The Temptations of Social Class

“Surely even the most malignant ghost is a lonely thing, left out in the dark, desperate to be heard” –Stephen King (xvii Introduction).

            Steven King made no mistake when he named The Shining’s hotel The Overlook. Over+look. It’s watching you. It’s looking over you. It’s watching your actions, taking a tab on your fears and weaknesses, and it will take control of any remaining human, conscious soul in yourself that you want to prevail against the monster it attempts to make you. But, unfortunately, the hotel constantly overlooks Jack, not in the sense it ignores him, but in the sense that it constantly looks over him, plotting how to take over him. The hotel wins. Jack is looked over, and made into the hotel’s soldier.

            The hotel is a controlling, manipulative presence.  It seduces Jack because it constantly reminds him of his failure as a writer. It’s like Niki said in class on Wednesday: “Jack kind of allows himself to become this [monster]. He realizes how he’s ended up there, but he blames everyone but himself to explain his actions.” He blames society, his so-called meddling family, and the drink (not his love of the drink, but the drink itself) for making him prone to anger and such evil desires of revenge and murder (redrum). The hotel, however (unlike his family or so he thinks), tempts him with the possibilities of success that could come from writing a story based on the newspaper clippings in the scrapbook he finds at the hotel. Jack says with excitement in his voice, “God, what a story. And they had all been here, right above him, in those empty rooms” (244). Those hotel rooms that are over his caretaker’s quarters. Those newspaper clippings are watching over his desires to write a great piece of literature—a piece of literature that will break him into the world of upper-class, distinguish, and respect. It’s a world he wants, a world he thought he could never have. And the hotel is offering it to him. He loves being wanted finally admits, ‘”I’m the one who loves it here. They wanted to leave. I’m the one who took care of the snowmobile…went through the old records…dumped the press on the boiler…lied…practically sold my soul…what can they want with him?)’” (522). Just like Suzanne said, “They are Poe’s and King’s characters: they are both individuals obsessed with something—fears, objects, characteristics.” And as we soon see, Jack becomes obsessed with finishing his play and beginning work on the hotel story. It drives him up the wall.

            Along those same lines, the haunted objects/monsters of the hotel (the list Suzanne gave us in class) are of a certain social class. Fire hose, elevator, radio, the woman in 217, the topiary animals, the scrapbook, the masquerade ball, and the mallet. All, if looked at more closely, are directly related to the high class status of The Overlook, a class Jack aspires to and to which he wishes desperately to be a member.

·         Fire hose: Find me one normal house that has a fire hose in it. The Overlook is a high-class hotel where a fire hose in house would not be out of place.

·         Elevator: Find me a home that has an elevator in it. The Torrences are living “posh,” and have access to an elevator, even though they don’t use it.

·         Radio: Still not sure how I can swing this one…

·         The Woman in 217: Although dead and creepy, she was a woman of higher class in her time, and even in her death she represents the posh, sophisticated person Jack can never become.

·         Topiary animals: Well, they are only found in very polished, upper-class homes. They torment him. The tease him. They rack his brain and scare him. They torment him not only because of how terrifying they are in their real, animal-like movements, but because of what they embody: an upper-class lifestyle Jack can never attain.

·         Scrapbook: Having the time for scrapbooking is a luxury—a luxury Jack should not have time for since he is constantly focused on writing the next great American novel.

·         Masquerade ball: A ball, a masquerade ball, embodies the idea of privilege. Dancing, drinks, beautiful outfits, beautiful people—everything Jack wants but can’t have.

·         The mallet: the mallet is associated with a sport of the upper classes, roque.

            Kristina made a great point in class on Friday. “Because he [Jack] has been abused, he has learned to adapt to the hotel (or other situations) or the abusive situation to protect himself. To protect himself from the hotel, he becomes what the hotel wants.” He becomes obsessed with acquiring the social status he never could acquire as an author. His written works have been, for the most part, flops. He wants class, power, respect, and the tangible objects of posh living he never obtained when he was so-called weighed down by his failed works, family, and drinking. When Grady tells him, “’Certain other materials could be put at your disposal, if you wished them…,’ Jack responds with unrestrained eagerness that he wants those materials…a lot. He says, ‘I do. Very much.’ He tried to control the eagerness in his voice and failed miserably” (534).
          Also, there is a very Marxist undertone to these objects and what they represent. In Lois Tyson’s book, the standard book for literary critical theory, the Marxism chapter states, “For Marxism, getting and keeping economic power is the motive behind all social and political activities” (Tyson 54). Interesting…these forces certainly seem to be driving Jack’s motives.

