you burn me: Sappho In Conversation With Faulkner On Life After Death

Photo by Dustin Lee licensed CC0 on unsplash.com

by Jake Clark

Private eye. The term held a triple meaning for Quinn. Not only was it the letter “I,” standing for “investigator”, it was “I” in the upper case, the tiny life bud buried in the body of the breathing self. At the same time, it was also the physical eye of the writer, the eye of the man who looks out from himself into the world and demands that the world reveal itself to him. (Auster 15-16)

Paul Auster’s City of Glass is a text that confronts a wide array of themes, two of the most prominent being language and identity. Language is presented as the conveyor of meaning, connected to the Biblical myth of Babel, whereas meaning is an evasive concept that is tied to the genesis of language, but ultimately distanced from it by the same connection. In the above passage, where Auster’s dubious protagonist Quinn defines his understanding of ‘private eye’, language and identity are shown to be tied inexorably together. Through this association, the three implications of ‘private eye’ form the facets of Quinn’s identity, with the overpowering search for meaning uniting and eventually deconstructing his investigative persona and his core identity.

The double nature of the uppercase ‘I’ is critical to Quinn, whose identity is in flux between the two definitions of detective and writer for most of the novel. He has very little sense of self, shown in the way the novel introduces his character traits, such as a fondness for baseball and opera, the small facts that he smokes and is reading Marco Polo’s Travels. In addition to these more trivial elements of characterization, it is also explained that he once had a wife and child, both of whom are dead. This highly traumatic event plays strongly into his mindset, yet is simply listed alongside his other doings, a summary more than an explanation of character (7-11). Of Quinn’s personal traits, his identity as a writer is the only one actively invoked throughout the entire narrative.

Quinn is largely distant from his work, or at least the process of writing. His main venture is churning out mystery novels under the name of William Wilson, which feature a character named Max Work. Wilson is a pseudonym and nothing more, in that Quinn deliberately has no involvement with the name beyond using it to decorate the covers of his books (10). Little is said about Work, although it is implied that he is a straightforward hardboiled detective, in the vein of Sam Spade. Unlike Wilson, who remains “an abstract figure”, Work is a character with whom the lonely Quinn can identify, leading him to describe the interrelation of the three as a “triad of selves” (11).

The book begins with Quinn being mistaken for Paul Auster, identified by the caller, Virginia Stillman, as a detective. Quinn adopts this identity, reaffirming the duality of ‘I’ in the concept of ‘private eye’ by shifting from his pre-existing self as a writer and stepping into the new role of investigator. In assuming Auster’s identity, a fourth is added to the total scheme, making two detectives (Work, Auster) and two writers (Quinn, Wilson). Both Quinn and Wilson are identified as writers first and foremost, and are insubstantial in the sense of ‘I’ as identity. Wilson is completely abstract, essentially a name with no capacity for action, while Quinn is a human being whose life is presented as a soulless list of actions. By contrast, the detective characters identified with the investigative ‘I’ are given depth, panache and bravado as part of this mantle, especially in contrast to the writers. Quinn feels “out of place in his own skin”, while Work is “aggressive, quick-tongued, and at home in whatever spot he [happens] to find himself” (16). The passive, insubstantial writers “[look out] into the world”, while the detectives “demand it [reveal itself] to [them]”. Max Work allows Quinn to live out his detective fantasies and assume the ‘I’ of investigator in fiction, but by assuming the identity of the detective Paul Auster, he can make the same attempt in reality.

This becomes more understandable if the idea of Auster, like Work, originates as more of a character to Quinn than a persona—a writer’s idea of a detective. Quinn repeatedly identifies himself as a writer, and as such casts his identity as a manipulator of stories and characters, a creator of the identities that exist within his work. His stories are hardboiled detective fiction, a genre with very clear aesthetics and tropes. Femme fatales, sardonically streetwise dialogue, interconnecting capers and edgy investigators working sensational cases all form part of the expectations of the fiction, moulded from story pulps and film noir. These are obviously escapist conceits, as the figure of the private investigator is also a figure of male fantasy, a resourceful, independent figure capable of masterfully deconstructing complex situations. Quinn, with his own detective façade, can become this ‘private eye’ and all that entails. The status of ‘private eye’ is to the concept of self as the concept of the detective is to the writer—the former produced by the latter for vicarious gain, in abstraction and reality respectively.

In this sense, the ‘I’ as investigator should serve to protect the ‘I’ of Quinn’s original identity, but Quinn does not use it that way, nor does he use Auster’s name to indulge in any feats of the detective-hero bravado expected in a hardboiled story. The unanticipated kiss from Virgina Stillman is entirely initiated by her, and he is not able to make any further advances towards her—in the typical detective story formula, she is set up as the love interest or femme fatale, but this expectation never materializes over the course of Quinn’s investigation.

With expectations of sexuality dismissed, Quinn also opts out of classic expectations of violence, or at least confrontation. Given the chance to confront Peter Stillman Sr., he queries rather than interrogates him—critically, he knows Stillman contextually as a psychotic domestic abuser, and so the expectation of some kind of retribution in kind would be present in a standard detective story. Despite this, there is no intimation of threat (from either side) and no antagonism from Quinn despite his awareness of the horrifying things Stillman has done. There is no climax or stake to the interrogation, to the extent that Quinn doesn’t seem to acknowledge Stillman’s capacity as a threat. At this place in a conventional narrative, the events are expected to be some degree of climactic in its antagonism, and the mood emphasizes this so as to allow the reader vicarious release at the intimidation of a child abuser. In Quinn’s narrative as Auster, the events are bizarre and the mood is at best meandering and uncertain. He recognizes the actions associated with the fictional investigator, but never employs it himself in the moment, even when the narrative expectations he follows demand those actions.

Despite this denial of the agency present within his detective façade, Quinn’s confrontations with Stillman are exemplary of his commitment to living through the character of Paul Auster. In these confrontations, he gives the name Quinn to Stillman; he feels it is Auster’s name that he must protect, even though the advantage of having this pseudonym is to guard his own identity (117). This is a sign that the ‘I’ of investigator is converging with the ‘I’ of the self, and that Auster the detective is not just a character created by Quinn the writer but another identity he lives through. While Quinn assumes of Max Work through writing, he assumes the identity of Paul Auster through impersonation, becoming the character he imagines rather than simply identifying with it. Eventually, when he meets the ‘real’ Auster, this dynamic begins to break down, and Quinn’s mind begins to unravel.

