Saturday, July 11, 2009

Edgar Allan Poe's The Gold Bug
































The craft of an exquisite story teller and story is evident from inception in the character and setting of William Legrand, Jupiter and Sullivan's Island as the plot slowly but richly unfolds.An excellent summary/synopsis is given in the referenced blog especially as posted below and especially on the comment on cryptology.Legrand is the quintessential recluse and this recluse is quite far is more than his seeming and the character is developed and so is Jupiter his loyal servant. In this 19th century American literature,this genre, the use of arcane words in the narrative is a distinct educational experience in the making to be exposed to.Legerand actually draws the beetle tolerably well and it is of a pure gold hue throughout. It resembled a skull or death's head. The drama for the drawing of the scarabaeus on the foolscap was well staged and then the entry of the Newfoundland dog. Domesticaed sacene mixed with the element of mystery of seeing the scarabaeus the next sunrise.























THE GOLD-BUG.
A PRIZE STORY.
WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR "THE DOLLAR
NEWSPAPER,"
BY EDGAR A. POE, ESQ.;
And for which the First
Premium of Our Hundred Dollars was paid.
———
What ho! what ho!
this fellow is dancing
mad! He hath been
bitten by the Tarantula.
All in the Wrong. Many years ago I
contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenôt
family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him
to want. To avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New
Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan's
Island, near Charleston, South Carolina. This Island is a
very singular one. It consists of little else than the sea sand, and is about
three miles long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is
separated from the main land by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way
through a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen. The
vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of
any magnitude are to be seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort Moultrie
stands, and where are some miserable frame buildings, tenanted, during summer,
by the fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the
bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of this western point
and a line of hard white beach on the sea-coast, is covered with a dense
undergrowth of the sweet myrtle so much prized by the horticulturists of
England. The shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and
forms an almost impenetrable coppice, burthening the air with its fragrance.
In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the
eastern or more remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a small hut,
which he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made his acquaintance. This
soon ripened into friendship — for there was much in the recluse to excite
interest and esteem. I found him well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but
infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm
and melancholy.
He had with him many books, but rarely employed them. His chief
amusements were gunning and fishing, or sauntering along the bank and through
the myrtles, in quest of shells or entomological specimens; — his collection of
the latter might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these excursions he was
usually accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter, who had been manumitted
before the reverses of the family, but who could be induced, neither by threats
nor by promises, to abandon what he considered his right of attendance upon the
footsteps of his young "Massa Will." It is not improbable that the relatives of
Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled in intellect, had contrived to
instil this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and
guardianship of the wanderer.
The winters in the latitude of
Sullivan's Island are seldom very severe, and, in the fall of the year, it is a
rare event indeed when a fire is considered necessary. About the middle of
October, 18—, there occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just
before sunset I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut of my friend,
whom I had not visited for several weeks; — my residence being, at that time, in
Charleston, a distance of nine miles from the Island, while the facilities of
passage and re-passage were very far behind those of the present day. Upon
reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and, getting no reply, sought for
the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked the door and went in. A fine fire
was blazing upon the hearth. It was a novelty and by no means an unwelcome one.
I threw off an overcoat, took an arm-chair by the crackling logs, and waited
patiently the arrival of my hosts. Soon after dark they
arrived and gave me a most cordial welcome. Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear,
bustled about to prepare some marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his
fits — how else shall I term them? — of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown
bivalve, forming a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted down and
secured, with Jupiter's assistance, a scarabæus which he believed to be totally
new, but in respect to which he wished to have my opinion on the morrow
.
"And why not to-night?" I asked, rubbing my hands over the
blaze and wishing the whole tribe of scarabæi at the devil.
"Ah, if I had only known you were here!" said Legrand, "but it's so long since I
saw you; and how could I foresee that you would pay me a visit this very night
of all others? As I was coming home I met Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and,
very foolishly, I lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it
until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at
sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!"




