"The Araby" and "Eveline" by James Joyce

Sungwon Kim

Mr. Garrioch          

World Literature

March 17, 2015

“The Araby”

The story is often read as a narrative recounting the experience of a young boy affronting an unexpected frustration and disappointment in his disenchantment of exotic “Araby” and love. Driven by his feeling of love toward the Mangan’s sister, the narrator goes on his journey to the “The Araby” with fascination for the place. Different from what he had anticipated of his journey—mundane life of Dubliners to the exposal of new and enchanting orient—the boy disappoints at finding the place rather dull and disparaging with most of the stalls closed in darkness. There, the narrator observes the flirtatious young lady and two gentlemen who break his naïve preconception of love as a pristine emotion, and eventually feels intense anguish and anger. However, such interpretation lacks consideration of some other crucial qualities depicted by the narrator in terms of his development throughout the story. The juxtaposition of the frequent call to sensual desires and the journey to “the Araby” hints at the narrator’s duplicitous nature. Along with the reference to Christianity, therefore, it is more legitimate to assume that the narrator feels rage toward himself for his negation of the true mind that yearns for sensual pleasure. The “confused adoration” turns out to be the boy’s sensual desire seeking for “the curved neck, the hand upon the railings and the border below the dress” through the revelation that takes place in darkness.

“Eveline”

At first glance, James Joyce’s “Eveline” might appear to be a tragic story of a young woman who inevitably forsakes her opportunity to embark on a new life through her love due to her domestic responsibility. After all, when Eveline, despite the constant threat of her father’s violence and economic difficulties menacing in her daily life, refuses to leave with Frank at the harbor, we might assume that she eventually makes her decision on behalf of her family. However, on the other hand, such interpretation fails to meet the underlying essence of the story, as hinted in her reaction to Frank’s departure in the end. Therefore, it is perhaps more accurate to assume that “Eveline” is rather a portrait of the typical women in the Dubliner society, characterized by unsettled and mercurial mentality. In this sense, Eveline is not simply a character that fulfills her responsibility through her sacrifice of “individual”, but rather a vivid representation of woman detached from love. “Her eyes [with] no sign of love or farewell or recognition” were the kinds that could easily be seen in the eyes of women in Dubliners society.                   

Reading Journal: "The Student" by Anton Chekhov

The general impression I had on this piece of short story was that it was complex. There had been a lot of biblical references that I had to be familiar with beforehand to understand the story. After reading it once, the story seemed to be very interesting, and the reason was that there was nothing I can understand from what happened in the story. (I had things to figure out on my own!) But when I read it for the second time with full appreciation of the little details, I began to create my own connections to the story as a whole. The main question that had to be answered was why did Vasilisa (The mother of the two widows) started crying after hearing the story about the Crucifixion delivered by the student.  

The story starts with the description of the weather in the forest. The forest was depicted quite starkly. Extreme coldness, agonizing wind, loneliness, and remoteness of the forest set the whole story on a gloom from the beginning. Then, it goes on more gloomily as the story talks about poverty and hunger, and how it had always existed since a thousand years ago and it will continue to exist. Then, the student tells the story about the betrayal of Peter and the Crucifixion. The story, overall, sets in a very negative and pessimistic air. However, unexpectedly, its ending is somewhat positive and hopeful. Far different from how the two widows reacted to the story, the student rather feels happy on his way to somewhere else after leaving the house. Such ambiguity also presents a bit of mind-boggling experience to the reader.     

The story makes its consistent effort to draw connection between past and present. The most salient one reads, “since she had shed tears all that had happened to Peter the night before the Crucifixion must have some relation to her….” From here I could conjecture that she is feeling the same sort of guilt as Peter felt. Soon after the student visits the house, the student notices that the two women have just had supper on the Good Friday. While, the most faithful observes an absolute Fasting (an act of abstinence from food), the two women didn't observe what is expected for them as Christians. The student also asks the two widows, with skepticism, whether they had been at the reading of the Twelve Gospels with skepticism. Then, the story of betrayal of Peter and the Crucifixion comes in. Vacilisa’s tears eventually imply that the women are not so faithful Christians who feel guilt as Peter did.

