ferrise20 – Snopes

Orwell’s Reminders of Absurdities

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By Elyse Ferris

Contemporary political discourse has caused a surge in sales of George Orwell’s groundbreaking dystopian novel 1984. Remembering Big Brother’s brainwashing methods and ‘newspeak,’ Orwell readers connected aspects of the book to Kellyanne Conway’s comments about “alternative facts” following President Trump’s inauguration. The discussion of ‘alternative facts’ and the comeback of 1984 also call to mind interpretations of Orwell’s book in general, as well as the seemingly contradictory points of his ideology.

I first read George Orwell’s 1984 for a high school English class, and I was entranced. I recognized how aspects of the novel might have inspired contemporary literature for younger audiences, such as Lois Lowry’s The Giver, or other series like The Hunger Games, Maze Runner, and Divergent. I tried to identify a common significance between these examples of dystopian literature. I came to think that some of these books were made almost exclusively for entertainment purposes, but others send a stronger message. What does dystopian literature (particularly that which includes a totalitarian state) imply about the reach of government? To what extent did Orwell intend for 1984 to be a warning?

I think I misinterpreted 1984 to some degree the first time I read it. I identified what appeared to be contradictions not only within the story (such as Big Brother’s idea of ‘truth’) but also in the thoughts presented by Orwell himself. I was surprised to learn that he was liberal, indeed a socialist. Initially viewing his work simply as a book with straightforward, anti-government sentiments, I assumed he must have been a zealous pacifist and libertarian. According to the Encyclopedia Brittanica, Orwell began to consider himself a socialist in the 1930’s, but “he was too libertarian in his thinking ever to take the further step – so common in the period – of declaring himself a communist.” For a while, it was almost impossible for me to reconcile these opposing viewpoints. I couldn’t understand how someone could be part libertarian, part socialist.

I still sometimes struggle with the idea, but I think it’s important to remember the political context in which Orwell developed his views and wrote his books.

Britannica says Orwell’s articles and essays during WWII revealed a mixture of his patriotic, libertarian, and decentralized socialist ideas. I believe that 1984, the last novel of his life, points to his vision for a compromise of government’s societal role. Orwell recognized government’s beneficial potential, but hated its invasive potential to control and manipulate. We can speculate that in the aftermath of WWII, Orwell feared a future in which the world was divided up between just a few powers. Maybe it was only natural for one’s mind to wander when observing interactions between the ‘big three’ (Winston Churchill, Joseph Stalin, and Franklin D. Roosevelt) in the early stages of the Cold War. A future of totalitarianism around the globe was not necessarily inevitable, but its potential must have been great enough to inspire aspects of the book. Orwell’s warning in 1984 does not detract from his faith in the state. Overall, I still see the novel as a cautionary tale which warns against the dangers of extreme nationalism, thoughtless submission, and totalitarianism.

In a similar regard, does contemporary dystopian literature aim, above all, to send a message? If so, I think its message can often be misconstrued. For example, The Hunger Games series features the downtrodden citizens of the Panem districts whose backbreaking labor benefits the capital. I think people could observe this from a couple of different perspectives: 1. citizens suffer at the hands of a cruel totalitarian regime which, like Big Brother, watches everything, or 2. an abused proletariat rebels against the elite, addressing their grievances and fighting for rights and equality. The way I see it, readers could focus on blaming the Panem government for the suffering of the districts. On the other hand, they could view the story as a struggle of rich versus poor, emphasizing similarities between the citizens of Panem districts and lower classes of contemporary society who fight inequality.

Maybe people will always just see what they want to see. I think we are often tempted to interpret ideas based on our own bias and predispositions, picking out thoughts here and there that we agree with, sometimes ignoring the rest. Readers (*guilty as charged*) can pick up 1984 and gather from it a defense for a political ideology which they’ve already been exposed to. Perhaps Orwell had an idyllic potential in mind. Perhaps ‘alternative facts,’ like newspeak, are simply a contradictory construct used to push an agenda. I think Orwell condemned ignorance as he encouraged a healthy degree of skepticism of authority and bias. 1984 reminds readers that political absurdities and contradictions are simply inevitable.

“Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable and to give an appearance of solidarity to pure wind.”

