#ziary

not of plurality in any way, though the concept of one body ≠ one entity is certainly not new to this world, but the idea of one consciousness slowly or quickly splintering into two, with one that’s basically the same (though not quite) and another that grows into entirely its own thing until they are more than the sum of their parts? yeah

and also the concept of switches, in a way- you don’t have control. headmates, alters, scions- they see things differently, and have different abilities (though not quite to the same level. we’re not superpowered) and you cannot control another headmates actions, nor can you control your scion. you can, however, influence it, sometimes, with effort. there’s also differences in intensity of switches.

I was in the seventh grade when I embarked on a journey to become a “cultured” reader, whose defining characteristic, I presumed, was a conversance in classic literature. The desire to enter the elite literary world of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen resulted in my eventual encounters with Whartonian literature - specifically her two significant works, The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth. Over winter break, I reread the novels, so it is my intention to analyze the books from a new perspective while considering the meditations I had approximately six years ago. I can immediately acknowledge that the titles are both exemplary, though endeavoring to decide which one is superior is a challenge that I respectfully demur. Instead, I want to juxtapose them in a way that does not diminish their individual significance or merit; they both have a separate majesty that I hope to examine. 

Innocence is the easier read, and that could be a contributor to its higher placement on lists that rank American classics. When I say “easier,” I do not mean that its language is more lucid - both works, though complex in vernacular, are quite comprehensible. What I want to articulate in the usage of that word is the gentleness of its conclusion. It is incontestable that Innocence’s unhappy ending is easier to endure. In it, lawyer Newland Archer - engaged then married to darling debutante May Welland - falls in love with May’s cousin, individualist Ellen Olenska and begins a passionate affair with the latter. Due to familial obligation and honor, however, the couple ends their relationship; though, it is more accurate to state their relationship is ended for them. The ending acts as a palliative, assuaging the heartbreak experienced by readers who hoped for the adulterous lovers by having Newland realize that an elderly reunion with Ellen after May’s pneumonic death is unnecessary because his memories keep their star-crossed dalliance alive and well. Regardless, my seventh-grade self resisted the resolution. Unlike the protagonist, I could not subsist on romantic recollections, so I faintly recall being an emotional wreck after I completed the book. As a 19-year-old, my vision has altered, especially when considering the conclusion of Mirth, wherein the protagonist, Lily Bart, accidentally overdoses on sleeping medication before her true love, Lawrence Selden, saunters to her dilapidated boardinghouse the following morning with a marriage proposal. Mirth is the truer tragedy, though the ending of Innocence still inspires my melancholy. To summarize in medical analogy, Innocence’s injury is a bruise - causing great discomfort but not requiring a prolonged recovery - and Mirth’s injury is a wound - creating a deeper, more lingering pain and mandating an extended path to normalcy. 

What I enjoy about both novels is the elegance of expression and delicious detailing. The qualities evince Wharton’s aristocratic upbringing, proving her frequent overseas traveling and centrality in a sumptuous scene. Innocence, though focused on a male character, retains the fastidiousness of Mirth. For example, the clothing worn by different characters is meticulously elaborated: the stylish stores from which they came are identified, fashion designers who produced them are referenced, and the materials of which they are constituted are mentioned. In Innocence, as in Mirth, style is celebrated, though the former has a greater focus on it. The latter, with international travel playing a more significant role in the storyline, appears more dedicated to saluting scenery. Another reason for such an emphasis on environment is Lily’s protagonism. Her personality - being, simultaneously, a sybarite and an aesthete - accommodates such intense illustration of setting. Also, the language of both books, intelligent but not pedantic, increases their charm. Wharton’s refined diction - almost epic but retaining realism - makes reading a pleasure and nearly glorifies a world that proves detrimental to its inhabitants. While immersed in the pretty prose, a character’s most trivial task casts an aureate glow, yet the ornamentation reinforces the loveliness of Innocence and Mirth. 

