Farewell to This Class

At the end of every semester comes a time for saying goodbyes. I always find this bittersweet in classes that I have enjoyed....to say goodbye not only to the class and the material, but to the person that I am now. We will never have these moments again.....we will have them unending. As of now, I am not registered for any Sexson classes next semester, a fact that leaves me uncertain and uneasy. I have made a point of attending his classes for the last year and a half of my academic career. How will we go on without the shaman, the enchanter, the maker of Kool-Aid? Today in class I found my answer.

It was us all along. The magic, the meaning, it was us.

At the end of the day, at the end of the story, our tempest, the magician removes all his powers to reveal this simple truth.....to reveal the illusion, the mystery and the magic. Dr. Sexson told us of this experience when he related the story of the woman on the plane. "I only meant to please you". I feel as if Dr. Sexson has been preparing us throughout the semester for the loss of this art, for the time when we would inevitably go on and become our own enchanters, magicians, and artists.

I want to say thank you to Dr. Sexson for making me excited about university classes after a first year of ultimate disillusionment and wanderings. I took an AP English class my last year in high school, and it wasn't until I found Dr. Sexson's classes that I felt that excitement to attend, that passion to analyze and dig deeper that I had experienced before. I have found this on my own, by my own means always, but finding it in a class has been somewhat more difficult. Thank you, Dr. Sexson, for that.

As always, I want to thank my fellow students for nothing more than being in this class. We always come together as a community (cult members....) even with the divisions of lowbrow and highbrow coming to the foreground. We were new and we were ancients. I love hearing Dr. Sexson mention one of those literary inside jokes from another class and hearing the kids who were there laugh out loud. =) I hope any students who were new to this class get to experience that in further Sexson classes. I've learned from you guys and laughed and even read of tragedies, all with you. I hope in all earnest that if we happen not to meet in classes again but fortuitously run into each other on the street that you will drop a line from Nabokov or the Four Quartets, or even Finnegans Wake *shudder* =) and we'll laugh at the connection. We really are highbrows now, aren't we? =)

Of all the courses I have taken from Dr. Sexson, this has not been my favorite. I do not mean to say this with any disrespect to the class or the materials. Beckett, for one, gripped me. Eliot was another. And I will say that this class was so multidimensional (thank you Rio) and full of great blogs and lectures, the whole nine yards. However, I can't shake Nabokov at all. I don't think I want to. I think I am very much still enchanted with that semester and those works, too in love to have room for more......(should I prescribe myself some kenosis here??).

As the semester draws to a close and I slowly and agonizingly cross essays and drawings and critiques off my list, I can't help feeling that I haven't had the time. I never have the time, as subjective as time may be. At times I feel tossed into a tempest, swirling and struggling to stay upright in the storm, loving every minute of it yet fighting to the last. (for something? against something?) Both. I want the time to really think about all of this. I want the time to have revelations and to struggle and to dig myself into the work and let it consume me for a while. I want the time to breathe a bit, the time to finish (or even start) all the works that are in my mind. I want the time to find out what I want to say in art. I want the time to write real thoughts, without the need for rush and time constraints. I want the busy and the calm. I want a paradox.

This is all becoming very stream-of-consciousness. Perhaps it's time to sum it up. Simply put, I'm just....happy to have experienced all this with you all and with the works and with our leader. If this is a cult, we are members for life.

"Oh, you took his class too, didn't you?"

Farewell and I'll see you around, undoubtedly. =)

Individual Presentations--Day Five

James--entertained and informed us with his very highbrow presentation of what he has been working with in regards to the tempest all semester. He wrote this quote on the board, "If I thought my answer were for one who might return to the world, this flame would return without further movement. But as none ever did return alive form this depth, without fear or infamy, I answer thee." (T.S. Eliot from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock). He spoke about Caliban as Cannibal. What does he eat? words, words eating words. Miranda is the art. This is not real!! Ariel is effected immortality. (see Nabokov quote at the end of Lolita)

Abby--read us the entirety of her beautiful paper about her experiences in this class. Abby, I don't know the "ins and outs" of this department either, and this is my third year..... =)

We talked today about our fifty point final exam for this course. I'm not sure what it's going to be about as most of the stuff we wrote on the board were broad concepts. If past experiences with final tests in Sexson's classes can be trusted, however, READ THE BLOGS!!! I'll see you all on Wednesday......and hopefully by then I will no longer be limping to class.

Individual Presentations--Day Four

Well I've changed my mind. I think I'm going to continue blogging on the individual presentations and only after they are complete, submit my final entry to this blog. Farewells are always bittersweet. We will never be in this place, literally or metaphorically, ever again. I don't feel it would be right to sum up a class that hasn't come to a close yet. With that said, here are the notes from today's individual presentations:

Erik--wrote about his experience with his broken ribs in relation to Beckett's character of Moran's suffering. He read to us a list he wrote that was, much like Beckett, poignant, humorous at times, and sad.