– George Orwell

Here’s to the Love of Books: Pursuing Publishing

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by Laurel Myers

I love books. This phrase is typical of an English major—so hello, that’s me, guilty as charged. I learned to read when I was three and have always lived within a block of the public library in my town. My mom would call the librarians when I was big enough to walk across streets by myself and let them know I was on my way. I always ended up walking home with a stack almost as high as me with a book propped open on the top so I could read on the way back. When I woke up, I would read until the smell of bacon cooking wafted up the stairs. When I was going to sleep, I read until I came to a good stopping point (sometimes) or I finished the book (more likely) or I fell asleep (okay, this one happened the most). I took books with me in the car, even if we were just going to the grocery store; I took books to school and read when I should have been working on homework or talking to friends; I took a book with me… I think you get the point. I was never without a book, as if the pages were an additional appendage. My punishment when I was a kid? Having my books taken away.

Little kids are always asked what they want to do when they grow up, and my list leaned towards the sciences: marine biologist was up there for a while, followed by zoologist, and joining Doctors Without Borders was a possibility until I was told that wasn’t really a “job job.” Then, bioengineering somehow became the major I was looking at for college. After an internship in a pulmonary-cardiovascular research lab, I realized a career spent in a lab was not for me and that my aversion to math might be a slight problem. Although I felt like I had wasted a summer, this experience actually saved me from wasting even more time and money going to college for a career I would not ultimately enjoy. (I would like to emphasize career, as science is a compelling subject that I find fascinating). Because of that summer, I was forced to reevaluate what I could see myself studying for four years and then dedicating my life to.

Which brings us back to the “I love books” statement. I found myself wondering if I could be paid for reading for all day, because who wouldn’t love that? I had been training my whole life! I was practically a professional already.

I happen to also watch a copious amount of Netflix, which is how I came across two movies that presented an answer to me: Not Another Happy Ending and Genius. These films follow the relationships between a publisher and an author, along with the arduous process of developing a book. In Not Another Happy Ending, an author with a best-selling book is not able to write the sequel because she is too happy, so her publisher attempts to remedy her writer’s block by making her miserable. Genius tells the story of Tom Wolfe (a Washington and Lee alum and past editor of Shenandoah) and his publisher Maxwell Perkins’ friendship developing as they work on manuscripts together through the tumultuous changes of life. While they are most certainly different in genre and tone, there is a striking similarity between the two: the passion and drive to create good books.

I have always been a consumer of books and love the worlds they took me to, but I had never thought about how they were produced. The world of publishing that exists behind all of these stories is one I want to venture into and figure out how all of the gears and mechanics work together to create such mesmerizing works. Once I wrapped my head around the fact that there was indeed a job where I could read manuscripts and converse with the creators of fantastical journeys, I declared an English major and looked for a way to begin introducing myself to this profession.

Interning at Shenandoah is a direct connection to publishing and all of the nuances and skills needed. Looking at the inundation of submissions to the magazine highlights the importance of having a concrete list of what makes a good story, which means you actually have to work through and know what belongs on the list. Working with R.T. Smith is to be working with a prolific and successful writer who has an incredible knowledge of the literary sphere. Writing these blogs and finding poems of the week forces me to put my own work and interests out into the public eye, which is oftentimes a terrifying thought. Spearheading the Greybeal-Gowen Prize for Poetry reveals the range of authors and their determination to have people other than themselves read their work. Shenandoah also encourages my interest in simply reading, as there are wonderful stories and poems in this literary magazine that I would not have otherwise found.

I am also fortunate enough to have friends trust my editing skills and my honesty when reading through their work. I edited a short story for a friend trying to publish it in a literary magazine, and was astounded by how some simple questions and critiques transformed the writing into a driven, focused, and astonishing piece. I fell in love with the process of give and take between writer and editor, and I am happy to be working with another friend on a novel, which I am learning is an entirely different beast.

Apparently, my passion has always been right there in my hands.

Here’s to the love of books.

Judging a Book by its (Gendered) Cover

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By Virginia Kettles

In 2013, the New York Times bestselling author Deborah Copaken wrote an essay about her experiences watching her books be “girlified” for publishing.

In the essay, Copaken spoke about the publication of her first book, a memoir about her experiences as a war photographer. After purchasing the rights, Random House changed the title of her manuscript to Shutterbabe and designed a cover involving a naked cartoon torso against a pink background with a camera covering the genitalia. It took a long fight on Copaken’s side to convince the publishers to rethink the design.

Such is the case for gender-specific advertising, and, as the saying goes, it doesn’t hurt that “sex sells.”

While there is little data readily available on the exact trends of this phenomenon, gender-specific advertising in regards to book covers has become increasingly common.

Walking into any local bookstore, customers can often find two kinds of books: ones with dark colors, thick, heavy fonts, and simple images, and others with lighter, muted colors, cursive fonts, and images of attractive, usually Caucasian, women. Some, as if by instinct, will unconsciously make assumptions on what kind of person wrote the book and, as a result, who the book is catered towards.

