Message for J. Shanahan

I hope this is proof enough that I wrote those papers myself. But I undertand your concern and appreciate the thoroughness. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me. This blog is just a place I like to put my writings in for all of posterity. I should have just referred you to this site to save time!

Anyway, should you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Titian and His Painting "Danae"

Pictured: Danae by Titian at the Museo del Prado in Spain. This is only one of several versions of the same subject. Sorry, but for some reason the version at the Art Institute in Chicago would not upload.

NOTE: If you're going to use any of this for a term paper or whatnot, please be sure to credit me. The bibliography/source information is at the bottom of this entry, along with internal quote information. ALSO: COMMENTS would be nice. Thanks

Tiziano Vecellio (hereinafter, Titian) painted at least four versions of the story of Danae, one of which is exhibited at the Art Institute of Chicago. This is a latter version, painted sometimes after 1554, and is somewhat lesser known and written about than the 1553 prototype commissioned by Prince Phillip II of Spain and subsequent recreations. Nevertheless, it is revealing and indicative of several points of interest regarding the artist and his times, especially in regard to eroticism, the place of women, the role of money, and spirituality. Moreover, it mirrors its companion versions fairly closely and is a good reference point for analyzing the attitudes towards women in Greek mythology and the Renaissance period.

Many would find Danae a somewhat curious subject for Titian in that she is a mere mortal with barely a mention in Ovid's Metamorphoses; she is not normally considered to be a prominent figure in the overall pantheon. There is scant mention of Danae in Ovid's Metamorphoses, her only claim to fame being that she gave birth to heroic Perseus after being impregnated by Zeus. As with most female human characters in the Greek mythological tradition, her life is a tragic and trying one. Born into royalty as the daughter of Acrisius, the king of Argos, she is locked in a tower by her own father upon his hearing the prophecy that she would bear a son destined to murder him. In keeping with the Greek myth story tradition of unsuccessfully defying fate, Acrisius locks his daughter in an inaccessible tower in a vain attempt to prevent any potential suitors from impregnating her (it is implied that she is a virgin). The god Zeus, struck by Danae's beauty, penetrates her in the guise of a shower of gold, the result of which is the half-human, half-divine son Perseus. Upon discovering that his plans are foiled, Acrisius banishes Danae and Perseus by having them locked in a chest and set adrift to sea. The chest comes upon the friendly shores of Seriphus where King Polydectes falls in love with Danae, attempts to rape her, and is eventually killed by Perseus for his troubles.

Basically, like most female figures in Greek myth, she suffers, is miserable, gives birth, suffers again, and is practically interchangeable with any of Zeus' myriad conquests. The overarching theme of her life is captivity and victimization. Indeed, it's not difficult to believe that this was was her appeal when Phillip II of Spain -- a moody, physically unattractive royal -- commissioned Titian to paint her as a part of his own private collection of erotica. Unabashedly careerist and self-promoting, Titian did not appear to be one to quibble over subject matter -- he simply wanted the commissions from the most powerful families of his day. One can assume that Titian recognized the financially fruitful potential of his relationship with the prince who, like his father, commissioned a series of portraits, religious scenes, and poesie (a series of paintings concerning the amorous adventures of the gods and their subject mortals). Danae was to be one of the first poesie works.

"Quite different from the repose and refinement of the Venus of Urbino is the active eroticism of this scene. It was evidently very much to the taste of the young prince, whose sensuality, in the words of one historian, was only equaled by his disregard for all that was good and kind in human nature. Philip was a private voluptuary who selfishly concealed the Danae and other poesie that Titian created in a room designed for his personal pleasure. It is abundantly clear that the painting's classical theme -- Zeus has disguised himself as a shower of gold to seduce the mortal Danae -- only thinly veils its unashamed erotic intentions." (Williams, 145)


Certainly, Titian paints the scene with a direct frankness theretofore unprecedented from him, depicting Danae in a languid recline, her left hand provocatively resting between her fleshy thighs, while the other bejeweled hand limply drapes the silken linen. Titian’s trademark use of color is evidenced in the crimson drapes and azure sky pierced by Zeus’ golden glory. Her expression is either one of wonderment or, as might be interpreted today, a sort of blankness not unlike stills from a designer perfume advertisement (it is as though she is thinking of nothingness … God). She gazes directly at the sunburst explosion before her while her maidservant, mannish and cragfaced, holds out her apron to catch the coins spewing from the light. This depiction is a slight variation on the story wherein Danae is betrayed by her own servants who are bribed by Zeus to aid him in accessing the doomed princess. This narrative change adds a social commentary dimension to the scene because Danae is doubly a pawn in others' agendas, an unknowing prostitute soon to be cast off by her own family and destined for a life of literal drifting. Apparently, Phillip II had a thing for fallen women.

The same-titled portrait that is displayed at the Art Institute of Chicago is at least a year older than its prototype; not much else is known about it. The pose is exactly the same, as if Titian merely copied and pasted her onto a fresh canvas. There are subtle but important differences, however, that suggest Titian was painting for a less randy, less lascivious patron who may or may not have had privy to Prince Phillip's personal boudoir. Firstly, the maidservant is removed, and the sunburst reveals the open-mouthed face of Zeus spewing what looks like spittle instead of coins. There is a more of a transcendent energy to the later piece, as evidenced by Danae's close-mouthed, wide-eyed gaze that contrasts ever so slightly with the fuller-mouthed original. This Danae is less carnal (she is gripping the sheets between her legs, not her ambiguous inner thigh as in the original), yet still receptive to receiving Zeus in this transformation. Other details remain almost exactly the same, such as the pearl drop earrings, bracelet, pinky ring, and contentedly sleeping dog at her side.

This last regularity is interesting: small pet dogs were traditional twin symbols of fidelity or lust (Paoletti and Radke, 423). One sees this element repeatedly in Titian's work, not only in the various versions of the Danae rapture scenes, but in Venus of Urbino as well. The dog is always curled up and sleeping, oblivious to the awakening … why? In the Danae pieces, one might expect that the golden shower would rouse him from his reveries. However, if Titian wants us to interpret this as a purely transcendental experience, then a dog would sense nothing. One working interpretation would be that Titian portrays the actions of the gods to be beyond mortal, earthly issues (e.g., fidelity or lust). They do what they want and therefore the dog, an irrelevant symbol, sleeps.

If this was Titian's intention, then he was more than partially loyal to the original logic of Greek mythology. This interpretation can coexist with the already numerous arguments the various Danaes and other works were nothing more than veiled pornography superficially legitimized by references to the classics. "Only the ostensibly mythological subject and Danae's classically inspired pose, adapted from statues of ancient Roman river gods, made the painting socially acceptable, although King Philip apparently kept curtains over some of these images so that women in the court would not have their modesty offended." (Paoletti and Radke, 424)

In fact, this is hardly debatable. What is interesting is that this was all so convenient and politically self-validating, as "… male patrons of such paintings imagined themselves as far superior to females, a point made explicit in a series of paintings Titian produced for King Philip II of Spain … illustrating the loves of Jupiter. The king was to imagine himself as a god, all his conquests are mere mortals." (Paoletti and Radke, 424)

In this context, it is hardly surprising that there is a fusion of rape/passion (i.e., ravishment) in the paintings, just as the original story may have intended. Gods and kings bestow unto lesser others so that even their cruelty is interpreted as something of a gift (most, save the nastiest of kings and dukes, do not want to think of themselves as rapists -- that would imply an unflattering lack of desirability unfit for a powerful being). Drama (life) happens to Danae because of her beauty; she is chosen and, as we know from the rest of her life story, "everything happens for a reason."


Danae, like all paintings, is a frozen moment. It would be easy to only view the work through this narrative lens, but more can be gained by considering the various interpretations and commentary that can be culled from the story itself. An obvious focus, and one that is typically espoused, is that of the male reaction and the historical consequences of the stealthy invasion. Beyond a plot-oriented interpretation, however, is an equally intriguing set of clues about female wisdom and knowledge.

It is widely known that the Greeks did not know what to do about “the question of women.” Women were largely assigned the role of child-bearing vessels and, as if they feared their potential, cultural gatekeepers of the time repeatedly reinforced their assigned roles in myths and legends. It’s difficult not to ignore the instructional intent of these stories. The nature of Danae’s seduction, however, suggests a sly commentary on societal reactions to female spirituality and knowing. Her seduction may have a transcendental quality to it compared to, say, the seduction of Leda, because Zeus comes to her in such a striking, awesome fashion. He does not come to her as a beautiful (but otherwise mundane) animal or as a mere mortal; he chooses instead an inexplicable form.

For what exactly is a golden shower, aside from a pornographic fetish? The most straightforward interpretation is that it is an element (water), and a very basic element at that. The simplicity is remarkable because it opens up a whole range of possible symbolisms. Rain is sustenance, a prerequisite for growth, as well as a permeating agent that can find its way into any surface. Zeus choose to penetrate her in the most symbolically direct way possible, in a form resembling sperm itself, that does not require physical intercourse. Like Mary, she remains a virgin after the experience.

Thus, he is showing himself to her. Titian makes this point clear in the Danae (after 1554) version, wherein his open-mouthed face bestows the gift of procreation to a chosen mortal, making the overall tone of the piece more about the transformative power of connection to a higher power than about lust. Danae’s eyes, as in the original, are in shadow, for her knowing is of a different, more intuitive kind. There is still an erotic element here, but it is in service to an epiphanic moment.

