Here's a revised experimental take that tries to mesh the anno biblio and the reflection pieces into one piece: ( I am going to screw around with this because I think I might be close to achieving that balance I've been after all semester).

 

Annotated Working title Bibliography the literary canon (in other words)

 

          Cuddled up in a broken green rocker in a neutral house on a neutral street in an unremarkable neighborhood, O'Neill came up with the grand idea of trying to figure out how she would design reading lists for future lit classes. In the lofty name of research, she ransacked dusty bookshelves (and braved the subsequent paper cut threat) for anthologies and scholarly articles.

 

          O'Neill likes to think of JSTOR (or any of its associates) as a bastion. That is the son of a bitch condition of knowledge: equal access is just a pipe dream and , unfortunately (and yet, fortunately) there is no resolution, only more questions. If she takes nothing else from her expensive education, O'Neill will walk away with the ability to be skeptical in the face of certainty—to doubt and feel ok with that doubt (this is the sort of shit she tells herself whenever she doubts her motivations in wanting to advance her education still further, to the limits of good taste and fiscal responsibility, otherwise known as doctoral study).

 

          JSTOR produced enough articles to keep O'Neill busy well into the fall. Since she cares about the production of history as much as she cares about literature, O'Neill made sure to consider articles from different time periods, so that she could view how criticism has adapted to surrounding circumstances. O'Neill figured out quickly that reading list is code for literary canon (in reality, we should reverse those terms) and hit pay dirt shortly thereafter. That’s the other security aspect of knowledge-building bastions like JSTOR: you have to speak the natives’ language.

 

          Baumlin projects that the continued presence of "sacralizing [literary] discourse" (24) leads to studies in which "terms...no longer serve us; we serve them" (38) and will result in further fragmentation of the English Department, what Bloom describes as "...departments of Cultural Studies, where Batman comics, Mormon theme parks, television, movies, and rock will replace Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, and Wallace Stevens" (39). This is a common argument from classics advocates which suggests that a 'watering down' of curriculum to reach more students will result in the absence of the classics and by extension, the failure of transmission of perennial cultural values and ideals to new generations.

 

          Bloom's used of loaded language (one of his favorite methods) provides Baumlin's assessment of the debate's theoretical framework with depth. The presence of sacred (and profane) language re-establishes the two poles of literary studies (the traditionalists and Bloom's so-called School of Resentment) in a structure that inherently favors the canon (which by one definition is a literal measuring stick).

 

          So O'Neill began reading about reading lists aka literary canons. She found that lit scholars of the 80s, 90s, and today lived up to her low expectations: all of them over thought things and demonstrated a genuine concern for what texts should be taught all the while advocating for their own particular brand of literary study. She now understands why her education consists of a precarious balance between more modern texts and classic texts: the discipline is in a draw. Or rather, as she likes to think of it, the discipline is in a standoff between tradition and innovation. We can’t forsake one for the other, nor can we continue to tread the agreed upon middle ground, which distills either side with the distinct taste of lukewarm bullshit, content with a status quo which benefits no one.

 

          The two poles of literary studies exacerbate the relevance of literary criticism from the two viewpoints of the traditionalists and the Marxists. For a critic like Bloom, literary criticism actually interferes with the purity of a text, which makes his position as a critic all the more hypocritical. The Marxists, along with feminists, postcolonial critics and other socially-based schools of thought, view literary criticism as the means by which a text's cultural value is investigated. While some critics of these kinds will go so far as to say a text's social value trumps all other concerns, Baumlin calls for the "middle road between high traditionalism and radical reform" (39), which reflects the current state of the English Department.

 

          When O'Neill studied the ‘classics’, she was taught to think about aesthetics and universal truths and innovative literary devices. When she studied newer material (mainly stuff from the 20^th century that was not written by a white man),O'Neill was taught to think about politics and socioeconomic concerns and authorial intent. She sat in that rocking chair, her thoughts gathering momentum. Somewhere between the chair tipping over and her piqued thoughts giving way to the pain of her head hitting the floor, O'Neill remembered that, as with most of her thoughts about literature, it was highly probable that someone somewhere had already thought what she thought. So O'Neill turned back to JSTOR, in search of comforting thoughts already played out in the arena of academia.

