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Near the end of his life, Keats spoke frequently of dying in his writings. While this may seem like an obsessive reflection on death, it is actual a rational reflection on life. By dwelling on the end, he was evaluating his life back to the beginning, searching for anything of worth. Everyone longs for their lives to have meaning; Keats longed to discover such meaning in his own life, fearing that he had little time to add anything to it.

Keats concludes in “When I Have Fears” that “Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.” After all his examinations of his life, neither abstract seemed adequate; he was not ready to die with just Love and Fame. They scarcely seemed to matter (sadly, he must not have truly known love, or else he might have treasured it more). Keats continued to see emptiness in all that he had managed to accomplish, and it tormented him.

Keats found his final hope and wrote about it in a poem he scrawled in the margins of a piece paper. In this poem, given the name “The Living Hand,” he decides that his lifeblood will carry on beyond his death—his writings will be his legacy. Satisfied that he has written at least enough, Keats settles for the hope that he will be known beyond his death. Yet, even this, his wish to be remembered posthumously when people read his works, does not seem sufficient to satisfy Keats’ thirst for meaning.

Keats knew that he would die, and with his death his part in his own story would end. He probably expected his life to end with death, with no more hope beyond. This is why he was forced to cling to the hope that he might merely be remembered. With this belief, he missed out on the meaning that he longed for. Keats longed for life, a life of purpose, yet he resigned himself to death. In the end, when Keats’ death came, his works were as meaningless to him as everything else he had discarded as worthless.

--Daniel

Was Frankenstein’s creature truly innocent? Is it just to place his crimes elsewhere, reflect them upon his creator, or even dismiss them completely? Laws are set in place to protect mankind—to preserve his freedoms, protect his rights, and provide order across the land. Foremost among the concerns of such laws is the preservation of human life. Was not the creature himself conceived with such a noble goal in mind? Yet, by his own choice, the creature defied this sacred institution and willfully slaughtered the innocent. Does not justice demand the guilt of this thing?

Was the creature insane, a mindless behemoth devastating the land? On the contrary, the creature possessed incredible capacity for intelligent thought, rational deduction, and eloquent speech. Moreover, he was instructed in the ways of right and wrong—he knew of the sanctity of life and the laws of men protecting it. Yet, driven by internal urges of anger and revenge, he overturned his own principles of love and protection and turned to destruction. Such a choice, by such a rational creature, cannot be the product of any external factor. Whatever outside forces influenced the creature, the choice was ultimately his and his crimes belong to him alone.

If the creature sought justice for himself, in doing so he fell short of the law. Even in the lawless capacity of a vigilante, he failed, for all his targets had no hand in the injustices he perceived to exist against himself. He became a murderer, and he did not stop murdering until the object of his hatred was dead.

Jealousy, hatred, revenge—these attitudes are deadly and destructive, and the creature willfully harbored and nurtured them all in his heart. Ultimately, they became the creature’s own misery and torment. Only when he had finished his crimes did the creature pause long enough to realize his guilt, and seeing that, to slip into despair and self-pity. He mourned at his creator’s side, feeling helpless to ever be forgiven for his crimes.

The creature’s repentance reflects his feelings of guilt (though it was intermixed with corrupt feelings of self-pity over his misery and the consequences he knew he must suffer). The creature’s feelings of guilt reveal the presence of a conscience, and therefore a soul. However it may have happened, and indeed it must have been by a force greater than the workings of Frankenstein’s experiments, the creature was born, like all humans, with a soul. Therefore, the creature must be judged with equality to mankind, knowing that he possessed the same knowledge of good and evil. He was a murderer and a criminal, and he knew it. Such a creature is not innocent.

