Sunday, November 28, 2010
Final Packet
This packet, I spent the majority of my time really immersing myself in Andre Dubus' Selected Stories. Although I went back and reread sections of Lolita and began looking at Denis Johnson's Angels, I read and reread so many of the Dubus stories because I believe they offer some direct advice and inspiration to my own writing. I also read a couple critical essays that I hadn't sought out, but was instead turned on to by classmates from VCFA just out of interest. In the next few weeks leading up to the residency, I am going to start working on a clear idea of the direction I want to take with my critical thesis next semester. I am glad I have kept this blog of critical writings, although sometimes a bit thin admittedly, so I can look back on what inspired and impressed me in my reading this semester. I feel we picked a good selection of works to examine, and truly feel I grew as a writer because of them. Hopefully this continues in my last two semesters.
Lolita Pt. 2
In Lolita, Nabokov establishes a line that is constantly toed throughout the novel, as well as crossed. Ultimately, the use of the first-person narrator is necessary to successfully presenting the subject matter that would normally be entirely and uncompromisingly offensive. However, in the first pages, long before we are presented with Humbert Humbert as a middle-aged man, we see him as a young boy, encountering love with a young girl in an obviously acceptable situation. The narrator draws in his audience by realistically presenting the vulnerability and excitability that is young love. He discusses his love for Annabel honestly, to the point of excess even, saying they were “madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other” (12). This same language continues on and on, perfectly setting up the reader for a sort of romantic suspension of disbelief. The author draws in the reader with the language, placing them in the situation whether they approve of it or not. On the beach, it is as if the reader is with Annabel, seeing “her hand, half-hidden in the sand…its slender brown fingers sleepwalking nearer and nearer” (12). It is because of these early passages, seeing Humbert Humbert as a young, vulnerable, sick-with-love man that there is a level of forgiveness when he becomes an older man, a predator, and ultimately, a child-molester.
Although the language used in the previous scene to describe young love is enthralling and stirs up those emotions in the reader that they are sure to have felt in their younger, formative years, it is still pretty straight-forward and honest. That is what one feels as a young person experiencing love for the first time. It becomes much trickier when Nabokov must navigate around the physical fruition of Humbert’s love for Lolita as an older man. As I mentioned in my previous essay, the author literally must find a way to describe a sexual act between a man and a child while maintaining his reader’s vested interest instead of stirring up feelings of hatred and disgust. It would be possible to use similar language as in the first scene, making Humbert out to be ignorant of his actions as a child is, but that would be dishonest, both to the character and to the point of the entire novel. Humbert is aware of what he is doing and that it is wrong. He uses the childish obsession with the O Carmen song to whimsy, Lolita’s carefree fancy as she explores something sexual, but still innocent as far as she is concerned. Humbert even shows his awareness in this after their brief romance on the couch by admitting he had “delicately constructed [his]ignoble, ardent, sinful dream; and still Lolita was safe” (62). This is not only a reassurance for himself, but a reassurance for the reader as well. But it is the act itself, not its omission, but its direct representation that is written so masterfully.
Something I touched upon in my previous essay that I should expand upon now is the importance of creating Humbert as an intelligent, extremely educated individual. He is able to draw upon this as he romanticizes his act of taking advantage of Lolita’s playfulness and flirtations towards him. Rather than describe his physical reaction to her touching, he alludes to it as “the nerves of pleasure had been laid bare, the corpuscles of Krause were entering the phase of frenzy, the least pressure would suffice to set all paradise loose” (60). He even describes his approach towards climax nearly scientifically, as “suspended on the brink of that voluptuous abyss,” which he says is “a nicety of physiological equipoise comparable to certain techniques in the arts” (60). It is literary language meant to stir up literary appreciation, a manipulation of language to take the place of his manipulation of a young, innocent girl. This, coupled with the witty self-degradation that exists throughout the novel, presents a fiendish character that is not entirely unworthy of the reader’s sympathy. He enjoys what he does, despite his awareness of its immorality, but is also powerless against it, and ultimately, entirely powerless against Lolita. By delicately evoking the youthful whimsy of young love, Nabokov is able to allow Humbert to both avoid and assume responsibility for actions that he sees as divinely romantic, while the rest of the world sees them as sick and depraved. It is the undertaking of a literary heavyweight, and Nabokov executes it with the same deftness of a practiced hand that Humbert boasts, and this is where the beauty and success of Lolita truly lies.
Although the language used in the previous scene to describe young love is enthralling and stirs up those emotions in the reader that they are sure to have felt in their younger, formative years, it is still pretty straight-forward and honest. That is what one feels as a young person experiencing love for the first time. It becomes much trickier when Nabokov must navigate around the physical fruition of Humbert’s love for Lolita as an older man. As I mentioned in my previous essay, the author literally must find a way to describe a sexual act between a man and a child while maintaining his reader’s vested interest instead of stirring up feelings of hatred and disgust. It would be possible to use similar language as in the first scene, making Humbert out to be ignorant of his actions as a child is, but that would be dishonest, both to the character and to the point of the entire novel. Humbert is aware of what he is doing and that it is wrong. He uses the childish obsession with the O Carmen song to whimsy, Lolita’s carefree fancy as she explores something sexual, but still innocent as far as she is concerned. Humbert even shows his awareness in this after their brief romance on the couch by admitting he had “delicately constructed [his]ignoble, ardent, sinful dream; and still Lolita was safe” (62). This is not only a reassurance for himself, but a reassurance for the reader as well. But it is the act itself, not its omission, but its direct representation that is written so masterfully.
Something I touched upon in my previous essay that I should expand upon now is the importance of creating Humbert as an intelligent, extremely educated individual. He is able to draw upon this as he romanticizes his act of taking advantage of Lolita’s playfulness and flirtations towards him. Rather than describe his physical reaction to her touching, he alludes to it as “the nerves of pleasure had been laid bare, the corpuscles of Krause were entering the phase of frenzy, the least pressure would suffice to set all paradise loose” (60). He even describes his approach towards climax nearly scientifically, as “suspended on the brink of that voluptuous abyss,” which he says is “a nicety of physiological equipoise comparable to certain techniques in the arts” (60). It is literary language meant to stir up literary appreciation, a manipulation of language to take the place of his manipulation of a young, innocent girl. This, coupled with the witty self-degradation that exists throughout the novel, presents a fiendish character that is not entirely unworthy of the reader’s sympathy. He enjoys what he does, despite his awareness of its immorality, but is also powerless against it, and ultimately, entirely powerless against Lolita. By delicately evoking the youthful whimsy of young love, Nabokov is able to allow Humbert to both avoid and assume responsibility for actions that he sees as divinely romantic, while the rest of the world sees them as sick and depraved. It is the undertaking of a literary heavyweight, and Nabokov executes it with the same deftness of a practiced hand that Humbert boasts, and this is where the beauty and success of Lolita truly lies.