Auster and Quinn are nearly identical on a superficial level, in that both men are writers (and define themselves as such), smoke, and are fascinated by Don Quixote. Beyond these commonalities, however, their identities diverge: Auster has a son and wife and remains a writer who is engaged with his work and his life, whereas Quinn has lost his family in an undescribed tragedy; Auster has enthusiasm for his work while Quinn has utterly lost his ambition. These similarities cause Quinn’s memories of tragedy and defeat to surface, and he feels as though “Auster were taunting him with the things he lost” (157). Auster is a reflection of Quinn without the loss of identity that drives him to assume a detective mantle in the first place, and which eventually burgeons to a loss of sanity—all the while, Auster continues to go about his life.

After leaving Auster, Quinn deals with the remembrance of his loss by escaping once again into the identity of the Auster he constructed—the detective over the author. Breaking away from his own identity as Daniel Quinn, the writer steps into the identity of investigator, despite realizing the foundations of his identity as Auster are facile. The next chapter, where Quinn’s escapist fugue causes his mind to unravel, begins with the statement that “Quinn was nowhere now”, showing the extent to which both of his conceptions of ‘I’ have been undermined (159). His efforts to look out in search of meaning have fallen out from beneath him, and it breaks him when he cannot form a conclusion to the mystery he feels these events should archetypically form.

In this regard, the third meaning of ‘I’, the homophonous correlation to an eye looking for patterns and meaning in the world, ties Quinn and his fabrication of Auster together. Quinn, as a novelist, writes mysteries where all information is significant in the way it is revealed to the reader, and where the mystery is inevitably given a solution that ties this information together in order to allow for a grand conclusion. The dynamic of the writer as one who “[looks out] at the world” and the detective who “demands it [reveal itself] to him” is complicated by the writer-as-detective combining these traits, applying the logic of a detective mystery to the actual investigation through this searching eye. This process of applying the laws of fiction to reality eventually works to dissolve the barrier between Quinn and his fabrication of Auster.

Quinn as Auster invests an intense attention to (often trivial) details in his investigation of Stillman—the older man’s walking patterns, transcribed in Quinn’s notebooks, become OWEROFBAB, and with the addition of a few assumed letters (four at the beginning for missed days, two for those yet to come), this becomes THETOWEROFBABEL (111). Quinn realizes, as he finishes the transcription, that he may only have “seen them because he wanted to see them”, demonstrating an awareness of how this obsessive search may be causing him to draw false conclusions. The fallible nature of the eye comes to fruition when less than a paragraph later he contemplates the fact that ‘El’, the last two letters, is ancient Hebrew for God. Ironically, the same logic that allows Quinn to derive higher meaning from coincidences drove Stillman Sr. to psychologically torture his son, leaving the boy detached from communication and possibly unable to construct meaning on his own right.

In dreams, Quinn correlates this search for meaning with sifting through garbage, a metaphor that renders an image of the obsession with meaning, and its deep-seated futility—the fact that he forgets this dream also causes him to lose the insight this could have brought to his situation, dooming him to his baseless investigation (113). His role as a private eye, in this sense, traps him in a threefold snare, where the ‘I’ of identity and the ‘I’ of investigator are both frameworks in which the eye of obsessive deduction operates. In the quest for meaning, the eye’s desire to collate information into a story, such as the writer’s plot or the detective’s investigation, supersedes the observation of reality.

As reality proves to become increasingly incompatible with the expectations entailed within the three dynamics, Quinn’s failed attempts to create meaning produce a pressure within him that culminates in his mental collapse. It is telling that, immediately after Quinn’s first musing on the triplicate definition of ‘private eye’, he is described as “living in the grip of this pun” for the past five years (16). Through this eye constantly observing and drawing conclusions with increasingly dubious logic, the collective thread of Quinn/Auster’s investigation collapses when Quinn discovers who Auster truly is, causing the entire fragile triumvirate of ‘I’ to break down. Quinn’s original identity—however weak—is subsumed into his Auster-as-detective identity, an escapist façade-cum-persona operating on the logic of the eye constantly searching for meaning and answers, but finding none.

Quinn defines both the detective and the writer as individuals looking for meaning, and in the end, looking on is all that he does, stationing himself as a watcher of the false Stillman residence and deteriorating into a weather-beaten vagrant. The facets of Quinn the writer and Auster the detective symbolized by the duality of the uppercase ‘I’ both fall to pieces as they strive to use the third ‘I’—the investigative and narrative eye—to solve a mystery that never existed. This triple-entendre has a hold on Quinn throughout City of Glass, and he eventually breaks in its grip.

Works Cited

Auster, Paul. City of Glass. New York: Penguin Books, 1987. Print.

by Ali Byers

Laura Mulvey’s 1975 essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” includes a discussion of Alfred Hitchcock’s 1958 film Vertigo. While the discussion is relatively short, spanning less than a page, it makes important claims about the value of the film in psychoanalytic terms. Essentially, Mulvey argues that the way the relationship between Scottie and Madeleine/Judy is depicted places the film firmly in the realm of the ‘symbolic.’ This reference to Jacques Lacan indicates how their relationship demonstrates the invisible social order that codes society, and, crucially, inculcates and upholds gender inequalities. However, in her argument Mulvey makes no mention of Midge, the film’s only other female character. Midge’s character complicates the idea that this is a purely symbolic film, and even attempts to subvert the codes that make up the symbolic. Both the way that Midge is captured by the camera, as well as how she is implemented in the plotline, complicate the simple dichotomies between man/woman, active/passive, and holder/object of the gaze that supports Mulvey’s argument.