There are much more parallels in the story. Another notable one reads, “At just such a fire the Apostle Peter warmed himself,” said the student, stretching out his hands to the fire, “so it must have been cold then, too…” Poverty and hunger exists just as it did a thousand years ago, and it is obvious that the family suffers from poverty. The disobedient acts of Peter and the two women toward Jesus are in common in that they did on behalf of themselves. Peter denied his acquaintance with Jesus to save himself from the mad crowd who were very willing to kill him if otherwise. To the women, they were too hungry to pursue the observance of religious fasting.  

I could come up with this interpretation based on the connection I drew from my own life. I actually felt a bit of similarity with Peter. I was a faithful Christian when I was young. My parents were both Christian, and I was raised as Christian. However, as I grew older, I prayed less often, and eventually I stopped praying. I had my own particular reasons for letting go of my faith though. I am sure I've made solemn prayer assuring my belief in Jesus. The situation is similar but the feelings I had was neither guilt nor joy. The student rejoices at his youth, health, and vigor in the end. I still don’t have a clear understanding of the student. Why does the story suddenly end in a positive light with the rejoicing of the student? The story has been given its title “the student”—there must be some other messages that maybe Chekhov wanted to convey?   



 

Metafiction: The Reality

“Mommy, can I have some more candies?” Luna squirmed desperately under her mother’s feet.

“No. Honey, you already had several today. Wait until tomorrow”, said her mother clearly. Then, the girl’s face started to redden, and her eyes which were about to explode with tears were directly fixed on her mothers.

Her mother, who first seemed firm in her decision, eventually succumbed to the kid as soon as she started crying in a shrill voice. The mother gave the little girl a candy in her hands, but the girl who was not satisfied with it continued crying.

“Luna, I will give you some more, but promise me that you will stop crying. Ok?” Luna stared at her for a second and expressed her acceptance by gently nodding her head. When her mother brought a handful of candies, Luna stopped crying and was perfectly content. She gave some of them to me as she unwrapped some of hers in her hand. Whenever I went to Luna’s house, I could always have a lot of candies in this way, which was the best thing about her house. Her mother was always vulnerable to Luna. Luna always gained everything she wanted. Yes, she was always like that…crying.

Thom grabbed his notebook, and started to write and draw things as usual. He was obsessive with it. He never let other people including me to look at his journal. He was very sensitive in keeping it very secret. So I asked him what he was doing on his notebook, but he didn’t say anything in silence. Thom was a quiet boy. He preferred to keep his feelings inside. When he spat out the word “mother” four months after his birth, I was pretty much delighted because other mothers don’t get to hear it that early. I thought Thom would grow to become an active and talkative boy. But as he grew up, he became silent. I first doubted that he didn’t properly attained language. He is now six but he still doesn’t say much. I was really surprised to see him writing something on the notebook for the first time. For sure, he was writing in English, and even in the form of a long prose. My concern for his deficiency in learning language was completely relieved since then. And another new concern came into my mind, which kind of made me feel more anxious. If he knew English, why wouldn’t he express his feelings verbally?” Once, I talked over this to my husband Jim.  

“You know he keeps a little journal with him. He just won’t let me read it. I have no idea what he is doing on it, but he certainly wrote a lot so far. How can he do that? You know how old he is?”

“Yeah, he is turning 9, right? Then, he is now a third grader.”

“Are you kidding me Jim? You can’t even remember our son’s age? He is six, damn it.”

“I was kidding, yeah, he’s already six! Phew! Time flies. Maybe our cute little six year old boy has a lot of things going in his mind, I guess? Come on, what would he be doing with it? He’s just playing with it. I used to scribble things down too when I was young.”

“You know nothing about him because you are always outside working. As far as I remember, I couldn’t do that when I was six. He is like, writing a lengthy prose! And also he never talks first. All he says are simple “yeses” and “noes” to my questions.”

“OK. Let’s suppose that Thom is a…genius. You know that geniuses are kind of like that. They just have so many inner thoughts in their head. Leave him alone. He also has his right to keep his privacy.”

“I know, that’s why I didn’t try to look at it, and instead feel almost dying to know what’s inside!”

“Just, don’t worry about it too much. Maybe you’re underestimating kids. They also have things to think about.”

There was another problem with Thom, which I didn’t talk about to Jim. Thom slept a lot. When he was not writing, he was usually sleeping. Even though, he usually went to bed at the right time around 10.p.m, he frequently dozed on the table. After I had prepared the meal, I often had to wake him up to make him eat. He is indeed sleeping more than he is awake. When I wake him up, he often gave me a glaring look of those black eyes. It sometimes scared me. He extremely hated others waking him up.

