Dialect in Rhys and Hurston

Zora Neale Hurston is know for her intriguing dialogue choice in Their Eyes Were Watching God. She contrasts beautiful and high caliber “proper” English with a 1920s Black dialect. This striking verbal contrast helped to propel her novel into literary acclaim. By proving that she could access and craft the language of white publishers she was able to draw them into reading a story of and about Black people. This striking contrast helped to illuminate the racist disparities felt between white America and Black.

Rhys uses a similar concept in “Let Them Call It Jazz”. The entire story is written in working class British English. However, her other stories are all written in “proper” English. This distinction feels so slight that your eyes almost glance over it on the first page. It is as if there were just a few typos before you begin to see the pattern of grammar. This dialect helps the reader to take on the identity of the speaker and begin to see how the world seems constantly stacked against her.

Both Rhys and Hurston use their natural dialects compared to “proper” English to help manifest the difficulties of their characters and themselves for the reader. While Rhys uses slight verb changes, and Hurston transliterates a completely different dialect, these points of language work to internalize the reality of time and oppression by creating distance between the characters and those in power, meanwhile drawing the reader into these different experiences in a unique and compelling way.

Walter Pater, “to burn always with this hard, gemlike flame”

Hows does Pater’s foundational manifesto for Aestheticism resonate with Woolf’s Mrs.  Dalloway and Clarissa’s “exquisite moment” with Sally Seton?

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Walter Pater, Conclusion to The Renaissance (1873)

Every moment some form grows perfect in hand or face; some tone on the hills or the sea is choicer than the rest; some mood of passion or insight or intellectual excitement is irresistibly real and attractive to us, — for that moment only. Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end. A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated, dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy?

To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life. In a sense it might even be said that our failure is to form habits: for, after all, habit is relative to a stereotyped world, and meantime it is only the roughness of the eye that makes any two persons, things, situations, seem alike. [236/237]

 

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