That was the student idealist that happens to all of us. I think I was just seraching for something to write about, and self-interest was an inescapable theme.
After almost five years, here I am revisiting, rereading, and reevaluating those posts. Dickens was ust pointing out the cynical truth about social structures, most people act out of self-interest. Survival right?
Hardy's still my favorite.
The best English professor I ever had... Dr.L.Berry at the University of Arizona, last I knew she was the Dean of the Honors Society. Something ridiculously academic. My first class with her I barely passed, and for some reason I was determined to earn an A from her. Eventually I did. Thanks Dr. Berry.
So what now you ask? Whatever I want. Thoughts on films will definitely appear, late night dribble is likely, poetry is possible, if I feel so bold. Let's wait and see.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Thursday, March 09, 2006
ENG 396a ~ Dickens’ Hard Times
“that there ith a love in the world, not all Thelf-intereth” (259)
Mr. Bounderby lies about his past denying his “humble” (232) beginnings to present himself as a self-made man in the hopes of gaining a certain amount of aristocratic respect. Mr. Harthouse gives the young “whelp”(162) a talking to while admitting he is “selfish in everything he does” (162). Mrs. Sparsit uses her artifice to maintain her aristocratic status. Tom Gradgrind takes a position in the bank to help secure his sister’s marriage to Bounderby, but not “for her own sake, or his sake, but for my sake”(161). All these characters (among others) behave out of self-interest. The narrative presents the self-serving philosophy of these characters to argue against it through Mr. Gradgrind’s change of “heart” (253).
As a pillar of the “Hard Fact men” (227) Mr. Gradgrind could not have his children exposed to the idle amusement of the circus. Preserving his own reputation, as it may be constructed out of his children’s behavior, he briskly removes them from that environment. He does offer Sissy Jupe a place in his home, but that results in her looking after the ailing Mrs. Gradgrind. Anything Mr. Gradgrind addresses he does so in self-interest.
The narrative most significantly marks Mr. Gradgrind’s journey out of self-interest with Stephen’s last request. Stephen Blackpool charges Mr. Gradgrind with clearing his name suggesting that he ask Tom for help to do so. Gradgrind’s reputation hangs in the balance once he realizes that his “whelp” (162) of a son has “disgraced” (250) him by robbing the bank. Mr. Gradgrind fulfills his “duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool’s memory” (244), but is torn between his duty as a father and his Coketown reputation. His decision to help his “poor boy” (252) comes after he disappears into his study for an entire day. Mr. Gradgrind returns described by the narrative as “a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when his life wanted nothing but Facts” (244). He is changing, his emotions are a wreck, but Mr. Gradgrind’s logic has evolved to include these emotions.
Helping his son escape is still out of self-interest, but his struggle with that philosophy illustrates the argument against it. Bitzer’s capture of Tom, not only heightens the tension of the plot, but reinforces the conflict with the self-serving philosophy repeatedly illustrated by the narrative. Just as Mr. Gradgrind acknowledges and embraces the importance of “compassionate influence” (254) his own methodology is thrown back at him.
--"If this is solely a question of self-interest with you--- Mr. Gradgrind began.
I beg your pardon for interrupting, sir, returned Bitzer; but I am sure you know that the whole social system is a question of self-interest (254)"--
The narrative argues against social structures dominated by self-interested reasoning with this conflict. Gradgrind still pleads with Bitzer to release his son by appealing to the memories of “many years at my school”(255). These attempts are to no avail. The narrative again brings attention to Gradgrind’s philosophy:
--"It was a fundamental principle of the Gradgrind philosophy, that everything was to be paid for. Nobody was ever on any account to give anybody anything, or render anybody help without purchase. Gratitude was to be abolished, and the virtues springing from it were not to be. Every inch of the existence of mankind, from birth to death, was to be a bargain across a counter. And if we did n’t get to Heaven that way, it was not a politico-economical place, and we had no business there (255)."--
By reiterating Gradgrind’s philosophy as the barrier to his son’s escape the narrative argues against self-interested motives.
“that there ith a love in the world, not all Thelf-intereth” (259)
Mr. Bounderby lies about his past denying his “humble” (232) beginnings to present himself as a self-made man in the hopes of gaining a certain amount of aristocratic respect. Mr. Harthouse gives the young “whelp”(162) a talking to while admitting he is “selfish in everything he does” (162). Mrs. Sparsit uses her artifice to maintain her aristocratic status. Tom Gradgrind takes a position in the bank to help secure his sister’s marriage to Bounderby, but not “for her own sake, or his sake, but for my sake”(161). All these characters (among others) behave out of self-interest. The narrative presents the self-serving philosophy of these characters to argue against it through Mr. Gradgrind’s change of “heart” (253).