Fathers in Dubus
In Andre Dubus’ Selected Stories, the father subject comes up often, whether it is an examination of fatherhood and all that composes it, or a particular quirky or otherwise extraordinary father. In fact, the collection is so permeated with fathers that even shorter stories having nothing to do with fathers will still somehow mention it in some capacity. It seems that, as in life, fathers simply exist in Dubus’ world of short fiction. I became aware of this fairly early in my reading, and started thinking about the different fathers I was presented with in each story. The idea to write an essay came naturally after that, because it began to be such a dominating factor in my reading. Although I wish I could go through each story in order and comment on what role, big or small, a father plays in each of them, I had to pick a smaller focus, and decided to look at a story told from a father’s perspective as well as one told from a child’s.
In “The Winter Father,” Dubus uses a close third-person to examine the relationship that begins with his children following the divorce of the man from his wife. I say begins rather than changes because I believe that is the point the author is making in the story. The father isn’t just making a few adjustments in his new life with his children, but is starting a new life with them altogether. I believe he intentionally sets the tone for this in the first paragraph, discussing the actual point where the marriage ends, saying that the couple became a couple again in their last days, where they “wept together, looked into each other’s eyes without guile, distrust, or hatred” and even “without a word, made love” (20). Other than their few conversations throughout, this is the only point in the story where the author discusses the two of them together. From then on, it is all about the father and how he lives both alone and in the time he is able to spend with the children.
The first weekend he spends with his children as a single father, he feels as though “he [is] giving birth, stirruped, on his back” (22). This is further proof that he is embarking on a new life, not a changed one, and must go back to the point where his children were born, seeing them as new creatures in a new world where there is no precedent or experience. Dubus beautifully weaves together scenes where the father and his children are constantly doings things; going to movies, museums, the beach. It’s not merely a list of activities, but a documentation of the man’s creation. He no longer has a partner who participates, but is solely responsible for the world these children are coming into and living in. Dubus consistently reinforces this by playing out discussions he has with the children, characterizing the father entirely by the present and showing nothing of his previous fatherhood. Although there are vague mentions of him being closer to his children than when they lived in the same house, the author shies away from comparisons, evoking both the pain and excitement one feels from creating an entirely new existence.
Dubus also brings another subject to this story, which appears often in his work: what role a sexual relationship occupies. In this story, the sexual relationship that the father begins with Mary Ann has its role questioned and defined by the obvious circumstances surrounding his divorce, particularly how involved she is meant to be with his children. In the first direct conversation between him and his ex-wife, Peter shows his concern about this particular part of their relationship by nervously asking “what the kids would think if Mary-Ann came along” on an afternoon outing (33). Here, Dubus clearly shows that Peter is experiencing a much more unnatural response to the situation than his wife is, as she casually replies “what they’ll think is Mary-Ann is coming along…” (33). Perhaps Dubus is making the point that father’s naturally have a more difficult time to adjusting to being a single parent, or maybe it’s simply the fact that the children live with their mother, and he has a less familiar situation. Either way, this short conversation adds to the internal conflict seen in Peter throughout the story as he literally begins a new life as father to his children.
In the opening story “Miranda Over the Valley,” Dubus presents the narrative from a daughter’s perspective, and shows the role of father as distinctly contrasted with that of a mother. Although most of the action in the story revolves around Miranda going off to college and discovering she is pregnant, the decisive point in the story, where she decides to have an abortion, is directly influenced by her parents. Although Dubus actually resigns the father to a fairly static role, I believe it is an important one. The story shows Miranda in a position that all children find themselves in at one point or another. She believes she knows what she wants, believes she understands the importance of love and marriage, but naturally looks to her parents for guidance on a still unfamiliar territory. Her mother is heavy-handed, never questioning her experience and decisiveness in the advice she gives Miranda on having an abortion. Her father tries to simply be supportive, but in his lack of resolve, helps to alienate Miranda further from himself and his wife.
The father speaks up one time, really, at least in any significant way, by telling Miranda “[he’s] never forced Miranda to do anything, and [he’s] not now, [he] only wants her to look at it from a different side for a while” (10). This admission of his lack of influence is meant to empower his daughter, but that doesn’t seem to be what she is looking for or needs from him. Ultimately, she is left only with her mother’s words telling her to take care of the pregnancy and avoid what is certain to be misery and the ruination of her life. She has the abortion, and rather than teaching her a lesson of responsibility, it seems to change her approach to men entirely. She has a one-night stand with her roommate’s lover, she becomes cold and unaffected towards the man she had until recently considered the love of her life, the man she wanted to marry. And although it remains unstated, or at the least ambiguous, I see her father’s lack of resolve as being the actual catalyst to this, rather than her mother’s calculated, straight-forward advice, which doesn’t even seem like advice, but rather a command.
This is only a brief look at the roles fathers occupy in Dubus’ work. I could write another entire essay on “Killings,” where Dubus presents a seemingly normal man whose son is murdered by the ex-husband of his lover. The father ends up executing an elaborate plan to kill his son’s murderer, and it is not simply the loss of his son that moves him to such extreme measures, but the reminder of it, as he and his wife constantly see the man around town, as he awaits his trial. The story is so haunting and provocative because this is not a man who has done this before, obviously, but his violent love for his son moves him to do something never thought to be within his power. This is perhaps Dubus’ greatest gift as a writer, as his stories constantly place ordinary people in subtly extraordinary situations, and the grace with which he presents them allows the subsequent decisions and actions to always come across as reasonable and believable. Andre Dubus’ Selected Stories is an incredibly vast landscape of American fiction, and it was difficult to focus it down even to the vast subject of fatherhood in his stories. Although his stories cover a wide area of subject matter, I think he presents an impressive embodiment of a very unique America, similar to Ray Carver, and I found his stories especially helpful in thinking about my own subject matter. Hopefully I’ll have the chance again to examine and write about his work, as I feel this limited scope left a lot on the table.
