"Rich Boy," Sharon Pomerantz

           Sharon Pomerantz’ “Rich Boy” has a striking commentary on temptation and the consequences that ensue. Robert Vishniak successfully achieves his goals of getting out and getting rich, leaving behind the coupon-counting and scrounging of his Philadelphia home to join the glamorous circle of well-dressed lawyers at Alexander, Lenox, and Wardell in New York City. While Robert answers the voice that demands him to “get out of here, save yourself, make money, make money, make money” (222), he soon finds that monetary success comes at a cost. Through the novel, tracing his social rise, Robert plunges into isolation from his family, superficial love, and, ultimately, a loss of belonging.

            The first incident of Robert falling away from his family is his decision to attend Tufts. As he lies in bed during the college application process, Robert prays, “please, please, let me get the hell out of my parents’ house” (44). As he finally leaves for college and watches through the bus window at his family standing on the pavement, Robert “knew that he’d never live in Oxford Circle again” (46). The transition to college marks the beginning of a distinct transformation for Robert—from a poor, getting-by Vishniak into the world of the elite. Robert sets himself on the track for affluence, choosing the friendship of his wealthy roommate Tracey and his cohorts over the other college students who work in the kitchen; consciously or not, Robert chooses to associate with those whom he wants to emulate, rather than those like himself. Later, during the family’s trip to Atlantic City—a revival of a past tradition—Robert has found he has changed, alienated himself from his family. The Deauville hotel had once served “as a signpost of luxury” (313) to Robert as his family stayed in a “three-story kosher rooming house” (312) with “narrow hallways and shared toilet facilities” (312); now, though, Robert demands to stay there, as his family settles into “a motor inn closer to Brigantine, a little too far out for convenience, but good enough, clean enough” (316). As Robert stays in his own room with the rest of his family at a different hotel, he wonders, “Could [they] even understand his life anymore?” (317). As Robert drew closer to extreme wealth, his ties to his family disintegrated until, in essence, they lived in two different worlds.

            Through this social rise, Robert suffers from moral decay. In his college years, Robert experiences genuine love with Gwendolyn, but after Gwen’s death, he is encompassed by his desire for richness and the need to compensate, somehow, materially for what he has lost emotionally. When Crea, the daughter of an executive at his law firm, falls in his path, Robert marries her; “that he did not love her the way he had once loved Gwendolyn did not matter—he no longer had such expectations… he would be practical, for once, and take the deal that was offered” (322). Arguably, Robert did not marry Crea for love, but for money, leading to their superficial love and eventual fall-out. He equates life with Crea to an expensive watch, saying “the novelty, the heft, while still impressive, had worn off more quickly than he’d expected” (391). Therefore, unsurprisingly, Robert loses his zeal for this inauthentic relationship and tells his daughter Gwen about the woman to whom she owes her name, explaining “’I love your mother, but in a different way’” (498). And when Gwen timidly asks if her parents are getting a divorce, Robert does not deny it.

            Temptation is the cause of Robert’s ruin. At dinner with Sally the shoe-shine girl one night, he begins a conversation on temptation and wealth. Sally explains how she wishes she’d never met Robert: “’because then I wouldn’t have seen inside places like this, and gotten to ride in fancy cars, and, well, all of it…. I never imagined any of it would tempt me. But how can you be tempted by what you’ve never experienced?’” (461). When Robert responds, he touches upon an insight that defines his social rise: “’Good point,’ he said. ‘It’s after you experience it that the temptation really kicks in’” (461). Indeed, it is after Robert leaves for Tufts, after Robert has his relationship with Gwen, after Robert goes to law school, after Robert accepts the position at A, L and W, and after Robert spends vacations in Tuxedo Park with Crea that he is tempted by this lifestyle, this need for more. He transitions from the boy whose mantra is make money, make money, make money to the man who repeats to himself get more, get more, get more. It is not until his mother’s death—not until Robert finally returns to his home with his brother, Barry, and reflects on his life course and decisions—that “for a moment, a strange and wonderful moment, Robert Vishniak knew where he belonged” (514). 

"Rich Boy," Sharon Pomerantz

            In the first few chapters of the novel “Rich Boy,” as the Vishniak family gathers to toast Robert’s fortune of college acceptance, there is a distinct moment of foreshadowing that comments not only on the moral decay that is to come, but the value of tradition and solidarity in Robert’s Jewish family. As each relative shouts out a proposal for Robert’s future, they boldly pronounce their perspectives on each job—the honor or disgrace of each. This conversation about occupation, in hindsight from following Robert’s choice, underlines his betrayal of his family and their values.

            Cece, Robert’s grandmother, is the first to speak up, explaining how when she was a girl, everyone in town would fight over who was allowed to shine the shoes of the town doctor because it was an honor. Her dream “was that Robert should become the one whose shoes got shined instead of the one doing the shining” (45). Cece’s comment foresees the events to come, for Robert—as a lawyer—does in fact get his shoes shined. However, the girl who shines his shoes, Sally, is actually more honorable, more genuine, than Robert himself at that point.

            Visniak suggests a lawyer, which incites a grand debate over the corruption and deceit of high-paying occupations. “’Lawyers are crooks,’ a cousin blurted out. ‘Have an accident at work and they come out of the woodwork’” (45). Robert later becomes a lawyer, and this conversation resonates through his experience. Though he never actually steals money, he is a “crook” in that he cheats himself out of having a satisfying and content life. Everything Robert does has the objective of making money, of being wealthy. Such an aim, as Robert realizes far too late, excludes the possibility of happiness, of pursuing genuine interests, and of finding true love.

            After the cousin’s outburst, another relative chimes in: “’Stockbrokers,’ said Aunt Lolly, ‘A license to steal’” (45). Again, coincidentally, this parallels to Robert’s life as his brother, Barry, later becomes a stockbroker. This “license to steal” (45) proves true, as Barry has lied to Robert about how much money he has made him in investing, exaggerating the numbers. After the stock market crash, the brothers’ tension and frustration—both with their mother’s death and the extreme loss of money—incites a fight. When Robert begins to move his mother’s furniture to take it to his apartment, Barry claims, “’You’re stealing from me. I deserve half of that!’” (510) to which Robert retorts, “You want to talk to me about stealing?’” (510). As they physically fight, screaming at the each other about ruining their lives, stealing their money, the moment appears the manifestation of their aunt’s warning, as well as evidence of the corruption of these occupations.

            In the wake of Robert’s college acceptance, he finds a conflict between his family’s values and the desire he holds for himself. Robert “gave little thought to the fact that the family had gathered to celebrate his launch into the world of the college-educated, a world they believed to be rife with corruption and dishonesty” (45). Robert wants this for himself—to make money, to get out, to escape his parents’ difficult existence. To do so, he must decide whether to embrace of discard their values. In essence, he must either become one of them or isolate himself in his quest for wealth. To his family, “only the world of working people—the world of suckers, as Vishniak put it—was an honest one” (45). Robert’s choice to attend college is more than a choice for an easier life; it’s a choice to divide from his family.