--Daniel

The greatest shock to me so far in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein came, as most shocks do, when I least expected it—page 68, line 19: “said the daemon.” What surprised me was not the word daemon—though it is a word of frightening connotations—nor was it the sudden dramatic confrontation between Frankenstein and his creation. The shocking word was simply “said.” To me, this defied all expectations. The creature speaks? Furthermore, the creature (an expression that is thoroughly inappropriate, but I use it for lack of a better word, as neither Frankenstein nor his creation ever provides a proper name) speaks with fluent Victorian eloquence and a clear flow of rational thought and logical reasoning. Modern portrayals of Frankenstein (that is, Frankenstein’s creation) depict a staggering, mumbling Neanderthal obsessed with death and doom for all. Something was certainly “lost in translation.”

Shelley’s creature is different, and it plays a different part in her story than in the story that is told in modern times. Modern audiences expect gut-wrenching horror and violence; Shelley’s purpose was much deeper. Shelley’s creature is sympathetic, not psychopathic. Such a creature, new to the world and (at first) foreign to its corruptions, is a perfect object for hypothetical study. Despite Shelley’s original intentions to write a “ghost story,” Frankenstein became something different—a psychological thriller and an exploration of the human mind.

Frankenstein’s creature is a child. Despite his strength and stature, even despite the age of his half-decayed limbs, the creature’s spirit is young. Yet in a clever twist, as the creature is thrown into the world, it is not his flesh that is weak, but his spirit. By the conception of such a being, Shelley is able to spend chapters dedicated to exploring the process of “awakening” to reality and the reactions of a “new” being with no context for life. To further complicate the study, this new being has no home where it will not hated.

From this premise come themes of loneliness, innocence, corruption, and despair. These themes are strongest in the creature, but they penetrate the entire story. Every paragraph, every movement of the plot, is another exploration of Shelley into the minds and behavior of man. The focus of the novel isn’t the science or the fiction—these details are brief and fleeting. The focus of the novel is the mind of man—his psychology. That is why Shelley’s novel is classic, while the typical movies of a mumbling bolt-necked fiend remain “pulp fiction.” The classic Frankenstein movies fail to terrify because they focus on the wrong kind of fear. Shelley explores the mind and attempts to create a brief glimpse into its workings. By doing so, she succeeds where others failed to “awaken thrilling horror.”

--Daniel

Poetry has several dualities. The what of poetry can quickly be explained with terms like “verse” and “meter,” but the why is often unclear without examination. The why is the spirit of poetry, what separates good poetry from bad. When a poet has thoroughly considered why he writes, the what flows naturally. What is so often considered the essence of poetry, with the poet’s passionate self-expression and deep insight into the ways of the universe, is the result of the poet’s motivations—the why. So what is the “why,” the motivating force behind “real” poetry? That is where the dualities begin.

Is poetry written for pleasure or truth? Is it written for the poet, or for the reader? It could be either; it could be both. A certain level of vanity in every man inspires him to please others, and a certain level of pride inspires him to please himself. Every artist ultimately seeks to please himself with his work, yet no piece of art is truly complete without an audience to behold it.

Some poets do not aim to please at all, but seek to use poetry as a tool to express the truths of the universe. Yet, even in their bold claims of truth and philosophy, these poets must give in a little and also write to please. As true as a poem may be, if it is not pleasant to the ear and mind, it has failed to be a “true” poem.

A poet is not a god. He creates his own brief universe, but he is limited to reflecting what already is made. He is bounded rationally, unable to accomplish everything with just a few verses on paper. Therefore, he must confront the dualities of poetry, face the choices therein, and choose a strategy that best achieves his goal for his poetry. As the poet designs his grand scheme and realizes his purpose, true poetry is born.

For pleasure or truth? For self or for others? A poet must decide these things for himself, or else he is not a poet at all. Without a why, there is no what and there is no poetry.

--Daniel

In Don Juan, Lord Byron captures the essence of extreme romanticism, the ultimate extension of his poetic (and even life) philosophy. The hero of Byron’s poem is in fact ignoble—much like the “noble” lord himself. Romanticism is about violent passion, emotion, and whims. There is no room for morality or virtue there. Don Juan will not pause for reason—the Enlightenment is long past.