"What? — sunrise?" "Nonsense! no! — the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color — about the size of a large hickory-nut — with two jet black spots near one extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the other. The antennæ are" — "Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin on you," here interrupted Jupiter; "de bug is a goole bug, solid, ebery bit of him, inside and all, sep him wing — neber feel half so hebby a bug in my life." "Well, suppose it is, Jup," replied Legrand, somewhat more earnestly, it seemed to me, than the occasion demanded, "is that any reason for your letting the birds burn? The color" — here he turned to me — "is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter's idea. You never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales emit — but of this you cannot judge till [column 2:] to-morrow. In the mean time I can give you some idea of the shape." Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none. "Never mind," said he at length, "this will answer;" and he drew from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty foolscap, and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he did this I retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the design was complete he handed it to me without rising. As I received it a loud growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over I looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a little puzzled at what my friend had depicted. "Well!" I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, "this is a strange scarabæus, I must confess: new to me: never saw anything like it before — unless it was a skull, or a death's-head — which it more nearly resembles than anything else that has come under my observation." "A death's-head!" echoed Legrand —"Oh — yes — well, it has something of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots look like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth — and then the shape of the whole is oval." "Perhaps so," said I; "but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its personal appearance." "Well, I don't know," said he, a little nettled, "I draw tolerably — should do it at least — have had good masters, and flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead." "But, my dear fellow, you are joking then," said I, "this is a very passable skull — indeed, I may say that it is a very excellent skull, according to the vulgar notions about such specimens of physiology — and your scarabæus must be the queerest scarabæus in the world if it resembles it. Why we may get up a very thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you will call the bug scarabæus caput hominis, or something of that kind — there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the antennæ you spoke of?" "The antennæ!" said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably warm upon the subject; "I am sure you must see the antennæ. I made them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that is sufficient."








So, The Gold Bug. The unnamed narrator's friend, William Legrand, is bitten by what he believes to be a solid gold beetle. Legrand becomes obsessed with searching for treasure, making his friend, the narrator, believe he might be going crazy. Some time later, Legrand's servant, Jupiter, returns to the narrator and asks him to come to Sullivan's Island to help his master. Legrand is convinced he can find the treasure, and has a cryptogram to help him. After an unusual search, they do find the treasure, buried by Captain Kidd.I think this story proves why Poe is the master of the SHORT story, not the longish-short story. This just felt too long - I didn't care for any of the characters, and portions of the story drug on. The character of Jupiter would probably be considered racist in today's literature - modern writers would be excoriated for writing a character like that.However, I found the cryptology section to be fascinating. It was not fast reading - I really had to concentrate - but the method of solving the mystery of where the treasure could be found was something quite special. After the initial publication of the story, interest in cryptology exploded, and I can understand why.Next week we try another short story, The Devil in the Belfry. Poe Fridays is hosted by Kristen at WeBeReading