Anisha Lahkani, "Schooled"

            It was well established in our class that we considered Anna Taggert—the unlikely heroine of the novel and projected identity of the author herself—a hypocrite. As she shuffled her way through the East Side private school, succumbing to the temptation of material wealth and designer brands, Taggert criticized those who did the same, when—in actuality—she was criticizing the lifestyle she chose. Therein lies the hypocrisy. This begs me to wonder if our hate for Anna—and by extension, Lahkani—that we are so comfortable articulating, stems from a recognition of that same hypocrisy in ourselves.

            The reign of the expensive private tutors in Anna’s experience is one where teachers use this side-job to supplement their oh-so-meager salary. However, there’s a catch: to be one of these top tutors, raking in somewhere around two hundred an hour, you must be willing to renounce all that you stand for in the teaching field. As Anna notes, to be a marketable tutor, you must essentially do the homework for the student—a loss of integrity in education and a loss of morality.

            It is simple for a reader to flip through these pages, lock onto the brand-name references, and turn a disapproving eye. Likewise, it is simple to turn the book over, see the image of Lahkani with her starched Oxford button-up and pearl earrings, and shake your head with disdain. Anna Taggert has fallen victim to the underground economy of prep school tutoring; Anisha Lahkani has revealed the “dark truths” of elite schooling with the objective of making money off a bestseller. Is it really so simple to judge them? Is it really so simple to scoff and shout vulgarities? Implicit in those actions is the message that we, then, are cherub-like individuals, with a wholly intact moral code. Is this really true? For most, probably not.

            Paulina Porizkova explains it well in her review of the novel: “I stayed up way past midnight, alternately laughing and cringing as I made plans to go and blow some money on designer clothes with all the money I’d save by home schooling my children.” Reading through the corruption of the elite schooling realm, it is easy to judge Anna Taggert and Anisha Lahkani. However, thus judgment and criticism only serves to reveal insecurities. The novel, “Schooled,” does more than present a one-dimensional image of corruption and temptation; it forces readers to challenge their own hypocrisy. It may not be private tutoring to buy a Chanel bag, but—as Anna Taggert reminds us through example—there will always be temptations, there will never be purity of motives, and there is somehow a shortcut to get there. 

Anisha Lakhani, "Schooled"

            While shuffling around Anisha Lahkani’s website for her novel, “Schooled,” I was struck by the multifaceted image of commodification that Lahkani presents. In the novel, elite schooling—as seen in the microcosm of Langdon, an East Side private school—is treated as a luxury product, to be bought only be those capable of doing so. Later, the tutoring market becomes an asset to be purchased. Underlying the events throughout the novel, there is a persistent premise about class: if you have money, you don’t need knowledge to progress. Rather, like almost anything else in the book, you can buy it.

            The dedication of the book is to one Harold Moscowitz, which appears legitimate and acceptable until reaching the back cover, where her bio proudly explains, “She lives in Manhattan with her beloved Shih Tzu, Harold Moscowitz.” And, indeed, under the tab of “Class Mascot” on her website, there is her dog with a large, decorative book propped up in front of him and the cutesy caption: “Harold Moscowitz prefers encyclopedias.” Aside from schooling and tutoring, Lahkani commodifies pets as a symbol of status. Thorstein Veblen examined the topic, stating that dogs are “nearly ideal tokens of wealth and the owner’s capacity to waste large amounts of economic resources.” With the designer labels and dropping names of New York City venues, Lahkani positions her dog at the forefront to commodify him as a possession. She uses Harold to display social position and wealth, just as she engages elite schools as a luxury for those who can afford them.

            Within the world of the privileged, there is an impeding sense that money can buy anything. Indeed, Lahkani solidifies this idea when, on her website she says, “Welcome to Schooled, where even homework has a price.” Even homework has a price. Just as the seventh graders flaunt and wealthy parents pay five-figure tuition bills, homework can be bought with the commodity of a private tutor. For a sky-high hourly wage, these parents can buy their children’s essays and homework. In essence, as “Schooled” presents, money can buy anything, even knowledge.

Roberta Rosenberg, "I Hate This Book: Middle-Class Virtues and the Teaching of Multicultural Texts"

            While teaching Carolyn Chute’s “The Beans of Egypt, Maine,” Roberta Rosenberg perceived a noteworthy tension among her students when analyzing the novel. While they had spent weeks “analyzing many different racial, ethnic, and religious cultures” to which the students were able to critically respond and handle difference, one form of difference caused them to hesitate and claim that they hated the book: social class.

            Class issues, Rosenberg suggests, are typically hidden as an “unacknowledged impediment to multicultural understanding”; her students could accept disparity in terms of race, ethnicity, and religion, but with class, American middle-class assumptions and values became an obstacle in recognizing—and, furthermore, understanding—socioeconomic inequality. Middle-class views are pervasive, defining different social spheres according to its dominant perspective; in short, Rosenberg argues, a middle-class reading of society is the norm.

            Within the context of said dominant view, poverty is then characterized by “fatalism, helplessness, dependence, and inferiority” (Ehrenreich 49). This also tends to “infantilize” the poor, seeing them as inept and incapable of true adulthood, rendering their decisions and lifestyle in terms of incompetence as a fully-functioning human being.

            Relating this to “The Bean of Egypt, Maine,” the rural poor of the novel are seen through this dominant, pervasive, middle-class lens that depicts them as immature, helpless adults. As Rosenberg’s students read the novel, they projected middle-class norms onto the characters, viewing them as “individuals who cannot or will not grow up and join independent American society.” This not only simplifies the nature of poverty, but also tends to isolate the poor from the structure of class-based society, placing them in what Rosenberg terms the “underclass.” With this negative perception, the self-defined middle-class attempts to distance themselves, detach their values from that of this “uncivilized” existence, withdrawing further from the context of rural poverty. In effect, the readers lose all empathy and connection to these people.

            So long as middle-class perspectives continue to be dominant, continue to define the separate social spheres, poverty will be the “other.” Just as Earlene tried to distinguish herself from the Beans, readers will attempt to distance themselves from this world of the underclass. What does this accomplish? Will there always exist a divide between dominant views and subordinate classes? Can we ever truly avoid creating “normative models” that “present variations from the mainstream as abnormal, deviant, lesser, perhaps ultimately unimportant” (Lauter 9)? If not, will we ever be able to understand difference, accept it, and ultimately, understand ourselves?

Carolyn Chute, "The Beans of Egypt, Maine"

            In a class discussion on the novel, someone noted a connection between the Roberta Bean’s children and the puppies beneath the house. This point was particularly poignant, considering our previous link between those and poverty and an animalistic quality. Carolyn Chute employs animal imagery and metaphors to underline the de-evolutionary nature of the poor, and—in the context of Egypt, Maine—the way they trap those around them.

            The novel opens with Earlene’s statements about her life, leading into a discussion of the Beans. She explains that “Daddy says the Beans are uncivilized animals. PREDATORS, he calls them” (3). This first introduction to the Beans conditions the reader to understand their character in a certain light. As the novel progresses, one attribute links all the unnamed Beans and their blank faces together: “their fox-color eyes” (11). Whenever Earlene begins to describe a Bean, she mentions their fox-color eyes, and this becomes a recurring symbol not only for their appearance, but as a statement about their nature as people living in rural poverty. The choice of “fox” as a color description is intentional, for the animalistic quality of their living condition filters through their entire being.

