Monthly Archives: January 2025

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The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Art and Murder

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The story of Oscar Wilde is an intriguing one. Much like Thomas Pynchon, there is a lot of mythos surrounding his character and exploits. His literary achievements are notable, and he is also responsible for writing a pivotal piece of Victorian literature, The Picture of Dorian Gray. This novel explores the meaning of art and its reflection against hedonistic values. It’s quite a compelling piece.

The Plot of Dorian Gray

The story tells the tale of Dorian Gray, whose friend, Basil Hallward, painted a picture for and that hangs in Dorian’s home. Due to this fact, Dorian falls in love with his own attractiveness, and wishes that he could stay young forever.

Ostensibly, this wish is granted, and as Gray explores a lifestyle of moral degradation, his portrait becomes more and more disgusting and corrupted. Gray, meanwhile, remains young and beautiful. The conniving, hedonistic Lord Henry Wotton also pushes Gray further into his immoral lifestyle. Others experience Gray’s attitudes more severely, and soon murder and death are on the table. Like a Shakespearean sonnet, Gray’s guilt conflicts with his ambitions.

Over the course of the next 18 years, Gray is “drawn to evil” and finds that the portrait of himself is truly suffering the effects of his own violent and untoward behavior. At the conclusion of the novel, Dorian attempts to do away with the painting, as he is bent on being a better and more moral person, and so he stabs the portrait with a knife. However, by stabbing the portrait, Gray feels the full effects of the blow. His servants find the remains of “a loathsome old man dead on the floor with a knife in his chest and a portrait of a beautiful young man” on the wall (Britannica). On the wall, a portrait of a beautiful, young Dorian Gray stands resolute.

Dorian Gray Background

The novel The Picture of Dorian Gray appeared in Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine in 1890. It is a story perfect for the Victorian age due to its attitudes in modesty and artistic exploration. While a novel about aesthetics, it also falls into a few genres, whether that be a cautionary tale, horror story, or historical drama.

“… it is as much a philosophical treatise on morality and the meaning of life as a Gothic horror,” states critic Tony Canavan. “In fact there is little horror in the conventional sense—no rampaging monsters, haunted castles and so on. The action is more psychological, as Dorian, aided by Lord Henry and a ‘little yellow book’, is seduced by the license to do anything” (Canavan).

After publication, it became a controversial book. It challenged the values of contemporary society, which created its scandalous reputation. At the same time, the novel explores Wilde’s values as a writer and artist, and his values has a human being. Immoral action in the novel is a direct critique of those in society that live without consideration to others.

Lasting Impression of Dorian Gray

The idea of “art for art’s sake”–one of Wilde’s approaches to creativity–is alive in this book. The themes it tackles are heady issues, yet the never get muddled in the boredom of excessive description. Wilde once stated that he would use every word in the dictionary if possible when writing a novel if he could, and one gets this from reading his verbose diction. Still, it is artistic in the way Wilde sees art—somehow more open and seemingly reflective of one’s true self, both literally and figuratively.

Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray also discusses morality in a pretty black and white way. Again, the Victorian era’s influence is evident in the novel. The novel informs us of the perils of narcissism and of hedonistic value. As some sources have stated, while Dorian Gray is not one of Wilde’s best books, it is certainly unique due to its earnestness.

“For me, Dorian Gray is special – not necessarily Wilde’s best work but unique in his canon – because it’s so sincere: ineffably, inescapably, absolutely,” he writes. “It’s a very good novel anyway: moving, exciting, full of dread, angst, horror, lucidity… and a great love, I think, for mankind and for the artist’s own self” (McManus).

Works

“The Picture of Dorian Gray.” Britannica. Web.

Canavan, Tony. “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” Books Ireland, no. 381, 2018, pp. 26–27. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/26564228. Accessed 12 Oct. 2020.

McManus, Darragh. “Dorian Gray’s true picture of Oscar Wilde.” The Guardian. April 29, 2010. Web.

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How to Write a Strong Polemic: Tips for Writers

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As Oscar Wilde stated: “Arguments are to be avoided, they are always vulgar and often convincing.” In rhetorical practice (and writing), there are a lot of considerations. From the rhetorical triangle to the rhetorical canon, from procatalepsis and anaphora, to polemics. Nevertheless, these considerations are important for writers, whether they are consciously making rhetorical decisions or not. In this post, we look at the term “polemic” (po-lem-ick) to better understand how to recognize and utilize this argumentative form, and how to apply this understanding to our own writing.

Denotation

Polemics can be defined as “an aggressive attack on or refutation of the opinions” of the ideologies of others. Equally, some dictionaries define “polemics” as “a very strong written or spoken attack on, or defense of, a particular belief or opinion” (Collins). Additionally, the term comes from the Greek “polemikos,” which means “’warlike’ or ‘hostile’” according to some sources (Merriam-Webster). In other words, polemic writing is writing with fervor.

Furthermore, while the definitions are both kind, both denotations are side-stepping the controversial nature of a polemic. Often, the use of “aggressive” and “very strong” in the dictionary imply that the individual writing or arguing is an ardent, emotional person.

Additional Considerations

The best way to think of a polemic is as an argumentative essay with a little bit more umph. Pathos, an emotional appeal in rhetoric, is the usage of emotion to make a point. Similarly, polemics rely on using the reader’s emotions to make that point. So there is a relationship amongst other rhetorical appeals and polemic discourse.

Examples

Polemical examples are far-stretching. Emile Zola’s J’Accuse could be considered a polemic as it fits within the definition of an ardent “refutation of opinions.” In this case, Zola used his stature as a writer to speak-out against the treasonous accusations against a Jewish officer. The refutation against antisemitism in Zola’s letter, combined with the judicial errors made by the court, create a polemical response.

Furthermore, “A Modest Proposal” by Jonathan Swift is another famous example of a polemic, regardless of its satirical elements, as it displays an “aggressive” argument against British treatment of the Irish. Swift felt emotionally about the topic and so the biting wit of his essay comes out a lot stronger than if he had felt emotionally tepid. The pathos here is very real and very apparent.

Lastly, Animal Liberation by philosopher Peter Singer provides a fervent disagreement with dietary choices in modern culture and the ramifications of those choices, from pollution to health, and its impact on our environment and the lives of sentient beings. Singer has spent many years arguing and defending his controversial takes on animal treatment, thus Animal Liberation is a “forceful” argument against factory farming and the sentience of creatures on Earth.

How to use polemics in your own writing

When thinking about using polemics in your own writing, writers must be careful. It is easy to be passionate about something, but it is even easier to be passionate and incorrect. Discourse is difficult because it requires writers to take time to research and craft their arguments carefully, while keeping refutation in mind.