 

          Baumlin provides an overview of the canon debates and opens up avenues for further inquiry, particularly in terms of how the language frames the debate to a specific purpose: canon formation. Roemer's opinion, although quite old, provides a solid overview of the canon formation issue in the context of contemporary American Indian lit. Roemer reviews three anthologies to emphasize the role of the anthology as the guide map of literary canons. Through anthologies, certain authors become canonical, while others are marginalized.   

      

          Those anthologies, with their sleek author introductions and handicapped prose, now seem to be the escape hatch out of the terrible duty of valuing some texts over others. O'Neill's research reminded her of a lit class from a few years ago, when the teacher took herself out of the equation, opting instead to allow students to make their own reading decisions. “Here,” she said as she tossed the 3^rd edition of the Longman Anthology of British Literature, onto the table, “you guys decide. Pick a piece and write about it.” Without any guiding hand, the class invariably chose authors that they had already encountered or worse, brief selections that would save time. O'Neill wondered then as she does now, what is she really learning here?

 

          The irony of a historically marginalized branch of literature replicating the process by which it was first marginalized is not lost on Roemer, although he still advocates for the formation of a canon. He writes, "Ideally, this privileged group of texts should function to liberate, not contain" (584). Clearly, Roemer views canonicity as an open-ended framework. He feels that the specificity of criterion (complex portrayals of place, multi-ethnicity among American Indians, and the resistance to stereotypes) will function as the canon's foundation, allowing for the inclusion of a wide variety of texts. Roemer briefly touches on the issue of specialization--his fear that these anthologies will only be used in connection with Indian units or other special curriculum, rather than in the main flow of literary studies.

 

          This speaks to one of the main problems with canon formation: what Roemer refers to as "new forms of ghettoization" (589). To develop a separate, but equal canon for American Indian lit further alienates these texts from the mainstream canon. Yet, if the canon is not developed, most of these authors will never receive the recognition they deserve. This sense of 'damned if you and damned if you don't' demonstrates a major flaw in canon formation. Perhaps canons' replications of hierarchal power structures should lead us away from forming new canons and towards a new organizational system in which power is diffused.

 

          Fox succinctly demonstrates the trouble with canon formations by concentrating on writer Ted Joans' exclusion from the African American literary canon. Although Fox centers on the African American literary canon, the underlying concerns of Fox's critique can be readily extended to other canons of marginalized works. In the case of the African American canon, the issue of aesthetics plays a major role. The development of the canon has essentially split the African American literary community. Fox quotes Cornel West's assessment that a canon would "domesticate and dilute the literary power and historical significance" of African American writers. Fox counters West's argument by asking if Thoreau, Melville or Ginsberg have lost any of their power by their inclusion in the mainstream canon.

 

          If we literary scholars hope to carve out a niche in the 21^st century, then we must teach the texts of the 20^th century with the same weight and frequency with which we study their earlier counterparts. There is no canon, only reading lists to revise, update and implement. If, in the cause for continued relevance to an evolving student body, we dilute Shakespeare, we may gain a more nuanced Wilson. At some point, we must ask ourselves, does  this standing ovation for the most highly regarded playwright in the western tradition prevent us from seeing another play?

 

          Fox also alludes to these texts' continued ability to juxtapose with mainstream American lit, whether there is an African American canon or not. It's worth further study to determine if West's view holds up to scrutiny. African American lit, by its existence, necessarily resists the tenets of the mainstream canon. Does placing Amiri Baraka in a canon dilute his message? It's worth thinking about, since canon formation is concerned most with the assertion of legitimacy through some kind of aesthetic-based criteria.  

 

          Part of the issue is the relative newness of African American writings. The unique experiences of African American writers do not have the reciprocal connections of the mainstream American canon with its European counterparts. Fox moves towards aesthetic-based criteria, as opposed to connections a writer may have with socially relevant ideas. In other words, canon formation should not be a popularity contest. Fox's article contains the tension of trying to make the anti-establishment a part of the establishment, without losing any connections to the resistant spirit from which African American writing sprang.

 

          Simply put, O'Neill doesn't want to tell people what to read and why they should appreciate it. Maybe O'Neill can't turn students into text critics, but she can hope for that. Writers like Shakespeare do not truly need the lit classroom for transmission of their works to new generations. Shakespeare especially. References to his works abound in a variety of genres. Just today, O'Neill found a Macbeth reference in a World War II memoir. No, Shakespeare is alive and well, with or without lit classes. It's the obscure writers, the unsung heroes who need the boost.

