RonranGlee Literary Scholarship

The Hidden Value in Aridity The Little Prince’s assertion, “What makes the desert beautiful is that it hides a well somewhere,” encapsulates a deeply human existential vision: beauty and meaning do not lie in the obvious but in what must be sought. This brief passage challenges a superficial perspective of the world, urging readers to uncover what is essential in the seemingly barren or empty. The desert symbolizes life in its rawest form, stripped of adornments and often perceived as inhospitable or purposeless. However, the Little Prince invites us to consider that even in this seemingly sterile setting, there is richness: a well, a source of life and renewal, is hidden beneath the surface. The underlying idea is that the effort to seek the invisible not only gives meaning to our existence but also transforms what once seemed empty into something full of possibilities. This thought is rooted in existentialist philosophy, which asserts that humans must actively construct meaning in a world that does not immediately offer it. The well represents hope and purpose, hidden but attainable through perseverance and faith. The act of searching itself gives value to our experiences, as it is not the discovery of the well that makes the desert beautiful, but the possibility of its existence. Saint-Exupéry is not merely describing the desert; he is speaking of the human soul. Our lives, like the arid landscape, gain depth and beauty when we accept that true richness is not found on the surface. In this context, the well becomes a metaphor for the hidden treasures within us, meaningful relationships, and truths revealed through time and introspection. Ultimately, the desert teaches us not to fear solitude or challenges but to embrace them as fertile ground for finding what gives our existence meaning. The Hidden Value in Aridity (Part II) The Little Prince’s assertion, “What makes the desert beautiful is that it hides a well somewhere,” also invites us to reflect on how we interpret beauty and purpose in our lives. In a society that often values the immediate, the visible, and the superficial, Saint-Exupéry reminds us that the most valuable things are rarely obvious. The desert, seemingly inhospitable and devoid of resources, becomes a symbol of those phases in our lives that feel empty or difficult to navigate. But, as the phrase suggests, these same phases can harbor unexpected possibilities. This perspective redefines our relationship with suffering, emptiness, and uncertainty: they are not merely obstacles to overcome but part of the path toward discovery and transformation. The well in the desert can be interpreted in multiple ways, each with philosophical resonance. From a spiritual standpoint, the well is a metaphor for the soul or the divine—a hidden source of strength within us, even when we are not fully aware of it. In mystical traditions, both Christian and Sufi, the search for water in the desert is a recurring image to describe the human longing for transcendence and a connection to something greater than ourselves. In this sense, Saint-Exupéry’s message resonates with the idea that, although life may be arid, there is always a source of life waiting to be discovered if we have the will to search for it. On a more practical level, the well symbolizes human resilience. Life is full of challenges that, like the desert, may seem endless and insurmountable. However, the author suggests that the key to finding meaning is not to lament the aridity but to search with hope for what can revitalize us. This perspective is profoundly optimistic: even in adversity, there is something hidden that can give us purpose. This optimism is not naive but active; it requires effort, patience, and faith that the search itself is valuable, even if it is not immediately rewarded. Moreover, this metaphor reminds us of the importance of perspective. The desert may seem empty if we only look at its surface, but for those who know where to search, it hides unparalleled richness. This also applies to our human relationships and the world around us: people and places that seem simple or uninteresting at first glance may harbor extraordinary depths. The act of searching—of digging beyond the surface—not only reveals the well but also transforms us, teaching us to see with new eyes. Finally, the passage can also be read as a commentary on the nature of hope. In a literal desert, the hope of finding water is what keeps a traveler moving forward, giving them the energy to persevere. In life, this same hope—the belief that something valuable lies beyond our difficulties—is what allows us to overcome moments of despair. But, as the Little Prince suggests, it is not just about finding the well; the mere belief in its existence transforms our experience of the desert. This invites us to reconsider how we define success and failure in our personal quest: perhaps the true achievement is not in the discovery itself but in the willingness to search. Thus, Saint-Exupéry’s phrase encapsulates a universal truth: the beauty of life is not in its ease but in its mystery. Like the desert, life is complex, arid, and often challenging, but its true wealth lies in the determination to seek the essential—the hidden—that, if found, can change everything.

Deciphering the Meaning Behind "Veni, Vidi, Vici" Julius Caesar’s phrase “Veni, Vidi, Vici” (I came, I saw, I conquered) is one of history’s most famous declarations of victory. At first glance, it appears to be a simple, direct statement of military triumph. However, beneath its brevity lies a complex interplay of rhetoric, psychological dominance, and political assertion. This essay will argue that Caesar’s phrase was not merely a factual account of his swift victory at the Battle of Zela but a deliberate assertion of his political supremacy, a demonstration of military efficiency, and a carefully crafted piece of propaganda aimed at consolidating his power in Rome. The underlying meaning of "Veni, Vidi, Vici" is rooted in its ability to project an image of invincibility, reinforce Caesar’s personal authority, and redefine the Roman understanding of leadership and conquest. To fully appreciate the weight of “Veni, Vidi, Vici,” one must examine its rhetorical structure. The phrase consists of three short, alliterative words, each a verb in the first-person singular perfect tense. This construction conveys not only the completion of an action but an air of personal immediacy. The use of three parallel verbs, all equally weighted, removes any sense of struggle or uncertainty. There is no mention of obstacles, no reference to strategy or hardship—only a swift and decisive triumph. This rhetorical choice serves to frame Caesar as an unstoppable force, a man for whom victory is as natural as existence itself. By eliminating details, he enhances the perception of his own efficiency and near-mythical prowess. Caesar’s audience, the Roman Senate and people, were accustomed to detailed war reports filled with accounts of prolonged sieges, strategic maneuvers, and challenges overcome. By contrast, “Veni, Vidi, Vici” offered no such details, breaking from tradition and setting a new precedent. This rhetorical sharpness was deliberate, as it minimized the role of chance or hardship in war, presenting Caesar’s leadership as the defining factor of victory. The implication was clear: where others struggle, Caesar simply wins. Beyond its rhetorical brilliance, “Veni, Vidi, Vici” functioned as a bold political statement. When Caesar sent this message to the Senate, Rome was in a state of turmoil. The recent civil war between Caesar and Pompey had left the Republic fragile, and many in the Senate remained wary of Caesar’s growing power. By presenting his victory in Pontus as effortless, Caesar reinforced the idea that his leadership was both inevitable and unmatched. The phrase also subtly undermined the Senate itself. In Roman tradition, generals returning from campaigns would seek approval from the Senate before celebrating a triumph, and victories were often presented as collective achievements of Rome rather than personal feats. By bypassing these formalities and framing his success in purely personal terms, Caesar sent a clear message: he did not answer to the Senate; the Senate answered to him. “Veni, Vidi, Vici” was not just a recounting of battle—it was a declaration of supremacy. While the phrase itself does not provide tactical details, it subtly communicates a key principle of Caesar’s military genius: speed. The Battle of Zela, fought in 47 BCE against Pharnaces II of Pontus, was won in a matter of days. Caesar’s ability to mobilize quickly, strike decisively, and conclude campaigns with remarkable efficiency set him apart from other Roman commanders. “Veni, Vidi, Vici” encapsulated this strategic advantage in just three words, reinforcing his reputation as a general who did not merely wage war but ended it swiftly. The psychological impact of such a phrase on both allies and enemies cannot be overstated. To Caesar’s supporters, it reaffirmed their faith in his invincibility. To his enemies, it was a warning—resistance was futile. The brevity of the statement itself contributed to its intimidation factor. Unlike a lengthy report that might invite scrutiny or debate, “Veni, Vidi, Vici” left no room for doubt or discussion. It was an assertion, not an argument. Caesar’s use of “Veni, Vidi, Vici” also signified a shift in the Roman concept of leadership. Traditionally, Roman commanders emphasized the collective effort of the Republic, attributing success to the virtues of Roman citizens and the will of the gods. By contrast, Caesar positioned himself as the central figure of victory, with no mention of Rome, the Senate, or his soldiers. This shift reflected the changing nature of power in Rome, as the Republic transitioned toward autocracy. The phrase foreshadowed the imperial model that would define Rome for centuries. Later emperors, including Augustus, would follow Caesar’s lead in crafting concise, authoritative statements that projected personal control over the state. In this way, “Veni, Vidi, Vici” was not just a record of one battle—it was a preview of the political future of Rome. The power of “Veni, Vidi, Vici” lies in its adaptability and timelessness. It has transcended its original context to become a universal expression of swift and decisive success. Its influence can be seen in political rhetoric, business strategy, and even popular culture. Leaders throughout history have echoed its sentiment, using similar structures to project authority and confidence. The phrase’s endurance speaks to its effectiveness as both propaganda and personal branding. Caesar understood that in politics and war, perception often matters as much as reality. By distilling his conquest into three simple words, he ensured that his victory and his legacy would be remembered not just in Rome, but throughout history. “Veni, Vidi, Vici” is far more than a boastful remark about a military victory. It is a masterful exercise in rhetoric, a political power move, and a statement of military philosophy. Through its brevity, it eliminates any suggestion of struggle, instead presenting triumph as an inevitable outcome of Caesar’s leadership. By framing his success as purely personal, it challenges traditional Roman notions of collective governance, paving the way for the autocratic rule that would define the Empire. And by conveying an air of invincibility, it reinforces Caesar’s place not just as a conqueror of lands, but as a shaper of history. In just three words, Julius Caesar encapsulated the essence of absolute power leaving a message that still resonates over two millennia later. Works Cited • Suetonius, Gaius. The Twelve Caesars. Translated by Robert Graves, Penguin Classics, 2003. • Plutarch. Parallel Lives: The Life of Julius Caesar. Translated by Bernadotte Perrin, Harvard University Press, 1919. • Goldsworthy, Adrian. Caesar: Life of a Colossus. Yale University Press, 2006. • Shotter, David. Julius Caesar and Rome. Routledge, 2005. • Everitt, Anthony. The Rise of Rome: The Making of the World's Greatest Empire. Random House, 2012.

