NOTOS AND EURUS
Literary Analysis / Criticism
ISSUE ONE: (1) Madame Bovary Review
ISSUE TWO: (1) Flesh and Faith at War: A Reckoning of Eros and Spirit in Anna Karenina, (2) On “The Golden Girl” and Accountability
ISSUE THREE: (1) The duplicity of a bound: a lively leap, or an unbreakable tether? (2) Prejudice in “The Merchant of Venice”
ISSUE FOUR: Coming soon!
Madame Bovary Review
BY HANA CARLSON
Throughout the history of literature, fiction has been used for escapism. But, too often, we take pieces of the worlds and people we read about to the real world. As Gustave Flaubert put it,
“Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers.”
And in some ways, that’s exactly what books do to us: stain our hands and everything we touch. This is, ironically, portrayed through the story of Emma Bovary, who wished nothing more than to be the heroine of a story—her story. She longed for balls and Paris and true love and knights in shining armor, and what she found herself with was a middle-class life with her unintelligent, unromantic husband Charles Bovary, a doctor. The book, at times, reflects the mundanity of her life by using language that, while beautiful, makes it almost excruciating for the reader to hear about her garden or her various ailments or her lamentations on escaping monotony. But when she’s alive—which only happens when she experiences some form of debauchery or novelty—the words seem to flutter with excitement and vibrancy.
The word novel is a tricky one indeed, because it not only refers to a book but also means new. And, for Emma, the two became the same. Because of her desire to live in a novel, she made her surroundings and company (as shown with her affairs, both of which she thought were true love but ended disappointingly) novel. This made her easy to be taken advantage of by a Monsieur Lheureux, who sold her luxuries (such as curtains, clothes, a cigar case, a riding crop, etc.) that let her believe she was closer to the novelty in novels. She took every step to make herself similar to these fictitious characters, Yet it is these expenditures that made her real life unbearable, because she found herself in 8,000 francs worth of debt. Perhaps the real reason all of this happened was her search for happiness, because book characters have happy endings (or they most often do). And so to be a character in a book, to be the subject of a novel, is the safest place to be. So, she tried to turn Charles into her knight in shining armor, and when she found that impossible, she found replacements to give her true love, because all of that made her closer to becoming a book character.
“She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.”
And she never felt scared. She felt sad, angry, bored, hurt, confined, passionate, and beautiful. She felt a million things and more, but never scared, because book characters get happy endings, and she truly believed that she was one of them.
And she was a fictional character, but life is not a love story. Madame Bovary is a commentary on realism. Emma had always wanted a book with her name as the title, and she achieved that. But she is dead, so what joy could she receive? That brings us to the true question of the story: how do we tell the line between reality and fiction, when human perception is incalculably flawed? Madame Bovary is a way for a reader to unintentionally see themself clearly, only achievable through the same medium that dirties our hands: books. And so Flaubert portrayed this idea through literature to make it palatable to unsuspecting readers with their guard down to outside influence, just like Emma.
Madame Bovary did not get a happy ending.
Flesh and Faith at War: A Reckoning of Eros and Spirit in Anna Karenina
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO
“The road to hell feels like heaven; the road to heaven feels like hell.”
- Unknown
Widely regarded as the father of Russian symbolism, poet and religious thinker Dmitri Merezhkovsky dubbed Leo Tolstoy the "greatest depictor" of what he called the "mysterious border-region where the struggle between the animal and the God in man takes place" (Merezhkovsky 64). In Anna Karenina, this struggle takes place on the battlefield between spirit and eros—between moral aspiration and bodily desire. Tolstoy explores the novel's three main masculine archetypes—Karenin, Vronsky, and Levin—and meditates on the consequences of an imbalance between the spirit and the flesh. At the heart of this dynamic is Anna, who acts as the erotic litmus test against the men's ability to integrate the physical and spiritual dimensions of love. Through these three relationships, Tolstoy proves that spirit without a commensurate level of eros is hollow, whereas eros divorced from spirit can only be disastrous; instead, he advocates for a harmony of the two forces to forge a love that is equally fulfilling and divine: agape. It is at this intersection of body and soul that Tolstoy delves into what it means to be human and emerges with an antidote to existential despair.