As a pillar of the “Hard Fact men” (227) Mr. Gradgrind could not have his children exposed to the idle amusement of the circus. Preserving his own reputation, as it may be constructed out of his children’s behavior, he briskly removes them from that environment. He does offer Sissy Jupe a place in his home, but that results in her looking after the ailing Mrs. Gradgrind. Anything Mr. Gradgrind addresses he does so in self-interest.
The narrative most significantly marks Mr. Gradgrind’s journey out of self-interest with Stephen’s last request. Stephen Blackpool charges Mr. Gradgrind with clearing his name suggesting that he ask Tom for help to do so. Gradgrind’s reputation hangs in the balance once he realizes that his “whelp” (162) of a son has “disgraced” (250) him by robbing the bank. Mr. Gradgrind fulfills his “duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool’s memory” (244), but is torn between his duty as a father and his Coketown reputation. His decision to help his “poor boy” (252) comes after he disappears into his study for an entire day. Mr. Gradgrind returns described by the narrative as “a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when his life wanted nothing but Facts” (244). He is changing, his emotions are a wreck, but Mr. Gradgrind’s logic has evolved to include these emotions.
Helping his son escape is still out of self-interest, but his struggle with that philosophy illustrates the argument against it. Bitzer’s capture of Tom, not only heightens the tension of the plot, but reinforces the conflict with the self-serving philosophy repeatedly illustrated by the narrative. Just as Mr. Gradgrind acknowledges and embraces the importance of “compassionate influence” (254) his own methodology is thrown back at him.
--"If this is solely a question of self-interest with you--- Mr. Gradgrind began.
I beg your pardon for interrupting, sir, returned Bitzer; but I am sure you know that the whole social system is a question of self-interest (254)"--
The narrative argues against social structures dominated by self-interested reasoning with this conflict. Gradgrind still pleads with Bitzer to release his son by appealing to the memories of “many years at my school”(255). These attempts are to no avail. The narrative again brings attention to Gradgrind’s philosophy:
--"It was a fundamental principle of the Gradgrind philosophy, that everything was to be paid for. Nobody was ever on any account to give anybody anything, or render anybody help without purchase. Gratitude was to be abolished, and the virtues springing from it were not to be. Every inch of the existence of mankind, from birth to death, was to be a bargain across a counter. And if we did n’t get to Heaven that way, it was not a politico-economical place, and we had no business there (255)."--
By reiterating Gradgrind’s philosophy as the barrier to his son’s escape the narrative argues against self-interested motives.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
English 396a ~Dickens’ Hard Times continued
Deterioration of Appearances ~ " a disorder of roses" (160)
Mrs. Sparsit represents what remains of the aristocratic society of Coketown. Great measures are taking to maintain this appearance while the narrative shows how undeserving that respect is. The narrative insight revealing her hypocrisy brings into question the validity of class status.
Bounderby goes to extraordinary lengths to ensure her appearance. In her presence, at every opportunity, Bounderby declares Mrs. Sparsit’s station to be one that demands a certain level of respect. At the same time he must, for his own appearances, be known as the “benefactor” (178). This would establish himself as deserving of the same aristocratic treatment. After his marriage to Louisa, he remains ever so gracious and generous to ensure Mrs. Sparsit’s continued appearances, allowing her to “live at the Bank” (166). It is at the bank that the narrative exposes her surveillance through her conversation with the light porter/spy, Bitzer. But to what end?
After the robbery Mrs. Sparsit returns to the Bounderby house. While taking refuge from the worrisome state of the bank she is overly polite, and too attentive to trifles. Bounderby, himself requiring the respect of an aristocratic position, questions Mrs. Sparsit’s attentions, “You attach too much importance to these things, ma’am” (177). The appearances of status are deteriorating.
The narrative carries the decay of these presentations further by exposing Mrs. Sparsit’s hidden disgust and “pity” (182) of Bounderby. Within the same “five minutes” (178) of his departure she shakes a mitten fist at his portrait declaring “Serve you right, you Noodle, and I am glad of it!”(178). Mrs. Sparsit’s true “she-wolf” (183) nature is unmasked by the narrative while she addresses the fact that Louisa and Mr. Harthouse are spending more and more time together. Such an insight shows that she does not care for Bounderby, she wants to watch him suffer, prolong the pity party. Where's the tea table?
Another narrative insight questioning the legitimacy of her status is Mrs. Sparsit’s surveillance of Louisa, a chronicle down the morality “staircase” (182). The narrative constructs Mrs. Sparsit’s status to be undeserving by revealing her “cat-like observation of Louisa, through her husband, through her brother, through James Harthouse, through the outsides of letters and packets, through everything animate and inanimate” (186). These conniving ways expose “her calculation” (193) and diminish the validity of Mrs. Sparsit’s station.