Thematic Analysis Jeylon J. White College of Southern Maryland ART-1010-92905-Hist of Western Art I (A) Professor Narehood 10/4/2024 Abstract This essay explores the evolving representation of the human body in art and its reflection of cultural values across different times in history. Focusing on Andy Warhol’s “Monroe Diptych” as a modern depiction of celebrity commodification, the analysis contrasts this work with Polykleitos' “Doryphoros” from Classical Greece, the “Venus of Willendorf” from the Paleolithic era, and the “Seated Scribe” from ancient Egypt. Each artwork reveals distinct societal values: Greek ideals of physical perfection and harmony, prehistoric reverence for fertility, Egyptian emphasis on intellect and status, and modern society's detachment and objectification of the human image. Through these comparisons, the essay highlights how the human body serves as a canvas for expressing cultural ideologies, from reverence for beauty and wisdom to the commodification of fame. Art has long used the human body as a central subject to explore cultural values, social structures, and philosophical ideals. From prehistoric fertility figures to the glamourized depictions of modern celebrities, the body often serves as a review of a society’s priorities. Andy Warhol “Monroe Diptych”, a silkscreen portrait of the iconic actress Marilyn Monroe, offers a distinct contrast to classical representations by transforming the human figure into a commodified symbol of fame and media culture. This essay will examine the ways in which the human body is represented in art, using Warhol’s work as a modern comparison to the ancient “Venus of Willendorf”, Polykleitos’ “Doryphoros”, and the Egyptian “Seated Scribe”. These works reveal how the body can embody ideals of fertility, physical perfection, wisdom, and, in the case of Warhol, the detachment from individuality in the age of mass media. Polykleitos’ “Doryphoros”, also known as "Spear-Bearer," exemplifies the Classical Greek pursuit of ideal human proportions. The figure stands in a contrapposto pose, where the body weight is shifted onto one leg, creating a sense of dynamic balance and movement. The sculpture’s muscular form, meticulously sculpted, represents the Greek ideal of male athleticism and physical strength (McDermott, 1996). In ancient Greece, physical perfection was seen as a reflection of moral and intellectual virtue. The Greeks valued symmetry, proportion, and balance, not just in the body but in society and philosophy. The “Doryphoros” served as a physical manifestation of the mathematical ratios that Polykleitos outlined in his Canon, linking the human body to a broader concept of universal harmony (McDermott, 1996). The emphasis on idealized human form reflected cultural values of excellence and the pursuit of human perfection. The “Venus of Willendorf”, a small figurine dating back over 25,000 years, presents a markedly different depiction of the human body. Its exaggerated physical features emphasize fertility and reproduction. The lack of facial features suggests that the figure’s identity was less important than its symbolic function (Klein, R. G., & Edgar, B. (2002)). Scholars suggest that the “Venus of Willendorf” likely served as a fertility icon, reflecting the survival priorities of early human societies. In a prehistoric context, a healthy, fertile body represented continuity and prosperity, essential for communities reliant on reproduction for survival. The focus on bodily exaggeration suggests a reverence for fertility, contrasting sharply with later ideals of proportion and balance seen in works like the “Doryphoros” (McDermott, 1996). The “Seated Scribe”, a painted limestone sculpture from ancient Egypt, depicts a figure seated with a papyrus scroll, capturing a more realistic and less idealized portrayal of the human body. Unlike the godlike or royal figures in Egyptian art, the scribe is depicted with naturalistic features suggesting a figure of wisdom and status rather than physical perfection (Klein, R. G., & Edgar, B., 2002). In Egyptian culture, scribes held an important role as literate members of society who could record and manage information. The “Seated Scribe” body reflects the Egyptian emphasis on intellect over physical prowess. His preserved image immortalizes his status and the reverence for knowledge in Egyptian society, in stark contrast to the warrior-athletes of Greek art or the fertility idols of prehistory (Klein, R. G., & Edgar, B., 2002). This more individualized portrayal of the human body suggests that, for the Egyptians, social status and intellectual contribution outweighed physical ideals. Warhol’s “Monroe Diptych” uses repetition and bright, artificial colors to present the human body—specifically, the face of Marilyn Monroe—as a product of mass culture. The left side of the diptych shows Monroe’s face in vibrant hues, while the right side fades into black and white, with her image slowly deteriorating. The silkscreen process adds a sense of detachment, turning her image into a reproducible commodity (Ryan, T. R., 2015). In the 20th century, the commodification of the human body reached new heights with the advent of mass media and consumer culture. Warhol’s work, particularly in the “Monroe Diptych”, reflects society’s obsession with celebrity culture and the dehumanization of individuals into mass-produced icons. Monroe, once a living person, is reduced to a repeated, fading image, reflecting the ephemeral nature of fame (Osterwold, T., 1999). This stands in stark contrast to the cultural values seen in the other works discussed, where the body was often idealized or revered. Warhol’s commentary suggests a shift in how the human body is perceived—not as a vessel of perfection, fertility, or wisdom, but as a disposable product of consumerism. The representations of the human body in art offer unique insights into the values and concerns of different cultures. In Polykleitos’ “Doryphoros”, the human form is a symbol of physical and moral perfection, mirroring the Greek obsession with harmony and proportion. The “Venus of Willendorf” reveals a prehistoric reverence for fertility and survival, while the “Seated Scribe” emphasizes wisdom and social function over physical beauty. Warhol’s “Monroe Diptych”, however, marks a departure from these values, reflecting a modern world in which the body has become a product of mass media and commodification. Together, these works demonstrate the evolving role of the human figure in art and its power to communicate deeper cultural meanings across time. References Klein, R. G., & Edgar, B. (2002). The dawn of human culture. Wiley. The dawn of human culture : Richard G. Klein : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive Ryan, T. R. (2015). Andy Warhol, Marilyn Diptych. Smarthistory. Smarthistory – Andy Warhol, Marilyn Diptych Osterwold, T. (1999). Pop Art. Taschen. Pop art : Osterwold, Tilman : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive McDermott, L. (1996). Self-representation in Upper Paleolithic female figurines. Current Anthropology, 37(2), 227-275. (PDF) Self-Representation in Upper Paleolithic Female Figurines (researchgate.net)

Redefining Passion “I turned to my left with the confidence a child has running to his mamma when he is afraid or in distress. to say to Virgil: 'Not a single drop of blood remains in me that does not tremble--I know the signs of the ancient flame. ‘But Virgil had departed, leaving us bereft: Virgil, sweetest of fathers, Virgil, to whom I gave myself for my salvation. And not all our ancient mother lost could save my cheeks, washed in the dew, from being stained again with tears.” The Divine Comedy written by Dante Alighieri uses a first-person perspective to follow the Poet’s spiritual journey through Inferno, Purgatory and finally Paradise. Irish songwriter Hozier, inspired by the Comedy, released the song “Hymn to Virgil” in 2023. The song is written from Dante’s point of view, illustrating the relationship between the Poet and Virgil. Hozier hones in on the pain Dante endures just before he reaches Paradise as he must leave Virgil behind. Hozier’s “Hymn to Virgil” stresses the notion of platonic relationships having just as much, if not more passion than romantic relationships through his allusion to the Divine Comedy by incorporating themes of devotion, sacrifice and desperation within his piece. The Divine Comedy is made up of three canticles, Inferno, Purgatorio and Paradiso . The bond between Dante and his mentor, Virgil is established within the first canticle, Inferno, in which Virgil leads Dante through the nine circles of hell, teaching him about spirituality by contrasting the effects of sin with the peace found in virtue . Following the first canticle Dante and Virgil travel through Purgatory, a space divided into seven platforms, each representing one of the seven deadly sins. The journey prepares Dante for his assent to Paradise. However, before Dante leaves, he realizes Virgil is no longer with him, as he becomes trapped in Purgatory indefinitely due to his pagan beliefs. With Virgil forced to live in never ending pain and forced purification, Dante is left mourning his loss. Devotion can be described as an immense “loyalty and love or care for someone or something.” It is a common theme within “Hymn to Virgil” as Hozier continuously reinforces Dante’s devotion to Virgil in his writing. He writes “If I held in my hands everything gold could buy, I'd still not have a thing worth giving you” , emphasizing the love Dante holds for Virgil as even if he possessed all that the world had to offer, it would not equate to what Virgil deserves. This line establishes a pedestal to which Dante put Virgil on, showcasing his admiration and fondness for him. Further into the song another lyric reads “I wouldn't be seen walking through any door, some place that you're not welcome to.” This oath-like statement solidifies Dante’s loyalty as he promises to stand by Virgil, never associating himself with anything that fails to respect and praise him in the same manner in which he does. Dante’s unwavering devotion to Virgil