The Fallow Garden

So, this is the paper that almost killed me and then kind of brought me back to life. I'd like to make it better, but even if I can't I'm glad I wrote it.

The Fallow Garden: “Soft Determinism” in East of Eden

The moral philosophy of John Steinbeck is inextricably connected with his landscapes. As a California author, he is an example of Jan Goggans’ theory, “Because of California’s highly dramatic and highly volatile relationship with the landscape, and a population as large as it is diverse, California literature is generally unable to escape some kind of mark left by the environment.” Steinbeck’s landscapes are as detailed and accurate as they are impressionistic and symbolic, and they play an integral role in the lives of his characters. Literary critics have expressed both amazement and frustration with how his personal philosophy of man’s connection with nature appears in his novels. In particular, his advocacy of “nonteleological” thinking, or seeing what “is” rather than what is “desired,” has been identified within landscapes throughout his oeuvre. John H. Timmerman observed that, “Nonteleological thinking also forms a sort of premise for Steinbeck’s environmental ethic, since it requires that one see the thing as it is, disinterestedly, rather than through the framework of personal, or interested, use” (320). However, the undeniable impact of the physical and social environment on Steinbeck’s characters poses a thorny question: does the environment reflect his characters’ agency or take it away?

In “Steinbeck on Man and Nature: A Philosophical Reflection,” Richard Hart called Steinbeck’s philosophy “soft determinism” and identified it as “stemming from nonteleological thinking.” He explains that “In Steinbeck’s work we witness the intersection, the complementarity, of the determinism of nature and man’s freedom of existence…philosophically and aesthetically, Steinbeck can be both an environmental determinist, broadly construed, and a “humanist” whose characters illustrate strong ethical qualities of choice and action” (49). Steinbeck’s “big book,” East of Eden, throws into sharp focus the “nonteleological thinking” and “soft determinism” he espoused. Because so many of Eden’s landscapes are agricultural, they provide ample opportunity to analyze his depiction of men’s relationship with the land. As the most continuously present character in East of Eden, Adam Trask’s relationship with his farm is a valid case study for Steinbeck’s overarching presentation of the conflict between environmental determinism and moral agency. This paper will analyze two aspects of that presentation: first, Steinbeck’s placement of Adam’s relationship with the land in the context of actual nineteenth century farmers, and second, Steinbeck’s use of other characters’ relationships with their farms as a foil for Adam’s. An analysis of both stylistic choices clarifies that although Adam’s failure as a farmer reflects the influence of the social and physical environment, it also reveals mankind’s potential to direct their own destiny.

Many of Adam’s failings as a farmer allude to and are emphasized by social and economic issues incidental to agriculture in the Salinas Valley during the early twentieth century. In particular, his initial Edenic idealization of California and subsequent absentee-ownership of his land, his failure to access water resources, and his attempt to ship refrigerated lettuce all deal with contemporary agricultural dilemmas in the Salinas Valley. It might seem that by attributing to Adam failures experienced by a significant percentage of Salinas Valley farmers, Steinbeck is suggesting that he was swept off his feet by history and never had the chance to succeed. However, Steinbeck repeatedly demonstrates that Adam’s inability to succeed parallels environmental dilemmas, it stems from his personal decisions. Adam has many apparent advantages as a farmer and still does not succeed. In the end only barely manages to create an opportunity for someone else by passing the land to his son Cal. Adam’s failings as a farmer may at first appear to be simple historical criticism; however, they are in fact a powerful and integrous validation of the human spirit.

Adam Trask’s desire for Eden parallels that of many early twentieth century migrants to California in that it is socially induced and ends in dismal failure. However, Steinbeck clearly illustrates that Adam’s disillusionment with his land stems not from any weakness in the environment but his inability to separate his personal dreams from the reality of the Salinas Valley. The reader is introduced to the popular myth of California agriculture’s Eden-like qualities in chapter two, as Steinbeck narrates, “When people first came to the West…and saw so much land to be had for the signing of a paper and the building of a foundation, an itching land-greed seemed to come over them. They wanted more and more land—good land if possible, but land anyway” (12). Steinbeck’s description closely parallels that of a 1974 geographic survey, which commented, “[California] is the never-never land of contemporary American mythology…the California lifestyle has been sugarcoated, packaged, and marketed to the world as a thing part, a destiny with a difference” (452). Tellingly, the ideal of California includes “destiny,” a direct contradiction to Steinbeck’s advocacy of nonteleological philosophy. It seems logical, then, that Steinbeck’s portrayal of Adam seeking such a deterministic future is followed by the negative consequence of his dreams’ implosion.

