A new course

LET ME EXPLAIN: for some strange reason, no matter how many spaces I put between paragraphs when I'm creating a post, when I click "publish," the spaces all disappear.********************************************* Ellen and I have started a Swarthmore-sponsored course on Short Stories in the U.S., taught by Prof. Peter Schmidt, who is a Professor of English Literature, specializing in U.S. Literature and cultural history, who in recent scholarship has focused on the study of post-Civil-War, "New South" fiction in the era c. 1880-1920, with special attention to racial issues. The course is held on Zoom on Thursday evenings, 7:30 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. There are over 100 participants in the course, so there isn't going to be a lot of class participation, but there is some. The first session (Sept.16th), we studied four short stories, which Peter titled "Four 19th Century Horror Tales." (1) The Telltale Heart, by Edgar Allen Poe; (2) Young Goodman Brown, by Nathaniel Hawthorne; (3) Old Mother McGoun, by Mary Wilkens Freeman; and (4) Po' Sandy, by Charles Chesnutt. Of these four, I had previously read only the Poe story, though I had read other works by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Freeman and Chesnutt were totally unfamiliar to both Ellen and myself. I will try to have something to say about these four stories and their authors between now and next Thursday (no guarantees!). The Telltale Heart begins in this way: "True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever." Peter Schmidt introduced the concept of the "unreliable narrator," as an interpretive tool. The first paragraph causes us to mistrust the reliability and honesty of the one telling the story. Maybe he is mad! Maybe none of this actually "happened," - it is a wild fantasy. The story goes on to describe how the narrator would cautiously enter the room of the old man at night with a veiled lantern which could be "cracked" to send a laser-like beam of light onto the closed eye of the old man without awakening him. He takes a peculiar delight in doing this for a week, but then, one night, he accidentally makes a sound in the dark, and the old man awakens. He remains silent and lets the old man grow increasingly terrified. Then suddenly he sends the beam of light onto the open eye. He then becomes aware of the sound of the beating of the old man's heart, which grows louder and louder until he can bear it no longer, and he breaks into the room. The old man shrieks, and he kills him. He then describes his meticulous efforts to dispose of the corpse - dismembering it, burying it beneath the floorboards and so carefully cleaning everything that no one could possibly suspect anything - all offered as evidence that he is not mad - how could a madman accomplish that? Just then two policemen appear at the door - a neighbor heard a shriek and called the police and they have come to investigate. The narrator calmly invites them in and they eventually end up sitting on chairs right over the corpse, chatting merrily, suspecting nothing. But the narrator hears the beating of the old man's heart! It grows louder and louder in his hearing until he is convinced that the policemen hear it too and are pretending not to hear it to mock him. Eventually he can bear it no longer and he cries out: "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!" So here is a story of someone who claims to have rationally committed the "perfect crime," but whose inner psyche drives him to confess his guilt. I guess you could say that the moral is "truth will out." I'm not sure I understand why Poe created this story. Does he seek to deter self- deluded madmen from murdering people? Maybe. But whatever the reason, it is a rattling good tale! Poe himself lived only 40 years. He was orphaned at age two and had a strained relationship with his foster parents, due mainly to money issues. His "career" was checkered - uncompleted education, a stint in the army, a failed attempt to be a cadet, attempts to be a publisher. He married his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia; they appeared to genuinely love each other, but she died of tuberculosis 11 years after their marriage. Her death drove him to drink, and he died two years later. Somehow in the midst of all that chaos, he wrote poems and short stories that made him one of the great American writers, a central figure in American Romanticism, creator of the genre of detective fiction, and classics like the present story, and the poem, The Raven. Says Wikipedia, "Poe and his works influenced literature around the world, as well as specialized fields such as cosmology and cryptography. He and his work appear throughout popular culture in literature, music, films, and television. A number of his homes are dedicated museums today. The Mystery Writers of America present an annual award known as the Edgar Award for distinguished work in the mystery genre."

Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849) ******************************************************* Keuka College****************************************** This weekend I was originally to have attended the 50th reunion of the Class of 1971 at Keuka College, but the Delta variant of COVID caused the college to cancel the in-person event and put it mostly on to Zoom (a few key people in the class met at the college). I attended 3 events by Zoom, Friday eve a reception, Sat eve an alumnae awards ceremony and Sunday morning a memorial service. It was great - I saw former students I hadn't seen for over fifty years, and it was clear that I was fondly remembered and many expressed their gratitude and pleasure at my "being there." I was able to speak directly with a few and send chat greetings to others. I hope to continue some contacts via email. It stirred a lot of memories. I left Keuka in 1969 under unhappy circumstances due to my "liberalism" and the oppressively conservative culture of the faculty and administration. But I loved teaching and enjoyed the students, and it was great to see several of them and learn of their lives since - many of which have been very impressive indeed!

Dr. Jan "Nursie" Stearns Hyatt. "Nursie" earned her nickname at Keuka because she was in the nursing program. But she also took one of my courses. The class performed a skit in a variety show which was a parody of my class. Nursie played me. She was tall - and had to be - because the first thing she did was to come up to the desk, extravagantly plunk her right foot down on top of it, and start lecturing. I thought to myself, "Omigosh, I actually DO that." I was so tall, it was easy for me to casually (and unconciously) lecture with one foot resting on the desk. She was granted an award Sat. night for her outstanding nursing career.

A Zoom screen on my phone during a session.