Marriage is struck down in an instant, to great contrast with the ideals of Jane Austen’s novels. Indeed, contrary to the themes of much of era before him, Byron openly explores themes of adultery, fornication, and divorce. Though Byron does not endorse these ideas, he does not refute them either. In fact, the story of the poem speaks hardly of anything else. This, combined with the lack of open condemnation of those immoralities, as well as the example of Byron’s own life, indicates an implicit celebration of immorality.

If romanticism is the rejection of reason for passion, Byron certainly captured its purest form. He depicts marriage as a prison to the young and beautiful; love is largely associated with “pleasure.” Devotion and honor fall prey to lust. Though Don Juan and Julia are caught in their sin, neither truly repents. Their lust lives on in memory, suppressed by society’s condemnation of their love (such is the impression: that their evil was only “evil” in the eyes of the community).

Tragically, if any little warning was intended by Don Juan’s example, Byron himself did not heed it. He lived a wild life, embracing his emotions and “romantic” fancies. Scandal pursued him, but Byron, like Don Juan, showed no signs of change or regret. In the end, Byron’s pursuit of his romantic dreams into revolutionary Turkey lead to his premature death—death by something so simple and unromantic as a fever. Romanticism and its core ideals of freedom and passion could not ask for a more fitting “martyr.” Byron lived romantically to the end.

--Daniel

Pandemonium certainly takes creative liberties with poets and their poems. Like the fate of most reality-to-film adaptations, truth is largely sacrificed for drama. However, there still seems to be a method to the (often quite literal) madness. The director seems to be sending a hidden message, a commentary on the nature of poetry. Such a message, an evaluation of the creative arts, requires creative and artistic expression itself.

The movie itself is very well-done. In fact, it had to be. If it wasn’t for the excellent camera work, acting, and editing, the movie would have held no credibility. In order for the movie to comment on the creative arts, it had to first prove itself worthy of those creative arts.

One of the movie’s main attributes is exaggeration. Coleridge is abundantly passionate, Wordsworth hopelessly skeptical, and Dorothy wildly romantic. Yet, all characters and events remain within the limits of believability. None of the characters are fake; their traits are just overemphasized. These superimposed characteristics serve the greater theme of the movie: the namesake, pandemonium.

The title Pandemonium alone explains much of the purpose behind the film’s methods of interpretation. The film presents an elaborate metaphor, a seemingly impossible connection between chaos and poetry. Indeed, Pandemonium seems like the least fitting title for a movie about poetry. Yet, Coleridge (that is, the Coleridge of the movie) becomes the visual embodiment of the two antitheses.

The movement of the movie follows the movement of Coleridge. His expressive gestures, wild ravings, doped reflections, and screams of helplessness all overpower the other characters. The camera obeys his emotions, remaining still or slow when Coleridge is peaceful and shifting to chaotic and wild when he is passionate. The camerawork becomes surreal when Coleridge is drugged, shooting from bizarre angles or moving in strange patterns. One scene shoots several shots upside-down, another constantly changes focus between foreground and background, and yet another spins the camera wildly until all becomes a blur. Coleridge and the camera both reflect pandemonium.

Woven between the frequent surreal moments, the movie has spoken poetry. Ultimately, the two are tied together, and the poetry arises from the surreal moments themselves. The final victory of the movie is the recitation of Kubla Khan, Coleridge’s masterful creation from under the influence of opium. For the sake of poetry, the poem will be published. At that moment, the message of the movie becomes clear—poetry and pandemonium are linked. The greatest inspirations arise from chaos; peace is born from pandemonium.

The turbulent character of Coleridge may not have reflected reality, but it reflected the message. Wordsworth’s reinterpretation served merely as a contrapositive. Through the two men, Pandemonium makes its point: the greatest poetry comes from beyond ourselves—it is not something we can grasp with our own power. Amidst confusion and turmoil, true inspiration is born. This is the reason for all the chaos of the movie itself: for the director to show what he believes great poetry really is.

