Naturalism – Flashcards

McTeague is a dentist of limited intellect from a poor miner's family, who has opened a dentist shop on Polk Street in San Francisco. (His first name is never revealed; other characters in the novel call him simply "Mac.") His best friend, Marcus Schouler, brings his cousin, Trina Sieppe, whom he is courting, to McTeague's parlor for dental work. McTeague becomes infatuated with her while working on her teeth, and Marcus graciously steps aside. McTeague successfully woos Trina. Shortly after McTeague and Trina have kissed and declared their love for each other, Trina discovers that she has won $5000 from a lottery ticket. In the ensuing celebration Trina's mother, Mrs Sieppe, announces that McTeague and Trina are to marry. Marcus becomes jealous of McTeague, and claims that he has been cheated out of money that would have been rightfully his if he had married Trina. The marriage takes place, and Mrs Sieppe, along with the rest of Trina's family, move away from San Francisco, leaving her alone with McTeague. Trina proves to be a parsimonious wife; she refuses to touch the principal of her $5000, which she invests with her uncle. She insists that she and McTeague must live on the earnings from McTeague's dental practice, the small income from the $5000 investment, and the bit of money she earns from carving small wooden figures of Noah's animals and his Ark for sale in her uncle's shop. Secretly, she accumulates penny-pinched savings in a locked trunk. Though the couple are happy, the friendship between Marcus and Mac deteriorates. More than once the two men come to grips; each time McTeague's immense physical strength prevails, and eventually he breaks Marcus' arm in a fight. When Marcus recovers, he goes south, intending to become a rancher; before he leaves, he visits the McTeagues, and he and Mac part apparently as friends.

Catastrophe strikes when McTeague is debarred from practising dentistry by the authorities; it becomes clear that before leaving, Marcus has taken revenge on Mac by informing city hall that he has no license or degree. McTeague loses his practice and the couple are forced to move into successively poorer quarters as Trina becomes more and more miserly. Their life together deteriorates until McTeague takes all Trina's domestic savings (amounting to $400 or roughly $10,000 in 2010 values) and abandons her. Meanwhile, Trina falls completely under the spell of money and withdraws the principal of her prior winnings in gold from her uncle's firm so she can admire and handle the coins in her room, at one point spreading them over her bed and rolling around in them. When McTeague returns, destitute once more, she refuses to give him money even for food. Aggravated and made violent by whisky, McTeague beats her to death. He takes the entire hoard of gold and heads out to a mining community that he had left years before. Sensing pursuit, he makes his way south towards Mexico; meanwhile, Marcus hears of the murder and joins the hunt for McTeague, finally catching him in Death Valley. In the middle of the desert Marcus and McTeague fight over McTeague's remaining water and, when that is lost and they are already doomed, over Trina's $5,000. McTeague kills Marcus, but as he dies, Marcus handcuffs himself to McTeague. The final, dramatic image of the novel is one of McTeague stranded, alone and helpless. He is left with only the company of Marcus's corpse, to whom he is handcuffed, in the desolate, arid waste of Death Valley.

People don't have much control over their fate in Naturalist fiction. Things happen to them, and no matter how hard they try to fight their circumstances, or overcome obstacles, they're often just... doomed. In this regard, Naturalist fiction tends to be quite deterministic. Naturalist writers believed that we are shaped by our environments, and by our inherent nature. We can't escape them. We can run, but we can't hide. And because we can't escape our social and biological conditioning, we have much less control over our destiny than we may like to think. Dang.

The glass is totally half empty, guys. If we're looking for happy endings, then we'd better be prepared for disappointment; we won't find many of those in Naturalist literature. What we will find is lots of unhappy endings, and lots of tragedy. The reason Naturalist fiction is so pessimistic is because, as we've mentioned, Naturalist writers are pretty deterministic. They believe that we can't escape our circumstances. If we come from a background of poverty, for instance, we're unlikely to end up in a good place. If our mommy was an alcoholic, then we'll probably also end up as alcoholics. In other words: we readers better have our handkerchiefs (and pints of ice cream) handy. Things never turn out well in Naturalist fiction.

Nope: this is far more depressing than figuring out whether you have your dad's nose or your mom's ears. Naturalist writers were very interested in what we inherit in terms of our human nature. Science is now telling us, for instance, that there are certain genes that may affect how happy or sad we are, and whether we have tendencies toward depression or addiction. Way before scientists began making links between our genes and our personalities, Naturalist writers were interested in heredity and human nature. In their fiction they explored how certain personality traits and characteristics are passed on from one generation to the next.

Oof. This poverty goes way beyond having to eat beans and rice for a while in order to save up for new boots. Poverty, Naturalism-style, is about having no boots, no beans, and no rice. Poverty is a big theme in Naturalist fiction. We'll find a lot of Naturalist works about characters who live in poverty or who come from a background of poverty. The reason Naturalists were so interested in poverty is that it's an environment of extremes. If we don't have enough clothes, or food, we exist in a state that puts a lot of pressure on us. The Naturalists were interested in what happens to people when they exist in situations of deprivation, like poverty.

As we've mentioned, the Naturalists were influenced by the theories of Charles Darwin. Chucky D's evolutionary theory revolved around the idea of the survival of the fittest: the strongest animals outlive the weakest animals. Sometimes they even eat 'em. Delicious. Survival is also a big theme in the work of Naturalists. Naturalist fiction explores how people do or don't survive. It takes Darwin's idea of "survival of the fittest" and applies it to human society. Naturalists like to grapple with questions like: Who survives in society? Who fails to survive? And why?

In 1859 Charles Darwin published a little book called On the Origin of Species. This book would change the face of science and religion. In the book, Darwin showed that species developed through evolution. He also showed that the evolution of species was all about the struggle for survival. Darwin's ideas were hugely influential on the Naturalist writers. His scientific approach to the study of species influenced the way they saw and wrote about society. Society, according to them, was one big jungle where different "species," or types of people, were trying to survive and thrive.

The story opens with Jimmie, at this point a young boy, trying by himself to fight a gang of boys from an opposing neighborhood. He is saved by his friend, Pete, and comes home to his sister Maggie, his toddling brother Tommie, his brutal and drunken father and mother, Mary Johnson. The parents terrify the children until they are shuddering in the corner. Years pass, the father and Tommie die, and Jimmie hardens into a sneering, aggressive, cynical youth. He gets a job as a teamster, having no regard for anyone but firetrucks who would run him down. Maggie begins to work in a shirt factory, but her attempts to improve her life are undermined by her mother's drunken rages. Maggie begins to date Jimmie's friend Pete, who has a job as a bartender and seems a very fine fellow, convinced that he will help her escape the life she leads. He takes her to the theater and the museum. One night Jimmie and Mary accuse Maggie of "Goin to deh devil", essentially kicking her out of the tenement, throwing her lot in with Pete. Jimmie goes to Pete's bar and picks a fight with him (even though he himself has ruined other boys' sisters). As the neighbors continue to talk about Maggie, Jimmie and Mary decide to join them in badmouthing her instead of defending her. Later, Nellie, a "woman of brilliance and audacity" convinces Pete to leave Maggie, whom she calls "a little pale thing with no spirit." Thus abandoned, Maggie tries to return home but is rejected by her mother and scorned by the entire tenement. In a later scene, a prostitute, implied to be Maggie, wanders the streets, moving into progressively worse neighborhoods until, reaching the river, she is followed by a grotesque and shabby man. The next scene shows Pete drinking in a saloon with six fashionable women "of brilliance and audacity." He passes out, whereupon one, possibly Nellie, takes his money. In the final chapter, Jimmie tells his mother that Maggie is dead. The mother exclaims, ironically, as the neighbors comfort her, "I'll forgive her!"