is visible through Hozier’s use of declarations from him to Virgil. These declarations parallel to that of wedding vows, typically spoken between two individuals who share a romantic connection. This correspondence is intentional as the song illustrates how the promises and commitments between individuals can exist outside of romantic spheres. Devotion not only allows one to showcase their loyalty and love but also aids the formation of an altruistic bond. In extreme matters such as this, devotion can manifest into self-sacrifice, another theme adopted within “Hymn to Virgil”. Making a sacrifice is the action of giving “up something that is valuable to you in order to help another person.” Hozier makes reference to the sacrifices Virgil made for Dante by adding moments of reflection within his piece. The lyric, “You tell me the sun is shining in paradise, And I have to watch your lips turn blue” reminisces on the teachings of Heaven from Virgil to Dante while simultaneously recognizing that Virgil was not able to experience what he taught. Another line reads, “You stare at the faces smiling from somewhere warm, from some place the sunlight won’t come through.” Once again, the song acknowledges Virgil’s unfortunate situation as he witnesses the happiness of others while suffering from a forgotten place that not even the sun can reach. These quotes encapsulate the scale of Virgil’s suffering as he is stuck within a cold and dark place left with nothing but the view of those in Paradise. Virgil’s act serves as the ultimate sacrifice as he chose to help Dante after seeing his state of discontentment and daze , knowing he could not reside in paradise with him as he would become stuck within the confines of Purgatory. The compassion and empathy given to Dante by Virgil spans beyond that of couples as Virgil held the desire to relieve Dante’s suffering, even before knowing him personally. This aspiration to assist Dante marked the beginning stages of passion, which both grew to have. Virgil and Dante’s devotion lead to self-sacrifice, allowing Dante to reach Paradise ultimately changing his life for the better. However, this caused Dante to experience a newfound desperation as interpreted by Hozier. “A strong readiness to take any action, even extreme ones, to achieve a goal” stems from the feeling of desperation. The heaviness of Virgil’s situation weighed down the mind of Dante according to Hozier causing this feeling to build. The pre chorus and chorus of the song are sung multiple times creating repetition that intensifies its meaning. The pre chorus says, “I would burn the world to bring some heat to you” , openly admitting Dante’s willingness to sin even after experiencing the horrors of Inferno and meeting the Devil himself. The pre chorus serves as a response to Dante's claims in the chorus that “you are the reason I went through it, the only meaning as I knew it. And I can only do my best, I do not do this for myself.” Dante attributes his enlightenment and knowledge to Virgil as he was Dante’s motivation to persevere through the journey, serving as the reason for where he is today. Finally, the chorus concludes with the line “I’d Walk through Hell on living feet for you” , proposing Dante’s inclination to suffer if it meant paying Virgil back in any way. Suffering for the benefit of another is usually seen in romantic contexts as partners do all they can to ensure their significant other is happy . Dante exhibits his eagerness to allow Virgil to experience peace in the same way he has by going against his newfound morality. Letting go of what you believe in to benefit those you care about is an example of how intimacy and passion stretches further than just romantic relationships. By implementing themes of Devotion, Sacrifice and Desperation, Hozier creates a song that conveys the authentic passion and connection shared between Dante and Virgil. The piece confutes societal downplaying of platonic relationships, elevating their importance and the capacity in which they are talked about. By creating an aestheticized depiction of yearning in a non-sexual manner, Hozier is urging society to reconsider the way in which we belittle these relationships. By alluding to the relationship established within the Divine Comedy, Hozier introduced his audience to concepts that develop within romantic relationships as well as platonic ones.

"The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats: Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? Yeats’ Philosophies in “The Second Coming” William Butler Yeats spent much of his life constructing his philosophy, pulling from mythologies and religions, as well as, teachings of famous philosophers like Nietzsche. He practiced automatic writing, through which he believed he could tap into a collective unconscious, which he called the Spiritus Mundi. He presented many aspects of this philosophy in his poetry, especially in “The Second Coming,” much of which can only be understood through his book, A Vision, where he attempted to present his ideas in their entirety. Only through analyzing “The Second Coming” with his philosophical ideals in mind, namely Nietzschean philosophy and his theory of “The Great Wheel,” can the reader fully understand Yeats’ message. Disturbed by the atrocities of the First World War and searching for the root of humanity’s evils, Yeats turned to the Nietzschean theories of cyclical history and warring forces. Nietzsche believed in ewige Wiederkehr, or Eternal Recurrence, which holds that all life exists in a warring cycle of two opposing forces. Yeats expanded this idea to create his theory of the “Great Wheel” or “Wheel of Time,” a life cycle consisting of 28 phases coinciding with the phases of the moon. Yeats believed, as Nietzsche did, that each person was reincarnated. However, in his theory, an individual’s soul is cycled through each phase of the wheel, alternating every 2000 years between opposing epochs, which Yeats deemed the Primary and Antithetical ages. Stemming from Nietzsche’s theory of Apollonian and Dionysian forces, opposing forces of art and intoxication, Yeats utilizes the Primary and Antithetical to represent the conflicting motivations of humanity and account for mass tragedies. He believed these forces existed in both the personal state and as ages on the Wheel of Time. This further emphasizes his belief in a dominating spiritual realm that controls not only the universe but also the individual. Within the first four lines, Yeats introduces his idea of the spinning gyres and establishes his belief in a growing Primary force. Yeats believed the Primary and Antithetical forces manifested themselves in a person’s soul as spiral vortexes. The closer one was to the center, the more antithetical they were, and vice versa. The Antithetical, rooted in Nietzsche’s Apollonian, represents everything artistic and beautiful, while the Primary, the Dionysian, is the “dark” force, from which all life stems. These can more loosely be applied to the inner drives of self-control/aspiration and self-destruction. Lines one through four express these beliefs. Yeats says, “Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer / Things fall apart; the center cannot hold / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world” (lines 1-4). Were the gyre turning toward the Antithetical, the falcon, representative of the individual and society, would be moving toward the falconer, an image Yeats uses as a representation of God and spirituality. However, in Yeats’ image, the falcon is separated from the falconer and this separation brings about anarchy. Within these first lines, Yeats establishes the focus of his poem: humanity’s separation from the Antithetical and the growing Primary force. Yeats believed the Primary and Antithetical forces embody two polarities on the Wheel of Time. Phase One, complete darkness, represents the beginning of the Primary period, and Phase 15, complete light, represents the Antithetical. Emphasizing his desperation during this destructive age, Yeats begins his second stanza with the exclamation, “Surely some revelation is at hand” (line 9). Given the events of WWI, it is understandable that Yeats felt his time was approaching the Primary age, an age where inner gyres become almost purely Primary, humanity falls victim to their base desires, and the world begins a period of self-destruction. In the Primary phase, Yeats believed, those who are more Antithetical, and therefore understand the dangers of Primary behaviors, are unable to act upon their moral “conviction” because they are surrounded by the Primary forces of others and the universe (line 7). This perhaps is his attempt to understand why people like himself could see the injustices of their world and be unable to change it. If the universe is contained in a predestined cycle of good and evil and each person is powerless in the scheme of their lives, then the evils of the world are not so much the fault of society, but more so part of the overarching plan of a divine being, and therefore not capable of being fully understood. In Yeats’ second stanza, he describes a spiritual vision he has of the coming Primary age, and, in doing so, outlines his overall philosophical claim. Through “a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi,” (line 12) Yeats sees an animal with the body of a lion and “the head of a man” (line 14) moving through the desert while “darkness drops again” (line 18). He questions what “rough beast…slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” (line 22). In his poetry, Yeats often depicted the First Phase as a “beast” and utilized it as a symbol for death both in a metaphorical and literal sense. Here, he chooses to specify that the “beast” is a Sphinx. This is perhaps a reference to Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil, in which he used the myth of Oedipus and the Sphinx to introduce the Dionysian self. In this myth, the Sphinx would prompt a person with riddles and eat them should their answer be wrong. Nietzsche asks “Is it any wonder…that we should finally learn from this Sphinx to ask questions, too? Who