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Essays and Short Stories**

Heart of Darkness**
Essay On Love**
Plastic
A Fate Worse Than Death**
Faces Of Friendship**
Learning To Live**
Paint Me A Picture**
What Price, Death?**
Victims Of Love**
A Place Of Honor
A Sleeping Hero
The Master
Dancing With Ghosts**

Heart of Darkness (A Very Short Story)  

Love 

Plastic 

A Fate Worse Than Death  

There are many ways to die, some worse than others, but for millions of people there is a fate worse than death. It is an incurable disease known as Alzheimer's and its effect can be equally devastating on the individual, the victim's family, and the victim's friends. Perhaps the best way to understand the disease is to visualize it through the eyes of those victims.

The old woman sat quietly in her rocking chair, staring vacantly out the window into the bright, crisp world that was slowly becoming foreign to her. Her gnarled hands, twisted by arthritis and discolored by age spots, grasped the family bible tightly. She was not interested in reading the verses or passages within. She could quote most of them from memory. She held the bible for another reason. It contained the names of her children, grandchildren, and deceased husband along with many other handwritten entries on birth dates, marriages, and other significant family events. Each entry cast a vague light of recollection in the growing darkness of her life. She would use the entries to jog her failing memory, much like a seamstress uses bits and pieces of colorful fabrics. She would weave a patchwork quilt of memories that defined who she used to be, who she was, and to cover the terrifying fact of who she was becoming. She felt very much alone although she knew she was not alone. Her family would never trust her to be by herself again. They feared that she would forget to turn off the stove, setting their lives ablaze as well as her own, or injure herself and not remember who to call, or where she lived so that help could come.

Her daughter and son-in-law were in the next room tearfully discussing her future. The family could not afford the devastating costs of placing her in a nursing home, nor could either of them afford to quit their jobs to care of her full time, which was what the doctor had strongly recommended. They spoke in whispers, each statement in the form of a question without an answer. Then, in silence, they both looked out the window at the falling leaves. The beautiful fall colors of the leaves remaining on the trees were in sharp contrast to the dull, brown, lifeless colors of the ones lying dead on the ground. The scene reminded them of the life of the woman in the next room who was becoming a stranger to them. Her life had once been vibrant and colorful too, but was now fading before their helpless eyes. She had always been active and involved in a half dozen family and community projects. She had been busy constantly, working with her hands, gardening, or cooking from scratch. Her gentle, infectious laughter could often be heard coming from the kitchen, carrying with it the delicious aroma of fresh baked pies or breads. Those days were gone now. She could no longer remember the ingredients, or even where she kept the recipes she was constantly sharing with her large circle of friends.

Her friends rarely visited anymore, or would make quick, transparent excuses for leaving shortly after arriving. They could not bear to see her or speak with her about the shared experiences she could no longer clearly remember. Long, uncomfortable silences would transpire when they visited. She would confuse their names or forget them completely, along with the subject of the conversation. Sometimes they would whisper amongst themselves conspiratorially, shocked and dismayed over the rapid deterioration of someone whom they had previously considered to be a trusted and reliable friend. They were afraid to take her with them on their usual outings, not wanting to take the responsibility, and unwilling or unable to fully comprehend the extent of her illness. Her friends drifted away one by one. Their visits became progressively shorter, being replaced by brief phone calls, then disappearing entirely. As her memories, family, and friends gradually faded into obscurity, the walls of her life slowly closed in around her, leaving her cloaked in a near impenetrable shell of isolation from which there was no escape.

The tragedy of Alzheimer's Disease deeply touches everyone who suffers from it as well as the people who care for them and know them. Its effects are as devastating and real as death itself, and in some ways can be even worse. While death has a certain ring of finality from which a person can mourn and begin the recovery process, Alzheimer's creeps insidiously and relentlessly into the very fabric of life.

Faces of Friendship   

Robert Blair said that friendship was the, "… mysterious cement of the soul". Much like love, friendship is a difficult word to define. To engender the deepest emotional spirit of friendship one almost has to resort to describing it in poetic terms. When used casually, friendship is a word that fails to invoke the deeper connotations that I attribute to the word. Of course, friendship can mean different things to different people. To understand the different aspects of friendship, it is helpful to take a peek at each of what I consider to be the three faces of friendship. I'll call them associates, partners, and true friends.

First I'll look at associates. Associates are the people I meet and interact with under the most casual circumstances. It could be a co-worker, a classmate, or a person I see in my every day life. We might pass the time in an offhand conversation discussing the weather, the latest movie, or the plans we've made for the weekend. I may have known them for years but still don't know much about them as a person. Our meetings and verbal exchanges just skim the surface of our lives. If they tell me a funny story or anecdote, I might pass it on to someone else by saying, "A friend at work told me that…". Calling them a friend is just a convenient way of labeling them as someone I know in an informal way. Associates are not much more than strangers with a name. I may know some of the trivial details of their lives, but otherwise I have no deeper interest in their lives than they do in mine.