            In addition to the fox-colored eyes as indicative of their animalistic behavior, the puppies beneath the Beans’ house parallel to Roberta Bean’s children, demonstrating how Earlene—as well as other non-Beans in this small town—will inevitably succumb to this level of existence and become animal-like themselves. In the scene where Beal brings Earlene to the crawl-space beneath the house, it’s dark, dark enough to need a flashlight, underlining the idea that the process by which Earlene degrades into this form of poverty is something she is unaware of, and cannot foresee. They “hear squeaks… [and] there’s a low growl… the thump of a tail” (78) before Earlene can decipher what is living below the house. Without warning, the puppies “charge toward me, flying at my face. They box at me with their little feet. They pass over me from all directions… seems like fifty of them” (78). Earlene is overcome by the puppies, and can’t control them as they bound toward her to “lap and suck my eyes” (78-79). When she says, “they are everywhere, dragging me down” (79), the connection is clear; like the puppies, the Beans swallow Earlene with their poverty, with their animalistic existence.

            Robert Bean’s babies themselves serve as a microcosm of the Beans, the rural poor, the animalistic humans who can scarcely survive. Around Roberta’s legs, “they come to stand in the bedroom doorway, five nearly look-alike babies in diapers and crinkly plastic pants” (106). The babies are nameless, faceless, a herd of animal-like creatures that flock around their mother. They “scuttle to their mother’s legs, bunch up handfuls of their long johns” (107). Like the Beans at large, they are numerous; it doesn’t matter so much who they are, but their presence is overpowering and encompassing. Through the fox-color of their eyes, the metaphor of the puppies, and the herd of Roberta’s children as a microcosm of the Bean clan, Carolyn Chute illustrates the animalistic nature of the poor and the inescapable cycle of confined, rural poverty.

Carolyn Chute, "The Beans of Egypt, Maine"

            Carolyn Chute, in her novel “The Beans of Egypt, Maine,” presents a narrative of the poor in a rural Maine community. In a TIME article from 2009 (found at: http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1932076,00.html), Christopher Ketcham surfaces the parallels between the lives of the novel’s characters and the experiences of the best-selling author, reminding readers that, though fiction, class oppression and the disturbing effects of deep poverty are, indeed, reality.

            Chute is an acclaimed author, often compared by critics to “Faulker and Steinbeck because what she wrote about so well and so convincingly was the back-broken underclass in Maine.” Convincingly, it seems because Chute draws the character of Earlene Beal from herself.

            As the image of Roberta Bean and her quickly-multiplying children flashes in the reader’s mind, Chute underlines the lack of healthcare in these communities; in fact, Chute and her husband Michael—one of those “Maine woodsmen with beards to their bellies” strikingly similar to Beal Bean—lost a baby in 1982 “after the local hospital refused to treat the complications from her pregnancy.”

            Within the novel, the Bean establishment is anything but a home; it’s dilapidated, crammed, and dirty. Coincidentally—or not—Chute and her husband “live in a drafty unfinished house with no hot water.” Indeed, they have no septic system, using an outhouse even in the coldest of Maine winters, just as we see when Beal Bean shovels a path through the feet of snow to the outhouse in their yard.

            In appearance, too, the main character of “Beans” and the author of the novel coincide. Like Earlene’s haggard mien in the concluding chapters, Chute—as the writer of the article sees her—“wore big boots and a blue bandanna that tied back long kinky hair.” This similarity suggest the possibility of an autobiographical factor in the fictional piece, which begs deeper reading. Rather than merely a bleak image of poverty in a rural community, Chute is attempting to expose this condition of existence—as reality.

Gloria Naylor, "The Women of Brewster Place"

The novel “The Women of Brewster Place” opens with location; it is location that ties these individuals together, location that symbolizes their plight and trials, location that defines their existence. Most significantly, the wall of Brewster Place serves a deeper significance in the context of the novel, illustrating the structural and social alienation the characters have from greater society.

We are introduced to the women of Brewster Place first through their location, suggesting the immobility of both. The neighborhood, “the bastard child of several clandestine meetings” (1) between an alderman and a managing director, was created for exploitation; one used it to remove a police chief and the other wanted to build a new shopping center. Again, the significance of the parallel between the location and the residents become clear—a sense of being undesired, used to get ahead, exploited.

The wall, shortly thereafter, is constructed, a physical manifestation of Brewster Place’s disconnect from larger society. As immigrants, minorities, and poor families shuffle into the neighborhood, the pressing need to drive them away results in the formation of the wall: “so the wall came up and Brewster Place became a dead-end street” (2). Dead-end. Cut off, excluded, immobile. The connotations of a “dead end” imply that there is no progress, no advancement, no forward movement. As the street became “cut off from the central activities of the city” (2), it had less to offer the second generation of inhabitants and fostered a community of its own—one defined by a sense of loss and of hopelessness. Like the wall, it “soon appeared foolish to question the existence” (4) of this atmosphere and the despair.

Brewster Place as a location therefore serves as a microcosm of the worlds in which the residents live, a world shaped by exclusion, lack, and loss. The isolation of the neighborhood parallels to the alienation the women feel from dominant culture, greater society, and—occasionally—themselves. Just as Brewster Place is a dead-end street, these women have reached a “dead-end” of sorts in their lives, subject to different forms of oppression and realizing the opportunities that failed to present themselves. The women, like Brewster Place, are walled in and prevented from achieving the dreams to which they aspired. 

Gloria Naylor, "The Women of Brewster Place"

            Gloria Naylor exposes the depth of class difference in America, focusing not simply on constructions of rich and poor, but also the intertwined issues of race, gender, and sexuality. The narratives of the seven women on Brewster Place become then microcosms for the forms of oppression present elsewhere in America. Through the eyes of each woman, we begin to understand the intersectionality of difference—how race, class, gender, and sexuality are intrinsically tied to one another—creating more divide and disparity. Naylor’s focus on characters who inhabit the margins of society demonstrates the exclusive nature of dominant culture.

            As Nicole quotes in her position paper, the women of Brewster Place “came because they had no choice and would remain for the same reason” (4). Their marginal state becomes the reason that they cling to the street “with a desperate acceptance” (4). As each woman finds herself in a place of economic powerlessness—as well as a racial, gender, or sexuality minority—she realizes she lacks a sense of belonging.

Mattie Michael’s life is shaped by loss. When she becomes pregnant and flees from her home, Mattie quickly recognizes that, as a black female, she has limited agency. Unable to support her child, Basil, as a single mother, Mattie seeks the help of an older woman. Eventually, she suffers the loss of both her child and her mentor, arriving in Brewster Place as a testament to all she cannot accomplish or control. As a racial minority, a mother out of wedlock, and a woman, Mattie has no socioeconomic authority and is excluded from a role of power accessible to others.

Cora Lee illustrates the degraded place of poor women in society. As a child, she obsesses over baby dolls; as we see her in Brewster Place, Cora Lee is unmarried with a handful of children from a number of different fathers. Her inability to provide for her children and simultaneously work for economic stability forces her to maintain her current social class. Nicole’s statement of Mattie’s place and subjugation correlating to both her race and gender is also true for Cora Lee, for “as a black man, she would never have experienced how the female phenomenon of childbirth is a physical manifestation of women’s oppression.” It is simply the fact that Cora Lee must care for all her children—representative of her social class and gender minority—that most stresses the negative position she inhabits.

