Girl in Landscape: A Must-Read Coming-of-Age Experience

I never read books ahead over the summer for English class because reading assignments are usually my favorite part of my homework, and I revel in discarding all other academic thoughts for a few precious hours each week and immersing myself in the plot of a completely new story. This was different. I had purchased the books on this class's reading list in early June and the moment I saw Jonathan Lethem's Girl in Landscape in the pile of all the other books, I was intrigued. Of course I know you aren't supposed to judge a book by its cover, but this one happened to be especially spectacular with these bizarre plants on the front. Also the title struck me with its simplicity that could mean so little or so much. So I read the back cover, promising a blend of a Western and Sci-Fi, and suddenly I was reading the book, unable to put it down for two days straight.

The book features this teenage girl Pella who settles in the frontiers of space with her father after her mother dies. It's cool because the scene feels a lot like a small-town western what-with the interactions between the people already living there, and yet the presence of Archbuilders, these mousy creatures native to the planet, gives the book a quirky Sci-Fi feel. 

I think what really appealed to me was how well Lethem was able to get into the mind of a girl on the brink of coming of age. I could fully relate to the feeling of being unable to speak up that Pella so often describes at the beginning of the book. Throughout the novel, she undergoes key changes that ultimately lead to her developing a voice with which she uses to defend what she believes in, and shape the future of the planet. The way in which she went from someone quiet and unable to speak for herself to a true leader made it a clear-cut coming-of-age novel, and I was really disappointed we didn't get to read it this semester because it was unlike anything else we've read. 

On top of being intensely engaging and relatable, it offered a really accurate depiction of a girl coming of age that I feel Housekeeping and The Bell Jar did not accomplish. Esther was just whacked, and that pretty much made her an outlier in her experiences, and Ruth barely opened up to her reader. Even though Pella was telling her story from all the way out in space, she was a very normal girl and her coming-of-age was well-defined, whereas I'm not even sure if Esther or Ruth ever came of age.I hope students who take this class in the future get to read Girl in Landscape because it was by far the best book on the reading list, although I thoroughly enjoyed all of them. 

Push-over Benji

Sag Harbor is drawing to a close and I've been asking myself whether Benji has undergone that magical transformation he was seeking at the beginning of the summer. He essentially wanted to go from "Benji" to "Ben," and come back to school being a little more cool. I thought that the episode with Melanie revealed Ben for just how young and uncertain he has remained.

First of all, Benji responds quickly to her attention even though he knows his friend is in a relationship with her, and he didn't initially have any interest in her. He really seems quite impressionable here, letting her steer the course of events without letting himself come through. A major part of coming-of-age is being able to stand on your own two feet and not be so swayed by the people around you. Unfortunately I haven't been getting much of that from Benji.

Another instance in which we witness Benji's lack of authority is when he can't be assertive about wearing goggles when playing with BB guns, or his discomfort with BB guns in general. He still feels pressured to go along with what everyone else is doing, and just as fate's cruel humor would have it, this lands Benji with a copper bullet lodged in his skull. This brings me back to Jason's conclusion at the end of Black Swan Green that "not giving a toss" is the whole trick to being confident. Benji clearly still buys way too much into what other people are thinking.

In the development of things with Melanie, I couldn't help but cringe when I saw the awkward way in which Benji brought her the ice cream and was instantly dismissed as she turned her attention toward Nick. He showed none of the suave poise he'd been seeking to achieve that would have aided him in handling the situation gracefully. Instead, he came off as more childish than ever, keeping his mouth shut and never confronting Melanie.

Although all this is very disappointing, I can only hope that these experiences will at the very least make him older and wiser, giving him lessons to grow from. Sometimes handling a situation badly molds the strength it takes to be prepared to handle a situation well in the future. With one chapter to go, I'm holding onto every last shred of optimism that something will finally click and give Benji a little more backbone.