 

          If it all possible, avoid rereading Renza. There appears to be a period of time in the 1980s when scholars relied on obtuse language to limit their arguments' appeal to those readers willing to plow through bullshit. That's not surprising, considering that the whole idea of a literary canon came out of this time period when lit scholars suffered from massive inferiority complexes.

 

          First, calling certain texts 'classics' isn't enough of a value indicator. No, these texts must be canonical, an extra special kind of classic, forged in the language of religious dogma. Second, the establishment of canonical language played up the importance of reading and writing in a time when A Nation At Risk hollers for more scientists and mathematicians. Third, the emergence of noteworthy minority writers threatened the stronghold of the classics in the English department. And fourth, non-print based texts further isolated mainstream readers from the core literary curriculum. It seems that lit scholars assessed these circumstances and felt sufficiently threatened to declare their work 'holy' or 'canonical', and began to divide their ranks into apostles and apostates, which coincidentally or not, mirrored the classicfriction of form versus content, aesthetic versus social importance, upper class versus lower classes. Note to self: In order to be an effective lit scholar, do I need to work on my ability to substitute metaphors?

 

          Renza suffers from a distinct, scholarly strain of the verbose condition, with terms like nationalistic versus universalist criteria to the self-referential hypocrisy of critical historicism, which is just a fancy term for studying history as a 'man has no control over nature situation' or a 'judging historical periods by the values of that time period'. In other words, relativity is the name of the game. Renza takes great pains to point out that current lit critics who look back at previous lit criticism of different time periods are doing so through the lens of current values and interests. In other words, those scholars went digging to find texts that legitimate current modes of lit criticism.

 

          Do we want students who don Marxist lenses to spew out five pages of superficial interaction with the text or students who wrangle Faulkner's sentences onto some kind of critical altar, the celebration of art for its own sake? Do these scenarios of plowing worn out grooves encapsulate literary study in this new century? 

 

          Renza's problem with this excavation is that some of these texts may be taken out of cultural context as a result. It's like reading Conrad to highlight racism, as defined by the late 20th century. Or criticizing Austen for not being feminist in the third wave sense. This argument is often made by those who favor the continued use of classic texts. Renza suggests that we study the cultural conditions which foster/undermine the use of canonicity. Renza's ultimate message is the questioning of the institutionalization of literature in the first place. The idea of a canon furthers this institutionalization, which serves to strengthen the connections between the State and literature. It's disturbing to think that a good writer, the kind that approaches a universal 'truth' or story in his or her work, could wind up in the toolbox of Empire.

 

          This canon concept hides some of our American social values from view. It's a more convenient argument for a lit scholar to examine a text for its social justice angle than to look at her own education for evidence of its social justice viewpoint. Since O'Neill has already thrown Shakespeare under the bus, she might as well vocalize the other nagging thought in her head: reading and teaching literature exists in a specific social setting that is not exactly inclusive. If she hopes to gain any insight into this issue, it ought to involve the deceptively simple question: what is literacy in the 21st century?

 

 

 

 

 

Works Cited

 

Baumlin, James S. "Reading Bloom (Or Lessons Concerning the "Reformation of the Western Literary Canon." College Literature Vol. 27, No. 3, Fall, 2000: 22-46. JSTOR. USF Library, Tampa, FL. 28 Aug. 2010

 

Fox, Robert Elliot. "Ted Joans and the (B)reach of the African American Literary Canon." MELUS Vol. 29, No. 3/4, Fall/Winter, 2004: 41-58. JSTOR. USF Library, Tampa, FL. 11 Aug. 2010

 

Renza, Louis. "Exploding Canons." Contemporary Literature Vol. 28, No. 2, Summer, 1987: 257-270. JSTOR. USF Library, Tampa, FL. 11 Aug. 2010

 

Roemer, Kenneth M. "Contemporary American Indian Literature: The Centrality of Canons on the Margins." American Literary History Vol. 6, No. 3, Autumn, 1994: 583-599. JSTOR. USF Library, Tampa, FL. 11 Aug. 2010

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How to read this piece: Unwilling to add to the pile of scholarly work about the literacy canon concept, I have set out to compose a piece which demonstrates critical thought, but in a more palatable language. All the theories and frameworks of literary study provide scholars with food for thought, but the prose which conveys these ideas to us is often convoluted, limiting and dare I say, undemocratic.