is it really that puts questions to us here? What in us really wants ‘truth’?...Who of us is Oedipus here? Who the Sphinx?” (9). Nietzsche contends that though we believe ourselves to be Oedipus in our quest for understanding, we attempt to act as both. The universe is unknowable, yet we strive for an answer, therefore, we pose a riddle we, ourselves, can never solve. Nietzsche argued that one’s quest for full understanding was driven by the main motivation of the Dionysian force: a desire to exert control. In the first stanza, Yeats suggests, through the symbol of the falcon, that humanity has drifted from God. Here, he explains how. In attempting to gain control through full understanding, humanity has determined that their wisdom is equal to that of God in that they believe themselves capable of understanding a system greater and more complicated than they will ever be. This inflated sense of self leads people to act as if there is no higher being than themselves, so they engage in Primary behaviors, which leads to travesty, and separates them further from the Antithetical. Yeats further illustrates humanity’s separation from the Antithetical, specifically their separation from spiritualism, through the symbol of the “indignant desert birds” flying above the sphinx as it crawls across the desert. Though Yeats does not specify what species of bird these are, because he often used birds as symbols of the Antithetical age, the reader can assume that these birds are symbolic of the Antithetical age, as well. The lack of specificity is not concerning, though, as Yeats’ focus lies not in their species but in their indignance. They resent the Sphinx but do not attack it. Yeats writes that their “shadows,” not their bodies, “reel” around the Sphinx (line 17). Like the warring Primary and Antithetical ages, the birds are engaged in a battle with a force they cannot physically affect. In 1882, Nietzsche wrote his famous words, “God is Dead,” as a response to what he saw as the decay of Christianity and a rise in shallow materialism, a trend he believed would lead to mass self-destruction. Yeats, living amidst a post-war world, most likely saw Nietzsche’s warning as having come to fruition, choosing to symbolize this through the image of the Sphinx and its separation from the “desert birds.” Though at first Yeats’ poem may seem pessimistic, in actuality it is an admission of powerlessness, and therefore an attempt on Yeats’ part to find peace in his troubling world. Yeats hoped that others, as he did, could find solace in the idea of a predetermined cycle of time. Often referred to as “amor fati” or “the love of fate,” Yeats found a great sense of peace in knowing he had no control over his life. In his philosophy, there was no eternal death or destruction, only temporary phases on the Wheel of Time, which always shifted to periods of light. He could control nothing, but he saw the ever-shifting nature of life as a sign that he was part of something greater. Amidst all the turmoil of a Primary world where “things fall apart,” anarchy grows, “blood-dimmed tides” flow, and “rough beasts” lurk in the desert, Yeats chose to include markers of hope. Although the falcon drifts from the falconer, the falconer remains. Yeats says, “The falcon cannot hear the falconer,” implying that the falconer has not left and still calls to the bird, but it is too far to hear him (line 2). In a religious sense, this means that even though humanity has drifted from God, God has not abandoned them. In the aspect of the Wheel of Time, this emphasizes Yeats’ message that the Primary will not reign forever. This is also seen in his choice to overcast the image of the Sphinx with shadows of the “desert birds,” portraying the idea of a reigning Antithetical force amidst an approaching Primary age. Although Yeats believed the world was entering a dark Primary era, he also understood that this was part of the grand scheme of time and found solace in the belief that this was only a temporary phase on the wheel. “The Second Coming” is not a poem about destruction and death at the hands of a monstrous beast. It is a poem written by a man attempting to understand a post-war world who believed and found comfort in believing he was part of an eternal spiritual realm. Drawing on Nietzsche’s theory of competing forces and cyclical history, Yeats constructed a variation of these ideas around which he shaped his philosophy. He posited that each individual cycled through an eternal Wheel of Time, alternating every 2,000 years between dominating Antithetical and Primary forces. He believed that within the individual, these forces resembled spiral vortexes that remain in conflict, as they do at the societal level, which accounts for the evils and injustices of the world. Although he displays the darkness and dangers of the Primary age he also provides aspects of hope in the images of the falconer and the birds as symbols of the Antithetical age that will one day regain control. Yeats hoped that in his poem readers could find comfort in the idea of an uncontrollable eternal world that for every bad time provides a good one. In essence, “The Second Coming” is a poem about accepting one’s powerlessness and finding peace in the idea of a power greater than oneself with the understanding that death is not always the end.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book 1 Lines 1 - 88 (Translated by A.D. Melville): “Before the seas and lands had been created, before the sky that covers all, Nature displayed a single aspect only throughout the cosmos: Chaos was its name, a shapeless, unwrought mass of inert bulk, and nothing more, with the discordant seeds of disconnected elements all heaped together in anarchic disarray. No Sun as yet shone forth upon the world, nor did the waxing Moon renew her horns; nor was the Earth suspended in the air, balanced by her own weight; nor Ocean stretched to far horizons, as a world of sea. Land there was none, nor air, nor sky. The mass lay without form and shone without a light; no aspect of its essence could be seen; and each was hostile to the others’ kind, for in one body cold contended hot, and wet was dry, and soft was hard, and weightless substance strove with matter having weight.” Ovid’s depiction of the universe’s creation in Metamorphoses can be read as a metapoetic meditation—a self-reflective exploration of the poet’s role as a creator. The transformation of chaotic, disconnected elements into an ordered, harmonious cosmos mirrors Ovid’s poetic process of constructing his epic from a vast collection of myths. By juxtaposing natural creation with artistic creation, Ovid positions the poet as a divine architect, shaping chaos into meaningful form. At the core of this passage lies the image of Chaos, “a shapeless, unwrought mass of inert bulk.” This description of primordial disorder directly parallels the raw material of storytelling: myths, characters, themes, and ideas in their unrefined state. Like the discordant elements of Chaos—“cold contended hot, and wet was dry”—the poet’s source material is filled with tension, contradiction and contrasting narratives that must be resolved into a coherent structure. The poetic act, much like the cosmic act of creation, involves imposing order, balance, and clarity onto this formless mass. A.D. Melville’s translation highlights the tension between disordered elements: “discordant seeds of disconnected elements all heaped together in anarchic disarray.” This conjures the diversity of myths Ovid inherited, which in their unrefined state resemble seeds—raw potential waiting to be cultivated by the poet’s hand. The emergence of structure from Chaos functions not only as a cosmic process but also as a reflection of the Metamorphoses itself. Ovid’s epic spans vast narrative landscapes, from creation to the reign of Caesar Augustus, weaving hundreds of myths into a singular, unified tapestry. The eventual order that emerges in the passage—“each was hostile to the others’ kind” but is eventually balanced—mirrors the poet’s task: not to erase conflict, but to reconcile and organize it. Myths—gods and mortals, transformation and permanence, love and violence—are preserved in the Metamorphoses, framed in a way that reveals their interconnections and significance. Through this metapoetic reading, we also recognize Ovid as an innovator. By opening the Metamorphoses with the transformation of Chaos, Ovid aligns himself with divine creation, setting the stage for a work that will continue to explore transformation. This theme of transformation, mirrored in the description of Earth becoming “suspended in the air, balanced by her own weight,” reflects the precarious balance of Ovid’s project—uniting diverse myths into a cohesive narrative without collapsing under its ambition. In a performed reading of Metamorphoses, I found the interplay between voice and movement mirrored the text’s own process of transformation. As performers we began with the words on the page and constructed the work through physicality, we embodied Ovid’s creative act. Each transformation on stage—whether through gesture, expression, or vocal modulation—was a reenactment of the cosmic transformation described in the text. As Ovid transforms chaos into cosmos his language lends directly to performance, human’s ability to be transformative creatively across multiple mediums. The passage’s reference to the Sun’s absence—“no Sun as yet shone forth upon the world”—can function as a metaphor for poetic and artistic inspiration, emerging from darkness. As the world is illuminated through creation, the poet brings clarity to chaos, shaping it into a coherent whole. Ovid’s creation passage is not just a cosmological account but a metapoetic exploration of artistic creation. The transformation of Chaos into order mirrors the poet’s role in shaping raw material into a structured, meaningful whole. Through this process, Metamorphoses itself becomes a reflection of cosmic and human creation. Ovid’s work celebrates the power of art to impose meaning on a chaotic world, embodying the very act of transformation that it describes.

