the dark will end the dark, if anything
I'm kind of sleepy, so I'll try to be brief tonight. During my second year of undergraduate, I faced a choicepoint. I knew I didn't want to be a business student, but I also knew I still wanted to be a university student. So I needed to choose a new program. If it hadn't been so hard to get into English classes at my uni, I probably would have chosen English. But, I couldn't get into any English classes, and chose psychology largely because I'd gotten a good mark in it.
Eventually, I got enough seniority that I could start getting into English classes. They were generally depressing, so I was glad I hadn't had English as a major. They were depressing because my interpretations of stories and poems were always wrong. There's not supposed to be wrong answers with literature, but I managed to find them anyway. I eventually dropped my 20th century American lit class even though it was my favourite type of literature. I remember when I went to the prof. to drop the course - I so desperately wanted him to ask why I was dropping it so I could give him a piece of my mind. I was astonished when he didn't care to ask. Now I understand.
Still, there was some pretty cool stuff I got exposed to, even though I apparently didn't really understand it. There were a number of poems in particular that made me feel emotions that seemed very important, and still do. I'll post one here, even though my interpretation of it was, and still is, wrong.
Luke Havergal by E.A. Robinson
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you listen she will call.
Go the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—
In eastern skies.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this—
To tell you this.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go, for the winds are tearing them away,—
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.
Eventually, I got enough seniority that I could start getting into English classes. They were generally depressing, so I was glad I hadn't had English as a major. They were depressing because my interpretations of stories and poems were always wrong. There's not supposed to be wrong answers with literature, but I managed to find them anyway. I eventually dropped my 20th century American lit class even though it was my favourite type of literature. I remember when I went to the prof. to drop the course - I so desperately wanted him to ask why I was dropping it so I could give him a piece of my mind. I was astonished when he didn't care to ask. Now I understand.
Still, there was some pretty cool stuff I got exposed to, even though I apparently didn't really understand it. There were a number of poems in particular that made me feel emotions that seemed very important, and still do. I'll post one here, even though my interpretation of it was, and still is, wrong.
Luke Havergal by E.A. Robinson
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you listen she will call.
Go the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—
In eastern skies.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this—
To tell you this.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go, for the winds are tearing them away,—
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.
posted by H. Now at 8:52 p.m.
6 Comments:
"Hey, I'm not the smartest guy in the world, but I'm certainly not the dumbest. I mean, I've read books like "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" and "Love in the Time of Cholera", and I think I've understood them. They're about girls, right?"
-High Fidelity
If you ever decide to start a book club, count me in. You just described my not so illustrious undergraduate career perfectly, including how I ended up in psychology. While doing my psych degree I took a minor in English. Why not a major in English you ask? Because the continuous string of C grades and negative feedback was wearing on me. I, too, was apparently incapable of the "correct" interpretation of the literature, and, I too, fled my 20th century Am lit class.
'Course some people would probably say my interpretation of psychological data also leaves something to be desired.....
my interpretation of your comment is that it represents how much you enjoyed the feedback you got in your english classes. maybe this is why i could never get the answers right.
I read Heart of Darkness when I was young & come away with the impression it was an adventure novel.... :) Though I love reading I've never taken a single undergrad course in English & the reason was that I hated the idea that my critical evaluation of a book would be graded. Recently I sat in on an undergrad poetry class & my critical evaluation as an adult academic was that, indeed, the grading is arbitrary & normative.
But then I could be fundamentally unable to appreciate the field. My English prof aunt told me once English lit as a discipline is about Beauty. I find I react v negatively to that idea. ;)
Yeah, I took "On the Road," to be a simply buddy story. Got roundly corrected when I recently took a writing class.
That's interesting - I also minored in English, majored in Psych in undergrad. (But I only felt successful in English, never in Psych, and still ended up in psychology in graduate school. Now what does that say about me?) But I loved reading books in class - it was such a different way to approach a story. When I read in class, I felt like I was diving into this deep pool of possible meanings, and the joy was in piecing together all the different interpretations, and testing them against the reality of the text. I never felt like there was a right or wrong reading - so much of the text exists in the reader, after all...
Jess
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