Why Books? Fahrenheit 451 Project
In this project we read and discussed the book "Fahrenheit 451", made an art piece in response to the book, and wrote either a historical/literary analysis or a fiction piece based off of the book. We exhibited our art pieces on March 11th at the Powerhouse Science Center.
Metaphorical Montag
Claire Bedford, Janey Rusk, Amanda Studdard, Nerissa Anderson
This art piece is a depiction of Guy Montag, the main character from Ray Bradbury’s novel “Fahrenheit 451”.
Montag lives in a futuristic society in which people have forgotten the beauty of the world. Montag’s job is to destroy the last remaining books in this world, to prevent them from reminding people of older times when art and literature was celebrated and respected. We wanted to create an image that would communicate the different metaphors of the book and how these metaphors are combined to construct the meaning of the character.
Montag is standing amidst a burning pile of books. Two snakes crawl down his right leg, a metaphor for man controlling nature, which is a theme that occurs in the book. Montag is represented as a man capable of controlling nature: “With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world…” (Bradbury, 1). The snakes represent society’s desire to control nature, and the devastating results that follow from that attempt.
Montag’s left leg is a tree, which represents the character of Clarisse, a young girl who reminds Montag of the importance of nature. His right arm continues the metaphor of nature through the depiction of vines and blossoms. His left arm is a firehouse, and his stomach has gears inside of it, which represent the meeting of nature and technology in a human body. A phoenix beats its wings inside his chest. Phoenixes are mythological birds which move through a continual process of birth and death through fire. Montag’s face has been intentionally left without features as the rain from the sky pours down on him, washing away his personal identity into a universal oneness with all things.
Montag is surrounded by the burned pages of books, which have been fashioned into birds to correspond with the metaphor used in the book to describe the books that Montag burns: “The flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house...the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning” (Bradbury, 2)
Ultimately, this piece stands as a both a warning of the destructive power of humanity and technology, and also a hopeful symbol of the possibility of redemption and rebirth. If only we keep the importance of knowledge and books alive, we have a chance of redeeming ourselves and our world.
Claire Bedford, Janey Rusk, Amanda Studdard, Nerissa Anderson
This art piece is a depiction of Guy Montag, the main character from Ray Bradbury’s novel “Fahrenheit 451”.
Montag lives in a futuristic society in which people have forgotten the beauty of the world. Montag’s job is to destroy the last remaining books in this world, to prevent them from reminding people of older times when art and literature was celebrated and respected. We wanted to create an image that would communicate the different metaphors of the book and how these metaphors are combined to construct the meaning of the character.
Montag is standing amidst a burning pile of books. Two snakes crawl down his right leg, a metaphor for man controlling nature, which is a theme that occurs in the book. Montag is represented as a man capable of controlling nature: “With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world…” (Bradbury, 1). The snakes represent society’s desire to control nature, and the devastating results that follow from that attempt.
Montag’s left leg is a tree, which represents the character of Clarisse, a young girl who reminds Montag of the importance of nature. His right arm continues the metaphor of nature through the depiction of vines and blossoms. His left arm is a firehouse, and his stomach has gears inside of it, which represent the meeting of nature and technology in a human body. A phoenix beats its wings inside his chest. Phoenixes are mythological birds which move through a continual process of birth and death through fire. Montag’s face has been intentionally left without features as the rain from the sky pours down on him, washing away his personal identity into a universal oneness with all things.
Montag is surrounded by the burned pages of books, which have been fashioned into birds to correspond with the metaphor used in the book to describe the books that Montag burns: “The flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house...the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning” (Bradbury, 2)
Ultimately, this piece stands as a both a warning of the destructive power of humanity and technology, and also a hopeful symbol of the possibility of redemption and rebirth. If only we keep the importance of knowledge and books alive, we have a chance of redeeming ourselves and our world.
Alternate Chapter
Nerissa Anderson
The Saddest Ending
The sky was gray black. There was light, but in the dying day, it was pale, luminous, ghostly. Montag looked up, remembering what Clarisse had said. ‘It tastes like wine.’ Hesitantly he put his head back, feeling the warm, wet rain splashing on his face. Slowly, slowly, slowly, he opened his mouth, breathing in the ozone, breathing out the empty air, breathing in, breathing out. The rain splashed in his mouth, empty, yet filling, with the tang of freedom. He lowered his head, looked around with squinted eyes, suspicious that someone, something, was watching. Then, satisfied with the results of his caution, he again tilted his head back, looking up blinking, laughing, then suddenly dancing in the rain, full of joy. The first happiness, true happiness, he’d felt in a long, long time.