We know the rest of the story. Danae must pay for her wisdom (for which she did not seek) and, as with many unwed mothers, is banished from home and literally let loose in the waters. She and her bastard son survive, ostensibly because of the oracle and her father’s willful but doomed attempted to challenge it. A more expansive interpretation, however, recognizes that her burgeoning fertility was the threat to be harnessed all along – hence, the tower where she was to be “literally kept in the dark, shielded from the light of the sun, secluded from knowledge of the outside world, protected from the gaze of men …” (Gossin, 65-96) It matters little whether or not she initiated her own awakening, because not only is the prophecy set in motion, she has lost “her innocent state of un-knowing” that threatens the patriarchal structure in which she exists (Gossin, 65-96). If men found the state of pregnancy troubling and starkly problematic to the imposed lower status of women (pregnancy: creation: godlike capability), a virginal birth would have only reinforced such insecurities.




Works Cited

Gossin, Pamela. “All Danae to the Stars: Nineteenth Century Representations of Women in the Cosmos.” Victorian Studies, 41, n. 1 (Autumn 1996): 65-96.

Paoletti, John T. and Radke, Gary M. Art in Renaissance Italy. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, Inc. and Harry N. Abrams, Inc., Publishers, 2002.

Williams, Jay and the editors of Time-Life Books. The World of Titian. New York: Time-Life Books, 1968.

The above essay was written by YOGCHICK (ANONYMOUS), published in http://www.orange5000.blogspot.com/, written and posted April 7, 2006.

essay: A Wild and Crazy Guy

NOTE: If you're going to use any of this for a term paper or whatnot (I'm referring to you "Birth of the Novel" English Lit students who come by at the end of every quarter -- like right about now), please be sure to credit me. The bibliography/source information is at the bottom of this entry, along with internal quote information. ALSO: COMMENTS would be nice. Thanks.

Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey literally hits the ground running, with its main character, Yorick, packing off to France, presumably at the mere indirect dare of his manservant. Yorick himself is the first to admit that he “generally act(s) from the first impulse” (Sterne, p. 22) and this quality is well demonstrated as we observe him indulge in a variety of whims and fancies through a series of French towns and cities. His adventure, as the title states, is a sentimental one, eschewing the usual gothic cathedrals and monuments for what amounts, in the end, to a search for the self in various locales that defy rational prediction.

Because Yorick is a “sentimental traveler,” the reader is treated to a quixotic ride of imagination, fancy, empathy, benevolence, wonder, and love. These internal workings are constantly juxtaposed against the fashionable theories of the day, particularly the mechanical nature of man and man as machine. Yorick’s own fascination with the pulse and involuntary blushes reveals a learned man’s understanding of the circulatory system by itself and vis-à-vis the emotions. Like the author, Yorick does not deny the mechanistic aspects of the human body, but there is an insistence that these are manifestations of the emotions. Martin Battestin makes a good case that Sterne was not only a great admirer of the French philosophes, but that he was also quite able to synthesize their views rather than reject them outright. “In these early sections of the novel – and in his emphasis throughout on the physiology of sentiment, on the innumerable ways in which our bodies serve as inlets to the soul – Stern pays tribute to the philosophes… Sterne … meant to reconcile body and soul, the laws of physiology and the freedom of the will.” (Battestin, p. 30, emphasis added)

The body can reveal emotions, betray the emotions, reflect the emotions and so on; the body in this respect serves emotion and is secondary to it. Yorick may be fascinated with the mechanics, but it is even more likely he is fascinated by the fact that the body does not lie. After all, there’s no such thing as a “fake” blush or a deceptively rapid heartbeat. The physical manifestation of something so invisible and potentially unknowable is of particular interest to Yorick, a man forever seeking emotional connection with women, their deepest internal states, and “the nakedness of their hearts” (Sterne, p. 84).

The novel’s preoccupation with emotion and sensory perception is key to understanding Yorick, a man not quite convinced, just as Sterne was not quite so convinced, that he is a mere automaton set in motion by some unknown and distant god. Indeed, Yorick seems to revel in his whimsy and flights of fancy that contrast the clocklike workings of man the machine. Emotion and sensory perceptions not only propel action and prompt body reactions, they are direct evidence of consciousness, what separates a man from, say, a garden hoe or spinning wheel. For Yorick, one need only insert “feel” or “sense” into Descartes’ “I think therefore I am.”

If Yorick’s stubborn independence to be his own free agent (not an automaton) is sustained primarily from his ungovernable feelings and often-inaccurate perceptions (and how he chooses by his own free will to act on them), there is the inevitable problem of a single, stable identity because perceptions and feelings themselves are unstable, unreliable, and fleeting. If one is one’s perceptions and/or feelings, one is in constant flux and indefinable. Yorick is painfully aware of this when he states: “There is not a more perplexing affair in life to me, than to set about telling any one who I am – for there is scarce any body I cannot give a better account of than of myself; and I have often wish’d I could do it in a single word – and have an end of it.” (Sterne, p. 85).

Furthermore, any kind of apt definition is impossible because his own solipsism bears an insurmountable complexity. He knows himself only too well and finds himself in a journey to the self that is like Chinese boxes. Extreme self-consciousness only muddies the definition. His search for “himself” has painted him into a corner, and this conundrum is compounded by the fact that he has become a nationless man abroad without a passport.

There are other traits to Yorick that hinder easy definition. His highly refined sensibility renders him effeminate while his status abroad (and perhaps at home) is not concrete. He is a part of an ambiguous, not fully formed bourgeoisie without the full credentials and authority of the established aristocracy. As Judith Frank points out, “Yorick’s journey in search of human nature – his journey of self-constitution as a benevolist – is undertaken as a response to a challenge from a servant” (Frank, p. 109). This is at odds with the Yorick at the beginning of the journey who so confidently defined himself to be the “Sentimental Traveler” (read: a latter day “sensitive man” who listens to his own drummer). The Yorick in Versailles, when actually put to the test, is at a loss for words and must resort to a clumsy reference to Hamlet’s court jester. This only adds to the confusion, however, and Yorick is doomed to be henceforth misconstrued by the French. His identity is further decimated in Paris when, amidst the philosophes and intellectuals of the day, he finds himself “of every man’s opinion” (Sterne, p. 112). Unable to be himself (i.e., express his own thoughts), he finds himself a slave to others’ au courant opinions; he is wildly popular (and well-fed) at the price of free will. Finally, it is probably no accident that those who misconstrue him the most are these French society people, peopled as they are by philosophes and “mechanists” overly beholden to sensory perception and reason, in direct contrast to the intuitive, irrational, emotional Yorick (who in some ways may be viewed as a prototype of the Romantic Movement’s dandy in the coming decades). Furthermore because Yorick “cannot take for granted his difference from the lower classes” and must “live by his wits,” he symbolically and literally becomes Yorick, “the character of a virtual slave in a feudal system … a laughing man … too servile to pose a danger to the (French) state” (Frank, p. 119). In the company of French aristocracy, Yorick becomes the emasculated company man, an experience which he likens to prostitution (so much for free will).

In many ways Yorick’s predicament is familiar to 20th and 21st century readers, and to many male readers in particular. What does it mean to be a “man” then and today? It would seem we’re still trying to figure that out, with our recent conversations about the New Man, the Metrosexual, and so on: he’s sensitive, in touch with his feelings, self-aware, in possession of taste, and monied. These last two qualities are no accident: money creates taste, and those who have money, via their heightened sensitivity, redefine quality. For example, if Yorick can sense and appreciate, say, a rustic vase with all its imperfections and clumsiness, valuing it instead for a feeling it evokes in him, he can pay for it handsomely. Hence the self-serving label we see frequently see today on various merchandise: This product you have just bought is handmade and may contain natural imperfections unique to its craftsmanship. When you buy that “imperfect” product, you’re buying a feeling that that product evokes (rustic simplicity, contentment, coziness, oneness-with-nature, and etcetera). And if there are enough Yoricks of the same sensibility (and there are), the price of such vases would be expected to increase, not unlike Amish furniture or otherwise useless Arizonian tumbleweeds.

But sensibility and its resultant taste have limited currency abroad, and it does not appear that Yorick will be raising the price of rustic vases any time soon in Versailles or Paris. Yorick cannot be the man he wants to be (and be seen as) because of his ambiguous status as an expatriate in Parisian society, but, upon fleeing to Moulines, he rediscovers his best self that fits his original label of the Sensitive Traveller. His self-image (today we would say self-esteem) is resurrected; he becomes like a father to Maria and speaks in almost paternalistic terms (he’s re-masculinated). It is in Moulines, where, upon consoling a deeply depressed Maria, that Yorick rediscovers the transcendent gift of a visceral emotion, empathy: “[S]uch undescribable emotions within me, as I am sure could not be accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion. I am positive I have a soul; nor can all the books with which materialists have pester’d the world ever convince me of the contrary.” (Sterne, p. 114)

With this confirmation that he has a soul, Yorick is unburdened of his own dead-end self-absorption that does little to make himself concrete to himself in any event. He also becomes strikingly aware that knowing – real knowing – is aided by the senses, his imagination, and his feelings of empathy which combine toward a higher purpose. When he experiences empathy, he is finally projecting outward, away from the self, and the experience is not only intense, but liberating (from the prison of one’s mind). Liberation does not come from an endless self-reference, a self-denying and unsatisfying purely mechanistic view, or even the imagination alone; these are all elements that, while necessary, are meant to lead to something greater. This something greater Yorick calls the “great SENSORIUM of the world” (Sterne, p. 117). Today we might call this any number of things, such as the Universe, the collective mind, the infinite, or the light. It is generally that which is “beyond myself” and typifies an interconnectedness of all things (Sterne, p. 117).