The introduction of each woman into the storyline demonstrates their role and shows how they will be treated for the rest of the film. The mise-en-scene, cinematography, and sound of both introductory scenes are telling of the roles of the women in the film. Midge is introduced early on: she and Scottie are in her apartment; Scottie is sitting down and she is working at her desk (5:00-11:20). It is a very bright, naturally lit shot and the music is light and quiet. The background music is present throughout the entire scene, but the focus is on the conversation between the two characters as opposed to the sound and the feeling it creates. The camera uses medium shots that put emphasis on the environment of the characters rather than the characters themselves. There is a distance established between the two characters through the framing. They are never shown together in a shot and they never appear to be looking at each other, but rather they each seem occupied in their own activities and keep up the conversation as a secondary way to pass time. This shows that while the two characters care about each other it is not the same type of all-consuming love and/or obsession that defines the relationship between Madeleine and Scottie. Furthermore, the absence of point-of-view shots resists identification by the spectator with Scottie as ego-ideal, the inner image of oneself that one wishes to become. This makes it impossible to view Midge as an object in the same way Madeleine is viewed.

Madeleine’s introduction and the way it is filmed foreshadow the treatment of her character throughout the rest of the film and demonstrate how different her treatment is from that of Midge. When Madeleine is introduced, the camera starts focused on Scottie before panning out to a wide shot of a room full of people eating (16:54). It then slowly focuses in on a table in the corner and the music begins to take over from the sounds of the crowd (17:19). This focuses the viewer’s attention on the table, makes them forget about the rest of the room, and most importantly emphasizes the woman at the table. To establish a relationship of looking and being looked at, the camera cuts back to Scottie to remind the audience who holds the gaze and resulting power in this relationship. Voyeurism gives Scottie his power, and what makes him a voyeur is his ability to look without being seen. The doorframe, through which Scottie/the spectator looks, centers Madeleine in the shot to emphasize her importance; it frames her also, in the process objectifying her. The music comes to a crescendo and the camera zooms in on Madeleine’s profile. The lighting changes to emphasize the contrast between the light skin and hair of the woman and the red background of the restaurant, thus making her face the obvious focal point. Madeleine’s face becomes increasingly fetishized in the scene, culminating in the right, then left profile shot seen from Scottie’s point-of-view that ends it.

The music and lighting in the scene with Midge are static and this shows how her character’s presence will be unchanging unlike Madeleine’s character, which will lead Scottie on a tumultuous emotional exploration. The emphasis here is entirely on Madeleine’s image; she need not (should not!) speak to capture the attention of both the viewer and Scottie, whereas Midge has a speaking role and has to work to keep Scottie’s attention. The use of point-of-view shots allow the viewer to identify with Scottie as ego-ideal and the spectator is brought into the symbolic order thus forcing them to become a part of the invisible order that codes society. The mise-en-scene, cinematography, and sound allow the spectator to understand the role of both women in the rest of the film from their introductory scenes alone.

There is no doubt that the relationship between Madeleine/Judy and Scottie presents a patriarchal power dynamic; however, comparing the way they interact with Midge and Scottie’s exchanges demonstrate how Midge’s character complicates the film’s place in Lacan’s symbolic world. Mulvey writes, “Vertigo focuses on the implications of the active/looking, passive/looked-at split in terms of sexual difference and the power of the male symbolic encapsulated in the hero” (Mulvey 16). When looking at the relationship between Scottie and Madeleine/Judy, this statement is entirely true. He is actively pursuing her and she is passively letting herself be pursued. This establishes a symbolic relationship between the two in which the man holds the look and the power and the woman is looked at and voyeurism gives the man the power. This reinforces a coded power dynamic between the two that dictates how they act with each other. This is demonstrated during the first meeting between Scottie and Madeleine when she is in his bed and he is standing over her (45:07). He is clothed, standing, and above her whereas she is unclothed, lying down, and below him: the unequal power dynamics are evident. This tableau aptly supports Mulvey’s ideas about the split defined by sexual difference. However, the relationship between Midge and Scottie is not as simple and this is why Mulvey fails to address her role in this text. Just after the scene mentioned above, Midge drives up to Scottie’s house and sees Madeleine leaving and Scottie open the door to again pursue her (52:30-53:00). In this scene, Midge is actively looking for Scottie and she becomes the voyeur. He becomes object of her gaze. While she does not embrace this role fully and drives away quickly afterwards, this subversion is an important indicator of her role in the film. She complicates the dichotomy between passive female and active male because she becomes an active female spectator. This brings the coded reality of the symbolic into question and attempts to redefine the code to create more active roles for the woman.

This role-reversal element that emphasizes Midge’s complicated role in the film is especially apparent in a contrast between two tableaus of each couple. In the beginning of the film, as Scottie is attempting to fight his acrophobia and when he gets dizzy and falls, Midge catches, supports, and reassures him (11:15). Scottie does the same with Madeleine later on when she declares to him that she believes she’s mad. He holds her up and supports her both physically and emotionally (1:04:48). These scenes are almost identical in composition. The person in need of support is always facing downwards and the supporter is grasping them and holding them up. The parallels between these two tableaus and the scenes that surround them highlight the significance of the role reversal. Midge’s lived experience of supporting Scottie actively disrupts the symbolic coded world in which Scottie lives. He experiences a symbolic world in which his relationships with women are coded based on the active/passive split brought about by sexual difference. Midge defies that code by supporting him in this scene and he cannot face that and therefore he pursues Madeleine. That kind of relationship, based on looking, is the only kind he knows how to comprehend due to his birth into the symbolic. Scottie embraces the symbolic and kisses Madeleine after assuring her that he will always be there for her, whereas in the scene where Midge is supporting Scottie there is no development. The scene fades into another to shows that Midge’s active female supporter has no place in this kind of film because, as Mulvey says, it relies on the symbolic (16). However, the complication that Midge’s character brings about is important to a more subversive reading of this film.

Notably, Midge is punished for her subversive role in the film and this demonstrates that while she complicates the symbolic meaning it is not enough to recode the network of rules that define the symbolic of the film. She drops out of the narrative after a last attempt to connect with Scottie (1:05:32-1:08:45). He rejects her for the woman who allows him to look at her but who won’t look back at him. Therefore, during her time on the screen the symbolic nature is questioned, but as she departs from the narrative so does any hope that Scottie can escape his coded world. When she drops out of the narrative he immerses himself completely in the pursuit of Madeleine’s image, which he is rewarded for when he overcomes his acrophobia at the end of the film. This affirms Mulvey’s argument that the male protagonist is inevitably rewarded for embodying patriarchal dominance, but only demonstrates further how important Midge’s subversion can be, despite its inevitable failure in this case. That Mulvey fails to mention it at all seems disingenuous.

