Writing Journal #4

I learned that it is very difficult to write a piece in first person that does not come from personal experience. And it is very difficult to make a personal experience fit into the classic story outline, because in real life things do not happen in neat sets of three, with each experience increasing in urgency. So writing a story in such a format is quite unrealistic and is therefore difficult in the first person, which begs a realistic setting and approach to make it believable.

Red Rocks

Not many people know it, but the desert outside of Las Vegas is beautiful. The mountains that surround that city are often overlooked because of the flashiness of the Strip and the various manmade wonder that constantly vie for your attention. But if you are lucky enough to be able to look past the Mirage and the MGM you will find high red peaks crossed by small white trails that lead you through some of the most stunning desert in the world. Or so I read in one of the brochures piled in my lap as I sat in Southwest Airline’s small seats. I was excited to go to Las Vegas, and I was determined to have a memorable trip that was more than the stereotypical “Las Vegas experience,” and I thought I had just found the little something extra that would give this trip the unusualness and adventure I craved. So, after a week of wandering through the man made wonders cluttering the valley floor I drove out of the city, past the manicured palm trees into the hills dominated by twisted yucca and sagebrush.
As I parked my red rental car in the parking lot I breathed in the scorching desert air and looked around at the sandstone landscape. This was exactly what I wanted! As I started out on the neat path marked by white stones I knew I had found something that very few people would be able to boast of after coming back from Vegas. The hike was enchanting. The trail wound through small thickets and over trickling streams. Large boulders were marked with ancient hand prints and mystical stick figures of long lost Indian tribes, and burros watched me with large brown eyes from distant hills.
As I walked along, enjoying the sunshine and the lovely views I spotted a couple of boulders a ways from the pat that leaned against each other, creating a shadowy cave between them. I looked around and didn’t see anyone who would object to my leaving the path, so I stepped off of the white stones and clambered up to explore the cave I had spotted. It was a bit farther up the hill than I had realized at first, so I welcomed the shade as I rested against the dusky sandstone. This cave reminded me of when I was a little girl and I played on sandstone boulders, exploring and climbing high over my anxious mother’s head. I glanced out of the cave and saw that the sun was still high in the sky. Perfect, I thought, I still have hours before sunset. Plenty of time to do some exploring. Just excited as I had been when I was eight I clamored off, following the cave deep into the mysterious sandstone palace, climbing over fallen blocks of red rock and piles of gray sand. I continued on until I emerged into a small valley. All around me grew twiggy bushes with hesitant green leaves opening their hopeful faces towards the sun. Across the valley a small waterfall cascaded over the rocks, sending a refreshing mist across my face. Happily I sat down on a lichen covered rock and reached into my bag for my water bottle. But my hand came back empty. Shocked at my forgetfulness, I remembered that I had left my water bottle sitting on the seat of my little red rental car in the parking lot miles away. I sighed at my absentmindedness and decided that without water I should head back soon or I would have to worry about sunstroke. Resignedly, I got up to leave the valley.
Two hours later I scrambled over yet another sandstone boulder. The sun was at my back and was casting worryingly long shadows in front of me. I didn’t understand, the path had been this direction, I was sure of it. But every time I climbed around a boulder, convinced that on the other side I would find the little path of white stones, nothing met my eyes except more boulders and a plain full of prickly pear. I had learned to hate those small cactus, they were just the height that they pricked right though my socks, making my ankles itch and sting. And they were everywhere, covering every inch of ground that wasn’t a lonely pile of boulders. My mouth was dry now, so every breath stuck to the roof of my mouth and made me think longingly of the water bottle in the lost parking lot. I was worried. No matter how many boulders I climbed over I could not find the path. And the sun was definitely setting now. Horrified, I shivered in the rapidly cooling air as the sun dipped below the hills behind me. Frantically I rushed through the fields of prickly pear, searching for the stones that I hoped would still glow white under the light of the moon. Somewhere below me I could see the red glow of the city, like a bloodstain across the edge of the horizon. Somewhere close by a coyote howled, a strange yipping sound that sent shivers up my spine. After awhile I realized that the more I wandered in the dark the more lost I was going to get. Exhausted, I fell into a small hollow under one of the sandstone boulders and fell asleep.
I woke up with a start in the gray predawn light. I couldn’t figure out why, until I felt something crawling up my leg. I screamed and jumped out of the hollow, shaking my leg frantically. A small black shape flew off and hit the stone where my head had been moments before, and I stared in horror as the scorpion landed and started scuttling towards me, its tail raised menacingly. Blindly I turned around and fled, tripping over more prickly pear and scraping my knees raw on the red sandstone. By the time the sun was above the mountains I was exhausted again. My ankles stung and were bleeding. I gasped, my throat felt like it was cracking from want of moisture. I leaned against a boulder and sobbed, but I had no tears to shed. I needed water, and I needed to find a way back to the city. I stood up and wandered down the hill. Down meant I was going away from the mountains and towards the valley, and the valley meant the city, right?
I stumbled into the dried out streambed by mistake. But since it was free of prickly pear and headed down, towards the city, I decided to follow it. I was so tired I barely noticed as the bright sunlight faded. I didn’t wrench my eyes up from the dusty ground below my feet until I felt a raindrop hit the back of my head. Thrilled, I looked up at the dark sky a moment before the rain started. I had never experienced this kind of rain before. I poured down from the sky in warm waves, completely drenching me in a matter of seconds. I opened my mouth and gulped down mouthful after mouthful of sweet water, feeling it course down my parched throat and revitalize my sun burned limbs. I held out my arms and laughed in triumph, knowing that with those few mouthfuls I would regain the strength I needed to reach the city and my waiting hotel room. I wiped the water out of my eyes and set off with renewed vigor. But it was harder to walk than it had been, the sand beneath my feet had turned into mud, and there was a bit of water rushing around my stinging ankles. In a few seconds the water had risen to my knees, and by now the current was pushing hard against my legs. I struggled to make it out of what was fast becoming a strong stream, but with a horrifying jolt my feet were swept out from under me. The water rushed me along, pushing me under its muddy surface and smashing me against the rocky sides of the stream bed. I struggled, tearing my hands on the bushes that rushed past, crying as it became harder and harder to keep my head above the water. Slowly the world condensed into the swirling waters that filled my eyes and the burning in my lungs as I spat out another mouthful of water. And then there was only blackness creeping in quickly until it filled my mind and I sank beneath the torrent.
As the clouds rolled away the sun peered down on the desert landscape. The storm was over and the only evidence of its passing were fields of prickly pears slowly unfurling their delicate, blood red petals and the muddy stream winding its way down the mountain..

