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| The esteemed author, Nancy E. Turner |
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| The lovely book |
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Coolest Christmas Present EVER!!!
Okay, I must be the luckiest girl alive! In addition to all my other wondrous Christmas gifts, I received something that most people wouldn't find very cool but that I find amazing. Remember my list of favorite books from a couple posts ago? Well, my mom knew that I wanted my own copy of one of my favorites, "These is My Words." But she went the extra mile, to say the least. My last present Christmas morning was a small package sent from an address in Tuscon. I recognized the sender's name immediately: Nancy E. Turner! She is the author of "These is My Words," so I unwrapped the package with much excitement. Lo and behold, there laid a brand-new copy of the book, and it was signed by Nancy herself! The message read, "For Katie, Merry Christmas and all best wishes! 'Keep your eyes on the horizon . . . ' Nancy E. Turner, December 25, 2010." I kept the package as a souveneir and thanked my mom many times over. She has been Nancy's e-mail pen pal for a while (so jealous!) and apparently asked her to sign the book for me. I'm now rereading the book and enjoying it very, very much. Hooray for my mother, and hooray for Christmas!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Final Personal Narrative
Here's my final draft of my personal narrative. Hope you enjoy. :)
Knowing Dad
The postlude sent mellow reverberations through the chapel as I stood up from my seat. I elbowed my sister a signal to wait up for me and slid past her; I had a question for Dad. On my way to the organ, he threw in an impromptu scale in the bass line, and I chuckled. Just short of the stand, our teacher caught my eye and I reluctantly paused.
“Thank you for your comments today,” he said happily. “Very insightful.”
Modesty required a demure smile and shrug, and I answered, “Thank you for the lesson. Missionary Prep is always my favorite.” With an apologetic glance at the organ, I finished, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just have to ask my dad something.”
He did a double take. “Jon is your father?” he asked in mild surprise, barely waiting for my nod. “Really? I had no idea! Although, I guess I should have guessed—you look just like him.”
“Yes,” I rehearsed, “with the round face and dark hair . . .”
“That’s right,” he affirmed with enthusiasm. “Gee, what a great man he is! I’m always telling people how friendly President Pike is to everyone. And talented, too—those hymns today were amazing, weren’t they? He must work so hard, what with his job and church calling and position on the City Council and all. You are very lucky to have him as a dad.”
I turned in time to watch Dad make a registration change and a key change simultaneously.
“I know.”
* * *
A few days later, on our way to Pine Valley Reservoir for our Pike Family reunion, our Suburban took a slight detour. We were using directions from Mapquest (our first mistake). About fifteen minutes from Eden, where our condo was located, we missed a crucial left turn. It had come up faster than the instructions had made it sound. As soon as we passed it, our navigator, Mom, said, “Oh, shoot—I think that was the turn!”
“You think it was the turn?” cried my dad, who was driving.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.”
“Is that what the directions said?”
“I think so . . .” and she proceeded to read off the last few lines off the map. That was enough to convince my dad, but I knew from the way he lowered his head and stiffened his arms that there was no way he was going to make this easy.
“I think we need to turn around,” Mom admitted.
“We’re not turning around.”
A patience-gathering pause. “Look, I’m sorry I made us miss the turn. It was completely my fault. But I don’t know my way around up here—I won’t be able to get us there if we don’t go back.”
“You didn’t get us there the first time!” I couldn’t decide whether to snicker or cower at the jab; Dad hands out accusations like candy canes—not often, but with exuberance in the times he deems appropriate. In his defense, he’d been driving for six hours straight with six kids in the back quoting “Monte Python” and “Spongebob” the entire time.
“So what now—are we going to drive around the whole lake?”
“Yup.”
All apologies evaporated, Mom sat back in her seat for a long silence and an even longer drive. Even the ruffians in the backseat had the sense to shut up. I let things simmer for a minute until I caught Dad covertly searching for a shoulder wide enough for him to pull over and turn around. Not that he would have—he passed up a few good ones. But it was my signal that his defenses were weakening. So I threw on my casual voice and asked Mom if I could see the map. She handed it to me with a surrendering look, to which I replied with an “I got this” jerk of the head.
After a quick study of the directions, I said, “Yup—that was the turn, all right. Weird, how much shorter .7 miles is on the road than on paper . . .” The quiet that followed did not worry me.
“So how far is it around the lake, Daddy?”
“Probably another half-hour. Maybe more,” he grouched.
“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully. Then I waited again until his hands began to slack a bit.
