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.

Mark Twain Reading Journal

Government – bankrupt but opulent

Italy – independent but failing, priest ridden, magnificent and miserable

Church – rich, don’t pay taxes, getting goods confiscated, hypocritical

Inquisition – kindly, playful, soothing

Priests – numerous, wretched, poverty-stricken, cut adrift

Travelers – worship Duomo, ask idiotic questions, imbecilic, have fun making guides suffer

Beggars – filthy, swarming

Medicis – buried with our lord and savior, tyrants

Artists – stupid for painting religious works that glorify the princes, prostituting their noble talents

Dominican friars – wear silly garments for the hot weather, go barefoot, poor, nursed the sick, fat, rascally, exuberant,

Civitavecchia – ignorant, dirty, smelly, cramped, indolent, paranoid (passport), hot, narrow, patron saint-less

Romans – slothful, superstitious, ignorant, gullible, illiterate,

Americans – fire insurance institution, can’t buy salvation, complain about taxes, overly emotional to ancient works, make bad jokes, not trusting of Roman info (catacomb grave marker)

American fashion – dress style changed twice in 100 years, hair not grown but made by cunning workmen

Roman fashion – muskets, goatskin breeches (hair side out), hobnailed shoes, spurs

St. Peters – huge, not as pretty as the Capitol at Washington, uniformly giant

Coliseum/Gladiator games – sound like the Italian operas, minty playbill, modern advertisements, chaste and elegant general slaughter, Roman Daily Battle-Ax, cushions, grieving mothers unacceptable, no showboating (kill ‘em faster)

Critics – he knows more about Hamlet than actors, critics knew more about broadsword work than the gladiators

Westward migration – bad horses, pushing the wagon, then the bad part, the Great American Desert, the pass, the bad houses

Bad poets – mules fall down the chimney on him, and cows

Michelangelo – he’s everywhere, too prevalent, designed/painted everything, “Creator made Italy from designs by Michelangelo.”

Guides – can’t see sarcasm, suffer for the info he gives, know enough English to butcher it, know their stories by rote only

“They have other kinds of insects, but it does not make them arrogant. They are very quiet, unpretending people. They have more of these kind of things than other communities, but they do not boast.”

“This in priest ridden Italy!”

“Look at the grand Duomo of Florence – a vast pile that has been sapping the purses of her citizens for five hundred years, and is not nearly finished yet.”

“However, another beggar approaches. I will go out and destroy him and then come back and write another chapter of vituperation.”

“Having eaten the friendless orphan – having driven away his comrades – having grown calm and reflective at length – I now feel in a kindlier mood.”

“There is nothing here to see. They have not even a cathedral, with eleven tons of solid silver archbishops in the back room; and they do not show you any moldy buildings that are seven thousand years old; nor any smoke-dried old fire-screens which are chef d’oeuvres of Rubens or Simpson, or Titian or Ferguson, or any of those parties; and they haven’t any bottled fragments of saints and not even a nail from the true Cross. We are going to Rome. There is nothing to see here.”

Character Sketch

The plastic bottles stared back at her, laughing, mocking. Row after row of green on blue on brown on white. The colors, bright and cheery, whispered false promises, the carefully posed figures reveling in their perfect hair, attainable only through hours of professional care and airbrushing.

Frustrated, Julie ran her fingers through her unruly mop of tangled brown curls. Curled in spots, waved in others, frizzy on the bad days, her hair had a life of its own. Sometimes, at night, the tendrils would snake themselves into giant Gordian knots, leading to painful hours of detangling. The wind, oh the wind, don’t get her started on the wind. Those straight-haired girls with their Burberry umbrellas; the wind never whipped their hair around their faces. It merely teased, tugging a strand out here and there, giving them something to do with their perfectly manicured fingers as they tuck the strands back behind their ears with a giggle. What Julie wouldn’t give for hair like that. When she went out in the wind, tragedy happened. The wind seemed to have a personal dislike for her hair, grabbing curls and spinning them around each other, leaving a frizzy tangled mess in its wake. No quick tuck for her; a cute little gust of wind would lead to hours spent combing out the tangles left by a spiteful breeze. It was windy today, and she had the halo of frizz cocooning the knots to prove it.

With a sigh, she turned away from her thoughts and back to the bottles, still laughing silently, mocking her plight. Moisturizing, volumizing, straightening, defrizzing, curl enhancing, dandruff removing, shine enhancing; the labels promised perfection, no matter what you wanted. That wasn’t all. Hypoallergenic, biodegradable, animal-tested, all natural; somehow the ingredients were her problem, too. On top of that, there was the scent. Too strong and she would spend all day sneezing. Too flowery and she would end up smelling like her grandma – heaven knows she didn’t want that. Mango-passionfruit, designed to excite, lavender-vanilla, designed to soothe, coconut-lime for those tropical nights, the choices were endless.

Twirling a reluctant curl around her finger, Julie wavered between the straightening and the curl-enhancing. Perhaps if she could narrow that down, the other choices would fall into place. She’d always admired the straight-haired girls, with their silky locks, but curls were so much fun. Besides, they gave her something to play with during class. Straight hair would be hassle-free, though, and wouldn’t that be amazing; no stress, no worries, no tangles. She did like the curls, when they behaved. There was something fun about a head full of curls, bouncing when she walked.

