Plush — Stone Temple Pilots
“And I feel, so much depends on the weather
So is it raining in your bedroom?”
(via herekitty)
"The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming."
DEAR SUGAR, The Rumpus Advice Column #64: Tiny Beautiful Things - The Rumpus.net (via hello-amber) (via thestateimin)
(via scout)
eng 301 final. putting it here for posterity
“I could hear the human noise we sat there making”: A Comparison of Carver’s Gin and Hemingway’s Absinthe in the Role of Communication
The characters in Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants” and Raymond Carver’s “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” are all confronted with a difficult paradigm: the futile attempt to reconcile feelings and emotions while understanding the reality of life. These two stories also center upon the presence of alcohol and its tendency to hinder effective communication, particularly between the two sexes. Two scholarly articles present in-depth analyses of these themes and the ways in which the characters are formed around and in spite of them, for better or worse. Through gender-linked communication patterns and the presence of alcohol in these two stories, Hemingway and Carver present vivid characterizations of people who are in a constant tug-of-war with the popularized fantasies and mythologies about reality and the understanding of the way life actually is.
Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants” is on the surface a thinly veiled sketch of a couple having drinks in a bar while waiting for a train. Their conversation is stilted and evasive as they discuss whether Jig will have an abortion or not; the American says yes, Jig says no. In an effort to keep the conversation light and avoid conflict, there is repeated mentioning of having another drink and the desire to “try this new drink” (540). Jig is at arms with the relationship, which she views as surface-level, often stating things like “That’s all we do, isn’t it – look at things and try new drinks?” (540). Though only one interaction takes place throughout the entire story, the reader is able to distinguish something the characters do not: the multitude of emotions and disconnected realities strangle the American and Jig – the struggle to maintain and happy relationship, to deal with her pregnancy, and to these dreamers, “have the world” (541). The end of the story is left up to the reader; do they ever reach a conclusion? Or will they continue, with the help of alcohol and misdirected conversation, to avoid reality?
A primary quote from Jig is about the absinthe, what she says “taste of licorice (like) all the things you’ve waited so long for” (540). Hemingway was likely very aware of absinthe’s history as a narcotic and an aphrodisiac because of its media prevalence in his lifetime and, as a result, placed it in the story to highlight the attitude of the American as interpreted by Jig. She views him as noncommittal and difficult to pin down and by mentioning absinthe, she reminds him of the younger, wilder days of his past where he did indeed “have the world.” Doris Lanier describes the importance of Jig’s mention of absinthe in the article “The Bittersweet Taste of Absinthe in Hemingway’s ‘Hills Like White Elephants”. She writes, “Like the landscape, the title, the beads, and the labels on the luggage, the absinthe reveals a great deal about the situation that is never put into words by the couple or the author” (8). Its presence is meant to convey the miscommunication between the American and Jig—he is concerned with the present issue while she is concerned about a fantastical future and how to keep things the way they are. Lanier proceeds to elaborate on the differences in thought and communication between the two characters which are heightened by the absinthe:
Because of its reputation as an hallucinatory agent, the absinthe adds another dimension to the white elephant symbolism in the title. The hallucinatory quality of the drink relates directly to the girl’s distorted view of the hills, reflecting her emotional and mental state. Her failure, or reluctance, to see the real landscape – the brown, dry hills – suggests her inability to face the reality of their deteriorating relationship. Deep down she holding on to the belief that there is still a chance that the man will commit himself to a permanent relationship, that her pregnancy means something to him, and that she can give birth to the child that is the product of their love (9).
That her dreams do not align with her reality, Jig is forced to come to terms with the issues at hand—and it is clear that she does not want to. The American passively coerces her into agreeing on the abortion but she is hesitant and unclear about what it is she truly wants. She acts almost childish when she asks, “If I do it you’ll be happy and things will be like they were and you’ll love me?” (541). This is an example of the type of gender-specific communication pattern that Pamela Smiley analyzes in the article “Gender-Linked Miscommunication in ‘Hills Like White Elephants’”. She notes that the female speaker’s dialogue is normally
profoundly imprecise. There is a sense the audience does not really know what she is talking about (nor does she), but that she is concerned with whom she is talking to, concerned with whether he is interested in her and whether his needs are being met (2).
She describes the male speaker as displaying a constructed train of thought which is direct and straightforward. The central characters in “Hills Like White Elephants” fit the mold described by Smiley exactly.
The methods of avoiding conflict and hindering effective communication employed by the American and Jig are only amplified by their drinking. Their entire dialogue is a struggle for understanding and a decision yet they simply brush off a resolution in favor of another drink. It is in this same way that Carver molds his characters in “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” The same themes of alcohol and communication present in “Hills Like White Elephants” are evident in Carver’s story. The story opens with a group of four adults (two couples) gathered around a kitchen table while drinking gin. As the drinks go around and the night progresses, their conversation about what love is turns murky and confused. Mel, the character with the majority of the dialogue, tries to convince the others and himself that love is simply transient and can take many different shapes at once, appearing and disappearing without a second thought. He believes that both physical love and sentimental love are ever-morphing and that the word love itself is merely a jumble of emotions used to fill the void of all the trappings that come with relationships with other people. Perhaps due to his increasing drunkenness or his unfulfilled efforts to articulate and communicate his true thoughts, Mel never reaches a conclusion. Though the true meaning love is a cumbersome concept, especially for these characters, Carver gives the reader glimpses of the gender contrasts in communication methods and in what ways they connect to Smiley’s earlier concept of gender miscommunication. Terry, Mel’s wife, speaks dreamily about what love is despite the fact that the love she is referencing was aimed toward a domestic abuser. Nick and Laura, the other couple in the room, sit back and lovingly exchange glances while Mel and Terry ineffectively try to come to one universal definition of love. At one point in the story, despite each person having a different concept of what love entails, Mel proposes a toast: “A toast to love. To true love” (221).
