Showing posts with label non fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label non fiction. Show all posts

Thursday, March 4, 2010

European Imperalistic Discourses in Heart of Darkness

It is difficult to read Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness simply as a late-Victorian novel. While it does embody many elements typical to the genre during this time--namely intrigue, anti-heroes, and a gritty, realistic sensibility captured in an exotic location--the novel serves as a sociopolitical commentary on major issues of the day. Contemporary readers use the novel to highlight and discuss racism, sexism, moral confusion, and the hypocrisy of Imperialism, all shrouded in a particular sense of ambiguity and confusion that seems to solidify their arguments. However, a specifically New Historical reading of the novel resolves much of that ambiguity and opens the door for readers to understand significant and clearly enduring social concerns from a Victorian point-of-view. Perhaps more importantly, Heart of Darkness becomes Conrad's mouthpiece to enlighten readers and express his opinions regarding the effectiveness and humanity of Imperialism.

Using Marlow as his agent, Conrad brings into question the concept of justifying Imperialism on the grounds of efficiency and a noble idea. Almost immediately he writes,

The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in that idea--something you can set up, and bow down to before and offer a sacrifice to... (7).

He explains that this idea is what the Roman Empire lacked-- that they were not colonizers so much as mere conquerors who "grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got." The idea implies a certain sense of allegiance to and investment in the colony-- the idea is a redeeming quality of Imperialism.

Unquestionably, Imperialism has been increasingly viewed, in the one hundred years since the publication of Heart of Darkness, as unethical and an abuse of power, though at the time, most Europeans claimed support for reasons such as the added national income. what Kipling called "the White Man's Burden;" and frankly, powers and esteem above other European countries. The turn of the nineteenth century, though, was certainly a time of change with regards to these opinions-- particularly in Africa, as Europe laid claim all over the continent. In the introduction to Heart of Darkness for his publisher, Conrad wrote, "The criminality of inefficiency and pure selfishness when tackling the civilizing work in Africa is a justifiable idea. The subject is our time distinctly" (Blackburn 37). This intent establishes the novel as specifically Victorian and early Modern, not the Contemporary mouthpiece many have force it to become.

Many contributions to late Victorian society promote the idea of efficiency in Imperialism. According to Michael Ignatieff in his piece The Seductiveness of Moral Disgust, the moral assumption that something must be done was "borrowed from the imperial past but also from unexamined hubris about the West's current technological and logistical might" (554). That is, the West was so technologically advanced, properly educated and civilized, that they held a moral responsibility to improve the civility of people the world over. The social Darwinist theory "survival of the fittest" justifies Imperialism, arguing that civility would encourage an improvement in struggles between peoples "pitted against each other in the complex rivalry of life" (Hawkins 288). This is a quality in Kurtz that Marlow seems to be attracted to in the novel, at least at first. Kurtz seems to be the kind of man who "had come out equipped with moral ideas of some sort..." (Conrad 31), and begins as an idealist who asserts "we can exert a power for good practically unbounded" (51).

Kurtz and Marlow effectively present values that would have been identified by pro-Imperialists of the time. Conrad cleverly turns their morality on their heels in order to condemn the Imperialism of the Congo, a very unique colony in Africa. Whereas other colonies throughout the world were supported by the full resources of their European states, the Congo had been acquired by King Leopold II of Belgium as his own, personal country rather than a benefit of Belgian Parliament. Leopold used forced labor of the Congolese people to collect ivory and rubber, for example, but was not particularly interested in developing an economic market or even aiding the country to become self-sufficient. The images of waste and "objectiveless blasting" in Heart of Darkness point to suggestive illustrations that "reveal an inefficiency that was peculiar to King Leopold's Congo" (Hawkins 290). An example of this inefficiency is the inadequacy of the currency system-- or the lack of a consistent one at all. Marlow describes how the crew on his steamer was paid "every week three pieces of brass wire...and the theory was they were to buy their provisions with that currency in river-side villages. You can see how that worked" (Conrad 41). This subtle but important observation is significant because Leopold never established a unified currency system, allowing the Congo to fed for itself in payment and conversion of ridiculous symbols of currency.