The stories that grace the pages of the famous book of Genesis contain well-known details, passages, moments, images, and terms that have become ingrained in the minds of countless people. As children, many become familiar with the iconic lines of the text, from the opening statement, "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth," to His mighty command, "Let there be light," as well as the powerful tales of Cain and Abel, as well as Noah's ark. Yet, one such name, found in the sixth chapter of this holy text, is often overlooked despite holding profound importance. In Genesis 6:4, an unassuming word reveals an aspect of the legend that radiates immense value and knowledge: "The Nephilim" (Genesis 6:4, Page 27). Although this term bears a certain subtlety, when studied and understood, it can reshape the reader's interpretations of several chapters, raise new theological ideas buried within the text, and uncover the theme regarding God's love for His children. Many people hear the story of Noah's ark at a young age and learn how God became angry with the wickedness of humanity, flooding the Earth as a result. This event is often received with confusion and anger as it presents God in a dark and unfamiliar way. Readers will typically question God's reaction and ask why He would kill His creations. This tale leaves a sour and bitter taste in many mouths as readers search for answers to why God would turn on His beloved children. Although Genesis is a human interpretation of God's acts in the form of parables, many value the messages and lessons they hold and believe there is truth to them. With this in mind, it is understandable that some readers would feel pained and betrayed by God's willingness to murder His creations. Some interpret God as a 'control freak' or a 'toxic parent' who wants His children to grow as He envisioned them and will ensure success no matter the cost. Whether you believe this or not, this action taken by God raises several burning questions. Why would God kill all of humanity over the mistakes of a few? Why did He not start over from scratch, erasing and replacing His creations? Why did He not use His power to cleanse the souls stained with evil? All of these questions are reasonable to ask and will leave most readers scratching their heads in confusion. Except the answer was staring them in the face, hiding in plain sight: the Nephilim. Although many argue the identity of the Nephilim, the term in Hebrew translates to "fallen ones," likely referencing beings who have come down from where God dwells. A widely accepted theory is that they are the offspring of fallen angels and women. To fully understand the Nephilim, one must explore the fallen angels from which they came. The fallen angels, who are also commonly referred to as demons, are those who once served God but sinned and turned against him in support of Satan. As punishment for their betrayal, God exiled them from Heaven to Earth and Hell, where they became servants of Satan and dwelled amongst humanity. According to the book of Genesis, "the sons of God [came] to bed with the daughters of man who bore them children" (Genesis 6:4, Page 27). The differences in the origin of the men and women in this passage indicate that human women, who were born from man, did have children with fallen angels, who are consistently called "sons of God." Considering the identity of the fallen angels, one can reasonably assume that they are individuals bearing evil and sinful intentions, intentions they could pass on to their offspring. The identity of the Nephilim is a topic readers could skim over, easily ignoring the weight and importance they hold and leading them to misinterpret God's actions and motivations to flood the Earth. Some may argue that God was cruel in His punishment of banishing the angels who disagreed with him. However, the deeper meaning behind God's reasoning can be found long before the flood, back to the rise of Satan. One reason God's decision to flood the Earth is so perplexing and frustrating to so many is due to His sudden change in character. Genesis establishes God as a loving and caring Father who loves His children, humans and angels alike, which results in quite a shock when He decides to destroy nearly all He created. However, God is not the controlling or toxic parent many have come to believe He is, but the complete opposite. The Creator gives His children complete freedom over their choices, as seen in Adam and Eve's tale, as they choose to betray God and listen to Satan. All humans and angels have the decision to join Him in Heaven or to go with Satan to hell, yet the choice made by the angels is far more permanent. When angels made their choice to follow God, some freely chose to serve Satan, who, at the time, was an angel who craved power. These angels openly turned against God and would not be welcomed home, as was made clear to them beforehand. Humans, on the other hand, live their lives and will face God in the end, but will have the same choice as the angels who came before: to stand with Him and repent or to turn against Him and join Satan. God's decision to give His children free will and choose to leave or stay with Him in Heaven emphasizes His love for His children, something readers might miss without knowledge of the fallen angels and the Nephilim. God's decision goes deeper when looking at Noah, who "found favor in the eyes of the Lord" (Genesis 6:5, Page 28). It was not God's intention to completely destroy the Earth, as shown through His request that Noah, "two of each thing you shall bring to the ark to keep alive with you, male and female they shall be (...) two of each thing shall come to you to be kept alive" (Genesis 6:13, Page 29). God had the power to destroy His creations and start again, but He chose to place His faith in one of His children to give the mortal life He created another chance and allowed them to live on after the flood removed the Nephilim. This effort on God's part highlights His love for His children, something readers could easily miss or misinterpret without fully understanding the Nephilim. Looking at the combined information, one can gather that the Nephilim are the product of human women and fallen angels who chose to follow Satan and embrace evil and sin. The Nephilim are beings who lived amongst humanity, spread wickedness, and posed a threat, corrupting many humans and damning them for eternity. With this in mind, God's choice to destroy what He had created holds a greater weight and sorrow. The flood was not a frantic act of control, nor one driven by rage, but a pained and solemn choice made out of love. God's decision was an attempt to spare the lives of His children who dwelled on the Earth, as well as those to come. He wanted to save their souls from a fate of torture and sin and sacrificed their mortal lives in exchange for their eternal ones. The importance of the Nephilim in Genesis is something too many readers gloss over, as it results in misinterpretations and false assumptions that change the intended meaning of tales like Noah's ark. Through this misunderstanding, many readers may feel pity for the Nephilim and humanity as a whole or ignore their existence altogether while feeling anger and confusion toward God's actions to flood the world He created. The understanding of the Nephilim changes the entirety of the tale, through which one can discover the meaning, power, and extent of God's love for His children and how far He is willing to go to save them.