Coleridge recollected that his vision for his poems in Lyrical Ballads was to present “incidents and agents…supernatural.” Coleridge believed that the supernatural in poetry is the greatest method of speaking the human spirit, inspiring “shadows of imagination” that only exist in the world of fantasy. The supernatural is the most universal in its themes, unbounded by real people or places, its only limits the experience and imagination of the listener. It has meaning in symbolism, which speaks to each heart differently, and does not suffer to be confined to a specific idea or event.

In particular, then, what is Coleridge’s meaning in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner? Besides a central appreciation for nature, the tale tells of redemption and forgiveness of sin. The slaying of the albatross is the sin of the mariner, a man symbolic of all people—a man poetically connected to the reader of the poem. Once his life is stained by sin, the mariner suffers continually. Although the specifics of his sufferings are impossible to relate to—indeed they are too fantastic to be real—the idea of his sufferings is real, for everyone has suffered and felt similar pain.

As supernatural and intense as the mariner’s punishment is, his protection and provision is equally so. Coleridge presents a message of hope, that no darkness is too strong, nor any sin unforgivable. The poem teaches faith in the protection of a greater Power, like the angelic spirits that attend the mariner. Once the mariner confronts his sin and repents, his burden is lifted, though the consequences follow him for yet a while longer. Despite all the mariner’s agony, the mariner finds forgiveness and redemption—finally delivered to his true home. This process of deliverance is real, however unreal the story may be. Thus, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a parable, a message of hidden truth.

--Daniel

It is amazing what inspiration there is to draw on from nature. Even more amazing is that time does not deplete the supply of inspiration. Instead, the more we discover, the more infinite the supply seems to grow. The source, or power of this inspiration comes from the sublime part of nature, the part that is more than beautiful. As we talked about in class, beautiful is pleasing to those who glance quickly, but sublime is capable of rousing true depth of thought and spirit in those who choose to look more closely.

Wordsworth grasped these ideas more than any other writer we have yet read. He explored the deeper into ideas and images, stirred by something more meaningful than seemed obvious. Wordsworth seemed to understand the idea that the greatest inspirations must come from something beyond self, beyond one’s own limited perspective. Many poets attempt to express their feelings or depict outward beauty of the world, but the most powerful poetry comes from tapping into what we have defined as “the sublime.” Such poetry is strong because it stretches beyond self. This seems to be Wordsworth’s goal, and may be the reason his poetry has continued to be popular, revealing its strength as people look more deeply into it.

Why is such poetry effective? What does the abstract idea of sublime have to offer? Poetry, in many ways, in an attempt to interpret, whether it is interpreting ideas, images, feelings, or philosophies. Poetry is expression, but that expression is limited to the individual perspectives of the poet. The poet can only write about what he can see, what he can comprehend. Yet, the sublime presents something that cannot be seen or comprehended. Nature contains mysteries that man have not solved. The effort to delve into these mysterious, to draw on the inherent inspiration in nature, to attempt to interpret the truths present within nature, is poetry that stretches into the sublime.

A man may stare at the stars forever, spouting off ballads of their luster and symmetry. However, he will never feel inner movement of spirit until he opens his eyes and sees how small he is, and how vast the universe is before him. His perspective will change, and with it his understanding. By experiencing truths beyond himself, he will experience the sublime.

--Daniel

A friend of mine, someone who had also read and studied Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, presented me with the following question: do Darcy and Elizabeth really change over the course of the novel, or is it their opinions and understanding of each other that change? An answer did not immediately come to mind, but the question interested me—it forced me to choose a side. Such a change, whatever the nature, is one of the key points of tension throughout the novel. Thus, the question is important to the plot. Furthermore, the change revolves around the characteristics of Darcy and Elizabeth themselves: pride and prejudice, the namesakes of the book.