From here on, it would appear that Yorick is on a sort of roll of ecstatic bliss that is comical and, in a sense, dubious. He is clearly romanticizing the peasantry from a bourgeoisie point of view during “The Supper” and one can interpret this scene as Sterne’s own gentle reminder that, yet again, perceptions are not trustworthy, tainted as they can be with one’s own “state of mind,” biases, and emotional state. The scene may also illustrate how tourists, in their quest for culture and refinement, generally have come to be viewed in the pejorative. Nevertheless, the scene holds intense meaning for Yorick – never mind what the peasants think of him – and this intense meaning (via a previous visceral emotional experience) has a value unique to him. Who are we to say that it is wholly superficial, even if it is transitory? Isn’t this a judgment reserved for God himself, and isn’t this a private conversation between Yorick and God that we just happen to be privy to? “The inflated rhetoric Sterne uses here, however, as well as the utter conventionality of the pastoral vignette that follows, suggest that his tone is as much satirical as celebratory. The element in this passage that survives the satire is the direct link Yorick makes between sense and sentiment, his recognition of the human ability to endow objective phenomena with personal meaning.” (Chadwick, p. 198) The experience is real for Yorick and is beyond our limited judgment, different as we our in our own perceptions, imagination, point of reference, emotions, etcetera.

Thus, Yorick’s search for himself through self-definition (a man of taste, a sensitive traveler) becomes a discovery of God, however short the actual experience. We might assume that Yorick will have other transcendent experiences between his fascination with pulses and blushes, dalliances with chambermaids, fetishes, and off-kilter first impressions. Because spiritual bliss is transitory and difficult to sustain, it would not have been realistic for Sterne to end with “The Grace.” Instead, Yorick’s journey is open-ended and unpredictable, just as his personality is, and the novel ends with an implication that Yorick continues in his idiosyncratic, delicate, mannered sensibility to find connections with others.

REFERENCES:

Battestin, Martin C. “Sterne among the Philosophes: Body and Soul in A Sentimental Journey.” Eighteenth Century Fiction 7(1) (1994): 17-36.

Chadwick, Joseph. “Infinite Jest: Interpretation in Sterne’s A Sentmental Journey.” Eighteen Century Studies 12 (1978-1979): 190-205.

Frank, Judith. “A Man Who Laughs Is Never Dangerous”: Character and Class in Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey. ELH 56(1) (1989): 97-124.

Sterne, Laurence. A Sentimental Journey. New York: Oxford University Press. 1984.

The above essay was written by ORANGEBLOGGER, published in www.orange5000.blogspot.com, written and posted on April 4, 2006. URL is http://orange5000.blogspot.com.

Found:: LETTER FROM 1994

This letter was originally written to accompany a tape made for a friend…

Dear Carol:

You will notice that the tape is titled "Graham Parker v. Elvis Costello". This is due mainly to the fact that most of the stuff on the tape is either Graham Parker or Elvis Costello (10 songs each). Just call me the Clever Vixen. I'm assuming here that you and Mike don't have any Graham Parker stuff and if you do, don't tell me the next time we communicate. You can just say, "Oh wow, Mike and I “love” it. We never would have heard Graham Parker if you hadn't put it on the tape! Thanks!" That way I'll still have my sense of purpose in tact and you will go to bed knowing that you've done yet another good deed.

I must confess as I'm writing this that I'm somewhat . . . embarrassed by the fact that I'm doing this at all. It's the kind of endeavor which will forever prevent me from feeling intellectually and culturally superior to Star Trekkies and D&D fanatics (and believe me, everyone needs to feel superior every once in a while!). Still, I can't quite help myself and it's better to give in to one's idiosyncrasies than to suppress them; they always get the better of you in the long run anyway.
Besides, it could be worse: I could be inventing my own "Kennedy Assassination/Paul Is Dead/Jim Morrison Lives" theories. At least I'm original in that respect.

Finally, I figure if bellbottoms and Fleetwood Mac could make the comeback we never thought possible, why not "new wavers" Graham Parker and Elvis Costello? Frankly, I've got a pretty strong feeling about this one: Neil Young and Meat Loaf are everyone's little darling lately so there's bound to be a backlash. Who knows, I could be on the cutting edge of Retro Appreciation. In which case, the following will provide you with priceless info for future “in-the-kitchen-where-the-best-conversation's-at" party topics. So, without further ado . . .

Graham Parker and Elvis Costello have long been described as being cut from the same cloth. Both were working class upstarts, only four years apart in age, who wrote their own songs about sexual frustration, social disenfranchisement, and the overall moral/economic morass that was pervading England by the early '70s. "Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner" on guitars, so to speak. Both were signed on by Stiff Records, a fledgling, renegade record label that bridged the gap between punk/new music and the corporate-controlled record-buying.

A "stiff record," in music business lingo, means a record that won't sell. Stiff Records' semi-official motto was "If they're stiff, we'll sign 'em". Other slogans included: "If it means everything to everyone, it must be a Stiff" and "If it's not on Stiff Records, it's not worth a fuck." This is the same record label that would later release an album entitled "The Wit and Wisdom of Ronald Reagan" -- both sides completely blank.

Graham Parker was backed by his band, The Rumour; Elvis, by his band, The Attractions (over the years they would borrow each others back-up for albums and tours). Both were physically unattractive, skinny, and ungainfully employed: Elvis as a computer programmer for the Elizabeth Arden Cosmetics Factory and Graham as gas station attendant/lab rat breeder. Both were more or less managed by Stiff Records VIP Jake Riviera and produced by Nick Lowe. (Both eventually left Stiff Records, which was constantly on the verge of bankruptcy and operated soley through mail-order, all the while becoming best known for their vitriol and venom. They spat into their microphones and sang in pronounced cockney dialect.



I start out the tape with Graham Parker. The above-described attitude is pretty well played out in the first three songs. Incidentally, "Mercury Poisoning" is very, very, funny: Graham had just left the Mercury label which he claimed commercially sabotaged his career by not promoting/marketing him properly ("I've got a dinosaur for a representative/It's got a small brain and refuses to learn") even though it was perfectly clear (to him at least) that he was "the Best Kept Secret in the West". (Meanwhile, Elvis had become the rock critic's darling, gracing covers, and being described everywhere as "The Bob Dylan of New Wave." His own self-description of being "Mr. Revenge and Guilt" in an NME interview would be quoted endlessly for years to come.)

Poor Parker was to run through more litigation wrangling and creative control disagreement with various record companies over the next ten years. By the mid-80's, however, an almost unheard of thing in pop music happened: he hit his creative stride in middle age. "Life Gets Better," "You Can't Take Love For Granted," "Wake Up Next to You," and "Anniversary" are gorgeous, life-affirming examples of just how far Parker had come. Meet the New and Improved Parker! At some point he'd fallen in love, gotten married, became the father of a little girl . . . and somehow avoided Phil Collins Syndrome. Refusing to worry about potential vulnerability in optimistic, affectionate song titles, he just lets the music and his own raw vocal style carry the words powerfully and truthfully. He walks the fine line of edgy poignancy that separates mellow sappiness and bitter redundancy. Wow, now that's craftsmanship! I mean, these songs are Rilly, Rilly Great.

And now for my man Elvis. The last two songs on Side A are perfect examples of the early Angry Young Man. "Less Than Zero" is about '30s British Fascist leader Oswald Mosely and "Radio Radio" is a scathing, concise indictment of the media in which the young Costello adeptly sums up in 2 ½ minutes what takes Noam Chomsky a hundred pages: "You either shut up or get cut out / They don't want to hear about it / It's only inches on the reel to reel / And the Radio is in the Hands / of such a lot of fools trying to/ Anesthetize the way that you feel." Needless to say, the song got no air play and when EC & the Attractions were the musical guests on Saturday Night Live (filling in for the Sex Pistols who bailed out at the last minute -- typical), they were told not to play that song, which they did anyway by stopping in the middle of another song on live tv. (I hear you can sometimes catch a clip of that moment on HBO Comedy Central, but I don'thave cable.) Lorne Michaels had a migraine for the rest of the evening.

1979 and the 80s decade were not good for Costello. In a drunken bar brawl with the Stephen Stills band (both were in the same Holiday Inn that evening on tour in Cincinnati), Costello called Ray Charles a "stupid blind nigger" in an attempt to outrage the Americans out of the bar (it worked). The press got a hold of that story and protests, record burnings, and 150 death threats followed. He apologized in a press conference, explaining that he was not a racist but made the remark just to be obnoxious - which meant little to “People” magazine, or the American public for that matter.

Ironically, up until that point, he'd been very involved in Rock Against Racism concerts in England and even wrote a song directly solely against racist skinheads. His rendition of Nick Lowe's "What's So Funny About Peace, Love and Understanding" on that year's album was the best singing job he'd ever done; he sings it with a sort of gut-wrenching soulfulness he's never been able to muster for any of his own songs.

EC & the Attractions finished up the tour (with armed body guards), Costello broke up with a professional groupie with whom he'd been living (prompting Joe Jackson to write the song, "Is She Really Going Out With Him?"), returned to his wife and son, and produced Special AKA's political anthem "Free Nelson Mandela." He kept a low profile, released a Motown tribute album and an album of country/western covers which nobody really liked.

In short, he was having a major personal crisis. He was 25 years old.

