Author: Carver Kozlowski

Our education system is quite ironic—first, we stress about knowing the answers to questions; we study hard for tests, and we think we know quite a bit; but eventually, we realize the most important questions we can ask have no answers.  Sure, we can do some arithmetic; sure, we know how spelling, grammar, and mechanics work; sure, we know where, when, and by whom the Declaration of Independence was signed.  But, these are trivial.  The important questions of humanity remain unanswered.

Over the course of the semester, we analyzed and discussed texts—and more broadly, works of art—as individuals with their own identity.  What makes a text fit into a specific genre?  When does a different version of a text become a different text entirely? Who does a text belong to?  These are questions that I have thought about to certain extents before I came to Geneseo, and are very applicable to the world.  Maybe there is value in the liberal arts after all.  In all of our discussions in class and over the internet, we have never reached a solid answer to any of these questions. Perhaps this is a sign of truly mature and intellectual discussion.  True, we may have certain opinions and beliefs (I surly do), but do we really know the answer?  Herein lies my true takeaway from Fluid Readers, Fluid Texts: the arts are filled with gray area, no pure black and white.  As I, and I’m confident all of us have gotten higher and higher in our education system, we have struggled to view the world conceptually and theoretically. Success can no longer be pinned to memorizing a set of flashcards.  None of the material we’ve covered over the course of the semester is simple enough to be put on a flashcard.

I have certainly been challenged throughout the semester.  Admittedly, I could have done some things better to ease my stress.  Hindsight 20/20.  My abilities as a writer to adequately capture my ideas onto paper has also been challenged—our assignments deviated from the type of literary analysis which I am most comfortable with and forced my to think differently.  But, challenges are the only way to grow, and I definitely believe I have grown as a writer and a thinker.  Though it may sound somewhat chiche, I see the world differently and I have brought what we’ve learned in this class into other classes and areas of my life.

While each of us goes through our own, unique paths toward our identity, there is a much broader, archetypal—and perhaps formulaic—, road that we follow: the road from the naiveté of childhood to adolescence, and eventually adulthood.  Though it may be somewhat of a stretch, the first and second chapters of Alice in Wonderlandappeared to me as symbolic for Alice’s path toward a new, more adult identity.  The passage I found to be most encompassing of this in the least amount of words is as follows:

‘That was a narrow escape!’ said Alice, a good deal frightened at the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence; ‘and now for the garden!’ and she ran with all speed back to the little door: but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was lying on the glass table as before, ‘and things are worse than ever,’ thought the poor child, ‘for I never was so small as this before, never! And I declare it’s too bad, that it is!’

As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was that she had somehow fallen into the sea, ‘and in that case I can go back by railway,’ she said to herself. (Alice had been to the seaside once in her life, and had come to the general conclusion, that wherever you go to on the English coast you find a number of bathing machines in the sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row of lodging houses, and behind them a railway station.) However, she soon made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high.

‘I wish I hadn’t cried so much!’ said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. ‘I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That will be a queer thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer to-day.’

As children enter adolescence, they are often “frightened at the sudden change.” Alice’s change is from very physically small to being absurdly large, then small once again.  She starts off small, like a naïve child in a much bigger, mysterious world.  Her growth to immense size represents growth to adolescence—both a transformation of her physical identity and her emotional one, as shown by her crying.  During adolescence, many experience an inflated sense of self; they are invincible, the center of their own universes, and the adults around them now appear small, insignificant, and don’t know much of anything.  Though the latter two characteristics are difficult to find in that instance in the text, Alice’s growth could still serve as a symbol for the adolescent identity.  Finally, her shrinking back to a small size represents the realization of full adulthood—they are not as “big” and invincible as the thought they were. They are a small fish in a big sea, a realization that many of us likely had upon first arriving at college. The pool of tears could represent how young adults have to reckon their new identity with their former teenage identity, dealing with the mistakes and remnants of their former life. As the story progresses thereafter, Alice takes on a more mature and adult persona in comparison to the nonsense surrounding her.

