Some Thoughts on Langston Hughes' "Dream Deferred" - GB Shaw

In one of my Literature classes I came across this poem.

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?


Philosophically speaking, this poem carries a lot of weight, but there's more to it. Here are some of my thoughts:

When I first read this poem I thought about when dreams are lost and how that "nags like a heavy load." That thought in itself made me think that this was a nice little poem. However, when taking time, place and author into consideration, this poem took on a bit of a deeper meaning.

In ways I, as a white man, certainly don't understand, the black man's dreams certainly were deferred. I set to thinking what dreams?

Dreams of equality? What does that look like or mean to a black person in America?

Dreams of freedom? Freedom from what? Prejudice? What else? What other dreams were deferred by the black man in America in the 1930's to 1960's?

And like most poetry, this one can be applied more globally, or should I say more personally? Do dreams, deferred long enough, eventually dry up and blow away? When we're young we dream all kinds of things - but then we get old, tired and so on. Some of the dreams of our youth certainly can and do dry up and blow away.

Do they fester inside? Boil up with anger and resentment? Do dreams deferred, left alone and dead by the side of the road of life begin to rot from the maggots and stink; 'til we can't stand the very thought of these dreams? Awww, have you ever had a dream that you strove for, worked hard for, desired with the very essence of your being, only to find that it wasn't attainable - at least not now? Then you wake up one day to realize that it's probably too late, and you look at those dreams with derision.

Crust and sugar over. Hmmm, maybe the dream becomes so sweet, so idyllic that it cannot be consumed. The expectation was set so impossibly high, that you yourself have set the dream out of reach.

And how well do I know how a dream can sag like a heavy load! Cling to the dream that's just out of reach, strive for it long enough, carry it around in your head long enough - never quite getting there and it becomes as the weight of the world on Atlas' shoulders. No wonder he shrugged.

And sometimes, yes, it does explode. Perhaps not like the explosion that Hughes suggests, but more like - dream deferred too long - BAM!!! It's gone. Gone forever.

O that life is not a dream within a dream.

An Irony of Life and Death - GB Shaw

There reside two personae, the public and the private, within each and every person. It is likely that in most cases the public person, the person that is seen walking down the street, interacting with colleagues, friends and family is nearly the same as the private person, the person alone, either in his own head or alone at home in bed. Most people are probably pretty consistent with who they represent themselves to be to others and who they are with themselves. However, because there are certain social norms that we as a society are expected to live by, we may behave in a particular way in public that may not be consistent with how we are feeling on the inside. To that casual friend that asks how we’re doing we may respond with a stock answer, such as “Good, how are you?” when inside we may not be doing well at all; this is just a part of meeting social norms.



Because we live within the bounds of expectations placed on us by society, people develop a picture or idea of who we are, and depending on how consistent our actions are with our words, we develop a reputation. That reputation, or the idea of how others see us, is a mere shadow or façade of who we really are on the inside. Our thoughts about our lives and ourselves are not of a physical nature that can be worn like a coat, but rather are private thoughts and feelings that are only made known if we verbalize them to someone. The vast majority of the people we meet on any given day will have no idea who we really are, or what goes on in our minds; as Creon states in Antigone we “…cannot know a man completely” (An Introduction to Literature: 1147.194).


In Edwin Arlington Robinson’s poem “Richard Cory”, we meet a man who, in the eyes of the people who saw him in the street every day, seemed to have it all. In the first three stanzas of the poem, the narrator tells how Cory was viewed:

“Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him;
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place” (692.1-12).

So often people are judged by first impressions, little things such as how they are dressed, how they walk, how well-groomed they are; Richard Cory made a good first impression, for he was all of these things and more. Cory comported himself as a gentleman, seemed well educated, dressed well, had money and affluence, and was kind to those with whom he had contact, even those of lower station in life, those who, “went without meat, and cursed the bread” (692.14).

Richard Cory presented himself to the world in such an affable way that people admired him, even wished they could have his life, but all was not as it seemed. While we cannot be entirely sure what went on in Richard Cory’s mind, Robinson gives us clues as to why Cory killed himself. There is no mention of a lost love, a lost child or even a lost fortune. The fact that Robinson spent twelve of the sixteen lines of this poem extolling the virtues and good repute of the protagonist suggests to the reader the very cause of this horrendous act. It is the very irony of what Robinson does relate to the reader that becomes Richard Cory’s killer, the inner thoughts of a man who, on the outside had it all, but found nothing but meaninglessness in the platitudes and admiration of those around him. Robinson chose to tell us of the expectations and pressures put on this man by his community, those pressures that would cause this seemingly good man to commit suicide.