Appearances warrant class privilege in this narrative. The action of a person is not judged by the result, but how it looks. Stephen Blackpool has an astounding work ethic and a tight moral fabric, but he appears, he is seen and heard, as a member of a lower class. His actions speak loudly of honor, virtue, and respect, but his presentation is that of a laborer not an aristocrat. Mrs. Sparsit stealthily follows Louisa to the Stone Lodge under the pretense of getting some immoral dirt on her. In doing so Mrs. Sparsit is soaked to the bone, and behaves as an outlaw might, hiding in corners hoping not to be seen. The narrative deteriorates Mrs. Sparsit’s privilege externally by drenching her in rain, ruining her appearance. The connection between privilege and appearance remains, but the narrative’s attention to this parallel calls into question the validity of such status equations.
Deterioration of Appearances ~ " a disorder of roses" (160)
Mrs. Sparsit represents what remains of the aristocratic society of Coketown. Great measures are taking to maintain this appearance while the narrative shows how undeserving that respect is. The narrative insight revealing her hypocrisy brings into question the validity of class status.
Bounderby goes to extraordinary lengths to ensure her appearance. In her presence, at every opportunity, Bounderby declares Mrs. Sparsit’s station to be one that demands a certain level of respect. At the same time he must, for his own appearances, be known as the “benefactor” (178). This would establish himself as deserving of the same aristocratic treatment. After his marriage to Louisa, he remains ever so gracious and generous to ensure Mrs. Sparsit’s continued appearances, allowing her to “live at the Bank” (166). It is at the bank that the narrative exposes her surveillance through her conversation with the light porter/spy, Bitzer. But to what end?
After the robbery Mrs. Sparsit returns to the Bounderby house. While taking refuge from the worrisome state of the bank she is overly polite, and too attentive to trifles. Bounderby, himself requiring the respect of an aristocratic position, questions Mrs. Sparsit’s attentions, “You attach too much importance to these things, ma’am” (177). The appearances of status are deteriorating.
The narrative carries the decay of these presentations further by exposing Mrs. Sparsit’s hidden disgust and “pity” (182) of Bounderby. Within the same “five minutes” (178) of his departure she shakes a mitten fist at his portrait declaring “Serve you right, you Noodle, and I am glad of it!”(178). Mrs. Sparsit’s true “she-wolf” (183) nature is unmasked by the narrative while she addresses the fact that Louisa and Mr. Harthouse are spending more and more time together. Such an insight shows that she does not care for Bounderby, she wants to watch him suffer, prolong the pity party. Where's the tea table?
Another narrative insight questioning the legitimacy of her status is Mrs. Sparsit’s surveillance of Louisa, a chronicle down the morality “staircase” (182). The narrative constructs Mrs. Sparsit’s status to be undeserving by revealing her “cat-like observation of Louisa, through her husband, through her brother, through James Harthouse, through the outsides of letters and packets, through everything animate and inanimate” (186). These conniving ways expose “her calculation” (193) and diminish the validity of Mrs. Sparsit’s station.
Appearances warrant class privilege in this narrative. The action of a person is not judged by the result, but how it looks. Stephen Blackpool has an astounding work ethic and a tight moral fabric, but he appears, he is seen and heard, as a member of a lower class. His actions speak loudly of honor, virtue, and respect, but his presentation is that of a laborer not an aristocrat. Mrs. Sparsit stealthily follows Louisa to the Stone Lodge under the pretense of getting some immoral dirt on her. In doing so Mrs. Sparsit is soaked to the bone, and behaves as an outlaw might, hiding in corners hoping not to be seen. The narrative deteriorates Mrs. Sparsit’s privilege externally by drenching her in rain, ruining her appearance. The connection between privilege and appearance remains, but the narrative’s attention to this parallel calls into question the validity of such status equations.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
ENG 396a ~ Charles Dickens’ Hard Times
Desperation and Dreaming
“I was tired, father. I have been tired a long time,” said Louisa.
“Tired? Of what?” asked the astonished father.
“I don’t know of what—of everything, I think” (16).
The first book of narrative in Charles Dickens’ Hard Times puts into conflict the expectations of duty with the expression of love and compassion. Louisa Grangrind and Stephen Blackpool are from opposite backgrounds experiencing fundamentally the same struggle. The narrative asserts the irrelevance of class structures with the juxtaposition of these dynamics illustrating an underlying humility between the differing social backgrounds.
