Success is Counted Sweetest- Emily Dickinson

SUCCESS is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,

As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear.

-Emily Dickinson

I was going through a stack of poetry I had lying around. It was from a collection of poems bound together after Dickinson died. Dickinson was my hero for a while as an adolescent, but now I think I relate more fully to her. She never did succeed in life. She had a dismal marriage, as was typical of the time, struggled with health and happiness, struggled financially and then died. Her friends were cleaning out her bedroom when they found a trunk full of poetry. They searched her desk and found bits of parchment everywhere with scribbled thoughts and ink-blotted philosophies. Despite her desire to be published during her life, no one ever saw potential in her. I think society and her husband suffocated her. Her words I typed above are flavored with symbolism, specifically the second stanza. "The purple host" is symbolic of royalty who claim victory. But, as Dickinson so eloquently states, those holding the flag know nothing of victory compared to those who actually fought for it. I guess we always want most what we never have. She says that we value most what we do not have; those who know failure appreciate success more than the successful. Then she goes on to say those who hold the flag don't understand liberty, or victory, like those who suffered for it. Those who have become accustomed to success cannot possibly comprehend personal victory without knowing the face of failure. I have come to the conclusion that failure is one of the most human things one can experience. Although our society and environment influence us, nothing is more dominate in defining our individuality than our struggles and weaknesses. It's almost beautiful, actually, the process of failure.

Oh, I decided to pick a piece of art to go with my blog each week. It just seemed wrong to not have a visual to accompany my rants! :)

A Summer Day By The Sea- Henry Longfellow

A Summer Day By The Sea

The sun is set; and in his latest beams
Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold,
Slowly upon the amber air unrolled,
The falling mantle of the Prophet seems.
From the dim headlands many a light-house gleams,
The street-lamps of the ocean; and behold,
O'erhead the banners of the night unfold;
The day hath passed into the land of dreams.
O summer day beside the joyous sea!
O summer day so wonderful and white,
So full of gladness and so full of pain!
Forever and forever shalt thou be
To some the gravestone of a dead delight,
To some the landmark of a new domain.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


I've definitely been going through a Longfellow phase lately.
This reminds me of every summer of my childhood! We went out to Devil's Elbow and laid on the beach, climbed the cliffs, ran the sand dunes, and finished with Moe's and BJ's ice cream and salt water taffy. Summer days were just perfect with the beach so close. I loved looking out onto the horizon of the ocean, as if I was looking at eternity. This all sounds so idealistic and perhaps exaggerated, but that's exactly how I remember it. I love Longfellow's words, "O summer day beside the Joyous sea!... So full of gladness and so full of pain." I think these words somewhat encompass the entirety of life. The ocean alone holds so many metaphors! The bitterness of the salt, the hidden sea shells lurking under the sand, the slimy sea weed that embraces your toes... yet, it's so beautiful. I love being so utterly content that you can realize how surreal happiness is. Happiness is like sunshine; you can feel it and experience a portion, but you can never look at it, or comprehend it directly.

Thankgiving Poem

A Holiday Rhyme and Rhythm

I have never been one for poetry
But in this great time of solemnity
I suppose a rhyme and rhythm would suffice
So here I toss the cards and roll the dice
In hopes of a good line or two
Before I close and bid ado

The greatness of the universe unfurled
I marvel at the beauty of the world
The feast in which I do partake,
Jollity to the depths of my soul doth take

The sound of laughter, the sound of friends
The blind course of life, what's beyond the bend
Yet each day brings smiles
Even if for but a while

Let us not question or doubt
Simply sing praises and shout
For one day forget the woes and fears
When you are around loved one and dears

Remember the good
As ever one should
And on this Thanksgiving,
Thank Him for living

I am not one to smile and laugh
Despite all the goodness my life doth hath
But from now on I pledge,
Amongst the darkness I'll wedge
A bit of sunshine to my living
And remember it each Thanksgiving

-Mandee Sorensen

(I looked back at my posts and realized how negative I have become! Here's my attempt to brighten my paradigm!)

On Reading Poems to a Senior Class At South High by D.C. Berry

I spent a few minutes researching D.C. Berry to see if insights into his life would somehow grant me a few insights into this poem. Berry had a good personality and frankly lived a good life. However, he did fight in Vietnam. It seemed to me he struggled with the concept of conforming. This poem reminded me of my own views of high school. We go to high school and conform ourselves into model students. We are the "frozen fish in a package," just waiting to to be turned into something. We let the words and ideas of our superiors drown us. As the little "school of fish," we never stick out and never fend for ourselves. Sometimes I feel as though I go to school only to have another coat of paint caked on to conceal my individuality. It's been such a long time since I've really been allowed to think for myself. I hope I'm not another fish in the aquarium: on display behind a glass, limiting my view to the 4 walls around me.

At the same time, I wonder if we even have a problem being conformed. I mean, the fish get fed right? They have security and clean water. Perhaps they don't get to see the rest of the ocean, but if they never know, does it even matter? I think we like people limiting our potential. We may not admit to it, but if there is a limit on our potential, then we don't have to figure it out or our own. It's easier that way. We become what others except us to be.

Then there are the people like me. I realize I'm being brain washed by the system, but what am I doing about it? Writing silly blog posts about how pathetic it is that society is the master of my destiny. Or like Berry, write poems about being crafted into schools of fish. I guess we are either naive or afraid.