The impetus for the misery the characters endure in the novel is the abject state of poverty in which they live. Their tenement is inhabited by "true assassins" who prey on anyone in their path. Nearby "a worm of yellow convicts . . . [crawl] slowly along the river's bank." The Johnsons' building "quivered and creaked from the weight of humanity stamping about in its bowels." In this atmosphere, children like Maggie's younger brother Tommie die. Family life is destroyed as Mr. And Mrs. Johnson drink themselves into oblivion to escape the reality of their lives and then take their drunken wrath out on their children. The streets become schoolyards where Jimmie and his friends learn how to foster within themselves the brutality they must endure. Maggie's dreams of escaping her impoverished existence lead her to the mind-numbing work at the collar and cuff factory and eventually to Pete. When Pete and her family reject her, she is forced to prostitute herself in order to survive.

The atmosphere of the novel breeds a moral hypocrisy as the characters struggle to justify their own immoral actions. Mr. Johnson yells at his wife to stop always "poundin' a kid" after he has just savagely kicked Jimmie in an attempt to break up the street fight. Mrs. Johnson, who is more brutal to her children than her husband, declares Maggie to be a disgrace to the family and questions "who would t'ink such a bad girl could grow up in our fambly." Jimmie, who has abandoned many young women in the same manner as Pete has done with Maggie, declares that he will kill Pete for his treatment of her. Yet, he wonders only "vaguely" whether "some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. Nevertheless, his mind did not for an instant confuse himself with those brothers nor his sister with theirs." A subtle social hypocrisy is revealed in Maggie's relationship with Pete. Survival for men in this atmosphere depends on them gaining an exaggerated sense of their own superiority coupled with an attitude of complete independence. That avenue is not open for women like Maggie, whose only escape is through utter dependence on a man. Ironically, when she adopts the illusory vision that Pete promotes, she loses her own sense of herself and as a result reduces her standing in Pete's eyes. When her family turns her out because of the neighborhood's condemnation of her relationship with Pete, she is forced to become what they insist she already is and always has been. Her inability to endure this life prompts her to commit suicide.

Maggie: A Girl of the Streets has more bruises, scrapes, punches, and flying objects than a Bruce Lee movie and a Bruce Willis movie combined. There is violence from beginning to end, and it comes in all shapes and sizes—it's an inevitable part of life in the Bowery. Whether Mary is beating Jimmie because she finds out he's been fighting, Jimmie's seeing red as pedestrians cross the street, or Mary's meeting her maker, nobody escapes the anger-fueled ways of tenement life in this era. Here, violence is as normal as eating, sleeping, and going to work.

The small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore. They began to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with sobs. The other little boys clasped their hands and wriggled their legs in excitement. They formed a bobbing circle about the pair. (1.29) It doesn't take a child therapist to figure out this is not what children should be doing. Crane uses elevated language to describe these little scrappers, calling them "combatants," but still showing they are small children mixed up in a horrible world of violence.

Male self-esteem in Maggie: A Girl of the Streets is all about displays of masculinity. But we're not just talking about flexing muscles and talking smack—we're talking about brutal violence, protecting territory, and defending reputations. To be a man in this book is to be violent. Needless to say, then, the Bowery is not a woman's world at all. The only women we really see are drunkards, entertainers, and prostitutes. The ladies are either stuck in the house or out working in unbearable conditions, hoping they can hack it in a man's world.

Down the avenue came boastfully sauntering a lad of sixteen years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal manhood already sat upon his lips. His hat was tipped with an air of challenge over his eye. Between his teeth, a cigar stump was tilted at the angle of defiance. He walked with a certain swing of the shoulders which appalled the timid. (1.11) Here's Pete, Shmoopers. This first image is an indelible one, and as the description makes clear, he is one hundred and ten percent man, even at the age of sixteen.

Maggie: A Girl of the Streets is not a hopeful novel. Instead, it's a gloomfest. In various ways, Crane indicates that the characters are doomed to live lives of poverty and misery. Maggie is the only one who seems to care about making it out of the ugly world of the Bowery—and therefore the only one interested in escaping her fate—but she's completely unable to do so. Everyone in this book is stuck in the cycle of violence and poverty, and while no one makes it out, the ones who survive do so by adapting instead of resisting their reality.

The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle. She grew to be a most rare and wonderful production of a tenement district, a pretty girl. (5.1) Maggie has no say in turning out pretty. We can see her "rare" prettiness as a metaphor for her not fitting in among the tenement crowd—and since she can't help being pretty, we can also say she can't help not fitting in.

To her the earth was composed of hardships and insults. She felt instant admiration for a man who openly defied it. She thought that if the grim angel of death should clutch his heart, Pete would shrug his shoulders and say: "Oh, ev'ryt'ing goes." (6.12) Maggie is the only one who ever expresses a shred of hope, but unfortunately for her, she sees Pete as her way out. Pro tip: When exercising free will, it may be best not to hitch your star to someone else's wagon. It's kind of not the point.

Welcome to life on the Lower East Side of New York at the turn of the 20th century. Maggie: A Girl of the Streets is full of beggars, over-worked manual laborers, prostitutes, the uneducated, and the homeless. The poor here have no way out. That said, Crane reveals poverty in various ways—not just by describing the neighbor as a beggar or by showing Mr. Johnson stealing a beer. The apartments and the streets, and their interchangeability, are the ultimate settings for suffering. Fireplaces have no fires; plates are empty; everything looks tawdry. The music halls and entertainment venues offer some respite, but since they're filled with locals, even these fail to show anything truly different.

From a window of an apartment house that upreared its form from amid squat, ignorant stables, there leaned a curious woman. Some laborers, unloading a scow at a dock at the river, paused for a moment and regarded the fight. (1.8) This is a real Charles Dickens moment. The house is like the people who live in it: skulking and lying to wait.

Her eyes dwelt wonderingly and rather wistfully upon Pete's face. The broken furniture, grimy walls, and general disorder and dirt of her home of a sudden appeared before her and began to take a potential aspect. Pete's aristocratic person looked as if it might soil. She looked keenly at him, occasionally, wondering if he was feeling contempt. (5.11) That Pete sure is smokin' hot—and next to him, the furniture just looks filthy. He's a king as far as Maggie can tell, and she and her kin are just lowly peasants.

The air in the collar and cuff establishment strangled her. She knew she was gradually and surely shriveling in the hot, stuffy room. The begrimed windows rattled incessantly from the passing of elevated trains. The place was filled with a whirl of noises and odors. (8.5) Work in a stuffy factory seems all the gloomier now that Maggie has met her golden boy and imagined the possibility of a different life. Her senses are assaulted by the environment, making industrial work a true form of punishment.