What’s wrong with this? Perhaps nothing. After all, a marketing tactic like that must be successful if it is practiced so freely. Consumers are perfectly able to purchase what they like. If that means we humans are slaves to our unconscious preferences that parallel the stereotypes associated with our gender, then so be it.

But this comes at a cost.

Johnson, a successful young adult author, wrote an essay about the uncomfortable attribution of gender and quality when it came to discussing books. According to her, books written by women, and especially books written by women ABOUT women, are often pegged as being of a lower quality.

“When I hear people talk about ‘trashy’ books, 95% of the time, they are talking about books written by women. When I see or hear the terms ‘light,’ ‘fluffy,’ ‘breezy,’ or ‘beach read’…95% of the time, they are talking about books written by women.”

Thus, I wondered. If femininity is not taken seriously in the literary world, what does that say about the book covers that employ the feminine theme so heavily? If a person is presented with a feminine-looking cover, will they see the book as being of a lower quality? Would they be interested in reading the book? Would they think the book could win an award?

As a senior in high school, I tested just that.

I created 3 pairs of fake book covers, where one was garnered towards women, and the other towards men, based on the author’s gender, the font, and the image in the background. I attached the different covers to surveys, in which I asked questions about what the book’s quality seemed to be, and whether the book was likely to win a literary award. I then distributed the survey to about 200 students and a handful of teachers at my high school.

The results were fascinating. While the gender of the author for the book Outsider made little difference when it came to the perceived quality of the book, the fonts and images in the other books elicited substantially different reactions. Participants saw the desk-and-skull background for The Study Side as being of a higher quality, and the bold-faced fonts of The Broke Test even more so. In comparison, the image of the woman-smelling-flowers background, or the frilly fonts, did not impress the participants.

It seems there is still a lot to be said about how people view femininity in terms of respect and reputability in the literary world.

An Apology for Literature

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An Apology for Literature

by Arlette Hernandez

I’m the first to admit that I’ve never been a fan of the early modern period. All throughout high school, I dreaded reading Shakespeare. My first English class in college, a seminar on revenge tragedies, was painful. It felt like weights were pulling down on my arms as I waded my way through the prose of Middleton and Kyd and Marlowe. As compelling as the plots sounded, reading something like The Spanish Tragedy was made difficult by the fact that it seemed so dated and irrelevant. Though, I’ll never forget some of the real gems I found in Shakespeare’s plays.

It wasn’t until this year in my literary theory class that I began to gain an appreciation for the early modern period. And all thanks to Sir Philip Sidney.

In 1595, Sir Philip Sidney, a prominent figure and author of the Elizabethan period published his essay An Apology for Poetry, also known as A Defence of Poesy. The essay was a response to The School of Abuse (1579), “a moralistic attack on poetry written by Puritan minister Stephen Gosson and dedicated (without leave) to Sidney himself” (Richter 112). Commenting on contemporary perceptions of the arts, Sidney writes, “Poetry, which from almost the highest estimation of learning is fallen to be the laughingstock of children” (116). The rest of the piece is an attempt to restore poetry’s dignity, while overturning all the claims lain against it.

But even though this essay was written in the 16th century, I cannot help but think of our current socio-political moment every time I read it. There’s been a lot of talk about the possible defunding of the National Endowment for the Arts. And looking at the departmental statistics of any university, one can see a decrease in the popularity of subjects within the arts and humanities. English departments across the nation are struggling to recruit majors, while business programs are seeing an influx of students (look below for some fun infographics). All this to say, our society seems to privilege the “practical,” or the “scientific” while marginalizing the arts and the humanities. Every time I tell someone I’m an English major the immediate response I get is, “Oh, what are you going to do with that?” or “You’re not going to make a lot of money.” History is repeating itself, and a lot of us in the arts are finding our craft under attack.

by herrimanjoe.

From Visually.

My goal is not to cause a rift or demonize any one party, but rather to emphasize the importance of the arts in our society. As someone who wants to go into education, I’m always thinking about the different ways I would run a classroom, and literature and creative writing always plays an important role.

I’ve gone to public schools my whole life—both really good ones, and some that were not so good. But one of the things I’ve seen repeatedly is a student withdrawing the moment he or she can’t emotionally invest in their own education. I think that’s why many of my teachers in elementary school were so adamant about acknowledging holidays like Black History Month. How are you supposed to reach out to a classroom full of students of color who are either keenly or subliminally aware of their position in society from watching television shows or the five o’clock news or even just going to the grocery store with their parents?

Here is where literature comes in, and here is why I think it’s so important.