Poetry Response #9

This week's poem of choice is "Acquainted with the Night," by Robert Frost. I really enjoyed our conversation about it in class and decided to do it for the week. Unfortunately, I was in a really bad mood then, so this dark poem fit perfectly. Now I'm in an excellent mood, so my take on this might be a bit more positive than usual.
This poem is discussing seeing the darkest hours of life. Frost's son committed suicide, which has to be one of the darkest corners the earth has to offer. He has certainly been "Acquainted with the Night," but haven't we all? Not all corners are as dark and deep, but all consume and all destroy just that little part of us that felt alive. In this poem, it really sounds like Frost is ready to go down the same dark lane as his son. He says, "I have passed by the watchman on his beat/And dropped me eyes, unwilling to explain." This of course, the watchman being the people in life who notice you are sad, but will never understand. Nevertheless, although I think it was written about suicide, I will not take it like that. The best part about the night is even though you're surrounded by darkness, if you look up there is a glimmer of light. Just a small shimmer of hope. Yes, I have been aquainted with the night. I have seen dark days, months, and even years. But I have also been acquainted with the warm summer day. Sometimes winter lasts longer than it should, but the spring does come. When we're in the dark, it's so hard to realize that light is even there. We get so consumed and our sense of time is skewed. It's hard to understand that darkness is temporary.

"Human Condition" by Tom Gunn

One thing I've been contemplating lately is my own insignificance. Perhaps it's partially due to the daunting uncertainties of my future (namely college.) I have been questioning my own individuality. My mind cannot possibly fathom the wonders of the universe, let alone the wonders of the earth. Lately I have been so engrossed by the thought that everyone has thoughts! It seems so basic, yet I cannot wrap my mind around the concept that while my mind is spinning, tossing around ideas, marveling, pondering, wondering, analyzing, remembering, the kid right next to me in AP Stats is doing the same thing! Right now on this earth, there are 6 billion stories being written, 18 billion being cherished or remembered, and perhaps an infinite more to be created. The line in this poem that haunted me the most was in the 2nd stanza, "I am condemned to be/ an individual." Among the 6,697,254,041 people on the earth (according to Google) I have associated with an estimated 1,000 people on a personal level. If those stats are true, then only .00000014931% of the world has ever been aware of my existence! I am .00000000015% of the population of the earth. And yet, many other .00000000015% of the population have actually altered the lives of the other 99.9999999999999999999999999999% of the world! I suppose the greatest lesson I learned is that 'insignificant' is not a permanent label. And perhaps one may be insignificant statistically speaking (being only .00000000015% of the population) but to the .00000014931% of the world you do associate with, you're anything but insignificant. "I must/find out the limitation/of mind and universe."Perhaps this is the "Human Condition;" among my own insignificance lies a unique individual with infinite potential; with the power to love, sing, dance, cry, hate, run, eat: with the power to be a ripple on the destiny of the world.

Happy Halloween!

I officially declare this to be my week off! haha. Hope you're having a great Halloween weekend!

Poetry Response #8

Snowflakes

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
this is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
now whispered and revealed
to wood and field.

[Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]

Last week for our timed essay, one of the poems was by Longfellow and I really liked it after a while of studying it. Then in choir we were singing an art song (a song where a composer takes a poem and puts it to music) and this particular art song happened to be by Longfellow. It excited me so I decided to analyze my choir music this week! For some reason, this poem made me think of how humans hold their grief in. We are really privet people, we Americans. Especially back in the day dear old Henry was writing this! The earth isn't like that though, not really. When the grief surfaces, then comes the clouds. When the tears start rolling, then comes the rain. And when the heart starts weeping, then comes the snow. "Slowly in the silent syllables recorded/this is the secret of despair." I think the silent tears we cry are the most sincere, the most selfless. Now I have absolutely no idea if this is Longfellow meant, but I think sometimes the poet doesn't necessarily want a poem to be read the same way. Poetry is a little bit like a symphony; whether it's major or minor makes it feel different, but the audience chooses to create the depth.

Poetry Response #8- For the Sleepwalkers by Edward Hirsch

As I was looking through the new poetry packet to fine one that would interest me, I originally neglected my attentions towards the first poem of the page. I wanted to find one that associated with this quote I had been stewing over this five day weekend, "What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?" -Vincent van Gogh. I couldn't help but ask my sister what a day would be like without fear. We can act like we are fearless, but no one is. Everyone is paranoid to fart while using a public bathroom, it's just how it is! Everyone fears having a super bad break-out the week of prom. Most people fear what they say, how they look, how they talk, walk, eat, breathe. People live in fear; not necessarily are we afraid to walk, talk, or eat, but rather we are afraid every move we make is being analyzed by skeptics. "For the Sleepwalkers" caught my attention as I noticed the line, "We have to learn the desperate faith of sleepwalkers who rise of their calm beds and walk through the skin of another life." Sleepwalkers do not fear the dark, as we do. Somehow they subconsciously trust themselves enough to wander through the night. I suppose it is really strange how when we consciously wake up in the middle of the night, we hesitate stepping out of our bed and slowing mew through what seems like a dark labyrinth known as our bedrooms. Really, we see our room so often in the light, do we not know what is there? Why do we doubt ourselves? Our hands flair against the wall where the light switch remains comatose. Have we not switched the light on a thousand times in the comforts of the day without hesitation, yet we can cannot trust ourselves in the dark? What if we could "have so much faith in the invisible," as Hirsch suggests, what if we could experience a day without fear?