Crane uses Maggie: A Girl of the Streets to teach us a little lesson about the bleakness of nineteenth-century tenement life. He really does his darndest to make sure readers understand that once you are born into the tenements, there's really no hope for anything better in life. Nada. Zip. Zilch. And guess what? Rough as it most definitely is to be a man in this society, it's even rougher to be a woman. And in case you somehow miss this as the story unfolds, Crane makes good and sure you get it by having Maggie die in the end.

He himself occupied a down-trodden position that had a private but distinct element of grandeur in its isolation. (4.18) Jimmie protects himself by embracing his own lower-class position. His feeling of superiority is something he has constructed out of being tough—to him, violence is where cool is at.

None of the dirt of Rum Alley seemed to be in her veins. The philosophers up-stairs, down-stairs and on the same floor, puzzled over it. (5.2) Although she lives in the eye of the poverty storm, Maggie remains untouched by all the degradation. No one can figure out how she manages to remain untouched by the only environment she has ever known. At the same time, though, this distinction raises an important question about whether she could actually transcend what seems to be her fate.

A few evenings later Pete entered with fascinating innovations in his apparel. As she had seen him twice and he had different suits on each time, Maggie had a dim impression that his wardrobe was prodigiously extensive. (6.14) Again, this is all part of Maggie's fantasy and hope that Pete represents a life different from the one inside the Bowery. He may not be as poor as the Johnsons, but two nice suits doesn't equal a ticket out of there.

"The Open Boat" is divided into seven sections, each told mainly from the point of view of the correspondent, based upon Crane himself. The first part introduces the four characters—the correspondent, a condescending observer detached from the rest of the group;[15] the captain, who is injured and morose at having lost his ship, yet capable of leadership; the cook, fat and comical, but optimistic that they will be rescued; and the oiler, Billie, who is physically the strongest, and the only one in the story referred to by name. The four are survivors of a shipwreck, which occurred before the beginning of the story, and are drifting at sea in a small dinghy. In the following four sections, the moods of the men fluctuate from anger at their desperate situation, to a growing empathy for one another and the sudden realization that nature is indifferent to their fates. The men become fatigued and bicker with one another; nevertheless, the oiler and the correspondent take turns rowing toward shore, while the cook bails water to keep the boat afloat. When they see a lighthouse on the horizon, their hope is tempered with the realization of the danger of trying to reach it. Their hopes dwindle further when, after seeing a man waving from shore, and what may or may not be another boat, they fail to make contact. The correspondent and the oiler continue to take turns rowing, while the others sleep fitfully during the night. The correspondent then notices a shark swimming near the boat, but he does not seem to be bothered by it as one would expect. In the penultimate chapter, the correspondent wearily recalls a verse from the poem "Bingen on the Rhine" by Caroline Norton, in which a "soldier of the Legion" dies far from home. The final chapter begins with the men's resolution to abandon the floundering dinghy they have occupied for thirty hours and to swim ashore. As they begin the long swim to the beach, Billie the oiler, the strongest of the four, swims ahead of the others; the captain advances towards the shore while still holding onto the boat, and the cook uses a surviving oar. The correspondent is trapped by a local current, but is eventually able to swim on. After three of the men safely reach the shore and are met by a group of rescuers, they find Billie dead, his body washed up on the beach.

Similar to other Naturalist works, "The Open Boat" scrutinizes the position of man, who has been isolated not only from society, but also from God and nature. The struggle between man and the natural world is the most apparent theme in the work,[15] and while the characters at first believe the turbulent sea to be a hostile force set against them, they come to believe that nature is instead ambivalent. At the beginning of the last section, the correspondent rethinks his view of nature's hostility: "the serenity of nature amid the struggles of the individual—nature in the wind, and nature in the vision of men. She did not seem cruel to him, nor beneficent, nor treacherous, nor wise. But she was indifferent, flatly indifferent."[22] The correspondent regularly refers to the sea with feminine pronouns, pitting the four men in the boat against an intangible, yet effeminate, threat; critic Leedice Kissane further pointed to the story's seeming denigration of women, noting the castaways' personification of Fate as "an old ninny-woman" and "an old hen".[23] That nature is ultimately disinterested is an idea that appears in other works by Crane; a poem from Crane's 1899 collection War is Kind and Other Lines also echoes Crane's common theme of universal indifference:[24] The metaphysical conflicts born from man's isolation are also important themes throughout the story, as the characters cannot rely on a higher cause or being for protection.[26] The correspondent laments the lack of religious support, as well as his inability to blame God for his misfortunes,[27] musing: "When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him as important, and that she feels she would not maim the universe by disposing of him, he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply that there are no bricks and no temples."[28] Man's perception of himself and the world around him are also constantly questioned; the correspondent regularly refers to the way things "seemed" or "appeared", leaving how a thing actually "was" entirely ambiguous.[29] Wolford similarly pointed to the importance of the story's strong yet problematic opening line—"None of them knew the color of the sky"—as one that sets the scene for the story's sense of unease and uncertainty.[30]

Chester Wolford noted in his critical analysis of Crane's short fiction that although one of the author's most familiar themes deals with a character's seeming insignificance in an indifferent universe, the correspondent's experience in "The Open Boat" is perhaps more personal than what was described in earlier stories because of Crane's obvious connection to the story.[31] Sergio Perosa similarly described how Crane "transfigures an actual occurrence into existential drama, and confers universal meaning and poetic value on the simple retelling of man's struggle for survival".[32] Facing an ultimately detached nature, the characters find solace in human solidarity.[33] They are often referred to collectively as "the men", rather than singularly by their professions, creating a silent understanding between them of their togetherness.[34] The first few sentences of section three attest to this connection: "It would be difficult to describe the subtle brotherhood of men that was here established on the seas. No one said that it was so. No one mentioned it. But it dwelt in the boat, and each man felt it warm him. They were a captain, an oiler, a cook, and a correspondent, and they were friends, friends in a more curiously iron-bound degree than may be common."[35] Survival is also an important thematic element in itself, as it is contingent upon the men to battle the elements in order to save themselves. The correspondent's desire to survive is evident in his refrain of the lyrical line: "If I am going to be drowned—if I am going to be drowned—if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees?"[36] By repeating himself, the correspondent expresses himself ritualistically, and yet he remains existentially adrift.[34]

During the late nineteenth century, Americans had come to expect that they could control and conquer their environment. With the technological breakthroughs of the Industrial Revolution humankind appeared to have demonstrated its ability to both understand and to dominate the forces of nature. In "The Open Boat,'' Crane questions these self-confident assumptions by describing the precarious situation of four shipwrecked men as they are tossed about on the sea. The men seem to recognize that they are helpless in the face of nature. Their lives could be lost at any moment by the most common of natural phenomena: a wave, a current, the wind, a shark, or even simple starvation and exposure. The men are at the mercy of mere chance. This realization profoundly affects the correspondent, who is angered that he might be drowned despite all of his efforts to save himself. In a passage that drips with irony, Crane writes of the correspondent: "He thought: 'Am I going to drown? Can it be possible? Can it be possible? Can it be possible?' Perhaps an individual must consider his own death to be the final phenomenon of nature.'' This passage suggests the absurdity of an individual's sense of self-importance against the mindless power of nature.