Even though Richard Cory was “richer than a king” (692.9), and was the beneficiary of the admiration of his fellow man, even though it all sounded good, to Cory it was all meaningless. In the first twelve lines we learn how Cory is seen by others, and even a bit about who he is, but Richard Cory felt the frustration and futility of what he deemed a hollow, empty, meaningless life and so, “one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head” (692.13-16).

In 1875 Gustave Caillebotte (1848 – 1894) painted the portrait at the beginning of this post entitled, Young Man at His Window, depicting his half brother René at home on Rue de Miromesnil. This painting by Caillebotte could be a portrait of Richard Cory on the evening of his suicide. The very name of this painting draws poem and art together, for anyone could be the “Young Man at His Window” including Richard Cory. The painting shows a well dressed man in an apparently well appointed apartment. His suit hints toward someone, “quietly arrayed” (An Introduction to Literature 692.5), it being of a simple, yet elegant dark fabric and cut. The man’s posture intimates a man who has been, “admirably schooled in every grace” (692.10) with legs spread the proper distance apart. The haircut and well trimmed neck show a man who has taken pains toward proper appearance or being “(c)lean favored” (692.4).



At the same time the apartment itself appears to be in a fashionable location, most assuredly ‘down town’ as opposed to the suburbs. The buildings outside are clean and built of beautiful stone with balconies on the facades. The streets are clean, and the pedestrians appear well dressed. Inside the apartment is seen a beautiful multi-colored carpet, and an equally beautiful velvet-plush chair. This is indeed a painting of a man who seemed to have it all: money, education, manners, grace, in short, everything.



“Young Man at His Window” is as a photograph taken during the waning afternoon before Richard Cory shot himself in the head. Caillebotte shows us a lone man looking out on the street from his balcony window; a window from which he sees and is seen. It is interesting to note that in this room where the subject stands alone we are privy to the two personae of this person as we see two men: the man standing in the window, presenting himself to the world – the public persona, and the private persona that only this lone man can see – his own reflection in the window. Furthermore, while this gentleman seems to have good posture, there is a slight slump noted in his shoulders and his hands are in his pockets, the posture of a man in thought. What is he thinking? Is he thinking about how he had come to this point in his life? Could his slumped shoulders be the result of being tired and wearisome from the arduous task of always having to put on the brave face for those around him?

Or could Richard Cory’s posture be falling apart as his mind begins to consider what he will do in just a few short hours? A few short hours because we know that he shot himself, “one calm summer night” (692.15). Caillebotte’s painting seems to have that late summer afternoon light to it, that hazy, bright white that happens just before the sun begins its sluggish descent. In this late afternoon, standing there in the window ‘Richard Cory’ allows the world to see him as he is, but there appears to be no one looking. The lady in the dress, the people about a block away and both coaches are all traveling away from him. What must he be feeling? Perhaps Cory is comparing his life, with all its riches and finery; with those people on the street who, “went without the meat, and cursed the bread” (692.14) and is wondering who is better off. Is he wishing that someone, anyone, would turn around and see him for who he truly is? Does he wish that his good manners would allow him to cry out, to call for any one of those people to come up and know him?

The chair in this painting also presents an interesting symbol of the loneliness of Cory’s life up to this moment and a portent of what is to come. This single red chair, the only piece of furniture in view, seems to mock Cory with its emptiness and its position. The chair is situated directly in front of the window where he could sit alone and watch the world walk right past him, never knowing he was there, just behind the shears covering the panes; what other pains did these shears cover? The bright red of the chair brings a splash of color to the painting and perhaps, as his bullet–riddled head comes to rest on the overstuffed cushion, will help keep the splash of blood, “quietly arrayed” (692.5).