Forging a Separate Identity

So far in the novel, we've watched Benji start to come of age as he's thrown into a setting resembling Lord of the Flies, in which there are no adults to monitor his and the other kids' actions, leaving them to make their own choices. This started a little before then, however, when he extricated himself from his younger brother Reggie.

Just like the bond between Lucile and Ruth at the beginning of Housekeeping, Reggie and Benji grow up so close to each other, they can barely be differentiated. In essence, there's nothing Benji can pinpoint about himself that makes him unique, which is by definition what he needs to develop an individual identity. He has a coming-of-age milestone when he holds hands with Liz on the ice rink and realizes what it's like to experience something on his own, apart from his brother. Quickly, the two seem to work harder than ever to prove that they aren't the same person.

When you're little, it's easy to slip into a pattern of always hanging out with the same person and losing yourself in the other's habits. I didn't have a sibling close enough in age for my experience to be the same, but I have always been super close with my mom. We've always done a lot of things together my whole life, and we can practically communicate telepathically. There's no doubt we have a great relationship, but when I was about twelve or so, I realized that I agreed with almost everything she thought and this perturbed me deeply. I needed to find away to distinguish myself to become my own person. This really hit me when I went to stay with my grandparents in France for the summer and I was without her for the longest I've ever been. I was speaking French, a language she doesn't speak since I learned it from my father, and I was experiencing so much without her. I came back different, having lived something she hadn't, and knowing myself all the better.

There's something about that moment in pre-adolescence when you realize what it's like to be you, on your own, without needing that other person to affirm what you're saying. In childhood, we're essentially mimicking our surroundings, trying to figure out how to act and what to think, and maybe what draws the true barrier between childhood and adulthood, is finding confidence in being yourself and coming up with your own assertions.

Jason's Inhibition

I'm really captivated by the narration of Black Swan Green with its down-to-earth voice, fast-paced action, and profound insights. One thing in particular which has held my attention is the sensitive side of Jason which he must hide in order to fit in at school and not be called "gay." Even at home, he doesn't express himself the way he'd like to, as he describes to us when envying Julia for her quick wit. Part of it is his stammer, but it also has something to do with his inhibition. I can remember feeling this way in middle school-- a kind of need to say what I really thought countered by an insecurity about whether I would just come off as foolish. Jason also looks to Hugo, as he sees his discuss topics like poetry and still exude suave confidence.

As the novel progresses, we can see Jason coming into his own as he stammers less and has more social success. It's clear that working his way up in the school's hierarchy helps his self confidence, but to truly self-actualize, he has to search for something deeper than the approval of his peers. It's the voice of his "unborn twin" that he needs to listen to in order to not be so restricted by the constraints "maggot" has on him. When he goes back to Mr. Blake's for his friend, Moran, we have a little hope that he might be listening to his better instinct rather than letting his fears rule him.

I also have to wonder what role his parents' failing marriage plays in Jason's development. The constant tension and unrest at home shakes him at the roots, taking away his sense of security. He's at a point where he needs a lot of support from his family because his peers are ruthless, giving him little validation. He doesn't get much comfort from his family, as we can see from his father's terseness with his stammer, and his mother's preoccupation with the drama between her and his father. Jason even says that he partly blames himself for their marital issues, thinking that if he were friendlier, they would get along better. With so much guilt and insecurity in his own home, he shows up at school without the backing that he needs to be confident.

Even with the odds stacked against him, we still see him mature. This is part of his coming-of-age as he forges his independent identity apart from his parents.  The drama with his parents pushes him more deeply into school politics and forces him to make big decisions on his own about how he will shape his character.

Dreams and Reality

Throughout Housekeeping we see Ruth describing how dreams can mix with reality. I found this idea fascinating because it's true that with time moments become memories which bare likeness to dreams and are ultimately buried so deeply in our consciences that it's difficult to tell the two apart. Some of my earliest memories make no sense at all and it's impossible for me to explain how they ended up in my mental timeline.

