Michael Mitchell
Sixth Memo Final
Resonance
It seems only fitting that the Value I’ve chosen for the end of the memos pertains to
the way a story ends. All stories end, but some do it in a way that really demonstrates what
I like to call “resonance”. Resonance, as one might assume, is most perfectly exemplified in
stories that end so powerfully, and with such strength, that one cannot just acknowledge
the end and move on, but instead cannot forget the ending; it resonates. This resonance can
come in a couple of forms. Sometimes, a story resonates with a person because it ends so
powerfully that it makes the reader take a look introspectively and re-think aspects of
his/her life. Other times, a story might stick with a person because it allows for a
completely new view of the outside world that can pave the way for a new approach to the
world going forward. And of course, sometimes an ending is just the culmination of writing
that is so damn good you can’t forget it; every little piece that has been placed comes
together so perfectly and surprisingly that a reader just will never forget the moment when
everything fell into place. While I admit that all this can at times be very subjective, there
are certainly characteristics that lead a story to an ending that will resonate.
Before I go more into resonance, though, I want to clarify a few things about
resonance and its relationship to the other literary theses. To me, a story (in the simplest
possible breakdown) can be reduced to what I call “The Journey” and “The Ending”. The
previous memos, by and large, pertained very well to the journey. As you read a book, or
watch a movie, or hear a song, what makes it so compelling and gripping is the presence of
all the previous memos, in varying degrees. A story can be entirely and completely
amazing throughout its entire journey thanks to Quickness, Lightness, Exactitude, Visibility,
and Multiplicity. However, what really puts a novel over the top for me, what really takes it
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above and beyond, is when everything from the journey finally comes together for an
amazing, unforgettable, resonant ending. Of course, that’s not to say that a novel without
resonance is bad by any means, and that’s why I’d like to start in a slightly roundabout way
and explain what exactly resonance isn’t.
Many great stories utilize the other memos and then they just sort of … end. They
are great stories that fall prey to a number of non-resonant endings. Most of these are the
neatly-tied-in-a-bow stories; they balance multiple characters and plots and stories
throughout the story’s entire Journey, and readers become enticed with the possible
outcome. Will the struggling couple make it? Will the bad guy get away? Which of the side
characters will have a good ending? All of these questions have plenty of answers, but the
non-resonant stories tend to give readers the “best” answer for all of them. The couple?
They make it and live happily ever after. The bad guy? He is stopped, but not necessarily
before having a change of heart. And all the remaining characters move on with their life,
happy at how perfectly everything turned out. As I said, the Journey was still great, and all
the emotions that came with it were real… but the ending just doesn’t live up to it. These
are the stories that might come up in conversation and make you say “oh yeah, I saw that”
but they are not the ones you jump to recommend to friends when they ask you your
favorite unforgettable story (be it a book, movie, game, etc.).
But I don’t want to get caught up on what doesn’t resonate too much; after all, this is
about what does resonate. And for my first example, I’d like to use one of my personal
favorite books, 1984. Throughout the novel, the main character and his love interest search
for a way to be with each other – a huge taboo in their futuristic, dystopian society. For
much of the novel, we follow them, rooting for them to find a way to be together more
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permanently and get past Big Brother’s watchful eye. For a while, it is looking hopeful for
our heroes until… they get captured. It is a devastating moment, but what follows is
arguably even worse.
Through a series of disturbing, painful visuals, readers come to realize to just what
extent Big Brother is in control of the society. After finally breaking Winston, we see that
the actual torturous part of Big Brother’s control is what comes after: he lets Winston and
Julia go, to be “free” in their society again. Except now, they’ve lost the control they
seemingly had throughout the novel. The novel ends with such a devastatingly silent
display of the year 1984 and its totalitarian society that readers can’t help but just dwell on
the final image. The shocking contrast of everything the novel has been building towards
with the complete and utter control by Big Brother leads readers to wonder just what kind
of future we may be headed towards. Will our world really come to this? How in control of
things are we really? What can we do to ensure this future never comes to be? It may
sound like a big anti-government ploy, but that doesn’t change the fact that the themes and
ideas are extremely powerful. So much so that the novel is often referred to and quoted
even in today’s times whenever it seems like our world is headed to a darker place. The
concerns the novel injects into the reader, coupled with the ever-applicable theme of the
novel makes it one that simply refuses to be forgotten.
