Mr. Hughes, I do feel we can relate.
Each poets of our own renaissance time,
I fervently do wish we could debate
The meaning of you, and yours, us and mine.
We’re both alone, yet part of something more
We write of love, though for different views.
How I wish I could find you, just past my door
How I wish you were here to give me clues
Teach me, please, of Simple’s dark Chicago
Show me, please, the difference in our homes
Or do not, for between us, I am long ago
To the world, you and I will be here, but gone.
I want to have a serious conversation with my wife about the world today about who I am and all she can say to me is eat my eggs. I try to tell her that this mornin I was lookin in the mirror and thinking about it…. I’m 35 years old; i’ve been married eleven years and I got a boy who sleeps in the living room- and all I got to give to him is stories about how rich white people live. She says I say the same damn thing everyday, but I’m tryna make a point, but all she has to say is, “Eat your eggs walter, and go to work.” That’s what’s wrong with colored women these days they don’t understand how to treat their man. They don’t understand how to build them up and make them feel like they somebody and can do something. I am a man tied down to a woman with a small mind…. she just doesn’t understand me.
I, D.H Lawrence grew up as a sickly son. My life was always involved with pressure and domination. I do wonder when was the last time I smiled. Let me think; Never. Well, maybe once and that is when I met my true love. I have many complaints and issues involving with others. For instance, my dearest mother. She gave me no freedom nor my own desire. I had no choice but to be trained as a school teacher just like her. A desire that is not my desire. However, trained as a school teacher leads to one of my great interest. An interest called “Art” My relationship between my mother and I gave me one of the greatest masterpiece of my art work. I had to go through my first experience of life by helping my dearest mother die by over dosing her with sleeping pills.
Ah! there goes my illness. An illness that I can not end. My illness is telling me that I am not going to live much longer. Which means I shall quit as a school teacher very soon and continue writing more.
I had an affair with my wife who I tend to have violent fights and sexual bonds. Every experience of my life from childhood to my adulthood, I would include it as my greatest art work. Based on how I feel by putting it in great literature words of mine.
Well, look at the time here. As soon I have reached to my 15th art work, it is time for me to go.
My illness have arrive and had taken my soul away.
The way that you have written your brilliant piece of work, Piano, has illuminated me into a feeling in which I have not felt much of for the most part of my life. The image that you use in the first quatrain of this poem, of a young boy sitting underneath the same piano that his mother is playing and singing by to create a sense of delight for everyone in the room, is an image of a pure, innocent memory; a memory of which I am a bit jealous of as well. After the death of my father, Nathaniel Hathorne, I was only four years of age, and my mother since has lived her life in great solarity.
In the second quatrain, you also portray this image of pleasurable Sunday evenings during the winter solstice, with your family happily singing along to church hymns. I have never felt an experience so warm, for my bride’s family were the only ones present to attend even my own wedding. In the third and final quatrain, you tell us about how you yearn for these fond memories to take place again in your life, understanding that those days are over. This has given me a sense of how enjoyable these memories are, again, and it also helps me in understanding your age and experience.
You have cleverly used the term Piano, not only as the theme of your poem, but also as the title, for piano is also a term meaning soft, or softly, like the sound of your mother’s voice, or even the faint, soft, and distant sound of her singing voice lurking around far off in your memory. I would like to glorify such work of yours, hopefully magnifying your splendid imagery to others.
My story “Araby” is a great example of how Ireland and its unique culture manifested itself so deep in my literature despite spending most of my adult life in self-imposed exile from my native land. While this presence of Ireland continues throughout my works it doesn’t limit the perspective from which I write but rather it strengthens my perspective. This story “Araby” comes from my work Dubliners, a set of descriptive tales centered in the city, By using embedding my writing in the culture I’m free to view the society on multiple levels of religion, politics, and tradition’s effect on common Dublin life. In ensuing works I pushed the limits of conventional narrative and plot structure with dense writings like Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. I feel that it’s an interesting point that one can interpret a setting on so many different levels rather than simply as a location. Culture can shape plot, even the dialect and patois of the work, an effect that I felt gave my writing a honest view of people while delving deep into psyches and passions.
I find it interesting that much of my work has come to be regarded as “feminist” literature. I wonder, if I were a man, would my writing still be considered as such. I understand how it could be read and interpreted in this way, but I have to say, I do not wholly agree. I have written from experience, some my own and some gained through observation. I have tried to create characters with their own identities, who have their own unique circumstances and obstacles to overcome. I wanted to convey a view of reality through the eyes of an individual, whether they were male or female.
The purpose of my short story, The Story of an Hour, was not to condemn the institution of marriage, but to examine what marriage can feel like for one person, in this case the story’s main character, Louise Mallard. Keep in mind, in the 19th century, woman had few options other than marriage. More were slowly becoming available, but we were a long way off from the many options women have today. Many women married young (I myself was married at 20 and had all of my six children by the time I was 28) so they were unable to develop any sense of self outside of the expected role of wife and/or mother. Marriage could be oppressive, especially if a woman had an overly controlling husband or if she was overwhelmed with familial and social responsibilities.
The possibility Louise sees of having a life that is completely her own is exhilarating and exciting to her. As she begins to whisper, “free, free, free!”, it is not without a thought for her supposedly dead husband; she remembers fondly his “tender” hands, his face that had “never looked save with love upon her”. She had even loved him…”sometimes”. It is the possibility that she would be in complete control of her own destiny that causes Louise to emerge from her room feeling like a “goddess of Victory”, triumphantly facing a future of her own making.It is Louise’s crushing disappointment that kills her. When her husband walks through the door, it is too much for her to physically and emotionally accept, and she dies.
This piece is not “feminist” in the sense of being anti-marriage or man-bashing, it is a study of an individual’s feelings. That individual happens to be a woman. I hope as you read my work you come to realize that the emotions I tried to convey are universal and not specific to a single gender.
Is it much to early for me to publish such bold statements of my thoughts to the public eyes of Salem Village, and even beyond? Can the citizens of our community handle such thought, such enlightenment, during this era? What lies for me in my future I do not yet know, for the “good” puritans of our community may strongly disagree with my insightful findings. Other people of this village obviously are too ignorant to have any interest or understanding outside the walls of this stringent Puritan society. However, the issue at hand is too late to assist, for my work has already been published for other witnesses to ponder.
This is for the own good of our society. One needs to rise above the crowd, and illuminate the thoughts of others, otherwise our community will forever lay at the feet of Puritanism, even if it is the foot of Puritanism that is kicking the narrow-minded dirt into the eyes of it’s followers, causing them to become blind to any other subject of thought. Who am I to set an example for the rest? Well, I am Nathaniel Hawthorne, one who is educated, and one with the ability to vision what is being blocked by the thick walls of Puritanism to it’s followers. It was my own great-grandfather, Colonel John Hathorne with his narrow beliefs, that made the Salem Witch Hysteria what it was. This is not something that I am proud of, however the past was here and created the history for the rest of us to learn from. Why do I feel as if I am the only one enlightened? Maybe now others will follow along my revealed trail of curiosity and questioning, while the authorities may stay at the same pace they are going, headed in the same direction they will never fall away from. As for me, on the other hand, I think there is something more to learn from life. This is something that only the ones with true potential and questioning may be able to capture.
So what if I may question the “true” faith of many Puritans, including it’s leaders? It only takes one idea to begin a new journey into something that was otherwise never thought possible. That is why I do not carry on my biological “Hathorne” last name, which is made up of evil morale and ashamed memoir. For the love of something worth believing, call me daring, but call me Hawthorne.