Now I'll look at the partners. Almost everyone has a partner. The movies and television shows I watch are full of them. Batman and Robin, Laurel and Hardy, and Beavis and Butthead are but a few of the fictionalized versions I think of when I think of partners. Another term often used to describe this level of friendship is sidekick. A partner is someone I know well, someone who shares mutual interests, or someone with whom I spend a lot of time. I might call up my partner on the weekend and ask him or her to go with me to a movie, concert, or sporting event. I know most of my partner's likes and dislikes. I know their family and a lot about their life in general on a much deeper level than I would with an associate. I may have known them for a long time, grew up with them, or possibly met them only recently, but we share enough interests to have a warm, mutually fulfilling relationship. I enjoy their company and find them interesting and worthwhile. I might not share my deepest, darkest secrets with them, but we can certainly share a laugh and a good time together. Partners often reflect certain aspects of my personality. We have more similarities than differences and can relate to each other on common ground. Our degree of interaction goes deeper than the surface of our lives, into the more meaningful depths of friendship, but it stops before it reaches the intimate level. Batman and Robin join together to fight crime and save lives, but somehow I find it hard to picture them having a heart to heart conversation about their love lives. Beavis and Butthead… well, that relationship sort of speaks for itself. The level of emotional closeness reserved for the deepest form of friendship is what I think of when I say true friends.

True friends are usually few and far between. They are the ones I can depend on and trust without any questions or reservations. A true friend is like a flower in the garden of my soul. They know the most basic elements of my nature and like me anyway. Regardless of where I find a true friend, I know where they will be when I call for them. They are there when I need them, even during those times when I don't think I need them. They will be beside me in spirit if they can't be there in physical form. They might even know me better than I know myself. I can confidently share the deepest, most intimate thoughts with a true friend, and I know they will hold those thoughts with a sacred trust. A true friend could be a relative, a spouse, or someone I met through a chance encounter. A true friend will give me a shoulder to lean on, a rope to pull me out of an emotional hole, and a sympathetic ear when I need one. A true friend sees me clearly, beneath all the masks I may wear in front of my associates and partners. Lord Byron may have said it best when he said, "Friendship is love without his wings".

To me, it isn't as important to categorize friendship as it is to have a few of every type. Each one, whether it be an associate, a partner, or a true friend, adds a bit of color to the rainbow of my life. Although some of those colors may be deeper or more beautiful than others, it takes all of them to make a rainbow.

Learning to Live  

"When I was your age…" "If I had it to do over again…" "What are you going to do with your life?" How many times do kids hear those phrases from parents, teachers, or school counselors? They probably couldn't even begin to count how many times. The phrases are usually followed by some quick piece of advice or a story the kids can't relate to about the importance of getting an education, being careful, or getting a job. Most kids these days are concerned about their future and have a basic understanding of the importance of education. But do they understand how important education really is? Do they know how to avoid the problems that can prevent them from reaching their goals or how to deal with the problems when they occur? Are they supposed to learn those things at home, in school, or in the streets? Well, those are areas that should concern everyone as their children approach the age where they will be out on their own. High schools should be required to teach a mandatory "life skills" course as part of the curriculum. Specifically, the course should focus on obtaining financial security, learning self-protection, and dealing with the emotional traumas and pressures associated with adolescence.

First, let's look at financial security. Of course, all kids want to live the good life. According to a survey of teenagers by the University of Wisconsin Center for Action, over 80% of America's youth are worried about getting a good job and over 60% are worried about money or family finances (Small online).

In a speech before the Senate Budget Committee, Richard Riley, the U.S. Secretary of Education, said:

Education is the fault line between those who will prosper in the new economy and those who will be left behind. Most of today's good jobs require more skills and training that a high school diploma affords… By the end of the century, 89% of the new jobs created will require post-high school levels of education and only half of the people entering the work force are even nominally prepared for those jobs (Riley online).

Small, Steven. Issues Facing Teenagers in Today's Society. Online. University of Wisconsin Centers For Action. Internet. 22 Jun. 1997. Available: http://www.cyfernet.mes.umn.edu:2400/Documents/E/C/EC1005

United States. Dept. of Census. Vital Statistics of the United States. National Center for Health Statistics. Washington, D.C.: 1997

Paint Me A Picture  

     Since prehistoric times, humankind has attempted to find ways to translate thoughts and ideas into a more tangible form. Even before language existed, early cave dwellers would carve pictures and symbols on a wall in an attempt to describe or explain their world and their ideas to others. These early pictures and drawings eventually led to the more modern form of communication known as the written word. Even now, authors, poets, and writers of all kinds use much more than words alone to deliver their message to the reader. Most readers understand that the often used phrase, "say what you mean and mean what you say", does not always apply in literary works, regardless of the type of writing. Writers use various means to convey their ideas in written form, and the readers should read "between the lines" if they wish to fully understand what the writer is trying to express. Three of the more common methods used by writers are the setting of the piece, symbolism in the words, and stereotypical assumptions conferred on the reader. All of these literary conventions work together to "paint a picture" of the plot and moral to the story.

     The "canvas" the writer uses to set up the background to the story is the setting. The setting of a story or poem is often the first thing the reader encounters as he or she begins to read. The setting can be extremely important. The author uses it in an attempt to place the reader into the character's environment. In order to fully grasp the implications of the character's actions and thoughts, it is usually necessary to view the world through the speaker's eyes. In "Young Goodman Brown", the setting is in Salem, Massachusetts. The story begins at sunset as Brown leaves his young wife behind for an undisclosed journey. These two facts are related in the very first line of the story: "Young Goodman Brown came forth at sunset into the street at Salem Village; but put his head back, after crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his young wife" (Hawthorne 7). Of course, Salem is historically famous for its witch trials in the late 1600's. This commonly known fact, along with the approaching nightfall, lends the story an air of darkness and foreboding. The reader instantly wonders why Brown would be leaving his young wife to venture out after dark. The remainder of the story takes place in a forest, giving the reader even more signs of implied danger and mystery. Another example of the importance of setting is seen in "London", a poem by William Blake. The title itself describes the location of the speaker as he begins to tell his story. The first verse of the poem places the reader alongside the speaker: "I wander through each chartered street / Near where the chartered Thames does flow" (1-2). The reader becomes the speaker's companion as he travels along the city's streets, near the river, allowing the reader to see and feel what the speaker experiences during his walk. Another poem, "Incident", by Countee Cullen, puts the reader in Baltimore in the first verse: "Once riding in old Baltimore, / Heart-filled, head-filled with glee," (1-2). The reader is again prepared for an excursion through city streets, but this time with a sense of joy and anticipation. In all of these works, the physical location , as well as the era in which the story takes place, are important factors for readers to consider as they step out of their own world and into the world of the character and writer. Just as the environment affects an individual's actions and thoughts in real life, so it also affects the characters in a story or poem. It is important for a reader to understand this concept to obtain the full value of the writer's intentions while writing the story.