An Interpretation of “Wulf and Eadwacer” By Sarah Ray It is as though my people have been given A present. They wish to capture him If he comes with a troop. We are apart. Wulf is on one isle, I am on another. Fast is that island set among the fens. Murderous are the people who inhabit That island. They will wish to capture him If he comes with a troop. We are apart. Grieved have I for my Wulf with distant longings. Then was it rainy weather, and I sad, When the bold warrior laid his arms about me. I took delight in that and also pain. O Wulf, my Wulf, my longing for your coming Has made me ill, the rareness of your visits, My grieving spirit, not the lack of food. Eadwacer, do you hear me? For a wolf Shall carry to the woods our wretched whelp. Men very easily may put asunder That which was never joined, our song together. Lēodum is mīnum swylce him mon lāc gife; willað hȳ hine āþecgan gif hē on þrēat cymeð. Ungelīc is ūs. Wulf is on īege, ic on ōþerre. 5Fæst is þæt ēglond, fenne biworpen. Sindon wælrēowe weras þǣr on īge; willað hȳ hine āþecgan gif hē on þrēat cymeð. Ungelīce is ūs. Wulfes ic mīnes wīdlāstum wēnum hogode, 10þonne hit wæs rēnig weder ond ic rēotugu sæt, þonne mec se beaducāfa bōgum bilegde, wæs mē wyn tō þon, wæs mē hwæþre ēac lāð. Wulf, mīn Wulf! wēna mē þīne sēoce gedydon, þīne seldcymas, 15murnende mōd, nales metelīste. Gehȳrest þū, Ēadwacer? Uncerne eargne hwelp bireð wulf tō wuda. Þæt mon ēaþe tōslīteð þætte nǣfre gesomnad wæs, uncer giedd geador. The Modern English translation is by Richard Hamer, A Choice of Anglo-Saxon Verse (1970). The Old English version is from The Exeter Book of Old English Poetry, published in 1933 with some introductory chapters by R. W. Chambers. The screenshot was taken from Peter S. Baker’s peer-reviewed article, “The Ambiguitiy of ‘Wulf and Eadwacer’” (1981). The word “wulf” in line 16 was highlighted by me. Ancient texts can be confusing due to their lack of context, and the Old English poem “Wulf and Eadwacer” is no different. It is an intriguing poem precisely because very little is known about exactly when it was written (it is found in the Exeter Book from about 975 A.D., but could have been penned prior to that), who wrote it, and what story is being told within it. But from the cryptic verse, the thin line of a story can be drawn. The story I propose is this: Wulf and the female narrator were lovers from warring tribes before he had to go into his current hiding place, on an island separate from her and her people who want to kill him. Then she had to marry Eadwacer, and the wolf referred to at the end of the poem is actually the man Wulf, who has come and stolen away the child of the narrator and Eadwacer. One of the first facts of the poem that can be discovered is that the narrator is a woman. We can tell this because, aside from the narrator’s relationships with men, the Old English word reotugu has an adjectival ending that denotes the gender of the speaker as female. This fact is mentioned in the poem’s preface in The Norton Anthology of English Literature (2018), where I first read Hamer’s translation. As this detail, crucial to understanding an already complex poem, is hidden from the reader until line 10, the poem must be read several times and examined as a whole in order to get the fullest meaning possible. (This is a work that especially merits rereading!) While the female narrator is not named, there are two male names in the poem: Wulf and Eadwacer. As the narrator has different reactions towards both of the names (grieving for Wulf, and making sure Eadwacer can hear her before saying that their child will be taken away), it makes the most sense that these names refer to two separate men. The first nine lines, when taken together, indicate that Wulf and the female narrator were lovers from enemy tribes. Phrases in the poem, from the narrator’s people “wish[ing] to capture” Wulf, to the mention that they “are apart”, to the female narrator’s admission that she has “grieved… for… Wulf with distant longings” all support the idea that they were together at one point, and want to be now, but can’t (lines 2, 3, and 9, respectively). These two groups the narrator belongs to – the tribe she is a part of and the couple she and Wulf are (or were) together – represent a pull between the often-opposing forces of duty and love. But duty seems to win out, as the next part of the poem focuses on her relationship, and possibly marriage, with a “bold warrior” (line 11). This line makes the most sense in reference to Eadwacer, even though he is not mentioned by name until line 16. The bold warrior is definitely someone other than lone Wulf, because the narrator was sad that Wulf was gone when “the bold warrior laid his arms about [her]” (line 11). And the only other man named in the poem is Eadwacer. His name also literally means “property watcher” (both his and Wulf’s name meanings are given in the poem’s Norton Anthology preface). After Wulf left or had to go into hiding from the narrator’s tribe, the narrator must have had to marry Eadwacer, someone acceptable in her own tribe. And wouldn’t a property-watcher, like a shepherd, try and keep dangerous “wolves” away from the property, perhaps including his wife? I posit that the wolf referred to in line 16 of the poem is actually Wulf, the man that the female narrator longs for who has been referred to throughout the poem. After all, the Old English version of the poem has “wulf”, spelled the same as the man’s name, written for what is translated in Hamer’s version as “wolf” So the fact that his name is quite literally the word for a wolf , which was often a symbol of an outlaw, supports the idea that Wulf is the one referred to in line 16 and that he is in hiding from the woman’s tribe or clan. Since the wolf is carrying the child away, it makes sense to call the child a whelp, especially since it denotes a sort of helpless state. And if the narrator seems to not care as deeply for Eadwacer as she does for her former lover or her child, that makes sense, if she did not want to marry Eadwacer in the first place, as evidenced by the mixed feelings of “delight… and also pain” she has in regards to him (line 12). The mention of a child also brings up the question of whether the “whelp” is the offspring of the narrator and Wulf or of her and Eadwacer. But the idea that the child is Eadwacer’s makes the most sense with the (albeit muddled) timeline in the poem, for if the child was conceived when the bold warrior “laid his arms about [the female narrator]” that would have been when Wulf was already gone, as has been previously established. And if it is Eadwacer’s child, it makes even more sense that a jealous Wulf would come to steal, and perhaps kill, it, for a disastrous end seems to be spelled for the whelp, and it is unlikely that Wulf would want to inflict that on his own child. So if we take “wolf” in line 16 to mean Wulf the man, then we must also take the “wolf coming to steal the child” part as the more logical idea that Wulf is coming to get his revenge on Eadwacer, and, perhaps, the female narrator too. The last lines of the poem have the narrator stating that “Men very easily may put asunder / That which was never joined, our song together” (lines 18 – 19). This could potentially refer to Wulf or Eadwacer. Does the narrator mean her relationship with Wulf, which was (we can assume) not joined in marriage, or the relationship with Eadwacer, which wasn’t joined by mutual love or an emotional connection? It could be argued that Hamer’s translation invites more confusion than is actually there, as it translates wulf in line 16 as “wolf”, which some people (including the writers of the poem’s Norton Anthology preface) take to mean a literal wolf. Of course there is not a good way in Modern English to represent the symbolism present in the Old English with Wulf’s name being spelled the same as that of the animal, but it could at least be written as wolf/ Wulf in the translation, so as to show the possibilities of the word’s meaning. Thanks to the Old English version of the poem, it can be deduced that the wolf referred to in line 16 is actually Wulf. Further examination of the text leads to the notion that Wulf and the female narrator were lovers from opposing tribes, that Wulf went into hiding, the narrator had to marry Eadwacer, and that at the end of the poem Wulf comes to carry the child of the narrator and Eadwacer to the woods. However, none of this is clear or readily apparent from a surface-level reading of the text. It still isn’t perfectly clear after hundreds of years of scholars researching and studying old writings. These ambiguities of the poem, which act as signposts that point the reader in various directions but do not clear the fog in order to get there, are what makes it such an interesting poem to discuss from a literary standpoint.