Moving on to another classic, we have a novel that resonates twofold; in one sense,
the book is filled with Visibility that makes its details unforgettable, in another it ends on
such an odd note that one is unable to forget. The book I’m referring to is Upton Sinclair’s
The Jungle. Throughout the book readers are shown multiple examples of horrific work
conditions, terribly disgusting processes of the meat industry, and multiple character
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deaths. On multiple occasions, the novel scars the reader with imagery that cannot be
forgotten and this functions to create the sort of resonance that leaves some readers so
unable to forget the details that they actual refuse to eat meat (either permanently, or just
for a small period after their initial read). I differentiate this from being solely Visibility
due to the fact that Visibility, in my mind, can function very well as a reader reads a novel,
but doesn’t necessarily have to stick in the reader’s mind once the novel is done. The
Visibility in this novel, however, goes above and beyond and creates the sort of resonant
feeling within the reader long beyond the novel is finished. As I said though, the resonance
in The Jungle works twofold.
In addition to the strengthening resonance receives by visibility during the novel, so
too does the end of the novel allow for a resonant feeling all its own. After spending the
novel working and working and working, aspiring to help his family and become something
more, the novel ends with the final words “Chicago will be ours!” This seems like a
somewhat confusing note to end on, as readers are unsure what to make of the ending. Has
Jurgis really survived to become what he wanted? Will his life improve after the novel
ends, or will it decline? Has he escaped what made his life so miserable in the first place?
Authorial intent aside, readers are left with a slew of questions that the ending almost
forces them into pondering over. Things are intentionally left ambiguous, and that fact
makes readers think on the novel long after it is done not only because our minds are left to
wander in the directions of all the possible outcomes, but also because in a larger sense the
novel wants us to wonder what sort of society we live in and how we can make it better.
Moving away from novels for a moment, I’d like to take a look at some newer-media
forms of writing. The first I’d like to start with is a short musical written during the
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Writers’ Strike from the always-amazing Joss Whedon. I’m referring to Dr. Horrible’s Singa-Long Blog. Now, that might sound like an odd choice for serious consideration, but bear
with me; the ending is nothing if not resonant. The story starts out rather playfully, with
the protagonist an up-and-coming villain seeking to join the “Evil League of Evil”. Viewers
become aware rather quickly that this is not your typical villain; he might call himself evil,
but everything he does is rather half-baked and only minimally harmful. Despite viewers
realizing that he does not seem all that evil, he still insists his ultimate goal is to become
evil and join the Evil League of Evil. Throughout the three acts, we see that he has a second
goal: gain the affection of a girl he has been longing after, Penny. As the short movie
progresses (rather quickly) we see Dr. Horrible suddenly begin to think that he can take
out his arch-nemesis in order to both gain the affection of Penny and the notoriety to get
into Evil League of Evil. In the final moments of the musical, Dr. Horrible finally ascends to
the villain status he’s been longing for. He finally takes out his nemesis and for a moment,
it seems as though he will get everything he’s been after. However, in the aftermath of his
assault, he realizes Penny has been struck with shrapnel.
The last few minutes of the musical show a montage of the infamy he has now
gained. Not only has he defeated the town’s “hero” but he’s also responsible for murdering
someone along the way. He quickly ascends to the ranks he’s always wanted to, but at what
cost? It isn’t until it is too late that he realizes just what it means to be evil, and even
though the closing moments of the musical show him embracing his new life, the very final
last moment is the moment that sticks with viewers. As the music rises and Dr. Horrible
begins to sing louder and louder about what he’s become, he sings out “And I won’t feel…”
in a way that leads viewers to think maybe he really has become evil, only to have the
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camera switch to him in normal clothes, alone in front of the computer finishing the line
with “…a thing.” It is a devastating moment that undermines all he’s been working for by
showing how finally gaining the status he’s want has actually left him feeling nothing about
his “accomplishment”. It so powerfully demonstrates the sacrifice he made for his dream
and the way he feels about the sacrifice that it sticks out with viewers more than anything
else. It is tearfully imprinted in the minds of viewers, left to resonate on just what exactly it
means to chase a dream.