     Along with the setting, symbolism is commonly used to present an author's ideas in subtle ways. The writer uses symbolism to "color" the story or poem in bright or dark hues. This serves to reflect ideas and concepts back to the reader. Through symbolism, a writer may use colors, signs, names, or other literary devices to represent truths, virtues, ideas, or thoughts the reader is meant to grasp. Symbolism is commonly used in poetry, where the ideas expressed are usually more concise and condensed than in other types of writing. However, symbolism is an important aspect of all forms of writing and is used throughout literature to reveal subtle aspects of the plot. In "Young Goodman Brown", Hawthorne makes use of the character's names to represent deeper ideas than the name alone would describe. Faith, the name of the main character's wife, is intended not only to give her a name but also to represent faith in the spiritual context. In the story, his wife is the final object holding him back from surrendering to the Devil's persuasions: "With heaven above and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the devil!" (12). Brown feels that Faith, in the physical form as his wife and in the spiritual context of his belief system, will be enough to protect him from the Devil's influence. Later, when Brown thinks that Faith has been converted to a devil worshipper, he decides that there is no longer any reason to resist the Devil's temptations: "My Faith is gone!" cried he, after one stupefied moment. "There is no good on earth; and sin is but a name. Come, devil; for to thee is this world given" (13). Although he never truly loses his wife in the story, he does lose his faith in the inherent goodness of humanity and feels that the Devil's power is overwhelming and omnipotent. "The Red Convertible", by Louise Erdrich, makes effective use of color to represent the spirit of the Indian characters. The color, red, is often associated with native Americans. Additionally, the fact that the car is a convertible can be seen to represent the freedom it provided to the characters: "We went places in that car, me and Henry. We took off driving all one whole summer" (73). They traveled away from their sequestered Indian reservation to visit other locations and the car allowed them to see Indian life from a more natural perspective. William Blake also used color to represent ideas in his poem, "The Chimney Sweeper". He writes:

In that verse, he uses white to convey the idea of cleanliness and holiness. A good example of unusual objects used symbolically is found in Peter Meinke's, "Advice to My Son":

In that poem, the speaker uses flowers to represent beauty and joy and vegetables to stand for hard work, planning ahead, and seriousness of purpose.

     Finally, to add the final "shading" to the picture, many writers make use of the reader's natural tendency to stereotype individuals or circumstances. This can also serve as a "frame" for the portrait and drive home the moral to the story or poem. Stereotyping, used in conjunction with setting and symbolism, can strongly influence the reader's emotions and ideas. Stephen Crane uses this method superbly in his short story, "The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky". In this story, Crane plays strongly on the stereotypes the reader applies to life during the days of the "Old West". He takes common stereotypical views, turns them inside out, and plays them back to create a wonderful parody of how life would be in a very atypical western town near the turn of this century. The "hero" of this story, Sheriff Potter, who would normally be dressed in white, wears black instead. Conversely, the "villian", Scratchy Wilson, whom one would expect to wear black, dresses comically in colorful clothing and very unvillianous boots:

A man in a maroon-coloured flannel shirt, which had been purchased for purposes of decoration…And his boots had red tops with gilded imprints of the kind beloved in winter by little sledding boys on the hillsides of New England. (23)

This description certainly doesn't paint a picture of a dastardly criminal, but by taking a common stereotypical view and turning it around, Crane effectively adds humor to his story. Also, Sheriff Potter never even wears his gun, sneaks about town with his new wife, and lets Scratchy go in the end, even though Scratchy has threatened his life. Another, less humorous example of stereotyping can be found in the poem, "Incident". The speaker relates a story of a trip to Baltimore as a young child. While there, the speaker meets another child of similar size and age. The speaker is stereotyped by the other child who calls him a "nigger" reminding the reader of his or her own stereotypical views. This results in a profound effect on the child's recollection of the incident:

This experience forever colors the speaker's recollection of the trip in an adverse way to the extent that the incident is the only thing he remembers out of the entire visit. Stereotyping allows writers to make use of preconceived notions and sentiments the reader is likely to hold. Without being specific, the author can then produce the desired effect on the reader's emotional involvement with the story.

     Certainly, these are but a few of the many ways a writer can grab the attention and imagination of the reader. However, the use of setting, symbolism, and stereotyping are powerful literary tools. They are the writer's canvas, palette, brushes, and colors. Just like a more traditional artist, in both subtle and obvious ways, the author can then tell the story much more efficiently. In effect, the author uses those methods to "paint a picture" for the reader to view with his or her imagination. By doing so, another common saying: "What you see is what you get", can also be laid to rest. While it may be the responsibility of the writer to tell the story, it is the responsibility of the reader to understand and appreciate not just what the author or poet is saying, but also what he or she intends for them to take with them when the story is done.

