An impression on "Imperialism, Impressionism, and The Politics of Style" by Patrick Brantlinger

Brantlinger’s Criticism is admittedly quite abstruse; however, what I can understand I will attempt to render here.

I) The book’s impressionistic style is able to unite Conrad’s anti-imperialistic style and racist, imperialist voice into “an apparently harmonious whole.”

II) Through an analysis of Marlow’s late admiration of the monstrous Kurtz and gothic adventure-romance motifs, one can understand that Conrad is not criticizing modern imperialism for its brutality, but rather for its apparent betrayal of that which was once a “true, grand, noble, albeit violent enterprise.”

i.e. Modern Imperialism is now a “gigantic and atrocious fraud”

III) The book is also critical of its own failure to meet its own expectations of high morality.

On Mercy: No Mercy

Of the many possible words listed about which I could write, I chose Mercy. The word, like its fellows, isn’t easily defined by concrete or physical objects, but rather, is best understood through interpersonal relationships. I recall first learning this word in Sunday school. As such, my first comprehensions to its meaning relate heavily to the Protestant Christian doctrines of Man’s fallen nature and redemption. Being that God, bound to uphold perfect justice, must exert righteous judgment, man cannot escape eternal suffering except through the mercy of God. Even in my home, my father would frequently read theological texts discussing the fine differences between generally nebulous phrases, mercy being among them. Surely, its meaning cannot be forever defined ecclesiastically, and so while I may begin an inquiry into the meaning of a word, I also hope to look deeper into my psychological roots. 

Girdles, Garters, and Grandmasters, OH MY!

Of British Orders of Chivalry, there exists none higher than The Most Noble Order of the Garter, or Order of the Garter for short. While there are over 100,000 members of the Order of the British Empire, such as Sir Ian McKellen and Sir Patrick Stewart, The Order of the Garter is restricted to only 24 official members and a few supernumerary members in addition to the Monarch and the Prince of Wales. The monarch alone is able to extend membership, without necessarily needing to consult the British Government, as the case is with the Order of the British Empire. The Order was founded by King Edward III in 1348, presumably to gather a circle of allies to support his bid for the French Crown. Medieval Scholars have also drawn several connections to the girdle portrayed in Sir Gawain and the Green Night. Not only is there a similar eroticism associated with both the garter and the girdle, but one of the purported authors of Sir Gawain, was closely associated with a high-ranking member of the order. In addition, the motto of the order “Honi soit qui mal y pense,” (“Shame upon him who thinks evil upon it,” or “evil to him who evil thinks”) appears in slightly altered form within the poem itself in lines 640 to 655. In any case, rarely do the lines of romantic fiction and reality cross so neatly, that those knowledgeable in history and literature might understand so easily. 

with help from Wikipedia articles "Order of the Garter" and "Order of the British Empire"

john the nightwatchman

You hadn’t planned on living your life fighting monsters. Sure, your father and your own local town shaper had once regaled you as a child with tales of heroes slaying beasts. Sure, you’d fought with Hrothgar’s army for many a season, so it’s not like you were unacquainted with the smell of blood or the stench of battle. But this? This was utter nonsense: an enemy that refused to die? Refused to parley? Gave no quarter? (For gods’ sakes, he ate your friends). In all your years of fighting, you had never seen nor ever imagined yourself facing such viciousness, such a monstrosity. You sigh. You could still see the beast, clutching the body of some poor wretch, coming through the open doors during one of the shaper’s performances. Sick beast, it held the body up, using it as a shield against your blows. It was sickening, trying to pierce his hideous hide with your ash spear, only to have your hits absorbed by his ugly guard. You managed to nick him, scaring him off, but not before he tore through more of your comrades. You shiver at the memory. You were no stranger to funeral pyres, witnessing others’ and contemplating your own, but it was a shame all the same for your friends to die (in front of their wives and children, no less). You stamp your feet a little against the night’s cold. Admittedly, it didn’t bother you too much, what with your warm fur coat. You just needed something to remind yourself where you were. That’s all these night watches are good for, getting lost in your thoughts. You hated that. You were a warrior, plain and simple. Leave the thinking to the kings and schemers. Too much thinking and not enough action was always a bad thing, you knew. A snore erupts from your comrade on the opposite side of the door. He’d fallen asleep an hour or two ago. You blink, suppressing your own yawn. Midnight watches were actually good for two things: thinking too much and sleeping. A twig snaps. You glance over. It was probably nothing. Twigs snap all the time actually. Not many people knew that. New guards especially were prone to worrying over snapping twigs. You stifle a chuckle. Unferth, in particular you recall, had worried over many a snapped twig in his day.  Unferth, the “hero” as he likes to think of himself, strutting about the ranks, isn’t a bad person per se. He is one of Hrothgar’s finest thanes after all. He’s simply irritating, when you think about it. When that beast broke into the hall, the first thing he did after proper funeral rites was promise to kill the beast, gain glory, elevate himself. You scoff. Unferth, the “hero.” What does he know of family? What does he know of true responsibility? A crash falls in the woods. You perk up again. You squint your eyes, but see nothing. An owl or lonely wolf might snap a twig, but rarely make a noise like that. You’re tempted to wake your fellow, but decide against it. Moments later, you hardly even notice when the beast lowers his arms and snaps your neck.