“You know, Mom did say she needed some caffeine for her headache,” I mused after spotting a gas station posing as a cabin a quarter-mile ahead. “We could pull into that little station there to get Mom a Dr. Pepper and then turn around on our way out.”
“I’m okay,” Mom muttered sulkily at me. I gave her an apologetic/defensive shrug and waited for Dad to respond.
“We don’t need to stop,” he mumbled as we approached the gas station, and I wondered if I had lost after all. But then at the last second, he turned jarringly into the parking lot and flipped around towards the missed turn. Mom threw me a smirk the first time Dad checked his side view mirror.
Not another word was spoken until we had reached the outskirts of Eden, where Dad began pointing out old homesteads and routes to neighboring towns. By the time we pulled up to the condo, my dad was in high spirits, my sibs had returned to their usual rowdiness, and my mom looked ready to sigh of either relief or complete submission of will.
I didn’t remember to be smug about the incident until I caught Mom recounting the story of my coerciveness to my aunts later that night. She was a good loser—somewhere between admiring of and amused at my triumph.
“Well, we always knew she was her daddy’s girl,” Aunt Suzanne pointed out.
My head cocked at that; me, a daddy’s girl? Of course, I’d grown up hearing complete strangers say things like, “You must be Jon’s daughter,” but I’d assumed that the comments referred to our physical appearances. The appraisal of Suzanne’s had piqued my curiosity. So when my aunts had all been coerced away by clingy children or the dinner dishes, I sat down across from my mom, trying to look casual.
“So . . .” I started, “Sorry I had to steal your glory earlier.”
She shrugged and gave a willing smile. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m just glad someone was able to change his mind. Heaven knows I can’t always do it.”
I spared her a hurried chuckle and hinted, “I’m surprised I was able to.”
“I’m not,” she said, and I leaned forward expectantly. “You’ve always had a way with your dad.”
“I have?”
“Yes. He doesn’t always show it, but he has a soft spot for you. Of course, he has one for each of you kids, but you and he have always shared a special connection.”
This was all news to me. “Why—are our personalities similar? Or is it because I’m the oldest child like him? What is it?”
“Those things are probably parts of it,” she mused, looking almost as pleased to be giving these revelations as I was to be listening. “But you’ve been a daddy’s girl almost from when you were born. He was your main caregiver for the first year of your life, you know.”
I didn’t know. This was getting more interesting by the minute. “He was?”
“Yes, he was. I went back to my job just a couple months after you were born, and I had to travel out of town almost every week. Your dad stayed home and took care of you when I was gone, and you two got very, very close. So there was a special bond there from the very beginning.”
My mind began sifting through memories at top speed for evidence—was this all true? But it didn’t take much thought for me to realize what I’d always felt. I turned to my mom with only one more question left to ask.
“Where’s Dad?”
* * *
The closing credits of “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” climbed smoothly up the darkened T.V. screen. I glanced at the bed to see Dad carving a slice of cheddar with a finesse to match Chopin’s. “Hey, Scat-Kat,” he said after spotting me. “Whatcha doing?”
I moved to stand beside the bed. “Nothing. Just came to say ‘hi.’”
He hummed a satisfied reply and turned his attention back to the television. “You missed the movie,” he stated.
“That’s okay.” I took a seat next to him and laid an arm across his shoulder. “Love you, Dad.”
He tilted his head back to look at me. “I love you too, Sis.”
A smile sent my lip-corners rising.
“I know.”
Knowing Dad
The postlude sent mellow reverberations through the chapel as I stood up from my seat. I elbowed my sister a signal to wait up for me and slid past her; I had a question for Dad. On my way to the organ, he threw in an impromptu scale in the bass line, and I chuckled. Just short of the stand, our teacher caught my eye and I reluctantly paused.
“Thank you for your comments today,” he said happily. “Very insightful.”
Modesty required a demure smile and shrug, and I answered, “Thank you for the lesson. Missionary Prep is always my favorite.” With an apologetic glance at the organ, I finished, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just have to ask my dad something.”
He did a double take. “Jon is your father?” he asked in mild surprise, barely waiting for my nod. “Really? I had no idea! Although, I guess I should have guessed—you look just like him.”
“Yes,” I rehearsed, “with the round face and dark hair . . .”
“That’s right,” he affirmed with enthusiasm. “Gee, what a great man he is! I’m always telling people how friendly President Pike is to everyone. And talented, too—those hymns today were amazing, weren’t they? He must work so hard, what with his job and church calling and position on the City Council and all. You are very lucky to have him as a dad.”