By 1982 he re-emerged with “Imperial Bedroom” which broadened his creative range, revealed his more human side, and was critically acclaimed on both sides of the Atlantic. "Pidgin English" actually contains the words "P.S. I love you" and his vocal style is decidedly different: softer, reflective, and tender (or at least as tender as his vocal chords are capable of). Commercially, it bombed. He was trying to shake off his self-induced "Mr. Revenge + Guilt" image but his old fans didn't want to hear it. Two more albums with the Attractions followed over the next few years but by 1984 they weren't even getting the critical acclaim they were so accustomed to -- much less any hit singles. In 1986 Costello unceremoniously and undiplomatically fired the Attractions, remarried, and used session musicians for his next albums. Those albums tend to suck: too much literary tapdancing and musical magpie pretentions. Don't even get me started. By the end of the decade, Columbia records dropped his contract and he signed on with Warner Brothers.

So. One is peddling forwards while the other is peddling hopelessly backwards. What happened? The answer, I think, is a simple one: karma. Obviously, one has managed to segue into the good while the other is drowning in his own self-perpetuated acerbity. If this were professional tennis, Graham Parker would be Jimmy Connors, more focused and hungry than ever as he ages (saving his energy for the battles worth fighting for, as the saying goes) whereas Elvis Costello would be John McEnroe, the perpetual problem child that everyone just sort of puts up with because he's gifted. Punk -- a movement which neither was ever officially a member of but nonetheless embodied its truer spirit -- always did have too much bad karma for its own good and hence, at least partially, its demise (which culminated in Nancy Spungeon's stabbing by Sid Vicious at the Chelsea Hotel that same 1979 spring of EC's race-baiting).

Why one should go one way while the other the opposite can only come down to personality. Neither started out very happy or content but Parker realized, probably after his 15th record label, that shitty, whiny attitudes does not a Human Being make. He switched gears, at least in his music, and it shows. Costello, on the other hand, is not nearly as secure with himself to make that kind of adjustment -- God forbid he let his guard down and embrace life at least once in a while. I suspect this has much to do with the fact that he's short, looks like Woody Allen, and has been put on a pedestal too early in his life by the music press and listening public. “Imperial Bedroom” notwithstanding, most of Costello's post-1979 albums -- especially those without the Attractions -- exhibit a hypocritical play at tenderness and emotional honesty: the melodies may be soft but the lyrics retain a nasty "macho-ness" that stops working once you’re in your 30s. His enunciation, never that great to begin with, deteriorates suspiciously on the "uglier," more emotionally revealing tracks.

He's in danger of becoming the David Mamet of British pop music, forever trapped in a male adolescent mode of defense. Rather than deal with his real demons (i.e. self-loathing), he rages against women, Margaret Thatcher (although she probably deserved it), and the society of which he is now very much a beneficiary (hangs out with Paul McArtny, owns property in Ireland, has his own record label in England, etc.).

Still, a blind adoring fan is a blind adoring fan and I honestly can't help myself. He's one of the most prolific songwriters ever -- over 250 songs by the time he was in his late 30s (some guy actually figured out he averages a song and a half per month) and those first 3 albums were really something else. Understandably, he's burnt out. The medium has its limits, you can't blame everything on the performer. If Parker has managed so well, it's at least partially owing to the fact that he has had less to lose. Costello's been under the spotlight and juggling everyone's (especially his own) contrasting expectations for the past 15 years. You can't go back, they say, but you shouldn't betray your 1977 roots either. It's a tough balancing act, difficult and irresistible to hear at the same time. For all the false starts and waywardness of Costello's career, the gems, when they do appear, make you realize why he's one of those performers you always wait up for in the middle of the night even though you swore the last time around that you wouldn't.

In light of this, "Indoor Fireworks" works because, unlike much of his other later stuff, it's straightforward, honest and direct. He's still pounding the same theme of the battle of the sexes into the ground (which gets tedious, let me tell you), but that's his prerogative. After all, you can only do what you can do.

It's now 1994 and Costello and the Attractions just released their first album together in 7 years. Apparently, they've buried the hatchet. Reviews have ranged from tactfully disappointed to shamelessly worshipful but anyone with half a brain can hear that it's just “okay.” The same psychic and technical problems plaguing him the past several years are still there, but as British writer Myles Palmer once said, "After a while, you just listen to what's there, rather than what should be there . . . even if it is crummy Costello." That was in 1983.

I still had a lot of room left on the tape so I included Ian Drury's "Sex + Drugs + Rock and Roll" and an old Kiss song. The pairing of the two, I think, says it all. They're singing about the same things but the former is clever, sardonic, and understated while the latter is big, loud, and completely lacking in any sense of irony. It's the simple difference between the Brits and the Americans: the Brits are smarter and always will be. Now that America is approaching the same
societal condition England was in by the early 70s, it should be interesting to see what kind of music we can come up with. (Hint: It's not Pearl Jam.)

Chicago's very own Material Issue just came out with a new album from which comes "Kim the Waitress". I like it. They've been getting a lot of publicity lately around town and now I see they're on the Mercury label. They must have good karma. Good use of the sitar.

Well, I'm gonna let you go now. Hope you found the above entertaining. Or at least bearable. I'd go on about my personal life but that's pretty much the same as ever. Well, not really -- I'm moving to the Records Department sometime next month. It was my idea; I can't stand being a secretary anymore and I figure if I'm going to do something mindless and tedious, it might as well being really mindless and tedious for the same salary. Plus, I resent having to work for three attorneys when everybody else gets two. Let someone else take my job then, know what I mean? Actually, I'm fairly optimistic about this: I'll be on the same floor as Robin (even though we're on our fourteenth or so "hiatus") and I look forward to having a straight 9 to 5 job with no overtime obligations. (Besides, I really want to quit smoking and that is just not realistically possible under present conditions where the smoking room is right around the corner from my carrel.)

Say hi to Mike for me!

10 Most Overrated Movies

1. The Hours. Smug, self-important, ultimately empty. Women deserve better than this. Virginia Woolf deserves better than this.

2. The English Patient. A romance in the desert with the charisma-free Ralph (pronounced: Rafe) Fiennes as leading man. Right.

3. Shawshank Redemption. A spiritual/mystical version of OZ. Just what we need.

4. Moulin Rouge. Great soundtrack but tries too hard to be edgy and post-modern deconstructionist. Tiresome and as charming as a box of hair.

5. Chariots of Fire. That soundtrack is a good 50% of the reason people remember this film. Back in the 80s it was a good movie for people who wanted to appear sophisticated and worldly.

6. Independence Day. Watch this film and you’ll start to understand why everybody hates Americans. Probably not critically overrated, but box office-wise it sweeped so I’m still including is here.

7. Titanic. We’re still recovering from the hype. Just sink already.

8. Interview with the Vampire. I usually don’t mind style over substance. Just not this time.

9. Meet Joe Black. Okay, it was universally panned … but not enough, so technically it’s still overrated.

10. Crash. See my post titled “What. The. Fuck.”

Shameless Self-Blogrolling

Okay, I've started another blog and it's totally different from this one. Care to check it out? It's about the therapy experience and "how people feel about it." Got a shrink story to share? Go to: http://shrinktalk.blogspot.com

essay: Portrayal of Slavery in Oroonoko

NOTE: If you're going to use any of this for a term paper or whatnot (I'm referring to you "Birth of the Novel" English Lit students who come by at the end of every quarter -- like right about now), please be sure to credit me. The bibliography/source information is at the bottom of this entry, along with internal quote information. ALSO: COMMENTS would be nice. Thanks.


Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko is often viewed as one of the earliest forms of literature to take issue with slavery. This view, however, can be tempered somewhat if one more closely examines the narrator’s rationale and reasoning in her criticism of the slave trade. The word trade, moreover, is key, since it is not completely clear that the narrator is against slavery per se, so much as the methods and customs of the trade itself.

More than midway through this work, we learn from the narrator that she is the daughter of a high-ranking Englishman who was to be, before his untimely death, the “Lieutenant-General of six and thirty islands, besides the continent of Surinam” (p. 48). Clearly, the narrator herself is of a certain class and therefore possesses certain values. Nowhere is this clearer than in the narrator’s own description of the work’s central character, Oroonoko, a man whom the narrator holds in the highest regard. She is quick to add that this Prince Oroonoko was educated formally by a Frenchman “of Wit and Learning” such that his training in “Morals, Language and Science” makes him an equal among the Englishmen and Spaniards traders (p.7). Lest the reader view him as a barbarian, the narrator further informs us that Oroonoko is an equal Prince among European nobility, as someone who has “all the Civility of a well-bred great Man … as if his Education has been in some European Court” (p.7). In short, she is impressed by his title (he is, as we say, “of the manor born,” albeit in some exotic place) and he is learned by European standards. He is not as unlike the narrator as one would expect.

Suspicions that that the narrator may be taking exception to Oroonoko because of his rank and European education are further underscored by the way she physically describes him in comparison to his people. Oroonoko’s grandfather himself as “adorn’d with a native Beauty, so transcending all those of his gloomy Race” (p. 6), while Oroonoko is described as nearly perfect, “bating his Colour” (p.8). She pointedly notes his European-shaped nose and lips that, inexplicably (yet naturally, according to the narrator’s hierarchy construct), differ from the rest of the Negroes. Not surprisingly, Imoinda, as the daughter of a highly respected General, is also beautiful by European standards, “the beautiful Black Venus to our young Mars” (p. 9).