The “itch” for California’s “destiny with a difference” comes to Adam in chapter ten as a distraction from his failed attempts to develop a close relationship with his brother Charles. Quoting mythic hearsay about the Sunshine State, he tells his brother that the solution to their loneliness and frustration is to move to California: “Look, Charles, things grow so fast in California they say you have to plant and step back quick or you’ll get knocked down”(102). Louis Owens succinctly diagnosed the root of this idealism when he wrote, “Like Adam Trask…Steinbeck’s characters often fail to see the real world they inhabit, being at least partially blinded to the actual landscape by the dreamscape of their own illusions. In Steinbeck’s fiction Eden becomes the primary metaphor for the illusions that cut man and woman off from the fallen world where lives are actually lived” (78). Owens accurately suggests that Adam’s desire for the “Eden” of California has blinded him to the reality of his own life. To appreciate the level of Adam’s delusion, the reader must consider that he has never taken full responsibility for a farm; on the contrary, after five years as soldier he re-enlisted rather than return home. He does not even appear to understand his own motivations, as evidenced when he cannot answer Charles question, “Sure you can raise [wheat]. But what will you do with it?” (102). If Adam’s teleological thinking is his own responsibility, he must also be responsible for its danger. This is foreshadowed in the following exchange: when Samuel Hamilton, a figure of wisdom and an experienced farmer, presents the paradoxes of agriculture in the Salinas Valley—for example, the soil is fertile but cannot retain water—Adam only wants confirmation that it will be a “pretty good place to live.” When Samuel predicts the valley’s bountiful future says, “You make it sound like a good place to settle. Where else could I raise my children with that coming?” Again and again, Adam displays a desire to know the “fate” of the land rather than what it would require to succeed there; when Samuel begins to discuss an ominous “black violence” that he senses in both that land and its people, Adam displays obvious distress at the implication that his Eden might fall, and quickly leaves the conversation to return home (145). The absence of a specific motivation for his Adam’s dream reflects a visionary blindness endemic to the wave of would-be landowners who flooded California in the early twentieth century; however, Steinbeck’s illustration of Adam’s illogical optimism is personal rather than social.

Further emphasizing the personal nature of Adam’s dream is his willfully ignorant identification of his wife, Cathy, as the “Eve” to his Eden. Cathy is clearly not a virtuous woman; in fact, Steinbeck’s portrayal of her resembles nothing so much as a devil. Her behavior points to a serpent much more than Adam’s devoted counterpart. Discussing Cathy Ames’ appearance, Louis Owens wrote, “Cathy’s resemblance to a serpent must be obvious to anyone reading such a description, and to ensure that we do not miss the satanic suggestion, Steinbeck adds: Her feet were small and round stubby, with fat insteps almost like little hoofs” (East of Eden, 63-64)” (Mirror, 20). Steinbeck draws clear parallels between Adam’s refusal to consider the logical drawbacks of his plans for the ranch and his unwillingness to see beyond Cathy’s dishonesty—when introduced to his first neighbor in California, Samuel Hamilton, Adam justifies what Samuel calls “indulging [himself] with water,” by saying, “Look, Samuel, I mean to make a garden of my land. Remember my name is Adam. So far I’ve had not Eden, let alone been driven out,” and describes Cathy’s role in his vision, exclaiming, “You don’t know this Eve. She’ll celebrate my choice. I don’t think anyone can know her goodness” (167). Samuel recognizes the danger of the blind love behind Adam’s wild and uniformed passion for the ranch, and comments that as a friend he should “hold it up to you muck-covered and show you its dirt and its danger. I should ask you to think of inconstancy and give you examples” (169). But Samuel cannot yet bring himself to destroy Adam’s illusion, and so it remains powerfully intact. It is only halfway destroyed when Cathy shoots Adam in the shoulder and leaves home, her twins crying for food. Here, what Owns referred to Adam’s “dream-like” relationship with the land becomes apparent once again: just as Adam cannot quiet leave his dream of Cathy, he cannot quite leave the ranch. He becomes instead “that fallow man” who lets his land go untended and become degenerate along with his soul (293). It is only when Samuel reveals Cathy’s, now Kate’s, job as the mistress of a whorehouse that the Adam’s idea of her godlike nature is pulled into ugly mortality and he can leave his love for her, and the ranch, behind. Because Adam’s love for the ranch is informed by his idolatrous view of Cathy, when he loses his illusion of her he also loses any affection for the land. Soon after the revelation of her wickedness Adam moves his sons into town and begins a new, farmless life.

