A Tree

Difference, is the primary term for a Structuralist because in this theory difference causes meaning. Opposite meanings are what allow us to understand what it is our language is describing, what it is our language is giving life to.
Within this Structuralist concept of difference, there are two expressions of thought which allow us to understand language and together, through their difference, do they form the true meaning.
The Signifier represents the sound or image of a word in language while the Signified represents the idea or concept that word has in itself--"their combination produces a form, not a substance" (Saussuer, 35)
These terms and the meanings they give to a text will always work in this way, neverending, unchanging--arbitrary is the word chosen by Saussuer and this means that this path to discoverin meaning, can always be counted on.
This relationship, between sound and idea, Sigifier and Signified, has no outside influence on its meaning. There is only these two concepts and how they relate, or differ, to and from one another which gives them their meaning.
One a piece of paper their is an image of a tree and the word T-R-E-E written out, they can be next to each other or far away, one on top of the other even; but which one has the true meaning of the living being made of wood and plant cells and producing photosynthesis, and growin and changing outside on the front lawn. Which one, the image or the word, accurately describes what a tree really is, what its meaning is?
This is how I feel about Post-structuralism-no word or image correctly describes it for neither have the true meaning encased in their form, in their essence, at all.

Guest Speaker: Ideology

I find it quite impossible to read a text about our modern world, especially an American work, without feeling it has some connection to the politics and social situation of our country. Since we are living within a capitalist society, and this is true in any such society, capitalist ideals shine through in every type of text written by a member of that society or about those within it.
I do not believe that this forces texts to allow only for capitalist ideals, take for instance, Chris Craig's Jeans example where within a consumerist heaven-a mall-there is an example of socialist/or communist/politics, namely Marx's Communist Manifesto.
Also, we read works of Shakespeare in High School which is a socialist concept in itself-the idea of public schools does not shout out capitalism!
Any text will have to have a position, most have more than one: the position of the characters, of the author, of the reader, of the society, of the government, of the teacher who makes the book required reading. A good novel is one that forces conflict amongst those involved with that particular text. A good author will want the reader to disagree, not only with them but with a character they have created, or possibly all of the characters if a certain idealogy is accepted by them all, or ignored by them all.
Marxist criticism is the one theory that allows for this viewpoint and I believe that unknowingly I have been a Marxist critic my entire life. I feel that all aspects of a text are shaped by influences within the culture or era that particular author lives in...being an author myself I have first hand knowlege of this affect; however, I would like to take it one step further and say that it is possible for some authors to write outside of these influences, or at least outside of some of them, and therefore, they become such an influence themselves on others.
Think about authors who create new styles of literature that afterwards become quite popular and soon others are immitating them-hasn't that author's work become an ideal, absorbed and reused by others? And once this has happened, is the text and the author not an influencing factor of the ideology that other people believe in?

The Transcendence of Marxist Criticism?