Lorraine and Theresa, the two lesbians on Brewster Place, demonstrate how sexuality as a form of difference is equally excluding as class, gender, and race. Although the two women fit the ideals held by their neighbors—domesticity, friendliness, and economic stability—they are constantly viewed as a threat to Brewster Place, purely because of their non-normative sexuality. Lorraine is especially perceptive of and sensitive to the prejudices expressed by the other inhabitants of the neighborhood, recognizing her lack of “belonging” and trying to resolve her experiences of exclusion.

Gloria Naylor uses the characters of the seven women to deepen an understanding of social class issues as not merely an isolated variable, but as tied and shaped by a number of forms of oppression. The women experience poverty and marginality in terms of their race, gender, and sexuality as well. The women were "confronted with the difference that had been thrust into their predictable world, they reached into their imagination and, using an ancient pattern, weaved themselves a reason for its existence"(132). Exclusion, as seen in “The Women of Brewster Place,” stems from both socioeconomic class and the pressures of dominant culture. Identity, then, is a formula from the intersectionality of forms of difference.

John Steinbeck, "The Grapes of Wrath"

            John Steinbeck employs a unique stylistic device in structuring the text of “The Grapes of Wrath” in such a way that draws an overt political agenda into a sentimentalist view of the great depression. As the plot follows the trials of the Joad family in their migration to California, Steinbeck inserts brief expository chapters detailing description of the landscape, the people, and the animals to create a parallel from the lives of the Joads to the great exodus occurring for a group of people and the ultimate destruction of the land. These description sections follow two trajectories: the first, a lyrical narrative of the land and the animals, metaphorical for the migrant workers, in an endeavor to evoke emotion and understanding; the second, a polemic view of the culture shift and the capitalist forces disrupting an agrarian utopia. 

            In one of the first few scenes, Steinbeck gives a detailed account of the travels of a land turtle, allegorically parallel to the struggles of the Joads and the other farmers in a mass exodus across the nation. The poetic, lyrical voice is in service of fostering sympathy, first for the turtle, and then—by extension—for the farmers swept off their land. Over the grass and dirt, “a land turtle crawled, turning aside for nothing, dragging his high-domed shell over the grass” (14). Throughout the passage with the turtle, Steinbeck focuses on its persistence and perseverance, for he “stared straight ahead” and kept “his head held high” (14) as various obstacles appeared in his path: “clover burrs fell on him” (14) and an embankment proved a steep climb. Just as the migrant workers persist despite hardship—their experience, too, is endured while they “strain and slip” (15)—the turtle exhausts all his energy for one simple objective: survival. Steinbeck also introduces into this section the idea of a predatory cycle. As Ali remarked in her position paper, the trucks on the highway that “served to hit [the turtle]” (15) show how men made machinery but cannot control it. Likewise, as the truck driver’s “front wheel struck the edge of the shell… and rolled it off the highway” (15), the predator is able to prey on weaker beings from a lack of compassion. The land turtle then serves to demonstrate the perseverance, the hardships, the predatory nature of survival in the lives of the migrant workers.

            Steinbeck also employs the expository sections to distance the reader from the specific narrative of the Joad family and underline the vast effects of the capitalist economy. In one description chapter, Steinbeck traces the travel along highway 66, a “path of people in flight, from the thunder of tractors and shrinking ownership, from the desert’s slow northward invasion… from the floods that bring no richness to the land and steal what little richness is there” (118). Using the towns and cities along the highway, he adopts the mentality of the migrants to illustrate the pure terror of unanticipated obstacles that mean, literally, life and death. Steinbeck questions: “But how can such courage be, and such faith in their own species?” (122) while the brief glimpses of families on the road provide a microcosm of the greater issue at large, the ability to trust that one human being will not exploit another for the sake of his own survival. And yet, through these chapters in which Steinbeck chooses to observe the exodus at a distance, he offers some understanding: “The people in flight from the terror behind—strange things happen to them, some bitterly cruel and some so beautiful that the faith is refired forever” (122).

            In a letter written in 1938, John Steinbeck expressed his objective in writing the novel: “My whole work drive has been aimed at making people understand each other.” Through the expository chapters in which he parallels the natural world to the predatory cycle of survival in the lives of the migrant workers and furthers a political agenda of explaining the economic forces that drive human beings against each other, Steinbeck is able to guide the reader away from the single thread of the Joad family to a comprehensive view of America during the great depression.

John Steinbeck, "The Grapes of Wrath"

            As John Steinbeck’s novel “The Grapes of Wrath” traces the ultimate desolation and poverty during the Great Depression, we are exposed to the skeletal form of human nature when in extreme despair. From this, two themes emerge: the predatory quality of survival and solidarity as a defense against ruin. As people starve and fall into deep poverty, they become easy victims of exploitation for those who have both money and power. However, the masses also pose a threat to the few; throughout the novel, there is an underlying thread of the possibility that together, the masses are greater than the powerful few.

            In the opening few scenes, there is much evidence of predatory qualities to life and to survival. As the Joads attempt to keep their home and land, the tractors run through it, destroying their home and numerous others. In one of the first expository chapters, Steinbeck introduces the concept of greater forces at play. As a tenant man pleads with the man on a tractor, the response he receives is simply, “We’re sorry. It’s not us. It’s the monster. The bank isn’t like a man” (33). This “monster” becomes the highest factor in a predatory cycle, preying on the farmers and their land. Likewise, the tractor driver must prey on the tenant man, using the farmer’s despair to make money in order to survive. He tries to explain this to the tenant owner, saying “‘Times are changed, don’t you know? …Get your three dollars a day, feed your kids. You got no call to worry about anybody’s kids but your own’” (37). When poverty strikes, Steinbeck observes, it becomes a dog-eat-dog world, where predators will victimize others and earn money at the cost of another’s wellbeing as a means to survive.

            A second theme in “The Grapes of Wrath” is the concept of solidarity. Throughout the novel, the migrants glimpse ideas of bonding together, of becoming stronger in numbers and resistance. However, it remains merely an undertone to the novel. Ma Joad first touches upon the topic in a conversation with Tom when he arrives home, explaining, “‘Tommy, I got to thinkin’ an’ dreamin’ an’ wonderin’. They say there’s a hundred thousand of us shoved out. If we was all mad the same way, Tommy—they wouldn’t hunt nobody down—‘” (77). As they experience utter despair and poverty and become subjected to maltreatment and injustice, this thought of oneness, of solidarity, looms above. Steinbeck reinforces this speculation later in the novel during an expository chapter: “And the great owners, who must lose their land in an upheaval, the great owners with access to history, with eyes to read history and to know the great fact: when property accumulates in too few hands it is taken away. And that companion fact: when a majority of the people are hungry and cold they will take by force what they need” (238). While the land owners in California benefit from the rush of migrant workers—lowering their wages and receiving the hungry and starving to work at almost no cost to the employer—the potential cohesion of the migrants would be strong enough to overtake the exploiters, to disrupt the status quo. Those in power, those with land, echo this sentiment as they say, “We got to keep these here people down or they’ll take the country. They’ll take the country” (236). Steinbeck’s novel holds this concept of solidarity above the plot, above the barrenness of poverty, above the struggles of the Joads, as a distant wish, an esteemed hope, and a possible aspiration.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, "The Great Gatsby"

            In “The Great Gatsby,” the character of Myrtle Wilson presents a social commentary on the distinctions between the rich and the poor, parallel to the findings of Thorstein Veblen in “The Theory of the Leisure Class.” Myrtle acts as a liminal figure, able to flow in and out of wealth by the means of Tom. In effect, she leads two lives intrinsically tied to two differing social classes; with George in the Valley of Ashes, she suffers from poverty and acts according to the norms characteristic of the working class, but with Tom in New York, Myrtle dons a façade to feign a place within the culture of the upper-class.