One day, I saw him lying down on the backyard of the house. I ran straight to him with a great astonishment. But I found him sleeping quietly as if nothing had happened. I found him sleeping in weird places for several times after that, and I realized he suffers from narcolepsy. I couldn’t even send him to kindergarten for that reason.

The real world looked almost exactly the same. The only difference was that it was more “real”. There are real people, real houses, and real streets under the real sky. I left my house and treaded along the street. The sun was shining brightly high up above. The weather was just perfect. People passing by seemed all happy as they gave me a pleasant look of smile on their faces. They were all real. When I reached the park, the great oak trees and the robust grasses greeted me. I went under the shade of the biggest tree, and sat there in peace. The nice green summer breeze blew over my head, and I took a deep breath to feel the freshness of the air. The scenery was just mesmerizing. People in the surroundings seemed to feel the same way. I hoped I could stay here forever. But I knew I couldn’t. Soon after, as I expected, the sky started to turn darker. The massive clouds were coming at a fast speed. People all ran off and disappeared. It all just happened in such a short time. Heavy raindrops fell from the sky, and I was left alone in the rain. I felt so queer in this world.

After a long contemplation, I came up to a conclusion that I must look at Thom’s notebook. Thom was still sleeping. I went to his desk and pulled out the first drawer in which he keeps his journal in store. The first cover of the notebook said “The reality”. Certainly, this was not like a title that a 6 year old boy would give to his journal. I opened it and on the first page it said,

“This is not reality. It’s a fake.”

“What does he mean by that?” I wondered. I flipped through several pages, and came across a drawing that just made me speechless. The drawing depicted the house right across the street. It was not at all like a picture drawn by a 6 year old boy. Every detail of it was fully expressed through delicate touch of lead. I never knew that he drew so well. It was just remarkable. I felt good about Thom’s genius talents at art. Besides the drawing, on the adjacent page, some words were also written down.  

Luna’s mother is so vulnerable. Luna gets everything she wants. The best thing about going over to Luna’s house is that I can have as many candies as I want. I want to visit her house more often. Luna is my good friend who is definitely real.

I grew really curious of this girl. Who is Luna? Is she his girlfriend or something? I sometimes left him alone at home, and I never knew Thom went over to the house across the street. Probably, Luna is the name of the girl living in that house. But still I had no idea what that “reality” thing was all about? The next page contained even more awe-inspiring picture. It resembled the central park of the town. A boy in the picture was sitting under the shade of a tree. I looked at the face of the boy closely, and was surprised to find that it greatly resembled Thom. He looked happy in the picture as expressed. I now had a firm conviction that Thom was totally a genius at art. Then on the next page, the park was drawn in a completely different weather. It was raining and the boy seemed rather alone in the rain. Again, a few words beneath it said, “THE REALITY”. I turned to the front pages which I had skipped in precedence. A lengthy prose read,

Since it was hard to differentiate them due to its great similarity, I keep this journal for reminding myself the truth. I must not forget that everything I am seeing, hearing, and feeling here are not real. It’s all fiction….What is life?

Suddenly then, a violent rush came behind my back with a screaming sound. Thom urgently took his notes from my hand, and started pounding me as hard as he can. He yelled at me crying:

“Don’t you dare touch my notebook! You fake horrible ghost!”

“               

Uchicago Prompt: Why are you here and not somewhere else?

11V3 Sungwon Kim

Mr. Garrioch

English Composition

19 September 2014

             Pondering upon the question for a painstakingly long time, I realized it is beyond the reach of my logic. The dominant theory that seeks to explain the origin of the universe, (i.e. The Big Bang) contends that everything involving ourselves started from a single point. If it is so, it seems fair that I, who had been the part of it, should easily be able to answer why I am here by tracking the history from the very beginning. It sounds more reasonable as I conceive the fact that the most elementary particles that form my body and mind withhold the history of it. Indeed, I do not have any concrete memory of it. Nevertheless, let me give it try to an impulsive feeling that I have inside my mind and hopefully this will give me the answer. It’s trustworthy in that what my mind thinks, after all, might just be a result of intricate interactions between the particles “who” know exactly what have happened.    

According to the theory, I was destined to be here. Given the fact that there was a certain initial state from which everything including me has started, the final result ought to be determined. Think upon a ball in the air and the other substances that could possibly be in the vicissitude. Without any exception, it is determined to fall down on the ground. When it cannot be said that the rules of physics perfectly reflect the way the world works, there is certainly a way that the world somehow works. This logic can also work in explaining my history to be “here”. It is unfathomable what exactly the initial state was, but given the same conditions, I would always end up being here.