Montag looked down. Clarisse was standing there. She laughed, standing there, staying there, as if her presence was meant to be.
“See! I told you, it tastes like wine!” She laughed again, the twinkling noise breaking the stillness like a brook. She had found him, coming around the corner, with his nose in the air, mouth open, and drinking from the gray, overhanging clouds. He paused, looked up, and squinted, the fresh smell of ozone and spattering of rain on his face making him hesitant to go home.
“Clarisse,” he paused, pondering his next words carefully. “I know it might be odd, but I think you should come and have dinner with Mildred and me. If- if you want to, that is.” Clarisse looked up, surprise etched on every inch of her face.
“Why, Montag! You’ve finally surprised me! Well done.” The gentle light in her eyes told him she was kidding.
“Well,” once again he seemed to consult the skies from whence the warm wetness emerged, “Well, perhaps Mildred wouldn’t like it.”
Then he hastily added, in a slightly more bold voice, “But that’s okay, right?” Clarisse smiled, her white, gentle face only showing a little of the snarkiness which she had recently so profusely shown. Montag halted for a moment, once more, and looked at her, as if for confirmation.
“Right?”
“Of course.”
“But won’t she be angry?”
“I don’t know,” Clarisse said, somewhat pettishly, “So don’t expect me to.”
Montag seemed to reflect upon this for a bit, then said, “You’re confusing me again.” Clarisse laughed.
“When shall I come over?’” She looked at him again, reminding him of that first image, of her in that whispering, white dress, the way she’d looked up at him, as if she’d been expecting him.
“Um, perhaps two days away? On Wednesday?”
“Sure. See you around!”
Clarisse skipped away, toward that great big house, with all the lights shining, and the sound of gentle talking emanating from the seemingly peaceful place. As he wavered, he could feel the slight, harassing tug of envy, and was surprised at himself. Shaking his head at his strange thoughts, Montag went home.
The night that Clarisse was to come over, Montag finally remembered to tell his wife, the thought of the dandelion still fresh on his mind. He felt as if he were controlled, always controlled, except for when Clarisse was there. He felt like the marionette in the marionette shows he sometimes saw, where it was just a puppet. Yes, that was it, he felt like a wooden puppet, with no heart, no conscience, no thought. Just a smile painted on.
With that cheering thought, he turned and said to his wife, “Mildred, I have something to tell you.”
“Is it important?” Mildred barely even looked up as she said this, being too busy watching their television. The three walls looked back at him, so blank in their life, so black in their light, so dumb in their thought. How could she be satisfied? How could she live with nothing but them? How could she be entertained by them, and not by him? He thought once more of the dandelion. ‘Oh, you’re not in love!’ She said it so confidently. Again he looked at Mildred.
“Well? Are you going to answer me, or just sit there?” Mildred sounded angry, until she turned, and, seeing the blank, kind of confused look on his face, asked hesitantly, “Is everything alright?” Montag shook himself out of his stupor, like flames when the damper is opened, coming to life suddenly, with a shock.
“I just wanted to tell you that the neighbor I told you about, that girl Clarisse, she’s coming over to dinner... I thought it might be entertaining.” He didn’t know quite how to put the feeling he was trying to get across, and as time went on, Mildred was just getting angrier and angrier. The minutes passed, one two three four five six seven. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. The uncomfortable silence was growing, like a fire, but not warm. Like a shadow, yes, that was it, like a shadow, cold, silent, dark, painful.
“Montag, how could you?” Her voice caught a little. “You know curfew is nine for someone her age. If she’s caught where’ll we be?” Mildred paused for effect. “We have enough trouble with all this complaining about that silly Mechanical Hound. Attracting attention for no reason. Why can’t you just be happy?! Be patient, calm, and don’t think! How hard can that possibly be?” Her voice was stinging his ears, like so many bees. Always complaining, for no, Montag could never be good enough.
“Why are you happy?” His voice was becoming agitated, raised. “You have nothing but that television. You have no children. You have no one. You have nothing. You are nothing. Nothing but dust.”
“How dare you!” Mildred’s voice rose to a shrill shriek. “I have more than you! You just go and burn all day! You have nothing but your silly fire.”
Montag shook his head. “No. I have a real friend. I have a real fear. I have a real life!”
Mildred was silent. “I have a fear. That you think too much like that ‘real’ friend of you’re’s. You have begun to think like her. She is different! She shouldn’t even be here. And you, you invite her to dinner? You don’t know who you are anymore, Montag. You don’t even know yourself.”