Conrad also manages to expose Leopold's insufficient ability to merely uphold the civilizing "idea" itself in the mistreatment of the Congo natives. When Marlow arrives in Matadi, he observes a chain gang of men, called "criminals," carrying loads of soil. He is disgusted by the sight, and when he crosses by a pointless hole dug into the slope he remarks, "It might have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the ciminals something to do" (Conrad 17). Leopold had, in the Berlin Act, vowed to improve the well-being of the Congolese, and when he was found in violation of that pledge due to forced labor in such extremes, he insisted such standards encouraged a sense of industry that would improve their civility. In spite of this argument, between 1895 and 1908, the Congo population fell by three million inhabitants. Conrad obviously did not view the industry of forced labor as an implement of philanthropy.

Marlow expresses a generally sympathetic attitude toward the Africans he meets. He may not view them as noble, but recognizes their humanity and acknowledges that their "pure, uncomplicated savagery was a positive relief, being something that had a right to exist--obviously--in the sunshine" (Conrad 59(. He respects the cannibals who work on his steamer, who do not generally give him a reason to mistrust them, especially when they retain composure during the attack on the steamer.

Though British Imperialists canot be credited with completely selfless intentions in their colonization and civilization of the world, as Hawkins says, "Conrad could appeal to his British readers to condemn Leopold without impugning themselves, since such abuses as forced labor and the absence of currency were not characteristic of British colonies" (292). But Conrad's sanction of British colonization is not unconditional. As a native of Poland, Conrad himself was a subject of Imperialism; at this time Poland was partitioned by Germany, Russia, and Austria. Later in life he became active in support of Polish independence, but always demonstrated a strong sense of nationalism and resentment for occupying powers. As a member of a conquered nation himself, it is not surprising he commiserates the Congolese people in Heart of Darkness, going so far as to give his villain a German name-- Kurtz.

Conrad uses Kurtz, in fact, as a close indictment of British Imperialism. Conrad reveals that Kurtz's mother was half-English and he was educated partly in English. Though he practices Leopold's method of exploitive Imperialism, Kurtz's small allegiance to England indicates at least partial responsibility on Britain's part to the inappropriate system of colonizing the Congo. "All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz" (Conrad 50), just as all Europe, with no exception to England, authorized the creation of Leopold's Congo.

After the first installment of Heart of Darkness was published in Blackwood's Magazine, Joseph Conrad wrote to his friend R. B. Cunninghame Graham, "I think that if you look a little into the episodes you will find in them the right intention though I fear nothing that is practically effective." He seemed to hold little faith in political reform. Ten years later, however, the head of the Congo Reform Association, E. D. Morel, wrote to A. Conan Doyle that Heart of Darkness was the "most powerful thing ever written on the subject" (Hawkins 293). Scholars, particularly students, are prone to projecting the supposed opinions and views of the author on characters they are studying, and in many eases this is presumptuous. In this case, however, it is not only clear in examining the novel that Conrad's opinion is expressly conveyed through his narrator, historical documents site Conrad's specific intention in writing it. It is only through historical consideration that we are able to effectively interpret Conrad's judgement of Imperialism in the Congo and truly understand the negative implications of Imperalism in general during the late nineteenth century.



Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. 4th ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2006. 1-77.

Fieldhouse, D. K. "Imperialism: An Historigraphical Revision." The Economic History Review 14 (1969): 187-209. JSTOR. 2 Feb. 2008.

Hawkins, Hunt. "Conrad's Critique of Imperialism in Heart of Darkness." PMLA 94 (1974): 286-299. JSTOR. 2 Feb. 2008.

Ignatieff, Michael. "The Seductiveness of Moral Disgust." Social Research 71 (2004): 549-568. 2 Feb. 2008.

Stokes, Eric. "Late Nineteenth-Century Colonial Expansion and the Attack of the Theory of Economic Imperialism: a Case of Mistake Identity?" The Historical Journal 12 (1969): 285-301. JSTOR. 2 Feb. 2008.

Monday, August 31, 2009

In pursuit of a personal essay

I am happy with my own lesser thing, because it is mine.

