The Brown Chest, Responses To "The Brown Chest"

[Nick]

Two part assignment. We were supposed to read the short story "The Brown Chest", then write first a critical response about it. Then we were supposed to write a personal response about it, talking about objects that have big symbolism in your own family. I finished these both today. Blarg.

[Nick]

“The Brown Chest” Personal Response
Part One: Critical Analysis of Symbolism of Chest

Symbolism can be a tricky thing; usually, it is subjective in all manners, so it is near impossible for two people to have exactly the same opinion on what any given point could actually mean. Regardless, everybody’s opinion is valid, even if it is the complete opposite from someone else’s. Nobody will ever truly know what a symbol in writing is supposed to mean or represent except for the author themselves (and, even then, sometimes things are put in without any further meaning in mind). Having said all of that, I will try and convey my thoughts on the symbolism that is inherent all the way through John Updike’s “The Brown Chest”. (Mr. Updike, if you ever read this, please don’t be offended if I make some sort of assumption that is too presumptuous of your writing. I’m just a high school student and I don’t know any better. Besides, it’s just my opinion.)

The short story, “The Brown Chest”, written by John Updike, is absolutely cram-packed (for lack of a better term) with symbolism, not to mention beautiful imagery that can appeal to all of our senses. The main object that the story is focussed around is, as given away by the title of the story, an old brown chest that has been in the main characters family since before he can remember. This chest is described in beautiful detail, touching on every aspect of our senses, telling us of its color, “painted brown, but in such a way that the wood grain showed through”, among other things. Telling us even of all of the little scars and imperfections that the chest bore: “On the side… wavy stripes of pain had been allowed to run.” This description of the chest gives a wonderfully vivid image of what it would appear like, sitting in the upstairs hall of our protagonists house, allowing us to really feel as if we are there next to it ourselves, being able to smell the “deeply sweet” aroma of the chest and its contents, a mixture “of mothballs and cedar, [and much more].”

The contents of the chest itself seem to tell a story of their own; the top layer consists of “lack tablecloths and wool blankets”, but the chest holds “much more underneath”. There are many different documents that are mentioned in the chest; “[h]is parents’ college diplomas”, “his grandparents[‘]… marriage, or the marriage of someone [even older].” The one piece that in particular seems intriguing is the “folded old piece of paper” that is written in German. It is mentioned that the main characters mother tried to explain the importance of the paper to him, but he did not want to listen. We can infer from this document that his family has some sort of German heritage, though the “drawn-on hearts and designs” give us the impression that it could be something a little more personal than some sort of immigration papers, or what-have-you. The “giant Bibles” in particular, found beneath the papers, also can represent the fact that his family has a strong background in religion. Or, at least, they did at one point.

This brings me to a rather defining point of this entire short story; as we know, there are three different ‘sections’, if you will, inside this little story. As can be seen from both reading the first section, along with the points made in the previous two paragraphs, the first section seems to be completely devoted to the past. We know too, from common sense, that there are three different tenses when it comes to time; there is the past, the present and the future. By reading through the whole short story, I think it is quite evident that each section is devoted to each of the different tenses of time. The past is represented in the first section through the recollection of each of the different things that lay in the chest itself; all parts of the history of the main characters family. The chest itself is referred to as “[a] well of time”, which is quite easily connected to mean something to do with the past; when things happen, they fall into the past, which creates a stockpile of everything that has happened. This is known as history. Basically, history is a well of time, running deeper than we can fathom, and whatever heirlooms we may carry with us into the future are comparable to us taking a bucket to the well and withdrawing some of the water within. This is a beautiful metaphor that John Updike has used to convey the sense of the past for this first section of his short story.

Moving on, we witness the protagonist’s family moving to a new house, “smaller, with more outdoors around it.” This shows us that, even though we may be accustomed to one thing, the future may contain brand-new things for us, even if we don’t always like what is to come. Using another wonderful metaphor, as the boy realizes “that… life [has] phases,” Mr. Updike tells us that, even if there is a point in life that you dislike, it is only a phase, and will pass soon enough.

Moving into the second section of the story, we see that the boy has grown into a man; he has children, and is old enough for his mother to have passed on. While there is a sense of looking back on his life as a boy, the main focus of this section is looking at what is happening to the protagonist at this point in time; the death of his mother, the acquiring of all the items of her estate, and the subsequent division of them between all of his own children. A sense of reminiscent memories is quite prevalent, though somewhat subtle, throughout this section, but is blatantly obvious by the time the protagonist is sifting through the contents of the ancient brown chest once more.

One of the best images in this section is just at the end; the protagonist and his youngest son are loading the remaining items into their van when they get to the chest itself. After many failed attempts, and a rising level of frustration, they finally manage to get it in, but not before damaging the chest in the process. “The old thin-painted wood gave off a sharp crack, a piercing, quick cry of injury.” This is the ultimate in onomatopoeia, along with personification, as it really makes us feel for this chest that we have witnessed since the beginning of the story. The reaction that this single sentence can garner from the readers heart is really a testament to Mr. Updike’s written prowess.