I turned in time to watch Dad make a registration change and a key change simultaneously.
“I know.”
* * *
A few days later, on our way to Pine Valley Reservoir for our Pike Family reunion, our Suburban took a slight detour. We were using directions from Mapquest (our first mistake). About fifteen minutes from Eden, where our condo was located, we missed a crucial left turn. It had come up faster than the instructions had made it sound. As soon as we passed it, our navigator, Mom, said, “Oh, shoot—I think that was the turn!”
“You think it was the turn?” cried my dad, who was driving.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.”
“Is that what the directions said?”
“I think so . . .” and she proceeded to read off the last few lines off the map. That was enough to convince my dad, but I knew from the way he lowered his head and stiffened his arms that there was no way he was going to make this easy.
“I think we need to turn around,” Mom admitted.
“We’re not turning around.”
A patience-gathering pause. “Look, I’m sorry I made us miss the turn. It was completely my fault. But I don’t know my way around up here—I won’t be able to get us there if we don’t go back.”
“You didn’t get us there the first time!” I couldn’t decide whether to snicker or cower at the jab; Dad hands out accusations like candy canes—not often, but with exuberance in the times he deems appropriate. In his defense, he’d been driving for six hours straight with six kids in the back quoting “Monte Python” and “Spongebob” the entire time.
“So what now—are we going to drive around the whole lake?”
“Yup.”
All apologies evaporated, Mom sat back in her seat for a long silence and an even longer drive. Even the ruffians in the backseat had the sense to shut up. I let things simmer for a minute until I caught Dad covertly searching for a shoulder wide enough for him to pull over and turn around. Not that he would have—he passed up a few good ones. But it was my signal that his defenses were weakening. So I threw on my casual voice and asked Mom if I could see the map. She handed it to me with a surrendering look, to which I replied with an “I got this” jerk of the head.
After a quick study of the directions, I said, “Yup—that was the turn, all right. Weird, how much shorter .7 miles is on the road than on paper . . .” The quiet that followed did not worry me.
“So how far is it around the lake, Daddy?”
“Probably another half-hour. Maybe more,” he grouched.
“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully. Then I waited again until his hands began to slack a bit.
“You know, Mom did say she needed some caffeine for her headache,” I mused after spotting a gas station posing as a cabin a quarter-mile ahead. “We could pull into that little station there to get Mom a Dr. Pepper and then turn around on our way out.”
“I’m okay,” Mom muttered sulkily at me. I gave her an apologetic/defensive shrug and waited for Dad to respond.
“We don’t need to stop,” he mumbled as we approached the gas station, and I wondered if I had lost after all. But then at the last second, he turned jarringly into the parking lot and flipped around towards the missed turn. Mom threw me a smirk the first time Dad checked his side view mirror.
Not another word was spoken until we had reached the outskirts of Eden, where Dad began pointing out old homesteads and routes to neighboring towns. By the time we pulled up to the condo, my dad was in high spirits, my sibs had returned to their usual rowdiness, and my mom looked ready to sigh of either relief or complete submission of will.
I didn’t remember to be smug about the incident until I caught Mom recounting the story of my coerciveness to my aunts later that night. She was a good loser—somewhere between admiring of and amused at my triumph.
“Well, we always knew she was her daddy’s girl,” Aunt Suzanne pointed out.
My head cocked at that; me, a daddy’s girl? Of course, I’d grown up hearing complete strangers say things like, “You must be Jon’s daughter,” but I’d assumed that the comments referred to our physical appearances. The appraisal of Suzanne’s had piqued my curiosity. So when my aunts had all been coerced away by clingy children or the dinner dishes, I sat down across from my mom, trying to look casual.
“So . . .” I started, “Sorry I had to steal your glory earlier.”
She shrugged and gave a willing smile. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m just glad someone was able to change his mind. Heaven knows I can’t always do it.”
I spared her a hurried chuckle and hinted, “I’m surprised I was able to.”
“I’m not,” she said, and I leaned forward expectantly. “You’ve always had a way with your dad.”
“I have?”
“Yes. He doesn’t always show it, but he has a soft spot for you. Of course, he has one for each of you kids, but you and he have always shared a special connection.”
This was all news to me. “Why—are our personalities similar? Or is it because I’m the oldest child like him? What is it?”
“Those things are probably parts of it,” she mused, looking almost as pleased to be giving these revelations as I was to be listening. “But you’ve been a daddy’s girl almost from when you were born. He was your main caregiver for the first year of your life, you know.”