It is Mr. Gradgrind’s duty to educate his children, and his methods require a strict adherence to fact. No exceptions. No room for a child’s imagination. He expects decorum and duty with no time for charades or the circus. Being subject to such a deadening adherence to logic and reasoning make Louisa acutely aware of any sentiment. It is through her relationship with Sissy Jupe that awakens Louisa’s curiosity and compassion. Sissy’s hope for word from her father spills over to Louisa. She watches her “with compassion” (59) as Sissy leaves disappointed and sad. Mr. Gradgrind attests that had Sissy been educated like Louisa, she would recognize “on sound principles the baselessness of these fantastic hopes” (59). Since Louisa feels compassionately toward Sissy, and Mr. Gradgrind represents duty, this conflict forces Louisa to reevaluate the validity of her father’s methods. The narrator takes the struggle even further by suggesting how “it did seem (though not to him, for he saw nothing of it) as if fantastic hope could take as strong a hold as Fact”(59). Louisa’s reevaluation makes her withdraw into long contemplative hours watching the fire. Eventually it will also lead her to turn her father’s logic back upon him in a way that had never before been illustrated by the narrative.
When approached with a proposal from Bounderby who is thirty years her senior Louisa articulates herself with utter rationality. She places before her father a simple question that he ‘factually’ dances around while never really answering. When she asks him about “love” (92), he answers that “perhaps the expression itself—I merely suggest this to you, my dear—may be a little misplaced” (92). Her sense of duty is constructed with the rationale of her calm tone. The narrator, however, articulates the true state of her situation that suggest she “throw herself upon his breast and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart”(93). The desperation here is that Louisa’s duty has placed her in the predicament of a marriage without love.
Although he is not educated as Louisa, and works as a laborer in the factory, Stephen Blackpool is in the same situation. Unlike Louisa, he is expressively poetic, and does not deny or deduce his emotions for the sake of duty. He daydreams about his one true love. Unfortunately, Stephen is married to a woman he detests, and there is no way to free himself from his duty as a husband. His desperation is that he loves Rachel, and cannot be a husband to her. It is his duty to be a husband to a woman he does not love, and the only expression of love he wants to give conflicts with this duty.
Love and compassion conflicting with duty, all encircling the institution of marriage from persons of differing social classes asserts the irrelevance of class separations. The parallel struggles of Louisa and Stephen are equally desperate and romantic regardless of their rigid prison of fact. This symmetry of dynamics confirms the unity of their humility.
Desperation and Dreaming
“I was tired, father. I have been tired a long time,” said Louisa.
“Tired? Of what?” asked the astonished father.
“I don’t know of what—of everything, I think” (16).
The first book of narrative in Charles Dickens’ Hard Times puts into conflict the expectations of duty with the expression of love and compassion. Louisa Grangrind and Stephen Blackpool are from opposite backgrounds experiencing fundamentally the same struggle. The narrative asserts the irrelevance of class structures with the juxtaposition of these dynamics illustrating an underlying humility between the differing social backgrounds.
It is Mr. Gradgrind’s duty to educate his children, and his methods require a strict adherence to fact. No exceptions. No room for a child’s imagination. He expects decorum and duty with no time for charades or the circus. Being subject to such a deadening adherence to logic and reasoning make Louisa acutely aware of any sentiment. It is through her relationship with Sissy Jupe that awakens Louisa’s curiosity and compassion. Sissy’s hope for word from her father spills over to Louisa. She watches her “with compassion” (59) as Sissy leaves disappointed and sad. Mr. Gradgrind attests that had Sissy been educated like Louisa, she would recognize “on sound principles the baselessness of these fantastic hopes” (59). Since Louisa feels compassionately toward Sissy, and Mr. Gradgrind represents duty, this conflict forces Louisa to reevaluate the validity of her father’s methods. The narrator takes the struggle even further by suggesting how “it did seem (though not to him, for he saw nothing of it) as if fantastic hope could take as strong a hold as Fact”(59). Louisa’s reevaluation makes her withdraw into long contemplative hours watching the fire. Eventually it will also lead her to turn her father’s logic back upon him in a way that had never before been illustrated by the narrative.
When approached with a proposal from Bounderby who is thirty years her senior Louisa articulates herself with utter rationality. She places before her father a simple question that he ‘factually’ dances around while never really answering. When she asks him about “love” (92), he answers that “perhaps the expression itself—I merely suggest this to you, my dear—may be a little misplaced” (92). Her sense of duty is constructed with the rationale of her calm tone. The narrator, however, articulates the true state of her situation that suggest she “throw herself upon his breast and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart”(93). The desperation here is that Louisa’s duty has placed her in the predicament of a marriage without love.