Some things to be considerate of:

  1. Is your position clear (stated and structured)?
  2. Have you researched your position clearly (academically)?
  3. Is your position clearly passionate, using passionate language?
  4. Are you asking a lot of rhetorical questions?
  5. Have you considered what the opposition might say?
  6. Are you using a “call to action” to compel the reader?

Conclusion

To sum it up, the most successful modern dialogues seem to be those that address an issue from a polemical perspective. It is either passionate or it is muted. It is either fervent or lame. In this way, polemical discourse dominates our perspectives. Not to mention, we see polemics every day on our phones from friends, families, complete strangers, public relations specialists, and leaders of the world. Polemical dialogue is a go-to form of argument.

Remember, polemics are about the fervent argumentation of one’s opinions. Therefore, anything you feel passionate about can easily become a polemic. Relatedly, you can see these arguments in famous writers’ works, such as Jonathan Swift and Peter Singer. And, asking yourself basic questions to employ these practices in your writings will help you create more impassioned, convincing arguments.

Works Cited

“Polemic.” Merriam-Webster. Accessed on May 4, 2023. Web: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/polemic

“Polemic.” Collins. Accessed on May 4, 2023. Web: https://www.collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/polemic

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A Brief Explanation of Literary Realism and Naturalism

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Scholars tie literary realism and naturalism together for many reasons. Both genres attempt to show the reader the world as it is experiences. Yet, their philosophies differ. In this post, we will analyze the two genres and look at their similarities, differences, and relevant authors as well.

Definition of Realism and Naturalism

Both literary realism and naturalism came from the Romantic movement. In fact, both genres are a response to the espoused virtues of that age. As such, they differ greatly from their predecessor, and though they have similarities, there are a few differences.

Literary Realism

In literary realism, authors attempt to convey the real world in as complete detail as possible. The text itself should be a mode to show readers contemporary life for those characters and that story. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, for example, shows the world of Kent and London in the mid-19th century. The Wikipedia page for Great Expectations even uses the wording of “extreme imagery,” which describes the world exactly.

Here is a descriptive passage from Chapter One of the novel:

“Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out for certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant lair from which the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.”

Vividly descriptive and beautifully wrought, this passage conveys the notions of literary realism with its attention to detail.

Naturalism

In naturalism, meanwhile, the author wishes to convey a natural world as it is observed by humanity. In that, there is a “faithful, unselective representation of reality, a veritable ‘slice of life,’ presented without moral judgment.” With this in mind, naturalist authors attempted to show humanity as a victim of their own biological upbringing. Consequently, they have little control over their own “will or responsibility for their fates” (Britannica).

An example of naturalism is seen in Jack London’s famous short story “To Build a Fire.” In the story, a man treks to a nearby camp in the Yukon Territory during the Klondike Gold Rush. This proves to be a fatal decision as he freezes to death during his journey.

London writes: “And all the time the dog ran with him, at his heels. When he fell down a second time, it curled its tail over its forefeet and sat in front of him facing him curiously eager and intent. The warmth and security of the animal angered him, and he cursed it till it flattened down its ears appeasingly. This time the shivering came more quickly upon the man. He was losing in his battle with the frost. It was creeping into his body from all sides. The thought of it drove him on, but he ran no more than a hundred feet, when he staggered and pitched headlong. It was his last panic. When he had recovered his breath and control, he sat up and entertained in his mind the conception of meeting death with dignity.”

Here we have a man against nature in this story. It paints the picture of a harsh, natural landscape and his inevitable death at the hands of the cold. It decries fate and destiny and instead focuses on what humanity can control. In this case, the protagonist of the story makes a fatal error and sets out on a difficult path. His inexperience costs him his life.

Conclusion

Literary realism and naturalism offer a wealth of themes related to the real world around us. However, they both differ in how that interpretation plays out. Literary realism focuses on the details and the granular aspects of description, creating lived-in worlds filled with seemingly real people. Naturalism, meanwhile, takes that reality and ties it to the environment. Therefore, in both disciplines humanity is faced with the tangible, and their outcomes are determined by real situations.

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Should you pay to enter a writing contest?

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A few months ago, I submitted a short story to a writing contest that required a $20 entrance fee. I have never paid to submit my writing before. Mostly, this is because I have verifiable evidence that writers don’t make enough money to consider contest deals. However, it was a writing contest, so I thought, what the heck!? Long story short, I did not win (I didn’t even get a pity publication even though they stipulated that there was a chance, but I honestly don’t think I understood the market that well). I was also out $20, which is kind of a bummer because that could have been money for late-night writing fuel (coffee, probably).

Anyway, it got me thinking that maybe paying to submit writing is…well…absurd. I mean, that’s $20 that I could have spent on notebooks and pens—or a new journal. It’s also time one could spend on the craft of writing. As such, I compiled my own thoughts and others’ thoughts from blogs and websites (always the carrion writer) for today’s post to hopefully inform you of the pros and cons of paying to play.

Spending money on contests does not guarantee outcomes

In “Six Reasons You Shouldn’t Enter Writing Contests,” author Oren Ashkenazi states that one should avoid writing contests with a fee because having a money component creates problems.

“This sort of contest, for all practical purposes, is a form of gambling. Everyone puts in money, and only one person walks away with any reward. Statistically, that person is unlikely to be you. You’re spending money on something with a very poor rate of return, and any financial planner will tell you that’s a bad idea.”

(Ashkenazi)

I think this criticism is practical, and it’s certainly fair, as it addresses the strange ways artists and writers tackle creation and publication—we are okay with putting in work and paying to get it seen rather than putting in work and getting paid to have it seen. I suppose one could argue that capitalism and art have competing motivations.

Knowing what’s good in a writing contest

Meanwhile, we can look at writing contests as a sort of quality comparison. If it looks good and sounds good—it’s probably good. As offered by Writer’s Digest, one can deduce the quality of a contest (and whether paying makes sense) by looking at a few factors:

  • Who is judging the work? Are they reputable? What does researching them tell you?
  • Never get in a situation where you sign all of the rights to your story away (one-time publication rights are okay).
  • What is the prize? Is it cheap?
  • Does it do something for you as a writer (reach an audience, give writing credit, stroke your ego, etc.)?

This is a roundabout way of saying: do your research! Make sure you completely understand what you are getting into before you commit. I have submitted lots of stories without ever reading the publication, which makes the 100 rejection emails I have received over the years more reasonable.

In summation

In writing this, I was hoping to find some concrete rationale that would make me decide one way or the other about paying to enter a writing contest—but there really is not a general consensus. The best I can figure is that if you think it’s a reputable organization, you don’t mind spending some scratch, and you have a story that is undeniably good—then maybe you should consider paying to enter a contest. For me, at least right now anyway, I think I am going to save some cash for an extra coffee or two.

Works Cited

Ashkenazi, Oren. “Six Reasons You Shouldn’t Enter Writing Contests.” Mythcreants. May 27, 2017. Web.