 

I took Trey's advice last week and went back to what I wrote in the beginning of the semester. I took a good look at my goals in studying literary canonicity, and while I feel closer to understanding where my path as a student will converge with my future as an educator, I also feel that putting the whole shebang under a microscope was a poor choice. I sought the perimeters of this idea of literary canons only to discover that there are not perimeters. In other words, there's a reason why scholars choose a niche and seldom lift their heads from this work: sanity. I was seeking a snapshot of the larger framework in which I will work as a scholar only to discover that there isn't a lens wide enough to capture the length and breadth of literary criticism. No, I must choose: either the forest or the trees. I can't have both.

 

So this should be read as a reflective, critical piece about the mental breakdown of a lit scholar.

 

Working title: the literary canon, in other words

 

Everything was melting when I set out to explore the concept of a literary canon in early August. No, not melting. Baking is a better word. Cuddled up in a broken green rocker in a neutral house on a neutral street in an unremarkable neighborhood, I came up with the grand idea of trying to figure out how I would design reading lists for my future classes. It seemed simple enough. I raided my bookshelves and pulled out all these old anthologies that I have collected. Having notated each of the selections that I read for a class, I came across a pattern. It appears that my English education has centered on two frameworks that I loathe to view as mutually exclusive: aesthetics and social concerns.

 

When I studied the ‘classics’, I was taught to think about aesthetics and universal truths and innovative literary devices. When I studied newer material (mainly stuff from the 20^th century that was not written by a white man), I was taught to think about politics and socioeconomic concerns and authorial intent. I can count on one hand the texts which we studied from both frameworks. I wondered why this pattern appeared to me, what it meant for me as a teacher, and how I could bring the two frameworks together. I sat in that rocking chair, my thoughts gathering momentum. Somewhere between the chair tipping over and my piqued thoughts giving way to the pain of my head hitting the floor, I remembered that, as with most of my thoughts about literature, it was highly probable that someone somewhere had already thought what I thought. So I turned to that bastion of lit crit, JSTOR, in search of thoughts already played out in the arena of academia.

 

I like to think of JSTOR (and any of its buddies) as a bastion. For one thing, you have to know someone to enter. You have to pay for your entry. That’s one of the biggest lessons that college taught me: knowledge will cost you. In more ways than the obvious, knowledge will most definitely cost you. How is it even remotely reasonable for a woman, sitting in the confines of her cool home on an ungodly hot day, to sit and wonder about the how and the why of her education? Could it be that some questions should never be dreamed up? That those questions will only lead to more questions, with little chance of resolution? That is the son of a bitch of knowledge: there is no resolution, only more questions. If I take nothing else from my expensive education, I will walk away with the ability to question, to be skeptical in the face of certainty—to doubt and feel ok with that doubt, because that is how I know I am just as likely as anybody to stumble upon happiness. This is the sort of shit I tell myself whenever I doubt my own motivations in wanting to advance my education still further, to the limits of good taste and fiscal responsibility, otherwise known as doctoral study.

 

JSTOR produced enough articles to keep me busy well into the fall. Since I care about the production of history as much as I care about literature, I made sure to consider articles from different time periods, so that I may view how criticism has adapted to surrounding circumstances. I figured out quickly that reading list is code for literary canon (in reality, we should reverse those terms) and hit pay dirt shortly thereafter. That’s the other security aspect of knowledge-building bastions like JSTOR: you have to speak the natives’ language.

 

So I began reading about reading lists aka literary canons. I found that lit scholars of the 80s, 90s, and today lived up to my expectations: all of them over thought things and demonstrated a genuine concern for what texts should be taught all the while advocating for their own particular brand of literary study. I now understand why my education consists of a precarious balance between more modern texts and classic texts: the discipline is in a draw. Or rather, as I like to think of it, the discipline is in a standoff between tradition and innovation. We can’t forsake one for the other, nor can we continue to tread the agreed upon middle ground, which distills either side with the distinct taste of lukewarm bullshit, content with a status quo which benefits no one.

 

Do we want students who don Marxist lenses to spew out five pages of superficial interaction with the text or students who wrangle Faulkner's sentences onto some kind of critical altar, the celebration of art for its own sake? Do these scenarios of plowing worn out grooves encapsulate literary study in this new century? 

 

If we literary scholars hope to carve out a niche in the 21^st century, then we must teach the texts of the 20^th century with the same weight and frequency with which we study their earlier counterparts. There is no canon, only reading lists to revise, update and implement. If, in the cause for continued relevance to an evolving student body, we lose Shakespeare, we may gain a Wilson. At some point, even the most highly regarded playwright in the western tradition becomes obsolete.