I didn’t know. This was getting more interesting by the minute. “He was?”
“Yes, he was. I went back to my job just a couple months after you were born, and I had to travel out of town almost every week. Your dad stayed home and took care of you when I was gone, and you two got very, very close. So there was a special bond there from the very beginning.”
My mind began sifting through memories at top speed for evidence—was this all true? But it didn’t take much thought for me to realize what I’d always felt. I turned to my mom with only one more question left to ask.
“Where’s Dad?”
* * *
The closing credits of “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” climbed smoothly up the darkened T.V. screen. I glanced at the bed to see Dad carving a slice of cheddar with a finesse to match Chopin’s. “Hey, Scat-Kat,” he said after spotting me. “Whatcha doing?”
I moved to stand beside the bed. “Nothing. Just came to say ‘hi.’”
He hummed a satisfied reply and turned his attention back to the television. “You missed the movie,” he stated.
“That’s okay.” I took a seat next to him and laid an arm across his shoulder. “Love you, Dad.”
He tilted his head back to look at me. “I love you too, Sis.”
A smile sent my lip-corners rising.
“I know.”
Monday, December 6, 2010
Evaluative Conclusion
Well, it's been an interesting first semester here at BYU and in my Writing 150H class. This has been my first experience with a blog, so I've had to learn a few things. First of all, I learned that blogging is neither as hard nor as strange as it sounds--maybe I'll keep blogging in the future. I learned about visual rhetoric and how it can apply to blogs--which fonts are readable, what colors are most attractive, and most importantly, to include lots of pictures (which is something I've improved in). Theme, I've found, is also important to blogs, so I've tried to keep within my chosen theme of the written word for most of my blog. I've learned how to "follow" people on blogs and how helpful it can be to listen to comments on your work online (it's convenient that way). Although I've had my frustrations with the blog (namely that it won't let me cut and paste from Word documents on my computer--grrr!!!), I would say that it has been a positive experience overall. So blog on, world! :)
Slightly new direction on my paper
So I know you're all just dying to hear even more about my "Wuthering Heights" paper, so here goes. I met with my English professor today to discuss what I had of my paper so far. To make a long story somewhat shorter, she wants me to shift the direction of my paper. Instead of talking about Catherine' wicked nature and how she makes everybody miserable in general, she wants me to bring everything in to focus ultimately on how Catherine's death benefits Cathy and Hareton. I can still include most of my stuff on Heathcliff and the Lintons, but my paper will still be quite different than I'd originally planned on. Even though it's going to take more work that I had hoped, I appreciated my professor's input and willingness to meet with me individually. I'm excited to finish the paper and see how my changes will (hopefully) affect my grade in a positive way.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Yet another paragraph . . .
There will only be one more paragraph after this one, I promise.
Of all of Catherine's bad character traits or lack of good ones, there are several that would have made her a very poor parent. Although Catherine does seem to possess the positive qualities of an active mind and, to some extent, loyalty, her spitefulness is quite pronounced and her religious ethics virtually nonexistent. More importantly, however, are Catherine's extreme and often demonic passions, especially when comes to her obsessions (such as Heathcliff and herself). William A. Madden points out that Cathy may have inherited some of this from her mother: "[Nelly] describes the second Catherine as having a capacity for intense attachments 'which reminded me of her mother,' the important difference being that the younger Catherine's love is 'never fierce,' but rather 'deep and tender' (155)." This difference between Catherine and Cathy is significant--possibly the main reason that Cathy ultimately succeeds and finds happiness in her life while her mother does not. However, if Catherine had lived long enough to assist Edgar in raising their daughter, her example to Cathy would likely have taken its toll. Cathy's trait--what Madden called her "capacity for intense attachments"--has the potential to become the similar but more wild and ferocious trait of her mother's, and likely would have if Cathy had been exposed to it. Because Catherine passes away so quickly after her daughter's birth, however, Cathy never has the chance to pick up this vice, and therefore escapes much of the drama and heartache that the vice caused Catherine.