Janusz Korczak and Stefa -the team and the not all full orphans




http://korczak.com/Biography/kap-8.htm






These new type of non full orphans grab your hear,street wise , and children of poverty put in shelters and Korczak watched their performance easily moved to tears.They had sorrow in their eyes and bore the weight beyond their 10 years of many generations.These were street wise.Notice the no nonsense portrait of Stefa.She is destined to be responsible for 100's of children for the next 30 years.Stefa's polish patriot background is outlined in her family and her upbringing. Stefa spoke no0 Yiddish and had no knowledge of Jewish ritual.She, her older sister Julia, and her younger brother Stanislaw (Stash) occupied a six-room apartment with their parents in a building that had been part of her mother´s dowry. BIO AND QUOTE) Evidently her upbringing had a bearing on her no nonsense approach to life which was carried over to her responsibilities for the children carried on for 30 years.Stefa's mother, an ardent Polish patriot,saw to it that her two youngest daughters went to Mlle Jadwiga Sikorska´s exclusive private school for girls-where Polish culture was taught surreptitiously-and then to the University of Liege in Belgium rather than to the Russian university in Warsaw. (QUOTE BIO) Yes Stefa's mother was unconventional and taught her organizational ability. Stefa's degree was in the natural sciences but her interest lay in education Stefa. When she returned to Warsaw and noticed the small Jewish shelter near her home run by the Orphans Aid Society, she immediately volunteered her services. Before long, she became so indispensable that Stella Eliasberg put her in charge.(QUOTE) It was as if this were a sychronistic experience especially her teaming up with Janusz later, a near perfect compliment. Her indispensability was noticed right away by Stella who put her in charge of the Jewish shelter.Esterka Weintraub was her only assistant, another orphan became to her at age 13 like a daughter. The early phases of family here were emerging and that emerged with years in extenuating.The earlier circumstances were truly revolting as here quoted: (The director who ran the shelter before the Society took over had used its meager funds for her own purposes, dressing and eating well, while the emaciated children, clad in rags, crawled about the filthy floor grabbing at rotten potatoes that had been thrown to them.) Stefa was close to the Eliasbergs and had no idea of the impending life work with Janusz would yet emerge and noticed. He (Janusz) would cultivate the joy of the children when the balding doctor had pockets full of candy and magic tricks and had a tailored repertoire of riddles and fairy tales always ready for the telling . Stefa could bring order to the ramshackle home, and they bonded with a common spiritual daughter Esterka (Janusz and Stefa) . Along with his "pedagogical love" which was all embracing, they planned to send Esterka to Stefa's University in Belgium.
































By the time Korczak arrived at the shelter in the dilapidated former
nunnery on Franciskanska Street, the program in honor of Maria Konopnicka, a
poet and children´s writer, had already begun. He stood in the back watching the
pale, spindly performers with their shaven heads, their clean but ill-fitting
clothes, reciting the poems they had been rehearsing all week. He was so moved
by their shy smiles, he could hardly hold back his tears.
They were not all
full orphans. Most of their fathers had died of consumption, malnutrition, and
overwork; their widowed mothers, unable to manage, were forced to put them in
shelters like this while they went out to work.
The older ones were already
streetwise and tough, with the same sorrow in their sunken eyes, in their uneasy
high-pitched laughter, that Korczak had observed in the Polish waifs of the
Warsaw slums -"rare children who bear not only the weight of their ten years,
but deep in their souls the burden of many generations."
Korczak noticed
Stefa standing to one side coaching them, her lips moving with theirs. Whenever
a child finished, he ran to her for a hug, and then stayed close, clinging with
the others like magnets to her long skirt.
No one would have called Stefa a
beauty, even then. At the age of twenty-three, she was eight years younger than
Korczak and a good head taller. Her dark, serious eyes - the best feature in her
broad, plain facerevealed both warmth and strength. In a picture of her taken at
the time, a short functional hairdo frames an intense, no-nonsense expression,
which already suggests the woman who is destined to carry responsibility for
hundreds of children on her shoulders for thirty years
. A white Peter Pan collar
rests without artifice on a black sweater that covers a plump figure bordering
on the matronly.
Stefa´s acculturated background was in many ways similar to
Korczak´s. She spoke no Yiddish and had little knowledge of Jewish ritual. She,
her older sister Julia, and her younger brother Stanislaw (Stash) occupied a
six-room apartment with their parents in a building that had been part of her
mother´s dowry.
The two oldest daughters had already married and moved out.
Stefa's father, the owner of a textile factory, was in fragile health, and left
much ofthe responsibility for raising the children to his wife. in a period when
few women received a higher education, Stefa´s mother, an ardent Polish patriot,
saw to it that her two youngest daughters went to Mlle Jadwiga Sikorska´s
exclusive private school for girls-where Polish culture was taught
surreptitiously-and then to the University of Liege in Belgium rather than to
the Russian university in Warsaw.
While they were away, she busied herself
adding to their trousseaus, which she kept in large hope chests in her bedroom,
little imagining that neither of them would ever marry. Everything was
fastidiously prepared, down to the last properly sewn button; she judged the
character of a person by how tightly his buttons were secured. Tied to home by
her young son and her husband, this energetic woman who loved to travel
contented herself with touring remote areas of the city by tramcar
. She would
come back refreshed, as from a long adventure. It was from this unconventional
mother that Stefa absorbed many of her values and her organizational ability.
Stefa´s degree was in natural science, but her real interest lay in
education. When she returned to Warsaw and noticed the small Jewish shelter near
her home run by the Orphans Aid Society, she immediately volunteered her
services. Before long, she became so indispensable that Stella Eliasberg put her
in charge. (
The director who ran the shelter before the Society took over had
used its meager funds for her own purposes, dressing and eating well, while the
emaciated children, clad in rags, crawled about the filthy floor grabbing at
rotten potatoes that had been thrown to them.) Stefa´s only assistant was an
energetic thirteen- year-old ward of another orphanage, Esterka Weintraub, who
had become like a daughter.
Stefa had also become very close to the
Eliasbergs in the course of her work. When they told her that Janusz Korczak was
going to attend the shelter´s party, she had no doubt that this famous advocate
of children´s welfare would be interested in their project-but how interested
she could not have anticipated. Korczak began stopping by the shelter at odd
moments to chat with her and play with the children.
The orphans would scream
with delight at the sight ofthe slim, modest, balding doctor whose pockets were
always filled with candy and magic tricks, and whose repertoire of riddles and
fairy tales was limitless.
They made an effective team: Stefa with her ability
to bring order to the dark, ramshackle quarters, and he with his natural way
with children. His love, which he would one day call "pedagogical love" (not
sentimental, but based on mutual respect), embraced them all, and especially
little Esterka Weintraub, whose sweet, helpful disposition made her as appealing
to him as to Stefa. When they talked ofsending her someday to Stefa's university
in Belgium, it was almost as if they were discussing the future of their own
daughter.