Poetry Response #7

This is an excerpt from An Essay on Man written by Alexander Pope I found in the old Literature book.

I. Know then thyself, presume no God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is Man
Placed on isthmus of a middle state,
A darkly wise, and rudely great;
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest,
In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast;
In doubt his mind or body to prefer,
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little, or too much:
Chaos of thought and passion , all confused;
Still by himself abused, or disabused;
Created half to rise, and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled:
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

I really liked this poem partially because it has an old fashioned sense to it, but the theme question is timeless. Pope is asking what every man wonders, "What is the purpose of life?" He addressed the question differently throughout the verse, for instance addressing who's duty it is to answer it, that is indeed man's duty to understand mankind. It is man's duty, not God's. He then wonders if maybe we think about it too much? Are we born only to die? Is our lives defined only between what happens between birth and death? Life is full of success and failure, and Pope puts it, "Created half to rise, and half to fall," so then is the purpose only to keep going? I really enjoy poems that question things. Pope questions religious beliefs here too, I think. He wonders if we really should leave our lives in the hands of a mystery. I think Pope believes in God, but doesn't necessarily like Him. Pope thinks of God and a figure who sends men to live blindly; we wonder confused while He sits with the answers. Personally, I don't necessarily agree with Pope, but I do find it interesting.

Poetry Response 6- Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Robert Frost

I remember reading this poem in 9th grade. I was in an advanced English course at another school and struggling with a acrid and rigid teacher. She handed out this poem expecting me not to understand it, yet it was so simple to me. In fact, I think it was the first poem that ever made any sense to me. Looking at it now, I really have no idea what I used to think about it. All I know now is this poem speaks of mankind's greatest weaknesses: passion and hatred.I love how Frost so accurately compares passion to fire and hatred to ice. Hatred has destroyed lives, countries, and homes. Hatred blossoms from a bud of jealousy or angst. It then morphs into a consuming stiffness. Passion on the other hand isn't gradual or progressive. Passion sparks unexpectedly, yet still manages to destroy homes and happiness. Passion thrives in the moment. It starts as a spark then it becomes impossible to control and the effects are immutable and imperishable.

Analogy of High School

Never Ask Why

White walls and empty hallways
don’t spash color
don’t stand out
never ask why

Busy streets
filled with mindless paper
puppets, afraid to speak
too loud, to move too
abrubtly, to breathe too
freely
Never Ask Why

obey and succeed
conform and you’ll grow as the
daisy in the linen closet
with a shaded lamp
for sunlight-
you’ll grow into the
muted, dwafed
weed you were planted
to be
NEVER ASK WHY

In the end nothing,
nothing was real.
The laughter stimulated, the smiles
Stitched onto nothingness…

Paper words with paper memories
And never-
Obey, surrender, give-in
Ask-
Conform, comply , live blind
Why
-Mandee Sorensen

Poetry Response 5- Wallflowers by Donna Vorreyer

Seeing as I'm really not in a deep, significant, poetic mood, The Wallflowers was a perfect poem to look at this week. It's really a good poem, but for different reasons than most the poems I enjoy. This poem isn't meant to define life's purpose or change the world's paradigm. It is simply a clever little poem meant simply to say something in a witty manner. She uses clever metaphors; her words flow together quite well. The author is commenting on the decay of decent language. As time goes on, our language becomes more and more impaired. Strangely enough, that was on my mind quite a bit this summer... hence the title of my blog. The author is just wondering why. Why do we have such wonderful words and let them go to waste? Why do we use select words over and over again, until the word becomes simply a word. I don't know why Donna Vorreyer, but if I figure it out, I'll be sure to publish a poem on it!

Poetry Response 4- Beginning Again by Franz Writght

"If I could stop talking, completely
cease for a year,
I might begin to get well," he muttered."
Off alone performing
brain surgery on himself
in a small badly lit
room with no mirror. A room
whose floor ceiling and walls
are all mirrors, what a mess

Above is the only part of the poem I could really understand. Well, I understood the rest but felt like I was missing something. The first stanza just reminded me of summer before this school year began. I started reevaluated everything. Why am I like this? Why do I do this? What can I change to make things better? Thinking about it, a year of silence might do me well. If people stopped talking about themselves for even a day maybe they would realize how much there is to hear. I love the part, "off alone performing brain surgery on himself." I would love to take apart my mind and just tweak it. Maybe I could be more social, smarter, more compassionate; maybe I would know what to say, or how to act; maybe I could stop feeling awkward or get rid of the negativity. Mirrors represent flaws to me. I look in the mirror and see what needs to, or should, change. We can see the physical mirrors everywhere, but the mental mirrors are all delusions. We can never truly change what's already there, as we can with physical features. We can try to improve the traits we hate, but the way we think will never change. I wish I could start again sometimes, make myself different, but it doesn't really work like that.
The form of the poem is interesting. It's actually similar to other poems of this style, but for a different reason. The lines are extremely choppy, the punctuation is there, and yet the lines are not completed by it. I think the process of beginning again is choppy. We try, fail, see no change, try something different, fail, or get worse. It's a confusing process which I think defines the poem through the style.
I wanted to focus on the first stanza, but the second is pretty interesting as well.
And still
it stands,
the question
not how begin
again, but rather

Why?