Despite I’m a big fan of science who studies physics every day. I don’t like this idea of determinism as I am fully aware that my consciousness has a complete control over how I will behave for the next few seconds. This I firmly believe is the power that changes the way things would work, and it is something that science cannot explain. As physics’ concern shifts to more fundamental ones, physics has often encounter phenomena that negate the previous knowledge. Physics have started abandoning the idea of determinism as they present a new contention in the new name of quantum physics that, although given the same initial states, the results can be different. Still, physics fail to provide for a logical explanation. I concluded after all, it is not something that can be explained logically.

I now challenge to give a bold explanation for it is neither logical nor imaginable. That power part of which resides inside me is what was there before the great explosion. I don’t know what it is but having said that, I can now fully contend with satisfaction that from the very beginning, I have chosen to be here. An interesting thing is that I might have also contributed whoever reading this to be “here” to read my essay.     

                

Ode to a book

Ode to a book   

                                                                                                         Sungwon Kim

Your look so dear, that I cannot cease to stare at you.

Although you may be no more than some banal black inks stains on papers, you fill me with a fully-fed feeling of affection that I could never win over.

I don’t want to adorn you with all of those things that people say they are beautiful. The blatantly bland you as you are make me but love you with all my heart.        

Your scent more fragrant than any perfumes on this planet brings me the immediate joy. Yours is neither like that of blazing red roses nor that of the most attractive woman. I wonder what perfume have you used? If it were a man-made, never could you have been that good and peaceful. Yes, I am sure it is the smell of Mother Nature that visits me by the pleasant spring breeze from a nearby green. As I flip through the pages, the slow and subtle movement of that sweet air indulges me to fall deeper and deeper into your love.     

I want to touch you more and feel more of your roughness and robustness. Although you are apparently not alive, wood from which you borrowed your body still feels nice and natural. The permanent purity which you possess smoothly pats on my fatal poison and makes my spirits soar. Holding you lightly in my hands, you feel so affectionate and direct on the flesh of my fingers. Often times, I’d enjoy the comfort of falling asleep while I have you in my arms.

But indeed, what you reveal via your voiceless conveyance is which exceeds every other enticement I can gain from seeing, smelling, and touching. Unless a lucky he is gotten a good chance of hearing your words, could he ever realize the presence of a small universe in your meager being? Love, grief, ecstasy, loathing, evilness, madness, and more I can call out an endless list of which comprises that little cosmos you conceive. I am exalted with emotions while being immersed in the irresistible imagination of my own. Toward the end, blood in my veins begins to boil and rushes rapidly through all parts of my body. And when it bulks boundlessly beyond and beyond from the very bottom of my heart…Boom! Then I black out but the last page stares back at me, the end.    

Essay

Inside the room, there was no one. Only a few candles flickering and the woods burning in the stove were brightening the room. Nice warm air flew out from the stove. But there was no one beside me. On every wall, colorful papers with some words written on covered the entire wall without leaving any space. Soon, my eyes were unwittingly pinned on a dull piece of white paper among them, and it read, “Saying love is like the enormous night sky pouring­ out myriads of massive stars at once.” It was just another hackneyed poetry talking about love. My eyes again, unwittingly moved onto the next lines, “glaring brightly even in the total darkness.” Eww… Disgusting. Why are people always so obsessed with love? I couldn’t look at it anymore and quickly stepped back from the wall.

I kept on thinking “who was she?” She was a big fan of stars including other celestial beings in the sky. She was an astronomy teacher but I had never taken her astronomy class. The only class I took from her was counseling. During the class, her topics were about dream, love, and life. She was very interested in her students. She wanted to know what they wanted to become in the future or what was troubling their life. She sometimes went over-repeatedly so that I slept or studied other subjects, which was better to be finished as soon as possible. When I looked around her room, I was always able to see those good-will messages written on each colored paper. They were mostly consistent with what she said in the class. Such positive messages as “To dream and love” and “There contains a small universe inside you” seemed to encourage some students. They soon became happy as if they were strongly touched by an inspiring word they have never heard before. However, for me, it neither made me happier nor inspired me with some new striking thoughts. They were rather just cliché that I heard from every place. I knew life didn’t always proceed in a good way. I stayed rational and logical so I could find the best way to deal with given situations because I knew optimistic way of thinking rarely helped.