Caitlin--was inspired by the quote from a movie clip in the group presentations, "What we do in life echoes in eternity" she analyzed many of the themes in class in regards to movies.

Jon Orsi--said this class was ultimately close to a religious experience for him in regards to the revelations he has achieved this semester. Jon wrote the quote "If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite." by William Blake. He wrote on Jorge Luis Borges as well.

Zach Smith--wrote about the rose and the yew tree. He said these are like two sides of the same coin. Parts of infinity exist in life and life in infinity. only through life do we understand the infinite or need the infinite. He saw the image of the rose in his mind shadowed under the lofty branches of the yew tree. The yew tree, at first seems the noble one. Why would it allow the rose to live here? Then we see the rose, and life itself, as the noble and regal one, rather than the yew. Now we see that the yew protects life.

Shelby--what do I know now that I didn't before and her journey through highbrow literature. Highbrow literature may be perceived as a "snobbery of the literary elites" but it is really, "an obsession that cannot be helped"

Jennie Lynn--wrote about transmutation in Eliot's Quartets in relation to our transmutation while reading them. She spoke of their associations with the four elements and of Kenneth Graham's idea that there is a fifth element here, the idea of quintessence. Jennie says this quintessence is the reader. To isolate and know the meaning we must isolate and know ourselves. So our reading becomes a purification of self.

Craig Stephenson--talked about Hamlet, strangebrew, and Fishing with Ghandi. relating all these to a defense of the lowbrow.

Jennifer--sang us a song holding a candle flame in the dark as the sole source of illumination. Later, a thunderstorm appeared on the screen. As I understood it, her paper was on Eliot and god and the "spirit" that can be found therein.

Individual Presentations--Day Three

Here are some notes from today's individual presentations:

Lisa--performed a ribbon dance on metamorphoses and The Following Story

Zach Morris--performed a song he wrote involving the themes and imagery from the class

Rachel--wrote about dreams and The Following Story. She spoke about three major themes, the world as dream, life as fiction, and the 20 minute lifetime. Mussert's life is a dream and death becomes his reality. This is the mysterious mental maneuver.

Justin--wrote about the 5 themes in relation to several comic books, and read from his award winning poem! Congratulations!!

Thomas--plerosis and kenosis in relation to lowbrow and highbrow literature. He drew a straight line representing all literature starting with Everyone Poops and ending in Finnegans Wake. He says it's simply not that simple. Really, a circle should be drawn showing the relation of one to another on a continuum. Thomas also read to us the story of The Giving Tree.

These are all the presentations from today.... I know there will probably be more on Wednesday, but seeing as how that is our last blogging day, those presentations will not be listed in my notes. =( Still, congratulations to everyone on a job well done. and good luck on Wednesday!

The Dawn: Revelation in Darkness

We are happy and productive little worker bees, coming and going as we hum a simple tune, never deviating from our present course. We like our world, with its rules and obligations clearly set for us, where we don't have to confront greater dilemmas or search for ultimate truth. This is a world where everyone smiles, and such niceties as "Well, how are you today?" and "Oh, I'm doing well, and you?" are commonplace. We like to ignore...the darker side of life. There are times, however, when this great and terrible darkness can no longer be ignored. These are the times when we force ourselves to face everything we have abandoned, denied, and held back all of our lives. In Samuel Beckett's Malone Dies, the reader is held captive by the written word and forced to witness the death of a man. We have no protection from the horror of this sight, and to keep the fallacy of our happy world alive, we fall back on simple niceties--dismissal and denial.

As easy as it would be to dismiss the works of Beckett as dismal, dark, and depressing, this would be a mistake. What Beckett puts forth to us is a series of revelations achieved through kenosis. This emptying out of self is demonstrated through the suffering and decay of Malone, the central character. His plight is dreadful and horrific to witness, yet we must be this witness, in order to reach a core of deeper revelation within the ever-present darkness. What Beckett offers us is the meaning within the darkness in our lives. Through this emptying of self by the witnessing of Malone's degeneration, we are, paradoxically, filled. We are reborn.

The narrative starts out simply enough, with the words, "I shall be quite dead at last in spite of all" (179). Malone seems to have accepted his fate and proposes the telling of stories to pass the time before he dies. He, very clearly delineates four stories he will tell, followed by an inventory of his belongings. This overtly practical approach to his own death only serves to tell us of how close he is to life. He clings to the way in which he has lived, where the projected image of competency and calm must be maintained at all times, despite any pain and emotion on the part of the individual. Malone's final act is the creation of stories. He clings to his ability to create as the ultimate connection to his humanity. Why?

One must consider this need to create as a need for immortality, a need for one's existence to continue, no matter how wretched. Through the arts and the act of creation, we strive to combat our mortality, living forever in the mind of another. This, at first, does not seem to be Malone's aim in the completion of this narrative. He addresses the sacred task before him as a mere game, something to entertain him as he watches his body grow weak in decay. However, as we move a little further along in this process, despite himself, Malone says, "I have time to frolic, ashore, in the brave company I have always longed for, always searched for, and which would never have me" (193). Malone, unlike his fellow man does not attempt to combat his mortality through the written word. Rather, he seeks the recognition of a witness at the end of an unwitnessed life. Alone and destitute, he uses this immense godlike power of creation to form beings, fictional as they may be, to accompany him into death.