Reading Journal #4

Benevento portrays himself in a very methodological way, starting with his family history starting several generations back and then describing his birth and first few years of life using several anecdotes. He portrays himself as a man with a very clearly defined purpose in the world, whose detailed origins are infinitely important to the man he has become. We know where and when he was born, all about his parents, and many of the specific events associated with his early life, career, and parental guidance thereof. Andre, on the other hand, remains unidentified by name throughout the entire piece. He is simply a first person entity, an “I” who describes memories in a rather haphazard fashion that mirrors the way we actually remember things. We know that he has spent some time in Rome from his description of a summer’s afternoon in the Campo de Fiore, and later we learn that he actually lived there during his youth, that he returns to places where he created memories as an older man, indicating that he now lives in a different place, and he also mentions that he came to the city as a refugee, indicating that he had left another place before he came to Rome. However, unlike Benevento we never learn about his family or its origins or the black and white outline of all of the moves in his life (Benevento would have included anything as momentous as a move between cities, much less a move that was attached with being a refugee). This makes Andre’s piece much more open ended, as if it could have happened to any young boy in the 1960’s in Rome. It could have been anyone’s experience. Benevento’s experience was, on the other hand, specifically his own.
I think that both of the authors are very conscious of their readers and have a very specific message they are trying to get across, but I think that Benevento was much better at getting that message across than Andre was. Benevento was very clear in saying that he wanted to record the events of his life with a “certain amount of pride.” In other words, he believes that is life is worth remembering and he sets out to do so. He thinks that the first mark of a good life is his strong family, and the second (which is all we can identify from the readings we have done so far) is excellence in a respected trade. So he starts his autobiography with a description of his “very ancient and gifted family” from whence he came, and he outlines exactly who his family is and all of their virtues, as he sees them. Then he goes on to outline several narrative from his childhood, aimed at showing fortuitous signs over his life or to set up the coming struggle over his career that he discusses later. As that was his second mark of importance that is what he then turns his attention to, and he describes every detail of how he became a self supporting and well respected goldsmith. Andre is not nearly this direct about stating his reasons for writing an autobiography.
I think that “believable” is a very inaccurate term to apply to an autobiography. Both of the authors describe their life as they see fit, and both are believable to a point. Benevento’s life is obviously edited to put himself in the most respectable light possible, and Andre’s life was edited to become a story. Both of them contain truth and omit truths, both have and lack details that the other supplies in abundance. I think that they are both merely different ways of portraying the truth of events of a life.

Writing Journal 3

I thought of my moral, that honesty is the best policy, and came up with a frame I could display this moral in. That frame ended up being a college setting, with a dishonest Dean trying to dispose of a dishonest Professor who are both exposed at the end of the story. So my anecdotes had to it within this frame. The contextual ones were all about setting up the situation, so they were fairly easy to come up with; the Dean discovering the problem, deciding to fix the problem using a student and proposing the solution to the student. The next three anecdotes would fall under the action section, and I chose them on three things I could imagine would annoy teachers- being disruptive in class, doing awful homework, and annoying them in their personal time. The moral of my story is “Honesty is the Best Policy.” I think my reversal surprises the reader. Who would have expected the worst student in the History of Trinity Western to excel to the point of graduating with honors? I did return to Machiavelli’s fable as the inspiration for my contextual anecdotes. I modeled my Dean off of the Prince of Hell who was more concerned with saving face than anything else. The most challenging part of this assignment was finishing the piece without making it sound cheesy, or using a cliché, or just ending it. Actually, I am not sure I really managed that anyways. I don’t feel more prepared for writing my next story because I do not know what our next assignment will be. So far we have written is such different styles and with such varying goals that I do not feel like what I have learned really carries over into the next piece. Besides, these pieces would be more helpful in preparing us for our next assignment if we got them back, with critiques, before the next assignment was due. Since we get them back after the next assignment is due they are not very useful for helping us apply what we learn in the next assignment.

Fable

For years the students at Trinity Western had known there was a problem, but it was a surprise to the Dean when he found out. He sat in his study, starring out the window. He had been Dean at Trinity for years, and he was very proud of everything he had accomplished. So he had been thoroughly surprised when he had uncovered this problem, and he had been mulling over it for the last half and hour. “CLARENCE!” he barked sharply. The small doorman jumped to attention. “There is a problem.” Clarence nodded as somberly as he could, trying to look sympathetic and interested but not impertinent. The Dean was a very exacting man, and Clarence knew better than to upset him because of the wrong facial expression when he was mulling over a newfound problem. “Now, as you know, I cannot tolerate problems at my University. It simply is not right. So I need someone to help me solve this problem.” Clarence stared at the corner of the Dean’s impeccable desk, nodding at every other word. “The problem is this. Professor Wertin has been, taking bribes.” The Dean shuddered as Clarence gasped in the appropriate shock. The Dean nodded. “I know, it’s true. The report came in this morning. And what do you think we should do about this? We cannot dismiss him publicly. The school would be disgraced!” Clarence shook his head to indicate the hopelessness of the situation. The Dean squinted intellectually at the corner of the room. “There is only one solution. We must find a student. The worst student in the history of studentdom. We will promise this student a college degree, no, a degree with honors! if he will make Professor Wertin resign. Maybe we should offer him a scholarship as well.” He looked Clarence in the eye. “Well? What are you waiting for? FIND ME THAT STUDENT!” Clarence nodded vigorously as he scampered out of the room.
The next day Clarence handed the Dean a file. “Jhonny Buluks.” The Dean flipped through the excessively thick file and smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