While Karenin's strict adherence to Christianity initially appears noble and saintly, this sanitized piety prevents him from maintaining a strong erotic or emotional connection with Anna. Tolstoy's portrayal of a sexless Karenin, devoted to cultivating an austere spirituality, critiques the incorporation of overarching Christian moralism into romantic love. Karenin's hasty retreat into lofty religiosity in response to Anna's illness reveals how excessive spirituality alienates, not reconciles, a failing relationship. When Anna calls Vronsky and Karenin to her bedside, Karenin addresses Vronsky in a moment of forgiveness: "I wished for her death…But I saw her and I forgave…I want to turn the other cheek, I want to give my shirt when my caftan is taken, and I only pray to God that He not take from me the happiness of forgiveness!" (Tolstoy 414). Commendable as it may be, this quick clemency seems inhumanly devoid of any emotional input from Karenin, furthered by Vronsky’s feeling that Karenin's reaction "was something lofty and even inaccessible to him in his world-view" (Tolstoy 415). Karenin's grandeur reduces into a desperate attempt at forbearance; presenting as misguided and curiously weak, the cuckold can only mimic agape’s unconditionality. Such a reflexive turn to God reflects an inability to process human emotion, and instead of bolstering his faith, Karenin virtually emasculates himself.
This lack of inner strength and masculinity underneath Karenin's self-conscious spirituality results in Anna's resentment towards Karenin. In a conversation with Stepan Arkadyich following her sickness, Anna laments: "I hate him for his virtues…the look of him affects me physically, I get beside myself…though I know he's a good and excellent man and I'm not worth his fingernail, I hate him even so…" (Tolstoy 427). As the novel's erotic barometer, Anna feels physically repulsed by Karenin's spirituality—her own body, literally and metaphorically, rejects such a disembodied piety. Given that her act of adultery originates from erotic starvation, Karenin must provide an appropriately human response as Anna’s masculine counterpart. Unfortunately, this responsibility falls on immaterial, spiritual shoulders, which have no substantiality in the practical world. Even if he is a "good and excellent" man, Karenin's inability to access genuine emotion leaves him hopelessly ill-equipped in the emotional realm and woefully unprepared to support Anna.
If sex is "the point at which body meets spirit," then Karenin's spirit blocks, instead of bridges, Anna's need for visceral recognition (Cook 122). Anna tries to excavate within her husband a manliness that can satisfy her erotically and spiritually but finds neither spirit, eros, nor agape. Karenin can only approach marriage with a superficiality that lacks the emotional scaffolding needed to sustain a healthy bond with Anna, who, caught in a sexual drought, jumps at the chance to drink from the deceptive oasis of Vronsky's sexual appeal. Through Karenin's failure to incorporate humanity—passion, jealousy, desire—into his marriage, Tolstoy demonstrates how indulgent piety fails the individual in every arena of life and frames brazen faith as a tool more sterile than sacred.
If Karenin represents the dangers of overzealous spirituality, Vronsky stands as his erotic opposite. By prioritizing human desire and jettisoning spirituality entirely, Vronsky embodies C.S. Lewis' characterization of eros as "the carnal or animally sexual element" of love (Lewis 131). The most immediate danger of overindulged eros is the belying of genuine connection, as illustrated by the consummation of Vronsky and Anna's affair. Instead of describing the adulterers' act, Tolstoy opts to depict the emotional fallout that follows. Vronsky, having lured Anna away from her husband, feels "as a murderer must feel when he looks at the body he has deprived of life…this body deprived of life was their love" (Tolstoy 149). Like Adam and Eve after partaking of the forbidden fruit, Vronsky and Anna flounder in a disarrayed cloud of shame and loss. Their affair embodies a fall from grace whose narrative silence mirrors the exclusion of spirituality by the couple, who, by yielding to their base desires, withdraw into the animalistic side of eros, effectively separating them further from God. This sacrificial eroticism predicts Anna's suicide through the death of Froufrou, Vronsky's horse. Before he crashes Froufrou, Vronsky realizes that "[in failing] to keep up with the horse's movement, he, not knowing how himself, had made a wrong, an unforgivable movement" and cries, "A-a-ah, what have I done!" (Tolstoy 199-200). This moment of defamiliarization—when bodily sensation overtakes conscious awareness—parallels Vronsky's erotic downfall with Anna: just as he abandons his better judgment during the thrill of the horse race, so does he permit the same estrangement to disconnect him from moral responsibility when he has sex with Anna. Froufrou's death, although accidental, stems from Vronsky's inability to integrate body and soul, and it is this selfish prioritization of desire later drives Anna to suicide. In the prolepsis of Vronsky's horror through Froufrou's tragic accident, Tolstoy affirms that when eros obscures spirituality, the consequences are deadly.