Cook, Amy. “The Truth About Writing Contests.” Writer’s Digest. March 11, 2008. Web.

Playle, Sophie. “How Many Submissions Do Literary Agents Receive?” Liminal Pages. Sept. 11, 2018. Web.

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“Evening” by H. D.

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Hilda Doolittle, also known as H.D., was a writer and poet active between 1911-1961. Known for her modernist writing, she contributed a great deal of thoughtful and artistic writings in her time. Her writings include the poem “Evening,” which I have presented below. You can find more information about her here.

In her poem, “Evening,” H.D. creates an image of flower and falling shadow to symbolize uncontrollable elements. H.D. had a great sense of the metaphysical and the symbolic, as in her poem “Oread.” Here, she continues that trend by offering us a beautiful metaphor in evening passing over flowers.

“Evening” by H. D.

The light passes
from ridge to ridge,
from flower to flower—
the hepaticas, wide-spread
under the light
grow faint—
the petals reach inward,
the blue tips bend
toward the bluer heart
and the flowers are lost.

The cornel-buds are still white,
but shadows dart
from the cornel-roots—
black creeps from root to root,
each leaf
cuts another leaf on the grass,
shadow seeks shadow,
then both leaf
and leaf-shadow are lost.

Analysis

In my own interpretation, H.D. discusses the dynamics of shadow and beauty. Metaphorically, the poem speaks to the way nature moves on ceaselessly even in the face of loveliness. H.D. states: “the blue tips bend / toward the bluer heart / and the flowers are lost.” These lines indicate that the delicate flower–beautiful in its construction–relents in the face of darkness. The reader can see this as a reflection of life. Shadow comes for us all.

In the second stanza, H.D. writes that while this beauty remains, the “shadows dart” over the flower, from root to leaf. More specifically, these lines from the poem highlight a somber tone. The shadow is all consuming. She writes that “shadow seeks shadow, / then both leaf / and leaf-shadow are lost.” Together, darkness overtakes the beauty of the flower and it is gone.

In many ways, readers can read “Evening” as a metaphor for the human experience. While it begins in light and beauty, the end is shadow. Humans are startled by the mystery of shadows and darkness. Furthermore, the beauty of the flower, the colors, the tone, suggests that there is a great reverence in life. Yet, when the shadow moves over all living things, from root to leaf, the end is nigh and unavoidable.

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“Hills Like White Elephants” by Ernest Hemingway

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In “Hills Like White Elephants,” Ernest Hemingway demonstrates how setting can fully impact a story’s narrative, symbolism, and theme. In the story, an American man and a Spanish woman have a discussion before he departs for Madrid. Hemingway published this story in his short-story collection Men Without Women in 1927.

Ernest Hemingway was a modernist writer and extremely popular and influential in his time and afterward. Moreover, his writings have spanned short stories to novels and feature many themes. Across many volumes and many texts, Hemingway proved that his modernist approach spoke volumes to readers across the world. Short-story collections like In Our Time spoke to the horrors of war compared to the common themes of love and friendship, while post-war misanthropy and despondency in novels like The Sun Also Rises reveal the inner reflection of an artist dealing with his own trauma.

“Hills Like White Elephants” by Ernest Hemingway

The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid.

“What should we drink?” the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.

“It’s pretty hot,” the man said.

“Let’s drink beer.”

“Dos cervezas,” the man said into the curtain.

“Big ones?” a woman asked from the doorway.

“Yes. Two big ones.”

The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glasses on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.

“They look like white elephants,” she said.

“I’ve never seen one,” the man drank his beer.

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

“I might have,” the man said. “Just because you say I wouldn’t have doesn’t prove anything.”

The girl looked at the bead curtain. “They’ve painted something on it,” she said. “What does it say?”

“Anis del Toro. It’s a drink.”

“Could we try it?”

The man called “Listen” through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.

“Four reales.”

“We want two Anis del Toro.”

“With water?”

“Do you want it with water?”

“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Is it good with water?”

“It’s all right.”

“You want them with water?” asked the woman.

“Yes, with water.”

“It tastes like licorice,” the girl said and put the glass down.

“That’s the way with everything.”

“Yes,” said the girl. “Everything tastes of licorice. Especially all the things you’ve waited so long for, like absinthe.”

“Oh, cut it out.”

“You started it,” the girl said. “I was being amused. I was having a fine time.”

“Well, let’s try and have a fine time.”

“All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn’t that bright?”

“That was bright.”

“I wanted to try this new drink. That’s all we do, isn’t it—look at things and try new drinks?”

“I guess so.”

The girl looked across at the hills.

“They’re lovely hills,” she said. “They don’t really look like white elephants. I just meant the coloring of their skin through the trees.”

“Should we have another drink?”

“All right.”

The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.

“The beer’s nice and cool,” the man said.

“It’s lovely,” the girl said.

“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,” the man said. “It’s not really an operation at all.”

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

“I know you wouldn’t mind it, Jig. It’s really not anything. It’s just to let the air in.”

The girl did not say anything.

“I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.”

“Then what will we do afterward?”

“We’ll be fine afterward. Just like we were before.”

“What makes you think so?”

“That’s the only thing that bothers us. It’s the only thing that’s made us unhappy.”

The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.

“And you think then we’ll be all right and be happy.”

“I know we will. You don’t have to be afraid. I’ve known lots of people that have done it.”

“So have I,” said the girl. “And afterward they were all so happy.”

“Well,” the man said, “if you don’t want to you don’t have to. I wouldn’t have you do it if you didn’t want to. But I know it’s perfectly simple.”

“And you really want to?”

“I think it’s the best thing to do. But I don’t want you to do it if you don’t really want to.”

“And if I do it you’ll be happy and things will be like they were and you’ll love me?”

“I love you now. You know I love you.”

“I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you’ll like it?”

“I’ll love it. I love it now but I just can’t think about it. You know how I get when I worry.”

“If I do it you won’t ever worry?”

“I won’t worry about that because it’s perfectly simple.”

“Then I’ll do it. Because I don’t care about me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t care about me.”

“Well, I care about you.”

“Oh, yes. But I don’t care about me. And I’ll do it and then everything will be fine.”

“I don’t want you to do it if you feel that way.”

The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.

“And we could have all this,” she said. “And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.”

“What did you say?”

“I said we could have everything.”

“We can have everything.”

“No, we can’t.”

“We can have the whole world.”

“No, we can’t.”

“We can go everywhere.”

“No, we can’t. It isn’t ours any more.”

“It’s ours.”

“No, it isn’t. And once they take it away, you never get it back.”

“But they haven’t taken it away.”

“We’ll wait and see.”

“Come on back in the shade,” he said. “You mustn’t feel that way.”

“I don’t feel any way,” the girl said. “I just know things.”

“I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do——”

“Nor that isn’t good for me,” she said. “I know. Could we have another beer?”