Maybe I should have been asking myself this all along. When we are sad, lonely, cynical, and just don't fit in, we try to change ourselves, but why? Wouldn't it be a better idea to change our environments rather than conform?

Poetry Response 3- To Myself by W.S. Merwin

Usually I avoid typing the entire poem on these responses, but this one is just so short and spectacular!

To Myself
Even when I forget you
I go on looking for you
I believe I would know you
I keep remembering you
sometimes long ago but then
other times I am sure you
were here a moment before
and the air is still alive
around where you and I
think then I can recognize
you who are always the same
who pretend to be time but
you are not time and who speak
in the words but you are not
what they say you who are not
lost when I do not find you
-W.S. Merwin

I think I really enjoyed this poem; it's centered around the idea of the 'facade.' We all naturally mask who we are, sometimes until we cannot really remember what we really are. "We pretent to be time but you are not time;" we try and fit in where we need to, for a little while. When changing environments, our facades change as well. Humans are chameleons of personality. Depending on the situation, we change our shape, color, texture, or tone. I think humans develop into our facades, it is a learned trait. As children our individuality makes us content, but the day we enter into a public setting, we learn to warp that individuality, or we are expected to do so at least. The more we age, the more our true identity fades. Even after my 17 years, I honestly am not sure what I am if someone were to remove the pressures of society and expectations. Yet it is ironic that as we loose our identities by choice, we then spend years looking for it again. So many young adults seek to find themselves in careers and family life. I have friends who are so confused to "who they are" they try everything to find something that fits as their identity: "Even as I forget you I go on looking for you." Our entire lives we are searching for what we had to begin with. Once we loose our individuality and 'me-ness' I think we can only ever see glimpses of it from then on. In it's entirety, it is gone forever. I love when the author says, "and the air is so alive;" I think we all feel that a little bit. We become so tired of pretending, it's almost as if our facade is suffocating us; yet it has become us, therefor we will never escape it.

Poety Response 2: A Chinese Bowl by Katha Pollitt

I have never been the genius child, but when my parents said to me on Thursday, "Oh, by the way Mandee, we're going to Utah this weekend," even I knew what they were really trying to say was, "Hopefully you didn't procrastinate your poetry blog this week otherwise you'll be stuck doing it at 10:15 on a Saturday night in a log cabin where you'll barely be able to access the internet let alone get your blog to load in less than fifteen minutes or so." Nevertheless, here I am.
We discussed "A Chinese Bowl" in class on Thursday and I decided then this was my favorite poem in the packet. (I will try my best to only say that once.) But no, I really did enjoy it. Katha Pollitt has such an incredible writing style! Her poem speaks of growing up, but she cleverly never blatantly says she is aging. She speaks of a filing cabinet not yet filled with the woes of adulthood. I especially love the lines:
as rain about to fall,
part love, part concentration,
part inner solitude.
Where is that room, those gray-

green thin-lined
scribbled papers
littering the floor?
How did

I move so far away
just living day by day
that now all rooms seem strange,
the years all error?

So many times I think we look back at our lives and wonder if we did everything wrong, "the years all error?" Our childhood generally seems so simple and perfect. Wouldn't it be nice to go back to the rooms of our home and have everything be simple again. To live without regrets and worries.
Just after those stanzas above, Pollitt uses an entire line to write "bowl" on the far right of the page. We discussed this in class and Joey Lopez thought it was because as a child bowls are harder to reach or something like that. I disagree. Seeing as our childhood seems simple, simple things represent childhood to us; a chinese bowl, or a blanket, a toy, a chair. As we grow up, we understand life less and less. Our paridigms become skewed, our logic flawed and the simple joys of life are harder to reach. What once represented what we "think is happiness" as the poem states, becomes only a stationary object and our expectations of happiness supposedly expand, when in all actuality, are decayed by regrets and failure.

Poetry Response 1

Mr. Fear, by Lawrence Raab.

As I was looking up the poem, "My Fear" I honestly couldn't find a single thing. Then I realized after a half hour of searching the poem is actually titled, "Mr. Fear." It makes so much more sense now! I spent probably 12 minutes wondering why fear was always referred to as an outside source, or 'Mr.' everywhere except the title. Anyway, Mr. Fear was written by Lawrence Raab, who actually died recently just to let you know. At least according to Google. So when I was glancing through the poems, I sped-read this one and got really excited. For some reason I thought it was talking about the Vietnam War. So I was really excited to study a poem about Vietnam and so I read Raab's short biography and was somewhat surprised to learn Raab had never been to war. I searched four more websites then finally decided to actually read the poem. Now I'm basically positive that is was indeed not written about Vietnam, but technically I guess it could apply. We're not going there.
One thing I like about Raab's style: he used small words and phrases to convey a massive concept.
One thing I dislike about Raab's style: it can come off a bit choppy and sometimes unclear. His punctuation actually distracted me as well.
I read several blogs from random people about this poem in other classes most likely similar to ours, and most thought this was about a reoccurring dream, which would make complete sense. After all, it mentions sleep and night. Then I read another blog which got me thinking. So maybe this poem was written about nightmares and was actually meant to be literal... but how much fun would that be?
Sometimes when something truly traumatic happens, we feel like it's a dream. Someone dies who is close to you and you wake up thinking it didn't really happen, they weren't really gone. You just want to wake up and for all the pain to have gone away. Some people even describe traumatic events as though they were watching it, like they weren't even there. I would like to think this poem is about trauma, the point where each day is a reoccurring nightmare. Raab always refers to this poem as Mr., which makes complete sense. When something traumatic happens we always look for someone to blame. Sometimes we blame ourselves, but usually it's the infamous "them."
Why did "they" do that, why did "insertwhateverorwhoeveryouwanthere" let this happen? "Mr. Fear" is this massive, happy-sucking amoeba who has no choice but to exist. I love the lines, "Maybe he smiles when he finds the right one. Maybe he's sorry." Raab refers to fear as an actual being because we can't control others, only ourselves just as we cannot control fear. Fear is something that consumes and destroys us unless we learn to wake up from it all. "Let it fit in my pocket, let it fall through the hole in my pocket." Wouldn't that be nice? To just forget about your fear and while you don't even notice, it's gone forever. To heal or finally cope with reality. I'm not sure how much I really enjoyed this poem, but I do think it's a bit like putty. It's a kind of hard lump, but if you bend and stretch enough it actually becomes something.