The choices Adam makes that allow his land to either prosper or die are further illuminated through Steinbeck’s illustration of contrasting attitudes towards farming in Cal and Charles. Adam’s close association with these characters reveals that his choices are not inevitable: faced with similar dilemmas, Charles chooses a different form of self destruction and Cal symbolically leaves the novel with the potential to both develop a productive relationship with the ranch and become an enlightened nonteleological thinker. Through the foil of these character’s relationships with the land, Steinbeck develops the pursuit of enlightenment through a harmonious relationship with the landscape described in a critical review of David Wyatt’s “The Fall into Edenic Landscape and Imagination in California”: “Not that his work is dominated by local” the review explains, “rather, it is consistently and deliberately concerned with drama that is uniquely human. Yet, he portrays his characters as constantly seeking—but almost never finding—the possibility of “shared ecstasy,” and he typically images this impasse as the failure to share love in a garden (p.126). The pursuit of “love in a garden,” or a fulfilling relationship with the land based on an acceptance of moral agency, shapes Adam’s interactions with his brother and his son.

Charles’ loveless loyalty to his fathers’ farm demonstrates that although deterministic thinking can result in a materially productive relationship with the land, it will be emotionally unfulfilling. Charles’ behavior towards his farm displays a paradoxical desire for love and inability to claim it. Although he makes the land more productive than it has ever been, he repeatedly expresses his loneliness, spends none of the money he earns and refuses to clean his own house. When Adam suggests that he capitalize on the fruit of his labors by traveling or making the farm more comfortable, Charles yells, “I want you out of here! I want you off the place. I’ll buy you or sell you or anything. Get out, you son a bitch—I guess I don’t mean that last. But goddam it, you make me nervous” (105). This outburst comes in stark contrast to Adam’s longing for travel; however, it also contrasts with Charles’ previously expressed passionate desire for company and unhappiness with his situation. Charles’ self-limiting behavior suggests that although he is not blinded by the illusion of Eden, he is afraid to accept his ability to determine his own destiny. His lifestyle of “savage filth” may very well enable him to avoid acknowledging that he could be loved but chooses not to. In this light, his inability to enjoy his immaculate farm parallels his faithful trips to anonymous prostitutes. He clearly needs a woman in his life, but is “abysmally timid of girls,” and so takes his women as a physical commodity rather than a potentially committed relationship (44). Charles’ willingness to work long hours and perform difficult physical tasks may mask an inner terror that his expectation of rejection will be fulfilled, and thus a lack of confidence in himself that prevents him from making the leap to a nonteleological worldview.

This interpretation of Charles’ “savage filth” and continuous farm-work is supported by his reaction to rejection as a child. Steinbeck initially introduces the reader to Charles from Adam’s perspective: physically intimidating and powerful but mortally afraid of his own weakness. When young Adam wins an inconsequential game and Charles gives his brother a brutal, remorseless beating, Adam realizes that “he must never win unless he was prepared to kill Charles. Charles was not sorry. He had very simply fulfilled himself” (East of Eden 23). Violence and superiority are such integral parts of Charles’ identity that when his father begins to favor Adam he loses all self-control and, with it, self-confidence. After describing Cyrus’s dismissal of a birthday gift from Charles and display of joy over a less expensive gift from Adam, Charles exclaims, “You’re trying to take him away! I don’t know how you’re going about it,” and unleashes a torrent of mindless violence towards his brother. The source of this violence, a mortified realization that his father does not love him as well as his brother, ultimately leads Charles to conclude that his is unlovable. Here Steinbeck’s allusion to a biblical parable illustrates the dire consequences of teleological thinking. As suggest by Wright, Cyrus, like God in the account of Cain, was motivated by Charles’ violence: “Rather than deal with Charles’ behavior directly, Cyrus begins showing Adam signs of preference, behaving gently toward him, punishing him no more” (39). However, rather than questioning his father’s wrath, Charles appears to feel hopelessly condemned. He chooses not to confront his father about the situation, and instead spends the rest of his life on the farm convinced that is not capable of being loved.

Ironically, the sacrifice of his own life to the false God of his father’s condemnation further illustrates Charles’ ability to make his own decisions: In Richard Hart’s article on Steinbeck’s philosophy, he includes a quote from Conder cited in an article by Bloom,

Man’s possession of instinct roots him in nature [makes him part of nature], but he is different form other things in nature, as Steinbeck makes clear by describing in Chapter 14 [in The Sea of Cortez] man’s willingness to “die for a concept,” as the “one quality [that] is the foundation of Manself…distinctive in the universe.” And this emphasis on man’s uniqueness in nature, so inextricably related to his will, in turn limits the scope of the novel’s historical determinism. (48)

In order for Charles to continue supporting his protective illusion of qualitative difference, he must sacrifice his own life to environmental determinism, and accept what his father and the land give him without acknowledging the possibility that he could be loved.