Vronsky's shaky spirituality subtly uncovers itself when he gazes at a painting of Christ by the artist Mikhailov. Observing solely the artist's technique and ignoring the religious overtones of the painting itself, Vronsky exclaims, "That's technique!" to a disheartened Mikhailov (Tolstoy 474). Vronsky, like Karenin, fails to register the humanity that Anna embraces. Consequently, she delights Mikhailov after observing the sadness in Christ’s face as he stands before Pilate, whereas Vronsky bypasses such emotion—the very foundation of agape!—as if removed from feeling entirely. Vronsky simultaneously fills Anna’s erotic void while exacting a toll on her heart, leaving her beholden to another man unable to level with her in the human realm of thoughts and feelings. At best, Vronsky can only comprehend the surface-level aesthetics of religion and faith, like how only appearances appeal to Karenin. Both men are superficial, and this vacuity shows in each of their empty relationships with Anna. Merezhkovsky's "struggle between the animal and the God in man" collapses as the animal overtakes God in Vronsky's untempered sexuality (Merezhkovsky 64). Lacking the ballast of proper spirituality, Vronsky becomes a critique of unchecked desire shielded from responsibility; just as Karenin's faith without eros yields deficits in Tolstoy's moral economy, Vronsky's eros, detached from spirit, proves just as incapable of achieving agape.
If Tolstoy presents Karenin as the manifestation of stern abstinence from eros, and Vronsky as eros’ strongest adherent, then Levin emerges as the golden middle ground between the two extremes. The novel's male protagonist wrestles with the disparities between spirit and eros rather than opting for one over the other. This harmony allows Levin to transcend both his erotic and existential difficulties to uncover agape—the selfless, unconditional love that ensures an equal fulfillment of the physical and spiritual. Levin's capacity for this integration shines when he visits Anna in Moscow. Levin, in the atmosphere of the urbane and sybaritic Moscow, stands at risk of a spiritual fall. Anna’s erotic allure immediately pulls at Levin, and he almost succumbs to the devil on his shoulder when he "glance[s] once more at…[Anna's] figure as she took her brother's arm…and felt a tenderness and pity for her that surprise[s] him" (Tolstoy 700). For the first time since marrying Kitty, Levin momentarily looks at another woman through the lens of desire. However, before he falls into the same sensualism that consumed Vronsky, Levin quickly realizes that "there was something not right in the tinder pity he felt for Anna" (Tolstoy 702). Despite being shaken by the encounter, Levin finds balance when he reconciles with Kitty: although Anna's sexuality has rocked Levin's uprightness, the literal and metaphysical return home allows Levin to restore his moral pendulum to equilibrium. While Anna weaponizes eros to triangulate Vronsky's affection, Kitty grounds her husband in an emotionally stable and fulfilling bond that brims, but does not overflow with, erotic energy. By refusing Anna's enchantment and relying on his true connection with Kitty, Levin proves capable of tempering desire with fidelity and moves one step closer in his journey to achieving agape.
If Anna tested the boundaries of his Eros, Levin's existential crisis tests his spiritual resolve. Although Kitty finds happiness in her motherhood and marriage, the philosophically conflicted Levin struggles with a spiritual chasm that drives him to contemplate suicide. Levin does not resort to theology, however, nor does he indulge in the throes of desire; his breakthrough comes from the embodied storge he uncovers for his son, Mitya, which acts as a prerequisite to cultivating his sense of agape. After a storm threatens to harm Mitya, Levin shares how, in fear for his son’s safety, he "realized how much [he] loved Mitya" (Tolstoy 814). In pulling Levin out of his inner turmoil, Mitya becomes not only the physical fruit of the couple's aptitude for Eros but also the solacing evidence of a moral universe for his father to confide in. Levin may never ascertain the answers to his existential questions; but insofar as he can partake of the spiritual wellspring offered by fatherhood accompanied by a constant stream of healthy eroticism with Kitty, he has all the strength he needs to lead a meaningful life.
In the novel's final pages, Levin remarks:
This new feeling hasn't changed me, hasn't made me happy or
suddenly enlightened, as I dreamed—just like the feeling for my
son…my whole life…is not only not meaningless, as it was before,
but has the unquestionable meaning of the good which it is in my
power to put into it! (Tolstoy 817)
In Kierkegaardian fashion, Levin leaps—not necessarily into faith, but into a deep metaphysical trust in the simultaneously unknowable but ever-reassuring good. The realization of his agape serves as a reminder that when the Lewisian "animal" and "God" in a man work together, no storm, erotic or existential, can hinder one's path. Whereas Karenin and Vronsky fail through their imbalance, Levin succeeds through his wholeness.
In Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle posits that "Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit, is thought to aim at some good" (Aristotle 3). Likewise, the "goodness" of every target upon which every action aims remains in flux. With the dimensions of spirit and eros, Tolstoy presents a series of such targets with the stories of Karenin, Vronsky, and Levin. On the one hand, Karenin's Icarian ascent into spirituality strips him of humanity; on the other hand, Vronsky, under the weight of his perpetually unsatiated desires, stumbles into animality. Likewise, Anna becomes consumed by her ego, and, having looked inside herself to find nothing left, she ends her life. Only Levin, through personal strife and existential hardship, can walk the narrow yet rewarding path between flesh and spirit—and in doing so, arrive at love in its highest form: agape. In the end, Anna Karenina is Tolstoy's reminder that, in the battle between the animal and God, the best outcome is a human reconciliation.
On “The Golden Girl” and Accountability
BY ZOE COBB
Cambridge Dictionary defines A Golden Girl as: “a woman who is very successful and is much admired, although often only temporarily”. Daisy Buchanan is a major character in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, she is the central focus of many of the book’s events, and arguably the most central character in the entire story. She is also one of the most famous literary Golden Girls in American literature. Readers view Daisy from the ever-changing lens of Nick Carraway, the narrator of The Great Gatsby. Throughout The Great Gatsby, Nick’s perception, opinion, and admiration of Daisy shifts from upbeat and positive to shameful and pessimistic. Nick once sees Daisy as a pure, wealthy, and successful individual, but as the novel progresses, he realizes some of Daisy’s fundamental flaws, coming to realize that no one is truly spotless.
Nick’s first descriptions of Daisy depict her in a positive light, as Nick observes and interacts with Daisy in her home at the first dinner party. During this dinner party at the Buchanans, Nick describes how he finds Daisy and Jordan upon entering the house: “The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon” (8). This action already serves as a mirror for Daisy’s life, highlighting a core theme of being seen and not heard. Daisy mimics a statue, a beautiful display for all who pass through. She and her friend, Jordan Baker, are “buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon”, like something is trapping them in these positions. Daisy, specifically, is restricted, like she is not allowed to move in her own home. This demonstrates a lack of agency. Daisy is “anchored” to her life, “anchored” to her possessive husband, Tom. As the evening progresses, Nick describes Daisy’s voice as they make small talk, when she welcomes him into the party: “[She had] the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found it difficult to forget: a single compulsion” (9). Nick leaves an impression on the readers' minds of Daisy’s voice being an enchanting spell or a beautiful song. However, interactions with Daisy are temporary and fleeting, as “[the] arrangement of notes that will never be played again.” Her “face [is] sad”, but Nick still describes her features as “bright” and “lovely”. This conveys that Daisy is not truly seen, that people choose to focus on her good features instead of truly identifying how she is doing. The “excitement in her voice that men who cared for her found it difficult to forget: a single compulsion” elaborates on the building idea of Daisy’s alluring nature and how it affects the individuals around her. Daisy’s voice is so enthralling that she can stimulate “a single compulsion”, highlighting just how influential she can be. After this interaction, Nick feels welcome and comfortable, and his positive descriptions of Daisy reflect that. Nick’s preliminary chronicles of Daisy provide a glimpse into her life and introduce Daisy as someone “difficult to forget”, “bright and lovely”, and without agency.
As the story continues, Nick begins to see more of Daisy’s imperfections, and he begins to view her in a more negative light. A major part of Daisy’s character is her presence in the social elite as well as her profound wealth. Before Nick, Jordan, Tom, Daisy, and Gatsby, Nick’s neighbor and Daisy’s former lover, head into town on the day of inescapable heat and high tensions, Nick and Gatsby discuss Daisy: “Her voice is full of money”, Gatsby says. Nick’s internal monologue reads, “That was it. I’d never understood before. Daisy’s voice was full of money–that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it…high in a white palace, the king’s daughter, the golden girl” (120). This presents the idea that people engaging with Daisy might crave some sort of validation, a proclamation of their value from the “king’s daughter [and] the golden girl.” The purity of being “high in a white palace”, someone who has not yet seen the hardships of the world. One of Daisy’s most admirable traits is her “inexhaustible charm”. The “jingle of [Daisy’s voice]” alludes to Daisy’s ability to stay in people’s minds, again underscoring the idea that Daisy is unforgettable, that she is the golden girl. Nick’s continued descriptions involving musical language echo the positive connotations he established Daisy’s character with. Later that day, during the climactic fight between Tom and Gatsby for Daisy’s love, Daisy is approached by Tom as he demands that she admit that she never loved Gatsby. He claims that if she could do that, all her pain and hardship would go away: “She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal as though she realized at last what she was doing–and as though she had never, all along, intended to do anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late” (132). Nick’s narration of this brief moment has notes of skepticism, and perhaps a bit of shame cast onto Daisy. His usual narrative voice is interrupted with short sentences, highlighting his shock at both the events of the day and how Daisy has responded. Her “eyes fell…[as] she realized at last what she was doing”. This is like a cry from Daisy to Jordan and Nick to help her escape the situation. Daisy had not realized that “it was done now, it was too late,” and that the harm she had caused the people in her life was not fixable with one quip from her enchanting voice, or one “bright” gaze from a “sad face”. Daisy does not say anything in this particular moment, marking the beginning of her decision to remain silent when she is uncomfortable. Her “inexhaustible charm” has been exhausted. This fight is a turning point for Nick, as he now sees a different side of Daisy, understanding that even “the golden girl” has flaws.