The comparisons between Midge and Madeleine’s depictions through mise-en-scene, cinematography, and sound, as well as their roles in the plot of Vertigo, demonstrate the different roles each woman plays. It highlights the complications brought about by a female character that challenges the active/passive, male/female dichotomy. Although the main focus of the film is ultimately the symbolic world in which Scottie lives, the impact a character like Midge has on viewers cannot be measured. Challenging the symbolic and acknowledging the characters that attempt to redefine the symbolic and the ways in which they do so is imperative. Though Mulvey does not mention Midge in her discussion of Vertigo, probably because of her failure to redefine the codes of the symbolic, it needs to be acknowledged that Midge’s role is an important one of subversion.

Works Cited

Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema”. Screen. 16.3 (1975): 6-18. Web.

Vertigo. Dir. Alfred Hitchcock. Perf. James Stewart, Kim Novak, Barbara Bel Geddes. Paramount Pictures, 1958. Web.

Image from Pixabay.com

by Anne Wang

Eyes are everywhere in the comic series Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. From the eyes of every character to the pupil-like circles of clocks and “fallout shelter” signs, figures of vision can be found throughout. The very cover of the publication depicts a minimalist eye of the iconic happy face, expressionless and abstract, anonymous as a civilian, watched by the outside world and watching it back. The series plays on the reversible identities of the watched and the watchers. Littered in the background, on walls and scrap paper behind supposed heroes who keep watch over humanity, the question “Who watches the watchmen?” can be seen in almost every chapter, and raises more questions. What is the responsibility of the intellectual and power elite of this world, as represented by Doctor Manhattan and Ozymandias? When the most informed and powerful are the very ones who exert ultimate control and surveillance, are the watchers only accountable to themselves?

Among the masked figures populating Watchmen, Ozymandias and Doctor Manhattan stand apart as the most powerful and superhuman, the true watchmen. Among the heroes, only they incorporate the semblance of an eye into their costume: Ozymandias on his collar, Manhattan on his forehead. From their first meeting, they are disinterested in the other vigilantes, and see only each other as peers. Lacking godlike abilities, the other heroes only clothe toned bodies and human ideals in spandex. Doctor Manhattan is beyond human. His abilities result from his accident in nuclear experimentation, giving him almost infinite control over physical matter and vision of the future. Ozymandias, lacking in Manhattan’s physical abilities, builds his own power upon information and intelligence, with an intellect great enough to rival even Manhattan’s foreknowledge. Believed to be the most intelligent man on earth, he establishes his corporate empire to operate all of New York from behind the scenes; some manifestation of his business lurks in the background of almost every panel. In an interview with Guy Lawley and Steve Whittaker a few years before the creation of Watchmen, Alan Moore mentioned that “I’d like to explore this idea at DC—what Superman has done to the Earth by his very presence. No matter how hard people struggled, no matter what advances they made, what personal bests they achieved, they’d be nothing compared to Superman or Marvelman.” (Moore and Berlatsky, 45) Moore plays out this idea in Watchmen through the characters of Manhattan and Ozymandias. When Hollis Mason, once upon a time a masked hero known as Nite Owl, retires when the presence of Manhattan means he is no longer needed, even his desire to repair cars in his retirement is overpowered by a new force—Manhattan can effortlessly produce new vehicles powered by electricity. Ozymandias’ final act of bringing enemies together by presenting a larger enemy supposedly saves humanity, and puts petty violence and catching individual criminals to shame. By their very existence, Ozymandias and Doctor Manhattan render the struggles of past heroes and other humans obsolete. With more than two eyes, the most powerful figures in the comic epitomize watchmen—omnipotent, unchallengeable, gods among men.

Who then watches the watchmen? One facet of this question is related to surveillance and information: who can know about what the most intelligent know? The comics depict a dizzying amount of information. Ozymandias’ wall of television screens gives a heady impression of information overload, a gluttony of data. When asked by his servants of how many screens he needs to monitor, he replies:

“All of them. Random channel change every hundred seconds. …I need information. Information in its most concentrated form.”

“Ha ha! Sir, do you not fear that you might become drunk upon so concentrated a draft of knowledge?”

“Ha ha ha. No, I don’t think so. Indeed, it is the most sobering position that I know.” (X.7.6-7)

Ozymandias hordes information and expertise. Along with his wall of televisions, he collects prominent intellectuals, artists, and scientists, and his actions have almost unlimited potential. Mirroring Ozymandias’ extensive, superhuman knowledge, Doctor Manhattan sees just as much but in a different way in being able view all time as the present. His foresight sets him apart from the rest of humanity that acts in blindness to the great divide between present and future. Jon’s foreknowledge causes him gradually but steadily to distance himself from humanity as his apathy grows from a sense of inevitability. The effects of their immense knowledge can be seen, but what about its content? What does Ozymandias see in his screens, or Manhattan see in the future? Who can know what the most informed know? Who can see what the watchmen see?

Within their world, the knowledge of the most intelligent and informed can only be known in part by other heroes, or by themselves. No doubt the masses see Doctor Manhattan’s abilities to predict, and Ozymandias’ reputation of high intellect is no secret, but the people play no part in this privileged information. The government of the United States plays a shadowy background role, easily disregarded when heroes have powers like those of Ozymandias and Manhattan. Other heroes know more of their knowledge, but nothing beyond what the two choose to reveal. Fellow masked vigilante Laurie sees what Manhattan sees in the future only when he tells her. She, Rorschach, and the second Nite Owl, all superheroes without much superhuman ability, know as much of Ozymandias’ knowledge as he explains. The only people capable of knowing what the most informed know are themselves, an answer already implied in the question. To know what the the most knowledgeable know is inherently a paradox, impossible within the world of Ozymandias and Doctor Manhattan. However, there are other eyes that can see all, that can know all: those of the reader. Beyond the realm of the story, the eyes of the readers see everything in the infinite present of Manhattan. If they flip to the last page they can predict the future, yet at any point, the page that lies open is the “now”. The readers know the information given by Ozymandias’ screens—they are acquainted with the advertisements, talk shows, and news reels in the context of the world in the 1980s. On just one occasion in the whole series, a fictional character acknowledges this external presence. Right as Ozymandias unleashes the horror of all horrors and the salvation of humanity, he turns and looks. (XI.5.6) As he gazes through the fourth wall, what does he see but the ever-present, unseen witness, the reader who has watched him throughout?