This interpretation of the scene forces us to question the degree to which our identities are formulaic, similar to how we asked in class how formulaic texts in a specific genre are.  Interestingly, almost all texts from Shakespeare to the modern age follow a broad formula: roughly eighty percent of the word use in any given text includes simple words like “of,” “it,” “and,” and so on, while the remaining twenty percent is devoted to more complex and scarce words.  If this rule of thumb is true, similar to the broad identity changes from childhood to adulthood, the remaining twenty percent is what gives a text or even a person their identity and individuality.  This shows just how potent the remaining share of both words and experiences are to give each individual—text or person—their own identity. While my passage shows the broader, archetypal element in Alice’s identity, the defining and individual elements of her identity are explored more potently later in the text.

“We can learn a surprising amount from the most disturbing elements of our culture,” my roommate said as we discussed my idea for this blogpost. Over the course of the semester, we have considered how parodies, adaptations, and different versions of a text can change its identity as a whole.  I began to realize just how relevant this concept is to our daily lives, even in the peculiar case of “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life.”

For those who are unaware, “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” is a series of YouTube videos originating from the image board 4chan.  The videos depict the DreamWorks character Shrek as a godlike figure who brutally murders multiple people and engages in obscene sex acts with a minor.  If you wish to view these videos for yourself, do so at your own risk.  After viewing them, it is near impossible to look at the original Shrek movies in the same light—which is my exact reason for analyzing “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” from this theoretical lens.

The lewd vulgarity of “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” is impactful to the extent that it changes our entire perception of Shrek as a character.  No longer is Shrek a simple ogre from a children’s movie; the internet has given him a new, larger, and twisted identity. Moreover, the “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” videos allude to numerous scenes and lines of dialogue from the original movie series, altering our perception of the films.  On a deeper level, their identity.  Is this a change for the better?  For fans of crude, offensive humor, possibly.  But for viewers who wish to enjoy the Shrek franchise as it was intended—an animated comedy film geared toward children—, certainly not.

Likewise, “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” forces us to question who holds true ownership over a text, film, or any cultural artifact.  DreamWorks holds legal and monetary ownership over the Shrekfranchise through copyrights and contracts, but perhaps these forms are nominal: there is evidently a much greater, collective cultural ownership of Shrek. With all its capital power, DreamWorks could alter the identity of its own creation; at the same time, a single individual using rudimentary computer animation in his basement seems to have the same power.  If the “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” videos prove one thing, it is that the collective is a strange animal.  The collective is not homogeneous.  When it comes to collective ownership of a cultural artifact, friction is a strong likelihood.  One faction of the collective, no matter how small, can alter the identity of an artifact and potentially ruin the experience of the rest of the group. Problematic?  Yes.  Avoidable? Not without infringing on the individual right to digest a piece of culture in one’s own unique way, which I see as imperative to academic discussion and greater societal growth. Though it may lead us down some disturbing paths—made apparent by “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life”—, it is better than stagnation.

In Chapter 2 of Walden, Thoreau describes his readiness to embark upon his “experiment” at the pond: “To enjoy these advantages I was ready to carry it on; like Atlas, to take the world on my shoulders,—I never heard what compensation he received for that,—and do all those things which had no other motive or excuse but that I might pay for it and be unmolested in my possession of it.”  When Thoreau comments, “I never heard what compensation he received for that,” he expands his telling of his feelings before relocating to Walden Pond into the theoretical realm.  Thoreau was a renowned abolitionist.  During his time, slavery played an immense economic role in both the North and South: “cash crops” like cotton were invaluable to the Southern economy, and Northern factories relied heavily on them as well.  Perhaps the “world” of the industrializing United States economy was built on the shoulders of slaves—receiving no compensation for their toil.  Atlas, whom Thoreau directly references, is a Titan in Greek mythology, forced to bear the world upon his shoulders after the Titans were defeated by the Olympians.  Thoreau theorizes that some sort of compensation or greater acknowledgement at the least is due to Atlas—literally for holding up the world we live in.  As readers, we can expand this and read it as a commentary on the peculiar institution during Thoreau’s life.  For the important role slaves held in building the “world” of the American economy, they deserve their freedom and a just compensation at minimum, Thoreau appears to argue.  By inserting this short but substantial commentary on Atlas, Thoreau opens up a whole layer of theory surrounding society—which he has no shortage of problems with already.