Janusz Korczak -his literary works















http://www.ibe.unesco.org/publications/ThinkersPdf/korczake.PDF Bibliography of the works of the prolific Janusz Korczak













Many of these are obscure works that I have never heard of,are hard to access, and I would give my eye teeth (metaphorically) to read and savor.He wrote in several different genres and explored various disciplines in the social sciences and literature outside the realm of children's literature.King Matt the First and Th Bankruptcy of Little Jack are two books, only the first of which I have read in snippets and the second I am not familiar with. Certainly not with Kajtus the Sorcerer (1934). He also wrote for adults including the following books: Children of the Street (1901), Child of the Salon, 1906,Moski, Joski and Srule, 1909.Jozki, Jaski i Franki, [Jozki, Jaski and Franki, 1910],How to Love a Child, 1920,The Child's Right to Respect, 1929,Rules of Life, 1930. He also wrote poetic prose [One On One With God: The Prayers of Those Who Do Not Pray].







From E. Ringelblum, Kronika getta warszawskiego (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1983), pp. 606-607. ) This is an acc ount of Korczak as given by Nachum Remba, and supposedly he was the last to speak with Korczak and was to go to the community (he propsed) to seek intervention for Korczak which refused ,never wanting to leave the children for a moment.That was not a march to the wagons, but an organized, mute protest against banditism! Those were the first ranks who went to their death with dignity, looking at the barbarians with contempt. (...) Even the Order Service stood at attention and saluted. (QUOTE)







Marek Rudnicki's account gives a very different perspective: The atmosphere was dominated by an enormous sense of passivity, automatism and apathy. No one was visibly moved that it was Korczak who was going, there was no saluting (as some people describe), there certainly was no intervention on the part of Judenrat members, and no one approached Korczak. There were no gestures, no singing, no proudly lifted heads, and I don't remember whether anyone was carrying the banner of the Orphans' Home, though some people say this was the case.(QUOTE)







H. Grynberg, Prawda nieartystyczna (Unartistic Truth), (Berlin, Archipelag, 1984), p. 122. Here is yet another account of the final trail of Janusz Korczak "That amazement that a sick, old person, exhausted, abandoned, betrayed by the world in which he believed, a professional altruist, monk and the realest of saints (despite the anger, which he did not conceal) did not betray himself and did not hide in a hole to save his own pathetic biological being-that amazement-this was almost an abrogation of his entire life's work. Those speeches and tales of his heroic death because he did not want to leave the children on the way to the gas chambers and live as if nothing had ever happened-constitute the greatest disrespect for his noble soul."







