Approaching the Millenium: Essays on Angels in America

Approaching the Millennium: Essays on Angels in America

Approaching the Millennium: Essays on Angels in America …

That “help” that Champlain gave the Huron tribe was short-lived. The next year, they marauded across the land with their newfound military advantage and annihilated a Mohawk party that they came upon. The Mohawk did not raid Huron lands for a generation. The Mohawk fought a war with the Mahican to gain access to Dutch arms at Fort Orange in 1624. French Jesuit missionaries had been proselytizing in North America since 1611, and their tenure in North America was the gentlest European effort that those early days of invasion would see. Although there was sincere, soul-saving effort made by many Jesuits, it was part of a larger pattern of exploitation that France inflicted on the natives. No matter how seemingly benevolent the Jesuit intent, their presence exterminated the natives. Priestly zeal was exploited by French elites, similar to how volunteer zeal is manipulated today, or how the CIA exploited zeal. Wherever the Jesuits showed up, smallpox broke out, beginning as early as 1625.

“Identity and Conversion in Angels in America.” Approaching theMillennium: Essays on Angels in America.

Approaching The Millennium Essays On Angels In America

Reinelt, Janelle. "Notes on Angels inAmerica as American Epic Theater," pp. 234-44. Geis, Deborah R. (ed.); andKruger, Steven F. (ed.). Approaching the Millennium: Essays on Angels inAmerica.
sources in Bertolt Brecht

Approaching the Millennium: Essays on Angels in America.

As the dark hour approaches he is more and more appalled by the failure of the human sympathies on which he has been wont to rely during the past years of life and service, and when, in the critical moment of his need, he looks around for comfort and sees his friends wrapt in indifferent slumber, it seems to him that all human ties are broken, that all human love is a mockery, all human faith a betrayal; he is flung back upon himself to learn that only the tie with his Father in heaven remains, that all embodied aid is useless. It has been said that in this hour of solitude the soul is filled with bitterness, and that rarely a soul passes over this gulf of voidness without a cry of anguish; it is then that bursts forth the agonised reproach: “Couldst thou not watch with me one hour?” - but no human hand may clasp another in that Gethsemane of desolation.

Angels In America Millennium Approaches Essay Writing


approaching the millennium essays on angels in america ..

Borreca, Art. "'Dramaturging' the Dialectic:Brecht, Benjamin, and Declan Donnellan's Production of Angels in America,"pp. 245-60. Geis, Deborah R. (ed.); and Kruger, Steven F. (ed.). Approaching theMillennium: Essays on Angels in America.
sources in Bertolt Brecht; Walter Benjamin

Approaching the millennium : essays on Angels in America ..

Miller, James. "Heavenquake: Queer Analogiesin Kushner's America," pp. 56-77. Geis, Deborah R. (ed.); and Kruger,Steven F. (ed.). Approaching the Millennium: Essays on Angels inAmerica.
influence of Nietzsche on Kushner

Approaching the Millennium : Essays on Angels in America

Editor (with Deborah R. Geis): Approaching the Millennium: Essays on Angels in America. Editor: (with Glenn Burger) Queering the Middle Ages. Contributor literary criticisms to professional journals.

Author: The Spectral Jew: Conversion and Embodiment in Medieval Europe, AIDS Narratives: Gender and Sexuality, Fiction and Science, Dreaming in the Middle Ages.

Approaching the Millennium: Essays on Angels in America by Deborah R

Bechtel, Roger. "'AKind of Painful Progress': The Benjaminian Dialectics of Angels inAmerica." Journal of Dramatic Theory andCriticism, 16:1 (2001Fall), pp. 99-121
relationship to Walter Benjamin; GeschichtsphilosophischeThesen"; "Theses on the Philosophy of History"

Approaching the Millennium : Essays on "Angels in America"



By the city's quadrangular houses--in log huts, camping with lumber-men,
Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed,
Weeding my onion-patch or hosing rows of carrots and parsnips,
crossing savannas, trailing in forests,
Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase,
Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the
shallow river,
Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where the
buck turns furiously at the hunter,
Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the
otter is feeding on fish,
Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou,
Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where the
beaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tall;
Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower'd cotton plant, over
the rice in its low moist field,
Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd scum and
slender shoots from the gutters,
Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav'd corn, over the
delicate blue-flower flax,
Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there with
the rest,
Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the breeze;
Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by low
scragged limbs,
Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of the brush,
Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot,
Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great
goldbug drops through the dark,
Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to
the meadow,
Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous
shuddering of their hides,
Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons straddle
the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from the rafters;
Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders,
Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs,
Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in it
myself and looking composedly down,)
Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heat
hatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand,
Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it,
Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke,
Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water,
Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents,
Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting below;
Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the regiments,
Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island,
Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance,
Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood outside,
Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good game of
base-ball,
At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license,
bull-dances, drinking, laughter,
At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash, sucking the
juice through a straw,
At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find,
At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings;
Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles, cackles,
screams, weeps,
Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks are
scatter'd, where the brood-cow waits in the hovel,
Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where the stud to
the mare, where the cock is treading the hen,
Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short jerks,
Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome prairie,
Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles
far and near,
Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-lived
swan is curving and winding,
Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her
near-human laugh,
Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half hid by the
high weeds,
Where band-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the ground with
their heads out,
Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a cemetery,
Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees,
Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of the marsh at
night and feeds upon small crabs,
Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon,
Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree over
the well,
Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired leaves,
Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs,
Through the gymnasium, through the curtain'd saloon, through the
office or public hall;
Pleas'd with the native and pleas'd with the foreign, pleas'd with
the new and old,
Pleas'd with the homely woman as well as the handsome,
Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks melodiously,
Pleas'd with the tune of the choir of the whitewash'd church,
Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher,
impress'd seriously at the camp-meeting;
Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole forenoon,
flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass,
Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn'd up to the clouds,
or down a lane or along the beach,
My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the middle;
Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek'd bush-boy, (behind me
he rides at the drape of the day,)
Far from the settlements studying the print of animals' feet, or the
moccasin print,
By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient,
Nigh the coffin'd corpse when all is still, examining with a candle;
Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure,
Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any,
Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him,
Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me a long while,
Walking the old hills of Judaea with the beautiful gentle God by my side,
Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the stars,
Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring, and the
diameter of eighty thousand miles,
Speeding with tail'd meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest,
Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly,
Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning,
Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing,
I tread day and night such roads.