I had an experience recently which conversely shook my confidence and stiffened my spine in regards to my writing ability. I had a friend read an entry on my blog-- an entry that I had been working on here and there for a few months, since I like to use my blog as a place to practice essay writing in hopes to receive some kind of feedback-- of which I was particularly proud. Though aware that it was not without fault, I was annoyed by his short response: "A pretty good entry," said he. "Conversational, but witty."

Clearly this irked me, not only because of his condescending tone, but also for his uneducated idea that this blog-- this essay of mine-- should be anything but conversation, to say nothing of being witty. I tried to put his criticism aside in favor of remaining appropriately proud of my little personal essay, but it has got me wondering about the validity of being proud of something that is my own doing. I took a look at it again and wondered if I love it because it's mine, or because it's good and well-written and worth the time to read it, since--

There is a joy in discovery quite apart from the quality of the thing discovered.

I determined that it could certainly improve with continued revision (but then, a writer can always find ways to revise, and knowing this, can he ever be fully satisfied?) but that it wasn't a bad little piece in its own right. The greatest writers throughout history had to begin small and eventually rose to greatness. Why shouldn't this blog serve the same purpose? Why should this essay, conversational but witty as it may be (that infuriating but!), be any indication that I might not be as Great as they someday?

It has been somewhat comforting to study "Forgotten Essayists," who confirm the great talent of more common folk who have not achieved the status of Montaigne, Bacon, or Lamb. These famous writers are certainly among the Greats but--

There is something cloying about the continual contemplation of unquestioned greatness, especially if the experience has to be shared with the crowd.

There is something kind of intimidating and almost off-putting in the pursuit of achieving smiilar goals as Dr. Johnson; Elizabeth Woodbridge Morris is far more approachable, and I defy anyone to accuse A.A. Milne to be anything less than conversational. The Forgottens, or at least the less-widely studied, are easier to identify with, easier to try to emulate. Of course,

If we spend all oru time on the second-best we shall lose something out of our intellectual and aesthetic equipment--

but since a personal essay should remain precisely so, it is with these humble friends I'll keep company. They are not so "forgotten" anyway. Our small class has pulled out their work to study and critique, so I believe they have achieve some kind of greatness after all. Compared to Stevenson, Barbellion might err more on the side of "conversational but witty," but what is wrong with that?

At this point, I've decided to aim for conversational and witty, using my personal blog to post my personal little ditties in the hope that I might continue to improve and beomce Great someday. Who knwos-- maybe in a hundred years, a dozen undergraduates will debate the value and "essayness" of my essays. My hope is they'll have more to call those exercices than anything as uncritical as conversational or witty.




Morris, Elisabeth Woodbridge. "The cult of the second-best." 1917. Quotidiana. Ed. Patrick Madden. 8 October 2009. 12 October 2008.

Metaphorically Speaking

I am fascinated by metaphors. I am fascinated by the comparisons people draw, so often between two seemingly dissimilar things and suddenly, by that comparison, those things are made alike, deeper meaning is drawn. Annie Dillard's essay Seeing beautifully discusses the ability to see and conveys the process in such vivid language and images-- obviously, the words are as important as the vision in metaphors. She says, "Seeing is of course very much a matter of verbalization." If you are unable to convey what you see in words, what is the point of writing down an image of experience?

My friend Julie and I will sometimes send each other little metaphorical gems that we find in our various readings because they delight us and enrich our soul somehow. I'm not sure exactly how I create metaphors or pretty, strange imagery, but she certainly encourages me to stretch and aim to craft images that are unusual and fresh. I recently began an essay that discusses my inability to "get" modern art--

I think I'm the canvas modern art is painted on, and [those who understand it] are the trendy silk curtains hanging in the gallery-- the curtains who hang there and study modern art all day, but I can't see the painting since it's painted on me, painted over my eyes.

True, any creativity was probably influenced by the fact that I was literally falling asleep with my fingers on the keyboard, and severe sleep deprivation seems to have provided me a similar aesthetic experience perhaps as opium-influenced writers of the past. But it is rather thrilling to be able to craft something artistic and an arguably beautiful picture using words and images that may not have anything immediately to do with the subject at hand.

The secret of seeing is to sail on solar wind. Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff. --Dillard

There is a certain amount of care that goes into drawing successful comparisons, however. It is difficult to force a metaphor, though it is very easy for a metaphor to sound forced. Mostly I try to "keep my eyes open" and let the inspiration wash over me when least expected, when the metaphor is not intended.