The hierarchy of beauty as a mirror to the hierarchy of status in the first half of the novel may seem nonsensical to the modern reader, although perhaps it shouldn’t. Lookism still exists today in popular culture, and the assumed correlation between inner and outer beauty is consistently evident in children’s Disney animation, televised Miss America Pageants, and big budget Hollywood films. One could argue that these modern-day examples are vestiges of a bygone fairytale era closer to Aphra Behn’s literary world. In any event, the narrator establishes to the readers that certain foreign people -- Oroonoko, Imoinda, and the King of Cormantien – are special examples of their race and this specialness is most evident in their very appearance (the truth is literally self-evident, God’s favor is physically manifest). One could argue that in so doing, Aphra Behn succeeds in making these characters separate from a vast continent of Negroes while making them familiar (and more accessible) to most non-Negro readers: These are the good guys, the ones were are supposed to be rooting for, who are almost like us.

This becomes problematic in analyzing the work’s position on slavery, however, because of the continual “separateness” of these characters. Through the narrator’s eyes, we feel sympathy for Oroonoko and Imoinda, but since they don’t seem to have much in common with their own people and are indeed separate and above them in status (and, hence, possess more beauty, wit, experience, values, intelligence, etc.), they are always treated as exceptions. One wonders if Aphra Behn wrote the first half in the romance tradition to capture, in ways familiar to her time, the hearts and minds of her readers, causing an affection and empathy for these two “exotic royals.”

If the “exotic royal” approach succeeds in raising questions about slavery in the first part of the story, this would later prove to be problematic, because by the second, more “realistic” half of the novel, there is little evidence presented by the narrator that she feels the majority of the Negro race is worthy of Oroonoko. By the narrator’s own account, the Negroes are not only less physically attractive and commanding than their own Oroonoko, they are slavish and without dignity. For example, upon seeing Oroonoko/Caesar in Surinam, the Negroes prostrate themselves before the very man who “sold most of ‘em to these parts” and pay him “Divine Homage” (p. 41). Instantaneously, a relentless will for hierarchy persists even in Surinam. The scene is also a convenient rationalization for slavery, as if to suggest that certain people are inherently passive and unable to self-govern.

Furthermore, the Negroes are vast in numbers but lack quality and therefore description. The word quality is particularly notable because it appears continually throughout the work, but is used specifically for Oroonoko, Imoinda (“We took her to be of quality” p. 45), Jamoan, and Tuscan, a “tall Negroe of some more Quality than the rest” (p. 61). It is as though the narrator is constantly searching for a parallel universe, some sort of hierarchical order through which she can translate her experiences vis-à-vis the exotic. Wherever she goes, she takes special note of titles and rank (as if seeking her exotic yet familiar counterpart), always being sure to accord to them the attributes most desirable.

This is actually very logical because in her worldview, there is still strict hierarchical structure that the then-emerging mercantilism system was only beginning to threaten (and overtake by the novel’s end). The narrator is a citizen of the late 17th century world of master/servant dichotomies and hierarchy; it can be presumed that she is of the monied classes, although not necessary of the emerging middle class. In this context, it is hard to imagine that such a person would be capable of recognizing the “quality” of all – much less the concept of equality among all. The matter-of-fact manner in which the narrator continually separates and categorizes the individuals she encounters attests to this persistent mental and cultural construct. She is continually very astute to the details and clues of hierarchy, such as the body carvings of those with rank. Because there is no evidence that she believes in equality of “quality,” it is all the more challenging to the reader that she would believe in equal rights, self-determination, and self-rule for all (the very issues of slavery).
Similarly, Oroonoko also does not have a problem with slavery per se. He himself was a participant in the slave trade as a member of a country that the narrator’s people “found the most advantageous Trading for these Slaves” (p. 5). It was through his country’s never-ending conquests and battles that captives were taken and later sold. Oroonoko’s role is clear here; he did business regularly with those European generals and ship captains, and this is something clearly not lost on the narrator: she admits that even before meeting him, she had “an extreme Curiosity to see him, especially when I knew he spoke French and English” (p. 7). Like the narrator, Oroonoko abhors the Civil Wars in England and the downfall of their monarch, he being a man coming from a place where “the Obedience the People pay their King was not at all inferiour to what they paid their Gods” (p. 12). Like the narrator, he too is a loyalist.

For both Oroonoko and the narrator, the real obscenity is in the dishonorable (deceptive) practices of the trade, not slavery itself. In a way, they are both becoming “old school” even for their times. The narrator finds repellant the hypocrisy that is done in the name of Christianity by her countrymen, but this hypocrisy is in the sense of lying: the Captain uses treachery to capture Oroonoko and his men. There is no evidence that her definition of hypocrisy has anything to do with brotherly love or other Christian values; she never questions if slavery breaks the Christian commandment that no man can serve two masters. Thus, she appears to be in perfect understanding with the non-Christian Oroonoko in her disgust and dismay of his capture – a capture that contrasts sharply with the more “honorable” conquest of battle that is Oroonoko’s way of capturing slaves. “Have they vanquished us nobly in Fight? Have they won us in Honourable Battle? And are we by the Chance of War become their Slaves?” Oroonoko asks the fellow slaves, many of whom he himself had captured (p. 61).

This is striking because what both the narrator and Oroonoko mainly take issue with is a lack of “fair play.” and forthrightness (the very noble qualities), as well as the wholesale disregard for rank. It is as if some kind of primordial rule of nature has been broken that a Prince should be taken into slavery – “the greatest Revenge and the most disgraceful of any” fate to befall persons of a certain stature (p. 27). However, this hardly matters to either of them when it happens to “those common Men who cou’d not ransom themselves” (p. 5).

Both the narrator and Oroonoko are confounded by a new breed of men, “Rogues and Runagades that have abandoned their Own Countries for Rapine, Murders, Theft and Villanies” (p. 61). Who are these men? They could be seen as latter-day mercenaries, free agents, rugged individualists, and self-interested entrepreneurs. Many of them may have sympathies for the Whigs (perhaps the narrator is a Tory, favoring a strong hereditary king?). At any rate, they are a new breed of Europeans, clever in ways the loyalist-oriented narrator and Oroonoko could never be, and, more importantly, beholden to no one but themselves and their profit interests (the emerging middle class). They have left a country in political turmoil and are spreading political turmoil abroad.

In the final pages, Oroonoko/Caesar’s end is preceded symbolically by the encroaching powers of the new order. The Governor sends the honorable Trefry up the river under pretenses of business, while the Banister, “a wild Irishman … of absolute Barbarity, and fit to execute any Villainy but rich” arrives to send Caesar off to his fate (p. 76). The narrator herself is conveniently removed from the situation; while Tuscan becomes aligned with Byam. Meanwhile, a Council is convened, consisting of “such notorious Villains … who understood neither the Law of God or Man, and had no sort of Principles to make them worthy the Name of Men” (p. 69). A palpable sense of physical and moral disorder pervades the last pages, with an uncontrolled rabble of spectators and justices around the funeral pyre of “the mangled King” (p. 77).

It would appear, then, that a moral and political order promoted by the narrator would still include slavery, but with the strong recognition of each country’s internal hierarchy. Slavery is all right if capture is done forthrightly in battle only and if the native nobles are spared (those of discernible quality). In her view, there is an almost comforting (yet endangered) consistency of hierarchy: Kings, princes, and that small number of “quality” people can be found everywhere, as if there were an umbrella of divine right covering the globe. To see someone of Oroonoko’s stature betrayed and humiliated is, to the narrator, a gross misconduct, as abhorrent as the “deplorable Death of our great Monarch” and the political turmoils of her homeland (p. 7). Such happenings would also have been symbolically ominous to the narrator who, given the times, would have been particularly sensitive to any challenge to kingly power, whether at home or abroad.

The above essay was written by YOGCHICK (ANONYMOUS), published in http://www.orange5000.blogspot.com/, written and posted March 20, 2006. Internal quotes are from: Behn, Aphra. Oroonoko. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1973.

fiction:: Mickey Percy Was Used to It

Mickey Percy had the kind of face you would expect to see under the definition of "Pugnacious" in the Webster's Collegiate Dictionary. He looked like a 1940's boxer: fleshy face, puggish, soon-to-be broken nose, and eyes like a pig, too closely set and empty. He was five years old.

I was deathly afraid of him in kindergarten. Not that he even gave me any trouble. But he gave the other kids a lot of trouble. Actually, these are not confirmed facts. What I remember is him always fighting with someone -- or was he just a wild kid? To me, it didn't matter, he was all elbows and knees in a swirl of playground gravel. Were there other kids involved? If so, were they fighting or just playing? Again, I don't remember. I didn't know even then; to a little girl whose favorite color is pink, they are one and the same. All I knew was he was dangerous, volatile, prone to jumping around. A real neck-breaker.

So I was on guard whenever he came near, the way a cat is who's been pet too much. I watched him from the corners of my eyes, ready to pounce or flee, but always ready.

I got my chance one mid spring afternoon on the playground in kindergarten. He was standing near me, ricocheting everywhere and making a lot of noise, looking for action. I thought I saw him make a lunge toward me and in a sudden burst of panicked adrenaline, I swirled around and pushed him to the ground. I had never done anything like that before and was completely dismayed by my own behavior. Worse, I had made the first move and knew, that he would be really mad. I had just attacked the kindergarten problem child. Oh God, why did I…It was too late to say I was sorry (which I was never very good at anyway) and for some reason the option of running away didn't even enter my mind.