Although he is not educated as Louisa, and works as a laborer in the factory, Stephen Blackpool is in the same situation. Unlike Louisa, he is expressively poetic, and does not deny or deduce his emotions for the sake of duty. He daydreams about his one true love. Unfortunately, Stephen is married to a woman he detests, and there is no way to free himself from his duty as a husband. His desperation is that he loves Rachel, and cannot be a husband to her. It is his duty to be a husband to a woman he does not love, and the only expression of love he wants to give conflicts with this duty.
Love and compassion conflicting with duty, all encircling the institution of marriage from persons of differing social classes asserts the irrelevance of class separations. The parallel struggles of Louisa and Stephen are equally desperate and romantic regardless of their rigid prison of fact. This symmetry of dynamics confirms the unity of their humility.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
ENG 396a ~ John Stuart Mill
Not a prisoner of emotion:
For a man who was depraved of emotion, or “tenderness” (58) throughout his boyhood, John Stuart Mill developed a sensitivity that would enable his intellectual convictions to be articulated with just enough passion to persuade his argument. Whether the topic is education or religion his analysis was not without humility regardless of his strict and isolated scholarship. Ironically the absence of a social upbringing instilled a certain appreciation for a structured and objective display of emotion. The first three chapters of Mill’s Autobiography serve as not only a tribute to those who influenced his life, but as a retrospective illustrating a psychological evolution.
Early on, his father’s tyrannical influence proved to be rewarding with libraries of knowledge and analytical abilities that surpassed most of the young boys his age. Mill admits, however, the defects of his education were the lack of “physical strength” (47), and limited ability in social skills of a non-analytical manner with his peers. He was kept from engaging with other kids his own age for fear that his father’s instruction might be tainted by “the contagion of vulgar modes of thought and feeling” (47). It is no wonder than that “This lesson of keeping my thoughts to myself at an early age, was attended with some moral disadvantages” (52). This suggests that without knowledge of some social etiquette of assimilation Mill was in fact free to express his opinion and fight for it with the methods he had so strictly learned.
Mill recognized the advantage of these so-called deficiencies. He was not good at physical activity, and that was fine because it afforded him more time for the lessons of his choice. The practice of the “Socratic Method”(38), and the debates practiced on walks with his father taught him how to take a stand. He brings to point an incident with another boy who attempts to sway Mill from his professed “disbelief” (53) of popular religious opinion:
My opponents were boys, considerably older than myself: one of
them I certainly staggered at the time, but the subject was never
renewed between us: the other, who was surprised and somewhat
shocked, did his best to convince me for some time, without effect. (53)
His rigorous educational training provided him with a foundation of logical conviction that recognized the paradox of popular religion. His opponents were not equipped with the analytical methods to deconstruct Christianity in the way Mill was able to. He was not subject to the “blind tradition” (52) of his peers.
The narrative embraces the hard discipline of his early education with a tone of appreciation and rebellion. Mill does not overlook the advantages he had, and could not since his father did constantly remind him of this. He remained a devoted son grateful for his father’s guidance. In reference to his religious stance Mill offers suggestions to “men of my father’s intellect” (53), and calls for a declaration:
Make their dissent known; at least, if they are among those whose
station, or reputation, gives their opinion a chance of being attended
to. Such an avowal would put an end, at once and for ever, to the
vulgar prejudice (53)
Write to Congress. These may be the words of a boy deprived of feelings, but they are also the words from a man who learned how to appreciate the weight of emotion. This narrative foreshadowed this kind of passion when Mill mentions his wife:
The one whom most of all is due, one whom the world had no
opportunity of knowing. The reader whom these things do not
interest, has only himself to blame if he reads farther, and I do
not desire any other indulgence from him than that of bearing
in mind, that for him these pages were not written. (26)
Not a prisoner of emotion:
For a man who was depraved of emotion, or “tenderness” (58) throughout his boyhood, John Stuart Mill developed a sensitivity that would enable his intellectual convictions to be articulated with just enough passion to persuade his argument. Whether the topic is education or religion his analysis was not without humility regardless of his strict and isolated scholarship. Ironically the absence of a social upbringing instilled a certain appreciation for a structured and objective display of emotion. The first three chapters of Mill’s Autobiography serve as not only a tribute to those who influenced his life, but as a retrospective illustrating a psychological evolution.
Early on, his father’s tyrannical influence proved to be rewarding with libraries of knowledge and analytical abilities that surpassed most of the young boys his age. Mill admits, however, the defects of his education were the lack of “physical strength” (47), and limited ability in social skills of a non-analytical manner with his peers. He was kept from engaging with other kids his own age for fear that his father’s instruction might be tainted by “the contagion of vulgar modes of thought and feeling” (47). It is no wonder than that “This lesson of keeping my thoughts to myself at an early age, was attended with some moral disadvantages” (52). This suggests that without knowledge of some social etiquette of assimilation Mill was in fact free to express his opinion and fight for it with the methods he had so strictly learned.