Adam’s bequeathing of the ranch to Cal and Cal’s passion for the land demonstrate that negative historical context can only be overcome through an acceptance of personal responsibility. Like Adam and Charles, Cal must decide whether or not his fate has been determined: in this case, whether or not he will become his like his violent and wicked mother Cathy. He is so afraid that he is, metaphorically speaking, cursed by his parentage, that he comes very close to the futile self-destruction experienced by Charles and Adam. His desire to re-make himself outside of the mold of his mother and feel loved by his father results in his well-intentioned misuse and eventual successful reclaiming of the ranch in the Salinas Valley. Although Cal originally intends to work the land himself, representing Steinbeck’s theme of moral individualism, Will Hamilton capitalizes on the boy’s desire to prove he is worthy of Adam’s love and convinces him to enter into a business deal that profits at the expense of other Salinas Valley farmers. In doing so he falls victim to what John H. Timmerman describes as the antithesis of Steinbeck’s environmental ethic: “Nonteleological thinking also forms a sort of premise for Steinbeck’s environmental ethic, since it requires that one see the thing as it is, disinterestedly, rather than through the framework of personal, or interest, use” (320). Also like Adam and Charles, Cal is disillusioned by experiencing rejection: when the money that he earns by misusing the land buys not his father’s love, but condemnation, it temporarily destroys Cal’s hopes of becoming good and loved. In a rage comparable to Charles’ when he beat Adam, Cal forcibly shows his rigidly innocent brother Aron the truth about their mother. In the ensuing chain of events, Cal temporarily loses all connection to the land and humanity. However, unlike Charles, Cal’s story does not finish with self-imposed torment, and unlike Adam, Cal’s ability to acknowledge the desires for both cruelty and kindness allows him to move beyond his disillusionment. Despite Adam’s abandonment of the ranch, Cal repeatedly comments that he would like to live there and make it fruitful. He displays affection for the land that encompasses more than Charles’ unhappy productivity or Adam’s unrealistic ambition, particularly when he visits the ranch with Abra, the girl that he loves, and celebrates its beauty by laying plans for a lifetime of work and pleasure. In the final chapters of the novel, Cal achieves the possibility of a successful ranch and finally gains the redemptive knowledge that his father wants him to choose his own destiny. Adam has lost his ability to farm, but he does not destroy the land’s inherent potential: when, on his deathbed, he bequeaths the land to his son Cal, he symbolically “passes the torch” nonteleological thinking and its potential to make the ranch successful. In forgiving Cal for causing his brother Aron’s death and simultaneously giving him the ranch to make things grow, Adam sacrifices his sense of loss at the death of his son and restores new life to the potential of a choice-driven man-and-nature relationship. In The Fall Into Edenic Landscape and Imagination in California, David Wyatt explains, “A garden made, given and marred in the receiving has to be redeemed by an act of sacrifice that transvalues the human capacity for acceptance and the very nature of the gift.” Thus, Adam’s destruction of Eden must be repaired by abandoning his former way of thinking and living and finally embracing nonteleological thinking to the extent that he can accept his son’s potential for both good and evil.

Adam’s failure to make his land grow represents a failure to let his life grow; however, just as he is the precursor to his son’s farm, he is also the precursor to an independent, non-teleological life. Although his defeated by his own propensity for the blind idealism so popular in early twentieth century agriculture, it is a personal rather than a collective defeat, and when he returns the land to his he ensures the survival of both the land’s potential and the ability to recognize it. However, despite the fact that this analysis suggests a significant amount of thought on the part of Steinbeck, its value for the reader must be clarified.

At the very least, the connection between nonteological thought and agriculture offers an increased understanding of Steinbeck: an insight into the philosophy Kenneth Pellow describes in his review of Wyatt’s Fall into Eden:

Literature of the West, but especially that of California, is controlled by the “experience of landscape.” California writers are even more captivated by a “sense of place” than most, and they return to this “garden but briefly held” in repeated patterns of simultaneous discovery and fall (42-43).

Undoubtedly the landscape of East of Eden is significant, and Pellow succinctly identifies Steinbeck’s use of the landscape in the novel. However, Steinbeck himself records in his Journal of a Novel that although landscape was part of the novel, it was never the purpose: “It was my intention to give an impression of the valley rather than a detailed account—more a sense of it than anything else. This book is not about geography, but about people” (15). What, then, is the value in understanding man’s relationship with the land? The answer is found in the beginning of chapter 13, in a manifesto that Keith Farrell identified as the appearance of Steinbeck’s motivation for describing what man’s relationship with nature could and should be. Following a description of the “glory” Adam finds in his flawed vision of Cathy, Steinbeck writes,

I don’t know how it will be in the years to come. There are monstrous changes taking place in the world, forces shaping a future whose face we do not know. When our food and clothing and housing all are born in the complication of mass production, mass method is bound to get into our thinking and eliminate all other thinking…some nations have substituted the idea collective for the idea God. This in my time is the danger. And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the human individual human is the most valuable thing in the world (130-31).