I began to pummel his face with what must have been tiny, clenched fists in a frenzy that belied my own deeply hidden terror. I was on top of him at this point and Mickey Percy was caught so off guard that all he could do was cross his arms over his face. Or maybe he just didn't believe in hitting girls. He wasn't saying anything -- I think he was in complete and total shock. Several kids gathered around and were chanting my name, rooting for me. I was mortified.

Suddenly I felt arms gingerly scoop me up and place me on my feet. Those same arms picked up Mickey Percy, who looked dazed and, to my profound relief, did not appear to be bleeding anywhere.

It was our teacher, Mrs. Tennyson.

"Have you been fighting again?! What did I tell you just the other day? Huh? What did I say? You go and wait in line and you stay there until the bell rings."

Mickey Percy said nothing, looked like nothing, and trudged over to the "K" line marker. He was used to it.

I burst into tears. All the boys stared at me, perplexed. "Whaddya crying for? You won! You won!" One boy grabbed my arm and was raising it, calling out to the rest of the playground that I was the winner.

But I didn't feel like I had won anything. I felt bad, guilty, two-faced and downright silly. It didn't help matters much that Mrs. Tennyson then put her arm around me and was asking me if I was alright, reassuring me that "that boy won't ever hurt you again." I just wanted to go back inside and have everyone, myself included, forget about the whole stupid episode.

That was one weird day.

Needless to say, Mickey Percy avoided me for the rest of the school year. I think he thought I was just some weird girl in his class who attacked people for no reason and it was a good idea to just keep away from her.

We ended up being in the same first grade class, with Miss Skadditch. Not that I was obsessed with Mickey Percy, but I did kind of feel annoyed that once again we'd have to see each other every day. I wondered, nervously, if he harbored anything against me for that one incident.

But he never said anything to me, so I can only assume that he had forgotten about it. After all, it was probably a lot more traumatic for me than it was for him, a kid who got into trouble every day.

Besides, he had plenty of more serious issues to grapple with. He was a slow learner. Somehow, none of us were surprised by this. During reading group, he read aloud unbearably slow, stumbling over the simplest of words until someone couldn't stand it anymore and would shout "BUS" or "DOG". The teacher would rebuke whoever it was (sometimes it was me I must admit), and then, tiredly, tell him to continue. Finally, he'd get to the end of the sentence and the teacher would abruptly call on someone else to finish the page. You felt sorry for him, but you were also glad someone else finally got to read.

During writing hour we had to copy the letters and short words Miss Skadditch had written up on the board. The lined manuscript paper was cheap and delicate like newspaper; it could barely withstand the pressure of the impossibly thick, clumsy, lead pencils we were given. You just couldn't wait to finish the last line and hand the stupid thing in.

When Mickey Percy wrote, however, the letters were disfigured, misshapen squiggles that would erupt without warning into a slew of angry lines, ripping through the paper. You could see that he had erased a lot, and in some places the erasure marks overshadowed the final markings.

There was no control on the paper at all, as if the alphabet had something personal against him and him against it. Sometimes the teacher would just look at it and say, "Start again" and he'd have to walk forlornly back to his desk and do just that, missing recess.

We were also in second grade together, Mrs. Cromwell's class. I had decided that if I couldn't do anything about being in the same class with him for another year, I would at least make sure I'd never be in the same reading group with him. I couldn't stand the association. If you were in the same reading group as Mickey Percy, well, then everyone knew you were also in the lowest. No way.

So the first few weeks of class I raised my hand a lot and overparticipated during reading hour and was placed in the middle reading group.

One day I was doing a worksheet at my desk and Mickey Percy walked by. He stopped and stared at my sheet, which was different from his own since we were no longer at the same level. His face turned scornful and he said, "You're not so smart. That was a mistake. You don't belong in the yellow group."

I ignored him and went back to the worksheet. His words didn't bother me. In fact, they confirmed what I already suspected: some people were just sore losers.

And then there was third grade, Miss Madison. She had deformed fingernails and short red hair, but she wasn't as mean as she looked. Not to me anyway. After a while, though, you could tell she was really tired of Mickey Percy. As had been all the teachers before. I don't recall any incidents in particular of him getting into trouble, but perhaps just being slow was enough. He was the failure kid and we all knew it.

During show and tell he brought in these rare glass microscope slides that his father had somehow gotten during a business trip. “You hold it up to the light and you squint and then you can see it,” he said excitedly. A bug. A mosquito. Here, pass this one around. He'd hold it up and squint and then give it to the first kid in the front row who'd do the same thing and pass it on. It was pretty neat, we had to admit.

And then he dropped one. Just as we knew he would. It broke neatly in two virtually equal parts. A gasp went through the room. Boy, is he gonna get it. We glanced over at Miss Madison who was standing, cross-armed and skeptical in the back of the room. She didn't say anything. Wouldn't even go up to help him pick up the pieces or offer to tape it back together.

But Mickey Percy was used to it. He gingerly picked up the pieces and put them as best he could into the box with the others. Oh well, it's just one. It took a while for the class to stop concentrating on that one defeat. I'm not sure we ever did stop thinking about whether or not his dad would be mad at him. Those were his dad's slides. What was he going to tell him when he got home? Would his father be disappointed? Probably. But not surprised.

I thought to myself, wow, I would've been so embarrassed. But Mickey Percy went on with the rest of the show and ignored everyone's excited whispering and unrestrained giggles. He was a tough kid.

Another time, in fourth grade, he brought in this genuine Indian headdress. It had feathers of every color and graced the tile floor. I have no idea how he got it, but it too belonged to his father. It fit him perfectly because, as Mickey told us, it was made for a young boy of about our age for a special initiation ritual. Everyone really got a kick out of that, including Miss Turner, who was actually grinning (something rare for her). She told him to go ahead to Miss Cromwell’s class and show it to them. After all, she was the social studies teacher and we were studying the colonial period. So Mickey Percy just turned on his heel and sailed out of the room wearing the headdress. We all laughed as he did this. Good naturedly this time.

Sometimes Mickey Percy was okay.

-- Orangeblogger

review:: METRODOG

Let’s face it, city life isn’t always as dog-friendly as many of us would like. But rather than hold your breath and dream of Paris (that pooch paradise across the Atlantic), you and Rover would be better served picking up a copy of Metrodog: A Guide to Raising Your Dog in the City by canine connoisseurs Brian Kilcommons and Sarah Wilson (Warner Books, Inc.). This nifty guide fearlessly starts where others leave off, addressing urban conundrums such as hi-rise housebreaking, hailing a taxi with terrier in tow, and even basic-command training with the help of – get this – the neighborhood park’s lamppost. This is serious, practical stuff, however, and the authors have 30 years of animal-behavior expertise between them – small wonder, then, that they’ve appeared everywhere from Good Morning America to The Wall Street Journal Report. Illustrated with realistic photos on every other page – many depicting gritty outdoor situations – Metrodog not only covers the standards like crate training and “sit/stay,” but also clearly demonstrates how you and your cosmopolitan canine can navigate the full range of modern life, from crowded elevators to busy sidewalks, with agility and aplomb.

OPINION:: What. The. Fuck.

Am I the only person who is totally annoyed that “Crash” won as many Oscars as it did (not to mention, Best Picture)? Here are my 5 reasons:

1. A totally derivative film: “Grand Canyon” meets “Magnolia” with a dash of “Short Cuts” for good measure. Just obvious. L.A. angsty isolation with a predictable “everybody hurts” uplift. So how did it win for Best Original Screenplay?

2. These characters aren’t really characters – they are walking, talking stereotypes that talk polemically, as if they have something really profound to SHOUT to the world. Apparently in L.A., racial issues are just on everybody’s mind 24/7 and they just have to get it off their chest during every waking second (during sex, during a car drive, during work, at the hospital, in the movie studio, while waiting for the bus…). The movie just oozes with self-importance. It actually thinks it has something to say and is teaching you something.

3. Worse, the characters are not only stereotypical, they also speak of stereotypes in a way that is unnatural and forced (and usually while screaming). Example: “The closest you ever came to being black is by watching The Cosby Show” … “Why is it all you South Americans all park your cars on the front lawn?” And then there’s my favorite -- the crazy Korean woman driver: “I call Immigration on you!” A little subtle realism in the dialogue department could have helped; as it is, it’s all tell and no show.

4. Back to the derivative thing. The main song (that thankfully lost for Best Song to that Pimp song) sounds exactly like an Aimee Mann tune from the “Magnolia” soundtrack. Aimee Mann should sue for copyright infringement. Seriously.

5. Finally, it’s pseudo-profound. “In a city where no one ever touches each other, we just have to finally crash to make a connection.” Please. At best, “Crash” is a good 15 years behind the curve, a sort of rich man’s “Do the Right Thing.”

fiction:: SHUT UP AND BLOW ME

Below is one of Peter's last stories. Merry Christmas everybody...

He really didn't keep any pornography in his apartment. Except for two polaroids of two nude Japanese chicks whom his friend boned ten years earlier, there was none at all. There weren't any adult book stores that he knew of in his side of town and he couldn't find any listed in the Yellow Pages. Although, one time he did go up into a video store he discovered that was above a gay bar in his neighborhood, thinking that maybe there would be a section of straight stuff.

Jim felt really uncomfortable and unsure of himself when he asked the proprietor,

"Uhhh…do you have any man and woman magazines?"

"What?!" said the man.

"Do you have any....you know...women...you know…"

"No, I don't know."

Jim turned around and left.