“Sonnet 141” In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; But ‘tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote; Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted, Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be. Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin awards me pain. The Elizabethan era, marked by many social, political, and cultural changes, which shaped Shakespeare's perspectives on love, relationships, and societal norms with its revival of classical learning and emphasis on humanism. “Sonnet 141,” written by English playwright and poet, William Shakespeare, reveals the intricacies of emotions and insights in relation to the complexities of love. Mostly known for composing plays, Shakespeare had also crafted 154 sonnets. This particular composition uses devices such as paradox, metaphor, and personification to convey the narrator’s revelation of conflicted love. Shakespeare’s poetic narrative invites readers to understand the internal struggle of loving someone, despite knowing all their flaws and dishonesty, and the conscious mind versus the unthinking heart. The central figure for “Sonnet 141” and sonnets 127 through 152 has been speculated to be someone previous literary experts have called “The Dark Lady.” With her identity unknown, there have been many rising questions about her that will remain unsolved, although many have theories. Three main hypothesized women have come up repeatedly throughout the studying of the Dark Lady sonnets. Some have thought her to be Sir Philip Sydney’s sister, the Countess of Pembroke; while George Bernard Shaw believed she was Mary Fitton, one of Queen Elizabeth I’s ladies in waiting. Another speculation is that she was the mother of his supposed illegitimate child named Henry Davenant. Through personification, Shakespeare illustrates how the narrator feels so deeply for someone he has deemed detestable. The third quatrain underscores this, as the narrator acknowledges, “But my five wits not my five senses can/ Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee” (Shakespeare lns. 9-10). Is it the heart that is foolish, or rather the holder who is foolish? It was written this way to portray that the narrator did not have control over what he feels for her, therefore, he is of no blame for falling under her spell. The narrator not being able to hold himself accountable also means that his mind is weak and inferior to the strength in love he feels in his heart. According to the narrator in “Sonnet 140,” it is seen that his love for her is based on an intense fixation when the narrator expresses, “For if I should despair I should grow mad,/And in my madness might speak ill of thee;” (Shakespeare lns. 9-10) he highlights the profound depth of his feelings. The narrator’s love for the Dark Lady seems to almost drive him mad with obsessiveness and insanity as she seems to not reciprocate his feelings. This further implies how he still is battling with his heart over the lack of control of his mind and emotions. Paradox, a key factor for many Shakespearean pieces, plays out in this writing as well; when the narrator states, “In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,” and later contradicts his statement by saying, “But tis my heart that loves what they despise,” (Shakespeare lns. 1, 3). In the next few lines, the narrator goes on to express all of the Dark Lady’s distasteful flaws and his feeling of offense in her presence, attributing it to the interaction of his five wits (imagination, common sense, instincts, fantasy, and memory) and five senses (taste, touch, smell, sight, and hearing). All of his senses are pointedly telling him that she is detrimental to his life, yet he cannot leave her be because wherever she goes, his heart will follow. Another contradictory pair would be in the couplet towards the end of the fourteen-lined set where the narrator expresses his dilemma, “Only my plague thus far I count my gain,/That she that makes me sin awards me pain” (lns. 13-14). As per Helen Vendler, author of The Art of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, this couplet is a reference to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, where Eve encounters sin and subsequently leads Adam to follow. The narrator employs this to align with his toxic longing for the woman he loves, illustrating how she entices him towards sin and furthering the concept of conflicted love. Although, during the 16th century it was seen as weak for a man to feel vulnerability because it was a sign of femininity. Shakespeare metaphorically articulates the narrator’s sentiments by declaring, “Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,”(ln. 5) by painting a vivid picture of the narrator’s displeasure with the Dark Lady’s voice and the words she speaks. This metaphor emphasizes not just a physical revulsion but also a profound emotional tension between the narrator and the Dark Lady. The portrayal of ears being “not delighted “ suggests that the communication with the Dark Lady fails to bring any joy or satisfaction to the narrator. Examining Shakespearean sonnets reveals that this sonnet almost entirely follows the same pattern as per most of his works, utilizing iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme of “abab cdcd efef gg.” However, the difference in “Sonnet 141” are the instances where the lines diverge from the norm of iambic pentameter. “Nor are mine ears with the tongue’s tune delighted, / Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited” (lines 5,7), where the narrator shows is taste with her words. This intentional deflection disrupts the established rhythm, mirroring the internal, emotional chaos. Analyzing the significance of “Sonnet 141,” it becomes apparent that Shakespeare searches into the intricate dynamics of conflicted love, reflecting the poet’s exploration of emotions within the Elizabethan era’s societal transformations. The sonnet captures the struggle between reason and passion, encapsulating the narrator’s inability to control his intense feelings for the Dark Lady. The identity of the Dark Lady adds an air of mystery to the narrative, with various speculations regarding her, reinforcing the timeless curiosity surrounding Shakespeare’s sonnets. The utilization of paradox, metaphor, and personification enhances the portrayal of the narrator’s internal conflict, showing the enduring power of love despite the acknowledgment of its flaws. The couplet’s allusion to Adam and Eve adds a biblical layer, suggesting that the narrator’s love, although leading him to sin, becomes a source for illness and reward. Through these literary devices, Shakespeare invites readers to delve into the complexities of love, making “Sonnet 141” a moving reflection of the enduring human experience.

The Iliad: “Now you cannot bring yourselves to save him, though he is only / a corpse, for his wife to look upon, his child and his mother / and Priam his father, and his people, who presently thereafter / would burn his body in the fire and give him his rites of burial. / No, you gods; your desire is to help this cursed Achilles / within whose breast there are no feelings of justice, nor can / his mind be bent, but his purposes are fierce, like a lion / who when he has given way to his own great strength and his haughty / spirit, goes among the flocks of men, to devour them. / so Achilles has destroyed pity, and there is not in him / any shame; which does much harm to men but profits them all. / For a man must some day lose one who was even closer / than this; a brother from the same womb, or a son. And yet / he weeps for him and sorrows for him, and then it is over, / for the Destinies put in mortal men the heart of endurance. / But this man, now he has torn the heart of life from great Hector; ties him to his horses and drags him around his beloved companion’s / tomb; and nothing is gained thereby for his good, or his honor. / Great as he is, let him take care not to make us angry; / for see, he does dishonor to the dumb earth in his fury.” (Homer 498, 35-54) The Resolution of Achilles’ Menis Homer has begun the epic of the Iliad with the theme of anger. Even deeper than anger though, this epic is a tale of Achilles’ menis, a destructive wrath comparable to that of a god. From his anger with Agamemnon and his poor leadership, to his rivalry with Hektor, and finally to the death of his beloved Patroclus, it all culminates into a beautiful show of aristeia, the display of a warrior’s excellence. And according to every other instance of aristeia in this tale, this should be enough to end menis. However, in this selected paragraph, it begs the question: why does Achilles’ aristeia never fully satisfy his menis? Homer chooses instead, for Achilles to keep parading Hektor’s body, and to host games to display his prowess, only for Priam’s visit to Achilles to finally end the tale of his anger. Within this paragraph though, the gods state themselves that Achilles’ path is not one of a typical hero. Achilles’ menis is because he has attempted to become a god, an immortal himself as a mortal, and in doing so, can only have his menis satiated by a touch of humanity. The entire epic stems from the consequences of Achilles attempting to act as an immortal as a mortal. The beginning opens with Achilles’ attempting to prove he’s greater than Agamemnon’s ruling. Because Agamemnon is the leader though, the only role higher than that that Achilles sees fit is that of a god. Part of this is a result of his hamartia, or fatal flaw being hubris, or excessive pride. Achilles refused to let Agamemnon be seen as a clear victor, and relented that “never now would he go to assemblies where men win glory, never more into battle … though he longed always for the clamor and fighting” (Homer 88, 490-493). However, this obsession with becoming a god eventually manifests itself so much so that by the end he is attempting to overcome an entire River God himself without understanding the very concept of mortality. He no longer wants to understand the concept of humanity, and that is his very own downfall. This epic follows the format of Aristotle’s tragedy. As stated in chapter six of his book, Poetics, “Tragedy … is an imitation of an action that is serious, completely, and of a certain magnitude … in the form of action, not of narrative.” In this definition, the “certain magnitude” he is referring to is always death, which can be seen in the Iliad as Patroclus’s. Additionally, Aristotle has also provided an order of plot actions, entitled the Main Action, Reversal and Recognition, and then Reversal Action. Here, the Main Action is the original, “good” intent of the main character. Within the Iliad, this would refer to Achilles’ original intent to surpass Agamennon’s rule to save his people from the famine and war. He even goes so far as to request his mother, Thetis, wish to Zeus that “ if perhaps he might be willing to help the Trojans, and pin the Achaians back against the ships and the water, dying, so … that Atreus’ son wide-ruling Agamemnon may recognize his madness, that he did no honor to the best of the Achaians'' (Homer 80, 408-412). However, this promise comes to turn against him in the form of Reversal and Recognition which is “a change by which the action veers round to its opposite” (Aristotle) and a change from ignorance to knowledge” (Aristotle) respectively. What’s important to note is that this change must be brought by the character’s own error of their hamartia. For Achilles’ — although brought by his intentions to become a god — specifically manifests itself during the height of battle between the Achaians and Trojans, when instead of going out himself, chooses to act as a god. Just as Athena sent out Diomedes in chapter give, he sends out Patroclus in his armor, his blessing, to exact his agenda. Not only does Zeus refuse “to let [Patroclus] come back safe out of the fighting” (Homer 358, 252), but Apollo is sent out to specifically disarm Achilles’ armor, which is nowhere near the power of a real god, before granting it to Hektor. What ultimately causes the recognition paired with the reversal of Patroclus’s death is that Achilles himself was what caused Patroclus to get killed. The very promise he made to his mother meant that by abandoning the Achaians, Zeus had no choice but to kill Patroclus to make Agamanenon recognize his madness. By sending out Patroclus and acting like a god, he disrupted the very fate imbalance and forced these consequences onto Patroclus with no ways to protect him. Therefore, once this rears round to the Reversal Action, Achilles’ menis is redirected towards the Trojans instead. He must return to gain back his armor, his godliness to avenge Patroclus. In doing so, he has lost all sense of humanity — “Achilles has destroyed pity, and there is not in him any shame; which does much harm to men but profits them all” (Homer 498, 44-45). Achilles believes that the only form of godly grief is anger and revenge, for only that will bring Patroclus back. Unfortunately, as seen from this excerpt, even the gods themselves are helpless to fix it. However, the reason why his aristeia, his revenge is not enough to satiate his menis is because this is not actually a full aristeia. Homer presents the first example of an aristeia as Diomedes’ flurry of violence on the battlefield in Chapter Five. Although it is clear that this was a display of a warrior’s excellence, what Achilles’ fails to understand is that this was only brought by a blessing from Athena — a fusion of god and mortal. In fact, this fusion is so powerful that it was even enough to overcome Ares himself, as “Diomedes of the great war cry drove forward with the broken spear; and Pallas Athena, leaning in on it, drove it into the depth of the belly where the war belt girt him” (Homer 169, 855-858). This has been seen time and time again with others’ aristeia, for only with this blessing does the hero have enough power to overcome all the soldiers. Achilles’ on the other hand, lacks a piece of this. It can be argued that Achilles is lacking a god’s blessing, but moreso Achilles is actually lacking humanity. Because Achilles has proceeded with the belief that he is equivalent to a god, that is all he is in this moment of aristeia. What makes it different though is that the gods have designed for humans to deal with grief through resilience, not by exacting revenge. Achilles, like it or not, is ultimately human. As stated by Priam in the final moments of the epic, “such is the way the gods spun life for unfortunate mortals, that we live in unhappiness, but the gods themselves have no sorrows” (Homer 511, 525-526). However, Achilles, because he believes he can be an immortal, does what gods do and unleashes this aristeia in hopes that it will bring Patroclus back. Instead of satiating his menis though, it only adds to it. What he really needs is human resilience and acceptance rather than utter rage. That is what’s missing from resolving his menis, and why it is Priam’s connection of father to killer, human to human that satisfies his grief. Achilles is not the hero of this story. Achilles is the tragedy of gods’ devastation manifesting into a human mind. From his beginning request to the gods, to that very result cultivating in the death of his most beloved, to his shattering truth that he has invoked this and does not have the power to return him, Achilles’ hamartia is the centerpiece of this tragedy. The selected excerpt illustrates the very aftermath of his aristeia and the gods’ reactions. However, when looking deeper into why this rage continues, Achilles is no longer even mortal. His menis is, and has surpassed even godly tidings, and just exacting revenge on Hektor is not enough. Homer shows that the catharsis from this tragedy is not from Achilles’ self-inflicted downfall. Instead, it is that the tale of men becoming god, and men’s hamartia, can only be soothed by humanity’s touch itself.