            This idea is furthered when Grady begins to taunt Jack’s conviction to kill Wendy and Danny. Grady begins to tug at Jack’s nerves and says, “’Will you indeed, sir? I wonder.’ Well-bred surprise was replaced by well-bred regret. ‘I’m pained to say that I doubt it. I—and others—have really come to believe that your heart is not in this sir. That you haven’t the…belly for it.’ ‘I do!’ Jack shouted. ‘I do, I swear it!’” (582). Jack is quite moved by Grady’s taunts. But, even more interesting is King’s choice of words to describe Jack’s transformation. “Well-bred.” Huh…just an interesting choice of words, Mr. King.

            On a more personal, unrelated note (and to add some personal reflection to this), I loved what Suzanne said in class about the fears of mothering/fathering on Wednesday and how this fear could be one of the significant forces that unhinge Jack. It was something along the lines that anxieties of mothering or fathering and failing at the job can unhinge you. Huh…that got me wheels a-turnin’. Wednesday night’s class wasn’t a good day for me in my personal life, and all the sudden in class when Suzanne said that, I realized that my fears of mothering have begun to unhinge me already. Not unhinge in the idea that I’m going to go crazy like Jack, but I have always had qualms about motherhood. Nothing against you bringing that up, Suzanne. It was something that needed to be said, and it certainly made me begin thinking about how literature directly relates to real life. Any possibilities of me even becoming a mother are far off in the distance, but still, I’m scared for that future. I’m not sure I want kids. I don’t think I can do the parenting thing. I don’t think I have the patience. I don’t think I can multitask handling my own life and that of a kid’s. I don’t know…I really don’t know. I really have no clue what I want. Luckily, that talk is hopefully far off in the future. But still…when my friends talk about wanting to have kids someday, I feel inferior, infertile in a way when I say that I’m not sure I want kids. And they look at me like I’m nuts or inferior to them. I’m just not ready for that part of life and may never be. At least right now, I better not be; I’m 21 years old! But, I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. And that idea of not wanting kids or fearing that I will fail at mothering have already begun to unhinge my idea of a future family life. I can sympathize with Jack in that respect. Now going all crazy on Danny…that I cannot sympathize with. That’s just wrong.

            So, what is one of the driving forces that sways Jack to madness? The hotel tempts him with a class status and the posh lifestyle he never had. It makes sense. It makes sense, at least to me. The hotel takes on its own person hood and sure is good at figuring out how to manipulate a person. Creepy, but props to that hotel.

The wastebasket of Jack's failures

King, Steven. The Shining. New York: Pocket Books, 1997. Print.

Tyson, Lois. Critical Theory Today: A User-Friendly Guide. New York: Routledge, 2007. Print.

Free Will+Morality=Self Reliance

             Oh Dilbert...just because it sums up what we said in class in Sunday Comics form :] 

            Why is it that I’m rather ashamed, frightened, worried about how people will perceive me if I say how I truly feel about Poe. Oh fuck it…I like Poe. I really like Poe. Like, we’re talking top 10 favorite authors here. How come I feel like this isn’t a good thing…

            Maybe it’s because Poe gets such a bad reputation as a “creeper?” Maybe it’s because people say he died as a drunk? But, can I just please ask/beg the literary community to put all of those preconceived notions aside and read Poe with a clean conscious devoid of preconceived stereotypes? Really read Poe. Beautiful (and creepy) imagery, more attuned to the human psyche than other authors have ever dared to tread, and probably one of the greatest psychic horror authors (and I hate horror movies and scary books; but I like Poe—that’s saying something) ever to grace us with his works—that is the real Poe.

            So, I like Poe. There. I said it. I love Poe.