This idea of chasing dreams isn’t new, though, and that’s where my next example
comes into play. Moving back to yet another classic novel, The Great Gatsby, readers
encounter the character of Jay Gatsby. Jay is wealthy, handsome, and throughout much of
the novel remains an enigma. This enigmatic nature slowly becomes more known to
readers, and we begin to see what exactly is it that makes Gatsby tick. Jay is in love with his
former lover, Daisy Buchanan. The two of them used to be together, but then Jay was sent
to war and they were split apart. Now, Gatsby has returned and his dream is to get Daisy
back; to save her from her terrible husband for whom she has no real love. This idea of
Gatsby’s dream is what ultimately leads us to a resonant ending.
Gatsby, like much of 1920s America at the time believed that if he followed his
dream and worked hard at it – through whatever means – he would be able to attain it. It
was essentially the American Dream in a nutshell. For Gatsby, attaining that dream meant
accumulating wealth, moving close to his love interest, and throwing parties night after
night in the hopes that she would come over for one of them and he could win her back.
And for a little while, he kind of does. Daisy tells him she loves him, and agrees to leave her
husband and tell him she never really loved him. Stealing someone’s wife away certainly
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isn’t a “good” thing by any means, but Gatsby is essentially doing what any American was
doing at the time, so we can’t help but hope that things will work out for him in the end.
As you might have guessed (or already known) though, things don’t work out for
Gatsby. Towards the end of the novel, everything begins to fall apart all at once. Betrayals
are made known, spur-of-the-moment decisions are made, and an innocent woman (with
whom Daisy’s husband was having an affair) is struck down in a car crash. This all leads us
to the final, dark moments of the novel: Gatsby is shot dead, and Daisy doesn’t look back for
a second.
While this all is very grim, it also serves to underline a large point about American
society at the time, and the nature of a dream. Gatsby was a relatable character. He was
determined to move his goals forward; insistent that if he worked hard enough, he could
achieve what he’d always wanted. This idea was perhaps best and most famously
summarized when states, “Can’t repeat the past? Why, of course you can!” Gatsby believes
what he says and he is determined to make it true, much in the same way anyone reading
the novel might feel about their own ideals. And sure, readers could recognize that, yes,
maybe his goals weren’t the noblest, but at the same time he didn’t seem like some terrible
person to be rooted against. He was essentially just another American, following the
American Dream. So when the novel ends with the disillusionment of that dream, readers
resonate in a very self-reflective way. After all, we’ve all got dreams, right? And before
reading this story, it may have seemed like our dreams were just, or that they were
attainable with enough work. The ending of the novel forces us to face our own dreams
and ask us what we’re really chasing. Are we in search of the right thing? What will it cost
to get us what we want? Is it really attainable? We may not have the answers to all of
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them, and maybe we’ll even fall hard the way Gatsby did (though hopefully not to quite an
extreme…) but that doesn’t change the fact that we still can’t help but think on them when
the novel ends. The ending comes so swiftly, and to such dismay for readers that it will
remain in our minds long after the novel has ended.
Of course, resonance doesn’t have to pertain strictly to the end of an entire story. It
can just as easily pertain to the end of any particular sequence of related events. What am I
getting at, exactly? Well, resonance can exist at the end of a character arc too. The
character of Severus Snape from the Harry Potter series is the epitome of a resonant
character arc. Throughout the entire series of novels, Snape is portrayed as a villain; he is
one of many antagonists to Harry, seemingly determined to get in his way. We see Snape
torment Harry, insult his father, and often times keep Harry from sneaking around or doing
whatever sleuthing he needs to do to stop whatever evil is at Hogwarts. All along, Harry
insists that Snape is secretly evil, working for Voldemort behind everyone’s backs. Over
and over, we see Snape doing more and more questionable things until finally his status as
“villain” is cemented when he strikes down a defenseless Dumbledore, pleading for his life.
“Severus… please…” he asks as Snape seals his fate. And then in the next instant, he strikes
Dumbledore down right in front of Harry. He has become what Harry feared he was all
along… or has he? As readers find out later, and what makes this particular arc just so
resonant, is the reveal that comes towards the end of the entire series.