These lines mark Steinbeck’s tangible declaration that men’s relationship with the land, with the source of his sustenance, is the root of his relationship with God and, more significantly for Steinbeck, the root his relationship with himself. The potential fruits of the nonteleological worldview are the ability to see the reality of land and the moral courage required to take ownership of one’s life.

Works Cited

Farell, Keith. The Voice of the Land. New York: M. Evans and Company, Inc., 1986. Print.

Owens, Louis. “The Mirror and the Vamp: Invention, Reflection, and Bad, Bad Cathy Trask.” East of Eden. Writing the American Classics. Ed. James Barbour and Tom Quirk. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1990. 235-56. Web. November 2010.

Goggans, Jan. “California at the Point of Conflict: Fluvial and Social Systems in John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and Joan Didion’s Run River.” Interdisciplinary Studies of Literature and the Environment. 17.1. 2010. Web. 5-22. 10 December 2010.

Hart. Richard E. “Steinbeck on Man and Nature: A Philosophical Reflection.” Steinbeck and the Environment: Interdisciplinary approaches. Ed. Susan F. Beegal, Susan Shillnglaw, and Wesley N. Tiffney, Jr. The University of Alabama Press, 1997. Print. 43-53.

Heavilin, Barbara A. “Steinbeck’s Exploration of Good and Evil: Structural and Thematic Unity in East of Eden.” Steinbeck quarterly 26.3-4. Muncie, Indiana: Department of English at Ball State University, 1993. Print.

Owens, Louis. “A Garden of My Land: Landscape and Dreamscape in John Steinbeck’s Fiction.” Steinbeck Quarterly. 23.3-4. Muncie, Indiana: Department of English at Ball State University, 1990. Print. 78-88.

Pellow, C. Kenneth. “David Wyatt, The Fall Into Edenic Landscape and Imagination in California.” Steinbeck Quarterly. 22.1-2. Muncie, Indiana: Department of English at Ball State University, 1986. Print. 42-44

Steinbeck, John. East of Eden. Centennial ed. New York: Penguin Books, 2002. Print.

Steinbeck, John. Journal of a Novel. New York: Viking, 1969. Print.

Timmerman, John H. “Steinbeck’s Environmental Ethic: Humanity in Harmony with the Land.” Steinbeck and the Environment: Interdisciplinary approaches.

The Love of Life

Warning: this is a long essay. It was for my Critcial Writing, and it's about Washington Irving's short story "The Widow and Her Son," and how love is good. yup. : )

Love of Life

            Washington Irving’s short story “The Widow and Her Son” (93-99) illustrates the life-giving power of a loving relationship with God.  A Revolutionary-War-Era author, Irving wrote “The Widow” in the early 19^th century when the United States was just beginning its search for literary, moral and religious identity. The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. is a collection of short stories and essays including “The Widow” that record Irving’s continuation of that search. Using the traveling narrator Geoffrey Crayon, Irving voices a critical analysis of British citizens’ personal values, attempting to determine what benefits society and what does not, and addresses his ideas in part to America’s ideologically young society. This analysis of personal values is particularly apparent in “The Widow,” where Crayon witnesses the death of a beloved son and the different, revealing reactions to this extremity of life. Through describing the power of a widow’s relationship with her son to overcome death, Irving suggests that a sincere, loving relationship with God can overcome the temporal nature of mortality and involves unconditional love and the sacrifice of worldliness.

The allusion in the Epigram of “The Widow” signifies that the Widow’s love for her son and the Son is expressed through honor and reverence and frames the story within the significance of familial relationships. Quoting from Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine, Irving writes, “Pittie old age, within whose silver haires Honour and reverence evermore have rain’d” (93). Honor can be defined as a keeping all of one’s commitments, and reverence denotes a respect for things that are sacred or that pertain to God. In Tamburlaine, the protagonist’s failure to honor his familial relationships and commitments is followed by the death of his worldly success, his abuse of God’s sacred word, and ultimately his separation from the divine. In relation to “The Widow,” this quote suggests that the incredible endurance of the Widow’s love for her son relates and in some ways enables her love of God. However, if the Widow does not renege on either of these relationships, why does Irving suggest that we “pittie old age”? This phrase foreshadows the increasing the significance of the Widow’s steadfast love as the sketch develops—Crayon discovers that this elderly woman not only lacks wealth and material goods, but that she has lost her husband and now faces the loss of her son.  He writes, “the sorrows of the poor…the sorrows of the aged…these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation”(96). Irving acknowledges that the Widow, although she is possessed of both honor and reverence, will continue to feel grief. This confirms that her love has continued beyond the grave and by extension implies that her relationship with God will also outlast death.