The question of watchers of the watchmen touches on more than knowledge; it alludes to the concept of power. Who can control the decisions and actions of those in power? Both Ozymandias and Manhattan are pivotal characters who hold immense power to influence their world. Doctor Manhattan acts in the open—under the service of the American government, he helps win the Vietnam war and is a major deterrent against Soviet aggression. His foreknowledge, however, paralyzes him and prevents him from taking independent action, and despite his superhuman powers, he is no more powerful than the average person under the constraints of fate. As he explains to Laurie in their conversation on Mars, “We’re all puppets, Laurie. I’m just a puppet who can see the strings.” (IX.5.4) Never once does he question the strings or challenge them. He accepts fate and acts it out with cold detachment. In this aspect, Ozymandias stands opposed. Rather than being paralyzed by information, he uses it as fuel for his monumental actions; his doings can be felt throughout the book. His company logos are ever present in the background, from perfume to posters to delivery service. Moreover, he serves as the pivotal plot point in the comic when he orchestrates a fake alien apocalypse and destroys half of Manhattan, killing millions to save billions and averting the danger of nuclear war. After destroying the city in secret, no doubt he will become its hero by rebuilding it, reaping public admiration and praise, making plenty of profit along the way. Wielding tremendous power, Manhattan and Ozymandias differ in their actions: one attempts nothing, one overreaches for everything. But who can control these choices and actions of the most powerful?

Within the pages of the comic, only those in control can control themselves. The other heroes find out about Ozymandias’ plan by accident when they seek to discover the murderer of masked people. When they do discover his plan they are helpless to stop it—it has already happened. The Keene Act, government legislation outlawing vigilante activity, has no power to deter Manhattan from leaving Earth or Ozymandias from destroying it. The government and the rest of the world do not even know how much Ozymandias is responsible for. In this situation, only the powerful can control their own actions, and responsibility to the will of common people is impossible to uphold. Only Ozymandias himself can choose whether to use his knowledge and power to steer the fate of humanity and execute his plan. When all is done, he asks Manhattan, “I did the right thing, didn’t I? it all worked out in the end.” To which Manhattan replies, “‘In the end’? Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends.” (XII.27.4-5) He does not solve the world’s problems—enmity continues, newspaper editors are still racist, conflict has just been submerged into a new form. Manhattan’s tremendous powers and decision to abandon Earth’s problems likewise can only be controlled by himself, if they can be controlled at all. Whether he is responsible for the well-being of humanity is a question only he can answer, and he decides to respond with “no”. Whether this answer was the correct one, other heroes cannot say. Ozymandias’s and Manhattan’s actions cannot be controlled by anyone other than themselves, and such a situation leaves the world in a precarious state. Yet outside their world, there is another controlling influence. Perhaps when Jon feels it is futile to struggle against fate, he senses another force against which he is powerless to combat: the author’s pen. Beyond the world within the pages, Moore and Gibbons are a presence that can control the most powerful, an omnipotent force that directs all action and all choice.

“Who watches the watchmen?” The question is never stated in open dialogue. Glimpses of this question are always shadowy, obscured, scratched and graffitied onto the backdrop of heroes acting out stories in the foreground. Few think to question the knowledgeable and powerful who have the ability to project an image of responsibility and good intentions. But who really watches the watchmen? Though the answer to this question is unpleasant, it is necessary to ask. The civilians, the vast majority of people in the world of the watchmen are powerless to influence colossal events, ignorant of their powerlessness, and ignorant of their ignorance. To ask the question is to begin to seek out and challenge the unseen titans who orchestrate the world. Watchmen acts as a parallel universe, a mirror to our world. In witnessing fictional ignorance and powerlessness of the masses, one sees the potential of ignorance and powerlessness in reality. Individual realization may ignite new efforts. The responsibility implied in the question of who can watch the watchmen begins with the common person holding herself responsible for questioning and understanding the situation of her world, and seeking to find her influence within it.

Who watches the watchmen? The question is heavy with implications. It echoes throughout the comic series and resonates with the reality of the political context during its time of publication. In an article that situates Watchmen within political reality, Paul Youngquist states:

As Moore and Gibbons themselves note, “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes” (from Juvenal’s Satires), appears as an epigraph in The Tower Commission Report: specifically to “Appendix B,” which bears the title “The Iran/Contra Affair: A Narrative.” Appendix B provides the canonical account of the Regan administration’s great political debacle. It covers a historical period that closely parallels Watchmen’s. And it too advances an alternative history to everyday life in the mid-eighties, the hidden history of the Iran/Contra affair. …Both [stories] identify the true source of national security under such circumstances with a band of vigilantes. That one consists of erstwhile caped crusaders and the other of national security advisors might be little more than a matter of emphasis. (Youngquist)

Multiple references in the series draw parallels between the caped, fictitious watchmen and the ones in real life. When Manhattan meets Kennedy, in pleasant banter the president “asks what it’s like being a superhero. I tell him he should know, and he nods, laughing…” (IV.14.3) Not only do the superheroes mirror the political figures, they mirror complex situations in reality. Manhattan’s foreknowledge and paralysis mimics cold war nuclear stalemate. Ozymandias’ deliberate apocalypse echoes the paradox of peace through war. Those real life decisions, the watchmen behind the Cold War and others that know and control today – have they failed in their responsibilities? Few can tell, unless above us, too, there is another author.

“Who watches the watchmen” questions the responsibility of the intellectual and power elite through the figures of Doctor Manhattan and Ozymandias. When surveillance and control of the informed and powerful elites comes only from themselves, they only rely on their own self knowledge and self control for accountability. The watchmen watch one another and watch themselves. When the novel is closed, the cartoon eyes have nowhere to look but at each other, in a claustrophobic world populated only by themselves, regulated only by themselves. When the book opens, myriads of eyes peer out of the pages to be met by the gazes of countless readers. The eyes of the author and artist guided their creation of characters, and enabled the drawing of the colossal eye on the cover. Surrounded by hazard-sign yellow, the unblinking pupil peers ever outward, questioning, watching.