For example, I've always remembered encountering a bear when I was about two or so, and for years after that, I would scold my mother for not having protected me. My parents promise me that there never was a bear, and yet I can picture it perfectly in my mind. As I grew older, I realized it very well may have been a dream, but as a child, it made little difference to me as I slipped from sleep to being awake with little differentiation.

Ruth specifically touches upon the irrelevance of fact at the end of the book:

All this is fact. Fact explains nothing. On the contrary, it is fact that requires explanation. For example, I pass again and again behind my grandmother's house, and never get off at the station and walk back to see if it is still the same house, altered perhaps by the repairs the fires made necessary, or if it is a new house built on the old site. I would like to see the people who live there. Seeing them would expel poor Lucille, who has, in my mind, waited there in a fury of righteousness, cleansing and polishing, all these years. She thinks she hears someone on the walk, and hurries to open the door, too eager to wait for the bell....Sometimes she dreams that we come walking up the road in our billowing raincoats, hunched against the cold, talking together in words she cannot quite understand. 

All this that Ruth imagines about Lucille is significant in its own right. These details she can picture, although without factual evidence, are woven from what she knows of her sister and are part of how she perceives her past as well as her present. Interestingly enough, mixing memories with dreams and imaginings seems almost contrary to Sylvie's philosophy of living in the moment. But then again, to live every second to its fullest, isn't it imperative that we mix in our past and future? Some of the best moments taste sweeter with a memory associated with it or an aspiration that you're working toward.

Trying to Figure Ruth Out

I just finished Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson this morning, and I still feel like I don't really know Ruth. She partakes in barely any dialogue throughout the book, and the narration is all retrospective. It wasn't until the end that I got a clearer glimpse of her.

But after a while, when the customers and the waitresses and the dishwasher and the cook have told me, or said in my hearing, so much about themselves that my own silence seems suddenly remarkable, then they begin to suspect me, and it is as if I put a chill on the coffee by serving it. What have I to do with these ceremonies of sustenance, of nurturing? They begin to ask why I do not eat anything myself...Once they begin to look at me like that, it is best that I leave.

Just like me, the people around her are perplexed by her silence, and in seeing this, I found myself becoming more sympathetic with her. Although she may be very introverted, it is not out of self-absorption or disinterest with the people around her. It is almost the opposite: she quietly takes in her surroundings with fascination, too enthralled to disrupt the events around her. She reacts the same way when she's in the woods with Lucille, peacefully listening to the animal sounds, unlike Lucille who is impatient with the disorder of the outdoors. Be it nature, animals or people, Ruth is mutely observant, and perhaps this is what makes her able to write so well. She takes the time to understand the world, rather than drowning out its sounds with her own voice.

Sylvie played a huge role in aiding Ruth to become the keen observer that she becomes. Her practice of eating dinner in the dark forced Ruth to employ her other senses while her eyesight was of little use. I was especially impressed by Ruth's behavior when Sylvie took her to the abandoned house in the valley. When Sylvie left her, she remained still, always watching, always imagining. Even though Sylvie facilitates Ruth in becoming quiet and observant, there is something unique about Ruth which allows her to become this way, because Lucille was given the same upbringing and yet is completely different.

At the end of the novel, Ruth traces her uniqueness back to waiting on her grandmother's porch for her mother to return, saying it instilled in her a "habit of waiting and expectation which makes any present moment significant for what it does not contain." This explanation makes sense to me. Even if Lucille was also on that porch, the experience clearly meant something different to Ruth, maybe because she was younger, or maybe, because Ruth was already different since conception as she later goes on to claim.

I still can't say I feel like I know Ruth intimately, like I could have said for Holden Caulfield, but then again, not many people could, and that's part of what defines her. Living in a reality where she can barely distinguish dreams from real events, nor does she bother even trying to, she's on a level at which friendship would take on a completely different meaning. She drifts and barely speaks, let alone opens up to people. But I do like her. She's imaginative, pensive, and so free-spirited that she's just out of everyone's grasp.