Irving’s allusion to George Herbert’s “Virtue” denotes that the Widow’s love will also outlast the grave because it is virtuous.  The allusion comes within the first paragraph of the sketch, when Geoffrey Crayon describes the country landscape using lines from George Herbert’s “Virtue.” “Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky” (93). Although this quotation seems like a straightforward way to praise and indicate the sacred nature of the fields and farms, the next line in the original text lends itself to a more complex set of implications. Herbert writes, “The dew shall weep thy fall to night; For thou must die.” The poem as a whole states that ultimately, everything beautiful will die, save virtue: “Onely a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season’d timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.” These final lines in “Virtue” describe the final victory of virtue over death. Virtue’s triumph influences the interpretation of  “The Widow’s” conclusion, when the woman has lost everything she cared for in this life but still displays a “pious, though broken heart” (98). When she passes into the next life, Crayon feels happy for her: “I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never parted” (99). He rejoices that she has received salvation, the reward of a virtuous soul, but he does not write that he rejoices because she was virtuous: his happiness comes because she had loved on earth, and so will continue to do so after death. This allusive substitution of loving relationships for “virtue” suggests that the two terms are closely related, and elucidates Crayon’s characterization of the Widow as someone who loves completely and yet is virtuous beyond the grave of those she loves—her behavior indicates that someone who can maintain love for a family member through sickness and death will also be more capable of loving God in the extremities of existence.

Expanding on the idea that a virtuous soul’s relationship with God will continue beyond death, Irving uses contrasting imagery from the landscape surrounding the town and the church the Widow attends to indicate love’s humility and simplicity.  The sketch begins with the previously mentioned quote from Herbert’s “Virtue,” which describes the natural environment surrounding the small village. It may appear that the original context of the poem suggests the eventual death of the landscape because in the poem, nighttime brings death to the sky and the earth’s “bridal relationship.” However, this metaphor displays the inevitable death of all relationships based on impermanent factors (the sun’s presence in the sky). Recording the environment’s response to the Sabbath, he writes, “The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has its moral influence; every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel the natural religion of the soul springing up gently within us” (93). This moral significance, or even behavior, indicates that the natural environment becomes sacred (or belonging to God) because of the way it responds to His presence. This description of the naturally sacred environment is in direct contrast to that of the old Church building, which, according to Crayon, is “shadowy…mouldering…dark…reverend with the gloom of departing years” (93). These adjectives associate the building with secrecy, death, and history’s ability to weigh down on the present. The melancholy, presumably once beautiful chapel has come to represent the mortal death of earthly pride. The significance of these images becomes clearer in the next paragraphs, when Crayon describes the inhabitants of the church as “wealthy and aristocratic…glittering,” and the widow as possessing “the lingerings of decent pride” (94). He explains that “her dress, through humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean.” This comparison between the Widow and congregation further indicates that what separates the life-sustaining natural world from the life-ending church is their response to sacred things; nature’s appearance and response to God on Sunday, like the Widow’s, are genuine and simple, while the church’s and its congregation are ornate and artificial.

The Widow’s humble sacrifice of everything in her life for the love of her son alludes to the parable of the Widow’s mites, and provides a metaphorical precursor to the Widow’s ultimate demonstration of love for God.  Describing the Widow’s loss, Crayon writes “When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her” (96). The Widows in both bible and this sketch are creatures who have lost all earthly wealth. They have lost the great love and support of their husband, they are alone in the world, and they are dangerously poor. Nevertheless, they choose to sacrifice their hearts to the Savior. This is demonstrated in the bible when the Widow gives all that she has in her possession—two mites—to the Church, taking regardless of her own welfare. Irving’s widow has already demonstrated her willingness to sacrifice by dedicating her life to helping her dying son. Crayon records, “His mother was his constant attendant, and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand” (97). When the boy to whom this woman has given the strength of her old age dies, the reader might expect the Widow to feel frustration with him or with God, or at least to give up on any further attempts at showing love. However, the Widow instead demonstrates her willingness to sacrifice for her love by appearing at church. Crayon describes a “struggle between pious affection and utter poverty…” (98). Although the Widow does not even possess proper mourning attire, she does her very best to demonstrate her love for her son and, through him, the love of the Son of God.