“All right. But you’ve got to realize——”

“I realize,” the girl said. “Can’t we maybe stop talking?”

They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.

“You’ve got to realize,” he said, “that I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to. I’m perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.”

“Doesn’t it mean anything to you? We could get along.”

“Of course it does. But I don’t want anybody but you. I don’t want any one else. And I know it’s perfectly simple.”

“Yes, you know it’s perfectly simple.”

“It’s all right for you to say that, but I do know it.”

“Would you do something for me now?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

“Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?”

He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.

“But I don’t want you to,” he said, “I don’t care anything about it.”

“I’ll scream,” the girl said.

The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. “The train comes in five minutes,” she said.

“What did she say?” asked the girl.

“That the train is coming in five minutes.”

The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.

“I’d better take the bags over to the other side of the station,” the man said. She smiled at him.

“All right. Then come back and we’ll finish the beer.”

He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the barroom, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.

“Do you feel better?” he asked.

“I feel fine,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.”

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Social Class in “The Garden Party” by Katherine Mansfield

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Regularly, you will see collections of short stories marked The Greatest Short Stories of All Time, or Short Stories to Read Before You Die. Typically, these books have a number of great stories inside. Edgar Allan Poe will undoubtedly make an appearance. So will “Beyond the Door” by Philip K. Dick, and certainly “The Other Side of the Hedge” by E. M. Forster. In addition, you might find Kate Chopin’s extraordinary “The Yellow Wallpaper,” and the following short story: “The Garden Party” by Katherine Mansfield. 

As you will see, Mansfield’s short story fits well with the classics, as it has a great deal of emotional depth and sheds a light on class conflict. In today’s post, we are going to examine the short story and analyze its themes and importance.

Background of “The Garden Party”

Mansfield wrote “The Garden Party” in 1922. The Saturday Westminster Gazette published it in three parts. It later appeared in the collection The Garden Party and Other Stories.

Mansfield came from an affluent household. She would attend Wellington Girls’ College and later to the Fitzherbert Terrace School. “The Garden Party” illustrates her experience as a well-to-do child from a wealthy home. Yet, it’s also much deeper than just superficial aristocracy. The story has a great reflection on wealth and opportunity. 

“The Garden Party” Summary

Laura, the protagonist, sets about preparing for a fancy garden party. She occasionally looks to the workers in reverence because she feels connected to them.

“Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and she couldn’t possibly throw it away.”

(The Garden Party)

Regardless of the extravagant event, Mansfield presents Laura’s own rich lifestyle as a norm. In this way, Laura is afforded many opportunities to live a separate life from the workers. Laura, though aristocratic, has a great deal of empathy for those from the working class. 

Later in the story, Laura is informed that her neighbor, Mr. Scott, has been killed outside of their home in a car accident. Laura drags her sister into the kitchen to discuss how she will stop the party. Her sister, Jose, confused, doesn’t quite understand what Laura is getting at in her hysteria.

“Stop everything, Laura!” cried Jose in astonishment. “What do you mean?”

“Stop the garden-party, of course.” Why did Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. “Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, don’t be so absurd. Of course we can’t do anything of the kind. Nobody expects us to. Don’t be so extravagant.”

“But we can’t possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside the front gate.”

(The Garden Party)

After visiting Mr. Scott’s home with party leftovers, she sees his dead body and is overcome by the experience. She likens the man’s peaceful expression to that of somebody in a deep “fast sleep,” and dosing so intensely that he was “far, far away from them both” in the real world.

“Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given up to his dream.”

(The Garden Party)

After departing the home and meeting her brother Laurie at the corner, Laura is pulled from her fanciful life and instead grapples with questions of mortality and life itself. Laurie asks her if it was “awful” to witness his corpse.

“No,” sobbed laura. “It was simply marvellous. But Laurie–” She stopped, she looked at her brother. “Isn’t life,” she stammered, “isn’t life–” But what life was she couldn’t explain. No matter. He quite understood. 

“Isn’t it, darling?” said Laurie. 

Themes 

Mansfield’s story discusses multiple themes. These include life, socioeconomic concerns, and the reality of death. In the text, the reader gets a good sense that Laura is living a near fantastical life outside of poverty and circumstance; meanwhile, the workers around her are all living a more grounded existence, as they lack the opportunities and conveniences of Laura’s life. 

However, with that said, Laura is a conscious child and realizes that there are many similarities between herself and the workers. They are all just people after all. Similarly, Laura sees a sort of beauty and patience in Mr. Scott’s death. His expression of happiness as he lies dead in his room is how Laura feels in life. So, there are actually very few differences in both of their lives when class is stripped away. 

Conclusion

In my opinion, “The Garden Party” excels at these themes by providing the reader a window into the atmosphere of wealth. The garden party itself is a foray into decadence. Nevertheless, death drags Laura into reality. By and of itself, Laura has an epiphany about death and her own station in life.

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Exploring Sestina Poem Examples and Their Unique Features

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Poems are a fun, complex thing. They can take many forms, from acrostic to haikus. Likewise, some poems take the sestina verse form, which have their own complex way about them. In this post, we will define these types of poems and look at a few examples.

Background

The sestina was developed by Arnaut Daniel, who was a troubadour during the 12th century, and the first known example of his craft was “lo ferm voler qu’el cor m’intra,” which was written around 1200.

Many sestinas were about “courtly love” and were practiced by Dante and Petrarch. Similarly, the form has taken on many variations, including double sestinas and tritina (poets.org).

Definition

As mentioned, poems are intricate, and sestina verse form is a great example of that complexity.

“The sestina is a complex, thirty-nine-line poem featuring the intricate repetition of end-words in six stanzas and envoi” states some sources (poets.org). An envoi, in this case, is just a brief stanza at the end of a poem that either addresses the poem or acts as explanatory remarks.

“The end words of the first stanza are repeated in a different order as end words in each of the subsequent five stanzas; the closing envoi contains all six words, two per line, placed in the middle and at the end of the three lines” (poetryfoundation)

A sestina would look like this in scheme:

ABCDEF

FAEBDC

CFDABE

ECBFAD

DEACFB

BDFECA

ECA or ACE

Examples of Sestinas

  1. Elizabeth Bishop’s “A Miracle for Breakfast” 
  2. Camille Guthrie’s “Beautiful Poetry”
  3. John Ashbery’s “Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape.”
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Gothic elements in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

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Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a Gothic/Romantic novel dreamt up by an 18-year-old Shelley after a rigorous debate about moldy cheese between her husband and his colleague Lord Byron. Having been put to a challenge, Shelley wrote a story to show her literary dominance. Out of her momentary brilliance popped the immortal Frankenstein, a story of a God-complex, madness, and love. In this post, we are going to examine how Shelley’s novel fits the description of the gothic genre.

What is the gothic genre?