What does it mean, then, to create a living being in the form of written word? On the first level, this creation is pure fiction and therefore open to dismissal. After all, no matter how raw and burdening a story may be, in the end, we can simply say, "That wasn't real". So we must ask ourselves, what is real? Malone creates fictional characters who are not physically living and therefore are not real. In creating others, however, Malone is creating himself, for the only record we have of him is through the written word, through his manuscript he leaves behind. Malone himself is a creation, a fictional character from the mind of Beckett. One could argue that we, the reader, are modified or created anew through the process of reading and our connection with these fictional creations. Without art and without the process of generation through art, man does not exist. Our only immortality comes in our living on in the mind of another by means of the written word, by means of the creative force of their imagination and memory. The character of Humbert Humbert in Vladimir Nobokov's Lolita states, "And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita" (309). Humbert Humbert creates his enduring image of Lolita, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that man's only form of immortality is in "the refuge of art" (309).

Malone says, "I shall try and make a little creature [. . .] a little creature in my own image, no matter what I say. And seeing what a poor thing I have made, or how like myself, I shall eat it" (226). Here, parallels can be drawn to the ancient myth of Saturn devouring his children. The god who creates destroys his creations. This is hardly a new theme in the course of mankind. So, with the value of creation comes an accompanying power of destruction. The darker side of life emerges and must be recognized. Now comes the chilling thought: Malone creates these beings, gives them life through the written word, and ultimately murders them. He offers up his creations as sacrificial victims to accompany him into that ever-present darkness.

By creating the character of Lemuel who eventually murders his other creations, one could argue that Malone calls forth his own destruction, as he dies shortly after this. Lemuel, therefore, acts as a great avenging angel and agent of death. Why must his characters die, simply because Malone must die? At first, this seems a selfish act. Malone needs someone to go with him in the end, just as a small and frightened child needs a parent's reassuring hand to venture out in the darkness. Malone fears "the impending dawn. The impending dawn" (194). This dawn is the final revelation that occurs when one has succeeded in emptying oneself of self. When the man who would be the Buddha empties himself of all human experience, existing solely as an emaciated figure beneath the Bhodi tree, he finds his long-awaited enlightenment. Perhaps then the "white light" so many individuals experience as they fade into death is but the light of knowledge, or the epiphanic experience of ultimate truth. Can one ever know this truth without having passed through the darkness before it? I would argue that Malone's final act of destruction, through the body of Lemuel, is not a selfish act. Malone realizes that this eventual end, this light at the core of his suffering must be faced alone. Like a Christ figure, dismissing his disciples to wander alone in the garden of self, he goes out to meet the light at the end of his journey.

The record of Malone's plight, his exercise book, signifies not the mere setting for his wanderings, but rather the entirety of his existence. Malone implies countless times throughout this short narrative, that he has been alone in life. Even now, he dies completely alone, witnessed only by the viewer through the avenue of his words. He says, "all I ever had in this world all has been taken from me, except the exercise-book, so I cherish it, it's human" (270). When all the human dignities have been put aside, when Malone has nothing, he will still retain the one thing that makes him human, his ability to create. The exercise book itself is not only his creation but represents his life as a whole. Malone outright tells us, "This exercise-book is my life" (274). When the words run out, Malone will run out. Malone is made up of words as a fictional creation, and when the "Gurgles of outflow," the written word and his life-blood, cease to be, Malone will end (287).

From the initial words of this novel, the reader sits quietly in the room with death itself and watches, almost perversely, the destruction of a man. We are culpable participants in that by continuing our reading, we advance the story. We, the reader, are responsible for the suffering of this man. We are responsible for his inevitable demise. Our hands are far from clean in that respect. Beckett creates the experience by writing, effectively defining his readers even as he focuses on his characters. Through the act of reading, we are creating the figure of Malone; Malone then writes to create his own characters. This cycle of generation continues, unending. Even as Malone is emptied as the novel progresses, the reader is filled. We gorge ourselves on the act of creation. We fill our souls with this mortality, immortality, death, life, and light. An act of emptying, our reading, fills us up. "The render rent. My story ended I'll be living yet. Promising lag. That is the end of me. I shall say I no more" (283). Malone the individual dies, but Malone the creation, the construct, lives.

We cannot ignore the darkness in our narrative or risk losing the revelation. Not all awareness comes from darkness, but these epiphanies hit harder, last longer than those we gain unearned. These are moments in life wherein, rather than resisting the pain or sorrow, we must open ourselves up to that experience, allowing it to flay us alive. These are moments when something has to be felt, as difficult as this may be, in order that we may know ourselves. "The impending dawn" is our objective, but there cannot be a dawn and following day without the night that bears it.