Stone Life

It has been far too long a blogless drought for my taste, and so, though I think it unwise to engage in a third activity, the first two being 1.) watching the Texas vs. Ohio St. game and 2.) trying to read and understand a stack of Nietzsche and Diderot, I am going to engage in this exercise in vanity, blogging.



This semester has the potential to be the most academically exciting of any in my short scholastic career, and I hope to share a bit of this with my friends via blog, but I won't throw you yet into the 'deep end' of Nietzsche or 18th century literature and philosophy, and so let us discuss Hawthorne's "A Scarlet Letter"

Sadly, and, yes, I know I am calling myself an English teacher fully aware of the forthcoming deficiency, I had never read the "Letter" before this week. First of all, I must say that the reputation of Hawthorne that had been relayed to me, that of being dry and hard to understand (at least language-wise) is grossly exaggerated. The reading itself was as pleasureable as any piece of American lit. that I have recently encountered, but literature must be more than that or run the risk of being soon forgotten (see: DaVinci Code). I believe Hawthorne is thus far standing the short test of time that has been allotted to him, and I, for my part, see why.

How can one not see all of themselves in the work? We have elements of Hester, wearing bits of our shame on our sleaves. These shames only serve to make us stronger, though. The nature of shame, like the nature of the "A" worn on Hester's breast, should weigh us down with a burden of guilt, but it does just the opposite in the end. We either dress it up, embroidered with a sort of camoflouge of acceptance, or we swallow it and "take our medicine" like men. Either way, it eventually fades into the background of our existence, becoming nothing more than a part of our attire, unnoticed by most.

The greater pain comes in the Dimmesdale that lives 'inside' of us. When one does not allow oneself to be seen for what he/she is, choosing to hide oneself within oneself, attempting to avoid the shame of wearing their "A", their internal torment is only heightened. Hawthorne is something of an prophet, in the sense of one who makes a proclamation of truth, in unmasking the mask wearer. He shows that one can only wear a mask for so long before even he cannot distinguish between the truth of himself and the image that has been created. Only in removing the mask, taking the shame that is rightfully ours, can we truly become free. Dimmesdale suffered physically, ravaged by his bodily infirmity, but at the moment of his confession he is released from the clutches of his body and allowed to die in peace.

We are Pearl, the children of shame-changed parents, parents who can neither explain the situation that we will inherit nor keep us from the pain that is rightfully ours as those who will earn our own "A's" in due time. We know not the particulars of our future wearing of the "A", but we are nontheless sure it is coming, sure because we see it in those that have come before us.

Finally, we are the throng. We look with scorn towards those who are no different than ourselves, Our "A" is deserved no less than those who wear theirs on their breast, but we do not, and so we stare and mock, we whisper and point, and we hide behind the shutters of our comfortable houses at night, safe from accusation and responsibility. We walk past the scaffold that others have been displayed upon, never even acknowledging the fact that we should be there too, for all to see.

May we choose to recognize which we are and which we might wish to become.