The gothic genre originated in the 18th century. It is a literary and artistic movement characterized by the mysterious, supernatural, and macabre. Similarly, it often features eerie settings. These include ancient castles, gloomy landscapes, and decaying mansions to create an atmosphere of suspense and dread.

The genre frequently explores themes of madness, death, sin of the spirit, and the unknown. As such, readers often find tales of haunted protagonists encountering ghosts, monsters, or other supernatural elements.

Gothic texts delve into the darker aspects of human nature. And, it explores the psychological and emotional realms while often incorporating elements of horror and romance.

Brief synopsis of Frankenstein

The novel follows Dr. Frankenstein as he tells his story of obsession to a ship captain. The story details the doctor’s search for the secret of life. Frankenstein achieves his goal by bringing back to life to an abomination. The creature is so horrible that it terrifies him enough to cause the doctor to flee in terror.

After the monster educates himself in solitude, he returns to the doctor to ask for the creation of a mate. Loneliness has consumed his life. Dr. Frankenstein agrees–only to destroy the second monster at the last moment (due to moral quandaries of the soul). Frankenstein’s actions enrages the monster. Afterward, the monster then sets itself about murdering Dr. Frankenstein’s loved ones. He does this in retribution, and he adeptly completes this grim objective.

Dr. Frankenstein gives chase to destroy the monster. After a long pursuit through the desolate arctic, Dr. Frankenstein succumbs to sickness. He dies aboard the ship of Captain Robert Walton, who was bound for the North Pole. The monster returns and finds Dr. Frankenstein dead. He decides to end his own life by traveling as far north as possible and into the freezing ice.

How Frankenstein fits the gothic genre

  • Setting

First, it fits the genre through its atmospheric setting, thematic elements, and exploration of the macabre. That is to say, the novel unfolds against a backdrop of desolate landscapes, from the icy vastness of the Arctic to the isolated laboratories where Frankenstein conducts his experiments. These settings contribute significantly to the Gothic atmosphere, which gives the reader a sense of loneliness and terror that is characteristic of the genre.

  • Themes

The thematic elements in Frankenstein align closely with gothic conventions. The narrative delves into the consequences of scientific ambition (becoming God), as Frankenstein’s relentless pursuit of knowledge leads to the creation of a grotesque and tormented monster.

The novel grapples with existential questions surrounding life and death, morality, and the limits of scientific experimentation (think about how vivisection was in vogue at one point). Shelley’s exploration of the darker facets of human nature, the consequences of playing god, and the impact of isolation on the psyche all resonate with Gothic sensibilities.

  • Tropes

Moreover, the novel incorporates gothic tropes such as the supernatural and the grotesque. Frankenstein’s creation embodies the macabre—a stitched-together amalgamation of body parts brought to life through untested knowledge. The monster’s existence as an outcast, rejected by society, adds a layer of tragedy and horror, reflecting the theme of the monstrous and the misunderstood, which factors in the gothic genre.

  • Tone

The narrative’s gothic tone is enhanced by the sense of dread and impending doom in the story. Frankenstein’s descent into madness and the haunting pursuit of revenge by his creation contribute to the overall atmosphere of suspense and horror. Furthermore, the novel is slowly paced as per gothic tradition. This adds layers of complexity, reinforcing the gothic tradition of intricate and mysterious storytelling.

In conclusion

In summary, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein embodies the gothic genre through its settings, themes, tropes, and overall tone. These elements achieve a legendary status in the novel due to Shelley’s ability to weave her narrative with intelligence and empathy. Frankenstein is a quintessential gothic novel, and it will continue to be the reference point for future authors of the genre for many years to come.

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“Beyond the Wall” by Ambrose Bierce

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“Beyond the Wall” is a supernatural short story by American author Ambrose Bierce. It is a horror story that utilizes some tried and true tropes in the horror genre, and comes from Bierce’s collection of ghost stories titled Can Such Things Be? published Jan. 1, 1893. The horror of this story is a slow burn, and explores gothic elements discreetly, such as slowly creeping questions of sanity and failure to understand ones own guilt, sin, and failure to take action.

As the narrator hears from Dampier in the story: “The course dictated by all this sense and sentiment was obvious.  Honor, pride, prudence, preservation of my ideals—all commanded me to go away, but for that I was too weak.  The utmost that I could do by a mighty effort of will was to cease meeting the girl, and that I did.  I even avoided the chance encounters of the garden, leaving my lodging only when I knew that she had gone to her music lessons, and returning after nightfall.  Yet all the while I was as one in a trance, indulging the most fascinating fancies and ordering my entire intellectual life in accordance with my dream.  Ah, my friend, as one whose actions have a traceable relation to reason, you cannot know the fool’s paradise in which I lived.”

As you will see, Dampier’s “honor, pride, prudence” propel this ghostly story forward. As such, if you like ghostly knocking and sad tales of sorrow, you will enjoy this story. The entire collection, including this short story is available here.

BEYOND THE WALL

Many years ago, on my way from Hongkong to New York, I passed a week in San Francisco.  A long time had gone by since I had been in that city, during which my ventures in the Orient had prospered beyond my hope; I was rich and could afford to revisit my own country to renew my friendship with such of the companions of my youth as still lived and remembered me with the old affection.  Chief of these, I hoped, was Mohun Dampier, an old schoolmate with whom I had held a desultory correspondence which had long ceased, as is the way of correspondence between men.  You may have observed that the indisposition to write a merely social letter is in the ratio of the square of the distance between you and your correspondent.  It is a law.

I remembered Dampier as a handsome, strong young fellow of scholarly tastes, with an aversion to work and a marked indifference to many of the things that the world cares for, including wealth, of which, however, he had inherited enough to put him beyond the reach of want.  In his family, one of the oldest and most aristocratic in the country, it was, I think, a matter of pride that no member of it had ever been in trade nor politics, nor suffered any kind of distinction.  Mohun was a trifle sentimental, and had in him a singular element of superstition, which led him to the study of all manner of occult subjects, although his sane mental health safeguarded him against fantastic and perilous faiths.  He made daring incursions into the realm of the unreal without renouncing his residence in the partly surveyed and charted region of what we are pleased to call certitude.

The night of my visit to him was stormy.  The Californian winter was on, and the incessant rain plashed in the deserted streets, or, lifted by irregular gusts of wind, was hurled against the houses with incredible fury.  With no small difficulty my cabman found the right place, away out toward the ocean beach, in a sparsely populated suburb.  The dwelling, a rather ugly one, apparently, stood in the center of its grounds, which as nearly as I could make out in the gloom were destitute of either flowers or grass.  Three or four trees, writhing and moaning in the torment of the tempest, appeared to be trying to escape from their dismal environment and take the chance of finding a better one out at sea.  The house was a two-story brick structure with a tower, a story higher, at one corner.  In a window of that was the only visible light.  Something in the appearance of the place made me shudder, a performance that may have been assisted by a rill of rain-water down my back as I scuttled to cover in the doorway.