Mill recognized the advantage of these so-called deficiencies. He was not good at physical activity, and that was fine because it afforded him more time for the lessons of his choice. The practice of the “Socratic Method”(38), and the debates practiced on walks with his father taught him how to take a stand. He brings to point an incident with another boy who attempts to sway Mill from his professed “disbelief” (53) of popular religious opinion:
My opponents were boys, considerably older than myself: one of
them I certainly staggered at the time, but the subject was never
renewed between us: the other, who was surprised and somewhat
shocked, did his best to convince me for some time, without effect. (53)
His rigorous educational training provided him with a foundation of logical conviction that recognized the paradox of popular religion. His opponents were not equipped with the analytical methods to deconstruct Christianity in the way Mill was able to. He was not subject to the “blind tradition” (52) of his peers.
The narrative embraces the hard discipline of his early education with a tone of appreciation and rebellion. Mill does not overlook the advantages he had, and could not since his father did constantly remind him of this. He remained a devoted son grateful for his father’s guidance. In reference to his religious stance Mill offers suggestions to “men of my father’s intellect” (53), and calls for a declaration:
Make their dissent known; at least, if they are among those whose
station, or reputation, gives their opinion a chance of being attended
to. Such an avowal would put an end, at once and for ever, to the
vulgar prejudice (53)
Write to Congress. These may be the words of a boy deprived of feelings, but they are also the words from a man who learned how to appreciate the weight of emotion. This narrative foreshadowed this kind of passion when Mill mentions his wife:
The one whom most of all is due, one whom the world had no
opportunity of knowing. The reader whom these things do not
interest, has only himself to blame if he reads farther, and I do
not desire any other indulgence from him than that of bearing
in mind, that for him these pages were not written. (26)
Thursday, February 02, 2006
ENG 396a ~
Donald Trump’s The Art of the Deal is yet another ‘how to’ guide of a wealthy man’s life. Franklin’s tone is more ‘matter of fact’ while Trump’s approach is cool as a breeze, and both of course are unapologetic. Each work illustrates their individual life experiences, and wise decision-making that leads to the illusive ‘American Dream’. Trump’s nonchalant attitude toward wealth is peppered with the deeds of good will, but there remains a façade within that casual tone that reveals the true nature of the beast. The Holiday Inn stock marks the harsh reality of business transactions. Just as Franklin’s interactions with Keimer would be gainful, this transaction for Trump is extremely profitable. Setting the wealth aside, how was it attained? Taking advantage of a weaker businessman, of course. Franklin’s victories were at times modest, but Trump did it smiling straight in the face of the enemy, the competitor. Mocking their incompetence in a way that is triumphant and demoralizing. Hoorah. Monopoly anyone?
Trump, like Franklin, strategically reveals the course of events in a mask of orderly fashion. In Trump’s day-planner narration he introduces the maneuverings towards Holiday Inn during a phone call with Alan Greenburg. He anticipates a few options, and is prepared for all of them, even selling off his shares, “If I did that today, I’d already be up about $7 million” (3). Fourteen days of trading, sitting on shares, like a shootout on some dusty road where nothing happens, psyching out the enemy for the pleasure of creating tension. Trump admits that he likes “seeing the lengths to which bad managements go to preserve what they call their independence—which really just means their jobs” (3). Incompetence should justly be dealt with. Go get ‘em “Rambo” (51).
The narration drifts off to promote Trump’s political connections, and then comes the Georgia widow’s tragedy, a little sports, a few projects, then Trump mentions a lawsuit stating that “Nowadays, if your name is Donald Trump, everyone in the world seems to want to sue you” (7). Taking away the strategic day-planner narration as an indicator of chronological accuracy, the sequence of stories here acts to diminish the importance of Holiday Inn stock ventures, hype up the good will aspects, then follow up with a pity party. This is a successful execution of events. The big news about Holiday Inn doesn’t climax until half the book later where the nature of the beast is revealed.
Turns out that Trump had a reason to ‘smoke out’, ‘buy out’, or ‘call out’ that management of Holiday Inn, and he made them grovel in debt before disarming. He hears from his “Ace” (2) that Holiday Inn has to borrow a ton of money to battle against a “potential hostile” (222). Trump sells the stock and makes a killing, “many millions of dollars” (223). He attempts an honest, passive, modesty to explain:
Looked at another way, I earned back from my Holiday Inn
stock much of the money I’d paid them just three months earlier
to buy their share of my casino in Atlantic City. (223)
So essentially, they tried to get in his house, his gold platted pistol gets rid of them, and he turns around and does the same thing to them. Only difference is that they have to weaken their position further by borrowing the means to get rid of him. This was Trump’s revenge under the guise of good business.
