Jekyll and Hyde: Humanity and his Nemesis

Is man fundamentally good or bad? Can he resist the inevitable lure of evil? Both of these questions address one of man's most deep-seated fears, that he lacks control of his own destiny. While throughout Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde it is apparent Hyde represents the evil side of the man, the relationship between Jekyll and Hyde is Stevenson's microcosm of that between mankind and the enticement of that which he knows is immoral, but nonetheless cannot help but be drawn to.

The concept of community in today's society is given a positive connotation -- community means to us a tight kinship that is shared by members of a group, whether it be our family, our neighbors, or our town. However, in Stevenson's novella, the community between Jekyll and Hyde is anything but this idealized concept of unity. The bond between them is bondage for Jekyll, and as he reflects, "[Jekyll] had now seen the full deformity of that creature that shared with him some of the phenomena of consciousness, and was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish but inorganic." (122) As something 'inorganic', in the author's view Hyde is nothing but a force that compels Jekyll to relinquish his grasp on what he knows is right. The communion spoken of represents the bitter temptation with which mankind is inseparably tied, the temptation few can hope to weather. Though in Stevenson's mind this reality is unavoidable, there are some, as in the case of Hyde's servant, Poole, who find it within themselves to transcend the vices of knowledge, and remain aloof from corruption, as did Poole even within the home of Hyde. Because it is possible to maintain virtue in the face of adversity, it is thus our task to keep ourselves from falling prey, as Jekyll did, to the subtle persuasions and enticements of evil.

Reflections on a Perverted World

Author's Note: I had a hard time coming up with a creative form to put this new post in. Mrs. Woods gave me the idea of taking a novella that is written to give an understanding of all the characters and giving the perspective of one whose view isn't given. So these are an excerpt from the journal of Hyde.

18 October 18—

What is it? Why must people stare at me so? I used to not look on life with such distrust. But not now. Not anymore. For a time, I avoided their gaze. Then I began to cover my face. But the stares seem inevitable. For hours, I gaze into a mirror, looking for the flaws they see. The only deformity I see is one behind the eyes, a deformity born of a pitiless rejection from a cruel world. Now I leave the theatre only at night, in search of the various chemicals on which my identity now subsists.

20 October 18—

Oh, the selfish nature of man. What was I but on one of my midnight errands, walking quietly by myself, eyes on the ground as I was wont at these small hours of the morn. I walked on, pondering life, when in an instant a child stepped into my path and was knocked down. No sooner had she fallen when I saw a man I seemed to recognize, and I began to walk towards him, to ask him to help the poor child up. For what with my hunched back, even such a slight task as this fails me.

But seeing me continue without helping the child in a moment he was upon me, and seized me roughly about the collar. In another moment the rest of the house was awakened and was upon me, a veritable mob, looks of terrible malevolence upon their faces, ready to stone me at the slightest provocation. I tried to explain myself, but they would hear none of it.

In the end, I was forced to offer up 100 pounds of my own reserves to right the wrong. And how readily they accepted this token that was nothing more than a bribe! Oh, the greed of man. What seemed to them a brutal assault of an innocent child could in their eyes be righted with a purse full of gold in their pocket. Did they think to give the child any recompense? No! Of course not! The corruptible nature of man is such that he will go up in arms over an injustice to the point of fanatical rage, and yet in an instant is pacified by a dirty pouch full of money. I now leave them to their ways; I care no more for the considerations of base, sordid, corrupted men.

The Spirits and the Soul

Author's Note: This is a poem based on the duality between the two sides of Jekyll's home -- the "Hyde Side" which I have kind of come to call the Vault, and the other side, the Home, where he can recuperate and restore his friendships...and who comes out on top.


A Vault concealed
A Home unveiled

Whilst spirits whisper in quiet persuasion
A soul defiled
Whilst friends converse in pleasant gaiety
A man restored





The fog descends

A threat'ning knell of fears to come
With nothing fair that lies unhidden
A blistered block, it looms, unbidden
Watching o'er the street the crushing boulder
Home of man with hunchêd shoulder

The warming hall

A welcome respite from the cold
While fears outside do creep and murmur
A group of friends once strong, once firmer.
Cannot but with sorrow watch
As terrors lurk, good paths they blotch

A garden, measure of courage to face
The trials of hell with humble grace.
Now a hazy rift links true and traitor
The spirits seek to raze, efface

Caught betwixt the wrong and right
A spirit of enduring hatred
Or a soul of fading light

A life lived craven, torn fore'er
A tattered will, left to naught but
Abject terror and despair

The Adversary

Author's note: Here I tried to kind of mimic Robert Louis Stevenson's style in a metaphorical snapshot of a man.struggling through the desert, using much of the same diction for effect.

He struggled against the stifling desert wind, his blistered face without distinguishable fault but repressing a disdained being, a face unblemished but without a doubt deformed. The desert heat scarred a man, inducing him into negligence of self image, or thought of anything other than the spiteful wasteland. Without warning it tossed up a handful of sand into his face. Thinking of nothing but defeating the beast, no conscious thought existed past “I can overcome this adversary. Meager desert heat is nothing to man’s menace.” The sand began to churn with greater passion, whipping up into a storm that had taken the life of many a man stronger than he. Few there were who could confront the desert. Vague shapes wafted through the clouds of dust, some darting close enough to make him flinch. The nebulous phantasm screamed, a banshee ripping at his ears, sheer power no human power could defy. “No…” But the man’s steps began to falter.