Esther's Unease with Marriage

As I read the first several chapters of The Bell Jar, I was instantly intrigued by Esther Greenwood. She is so much less defined than Holden Caulfield and Stephen Dedalus who exude a tone of confidence in their convictions. We've already seen how drastically she changed her mind about Buddy Willard and Doreen. Or how she suddenly realizes that she doesn't know what she wants to do with her life after being certain for so long. And yet amidst this whirl of changing opinions, we see her forge her own unique ideas, apart from everyone else.

What really caught my attention was her perspective on dating, marriage, and sex. In a society with the double standard expecting women to remain virgins until marriage, she figures that because Buddy has already "known" a woman, she must "know" a man before being with him. This idea is contrary to everything her society has taught her. She describes an article from Reader's Digest which outlines the commonly held belief of the era that ideally a man and woman should both be chaste if unmarried, but if a man doesn't remain so, he should still expect purity from his wife.  In response to this article, Esther states, "I couldn't stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double life, one pure and one not." Her feminist logic emerges, purely of her own thought, in a culture which wholly disagrees with her.

With regards to marriage, she perceives the institution as something daunting she wants to avoid. But when she does consider it as an option, she speaks very cynically of it:

Finally I decided that if it was so difficult to find a red-blooded intelligent man who was still pure by the time he was twenty-one I might as well forget about staying pure myself and marry somebody who wasn't pure either. Then when he started to make my life miserable I could make his miserable as well.

 Whereas the other girls around her seem to be building their futures around their plans to marry, Esther sees marriage as something that would only detract from her life.

The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

Her fear of losing independence when marrying isn't without reason either, as Buddy has told her that once they're married, she won't be interested in poetry anymore, something she is very passionate about. She has also seen how dependent married women are on their husbands. In fact, her unusual views on marriage tie into her habit of constantly changing her mind and developing new opinions. She thrives on this amorphous style of thought, and she fears that getting married will constrict her to a stagnant state of existence.

Stephen Dedalus' and Holden Caulfield's Outlooks on Death

Having finished A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man as well as Catcher in the Rye, I've noticed surprising contrast considering the common theme of coming of age. Stephen is cold, selfish, and disciplined; Holden is relatable, charming, and impulsive. However, both of their narratives deeply explore their conscience, and in doing so, there are naturally some parallels in their thinking and development. One which stood out to me in particular was how the two characters deal with the concept of their own deaths. In the two books there is a passage in which they envision their own deaths with some fascination.

The passage where Stephen Dedalus imagines dying occurs in the infirmary when he is mildly ill, and goes as follows:

There was cold sunlight outside the window. He wondered if he would die. You could die just the same on a sunny day. He might die before his mother came. Then he would have a dead mass in the chapel like the way the fellows had told him it was when Little had died. All the fellows would be at the mass, dressed in black, all with sad faces. Wells too would be there but no fellow would look at him. The rector would be there in a cope of black and gold and there would be tall yellow candles on the altar and round the catafalque. And they would carry the coffin out of the chapel slowly and he would be buried in the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue of limes. And Wells would be sorry then for what he had done. And the bell would toll slowly.

For Stephen, dying is something glorious. He craves attention, and he sees death as an opportunity for people to express sympathy for him. As an artist, he sees his death as a kind of martyrdom, and this theme is continued throughout the novel as he explores the significance of his namesake Stephen, the Christian saint persecuted for his faith. We see no sense of dread, only a kind of thrill at the "sad faces" and he heightens the drama by even being so specific as to describe the how "the bell would toll slowly."

Holden's vision of death also occurs in a state of less-than-perfect health, as he is walking around a cemetery in the cold rain without having had much sleep, and recently having gotten pretty drunk.