In reviewing the characters, I developed a love-hate relationship and engaged in brutal juxtaposition. I admired Newland for his disillusionment with society - or, the more accurate descriptor, “social system” - and for, quite literally, following his passion - as contrasted with Selden’s vexatious passivity. However, I abhorred his constant committing of adultery - with Ellen and with an earlier lover that I missed in my seventh-grade reading. His decision to stay with May to raise a family and restore his remnant honor was respectable, but strangely enough, I still find myself dissatisfied with it. Moreover, I revered Ellen’s freedom but disliked her cousinly betrayal. As for Lily, I identified with her love of luxury and appreciation of beauty but winced at every demonstration of the improvidence that expedited her descent. I can acknowledge that May played an interesting antagonist to Newland and Ellen’s love because her innocence belied the manipulativeness that she was capable of and that Bertha Dorset - a malicious female character whose misdeeds prompt Lily’s expulsion from society in Mirth - is an excellent villainess. Whatever ambivalence I felt about the characters fails to affect my veneration for the titles; my vacillation actually proves Wharton’s literary virtuosity because it shows that she succeeded in complex characterization. 

A motif that recurs in the narratives, of which I was initially oblivious, is flowers. Numerous examples in Innocence and Mirth corroborate Wharton’s floral obsession. In the former, characters decorate their expensive garments with flowers - the peeking of a gardenia from a gown, for instance - and lilies of the valley bring fresh fragrance to their mansions. The opera scene - significant in that Newland sees it as a reflection of his departure from Ellen - features an actress plucking petals as she performs a classic daisy oracle. Wharton’s usage of “efflorescent” presents another demonstration of floral fixation. Most importantly, Newland sends yellow roses to Ellen, whose bravery and brilliance, he believes, is symbolized by them. The prevalence of flowers continues in Mirth, wherein Lily is named after one as well as Simon Rosedale, a Jewish financier obsessed with social ascent. Lily’s movement is compared to a flower, and she even laments the lack of fresh ones during a familial luncheon. Finally, Lily and Selden’s first kiss occurs in a garden felicitously encircled by lilies. Perhaps Wharton’s focus on flowers followed her constant exposure to beauty: she traveled extensively and experienced the elegance expected of an aristocrat, so maybe flowers are representative of that beauty. On the other hand, flowers are fragile and can be connected to the fragility found in the two tragedies. As flowers eventually fade and die, so do Newland and Ellen’s romance as well as Lily’s social prominence and her actual life. I think these interpretations elevate the novels because they correspond to the theme of pretty things - debutantes, designer clothing, love affairs, luxurious lifestyles, etcetera - being vulnerable to destruction. 

As soon as I laid my dark brown eyes on Glory Edim’s Well-Read Black Girl, I knew it would become one of my favorite books. The cliché phrase “Don’t judge a book by its cover” had been drilled into my mind, but the anthology’s whimsical front and hospitable aura instantly reeled me in, assuring me that the words hiding inside were beautiful and important. I opened the cute little object and was not disappointed; to my surprise, I encountered a question. Edim asked when was the first time that I, other readers, and the contributors to the book had found a character that represented us. I have rolled around the inquiry in my head for long enough, and I present to you my answer. 

It was not until I was a 6th grader that I began reading books that centered on black characters, and the first one that I got my hands on was A Matter of Trust from the Bluford Series. Darcy Wills, a smart and quiet student, was the main character. I easily recognized myself in Darcy because she was studious and reserved like me. No, I could not relate to my best friend trying to get with my boyfriend, but the world Darcy lived in was a little familiar, especially the drama of school. 

The Bluford series had realistic characters and intriguing storylines, but the books were too short and simplistic for me. In middle school, my interest in more extensive, well-developed, and challenging stories strengthened, so I eventually grew restive of Bluford High and its disadvantaged students. After a while, I forgot about Darcy Wills, the first character that I identified with, and so my search for another black female protagonist began. 