 

I can’t believe I just wrote that. Perhaps I hit my head harder than I thought. Somewhere in my research, I found the nerve to stick it to Shakespeare. And he hasn’t really done anything to me. Truthfully, I could take or leave Shakespeare. But that’s because I'm an advanced reader. These days, I pretty much function as a text critic. Most people never reach that level of literacy, falling instead somewhere between meaning makers and text users. I can stick it to Shakespeare, I realize. Who better than me? But the thought seems wrong, out of tune. How can I think such things? If Shakespeare's obsolete, then what does that mean for other writers of that ilk? I start to wonder about concussions, hypochondria shifting into overdrive.

 

Simply put, I don't want to tell people what to read and why they should appreciate it. Maybe I can't turn students into text critics, but I can hope for that. Writers like Shakespeare do not truly need the lit classroom for transmission of their works to new generations. Shakespeare especially. References to his works abound in a variety of genres. Just today, I found a Macbeth reference in a World War II memoir. No, Shakespeare is alive and well, with or without lit classes. It's the obscure writers, the unsung heroes who need the boost (like the lovely Richard Brautigan). And now I've come full circle: there's no escaping the reading list, that 'canon' of texts which separates the well-read from the I-skimmed-for-the-gist-of-the-story crew.

 

This canon concept hides some of our American social values from view. It's a more convenient argument for a lit scholar to examine a text for its social justice angle than to look at her own education for evidence of its social justice viewpoint. Since I've already thrown Shakespeare under the bus, I might as well vocalize the other nagging thought in my head: reading and teaching literature exists in a specific social setting that is not exactly inclusive. If I hope to gain any insight into this issue, it ought to involve the deceptively simple question: what is literacy in the 21st century?

 

It’s now November, in the midst of a dry snap. Along with my thoughts, the air is brittle. I’m inclined to view my dangerous thoughts about Shakespeare as an unfortunate symptom of a mind taxed to its breaking point. Those anthologies, with their sleek author introductions and handicapped prose, now seem to be the escape hatch out of the terrible duty of valuing some texts over others. I’m reminded of a lit class from a few years ago, when the teacher took herself out of the equation, opting instead to allow students to make their own reading decisions. “Here,” she said as she tossed the 3^rd edition of the Longman Anthology of British Literature, onto the table, “you guys decide. Pick a piece and write about it.” Without any guiding hand, the class invariably chose authors that they had already encountered or worse, brief selections that would save time. I wondered then as I do now, what am I really learning here?

 

 

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Elizabeth's Insane, Irreverant & Irrelevant Remix

 

REMIX OF M.O'NEILL's

Annotated Working title Bibliography the literary canon (in other words)

 

"THE PINK HOUSE AND THE CROOKED ROAD"

 

          

     Cuddled up by the fire in a woolen blanket, in a huge pink house on a tall, steep hill in a fantastically remarkable neighborhood, Neil came up with the grand idea of trying to figure out how he would design a long, crooked road so that he might one day find a wife.  You might be asking: what on earth does building a crooked road have to do with finding a wife? Well, if you saw the hill, and you knew about the pink house, you might begin to understand. 

     Neil had always been self-conscious about the pink house.  His mother, in her later years of dimentia and widow's grief, had spent her days walking down the tall hill to the town's only store to purchase a single gallon of pink paint.  She would then walk back up the hill with her gallon of paint, singing old war tunes and whistling dixie, until she returned home to her two young sons.  Then she would paint the house pink, inside and out, one brush stroke at a time, until she ran out of paint.  The next day, she began her routine once again-- walking, singing, painting, and drinking champagne all the while.  

 

     So- that is how the house came to be pink.  Neil's mother passed away when he turned 18, just old enough to inherit his father's grand estate.  For Neil had always known that he lived in the biggest house on Sluts Hole Lane, but it wasn't until MRS. HORNEE passed away that he gained access to the 947 tons of gold bars and coins in the pink basement of the pink house.

     I'm sure I don't need to tell you that most women might be offended at a dinner invitation that requests their presence at "Mr. Hornee's giant pink house on Sluts Hole Lane".  (By the way, the last name is French, and is pronounced /hoor-nay/, but most Americans butcher the pronunciation and say /whore-knee/. This had always been a problem for Neil, who has the utmost respect for women.