The final section of the story reveals little more about the protagonist; instead, it is passing the torch onto his son and his soon-to-be-wife. It is interesting to see the progression from focussing on the past in the first section, to the present in the second, and then again to the future in the third (which is evident through the imminent continuation of the protagonists family through his son and fiancé). It really gives us something to think about in regards to symbolism in the written word.

“The Brown Chest” is a beautiful piece by John Updike, the imagery throughout it simply stunning, and the symbolism thought provoking to the extreme. All the way through, the underlying theme of time is present, making references to the past that is hidden inside the chest itself, and the world that is ever-proceeding around it. One can only marvel at the amount of thought that might’ve been put into this short story. Of course, it is only supposed thought, because Mr. Updike could’ve just written this to humor some lasting bit of philosophy that he had in his mind. Regardless, it is a beautiful piece that people are able to take many meanings from, whatever they may be.

[Nick]

“The Brown Chest” Personal Response
Part Two: Creative Writing Based On Personal Items Holding Symbolism

Throughout this house, there are many different pieces that hold some sort of meaning to my family. The aging portrait sitting on the wall at the bottom of the stairs, the two people depicted within holding expressions of stern and almost frightening quality, their light brown complexion framed by the black-brown of the wood holding it in place.

The family crest sitting upon another wall, the red and black plaid pattern giving the symbol a fitting background, the forgotten Latin words, “Virescit vulnere virtus” (“Courage grows strong at a wound”) ringing a silver bird with golden wings as it feeds it’s chicks, our family name basing the whole shield in black-on-gold calligraphic lettering.

But there is something else here, something that has been passed down through the years, almost like an heirloom, that permeates our entire existence. Something more than quantifiable terms, something beyond any visual representation. Indeed, this one thing is more than all of us put together, yet we embrace it in such a way that it has become part of us, making us all the better because of it.

My mother had it when she was a child, enjoying it with family and by herself, embracing it wildly in front of others, or stroking it gently in the safety of privacy. There, too, her sisters would be, all of them depicting the true fullness that can come from enjoying it far beyond that which can be explained. Even her mother, my grandmother, would enjoy it time to time, ushering it onto her children as a blanket envelopes you at night. The discovery of it brought them all closer together, and the love and joy of it kept them together in rapture.

My father, too, had it in his childhood, though in a much different way. He had it in a different form, though no less potent or powerful in its existence. To enjoy it personally in the privacy of his own room was one such state that he experienced it, even though he managed to share it with everyone from that isolation regardless. Helping to stand it up in front of others was another state that he shared in; indeed, even through pain and frustration, he would not give up the love that he had for it, and would always push the bad aside for the greater good of it.

Even my sister, half my size and half my age, has managed to find it in her own yet-short life. Sitting in front of newfound technology, she enjoys it as it fills her heart with thoughts of greater things. Sharing it with friends and family alike, she manages to make a spectacle of it, giving the greatest impression of youth and carelessness that one can imagine in this world of normally oppressive doubt and angst.

And I, the mass-proclaimed virtuoso of words, have come to know it as well. I owe all my existence to it, and I love it though it were a nurturing parent, as I love my own true parents. Indeed, every day I gain new appreciation for it, and every day I learn how to express myself through it in new ways. There is no part of my life that it has not touched, and I suspect that it will continue to affect every part of it from here-on-in. There are no true words to express the feeling that I get from it, nor is there enough space to quantify it, even though it is impossible to do so anyways.

I speak, of course, of music.

The flowing melody that it has weaved throughout my family is quite evident, and each of us have our own unique ways to go about respecting and, dare I say, worship it. My mother, ever the performer, will get up on stage without a second thought and sing her heart out, enjoying every moment of being with like-minded peers and friends as she bears her soul to the audience through her words and song. At home, too, we can find her sitting in the basement before our piano, orchestrating any given tune that strikes her fancy in her mind as she accompanies it through the keys and strings of the large wooden box.

My father prefers his voice to remain silent most of the time, but his is an almost deeper connection to the music. Almost every day, he will pick up his guitar and play something to appease his itch to feel the music flowing through his fingers into the instrument. Almost too often (though there is no such point), I have seen him playing a guitar that is only imagined, yet seems as real as the true thing, merely because he does not have the opportunity to retrieve his true instrument.

My sister makes due with what little music she has come to enjoy in her years thus far. I am sure, be it from her own exploration or the influence of the rest of us, that she will find more in her time, but, for now, she is appeased to sit and listen to her music. Oftentimes, when she thinks nobody is watching or listening, she will sing along, managing to keep the tune to an extent that belies her years. Even with her friends, she makes faux bands that only last as long as the performance that they wished to show their respective families.

And I. I have followed more closely in my father’s footsteps, though my mother has had such a large impact on which path I chose as well. I play the guitar, as my father, as well as the piano, as my mother. But I’ve taken it so much farther; the trumpet still lies in my repertoire, though I have not picked up a single piece of brass for years now. The flute, too, though my experience with the woodwind instrument is not as whole as with others. But my mainstay is the bass guitar. I found it one day (or perhaps it found me), and I have kept with it ever since.

Throughout it all, however, the main focus of the music has stayed with me. No matter what it is I’m doing, whether playing an instrument or my voice for myself or others, I feel whole in the knowledge that music is a part of me, and I a part of it.

And, in that knowledge, my family and I find peace.