The idea that the type of miscommunication that exists in both Hemingway’s story and Carver’s story is both subtle and dramatic is explained in Ibis Gomez-Vega’s article “Urban Violence And Failed Myths In Raymond Carver’s “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” The failed myths in the title refer to the idealistic and unrealistic ideas about love that every person is led to believe will one day surface. These myths are only given more muscle as Carver’s characters down the bottle of gin. Gomez-Vega writes, “The more desperate Carver’s characters become to communicate about love, or to communicate love, the more they depend on alcohol to give themselves courage and a sense of destiny (71).
As in “Hills Like White Elephants,” Carver’s characters are, amid drinks, dreaming about what they suspect the realities of life and love are but reach no solid resolution. They seem to, as Gomez-Vega points out, “prefer the static ‘human noise’ to the rigors of more substantial contact” (71). While they may talk about something as deeply conceptual as love is, they are not talking about anything that they know for certain or are really that interested in debating. They are just talking to pass the time until the gin is gone and they can retreat toward a less-abstract conversation. When the bottle of gin is gone and Terry asks, “Now what?” (227), Gomez-Vega explains the crux of the entire night’s discussion: “That’s the end of the story. Sans cultural context, sans alcoholic context, these people fail to exist; they know nothing. They share no vital myth to alter, and the bottle which altered them is empty” (73). As is the case with Jig and the American, the two couples at the kitchen table rely on the influence of alcohol and convoluted conversation to reconcile the human experience of not knowing the truth about reality.
The two stories end with the alcohol running out and the assumption that the characters will continue with their daily lives. Though they have, in effect, avoided conversation by participating in it, they now have to confront reality. What becomes of Jig and the American? In the final paragraph, they are drinking separately; Jig at the table and the American standing at the bar. Jig claims, “I feel fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine (542). It is worth noting that there was no hint given earlier as to whether there was something wrong with her at all. This seems to demonstrate a very self-effacing and flimsy self-image, as also evidenced by her insistence earlier in the story, “I don’t care about me. And I’ll do it and then everything will be fine.” Jig tries so desperately to salvage the dying relationship but the image of them drinking separately suggests they will eventually part ways. In comparison, Mel makes many off-hand remarks, including the following: “Laura, if I didn’t have Terri and I didn’t love her so much, and if Nick wasn’t my best friend, I’d fall in love with you, I’d carry you off, honey” (225). That he makes this statement aligns with his belief that love is short-lived, that none of it matters, and that how “it ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we’re talking about when we talk about love” (223).
It is unlikely that Mel would have reached the ideas that he did had he not been drinking in the same way that it is likely that the American and Jig would have reached a conclusion had they confronted the issue at hand without alcohol as a buffer. As such, both Hemingway and Carver employ the alcohol motif to show the drastic increase in miscommunication between men and women, especially when discussing theoretical realities and futures. While Nick and Laura are the prototypical couple in love, Mel and Terri are forced to settle their unsaid disputes in the same way the American and Jig are. It can be concluded that the conflict between reality and emotion is a fruitless one only prolonged by typically ineffective communication between the sexes. The core of the thesis is best represented by the following statement by Lanier in her article, “The Bittersweet Taste of Absinthe in Hemingway’s ‘Hills Like White Elephants’”: “The bittersweet taste reminds her of the whole life as they are living it, a potentially destructive life that is meaningless, empty, lacking in morality – a life in which, like absinthe, bitterness has become a substitute for the sweet” (288).
Works Cited
Carver, Raymond. “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” The Story and Its Writer: an Introduction to Short Fiction. 8th ed. Boston, MA: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2011. 218-27. Print.
Gomez-Vega, Ibis. “Urban Violence And Failed Myths In Raymond Carver’s “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” Short Story 12.2 (2004): 71-83. Humanities International Complete. Web. 12 Dec. 2011.
Hemingway, Ernest. “Hills Like White Elephants.” The Story and Its Writer: an Introduction to Short Fiction. 8th ed. Boston, MA: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2011. 539-42. Print.
Lanier, Doris. “The Bittersweet Taste of Absinthe in Hemingway’s ‘Hills Like White Elephants’.” Studies In Short Fiction 26.3 (1989): 279. Academic Search Complete. Web. 12 Dec. 2011.
Smiley, Pamela. “Gender-Linked Miscommunication In ‘Hills Like White Elephants’.” Hemingway Review 8.1 (1988): 2. Academic Search Complete. Web. 12 Dec. 2011.
"What passes for hip cynical transcendence of sentiment is really some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human […] is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naïve and goo-prone and generally pathetic."
David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest (via thoughtsdetained)
(via thebookworms)
Get Giddy — Grouplove
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.