Jhonny smiled to himself as he slouched down the sweeping staircase outside of the Dean’s office, drawing horrified glances from the proper schoolgirls that he passed. He hadn’t been very surprised when he had received a summons from the Dean. Even though the senile old fool never seemed to remember him, he had been called there on numerous occasions for one antic or another. But this visit had been different. Instead of the usual admonishment about upholding the standards of the prestigious institution of which he was a part, the Dean had conspiratorially revealed to him the fact that Professor Wertin had been taking bribes in exchange for giving out good grades. While that had not surprised him, after all, that was how he had passed Wertin’s Intro to Philosophy class; he had been shocked when the Dean had offered him everything that he had been trying so hard to avoid in exchange for convincing the Professor to quit. He had agreed instantly, after all, it would be a feather in his cap to be able to be solely responsible for professor’s resignation, and an eternal badge of honor to be bribed by the Dean of students for doing so.
That next quarter Jhonny arrived for the first day of Wertin’s “Ethics and Virtues” course. He talked through the teacher’s introduction and asked loud questions over and over again, shocking his classmates by addressing him as “Wertin” instead of the honorary “Professor.” In the next week he ate crunchy food in class, walked in late, threw paper airplanes and spit gum under the Professor’s feet. He read newspapers and magazines and talked on his phone, occasionally even asking for Wertin’s opinion on matters he was discussing with his friends. He did all of his homework, but he did it so badly he knew that it would physically pain Wertin to read it. He misspelled words and mixed up sentences, he answered the wrong questions and wrote pages on short answer problems. Jhonny also went to visit Wertin outside of class. He would follow him to his next classes, sometimes walking into those classes to ask personal questions of the Professor. He found him at lunch and would talk at him while chewing gum or would spit while he talked, even occasionally helping himself to Wertin’s food. He called Wertin in the middle of the night to ask for help on homework problems or to ask his opinion about current sporting events. But as the weeks passed and the bags under Professor Wertin’s eyes grew larger, Jhonny started to think. He had never attended every class before, and he had certainly never turned in homework before. He was finding that he was interested in the things he was reading. Then one night while he was reading “A Treatise on the Benefits of Honesty” he was convicted. He stared at the page and felt everything that he had ever believed about school fade away. He suddenly wanted to do well. He wanted to succeed in his classes. He wanted to graduate with honors. But more than anything else, he wanted to do it honestly! He fell asleep that night content, knowing what he had to do.
Lexi Perpercon had been editor of the school paper for three years now, and she had never seen anyone waiting outside the school newspaper office before. But there was definitely a boy sitting on the hard couch shoved under the frosted window this morning, waiting for her to open the doors. As soon as she did he jumped up. “Are you a reporter?” He asked eagerly. She eyed him skeptically. “No, I am the editor. But I can write a story if you have a scoop you want to share.” She ushered him into her office. “Now, if you would like to tell me what you know?” she said as she closed the door.
The next morning the headline of the Trinity Press blared “Dean of Students Bribes Student to Remove Professor.” After three whirlwind weeks both the Dean and Professor Wertin had been replaced. The Board of Governors had been horrified at the lack of honest dealings of both the teacher and the Dean, and had taken the appropriate measures to purge the school of such dishonest people. Meanwhile, Jhonny had embraced his new moral standards. In several years he did manage to graduate with honors, and he went on to teach his own classes, forever reminding his students of the valuable lessons he had learned so many years ago.

Reading Journal 3

The Context of this story is set when the author introduces the problem setting up the following action, in this fable it is the idea that men are driven to hell by their wives, and that this is a problem that the devils of hell want to deal with. This sets the stage for a devil to go and love with a wife and allows all the following action to happen. The three context elements are all present when 1) Belfagor becomes a human, 2) Belfagor takes a wife, and 3) he falls in love with her and she drives him to ruin. These three elements are followed by mini stories, the anecdotes, to set up and explain them. For example, the first anecdote, in which Belfagor becomes human, describes the way in which he was chosen, the constraints and rules placed upon him as a human, and then his actual transformation. The turning point of the story is started by the sentence “Thus, living such a tumultuous and unsettled life and having already consumed all is ready cash in extravagant expenditures, Roderigo began to live in the hope of the profits he expected from the Eastern and Western investments.” The actions of the main character start after Rodrigo promises to make Gianmatteo rich in exchange for helping him escape his pursuers. The actions are 1) Gianmatteo hiding and saving Roderigo and then learning about how to become rich, 2) his expelling Belfagor from the daughter of the Florentine noble, and 3) his expelling Belfagor from the daughter of the King of Spain. One moral of the story comes after Gianmatteo returns home, to “enjoy a peaceful life.” He is not greedy but is content with his lot and is happy to live in peace for the rest of his days. This moral is fairly obvious. The other moral of the story is a more subtle one which insinuates that women are trouble making and will bring about your ruin if they are allowed to have free rein. This is set up in the context of the story but is also supported by the fact that the girls who are possessed are the cause of a loss of a lot of money for either distraught fathers, and by the fact that in order to pursue his peaceful life Gianmatteo does not go home and seek a wife but seeks a life alone. The wife is also, in the end the undoing of the power of the devil, and therefore is a troublesome entity. The reversal comes when Belfagor possesses the daughter of the King of France. This upsets Gianmatteo’ plans for a peaceful and happy life, or it forces him to confront the devil. However, there is only one reversal, after that comes the resolution to the story in which Gianmatteo confronts and outsmarts the devil and, thanks to his resourcefulness, sends him back to hell. And the final resolution comes when Gianmatteo returns home to enjoy the peaceful life that he had wanted in the first place.

Myth Journal

I chose Demeter and Dionysus because I wanted to write a commentary on the modern day relationship to nature, so the gods of fertility, the harvest and the vine seemed like logical choices for characters. I utilized metaphor by contrasting the modern city with nature, who was personified by Demeter. It was not very difficult because the way I wrote the story it was inherent within her character. My use of third person gives the reader the feel of having a narrator tell the story which plays into the idea that, as a myth, someone is explaining a truth to you through a story. It reinforces the reader’s idea that they are being told this by an impassive third party who is the one trying to impress a point upon them. I chose to include dialogue because I felt it would show a more realistic interaction between my characters. The most difficult part of writing this piece was coming up with a framework and choosing out characters that fit the framework for a story that I could work with.

