being greedy, being kind to others, taking care of your family, working your way up to your status, acting your age and just generally not being a jerk. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem to think that the nobility are “noble,” thus providing the basis for these satires.

Cite a passage from each of the four satires by Juvenal which amused you and say why. What literary mechanisms or rhetorical devices did Juvenal use for each of these?

Honestly, I did not find these satires amusing. I didn’t understand the context for most of them, so I felt like many of the points Juvenal was trying to make were lost on me. Aside from that, he was satirizing in a very caustic manner, which I don’t enjoy. I prefer the gentle, poking-fun type of satire utilized by Twain. If I had to choose, though, these are the passages I thought came somewhat close to approaching humorous.

The First Satire: “Meanwhile, all by himself, on a couch unshared, their good king will gobble and guzzle the choicest products of land and ocean. Down goes a whole estate; from such luxurious tables, broad and antique, down goes a whole estate at on sitting.”

Here Juvenal uses sarcasm and hyperbole.

The Fifth Satire: “You get a rotten old apple, the kind that is given a monkey all rigged out with a helmet and shield, and afraid of a whipping while he is being trained to toss the spear from a goat’s back.”

Here Juvenal uses mock-heroics and parody.

The Seventh Satire: “But still we’re persistent, we poets, ploughing our furrows in dust or the salty sand of the seashore. No use to try to give up; the noose of a hopeless infection, writer’s itch, has us all by the neck till we’re old and sick-hearted.

Here Juvenal uses irony.

The Eighth Satire: “The chests of his forebears were hairy; look at him, though, with his butt all smoothed by Catanian pumice!”

Here Juvenal uses burlesque.

Satire

As a waitress at a high-end, top of the line barbeque restaurant, by the name of Smokin’ Dick’s (no, it’s not a gay bar) I feel I am very well versed in the finer details of customer service. Upon arriving in Italy, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the Italian waiters had these essential service skills down pat. In fact, I even picked up a new trick – Italian waiters have a special glare reserved for customers who even think about getting out the plastic, it works like a charm. In general, though, I thought I had the waitressing thing down, until the night I met Guido.

It was a typical Sunday in Rome, the sun was shining, and the Campo was filled with the screams of small children being eaten by pigeons. As evening rolled around, I started to get hungry. I decided to be adventurous and make myself some pasta (mmm, pasta). Tragedy struck, though, when I unscrewed the top of my jar of sauce. Instead of the cheery bright red of fresh-pressed tomatoes, the greeny-white fuzz of old man mold glared angrily back at me. With a sigh, I tossed the jar and set out to a quaint little Italian restaurant I’d heard good things about.

The good reviews were entirely justified. The interior was lit with soft lighting, blending with the dust on the walls to create a golden haze. Small tea lights were placed on each table, providing just enough light to see the napkins, but not enough to see if they were clean. My tea light went out before the entrée even arrived, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for it left the lump that was my meal shrouded in forgiving darkness. Squinting at my paper menu, I found Italian translated into English. The catch? The important words were changed back into Italian. It was like babelfish gone bad, but I decided on the meat with “cosi special” sauce.

Decision made, I tried to make eye contact with the waiter. This is where his excellent skills first became apparent. Ducking his head, turning sideways, even blinking when he got desperate, he was able to avoid acknowledging me for a good twenty minutes. I’ve only managed ten, and that was once, on a good day. Judging by the bored expressions at the tables around me, this fellow seemed to have ignoring the customer down to a science. Finally, he nonchalantly sauntered over to my table, slapped the flimsy wine list down on the table, and turned to walk away. As he turned, the dying flicker of my candle lit up his grungy plastic nametag which read: Ciao! Mi chiamo Guido! Stomach grumbling in hunger, I blurted out in desperation, “Guido! Wait!” The look of disgust on his face as he turned back was exquisite. I immediately felt guilty for interrupting his carefully structured routine. Stammering, I ordered my drink, appetizer and entrée. With a bored nod of acceptance, he walked back to the bar to chat with the bartender.

Hours passed, and my drink finally arrived. Bubbly aqua naturale. His attention to detail was phenomenal. When I tried to remedy the mistake, he replied with a shrug and a “no inglese.” With a sigh, I sipped my drink, hoping my appetizer would arrive soon. No such luck. A few hours later, he slouched his was over to my table, two plates balance precariously on his arm. As he plopped them down in front of me, the artfully constructed cheese towers fell into disarray, while the lump of meat in the cosi special sauce wobbled alarmingly, threatening to leap off the table and into my lap. Avoiding eye contact, he hurried back to the bar. Tentatively, I prodded the meat with my fork. Nothing happened. So far, so good. Taking my first bite, I understood why he had walked away so fast; it was horribly spicy. Mouth burning, I downed the bubbly, but to no avail. Desperate to quench the fire, I grabbed a piece of cheese. The pungent taste drowned out the spice, but left my mouth tasting like old gym socks. Luckily, the portions weren’t large, even by Italian standards, so I was able to force it down pretty quickly. Miserable, I tried to flag Guido down for my check. After several failed attempts (he really was skilled) I stood and waved. With a puzzled look on his face, he meandered his way over to my table. I asked for the check, he gave me a disdainful look, then went to get it.

When he returned, I had my card at the ready. I was ready to go. I tried to hand it to him, he just looked at me. Pushing it insistently towards him, I learned the full effects of the Italian glare. Eyes slightly narrowed, lips curved into a disdainful sneer, he just stood, staring. I tried, I held out as long as I could, but he finally wore me down. Defeated, I reached for my cash. With a victorious smirk, he strutted off to get my change.

Walking out the door, I was in awe. This man was a master. His attention to detail, concern for customer satisfaction, promptness and ability to indefinitely ignore the customer was amazing. Reaching my hand into my pocket to grab some gelato money, I found he had even managed to shortchange me by a whole three euro. Shaking my head in admiration, I realized that I was but a neophyte in the waiting game. This man, this Guido, with his mafia name, exceptional skills and debonair smirk was truly great. I still have much to learn before I can ever hope to serve with his level of condescension, obliviousness and stubbornness.

Writing Journal

Why did you choose the character(s) you did for this assignment?

I chose to satirize Italian waiters and American waiters because they approach customer service from two completely different angles. As a waitress, the customer service here drives me nuts, it goes against everything I’ve learned. I thought it would be fun to poke a little fun at myself for this, and at the Italian waiters since their service really is just plain bad.

What was the most challenging part of writing a satirical piece?

The most challenging part of this, for me, was trying to show, develop a character and satirize at the same time. Also, keeping the satire going for three pages was hard, it took quite a bit of effort for me to stay in that mocking tone throughout the piece. I think I did end up dropping it a few times, but it’s not a style I usually write in.

Is your character “round” or “flat”?

My narrator is a flattish round type of character. She does change, she loses her cockiness about her own skills, but all of the turmoil is centered around this one event. The other aspects of her personality aren’t very well filled out, but I didn’t think it was especially important to this story. My Italian waiter is definitely flat. He remains static throughout the piece.

Did you return to Twain’s excerpt while developing your own satirical piece?

I didn’t return to his work too much, but I did keep some of the aspects in mind. I tried to mimic the way he indirectly satirized the narrator through their comments and interactions with other characters. I also tried to move the satire around a plot, instead of criticizing a set piece or timeframe.