Of all of Catherine's bad character traits or lack of good ones, there are several that would have made her a very poor parent. Although Catherine does seem to possess the positive qualities of an active mind and, to some extent, loyalty, her spitefulness is quite pronounced and her religious ethics virtually nonexistent. More importantly, however, are Catherine's extreme and often demonic passions, especially when comes to her obsessions (such as Heathcliff and herself). William A. Madden points out that Cathy may have inherited some of this from her mother: "[Nelly] describes the second Catherine as having a capacity for intense attachments 'which reminded me of her mother,' the important difference being that the younger Catherine's love is 'never fierce,' but rather 'deep and tender' (155)." This difference between Catherine and Cathy is significant--possibly the main reason that Cathy ultimately succeeds and finds happiness in her life while her mother does not. However, if Catherine had lived long enough to assist Edgar in raising their daughter, her example to Cathy would likely have taken its toll. Cathy's trait--what Madden called her "capacity for intense attachments"--has the potential to become the similar but more wild and ferocious trait of her mother's, and likely would have if Cathy had been exposed to it. Because Catherine passes away so quickly after her daughter's birth, however, Cathy never has the chance to pick up this vice, and therefore escapes much of the drama and heartache that the vice caused Catherine.
Here's another paragraph
Here's the next paragraph from my "Wuthering Heights" essay. (By the way, if anyone reads these and thinks, "Geez, she has crappy introductions and conclusions to her paragraphs," they are right. I'm bad at coming up with those, which is why I haven't done it yet in any of the paragraphs I've posted. I promise I will fix them all, although I can't guarantee they'll be a ton better.)
Catherine's love for Heatcliff serves him better in death than while she was living. "In Catherine's eyes, there is no possibility of abandoning Heathcliff, because the foundation of their bond is insensible to empirical reversals. She can treat him badly without alienating him; she even has to treat him badly in order to demonstrate the indissoluble nature of their love" (Phillips 99). Perhaps Catherine's poor treatment of Heathcliff could have been overlooked if she had shown consistent love to him as well, but she does not even give Heathcliff preference over a man that she married primarily for his status. The only time in her adulthood that she expresses love to Heathcliff is just before she dies, and even this experience is tainted for Heathcliff by his knowledge that she has been "cruel and false" (Bronte 159) to him for years. It is only in her death that Catherine gives Heathcliff hope (probably false, but hope nonetheless) that she would have chosen him over Edgar at last, had she survived. It also seems that Catherine spends more time with Heathcliff with her haunting than she spent with him in her adult life. Though she never visually appears to Heathcliff, she does, at least in part, visit him "night and day, through eighteen years--incessantly" (Bronte 278). In short, Heathcliff has a much stronger belief in Catherine's love for him in the years after her death than he ever did while she was living.
Catherine's love for Heatcliff serves him better in death than while she was living. "In Catherine's eyes, there is no possibility of abandoning Heathcliff, because the foundation of their bond is insensible to empirical reversals. She can treat him badly without alienating him; she even has to treat him badly in order to demonstrate the indissoluble nature of their love" (Phillips 99). Perhaps Catherine's poor treatment of Heathcliff could have been overlooked if she had shown consistent love to him as well, but she does not even give Heathcliff preference over a man that she married primarily for his status. The only time in her adulthood that she expresses love to Heathcliff is just before she dies, and even this experience is tainted for Heathcliff by his knowledge that she has been "cruel and false" (Bronte 159) to him for years. It is only in her death that Catherine gives Heathcliff hope (probably false, but hope nonetheless) that she would have chosen him over Edgar at last, had she survived. It also seems that Catherine spends more time with Heathcliff with her haunting than she spent with him in her adult life. Though she never visually appears to Heathcliff, she does, at least in part, visit him "night and day, through eighteen years--incessantly" (Bronte 278). In short, Heathcliff has a much stronger belief in Catherine's love for him in the years after her death than he ever did while she was living.
My favorite books
I was just thinking that I shouldn't be able to get away with keeping a blog about the written word without making even a short list of my favorite books. So here are a few of the many, many, MANY books that I adore:
- "The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak (apparently they're making it into a move--I'm so excited!!!)