            I have never read such dark, disturbing, frightening imagery that at the same time rivals some of the most truthful, beautiful language I have ever read. Poe could write. There’s no denying it. With lines as profound (rivaling with Emerson in their level of impact on my psyche and soul) as, “I dread the events of the future, not in themselves, but in their results” (The Fall of the House of Usher),“I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between disaster and the atrocity” (The Black Cat), and “All in vain; because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim” (The Tell-Tale Heart), what’s not to love?!

            But, to get to the core of this blog post:

            As Suzanne told us in class, there are typically 3 forces that motivate the way the narrator of “Black Cat” acts: intoxication, satanic possession, or free will. I can see why critics would want to use intoxication and satanic possession as excuses for Poe’s narrators’ acts, but I think Poe was above using such simple forces to mold his protagonists. I think Poe was deeper than that. I firmly believe that Poe’s narrators are simply fictional embodiments of the concept of free will and how such fervent dedication to one’s own concept and feeling of free will can (and will) take you far, far away from the moral constraints that usually bound us, the so-called ‘normal people,’ into our everyday, rigid societal-formed actions, motivations, and personalities.

            I loved what Justin said in class—that Poe’s narrators aren’t necessarily bad; they are just hopelessly unrestrained. Justin…that was an amazing insight. Compliments to Justin, this then led into a whole new branch of discussion and prompted Vianca to add, “What is free will when you have morality digging in and restraining you?” You’re absolutely right, Vi. Absolutely right. I’ve debated this idea a lot during my thinking life, and probably to the dismay of my parents, I strongly feel that morality is a human-made creation; it is not founded in religion. Religion is a human-made creation, and one of its sole jobs is to create moral boundaries for its devotees. Nothing wrong with that at all. I identify myself as Christian. But, I understand that morality is something that varies between cultures and people of differing backgrounds; it is not a set-in-stone, inborn quality. Are my actions motivated, encouraged, guided, and restrained by my morals? You bet. But, that’s the difference. I have chosen to partake in the morality of Christianity and society at-large. Poe’s narrators have not. Poe created the amoral being, the person so attuned to his own emotional whims that free will, if he/she was even conscious of said philosophy, is the sole governing force in his/her life. The narrator of “The Black Cat” and “The Tell-Tale Heart” certainly didn’t let morals get in their ways. What they truly wanted to do in that moment, kill a cat or kill a man, was the whim to which they let themselves succumb.

            Maybe I’m a sicko to admit that I admire something in these narrators? Not the killing of course (that is the last thing I’d ever want to do), but that they are unrestrained by what society deems correct. If I only could bottle up a bit of that idea of free will and still maintain my morals, then maybe I could finally get to a place where Emerson would be proud of me—an ultimate state of self-reliance. Free will+morals=self reliance. That’s my equation, and I’m sticking to it.
           Wow...that was incredible. I feel like I just blogged/wrote myself into a new truth. Life looks different now. I'm typing faster and faster and can't stop thinking. Head spinning. Heart racing. I get it! I get it, Poe! Wow...wow, Poe was good.
           On that note, I'm going to go vacuum my dorm room and do laundry--all the while still thinking about Poe. If I could bottle up the experience of writing myself into a revelation like that, I would be one, happy college student. I can't believe that came out of blogging. This is awesome.  Suzanne, making us blog was an excellent idea. Just saying!

Poe, Edgar Allen. Complete Tales and Poems. New York: Castle Books, 2002. Print.

The Dr. Doolittles in All of Us

“And in the greatness of thine excellency thou has overthrown them that rose up against thee: Thou sentest forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble. And with the blast of thy nostrils the waters were gathered together, the floods stood upright as a heap, and the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea” (Exodus 15: 7-8).

            Sperm whales, cannibalism, anthropomorphism, and then some nitroglycerin soap and a hunky Brad Pitt. This should be a fun post.

            In all honesty, I was quite surprised at how well In the Heart of the Sea and Fight Club paired together. After I finished reading/watching the two, my mind immediately jumped to their commonality in promoting and supporting hegemonic masculinity; but, after our class discussions on Monday and Wednesday, I stumbled upon a new revelation—one that was more hidden, yet all the more tragic and terrifying. Yeah, In the Heart of the Sea and Fight Club are about a society’s deep-seated desire to assert manhood and the morals of manhood and how such expectations can lead to a crumbling psyche and disappointment in oneself. However, there is something deeper, something perhaps even darker than choosing to resort to cannibalism or beating each others’ brains in: there is an intense fear of the animalistic, fight or flight nature in all of us and the recognition that perhaps we aren’t so different than the supposedly-conscious, revengeful whale out there in the open sea.