When walking down the street among the people in his well dressed, well groomed way, Richard Cory shows his public persona, speaking in a “human(ly)” (692.6) manner to people likely not as well off as he. However, upon returning to his apartment one evening, alone with his private persona, Cory stands in the window and contemplates what he is about to do, showing that what appears to be, may not necessarily be so. Robinson’s poem “Richard Cory” and Caillebotte’s painting “Young Man at His Window” work together to show that while the public may see one side of a person, and develop their own idea of what a person is like, in private, in the recesses of the mind, people live different, sometimes hollow and lonely lives. With these two works, art and poetry come together to remind us that people around us live with the irony that often, not all is as it seems.

Works Cited



Robinson, Edwin Arlington, “Richard Cory.” An Introduction to Literature. Ed. Sylvan
Barnet et al. 14th ed. New York: Longman, 2006. 692
"Gustave Caillebotte." Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. 23 Jun 2007, 03:15 UTC.
Wikimedia Foundation, Inc. 4 Jul 2007
http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?ttle=Gustave_Caillebotte&oldid=140041461.
Caillebotte, Gustave. Young Man at his Window. Private collection.
"Young Man at his Window" www.oil-painting-portrait.com. Bergmann & Heuer –
Kunsthandel GbR .

Creature or Creator: Who's the Monster?

I recently finished reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and I have to say I was awestruck. Previous to the reading, likely because of a lifetime of movie-watching, I was a torch-carrying, pitchfork-yeilding villager. All I ever knew of Frankenstein's monster was his savage, murdering ways; which could only be arrested by burning. I suppose this is the trap we fall into when we watch rather than read.

Shelley's novel does indeed show a violent, murdering monster but as the story develops I found myself tearful over the tenderness and lonliness of this involuntary being. I would even go so far as to say that by the end of the story I felt more compassion for the "monster" than for Dr. Frankenstein. I put quotation marks around monster for this reason: as I read this story I began to wonder who the real monster was - creature or creator.

Dr. Frankenstein created this living being, and having done so abandons it. What happened in Mary Shelley's life that drew her pen to such a thought? Knowing little or nothing of Shelley's life I am left to wonder if this is a personal work for her or a metaphor for what happens in real life. I don't know the statistics, and maybe someday when I have the time I will research it a bit, but I know that fahters abandoning their families has become an epidemic, especially in certain segments of our society. Dr. Frankenstein, in having created this living, breathing creature, had a responsibility to care for and nurture this offspring. Instead, at the very moment of creation, the doctor fled his responsibilities, leaving this creature to the vagaries of a cold and uncaring world.

As the creature learns and grows, experiences the world and the cruelty of the people in it, he becomes bitter and rage takes control of his life. Frankenstein the creature comes into contact with several people with and from whom he begins to learn of love and community. Each time he begins to feel in some way connected with these people, he is discovered and violently driven away. Eventually, after many years of this and especially after a particularly emotional rejection, the creature becomes a monster. The monster finds the creator and explains:

"How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. [...] These bleak skied I hail, for they are kinder to me than your fellow beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves to for my destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness."

It is too late. The harshness and cruelness of the world around the creature, and the utter lonliness drive him to murder and revenge. Doesn't this sound so much like what we read about in the newspapers and hear on the news every single day? A child, raised by his minimum-wage-earning single mother of six, having no real connections involving love and kindness, raised on the streets, turns to a gang and ends up a violent criminal. And that's just one example, for the fact is we see this kind of thing all the time, probably even know people who have been the victim of abandonment.

While I cannot condone the crimes Shelley's "monster" commits, it becomes more understandable when we learn that his life's journey was such as it was. Which leaves me to wonder - who was the monster? The creature, abandoned at birth and treated horribly his while life? Or the good, intelligent, well-to-do doctor who so capriciously created and abandoned? We walk amongst monsters every day - but I think they're often not the ones I think they are.

Love, Guilt and Death in “The Things they Carried” by GB Shaw

In the inconceivable concept of war struggles occur on a moment-to-moment, place-to-place level and across many planes within each combatant. Beyond the obvious and often glamorized physical struggles of one soldier attempting to dispatch another soldier into the great beyond, soldiers deal with other forms of struggle be they mental, emotional or perhaps even spiritual. In his short story, “The Things they Carried” Tim O’Brien paints a picture of soldiers burdened with these pan-human struggles. From the physical accoutrements of battle to the emotional struggles of friends and family left behind at home, comrades left dead on the field of battle, the mental struggles of remaining sane amidst the insanity of battle, to the attempts to maintain rank and order in front of other men, O’Brien deftly describes the Herculean efforts of these common men. Men carrying much more than their battlefield gear.