The Kite Runner- analysis

The analysis seems very hard for me to do. I feel like every single page of this book could be something significant. Overall the theme is about how one sin can haunt you for an entire life and the journey of atoning for that transgression. The author, Khaled Hosselini was brilliant in the weaved the story to force the audience to feel the emotions. Hassan was compared to the sacrificial lamb, similar to the Bible. He was the perfect, diligent, loyal, firstborn who deserved Amir's love, but was never given it. Amir is an exaggerated version of the average person. He is selfish, very flawed, and desperate to prove himself. He feels above others due to his place in society but still feels insignificant. Amir stood by and watched the most innocent, pure boy be tortured and did nothing. He tried to justify it, but in the end sins of ommission are just as severe as sins of commission. In fact, they may be even worse. Amir could have defended Hassan, just as Hassan had defended him numerous times, but he didn't. Hassan's fate lay in Amir's hands, and Amir turned his eyes. I was so frustrated during this part I just wanted to scream, but then I thought of the times we turn away when kids are being picked on at school. The gossip we overhear, but don't contradict; how everyone laughs at certain kids at school; how we walk away from what we don't want to see. Hossenili was a genius because he knows we've all done it. We have all betrayed a friend. Though Amir's case was much more extreme, we all had no choice but to be drawn in to the story. Amir spent the rest of his life looking into that dark alley. As he states on the very first page, "It's wrong what they say about the past, I've learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years." Amir had no choice but to sacrifice everything for Hassan's son because there had to be a way out. There had to be something he could do so that his conscious wouldn't suffocate him. When his body was broken, he finally felt whole. He had suffered, as had Hassan; he had finally made amends. This story just consumed me. I loved how life went on, but he never forgot. Hosselini was just brilliant: how Assef tortured Amir and Sohrab, as he had tortured Hassan; how Hassan turned out to be Amir's half-brother. The words "For you a thousand times over," haunted Amir throughout his life. To be honest, they haunted me as well. Sometimes those who are most willing to sacrifice everything for you are the easiest people to turn from your life. We all have skeletons lurking in our closets, whether it be things we have said or done, or things we DIDN'T say or do, but until we take the atoning journey, we can never find "a way to be good again."
Annotating:
I find I'm pretty bad at following rules. I made my own to way to annotate this book, because the way I did was just so perfect! There were obviously so many significant quotes in this story, but I began to realize most of those quotes were repeated, foreshadowed, or related to another one of those significant quotes. I began writing little side notes linking sections together. For example, on page one, next to the first paragraph, I wrote page 77 because that's what he was referring to when he mentioned the dark alley that haunted him. I ended up with a web of cross notes for the quote, "For you a thousand times over," but I could never stop highlighting it because it just meant so much to the book. There were also quotes that did not relate to anything else that I had no choice but to highlight because the words just haunted me.