Modern Day Myth

Demeter stood on a balcony of her mountain home, looking out over her domain, and worried. Once when she stood on the great blue mountain overlooking the valleys and low hills her domain stretched from one distant horizon to the other. There was a time when the hills were covered with woodlands and the valleys were covered with golden fields. In those days people waited for her, sending her sacrifices to insure her blessing on their crops, knowing that it was her blessing that made the earth fruitful. But now there was a strange haze in the distance. For years she had watched it develop, watched it grow to cover the hills and valleys she had once tended. First it was barely a smear on the horizon, but it had been creeping closer and closer to the blue, cloud-kissed mountain that she called home. Now it was barely three valleys away, and it worried her. She could not see into that haze and could not understand what was keeping her out of her ancient domain. Frustrated, she jumped off of the balcony and rushed down the side of the mountain.
Soon the woodland around her gave way to big leafy vines. She slowed and looked around till she spotted a large, lush bunch of grapes.
“Dionysus!” she called “God of the vineyard, I need you!” She waited impatiently as a slight rustle stirred the deep, glossy vines. After a few moments the vines nearest her jumped of their supports and twisted together, growing, changing. Before long the figure of an ample man stepped out of the doorway of grape vines.
“Demeter! What are you doing here?” he smiled at her, his chins quivering with mirth. “Care for some wine?” he asked, pulling two glasses full of ruby liquid out of the air.
“No thank you. I have a question to ask you. Do you know what is on the horizon, covering my hills and valleys, filling the air with smoke and filth? I have watched it for years but I cannot see it through the haze.”
“Oh, my dear, of course I do! But it is not a place for you. It is a city, my dear.”
“A city? But I can go into cities. Don’t you remember Babylon? I planted a beautiful garden there. And in Athens, Thebes, and Alexandria people needed me to tend their kitchen gardens and to bring a little green into the yards. They cannot bear to live surrounded by only wood and stone without any living plants to lighten their day.”
“But, my dear, this city is different. You used to be needed there, but it has learned to shut you out. They call it modernization. Haven’t you noticed that haze? That’s what happened when the people there decided they had no more for growing things, or for you. They are content in their worlds of glass and cement. They have colored paintings instead of flower beds and canvas awnings in lieu of trees. For people with those kinds of amenities, who needs nature?”
Demeter stared at the haze on the horizon with tears in her eyes. “But Dionysus, if I am shut out, how do you know these things?”
“Because I’m the god of wine, of course!” He waved his empty glass at her and it refilled with a crisp white wine. “People in that city love wine. They pride themselves on it, even though it comes from fields farther and farther away.” He looked momentarily sad, but soon the look was replaced by his customary mirth. “Would you like to see into this city that is worrying you so?”
Demeter nodded, eager to see this strange place for herself. Dionysus held out is hand, and as soon as she took it in her own they were off. They sped over the hills that she knew better than anyone, but as they went farther something felt wrong. The soils were off, the air was foul. But then they broke through the haze and she gasped in surprise. Towers of glass and steel rose high into the air, blocking out the sun. Brightly flashing signs vied for her attentions and all around her were people. People walking, eating, sitting, hurrying past in cars and busses. And as she stared I amazement she noticed that Dionysus was right. The city had nothing growing anywhere. She searched frantically through the brightly lit roads and the dark narrow alleys, on the rooftops and in windowsills but could not find a single plant that would need her watchful care and blessing. After a long while she found Dionysus, sitting at a café with a bottle of wine on the table. As he poured her a glass a lone tear fell from her eye and hit the pavers at her feet. Where it fell a daisy bloomed, its deep roots stretched out for the least bit of nourishment and its small face turned toward the little sunlight. But Demeter was so distracted she didn’t even notice it until she heard a little girl in the crowd behind her say quietly, “look mommy, there’s a flower.”
Her mother looked down and smiled and said, “yes darling, that is a lovely flower. Just like the ones we had in my yard when I grew up.”
Demeter heard this and smiled. For now she knew that even in this hazy city there were still people who loved flowers. She set down her glass next to Dionysus’ and jumped into the air, speeding over the city. Behind her rain fell and from that rain things started to grow.

The Propaganda of the Roman Triumph and the Arch of Constantine

Introduction:

“The Triumph lasted three days. On the first, which was scarcely long enough for the sight, were to be seen the statues, pictures and colossal images… On the second, was carried in a great many chariots the finest and richest armor of the Macedonians…” These are some of the images Plutarch recalls of the Triumph of Amelius Pauleus in 168 BC. Other records of these decadent and lavish victory celebrations of the Romans are found on the Triumphal Arches erected to celebrate the Triumphs as well as to glorify the Roman general honored by the ceremony.

The Roman Triumph was a Roman military victory celebration. It was celebrated throughout Rome’s history, from the first Triumph of Romulus to the last triumph in the sixth century. It was a lavish ceremony aimed at justifying the recently ended war, purifying the troops and city of the bloodguilt of war, and appeasing and honoring the gods. The triumph was only awarded to successful generals who had 1) been the presiding officer at the specific battle, 2) killed 5000 enemy troops, 3) fought against a foreign enemy, 4) been fighting a sanctioned war of conquest, and 5) if the battle had led directly to the end of the war. If these qualifications were met the general could return to Rome to receive his Triumph. The Triumphs themselves were glorious affairs that are hard for us to imagine. All of the spoils of the war were paraded through the streets of Rome, filled with people in their holiday best. The interesting, valuable, exotic and rare were all placed on huge carts and drug through the city as strange animals were led along behind the humiliated enemy captives. The day would have been full of celebration and feasting and the distribution of largess to the troops and the people. And amidst it all rode the Imperator in his quadriga, or four horsed chariot, his skin painted red, wearing a gold-embroidered purple toga with a laurel wreath held over his head. Yet the celebrations were not simply aimed at admiring the general; the ceremony was sanctioned by the Senate, giving validation to the recently ended war. Sacrifices to purify the army and the city were offered to the gods both before the parade and at the peak of the Capitoline Hill at the end of the ceremony. The entire parade was meant in part to honor the gods of Rome through conquest and sacrifice.

As time progressed and the monarchy moved into the Republic, the Triumphs grew more elaborate and generals started to desire even more glory, so they started to build fornix. The fornix were wooden arches meant to commemorate specific triumphal processions and glorify the honored general. When Augustus came to power at the end of the first century BC he changed the Triumph so that only an emperor could achieve a Triumph, thereby reserving the greatest honor and highest mark of prestige for those who were seeking to concentrate power into their own hands. He also built the first marble Triumphal Arches, giving a more permanent form to the magnificent structures.

At the end of the third century, however, there seemed to be little reason for Rome to celebrate a Triumph. The empire had been wracked by civil wars for years and the latest era of peace under the tetrarchy and Diocletian had come to a bloody end. Yet at the beginning of the fourth century a young general named Constantine had managed to defeat all but one of his rivals for power. At the Battle of the Milvian Bridge he faced the last of these rivals, Maxentius, and handed him a sure defeat. He then made a triumphal entry into Rome, complete with all of the splendor and pomp that Rome could give to its new emperor. Three years later, for Constantine’s decennial celebration, the Senate unveiled one of the last imperial monuments, the Arch of Constantine.