After Daisy’s response to Tom and Gatsby’s fight, Nick’s perception of Daisy is significantly tarnished. Nick once saw Daisy as respectable and honest, but now views her as shallow and incapable. At the first dinner party, Nick observed Daisy as “buoyed upon an anchored balloon”, someone with a lack of agency in her own life. However, after Gatsby’s death, Daisy makes a very conscious decision about how she wants to respond by deciding not to respond at all. Following the numerous deaths at the end of the story, Daisy and Tom leave their home in East Egg, leaving no address or contact information. Nick is utterly in shock, and he realizes that he is the only one who is trying to do right by Gatsby, the only one who is attempting to honor his life. Standing in the rain, at the cemetery for Gatsby’s funeral, Nick remembers: “without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower” (174). Daisy chooses not to take accountability. She does not attempt to make amends with Gatsby, or get involved in the final events of the story. She does not take accountability for the car she was driving, or apologize to any of the parties involved. She hardly values honesty or integrity. Daisy can not even deliver an “I’m sorry” from her enchanting voice, she could not even give a look with her bright eyes. However, despite all of this, Nick views her “without resentment”. He does not excuse her actions, but rather, he chooses to live without baggage. As Nick continues to reflect on the horrifying deaths of Myrtle, George, and Gatsby, he considers his overall time on the East Coast. He determines that: “They were careless people, Tom and Daisy–they smashed things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made…”(179). Nick’s perception of Daisy has completely flipped from the beginning of the story. Daisy, the once motionless statue laid upon a couch, is now capable of “smash[ing] things and creatures”, or maybe, she was capable all along. Daisy runs back to her wealth, back to her identity as the “king’s daughter”, high in the white palace, instead of undergoing character development and righting her wrongs. Instead of facing the consequences, Daisy runs, evading all consequences. Daisy Buchana, the once “golden girl”, has fallen from her pedestal.
Daisy is a character who reflects The Great Gatsby’s themes of innocence and guilt. Nick initially sees Daisy as harmless and stationary, but by the end of their time together, he views her as destructive and irresponsible. His opinions are reflected in his descriptions of her voice and actions, or her lack thereof. He recognizes that even people of the highest status, the “golden girls” of the world, are not innocent in the slightest. Nick is a character who admires honesty, and after the events that ensue in East and West Egg, his faith in the truth has diminished. He has seen lives and relationships torn to shreds, and no one with enough integrity to render the consequences. Nick’s character speaks to how the words and actions of others shape one’s beliefs. Daisy, as well as The Great Gatsby overall, shows readers the dangers of allowing others to take responsibility for actions that are not their own. Daisy undergoes life-changing events throughout the story, but she ultimately ends up in the same place she started, and her life remains unchanged. She retreats right back to being a stationary object.
The duplicity of a bound: a lively leap, or an unbreakable tether?
BY SARAH DUNCAN
With all due reverence to Arthur Dimmesdale, Nathaniel Hawthorne conveys throughout chapter 18 of The Scarlet Letter that Dimmesdale’s Puritanism is not a decision, but truly a trap. After he committed adultery, Dimmesdale’s religious guilt evidently weakened his body, but prioritizing his reverential reputation continues to weaken his mind. When Hester Prynne clandestinely met with Dimmesdale in the forest, away from the judgment of the town, she told him that his life is also being drained by Roger Chillingworth watching over him with malicious intent. His guilt left him unable to act upon the knowledge, and he depended on Hester Prynne for a solution. Because she already became estranged from Puritan law after the townspeople outcast her, she told Dimmesdale to leave the colony. Dimmesdale can only briefly entertain the decision, and it becomes increasingly difficult because he has no familiarity with engaging with anything outside his religion. Although Dimmesdale may be temporarily enlivened by the decision to flee to Europe, because his Puritan nature is so deeply entrenched within him, he was not truly enlivened.