....I thought probably I'd get pneumonia and die. I started picturing millions of jerks coming to my funeral and all. My grandfather from Detroit, that keeps calling out the numbers of the streets when you ride on a goddam bus with him, and my aunts--I have about fifty aunts--and all my lousy cousins. What a mob'd be there.... . Anyway, I kept worrying that I was getting pneumonia, with all those hunks of ice in my hair, and that I was going to die. I felt sorry as hell for my mother and father. Especially my mother, because she still isn't over my brother Allie yet.... The only good thing, I knew she wouldn't let old Phoebe come to my goddam funeral because she was only a little kid. That was the only good part. Then I thought about the whole bunch of them sticking me in a goddam cemetery and all, with my name on this tombstone and all. Surrounded by dead guys. Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.

Similar to Stephen's imaginings, there are many little details such as the flowers and quirks about the relatives who would attend. Yet, there is a difference in his tone. Although he delves right into the idea of his own death with many mundane specifics, unlike Stephen, he doesn't sound too excited by the idea of people being sad at his funeral. He describes feeling sorry for his parents, and is especially concerned that Phoebe not be exposed to the tragedy.

For these two characters, death is something far and distant into the future, as they are at the prime of self-discovery. Facing the fact that they will ultimately die seems to be a small way in which they come of age. Although their elaborately thought-out funerals may seem ridiculous, there is definitely something impressive about how they explore their demises relatively fearlessly. Interestingly, they both focus on the reactions of others rather than their own fates, as Stephen delightedly imagines everyone's sadness, and Holden pityingly pictures the pain his death would cause others. Both see themselves as highly important to the world around them, and are confident they will be greatly missed. This sense of importance in their identities is also a milestone in coming of age, as they differentiate themselves from others as unique presences in the universe.

Holden Caulfield, Let's Be BFFs?

Switching from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man to Catcher in the Rye has been quite refreshing. I find Holden Caulfield so much more interesting than Stephen Dedalus, and a large part of it has to do with his awareness of the world around him. He is constantly observing people and trying to interact with them where as Stephen was mostly an introvert. The language is also very different. Unlike most classics, the narrative style is as casual as if he were speaking directly to you in person, and he's exactly the type of person I would want to talk to. As I read, I'm constantly laughing out loud and fully engaged with what he's saying. He never lets you zone out, they way he addresses the reader and keeps you involved in the story and what he's saying.

I feel like I can really identify with Holden Caulfield, which I couldn't do with Stephen Dedalus who seemed so cold and distant from everyone. One of his main intentions throughout the novel has been merely to find a good conversationalist, and this is something I'm always looking for as well. I try to talk to people as much as possible, and although I wouldn't be so inclined to invite a random little girl out for hot chocolate, I share Holden's penchant for talking with people.

I also find his attempts to categorize people quite amusing. "All these handsome guys are the same. When they're done combing their goddam hair, they beat it on you." It makes me laugh, but then when I stop and think about his little generalizations, they have some greater truth and significance. I feel like I know what he means when he says this, and it gets me thinking about all the conceited people I know and how they fit this profile.

Another quotation that got me thinking was: "Every time you mention some guy that's strictly a bastard- very mean, or very conceited and all- and when you mention it to the girl, she'll tell you he has an inferiority complex. Maybe he has, but that still doesn't keep him from being a bastard, in my opinion." At first, I just kind of shook my head at the ridiculous oversimplification, but when I considered it more, it rang true. People in general have a way of turning things around to fit what they want to believe, and what Holden was saying makes sense.

So, I basically think Holden Caulfield is great. His honesty is appealing, he has an astute world view, and his ability to make me laugh while reading gains him major points. I don't really understand how he is so ostracized when he is so warm and charming all the time. I think the people around him don't get him, and just aren't on his level. They're constantly dismissing him, like when the taxi cab driver is irritated by his question about where the ducks go in winter or when Sally is so alarmed by his proposal to run away together. I don't see how they can't be at least a little intrigued by his quirks, rather than being so freaked out. I wish I knew him, though, because I'm sure we'd get along swell.