References:

Moore, Alan, and Eric L. Berlatsky. Alan Moore: Conversations. Jackson: U of Mississippi, 2012. Print.

Moore, Alan, and Dave Gibbons. Watchmen. New York: DC Comics. 1987-1988.

Youngquist, Paul. “Stats of Exception: Watchmen and Nixon’s NSC.” Postmodern Culture 23.2 (2013). Web.

Anne Frank in 1940, public domain on Wikimedia Commons

by Tessa Mouzourakis

When Hitler began his long rise to power in 1919 and promoted anti-Semitism across Europe, the world was devastated by the horror that ensued. Amongst the approximately 60 million people killed during the war, 11 million of them were Jews. Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl is representative of the fear under Nazi regime and of enduring humanity in times of suffering. While Anne and her housemates are eventually forced into concentration camps following their discovery in 1944, the diary reflects her two years spent in hiding and the changes she underwent as a result. Beginning during a time of childhood innocence, the novel opens with a passage from Anne’s 13th birthday and closes with an entry of gloom and maturity. To many readers, the diary is expressive of Anne’s growth and illustrates her developing understanding of war and herself, as well as philosophical wisdom acquired under the strain of World War II. In Anne Frank: The Book, the Life, the Afterlife, Francine Prose quotes John Berryman’s description of Anne’s diary being “the conversion of a child into a person” (Prose 5), supporting popular opinion of Anne’s rapid development to adult-like wisdom in the memoir. However, instead of generalizing Anne’s self-awareness as a product of growing-up, her writing presents an image of division, as two versions of her character emerge throughout the novel. It is by reason of the small space the Annex provides and Anne’s own creative tendencies for self-reflection that her character separates between conflicting emotions and identities, that of optimism and realism; the young girl and the writer.

Written during a time of fear and hiding, the Annex as a physical space of limited horizons is essential to Anne’s growth as a writer and individual, as it is not only provides shelter and safety but a foundation for her self-discovery. Often feeling trapped within the walls of the Annex, Anne finds solace in her writing as a means of expression and a way to pass the time: “That’s why I’m so grateful to God for having given me this gift (of writing), which I can use to develop myself and to express all that’s inside me! When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived!” (Frank 245). Anne’s devotion to her diary enables her to maintain a sense of balance and control in the chaos of war while facing the constant threat of discovery. If the circumstances of her time at the Annex are far from positive, the cramped space nevertheless forces Anne into reflection and philosophical musing, stimulating her thoughts on identity and its conflicting forms. Had she not been trapped indoors with few alternatives to pass the time, she may have never paused to reflect on herself and the world around her. Anne’s dualities of character existed within her well before the war, and were heightened as a result of the Annex and the effects of confinement on her sense of self.

While Anne experiences many forms of growth during her time in hiding, it is her ever-changing moods and ambitions that play catalyst to her separating identities, as Anne herself attributes her contrasting emotions to internal dualities. At times Anne is so consumed with gloom she can barely contain herself, yet she can also be cheerful and optimistic, writing of the future and the good in humanity. While these feelings are not uncommon for people in similar situations, Anne is quick to dismiss this claim, writing, “as I’ve told you many times, I’m split in two…. They don’t call me a bundle of contradictions for nothing!” (Frank 329). Her emotional pendulum, swinging between extremes and through everything between, highlights Anne’s personal analysis and development. Her internal conflicts are further revealed as Anne describes the lighthearted and carefree self she presents to the world as a contradiction of the introspective young woman inside: “This (lighthearted) side of me is usually lying in wait to ambush the other one, which is much purer, deeper and finer. No one knows Anne’s better side, and that’s why most people can’t stand me” (Frank 330). Anne prefers her deeper and sensitive side to her expressive counterpart, but struggles to bring that hidden self to the surface as she is vulnerable to criticism and outside opinions. The only time Anne feels she can truly express herself is through her diary, as she is free to write her deepest thoughts without fear of judgment. The distinction Anne draws between light and dark emotions in the novel help to divide her character not only between an internal and external self, but between contrasting identities.

There are moments in The Diary of a Young Girl that may puzzle the reader, as Anne’s passages often vary so much in emotion, reflection and wisdom that the basis of character can become unclear. While she does explicitly draw a distinction between the light and dark sides of her, these contrasting moods help shape different identities found within the novel and present Anne as not just the young girl who inspired the title, but as the talented writer within its pages:

When I think back to my life in 1942, it all seems so unreal. The Anne Frank who enjoyed that heavenly existence was completely different from the one who has grown wise within these walls…. What has remained of that Anne Frank? Oh, I haven’t forgotten how to laugh or toss off a remark, I’m just as good, if not better, at raking people over the coals, and I can still flirt and be amusing, if I want to be (Frank 203–4).

 Anne’s bubbly and carefree ways have not left her during her time at the Annex, and have instead become more refined and controlled as the writer within is revealed. Inspired by Gerrit Bolkestein’s call for wartime records, Anne begins writing with a new audience in mind, harnessing her deep and philosophical self to provide poignant musings, while utilizing her girlish side for comic relief. It is in harnessing dual identities, that of the young girl and the writer, that Anne’s diary becomes not only a document of war but an engaging autobiography, as her careful edits of past entries manage to improve and dramatize mundane passages while still preserving their original tone:

The differences between Anne’s initial efforts and her revisions vary from trivial to profound, and deepen our respect for her as a writer. The first versions are in many cases more impulsive and spirited, the second more distanced, cooler, even abstract. The revisions may trade immediacy for clarity, raw emotion for reflection, but they are nearly always better written – more condensed, descriptive, fully dramatized and evocative (Prose 135–6).

 Prose describes Anne’s editing process during her final year at the Annex as calculating and thoughtful, fuelled by the writer within and her creative, internal self. Even Miep, who happened upon Anne working away at her desk, noticed a physical change in the girl putting pen to paper: “I saw a look on her face at this moment that I’d never seen before. It was a look of dark concentration…. She was suddenly another person there writing at that table” (Prose 7). Anne’s gaze surprises Miep, as it contrasts the young girl she is accustomed to and belongs instead to that of an introspective writer, highlighting the dual identities harboured within Anne and the diary itself.