 

     But, on the rare occasion that a lady might finally look beyond the surface of the pink house, and the Hornee host on Sluts Hole Lane, and actually accept his invitation, there was no road on the tall hill to walk on or bring a carriage.  It was a tall, muddy, grassy hill, and the only way up or down was to walk the trodden dirt path that Mrs. Hornee had stomped out in a zig-zag fashion (any hill-climber or mountain-dweller knows that the only way up a steep hill is to wind your way back and forth).  Mrs. Hornee had spent years walking this zig-zag path, so the foundation was well laid.  However, the mud was slippery and dangerous, and the few women who DID accept Neil Hornee's dinner invitaiton never made it up the hill.  Sadly, one of them was even buried alive in a mudslide after a particularly heavy rainfall... The girl's parents never forgave Neil and he paid them 10 gold bars for their loss.

 

     Now that his mother was gone and his brother was off fighting the war, it was time for Neil to find a wife.  This would inevitably be a long process, but one that could easily be broken up into three steps: (1) Build a road, (2) Paint the house, and (3) change the name of the street.  Neil was certain that he could find a suitable mate if only these three obstacles were overcome.  And so, he began. 

 

     In the lofty name of research, he ransacked dusty bookshelves (and braved the subsequent paper cut threat) for engineering journals and scholarly articles.  He studied the road-building techniques used in the Swiss Alps and other mountain villages around the  world.  The library produced enough articles to keep Neil busy well into the fall. Since he cared about the production of history and literature as much as he cared about architecture and engineering, Neil made sure to consider articles from different time periods, so that he could view how engineering has adapted to surrounding circumstances. Neil figured out quickly that thelimits of good taste and fiscal responsibility did not apply to him, since he was the richest man, with the biggest house, on the tallest hill in a small town, and so he began to fervently plan his extravagant new road. 

 

     He hired all of the out-of-work townsmen as masons and laborers, which made their wives and the tax collectors very happy.  He even built a new public house halfway up the hill, so that weary travelers would have a place to rest halfway up the hill (after all, even with the new, state-of-the-art road, it would still take the average person two hours to walk, or one hour by carriage, since the steep angles required a slow pace).  The new pub was known as the "Halfway House" and it became the most popular place in town, spawning an entire "hillside community" off to one side.

     When the road was finished, Neil could finally hire painters to get rid of the awful pink decor of his house.  Before, no one would take the job, since it meant walking up a mud hill with gallons of paint and supplies.  But now, Neil was able to hire five upstanding gentlemen, who had the house painted grey in less than a week.  They went, room by room, painting over the pink walls and pink ceilings and pink trimwork.  They restored the grand mansion to its original state, just in time for Neil's grand housewarming gala.

 

     He invited all of the townspeople and sent carriages for each "eligible bachelorette" and her family.  People loved the road; they loved the pub and they loved the new paint color on Neil's house.  And once he had everyone gathered in his fanciful home, he made a short speech:

      "I have worked for many years to build this new road and pub, and I have gainfully employed many of my dear friends to help me.  I am so happy and pleased, yet there is one thing that would truly make me happy. With the approval of all of the residents of Sluts Hole, I propose that we change the name of this fine city to something much more appropriate.... perhaps 'Queens Hollow'."

     

     Before Neil even finished his sentence, the townsfolk roared with approval and applause!

 

     Now that Neil's master plan had been fully realized, he was finally ready to relax and smile.  How fantastic it feels to set out to do some thing and then DO IT!! How wonderful, the feeling of production and accomplishment, the pride in one's own work and good deeds.  And how awesome to finally sit in a NOT PINK room in a NOT PINK house with NOT MUDDY feet!!!!  And, as he sat and marvelled at all of the beauty around him, he noticed a beauty that he had never seen before.... a beautiful young maiden, dressed in a pink gown, wearing pink satin shoes and pink ribbons in her hair. 

     Neil had spent his entire life loathing the color pink, and now, here stood a vision to behold-- the woman of his dreams-- doused in pink from head to toe.  He approached her and their eyes met.  If there was ever such a thing as "love at first sight", this was IT.  He bowed gracefully and introduced himself.  She curtsied and blushed as he asked for her name.

     

     "Why," she replied, "don't you recognize me?" I've worked in your house as a chambermaid for five years; I used to help your mother up and down the hill to fetch her paint... I cared for her up until the day she died, and she often talked about how much she loved you.  My name is Rose Rouge."

 

     That is all that Neil needed to hear before falling madly in love with her on the spot.  They were married less than a month later, and lived happily ever after.