- "Peace Like a River" by Leif Enger
- "These is My Words" by Nancy E. Turner
- "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini
- "A Girl Named Zippy" by Haven Kimmel
- "Fire of the Covenant" by Gerald N. Lund
- And, of course, the Book of Mormon
Another paragraph
Here is another paragraph from my "Wuthering Heights" paper (I really need to think of a title . . .) :
Catherine's most destructive personality trait was almost certainly her egocentricity. Although there are many instances of her self-centeredness throughout the story, one of the best examples may be found when Catherine tells Nelly that she has decided to marry Edgar Linton. When Nelly asks Catherine why she loves Edgar, Catherine gives the very telling answers of, "Because he loves me" (Bronte 77) and, "[H]e will be rich, and I shall like to be the greatest woman in the neighborhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband" (Bronte 78). This, along with Catherine's admittance that she also loves Heathcliff, makes it quite obvious that Catherine is marrying Edgar for very selfish reasons. It is this choice that brings multiple repercussions to the Linton family. First, because Heathcliff flees into a storm during Catherine's announcement to Nelly that she is to marry Edgar, Catherine searches for him outdoors and falls ill. It is when Mr. and Mrs. Linton take Catherine into the Grange that they, too, become sick and pass away. Catherine marrying Edgar was also detrimental to Edgar himself; he had "a deep-rooted fear of ruffling her humor" (Bronte 91) even in the happiest times of their marriage. Not to mention the appalling displays from Catherine after Heathcliff's return: locking the two in the room together, insisting that they part friends or come to blows, and "dashing her head against the arm of the sofa, and grinding her teeth" (Bronte 118), for instance. Even Isabella Linton is not immune from Catherine's narcissism--it is to spite Catherine that Heathcliff ever marries Isabella in the first place, and this marriage is at least as disastrous as Edgar and Catherine's. As Marianne Thormahlen stated, "It is [Catherine's] self-love that sets the disastrous chain of events in motion. Catherine dies half-way through the book, but not before she has indirectly killed her benefactors, the Linton parents; destroyed the lives of the two men who love her; [and] brought ruin and misery to her sister-in-law" (187).
Catherine's most destructive personality trait was almost certainly her egocentricity. Although there are many instances of her self-centeredness throughout the story, one of the best examples may be found when Catherine tells Nelly that she has decided to marry Edgar Linton. When Nelly asks Catherine why she loves Edgar, Catherine gives the very telling answers of, "Because he loves me" (Bronte 77) and, "[H]e will be rich, and I shall like to be the greatest woman in the neighborhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband" (Bronte 78). This, along with Catherine's admittance that she also loves Heathcliff, makes it quite obvious that Catherine is marrying Edgar for very selfish reasons. It is this choice that brings multiple repercussions to the Linton family. First, because Heathcliff flees into a storm during Catherine's announcement to Nelly that she is to marry Edgar, Catherine searches for him outdoors and falls ill. It is when Mr. and Mrs. Linton take Catherine into the Grange that they, too, become sick and pass away. Catherine marrying Edgar was also detrimental to Edgar himself; he had "a deep-rooted fear of ruffling her humor" (Bronte 91) even in the happiest times of their marriage. Not to mention the appalling displays from Catherine after Heathcliff's return: locking the two in the room together, insisting that they part friends or come to blows, and "dashing her head against the arm of the sofa, and grinding her teeth" (Bronte 118), for instance. Even Isabella Linton is not immune from Catherine's narcissism--it is to spite Catherine that Heathcliff ever marries Isabella in the first place, and this marriage is at least as disastrous as Edgar and Catherine's. As Marianne Thormahlen stated, "It is [Catherine's] self-love that sets the disastrous chain of events in motion. Catherine dies half-way through the book, but not before she has indirectly killed her benefactors, the Linton parents; destroyed the lives of the two men who love her; [and] brought ruin and misery to her sister-in-law" (187).
A paragraph from my "Wuthering Heights" paper
I've almost finished what will probably be the most complicated paragraph in my "Wuthering Heights" paper. Here it is:
Cathy and Hareton benefit in more than one way from the effects of Catherine's death on Heathcliff. Patsy Stoneman makes a crucial connection between Heathcliff's love for Catherine, his death, and Cathy and hareton in her article:
After twenty years of comtemplating 'one object, and one form', Heathcliff confesses to Nelly that he has lost motivation for his revenge against young Catherine and Hareton (pp. 392-3); in the next chapter he is dead. The crucial scene is in the penultimate chapter, when Heathcliff comes in upon Hareton and young Catherine reading together. 'They lifted their eyes together . . . their eyes are precisely similar, and they are those of Catherine Earnshaw' (p. 392). . . . Their resemblance to his Catherine merely confirmed his outraged sense of loss[.] (532)
Most readers quickly find it obvious that Catherin is the reason that Heathcliff has a desire to die. This quote, however, makes it clear that Catherine is also the reason that Heathcliff is able to release his obsession with revenge and make himself die. When he sees Catherine's eyes in Cathy and Heathcliff, he is reminded of his love for her and decides that his desire to be reunited with her surpasses his desire for revenge. Although in the ideal situation (or at least as ideal as one could imagine in this particular story), Heathcliff would have come to this realization twenty years earlier, it's easy to see that his death is certainly advantageous in the lives of Cathy and Hareton. With Heathcliff gone, they lose the corrosive influence of Heathcliff's temperament and gain both the Heights and the Grange. So, although the effects were much to long in coming, Cathy and Hareton certainly benefited indirectly by the death of the first Catherine.