In “The Winter Father,” Dubus uses a close third-person to examine the relationship that begins with his children following the divorce of the man from his wife. I say begins rather than changes because I believe that is the point the author is making in the story. The father isn’t just making a few adjustments in his new life with his children, but is starting a new life with them altogether. I believe he intentionally sets the tone for this in the first paragraph, discussing the actual point where the marriage ends, saying that the couple became a couple again in their last days, where they “wept together, looked into each other’s eyes without guile, distrust, or hatred” and even “without a word, made love” (20). Other than their few conversations throughout, this is the only point in the story where the author discusses the two of them together. From then on, it is all about the father and how he lives both alone and in the time he is able to spend with the children.
The first weekend he spends with his children as a single father, he feels as though “he [is] giving birth, stirruped, on his back” (22). This is further proof that he is embarking on a new life, not a changed one, and must go back to the point where his children were born, seeing them as new creatures in a new world where there is no precedent or experience. Dubus beautifully weaves together scenes where the father and his children are constantly doings things; going to movies, museums, the beach. It’s not merely a list of activities, but a documentation of the man’s creation. He no longer has a partner who participates, but is solely responsible for the world these children are coming into and living in. Dubus consistently reinforces this by playing out discussions he has with the children, characterizing the father entirely by the present and showing nothing of his previous fatherhood. Although there are vague mentions of him being closer to his children than when they lived in the same house, the author shies away from comparisons, evoking both the pain and excitement one feels from creating an entirely new existence.
Dubus also brings another subject to this story, which appears often in his work: what role a sexual relationship occupies. In this story, the sexual relationship that the father begins with Mary Ann has its role questioned and defined by the obvious circumstances surrounding his divorce, particularly how involved she is meant to be with his children. In the first direct conversation between him and his ex-wife, Peter shows his concern about this particular part of their relationship by nervously asking “what the kids would think if Mary-Ann came along” on an afternoon outing (33). Here, Dubus clearly shows that Peter is experiencing a much more unnatural response to the situation than his wife is, as she casually replies “what they’ll think is Mary-Ann is coming along…” (33). Perhaps Dubus is making the point that father’s naturally have a more difficult time to adjusting to being a single parent, or maybe it’s simply the fact that the children live with their mother, and he has a less familiar situation. Either way, this short conversation adds to the internal conflict seen in Peter throughout the story as he literally begins a new life as father to his children.
In the opening story “Miranda Over the Valley,” Dubus presents the narrative from a daughter’s perspective, and shows the role of father as distinctly contrasted with that of a mother. Although most of the action in the story revolves around Miranda going off to college and discovering she is pregnant, the decisive point in the story, where she decides to have an abortion, is directly influenced by her parents. Although Dubus actually resigns the father to a fairly static role, I believe it is an important one. The story shows Miranda in a position that all children find themselves in at one point or another. She believes she knows what she wants, believes she understands the importance of love and marriage, but naturally looks to her parents for guidance on a still unfamiliar territory. Her mother is heavy-handed, never questioning her experience and decisiveness in the advice she gives Miranda on having an abortion. Her father tries to simply be supportive, but in his lack of resolve, helps to alienate Miranda further from himself and his wife.
The father speaks up one time, really, at least in any significant way, by telling Miranda “[he’s] never forced Miranda to do anything, and [he’s] not now, [he] only wants her to look at it from a different side for a while” (10). This admission of his lack of influence is meant to empower his daughter, but that doesn’t seem to be what she is looking for or needs from him. Ultimately, she is left only with her mother’s words telling her to take care of the pregnancy and avoid what is certain to be misery and the ruination of her life. She has the abortion, and rather than teaching her a lesson of responsibility, it seems to change her approach to men entirely. She has a one-night stand with her roommate’s lover, she becomes cold and unaffected towards the man she had until recently considered the love of her life, the man she wanted to marry. And although it remains unstated, or at the least ambiguous, I see her father’s lack of resolve as being the actual catalyst to this, rather than her mother’s calculated, straight-forward advice, which doesn’t even seem like advice, but rather a command.
This is only a brief look at the roles fathers occupy in Dubus’ work. I could write another entire essay on “Killings,” where Dubus presents a seemingly normal man whose son is murdered by the ex-husband of his lover. The father ends up executing an elaborate plan to kill his son’s murderer, and it is not simply the loss of his son that moves him to such extreme measures, but the reminder of it, as he and his wife constantly see the man around town, as he awaits his trial. The story is so haunting and provocative because this is not a man who has done this before, obviously, but his violent love for his son moves him to do something never thought to be within his power. This is perhaps Dubus’ greatest gift as a writer, as his stories constantly place ordinary people in subtly extraordinary situations, and the grace with which he presents them allows the subsequent decisions and actions to always come across as reasonable and believable. Andre Dubus’ Selected Stories is an incredibly vast landscape of American fiction, and it was difficult to focus it down even to the vast subject of fatherhood in his stories. Although his stories cover a wide area of subject matter, I think he presents an impressive embodiment of a very unique America, similar to Ray Carver, and I found his stories especially helpful in thinking about my own subject matter. Hopefully I’ll have the chance again to examine and write about his work, as I feel this limited scope left a lot on the table.
Friday, November 5, 2010
A River in Egypt: Characters in The Spot
First, I should probably clarify something I wrote previously in my introduction to these essays. With specific examples already written down and cited, it seems as though I was focusing on the specifically physical description of characters in his stories, and that is an oversimplification. While I have examples of exactly that to include in this essay, I meant something a little more. What David Means does in most of these stories and especially well in “A River in Egypt,” is create his settings through the character’s involvement in them. I’d say that includes the characters themselves, their reactions, expressions, etc., but rather than taking a few sentences to describe the environment and then move on to the characters within them, Means combines these two necessities so that the reader is constantly involved in the same space as the characters themselves.