The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.

The word metaphor derives from the Greek, meta + pherein, which is "to bear." It is a lovely image in itself, picturing the weight placed on words as they carry a meaning beyond their given definitions. They groan and creak under the task, uncomfortable and suspicious, but wink with understanding, and a secret smile threatens to break.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

A Kiss is Not a Contract

Prediction: tonight will be an unnecessary all-nighter. Why? I'd rather go to Denny's for three hours and watch Flight of the Conchords and write essays about sandwiches. Like I said, unnecessary, but at least I have time to prepare for the worst (or the best, depending on how you look at it).

I'm really good at writing disjointed blogs/essays-- you know, the ones that are basically a cognative dump and each thought doesn't really have anything to with the next thought, but somehow they do all make sense because it's everything I'm thinking about all at once together. Maybe this will become my Signature Style someday. Tyra's got her Victoria's Secret walk and her smile-behind-the-eyes, and I've got my fractional essays. Back up-- let's appreciate the fact that I've got essays.

And while we're on the subject, let's just make one thing clear, okay?
Essay: an analytic or interpretative literary composition usually dealing with its subject from a limited or personal point of view.
Paper: a formal written composition often designed for publication and often intended to be read aloud.
(works cited: http://merriam-webster.com)

I had 3.5 Diet Cokes at Denny's tonight-- after midnight, mind you-- as well as my usual club sandwich (tomatoes picked off), and then I had to go to the bathroom 3 times. It got me thinking about bathrooms and how I have favorite bathrooms. I mean, let's get a teensy bit intimate here and just admit flat-out that there's a certain, universal satisfaction in going to the bathroom. I'm sorry, but there is. You go in feeling uncomfortable, and you walk out feeling much better. Win win. But equally honestly, there are various places that are nicer to visit than others. For example, I love the bathrooms in the JFSB, especially the ones in the south-west corner on the ground floor. I like my bathroom at home, and I like my parent's bathroom even better. I don't use that one very often, so I'm sure part of the thrill is the unknown. The bathroom on the 3rd floor of the Wilk is fun too, and I do like the ones on the 2nd floor of the Provo Library. I don't so much care for the bathrooms:
-here, at my apartment
-in any grocery store
-at any boy's apartment, only because it means I'm using the bathroom at a boy's apartment
-on airplanes or buses-- especially buses
-at HCTO, because there is zero water pressure and you have to hold the flusher down for a long time
-at Denny's, which is ironic given the frequency with which I visited it tonight

I don't like Coldplay. I'm sorry, I know that at least 2 of the 6 people who read this LJ are big big fans of Coldplay and I appreciate that. But I personally don't understand the appeal, and I think Viva La Vida is like the only good song on that album. I've tried to like Coldplay, I've tried to like songs beyond Viva La Vida (other than Clocks, because I do like Clocks, but I think that's partly because it makes me think of Alex for some reason and not because I actually like the song), but I don't like Coldplay, everything sounds the same to me, and I have a sneaking suspicion that a large percentage of Coldplay fans only pretend to like Coldplay because it's trendy and super awesome to like Coldplay, inexplicably.
***NOTE: This is my opinion, you can try to convince me otherwise but it won't happen I'm sorry so don't even try okay thanks bye***

I think I'd like to date a New Zealander who looks like Bret or Jemaine. Either one, I'm not picky. Their accents are basically the same, which is the most important trait, obviously. But Bret looks like a hobbit a little bit, which is kind of endearing.

I bought new boots yesterday that I'm IN LOVE with. They're burgundy and knitted and slouchy with buttons on the ankles. They were approximately $15 more than I intended to spend on them, but so far, worth every single penny, particularly because they're a little bit like slippers only I can wear them outside. Also, I can tuck skinny jeans into them which is, I admit, not a style to everyone's taste, but I think if that's not to someone's taste, clearly that person HAS NO TASTE.

What does it say about you if you've had a really cool present sitting on your shelf to give to someone for two months? Does it mean you care about them any less? Or does it mean you care about them more because if you keep putting off giving it to them it means you'll keep having an excuse to hang out with them?