One of the main themes of the story concerns the limitations of any one perspective, or point of view. Crane's famous first sentence of the story presents this theme immediately: "None of them knew the color of the sky.'' The men in the boat are so focused on the danger presented to them by the waves that they are oblivious to all else. The story continually emphasizes the limitations of a single perspective. When the shipwrecked men are first spotted from the shore, they are mistaken for fishermen. The people on shore do not perceive their distress and only wave cheerfully to the men. Crane writes of the men in the boat that if they were viewed ''from a balcony, the whole thing would doubtless have been weirdly picturesque.'' This serene perspective contrasts markedly with the frightening and violent reality the men in the boat are experiencing. Crane's point seems to be that humans can never fully comprehend the true quality of reality, but only their own limited view of it. Throughout the story, the situation of the men in the boat seems to them "absurd," "preposterous," and without any underlying reason or meaning. Yet once the three survivors are safely on shore at the end of the story, they believe that they can look back and "interpret'' the import or meaning of what has happened to them. The reader is left to wonder whether anything can ever be truly understood, or if all understanding is simply an agreed-upon, limited perspective that provides the illusion of unity to the chaos of lived events.

The drama of the story comes from the men's realization that they are likely to drown. Having to confront the probability of their own imminent death, each of the characters accepts what Crane calls a ''new ignorance of the grave-edge.'' It is interesting that Crane refers to this understanding as "ignorance" rather than "knowledge." Being at the mercy of fate has demonstrated to them how wrong their previous beliefs about their own importance had been. The correspondent, in particular, is troubled by the senselessness of his predicament, and he thinks about a poem in which a French soldier dies, unceremoniously, far from his home and family. Facing senseless death, the universe suddenly seems deprived of the meaning he had previously attached to it. Thus, he is overtaken by a new "ignorance" about life, rather than a new "knowledge.'' Crane seems to endorse the idea that nature is random and senseless by having the oiler drown in the surf. Of all the men, the oiler seemed the most likely to survive, being the most physically fit. His death implies that the others' survival was merely the result of good fortune. Once the survivors are safe from danger, however, death's senselessness is quickly forgotten.

Crane was regarded as a leading member of the Realist or Naturalist movement in his time. One of the main concerns of the Naturalists involved the dilemma of whether human beings could exercise control over their fate or whether their fate was predetermined by their environment. To state it differently, they asked whether humans possess a free will or were powerless to shape external events. Drawing upon deterministic philosophies such as those of Charles Darwin, Auguste Comte, or Karl Marx the Naturalists analyzed the various natural forces that effected the ''struggle for life.'' These concerns are evident in ''The Open Boat.'' Although the four men are clearly making the best effort to get to shore, it is never certain until the end whether they will drown. Their fate seems to rest mostly in the hands of forces beyond their control. A prime example of this comes when the correspondent gets caught in a current while trying to swim to the shore. He is trapped by an invisible force—an underwater current—which he can neither understand nor escape. For unknown reasons, the current suddenly frees him and he is washed ashore by a giant wave. It seems clear that Crane attributes the correspondent's survival more to uncontrollable forces than to his own efforts.

A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective in the way of swamping boats. (1.10) Pay attention to the first line here—how can a wave be "nervously anxious"? You almost imagine the wave rubbing its watery hands together, licking its salty lips, and getting ready to smash up some boats. Still, it's a little weird to imply the ocean has a will—we don't think waves are intentionally destructive. It's important to note the way Crane personifies the sea at the beginning of the story—this might change as the story progresses.

When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him as important, and that she feels she would not maim the universe by disposing of him, he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply the fact that there are no bricks and no temples. Any visible expression of nature would surely be pelleted with his jeers. (6.3) Question: What's the only thing worse than nature actively trying to destroy you? Answer: Nature not caring about you at all. That sounds like a pretty big screw you to us. It's like that big two-part episode of The Simpsons where Homer threatens to kill Mr. Burns for not knowing his name. Anyway, needless to say, this is a crucial turning point in our story. The men want to do something, anything, to make the universe notice them, acknowledge their existence, and maybe admit their lives are actually worth something. But as time goes on and things keep getting worse, they realize there isn't really anything they can do to be noticed.

He thought: "I am going to drown? Can it be possible? Can it be possible? Can it be possible?" Perhaps an individual must consider his own death to be the final phenomenon of nature. (7.28) Just when we think it's the end of everything, the mind has makes a triumphant comeback. We might think of this line as the "death throes," the thoughts we have as we struggle to imagine that in a few moments we may cease to exist. Not only does the mind have trouble imagining itself not existing, but it has a hard time understanding that the universe will go on existing after it is gone. Get it? It's like the tree falling in the forest. When you're there in the forest, it makes a sound, obviously—but if you disappear, does it still? Does it even exist anymore? These aren't really the thoughts we'd expect to be thinking if we were caught in a riptide trying to swim to shore, but what can we say, our correspondent is a special dude.

In his struggle to reach the captain and the boat, he reflected that when one gets properly wearied, drowning must really be a comfortable arrangement, a cessation of hostilities accompanied by a large degree of relief, and he was glad of it, for the main thing in his mind for some moments had been horror of the temporary agony. He did not wish to be hurt. (7.30) The correspondent's mental wheels keep spinning. Now he almost welcomes death, if only so he can finally stop worrying about it. It's like stressing and studying like crazy for a big test you have coming up, when at some point the thought occurs to you, "You know, even if I don't do well, I just want it to be over with." At this point, the correspondent is simply tired of struggling and worrying about struggling. Whatever happens, just make it easy and get it over with. Luckily for him, something does happen quickly and easily: his life is saved.

For these reasons, and for others, neither the oiler nor the correspondent was fond of rowing at this time. The correspondent wondered ingenuously how in the name of all that was sane could there be people who thought it amusing to row a boat. It was not an amusement; it was a diabolical punishment, and even a genius of mental aberrations could never conclude that it was anything but a horror to the muscles and a crime against the back. (3.8) Basically, the oiler and correspondent aren't so psyched about rowing. We'd like to add one more sentence to the end of this passage, to really hit our point home for you. It would be, "And still they kept rowing." They hate it so much, but still they keep on. If that's not determination, we don't know what is.