Although Irving describes his sketch as a “humble tale of affliction,” the virtue evident in the Widow’s profound humility and self-sacrificing love for her son gives a powerful example upon which American society could model its cultural values. Today, Washington Irving’s portrayal of the Widow appeals to audiences on both sides of the Atlantic in large part because she embodies humble, self-sacrificing love and devotion, which are now indeed cultural values. The allusions in this sketch direct the reader to the importance of relationships in the ability to overcome the weakness and temporal nature of mortality, while the images create a sharp contrast between the woman whose life has been devoted to her son and God and the other proud, emotionally closed members of her congregation. Irving’s text paints the portrait of a woman whose significance and longevity are greater than those of the Church where she worshipped: “this living monument of real grief,” writes Crayon, “was worth them all” (98). Although the Widow suffers the inevitable pangs of mortal death, Irving reassures the reader that her love will continue beyond mortality: “I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never parted” (99). In the end of life, the Widow’s willingness to sacrifice herself for her relationships to her son and God will allow her to eternally live in love. 

The Apple

So...this was a paper I just finished for my Critical Reading class on how my religion affects my reading. Enjoy : ) (p.s.: I know that "the fruit" probably isn't an apple. It was a style/cultural relevance based choice.)

The Apple

Many Christian religions view Eve’s acceptance of the fruit and knowledge of good and evil as a cardinal sin. Some of those claim that her sacrifice of innocence for understanding has damned the entire human race to suffer from inherited flaws and desires for wickedness. LDS doctrine suggests an alternative perspective – by allowing knowledge to change the way she viewed herself and the world, Eve unlocked literally vital parts of her own humanity. Today, I gain knowledge by reading: C.S. Lewis wrote, “In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself.” In selecting which literature to embrace, I, like Eve, must choose between conflicting commandments: my church directs me to grow in knowledge and wisdom, but also to avoid that which is false and could harm my spirit. Following either one of these directives requires me to define truth and the process of gaining knowledge, and then gauge which texts uplift and which degrade.  In response to my modern-day apple paradox, I choose to accept literature that falls both within and without my personal moral code.

            My personal religious background has been shaped not only by LDS doctrine, but the examples of my parents. I was raised in a Latter-day-saint home, and I have received education from the Church for my entire life, from achievement days to Relief Society. These programs have exposed me to and taught me a love of the word of God and spiritual truth. However, my parents have also taught me to look for spiritual truth in many forms. I was twelve years old when my Dad left the church and separated from my Mom, and for years my loss of certainty in both familial structure and religion caused me to cling reflexively to “non-negotiable truth.” I was afraid to embrace literature that suggested truth is relative or disagreed with any of my foundational religious assumptions: God’s existence, people’s fundamental goodness, etc. I was afraid to experience patterns of thought that might change me beyond recognition and (by extension) hurt the people I love. However, despite my deeply rooted fear of ideological uncertainty, I eventually realized I could not solve my apple paradox by ignoring books that I didn’t agree with. I recognized that authors disagree about important questions, but so do Bishops, Professors, and most of the people that I respect and trust, and concluded that although universal truth exists, personal experience limits each individuals’ understanding of it, and the only way to overcome those limits is to learn from each other.

In order to become “perfect” and fulfill my promises to God, I try to expand my understanding through the experiences of other people.  In Doctrine and Covenants 93:36 the Lord states, “the glory of God is intelligence,” and commands his children to “seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom.” These directives suggest that there is value in learning from other people and pursuing vicarious intellectual experience. Although I must indeed seek the “best books,” I cannot expand my intellectual or spiritual horizons by ignoring ideas that do not agree with me: if I conclude that a character is simply inhuman and therefore irrelevant to me, I lose any understanding I might have gained by studying his behavior. Neither can I assume that an author shares my moral sensibilities. I may believe that all humans have some good or redeeming quality, but if I focus my interpretation of a work on a search for a character’s virtue, I preclude the possibility that he has none, and risk missing a text’s central question entirely.

If I cannot limit what I read to what I agree with, then how can I decide what the “best books” are? As a young woman I was continually taught to avoid “degrading media influences” that would damage my spirit and my relationship with God. Moroni 7:16 sheds light on the decision making process:

For behold, the spirit of Christ is given to every man that he may know good from evil; wherefore, I show unto you the way to judge; for every thing which inviteth to do good, and to persuade to believe in Christ, is sent forth by the power and gift of Christ; wherefore ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of God.

For me, the “spirit of Christ” represents a kinship that all men share, regardless of their moral persuasion. Because of this spiritual connection, the societal depiction of literature as “other” (or belonging to people lesser than or separate from the general population) is false: any honest depiction of human life and human interaction is worthy of study and could bring me closer to men and God. The difficulty, then, lies in determining whether literature is “honest.” If the truth of each man’s experience is different, how can one man judge the truth of another’s story? I cannot answer for every situation, but I have found that my ability to absorb a specific text informs its value to me almost as much as the truths inherent to its pages. Ultimately, the surest test for me of literature’s value is whether or not it increases my ability to understand and form connections with other people and other texts.