Thou Blind Man's Mark By Sir Philip Sidney Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought ;Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care ;Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought ; Desire, desire ! I have too dearly bought,With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware ;Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare. But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought ;In vain thou madest me to vain things aspire ;In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire ; For virtue hath this better lesson taught,—Within myself to seek my only hire,Desiring nought but how to kill desire." From the first line of the Thou Blind Man’s Mark, the poet establishes an interesting yet ambivalent view of desire. He speaks from personal experience in this poem of warning, explaining the dangers of seeking desire based on his experiences pursuing love.While he appreciates the enjoyment of being in love and pursuing desire, he also scorns desire as a malicious entity that preys on the minds and hearts of fools. He argues that anyone that allows themself to fall into the trap of desire is a fool, who will pay for desire’s ware with his sanity. His opinion of desire is quite interesting due to its moderately contradictory nature; his views of desire contradict each other, creating the complex point of view illustrated in the poem. The poem follows the blueprint of the Shakespearean sonnet pretty closely, using a quatrain-quatrain-quatrain-couplet stanza structure and an ABAB BABA BCCB CC rhyme scheme, which is unusual given the type of sonnet it is. The sonnet form also makes sense due to the basic situation of the poem, which quickly becomes clear. The poet establishes his poet and addressee in the first line of the poem: the addressee is “thou,” which is directly addressing desire personified, and the speaker is likely a man who has experienced the scorn of desire and warns readers against it. Desire is personified into a living entity, becoming the object of the poem. This personification of desire allows the poet to characterize desire as the sinister force he does. It also allows the metaphors used to seem more realistic and understandable when applied to desire as an entity rather than an abstract idea. Without the personification of desire, the meaning of the poem would be shallow and less clear. This initial instance of personification allows the rest of the figurative language and meaning of the poem to be illustrated excellently and for the imagery to be vivid. Several times throughout the poem, the speaker describes desire as a trap: “thou fool’s self-chosen snare” and “thou web of will.” These descriptions evoke imagery of a trap and a spider web, both of which imprison prey, much like the poet argues that desire imprisons fools and bring them madness. The spiderweb specifically evokes an image of a spider waiting to consume its prey which is trapped in its web. In this case the spider is desire and the prey is a fool who has succumbed to desire’s seduction, allowing himself to lose his mind in pursuit of love. This poem, however, describes the snare and web as self-chosen, meaning that the fool who fell into it, whether knowing the risks or not, chose his own fate of imprisonment. In the pursuit of desire, fools will pay “with price of mangled mind” for desire’s “worthless ware,” Meaning that those who pursue desire will lose their mind in search of its “worthless ware” which is likely love. The poet argues that those who fall prey to desire’s traps do it foolishly but knowingly, as if they are aware of the consequences but too foolish to preserve their own sanity rather than seek love, which, itself, is apparently worthless. Like many traditional poems, this one has a shift, which comes after line 8. Before the shift, the poet describes a variety of things, including the personification of desire and the extended metaphor of fools and traps. Before the shift, the poet talks about the effects of desire on others and the consequences of pursuing it. After the shift, however, he describes his own experiences seeking desire as vain and dangerous. He describes the vanity of desire’s “worthless ware,” as well as his ruin which desire sought to bring about. This is similar to the line regarding paying for love with one’s sanity: the poet was almost ruined by his pursuit of desire. In addition, the choice of the word “vain” is in itself quite complex. While the obvious use of the word is to reinforce the idea that the ware desire peddles is useless, which was stated in no uncertain terms earlier in the poem. However, the use of the word vain could have a second meaning: that desire itself is vain and the pursuit of love is to polish one’s image, which contributes to the foolishness of falling into desire’s trap. Not only is love worthless, but it also exists only to improve a person’s image. This sudden switch to anecdotal evidence gives the argument of the poem credibility. The poet probably pursued love himself and was scorned only to later cope with this by arguing that love is worthless and costs one’s sanity, in order to come to terms with the fact that he was unable to achieve it. After the shift, he abandons “objective” logical argument in favor of anecdotal evidence, which makes his opinions credible and believable. The poem’s base structure contributes to the complexity of the poet’s view of desire. The poem is written as a Shakespearean sonnet, with a quatrain-quatrain-quatrain-couplet structure. It has some variation from the traditional shakespearean sonnet, but the goal of using the sonnet structure is clear. The fact that the poem is a sonnet is ironic because of the poem’s meaning. Sonnets are usually written as love poems for a specific individual that the poet has intense feelings for. However, this poem has quite the opposite meaning: the poet is scorning desire as a malicious creature and the ware it offers, which is love, as useless. This is of course ironic because the meaning of the poem completely contradicts the expectations of someone reading a sonnet, because a poem that seems to be meant to illustrate the poet’s love for someone is instead being used to illustrate his disdain for love in general. In addition, the addressee of the poem is ironic for its structure. The poem is addressed directly to desire, which itself is an example of an apostrophe because it directly addresses an abstract idea. Instead of addressing the object of the poet’s desire, the poem addresses desire itself. Instead of conveying the love the poet has for the addressee, this poem conveys the deep resentment he feels toward the idea of love because of his experiences. Again, he uses the sonnet to warn others about the sinister nature of desire because he himself has likely experienced scorn from a lover, which made him think that desire as a whole was a flawed concept. The message of this poem, and, by extension, the poet’s ambivalent opinion of desire, is incredibly complicated. He has two conflicting views of desire that combine to form this complex opinion. On one hand, he understands the allure of desire and how it may seduce people into pursuing it. On the other hand, he scorns desire and argues that the love it offers is worthless, as it is both vain and costs one’s sanity. Simultaneously, he believes that those who pursue desire are fools for knowingly allowing themselves to be ruined by desire. The poet personifies love as a predator, which traps fools and feasts on their sanity, despite the aforementioned fools knowingly allowing themselves to fall into these traps. Despite his opinion of desire, the poet’s hatred likely stems from personal experience, meaning that he scorns desire so much because he himself was once scorned by it.