With “A River in Egypt,” I may have been a little forgiving of Means in my introduction as well. He does a bit of “telling” near the end of the story, however, I don’t think it is weak exposition by any means. I believe it is intended to show the neuroses of a father, especially in the unbearable situation that he finds himself in with a seriously ill child. However, I want to focus on the development of the hospital/diagnosis dynamic in the first couple of scenes, and how he places his reader in the position of the father. Means does a wonderful job of showing the pain that a parent feels watching their child in pain; it is something that cannot be described emotionally, only presented in order to evoke empathy, and he does this well. He forces the reader to stand in the father’s position and see the child’s face, “his tiny mouth a tight rictus of pink next to which his cheeks bunched to reveal a remnant of his original baby face – womb wet with sweat, blue with blood, and dramatically horrific” (25). This is an image that anyone can imagine, and somewhat understand the pain of, but once the reader assumes the role of the parent, that this sick, hurting child is yours and your responsibility and there’s nothing that you can do, the pain becomes real, as well as the hopelessness.
The other part of this scene that Means establishes well is the paranoia of the father, which is triggered by the reaction of the nurse. Merely telling the reader that the father was holding his son with his hand over the boy’s mouth when the nurse walked in would do little to convey the high emotional state of the situation. However, Means describes the action in short, specific terms, once again placing the reader in the father’s shoes and, in a way, making the reader responsible for the action. That is to say, the reader is just as responsible as the father. Anyone who has been a parent with a small child, or even a pet (on a smaller scale), understands the actions of a frustrated, hopeless parent in a moment of despair. One’s actions are hardly ever a result of clear thinking, but rather a reaction to a moment of insanity. Means takes his reader, who is now standing there with a hand over the child’s mouth, and makes them feel judgment, insecurity, and shame with the entrance of the nurse. Again, he does this entirely through the facial expressions, aside from a simple, “Oh, dear” spoken by the nurse. As the father stands there, holding the sweaty child roughly, the nurse is described “from the nose up, her intensely blue eyes and a single raised eyebrow seemed to be saying: Something funny’s going on here” (26). Although the father seems to find some kind of understanding in her face, he spews out a series of explanations, frantically spoken, until he looks again at the nurse as “something stony seemed to enter the nurse’s features as she listened, taking another step into the room, nodding slightly, looking down at the boy and then up at Cavanaugh” (27). This is a perfect portrait of the encounter, the kind of paranoia that can only come from someone else believing you have abused or are abusing your child. It’s the kind of accusation, similar to the pedophilia of Humbert Humbert, that immediately puts the kindest, most honest person in a horrible shadow of doubt. The type of accusation that owes nothing to the truth and everything to the impression, regardless of its accuracy. Deftly, Means is able to portray this perfectly in a couple of pages, and it is not only a portrayal, but an actual involvement on the part of the reader. The use of third-person POV is interesting; despite my initial reaction to that, which was heavily doubtful that it was the correct choice, I feel that the writer accomplishes everything he needs to, as well as giving the story a unique voice from the typical first-person, neurotic narrator.
With “A River in Egypt,” I may have been a little forgiving of Means in my introduction as well. He does a bit of “telling” near the end of the story, however, I don’t think it is weak exposition by any means. I believe it is intended to show the neuroses of a father, especially in the unbearable situation that he finds himself in with a seriously ill child. However, I want to focus on the development of the hospital/diagnosis dynamic in the first couple of scenes, and how he places his reader in the position of the father. Means does a wonderful job of showing the pain that a parent feels watching their child in pain; it is something that cannot be described emotionally, only presented in order to evoke empathy, and he does this well. He forces the reader to stand in the father’s position and see the child’s face, “his tiny mouth a tight rictus of pink next to which his cheeks bunched to reveal a remnant of his original baby face – womb wet with sweat, blue with blood, and dramatically horrific” (25). This is an image that anyone can imagine, and somewhat understand the pain of, but once the reader assumes the role of the parent, that this sick, hurting child is yours and your responsibility and there’s nothing that you can do, the pain becomes real, as well as the hopelessness.
The other part of this scene that Means establishes well is the paranoia of the father, which is triggered by the reaction of the nurse. Merely telling the reader that the father was holding his son with his hand over the boy’s mouth when the nurse walked in would do little to convey the high emotional state of the situation. However, Means describes the action in short, specific terms, once again placing the reader in the father’s shoes and, in a way, making the reader responsible for the action. That is to say, the reader is just as responsible as the father. Anyone who has been a parent with a small child, or even a pet (on a smaller scale), understands the actions of a frustrated, hopeless parent in a moment of despair. One’s actions are hardly ever a result of clear thinking, but rather a reaction to a moment of insanity. Means takes his reader, who is now standing there with a hand over the child’s mouth, and makes them feel judgment, insecurity, and shame with the entrance of the nurse. Again, he does this entirely through the facial expressions, aside from a simple, “Oh, dear” spoken by the nurse. As the father stands there, holding the sweaty child roughly, the nurse is described “from the nose up, her intensely blue eyes and a single raised eyebrow seemed to be saying: Something funny’s going on here” (26). Although the father seems to find some kind of understanding in her face, he spews out a series of explanations, frantically spoken, until he looks again at the nurse as “something stony seemed to enter the nurse’s features as she listened, taking another step into the room, nodding slightly, looking down at the boy and then up at Cavanaugh” (27). This is a perfect portrait of the encounter, the kind of paranoia that can only come from someone else believing you have abused or are abusing your child. It’s the kind of accusation, similar to the pedophilia of Humbert Humbert, that immediately puts the kindest, most honest person in a horrible shadow of doubt. The type of accusation that owes nothing to the truth and everything to the impression, regardless of its accuracy. Deftly, Means is able to portray this perfectly in a couple of pages, and it is not only a portrayal, but an actual involvement on the part of the reader. The use of third-person POV is interesting; despite my initial reaction to that, which was heavily doubtful that it was the correct choice, I feel that the writer accomplishes everything he needs to, as well as giving the story a unique voice from the typical first-person, neurotic narrator.