Abcarian, Richard and Marvin Klotz, eds. Literature: The Human Experience. Sixth edition.

New York: St. Martin's, 1994.

Blake, William. "The Chimney Sweeper." Abcarian and Klotz 81.

----. "London." Abcarian and Klotz 83-84.

Crane, Stephen. "The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky." Abcarian and Klotz 18-26.

Cullen, Countee. "Incident." Abcarian and Klotz 109.

Erdrich, Louise. "The Red Convertible." Abcarian and Klotz 72-79.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "Young Goodman Brown." Abcarian and Klotz 7-17.

Meinke, Peter. "Advice to My Son." Abcarian and Klotz 122.

     One of the basic aspects of human nature is the desire to be accepted and loved by others. To achieve this objective, it is often necessary to conform to a certain way of thinking or acting. This conformity may take shape in the form of religion, political beliefs, or even lifestyle. However, other aspects of human nature often clash with this desire. The longing for justice, freedom, security, and happiness often lead people to rebel against authority or societal conventions. Unfortunately, the result of this rebellion may carry a high price tag. Death is often the result of rebellion against the established social order. But, just as there are different ways to live, there are different ways to die. Death may be physical, emotional, or spiritual. Many notable literary works focus on these different types of death.

     Of course, physical death may be the ultimate price of rebellion. Even so, if death occurs as a result of rebellion against an unjust circumstance, it may often bestow upon the victim a certain form of immortality. William Butler Yeats writes about just such a situation in his poem, "Easter 1916":

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name, (57-61)

In this poem, Yeats is writing about the death of the leaders of the Irish Revolution. Even though their rebellion against England's rule results in death, he lends to them a kind of forgiveness for their efforts. He feels that God will decide whether they were right or wrong while man's part is to remember them for their desire to fight for what they believed in. He goes on to name the conspirators and further drives home his thoughts on their rebellion:

While Antigonê rebels against a mortal law, she feels that the greater wrong lies within Creon's rebellion against the laws of God. In the end her belief holds true. Although Antigonê eventually commits suicide, her death also results in the suicide of Creon's son, who loved her, and the suicide of Creon's wife, who was broken hearted over their son's death.

     Physical death may have long reaching effects on those the rebels leave behind, but other forms of death can be just as devastating to an individual. A type of emotional death often comes to those who are oppressed by society's laws. Paul Laurence Dunbar examines this type of death in "We Wear the Mask":

Hughes is also writing about black Americans, but in this case, he speaks of their oppression in more modern times when their dreams of freedom are still being held back by society. In this respect, the deferment of their dream results in the inability of the speaker to perform sexually or to display adequate emotion.

     Although physical and emotional death can be the end result of rebellion, the most devastating result is spiritual death. Spiritual death can cause the victim to suffer through a living hell while awaiting physical death. In the poem, "Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane," Etheridge Knight explores the spiritual death of a convict. The main character, Hard Rock, has his spirit crushed by the authorities who perform a lobotomy and electro-shock therapy on him. Hard Rock becomes a shadow of his former self as a result of his rebellion against authority:

     Throughout all of these works, death is a common theme that results from the character's rebellion. While the death may present itself in different forms, one thing stands clear in every work. Death causes irrevocable changes in everyone it touches. Whether the final result is worth the ultimate cost is often left up to the reader to decide, just as it is in real life.

Abcarian, Richard and Marvin Klotz, eds. Literature: The Human Experience. Sixth edition. New York: St. Martin's, 1994.

Dunbar, Paul Laurence. "We Wear the Mask." Abcarian and Klotz 470.

Hughes, Langston. "Same in Blues." Abcarian and Klotz 481-482.

Knight, Etheridge. "Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane." Abcarian and Klotz 490-491.

Lennon, John and Paul McCartney. "Eleanor Rigby." Abcarian and Klotz 498-499.

Sophocles. Antigonê. Abcarian and Klotz 503-534.

Yeats, William Butler. "Easter 1916." Abcarian and Klotz 466-468.

     Othello is initially devoted and secure in his love for his wife. Little does he know that Iago, a trusted friend, is already hard at work conspiring to bring about his destruction. Iago feels slighted when Othello chooses another soldier, Cassio, to be his lieutenant. Iago, a master of deceit and manipulation, is consumed by his anger and begins to carefully construct a plot which will destroy both Othello and Cassio. Iago informs Desdemona's father, Brabantio, that Othello has eloped with his daughter. When Iago tells Othello that Desdemona's father is coming after him, Othello proudly speaks of his love for Desdemona:

…for know, Iago,
But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription and confine
For the seas worth… (I.ii.24-28)

Othello is confident that his feelings for Desdemona are true, and he has no fear of reprisal from her father. He refuses to hide from Brabantio and wants to face him to declare his love openly. When accused by her father of stealing her away with magic and potions, Othello stands before the Venice council to further proclaim his love:

I do beseech you;
Send for the lady to the Sagittary,
And let her speak of me before her father;
If you do find me foul in her report,
The trust, the office I do hold of you,
Not only take away, but let your sentence
Even fall upon my life. (I.iii.113-119)

Othello asks the council to let Desdemona speak for herself. He declares his willingness to resign his command and his readiness to face a death sentence should she speak ill of him. Iago continues to weave his web of deception by casually dropping hints that Desdemona and Cassio are having an affair. When Othello first hears these lies, he refuses to believe Iago: "I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; / And, on the proof, there is no more but this, / Away at once with love or jealousy!" (III.iii.190-192). Othello is so sure of his love for Desdemona, and of her love for him, that he insists on solid proof of her unfaithfulness. He will accept nothing less than tangible evidence of her betrayal. Devious Iago, predicting Othello's response, plants the evidence in the form of a treasured handkerchief Othello gives as a gift to Desdemona. He places the handkerchief in Cassio's room. Determined to bring about Othello's downfall, Iago continues to chip away at Othello's faith. Slowly but surely, Iago's plan begins to reach fruition. Othello's confidence and devotion begin to wane as the fabricated evidence mounts. His formerly abundant love now displays a darker face called jealousy.