The Kite Runner- summary

The Kite Runner takes place in Afghanistan during the late 1970's just before the revolution. The main character, Amir is the son of a wealthy, elite member of the Afghan society named Baba. Working for Baba and Amir are two servants, Ali and Hassan. Hassan and Amir grew up together, like brothers but Amir would never considered Hassan a friend due to his race. Hassan is a loyal servant, often compared to in the book to a sacrificial lamb. Baba admires Hassan as a son, and Amir often feels inadequate and jealous of his father's affections. In Afghanistan, it is a tradition to run kites in the winter. It's a very intricate process, but nonetheless it's a socially significant tradition which means the world to both Amir and Hassan. Amir wants to bring home the winning kite to his father to win his affections. Hassan and Amir fight the other kites, and finally their kite is the winning kite. They cut it loose and Hassan runs to bring Amir back the kite, yelling back to him, "For you a thousand times over." A quote which will haunt Amir the rest of his life. Amir begins to worry that Hassan had failed him since he had not returned to him. Amir begins to search the streets for Hassan only to find the neighborhood bully, Assef, and his gang of mischievous delinquents harassing Hassan. Hassan had caught the kite, and was trying to bring it back to Amir but Assef threaten him saying he would hurt Hassan if he did not hand over the kite. Assef told Hassan that Amir was not his friend, that Hassan meant nothing to him but Hassan was relentless. Amir stood hidden away, caught in fear and the need to react. Assef then beat and raped Hassan. Finally did Amir react, by running away. Hassan brought Amir the kite without a word of complaint. Then Amir began to ignore Hassan. Amir's father finally respected him, but it meant nothing to him. Amir then placed a few of his valuable possessions under Hassan's bed to make it look as though Hassan was a theif. As a final sacrifice, Hassan took the blame but then, to Amir's shock, Baba forgave Hassan. Nevertheless, Ali claimed he and Hassan could no longer stay there. Baba broke down and cried for the first time in Amir's memory and begged them to stay, but they left. Years later, Baba and Amir escaped the Afghan revolution to America where they lived a difficult life. Amir married a woman named Soraya; Baba died of lung cancer; Amir graduated college and became a published author. Baba's old business partner contacted Amir telling him it was crucial he meet with him in Pakistan. Amir met with him and learned that Baba had been the true father of Hassan, therefore Hassan had been Amir's half brother. Hassan and his wife had a child, Sohrab, but Hassan and his wife had been murdered, leaving Sohrab in an orphanage. Seeing as Afghanistan was taken over by the Taliban, Sohrab is in danger. So basically Amir rescues Sohrab from the Taliban, it's extremely dangerous and lots of bad stuff happens, and they make it to Pakistan. Amir cannot figure out the best way to adopt Sohrab, so he says if he can get Sohrab to stay at an orphanage for a year, so he can legally adopt him. Sohrab freaks out and tries to kill himself. Amir saves him and takes him to America and adopts him. Sohrab is basically scarred, but Amir does what he can. Finally, Amir has forgiven himself and feels whole once again.

The Kite Runner-background knowledge

I admit I kind of waited to even do the background knowledge until I finished the entire book. I honestly had no idea what this book was about until I got into it, and I MUST say this was by far my favorite! It was hard for me to read though; I had to read just a bit at a time so I could digest it before I would continue. It was like a terrible addiction for me.Every night I would read it, I would sit on my bed and give my sister a summary of what I read because the book made me so emotional! It's kinda pathetic, but I would re-read most chapters before continuing and therefor it took me three weeks to finish it. Nevertheless, I did finish it. Now the background info.
I decided while researching to research the Afghanistan revolution and was somewhat disappointed. Yes I learned that the revolution started in 1978 and went on for 24 years; I learned all about the PDPA, but nothing I read online had the level of emotion the book did. So then I realized that the book took place during the Afghanistan revolution but it wasn't really about it. I then decided to research the author's life in hopes of finding something interesting. I assumed that no writer was good enough to write that kind of raw emotion without having experienced it. As far as I could tell, I was wrong. Khaled Hosseni only witnessed the first part of the revolution and was relocated to France and then moved to America for the rest of his life. He lived more the Afghan-American side of the story. Yet, I am still convinced he must have really made a big mistake in his life to fully understand guilt as described in his book. The pain he described, the torment was so accurate I could not help but feel it as well. But no more of that... I feel that is all the reader really needs to know to begin the book.

The Heart of Darkness- analysis

The Heart of Darkness was a hard read for me, but overall it does have a lot of hidden meaning and symbolism, which I really enjoyed. First, the characters:
Marlow: like I said, Marlow is the Clint Eastwood of the story. He is intelligent, strong, maybe even a little rigid. He's also the middle man. Conrad wanted to teach the dangers of imperialism without being completely blatant, and Marlow allows this to happen. Marlow doesn't necessarily give in to imperialism, but he doesn't outright oppose it. Yet, he relates his story to all that will listen, so he clearly was moved by his story, as Conrad hopes the readers will be. The average reader should be able relate to him.
Kurtz: Kurtz is really the villain of the story, yet he is extremely clever. Marlow often refers to Kurtz as "hallow" (I marked it each time he did.) Hallow almost seems like a bad thing, but to me it seemed more like a mask. Kurtz seems to have no true identity. Therefore, he could be anybody. I think Conrad wanted to show that when it comes to imperialism, anyone can be the villian.

Now I have to discuss the title of this short story; I basically think it is brilliant. It took me awhile to understand it though. The heart is the "core" of a human, just as darkness is the "core" of imperialism. Though a heart, even consumed in darkness, still continues to beat and to live, the same applies to imperialism. Though so many suffer, a few benefit. Imperialism centers around helping the dominant, white male and though the heart is consumed in darkness, it continues to beat.

Annotating:
So I read Mrs. White's blog and liked how she underlined the words about darkness, so I did that. I underlined the synonyms of darkness in pencil, and I underlined my favorite quotes in pen. The other books I read, I tried to use a specific annotating structure, but for this short story, it didn't seem to be about the character development or word choice as much as the overall effect Conrad wanted to leave with the reader. Conrad uses a few strong phases for emotional effect, and those are the quotes I would underline, the quotes that tug on the heart-strings just a little bit.

