Talia’s Comments (group member since May 25, 2016)

Talia’s comments from the Mills AP Lit and Comp group.

Talia Gordon, Period 1

True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

This excerpt from Act 1, Scene 4 of Romeo and Juliet, spoken by Mercutio in response to Romeo’s assertion that Mercutio’s previous monologue about Queen Mab of the fairies was “nothing”. In this segment of verse Mercutio appears to be saying that dreams themselves are inconsistent, that they have no solid basis whatsoever, and in doing so argues that Romeo’s dream has no bearing on his life-- after all, “dreamers often lie”. Of course, Benvolio dismisses the statement as pure drivel, but as readers we can see the value in Mercutio’s argument, though the meat of it is not substantially different in a modern interpretation. As far as applying this excerpt to today’s society, dreams could also reference any virtual reality game wherein one feels as though things that occur matter, but there’s no foundation to the belief, and thus it has no bearing on reality. Regardless, there’s truth in Mercutio’s rejection of dreaming as meaningless both in Shakespeare’s day and in the modern one. After all, humanity has always dreamed.

Izzie wrote: "Izzie Hicks period 2

Reflecting on changing his ending for Great Expectations, Charles Dickens writes in a letter: “I have put in as pretty a little piece of writing as I could, and I have no dou..."

Talia Gordon, Period 1

This is a really interesting argument that I agree with in many ways-- your points on writing style and the imagery of the decaying Satis House are very relevant, and in style the published ending is most definitely more cohesive with the body of the novel than the unpublished ending. However, I’d like to question an assumption made in your argument, reproduced here: “Estella and Pip ending up together not only makes sense and is emotionally satisfying to the reader, but it also opens up more potential character growth.” I’d like to question this on two accounts-- that Estella and Pip ending up together makes sense, which I’d argue narratively makes little sense, and that their getting together provides for character growth instead of terminating it.

On the first account, Estella and Pip ultimately getting together makes little sense considering Estella’s characterization and the novel’s dim view of ‘expectations’. Estella is characterized over the course of the novel as petty and mean with a heart of ice. The fact that Pip is obsessed with her, a point I’ll return to in a moment, does not mean the reader is ever given any reason to assume she has learned to love from a troubled and violent marriage, and a change in Estella’s temperament is never even hinted at previous to the final scene. It makes no sense for her character to be paired off with Pip, who she presumably loves according to the ending. There’s just never a textual reason to assume she’d be capable of that. On the second point, Pip’s obsession with Estella is indubitably tied to his ‘expectations’ and to his love of wealth and wish to be a gentleman, both of which the novel ultimately discounts as foolish things. If the novel has already made Pip’s ‘expectations’ a moot point, there’s no reason for the achieving of one of his expectations (entering a relationship with Estella) to simply make sense.

On the second account, the argument that Estella and Pip entering a relationship is grounds for more potential character growth makes little sense. Since when has the fulfillment of a long-held goal with relatively little work (the whole dialogue seems to take less than five minutes and is driven largely by Estella) provided room for character growth, and on that same point how does Estella having learned to love by suffering through a violent marriage give her more room to grow as a character? I’d contend that, by fulfilling Pip’s problematic obsession, Dickens actually stunts any further growth the characters might have been able to previously access. In short, there’s many valid points to your argument, but I believe you’ve made two faulty assumptions upon which at least part of your argument depends. While most of your contentions remain valid, anything based on these two assumptions falls.

Talia Gordon, Period 1

Of all of the fascinating characters Dickens invents over the course of Great Expectations, from the disconcerting and heartbroken Miss Havisham to the pale gentleman Herbert Pocket, Estella remains the most elusive for both Pip and the reader. Throughout the novel we feel as though we have begun to understand her motivations, until she appears once again and tears down any progress. She is petty and cruel and impossible, and while the published conclusion to Great Expectations is perhaps more emotionally satisfying and certainly sold better than the original would have, Dickens’ first conclusion to the novel was far more in line with both Estella’s character and the themes of futility explored throughout the story.