     As jealous rears its ugly head, Othello's previous disposition to die to prove his love for Desdemona mutates into a desire to kill when he says, "I'll tear her all to pieces"(III.iii.432). His anger at her suspected illicit affair explodes into a hunger to destroy the very person he once worshipped: "O!that the slave had forty thousand lives; / One is too poor, too weak for my revenge"(III.iii.442-443). Othello wishes for Desdemona to have more than one life in which to exact his punishment for her betrayal of his love. He continues to rant and rave with regard to Desdemona's presumed treachery:

Arise, black vengeance, from the hollow hell!
Yield up, O love! Thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate. Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,
For 'tis of aspics tongues! (III.iii.446-449)

Othello totally divests himself of his amorous feelings. He draws upon the dark power of revenge to give him the strength to consummate the murder of Desdemona and her alleged lover, Cassio. Once convinced of Desdemona's crimes of the heart, nothing can persuade Othello to believe otherwise. Although she denies any wrongdoing when faced with his accusations, Othello refuses to give credence to her claims of innocence. She is shocked and dismayed over the change in the man who once would have given his life for her. However, Othello is not swayed and hurls threats at her:

Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin;
For to deny each article with oath
Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception
That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. (V.ii.54-57)

Othello wants Desdemona to admit her wrongs and tells her that swearing by her lies will do nothing to change his decision that she must die for her sins. Othello poisons Desdemona, then learns of Iago's plot from Iago's wife, Emilia. He realizes her cries of innocence were indeed genuine. Unfortunately, it is too late to save her. His jealous rage disappears but is quickly replaced by heartbreak and self-loathing over his fatal error in judgment. The third face of love is now revealed in Othello's pain.

     The loss of a loved one, under any circumstance, is difficult to endure. However, Othello's pain is greatly magnified since her death is by his own hand:

O! cursed, cursed slave. Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heavenly sight!
Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur!
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!
Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! (V.ii.277-282)

He begs to be punished in the most horrible ways for his decision to kill the woman he loves. His grief is fed by his anger over Iago's treachery. Although he wounds Iago, his greatest anger is directed towards himself as he says, "O fool! fool! fool!" (V.ii.324). In his soliloquy, Othello makes a request of those who will later write of his folly:

…I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then, must you speak
Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplex'd in the extreme;
of one whose hand
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away. (V.ii.340-347)

Othello does not want to be remembered as a valiant warrior, nor does he want his deeds to be exaggerated. Rather, he wishes to be thought of as one who loved too much and, blinded by that love, threw it away as a simpler man might unknowingly discard a treasure. As his pain and remorse reach their climax, Othello stabs himself, then speaks his final words to Desdemona, "I kiss'd thee ere I killed thee; no way but this. / Killing myself to die upon a kiss" (V.ii.357-358). Othello knows he can never forgive himself for his tragic mistake. Since he loved Desdemona before his jealous rage, he feels his only redemption can be to punish himself for her death and to die knowing that she loved him until the end.

     Although it is often said that love is blind, it is no more blind than the jealousy that can spring forth from its darker side. Through his pain, Othello learns of the danger of closing his eyes to reason and restraint in all things. Love may be blind, but the reflective glare from its many facets can often blind its victims as well resulting in tragedy and sorrow.

Shakespeare, William. Othello. Literature: The Human Experience. Sixth edition.
     Eds. Richard Abcarian and Marvin Kotz.New York: St. Martin's, 1994. 779-870.

By:
Charles L. East

The tramcar slipped through the wooded countryside in Belgium on an early and cold December morning, the windows frosted in the struggle to keep out the frigid air.
The lights of houses nestled in the distance flashed intermittently through the trees, and the thought came to mind….

"In Flanders Field…
how proud were they
whose forms beneath
the poppies lay…"

Arriving at Gare Central in Brussels, I purchased my ticket to Luxembourg. The air was filled with the sweet delightful fragrance of freshly baked waffles.
The train station was majestic in itself, almost regal in its ornate design. Sprinkled with shops that were still closed, coffee shops hissed with espresso machines serving people hot steaming coffee and waffles.

Boarding the train, the warmth of the car was pleasant and as the six and one half hour trip began, I accepted the brandy into my coffee offered by the passenger that shared the car with me. The distinguished gentleman poured it from a sterling silver flask that boasted his initials and with a polite smile asked, "American?" The brandy had added a wonderful flavor to the coffee and returning his smile, I replied simply,
"Oui…American."

Arriving at Luxembourg after five or six brandy's, I bid farewell to my companion and hailed a taxi that took me to The President Hotel. The room was large, warm and comfortable. The staff was courteous and expedient.
After a hot shower in the evening, I went to a French restaurant for an excellent and very elegant dinner. After an exquisite dessert, the garcon inquired if I would like coffee.
I answered, "Yes…with brandy."