In answer to my note apprising him of my wish to call, Dampier had written, “Don’t ring—open the door and come up.”  I did so.  The staircase was dimly lighted by a single gas-jet at the top of the second flight.  I managed to reach the landing without disaster and entered by an open door into the lighted square room of the tower.  Dampier came forward in gown and slippers to receive me, giving me the greeting that I wished, and if I had held a thought that it might more fitly have been accorded me at the front door the first look at him dispelled any sense of his inhospitality.

He was not the same.  Hardly past middle age, he had gone gray and had acquired a pronounced stoop.  His figure was thin and angular, his face deeply lined, his complexion dead-white, without a touch of color.  His eyes, unnaturally large, glowed with a fire that was almost uncanny.

He seated me, proffered a cigar, and with grave and obvious sincerity assured me of the pleasure that it gave him to meet me.  Some unimportant conversation followed, but all the while I was dominated by a melancholy sense of the great change in him.  This he must have perceived, for he suddenly said with a bright enough smile, “You are disappointed in me—non sum qualis eram.”

I hardly knew what to reply, but managed to say: “Why, really, I don’t know: your Latin is about the same.”

He brightened again.  “No,” he said, “being a dead language, it grows in appropriateness.  But please have the patience to wait: where I am going there is perhaps a better tongue.  Will you care to have a message in it?”

The smile faded as he spoke, and as he concluded he was looking into my eyes with a gravity that distressed me.  Yet I would not surrender myself to his mood, nor permit him to see how deeply his prescience of death affected me.

“I fancy that it will be long,” I said, “before human speech will cease to serve our need; and then the need, with its possibilities of service, will have passed.”

He made no reply, and I too was silent, for the talk had taken a dispiriting turn, yet I knew not how to give it a more agreeable character.  Suddenly, in a pause of the storm, when the dead silence was almost startling by contrast with the previous uproar, I heard a gentle tapping, which appeared to come from the wall behind my chair.  The sound was such as might have been made by a human hand, not as upon a door by one asking admittance, but rather, I thought, as an agreed signal, an assurance of someone’s presence in an adjoining room; most of us, I fancy, have had more experience of such communications than we should care to relate.  I glanced at Dampier.  If possibly there was something of amusement in the look he did not observe it.  He appeared to have forgotten my presence, and was staring at the wall behind me with an expression in his eyes that I am unable to name, although my memory of it is as vivid to-day as was my sense of it then.  The situation was embarrassing; I rose to take my leave.  At this he seemed to recover himself.

“Please be seated,” he said; “it is nothing—no one is there.”

But the tapping was repeated, and with the same gentle, slow insistence as before.

“Pardon me,” I said, “it is late.  May I call to-morrow?”

He smiled—a little mechanically, I thought.  “It is very delicate of you,” said he, “but quite needless.  Really, this is the only room in the tower, and no one is there.  At least—” He left the sentence incomplete, rose, and threw up a window, the only opening in the wall from which the sound seemed to come.  “See.”

Not clearly knowing what else to do I followed him to the window and looked out.  A street-lamp some little distance away gave enough light through the murk of the rain that was again falling in torrents to make it entirely plain that “no one was there.”  In truth there was nothing but the sheer blank wall of the tower.

Dampier closed the window and signing me to my seat resumed his own.

The incident was not in itself particularly mysterious; any one of a dozen explanations was possible (though none has occurred to me), yet it impressed me strangely, the more, perhaps, from my friend’s effort to reassure me, which seemed to dignify it with a certain significance and importance.  He had proved that no one was there, but in that fact lay all the interest; and he proffered no explanation.  His silence was irritating and made me resentful.

“My good friend,” I said, somewhat ironically, I fear, “I am not disposed to question your right to harbor as many spooks as you find agreeable to your taste and consistent with your notions of companionship; that is no business of mine.  But being just a plain man of affairs, mostly of this world, I find spooks needless to my peace and comfort.  I am going to my hotel, where my fellow-guests are still in the flesh.”

It was not a very civil speech, but he manifested no feeling about it.  “Kindly remain,” he said.  “I am grateful for your presence here.  What you have heard to-night I believe myself to have heard twice before.  Now I know it was no illusion.  That is much to me—more than you know.  Have a fresh cigar and a good stock of patience while I tell you the story.”

The rain was now falling more steadily, with a low, monotonous susurration, interrupted at long intervals by the sudden slashing of the boughs of the trees as the wind rose and failed.  The night was well advanced, but both sympathy and curiosity held me a willing listener to my friend’s monologue, which I did not interrupt by a single word from beginning to end.

“Ten years ago,” he said, “I occupied a ground-floor apartment in one of a row of houses, all alike, away at the other end of the town, on what we call Rincon Hill.  This had been the best quarter of San Francisco, but had fallen into neglect and decay, partly because the character of its domestic architecture no longer suited the maturing tastes of our wealthy citizens, partly because certain public improvements had made a wreck of it.  The row of dwellings in one of which I lived stood a little way back from the street, each having a miniature garden, separated from its neighbors by low iron fences and bisected with mathematical precision by a box-bordered gravel walk from gate to door.

“One morning as I was leaving my lodging I observed a young girl entering the adjoining garden on the left.  It was a warm day in June, and she was lightly gowned in white.  From her shoulders hung a broad straw hat profusely decorated with flowers and wonderfully beribboned in the fashion of the time.  My attention was not long held by the exquisite simplicity of her costume, for no one could look at her face and think of anything earthly.  Do not fear; I shall not profane it by description; it was beautiful exceedingly.  All that I had ever seen or dreamed of loveliness was in that matchless living picture by the hand of the Divine Artist.  So deeply did it move me that, without a thought of the impropriety of the act, I unconsciously bared my head, as a devout Catholic or well-bred Protestant uncovers before an image of the Blessed Virgin.  The maiden showed no displeasure; she merely turned her glorious dark eyes upon me with a look that made me catch my breath, and without other recognition of my act passed into the house.  For a moment I stood motionless, hat in hand, painfully conscious of my rudeness, yet so dominated by the emotion inspired by that vision of incomparable beauty that my penitence was less poignant than it should have been.  Then I went my way, leaving my heart behind.  In the natural course of things I should probably have remained away until nightfall, but by the middle of the afternoon I was back in the little garden, affecting an interest in the few foolish flowers that I had never before observed.  My hope was vain; she did not appear.

“To a night of unrest succeeded a day of expectation and disappointment, but on the day after, as I wandered aimlessly about the neighborhood, I met her.  Of course I did not repeat my folly of uncovering, nor venture by even so much as too long a look to manifest an interest in her; yet my heart was beating audibly.  I trembled and consciously colored as she turned her big black eyes upon me with a look of obvious recognition entirely devoid of boldness or coquetry.