Packet 4 Intro
This packet, I decided to read Lolita as well as The Spot at the start of the month. I also began reading some of Andre Dubus' stories, but am going to wait until I finish them and write on them for the next packet. I had been wanting to read Lolita for a long time, and was delighted when I finally was able to dive into it. Sometimes books like this carry with it so much of a buzz or hype that one has doubts going into it. I'm not sure if "doubt" is the right word, but I was certainly unsure about how I would respond to it. I, of course, knew the story more or less, and had seen the movie years ago as well. It's most likely because of this (seeing the movie already) that I decided to focus on the prose of the novel in my blog entry on it. While the movie is far from being bad or poorly done, it really doesn't have anything to do with the book besides the fact that a man named Humbert Humbert is in love with a very young girl named Lolita. And some of the events are maintained as they happen in the novel(la). But the beauty of the book, the universality, and its ability to stand up to all the controversy around it for the last 50 years is entirely in the mastery of language Nabokov demonstrates. It truly is spellbinding, and, as a writer, I can't imagine making a very long list of books that would inspire me to write better prose than Nabokov's classic did.
Something I found extremely motivating in Means' short story collection was his ability to derive emotion from his descriptions. He has an uncanny knack for not only presenting a scene, but establishing that scene almost entirely by the people he places in it. He would be an MFA dream candidate for a campaign on "Show Don't Tell". Every curve, every breath, every grimace is placed and described so uniquely that every person holds their own place on the page and in the story. This is something I feel I struggle with quite a bit, and I can only hope that his other works do its characters the same justice. I really enjoyed reading it, and I believe that, along with Lolita, I was able to take something away that not only impressed me, but will make my own writing much, much better. I specifically chose to write about "A River in Egypt" because I thought it was a great, provocative story that presented a perfect example of his descriptive character language.
Something I found extremely motivating in Means' short story collection was his ability to derive emotion from his descriptions. He has an uncanny knack for not only presenting a scene, but establishing that scene almost entirely by the people he places in it. He would be an MFA dream candidate for a campaign on "Show Don't Tell". Every curve, every breath, every grimace is placed and described so uniquely that every person holds their own place on the page and in the story. This is something I feel I struggle with quite a bit, and I can only hope that his other works do its characters the same justice. I really enjoyed reading it, and I believe that, along with Lolita, I was able to take something away that not only impressed me, but will make my own writing much, much better. I specifically chose to write about "A River in Egypt" because I thought it was a great, provocative story that presented a perfect example of his descriptive character language.
The Prose of Lolita
When examining a text like Lolita, especially in the context of its history and reception, an obvious question or standard that comes to mind is how the author was able to produce a piece with this subject matter that has become a revered classic. Obviously, there are valid points of contention that come up around a work written from the perspective of an openly honest pedophile. I doubt there are many people who would look at the bare objectivity of Humbert Humbert’s sexual obsession with young, prepubescent girls and seek to defend him. Pedophilia, especially when acted upon as it is in Lolita, is despicable; it’s an abhorrent existence, period. So how does that objectively disgusting person become a somewhat sympathized-with narrator, or at the very least, someone who is able to garner an audience willing to listen to him? The answer is the same thing that makes Lolita so wonderful and able to stand the test of time.
The prose of Lolita is marvelous, quite simply, and creates a comical, honest, and almost persuasive narrative. I use that last adjective loosely, because as I established in the first paragraph, I doubt many people would say they were persuaded by Humbert’s tale to accept pedophilia as a proper way of life. Anyone who might be persuaded would surely never admit to it, anyway. But Nabakov’s mastery of language and voice is so compelling that his audience wants to know Humbert, is curious about how he has come to this point in his life and what he is going to do about the love he is seemingly unable to control. After all, when you forget about Lolita’s age (if you can), it’s a story about unrequited (or somewhat requited) love, and who can’t relate to that? I suppose the easier way to put that is that it is a modern love story. No one is interested in reading a story where a 28 year-old man meets a 27 year-old woman on page two, and the next 300 pages describes them living a beautiful, happy life. That’s boring. But even with a piqued interest, you’re not going to keep an audience around for long if your narrator is using simple, crude language where he discusses his desire to bang a 12 year-old. That is what makes Lolita more than just an indulgence of morbid curiosity.
In the opening pages, Humbert recounts many previous fantasies and obsessions, girls he’s watched, thought about, and actions he’s taken with grown women as a means of appearing normal or trying to normalize himself. All of this is tolerable, though slightly disturbing, because there’s no consummation, no real action taken on his desires. However, things become extremely difficult for Nabokov when Humbert does begin to take action. The first, and possibly most extreme, instance of this occurs on the couch when Humbert’s flirting evokes a similar reaction from Lolita, and their touching moves past the innocent brushes they’ve engaged in before. If our narrator were to describe his physical, sexual reaction to this, it would give us a creepy, disgusting visual image of him and he would cease to be the Humbert Humbert that is so necessary to the story. However, instead, he tells us that “with the deep hot sweetness thus established and well on its way to the ultimate convulsion, [he] felt [he] could slow down in order to prolong the glow” (60). I could write a thesis-length essay consisting only of examples of this kind of language, an elaborate description that tiptoes around what is actually being discussed. However, it is not the complicated language, the exaggerated descriptions, that speaks to Nabokov’s masterful stroke, it is his ability to implement this type of language into a narrator that doesn’t sound gimmicky or contrived, but reads naturally and honestly. And it does. As a reader, I never once found myself questioning Humbert’s voice or language. He is well-established as an educated European man with a distinct way of thinking and speaking, and this translated into his writing believably. This is a testament to Nabokov’s overall success and what it took to toe the very fine line he gave himself with such an undertaking.
I don’t see the need in picking out multiple examples of the aforementioned language, because you could blindly point at any point on any page and probably find a strong example. It infuses the entire novel. However, the other facet of the narrator Humbert’s voice that is integral to the success of this controversial narrative is the honesty in his recounting of events. Part of the image of pedophiles that disgusts people so much is their secrecy, the fact that one could be lurking around your children at any time, unbeknownst to you, and that fact is a terrifying one. It is also the exact reason that a convicted sex offender now has to be registered, and that their proximity and existence can be accessed by anyone. It’s the not knowing that is so frightening. And although Humbert embodies this in his own day-to-day existence, our relationship with him as a reader is one of open honesty. We know what he wants, what he thinks, what he feels. We know that he is aware that it is wrong, but that his lack of control is so great that the death of a woman is literally seen as a lucky break, simply because it puts him in a position to act on his impulses. While this reality is obviously reprehensible and inexcusable, there is some level of understanding that is created between narrator and reader, even if that understanding is simply that he has to do these disgusting things because he lacks self-control. It’s genius, actually, and it’s just one more addition by Nabokov to an incredibly potent formula.