Dissatisfied with life in her rural Wisconsin home, 18-year-old Caroline "Sister Carrie" Meeber takes the train to Chicago, where her older sister Minnie, and Minnie's husband, Sven Hanson, have agreed to take her in. On the train, Carrie meets Charles Drouet, a traveling salesman, who is attracted to her because of her simple beauty and unspoiled manner. They exchange contact information, but upon discovering the "steady round of toil" and somber atmosphere at her sister's flat, she writes to Drouet and discourages him from calling on her there. Carrie soon embarks on a quest for work to pay rent to her sister and her husband, and takes a job running a machine in a shoe factory. Before long, however, she is shocked by the coarse manners of both the male and female factory workers, and the physical demands of the job, as well as the squalid factory conditions, begin to take their toll. She also senses Minnie and Sven's disapproval of her interest in Chicago's recreational opportunities, particularly the theatre. One day, after an illness that costs her her job, she encounters Drouet on a downtown street. Once again taken by her beauty, and moved by her poverty, he encourages her to dine with him, where, over sirloin and asparagus, he persuades her to leave her sister and move in with him. To press his case, he slips Carrie two ten dollar bills, opening a vista of material possibilities to her. The next day, he rebuffs her feeble attempts to return the money, taking her shopping at a Chicago department store and securing a jacket she covets and some shoes. That night, she writes a good-bye note to Minnie and moves in with Drouet.

Drouet installs her in a much larger apartment, and their relationship intensifies as Minnie dreams about her sister's fall from innocence. She acquires a sophisticated wardrobe and, through his offhand comments about attractive women, sheds her provincial mannerisms, even as she struggles with the moral implications of being a kept woman. By the time Drouet introduces Carrie to George Hurstwood, the manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's - a respectable bar that Drouet describes as a "way-up, swell place" - her material appearance has improved considerably. Hurstwood, unhappy with and distant from his social-climbing wife and children, instantly becomes infatuated with Carrie's youth and beauty, and before long they start an affair, communicating and meeting secretly in the expanding, anonymous city. One night, Drouet casually agrees to find an actress to play a key role in an amateur theatrical presentation of Augustin Daly's melodrama, "Under the Gaslight," for his local chapter of the Elks. Upon returning home to Carrie, he encourages her to take the part of the heroine. Unknown to Drouet, Carrie long has harbored theatrical ambitions and has a natural aptitude for imitation and expressing pathos. The night of the production - which Hurstwood attends at Drouet's invitation - both men are moved to even greater displays of affection by Carrie's stunning performance.

The next day, the affair is uncovered: Drouet discovers he has been cuckolded, Carrie learns that Hurstwood is married, and Hurstwood's wife, Julia, learns from acquaintances that Hurstwood has been out driving with another woman and deliberately excluded her from the Elks theatre night. After a night of drinking, and despairing at his wife's financial demands and Carrie's rejection, Hurstwood stumbles upon a large amount of cash in the unlocked safe in Fitzgerald and Moy's offices. In a moment of poor judgment, he succumbs to the temptation to embezzle a large sum of money. Inventing a false pretext of Drouet's sudden illness, he lures Carrie onto a train and escapes with her to Canada. Once they arrive in Montreal, Hurstwood's guilty conscience - and a private eye - induce him to return most of the stolen funds, but he realizes that he cannot return to Chicago. Hurstwood mollifies Carrie by agreeing to marry her, and the couple move to New York City. In New York, Hurstwood and Carrie rent a flat where they live as George and Carrie Wheeler. Hurstwood buys a minority interest in a saloon and, at first, is able to provide Carrie with a satisfactory - if not lavish - standard of living. The couple grow distant, however, as Hurstwood abandons any pretense of fine manners toward Carrie, and she realizes that Hurstwood no longer is the suave, powerful manager of his Chicago days. Carrie's dissatisfaction only increases when she meets Robert Ames, a bright young scholar from Indiana and her neighbor's cousin, who introduces her to the idea that great art, rather than showy materialism, is worthy of admiration.

After only a few years, the saloon's landlord sells the property and Hurstwood's business partner expresses his intent to terminate the partnership. Too arrogant to accept most of the job opportunities available to him, Hurstwood soon discovers that his savings are running out and urges Carrie to economize, which she finds humiliating and distasteful. As Hurstwood lounges about, overwhelmed by apathy and foolishly gambling away most of his savings, Carrie turns to New York's theatres for employment and becomes a chorus girl. Once again, her aptitude for theatre serves her well, and, as the rapidly aging Hurstwood declines into obscurity, Carrie begins to rise from chorus girl to small speaking roles, and establishes a friendship with another chorus girl, Lola Osborne, who begins to urge Carrie to move in with her. In a final attempt to prove himself useful, Hurstwood becomes a scab, driving a Brooklyn streetcar during a streetcar operator's strike. His ill-fated venture, which lasts only two days, prompts Carrie to leave him; in her farewell note, she encloses twenty dollars. Hurstwood ultimately joins the homeless of New York, taking odd jobs, falling ill with pneumonia, and finally becoming a beggar. Reduced to standing in line for bread and charity, he commits suicide in a flophouse. Meanwhile, Carrie achieves stardom, but finds that money and fame do not satisfy her longings or bring her happiness and that nothing will.

Each of Dreiser's characters in Sister Carrie search for their own "American Dreams"—the ones offered by a growing and prosperous democratic country. Carrie, a poor country girl, arrives in Chicago, filled with the expectations of acquiring the finer things in life. She imagines the elegant clothes she will wear, the exciting places to which she will go, and the fashionable people with whom she will associate, thinking that everyone who lives beyond the boundaries of her Midwestern state has achieved that higher status. Drouet seeks his own version of the American Dream. He has achieved a certain station in life and wears the clothes to prove it. He frequents the important establishments in town and has befriended many of the right people. Yet, he pursues the other appointments that represent his dream, such as a beautiful woman to adorn his arm and his own home. Hurstwood has the woman, the established home and family, and a good position. He, though, wants more. He knows that his employers leave him out of important decision making, and he knows his friends like him for his position. He seeks love, appreciation, and more prestige.

Carrie and Hurstwood undergo dramatic changes from the beginning of the novel to the end. Though gradual, their transformations create immediate repercussions along the way. Carrie's metamorphosis takes her from country bumpkin to glamorous actress. In her wake, she leaves her disillusioned sister, an angry suitor, and a brokendown man. Hurstwood's transition moves him from prominent and trusted businessman, husband, and father to homeless street beggar. Behind him survive robbed employers, a dysfunctional family, and a self-satisfied woman.

Hurstwood makes one choice that dramatically affects the rest of his life. While all choices result in consequences, those consequences can be positive or negative. Hurstwood's decision to take the money from his employer's safe starts his downward spiral to his eventual suicide.

Industrial growth brought the United States a period of prosperity during the late 1800s and early 1900s. With factories flourishing, job opportunities were abundant. People made good money in factory management positions and other white-collar jobs. Factory workers, however, not only earned low incomes, but they also worked long hours. Consequently, a wide division existed between the wealthy and the poor. Carrie comes from a lower-middle-class background and determines that she will rise above it. Her sister's family, however, maintain the same struggling existence Carrie has always known. They have no time to enjoy leisure activities and no money to spend on them. Carrie wants more for herself. Throughout Sister Carrie, the distinction between social classes is obvious. The clothes people wear, the homes in which they live, and the activities in which they are involved distinguish the rich from the poor. The wealthy wear stylish clothes and attend elaborate performances of the arts. The poor buy factory-made clothes and jeans and are lucky to go to the penny arcade or the local dance pavilion. In the final chapter, the description of Hurstwood's last days offers a vivid picture of the ultimate plight of the poorest.