Attachments and Detachments

As I finished chapter four and delved into the fifth chapter of The Portrait of the Artists as a Young Man, I stopped so bitterly disliking Stephen Dedalus. Having seen him swing from  the two extremes of absolute piety and reckless abandon, I was losing patience with him. The end of chapter four offered a glimpse of hope, as we saw him mature a bit more. He decided to to go to university, and to make art with his life. Of course, he's still self-absorbed, but his desire to create something of worth is admirable. At least in this way, he can contribute something meaningful to the world, whereas if he had gone into the priesthood, his virtue would have been insincere and worth little.

We also see him growing in other ways. When he visits home, he feels pity for his siblings who are already weary of the world due to the family's financial standing. Although it's clear that he is rather detached from them, this empathy is surprising coming from him, since up until this point, it is the first example of him expressing any concern for the emotions of others.

In chapter four, the focus on Stephen's mind rather than his surroundings continues, but we see him taking more interest in the people around him. For instance, he is enthralled by a girl he sees at the beach. Still, a glance is enough, and he immediately transfigures her in his mind so that she can become a part of his psychic reality rather than someone to interact with in the real world.

In chapter five, we see Stephen has developed many friendships at the university, further shifting the focus of his consciousness to the the external world. His conversations certainly seem focused on his own interests, however, as he lectures his friends on the aesthetics of beauty and art. Nonetheless, I can't help having new respect for him. Perhaps it is just the fact that he is openly being himself with the world. He is no longer thrusting himself at the mercy of either sin or God. He just exists and converses and contemplates, more like a normal human being.

Even as we see Stephen developing more substantive relationships, he still seems to have a certain level of detachment that draws him toward the philosophy of aesthetics. It allows him to look at the world through a lens as we have seen him so prone to doing throughout his life. But, perhaps this dedication to studying his world in such an impartial manner is what allows his artistic sensibilities to thrive.

How Do Narcissists Come of Age?

The third chapter of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is a rush of religious experience, plunging the reader into the fiery depths of hell as Stephen Dedalus pictures it. The strange thing is how he seems to feel a fear of hell, and a shame for disappointing God, rather than guilt for having treated the people around him coldly. There's clearly a kind of narcissism going on here where he thinks he is beyond his peers and is at a level with God.

His concept of conscience is unrelated to seeing and treating people as equals. The irony is shown when Stephen Dedalus sees the peasant girls on the street, and feels pity for himself that their souls were "dearer to God than his." This is supposed to be a turning point in which Stephen Dedalus seeks to give up his life of sin, but rather than despise his own actions, he is once again looking down his nose at others. In this moment, he commits two sins, pride and envy, and those are part of what compel him to repent. His idea of virtue is clearly warped and motivated by self interest.

I see that Stephen Dedalus has in many ways developed very little throughout the chapter. He started the chapter indifferent to his peers, seeing himself as superior and them as dull and indistinguishable. By the end of the chapter, he is once again seeing others as lesser to himself when he perceives the peasant girls as unworthy of being closer to God than him. Thus far in the novel, I have noticed Stephen Dedalus has been consistently distant from other people. It's as though everyone around him is vague and undefined, and he only sees himself clearly. In fact, his sense of self is so piercing that he often puts himself next to God. He describes sin as being consequential merely because it has "covered him from the sight of God," and when he repents, he immediately feels relieved of all guilt since he believes God has forgiven him. The feelings of those he may have hurt are irrelevant to him.

This narcissism is perturbing, and I wonder how this effects his coming-of-age. If coming of age has to do with developing a personal moral code, I'm not sure which direction Stephen Dedalus is heading. At the beginning of the book, he followed the words of others too closely, and obsessed over right and wrong.  By this point, Dedalus seems to have a complete disinterest for what others have to say.  Earlier on, he would eagerly refer to the words of the fellows or his father when seeking the right answer. Now, he allows the principles of Catholic theology to be his moral compass, even if he chooses not to obey them. In both cases, I see a very artificial distinction between right and wrong. This is largely a problem of a lack of empathy. He doesn't seem to be able to relate to the people around him enough to permit him much moral intuition, so he relies on some external form of judgement, be it his peers or God.