The doorbell rang suddenly, like a crystal bell being rung, rung until it broke. It shattered the silence, and Clarisse could feel the enmity even from outside. She stepped inside as Mildred silently opened the door, and each footstep inside sounded like the shards of glass being broken, crunched, grinded into the floor. This was heartbreaking, heart shattering, as if his heart were there on the floor, for for Montag, it felt as if his world was broken. The dandelion, him, even him, different. The image of the fireman, so grand, so bold, so fearless, that was not him. He did not know who he was. He shuddered in the emptiness of his bed that night, his empty shell of a wife next to him, as if dead, eyes wide, only occasionally blinking. He imagined the whole world, dancing of strings. Just a few puppets, in an insignificant show. The only one he could see that wasn’t dancing on strings was Clarisse, and in his mind, he saw her, but it was as if she was on his shoulder. The image flickered, as if staticky, between him on strings, jaw flapping uselessly, and him off to the side completely free from control, standing. Yet even as he smiled, he felt a sense of dread. In his standing to the side, in his moving to the side, Clarisse was gradually blurred, erased. He pondered this, saddened by the thought.
Then he shook his head. There was nothing to that, just a silly dream. Again he shuddered flinched, even, as the thought occurred to him, that his whole life was just a silly dream. He trembled again, a sort of mad gyration, and rolled over. But that whole night, he couldn’t sleep.
“So, Montag.” Beatty’s malicious voice made Montag’s tired, throbbing head ache. “I hear tell you had someone over for dinner last night. A young lady.” What he said next was hardly audible. “If, of course, she can even be called a lady.”
The dark bags under Montag’s dry, puffy eyes were evidence enough that the night had not gone well. “Maybe.” His voice came out dry, like leaves on the ground, which only served to remind him of Clarisse, that first time he saw her, the way she was bent over halfway, her slim, graceful form moving with calm poise, looking out of place among the orange and red. The thought made him half smile, that she didn’t even fit in among the leaves.
“What’s so funny about it? Isn’t she the odd one? Has she yet begun to put ideas into that thick skull of yours? Perhaps you’ll become like her.” He laughed. “But that won’t be so hard. You’re already crazy. Maybe that dog down there will eat you if you start thinking like her. I wouldn’t suggest having her over again any time soon, Montag, old fellow.”
The men laughed, evidently having heard all about Beatty’s and Montag’s conversation last night. Montag shrugged, looked down, and moved on.
The rest of the day passed like a nightmare, a dream, a daydream. Montag didn’t even know, just went along, too busy with thinking to object to anything. But that night he asked Clarisse to return. When at first she shook her head, he asked her, almost begged her. She reluctantly consented, feeling like a sheep, lead to the slaughter. Then, when Montag went home, Clarisse stood for a while, thinking. She could almost feel the malice in the air, the wind seemed to blow with a certain tang, as if anticipating something, but what? What could happen? Nothing. Clarisse shook her head and walked home.
The next day, Clarisse looked out. The sky was gray, but not as it had been the first time, when she’d caught Montag drinking from it. It looked threatening, cloudy, raining, almost black. It wasn’t hopeful, and she knew it was a bad omen. Then she remembered that that night she was going over to Montag’s house again. Even as she cringed inside, she looked forward to it, almost unconsciously longing, in a way, for Montag’s presence. She looked out again, then, with her usual grace, depravity of sorrow, and a mixture of glee and anticipation, got out of bed.
The day passed without a murmur, except for a black car, no markings, and silver accents following Clarisse, until she went inside. She looked out the window, and, it was just sitting there on the corner. She frowned, slightly disturbed but not exactly worried. Lightening flashed, and a sudden, chilling wave of rain caused her to shiver, even in the house. She shook her head, then went upstairs.
She lost herself in time, lying on her back in her bed, dreaming, thinking, lost in thought. When she came to herself, she glanced at the clock, and, surprised at the passage of time, rolled off her bed and walked down the stairs. The sky was gray and heavy, but Clarisse hardly noticed as she pulled her yellow coat, listening to the thunder, the crinkling of her jacket, and the silence that surrounded her and everything. She walked out the door without looking up, and seeing Montag walking towards her, towards his house. Her expression brightened unintentionally. Then she heard the squealing of tires. She looked towards Montag, saw the horror on his face, then faced the car. With a sudden shock, she recognized it. A black car, no markings, and silver accents. Montag clearly realized what was happening, and he ran towards her, but Clarisse already knew it was too late.