Experiences contribute greatly to shaping people's identities. Carrie's transformation from the beginning of the novel to the end occurs as a result of her responses to her experiences. The Carrie who boards the train in Columbia City sits primly, trying to ignore the glances of the man seated near her. Having certain morals, Carrie hesitates to acknowledge Drouet's presence. Yet, she responds quickly to his initial comments to her and makes direct eye contact with him when she senses his interest in her. From this point on, Carrie allows herself to act in whatever manner benefits her. Leaving her sister's home and moving in with Drouet, for example, goes against all propriety her parents have taught her. She sees, though, that this action will get her closer to having what she wants. As she understands her value to others, she changes her identity accordingly. As a result, she never really has an identity but adjusts her "act" to fit the situation. In the end, this ability gains her recognition as an acclaimed actress but does not result in her achieving happiness.

In the early 1900s, the morals and virtues of the Victorian era still guided people's actions. People with proper upbringing did not speak of sex. The public was shocked that Dreiser's characters so openly participated in explicit relationships and that Dreiser seemed to condone it. Carrie uses sex to gain status for herself. She sees nothing wrong in living with Drouet to get the clothes she wants and to have opportunities to move in Chicago's affluent circles. Later, Carrie sees that Hurstwood can offer her an even higher standard of living. She ignores the fact that he is already married and the two of them will be committing adultery. With no regard for Drouet's emotions, she breaks off their relationship and pursues one with Hurstwood. After living with Hurstwood for some time, she realizes she can no longer benefit from the arrangement and leaves him, too.

When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things. Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. Of an intermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility. (1.3) Ah, well, at least we find out early that our narrator views women as such passive beings and in such majorly black-and-white terms. This narrator is going to have plenty of opinions about women, and such a provocative statement as this gives us a taste of them right from the get go. Brace yourselves, feminists.

[Carrie] noticed suddenly that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened under the gaze of handsome men and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glances were not modified by any rules of propriety. To stare seemed the proper and natural thing. Carrie found herself stared at and ogled. Men in flawless top-coats, high hats, and silver-headed walking sticks elbowed near and looked too often into conscious eyes. (31.56) Tsk, tsk. It's not polite to stare... except in this case when men staring at women (and women staring at women) is "the proper and natural thing." We might even say that the women themselves (in this fashion parade scene) invite their own objectification.

The entire metropolitan centre possessed a high and mighty air calculated to overawe and abash the common applicant and to make the gulf between poverty and success seem both wide and deep. (2.27) Man, job hunting is hard enough without having to worry about the city's "high and mighty air." During the Gilded Age, the city was considered a place rich in opportunity to move up in class. But this passage makes it seem like the city's intimidating appearance seriously rattles the psyches of those seeking such opportunity.

There was a class, however, too rich, too famous, or too successful, with whom [Hurstwood] could not attempt any familiarity of address, and with these he was professionally tactful, assuming a grave and dignified attitude, paying them the deference which would win their good feeling without in the least compromising his own bearing and opinions. (5.10) Wow—there are people even Hurstwood is intimidated to talk to. Sister Carrie never fails to remind us of how carefully orchestrated interactions are between characters according to their perceptions of each other's class status. In other words, they have a hard time keepin' it real. It makes us wonder if any of the interactions among these characters are ever genuine.

Once [Hurstwood] paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked through the windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a fire sign, and through the large, plate windows of which could be seen the red and gold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining glassware, and, above all, the comfortable crowd [...] "Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any. (47.37-38) Hey, remember that homeless guy who asked Hurstwood for some change way back in the beginning of the novel? Does Hurstwood's failure to help him out affect our impression of him in passages like this?

[Hurstwood] was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in [Carrie's] own situation. She knew what it was to meet with people who were indifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely nothing about you. Had not she? Was not she at this very moment quite alone? Who was there among all whom she knew to whom she could appeal for sympathy? Not one. (13.48) Loneliness is often regarded as a bad thing, a feeling to be avoided at all costs. But this passage suggests it can also make a person more sympathetic and understanding. Perhaps there is some value to be found in so-called negative emotions, after all.

[Hurstwood] did not even detect the shade of melancholy which settled in [Carrie's] eyes. Worst of all, she now began to feel the loneliness of the flat and seek the company of Mrs. Vance, who liked her exceedingly. (31.45) Why doesn't Carrie just tell Hurstwood already that she feels lonely? Is she waiting for him to pick up on some subtle eye flicker? Then again, why doesn't he ever sense how she's feeling? Why is this all so hard, guys?

So peculiar, indeed, was [Carrie's] lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that she was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye—she was so quiet and reserved. (46.97) Well at least Carrie doesn't turn into an obnoxious diva. What does being a celebrity have to do with Carrie's sense of loneliness and isolation?

[Hurstwood] was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meager state of body, that people took him for a chronic type of bum and beggar. Police hustled him along, restaurant and lodging-house keepers turned him out promptly the moment he had his due; pedestrians waved him off. He found it more and more difficult to get anything from anybody. At last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It was after a long series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had been refused and refused—every one hastening from contact. (47.20-21) It's one thing to feel lonely and friendless as Carrie does, but it's quite another to be a social outcast like Hurstwood is by the novel's end. This passage suggests, in fact, that it's the pedestrians's refusals and rebuffs that finally send him over the edge and solidify his resolve to commit suicide.

[Hurstwood] seemed in a way to resent [Carrie's] kindly inquiries—so much better had fate dealt with her. (46.92) Bitter much, Hurstwood? What gets in the way of characters's willingness to receive compassion from others?

Individual after individual passed [Hurstwood], nearly all well dressed, almost all indifferent. (45.81) What explains this indifference? And why does the narrator point out how well dressed the people who are indifferent to his requests for help are? What would wearing an Armani suit have to do with their reaction to him?

[...] she began to think of the anomaly of her finding work in several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number of months. "Why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself. "If I can he surely ought to. It wasn't very hard for me." (38.55-56) Um, Carrie seems to have a very short memory. In fact, we readers know full well just how hard it was for Carrie to find work at several different points in the novel. What's up with her sudden amnesia?

Berry Hamilton, an emancipated black man, works as a butler for a wealthy white man Maurice Oakley. Berry lives in a small cottage a short distance away from the Oakley's place of residence. Berry lives with his wife, Fannie, and two children, Joe and Kitty. During a farewell dinner for Maurice's younger brother, Francis Oakley, it becomes known that a large sum of money has disappeared from Oakley residence due to Francis apparently being careless and leaving the key in the safe. Maurice soon convinces himself that Berry must have stolen the money. A court finds Berry guilty of the theft and sentences him to ten years of hard labor. Maurice and his wife expel Fannie, Joe, and Kitty from the cottage. Unable to find work, Fannie and her children decide to move to New York. Once in New York, Joe begins work and starts regularly visiting the Banner Club. He begins dating an entertainer from the club named Hattie Sterling. To Fannie's disapproval, Hattie helps Kitty to find employment as a singer and actress. Joe's situation quickly declines and he becomes an alcoholic. Hattie breaks the relationship. Completely degraded, Joe strangles Hattie. Later, he confesses to the murder and finds himself in prison. With her husband and son in prison, Fannie is distraught. Kitty convinces Fannie to marry a man named Mr. Gibson.

