They say that there are people who are born to be natural writers. Is this really true? Is it really the person inside that speaks to the reader or rather the circumstances around the writer that pulls that inner stomach for more hunger? Is it a natural characteristic or an influence? What if F. Scott Fitzgerald never struggled? Had gone to the wrong school, met the wrong people, became a man other than the renowned author in history? Would he be considered a lost opportunity? Would Basil ever hear his name? Would Gordon ever discover his most elaborate drawing? Would Amory ever find who she is? If Fitzgerald was born a writer, were the ink-shaped lives born with him? Before he could have even see the light of day, could he have created a literary lantern paving the inspiration of generations to come? Would we still talk about him? Could he be analyzed, discussed, and quizzed upon? If he looked within the mirror, would he see a clean cut man? Or would he see those eyes? Would his eyes call out to himself? What legacy, if any, could he leave behind? What would happen to the drunken words that trembled through his veins? Could they have belonged to somebody else, to be discovered in another day, year, century? Could I write this now? Could you still read this in disgust? Could you ever wonder these questions, pondering to no end as to why they exist?
Fact: Fitzgerald was a writer.
Sacrificing yourself is hard to do. The word sacrifice itself brings feelings of reluctance into the mind. It is giving up what you have, to benefit others of what they don’t deserve. It’s important that they don’t deserve it, because if they did deserve your payment, then it would not be sacrifice at all. It would be merely “giving back” or “making amends”. No, sacrifice is much more profound than a simple debt owed. It is disregarding instinct and following a sense compassion within you. Or rather, can it also be instinctive? An instinct to jump the fire, to save the innocent, to save the guilty. The selfless act of Giovanni’s elephant mother. Some could say she’s implied to take the bullets, because she’s a mother. But what has the baby elephant ever given to her, to deserve the cost of her life? It is a sacrifice. We often hear of sacrifices made in society today, but just how many of them were made from selfless intent? How many are for our own benefit? Although the only difference is in the change of mindset, the true intention of an action will reflect upon its results. Whether by a random decision by the whim, or a true act of care and love, a pure intentioned life that puts others before itself can only benefit this world of selfish ambitions. It is going against the current of hypocrisy and self-greed. A fish against the river. A leaf against the wind. A dying against death. A mother against a bullet.
The human mind is a clever being. It can sometimes trick itself into thinking what isn’t true. Whether it’s for an idea of neglect or refusal to accept the truth, this convincing mechanism can obscure the mind from seeing what it really sees. A common example of this at work is the occurrence of the passing away of a loved one. More commonly known as denial, a person refuses to receive that they’ve lost something they loved. In a sense, it is a defensive response in order to protect his or her special person. This trickery that the mind plays is used to keep that person alive for just a few more fleeting moments. Although the person’s eyes could have seen the person move on from life, or clearly hear the news of their death, their mind and feelings override the logical concrete truth.
Dimmesdale publicly reveals his sin to the town. He stands atop of the scaffold brandishing his own scarlet letter upon his chest. Despite his physical proof and own verbal proclamation of his faults, the town continues to revere him and even claim to themselves that had not seen the scarlet letter. Society had fallen for a trap that Dimmesdale was imprisoned in for the last 7 years of his life. In a sense, this also seems to be a form of mob mentality. People believe as society wants them to believe, that their minister died a lasting death to demonstrate society the wrongs of sin, rather than the truth of a man fallen too deep into his self-pleasures, trying to desperately reclaim a fragment of his integrity.
Outcasts are what make up society. They define society’s characteristics and features. Without outcasts, we would all be a huddled mass of conformists. Originality would only come once. Outcasts are the backbone, creating new thoughts and opinions that branch out into society. Ironically, their definition is that they are rejected society, meaning society is built upon their own judgement.
Hester is first seen as a dirty adulterer. She is obviously outcasted by the scarlet letter upon her chest. The townspeople, as a society, shuns her to the most shameful part of the town. Despite her otherwise righteous deeds, the town only sees her for what is worn upon her chest. Gradually, the town begins to see her in a new light, they begin to see her as an amazing craftswoman who really only has true intentions for the well being of others. Hester represents the beginning against the conformed Puritan values. She has a new sense of righteousness that is also shown through the innocence of her daughter, Pearl. Pearl shows the continuation of Hester’s outcast qualities, newborn and ready to grow. Pearl represents the new generations to come that will follow Hester’s forbidden footsteps; a jubilant new birth upon a world of stark bleakness.
They say that there are people who are born to be natural writers. Is this really true? Is it really the person inside that speaks to the reader or rather the circumstances around the writer that pulls that inner stomach for more hunger? Is it a natural characteristic or an influence? What if F. Scott Fitzgerald never struggled? Had gone to the wrong school, met the wrong people, became a man other than the renowned author in history? Would he be considered a lost opportunity? Would Basil ever hear his name? Would Gordon ever discover his most elaborate drawing? Would Amory ever find who she is? If Fitzgerald was born a writer, were the ink-shaped lives born with him? Before he could have even see the light of day, could he have created a literary lantern paving the inspiration of generations to come? Would we still talk about him? Could he be analyzed, discussed, and quizzed upon? If he looked within the mirror, would he see a clean cut man? Or would he see those eyes? Would his eyes call out to himself? What legacy, if any, could he leave behind? What would happen to the drunken words that trembled through his veins? Could they have belonged to somebody else, to be discovered in another day, year, century? Could I write this now? Could you still read this in disgust? Could you ever wonder these questions, pondering to no end as to why they exist?