I had never read a novel written by a person of color until I left high school. By the beginning of my freshman year of college, I had read five Shakespeare plays, poems by Wordsworth and Keats, and “canonical” novels like Madame Bovary, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and Catcher in the Rye; but nothing by Morrison or Hurston or Ellison. I never saw myself in the curriculum except as a slave or an impoverished immigrant; always as an “oppressed minority,” rarely as a successful person.

No kid should have to go through this. We need to teach our kids that for every Joseph Conrad, there is a Chinua Achebe. For every Emily Dickinson, a Gwendolyn Brooks. English is without a doubt a “practical” major. It teaches people how to think critically and how to engage with history, psychology, and our physical and social surroundings. We can’t give up on literature because it has so much to teach us. And we especially can’t give up on the production of contemporary literature because with every publication of novel written by a woman or a person of color, a queer individual or an immigrant, a disabled person or a religious minority, we are reshaping a literary canon that has traditionally excluded several of these groups. These works show disadvantaged students that they have a place in our society, in the world, while increasing the overall empathy of a classroom’s students. Encouraging a student to engage in the arts shows them that they have the power to produce things, that their voices can be heard, and their experiences are important.

For these reasons, and so many more, I will always believe in the importance of literature and the arts. I’ll channel my inner Philip Sidney and keep defending it until the day I’m gone.

Richter, David H. The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. 3rd ed. Boston: Bedford St Martin’s, Macmillan Learning, 2016. Print.

Kathie Odom’s “Sabbath”

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by Laura Calhoun

I first discovered Kathie Odom’s work on Cabell Gallery’s website. Shenandoah was looking for art to feature in our spring issue at the time, so I brought Odom’s website to the attention of our editor, R.T. Smith. He related most to the subject matter of old buildings, a recurring theme throughout Odom’s work, and asked me to contact the artist. Within twenty minutes, I was talking with Mr. Odom, Kathie’s husband and assistant who was kind and open to the idea of featuring Kathie’s work in Shenandoah. A week later, after discovering that Cabell Gallery was located a few hundred feet from the Shenandoah offices, a deal was made.

Kathie Odom is from Knoxville, Tennessee, and has received many awards from plein air events across the country, including in states like Arizona and Vermont. Her painting style is described as “nostalgic impressionism,” easily identified by the bright earth tones and daydream-like quality of Kathie’s work. One painting R.T. Smith and I quickly agreed upon including is Sabbath (oil on linen, 30 x 40).

The church, an aging landmark in comparison to the field, is a reminder of days gone by in the countryside. Growing up in rural Appalachia, it seemed there were enough churches to individually accommodate each person who lived there. The juxtaposition of the dilapidated church and the lush, green field seems to make a statement about man and religion. Though we build churches as a symbol of a higher being and eternal life, the buildings themselves are anything but eternal. The life surrounding this church is what holds it up, the luscious hill steadying the weak foundation. I see this as a statement about religion in general – the foundation of a religious building exists not within its walls, but in the life which occupies the area within and around it.

Besides the theme of religion, Sabbath captures a stereotypical vision of Appalachia. The cow standing an equal distance from a barn and a church with no paved road or parking lot anywhere in sight. After religion, southerners worship farming, a common way of life for the people of rural America.

The painting is entirely bright, except for the lone cow in the foreground. To someone unfamiliar with rural life, this may be interpreted negatively, the cow viewed as a blemish on the beauty of the landscape. A viewer more familiar with rural life, however, may see the black cow as an enhancement to the landscape. Farming is not a lifestyle that affords luxuries; it is comprised of good days and bad days. Farmers learn to appreciate the bad days, the difficult growing seasons, and the unpredictability of nature. Just as the dark coloration of the cow strengthens this landscape, the hardships of farming make the rewards even sweeter.

Whether you grew up in rural America, there is some element of nostalgia in this painting with which you can relate. The colors are reminiscent of a long summer day, the kind where you played outside on your tire swing as a child, when your only concern was when to come inside for supper. The simplicity of the painting reminds the viewer of a simpler time. Appalachia, the embodiment of simpler times, provides the perfect scene to depict this sentiment.

I looked for a poem to complement the ideas gathered from this painting, but realized that these thoughts are best expressed through visual art. Paintings allow the viewer more subjectivity – the meaning must be entirely inferred. I think this interactivity is a reason I was attracted to Kathie Odom’s art in the first place; her paintings balance casual admiration and deeper analysis effortlessly. Sabbath is just one example of a landscape Odom has captured that tells a unique story to each viewer.

A collection of Kathie Odom’s art will be featured in Shenandoah Volume 66, No. 2 this spring. To see more, visit her website at http://kathieodom.com/.