He asked me why I was visiting Luxembourg, and I answered saying that I wanted to visit the grave of an American Soldier. His eyes grew wide when he said, "A grave? Of a soldier? Who is this soldier?"

He looked at me quizzedly and shrugged his shoulders when I said, "George Patton." I could not help smiling at his youth as he had no idea who this greatly loved and admired American hero was. Sipping the last of the heavily laced coffee, I gathered my gloves, scarf and umbrella and quietly thought to myself, scarcely fifty years had passed since this part of the world was embroiled in such a desperate struggle for freedom…returned and given by this great General and his illustrious Third Army.

Returned and given …at a great price.

I returned to the hotel and while going to sleep, reflected upon the allusion to reincarnation that Patton so adamantly believed…

"Through the travail of ages…
midst the pomp and toils of war,
have I fought and strove and
perished
countless times…"

Morning came early and my taxi was on time to whisk me away through the cold rain to the American Military Cemetery. I insisted that we stop that I might purchase flowers.

Having arrived at the cemetery, I buttoned up my trench coat and pulled the scarf tightly around my neck to fend off the bitter cold. Donning my gloves, I dismissed the driver and with flowers in hand, walked up to the massive iron gates that guarded this hallowed… Place of Honor.

The silent gray sky permitted a light mist to fall and the playful wind tugged at the chains of the towering twin flagpoles adorned with Old Glory. A tightness formed in my throat and a surge of pride swelled within me.

The only sound that could be heard was the flags slapping at the wind and the chains brushing against the metal poles. The silence itself was an aura of deep respect…the wind being the only intruder.

Walking between two highly polished inscribed granite pylons that proudly proclaimed the magnificent feats of the American Army in the Battle of the Bulge and the advance to the Rhine, there were flowerbeds, fountains and trees that beautified this sanctified ground as I viewed row after row of glistening white headstones that gracefully curved out of sight.

I had no idea where the General was resting but after recalling some reading about the General, that his wife Beatrice said that she would not transport his body home because George had told her that he wished to be buried beside his men that had fallen in combat, I knew where I could find him…. at the head of his troops…where he should be.

Standing in awe at the feet of this noble warrior, I solemnly placed the flowers on the marble squares that graced the front of the alabaster white cross that bore his name.

The drums of war silent, the trumpets call faded into oblivion and a glorious history, I recalled the last of his allusion to reincarnation…

"…As if through a glass
and darkly
the age old strife I see
where I fought in many guises
many names
but always
me."

I saluted the grave, the man, the courage and tenacity of which led his army victorious in its frenzied quest for freedom and peace.

Here in this Place of Honor, I had found the hero of my boyhood and as a man had sought his resting place to pay homage and respect.

Now my duty and dreams were fulfilled.

I respectfully snipped a cutting from the evergreen hedge and placed it in my pocket. It was the closest I could ever be to this great soldier.

The cold morning mist concealed the tears that welled up in my eyes…tears of gratitude, pride…and love. Freedom was our reward for his labor of war.

I felt as though I had touched the soul of George Patton, and I feel as though he had touched mine.

Walking back to the mammoth gates to leave, I recalled another thing the General had said…

"…. All glory is fleeting."

A Sleeping Hero

By:
Charles L. East

It was early morning in Unterfahlheim, Germany, when I drove to Ulm, a beautiful metropolitan city in the County of Wuertenberg, located in the romantic and tradition rich area of southern Germany.
Here the castles of Neuschwanstein, Linderhof and Hohenschwangau are found nestled in the craggy and breathtaking heights of the German Alps.

The city of Ulm is the birthplace of Albert Einstein. The Muensterplatz, a church of towering spires that reach into a fog shrouded morning, is in the center of the city. It's massive bells peal the time with uncanny accuracy and somehow survived the ravages of war.

Passing through the city, which is divided by the rush of the Danube River, my destination was the tiny hamlet of Herrlingen, where lying in repose was one of the greatest German Heroes of the twentieth century.
The grave of General Erwin Rommel, an aggressive, indefatigable and audacious soldier whose exploits in North Africa earned him the nickname, "The Desert Fox", and made him a legend among his enemies.

As Commander of the Afrika Corps, General Rommel applied Blitzkrieg tactics to warfare in the desert with a mastery that awed the British. Among the troops opposing him, his name became synonymous with success-so much that any British Soldier who performed well might be described as, "doing a Rommel."

The esteemed British Prime Minister Winston Churchill once addressed the House of Commons and paid a singular tribute to one of Britain's most determined foes by saying,
"We have a very daring and skillful opponent against us, and, may I say across the havoc of war, a great General!"

Born the son of a schoolmaster in the German village of Heidenheim, Rommel joined the army at the age of eighteen and won high honors for his courage and skill in combat against the French and Italians in World War One.

Almost three decades later, at the age of forty-five, Rommel was a Major General in the German Wehrmacht and was thoroughly ensconced as a national hero, not only to Germany…but also…to the rest of the world.

Many people do not know that although Rommel did not possess a pilot's license, he was an eager and confident amateur aviator who often took to the air for desert reconnaissance missions.
He held the German Knights Cross with Swords and Diamonds and the most coveted, "Blue Max," the highest decoration Germany could give, its equivalent being the American Congressional Medal Of Honor.

It must be said that Rommel was never a Nazi but a dedicated soldier of the regular German Army.
He was a soldier in every sense of the word, a man of honor and great dignity.
A German Officer and Hero.