How will his consciousness sit? Trump is obviously an intelligent man who recognizes the church’s influence by characterizing “the cardinal” as “a businessman with great political instincts” (36). Trump is a true American who identifies “two of the all-time-great characters, Rocky and Rambo” as the work of “genius” (51). Yet for his Holiday Inn endeavors he learned “something even more valuable than money from the experience: a first-hand view of corporate management in America” (223).
Donald Trump’s The Art of the Deal is yet another ‘how to’ guide of a wealthy man’s life. Franklin’s tone is more ‘matter of fact’ while Trump’s approach is cool as a breeze, and both of course are unapologetic. Each work illustrates their individual life experiences, and wise decision-making that leads to the illusive ‘American Dream’. Trump’s nonchalant attitude toward wealth is peppered with the deeds of good will, but there remains a façade within that casual tone that reveals the true nature of the beast. The Holiday Inn stock marks the harsh reality of business transactions. Just as Franklin’s interactions with Keimer would be gainful, this transaction for Trump is extremely profitable. Setting the wealth aside, how was it attained? Taking advantage of a weaker businessman, of course. Franklin’s victories were at times modest, but Trump did it smiling straight in the face of the enemy, the competitor. Mocking their incompetence in a way that is triumphant and demoralizing. Hoorah. Monopoly anyone?
Trump, like Franklin, strategically reveals the course of events in a mask of orderly fashion. In Trump’s day-planner narration he introduces the maneuverings towards Holiday Inn during a phone call with Alan Greenburg. He anticipates a few options, and is prepared for all of them, even selling off his shares, “If I did that today, I’d already be up about $7 million” (3). Fourteen days of trading, sitting on shares, like a shootout on some dusty road where nothing happens, psyching out the enemy for the pleasure of creating tension. Trump admits that he likes “seeing the lengths to which bad managements go to preserve what they call their independence—which really just means their jobs” (3). Incompetence should justly be dealt with. Go get ‘em “Rambo” (51).
The narration drifts off to promote Trump’s political connections, and then comes the Georgia widow’s tragedy, a little sports, a few projects, then Trump mentions a lawsuit stating that “Nowadays, if your name is Donald Trump, everyone in the world seems to want to sue you” (7). Taking away the strategic day-planner narration as an indicator of chronological accuracy, the sequence of stories here acts to diminish the importance of Holiday Inn stock ventures, hype up the good will aspects, then follow up with a pity party. This is a successful execution of events. The big news about Holiday Inn doesn’t climax until half the book later where the nature of the beast is revealed.
Turns out that Trump had a reason to ‘smoke out’, ‘buy out’, or ‘call out’ that management of Holiday Inn, and he made them grovel in debt before disarming. He hears from his “Ace” (2) that Holiday Inn has to borrow a ton of money to battle against a “potential hostile” (222). Trump sells the stock and makes a killing, “many millions of dollars” (223). He attempts an honest, passive, modesty to explain:
Looked at another way, I earned back from my Holiday Inn
stock much of the money I’d paid them just three months earlier
to buy their share of my casino in Atlantic City. (223)
So essentially, they tried to get in his house, his gold platted pistol gets rid of them, and he turns around and does the same thing to them. Only difference is that they have to weaken their position further by borrowing the means to get rid of him. This was Trump’s revenge under the guise of good business.
How will his consciousness sit? Trump is obviously an intelligent man who recognizes the church’s influence by characterizing “the cardinal” as “a businessman with great political instincts” (36). Trump is a true American who identifies “two of the all-time-great characters, Rocky and Rambo” as the work of “genius” (51). Yet for his Holiday Inn endeavors he learned “something even more valuable than money from the experience: a first-hand view of corporate management in America” (223).
Thursday, January 26, 2006
ENG 396a ~ Franklin blog
Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography is a collection of calculated rhetoric where every detail is expressed in precisely the way he wanted it to be read. A man who takes the time to list his hourly activities does nothing at random. Even if random things occur, in this autobiography, there remains a specific plan for articulating them. Just as an orator would use inflection to stress the point, Franklin capitalizes words to call attention to their importance. The capitalization of words is used to emphasize Franklin’s intention with each passage.