Montag looked up, saw Clarisse, and smiled, knowing that she, if no one else, legitimately cared about him. Then he glanced down the road, and saw a car, like a dream. Black, with silver accents and no markings whatsoever. The car passed a house and the shade allowed Montag to see inside. Montag started running, for Beatty was in that vehicle, going as fast as the car would go towards Clarisse. But Montag was too late, and watched as if dreaming as Clarisse’s head snapped to the side, and the car hit her. He saw one look of panic, then she was gone. He took off after the car, enraged, but his eyes blurred, his throat caught, and he tripped, falling to the ground. His hands came up, red. Red, blood, metallic, wet, death. The world misted before his eyes, and he collapsed.
The Mask Project
Socialization and How it Affects Us Personally
Nerissa Anderson
10/24/15
Humanities
Have you ever been told that you are unattractive, or even fat? Even, or maybe especially, not to your face this still emotionally hurts.This is socialization because when you are told that you are overweight, the only reason that seen that way is because of the movie stars and ‘attractive’ people that we see on television and on posters. I think that this is negative socialization because we don’t need anyone to ever doubt themselves. We need to stop listening to these horrible things because they only cause harm. This essay will discuss why I believe that we must stop believing these things. Believing this leads to depression, anorexia, insomnia, and possibly suicide. Anorexia is not eating, which is a result of thinking you are fat. Insomnia is not sleeping, which can be caused by stressing about your weight. Depression is thinking that you aren’t good enough, which is a lie no matter what, and is often caused by thinking that you are overweight. I have learned recently from a source that much of weight gain is caused by depression. This is logical because most depressed people eat more than they usually do. But this also means that when someone is depressed because someone is criticizing their weight, they may never come out of depression.
My grandmother often told me, “Oh Rissa, you’re so pretty and thin!” This always made me feel like I wouldn’t be pretty if I was bigger than I was. In fact, when I started growing more, I would worry about my weight, leading to many questions to my friends. “Am I fat? Do these pants make me look bigger? and even more absurdly, “Do these shoes make my feet look big?” I was panicking about totally illogical things, looking back on it, because judging from the photos taken during that time, I was, in fact, absolutely beautiful. Therefore I can understand that while my fear of obesity was unjustified, it was understandable. Also, during that time I also was worrying constantly about various other things, such as my skin color. I find that stupid, because quite frankly, there’s nothing I can do about that.I’m beautiful the way that God made me, and that will never change. If we don’t believe in ourselves then no one will believe in us.
At this point in my life I was severely socialized to think that I was inferior to anyone or even anything that someone thought was greater than me. This issue is still somewhat in effect in my life, allowing me to believe that I am inferior, leading to a kind of lack of decision in me. I say this because even though I wasn’t fat, I still believed that I was, and therefore I was being socialized to believe that I was fat. Even still I was asking everyone I knew I believe that socialization can actually be unintentional, because my grandmother never meant to make me doubt myself, but merely to compliment me. Nevertheless it had a rather undesirable effect on my life leaving me minorly scarred, possibly for the rest of my life. When I believed her, that I was inferior when I wasn’t as pretty as need be, that meant that while I still cared about how I looked, which to an extent is actually a good thing, now I was obsessing about trying to convince my parents to get me makeup, the innest clothes, and nicest stuff. It was absurd. “Can I have these shoes?” “This isn’t makeup! It’s just lip-gloss. Please?” I did nothing but obsess over my looks, causing my attitude to sink. Normally I could convince myself to be cheerful, but now, my mind was on other, less important things. I was being socialized to think that all that mattered was how I looked, not what I did. My grandmother, along with other, less wise things, often said, “Pretty is as pretty does.” I was forgetting this vital fact!
As an example of what this generation and all who follow in our footsteps, I have found a rather famous person as my evidence. Her name is Rebel Wilson, and she is a famous celebrity. Her life is not marred at all by the fact that physically and even scientifically she is considered obese and overweight. She has been in 27 movies/shows. In this world, she is actually considered immensely successful. In fact, my opinion is that to an extent she enjoys being considered ‘fat; and proving the world wrong, just because she is so successful. She herself has said, “I stay fat because it just wouldn’t be fair to all the thin people if I were this good-looking, intelligent, funny, and thin. It’s a public service really.” Honestly, she sees the beauty that she has and just wants the world to see it too. Ann Curry says, “Beauty doesn't matter because in the end, we all lose our looks and all we have is our heart.” One in five women struggle with an eating disorder. This is because we worry so much about how we look that we are willing to harm ourselves. She doesn’t care what people think of her as long as she is seen as intelligent funny, and beautiful inside. Therefore she is wise. Other people cannot affect who she is, and so she is one of the strongest people I know of, as well as a good example.