“Marxism is a materialist philosophy”, rather than an idealist philosophy, “…it tries to explain things without assuming the existence of a world or of forces beyond the natural world around us, and the society we live in” (Barry 156). By definition, it contrasts with Liberal Humanism which is much more of an idealist philosophy.
A commonly thought belief for liberal humanists is that human nature is unchanging, throughout all time and all places on this third rock from the sun. Personally, I find contradiction in this statement itself, but when seen from a Marxist point of view, this statement is completely and utterly false.
Humanity is a developing species and we relish change, even strive for it, each day. This is where the contradiction is: it is an unchanging attitude of humanity that humans enjoy change. It is true of all humans, from any time period, that change is necessary and welcomed.
The saying, ‘We do not welcome change,' is only that, a saying.
Literature is a perfect example of the changes in humanity throughout time. In the early days of history, that which is recorded, not many people could read or write—it is because of this that history of the written word is so incomplete—so for a long time, the ideal of literature was placed on a pedestal and only the wealthy and intelligent could become prominent at reading and even at writing their own letters.
And for so many centuries of human existence, only a certain social class was able to read and write literature, which meant that the literature being written was truly for the enjoyment or tutoring of a specific social class—the wealthy, white, male class.
Does this sound like Marxism yet?
Marxism could never have been discovered since those who were excluded from this upper class of literate humans were not able to learn the necessary components for reading and writing so they could not discern what measures the upper class were taking to exclude other from a liberal humanist perspective of literature that would decide the fate of literary work for the future world to build off of.
Greek philosophy has always been a strong source for knowledgeable information and even today, people read Aristotle and Plato, even Socrates' stories and these men lived four or five thousand years ago. One would think that knowledge and paths of study would have changed throughout all those years, but because the idea of liberal humanism was so ingrained, it took some time for people to break away from its ideology—but people wanted to all along and welcomed the change when it came.
This liberal humanist idea, stemming from ancient Greece and that society’s philosophers, started the general belief of transcendent literature. The Canons of great literature are a collection of works that are believed to be acceptable forms of teaching material for all eras of humanity. It is the idea of liberal humanists that these literary works are important and relate to every person, in any place and at any time.
I disagree with this idea although I do enjoy many of the canonized books. However, my enjoyments comes purely from the fact that I, as a writer and reader of literature, enjoy epic stories like Homer and written art in the form of plays like Shakespeare. Men like Dante I can live without, although, I do see the importance of having read these texts—mainly because one cannot discuss them intelligently without having read them. I do not believe that all people need to have read these canons to be intelligent and knowledgeable in the study of literature and certainly these specific works are not right for every person. Interests of one person do not go hand-in-hand with the interests of another and as a Marxist would say, it is only because of our social pressures, built up by this liberal humanist idea, that makes schools include these works and convinces students that they are important.
“Marxist Literary Criticism maintains that a writer’s social class, and its prevailing ‘ideology’ (outlook, values, tacit assumptions…) have a major bearing on what is written by a member of that class.” (Barry, 158).

Shopping to Fight Hunger

This site is a shopping center that sends proceeds of every item bought to fighting hunger in places where poverty keeps people in famine.
Shop till you drop! It's for a good cause.

Good Search

Use the GoodSearch link to search for websites while donating to charity each time you type something in.
On the GoodSearch site, type in Forward In Health for the charity organization since that is a program I am close with who start pediatric clinics in under developed countries. Right now, Forward In Health is building a hospital in Haiti. The group also donates food and medicine to nursing homes and orphanages.