The substance of the change is clear. At the beginning of the novel, pride and prejudice exist; at the end, they are overcome (at least within the two characters in question). Vices are replaced by love, and the romance is complete.

If such a replacement has indeed occurred, what, then, is the cause? Opinions and understanding definitely have some part in the process. Until Elizabeth read Darcy’s letter, which corrected her opinions of his deeds and character, she never could have imagined loving him. Darcy, too, thought little more of Elizabeth than “tolerable” until he began to notice her spirit and charm. Still, the two continued to make themselves distant from each other until they finally began to truly understand each other, especially after meeting at Pemberly. It seems as if their early conflicts were merely the effects of misunderstanding. This raises yet another question: were they really proud and prejudiced people, or did their attitudes merely cause this reaction towards each other?

In the novel, Darcy is most associated with pride; Elizabeth, with prejudice. Evidence of their actions confirms this, and the manifestations of these traits extends beyond Darcy and Elizabeth’s feelings towards each other. For instance, Darcy displays himself as proud before all of Meryton, and Elizabeth fosters inwards dislike for many characters in the novel, such as Miss Bingley and Mr. Collins. Thus, it seems that these traits are (or at least were) real members of Darcy and Elizabeth’s character. But do they change?

At the end of the novel, Elizabeth still shows prejudice towards some (e.g. Miss Bingley), and Darcy still maintains a certain level of pride—though it is “good” pride and nothing similar to conceit (as Darcy says, pride is acceptable “when there is a true superiority of mind”). Darcy, however, seems to have changed the most by the end of the novel, dismissing his vanity and pretense of importance for that gentlemanly behavior Elizabeth scolded him for lacking. Elizabeth, seems very much the same, though perhaps humbled for her foolish judgment of Darcy, and also entirely more understanding of the good man Darcy really is (or has become). Thus, the long-awaited answer is both. There was a mixture of changed feelings and maturing over time that opened the eyes and softened the hearts of the two lovers. The process was dynamic, as well as progressive; internal, as well as external. The result, however, was definite change.

--Daniel

Though I have heard we shall soon discuss the topic in class, my own curiosity has led me to ponder the idea of “marriage” as presented by Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Specifically, what intrigues me is the thoughts of marriage that Austen portrays her world to have. It seems sad, upsetting, and almost shameful that such a high, “distinguished” society as Romantic England should have had such a perverted perception of matrimony. Moreover, “love” was tossed about as a pretty word with little more meaning than “agreeable” or “like.”

Marriage, as we have already pointed out, was mercenary. It was a clever bid for money, name, and power. Admittedly, this still happens today, but perhaps not so often, or so widely accepted as the “way of the world.” The Romantic Era men and women saw each other as either a prize or a gamble, and thus proceeded to seek out the prized, masquerading behind high-bred manners with either false humility or overgrown pride. Financial motives persisted in the conscious mind, however, and were mutually expected, regardless of outward civilities. In this way, marriage became a petty business transaction—a “good move” for any investor.

Such a mindset is depressing—especially when the disease is so widespread. Society effectively killed the joy and the meaning in marriage. Why not just pool fortunes and call it a “trust”? Marriage is supposed to be more. It is mutual love, real love, selfless love, and committed love. Both give themselves and gain twice more in return. Not only do they become happy, they become joyful. Could the arranged, schemed, and contracted marriages of the past do the same?

Look at Mr. Bennet. He seems amused, often entertained, but more often annoyed by his wife. What about Mrs. Collins? She is satisfied—though not with her husband, but with her financial security. Mrs. Hurst? Her husband hardly seems pleasing—he only eats and plays cards. Even Mr. Collins only fancied himself in love to fulfill his deeper design to marry somebody. Some seem happy, few content, and none joyful.

Jane Austen seemed to be one of the first to finally understand and then write about the cultural mockery of true marriage. As far as I can yet tell, Pride and Prejudice brings the issue to light by first showing the way things are, and second, presenting a hope for something better, the way things should be. Austen hoped to remind the world that marriage is a matter of the heart. That is the exact place where society went wrong.