            But, but…I thought we were HUMANS!? I thought we were above all that? Well, haha…perhaps we’re not. You and Fido, the dog sitting on your lap right now, might be more alike than you think.

            As Suzanne said in class, there is something absolutely terrifying about the malleability of our own human behaviors and the limits of our morality. We think we’re in control; we think we are above the animalist nature of those lower-order mammals. But, as we saw in In the Heart of the Sea, morals are a malleable, disposable set of beliefs; when death is imminent and survival depends on choosing to eat your dead shipmate, you eat your dead shipmate. Nasty, but true. Morality is a MAN-MADE system; when it boils down to it, we are nothing but animals, no different than the whale who attacked the ship. Yes, we are more cognoscente and intelligent than any other animal on this planet (simple neuroscience can tell you that), but what terrifies people today (as much as it terrified the men on the Essex), is that perhaps we are not alone in our ability to plan, think, and execute. Chase believed that the whale really did commit an act of revenge against the whaling ship. He saw the whale’s eyes—he saw the look of rage and vengeance. And that…that would be terrifying, not only because you have a 1-2 ton animal set on your demise but because you suddenly don’t feel so superior anymore. Suddenly, you’re an animal, too. Superiority complex = shattered.

            Recent research has actually discovered that animals are perhaps more cognoscente that previously thought. Neuroscience is making leaps and bounds in discovering the neural pathways of other animals, and they are finding startling similarities to our own neural pathways—a little unsettling, huh? Maybe your dog actually was ticked off at you for getting home late so he purposefully planned to urinate all over your new dining room rug. Puppy Plotters. Creepy.

            In Steven Kotler’s book A Small Furry Prayer: Dog Rescue and the Meaning of Life, he discusses recent discoveries about a dog’s personality and actions. “’The hallmark of PLAY circuitry in action for humans is laughter,’ wrote [Jak] Pankseep in his Affective Neuroscience: The Foundations of Human and Animal Emotions, ‘a projectile respiratory movement with no apparent function, except perhaps to signal to others one’s social mood and sense of carefree camaraderie. Some believe laughter is uniquely human, but we would doubt this proposition.’ Pankseep doubts this because he discovered that rats make a chirping sound while at play … these chirps showed up every time the animals played” (Kotler 167). Then, other scientists began to probe further and explored if the behavior existed in other species. Turns out…it does! “Cognitive ethologist Patricia Simonet recently recorded the sound of dogs wrestling and discovered a pant she believes is also laughter. When Simonet played the sound over loudspeakers in an animal shelter near her home in Seattle, the dogs inside stopped barking within a minute—something that rarely happens. And this result has been duplicated by other researchers in other shelters across America” (Kotler 168). There is actually a tape on the internet of this recorded laughter. Play if for your dog(s) next time you’re home; see what it does! Okay, maybe I’m an oddball for posting a sound clip of what sounds like a dog just panting, but if you’ve been around dogs, you know this sound. This sound accompanies play.

http://www.petalk.org/DogPantSpect.html. Dogs laughing? Maybe they’re more sophisticated than we thought. Or maybe we’re less sophisticated.

            But, onto Fight Club. This movie is, well, awesome. Creepy, but awesome. Upon closer criticism of the movie, I started to discover something, something that eluded me the first time I watched it. The men who join fight club use fighting, a primal resort to fight or flight instinct and reliance upon adrenaline and epinephrine to block the pain receptors and keep you fighting, to release their frustrations built up from their lives in the corporate world. Even though this is a cathartic process for the men, they will not talk about Fight Club outside of Fight Club. Why? Yes, it’s violent and slightly creepy, but I think there is another reason they won’t openly discuss their violent coping method: you can’t talk about the animal inside of you—the primal animal you let have full rein once a week. It’s not the actual Fight Club you’re worried about talking about; it’s the animal that is released at Fight Club. It’s not demeaning to fight. Hell, if that were the case WWE wouldn’t be as popular. It’s the animalist nature of their fights in Fight Club that are so important to keep quiet. They become less than human down in those basements at night; they become primal beasts reliant upon evolutionary instincts. That reliance upon one’s own animal nature is demeaning. You’re at par with the lowest orders of the social heirarchy: the animals. That’s disgraceful.