The honesty of the narrator forces the audience to sympathize, or at least empathize, with the situation because it really gives them no other choice. This is why Crime and Punishment is so revered and considered ahead of its time. The amount of interiority in that novel was modern before modernism had arrived. It put the reader inside the head of narrator, making him a part of the action (or the crime) instead of just a witness. That’s what Lolita does in a different, but somewhat similar manner. Nabokov doesn’t present a grown man’s relationship with a young girl in a way that allows for some third-person judgment. In a sense, you’re asked to struggle with both the knowledge of the immorality of the actions along with the urge to do anyway. And with that kind of connection, that kind of involvement, it’s impossible to remain neutral or removed. What results is a level of understanding for Humbert, and maybe some sort of sympathy/empathy as well.
The prose of Lolita is marvelous, quite simply, and creates a comical, honest, and almost persuasive narrative. I use that last adjective loosely, because as I established in the first paragraph, I doubt many people would say they were persuaded by Humbert’s tale to accept pedophilia as a proper way of life. Anyone who might be persuaded would surely never admit to it, anyway. But Nabakov’s mastery of language and voice is so compelling that his audience wants to know Humbert, is curious about how he has come to this point in his life and what he is going to do about the love he is seemingly unable to control. After all, when you forget about Lolita’s age (if you can), it’s a story about unrequited (or somewhat requited) love, and who can’t relate to that? I suppose the easier way to put that is that it is a modern love story. No one is interested in reading a story where a 28 year-old man meets a 27 year-old woman on page two, and the next 300 pages describes them living a beautiful, happy life. That’s boring. But even with a piqued interest, you’re not going to keep an audience around for long if your narrator is using simple, crude language where he discusses his desire to bang a 12 year-old. That is what makes Lolita more than just an indulgence of morbid curiosity.
In the opening pages, Humbert recounts many previous fantasies and obsessions, girls he’s watched, thought about, and actions he’s taken with grown women as a means of appearing normal or trying to normalize himself. All of this is tolerable, though slightly disturbing, because there’s no consummation, no real action taken on his desires. However, things become extremely difficult for Nabokov when Humbert does begin to take action. The first, and possibly most extreme, instance of this occurs on the couch when Humbert’s flirting evokes a similar reaction from Lolita, and their touching moves past the innocent brushes they’ve engaged in before. If our narrator were to describe his physical, sexual reaction to this, it would give us a creepy, disgusting visual image of him and he would cease to be the Humbert Humbert that is so necessary to the story. However, instead, he tells us that “with the deep hot sweetness thus established and well on its way to the ultimate convulsion, [he] felt [he] could slow down in order to prolong the glow” (60). I could write a thesis-length essay consisting only of examples of this kind of language, an elaborate description that tiptoes around what is actually being discussed. However, it is not the complicated language, the exaggerated descriptions, that speaks to Nabokov’s masterful stroke, it is his ability to implement this type of language into a narrator that doesn’t sound gimmicky or contrived, but reads naturally and honestly. And it does. As a reader, I never once found myself questioning Humbert’s voice or language. He is well-established as an educated European man with a distinct way of thinking and speaking, and this translated into his writing believably. This is a testament to Nabokov’s overall success and what it took to toe the very fine line he gave himself with such an undertaking.
I don’t see the need in picking out multiple examples of the aforementioned language, because you could blindly point at any point on any page and probably find a strong example. It infuses the entire novel. However, the other facet of the narrator Humbert’s voice that is integral to the success of this controversial narrative is the honesty in his recounting of events. Part of the image of pedophiles that disgusts people so much is their secrecy, the fact that one could be lurking around your children at any time, unbeknownst to you, and that fact is a terrifying one. It is also the exact reason that a convicted sex offender now has to be registered, and that their proximity and existence can be accessed by anyone. It’s the not knowing that is so frightening. And although Humbert embodies this in his own day-to-day existence, our relationship with him as a reader is one of open honesty. We know what he wants, what he thinks, what he feels. We know that he is aware that it is wrong, but that his lack of control is so great that the death of a woman is literally seen as a lucky break, simply because it puts him in a position to act on his impulses. While this reality is obviously reprehensible and inexcusable, there is some level of understanding that is created between narrator and reader, even if that understanding is simply that he has to do these disgusting things because he lacks self-control. It’s genius, actually, and it’s just one more addition by Nabokov to an incredibly potent formula.
The honesty of the narrator forces the audience to sympathize, or at least empathize, with the situation because it really gives them no other choice. This is why Crime and Punishment is so revered and considered ahead of its time. The amount of interiority in that novel was modern before modernism had arrived. It put the reader inside the head of narrator, making him a part of the action (or the crime) instead of just a witness. That’s what Lolita does in a different, but somewhat similar manner. Nabokov doesn’t present a grown man’s relationship with a young girl in a way that allows for some third-person judgment. In a sense, you’re asked to struggle with both the knowledge of the immorality of the actions along with the urge to do anyway. And with that kind of connection, that kind of involvement, it’s impossible to remain neutral or removed. What results is a level of understanding for Humbert, and maybe some sort of sympathy/empathy as well.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Under the Volcano Intro
As you mentioned in your e-mail response and I commented on in my cover letter, this novel is incredibly dense and involved. I attempted to write an essay that discussed both the specific style and language choices as well as glossed over the main points that I focused on in my reading. In itself, this was a difficult task to take on. Each character and their story would be enough for an involved essay, let alone all the style choices Lowry makes, the historical and political points of reference, and the setting of the novel which becomes a character and story in its own right. However, this essay is intended to show the effect the novel had on me as both a reader and a writer. I mentioned this in my cover letter as well, but when I read a novel like this, I am spellbound by the sheer vastness it is able to cover. When I sit down to write a short story, I usually choose a setting I want to work with or a type of character that I feel drawn to, either one producing a fairly simple story that I try to quietly morph into something of importance, or at least pertinence. It amazes me when a writer is able to tackle such a huge undertaking, especially when that writer is able to create such a beautiful story out of something that seems unbearably daunting to me. I felt the same way when I read Eugenides' Middlesex. I don't know if I am able to even apply that type of amazement to my own writing yet, but I do think that the appreciation I have for such a different approach is beneficial, that I am able to pick out techniques and language that speak to me from such a different place. And although I feel my essay may have ended up being a little scattered, that is what I was trying to accomplish, a record of my experience as both a reader and a writer taking the journey through the truly epic account of the human experience in Lowry's novel.