The narrator suggests the unfamiliar joy that considering fleeing brought Dimmesdale is transient as his burden inhibits his ability to entirely experience pleasure. Beginning the passage with the passive dependent clause, “the decision once made,” shows that his excitement is passing and highlights his dependency on Hester, as he is unable to take action within the sentence. He has to escape his comfort zone to fully immerse into enjoyment, shown by the comma creating distance between the two clauses, but he is too dependent to do so. After Hester makes the decision, Dimmesdale feels an incoming “glow of strange enjoyment,” which connotes an unwavering, steady shine. Describing it as something unfamiliar, suggests that Dimmesdale will abandon the joy because it’s unnatural to him. After it “threw its flickering
brightness” it transforms into an unsteady quality upon reaching Dimmesdale, rendering the enjoyment more impermanent. Throwing the glow implies too great a distance between Dimmesdale and enjoyment for him to reach it, and he will not take action to bridge the distance. Dimmesdale cannot receive the light as “the trouble of his breast” diminished its shine, which leads the active descriptor’s strength to conform to the passive syntax. Though the enjoyment casting itself “over the trouble of his breast” implies a measure of coverage, the guilt troubling his “breast” shrouds him to the extent that it becomes a force counteracting light, or rendering it more ineffective. His breast holds onto guilt with such an authoritative grasp that nothing can remove the trouble and no light can penetrate the shroud. Referencing that his “breast,” where he wears his Scarlet Letter, counteracts the light, proves that his guilty heart is stronger than the glow’s efforts to lift his burden. When Dimmesdale encounters pleasure, his guilt prevents any further progression of joy.
Although Dimmesdale feels invigorated when he temporarily escapes Puritanism, the narrator suggests that its establishment within him continues depleting his life. The passive syntax negates Dimmesdale’s enjoyment by saying “it was the exhilarating effect,” contradicting that something “exhilarating,” or enlivening, should be concrete instead of an impermanent “effect.” Referring to the enjoyment with the pronoun “it” rather than with specification reiterates that it lacked clarity after reaching Dimmesdale’s heart. It emphasizes that the glow’s failure to enliven his emotions and Dimmesdale’s failure to accept light will lead him to die without freedom from guilt. The em-dashes contribute to the negation as they disrupt the sentence flow and separate him from exhilaration. Being the “prisoner” having “just escaped the dungeon of his own heart” shows that Dimmesdale is still in close proximity, and the em-dashes also confine him within the clause. The syntax emphasizes “his own” heart’s agency in his imprisonment because it is a direct, conscious result of internal religious judgment. It further implies that he is unable to venture beyond his nature, and he remains tethered to ensure that he can easily return. The domain outside his dungeon could enliven Dimmesdale, allowing him to be continuously “breathing the wild, free atmosphere,” that nature provides. The air’s wildness could enliven him, showing that living without the strict regulations that his heart has created frees him. However, an “unredeemed, unchristianized, lawless region,” qualities that oppose Dimmesdale’s values, possess the atmosphere, so he cannot continue breathing it. Ordering the triple negatives indicates a journey of loss for Dimmesdale; he would not receive atonement for his sins, thereby removing his Christianity and turning him into a “lawless” person. This is the journey Dimmesdale must take to free himself, but his religion makes him unable to take whatever supposedly sinful journey Hester Prynne advises him to. Carrying Puritanism as a burden keeps Dimmesdale weighed down to the point of suffocation as they cage him off from the air that supports him living.
Though Dimmesdale appears to be enlivened and unburdened after the decision, the narrator suggests that he subconsciously is growing closer to God. The passage transitions to an active tone with the clause, “His spirit rose,” but the past tense connotes a completed, discontinuous action. The word rose has mixed connotations; his spirit could have risen in enlivenment, or rose as his soul ascended to heaven. Dimmesdale may appear to feel liberated, but because the sensation is impermanent, it shows the irony that he was growing closer to a god that burdens him. Nothing about Dimmesdale’s spirit has changed, saying it rose “as it were,” reveals that it rose with the burden, which made him incapable of completing the journey. The clause mirrors the obstacles that keep Dimmesdale passive despite him appearing active. His spirit rising “with a bound,” another interrupting clause, obstructs the sensation further because he’s bound to Puritanism, preventing its progression. A “bound” creates the appearance of enlivenment as the word implies leaping, but it truly meant that he was tethered to his guilt and therefore could not escape it. Through growing closer to God, when he “attained a nearer prospect of the sky,” he still only achieved a clearer possibility of going to heaven, and his journey already concluded. Before Dimmesdale’s temporary enjoyment he had been “groveling on the earth,” doing so while misery continuously forced him to submit to God out of guilt. His guilt convinces him that he deserves to stay on the earth repenting, closer to hell rather than to heaven, and it creates the persistent boundary that remains as he continues to hold onto guilt. Temporarily escaping guilt allows him to feel that the possibility of going to heaven was still there, but because he’s growing more religious, he still has no enlivenment.