“I will not weary you with particulars; many times afterward I met the maiden, yet never either addressed her or sought to fix her attention.  Nor did I take any action toward making her acquaintance.  Perhaps my forbearance, requiring so supreme an effort of self-denial, will not be entirely clear to you.  That I was heels over head in love is true, but who can overcome his habit of thought, or reconstruct his character?

“I was what some foolish persons are pleased to call, and others, more foolish, are pleased to be called—an aristocrat; and despite her beauty, her charms and graces, the girl was not of my class.  I had learned her name—which it is needless to speak—and something of her family.  She was an orphan, a dependent niece of the impossible fat woman in whose lodging-house she lived.  My income was small and I lacked the talent for marrying; it is perhaps a gift.  An alliance with that family would condemn me to its manner of life, part me from my books and studies, and in a social sense reduce me to the ranks.  It is easy to deprecate such considerations as these and I have not retained myself for the defense.  Let judgment be entered against me, but in strict justice all my ancestors for generations should be made co-defendants and I be permitted to plead in mitigation of punishment the imperious mandate of heredity.  To a mésalliance of that kind every globule of my ancestral blood spoke in opposition.  In brief, my tastes, habits, instinct, with whatever of reason my love had left me—all fought against it.  Moreover, I was an irreclaimable sentimentalist, and found a subtle charm in an impersonal and spiritual relation which acquaintance might vulgarize and marriage would certainly dispel.  No woman, I argued, is what this lovely creature seems.  Love is a delicious dream; why should I bring about my own awakening?

“The course dictated by all this sense and sentiment was obvious.  Honor, pride, prudence, preservation of my ideals—all commanded me to go away, but for that I was too weak.  The utmost that I could do by a mighty effort of will was to cease meeting the girl, and that I did.  I even avoided the chance encounters of the garden, leaving my lodging only when I knew that she had gone to her music lessons, and returning after nightfall.  Yet all the while I was as one in a trance, indulging the most fascinating fancies and ordering my entire intellectual life in accordance with my dream.  Ah, my friend, as one whose actions have a traceable relation to reason, you cannot know the fool’s paradise in which I lived.

“One evening the devil put it into my head to be an unspeakable idiot.  By apparently careless and purposeless questioning I learned from my gossipy landlady that the young woman’s bedroom adjoined my own, a party-wall between.  Yielding to a sudden and coarse impulse I gently rapped on the wall.  There was no response, naturally, but I was in no mood to accept a rebuke.  A madness was upon me and I repeated the folly, the offense, but again ineffectually, and I had the decency to desist.

“An hour later, while absorbed in some of my infernal studies, I heard, or thought I heard, my signal answered.  Flinging down my books I sprang to the wall and as steadily as my beating heart would permit gave three slow taps upon it.  This time the response was distinct, unmistakable: one, two, three—an exact repetition of my signal.  That was all I could elicit, but it was enough—too much.

“The next evening, and for many evenings afterward, that folly went on, I always having ‘the last word.’  During the whole period I was deliriously happy, but with the perversity of my nature I persevered in my resolution not to see her.  Then, as I should have expected, I got no further answers.  ‘She is disgusted,’ I said to myself, ‘with what she thinks my timidity in making no more definite advances’; and I resolved to seek her and make her acquaintance and—what?  I did not know, nor do I now know, what might have come of it.  I know only that I passed days and days trying to meet her, and all in vain; she was invisible as well as inaudible.  I haunted the streets where we had met, but she did not come.  From my window I watched the garden in front of her house, but she passed neither in nor out.  I fell into the deepest dejection, believing that she had gone away, yet took no steps to resolve my doubt by inquiry of my landlady, to whom, indeed, I had taken an unconquerable aversion from her having once spoken of the girl with less of reverence than I thought befitting.

“There came a fateful night.  Worn out with emotion, irresolution and despondency, I had retired early and fallen into such sleep as was still possible to me.  In the middle of the night something—some malign power bent upon the wrecking of my peace forever—caused me to open my eyes and sit up, wide awake and listening intently for I knew not what.  Then I thought I heard a faint tapping on the wall—the mere ghost of the familiar signal.  In a few moments it was repeated: one, two, three—no louder than before, but addressing a sense alert and strained to receive it.  I was about to reply when the Adversary of Peace again intervened in my affairs with a rascally suggestion of retaliation.  She had long and cruelly ignored me; now I would ignore her.  Incredible fatuity—may God forgive it!  All the rest of the night I lay awake, fortifying my obstinacy with shameless justifications and—listening.

“Late the next morning, as I was leaving the house, I met my landlady, entering.

“‘Good morning, Mr. Dampier,’ she said.  ‘Have you heard the news?’

“I replied in words that I had heard no news; in manner, that I did not care to hear any.  The manner escaped her observation.

“‘About the sick young lady next door,’ she babbled on.  ‘What! you did not know?  Why, she has been ill for weeks.  And now—’

“I almost sprang upon her.  ‘And now,’ I cried, ‘now what?’

“‘She is dead.’

“That is not the whole story.  In the middle of the night, as I learned later, the patient, awakening from a long stupor after a week of delirium, had asked—it was her last utterance—that her bed be moved to the opposite side of the room.  Those in attendance had thought the request a vagary of her delirium, but had complied.  And there the poor passing soul had exerted its failing will to restore a broken connection—a golden thread of sentiment between its innocence and a monstrous baseness owning a blind, brutal allegiance to the Law of Self.

“What reparation could I make?  Are there masses that can be said for the repose of souls that are abroad such nights as this—spirits ‘blown about by the viewless winds’—coming in the storm and darkness with signs and portents, hints of memory and presages of doom?

“This is the third visitation.  On the first occasion I was too skeptical to do more than verify by natural methods the character of the incident; on the second, I responded to the signal after it had been several times repeated, but without result.  To-night’s recurrence completes the ‘fatal triad’ expounded by Parapelius Necromantius.  There is no more to tell.”

When Dampier had finished his story I could think of nothing relevant that I cared to say, and to question him would have been a hideous impertinence.  I rose and bade him good night in a way to convey to him a sense of my sympathy, which he silently acknowledged by a pressure of the hand.  That night, alone with his sorrow and remorse, he passed into the Unknown.

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Ray Bradbury’s Hygiene of Writing Advice

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Listening to authors give interviews often helps us understand their process. That is to say, spur of the moment questions can be revealing. Author and speculative-fiction master Ray Bradbury has a wealth of great interviews that help listeners understand his approach to writing. Ray Bradbury’s writing concepts are both ideological and practical. Often times, understanding the spirit of his advice is what will push you toward success.

In this post, we are going to look at a transcript of a talk he gave on a specific approach to immersing oneself in the world of writing. The talk was published by The Narrative Art channel on YouTube, and I have published the transcript here. In this dialogue, he talks about the most important texts to consume if you are a budding author. It is certainly an interesting dissection of his process and his take on the “hygiene of writing” is enticing. If anything, I believe you can take something from his talk for your own writing.