Anne’s varying emotions and personalities, as discovered throughout the journal, are part of what transform The Diary of a Young Girl from a historical memoir into a literary classic. Anne’s heightened self-awareness, amplified by the Annex’s close quarters, allows Anne to harness her own shifting character and develop it within her writing. It is through her many identities and personal contradictions that she becomes a dynamic and realistic character, allowing for audiences around the world to relate to her struggle no matter their background. Anne was not only a remarkable young woman for her endurance and talent, but a universal figure for human growth, as she pondered the dualities found within herself during a time of chaos and confusion. Her complex character and eloquent expressions craft the diary into an interesting, attractive and engaging piece of writing that deserves recognition not only for content, but quality of work. Anne’s original title for the book, The Secret Annex, further emphasizes her role as a writer and her intentions to refine and enhance the original diary. Contrary to the naïvety suggested by the conventional title, Anne developed exceptional wisdom throughout her writing and accomplished incredible feats in spite of her age. “Until all of humanity, without exception, undergoes a metamorphosis, wars will continue to be waged, and everything that has been carefully built up… will be destroyed” (Frank 276). While the circumstances of Anne’s story are a distant memory, her words remain pertinent to this day and reveal not only the genius behind the well-crafted memoir but the many perspectives upon which it was built, proving the Diary of a Young Girl to be a literary classic penned by the timeless observer of her times, the author Anne Frank.

Secondary Sources

Gies, Miep, and Alison Leslie. Gold. Anne Frank Remembered. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987. Print.

Prose, Francine. Anne Frank: The Book, the Life, the Afterlife. New York: Harper Collins, 2009. Print.

by Sophie McNeilly

Throughout The Bell Jar, Esther Greenwood is photographed many times. Sometimes the act of being photographed is equated with the objectification of Esther, which is to say, the photographer takes away Esther’s personhood and she becomes an object in the photograph. Other times, being photographed is equated with the lack of understanding that Esther experiences from others. When Esther poses for photographs and sees photographs of herself, the camera makes Esther a stranger to herself. Esther struggles to recognize who she is when confronted with images of herself. In this way, the camera reduces Esther from a self to an image, onto which other people project their understandings and expectations of her. Even in the mirror Esther does not recognize herself, a result of her internalization of the camera lens and the eye of the outsider that it represents. After her suicide attempt, she comes to see the image in the mirror not as a reflection, but as a picture, not recognizing herself in the reflected image. When Esther looks into the mirror in the hospital, she sees herself not as a self, a complete, multifaceted person, but as an image, upon which is imposed the desires and views of others. She must break the mirror to escape the camera that she has internalized. The recurring motif of the camera and the picture is a part of Esther’s mental illness, representing her struggle with the images that everyone else has of her, and it is only when she is able to break the mirror that holds her internalized image that she can begin the process of healing and coming to terms with her self.

The first photograph of Esther that appears in the text is part of a memory that occurs to her as Buddy Willard undresses in front of her:

But undressing in front of Buddy suddenly appealed to me about as much as having my Posture Picture taken at college, where you have to stand stark naked in front of a camera, knowing all the time that a picture of you stark naked, both full view and side view, is going into the college gym files to be marked A B C or D depending on how straight you are. (Plath 65)

Esther is clearly uncomfortable with the idea of being naked in front of Buddy Willard. She compares the situations by tying a moment that, under other circumstances, might have been enjoyable for all involved, to one of medical sterility. She describes herself as “stark naked” repeatedly, a phrase that implies the coldness and harshness of the environment surrounding her, and uses a general “you” to universalize the uncomfortable feeling of being naked in front of strangers, who will then categorise the body in the image without any thought given to the person inhabiting the body. Here, Plath writes both these moments of nakedness as moments where Esther is reduced to a body and an object in the eyes of the viewer.

In the lead-up to this paragraph, Buddy has undressed himself, and is now expecting that Esther do the same. He says: “I think you ought to get used to me like this [….] Now let me see you” (Plath 65). It is clear that Buddy feels he is owed Esther’s naked body, whether by rule of reciprocation or because he expects that they will end up married. The college obliges Esther to be naked on the basis of her relationship with the establishment (she has to have her Posture Picture taken for their gym files), Buddy on the basis of her relationship with him. Buddy Willard is the college camera here, and the camera is Buddy Willard. They both do the same thing to Esther; they take the person of Esther and reduce her to her body. By linking Buddy to the camera lens, Plath sets up the camera as a method of objectifying Esther and reducing her to one part of herself.

Buddy Willard doesn’t actually photograph Esther. However, she is photographed just before she leaves New York, for a spread in the magazine:

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know.

“Oh sure you know,” the photographer said.

“She wants,” said Jay Cee wittily, “to be a poet.”

Then they scouted around for something for me to hold. (Plath 97)

Esther doesn’t actually speak in this passage. Instead she narrates her own act of speaking. Meanwhile, the others, Jay Cee and the photographer, actually speak. This gives a sense that they are speaking over Esther, as they take over the act of defining what Esther wants to do. Plath has tied the act of photographing Esther with the act of overtaking her ability to speak for herself. There is a reason Plath gives the definition of Esther’s goal to Jay Cee; Jay Cee sees Esther not as a finished or complete person, just as someone who has not yet achieved her goals: “‘Of course, you have another year at college yet,’ Jay Cee went on a little more mildly. ‘What do you have in mind after you graduate?’” (Plath 30). Her view of Esther translates into the photograph. Just as Buddy Willard and the college simplify Esther down to the image of her body, Jay Cee turns her into the image of her goals. The image of Esther that Jay Cee creates here has no room for nuance or depth. It is a photo taken for a spread in a magazine that will feature eleven other girls. The Esther in this photo is defined by a singular want. There is no room in this photograph for her victories, or her self-doubt, or even her writing, the very subject of the goal Jay Cee uses to define her. She is again reduced to a single aspect of herself. This time, instead of a body, Esther is reduced to a goal, but again, the photo simplifies her and takes away her voice.

The final act of the photographer against Esther is not just to define her, but to control her, both emotionally and physically:

The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. “Show me how happy it makes you to write a poem.” [….] I felt it was very important to keep the line of my mouth level.

“Give us a smile.”

At last, obediently, like the mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy, my own mouth started to quirk up.

“Hey,” the photographer protested, with sudden foreboding, “you look like you’re going to cry.”