Platoon Leader, First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried much of the same equipment that the men under his command carried

. “As a first lieutenant and platoon leader (he) carried a compass, maps, code books, binoculars, and a .45-caliber pistol that weighed 2.9 pounds fully loaded” (524). This is a short list of the physical equipment that was carried and through the rest of the story we see that list lengthened to include other objects such as a rucksack, a canteen, knives, and so on. However, the most interesting aspect of this story is the things Jimmy Cross carried that weren’t on the equipment list.

The story begins with the letters from Martha that Jimmy Cross carries. Martha is the girl back home that Jimmy is apparently in love with,

but we go on to learn that she does not seem to reciprocate the sentiment. While a small pile of letters may not weigh much in themselves, the fact is they were hauled or “humped” through the jungles of Viet Nam along with all the required equipment weighing down Lieutenant Cross in ways not immediately evident, for as we shall soon see, these letters carry much more weight than the paper they are written on.
The letters were not love letters in the sense of two people in love, but rather Jimmy Cross was in love with Martha and she wrote those kinds of letters that leaves one reading between the lines, searching, almost deciphering as to whether or not there’s more to what was said. While the letters were signed, “Love, Martha” (522), Lieutenant Cross was perspicacious enough to realize that ‘love’ was not always what it meant. This left the platoon leader “hoping” (522), leading to disastrous consequences later in the story.

On April 16th, as Lieutenant Cross’ platoon was on the dangerous mission of clearing tunnels which often hid the Viet Cong, “Ted Lavender was shot in the head on his way back from peeing” (528). It is a basic military principle that man never wander off on their own in hostile territory. First lieutenant Cross should have and most likely would have known this, but it was allowed to happen anyway. Why was Ted Lavender allowed to go off alone and end up being shot in the head? This tragic event occurred because Lieutenant Cross carried the weight of his hope for the love of Martha. On page 527 O’Brien tells us that “Lieutenant Cross gazed at the tunnel. But he was not there. He was buried with Martha under the white sand at the Jersey shore.” In a moment, a man under Cross’ command was dead because he had lost focus; his mind had wandered to the dreams of the woman he was in love with and the letters that left him hoping.

Equipment, dreams, hopes, love, all things carried into battle. In the case of Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carrying hopes and thoughts of a love not yet obtained, dreams of a life beyond war lead to the death of another soldier. Because of this Cross and the other soldiers, “…all carried ghosts” (526). They carried the ghosts of a lost comrade and the part they played in this death. The other soldiers in the platoon dealt with Lavender’s death in various ways, “Some carried themselves with a sort of wistful resignation, others with pride or stiff soldierly discipline or good humor or macho zeal” (531). Lieutenant Cross however, “…felt shame. He hated himself. He had loved Martha more than his men, and as a consequence Lavender was now dead” (529). He now carried with him not only equipment, hopes and dreams, but also the burdensome weight of guilt. As a result of carrying this guilt around, the lieutenant endeavored to run his platoon by-the-book, “to perform his duties firmly and without negligence” (533).

Every soldier carries on his person an incredible amount of equipment, most essential, some necessary and some neither essential nor necessary to the job at hand. These are the physical burdens of a man at war. However, every soldier also carries emotional and spiritual ‘equipment’, some to help maintain sanity and emotional security, some the emotional scars of the heinous sights, sounds, smells and results of battle. While every soldier deals with these stressors in a different way, it is abundantly clear that, “they all carr(y) ghosts” (526). Tim O’Brien’s story of “The Things They Carried” does a masterful job of describing the burdens of the soldiers of one platoon in the Vietnam War, and especially those of the platoon leader First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross. While this paper describes one aspect of the load carried by one soldier, the story itself is replete with metaphors and examples of the things carried, both physical and otherwise, by the various soldiers in this platoon. O’Brien’s story is a classic tale of the burdens of the modern soldier.

Works Cited
O’Brien, Timothy, “The Things They Carried.” An Introduction to Literature. Ed. Sylvan Barnet et al. 14th ed. New York: Longman, 2006. 522-534.