The other day when I went into her room, just like the last time, there was no one. But, there was a picture of a smiling woman that was placed on some kind of a small desk. After a few moments, a girl came into the room crying. She and I were standing in front of that picture. She was just standing there crying with her eyes closed. After she went out, I looked at the wall and found that those messages were still there. Suddenly, a small teardrop fell on my face. Those words seemed beautiful as they were.                          

           

A Writer's Notebook

             A year has passed already since I’ve started to feel this huge emptiness in my mind. I’m unsure about why this is happening to me, which makes me feel more scared and anxious about my feelings. But I know for sure that there is a big hole through which all of my souls and spirits sink out. I started to ponder upon my past, although I was afraid how much it would pain me. My mind takes me back to exactly a year ago, when I lived a cosmopolitan life in New York.

“The most important thing in design is simplicity. Once that’s lost, it ought to go straight toward the trash bin.”

“I’d like to see your work by tomorrow. Please don’t roll your eyes. In the real world, you’re not going to have all the time in the world to create something, ” remarked the professor condescendingly.

Six days had passed since I had had a restful sleep.

When I heard him giving us another assignment, I really wanted to kill him. But I stayed quiet because everyone else only groaned in silence, although many had sustained dark bags under their eyes all semester. Yet, they kept strong as if they were machines, endlessly producing things creatively. On my desk, there were countless empty coffee cups and energy drink cans rolling around in such an ugly manner. Especially, the design on the can that reads, “MONSTER,” painted with some sort of green and red thunder motif made my eyes hurt. I had many horrible experiences, and I felt dying. So, I came back home.

             I came into my room to sleep. Hours later, insomnia struck again. I thought I might as well listen to some old music and wondered if my brother still had CDs in his room. He was away at baseball camp for the summer. We used to be close. But as I had left home for college and was too busy with school, and as he started to become more private, as I imagine boys typically change in high school, we drifted apart. Except for his occasional Facebook posts, I realized how little I knew about who he was.  

As I stepped into the room, I knew it would be a good place to start. In the corner, there were his drum set and a poster of the periodic table. As I got into art and literature, he became so interested in math and science, which I could not share with him. On the shelves there were tons of science and math books, and his old red Phillies baseball hat.

In search for CDs, I opened the shelves of his desk and came across a black leather notebook. Inside it said, “A Writer’s Notebook.” This must be someone else’s, I thought. Feeling curious, I opened the middle, and on the page there were notes. 

 I know that you don't like rap music that are always the same. I think I don't like it either. This is surely not enough to stimulate your long-lost senses. The interesting thing is there are people who become more alive and heated when they listen to this kind of music. That's why they do it for their entire life.

‘What the…?’

I could never expect my brother to write randomly, especially in a “writer’s” notebook. He’s always been a math and science geek. .

 The real reason I hate rap songs…It's not because of the repeating lyrics or stupid cacophonies. It was when I was in middle school. Everyone always listened to rap music. I was a newcomer in the class and I invited my classmates to my birthday party. Surprisingly, many students came to have lunch. However, before they were served dessert, they all left.

           I was surprised to read this. I thought my brother loved rap. He was always blasting from his room with his friends. My brother had always been well liked, I thought. He often had his friends over at our house and was always playing sports or doing things in schools. I took the notebook back to my room and started to flip through the pages. There were tickets to a movie he went to, and he wrote:

I don’t care

What they’re going to say

Let the storm rage on,

The cold never bothered me anyway

             Oh, I’d heard this cheesy song before.

Is there something wrong with me? When K looks at me, I get nervous. My heart beats faster than ever. The contours of K’s face are just perfect. I find myself thinking about K when my mind wanders.

        Eww. Maybe I shouldn’t be reading this, I thought.

With his baseball glove on his hand, he just smiled while he stood beside the big tree. Under the warm shadow of the tree, we were in absolute peace. Being caressed by the nice summer breeze while it whistled through the green grass, I was happier than any moment in my life.

This must be an idea for a novel. I was impressed at how interesting it was for him to write from the girl’s point of view. I flipped through more notes and came across a small photograph. It looked as if it had been cut from a larger one. It was a face of an unfamiliar boy who smiled back at me.

My brother came home from camp the next week. When I saw him, I gave him a smile, hoping that he would somehow know that I loved and supported him no matter what, and that I would always be here for him.

He smiled back.