--Daniel

As a man experiencing Jane Austen for the first time, I have been captured by her brilliant writing. Before delving deep into Pride and Prejudice, I expected a reasonably enjoyable tale, allegedly “well-done,” as are all works by “famous” authors forced upon students of literature. The setting of the novel did not impress me in particular, nor did the fact that the novel itself was a popular romance that, in many cases, women tend to enjoy more than men. However, these self-conceived strikes against the novel quickly vanished as I read further.

My admiration comes first from Jane Austen’s delightful command of language. Austen’s writing style is mostly brief and to-the-point, a mixture of deep analysis with sentences that are sometimes presented so surprisingly terse and matter-of-fact that it produces a comical effect. Her chapters are brief and successive, creating a flow of reading that is interrupted just often enough to renew my attention, yet held long enough as not to disturb it. Austen’s language is not overly flowery or ornate, but the right word appears at exactly the right time. Overall these qualities do indeed mark Jane Austen as a good writer, and they mix together in her novel to produce something that is aesthetically enjoyable to read.

What I find most enjoyable, though, about Pride and Prejudice is Austen’s insight into the mysteries of human nature. Jane Austen’s analysis of human behavior, both by exposition and by dialogue of the character’s themselves, rings true in a ways that surpass her generation and find equal meaning in mine. I had heard before that Austen’s novels contained such qualities, but I had subconsciously dismissed the praise as something that “all good writers do.” I stand corrected. Many writers may attempt to “do” the same, but Jane Austen surpasses them.

The natural result of such insight is a remarkable depth of character. The key roles of Pride and Prejudice and so clearly defined that they are more than just characters I can “connect with”—they are characters that truly act like real people. Each character’s personality is so clearly depicted, and each character so consistent to his own personality, that I found myself close to predicting how each character would act. They no longer appeal to me as merely tools that “move the story forward” (an underrating definition of “character,” in this case); instead, they interest me as unique personalities to study and observe. They are so real, they are even comical, and Jane Austen’s wit and sarcasm make them yet more laughable and entertaining.

Therefore, hidden beneath the simple, flowing pages of Pride and Prejudice, there is a deeper, binding art that captures me. The simple elegance and ease of reading are further complimented by insight and characters that come alive with Austen’s masterful skill. It is this second tier to Austen’s writing, the almost philosophical quality, that makes it remarkably pleasing to read.

--Daniel

After reading numerous selections concerning the rights of women, it was refreshing to come across one selection that held a slightly different perspective. Hannah More, in her Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education, approaches the issue with much more reserve and caution than the passionate and radical Mary Wollstonecraft. I found I agreed with More more than anyone else.

Let me pause here to make a clarification. I completely support women’s equality. Up until even the last hundred years or less, men committed many evils in the exercise of their “superiority.” Many monuments are now made in the name of women’s rights. Therefore, it is difficult to fully evaluate the stances of writers such as Wollstonecraft and More because we live in a new era that cannot fully comprehend the problems of their age. These things in mind, it is not the cause itself, but some methods, or rather, the attitudes, of its implementation, that I disagree with. Both Wollstonecraft and More were heroes and pioneers of the cause, but More seemed to grasp the issue best.

More acknowledges that “…there can be no happiness in any society where there is a perpetual struggle for power…” No side, whether man or woman, should strive to “overcome” the other. This is where the men of the past were at fault, taking advantage of their natural role and extending it through law and statutes to maintain absolute authority. This struggle for power sparked conflict and discontent—clearly not desirable results. At the same time however, More was speaking to the women’s rights advocates, warning them that, in their quest for equality, they do not overreach their goal and pursue superiority of their own, thus reversing the roles. The key is that no one gender pursues superiority over the other. A perversion in either direction is unnatural.