            The animal within: he’s/she’s shameful and should be kept quiet. But, when we realize that we perhaps aren’t any better than those animals who enact revenge (note the polar bear with a chainsaw in the picture on the sidebar), we become afraid of losing our human selves. And that--that loss of morality and control over our animal instincts--is terrifying.

            So, we’ve got everything from polar bears saying they’re “fucked” and fighting back with chainsaws to a sound recording of dogs laughing. That’s one weird blog post.

           

  And...just because it's funny and slightly creepy :] (this song is in the original 1967 film, Dr. Doolittle).

Kotler, Steven. A Small Furry Prayer: Dog Rescue and the Meaning of Life. New York: Bloomsbury, 2010. Print.

Philbrick, Nathaniel. In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex. New York: Penguin Books, 2000. Print.

What Would Peter Do?

“Nothing can bring you peace but yourself” (Emerson 38).

            Everyone told me that decisions are made with pro/con lists, by ‘sleeping on it,’ or by talking it over with family and friends. Important decisions, ones that will change the course of your life, require much thought. I made a decision to leave the comfort of home, well-formed friendships, my course of college study, and the sister-like camaraderie of my teammates; I made the decision to transfer colleges last year, and I began my academic career at Otterbein exactly one academic year ago during winter quarter of 2010. The decision was something to be taken seriously. And it was. But for me, the decision came in one blunt, piercing moment: the news of a death of a friend. Just like Jacqlyn said in our group work, “Intuition is an epiphany of emotion.” Yup…I can testify to that. Intuition got me here. A decision to live under the mantras set forth in “Self-Reliance” got me here. No joke…I had read excerpts of “Self-Reliance” in high school and it profoundly affected my future thought. On that fall, blissfully-ignorant day, the day I learned Peter had passed away, the decision was made—the unrelenting emotions were set rigid in my soul. The moment of the decision—that tear-stained, yet remarkably clear-headed moment—will be forever stamped upon my memory. From that moment on, as Mary Oliver says, the journey began.

“You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried with its stiff fingers

 at the very foundations,

 though their melancholy was terrible”(Oliver 114).

            He died in a pedestrian car accident; he was the pedestrian. One minute he was walking across the road on his college campus. The next minute, he was gone. This fun-loving, incredibly intelligent young man who would have changed the world was…gone. Gone—such an inferior word to describe the feeling of knowing someone was alive one minute and GONE the next. Only after gathering with my friends for a time of communal grieving did I know what I had to do. I had to transfer. I was miserable at my first college. I hated my major. The glove just didn’t fit. Yes, leaving a college to go to another does seem small in the big scheme of things, but for me—transferring was everything. It represented everything I dreamed of becoming, everything I was always too scared to try, and everything I would have to give up if I left my old college behind. Yet, I knew what I had to do. As we sat there with the smells of Starbucks coffee wafting through the air and the waves of sounds creating words—creating memories—we shared of our time with him, I knew what I had to do. That night as I drove home, I realized the transient, fleeting nature of our lives. Here one minute, gone the next. If today was my last day, would I be happy? No. It was time to change. Change colleges. Change majors. Change my life. Finally figure out what the hell Emerson was talking about in “Self-Reliance;” I wanted to LIVE what he was talking about soo badly.  But, most importantly, it was time to find me. The fingers of grief, fear, and dissatisfaction grabbed at me all at once. And suddenly, I wasn’t just mourning the death of Peter anymore; I was mourning the death of me. Not the death of my body, but the death of ME. Me—the person I longed to be. The person who I was. I was a stranger in my own skin. And it took the death of another to realize it.