            Veblen’s ideas of leisure and conspicuous consumption are particularly evident through Myrtle’s actions and her sense of what one must do to live like the wealthy. In relief to her situation at the garage, Myrtle’s behavior in New York provides a stark contrast and highlights the features of affluent lifestyles.

            When the reader is first introduced to Myrtle, in the setting of George Wilson’s garage, she is described as a “thickish figure” (25). Her appearance is plain and dull, containing “no facet or gleam of beauty” (25). Her second appearance, the beginning of her shift into the social class to which Tom belongs, is marked by a specific change: clothing. Appearance, here, is the first signal of social class and, in an effort to perform the role of the wealthy, Myrtle has altered her dress.

            In New York, Myrtle begins buying certain items, preparing for her new place within the social strata. At the news-stand Myrtle “bought a copy of Town Tattle and a moving-picture magazine” (27), which is indicative of high social status because of their unproductive nature and suggestion of leisure. Gossip and magazines do not contribute to any sort of labor or productivity, and are simply intended for the comfort and entertainment of the reader. At the drug-store, Myrtle bought “cold cream and a small flask of perfume” (27), again demonstrating the importance of appearance, of projecting certain values and tastes.

            Myrtle also partakes in the leisure class behavior of conspicuous consumption when she decides to buy a dog. As she speaks to Tom in the taxi, her justification for getting the dog is simply, “’I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice to have—a dog’” (27). The pet serves no intended purpose other than display, for Tom must pour money into keeping it. When George later finds the “small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver… apparently new” (158), the use of the dog to exhibit and flaunt wealth is apparent.

            The character of Myrtle Wilson underlines the behavioral aspects of the leisure class as she attempts to assimilate to upper-class culture. With her low class position, she feels pressure to assimilate and respond to the demand of performing wealth. This liminality between lower- and upper-class positions allows the reader a critical view of the distinguishing factors in behavior, appearance, productivity, and façades of both. 

F. Scott Fitzgerald, "The Great Gatsby"

Our first introduction to distinctions between social class appears in the description of West Egg and East Egg. The New York scene, as contrasted to Nick Carraway’s mid-west background, is a setting of economic promise. The Eggs illustrate the subcategories of the wealthy, presenting the dichotomy of new money versus old money. The two land masses are “identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay” (5). Fitzgerald, in describing the land, creates a social commentary on the apparent similarity of the forms of wealth, but also asserts “their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size” (5).

West Egg, indicative of new money, is “the less fashionable of the two” (5). The village has mansions reminiscent of European castles, a “factual imitation” (5) of the countries from which the wealth derives. These houses are, however, merely “spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy” (5), quickly thrusting their way into society and replacing the inherited wealth. The productive labor of self-made men, allowed by the rise of the industrial revolution, is less prestigious than old money. Nick also notes the “consoling proximity of millionaires” (5), the feeling of solidarity of those with the same values, mannerisms, characteristics, and backgrounds. Within the “new money” strata, there is a sense of uniformity and mobility of class position.

East Egg shows a well-established facet of American life, “old money.” The “white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water” (5), flaunting their generational wealth and distinguishing themselves—both figuratively and by the Long Island Sound—from the “new money.” Tom and Daisy Buchanan’s house, a microcosm of the “old money” society at large, is defined as elaborate. The mansion, and arguably the lifestyle of the wealthy, is characterized by constant movement: “the lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quart of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walls and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run” (6). Inherited wealth has a deep and strong hold in American culture, the freedom of leisure and luxury of the most elite class position.

In contrasting West Egg and East Egg—and therefore, new money and old money—Fitzgerald narrates and predicts the shifting stratification of class in America. As the vines of “new money” grow raw, imitative, and less fashionable, those of “old money” are in constant motion at the top of the class hierarchy, and distinguishing themselves from those who must forge their way into a high class position through labor.

Thorstein Veblen, "The Theory of the Leisure Class"

            Thorstein Veblen presents wealth as a hierarchical system of human relation, illustrating how the possession of wealth and the performance of wealth create a stratification of class in society. Each of the different levels of stratification approaches labor. Veblen also explores the ways in which the attributes of the “leisure class,” the superior pecuniary class, reflect their attempts to distinguish themselves from those in lower social class positions. The behaviors characteristic of the leisure class are such that those employed in low-class labor cannot partake.

            Veblen begins by defining the leisure class and its traits, which centers around “the requirement of abstention from productive work.” Labor, through the eyes of the wealthy, is demonstrative of weakness; it is “a mark of inferiority, and therefore comes to be accounted unworthy of man in his best estate.” Veblen continues to justify appearance of wealth—performative wealth—by explaining that “the wealth and power must be put in evidence, for esteem is awarded only on evidence.” Thus, his two ideas of conspicuous leisure and conspicuous consumption are in response to this need for esteem.

            Leisure is a luxury exclusive to the wealthy, and respected for its association with intelligence. As Veblen points out, “vulgarly productive occupations are unhesitatingly condemned and avoided... they are incompatible with life on a satisfactory spiritual plane, with ‘high thinking.’” Leisure, because it is not available to those who must work to earn enough money to live, is the “most conclusive evidence of pecuniary strength.” Withdrawal from labor is a conventional signal of social standing, hence the term of the idle rich. Along with leisure, performance is significant in displaying wealth. Manners can demonstrate dominance as they are “an expression of the relation of status—a symbolic pantomime of mastery.” Manners and lifestyle adequately demonstrate wealth, for their continuance requires generational inheritance, the passing down of tastes and behaviors; “good breeding requires time, application, and expense, and can therefore not be compassed by those whose time and energy are taken up with work.”

            The second expression of wealth that Veblen addresses is conspicuous consumption. Such consumption is applicable to a broad variety of products: food, clothing, housing, and furniture, to name a few. Consuming goods that are unproductive—in essence, unnecessary—is a mark of “prowess and human dignity.” Likewise, the consumption of luxuries, as Veblen remarks, has no other purpose than for the comfort of the consumer and, therefore, distinguishes the wealthy as “masters.” As the class structure becomes more complex, the leisure class also stratifies into separate layers. With these new sub-classes the differentiation between inheritance of wealth and inheritance of behavior is divided and the leisure class is subsequently more difficult to distinguish.