This account depicts Janusz as a noble betrayed and necessarily angry soul; his "heroic death" is a false picture disrespecting that noble soul.










































He left behind a great deal of literary and theoretical works, including
works of children's literature such as Krol Macius Pierwszy (King Matt the
First, 1922); Bankructwo Malego Dzeka (The Bankruptcy of Little Jack, 1924
;
Kiedy znow bede maly (One Day I Will Be Small Again, 1925; Kajtus czarodziej
(Kajtus the Sorcerer, 1934), as well as for adults (including Dzieci ulicy
[Children of the Street, 1901]; Dziecko salonu [Child of the Salon, 1906];
Moski, Joski i Srule, [Moski, Joski and Srule, 1909]; Jozki, Jaski i Franki,
[Jozki, Jaski and Franki, 1910]
; Jak kochac dziecko [How to Love a Child, 1920];
Prawo dziecka do szacunku [The Child's Right to Respect, 1929]; Prawidla zycia
[Rules of Life, 1930]) and poetic prose, (Sam na sam z Bogiem: Modlitwy tych,
którzy sie nie modla [One On One With God: The Prayers of Those Who Do Not Pray,
1922]; Bezwstydnie krotkie [Shamelessly Brief, 1926]), as well as dramatic
works, of which only one has survived: Senat szalencow (Senate of the Madmen),
staged at the Ateneum Theater by S. Jaracz in 1931.








The following text is from an account by Nachum Remba, a member of the underground self-defense organization in the ghetto, who had been delegated to Umschlagplatz. In his account, he was the last to speak with Korczak, proposing that they go to the Community to seek intervention. Dr. Korczak refused, however, because he did not want to leave the children alone even for a moment. "No! I will never forget that image. That was not a march to the wagons, but an organized, mute protest against banditism! Unlike the crushed mass of people who went to slaughter like cattle, a march began the likes of which had never been seen before. (...) Those were the first ranks who went to their death with dignity, looking at the barbarians with contempt. (...) Even the Order Service stood at attention and saluted. When the Germans saw Korczak, they asked: "Who is that man?" From E. Ringelblum, Kronika getta warszawskiego (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1983), pp. 606-607.








Marek Rudnicki's account gives a different perspective on the last journey of Korczak and the orphans. Rudnicki followed Korczak and the children from the Orphans' Home on Sienna Street all the way to the "gate" on Umschlagplatz. "I don't want to be an iconoclast or a debunker of myths, but I must relate what I saw then. The atmosphere was dominated by an enormous sense of passivity, automatism and apathy. No one was visibly moved that it was Korczak who was going, there was no saluting (as some people describe), there certainly was no intervention on the part of Judenrat members, and no one approached Korczak. There were no gestures, no singing, no proudly lifted heads, and I don't remember whether anyone was carrying the banner of the Orphans' Home, though some people say this was the case. There was a terrible, exhausted silence. Korczak dragged his feet, hunched over, mumbling something to himself from time to time (...).








One other legend still exists for which no one has ever found solid evidence-that the Germans actually suggested to Korczak that he leave the Umschlagplatz. H. Grynberg has provided a very incisive interpretation of Korczak's final journey: "That amazement that a sick, old person, exhausted, abandoned, betrayed by the world in which he believed, a professional altruist, monk and the realest of saints (despite the anger, which he did not conceal) did not betray himself and did not hide in a hole to save his own pathetic biological being-that amazement-this was almost an abrogation of his entire life's work. Those speeches and tales of his heroic death because he did not want to leave the children on the way to the gas chambers and live as if nothing had ever happened-constitute the greatest disrespect for his noble soul." H. Grynberg, Prawda nieartystyczna (Unartistic Truth), (Berlin, Archipelag, 1984), p. 122.