            The journey began. The funeral had ended. Friends flew back to colleges at faraway places. I was left to my own whirling thoughts. After an emotional battle with myself, I decided, “It was already late // enough” (Oliver 114). I had debated the idea of transferring for over a year. Then, with my mind focused on the shortness of my transient life and dissatisfaction with it thus far, I signed the paperwork. I moved to Ohio to attend Otterbein University. Everything seemed right until my parents dropped me off in my new room. Then, they left. My mom, my best friend, left. Then, I didn’t get to try out for the varsity equestrian team at Otterbein (as promised when I was a prospective student). I missed my friends from my previous college. I didn’t make the next level of competition for the equestrian team; all of my goals and dreams for riding in college were shattered. I went home for a weekend visit and could barely muster the sanity to drive back to Ohio. My old equestrian team, the team I would be captaining had I stayed, qualified for Nationals. I couldn’t go with them. I know there will be many more ups and downs during my time here, but as time progresses, those downs will turn into ups and those downs will only make me who I am, further my own intellectual and emotional growth. I’m simply journeying and learning to “trust thyself” (Emerson 20). And eventually:

“…little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which slowly recognized as your own” (Oliver 114).

            I read. I listen. I think. I am me. When I behold the beauty of English literature, my new major at Otterbein, I know that I am among the few who appreciate the stunning wonder of the English language and its literature. For the first time in my life, I can hear my own voice and its freed arms stretching out to CHOOSE how to understand this world. I can bury deep into the wondrous complexities of my thoughts and emerge more insightful and more inquisitive than ever before. Despite all the heartache, homesickness, and disappointment, I can feel the warm, comforting familiarity of my own voice. And my voice—the one I had pushed down to make room for my pre-vet major persona at my old college—is emerging first as a tiny spark and it grows brighter as every day ebbs and flows.

“[It] kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could –

determined to save

the only life you could save” (Oliver 114).

            I can’t save a life that has been lost. If anything, I thank God for every day I have on Earth and live my life to its fullest possible potential. My life is the only one I can save, and I am on the path to saving it.

            This summer, I was having trouble, once again, mustering the courage to move back to Ohio for the new school year. It’s not that I don’t like it here; NO!  I have never been happier in my life than when I’m at Otterbein. I love it here. I’m home here; but I am home in a place I’ve never known to call home before. This place feels more real to me than all the places, even my own home, house, family, and hometown friends, than I have ever been before. I’m finally me when I’m here at Otterbein.  But, when I was having trouble mustering the courage to come back to Otterbein for a new year and leave the familiarity of home, my family, my dogs (my babies), and my horses (my everything), I won’t lie: I pulled out my circa 1900s copy of Emerson’s essays to attempt to glean some guidance from its yellowed, tattered pages (oh yes, this book came with me to college). And what page did I open to? The second page of “Self-Reliance. It read, “Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events” (Emerson 20). That quote did more for my self-confidence, my trust in my own self-reliance, my trust in the “connection of events,” and my psyche than any quote has ever done before. God, Emerson…words can’t express the ‘self-help’ “Self-Reliance” has done for me. This is why Emerson is in my top 5 list of favorite authors. Wow he’s good.

            So, where and when did I learn to be self-reliant? Who taught me? Where? The parking lot of my old college near my horse’s pasture. My dad showed up on campus to tell me the news that Peter had passed. When? September 9, 2009. Who? Peter. It wasn’t his death that taught me, or rather reminded me to be self-reliant, but it was remembering his life. Peter…now that kid knew how to live! Unfortunately, it took the death of another to awaken the deadened me, but words cannot express how thankful I am to the memory of Peter for helping me find me. When confronted with problems or questions, my high school friends and I say, “What would Peter do.” Well, he’d first off say “fuck those bitches,” and then would proceed to give real advice. That kid…I kind of tear up even today, a year later, thinking about that crazy kid.

            So, to Peter. Thank you. Thanks for really living. Thanks for living a real life and reminding me how to live. We miss you. We’ll never forget you. You being in our lives changed every one of us. You reminded us, and still remind us, how to live. You will forever be loved by all of us. And when the going gets rough, people are nasty, or life just sucks, we will all still hear what you told Alita before her class president graduation speech senior year, “Just fuck those bitches.” Will do, Peter. Will do.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. "Self-Reliance." Self-Reliance and Other Essays. New York: Dover Publications, 1993. 19-38. Print.
Oliver, Mary. "The Journey." New and Selected Poems. Boston: Beacon Press,  1992. 114-115. Print.