The narrator shows, through implication and explicitly passive statements, that Dimmesdale cannot escape the intensely Puritan nature of his soul. Starting the passage with “of a deeply religious temperament,” another dependent clause, reiterates that religion owns Dimmesdale. Religion is the root of his burden, similarly to how it is the root for the sentence. He has returned to the “dungeon of his heart,” in which his values force him back into submission. Religion is so intrinsic to Dimmesdale’s “temperament,” or predispositions, that it became a force too powerful to counteract or escape, so he must grow closer to God. This intensifies the depth as it implies long standing roots that cannot be weeded out. When he returns to his heart, he “inevitably” has “a tinge of the devotional in his mood,” immediately reclaiming him, and its inevitability shows that he could not escape. The sentence once again assigns ownership to religion, and he cannot minimize its power because a “tinge” is still strong enough to control him. Explicitly stating its presence deep within Dimmesdale, especially in the passage’s last sentence, reiterates that devotion keeps him binded to the town, and it consumes the sensations that inspire him to leave. He may appear to grow closer to freedom and enlivenment, but devotion overtakes to ensure that it remains his priority. When Dimmesdale makes a complete return to himself, devotion negates all temporary sensations and ends the paragraph entirely passive, showing that Dimmesdale has abandoned the decision.
Despite knowing that nature’s “wild, free atmosphere” may free him from his guilt, devotion’s agency over Dimmesdale opposes any sensation outside a Puritan framework, which leads Dimmesdale to substitute it for legitimate enlivenment. Religion becomes part of his natural “temperament,” creating the irony that manmade values do not equate to the liberation found throughout nature. Hester Prynne and Pearl embracing nature helps them achieve freedom from the burdens of Puritan law, but Dimmesdale considers all domains estranged from the law to be inherently sinful, and the seemingly perfect image of civilization keeps him trapped. Dimmesdale’s perspective on civilization intensifies the irony, for the god he supposedly worships created nature and not the judgment or strict regulations that Dimmesdale carries within him. This reveals both Dimmesdale and the townspeople’s skewed perspective that to worship God you must contrive an image of perfection and instill fear into sinners with an intimidating prison, rather than valuing the beauty of nature’s forgiving rose bush that grows outside of it. Perhaps if Dimmesdale had done so, instead of allowing his misery to convince him that he’s irredeemable, he would have allowed nature to heal him.
The Theme of Prejudice in “The Merchant of Venice”
BY AMY SMOUT
"The Merchant of Venice" is a tragedy with comedic elements by William Shakespeare. It follows a cruel Jewish moneylender named Shylock, who makes a bond regarding trade with Antonio, a Christian merchant. However, if Antonio fails to fulfil his bond, Shylock vows to take a pound of his flesh, introducing the theme of revenge early on. The play also discusses in detail the discrimination suffered by the Jewish community. For example, Shylock expresses his strong feelings of resentment towards Christians in an evocative dramatic monologue. In the climax of the play, Antonio and Shylock go to court over their bond, as Antonio can’t pay Shylock back and does not want to lose a pound of flesh. Justice and equity are deeply explored in this scene; he begs Shylock for mercy, but the court shows none when he is refused his pound of flesh. The scene ends tragically for Shylock;he loses everything. The court strips him of all possessions and forcibly converts him to Christianity, which leads the audience to feel great sympathy for the cruel and vengeful character. Shakespeare employs a variety of dramatic techniques, such as metaphors, dramatic irony, and asides, to evoke strong emotions in the audience and, by doing so, makes them consider the varied nature of prejudice.