Description:

The Arch of Constantine is a triple bay arch modeled after the Arch of Septimus Severus in the Roman forum. It is decorated with sculpture and reliefs of various styles and time periods. Four columns grace each side, topped with figures of Dracian captives from the Forum of Trajan. The attic is decorated with four panels taken from an Aurelian monument flanking an inscription which reads, “To the Emperor Ceasar Flavious Constantine, the Great, the Pious, the Fortunate, the Exalted- inasmuch as through the inspiration of the deity and the greatness of his mind, he, with his army, avenged the State, both of the tyrant and on all the partisans of his faction- the Senate and the Roman people dedicate this arch adorned with Triumphs.” On the North and South sides the arch is also decorated with four Trondi taken from a Hadrianic monument describing scenes of a hunt and a long continuous frieze depicting Constantine’s battles, triumphal entry, and scenes of the distribution of largess. The arch’s spandrels are decorated with winged victories and river gods, and the column bases are decorated with winged victories leading foreign captives. In the central bay and on the East and West Attic there are scenes of a battle frieze taken from a Trajanic monument. The East and West sides of the arch are decorated with roundels showing the rising of the sun god Sol (in the East) and the setting of Luna (in the West). They also have continuations of the Constantinian frieze, which starts in the Northwest corner, under the setting of Luna, and wraps around the arch in a continuous narration of Constantine’s exploits.

This arch was a traditional form of monument that had its roots in the fornix of the Late Republic. Even the use of spolia was a common practice by Constantine’s time, so its form and decoration are fairly traditional. However, the carvings from Constantine’s time are quite new and innovative. Instead of adhering to the realistic sculpting of the second century, which is demonstrated on the arch itself in the Aurelian panels and Trajanic frieze, the Constantinian carver decided to work in a new style. This style is more frontal and utilized a hierarchy of scale, making the most important people the biggest, determining size based on importance. Also, the sculptor paid less attention to realism, instead focusing on telling a story with his panels.


Function:

The Arch of Constantine was meant to be seen by the Roman citizens as a memorial to and instruction about their emperor. It was placed on the road entering the Forum, the gathering place of the Roman people. It was also right next to the Flavian amphitheater, the largest amphitheater in Rome and the sight of the popular gladiatorial games. The arch’s close proximity to this building meant that it would be viewed daily by thousands of people. Since the Constantinian Frieze can be read like a story it is fair to say that the arch was placed at this busy intersection in order to instruct and remind the citizens of Rome about the exploits of the emperor.

The use of spolia also had a very specific function. Spolia was incorporated into the arch’s decoration to relate Constantine to the emperors in the past, such as Hadrian, Trajan and Marcus Arelius. So while the Constantinian frieze told the onlookers a story, the spolia brought to mind venerated and very popular emperors of old. The decorations were meant to bring to mind specific images and ideals associated with the emperors Constantine had chosen to emulate.

The inscription and numerous pictorial references to the sun god Sol were also meant to minimize the emperor’s new conversion to Christianity. In the ancient world, the stability of the empire, nature, and the state of life in general were often seen as directly tied to the piety of the emperor or king of a country. Constantine’s conversion to a new religion that, for many Romans, was a perversion of everything holy was a very bad omen for the future of the empire. The Arch Constantine emphasizes Constantine’s connection to a monotheistic paganism - his worship of the sun god, Sol. Some have argued that Constantine actually believed there was little to no difference between the sun god and Christ, and many Christian idioms used to describe Christ, such as the light of the world, blurred this distinction further. The arch used pictures and references of Sol to emphasize the emperor’s traditional piety.


Addressing the Goals of Constantine:

Constantine had several very specific goals in mind when he built his triumphal arch. He wanted to inform the people about his reign and his deeds as emperor, while associating himself with a good past to indicate a bright future. In his frieze he depicts several things that are meant to be read as a story by his contemporary viewers. He depicts on the North side of the arch his battles at the siege of Verona and the Battle of the Milvian Bridge and on the south side scenes of oratio and largesse, which show the emperor addressing and interacting with an adoring public. These scenes are used to remind the people of Rome of the emperor’s prowess in battle, a mark of prestige and power, and of his generosity and beneficial relations with the Roman public. This frieze also correlates with scenes in the Aurelian panels, again relating Constantine’s actions with those of an emperor that fourth century Romans venerated and respected.
Associating himself with good emperors of the second century was the second of Constantine’s goals in building his arch. He primarily uses the spolia to do this, although he also had busts of other good emperors behind him in the oratio scene of the Constantinian frieze. The spolia was taken off of other public monuments in what was most likely a very public manner, so the people who saw the carvings in their new setting probably new where they had come from and which emperor they correlated with. This served to align Constantine’s vision with the visions of these emperors. Because the third century was so full of civil wars, the second century emperors were honored by the late third and early fourth century Romans as protectors of peace and Roman virtue. By aligning himself with these emperors, Constantine compared himself to men that were venerated by the public, trying to show himself in a very good light.


Conclusion:

Even though the last Roman Triumph was thousands of years ago, and the Arch of Constantine was the last of the Imperial Monuments, the Triumph and the Triumphal Arch have been used in many different mediums into the modern era. Medieval writers adapted the triumph for allegorical use, writing poems about the Triumphs of Love, Chastity, Death, and Time. Other artists of the time used these allegorical triumphs as subjects in paintings and decorations. The quadriga, the four horsed chariot that the Imperator rode in, has also been given more modern meanings. It now tops buildings and monuments as a winged victory, symbolizing the triumph of the victory of whichever country paid for the monument. The Triumphal Arch has also been rendered in several different mediums. It has been used as a background in paintings to symbolize the triumph of the subject, as Bottecielli did in his panel of the Sistine chapel wall. He depicted Moses fighting the Korahs, and to symbolize their defeat by Moses he overshadows the battle with the Arch of Constantine. The form of the Arch itself as a monument has also been making a comeback as a war memorial, such as the Arc d’ Triumph in Paris.

In this assignment I was surprised by the different sculpture styles that were used on the Arch of Constantine. I thought it was interesting that in one monument two styles were utilized for different purposes. I also was fascinated by the Constantinian frieze. The way it told the emperor’s idealized story, even though the figures were not very realistic was fascinating. I really enjoyed reading an in depth discussion of the different scenes in that frieze and analyzing why Constantine would choose to include that scene from his life.