Cathy and Hareton benefit in more than one way from the effects of Catherine's death on Heathcliff. Patsy Stoneman makes a crucial connection between Heathcliff's love for Catherine, his death, and Cathy and hareton in her article:
After twenty years of comtemplating 'one object, and one form', Heathcliff confesses to Nelly that he has lost motivation for his revenge against young Catherine and Hareton (pp. 392-3); in the next chapter he is dead. The crucial scene is in the penultimate chapter, when Heathcliff comes in upon Hareton and young Catherine reading together. 'They lifted their eyes together . . . their eyes are precisely similar, and they are those of Catherine Earnshaw' (p. 392). . . . Their resemblance to his Catherine merely confirmed his outraged sense of loss[.] (532)
Most readers quickly find it obvious that Catherin is the reason that Heathcliff has a desire to die. This quote, however, makes it clear that Catherine is also the reason that Heathcliff is able to release his obsession with revenge and make himself die. When he sees Catherine's eyes in Cathy and Heathcliff, he is reminded of his love for her and decides that his desire to be reunited with her surpasses his desire for revenge. Although in the ideal situation (or at least as ideal as one could imagine in this particular story), Heathcliff would have come to this realization twenty years earlier, it's easy to see that his death is certainly advantageous in the lives of Cathy and Hareton. With Heathcliff gone, they lose the corrosive influence of Heathcliff's temperament and gain both the Heights and the Grange. So, although the effects were much to long in coming, Cathy and Hareton certainly benefited indirectly by the death of the first Catherine.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Graduation Sonnet
With finals coming up, I've been thinking a lot about my high school graduation a few months ago. For our AP Literature class, we were asked to write a sonnet about our feelings associated with our graduation. I'm going to post mine to my blog for old times' sake.
Winebibber
Though no robes smolder black, I feel as if
I'm at a fun'ral. Ev'ry row is lined
with youth I'll never see again, forthwith
approaching their last viewing in this time.
No man speaks ill about the dead lest he
adds a "God bless;" so are the vulgar hailed
comedians and those with courtesy
giv'n halos this day. Strange that wine or ale
may have the same effects as Memory;
all three grow spirited as they ferment
and make Us silly. Such kind trickery
allays the grief of our last shared event.
I wish you'd weep at leaving me behind,
But rest in peace--as long as I have wine.
Winebibber
Though no robes smolder black, I feel as if
I'm at a fun'ral. Ev'ry row is lined
with youth I'll never see again, forthwith
approaching their last viewing in this time.
No man speaks ill about the dead lest he
adds a "God bless;" so are the vulgar hailed
comedians and those with courtesy
giv'n halos this day. Strange that wine or ale
may have the same effects as Memory;
all three grow spirited as they ferment
and make Us silly. Such kind trickery
allays the grief of our last shared event.
I wish you'd weep at leaving me behind,
But rest in peace--as long as I have wine.
It's Christmastime!
I'm going to interrupt the "business" side of my blog for the sake of Christmas, the only reason I'm going to survive finals. Here are a few of my favorite things about Christmas:
- The music (especially the MoTab and Harry Connick, Jr)
- Making gingerbread houses
- Christmas trees--I love the smell of pine and sneaking upstairs really early in the morning to just look at the tree like I'm about three years old
- The food (I could go on forever here)
- The movies (my favorites being, "The Grinch," "It's a Wonderful Life," and almost every version of "A Christmas Carol")
- Wrapping presents while talking to my mom
- Singing in my family Christmas concert
- Being with my family
- And most importantly, thinking of Jesus Christ
Wuthering Heights paper
For my English 251 class, I have to write a paper on "Wuthering Heights." I decided that my argument will be that the death of Catherine (the first) is actually a beneficial event for every main character in the story. I also have a basic outline of the paper with an introduction, a body listing reasons that Catherine's death is a good thing for the characters of Edgar and Isabella Linton, young Cathy, Hareton, Heathcliff, and even herself, and then a conclusion. I plan on posting bits and pieces of my paper as I write them, so if you have any opinions, feel free to comment.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
I chose one
I picked a story and expanded it. It's not finished yet--it's missing an intro and conclusion--but it's got the main body. Here it is:
On our way to Pine Valley Reservoir for our Pike Family vacation in summer 2010, we had a slight detour. We were using instructions from Mapquest (our first mistake). About fifteen minutes from Eden, where our condo was located, we missed a crucial left turn. It had come up faster than Mapquest had made it sound. As soon as we passed it, our navigator, Mom, said, “Oh, shoot—I think that was the turn!”