I really like having a blogspot and a livejournal, separate and secret from each other. For some reason, I feel really lame about myself posting on blogspot every single day, and I feel even lamer about the thought of posting more than one entry on blogspot per day. I can post on LJ whenever I want, as many times as I want, and never have a care about it. For better or worse, this is probably the kind of entry I would put on blogspot, but I've posted too many times already in the last few days. I'm nearing my blogspot quota for the week and it makes me a little anxious. A lot of people read my blogspot though... Not a lot of people actually comment, but a lot of people read it. I get between 15-50 hits/day or so, which is not really that awesome compared to someone who gets a couple thousand every day, but it's nothing to sneeze at. I'd secretly love it if I got thousands of hits on my blog per day.

Do I want to be an actress, or do I want to be a writer?

Cue 4:45am nausea.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Entries at the Close of Summer

Wednesday, 25 July 20—
The airport is an interesting place. I always wonder where people are headed and why. What are the reasons this enormous, random group of people have all touched down in the same building? It’s fascinating to consider all the purposes we’re just thrown together so temporarily. Cross-country flights are strange things.
I feel I’m growing up in a way tonight. I’ve traveled by myself a lot in the last few years, but this is my first red eye flight. I’m not concerned about it—unless I discover Cillian Murphy on my plan and he happens to take me hostage in my seat. Mostly I’m just not looking forward to my three-hour layover in New York. A) Layovers are annoying. B) especially at 5am. C) when I want to go play in New York.
I’m at an interesting point in my life. I feel like there’s been some kind of change in me, even in the last week or so. All of a sudden I can actually visualize myself going places, doing things, seeing the country. I can see myself actually flying, not just wanting to fly. I don’t know what direction I’m going, exactly, but for the first time in a while—maybe ever—I feel like there is direction: it’s forward. I don’t know where Forward is going to take me. Boston, for grad school? Disney World, for an internship? Somewhere I’m performing, or working a modest job at some trendy company in a big city? Maybe I’ll go abroad and try my hand at London like my cousin Maggie is right now. Maybe learning German will take me somewhere I haven’t even considered yet. I have no idea, but I’m happy at the prospect of facing whatever it is I’m going to find.

Saturday, 27 July 20—
My trip to Maine has been unusual—far more blink-and-you-miss-it than I anticipated. I don’t want to leave tomorrow because it means life has to kick in before fall semester starts. I wish I could stay in this little red house on this little lake with such lovely weather forever and ever.

Sunday, 28 July 20—
B.Y. is going to be in my German class this fall. Actually, having had time to accept and mull over that fact, I think it could be a lot of fun if I don’t let myself feel weird about it. Also, if I can make myself look passably acceptable enough to force him to occasionally think about how he loved me once. Wow. That’s strange to write. He loved me once. And I loved him, I guess—though I thought myself much farther gone than I actually was. Interesting view, hindsight.

Thursday, 2 August 20—
Stop this train
I wanna get off & go home again
I can’t take the speed it’s moving in
I know I can
But honestly, won’t someone stop this train?

--John Mayer

Saturday, 4 August 20—
It turns out that my friend O, who has been noncommittal toward one sexual persuasion over another, may have tried to hook up with C—the very C I’ve spent the summer ogling from a distance. O’s attempted hook-up probably took place around the same time C allegedly tried to/maybe did hook up with B. I think M has crushes on both C and B, because I think M is gay but hasn’t told me yet. It sucks to how my friends—my guy friends—all like each other, and not me.
You know, for a girl in Happy Valley, I’m sure finding myself in the company of a lot of ambiguously gay men. Not that I care entirely, it’s just…interesting.