The belief that one Father created all men in his image and that every member of the human race shares an inherent spiritual kinship allows me to expand my understanding of humanity by embracing texts that might otherwise remain alien. In a 1993 Ensign article, Julie Okazaki wrote, “we are all connected, even if it is in a pattern that only God sees.” Significantly, Sister Okazaki states that we may not be able to see how other people relate to us; our connection is not evidenced through the similarity of our lives.  I believe this connection is apparent in mankind’s ability to conceptualize and react to an experience foreign to them. Although a text may challenge my belief, if I do not concede its possibility I lose the opportunity to reconsider my beliefs and gain new insight into life. In a continuation of his previously quoted statement, C.S. Lewis stated, “[In reading great literature], as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself, and am never more myself than when I do.” Like Eve, in order to unlock the potential of my own humanity, I must make a conscious decision to learn from others. In doing so, I must cautiously attempt to judge a text’s potential influence on me for good or evil, and recognize that in understanding one you must appreciate the other. My judgments will be imperfect and temporary and nonetheless vital. If do not learn to understand and incorporate into my life new beliefs and insights, my education has failed to change me, and I have failed my primary purpose. 

Works Cited

Lewis, C.S. An Experiment in Criticism. London:  Cambridge University, 1961. Print.

Okazaki, Chieko N., “Cat’s Cradle of Kindness.” Ensign, May 1993, 84. Web. 13 October 2010. 

honors 292r respsonse

Jessie Riddle

Honors 292R

October 31, 2009

Dr. Kenneth R. Miller

            Dr. Miller’s lecture on evolution and the debate surrounding scientific education in the United States gave me a reason to think, and also reminded me that I greatly admire Charles Darwin and his philosophies.

            As a student at BYU in several biology courses, I have lots of questions on a daily basis about the process of speciation in the history of the world, and how that relates to what I believe. I see the ‘evolution’ of the landscape around me, the spiritual ‘evolution’ I experience as I process new information and feelings and grow in my personal development. I also read about the evolution of matter and our physical bodies – the materials that make up the world we know.

In the face of all this information, two things seem clear to me. First, we are built out of the generations of people that have preceded us. Second (to quote my father), we are more than the sum of our parts.

I enjoyed learning about the recent transitory fossil discoveries from Dr. Miller. I was also interested to learn about the court cases that have been causing such a separation of ideas in the neighborhoods of my country. I agreed with Dr. Miller in his final analysis – this does not have to be a divisive issue. Although I’m sure people will continue to argue about evolution and God, I thought the final quote form Darwin’s Origin of Species may have resonated more deeply with me than anything else in the lecture – “Thus, from the war of nature, from famine and death, the most exalted object which we are capable of conceiving, namely, the production of the higher animals, directly follows. There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed by the Creator into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone circling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being evolved.”

My essay

Late one night in my bedroom at the top of the wolf house, I wrote this short essay for a scholarship application to BYU. It's short, to the point, and one of my favorite things I've written. I'm very different than I was when I wrote it, but it's me. Here you go ( :


Every year on the twenty-second of April, my family brings home a tree. On the Earth Day of 1990, my parents brought home me, and planted their oldest child in a Salt Lake apartment. I sent taproots out into the world, and developed within my family’s loving shade. Three years later, I was transplanted to the rich wet soil of Aloha, Oregon.
For five years, I lived and grew in a tiny house on the outskirts of Portland. I learned to sing, to read, and to smell yellow roses in the rain. At six years old, I made friends with the wind and discovered, to my dismay, that I was not the center of the universe. While my father finished his surgical residency at the University of Oregon and my mother taught English at a local college, my two brothers and I branched out into a love of life. In 1998, we returned to Utah, and I grew my first bittersweet fruit in goodbye.
In the next four years, my roots became deeper as I experienced loneliness and discovered that I loved school. Then, one week before seventh grade, a lightning bolt split my heart in two. My Dad left home, and couldn’t tell me when he was coming back.
Miraculously, the divided trunk of my soul did not split. Instead it grew around the hole in my heart, leaving a window. I began to see in other people pain I understood, and in life the beauty I had never before appreciated.
The tree of my heart now has many windows, created by both pain and joy. My branches extend around what I have grown to love: music, friends, challenges to my body and my mind. My roots extend deep into the earth and family that have given me life, anchoring my soul in love and God.

Feet

This Blog

This blog is where I'm going to post my work - papers, photographs, or other things I spend too much time doing. ( : Comments, reactions, and suggestions are all welcome.