Pornography was also really expensive, $25 for one of those magazines at 7-11 that are behind the counter, what a fucking rip-off. When Jim lived in Japan, he could go into a 7-11 and not only buy a great porno for two bucks that he could leaf through before buying, he could also look at nude photos of the chicks at the whore houses and read their profiles, so when he went, he could ask for them by name.

Getting it, paying for it, hiding it. It just seemed to be more of a pain in the ass than anything.

Jim wasn't going to buy a whole computer just to look at porn and whatever form it came in...magazines, videos...he'd eventually get tired of the faces and have to blow more money on new ones. And he hated having to put porn away after he was done beating off. It was a real chore.

The bottom line was, Jim didn't want to die and have his family find a porno collection when they were cleaning out his apartment. What would they think? What if his father was taking down pictures and accidentally bumped a panel and suddenly a ton of porn came tumbling down out of the ceiling on top of him and all over the floor?

No, Jim didn't want to leave behind any porn for his family to find, especially since Jim knew pornography was made to be found. When Jim was a kid, his older brother found his father's pornography collection. It consisted of a set of slides of women from World War II washing their breasts on a washboard (one of the women resembled his Aunt Babe), and a black and white film called Blonde Ecstasy which showed a woman in a bathing suit taking off her top, retying it in a different style and putting it back on, and repeating. Jim and his friends used to laugh about how dumb the movie was and crack jokes behind his dad's back, but it didn't stop Jim from firing up the projector when his parents left the house and he was by himself.

One day Jim was downtown and he noticed a flyer with XXX written on it. He picked it up, saw it was an ad for an adult book store, and decided to go.

He walked in and the guy behind the counter immediately asked for a dollar and Jim's book bag. Jim was surprised how clean everything was. He thought there would be jellybeans smashed in corners, itty-bitty pieces of pussy on the shelves, balled-up yellowed t-shirts and of course, a huge, sopping, wet, grey mop in the corner soaked in semen and bubbles. He browsed through the magazines, all shrinkwrapped, ending up in the DVD section. Chicks, dicks and price tags. Nothing new.

About ready to leave, a $15.99 DVD. rack caught Jim's eye. Not too bad, he thought. He remembered videos costing over $50. He decided on Shut Up and Blow Me, paid for it, got his bag. and walked out. He felt excited the whole train rides home, like he was on a date. Jim got home, put the disc in his DVD player, watched 26 chicks give head, backed it up to the one who he liked best and let her give him head, then took the dejected, guilty walk to his bookcase and put it away.

Jim repeated this three more times over the course of four days. Finally, he came to his senses and realized he could very easily die at any moment, and Shut Up and Blow Me would just be waiting for someone to find -- what would they think? ...that he was a child molester...that he was gay...that he was into bestiality?

Jim took it out of the bookcase, wrapped it in a plastic bag, went outside into the alley of his apartment building, and threw the DVD into one of the huge green dumpsters. He felt relieved as he was walking to the store: his apartment was cleaned out, and nobody would find anything if he died. Nobody would come to any false conclusions that he was some kind of pervert.

But it still irked Jim that he wasted $15 on five pulls. Then an idea came to him: Why not put Shut Up and Blow Me out by the mailboxes in the lobby in his apartment building?

There was a ledge under the mailboxes where everyone dumped their junk mail instead of throwing it away. It pissed Jim off, so he thought it would be funny to leave the DVD on the ledge, hide, and watch people's reactions while they were looking through their bills and suddenly noticed two girls smiling up at them with cum dripping from their chins.

Jim went back to the dumpster, found a metal hanger, fashioned it into a hook and fished out the DVD. He went into the lobby of his building, got a piece of discarded mail, went into his apartment, cut off the address off of the letter, glued it onto Shut Up and Blow Me, waited until around 4:30 when people would be coming home from work, went down into the lobby of his building, put the porno on the ledge under the mailbox wall, hid around the corner in the hall, and waited for people to come.

Jim didn't work so he had absolutely nothing better to do.

The first few people came in, got their mail, and didn't notice it.

The next guy came in, got his mail, and dumped some junk mail on top of it.

Jim waited until he left, went out, took the mail off and went back. The next two people did the same, so this time, Jim went out and propped it up against the wall so it couldn't be missed. Next, a woman came in, opened her box, noticed the DVD, picked it up, dropped it on the floor and shook her hands in the air. Jim covered his mouth and laughed. After she left, a guy came in, saw it on the floor, picked it up and looked at it, looked around, opened his briefcase, started to put it in, heard someone coming, winged it across the lobby, and awkwardly jogged out of the lobby.

Jim was having a good time. He thought it would be funny to put some Vaseline on the cover of the DVD, so when someone picked it up, they'd feel something gooey on their fingers. He put it back on the ledge and went up to his apartment. When he came down with the Vaseline, the DVD was gone.

A few days later, Jim came back to his apartment and there was an eviction notice slid under his door. It stated that there was a complaint from the Apartment Association Board stating he was harassing tenants by putting obscene materials in the lobby, and that the security camera caught him “fondling” himself while watching tenants' reactions to pornographic material displayed in mailroom area. “What a fucking lie...I wasn't jerking off!” Jim said to himself.

Later that day, Jim heard a knock on his door. He opened it up, a lady handed him a package and walked away without a word. It read “Apartment Association Board” in the upper corner. Jim tore it open ... wrapped in newspaper was Shut up and Blow Me, smeared with Vaseline. Jim yelled, "Hey lady, SHUT UP AND BLOW ME!" before she turned the corner.

Two weeks later when Jim's two brothers and father were in his apartment helping him pack up boxes and move, his brother Jeff lifted up a heavy box of books and the bottom broke out. The box burst; all of the books fell onto the floor. Shut and Blow Me landed by Jeff's feet.

in memoriam:: PETER

IN MEMORIAM:
PETER

1965-2005

Sadly, Peter killed himself last month just as he was on the cusp of his 40th birthday (his “actuality” is listed in September below). I don’t have much to say about this (a lie) except that I still don’t believe it (even though I went to the memorial service two weeks ago). I miss him slowly and gently, the way one does when remembering a favorite pet from a long ago childhood. There are pangs and waves and yet he is still with me in vivid memories and influences that will never really go away – and for that I am very grateful. I don’t really believe in death anyway – to me, Peter is obviously somewhere else in another form. Certainly in a better place, mentally, physically, and most of all psychically (and this is no rationalization).

Some things about Peter I’ll never forget:

He talked just like SNL’s Dennis Miller on News Update.

He insisted on calling “laptops” by what he claimed were their original names, “labtops.”

He wrote poems that weren’t really poems but long, surreal narratives that would have been perfectly suited for illustration by Daniel Clowes or Charles Burns.

He had the palest green eyes ever seen on a human being.

His voice remains on my answering machine with all its whining and support through some 17 messages I never bothered to erase.

He was a Charles Bukowski fan.

He did humorous imitations of people who pissed him off such as former bosses and a seriously bipolar therapist he visited only once.

He claimed he was six feet tall when he was obviously no more than 5'10.

He was never happier than going on summer fishing trips with his brothers and cousins (his exact words).

He tanned well, being part Hungarian, Italian, Welsh and 50% Swedish from his mother’s side.

He encouraged others to read their poetry at slams and avoided political jockeying that can happen there.

He wanted to learn ballroom dancing.

He practically lived at the library.

He had a cat named GUY from the sitcom “Frazier” – the French way.

He used to live in Japan and did some paintings there.

He had a love/hate relationship with pornography and sex.

He was an efficient, proficient cook.

He really knew how to economize without becoming miserly … for example, this summer he taught me the intrinsic beauty of KoolAid over sodapop.

His favorite movie was “Pulp Fiction.”

He could really ramble so sometimes you had to know when to put on the breaks (but he was usually gracious about it).

Last summer, at his rare suggestion, we went and saw “Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.”

He quit smoking on a dime.

He could, in spite of his defensive cynicism, be incredibly supportive and diplomatic, graciously sensitive in difficult situations, and verbally affectionate.

He loved his family.

Peter, I’m glad I got to know you … please talk to me. Take care, peace, namaste, and love.

Above photo: by Robert Mapplethrope, "Smoky Rose."

review:: PAMELA, or, VIRTUE REWARDED (18th century novel by Samuel Richardson)

NOTE: If you're going to use any of this for a term paper or whatnot (I'm referring to you "Birth of the Novel" English Lit students who come by at the end of every quarter -- like early March), please be sure to credit me. The bibliography/source information is at the bottom of this entry, along with internal quote information. ALSO: COMMENTS would be nice. Thanks.

Today’s readership is as likely to be divided in its view of Pamela and its eponymous heroine as the literary audience was in the 1740s. The work can be viewed as revolutionary in that it heralds a new era of famial relations that has a direct impact on how society is to be organized and governed. Put simply, the story is about a young women’s coming-of-age as she traverses class structure through her own virtue, wit, and stoic grace. In laborious detail, Pamela describes her experiences, actions, and thoughts at the hands of her nefarious master through her letters to her parents. Of course, the reader is fully aware that these are solely her interpretations, and it is perhaps Richardson’s own narrative device to have her write so many detailed letters exemplifying her virtue, as if Richardson himself were anticipating any doubt on the reader’s part. Would an artful liar be capable of such exacting detail? Would not the reader, at some point, put aside doubts and believe Pamela, if only for her thoroughness, consistency, and lack of contradictory evidence (i.e., the non-existence of an Editor’s correction)?