I think a major way that Stephen Dedalus deals with coming of age in a way that allows self-development is his tactic of taking things directly to God. His self-absorption prevents him from building meaningful relationships with the people around him which is a part of growing up that can largely shape someone's character. He, however, thrives on this intense connection to God. He sees God watching his every move as he sins, and he sees God as the sole worthy judge of his actions. I would expect him to be more concerned about what his father thinks of his actions, but he never even mentions a kind of shame at imagining his father see him like this when he is spending his nights in brothels. Also linked to Dedalus's isolation is the sheer lack of relationships he has with other boys his age. Most adolescents effect each other immensely as they experience similar changes simultaneously. Yet Stephen Dedalus doesn't spare his peers a second thought, and he comes of age very much on his own.

Perhaps I am being too harsh to describe Stephen Dedalus as egotistical and lacking in empathy. We do see some glimpse of awareness of others when he describes seeing the shame his eyes invoked in the prostitutes. But even then, he his senses are "stultified only by his desire," and when he repents, he expresses no regret for wounding these women, only remorse for losing God's good graces. I'm interested to see if Dedalus will ever grow in his ability to form relationships and empathize with others as he continues to come of age.

Ice Cream and Adult Antics

As we read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the role adults play in Stephen Dedalus's life fascinates me as we see his perception of them change as he approaches his own "coming of age." In the first chapter, he idolizes adults completely, only certain of his own actions when legitimized by an adult's approval. At one point, we see his struggle for certainty unfold as he considers whether or not to tell the authorities that his peer, Wells, pushed him into the ditch. He remembers that his father told him "never to peach on a fellow," and so he doesn't and feels confident that he has done the right thing.

The narrative encouraged me to explore my own memory in search of how my perspective of adults has developed over time. The whole "never peach on a fellow" scenario strikes me as somewhat strange considering that in my own childhood, children were often only too eager to tell on each other for the smallest things. Yet the reasons were the same. We were seeking an adult's authority where we were uncertain. I can remember the constant need to differentiate right from wrong as a child, and the reassurance of having an adult extinguish the confusion by asserting what was good or bad.

Later on in chapter one, we see that Dedalus's perspective is shaken when the prefect of studies scolds him for not doing his work with the rest of the class. In this moment, we see Dedalus silently sure that he is being wronged, for the doctor had advised him not to write with his glasses broken. We see that Dedalus is growing in his own sense of morality as he is able to be certain that the prefect is not in the right. Of course, he is still relying on the doctor's words for backing, but it is a step up from the immediate compliance to the words of adults that we see in the beginning with his interactions between him and his father.

I can identify with this jolting disorientation when faced with the infallibility of adults. When I was in first grade, I had a bizarrely optimistic teacher who I was inclined to gain the approval of from the beginning due to an upbringing in which I always looked up to adults. Yet as the days rolled by, her irritating antics slipped out one by one. If a student complained about something she would grit her teeth and force a frighteningly wide grin, crying, "Smile and say you love first grade!" If she was ever in a mood that was anything less than a hundred percent chipper she would remind us that the the trick to not being sad was to force yourself to laugh until you felt happy. She wanted everyone to be happy all the time, and I was the pensive, sober youth that clearly irked her. She would always single me out and reprimand me before the classroom for small things such as writing messily or daydreaming. At first, I was certain I was being a very bad student, although it puzzled me because I had never been perceived this way by teachers before. Yet there came a day when I finally realized that she was, well, a little insane. I had come back from recess a bit late and she punished me by purchasing Baskin Robbins ice cream for the entire class. The entire class received a little paper cup of chocolate ice cream, except for me. Now, that was just cruel. And I realized that a woman who would exclude me from the class's ice cream consumption was, in my first-grade vocabulary, "bad."

So is realizing that one adult authority is wrong "coming of age?" No. But, it's definitely something that can trigger the start of the process of self discovery. It's symbolic of a moment when we are relying on ourselves as moral compasses, and not simply the words of others.