In the start of the play, Shakespeare exposes Shylock's deep-seated grudge against Antonio, highlighting the theme of prejudice by revealing Shylock’s private, hostile thoughts. When Shylock considers lending money to Antonio, Shakespeare gives the audience insight into Antonio’s personality when Shylock exclaims "How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him for he is a Christian." Shakespeare employs an aside to provide the audience with insight into Shylock’s vengeful nature early on. By comparing Antonio to a "fawning publican," Shylock implies that Antonio feels superior to everyone else and is insincere, reinforcing his deep distrust of Antonio and fuelling the conflict between the two. The moment provokes feelings of mistrust for Shylock and Antonio in the audience and provides insight into later events. Shylock provides the audience with reasons for agreeing to the bond between himself and Antonio. Before agreeing to the bond, Shylock speaks to the audience and says: "I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation." The audience learns that the pound of flesh agreement is his way of seeking revenge on the Christians for all their past injustices towards him. Shylock gives the audience insight into how much he detests Antonio through the use of the metaphor "feed fat." This underscores Shylock's desire to fuel his strong feelings of resentment, and the use of "ancient" suggests he has harbored these feelings for a very long time. This introduces the theme of prejudice through the characterisation of Shylock as highly vindictive towards Christians. Shakespeare’s use of dialogue conveys Shylock's compelling emotions of bitterness and rage to the audience.
In the rising action, Shakespeare explores the theme of prejudice through Shylock's dramatic monologue, which highlights the nature of his suffering at the hands of Christians. Salanio and Salarino, two of Antonio’s closest friends, taunt Shylock in the street over his desire for a pound of flesh. Shylock responds with great passion in an evocative dramatic monologue, stating, "Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?" Shakespeare employs a series of rhetorical questions to make the reader think deeply about the suffering of the Jewish community at the hands of the Christians. The use of dialogue highlights the affinity between the Jewish and Christians, prompting the audience to reflect on their shared humanity and question the reasons behind the detrimental attitude toward the Jewish. By drawing attention to their shared commonalities, Shakespeare underscores the irrationality of prejudice and challenges the audience to recognise the destructive nature of intolerance towards others. In the same monologue, Shylock goes on to describe how Antonio has exploited him, detailing how "He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what’s his reason? I am a Jew." The metaphor of "cooled my friends, heated mine enemies," demonstrates Antonio's strong influence by comparing it to that of the weather, therefore suggesting that Antonio can easily control and manipulate people's actions. The phrases "scorned my nation" and "mocked at my gains" further illustrate Antonio's mistreatment of the Jewish community. By providing background on Shylock’s previous suffering, Shakespeare encourages the audience to reflect on the destructive nature of permanent injustice and prejudice.
In the climax of the play, Shakespeare explores prejudice through justice and mercy in the courtroom scene. Shylock and Antonio have taken their bond to court, and Shylock is unflinching in his desire for revenge. Portia enters, disguised as Antonio's lawyer, and pleads with Shylock for mercy telling him how "The quality of mercy is not strain'd, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven." Shakespeare employs a metaphor to illustrate that Portia and the other Christians consider true mercy, like rain falling from heaven, to be a natural occurrence and to have inherent beauty. Portia’s sudden plea for mercy starkly contrasts the prejudicial attitude exhibited by Portia and many other characters throughout the play. Antonio shows signs of frustration when trying to persuade Shylock to abandon the bond and exclaims “You may as well do anything most hard, As seek to soften that - than which what’s harder?” Shakespeare uses this metaphor to emphasise Shylock’s unshakeable determination for revenge, presenting him as harder than the hardest substance. Antonio’s language reveals his own bias: he assumes Shylock is incapable of mercy because of his Jewish identity rather than the circumstances of the conflict. The quote highlights a clear double standard in the judicial system, which refuses to take Shylock’s legal claim seriously yet readily accepts Portia’s appeal for mercy. This contrast encourages the audience to reflect on the prejudicial attitudes in the scene and how individuals can be treated differently based on their social and religious identities
"The Merchant of Venice" by William Shakespeare highlights the complexities of prejudice through its characters and their treatment of one another, but it also challenges audiences to consider how the play’s key concerns appear in everyday life. Shakespeare introduces the long-standing hatred between Shylock and Antonio to highlight how assumptions can easily turn into misplaced hatred if not correctly addressed. In the rising action, Shylock's powerful monologue forces audiences to consider the consequences of mistreatment and discrimination’s lasting effects. The courtroom scene reveals how underlying bias can distort judgment, and the subsequent flaws in the judicial system. Inconsistencies in how the cases are received reflects the extent to which personal biases can undermine rational thought, and invite the audience to consider the consequences of an action. By exploring the theme of prejudice, Shakespeare not only deepens general understanding of the characters, but employs audiences to consider the role prejudice plays in society today.By examining the theme of prejudice, Shakespeare implores the audience to consider their past actions and how they may have affected others. His messages remind us to reflect on how unfair assumptions and judgements based on religion, ethnicity and personal identity continue to affect people across the globe, encouraging us to act with kindness, empathy and compassion and challenge discrimination where it faces us.