This was so frustrating. She’d been pacing up and down the aisle for twenty minutes and was no closer to choosing a shampoo. Turning to see if there were more options behind her, she saw row upon row of glistening bottles of bodywash. “Ooooh, bodywash!” she exclaimed, and her shampoo worries were promptly forgotten. There was no mystery here; they were simply designed to delight the senses. Strawberry lemonade, chocolate coconut, candycane, gingerbread, vanilla bean; the combinations were exquisite. Julie moved from bottle to bottle, inhaling the intoxicating scents. This choice was so easy, the best-smelling soap got taken home. Peering behind bottles and at the ends of the rows, Julie checked and double checked to make sure she had sniffed them all. She decided on the vanilla bean and turned to go.

As she turned, she saw the grinning ladies on the bottles of shampoo, flaunting their perfect hair with a knowing grin. Slapping herself on the forehead for her forgetfulness, she again turned to the task of taking a shampoo home. Pacing back and forth, Julie went up and down the aisle, again bewildered by all of the choices. Impulsively, she reached out, grabbing the bright blue bottle. For oily hair. No, no, that wouldn’t do. Her hair most certainly was not oily. If anything it was the opposite. Hmmm, maybe that was something she should look into. Searching amongst the bright bottles for a shampoo designed for dry, frizzy, sometimes curly hair, Julie was lost in her own world. When the bony claw crabbed her shoulder, she about jumped out of her skin. Startled and embarrassed, for it was only an employee, Julie realized it was closing time. Everyone else had left the store, the old woman was simply waiting on her. Dejected, she began the slow walk to the register.

The old woman looked at Julie’s hair, then reached out and grabbed a small, bright blue bottle off the bottom shelf. As she checked Julie out, she slipped in the blue bottle. Feeling frustrated with her indecision, Julie went home, dreading the moment she had to start the shopping over again; the moment that would continue until she found the perfect bottle.

The bottles did not mock her on the way out, nor did they laugh. They knew which bottle was going home with her. The colors of the bottles looked muted, almost as if they were trying to hide themselves from prying eyes, blending their imperfections into the shadows. What Julie didn’t know is that she was going home with the perfect bottle, and her life would never be the same again.

Journal

Why did you choose the character you did for your piece?

Most of the girls here have been having problems with their hair; I think it’s something in the water. I wasn’t in the mood to write a serious piece, but this was a common enough problem to be believable. I think the multi-textured hair is the hardest to take care of, so it made sense for Julie to have that type. The indecision about shampoo is another common girl problem, the choices really are overwhelming. I’m sure we’ve all experienced that moment where you have to buy shampoo but nothing on display looks like it will work.

What are some of the challenges you found in creating a convincing, complex character?

I feel I write most convincingly when the character develops around the plot. For this assignment, I was under the impression that there wasn’t really supposed to be a plot. This forced me to focus solely on the character, something I’m not normally comfortable. Also, shampoo type is a little shallow, so it was hard to make her complex. I felt the switch to bodywash and the ease with which she made that decision stood in contrast to her shampoo indecision, giving her complexity.

When designing your character, did you attempt to offer the reader something familiar, unsettling/unusual, or a combination of the two? Why did you make this choice and what mechanisms did you employ to achieve this goal?

I tried to give the reader something familiar. Everyone, or at least every girl, has had this problem at least once, so they can relate. I did try to add an unusual twist at the end; she did get the perfect bottle of shampoo. This is a life-changing event. No one I know has ever found the perfect shampoo, but I can just imagine how momentous of an occasion that might be. Since shampoo is a pretty mundane topic, I felt it safest to keep it familiar. The colored bottles, the scents, the functions – all of these can be found on any shampoo shelf. I also tried to bring in examples we all might have seen, like the effects of wind on the different types of hair, and the girls with strongly perfumed shampoo who end up smelling like old ladies.

Journal Entry #5: Eliot's Middlemarch

Dorothea – disillusioned, devoted, weary, affectionate, emotional
“But this stupendous fragmentariness heightened the dream-like strangeness of her bridal life.”
Being in a foreign place right after a life changing event has made the transition seem even larger and more foreign to her.

Mr. Casaubon – realist, detached, bemused, formal, sensitive
“What was fresh to her mind was worn out to his; and such capacity of thought and feeling as had ever been stimulated in him by the general life of mankind had long shrunk to a sort of dried preparation, a lifeless embalmment of knowledge.”
Mr. Casaubon was world-weary. His knowledge no longer held any personal interest for him, it was simply knowledge for the sake of knowledge.

Will Ladislaw – fickle, temperamental, shy, friendly, dreamer
“He was conscious of being irritated by ridiculously small causes, which were half of his own creation.”
Will realized he was reading too much into small matters; seeing insults and slurs where none were meant.

I think that Eliot does hold true, in Middlemarch, to the sentiments expressed in On Realism. Ladislaw and Mr. Casaubon are particularly believable. The jealousy and conflicting emotions they show seem real. Their reactions to each other’s presence are natural, for all that they are stilted. Dorothea, too, seems real, but to a lesser extent. I think it’s entirely probable for a young woman to be disappointed by the change in her husband’s behavior on their honeymoon, but I think it’s less probable that she could be oblivious to Ladislaw’s feelings. She has a touch of the ideal, not real, about her, in that she adheres to the ideal moral code, rather than the moral practices. Overall, and especially in the details, Eliot’s Middlemarch conforms to the desire for truth and realism expressed in On Realism.