Monday, 6 August 20—
I was thinking about my sister Elizabeth today. She is so freaking rad. I’ll be honest, Lizzy and I haven’t always gotten along spectacularly. It’s definitely improved with age and experience. I think I blame myself for not being more grown up. I’m probably being too hard on myself, but Liz has always been grown up beyond her years. She looks older than she is, first of all. When people meet us together, if they even catch the fact we’re sisters, they usually think she’s the older sibling. It’s more than looks. She’s wise, and so in tune—with the spirit, with herself, with the needs of others.
Lizzy is good at everything. Admittedly, not without hard work, but I don’t feel like she’s a workaholic. She’s just efficient. She’s an unbelievable student, sought after by universities all over the world. She is one of the most talented young trombone players I’ve heard, and noted musicians from Julliard professors to Dave Matthews Band agree. She sings, plays piano, acts in plays. She’s athletic, funny and personable. If I didn’t love her, I might try to convince myself that I hate her, but only because I’m a little jealous that I seem to come up so short in comparison.
She’s one of the most solid people I know. She is who she is, and doesn’t apologize for it, but she’s also actively searching to further define herself. She effectively learns from other peoples’ mistakes, along with their successes, and diverse thinking and standards seem to only solidify her sense of self.
As I’ve learned to grow up I realize she’s more an example than I am. She makes me realize I need to step up my game. In some ways, subtly and unknowingly, she has made me realize it’s okay we’re so different. It’s okay we have different strengths, even when it comes to our shared interests. She supports me and is concerned about me. Every now and then she’ll somehow remind me it’s okay to confide in her and voice the feelings I’m so intent on keeping to myself. Her advice is never pretentious. She’s genuine. And even though she cares about a lot of people, she doesn’t care about them the way she does me—and not even because she’s obligated. I used to wish for more siblings when I was little, but I realize now that our family is God-given. Lizzy and I only have each other. It’s pretty cool I get to keep her to myself.

Tuesday, 7 August 20—
I’m starving. This diet isn’t very thrilling. It had better PAY OFF!!!

Sunday, 12 August 20—
“Happiness does not depend on what happens outside of you, but what happens inside of you. It is measured by the spirit with which you meet the problems of life.”
--Harold B. Lee


Monday, 13 August 20—
The last few days have been very pensive for me. I’m filled with a lot of different emotions and thoughts, all jumbled together so that I’m feeling very conflicted. Not negative or pessimistic exactly, just conflicted. I’m not really sure how to find a sense of calm, or where. I just wish I could sort out all my various feelings and have a sure knowledge of the paths I should be taking and focusing on. So many to consider! Too many, I’m afraid. I don’t care for my current mixed-up feelings.

Thursday, 16 August 20—
I burned my leg when I was climbing off my friend T’s motorcycle last night. The burn is approximately three inches long and two inches wide, and it hurts, though not as badly as I expected. It looks like a random tan spot and the only peculiar thing about it is the blister on it. Of course, that’s not a dreadfully good sign. My sister the medical assistant informed me that either my leg isn’t used to being burned right there so it’s just reacting like a bad sunburn, or the burn is so bad it killed the nerves in that area, so it’ll hurt like a son of a beesting tomorrow or Saturday.
But on the bright side, I had a really good night, so I don’t mind quite so much. If it persists, I’ll just wrap it in bubble-wrap and make Ryan go to Carbondale, PA for fresh yams.

Sunday, 19 August, 20—
I love my room. I love the layout, I love my furniture, I love the relics from my life. It’s the smallest room I think I’ve ever had, but I love it in a way I haven’t loved a bedroom since my childhood.
Lying on my bed, in my room, makes me not even want to leave—not want to even go to another part of the house. I wish I could just transplant this room into where ever I move for school. Maybe part of my nostalgic connection to it stems from the realization that it’ll never been the same. I feel the way I did when I moved to the dorms freshman year, like Wendy leaving the nursery. Moving somewhere for fall and winter semesters wouldn’t be so significant except I’ve lived at home this last year, giving me time to reconnect with this room and make it belong to me again. I don’t expect I’ll live in this room anymore, except on vacations. It’s unnerving to have to face an unwelcoming, rather temporary new apartment bedroom.
I feel a weird sense of completion at the end of the summer because I’ve been going to school all this time, so it’s not really like going “back to school” or anything. The overriding feeling I have, looking back, is a sense of self questioning. I’ve so obviously been on this quest to “find myself,” figure out who I am and what it is I should be doing with my life. It’s been The Summer of Emily, not really in a traditional self-interested way, and yet, it’s been absolutely self-interested as I consider the life paths that, at this point, only benefit me. Summer isn’t going to end with a big, shattering revelation or a sense of completion, even.
Will life always seem so unsettled and vast?