Ray Bradbury and “The Hygiene of Writing” Transcript

“There’s a lot I want to say because I recognize the need many of you have to be writers, and you don’t want to do the wrong things. So for at least five minutes, I want to talk about the hygiene of writing for you so you won’t do anything wrong in the next year.

The first thing that comes to mind is the danger of writing novels to start. I don’t know how many of you are writing novels now. If they’re going well, you don’t have to listen to me. But the problem with novels is you could spend a whole year writing one, and it might not turn out well because you haven’t learned to write yet. The best hygiene for beginning writers—or intermediate writers—is to write a hell of a lot of short stories.

If you could write one short story a week, it doesn’t matter what the quality is to start, but at least you’re practicing. And at the end of a year, you have 52 short stories, and I defy you to write 52 bad ones. It can’t be done. At the end of 30 weeks, or 40 weeks, or the end of the year, all of a sudden, a story will come that’s just wonderful.

That’s what happened to me. I started writing when I was 12, and I was 22 before I wrote my first decent short story. That’s a hell of a lot of writing—millions of words—because I was doing everything wrong to start. Of course, I was imitating. I had so many heroes that I wanted to be like. I liked H.G. Wells, I loved Jules Verne, I loved Conan Doyle—Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake. Jeeves, I loved Wodehouse.

Well, you can’t be any of those things, can you? You may love them, but you can’t be those. I loved Edgar Rice Burroughs—Tarzan, John Carter, Warlord of Mars. Good Lord, wonderful stuff. The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum. You know, I always dreamt someday I could grow up and write an Oz book, but it’s not to be—not to be.

So the main thing I want to start with tonight is to get you to write more short stories. Then you’ll be in training. You’ll learn to compact things. You’ll learn to look for ideas. The psychological thing here is that every week, you’ll be happy. At the end of a week, you will have done something. But in a novel, you don’t know where the hell you’re going. At the end of a week, you don’t feel all that good. At the end of a month—I’ve been through novels. I waited until I was 30 before I wrote my first novel, and that was Fahrenheit 451. It was worth waiting for.

But I was fearful of novels. I recognized the danger of spending a year on something that might not be very good. And your second novel might not be very good, or your third one. But in the meantime, you could write 52 or 104 short stories, and you’re learning your craft. That’s the important thing.

Read people like Roald Dahl. Get his books of short stories. Get the short stories of G. de Maupassant. Get John Cheever, who has done some very good short stories over and above his novels. Richard Matheson, in my own field.

Nigel, an author named Nigel Kneale—K-N-E-A-L-E. Nigel Kneale. Read his short stories. John Collier—one of the greatest short story writers of this century. And you know you’ve never heard his name. Try and look him up. He’s out of print right now. I’m trying to get him back in print next year. John Collier, English writer. He wrote brilliant short stories that deeply affected me when I was 22 years old.

The more quality short stories you read from the start of the century—Edith Wharton’s short stories, save her novels till later. There are many women writers who influenced me. Katherine Anne Porter, her novellas, all of the short stories of Wharton. The Curtain Is Green by Eudora Welty. Wonderful short stories.

The more of these you can take in—and stay away from most modern anthologies of short stories, because they’re slices of life. They don’t go anywhere. They don’t have any metaphor. Have you looked at The New Yorker recently? Have you tried to read one of those stories? Didn’t it put you to sleep immediately? They don’t know how to write short stories.

Go read Washington Irving. Go read the short stories of Melville. Go read Edgar Allan Poe again. Go read Nathaniel Hawthorne, a writer of fantasy in the science fiction field. Many collections of short stories, because they all deal with metaphor.

And the sooner you recognize the ability of seeing a metaphor, and knowing how to write the metaphor, and to make collections of them, the better off you’ll be. Then you’ll be ready for the novel.

Maybe some of you here tonight are automatically good novelists. So I’m not talking to you. You’re fortunate that you were born that way. But I discovered along the way I was a collector of metaphors.

Now, I don’t know how I can teach you to recognize the metaphor when you see it. But what you’ve got to do from this night forward is stuff your head with more different things from various fields. Hygienically speaking, I’ll give you a program to follow every night—a very simple program for the next thousand nights.

Before you go to bed every night, read one short story. That’ll take you 10 minutes, 15 minutes. Then read one poem a night from the vast history of poetry. Stay away from most modern poems—it’s crap. It’s not poetry. It’s not poetry. Lines that look like poems? Go ahead and do it, but you’ll go nowhere.

But read the great poets. Go back and read Shakespeare. Read Alexander Pope. Read Robert Frost. But one poem a night. One short story a night. One essay a night for the next 1,000 nights, and from various fields—archaeology, zoology, biology, all the great philosophers of time, comparing them. Read the essays of Aldous Huxley. Read Loren Eiseley, a great anthropologist.

Maybe you’ve never heard of him—Loren Eiseley, E-I-S-E-L-E-Y. He was head of the Department of Anthropology at the University of Pennsylvania. He became my friend 40 years ago. I read an essay of his in Harper’s, “The Fire Apes,” which was so brilliant I wrote him a fan letter.

I said, “Dear Dr. Eiseley, ‘The Fire Apes’ is the finest essay written in the last 20 years in any American magazine. Why don’t you write a book?” He wrote back and said, “Hey, that’s an idea. I think I will write a book.” And he wrote 17 books. But I was his papa, even though I was 15 years younger.

So reread all the books of Loren Eiseley. They’re crammed with pomegranate ideas. That’s why I want you to read essays in every field—on politics, analyzing literature. Pick your own.

But that means every night before you go to bed, you’re stuffing your head with one short story, one poem, and one essay. At the end of a thousand nights, Jesus God, you’ll be full of stuff, won’t you? You’ll be full of ideas and metaphors, along with your perceptions of life and your own personal experiences, which you put away—and what you see in your friends and relatives.

You want all these things to go in. And the more metaphors you can cram yourself with, they’ll bounce around inside your head and make new metaphors. That’s why you’re doing this. But you’ve got to be able to recognize one when you see one.

So hygienically speaking, you’ve got two things to do. If you feel you have to do a novel in spite of what I said, go do it. But in the meantime, write a hell of a lot of short stories. And then every night, do these three things with the short story, the poem, and the essay. And you’re well on your way to being more creative.

Conclusion

In considering Ray Bradbury’s writing advice, we have to understand the practical nature of what he is telling us as writers. If you want to become a better writer, you have to read more; and, his advice is asking you to focus on the classics when it comes to form and structure. If you understand the basics then you can play with the template, you can evolve your own writing, and you can certainly experiment with writing concepts.

Works Cited

“Ray Bradbury on the Dangers of Starting with a Novel.” The Narrative Art. June 13, 2016. Web, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IWBF4R6MW-k