England must have been REALLY pretty to attract Vikings and French: some information on the Battle of Hastings

It almost seems to be a convergence of fate as in the wake of King Edward the Confessor, three separate men of great power vied for the crown of England. Harold Godwinson, generally accepted official successor to King Edward, had but just been crowned king of England by the ruling nobility of England when both William II, Duke of Normandy, and Harald Hadraada, Viking King of Norway, began pressing their respective claims to the English throne with threats of war. As Duke William II began a military buildup along the Norman coast across the channel from Southern England, Harald landed on the Northern coast of England at the invitation of Harold's traitorous brother with 300 ships full of fighting men. Harold Godwinson, anticipating the Norman invasion to land in the south, then forced his loyal forces to cross 185 miles of open country. Such decisive action would pay off, as the Vikings could hardly expect Godwinson to move so quickly, as evidenced by their neglecting to even wear armor in the hot September sun. Swiftly dispatching the Norwegian King and his treacherous brother, Harold Godwinson had but 3 days to celebrate his decisive victory before Duke William II landed as expected in Pevensey, nearly 200 miles to the south of where Harold had smashed the Viking forces. Harold then marshaled his forces to march again to the city of Hastings to hopefully stave off Norman incursion. Unfortunately, fortune would not favor his pure foot soldier army. While the courage and martial prowess of Harold's loyal Huskarls was not to be doubted, Duke William II had modernized his forces in accordance with popular western tactics and emphasized a focus on heavily armored mounted cavalry. While the English army did have horses, nobility and other heavy units would ride into combat and then dismount for infantry maneuvers. Duke William II had also augmented his smaller Norman force with armies from as far as Italy in exchange for English land upon completing his successful conquest. Most likely exhausted by the nearly 400 mile march they had recently completed, Harold's army was crushed, with Harold himself supposedly killed by an arrow, in testament to Normandy's stronger use of archers. While his Huskarls fought bravely to the death in loyalty to their liege, Duke William II soon marched upon London itself and crowned himself King of England, disenfranchising the English Nobility shortly afterwards as well. Marking a new period in history, such events were eventually chronicled in the enormous Bayeux Tapestry. Spanning over 230 feet, the tapestry was likely commissioned by Bishop Odo, Earl of Kent, regent of England in William the Conqueror's absence, and ally in the Norman Invasion of England. The Tapestry currently resides in Bayeux, Normandy within France. Its iconic imagery have even become a popularized meme of sorts transposing modern sayings and behaviors into medieval situations for great comedic effect. 

sources:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tapestry_of_Bayeux

http://www.britishbattles.com/norman-conquest/battle-hastings.htm

in response to William Verder's "The Women of Frankenstein"

From reading William Verder's "The Women of Frankenstein" certain new observations happened to befall me.
Firstly, that the readership of Shelley's would certainly have been repulsed by both the Catholics and Judiciary. Being English citizens, they would naturally have been raised in a protestant environment where justice for the common man was perhaps harsher than necessary to maintain civil stability.
Secondly, the women of Frankenstein, though perhaps somewhat bland to modern tastes and sensibility, are not necessarily weak per se, but rather, are faced against a necessarily ludicrous world that seems to have it in for all of these women. The world around them is impossibly cruel and unfeeling to such injustice.
Thirdly, Catholic presence inside of one of the highest Bastions of Protestantism is actually quite strange to say the least. While the church does not play as much of a role here as it might in other Romanticist works, the fact that a Catholic should be so distinctly mentioned is somewhat strange, in retrospect.