In the final novel of the series, Snape suffers death at the hands of Voldemort. In his
final moments, Harry goes to him and receives a vial of Snape’s tears. This allows him to
view a particular series of Snape’s memories that turn readers’ view of Snape completely
around. We start by getting a glimpse at Snape’s childhood. The wonderful James Potter
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whose heroic name Harry has consistently told Snape not to disrespect begins to unravel as
the sort of “Malfoy” to Snape’s character. We also get to see a glimpse of a love story that
existed between Snape and Harry’s mother, Lily. It is here that readers begin to first
understand some of Snape’s behavior throughout the novels. He holds a grudge against
Harry at least partially because he resembles James so much; and it turns out that James
not only picked on Snape, but also “stole” his love interest from him. He dislikes Harry not
because he is a bad guy who wants to make his life Hell, but rather because Harry so
thoroughly reminds him of his tortured past. That, however, is not the end of the reveal.
Through a series of past exchanges with Dumbledore, we also see Snape’s
agreement that Dumbledore guard Lily at all costs from Voldemort, in exchange for his
utter and complete devotion to Dumbledore. Even after Lily is killed, Snape still remains
loyal, because Lily’s child lives on and he still wants to do good by her and protect the boy.
In a final exchange between the two of them, we see a moment that so completely
changes our view on Snape, it can’t help but resonate with us. Snape and Dumbledore plan
how to defeat Voldemort, but it involves Dumbledore’s death. Dumbledore forces Snape to
promise that when the time comes, if Malfoy cannot kill him, Snape must be the one to do it.
Snape does not want to, but he is loyal to Dumbledore and agrees to anyways. In this single
moment, we see that the words so painfully etched in our minds – “Please, Severus…
please” – take on an entirely new meaning. Dumbledore knew Snape’s loyalties; he knew
how painful it was on Snape to do this; but he also knew it had to be done. His final words
were not begging Snape to spare him, they were begging Snape to kill him. Snape remained
loyal to Dumbledore the entire time, up until the very end when he was killed and no one
knew about it after his death. The moment itself would have been resonant on its own, but
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the fact that in retrospect so many things become clearer just strengthens the effect. Snape
was guarding Harry all along, preparing him for any harm that might come his way, helping
him where he needed it, and making sure nothing ever happened to his dearest Lily’s boy.
Everything he’d been doing that seemed “evil” actually turned out to be for the good of
Harry’s success. It is such a startling, tragic reversal that it is one no reader of the series
will ever forget. Snape was one of the most heroic characters in the series, and everything
only makes sense after his time is over.
Now, lest you think resonance requires some sort of tragic death, I’ve made sure to
end with an example that is quite a bit more heartwarming…and from an unlikely place!
I’m talking about an episode of the television show, Futurama. Now, if you’re not familiar
with the show, then a little bit of background information will be required for this to make
sense. In the show, the main character, Phillip J. Fry, becomes cryogenically frozen on the
eve of the year 2,000 and wakes up 1,000 years later in the future. After the usual hubbub
of introducing characters, the world of Futurama is set up: Fry finds a (very) distant
relative who owns a package-delivery company and begins to work for him, delivering
various things across the entire universe with an oddball delivery crew. This sets the
series up for quite a few opportunities to explore almost any setting it can imagine. Part of
what makes this next example stand out so much though, is its choice to take place in a
location almost entirely familiar with its audience, but in a time largely unexplored.