Under the Volcano
In Under the Volcano, Malcolm Lowry creates an industrious historical recreation of a confusing and chaotic period of both personal and national crises. Even the primary character of the novel, the Consul, exists at a very particular time when a position that would be considered fairly straightforward by today’s standards is up in the air, and as a result, he has become unsure of both his political/professional position as well as the circumstances that surround his personal life. By using the ex-pat model, Lowry is able to engage the reader in a certain type of hopelessness or despair rooted in the loss of one’s own roots. Furthermore, Lowry accomplishes multiple things through the style in his prose that would otherwise be left up to expository sections to establish. Obviously, were one to delve into the history, style, and class depths of this novel, an entire thesis could probably emerge, but this essay will look at a few examples of how Lowry accomplishes so much within Under the Volcano.
First, from the viewpoint of a writer, Lowry does something that has become both increasingly popular and difficult in his novel, which is the portrayal of addiction. I have become a workshop victim more than once by trying to describe that scenario, one which is both glamorous and destructive, eccentric and unflinching. My failure has always been certain because I have, both knowingly and inadvertently, relied on exposition to situate the reader in the life and mind of an addict. This is boring, tedious, and often pretentious. Where Lowry succeeds in depicting the depths of alcoholism is his reliance on both description and a type of functioning schizophrenic commentary.
I found it interesting that rather than investing in a description of the Consul and his behavior, Lowry uses a close third-person narration to show the restlessness of the Consul’s mind. Time disappears in much of the first few chapters, giving way to incessant details that create the novel’s setting, both in M. Laurelle’s letter, as well as the Consul’s house. As he approaches the home with Yvonne, who has just returned, Lowry describes the swimming pool, framed by the dead and dying garden as “still filling from a leaky hose connected with a hydrant, though it was almost full…blue on the sides and the bottom; the paint had scarcely faded and mirroring the sky, aping it, the water appeared a deep turquoise… the garden sloped off beyond into an indescribable confusion of briars” (71). The paragraph, though somewhat summarized here, employs a few different tools to establish what life has become for the Consul. First, it directly links the previous life with Yvonne to the current one; they used to paint the pool together in order to create a beautiful blue water that mirrors the sky, obviously showing their romanticism and shared interest in the beauty of nature and their own surroundings. It also brings Hugh into the picture (though not quoted) as a caretaker of sorts, that “someone” required to keep the Consul just barely hanging on. Lastly, the paragraph uses specific language to depict the sense of “things falling apart,” both physically in the garden and mentally/emotionally within the Consul. There are many such examples of what I’ve come to refer to in my notes as a type of “hyperrealism” that take the reader so deep into the obsession with Mexico, the surroundings, the animals, etc., but, as seen above, can be difficult to summarize in quotation. However, I thought this language pattern was important enough to at least mention and to give it some respect, since it is a pretty clever tool as an entry to the mind of an addict.
The most noticeable technique Lowry uses to get inside the Consul’s addiction, and the most pervasive one throughout the novel, is the use of voices. However, similar to the failed exposition of my own addiction-focused writing, this is definitely a potential trap for a less-accomplished writer, trying to write the man who hears voices without being gimmicky or flat-out lame. Lowry gets around this by very rarely, if ever, actually referring to their existence as “voices”. Instead, he writes it as a standard scene of dialogue, as though the Consul were merely having a conversation, despite the manic and non-linear lines that are exchanged. As close as he gets to betraying this device is the necessity of presenting it by showing the Consul’s awareness that “he knew it was a hallucination and he sat… waiting for the object shaped like a dead man and which seemed to be lying flat on its back by his swimming pool, with a large sombrero over its face, to go away” (96). Past that, the exchanges that exist between the Consul and whatever it is he imagines are almost organic, as though they are completely acceptable and understood, despite the nature of the conversations. In fact, the justification for his condition, for his continued drinking, are usually presented to these manifestations as though it were a necessary prerequisite to a drink. By doing this, Lowry beautifully constructs the self-destructive nature of an alcoholic or any addict, that although they are aware of how terrible their actions are, they find a way to justify the necessity of another drink, and by doing so, establish a system where they avoid responsibility. If they ever had to take responsibility for what they did, it would be difficult to continue, but by finding an excuse each and every time, they keep moving away from what they fear even more than death; sobriety.
This brings me to my final point of appreciation, at least for this particular essay, because if I start diving too much deeper, we’ll be here for pages and pages and pages. The choice to have the novel cover, basically, one day is obviously a deliberate one since it takes such discipline and careful planning to accomplish. And by accomplish, I only mean to write a cohesive narrative that moves around fluidly and feels balanced. To create a work as impressive as UTV that uses that kind of time management is literally a stroke of genius. So then, the question that should be asked as a reader is why the author would do this, the answer to which is much too involved for a final paragraph, so I will simplify it as best I can. I believe Lowry did this to show the overwhelming nature of the human condition, not only that of an alcoholic, but for a human being. Now, the fact that this one day happens to be the final day in Geoffrey Firmin’s life, as well as the day when his wife comes home and his life intersects with her ex-lover as well as his half-brother is a convenient one, but not an unbelievable one either. These things happen. That even in a domestic existence, conflict comes from the smallest challenges and responsibilities, that our ability to reason far beyond the point of reason, the desire to explain anything and everything, is both what makes us entirely unique as well as doomed. After all, this ability is what leads the Consul to challenge and justify his drinking, which leads to hallucinations, voices, imaginary discussions.