The whole purpose of Estella’s character is to be an untouchable fantasy with a heart of ice, not so different from the beautiful phantom she appears to be floating through the old brewery during Pip’s first excursion to the Havisham estate. As explained by Estella herself in metaphor, Miss Havisham had been burned by love and thus had taught Estella that love was dangerous and was to be actively thwarted (327). To expect an experience with a cruel husband to fundamentally change this fact of her existence makes little narrative sense, for one taught to fear sunlight, who is summarily burned by that same sunlight, has no reason to assume that the very same light which had injured her and her family is now somehow safe. This makes the published conclusion to Great Expectations inherently unsatisfying in that it does not truly resolve the problem of Estella, prioritizing instead public appeal (which is completely in line with the publishing style of the time).

Conversely, Dickens’ original conclusion dealt directly with Estella’s character, stating plainly “that suffering had been stronger than Miss Havisham's teaching, and had given her a heart to understand what my heart used to be.” This is significantly more in line with the themes of the story in that suffering does not fix all ills, certainly not enough that Estella should have the capability to fall in love, but rather that it grants the perspective to understand what has been suffered for. The original ending grants closure in line with the novel’s characterization of both Estella and the nature of suffering, and thus is both more satisfying than and superior to the published conclusion.

Talia Gordon, Period 1

Charles Dickens' Great Expectations is in many ways a master class in the use of literary distortion- the intentional portrayal of images and events in a manner that may come off as confusing and highly implausible (one might say unrealistic), a very literal distortion of the reader’s reality- in that the novel is a constant exercise in both coincidence and timing. Dickens chooses to change the way that time passes in order to make his chain of events reasonable, and in doing so abandons literary realism as so to lend the novel some sort of credence instead of creating deliberate confusion.

Time is a strange beast in Great Expectations. One-hundred and fifty pages into the novel, which happens to be approximately one fourth of the way through the book, Pip has only just finished his dealings with convicts and is still living with his Mr. and Mrs. Joe Gargery. He has just begun to contend with his sister’s injury and both the reader and Pip have no real knowledge of any impending expectations. In reading the novel, one feels originally as though this is in excess. Dickens has distorted time in such a way that convicts seem to have loomed over Pip’s childhood, though we know logically that they have not, and in fact assume they will have no bearing on both Pip’s present and future. The focus on these stories feels strange and disjointed, almost unnecessary. It drags.

Of course, it becomes evident later in the novel that Pip’s encounters with convicts were perhaps the most defining moments of his childhood, and what once seemed out of place suddenly gains new importance. What appeared unrealistic suddenly takes on a hyperrealism that thrusts the story into motion, and an awkward opening scene puts the entirety of the story into perspective. Dickens is a master at literary distortion not because he uses it, but because he utilizes it to make the story more effective, to grant the reader a better understanding of the meaning found in seemingly unrelated events.

