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While reading "Impressions of an Indian Childhood" by Zitkala Sa, some of the major themes if you will that stuck out for me was the importance of tradition, family and knowing where you came from. She mentions numerous times how she enjoyed listening to the stories of old from the elders in their camp: " At last, when I could not wait any longer, I whispered in my mother's ear, 'Ask them to tell an Iktomi story, mother.'....As each in turn began to tell a legend, I pillowed my head in my mother's lap" (1010) Even the way the text is divided up into chapters is as if each chapter is a legend,a story from where she came from, the myths and practices she personally partook in. These stories are also the important parts of her Indian life. They seemed to be defining moments in her life that remind her, no matter where she goes in life, this is who she is. The issue of family is something not taken for grated by the Nakota indians. Zitkala Sa has an interesting relationship with her mother. Her mother seens distant, yet very protective of her. The mother has had a lot of hardship and distrust of white people : "At last, when we reached this western country, on the first weary night your sister died. And soon your uncle died also... Both your sister and uncle mighthave been happy with us to-day, had it not been for the heartless paleface."(1009) (Which kind of confuses me a little because Zitkala sa herself is half white and her mother later marries another white man. Since her father abandoned the family, I understand her distaste for white men, as would I, but why marry another then?) Her mother tries to teach her not depend on herself and no one else. "The quietness of her oversight made me feel strongly responsible and dependent upon my own judgement. She treated me as a dignified little individual as long as I was on my good behavior" (1012). Zitkala Sa holds a lot of respect and admiration for her mother. This can be seen in how she tries to to hospital for the guests by making "coffee",watching her in awe as she does her beadwork and how her and her friends would pretend to be their mothers and play. And though she cared for her mother, she wanted to explore the East, which her mother did not want her to do, yet still allowed her to go. As she was living in the last chapter, you saw how heartbroken she was about leaving and second guessing herself: "When I saw the lonely figure of my mother vanish in the distance, a sense of regret settled heavily upon me. I felt suddenly weak, as if I might fall limp to the ground. I was in the hands of stranger whom my mother did not fully trust. I no longer felt free to be myself, or to voice my own feelings" (1019). This ending shows how if you love someone, you must set them free to make their own mistakes and figure out their own journey through life. Though, personally I think eight years old is a little too young for self discovery.
Life DayInstead of waking to her alarm, she woke to the voice of Don Paul giving a lake effect snow advisory for Erie, Gennesse, and Monroe Counties. SHe rolled over with a moan of tiredness. A thought of hope entered her dizzy morning brain that maybe her classes would be cancelled. With this thought, she sprang from her bed, pausing at her window to gaze at the two feet of snow that had accumulated overnight. She had a love-hate relationship with the Snow Belt. How could something so pretty, so delicate while falling through the lights on Elmwood turn into such a trecherous monster that lay upon her car she thought as the passing plow proceeded to block in her driveyway. Perfect, she murmured to herself and walked toward the kitchen.
The last few drops filtered into the pot, calling her name. She grabbed her favorite Bills mug, the one that always reminded her of her Grandpa on Sunday game days and his deep seeded hate for the Miami Dolphines and filled it with hot coffee. She then heard the oh so familiar bang coming from the street below her second story apartment. She went to the window to confirm her thought and sat to watch car after car drive directly into the eight inch pothole in the middle of the road. It had become a morning ritual almost, a guilty pleasure of sorts. A minor giggle escaped her mouth. She turned on her heels and headed to the bathroom. She stared at her reflection a while as she listened to the cursh-cursh of the toothbrush against her teeth. She wondered back to in front of the television, toothbrush still attached to her gums just in time to see the crawl along the bottom of the screen read: ALL ERIE COMMUNITY COLLEGE CLASSES AND ACTIVITIES CANCELLED. She looked blankly at the screen for a few moments, blinked, and returned to the bathroom. Spit. Rinse.Repeat? She was awake now,but
what to do? As she gazed at the pile of clothes on the floor which she mentally labeled the "clean" pile then turned away. She glanced at the stack of books and papers on the kitchen table then turned away. She refilled her cup, and sat herself at the window looking over the road from her second story apartment.
**The picture is actually a picture of Elmwood in Buffalo**
Henry James, to me, is at times a very hard person to understand. I have read part of his "Figure in the Carpet", well, more like the first couple paragraphs of that story and felt very confused afterwards. At this, this work started the same way. He does go into a lot of detail of the topics in which he is talking about and this way he can be very thorough. From what I could make out from the things he said is writing novels is just not something done for entertainment and to be taken lightly all the time. It is an art form such as painting a picture is an art form. However, the meanings of these pieces of art have different uses. But it is the differences that make it all matter. "Their inspriation is the same, their process (allowing for the different quality of the vehicle), is the same, their success is the same. They may learn from each other, they may explain and sustain each other"(555). The events in life is what inspires all art, whether it be paintings or novels; "A novel is in its broadest definition a personal, a direct impression of life"(557). IN this sense, there is no right or wrong way to create something. Everyone has their own ideas of what is good, or how to create. No matter what though, there will never been one way accepted by all beause for the fact that art is impressions of life, all lives are different and the way one person paints a picture for example, they are going to paint it to their standards, to their liking or within their abilities. This art being so personalized, we each have our own meanings and values to different things "For the value of these different injunctions- so beautiful and so vague- is wholly in thee meaning one attaches to them"(558). It is our experiences that give us and help us form our personal meanings to everything in the world. "Experience is never limited, and it is never complete (559). All in all, there is no right and wrong when coming to art; it is a form of expression and the meanings within ourselves give meaning to our art. And no one can take that away from you and the people who critize need to simmer down. "I have no right to tamper with your flute and then criticise your music"(562)
nor does a critic when coming to writing novels.
In relation to Edith Wharton's "Souls Belated", this story encompasses the idea James was trying to convey in "The Art of Fiction." The meanings of things and the experiences that one has is a very personal encounter. The main character has just gone through a divorce with a man who lived his life in luxury, in a high class setting. Among these high class people, certain things are required of the family members and the people they bring into the family such as what to wear, what to eat, timing, scheduling and even as far as the people you associate yourself with. Within these restrictions, one can not be themselves as they naturally are and a narrow view of the world is held, finding yourself stuck in one way of thinking. "Of course one acts as one can- as one must, perhaps- pulled by all sorts of invisible threads"(852). The main character is put into the restrictions people were putting writers into about writing being an art. There is only value in the traditions, regulations one sets out for themselves and that everyone follow those regulations or you become ostercized from society.
Justing testing this out to see if it works! Presto! Chango! Abracadabra!