Bibliography

Frothingham, A. L. "Who Built the Arch of Constantine? Its History from Domitian to Constantine." American Journal of Archeology Vol. 16, No. 3, (1912): pp 368-386. Nov 10 2006 < currentresult="00029114%2bap020073%2b02a00030%2b0%2cFFFF0F&searchUrl=">
Hall, James. A History of Ideas and Images in Italian Art. New York: Harper & Row , 1983.
Holliday, Peter J. "Roman Triumphal Painting: Its Function, Development, and Reception." The Art Bulletin Vol. 79, No. 1, Mar. 1997. pp 130-147. 25 Oct 2006 .
Jones, Mark Wilson. "Genesis and Mimesis: The Design of the Arch of Constantine in Rome." The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians Vol. 59, No. 1, March 2000. pp 50-77. 25 Oct 2006 .
Kleiner, Diana E. E.. Roman Sculpture. New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1992.
Payne, Robert. The Roman Triumph. New York: Abelard-Schuman LTD, 1962.
Plutarch, Life of Aemilius Paulus, c. 46-120 AD
Strong, Mrs. Arthur. Roman Sculpture From Augustus to Constantine. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907.
Zaho, Margaret ann. Imago Triumphalis. New York: Peter Lang, 2004.

Metamorphoses Journal

Transformation was portrayed as a revelation of a different side of the truth in Calvino’s work. In Ovid, on the other hand, it is a change from one distinct form to the other. The relationship between gods and humans in Ovid is complicated. The two texts are similar in that they are both made up of short stories tied to a central theme. The gods hold the power to arbitrarily bless or destroy humans, but they are dependent upon sacrifices in their temples, and they feel an obligation to help, albeit cryptically, humans who are pious and worthy who ask for help, as the humans did after the flood. The Ovid creation myth is similar to the Christian creation story in that the supreme being, Ovid identified him as God, separated chaos into normal forms- land from sea, the earth from the heaven, he created animals and fish and lastly man in his own image, similar to the creation of the world by God. Ovid’s tone is mystical and revalationary, as if he is telling stories that reveal something new about both age old myths and the word we inhabit.
Te Demeter myths are very different. Homer’s version is respectful and treats the characters with dignity and respect, as if they were (as the writer believed) goddesses who could interfere in his life if they were not given their proper respect. In the Pomegranate Seeds, however, the myth is dumbed down to the state of a children’s tale, turning all of the characters into slightly lovable and harmless figures. This is very different than the view of the characters as actually potent beings. For example, Demeter is called Demeter in the Homeric poem, and Mother Ceres in the children’s tale. Mother Ceres sounds like a nice, matronly figure while Demeter calls to mind images of respect. Even more interesting is the way they treat te god of the underworld. In the children’s tale they call him King Pluto, while in the Homeric poem they shower so much respect upon him that the author seems reluctant to even mention his name, as if mentioning the name would summon the god himself.

THe Experiance of Writing an Invisible City

Really, none of the themes were particularly easy for me to write with. I could do better if I started writing and then matched a theme with what I already had on the page then gone back and finished the story keeping that theme in mind. That way I had a city that followed the theme while still reflecting something that was my creation and was not nearly as forced as another invisible city would have been. It was definitely easier for me to write the city without a theme. This is because without the worry of using a theme I was able to create use my language to create a society that I could use to make a point of my choosing. The way I wrote these stories I started out with an idea for a city, like a city on a hill overlooking a green valley. I then imagined that this city envied the valley below- and that they would eventually take over the valley and come to envy the city they had left behind. The idea of longing for whatever we don’t have was not one of the themes I pulled out of Calvino’s works, but it was a fun one to write about, and writing without using Calvino’s theme allowed me to do that. The most difficult part of the assignment was coming up with the ideas for a city that would support one of Calvino’s themes. I could come up with an idea for a city, but it usually didn’t utilize one of his themes. I did like Calvino’s writing style, but I tried to use my own writing style when I was writing my stories. But I believe that part of the reason that Calvino’s writing appealed to me was that it was at least a bit similar to mine, so I’m sure I borrowed at least a bit of his style inadvertently. But I like to think of my writing as mine so I try not to take too much of someone else’s writing style. Rome does not seem like an imaginary city, it seems like a very real city. If I had to write about Rome I would not use a theme, I would just describe what I see and see what kind of theme develops.

Invisible Cities

Loneliness
A friend of mine would call Tretre a perfect city. She would walk down the streets and appreciate the sweeping views of distant mountains, the refreshing lack of noise and the fresh air. She would admire the tall trees that grew between the buildings built as far away from the road as they could be. She would marvel at the small tracks that served as the drives and roads to and from houses and banks and hotels, knowing that their small size and light use marked the infrequent passing of only a few people. She would spend her years there, finding herself a warm house deep in the trees, venturing out to meet the other reclusive members of her new circle of friends, spending the evenings in each house in turn, praising the lonely walks through the summer woods or the private dip in the hot springs in the deep of winter. She would find a man who also loves Tretre and would move into his home to raise her children, who would also to have a deep love of the quite city. Each of them would one day move into their own homes deeper into the woods, down their own tracks that the casual eye would miss, marry and grow old. One day, years after I had waved goodbye to my friend as she left the bustling city where we had grown up, before I had lost her in the dark northern woods, she invited me to visit. I never made it. For when I traveled the road she told me to follow, I stopped, filled with nothing but doubts as I stared at the track fading into the trees. I turned, defeated, for I couldn’t tell the difference between the city and the woods.