Francis Oakley, who left for Paris to become an artist, sends a message to Maurice Oakley. When Maurice receives the letter, he postulates that it could be a message informing him of the artistic successes of Francis. To his dismay, it describes how Francis stole the money and he wishes for Berry Hamilton to be released from prison. Maurice decides that he will not announce Berry's innocence in hopes of preserving the honor of his brother and himself. Mr. Skaggs, an acquaintance of Joe at the Banner Club, overhears the story of Berry Hamilton's conviction for theft. As a writer for New York's Universe, Mr. Skaggs postulates that if he can prove Berry's innocence, he will have a popular article for the publisher. He travels to the hometown of the Hamilton's to converse with Maurice Oakley. He first meets with a man named Colonel Saunders who tells him that he believes Berry is innocent, the money was simply lost, and to protect the secret, Maurice Oakley carries the money in his "secret" pocket at all times. To gain entry into the Oakley residence, Skaggs lies about having a letter from Francis. Mr. Skaggs forcibly removes Francis's letter from Maurice's secret pocket. With Francis's letter, Mr. Skaggs is able to have Berry pardoned after five years in prison. Mr. Skaggs brings Berry to New York. Soon, Berry finds out about his son, daughter, and wife's new husband. Hopeless, Berry plans to murder his wife's suitor. To Berry's fortune, he finds that Mr. Gibson has been killed in a fight at a racetrack. Broken down by the hardships of the city, Fannie and Berry decide to move back to the cottage near the Oakley residence when the apologetic Mrs. Oakley begs them to return.

In The House of Mirth (1905), the story of Lily Bart begins with her visiting the apartment of Lawrence Selden, a man for whom she has romantic feelings, but whose pennilessness makes him ineligible to be her husband. Instead she decides that she must marry Percy Gryce, a young, timid millionaire. Although her confidantes are convinced that Percy will propose marriage to Lily when they next meet, Lily changes her mind, and withdraws from their relationship, because Selden's unexpected visit makes her realize how dishonorable marrying a man she does not care for would be. Despite feeling convinced that he loves Lily, Selden does not yet want to risk marriage; meanwhile, Gryce marries another girl, from within their social circle. The tragic heroine of The House of Mirth (1905), Lily Bart, lingers at the broad staircase, observing the high-society people gathered in the hall below. Her social standing begins to erode when Gus Trenor, husband of friend Judy, gives Lily a large sum of money, accepted in the innocent belief that it represents profits from investments Gus had made in her behalf. The rumors that arise from that transaction, worsened by her injudicious and mysterious visit to Gus's townhouse in the city, further erode Lily's social standing. In the event, Lily one day receives a note from Selden, who asks to meet with her. Certain that he will propose marriage, Lily agrees to meet him the next day. Surprised and alarmed by Lily's apparent change of heart, Selden flees New York City, first to Havana and then to Europe, cravenly leaving Lily with no notice.

To escape the rumors arisen from the gossip caused by her financial dealings with Gus Trenor, and also disappointed by Selden's emotional cowardice, Lily accepts Bertha Dorset's invitation to join her and her husband, George, on a cruise of Europe aboard their yacht, the Sabrina. Unfortunately, whilst at sea, Bertha falsely accuses Lily of adultery with George, in order to divert the attention and suspicion of their social circle away from Bertha's infidelity with the poet Ned Silverton. The ensuing social scandal ruins the personal reputation of Lily Bart, which then causes her abandonment by friends and disinheritance by Aunt Peniston. Undeterred by such misfortunes, Lily fights to regain her place in high society by befriending Mr and Mrs Gormer. However, her enemy, the malicious Bertha Dorset, gradually communicates to them the "scandalous" personal background of Lily Bart, and, so, undermines the friendship which Lily had hoped would socially rehabilitate her. Only two friends remain for Lily: Gerty Farish (a cousin of Lawrence Selden) and Carry Fisher, who help her cope with the social ignominy of a degraded social-status, whilst continually advising Lily to marry as soon as reasonably possible.

Despite the efforts and advice of Gerty and Carry to help her overcome notoriety, Lily descends through the social strata of the high society of New York City. She obtains a job as personal secretary of Mrs. Hatch, who is a disreputable woman; and Lily resigns after Lawrence Selden returns to rescue her from complete infamy. Lily then finds a job in a milliner's shop; yet, unaccustomed to the rigors of working class manual labour, her rate of production is low and the quality of her workmanship is poor, and she is fired at the end of the New York social season when the demand for fashionable hats has ceased. Meanwhile, Simon Rosedale, a Jewish suitor who earlier had proposed marriage to Lily, when she was higher in the social scale, returns to her life and tries to rescue her, but Lily is unwilling to meet his terms. Simon wants Lily to use love letters, which she bought from her servant, to confirm the occurrence of a long-ago love affair between Lawrence Selden and Bertha Dorset. For the sake of Selden's reputation, Lily does not act upon Rosedale's request, and secretly burns the love letters when she visits Selden, one last time. In the event, Lily Bart receives a ten-thousand-dollar inheritance, from her Aunt Peniston, with which she repays Gus Trenor. Distraught by her misfortunes, Lily had begun regularly using a sleeping draught of chloral hydrate to escape the pain of poverty and social ostracism. One day, Lily takes an overdose of the sleeping draught and kills herself. Hours later, Lawrence Selden arrives to her quarters, to finally propose marriage, but finds Lily Bart dead; only then is he able to be close to her.

In The House of Mirth, Wharton presents love and death as the only two safe places for a woman to be. Lily especially subscribes to this theory, feeling hounded by her debts and financial woes and surrounded by loveless marriages. Love or death seem to be the only possibilities for salvation. In Book Two, Lily finds herself at a crossroads—either she can choose love, marry Selden, and find happiness without wealth; or she will find rest in the finality of death. Lily's obsession with wealth and luxury continually prevents her from acknowledging and accepting Selden's love, and so the safety love can offer is not a viable choice for her. She is left with death as her only option.

The social expectation of politeness, good manners, and the acting required to maintain a constant façade of enjoying one another's company dominate all of the parties and interactions between the members of the elite circles in The House of Mirth. Lily recognizes the difference between a conversation she has with Selden, where they are both real and sometimes less-than-flattering in the honesty of their responses, and the acting she does with Mrs. Trenor and the other socialites, where they focus solely on gossip and pretense and are constantly calculating in order to manipulate one another. The artificiality of the good manners of the "most civilized" characters in the novel demonstrates just how bad their manners actually are. Lying, cheating, stealing, adultery, spreading rumors, and generally being hurtful and mean are common occurrences within this circle. Lily recognizes this, and at times she longs for the honesty and realness of her relationship with Selden. However, she isn't able to detach herself from her desire for wealth, which demands that she continue to play the same manipulative game as the other socialites in order to get what she wants.