Then the wind changed, almost imperceptibly. Now there was more than sand, an occasional glimpse of blue. Soon it became apparent that there glowed a hope in the man’s seemingly futile struggle. A pillar of sand began to take shape beneath his feet, and he rose, at first gradually but soon climbing far above the tempestuous haze. But the pillar didn’t die away, only swelled in might. Gazing up, the clouds parted before him, and materialized into tangible walls, a warm hall, furnished for comfort, lit by shimmering lamps. As he passed each lamp, the years seemed to melt off his face. No longer did his face bring feelings of unrest and anxiety, but sincerity and tenderness. With a path now set forward, the man stepped onward, off his pillar, confident in foundation now afforded him by his path of virtue. Virtue carried him onward, with purpose, though without apparent foundation, and into the waiting arms of the clouds.

If

Author's Note: For my short story, go to the next post. This was a poem that I think is so true. It's about where our motives in life should be, and I thought it was worth sharing.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son! 

                                                          

                                                                  -Rudyard Kipling

The first time I read this poem I was kind of skimming through it when I realized how legit it was. I started over and began to read it slower, and every line seemed to speak right to me: 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,

One of the biggest problems I have with the world today is that no one really seems to appreciate true hard work. I actually enjoy working hard; the satisfaction of a job well done is a more than adequate reward in itself. More people need to get up off their couches, unglue their eyes from the TV screen, and discover the fulfillment possessed in solid work.

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
 

 Everyone knows that you can believe maybe twenty percent of what you hear in the hallways at school. Being mature enough to rise above that is a worthy goal in and of itself. It is all any of us can do to keep ourselves aloof from the temporal snares with which these hallways are rife, to abstain from the cooing persuasions of those who will try to draw us down to their level, to partake in activities that will bring naught but regret and grief.

And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;

Again, maturity. Having the maturity to take life, fair or not, like a man, and do what is needed to be done.

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise

A Broken Will

“Goodnight, Will. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mama.”

“Sleep tight, Will.” She embraced him.

As she began to pull away, he wrapped his arms tighter. She hugged him a little longer, then he released her. She started towards the door.

“Wait, Mama. Don’t go.”

She turned around and returned to his bedside. “What is it, Will?”

“I love you, Mama.”

“I love you too, Will. Goodnight.”

Will closed his eyes. Memories began to stir within him. Memories of the time when he had no refuge. Memories of a mother who once loved him, who now existed only in these memories.

*          *          *

His first cry broke the air, a manifestation of that first breath, of that joy in newfound life. He looked up, gazed into his mother’s eyes. Her soft, weary smile lit up the room. Will knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She tenderly lifted him in her arms. He looked again, and his eyes rested upon a man, whose beaming smile emulated that of his mother, but also appeared somewhat troubled, as if he realized the weight contained in this new responsibility. As they left the hospital, he heard loud voices, coming from his mother and father. Tears fell from his mother’s eyes, and she turned away, speaking softly to him, consoling, of hope for survival, less to him, than to herself.

*          *          *

Will’s mother tucked him in, humming softly, and gave him a warm hug. He touched her face, and smiled. She left his room, and he closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, he was almost asleep when he was stirred by the sound of a closing door. Voices followed, and he was roused further. The door sounded again, and more voices were added to his mother’s. As more people arrived, the volume increased. Someone turned on some music, and the noise swelled. Will called out, yearning for some amount of peace and consolation spoken from his mother. But his voice was not heard, neither did a reply return.

Strange smells drifted under the door. The voices became more raucous and abandoned. One, Will realized, was the voice of his mother. It was barely recognizable, harsh, unrepressed, wild. He cried out again; again, no soothing reply returned. A whimper escaped his lips. He began rocking back and forth in his crib, hurt and afraid. Finally, he fell into a disturbed sleep.

*          *          *

The next morning, the house was silent. Will slowly awoke, and called for his mother. There was no reply. Then he recalled the events of the previous night. An aching hunger gnawed at his stomach. He cried out again, and again, desperate. As the pangs of hunger and loneliness intensified to a despairing longing for nourishment and love, his voice diminished to a whisper. Again, Will fell asleep.

“Will! Will! You need to get up!”

“Mama?”

A tiny flame of hope was left glowing within him, and flared into love with a passion greater than he had ever felt before. He leapt into her arms and wrapped his little arms around her neck, buried his face in her hair.

There was that strange smell from last night. What could it be?

But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had his Mama back.

“Okay, Will.” She gently detached his arms. “You need to eat.”

She poured him a bowl of cereal. He gazed up at her with unadulterated adoration and devotion in his eyes. She looked down at the ground.

“I’m sorry, Will. Mama has to go to work.”

“Mama?”

“Goodbye, Will. I’ll be back later tonight.”