More’s key point that led me to favor her over Wollstonecraft was that there are differences between the genders beyond their physical constitution (which is all that Wollstonecraft will yield). More says, “Each sex has its proper excellences, which would be lost were they melted down into the common character by the fusion of the new philosophy. Why should we do away distinctions which increase the mutual benefits and enhance the satisfactions of life?” There are certain qualities of the female identity, and certain qualities of the male, which are a part of their soul, their nature. These differences are not competitive, but cooperative. In the end, when each gender fulfills the roles it performs best, both sides benefit. All competition melts away and unity is the natural result.

More wittily comments, “As to men of sense, however, they need be the less hostile to the improvement of the other sex, as they themselves will be sure to be gainers by it…” The truth is, this goes both ways. There are male functions and there are female functions, and there are multitudes of functions shared by both. The key is to determine which are which, and to encourage each other in them, at the same time not denying those rights inherent in all. In the end, all “will be sure to be gainers by it.”

--Daniel

Burke, Paine, and Wollstonecraft all present different opinions about the French revolution. Although in retrospect it is easy to evaluate the French revolution as a whole, each of these three authors touches rather on the central nature of the revolution itself, its nature from its very beginning. Their main disagreement seems to be about the motivation behind the revolution, which hinges largely on the concept of equality. The debate seems to arise from a discrepancy in the definition of terms, specifically the word “equality.” This brings to mind the following question: equality of what?

All men are not born equal. Burke makes this point clear in his essay. Burke takes this a step farther, however, to say that men should make no attempts to change their equality with other men, all for the sake of tradition. Paine reacts to this violently, arguing that the traditions of dead men should not govern the living. Wollstonecraft also puts forth a differing argument that all people are, in fact, equal. These writers cannot all be right—or can they? The answer lies in the definition of terms.

Burke’s view of equality seems to be that of social equality (made clear by his idea of a “social contract”). Men and women are born into different social ranks, a natural result of the unequal distribution of wealth. With this definition of equality in mind, Burke sees the revolution an attempt by the poor to wrongfully force social equality to exist among themselves, all accomplished by dragging down those who are socially “higher” than them.

Paine, on the other hand, seems to focus more on political equality. His view of equality is that all men should have an equal influence on the workings of government and thereby the right to remove and replace it should that government fail. From this perspective, the revolution is an act of the people exercising their equal right to displace a corrupt government. In Paine’s view, there can be no perfect government, so an event such as the revolution is the only way to preserve political equality.

Wollstonecraft’s meaning of equality seems to be the deepest. While she obviously promotes social and political equality, her main notion of equality seems to be that of inherent equality. In other words, she believes that all people, men and women, rich and poor, have the same inherent rights. This is the same thinking that birthed the famous phrase “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.” From this perspective, the revolution is seen as the restoration of the rights and freedoms of the people, the escape from oppression and the opportunity to exercise equality—equality of rights.

All three writers touched on truth and made important points. Each of them also evaluates the revolution from different perspective of equality. In the end, none of them was completely right, and none was completely wrong. Their seemingly conflicting arguments actually do not conflict at all when it comes to equality. The conflict lies with the definition of terms.

--Daniel

This blog is the result of my puzzling over the three different responses to the French revolution. I have my own opinion about the revolution, but I found myself agreeing and disagreeing with the points of every writer. Once I was able to define for myself the different angles the authors were coming from, I found that I agreed with more than I realized. The end product of my internal ponderings: this blog.

(Please note: for some reason, the indentations for my paragraphs disappeared when I posted the blog. For this reason, I put spaces between each paragraph to make it easier to read)

Hello everybody. So, here it is: my livejournal. w00t. Here's a little blurb so you all can get to know me a little better:

I'm a CM Major, so I like both computers and art. To me, art includes all things creative, from music to theatre. Writing is a hobby that I rarely actually *do*, so this livejournal is a good excuse. Besides artistic things, I enjoy video games and making them (which I consider another form of art). Other than that, Cya'll round!

--Daniel