Talia Gordon, Period 1

One of the most interesting points raised in The Great Gatsby is that of the nature of nostalgia, by which I mean the novel’s simultaneous celebration of the relative perfection of childhood and (on occasion) young adulthood and condemnation of attaching oneself to that perfection, particularly in the case of Gatsby (whose nostalgia run rampant ultimately results in his demise). This is where the significance of the East and the West as symbolic settings in the novel begins to take root. The West represents an idyllic childhood, a more naïve society, whereas the East represents both a place of opportunity and moral devolution. This split is mirrored on a somewhat smaller scale in the East Egg and the West Egg, although both exist within the realm of the East. The West Egg is home to a kind of simplicity not seen on the East Egg, seen in Carraway’s small cottage and “honest” nature, but also in Gatsby’s “incorruptible dream” (p. 154). In contrast, the East Egg is home to interpersonal violence, immense wealth, and ultimately death.
This divide is representational of the novel’s convoluted opinions on nostalgia and the attempt to return to a childlike state of perfection. This is not to say Fitzgerald condemns cosmopolitan ventures-- in fact, if Gatsby had adapted to the East he would have abandoned his dream of Daisy and thus survived the novel. The novel appears to be arguing that nostalgia and a return to childhood are acceptable and in some cases preferable (shown in Carraway’s return to the West after Gatsby’s funeral, which is not condemned, although whether this was Fitzgerald’s intent or the unintended result of Carraway’s narration remains to be seen) but cannot be carried with one throughout their lives to the point that is becomes an obsession. In suggesting that Carraway, Jordan, Tom, Daisy, and Gatsby “possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life” (p. 176) Fitzgerald seems to imply that the tragedy of the cast lies in their inability to move beyond remembered perfection into a more adult life, a theme advanced further by Carraway’s realization that, having reached thirty years of age, he must begin acting differently. However, as convincing as that point may become (at this point in the novel, the reader believes to avoid death and tragedy they must abandon nostalgia in its entirety), Fitzgerald ends the novel by recognizing the inescapable grasp of childhood-- “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past” (p. 180).

Talia Gordon, Period 1

The Great Gatsby requires some effort to interpret, despite Nick Carraway’s unavoidable insistence upon sharing his thoughts on matters, and so in reading the novel it becomes necessary to fixate on moments of insight, “casements” in which what has been mired in Fitzgerald’s antiquated language and sprawling description becomes clear. The most startling of these moments occurs in chapter seven, wherein Carraway comes to the conclusion (driven by Gatsby’s observation) that Daisy’s voice, which has been consistently remarked upon, is so beautiful because it is “full of money” (p. 120). The paragraph finishes strangely, with Carraway seeming to fade off into thought, observing “High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl,” (p. 120). It is at this particular point that both Carraway and the reader come to understand the value of money not only superficially (as has already been explored in the explicitly-detailed parties Gatsby throws), but on a very personal level. What has previously been attributed only to Daisy (the energy she carries with her, particularly in her voice) is now attributed to her wealth. This is very much a window into the truth of the novel in that it exposes the contortions wealth forces upon one’s person. It is also a rather damning criticism of the idea that The Great Gatsby is a love story-- if it were, Daisy would have been desirable on her own. Instead, the novel further establishes its criticism of upper-crust societal conventions.

Talia Gordon, Period 1

The Great Gatsby is arguably one of the most objectively “perfect” novels ever written, particularly with regard to narrative structure and style. However, there is a glaring infirmity in the characterization of Gatsby, or rather the way Nick Carraway characterizes Gatsby in his internal monologues (separate from the conclusions we draw from both their actions). Throughout the novel Carraway appears to be unable to decide whether he supports and respects Gatsby or whether he finds the man intolerable, ignorant, and finds his actions faulty. There is nothing inherently wrong with this point of view-- often we as people are unsure of the way we view others-- but there is something wrong with the fact that Carraway never recognizes that he holds contradictory positions.
Nearing the end of the novel, Carraway says of Gatsby “...I disapproved of him from beginning to end,” (p. 154). However, throughout the novel we see Carraway disprove this in both words and actions, from implicitly approving of his neighbor’s romancing of his own cousin to genuinely believing Gatsby every time he was told an outlandish story. The disconnect between what Carraway tells the reader and how he acts around Gatsby leaves the reader not entirely sure as to Gatsby’s character-- if he is the man that Carraway supports or retroactively condemns.
Ultimately, this contradiction weakens the novel as the whole in that it compromises the way we view Gatsby’s eventual failure to secure his desires. In one reading, Gatsby’s death is inherently tragic because both he and his actions were good. In another, the death becomes an almost inevitable to end to a wrongful path, making not Gatsby’s death tragic but rather his life. Neither of these meanings make the novel bad, but their simultaneous existence weakens whichever message Fitzgerald intended. Carraway’s inability to cohesively characterize Gatsby leaves the novel as a whole far short of perfection.