In conclusion, we only need to remember that all we need to keep in mind is that what other people think of us doesn’t really matter, as long as we remain beautiful inside. Who cares what other people think of us, as long as we can see the real us, as the creative, intelligent beings we are. We often fail to see this and this problem is becoming more and more obvious with every tragic suicide and depression caused harm to oneself. This world and generation needs to believe more in themselves if we want to be at all successful. We are all beautiful inside.
Nerissa Anderson
10/24/15
Humanities
Have you ever been told that you are unattractive, or even fat? Even, or maybe especially, not to your face this still emotionally hurts.This is socialization because when you are told that you are overweight, the only reason that seen that way is because of the movie stars and ‘attractive’ people that we see on television and on posters. I think that this is negative socialization because we don’t need anyone to ever doubt themselves. We need to stop listening to these horrible things because they only cause harm. This essay will discuss why I believe that we must stop believing these things. Believing this leads to depression, anorexia, insomnia, and possibly suicide. Anorexia is not eating, which is a result of thinking you are fat. Insomnia is not sleeping, which can be caused by stressing about your weight. Depression is thinking that you aren’t good enough, which is a lie no matter what, and is often caused by thinking that you are overweight. I have learned recently from a source that much of weight gain is caused by depression. This is logical because most depressed people eat more than they usually do. But this also means that when someone is depressed because someone is criticizing their weight, they may never come out of depression.
My grandmother often told me, “Oh Rissa, you’re so pretty and thin!” This always made me feel like I wouldn’t be pretty if I was bigger than I was. In fact, when I started growing more, I would worry about my weight, leading to many questions to my friends. “Am I fat? Do these pants make me look bigger? and even more absurdly, “Do these shoes make my feet look big?” I was panicking about totally illogical things, looking back on it, because judging from the photos taken during that time, I was, in fact, absolutely beautiful. Therefore I can understand that while my fear of obesity was unjustified, it was understandable. Also, during that time I also was worrying constantly about various other things, such as my skin color. I find that stupid, because quite frankly, there’s nothing I can do about that.I’m beautiful the way that God made me, and that will never change. If we don’t believe in ourselves then no one will believe in us.
At this point in my life I was severely socialized to think that I was inferior to anyone or even anything that someone thought was greater than me. This issue is still somewhat in effect in my life, allowing me to believe that I am inferior, leading to a kind of lack of decision in me. I say this because even though I wasn’t fat, I still believed that I was, and therefore I was being socialized to believe that I was fat. Even still I was asking everyone I knew I believe that socialization can actually be unintentional, because my grandmother never meant to make me doubt myself, but merely to compliment me. Nevertheless it had a rather undesirable effect on my life leaving me minorly scarred, possibly for the rest of my life. When I believed her, that I was inferior when I wasn’t as pretty as need be, that meant that while I still cared about how I looked, which to an extent is actually a good thing, now I was obsessing about trying to convince my parents to get me makeup, the innest clothes, and nicest stuff. It was absurd. “Can I have these shoes?” “This isn’t makeup! It’s just lip-gloss. Please?” I did nothing but obsess over my looks, causing my attitude to sink. Normally I could convince myself to be cheerful, but now, my mind was on other, less important things. I was being socialized to think that all that mattered was how I looked, not what I did. My grandmother, along with other, less wise things, often said, “Pretty is as pretty does.” I was forgetting this vital fact!
As an example of what this generation and all who follow in our footsteps, I have found a rather famous person as my evidence. Her name is Rebel Wilson, and she is a famous celebrity. Her life is not marred at all by the fact that physically and even scientifically she is considered obese and overweight. She has been in 27 movies/shows. In this world, she is actually considered immensely successful. In fact, my opinion is that to an extent she enjoys being considered ‘fat; and proving the world wrong, just because she is so successful. She herself has said, “I stay fat because it just wouldn’t be fair to all the thin people if I were this good-looking, intelligent, funny, and thin. It’s a public service really.” Honestly, she sees the beauty that she has and just wants the world to see it too. Ann Curry says, “Beauty doesn't matter because in the end, we all lose our looks and all we have is our heart.” One in five women struggle with an eating disorder. This is because we worry so much about how we look that we are willing to harm ourselves. She doesn’t care what people think of her as long as she is seen as intelligent funny, and beautiful inside. Therefore she is wise. Other people cannot affect who she is, and so she is one of the strongest people I know of, as well as a good example.
In conclusion, we only need to remember that all we need to keep in mind is that what other people think of us doesn’t really matter, as long as we remain beautiful inside. Who cares what other people think of us, as long as we can see the real us, as the creative, intelligent beings we are. We often fail to see this and this problem is becoming more and more obvious with every tragic suicide and depression caused harm to oneself. This world and generation needs to believe more in themselves if we want to be at all successful. We are all beautiful inside.