I couldn’t stop myself. (Plath 97-98)

The photographer controls Esther and how she is seen, regardless of how she wants to be seen. Esther doesn’t want to smile in the photo. She feels it is “very important” that she look serious, indicated by the level mouth. But the photographer wants her to smile, and so she has to smile. She is compelled, like “a ventriloquist’s dummy.” Metaphorically, her voice (the individual identity of Esther and how she displays it) is replaced by the voice of the puppeteer photographer. Eventually, he commands and controls her emotions as well as her body. When the photographer says that she looks like she is going to cry, she does. She is unable to control herself, because she has been turned into a “dummy” by the photographer, to be moved and positioned at will in front of the camera, so she can present whatever the person behind the camera wants her too. In short, she is objectified. Because there is no room for the person of Esther within the camera frame, the image of Esther, an image that can be controlled by whoever controls the camera, replaces it.

All three of the images of Esther above are created by the person with whom the act of photography is associated. Esther does not see any of those images herself. She does see an image of herself later, when Joan shows Esther clippings from the newspaper related to her suicide attempt:

The first clipping showed a big, blown-up picture of a girl with black shadowed eyes and black lips spread into a grin. I couldn’t imagine where such a tarty picture had been taken, until I noticed the Bloomingdale ear-rings and the Bloomingdale necklace glinting out of it with bright, white highlights, like imitation stars. (Plath 191)

Esther does not see herself in the photograph in the newspaper clippings detailing her suicide attempt, identifying the subject of the picture as “a girl” instead of “me.” The image is blown up and distorted by the black ink of the newspaper. Instead of telling us about the features of the girl in the photograph, Esther focuses on her eyeshadow and lipstick, both discoloured by the medium of newsprint. This gives the description of the face in the picture an exaggerated, alien feel. Esther is distant enough from the image of this alien girl that she cannot even see the actual features of the face, and does not recognize it even though the article itself later confirms that the image is of her. She doesn’t say “where I took the photo,” an active statement. Instead, she asks “where such a tarty picture had been taken,” a passive statement. She removes herself from the act of being seen in the photograph. This is where her internalizations of the camera and what it represents comes into play. Esther cannot see the person that she is in the photo. Instead, she projects judgements (of herself) on the image, calling it “tarty.” She, like the photographers before her, no longer sees a person in the subject of the photo. Instead, she sees an image of a person that lacks any depth, and is defined by a projected characteristic. She has turned the lens of the camera onto the image of herself, and thus cannot reconcile the person that she is with the image the camera creates.

It is not just in photographs that Esther has trouble seeing herself. The camera represents the eye of the photographer, and it is difficult for Esther to turn the camera on herself. As such, any photograph of Esther is still not representative of herself as she views herself, as she did not take the picture and thus cannot show, through the photograph, how she sees herself. However, Esther is still in possession of a device with which she can view herself: the mirror. When she is hospitalized, Esther receives a mirror and sees herself:

At first I didn’t see what the trouble was. It wasn’t a mirror, it was a picture.

You couldn’t tell whether the person in the picture was a man or a woman, because their hair was shaved off and sprouted in bristly chicken-feather tufts all over their head. One side of the person’s face was purple, and bulged out in a shapeless way, shading to green along the edges, and then to a sallow yellow. The person’s mouth was pale brown, with a rose coloured sore at either end. [….] I smiled.

The mouth in the mirror cracked a grin. (Plath 168)

As with the picture of Esther in the newspaper, the mirror image of Esther is depicted in a way that removes her humanity. Plath describes the face in odd colours, reminiscent of bruises (a definite indicator that an external force has caused something to go wrong within the body). The face itself is “shapeless” and “chicken-like,” not human. All this creates a distance within Esther’s self as she recognizes it and the Esther in the mirror. At the very beginning of the passage, the image of Esther in the mirror is equated with a picture. The connection occurs because Esther cannot connect her self to the person in the mirror. Throughout the passage, she refers to her reflection as “the person,” not as “me” or “Esther.” Even when the smile at the end connects them, she still says “the mouth in the mirror,” not “my mouth.” The moment of recognition passes, and, instead of finally recognizing the image of herself, Esther destroys the vessel of her reflection: “A minute after the crash, another nurse ran in. She took one look at the broken mirror and at me, standing over the blind, white pieces and hustled the young nurse out of the room” (Plath 168). The mirror too is an eye, and it is not an eye into the self for Esther. Instead, it is another producer of simplified, unrecognizable images, like the camera, and so she must blind it. This is the moment when Esther begins the healing process that the rest of the book follows: not when she is admitted to the hospital, but when she breaks the camera image that is reflected in the mirror.

Esther’s need to blind the mirror, and keep it from showing her the image of herself after she realizes that the face in it is hers, is tied to the recurrence of the camera as a motif. The image of Esther is always controlled by the eye of someone else, through the camera, so the picture of Esther is never Esther as she sees herself. Throughout the text, Esther sees herself in the mirror, and she tends to be distanced from the image, but she still knows that she is looking in a mirror: “The face in the mirror looked like a sick Indian. I dropped the compact into my pocket-book and stared out of the train window” (Plath 109). But here, she sees the Esther in the mirror as a picture, as an image of herself controlled, reduced and manipulated by eyes outside of her. When the mirror becomes a picture, the self that Esther finds in the mirror becomes equivalent to the images of Esther that have been seen throughout the text: Esther’s Body, Esther’s Goal, Esther the Dummy, Esther the Tarty Bloomingdale Girl, and now, Esther the Person in the Picture. She becomes only her face for a moment, and in this moment, to escape being an image of Esther, she must break the vessel of the image. This is how Esther escapes the eye of the camera: not by seeing herself through other means, but by breaking those means, and thus escaping the image cycle. In some ways, the purpose of the entire book is to “break the mirror.” The image cycle traps us, as Esther is trapped, and we internalize the images that others project onto us until the mirror reflects not us, but our image-selves. Esther is herself not when she can see herself, but instead, when she cannot, and begins the process of healing and freeing herself from the camera’s eye when she breaks the mirror, and by extension, the camera inside herself. We, like Esther, must break the mirrors and learn to not see ourselves, and then we can begin to heal.

Works Cited

Plath, Sylvia. The Bell Jar. London: Faber and Faber. 2013. Print.