Edith Wharton, "The House of Mirth"

“It was no longer, however, from the vision of material poverty that she turned with the greatest shrinking. She had a sense of deeper empoverishment—of an inner destitution compared to which outward conditions dwindled into insignificance. It was indeed miserable to be poor—to look forward to a shabby, anxious middle-age, leading by dreary degrees of economy and self-denial to gradual absorption in the dingy communal existence of the boarding-house. But there was something more miserable still—it was the clutch of solitude at her heart, the sense of being swept like a stray uprooted growth down the heedless current of the years.” (310)

            Lily Bart fears poverty for greater reasons than mere economic weakness; throughout the course of the novel, she continually points to two additional worries that accompany poverty: unhappiness and loneliness. Near the conclusion of the novel, Lily reflects on her reluctance to surrender the luxuries of wealth and finds that it is not her fear of monetary powerlessness, but her hesitance to lose the sense of solidarity and comradeship with her social set. As she realizes, “she had learned by experience that she had neither the aptitude nor the moral constancy to remake her life on new lines; to become a worker among workers, and let the world of luxury and pleasure sweep by her unregarded” (293).

            Unhappiness is a driving force in Lily’s attempts to hold onto her accustomed lifestyle of the rich. In expressing her frustration to Gerty, Lily articulates her belief that poverty is a miserable state of being: “’Well, poverty, for one—and I don’t know any that’s more dreadful’” (259). From the images of poverty ingrained in her by her mother’s perception to a vision of Gerty—the epitome of the independent woman—as homely and plain, Lily correlates poverty, or financial independence, with unhappiness. Without the material wealth and bountiful luxury of her former life, Lily believes see cannot attain happiness.

            Loneliness also proves a motive for Lily to feign her place within the social sphere of the Dorsets. With material wealth, Lily could create a seat for herself among the elite, could engage in a sense of oneness with those on the same class strata as herself. Although one could argue that Miss Bart never actually belonged to such a class of people, her performance kept her among them. When she is presented with the possibility of poverty, Lily is desperate to maintain her connection to the exclusive class of the affluent. Gerty is conscious of Lily’s predicament: “Miss Farish could see no hope for her friend but in a life completely reorganized and detached from its old associations; whereas all Lily’s energies were centered in the determined effort to hold fast to those associations, to keep herself visibly identified with them, as long as the illusion could be maintained” (261). In renouncing these “associations,” in accepting poverty and finding hope in a reorganized life, Lily would be alone. It is partly her fear of isolation and alienation from her old associations, the aspects of life with which she readily identifies herself, that keeps her from succumbing to her fate of poverty. 

Edith Wharton, "The House of Mirth"

            Lily Bart, in her complicated situation of lacking financial resources yet maintaining a place among the social elite, is constantly engaged in an interior struggle. She has an escapist mentality—an aversion to the constructions and guises of wealth—as well as an imprisoned one, desiring to exist outside of social limitations and the performative self.

            One of the major factors hindering Lily’s ability to distance herself from the constructions of wealth is her upbringing. Mrs. Bart was preoccupied with material display and exhibitions of wealth, these values in turn were internalized in her daughter. Though not with abundant monetary resources, for Lily’s childhood was “tugged at by the overflow of a perpetual need—the need of more money” (31), Mrs. Bart was renowned for living with the appearance of being richer than the family actually was. Concepts verbalized by her mother, such as those not flaunting wealth as “living like pigs,” echo within Lily as the plot continues and her own financial state becomes an object for speculation. She continually refers to “her old incurable dread of discomfort and poverty… the fear of that mounting tide of dinginess against which her mother had so passionately warned her” (288).

In addition, the value and promise of physical beauty leaves Lily to hinge on her chances to remain in among the rich. Without other means, the heroine seeks opportunity to objectify her own beauty as a commodity to reap wealth and fortune. Such traits imprison Lily Bart, perpetuating her cycle within the social strata of the upperclass and her desire to remain there. The importance of wealth, display, and appearance have been ingrained in her social values and serve as a barrier, preventing her from breaking from the guised world of wealth.

            Lily recognizes that “she had learned by experience that she had neither the aptitude nor the moral constancy to remake her life on new lines; to become a worker among workers, and let the world of luxury and pleasure sweep by her unregarded” (293). Despite her yearning to reconcile her desires to be both among and apart from the rich, Lily is able to trace the opposition of her dual mentality. Her escapist convictions are reinforced by her indebtedness to Tenor and the limited legacy given by her aunt, but the forces of her upbringing and accustomed comforts burden her pursuit of financial independence.

            Lily Bart’s interior conflict—the escapist versus the imprisoned mentality—links the search for financial agency, and subsequently, personal freedom, with the pressures of identifying with the powerful affluent and their performative exhibitions of wealth. The struggle of mentalities for Lily becomes a microcosm of the individual conflict in the world of social class.

William Dean Howells, "The Rise of Silas Lapham"

The title character of William Dean Howells’ “The Rise of Silas Lapham” problematizes class distinction and the issue of morality in relation to social mobility. A preoccupation with “belonging”—demonstrated in the Lapham family’s inability to assimilate to the culture of the affluent and the complicated inter-class romance of Penelope and Tom—underlies and reinforces the inevitable differences of social class. However, Howells’ novel works in service of a larger theory. Beyond the recognition of the difficulty of upward mobility, the character of Silas Lapham anatomizes class determinism.

            Through the economic rise, social fall, and moral recovery of the Lapham family, we are privy to Silas’ process of social understanding—in his words, “a hole opened for me, and I crept out of it” (365). The Laphams escape the danger of excessive pride and retreat from the apparent moral decay of the upper crust, returning to their original home in the country and their former class position. Only here does Silas attain complete happiness and feel belonging. Throughout the novel there is no change in social class: the Laphams, who discover firsthand the risk of upward mobility, revert to their former class position; the Coreys maintain their upper-crust social set and perspectives; Tom and Penelope, who defy the exclusive nature of class, no longer hold a place within this stratified society; and the minor characters live on in their given social positions. From this static nature of social class we are able to discern a narrative on class determinism, the belief that the social position in which we are raised determines our values and behaviors, in essence solidifying our place within societal structure.

            Class, as demonstrated by Silas Lapham, is not strictly defined by monetary resources and income, but also by cultural capital and performance. Such cultural capital—an understanding of qualities, values, mannerisms, commodities, and social norms characteristic of a certain social class—is internalized from birth. Distancing himself from his working-class roots as he harvests his fortune in the paint business, Silas maintains the values and qualities attributed to that class: an appreciation for a strong work ethic, the necessity of family cohesion, an esteem for sincerity. This collection of cultural capital is in contradiction to the values and qualities of the upper-class, accounting for Lapham’s inability to “belong.” In an attempt to forge a place for themselves among the social elite, the family must perform their social role, creating a disconnect between their class position and their true selves. In addition to a salient consciousness of his lack of the cultural capital of the wealthy, Silas also gains recognition that, in order to conform to high-class society, he must relinquish his sincerity, his integrity, and—arguably—his identity. 