The Heart of Darkness- summary

I really didn't understand the plot for quite some time; okay, to be honest, I'm still not sure I really know what happened in this short story. I fell asleep like four times just in the first chapter. Basically, I felt like I was drowning in description. But then I reached page 14 (after 2 weeks, mind you) and then I was reading the part where Marlow was describing the slaves and I finally started to get into it. It's not exactly the plot I got into, but more the themes and just a few phrases I really liked. So behind the verbose, extremely eloquent paragraphs, a plot does indeed exist! The narrator of this book is unknown, but the main character is Marlow. He's basically the Clint Eastwood of the story. He begins to tale his tale of the Congo river. He describes how he became captain and travels to Africa to see the cruelty the white man brings upon the native settlers. His boat then needs repairs and he begins to learn of a man named Kurtz who many people seem to be afraid of. So Marlow and his crew are traveling through the jungle and are attacked by some natives. He then finds that Kurtz convinced a bunch of natives he was a God. Marlow stays with Kurtz for a while and he entrusts Marlow with a bunch of personal documents. Basically, there was a pamphlet that said, "Exterminate the Brutes." Kurtz is the real bad guy of the story. All I can say is the plot is much less exciting than the analysis.

The Heart of Darkness- background knowledge

The short story, The Heart of Darkness was written by Joseph Conrad. He was Polish by birth, but learned English at the age of 21 and became a British citizen. Like any other famous author, Conrad's life wasn't perfect. His mother died when he was young, he was sent away from his family, he struggled with gambling addictions and he was a sailor, which is a transgression in itself. He lived in the late 1800's, at the peak of imperialism. A time where Britain, as well as other dominant nations including our own, were taking over native's land for resources. Experts argue when this concept arose, but many argue it was around the time of the slave trade that imperialism reached the modern world. Imperialism was like a virus; soon it wasn't just resources they could claim, but the entire land belonged to them, as long they could conquer the "savages" that were native settlers. Conrad was another bitter writer. Like Fitzgerald, he wrote about the clash of new and old ways. Also like Fitzgerald, the main character is not the narrator of the story. I think he wanted readers to see the effects of imperialism, but wasn't bold enough to make the readers feel as though it was their fault and they were influencing the new mindset. Perhaps, he didn't want to think of it as his fault either. It is easier to lay the blame and act as though you were just a symptom.

The Great Gatsby- analysis

Now that the plot has been established, I will begin my analysis. First, the characters.
Nick Carraway- Nick is the alter-ego of Fitzgerald. He is the kind of person Fitzgerald wishes he was. He observes the moral decay, yet does not entirely yield to it. In the end, he walks away from it; what Fitzgerald could not do. Although he really is not the main character, he is the narrator because he is not consumed in either lifestyles: West or East egg.
Jay Gatsby- Gatsby is the most intricate of all the characters. He has an entire facade created to mask his ultimate lameness. Gatsby is an extrovert and an introvert at the same time; he just wants everything too much, yet he is so afraid to seem weak; he even had Jordan ask Nick about tea for him, because he didn't want to seem overzealous and well... human. He thought because he had this new lifestyle, he should be above human weakness, including emotion. He grew up poor and despised it, mainly because it cost him is greatest love. Perhaps he was once a moral, decent chap but those days were behind him. He became wealthy at any cost. It appeared he was charming and glamorous, but really he was a hopeless romantic who truly believed once he obtained a fortune, Daisy would run to him and his life would be complete. He is almost naive; with all credulity he assumes that the fates are designed to please him. He is also egotistical. He often says things like, "My house looks good from here, right?" He gloats in his facade because it makes him feel safe. He has been the insecure, poor boy his whole life and for once he wants to be the one others envy. Fitzgerald is also similar to Gatsby, but I don't think he enjoys being similar to him, which is maybe one of the reasons he killed him off in the end.
Daisy Buchanan- If there is a character in this book who I actually liked, Daisy wouldn't be it. I think she is so petty and annoying, but when I really started thinking about it, her character makes complete sense. Daisy never felt she had control of her life. She was never appreciated by anyone for anything besides beauty and elegance. She sucked into a life of propriety. I think she really wanted to live for love, yet she did not have the willpower to resist marrying for money; her love for security consumes her. I think she completely gave up; she knew she could not be more than a typical housewife, and only felt appreciated when she acted insolent and careless. When she acted careless, it made her forget. She has no self respect. Despite Tom's unfaithfulness, she wouldn't leave him in fear of living a life where she actually has to work hard and figure out what she actually wants. When Gatsby reappears, Daisy seems to think she can have the best of both worlds. She wants to be a hopeless romantic, but can't get rid of the safety net.
Jordan Baker- Though Jordan isn't really a main character, she is basically an idiom of the 20's. Jordan is reckless, careless, independent and frankly, I actually really like her. She always seems to fit in the both the new and old lifestyles. Nick and her obviously didn't work out, mostly because they were polar opposites. But I really think Jordan created a facade as well; I don't think she wasn't as popular growing up. I think she has a need for attention that consumes her. She is famous and glamorous, but on the inside I think she despises what she has become, similar to Fitzgerald.
Myrtle Wilson- Yet another character who represents Fitzgerald! Myrtle totally gave in to the moral decay, and what did she get? She ended up dead! The poor girl is truly pathetic. Her character really represents the majority in the Jazz Age; true, most were unethical, but only a few ended up as the infamous Gatsby. Most were like Myrtle, or Fitzgerald, a lot of booze and not so much success.
The Valley of Ashes- though a valley is totally not a character, it's much cooler than any of them. When you scrape away the glitz and glamor of the Jazz Age, you get The Valley of Ashes: a cold, hard, numb and constant pain. The Valley of Ashes is a darkness that consumed everyone; it's the tattered heart beneath the smile.