Faulty assumptions
When I walked into Avari I was thrilled. I knew that this was a place where I could find good friends, good food, and an intellectual climate that could not be contained in books and the libraries that stood out on the old crooked corners. There was a richness there that excited me, intrigued me, pushing me to peel back the layers in this mysterious city and revel in the secrets I discovered. As my first day drew to a close I lay in bed with a smile playing on my lips as I pondered the wonders in store for me.
The next morning I set out to discover the secret of Aravi. I walked first to the famous stairways that had been acclaimed by visitors for centuries. I gazed in wonder at the magnificent sweeping stone steps, but I was soon distracted by a young girl twirling a parasol on her shoulder as she flirted with a well dressed youth on the old stone steps. Next I turned to the ancient arenas, where thousands had lost their lives in brutal entertainments. But the vibrance of the place came not from the crumbling marble walls, but from the couples in the crowd who clung to each other, gazing fiercely into each others’ eyes, oblivious to the people around them. I shook my head and traveled next to the fountain that brings good luck to those who visit. But I found that the fountain’s secret lay not in the cascades of water, but in the lovers tucked into the numerous small nooks whimsically created by the sculptor’s chisel. Disturbed, I traveled next to the underground tombs, to the tunnels and caverns that housed thousands of the dead in sacred darkness. But even here, laughing girls and half naked boys fled from the light, claiming even the graveyards of Aravi as theirs. It seemed that everywhere I turned in Aravi I discovered another lover’s haunt, disturbed another secret tryst between young men and beautiful women. That night I returned to my room and sat in bed thinking. If this was the secret of Aravi I would embrace it. Even if it was not what I expected, I could accept and even flourish because of this discovery.
As dawn broke I was out searching. I searched over the city and under, beneath the burning sun and the in the soft glow of the moon. I looked in smoke filled bars and in clear-aired parks, along the banks of the river and on several crowded hilltops. Everywhere I looked I found couples, but I was never a part of one. And as I looked and looked I came to realize that this was Aravi’s true secret, it was a town built for other lovers. As I finally peeled back this last layer disguising this secret my heart broke. I found myself in my room, crying out at the darkness, and all around me I heard lovers laughing. In the morning I left Aravi. I would never come back.


Monotony

Three steps down, open the door, hear the lock click behind you. Walk down the street past the fish vendor and the jeweler’s door, around the corner where every morning at ten an old beggar clinks his cup against the stones. Halfway down the winding block you turn into a brightly lit and crowded café. The lady behind the counter recognizes you and sings out your order before you have a chance to think about whether you really want a café macchiato. Sometimes you ponder, quietly to yourself, whether you would prefer a café latte instead, just to be different, but every time you come to the conclusion that no, the macchiato is better. You sip your coffee next to the bar and listen to the women next to you talk about the upcoming sale and the outrageous price of spices at the spice vendor around the corner again. Once you are done you continue down the street past the man playing the accordion to turn into the small dingy courtyard and walk up three flights of stairs, each with nine steps. You turn into the third door and settle into your well worn chair as you reposition the typewriter in front of you. You pull the tray of receipts closer to you and pick up the first one. You type the information out, place the receipt in the tray on the other side of your desk, where, every half hour, the secretary from down the hall collects them to take them to the clerk in the office next to hers. After six hours you stand up at the ringing of the church bells, which consistently marked the passing of every quarter hour. You walk down the three flights of stairs and make your way back through the city streets, past the spice vendor packing up his wares and the restaurants setting out their chairs. You sit down in the corner table of the restaurant on the corner behind the fish vendor. You glance at the menu, consider, and order the gnocchi Ragu. As you sit at the table you watch the people who walk by every night, the lady with the Pomeranian, the man in his top hat, a great lady who is in love with an officer, the three girls from the University next door who giggle too loud. A little later, after the gnocchi is almost gone you know that the street lamp lighter would pass by on his way to light the streets of Nuovo, the town which, for you, never changes.


No Theme

Palmyra sits uneasily on a hill overlooking a rich green valley. For years the inhabitants of Palmyra had been watching the valley below them, envying the ways of the valley people as they steered their ox carts along the straight, tree shaded roads, past the fields of wheat and rye and summer squash. Palmyra watched and envied what it saw. Look at the valley floor, they would say, it is flat and straight, unlike our crooked city streets that wind about every which way. And look at their oxen pulling those huge carts. They are much better animals than the goats we have pulling our carts up the steep incline behind our houses. And the empty valley floor lets the people there build their large sprawling farmhouses over acres of land. We, on the other hand, have to build our houses so high that the block out the sun and threaten to topple and kill us all! They grumbled as they climbed up the staircases that encircled the houses like ivy, pausing at balconies to cast a longing gaze at the flat valley below. Day after day the inhabitants of Palmyra had only one topic of conversation, the glories of the valley below. From the windows in their high, tiered houses they sipped wine and discussed how the valley floor produced better grapes than their vineyards ever could. They sat around billiards tables and stared out the window, the game forgotten, because someone mentioned that the balls rolled straighter on the valley floor. And as parents tucked their children in at night they would look at them sorrowfully before whispering quietly in their ears, we are sorry you were not born in the valley.
Then one year a young boy asked his uncle why, if everyone was so fond of the valley, did they not live in the valley? The suggestion startled the uncle, and a flicker of hope shone in his eye as he considered it. That night he mentioned it to his drinking friends, who took the idea and swirled it around their cups thoughtfully before fully drinking it in. Live in the valley? Soon the entire city of Palmyra was ringing with the wonderful idea; we could live in the valley! We could get away from this wretched hill and live in the lush green pastures that we had always loved! The news rang from the high towers and flew off balcony railings, and within a week the people of Palmyra had decided they would inhabit the valley. Within a month they had swept out of their stronghold on the hilltop and slaughtered those who stood in the way of their rightful claims to the valley floor.
The people of Palmyra soon dispersed, settled in and faded. They intermarried with those who had survived the slaughter and a new race of valley people came to be. Eventually the years wiped away the memory of what had been and the new valley people looked at the old city on the hilltop, at the grand, if slightly worn alabaster towers, at the rooftops that shone with precious stones and gold inlay, at the windows that still held the last shards of real glass panes, and envied the people who had once called that city home.