Lily's relationship with money is obviously fraught with tension and drama, and she often describes the relationship in terms of freedom and slavery. When she has money and is able to pay her debts, she feels a sense of unparalleled freedom. But when the money is gone and her debts overwhelm her, she likens her situation to that of slavery—she is a slave to the whims and desires of others, a slave to the social demands of the upper-class circles, and a slave to her own inability to be happy without money. The idea of freedom and slavery also fits the different roles of the sexes. Percy Gryce, a wealthy, eccentric young bachelor, has large amounts of freedom, simply by virtue of his being a man. As a young woman, especially one without great wealth, Lily can never live the life of Selden or Gryce, and instead she must find a match that will ensure her protection and security. She will never have the freedom that the men have.

Social climbing is the name of the game in this novel, which takes place in the elite circles of New York society during the very late 1800s. The cast of characters fall into distinct social spheres, from the wealthy and influential social elite all the way down to the working class. But the barriers between these circles are by no means impenetrable. Many characters teeter on the edge of the social elite, while others crawl their way up to the top or slide all the way down to the bottom of the social ladder. Money certainly helps in the ascent - and lack thereof certainly hastens the descent - but there's more to society than cold hard cash. Many times cash (or its extravagant uses) is traded for social currency, and there are many unofficial "jobs" to be filled servicing the social needs of the nouveau riche.

Money will take you fairly far in the elite social circles of New York in the late 1800s presented in House of Mirth, but only if you use a good chunk of it to buy the social services of all the right people. The extravagant displays of wealth in this novel should shock and amaze you; in House of Mirth, poverty is having only a few servants in your mansion at a time. Or, at least, that's what society's elite consider to be poverty. Millionaires aside, the novel also glimpses into the world of the working class, who earn less in a year than the rich throw away as dinner scraps.

Marriage is the duty and end-game for 29-year-old, strikingly beautiful Lily Bart, a single girl mingling with the social elite in New York in the late 1800s. Lily struggles with the novel's central conflict: marry for love, or marry for money? In a time when women are expected to live off their husbands, option #2 seems like the only way to go. The married couples featured in the novel certainly fit this mold, and the married characters fall into some rather bland gender roles. The men earn the money on Wall Street, and the women keep their families rolling in social currency.

Beauty is an asset for main character Lily Bart, a 29-year-old woman on the hunt for a rich husband. If dating and marriage is akin to war, and courtship to a series of battle tactics, then beauty is a nuclear weapon, and Lily's got her finger on the button. She uses her looks to deflect accusation, to charm, to coerce, and to manipulate. Men fall all over themselves for the opportunity to simply look at Lily. Of course, the problem with such a viewpoint is objectification. Lily is treated as more of a thing than a person, and even views herself this way.

Time and time again in House of Mirth, society is presented as a "gilded cage." In New York at the tail end of the Victorian era, the members of the social elite find themselves confined by their own self-imposed rules. Women must marry for money, men must bring home the bacon, single girls aren't allowed to get too close to married men, women who expect to marry shouldn't be smoking or playing cards for money, etc., etc. The novel explores the notion of social determinism - its characters are born into specific social roles, expected to play their parts, and unsuited to any other sort of life. A socialite wife of a rich man is incapable of being a mechanic the same way a fish is incapable of living on dry land. This sort of Darwinian restriction is just another form of overwhelming confinement.

The threat of scandal is an ever-present thundercloud in House of Mirth. Set among the upper-echelon of New York society in the late 1800s, the novel focuses on social goals, games, and disasters. Reputation is a particularly precarious balancing act for 29-year-old, still unmarried Lily Bart, who must carefully guard her public image in the hopes of winning a rich husband. Problems of money and boredom crop up, however, and Lily's interactions with married men and eligible bachelors to quell these concerns leave her on dangerous ground.

The House of Mirth presents an antithesis between money and morality. The richest characters, members of New York society's upper echelon, are petty and devoid of scruples, while those in the working class (or at least absent from the circles of the obscenely wealthy) rank high on the moral scale. Main character Lily Bart experiences a transformation through the course of the novel from materialistic and amoral to poverty-stricken but righteous. Many of the novel's conflict-ridden decisions come down to a question of priorities: be good, or be wealthy? It's clear from Wharton's tone that the author condones the former as the better choice.

She had always hated her room at Mrs. Peniston's - its ugliness, its impersonality, the fact that nothing in it was really hers. (1.13.78) Lines like this one reveal Lily's true desire - to be independent. But as the second half of the novel confirms, she is physically incapable of leading the life she desires.

And I ain't talking to you as if you were - I presume I know the kind of talk that's expected under those circumstances. I'm confoundedly gone on you - that's about the size of it - and I'm just giving you a plain business statement of the consequences. (1.15.64) Wharton uses variations in speech to distinguish between the socially elite and the outsiders. Rosedale isn't as eloquent or proper as a man like George Dorset or Lawrence Selden.

That walk she did not mean to miss; one glance at the bills on her writing-table was enough to recall its necessity. (1.5.23) If Lily's desire to marry a rich man truly is out of necessity, can it be judged as immoral?

If Judy knew when Mrs. Fisher borrowed money of her husband, was she likely to ignore the same transaction on Lily's part? If she was careless of his affections she was plainly jealous of his pocket. (2.4.42) This just drives home the point that a man's job in the world of House of Mirth is to make money, not to love his wife. That explains Judy Trenor's discriminatory jealousy.

She had not known again till today that lightness, that glow of freedom; but now it was something more than a blind groping of the blood. The peculiar charm of her feeling for Selden was that she understood it; she could put her finger on every link of the chain that was drawing them together. (1.6.7) It's interesting that Wharton uses this particular metaphor, since social determinism is repeatedly described as a set of "manacles" or "chains." Perhaps Lily's attraction to Selden is as much out of her control as her prescribed role in society.

It was pitiable that he, who knew the mixed motives on which social judgments depend, should still feel himself so swayed by them. How could he lift Lily to a freer vision of life, if his own view of her was to be coloured by any mind in which he saw her reflected? (1.14.44) Good question, especially considering that Selden's view of Lily continues to be colored by others all the way through House of Mirth - until she lies dead on her bed. It's arguable that Selden can't really love her, at least not completely, until this moment, when she exists only for him instead of for the eyes of society.

"And for always getting what she wants in the long run, commend me to a nasty woman." (1.4.40) True; Lily's fate at the end of House of Mirth comes about because she refuses to be nasty in retaliation against Bertha.

The brutality of the thrust gave her the sense of dizziness that follows on a physical blow. Rosedale had spoken then - this was the way men talked of her - She felt suddenly weak and defenceless: there was a throb of self-pity in her throat. But all the while another self was sharpening her to vigilance, whispering the terrified warning that every word and gesture must be measured. (1.13.56) Lily's moral self feels weak and defenseless, as she has been compromised. But her other, social self is the one that is concerned for reputation, not for scruples.

Lily pushed aside her finished work with a dry smile. "You're very kind, Judy: I'll lock up my cigarettes and wear that last year's dress you sent me this morning. And if you are really interested in my career, perhaps you'll be kind enough not to ask me to play bridge again this evening." "Bridge? Does he mind bridge, too? Oh, Lily, what an awful life you'll lead! But of course I won't - why didn't you give me a hint last night? There's nothing I wouldn't do, you poor duck, to see you happy!" (1.4.59-60) Lily's ability to manipulate does in fact cross the gender line.