That search came to an end once I found Starr Carter, the star (no pun intended) of The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas. Starr was a much stronger and rounder character than Darcy Wills, and the attention was entirely on Starr; the focus was not divided among other characters like in the Bluford Series. I did not have her sneaker obsession, but I was laidback, loved the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and often felt compelled to behave a certain way with my white friends and a completely different way with my black friends. Starr also regularly used Tumblr and had someone close to her become a victim of gun violence, and I could relate to both. I felt happy while reading about her: her personality, her pet peeves, her two distinct ways of behaving. She was me, and there was nothing more comforting than that simple observation. 

The rap features sphere has been set aflame because of a certain prolific wordsmith: Jermaine Cole, Fayetteville’s finest and Dreamville’s founder. Cole-assisted classics - from the relaxingly-instrumented, nostalgia-tinged “Boblo Boat” helmed by Royce da 5′9″ to 21 Savage’s sample-backed observation on excess, “a lot” - have filled 2018, reminding audiences that the rapper will consistently conquer hip-hop conversations. Known for producing multiple platinum-plated projects without superfluous assistance, Cole ironically steals stars’ spotlight while playing the supporting role. 

In the midst of a homophonic rap setting, in which meaningless melodies and mumbles thrive, Cole’s rhymes and styles are dynamic and diverse. On “OSOM,” an antsy collaboration with Jay Rock, he plays into the paramount theme of paranoia by mentioning pills that assuage anxiety, simultaneously reflecting on hip-hop’s conspicuous drug culture. His bars run through the record’s ominous haze; they are dense, and, therefore, speedily delivered. The rapid, jam-packed verse is necessary, though, because it augments Rock’s heightened sense of reality. Contrarily, when recruited for “Pretty Little Fears,” 6lack’s soothing meditation on vulnerability, Cole became gentler and basked in that track’s tranquility. His words are peaceful and poetic as opposed to his earlier lines of crippling apprehension. 

Oftentimes, prolificacy hints at weakened ability, as the more music an artist puts out, the less original and outstanding the content; Cole defies those pessimistic expectations. Quality ushers his quantity. As he asserts in his slot on “a lot,” his gifted grasp of the rap craft has “got to the point that these rappers don't even like rappin' with me” out of fear of being overshadowed by the giant that is J. Cole. As he matures, Cole equips his rhymes with more acuteness, skill, and variety because he is “on a mission, cementin' the spot as the greatest who did it.” His talent is not diminished by an expanding catalog; it is strengthened. 

For a while, there was a void in the mainstream R&B scene. Many of the soul singers turned into singer-rappers, and I was one of the countless fans hoping for the grand return of strong runs that I could never imitate perfectly and palpable love songs, dripping in saccharine and sappiness. R&B and hip-hop often complemented each other, but they also had their separate lanes. Then, they suddenly crashed into each other. Now, rhythm and blues - after some intense and much-needed soul-searching, has discovered itself again and has yielded the beautiful, new vocalists Ella Mai, Jorja Smith, Jacquees, H.E.R., Summer Walker, and others. Let the angels rejoice!

I appreciate the varied styles of the newcomers. Smith’s vocals are delicate and breathy, H.E.R.’s are soft and husky, and Jacquees’ are higher-pitched and coated in a southern twang. One thing is consistent, though: the artists' commitment to pure R&B, with occasional touches of other genres. They are not interested in switching their musical inclinations to accommodate the current mainstream obsession. They want to let their voices shine and be admired. Not too many entertainers can actually sang, but they can, and they are flaunting that rare ability. 

This beautiful resurgence of spoken love letters and bare production warms my heart. Amongst the mumbles and trap rap saturation, R&B presents its grace and profound simplicity. Rap sometimes loses its art, its craft, while rambling about iced-out watches and sexual obsessions, but R&B reminds the world of sweet clarity and romantic truth; there is an indisputable charm in naked voices lamenting broken relationships and longing for happily ever after. I adore the heartfelt entreaties and broken promises that constitute the magic of rhythm and blues/soul because they feed mine.