The conversation Franklin has with Collins on the topic of educating women was a precursor to his underlying intentions for that page. The purpose was to stress the practice of argument as a means to enhance readiness and clarity of verbal and written articulation. Franklin supported female students in this debate, but it was a stance taken merely “for Dispute sake” (15). He revealed his position to be the contrary of his opinion making the topic insignificant. Franklin felt he did not argue his “Point” (15) well and chose to clarify his “Arguments in Writing” (15). The significance of the passage lies in the words capitalized on the page that suggest his intentions for the entire passage:
I fell far short in elegance of Expression, in Method and in Perspicuity,
of which he convinc’d me by several Instances. I saw Justice of his
Remarks, & thence grew more attentive to the Manner in Writing,
and determin’d to endeavor at Improvement. (15-16)
The words expression, argument, writing, point, improvement, all these capitalized words are directing attention toward Franklin’s intention here. He is stressing the importance of a practiced and skilled articulation. Franklin goes even further to use italics with the word, manner. Again this kind of attention to the word illustrates the importance of it.
Franklin’s recollection of listening to the speeches of Mr. Whitefield again shows the emphasis of the passage by using capitalized words. He was in awe of the “Influence of his Oratory on his Hearers” (116) and in Franklin’s adoration of Mr. Whitefield’s ability he chose to calculate how many people Mr. Whitefield was able to preach, reach, and teach. The capitalized word influence suggests Franklin’s intentions here. Just as an orator would use inflection to stress his point, Franklin again asserts the importance of a practiced and skilled articulation by directing attention to specific words:
His Delivery of the latter was so improv’d by frequent Repetitions,
that every Accent, every Emphasis, every Modulation of Voice, was
so perfectly well turn’d and well plac’d, that without being interested
in the Subject, one could not help being pleas’d with the Discourse, a
Pleasure of much the same kind with that reciev’d from an excellent
Piece of Music. (120)
The capitalizations of the words here undoubtedly argue that Franklin is acting much like an orator himself. He is using inflection on the written page in the hopes of influencing whoever reads it.
The autobiography of Benjamin Franklin is a tightly focused narrative exposing only what he wants shown. Some unflattering things may be revealed along the way, but these incidences remain self serving for their evolutionary qualities. Some of these capitalized words may be more important than others, but the emphasis remains attached to them. A man listing order as a virtue would find it reasonable to admit that these accented words hold meaning and are in no way random.
Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography is a collection of calculated rhetoric where every detail is expressed in precisely the way he wanted it to be read. A man who takes the time to list his hourly activities does nothing at random. Even if random things occur, in this autobiography, there remains a specific plan for articulating them. Just as an orator would use inflection to stress the point, Franklin capitalizes words to call attention to their importance. The capitalization of words is used to emphasize Franklin’s intention with each passage.
The conversation Franklin has with Collins on the topic of educating women was a precursor to his underlying intentions for that page. The purpose was to stress the practice of argument as a means to enhance readiness and clarity of verbal and written articulation. Franklin supported female students in this debate, but it was a stance taken merely “for Dispute sake” (15). He revealed his position to be the contrary of his opinion making the topic insignificant. Franklin felt he did not argue his “Point” (15) well and chose to clarify his “Arguments in Writing” (15). The significance of the passage lies in the words capitalized on the page that suggest his intentions for the entire passage:
I fell far short in elegance of Expression, in Method and in Perspicuity,
of which he convinc’d me by several Instances. I saw Justice of his
Remarks, & thence grew more attentive to the Manner in Writing,
and determin’d to endeavor at Improvement. (15-16)
The words expression, argument, writing, point, improvement, all these capitalized words are directing attention toward Franklin’s intention here. He is stressing the importance of a practiced and skilled articulation. Franklin goes even further to use italics with the word, manner. Again this kind of attention to the word illustrates the importance of it.
Franklin’s recollection of listening to the speeches of Mr. Whitefield again shows the emphasis of the passage by using capitalized words. He was in awe of the “Influence of his Oratory on his Hearers” (116) and in Franklin’s adoration of Mr. Whitefield’s ability he chose to calculate how many people Mr. Whitefield was able to preach, reach, and teach. The capitalized word influence suggests Franklin’s intentions here. Just as an orator would use inflection to stress his point, Franklin again asserts the importance of a practiced and skilled articulation by directing attention to specific words:
His Delivery of the latter was so improv’d by frequent Repetitions,
that every Accent, every Emphasis, every Modulation of Voice, was
so perfectly well turn’d and well plac’d, that without being interested
in the Subject, one could not help being pleas’d with the Discourse, a
Pleasure of much the same kind with that reciev’d from an excellent
Piece of Music. (120)
The capitalizations of the words here undoubtedly argue that Franklin is acting much like an orator himself. He is using inflection on the written page in the hopes of influencing whoever reads it.
The autobiography of Benjamin Franklin is a tightly focused narrative exposing only what he wants shown. Some unflattering things may be revealed along the way, but these incidences remain self serving for their evolutionary qualities. Some of these capitalized words may be more important than others, but the emphasis remains attached to them. A man listing order as a virtue would find it reasonable to admit that these accented words hold meaning and are in no way random.
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