This is the gamble Richardson, in using this form, seems prepared to make, although serious criticism can be made in the heroine’s decision-making. If the revolutionary implications of lower-born women marrying up are to be accepted, one has to first flesh out the terms under which this change of custom is to happen. In order for the work to not be merely an apology for the trophy wife, Richardson has to establish Pamela, a prototype, as morally acceptable. Therefore, the first questions is, if Pamela is as virtuous and humble as he would have us believe, why does she return to Mr. B.? Having refused his bald proposal to be a kept woman is hardly the clearcut evidence of virtue many of us would demand of a heroine, especially since Mr. B’s change is so sudden and briefly introduced. We are to believe that Pamela’s forgiveness of Mr. B. is nearly instantaneous, and such a turnabout could be understood, in part, by the rather clumsy mechanics of the plot itself. Since Mr. B. is largely absent (an invisible hand and eye, as it were), he is exempt from direct action that would have made it highly improbable for the reader to accept Pamela’s forgiveness. As pointed out by Christopher Flint, “female surrogates … enact the more alarming depravities of Mr. B’s ‘plot” while preserving a semblance of ‘decency’ for him” (p. 502). This distancing of responsibility serves as a very limited mitigating factor, at least by today’s standards, although perhaps this was more than enough for Richardson’s 18th century readership. Nevertheless, there is always the lingering doubt that she could be, as Henry Fielding points out in his biting parody, Shamela, a particularly determined and greedy seductress, aiming much higher than the station of a kept woman.

On the other hand, if Pamela is, indeed, this disingenuous, there is never any direct evidence to it, and Richardson expects his readership to accept her characterization. There is, after all, nothing else to go on, and independent analysis must therefore rest on the heroine’s actions: Given freedom, she returns to Mr. B. on her own accord. This is problematic for the reasons stated above, and is curious because the plot could have gone in so many other directions so as not to leave into question this character’s motivations. For example, could Pamela not have returned to her parents and eventually gotten another position for another (non-Libertine) aristocrat (to whom she could eventually marry)? Virtue then, would still be rewarded, without the moral ambiguity haunting the work.

Is she really this naïve to think Mr. B. could change so suddenly and dramatically, as if her writings had the redemptive power of the Bible itself? Apparently, she is, and we as readers are expected to follow suit. For Richardson, reading is a transformative process for its characters and for us as a society. It’s no accident that Pamela’s Biblical knowledge runs throughout her correspondence, particularly in times of greatest distress (such as when she rewrites a Proverbs passage and likens herself to persecuted Jews in captivity), as well as less trying moments when she is grateful to Providence. Pamela may read a lot, but the literature that informs her writing more than any other is the Bible. Her reality, in this sense, if very flat, literal, and dichotomous: despondency/rejoicing, lost/found, shame/delight, poverty/riches, etcetera. There is very little middle ground, so that when Mr. B sees the errors of his ways (he is saved!) and importunes her return, that is all she needs. “How Times are alter’d!” she exclaims (Richardson, p. 276) not longer after that moment.

Her reactions are not entirely bipolar, however, because they do indeed reflect a dramatic godlike intervention – Mr. B’s total character reformation and subsequent marriage proposal – so that within weeks of contemplating suicide, Pamela is instead proclaiming, “… when I see that God has brought about my Happiness by the very Means that I thought then my great Grievance; I ought to bless those Means, and forgive all that was disagreeable to me at the time, for the great Good that has issued from it” (Richardson, p. 301). In other words, everything happens for a reason, and Pamela is not one to squabble over the details or hold resentments. Hardships brought by Mr. B were necessary for her writing which, in turn, changed Mr. B to someone who not only would ask her to marry him, but, more importantly (if we are to believe Pamela’s professed beliefs about love and marriage) changed Mr. B into someone she would now want to marry because he is now converted. She may also be someone Mr. B would love even more for her easy forgiveness of him is an attribute for a future wife. She does not hold grudges as do so many upperclass women Pamela’s kind threaten to replace.

Any perceived naiveté on Pamela’s part is put aside during the second part of the novel because Mr. B holds true to his change of ways. There is, however, an exchange to be made, and Richardson, through Mr. B, is quite forthright as to what those terms shall be. Pamela is in no way to shame or overshadow her husband, is to follow his expected schedule, and, in general, is to “stick to these old-fashion’d Rules” (Richardson, p. 369). His injunctions and, later, a laundry list of rules, are to be happily obeyed as if by divine rule, for he is “Master of his House” and therefore she is to be “facetious, kind, obliging to all” (Richardson p. 371). Pamela seems perfectly content with these conditions, and many would argue, somewhat erroneously, that the perky “saucebox” domestic servant seems all but replaced by a domesticated wife, seamlessly transitioning into her new role. The transformation is not nearly as dramatic as the one Mr. B has undergone, but is nonetheless striking and coincides with the practical, social imperatives of the novel’s second half: protocol, legality, and civil rules of marriage (in contrast to the protocol and rules for a servant lady – Pamela – of the first half).

During the second half of the novel, the directives are much more concrete and to the point, as opposed to the implied expectations of the exemplar Pamela in the first half. While Mr. B had previously indicated, somewhat cryptically, his distaste for the institution of marriage, much is revealed in the second half to explain Mr. B’s (and the novel’s) gender politics. We learn through the confrontation scene with Lady Davers and her letter to her brother of the characteristics of women of Mr. B’s world, characteristics he cannot bear: outspokenness, quarrelsomeness, boldness, and disrespect. Moreover, his history with his sister is conflicted, at best, and Mr. B later reveals that she was a domineering older sister who regularly vexed and teased him. This personality type coincides with his indirect description of aristocratic women in his “list of injunctions” speech to Pamela shortly after their marriage. Simply put, Mr. B finds aristocratic women too “uppity” and challenging.

That Mr. B would find a welcome companion in Pamela is only too evident in this context for as much as he was previously vexed by her rebellious behavior, Pamela’s rebellion was always only in response to infringements of her sexual (i.e., womanly Christian) virtue: “Her Meekness, in every Circumstance where her Virtue was not concern’d” (Richardson, emphasis added, p. 503). She had otherwise always been a dutiful servant. This is key because claims that Pamela was once a sort of outspoken feminist prototype in Part I do not hold water in light of this point. It’s indicative that once Mr. B realized the “correct formula” (“… I should have melted her by Love, instead of freezing her by Fear” Richardson, p. 209), he would have considerably less difficulty in finding a dutiful wife. It’s also very telling that Pamela continues of refer to him as “Master” long after their marriage for she is to be, literally, his servant wife, never able to muster “the Presumption to call him by a more tender Epithet” (Richardson, p. 348).

If Pamela’s previous rebellion can largely be seen as primarily in relation to her virginal Christian virtue (thereby making her rebellion limited), there are still hints that broader secular themes of the Enlightenment (such as dignity, freedom, protofeminism) are bubbling underneath. On a few occasions, she has quite a bit to say about status and place, not bothering to mince her words as to the folly of the rich and their twisted logic. Her vantage point is that of someone not of the aristocracy, although the novel can be described as suspiciously ambiguous regarding her birth status. Pamela is constantly describing herself as humble and undeserving (“I don’t serve these Things, I know I don’t” Richardson, p. 80), yet there are occasional hints of a “better birth” such as when Lady Brooks comments, “I never saw such a Face and Shape in my Life; why she must be better descended than you have told me!” (Richardson, p. 53). She has culture and wit, but this is largely attributed to the three years under governance of the Lady of the house. The most we know of her birth status is that she comes from “honest, industrious Parents, who lived tho’ the greatest Trials, without being beholden to anything but God’s Blessing, and their own hard Labour” (Richardson, p. 395). Tellingly, this point is repeated with great emphasis after the marriage, to Lady Davers, and then, not many pages after that, to Mr. B’s social circle.

Pamela, then, is of “fallen” stock, and yet her middle-class roots shine through and are even resurrected under the nurturing tutoring of the Lady of the house, Mr. B’s mother. This makes her total identity something of a patchwork anomaly: part luck (Providence granted her tutoring), part intrinsic beauty and wit (“quality” and natural talent), and part class origin. This trio of characteristics makes it difficult to put together a simple roadmap for Pamela’s ascent; there is no “one thing” that explains her ability to marry Mr. B in a socially acceptable way. Pamela may be a model, but not one too easily followed by others; it is as though Richardson himself were aware of the need for “quality” control. Certain unlikely circumstances have to come into play first for this is to be a quieter kind of revolution.

Most notable in this trilogy of prerequisites are repeated hints of her parent’s fallen station, so that there’s less of a distance between her and the aristocracy than there normally would be between servants and masters. Pamela is just different from Mrs. Jervis, Mrs. Jewkes, and Mr. Longman, et al., and this was not lost on the original Lady of the house who then provided her with the accoutrements of culture. This last development is a subtle hint that some people were just meant to rise above their station so long as their station is not too low to begin with. Certain hardworking, middle-class people are teachable and therefore mobile. It is almost accidental that Pamela is a servant in the first place; the majority of the novel, in the form of arguments and negotiation between her and Mr. B and, later, diplomatic actions toward a potentially censorious society, serves to correct this.

Pamela’s story is nevertheless revolutionary for it sets up the parameters for upward mobility through marriage via a set of rationales that author Samuel Richardson presents in direct challenge to his era’s mores and values. There’s no denying that “marrying up” was a radical, controversial concept then, however benign it may seem to modern readers. This change, however, is not as simple as one would think because it involves compromises not only between Pamela and Mr. B, but also between the interests of class and gender. Richardson, through his chara