The door shut. Will stared at his meager bowl of food, and started rocking.

*          *          *

3:00 a.m.

Will’s mother was awakened by a squeaking sound of the recliner in the living room. She arose, and went to investigate, knowing it would be Will, rocking as he would for hours on end.

“Hey, Will. It’s me, Mama,” she whispered softly.

“Who is Mama?”

She was silent for a long moment, then asked “How long have you been here?”

Will just gazed up at her with his wide, confused eyes, more conflicting emotion and sadness veiled within them than any person, let alone a five-year-old child, should ever have to endure. His soulful eyes, his tainted trust, touched her more poignantly than could any physical pain.

His gaze she held for a long, meaningful moment, then reached her arms out to him.

Where he used to be hesitant to express his love for another, unfamiliar, “Mama,” he now knew where home was. Will wrapped his arms around her familiar neck, and laid his head on her soft shoulder, in her sweet-smelling hair, and was comforted by the safety he felt in his new, loving family.

*          *          *

Will sat there for hours, lost, his hope betrayed once more. Day after day went by, and yet for his betrayal no recompense came. Will’s innocence was such that for a time he did not sense this pattern that would repeat itself again and again over the next few months. But finally, slight hopes became false faith – the most tender and betrayed of hopes. No longer did Will cling to the hope that Mama would stay with him; he ceased crying out for solace. He treasured those short moments when she would tuck him in above all else, but when she closed the door, the pain was only driven deeper.

*          *          *

Will was roused by happy voices, the sound of Daddy chasing his brothers around the house. “Oh, Eli, here comes the tickle monster. You’d better run!”

“No, you’d better run, or I’ll push your belly button and make your legs fall off!”

Mama came into Will’s room. As she opened the door, Will rolled over and pretended to be asleep. She gave him a gentle hug, and whispered in his ear. “Will, I have a hot breakfast waiting just for you.”

“Surprise, Mama! I’m awake.”

“Oh, you silly Will.” She snuggled him again. “Come and get your breakfast, before it gets cold.”

*          *          *

One day, she didn’t come back.

*          *          *

“Hey, Will! Do you want to build a fort?”

“Sure, Jacob. How do we do it?”

“Well, first we take these sofa cushions, and we put them here…”

They worked hard, until it was almost done, and then Will simply sat down

“What is it, Will?”

He looked up at Jacob with shining eyes. “I’m so happy!”

“I am too. I’m so glad you’re part of our family”

“Me too.”

“I hope you stay with us forever.”

“So do I.” His mind wandered to the time before, and he found that he could no longer recall the former fervor with which he loved his mother. This thought somehow comforted him, granted him a trace of security in his newfound family.

Jacob’s mind wandered as well, to what the family had been before, and what it was now. Will’s sensitivity of heart was so tender as to change the disposition of the entire family.

Upstairs, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it, I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” exclaimed Eli, running upstairs with eager vitality.

A stranger stood at the door, garbed in an athletic shirt and shorts. From his sculpted athletic physique it was evident he spent a great amount of time nurturing his physical appearance.

Indistinct voices drifted down the stairs. Will’s mind flashed back to another time of indistinct voices, and he let out a whimper.

Then Mama’s voice came down the stairs, soft, and broken. “Everyone, come upstairs.”

When everyone had gathered, the stranger at the door gazed at them with empty eyes, and held out some papers.

 “I’m Will’s dad. The kid is coming with me.”

The Powers or the Bondage of Observation

Christopher has incredible powers of observation that allow him to see the world more clearly. But if any of us had these incredible powers of observation, it would drive us mad, not being able to concentrate on anything, being constantly assailed with new information. I wonder what allowes Christopher to have these observational skills, yet still be able to focus with great clarity and think things out in his head. Could it simply be greater brain capacity, or something beyond this? I find it hard to imagine that someone with constant pressure of new information burdening them could stay sane. Then again, it could be that Christopher isn't sane.

Colors

In The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, the main character is a boy with a one of a kind perception of the world around him, that we may see as either clever or extremely pointless. In particular, one of his peculiarities is his ideas of good and bad colors. Red, to him is lucky, and yellow he despises. If anyone has ideas of the symbolism or their own take on what colors mean in real life, post here.

Human Nature and Tendencies

We all have a tendency to be drawn to what we fear or hate. Anything can influence even the most strong willed, stalwart, valiant spirit. The atmosphere constantly bearing upon the priest too much harrows him to the depths of anguish; the lure of alcohol becomes to strong. Like (In Life of Pi)  Pi's initial abhorrence of raw flesh, then his disgusting relish of it, the whisky priest is drawn to alcohol like a moth will be drawn to a deadly fire.

Human Nature and Tendencies

We all have a tendency to be drawn to what we fear or hate. Anything can influence even the most strong willed, stalwart, valiant spirit. The atmosphere constantly bearing upon the priest too much harrows him to the depths of ; the lure of alcohol becomes to strong. Like (In Life of Pi) Pi's initial abhorrence of raw flesh, then his disgusting relish of it, the whisky priest is drawn to alcohol as a moth will be drawn to a deadly fire.