Overall, most of the novel was set up simply for the ending. It's like the first 120 pages are basically an appetizer and then we get to the steak and mash potatoes in the last fifty, sixty pages. Once Gatsby has obtained his fortune, he feels obligated to win the love of his life. Seeing as Nick hooked them up, things are going pretty well for him. Gatsby finally has Daisy, well, kind of. Gatsby really doesn't understand why Daisy won't leave Tom. Everything was supposed to work out; he had the money, the connections, the society, the house, the parties. He had everything and it still wasn't enough. He had everything that comes with moral decay: false happiness, temporal wealth and it wasn't enough. He really can't comprehend it. Fitzgerald was just trying to say when you give into the temptations of the modern world, you still won't be happy. Though everyone around you seems as happy as can be, they aren't happy either. When the morals decay, true happiness decays as well. Plus, you may end up dead in your swimming pool. Basically the next time the government says don't drink, listen. But more seriously, Fitzgerald is completely bitter about the way he and those around him cannot resist the exciting, unethical ways of the Jazz Age; thus in the end of this novel, it doesn't work out for anyone who gave in and he realizes it won't work for him either.

The Great Gatsby- summary

Honestly, I never really thought the summary was that important, but I guess in order to get into the analysis one needs to understand the plot of the book. The Great Gatsby begins with Nick Carraway, the narrator of the book, moving from the Midwest to New York to become a broker. He finds himself a small place to rent in the East Egg, next to a Gothic mansion with a mysterious owner who throws the biggest parties in town, Jay Gatsby. Nick has connections in West Egg, mainly his cousin and her husband, Tom and Daisy Buchanan. He visits them and is introduced to the famous golfer, Jordan Baker. Nick is shocked to learn that Tom is having an affair, one he doesn't even try to conceal. Tom takes Nick to meet his woman, Myrtle Wilson. They go out to town together and Nick becomes drunk for the first time. Nick is invited to a party at the Gatsby residence and becomes acquainted with Gatsby. No one at the party really seems to know Gatsby; some think he's a murderer, others think he was a German spy. The next day Jordan and Nick go out to lunch and Jordan explains that Gatsby fell in love with Daisy a long time ago and wants to have tea with her at Nick's house. Nick and Gatsby also have lunch and Gatsby explains to Nick his identity, which Nick accepts, but doesn't necessarily believe. Nevertheless, Daisy comes to tea and is shocked to see Gatsby. He shows her around his mansion, dragging Nick along. Gatsby and Daisy begin to have an affair. Of course Tom becomes suspicious, and is furious to think she wouldn't be faithful to him, despite his affair. Gatsby comes to the Buchanan house for lunch and it is evident to Tom that Gatsby and Daisy are in love. Tom confronts Gatsby, and Gatsby tells Tom and Daisy is so in love with him and never was in love with him. Daisy was there at the time and was confused, saying she did love Tom, but not anymore. Both men are offended, and Nick's just awkwardly around. Then driving back to the Buchanan's house in two cars, Tom finds his lover Myrtle has been hit by a car. Getting a description of the car from a witness, Tom realizes it was Gatsby's car. He informs Myrtle's husband the killer must have been Gatsby. Gatsby informs Nick that Daisy was the driver, but he intends to take full responsibly. Mr. Wilson, Daisy's husband, comes to Gatsby's mansion and shoots Gatsby into his pool, and then overwhelmed, he shoots himself. Nick holds a funeral for Gatsby and only one other person shows up. Tom and Daisy escape to Europe and Nick moves back to the Midwest, to escape the moral decay of the East. It's really a fantastic ending.

The Great Gatsby- background knowledge

I chose to read "The Great Gatsby" first because, to be honest, I have already read this in an previous English class. The only part I really enjoyed about the book was the ending, but we'll get to that later. "The Great Gatsby" was first written in 1925, the middle of the Prohibition Era, also known and "The Jazz Age." F. Scott Fitzgerald was a writer of the "Lost Generation." (Basically a group of cynical writers with terrible lives who use irony or satire to describe the decay of morals in modern culture, even though they were utterly immoral themselves.) Fitzgerald emulates what I would assume to be the typical life of a "Great American Author;" he graduated college, went to war, had marital problems, found himself in debt more often than not, only had tastes of success, was an alcoholic. Pretty typical for a writer of the turn of the century. WWI really changed a lot of young men. They left a world of extreme traditional Paradox values, and came home to find tremendous controversy of ethics. The girls they left behind turned out to be libertines, following the new Flapper trends. I think Fitzgerald was bitter because he truly despised the lack of morality, and yet he found himself submerged in the very thing he stood against, which was the hidden meaning of the quote on pg. 2, "Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn." Fitzgerald was only as strong as his main character, Nick; he could not rise above the very thing he despised. I think Fitzgerald partially created an alter ego in Nick. Nick was "in between" when it came to the old and new ways, yet he found himself being as unlawful as the average guy in the time of Prohibition. In the end, Nick was still a good person and I do believe Fitzgerald still believed he had some decency in his disposition, despite his addictions and struggles. "The Great Gatsby" shows the decay of morals in everyone, whether of the old ways or new; it shows the irony of how in a world without ethics, the happiness or merriment is temporal, and in the end, only bitterness remains.