Defining Poetry: Anne Sexton’s “Transformations”

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by Laurel Myers

I must admit before getting into this essay that I had never read a full book of poetry before university. Like my fellow classmate, Hannah Denham, I picked up Leaves of Grass with the intention to read every page. Holding a book of poetry in and of itself felt extremely scholarly and, dare I say it, snooty, that I worried the entire time I had the book people would think I was pretentious. Only a couple pages in, I got lost in the metaphors and otherworldliness of Whitman’s verse. I felt as if I had failed the literary world by not understanding the twists and convolutions of language. Because of this, I never attempted another book of poetry and only read the infamously famous poems passed out by my English teachers and wrote half-hearted stanzas about my trip to Cambodia or how much I love clouds. (I really love clouds.) In those moments of putting words on notebook paper and forcing out iambic pentameter and choosing rhymes from nowhere, poetry was just another homework assignment, a nuisance keeping me from the stacks of science fiction and fantasy novels that said what they meant and meant what they said. At the time, I simply did not understand the purpose of poetry.

That is, until I read Anne Sexton’s Transformations.

When I start a book, I read the foreword (if there is one) and then the last page first. I have received confused stares, angry outbursts, and sheer exasperation for this unconventional practice, which is understandable, but I am set in my ways. Beginning Transformations in this fashion prepared me for the dark humor and surprising intimacy of Sexton’s writing. I was delighted that Kurt Vonnegut Jr. had written the foreword, knowing that if my favorite satirist liked this book enough to write about it, I was in for something good. What struck me in his couple of pages was not something he said, but rather a quote from a friend: “I asked a poet friend one time what it was that poets did, and he thought awhile and then he told me, ‘They extend the language.’” This response partially answered my question of why someone would want to rewrite the Grimm fairy tales. We have the originals, we were read them at bedtime before slipping into dreams, and Disney has animated its fair share. However, there is always more to a story when an author as astonishing and introspective as Anne Sexton reimagines them while still staying true to the earliest versions of the tales. The forward, then, extended my expectations.

The last stanza of the last poem of her collection deserves the coveted spot, because the words linger long after the book is closed. They are the last impression, but just as important (if not more) as the first. Sexton ends “Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)” with these lines:

What voyage this, little girl?

This coming out of prison?

God help—

This life after death?

After reading this, I knew an entire journey occurs, but was it through all of the poems or just this one? Is this what the transformation is about? Do the characters go on physical journeys or is the book itself a journey? Why were there so many questions at the end? Does Anne Sexton not even know how the story is supposed to end? Why did I have to read the end first again?

Questions make you look for their answers, and in poetry, the answers are usually found in the patterns. Or are they found when the pattern is broken? Professor Wheeler, who teaches Transformations in her class about speculative fiction in poetry, would propose that poetry is patterned language, and therefore both the existence of a pattern and then deliberately ignoring the pattern are goldmines for analysis. Reading any type of work for the purpose of writing a paper on it changes how you approach the text, and this is more than true when close reading and annotating a poem. Close reading can sometimes make me see the trees for the forest. I get stuck on a color that keeps popping up or the number of times a name appears in one poem. This can cause you to wonder if this was the reason for poetry, to write in the margins and circle motifs and draw arrows connecting ideas or images. Thankfully, discussing my findings during class and listening to my classmates helped me understand why the patterns that stood out to me were important in the big picture and teased the underlying meanings to the surface.

While reading Transformations, you do not have to look very hard to see that metaphors are everywhere. Sexton’s predilection for metaphors extends throughout the book, diving into her dark humor and curiously personal perspectives. Her use of this literary device causes the world of fairy tales and World War II to collide. Her lush comparisons sculpted scenes full of obsession and bizarrerie while constantly juxtaposing characters with delicious food and nature’s foliage. Because Sexton wrote this collection before my time, she also forced me to look up references to Thorazine, Limoges, and the Bobbsey Twins.

But poems are more than structure and what rhetorical devices are used. They are a conversation, an observation, a call for empathy. They are statements about something, be it political, religious, or simply what it means to be human. Poems are examinations of ourselves and of our world, of desires and losses. As Allison Curseen, a visiting professor, put forth with conviction, “Poetry is bodies talking.” Poetry is extended language, is patterned language, is all of these cursory definitions. But Anne Sexton’s poetry transcends all of these descriptions and stands as a stoic and stark reminder that the world may be a messy place, but you can make something worthwhile out of it. You may not get a happy ending—in fact, your ending may by full of question marks—but you are fully capable of creating a fairy tale journey along the way.