Invisibe Cities List

1. Cities and Memory 1
1. Diomira
2. Seen them also in other cities
3. Repetition
2. Cities and Memory2
1. Isadora
2. Isadora, therefore, is the city of his dreams.
3. Aging
3. Cities and Desire1
1. Dorothea
2. Wheels turned and colored banners fluttered
3. Viewpoints
4. Cities and memory 3
1. Zaira
2. Relationships
3. Interconnectedness
5. Cities & Desire 2
1. Anastasia
2. “you believe you are enjoying Anastasia wholly when you are only its slave”
3. The true nature of desire
6. Cities & Signs 1
1. Tamara
2. The embroidered headband stands for elegance
3. The city is a language
7. Cities and memory 4
1. Zora
2. Languished, disintegrated, disappeared
3. The impossibility of perfection
8. Cities and desire 3
1. Despina
2. A border city between two deserts
3. We see what we want most
9. Cities and signs 2
1. Zirma
2. Redundant
3. How accurate is memory?
10. Thin Cities 1
1. Isaura
2. The gods live in the buckets
3. The divine is created
11. Cities and memory 5
1. Maurilia
2. Nostalgia
3. Change
12. Cities and desire 4
1. Fedora
2. Imagined as possible
3. The importance of imagination
13. Cities and signs 3
1. Zoe
2. Nothing but doubts
3. Confusion
14. Thin cities 2
1. Zenobia
2. Pilings and its suspended stairways
3. The comfort of familiarity
15. Trading cities 1
1. Euphemia
2. The city where memory is traded
3. Stories
16. Cities and desire 5
1. Zobeide
2. The white city, well exposed to the moon
3. Misunderstanding
17. Cities and signs 4
1. Hypatia
2. Signs form a language
3. Mistranslation
18. Thin cities 3
1. Armilla
2. A votive offering to win the favor of the nymphs
3. Secrets
19. Trading cities 2
1. Chloe
2. Twirling a parasol on her shoulder
3. Lonliness
20. Cities and eyes 1
1. Valdrada
2. Limpid and cold in the mirror
3. Propriety
21. Cities and signs 5
1. Olivia
2. Filigree palaces with fringed cushions on the seats by the mullioned windows
3. Interpretation
22. Thin cities 4
1. Sophronia
2. Remove the marble pediments
3. Faulty assumptions
23. Trading cities 3
1. Eutropia
2. Mercury, the god of the fickle, to whom the city of sacred, worked this ambiguous miracle.
3. Monotony
24. Cities and eyes 2
1. Zemrude
2. Your gaze will be held on the ground
3. Points of view determine what we see
25. Cities and names 1
1. Aglaura
2. An array of proverbial virtues, equally proverbial faults, a few eccentricies
3. The difference between what is real and how it is described
26. Thin cities 5
1. Octavia
2. The spider-web city
3. Conviction
27. Trading cities 4
1. Ersilia
2. Relationships seeking a form
3. The importance of the intangible
28. Cities and eyes 3
1. Baucis
2. Flamingo legs
3. Loving something without enjoying it
29. Cities and names 2
1. Leandra
2. The Penates believe they are the city’s soul
3. Is the city the buildings or the people who make it up?
30. Cities and the dead 1
1. Melenia
2. From act to act the dialogue changes
3. Preordination
31. Trading cities 5
1. Esmerelda
2. The shortest distance between two points is not a straight line but a zigzag
3. An overabundance of choices
32. Cities and eyes 4
1. Phyllis
2. The city fades before your eyes
3. The familiar looses its awe
33. Cities and names 3
1. Pyrrha
2. Hidden behind a dune of the low, rolling coast
3. The meaning of a name
34. Cities and the dead 2
1. Adelma
2. An old man was loading a basket of urchins into a cart
3. Memories
35. Cities and the sky 1
1. Eudoxia
2. Eudoxia’s confusion
3. There is no ultimate design
36. Cities and eyes 5
1. Moriana
2. Coral columns supporting pediments encrusted with serpentine
3. Duality
37. Cities and names 4
1. Clarice
2. Compared to which the city’s present state can only cause more sighs at every fading of the stars
3. Reverence for the past
38. Cities and the dead 3
1. Eusapia
2. The living have taken to copying their underground copy
3. Power
39. Cities and the sky 2
1. Beersheba
2. A city which, only when it shits, is not miserly, calculating, greedy.
3. The result of values built around the accumulation of wealth
40. Continuous cities 1
1. Lenia
2. Removing the residue of yesterday’s existence
3. Wastefulness
41. Cities and names 5
1. Irene
2. The pink of the settlement can be discerned spread out in the distance
3. Our relationship with a place defines what that place is
42. Cities and the dead 4
1. Argia
2. Layers of rocky terrain like skies with clouds
3. Belief in the unseen
43. Cities and the sky 3
1. Thekla
2. Scaffoldings that embrace other scaffoldings
3. What gives work meaning
44. Continuous cities 2
1. Trude
2. Looking through the same goblets at the same swaying navels
3. Repetition
45. Hidden Cities 1
1. Olinda
2. All the Olindas that have blossomed one from another
3. Revelation of new things
46. Cities and the dead 5
1. Laudomia
2. Families are more and more crowded together, in compartments crammed one above the other
3. Continuity
47. Cities and the sky 4
1. Perinthia
2. Guttural howls are heard from cellars and lofts
3. The divine is not perfect and ordered
48. Continuous cities 3
1. Procopia
2. Round, motionless, entirely flat faces
3. Polite invasions/ overcrowding
49. Hidden Cities 2
1. Raissa
2. A great lady who is in love with an officer
3. Without pain there is no joy
50. Cities and the sky 5
1. Andria
2. The city and the sky never remain the same
3. Stewardship
51. Continuous cities 4
1. Cecilia
2. They are places without leaves, separating one pasture from another
3. Consuming expansion
52. Hidden Cities 3
1. Marozia
2. The second is the one about to free itself from the first
3. Change
53. Continuous cities 5
1. Penthesilea
2. A street of scrawny shops which fades amid patches of leprous countryside
3. Frustration
54. Hidden Cities 4
1. Theodora
2. No other species existed to cast any doubts
3. Loss
55. Hidden Cities 5
1. Bernice
2. And of being more just than many others who call themselves more just than the just
3. Duality

The narrator of this work is mostly Marco Polo, but sometimes the narrator is an unknown contemporary figure describing more modern cities. The historical significance of this is that Marco Polo was a Venetian who traveled to many strange and exotic cities and therefore the book, put in his mouth, can describe innumerable and unusual cities. The author uses this to create his own cities while framing it in a way that the reader can understand, knowing about Marco Polo as a historical and almost legendary figure. However he also uses the unknown contemporary narrator to compare the travels that Marco Polo had to his fantastic cities to something that the modern reader connects to more, allowing the author to point out the similarities between the imagined cities that lend themselves so easily to metaphors and moral lessons and the real cities that we recognize around us every day. The author uses two points of view, the first person (I went to) and the third person (the traveler who goes to). It changes between these two. I think the author uses this technique to allow the reader to place themselves within some of the stories while excluding them from others. The cities described from the first person sound like a closed book, they tell a story of something that has past and will not be again, they describe a moment that was unique to that traveler that cannot be repeated. Yet when the narrator switches to the third person it involves the reader at a whole different level. In hearing that the traveler who goes there does or sees such and such they put themselves into the story. No longer are they hearing about a place that is closed off in memory, they are hearing about a place they can go and interact with. They understand the author’s tone as a promise of experiences that are there, just waiting to be taken advantage of. I think the author switches in such a way to allow the readers to fully appreciate that promise of interaction when it is finally offered.