William Dean Howells, "The Rise of Silas Lapham"

            Howells’ novel illustrates the exclusive nature of social classes and reconstructs our notions of wealth. Class, as demonstrated by the title character, is not strictly defined by monetary resources and income, but also by cultural capital and performance. To be upper-class, one must have an understanding of affluent culture, mannerisms, commodities, and social norms, in addition to upper-class finances.

            Silas Lapham is demonstrative of a new American “type,” the upwardly-mobile businessman. He no longer belongs in the class category of his farming, working-class relatives as the mineral paint business allows him to harvest a fortune. However, Lapham’s change in socioeconomic status underlines distinct issues in American class stratification. The Lapham family’s integration into the world of the upper-class depicts the difficulty of social mobility, especially in a time where “old money” is in conflict with “new money.” Wealth had associations of cultural capital, of generational inheritance—not merely monetarily, but also inheriting a certain type of knowledge. As the Laphams progress into this affluent society, it becomes evident that they lack the necessary social knowledge to fully assimilate into upper-class culture.

            Chelsea’s blog highlights how the Lapham family feels the need to feign their possession of cultural capital. This is most salient in the building of their new house. In their Nankeen Square home, the Laphams had bought excessive luxuries, spending recklessly with no heed for fashionable items or clothing. Their lack of understanding for upper-class society is shown when the family only realizes they live in an unfashionable neighborhood after being told so. “With all [Silas’] prosperity,” the novel notes, the Laphams “had not had a social life” (25). Their abundant and aimless spending was for the benefit of none but themselves, not recognizing the customs of dinners and guests. Silas Lapham begins to acknowledge the values and norms of upper-class society when speaking with the architect to build his new house, on the water-side of notable Beacon Street. As Chelsea explored, the bookcases serve as one example of the necessary cultural capital to integrate into higher class. Whereas the Lapham daughters borrow books from the library, the expectation for the wealthy is a value for literature, demonstrated in owning one’s own books and a conversational understanding of well-known literature. Secondly, the architect convinces Silas to build a music room, regardless of the fact that neither seem to have musical inclination or interest.

            Silas Lapham’s inability to truly assimilate into upper-class culture is solidified at the Corey’s dinner party. The Coreys, anatomizing the “old money” construct, have both the wealth and cultural capital to justify their class position; their family is an enactment of generational riches, holds a sense of entitlement to their societal role, and masters the performative act of wealth. In preparation for said dinner, the Laphams are extremely conscious of their lack of cultural capital. In an effort to appear deserving of their social class, the Laphams analyze the necessary behaviors, dress, and appearance. Mrs. Lapham and Irene purchase new gowns, while Silas studies a book of etiquette and agonizes over wearing gloves, powdering his hands, and the color of his waistcoat. Such anxiety is later justified, as Silas embarrasses himself by entering with gloves and—after many drinks—commits the ultimate social faux-pas of betraying the affluent’s appreciation for stoicism, revealing too many details about his life and throwing off his carefully-fabricated façade.

            The Lapham family experiences the contradiction of social class, realizing that monetary wealth does not assure class status. Silas, in his efforts to assimilate into the upper-class, recognizes that wealth is an impression, and he is not part of the world in the way he thinks he is. The Laphams cannot do the aesthetic social performance necessary to be upper-class, and therefore, are caught between the cultural capital of their past social position and the wealth that—according to Silas—should dictate their class.

Jacob Riis, "How the Other Half Lives"

            Jacob Riis, in his informational glance at the immigration period, creates a comparative view of the pyramidal structure of social class, blaming the plight of the poor on the horrible living conditions of dilapidated tenement buildings and exposing the exploitation of the lower class, specifically immigrants, by those with monetary power. His argument for social change is drawn from the impression that the upper-half of the population “cared little for the struggles, and less for the fate of those who were underneath, so long as it was able to hold them there” (1).

            In Riis’ exploration of the tenement, he employs the anecdotes from immigrant boarders to display the harsh conditions and unsympathetic landlords. He delves into thick description of the lack of ventilation and light, the presence of mold and rats, and the pervasive “slovenliness, discontent, privation, and ignorance” (3). Riis speaks of irrational rent prices for rooms incapable of holding a family, overcrowding in poor conditions. Living in the tenements, one is exposed to disease, sickness, and death from lack of ventilation or light. In the wider view of the economy, this irreverence for the plight of the poor directly correlates to crime rate; those who commit crime are often people “whose homes had ceased to be sufficiently separate, decent, and desirable to afford” (1). The upper-half must care for the “other half” if not for human empathy, but for the financial strain.

            Jacob Riis underlines the idea of the poor immigrants as a class, ethnicizing poverty. Those who live in tenements are nearly exclusively immgrants: “when once I asked the agent of a notorious Fourth Ward alley how many people might be living in it I was told: one hundred and forty families, one hundred Irish, thirty-eight Italian, and two that spoke the German tongue” (8). Beyond being lower-class, lacking the cultural knowledge and sometimes language acquisition to find decent employment, these ethnic groups fronted opposition from the upper-crust, unwelcome into society. Riis speaks of America missing a “distinctively American community” (8). This opposition plays out in the tenements, where landlords exploit the boarders by forcing high rents for disliked immigrants, a price unreasonable for the dilapidated building and tiny rooms.

This intense view of tenements is in service of Riis’ project to illuminate the carelessness of the landowners; the proprietors accused the “filthy habits of the tenants as an excuse for the condition of their property” (3), seeking neither to improve the situation, end their tolerance for such living, or recognize their illogical human greed preventing change. The poor succumb to unlivable conditions, struggling to meet the standards placed upon them by higher classes. As Riis explains, “if it shall appear that the sufferings and the sins of the ‘other half,’ and the evil they breed, are but as a just punishment upon the community that gave it no other choice, it will be because that is the truth” (1). Exploitation of the class structure has pervaded our society, allowing those with financial resources and power to perpetuate the suffering of the “other half.”

            

Mark Twain, "The $30,000 Bequest"

            Illustrating the fleeting nature of money and the grappling behaviors of social ladder climbers, Mark Twain comments on an inherent aspect of human nature. Regardless of our social position, the integrity of our morals, or self-claimed happiness, we—as humans—are all susceptible to corruption. Despite the greatest of intentions, we will inevitably succumb to temptation.

            Tilbury Foster, the distant relation who bequeaths his “wealth” to Sally and Aleck Foster, is the single character who has a consciousness of the danger of money and riches. Although one could argue that he is merely the clever antagonist who instigates evil, Tilbury acknowledges the ultimate human weakness to corruption. Such corruption he sets forward, for the ultimate benefit of his victims, in the “malignant work” (2) of great sums of money.

            Although this money is eventually discovered to be imaginary, its effects on the recipients soon become very real. There is a rapid decay of familial connection, as the parents shift to being “silent, distraught, and strangely unentertaining” (3). Slowly their children leave the centrality of their lives as money claims their attentions. Within a day of learning the news of their inheritance, the parents begin to neglect their daughters, for “the children had been gone an hour before their absence was noticed” (3).

            Their enthusiasm and zeal for social mobility spurs a disregard for reality. Caught in the “delirium of bliss” (7) accompanying dreaming of wealth, they one night absently forget to put out the candle burning in the parlor, excusing the overlook because they could afford to let it burn.