His death was the resultant suicide imposed upon him due to his involvement in the plot to assassinate Adolph Hitler.

It was also largely due to the fact that as a National Hero of the German People and the rest of the world, jealousy reared its ugly head resenting this obvious fact of adoration, thereby insistent for his death.
Rommel was greatly admired by Lieutenant General George Smith Patton, an American Hero and Warrior, who was, in like kind….greatly admired by the Germans.

Rommel was a doting father and dedicated husband, never failing to write his wife, Lucy, every day.
His son, Manfred, is Mayor of the City of Stuttgart, Germany today.

On this foggy morning surrounded by pointed kieferbaum, I quietly approached the resting place of this great soldier. There were flowers freshly placed on his grave by former German soldiers who were now wrinkled and aged.

Comrades of an era long past… whose loyalty had never diminished or faded.
In their hearts and minds, Rommel still lives.

This American saluted his grave, a gesture of honor and respect…

to a Sleeping Hero.

“The Master”

It was the autumn of the year and having flown over the English Channel you could barely make out the Belgian coastline. It was raining gently and as I nosed the massive aircraft into descent for the approach into Brussels, I made comment that I wanted another weather report for our continued flight into Germany and finally Austria. The Alps were heavy on my mind and my concern grew as I could see lightning on the eastern horizon.

Departing Brussels, I asked flight control for a direct Nurnberg, which was granted and calculated arrival time to ensure we were able to maintain schedule. Everything looked fine. The weather was rapidly deteriorating and the rain became heavier and the light chop became more of a moderate turbulence. We were turned onto a heading to intercept the localizer, and when captured, began descent on the glideslope.

As we touched down in Nurnberg, I felt tired and having one more trip before being able to relax, I wanted to expedite the departure to avoid the weather that was forming over the Alps. I had done battle with the Gods of Weather before in this part of the world and didn’t relish another encounter. They seemed to enjoy using their weapons of wind, rain and barbed lightning. When it appeared that they were about to lose the battle, they would then employ the one weapon that is the greatest enemy of the pilot…fog.

Back into the air again, the aircraft nosed toward the East and climbed to engage in aerial combat one last time the awaiting spiteful Gods that had assembled all their might in greeting. Penetration of the front was violent and the aircraft pitched wildly as tremendous updrafts would grasp the plane and cause it to shudder under the strain. The radar painted thunder cells that were numerous and as the sweeping of the screen revealed their hiding places, I picked my way around them as the rain pelted the aircraft with a deafening roar.

Finally, the radio crackled the instruction to proceed direct to Freistadt for the arrival into Vienna and to arrive at this fix at fourteen thousand feet. We began the descent and the air seemed to smooth out somewhat as we approached the fix at the requested altitude. Center then had me contact Vienna approach control that directed me to Wagram for the ILS to runway 16. Turned again for an intercept heading to capture the localizer, when it became alive I banked the aircraft to 163 degrees and waited for the glide slope to activate. One dot above, gear down, landing checklist. We crossed the outer marker which is four and one half miles from the approach end of the runway and maintaining the ILS, could see the fog shrouded lights that challenged our arrival.The plane touched down and as I cleared the runway for the long taxi to the terminal, I was glad the flight was completed. Now for a hot breakfast, a hot shower and some rest.

The cockpit crew loaded into the waiting Mercedes Taxi that was to whisk us away to the hotel. Pulling up to the entrance of a magnificent hotel, the doorman assisted in unloading our flight cases and suitcases and politely carried them inside out of the misting rain that reminded me that the Gods had indeed been merciful and had withheld their terrible wrath.

Here we were in Vienna Austria…Once the center of the universe for the arts and music, mutually shared with Budapest. A land that breathed music and art surrounded by the majestic Alps topped with snow. A land of dignity and history steeped in science and glory. Strauss, Freud, the jealous battle of Salieri over the genius of Mozart who had won the favor of the king. A land that was the birthplace of Adolph Hitler.

The concierge greeted me with great respect and intense courtesy and began to apologize that one room was not available, and that if one of the flight crewmembers could wait an hour it would be forthcoming. He appeared surprised when I said to take care of my crew and that I would wait for the room’s availability. The bellman took the bags and as the crew disappeared into the elevator, I sat down at a table to await the time with patience. It was 5:30 in the morning and the lobby was empty.

The concierge came over and invited me to a cup of coffee and commented that it was very unusual that a Captain would wait and not take the room himself. He said it was refreshing to see that the ranking officer would put himself last. We began to discuss the weather and where we had originated the flight and for some reason began to speak of Cologne Germany. I told him that when I was in Cologne, I had intended to visit Bonn, as I knew it was the birthplace of Beethoven, and visit his grave. He commented further that he was surprised to see an American speak German so well and to appreciate classical music and the composers to the point of seeking their resting place. He was aghast when I answered his question of who my favorite composer was with the name Gustav Mahler, and stunned him more when I asked him where Mahler was buried. He told me that he would find out.

When I finally was able to go to my room, I had but just placed my flight case on the floor when the telephone rang. The concierge told me that Mahler was buried in the Grinzinger Friedhof and upon learning this, I instructed him to make a taxi available for an immediate departure. Taking the camera from my suitcase and not bothering to change clothes, I dashed down to the lobby and waving goodbye to the concierge, climbed into the back seat. The driver asked me where we were going and was surprised to hear the words Grinzinger Friedhof. He asked why were we going to a cemetery at 6:15 in the morning and I said to see an old friend. Let us stop to get some flowers, I added.