Some of Futurama’s greatest episodes are the ones that use its futuristic setting to
juxtapose the future-world viewers have become so familiar with, with the past that tends
to seem unfamiliar. These episodes don’t explore some vast, undiscovered area of space, or
a planet full of aliens with some weird quark, but instead choose to primarily “stay home”
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in New New York City. The third-season episode, “The Luck of the Fryish” starts out with a
flashback to when Fry was first born, showcasing his brother, Yancy’s, insistence that he
wants to be Philip (“Me Philip, me Philip!”). The story then fast-forwards to the future
where the gang is at a horse-racing track, betting on which horse will win. After a series of
particularly bad bets, Fry curses his bad luck and declares he’s holding onto the last dollar
he has and no one will take it from him. Shortly after, the wind sweeps his dollar to a
power line, where Fry proceeds to find himself shocked by the power line, struck by
lightning, and then covered in old fish by the local eatery whose garbage he falls into. This
leads us to another flashback that reveals Fry didn’t always have terrible luck; in fact, he
had amazing luck for years back in the past all thanks to his seven-leaf clover. He talks
about his clover and how he hid it where no one would find it - in a record case for the
soundtrack to the Breakfast Club - which leads one of his coworkers to suggest he go to the
ruins of Old New York (now buried beneath New New York) to find the clover, which may
still be there. Before discovering that the clover is not in his hiding spot, we see another
flashback where Yancy continues his habit of stealing Fry’s things (in this case, his
breakdancing moves, followed by an attempt to steal the clover). Upon learning of the
clover’s disappearance, Fry realizes that his brother must have stolen it after he’d been
frozen. On his way back, Fry laments “[his] brother always hated him” and starts to reveal
his secret wish that his brother actually loved him before being interrupted by running into
a statue of Yancy… except, the statue is inscribed “Philip J. Fry – First Person on Mars”
When Fry and co. return to their work, a nearby computer overhears their
discussion of “Fry” and plays an info reel of all the outlandishly lucky and successful things
Yancy did, each of which Fry insists “would have been [him]”. The reel reveals that Yancy is
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orbiting the earth in the World Heroes section of a cemetery. This presents Fry with the
perfect opportunity to grave rob his brother and get the clover back. On their way to the
graveyard, we see yet another flashback, this time to Yancy as he gets ready for his
wedding. At the end of the flashback, Yancy finds the clover and we immediately cut back
to Fry arriving at the graveyard. He makes his way to the grave of his brother and begins to
dig up the remains. As he is doing so, his shovel knocks off some moss covering the
inscription on his grave stone, which leads us to our final, resonating flashback.
Yancy is married and has just had a son. He looks at his wife a bit sheepishly and
tells her he has a name in mind. Yancy then walks up to his son and hands him the sevenleaf clover, telling him all the luck it will bring him and that “it once belonged to someone
very special.” His wife then tells him “I know what name you wanna give him, Yancy. It’s
okay.” “Son, I’m naming you Philip J. Fry, in honor of my little brother, who I miss every
day…I love you, Philip; I always will.” The final moments of the episode go back to Fry,
reading the inscription on the grave, with tears in his eyes. “Here lies Philip J. Fry, named
for his uncle, to carry on his spirit.” As Fry pieces everything together, he realizes just who
he’s been angry at this whole time. Fry puts the clover back in the grave and the song
“Don’t You Forget About Me” begins to play as the camera slowly zooms out before giving
way to the credits.
This is a prime example of a story using all the memos in conjunction brilliantly to
make an ending that sticks with the viewer. The entire episode we are following a
character around we’ve come to know over three seasons, and while he’s not smart by any
means, we have no real reason to doubt what he’s saying. His anger and frustration
become our anger and frustration, and his determination to get the clover to its rightful
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owner becomes our determination. Multiplicity helps us see a dynamic contrast between
the Yancy of the past and the Yancy the future believes to be real. Visibility lets us believe
that Philip the nephew is really Yancy the brother. And thanks to Lightness, Quickness, and
Exactitude we move through the story at exactly the right pace and with exactly the right
tone that we fall prey to the enticing believability of the story. And then all the
expectations we set get flipped on their head for such a heartwarming reversal that
viewers will remember the episode for years to come.
Hopefully at this point you’ve got a clear idea of just what exactly it means for a
story to resonate. I’ve tried to explain it as best I can, but part of what makes resonance
stand out a bit from the other memos is that it ultimately comes down to the one watching
the story unfold. Sure, certain stories tend to be universally resonant, but what I want to
stress is that resonant stories are the ones that a person cannot forget. Be it the catalyst for
self-reflection, a strong reminder of where the world could be heading, or just plain
exceptional writing, these stories are above and beyond your everyday stories. These are
the stories people never stop talking about; stories they can’t stop talking about. People
finish most stories and move on; occasionally they find a story the love and when it ends,
they might wish it hadn’t; but when they come across a story with resonance? They can
never forget it.