analysis of the mechanics of a particular passage of a particular novel of that particular literary movement

In trying to convince a reader of a point, an author of fiction has markedly different tools at his or her disposal than those of an author of nonfiction. While the nonfiction writer relies upon the essay, the article, and real facts or experiences to illustrate, defend, and argue, the nonfiction writer has to illustrate the point in question for the reader to see in context. Admittedly, while obviousness, clarity, and outright stating what one means to say are completely necessary in crafting an argumentative essay, such stylistic choices in fiction, if done tastelessly, merely leave an impression of heavy handedness concerning the moral or theme of a piece. An essayist might state that “stealing is wrong” and then continue to quantify his statement without so much as a pause from a reader. A writer of fiction, however, would appear to have several more options to convey this idea. The author might choose to simply state “stealing is wrong” in their narration of events or have a character, designated truth dispenser or not, tell another character, designated violator of truth or not, that “stealing is wrong,” and then subsequently explain with quantifiable and logical points why “stealing is wrong.” Beyond such technical devices that the writer shares with the essayist, there also exist narrative illustrations of the point in action. The writer, playing the god of his tiny microcosm of his perception or idealization of reality and morality, might portray a character stealing, and subsequently portray said thief being caught and promptly punished for his transgression of the central theme “stealing is wrong.” The author has a choice of how much time he or she wishes to devote to either telling the reader “stealing is wrong” or showing the reader “stealing is wrong.” Admittedly, a piece of fiction is not particularly interesting should it be too devoted to either side of the sliding scale of showing versus telling. It is difficult to find a masterfully crafted tale devoted entirely to telling and explaining to a reader a thesis or a deeply impactful fable completely lacking any theme whatsoever. In the case of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in particular, Shelley takes steps to blend the showing and telling to both illustrate her theme and impress value upon her horrific tale of one man’s aspirations gone too far. One particularly interesting example of this blending occurs as Shelley details the notably gruesome process of constructing the monster. The complex attitude of negativity and opposition to the sacrifices made by Victor von Frankenstein at this point in the novel is only fully realized with a blending of technical choices in persuasive description and compelling decisions in narrative pacing and placing.

Narratively, Shelley places the entirety of the passage and narrative as a whole inside of Frankenstein’s experience Technically, Shelley controls the tone of the piece by devoting great energy into generating a feeling of negativity from the steps Frankenstein took in fabricating a scaled up human. Very specific wording is given and is used to describe the nature of Frankenstein’s work. Instead of calling his toils steps to a greater end, Shelly notes them as “horrors,” involving the “bones” of the dead, as disturbed by “profane fingers.” Instead of evoking the images of a sterile, clean facility to study cadavers, Shelley refers to the “dissecting room” and “slaughter-house,” seemingly comparing the study of human remains to gruesome animal butchery. In terms of pacing, two thirds of the passage are devoted to the description of the profane act, double the length of the section outlining Frankenstein’s hopes for the project. Not that those hopes really outweigh the negative implications of his actions, for Shelley also, in terms of plot, completely denies any possible benefits of Frankenstein’s creation. Bringing a “torrent of light into our dark world” is somewhat difficult when no one in the world except Frankenstein knows of his experiment’s existence, let alone success. Frankenstein himself admits that raising the dead is impossible as far as he could tell. He cannot even claim the glory of another race as he denies his creation the means to reproduce. Of particular note also, is that Frankenstein is disposed to retell the experience only after experiencing the death of everyone he cared for at the hands of the brute, hardly likely to positively affect the interpretation of spending months at work in poor health and lonely environment.

Such considerations were surely on Shelley’s mind as she thought how best to evoke only the greatest feelings of disgust and dread in such a passage. However, the piece does seem to lean towards the telling side of the scale. An interesting venture might be attempting to convey the same horror and disgust without having the voice say the phrases “horror” or “tortured” in distilled shots of emotion. Perhaps a Poe-esque portrayal in a Poe-esque short story type.