“You think it was the turn?” cried my dad, who was driving.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.”
“Is that what the directions said?”
“I think so . . .” and she proceeded to read off the last few lines of the map. That was enough to convince my dad, but I knew from the way he lowered his head and stiffened his arms that there was no way he was going to make this easy.
“I think we need to turn around,” Mom admitted.
“We’re not turning around.”
A patience-gathering pause. “Look, I’m sorry I made us miss the turn. It was completely my fault. But I don’t know my way around up here—I won’t be able to get us there if we don’t go back.”
“You didn’t get us there the first time!” I couldn’t decide whether to snicker or cower at the jab; Dad hands out accusations like candy canes—not often, but with exuberance in the times he deems appropriate.
“So what now—we going to drive around the whole lake?”
“Yup.”
All apologies evaporated, Mom sat back in her seat for a long silence and an even longer drive. Even the ruffians in the backseat had the sense to shut up. I let things simmer for a minute until I caught Dad covertly searching for a shoulder wide enough for him to pull over and turn around. Not that he would have—he passed up a few good ones. But it was my signal that his defenses were weakening. So I threw on my casual voice and asked Mom if I could see the map. She handed it to me with a surrendering look, to which I replied with an “I got this” jerk of the head.
After a quick study of the directions, I said, “Yup—that was the turn, all right. Weird, how much shorter .7 miles is on the road than on paper . . .” The quiet that followed did not worry me.
“So how far is it around the lake, Daddy?” (I’d gotten into the habit of calling him that a month before because it tended to get me places.)
“Probably another half-hour. Maybe more,” he grouched.
“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully. Then I waited again until his hands began to slack a bit.
“You know, Mom did say she needed some caffeine for her headache,” I mused after spotting a gas station posing as a cabin a quarter-mile ahead. “We could pull into that little station there to get Mom a Dr. Pepper and then turn around on our way out.”
“I’m okay,” Mom muttered sulkily at me. I gave her an apologetic/defensive shrug and waited for Dad to respond.
“We don’t need to stop,” he mumbled as we approached the gas station, and I wondered if I had lost after all. But then at the last second, he turned jarringly into the parking lot and flipped around towards the missed turn.
Not another word was spoken until we had reached the outskirts of Eden, where Dad began pointing out old homesteads and routes to neighboring towns. By the time we pulled up to the condo, my dad was in high spirits, my sibs had returned to their usual rowdiness, and my mom looked ready to sigh of either relief or complete submission of will.
I didn’t remember to be smug about the incident until I caught Mom recounting the story of my coerciveness to my aunts later that night. She was a good loser—somewhere between admiring of and amused at my triumph.
“Well, we always knew she was her daddy’s girl,” Aunt Suzanne pointed out.
My head cocked at that; me, a daddy’s girl? Of course, I’d grown up hearing strangers say things such as, “You must be Jon’s daughter,” but I’d assumed that the comments referred to our physical appearances. The comment of Suzanne’s had piqued my curiosity. So when my aunts had all been coerced away by clingy children or the dinner dishes, I sat down across from my mom, trying to look casual.
“So . . .” I started, “Sorry I had to steal your glory earlier.”
She shrugged and gave a willing smile. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m just glad someone was able to change his mind. Heaven knows I can’t always do it.”
I spared her a hurried chuckle and hinted, “I’m surprised I was able to.”
“I’m not,” she said, and I leaned forward expectantly. “You’ve always had a way with your dad.”
“I have?”
“Yes. He doesn’t always show it, but he has a soft spot for you. Of course, he has one for each of you kids, but you and he have always shared a special connection.”
This was all news to me. “Why—are our personalities similar? Or is it because I’m the oldest child like him? What is it?”
“Those things are probably parts of it,” she mused, looking almost as pleased to be giving these revelations as I was to be listening. “But you’ve been a daddy’s girl almost from when you were born. He was your main caregiver for the first year of your life, you know.”
I didn’t know. This was getting more interesting by the minute. “He was?”
“Yes, he was. I went back to my job just a couple months after I’d given birth to you, and I had to travel out of town almost every week. Your dad stayed home and took care of you when I was gone, and you two got very, very close. So there was a special bond there from the very beginning.”
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