            In addition, the preoccupation with financial abundance paralleled to moral disintegration. Their anxiety to possess the bequeathed money incites an improper anticipation of Tilbury’s death. Swept up into a delirium, intoxicated with the possibilities of their wealth, they lose their religion, they “fell—and broke the Sabbath” (14). Later, Aleck yields to dishonesty and keeping secrets from her husband: “She was breaking the compact and concealing it from him” (18).

            As we follow the natural collapse of the Fosters’ simplistic life into one of anger, greed, and immorality, Twain draws a connection to a broader theme. Before learning of the potential inheritance, Aleck and Sally were hard-working, amiable people; however, the prospect of wealth essentially ruined their sense of self and appreciation for comfortable survival. Therefore, Twain does not distinguish between the selfish and the morally-sound; all humans, regardless of religion, conscience, or contentment, are susceptible to temptation and the degenerative nature of corruption.

Mark Twain, "The $30,000 Bequest"

            Mark Twain, in “The $30,000 Bequest,” employs binaries to mark distinctions between rich and poor, as well as the qualities that accompany those class positions. The first binary that Twain upsets is that of gender norms. As the two main characters are introduced, this deliberate gender inversion becomes evident from the names: “all four of [the family’s] members had pet names, Saladin’s was a curious and unsexing one—Sally; and so was Electra’s—Aleck” (2). As the plot progresses, the reversal of gender expectations pervades their reaction to the imaginary wealth. According to standard gender roles, the male serves as breadwinner for the family and manages the finances. However, in this short story, it is Aleck who remains frugal and cautiously instructs herself on the stock market and margins. She is constantly composed and business-minded as she seeks to expand their wealth. In contradiction to the female norm of expenditure, Sally becomes invested with lofty ideals of luxury items, constantly begging to purchase excessive material objects.

            The irony of the elusive nature of money is highlighted by a binary that effectively creates the moral center of the story: the separation between the real and the imaginary. The bequeathed wealth was promised by Tilbury Foster in an all-knowing prediction that “money had given him most of his troubles and exasperations, and he wished to place it where there was good hope that it would continue its malignant work” (2). However, the piece is given weight by the fact that, in the end, this inheritance was a fraud; the grandiose and superfluous wealth was simply imaginary. As time drives on, Aleck and Sally live two strands of life: the real, where their honest living and simple, well-earned home focus their affectionate, careful lives; and the imagined, a dangerous daydream preoccupying their time and, consequently, leaving them to neglect reality. The imaginary wealth soon catalyzes a change of perspective, a fixation with materialism and class position.

            Twain uses these binaries in service of a broader idea. Through a veneer of humor, Twain exposes a deeper, less-comical theory: obsession with money and material value has the potential to lead to a complete loss of self. Aleck and Sally begin with a reasonable, decent life and maintain an affectionate, lively family. It is not until the possibility of glamorous wealth is revealed to them that disappointment in reality occurs. Their simple and happy life is jeopardized for ungrounded fantasies. Twain provides a cautionary tale to the danger of monetary desires and the loss of identity that ensues.

Stephen Crane, "Maggie: A Girl of the Streets"

           In Stephen Crane’s novella, the act of wandering becomes a critical anatomization of the condition of the poor. Near the conclusion of the text, Maggie roams the streets, seeking recognition, acknowledgement, among seas of strangers. When her ignorance incites conflict between herself and her family, brought to its peak by the sharp indifference of Pete himself, the scene distinctly shifts to the bleak image of a girl aimlessly walking through the streets of New York. The illustration provoked by the title—“a girl of the streets”—is re-imagined in the framing of poverty, a poorness defined not only by a lack of material wealth, but also of a negligence for the danger of class perception.

            In the act of wandering near the conclusion of the novella, the girl’s experience parallels her struggle with poverty. The crowd of people storming the streets, characterized by their interminable qualities and endless procession, though physically close to the girl, remains elusive. Their “atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity” (62) is distinct from her own demeanor; instead, she associates with the few “wet wanderers, in attitudes of chronic dejection” (62), who lack the same feeling of cohesion seen in the former group. These wanderers, the poor, are scattered, disconnected, disparate. She is, however, noticed through sneers, glares, and interested stares, though these observers fail to help her. As a nameless face, she is thrust into social scenarios in which she becomes a persona of prostitution—the “Mary” acquaintance of a businessman, the mistaken clever girl insinuating discussion with a man with a derby hat, the recipient of a drunken man’s raving rants claiming “’I ain’ ga no money’” (64), the rejected date of a saloon-goer—and, ultimately, a stranger. Such wandering is demonstrative of her poor condition, without a real home, any financial resources, or prospects of a future. In the “blackness of the final block” (64), a recognition that social mobility is unlikely, the wandering girl makes a closing observation, resonating with the plight of the poor: “the varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence” (65).

Stephen Crane, "Maggie: A Girl of the Streets"

            In exploring how realism in fiction can engender sympathy, one cannot help but discern where the reader’s sympathy lies for the characters in Maggie. Furthermore, the distance maintained between the readers and the action of the novel promotes a specific type of sympathy, one that does not involve establishing a solution, but rather a sympathy that leans toward voyeurism. Crane constructs his piece in such a way that allows the reader to glimpse, commiserate with, and understand the plight of the lower class while maintaining the distinction between “us” and “them.”

            Maggie, the title character of the novel, demands readerly sympathy. As she is introduced, as “a small ragged girl [dragging] a red, bawling infant” (7), Maggie’s character is illustrated in relief to the foreground of her brother, Jimmie; it is this quiet, obedient, submissive presence that draws the focus, and consequently, the compassion, of the reader. Her appearance, a blossoming “rare and wonderful production… a pretty girl” (18), parallels to her timid, compliant personality; Maggie becomes an anatomization of goodness. Her one flaw—a naiveté of perspective—is tragic simply because the character herself is unconscious of this one vice. As she misinterprets the mannerisms and characteristics of a young man, Pete, to be those of “a man who had a correct sense of his personal superiority” (20), the naïve girl falls in love with her misconception. Bind to reality—Pete’s evident disinterest in Maggie as a person, his crude remarks, and heavily accented speech marking a lower class—she continues to think of him as both “elegant and graceful” (20), enchanted with ideas of high class. Such fascination with upward mobility, an interest grounded in illusion, incites the conflict to propel the plot. The situation, deriving from Maggie’s ignorant pursuit of Pete and leading to the ultimate destruction of already-weak familial bonds, evokes sympathy from an audience whose investment in the suffering of immigrants seeking mere survival never leaves the pages.

            Realism, a writing style highlighting the imperfect aspects of life through representation, allows Crane to separate the subject from the reader, to use the novel as a lens through which to critique—but not change—the dark underbelly of American society. The reader’s sympathy for Maggie is dependent upon such distance; to empathize, to experience the novel through the eyes of the wandering, discomforted girl, would drastically shift the end-result, the audience’s response to this pictorial profile of low-class, tenement life. Stephen Crane’s illustration of the bleak portrait of immigrant life is driven by a fascination with the “dark world.” However, such perspective inevitably imprints itself upon the reader; Maggie then becomes an image of the misfortune of class stratification, rather than a personal account that commands closer attention.