One Night

The door was locked and bolted from the inside. I slammed my shoulder against it, barking orders through the door but she did not respond. I could feel her breathing through the aged wood that filled this crappy apartment complex. I hate it here—but it was worth it to be with her.
“I don’t ever want to see you again! How ‘bout that, you bitch!” I yelled through the door, rephrasing her own words, spitting them back at her to see how she liked hearing them. How childish I am. “If I am then you made me!” I yelled again then stumbled back, slamming against the wall. The bottle in my hand fell to the floor with a clank, a dark red liquid spilled onto the rug that lined the entire hallway. It was a terrible drab looking rug; blue with a white design that I would be able to see if I hadn’t already had two bottles—the third was slipping away from me, turning the drab rug into a drab rug with a big red spot on it. The spot resembled blood too closely. I had to get out of here.
The stairs were difficult to descend. I don’t know why I didn’t take the elevator. I don’t want to see anyone, especially the snobs who live here. Even though they were my neighbors, until tonight, they aren’t anymore. I shouldn’t care what they think anymore. I know the rubbish they talk in the lift, I’m sure it’s about me. It shouldn’t bother me, why does it? They give me looks. I can see them. Everyone looks at me. I can feel their eyes follow after I leave the elevator and head toward my room.
Outside the air was nice; I lit a cigarette and dragged in the tobacco until I burned half of the cig down, the nicotine hit me sharp, striking against my lungs like an ape playing bongo drums. I felt the blood from my heart trying to push through a vein, with a bit of difficulty. That hurt too, but I kept walking. I wanted to be away from here.
Soon my legs were tired. I tilted the wine upside-down, feeling the last drops reach my tongue. After licking the neck of the bottle I discarded it. The clank, clank, clank of glass on concrete echoed behind me as I stumbled along the street. As I reached Huntington Avenue I stopped short of the street, lined up with the cross-walk but I had my heels on the curb, my toes stuck out into the street.
For a moment I teetered back and forth; then, lifting both my arms out to my sides, I waved them trying to push against the air to make myself steady again. Forward toward the street, that was the direction I seemed to be falling, but at the last moment I caught the curb solidly with my left foot and pushed myself backwards, luckily away from a speeding cab but unluckily into a trash bin which fell over with me and let me roll with it for several feet.
I stood up, cursing my bad luck and the damn bin that God must have put in my way to spite me as He always does.
People are watching me. “Go away! Leave me be!” This only made them stare more. I began running. “Stop looking at me!” Another cab slammed on his breaks, the car screeched to a stop. The noise was loud, too loud. I held my hands over my ears as I ran across the street then faster down the sidewalk uncaring of anyone who happened to be in my way—I was not aware of them until they saw me, they saw me and did not look away.
Why am I out here? I should be at home, in that crappy apartment complex with the drab rug. That was where I belonged; in our bed, in her arms. I wrapped my arms around myself, my eyes were closed. I imagined being home. Why did I leave?
It began to rain. The drops slammed against my skin and t-shirt like shards of ice, although it was august and it never snowed during the summer in Boston. I remembered that I was holding myself. Her image flashed before my eyes. She was the one I hated, no, that was not true. But it felt good to say.
“She threw me out, that’s why!” I grabbed the fellow walking beside me and told this to his face. I held his shoulders forcing him to look at me, to see my words, I had to be sure that he could hear me.
“You damn drunk, go find a river to drown in!” He threw me away from him. I tripped as my momentum thrust me over a curve and I rolled into the street.
I lay there thinking about my life. Tragic, I suppose. I could always stay in the street, right here where I lay. “It was only one night; why was she so hurt?” I said these words out loud, even though there was no one to hear me. “I didn’t do it to hurt her, honest.” Still I don’t know if I’m trying to convince her or myself.
A car would be by soon enough—maybe a truck would come by, that would be better. They would not see me. The rain was falling heavy now, but I cannot feel it. I cannot feel anything, not anymore.

Writer's Consideration

I have considered myself a writer for several years now, since I was a Junior in High School actually. After having quite an out of body experience I went ot class on Monday morning and spoke with a friend of mine, telling him the outrageous, yet obviously interesting, aspects of my recent experience and his response to me was, 'Dude! You should be a writer.'
So now, here I am a Junior in College and I have written two full manuscripts in the Science Fiction genre and have also written several short stories of fiction, science fiction, and fantasy. A month ago I sent out the manuscript of my first novel to several publishing companies and am hoping for good new, yet, my next goal will be to find an agent if things do not work themselves out.
I spend most of my free time writing and that is what I want my blog to be about, amatuer writing of any genre that overall speak to readers of peace, obtaining peace, or being denied peace. In my mind this can be anywhere from a story about real people to one imagined by the author for sometimes I find more truth in fiction than reality.
When I study theory, or when I read a novel or piece of literature in general, I think of what the author is trying to put forward. I also try to figure out if that message was passed correctly or if the mark was completely missed. Of course, being a writer, I am quite critical of those I read and have even thought my analysis as too strict. I read a lot and have therefore come to expect only the best work.
I would consider myself a liberal humanist fdor i do read purely for enjoyment and hope to udnerstand more about literature, and the art of creating what is considered 'good literature' by continuously reading. However, I also feel that my opinions on what makes 'good literature' have not changed much over the past few years and perhaps I am caught in a practiced form of criticism that for some reason I cannot shake.
I would like to invite anyone who has written anything really, a short story, novella, a chapter of a book, to post it on my blog so others can read your work and enjoy it. Respective, constructive criticism is always helpful and I don't find too many oppurtunities for such.
Please feel free to read my work as well.
Also, during this criticism of others writing, theory from class or the reading should be used to explain one's understanding of the text.