The massive iron gates were closed and the metal felt cold in my hands as I opened them to step inside. The sun had barely risen and the mist continued to fall as I walked on the moist pea gravel searching for his resting place. It was still and very quiet. The wind was hardly discernible and the stones reflected the dampness of the morning’s early light.Then a deeper silence pervaded the air…as though the Master himself had stepped up to the podium with baton in hand to call the orchestra to order. I saw his monument in the distance and walking to it marveled at the simplicity of it. No ornamentation like the flamboyant Strauss, no gilded statue standing in a frozen pose, just a massive stone of granite that rose to the height of eight feet…simply engraved…with the name…Gustav Mahler.

The stone reminded me of the strength of Mahler’s work and I could almost hear the opening strains of Mahler’s first symphony. The grass was wet as I placed the flowers at the base of his stone and standing there quietly, said a prayer. I thanked Mahler for his beautiful contributions to the world and felt diminished in his presence. The greatness of the man, here in soft repose, to be this close. A shiver ran up my spine and I felt as though he knew I was there in my gesture of tribute and honor to his glory. I took a piece of the boxwood there and put it in my pocket to be later dried and placed with reverence in the photograph that I would come to treasure. I had stood at the feet of The Master and in doing so came to
know him even more.

I turned to leave and after a few steps turned for one last look.

I softly said, “Goodbye my friend. The world will never forget you. Rest well.”

“Dancing With Ghosts”

I sometimes wander through veiled passages, adrift amongst dusty relics of a distant time. Moments to minutes, months to years...held captive by time's embrace, but still able to see the vague reflections of a younger man.

I walk through cold shadows and dance with solemn ghosts that have long since lost what feeble warmth they may have once had. The people I once thought would be lifelong companions…friends…lovers…are now just faded icons of a life that no longer exists. But old ghosts don't just go away even when exposed to the blinding light of a new and happier life. Sometimes they get angry.

They stand in those cold shadows with a crooked grin, displaying jagged teeth…reaching out with wispy fingers, hoping to find a gap in the armor I wear to protect me from just such an encounter. Rarely are they successful. I may feel a chill breeze as their frigid hands swipe past my face…a not so gentle reminder that so many things in life are temporary, all that glitters is not gold, and history repeats itself because it has nothing better to do.

But every now and then, usually when least expected and even less desired, they find a weak spot in the armor…perhaps an old scar that never healed properly lies just beneath…still tender, still painful…still…exposed. Then they gouge and pick and prod, sending sharply etched memories along pathways leading to fear.

What kind of fear?

…fear of loss, fear of waking up from a beautiful dream and finding myself still residing in some cold stark reality with no escape…fear of the one holding me wishing they were holding someone else…

…and the pain associated with those fears…the pain of feeling there are inadequacies within me that could lead my partner to seek what they need in someone else or to yearn for something that I cannot or have not provided.

Yes, the ghosts know just where it hurts; they know just what it takes to spin a web around my thoughts, trapping me in a vicious cycle of mistrust, loss of faith, and confusion. Suspicions arise from nowhere…words and statements are analyzed and dissected…acts of love are scrutinized for honesty and validity…motivations are questioned…

…so many elements of a normal, healthy display of love and tenderness from a partner are suddenly force filtered through an emotional microscope to discover any visible flaw or perceived lack of sincerity which might disqualify it from being accepted as truthful and meaningful.

It is an agonizing process to dance with these ghosts. The echoes of their footsteps stir up the dust of past mistakes, which then settles into the warm pool of contentment where I bathe, tainting the waters and poisoning the purity of what is the life-blood of any relationship: trust.

Trust…that oh so fragile, essential, and beautiful component of love that makes it whole. That which forms the cornerstone required for building an impenetrable fortress where love can safely reside. It is the strongest part of the strongest relationship and the weakest part of the weakest. The ghosts know this and know this well. To remove that stone, to push and pull and prod and chip away at this one vital piece of the architecture of love is to threaten the entire structure.

Once removed, even the strongest castle becomes nothing more than a house of cards…then the ghosts kick their emaciated heels together with glee because the damage…and their work…is done for another day.

But just before the dance ends, they lie.

They lean over and quietly whisper in my ear, words slithering from their fetid mouths like gelatinous snakes…telling the lie that has misled uncountable numbers of their dance partners of the past: "Trust must be earned and once it is gone it can never be rebuilt".

It plays so well and sounds so true and it is easier to swallow than warm honey. And it is poison, for life has taught me that trust can never be earned, it can only be extended towards another person. Once bestowed in this manner it must be well tended and cared for, true, but it can never be earned. For trust is nothing more than a humanized form of faith and faith isn't given TO someone…it is extended TOWARDS them. And once a trust is damaged it is not lost or broken, it is simply withdrawn. The one who was trusted cannot repair it; it can only be re-extended by the bestower since it never really left their possession.

So the ghosts dance, then they lie, then they slip silently back into the shadows to await the results of their handiwork. Waiting for that one strong breeze of discontentment to come along and finish the job.

And when the dance is over…the haunting music lingers and echoes a tempting invitation to continue the dance. The questions and fears…and pain…remain. Those discordant notes serve not only as unsettling reminders of the dance but ultimately, as a death toll for the soul of a love that has fallen ill.

Therein lies the dilemma…and the choice that only I can make. To believe…to trust…to have faith…to love… or to heed the ghosts pretending to be my protectors. To dance again the dance of the lost and damned.

I choose to love.

A.W.G.

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