Ultimately, the Consul’s condition is one of self-destruction. He is unable to allow himself to resume his life with his wife, even when she is willing to start over. Another impressive bit of Lowry’s novel is the subtle way in which he ties in the historical and political climate of the 1930’s and how this relates to the Consulate position in Mexico. I had to research some of the references made, especially in the final conversation of the novel, but was impressed with how seamlessly Lowry was able to integrate the political pressure into the Consul’s life as well as Hugh’s. A reader could even understand the implications of all Lowry’s insertions and references without a historical understanding; however, in order to fully understand the final scene that leads to Geoffrey’s murder, I primarily used an included afterword in my version of the novel. The Consul intentionally leads himself to his own destruction, a path he has been following slowly with his drinking. This vague synopsis does have a point: we are given the impression that the Consul has probably been in such a situation, or a similar one, before. So why now? Perhaps the point Lowry is making about the human condition is that how one responds is never predictable. Hugh realizes his own futility in impacting the world, yet in the very next sentence discusses his romantic plans. Yvonne sees the horrible alcoholism that plagues Geoffrey and the terrible way it has impacted his life, yet decides to come back to him, somehow sees a new beginning in him. And, of course, the Consul himself who sees his life coming back to him, literally given a second a chance, and decides to essentially seek his own destruction, which may be his only true success.
First, from the viewpoint of a writer, Lowry does something that has become both increasingly popular and difficult in his novel, which is the portrayal of addiction. I have become a workshop victim more than once by trying to describe that scenario, one which is both glamorous and destructive, eccentric and unflinching. My failure has always been certain because I have, both knowingly and inadvertently, relied on exposition to situate the reader in the life and mind of an addict. This is boring, tedious, and often pretentious. Where Lowry succeeds in depicting the depths of alcoholism is his reliance on both description and a type of functioning schizophrenic commentary.
I found it interesting that rather than investing in a description of the Consul and his behavior, Lowry uses a close third-person narration to show the restlessness of the Consul’s mind. Time disappears in much of the first few chapters, giving way to incessant details that create the novel’s setting, both in M. Laurelle’s letter, as well as the Consul’s house. As he approaches the home with Yvonne, who has just returned, Lowry describes the swimming pool, framed by the dead and dying garden as “still filling from a leaky hose connected with a hydrant, though it was almost full…blue on the sides and the bottom; the paint had scarcely faded and mirroring the sky, aping it, the water appeared a deep turquoise… the garden sloped off beyond into an indescribable confusion of briars” (71). The paragraph, though somewhat summarized here, employs a few different tools to establish what life has become for the Consul. First, it directly links the previous life with Yvonne to the current one; they used to paint the pool together in order to create a beautiful blue water that mirrors the sky, obviously showing their romanticism and shared interest in the beauty of nature and their own surroundings. It also brings Hugh into the picture (though not quoted) as a caretaker of sorts, that “someone” required to keep the Consul just barely hanging on. Lastly, the paragraph uses specific language to depict the sense of “things falling apart,” both physically in the garden and mentally/emotionally within the Consul. There are many such examples of what I’ve come to refer to in my notes as a type of “hyperrealism” that take the reader so deep into the obsession with Mexico, the surroundings, the animals, etc., but, as seen above, can be difficult to summarize in quotation. However, I thought this language pattern was important enough to at least mention and to give it some respect, since it is a pretty clever tool as an entry to the mind of an addict.
The most noticeable technique Lowry uses to get inside the Consul’s addiction, and the most pervasive one throughout the novel, is the use of voices. However, similar to the failed exposition of my own addiction-focused writing, this is definitely a potential trap for a less-accomplished writer, trying to write the man who hears voices without being gimmicky or flat-out lame. Lowry gets around this by very rarely, if ever, actually referring to their existence as “voices”. Instead, he writes it as a standard scene of dialogue, as though the Consul were merely having a conversation, despite the manic and non-linear lines that are exchanged. As close as he gets to betraying this device is the necessity of presenting it by showing the Consul’s awareness that “he knew it was a hallucination and he sat… waiting for the object shaped like a dead man and which seemed to be lying flat on its back by his swimming pool, with a large sombrero over its face, to go away” (96). Past that, the exchanges that exist between the Consul and whatever it is he imagines are almost organic, as though they are completely acceptable and understood, despite the nature of the conversations. In fact, the justification for his condition, for his continued drinking, are usually presented to these manifestations as though it were a necessary prerequisite to a drink. By doing this, Lowry beautifully constructs the self-destructive nature of an alcoholic or any addict, that although they are aware of how terrible their actions are, they find a way to justify the necessity of another drink, and by doing so, establish a system where they avoid responsibility. If they ever had to take responsibility for what they did, it would be difficult to continue, but by finding an excuse each and every time, they keep moving away from what they fear even more than death; sobriety.
This brings me to my final point of appreciation, at least for this particular essay, because if I start diving too much deeper, we’ll be here for pages and pages and pages. The choice to have the novel cover, basically, one day is obviously a deliberate one since it takes such discipline and careful planning to accomplish. And by accomplish, I only mean to write a cohesive narrative that moves around fluidly and feels balanced. To create a work as impressive as UTV that uses that kind of time management is literally a stroke of genius. So then, the question that should be asked as a reader is why the author would do this, the answer to which is much too involved for a final paragraph, so I will simplify it as best I can. I believe Lowry did this to show the overwhelming nature of the human condition, not only that of an alcoholic, but for a human being. Now, the fact that this one day happens to be the final day in Geoffrey Firmin’s life, as well as the day when his wife comes home and his life intersects with her ex-lover as well as his half-brother is a convenient one, but not an unbelievable one either. These things happen. That even in a domestic existence, conflict comes from the smallest challenges and responsibilities, that our ability to reason far beyond the point of reason, the desire to explain anything and everything, is both what makes us entirely unique as well as doomed. After all, this ability is what leads the Consul to challenge and justify his drinking, which leads to hallucinations, voices, imaginary discussions.
Ultimately, the Consul’s condition is one of self-destruction. He is unable to allow himself to resume his life with his wife, even when she is willing to start over. Another impressive bit of Lowry’s novel is the subtle way in which he ties in the historical and political climate of the 1930’s and how this relates to the Consulate position in Mexico. I had to research some of the references made, especially in the final conversation of the novel, but was impressed with how seamlessly Lowry was able to integrate the political pressure into the Consul’s life as well as Hugh’s. A reader could even understand the implications of all Lowry’s insertions and references without a historical understanding; however, in order to fully understand the final scene that leads to Geoffrey’s murder, I primarily used an included afterword in my version of the novel. The Consul intentionally leads himself to his own destruction, a path he has been following slowly with his drinking. This vague synopsis does have a point: we are given the impression that the Consul has probably been in such a situation, or a similar one, before. So why now? Perhaps the point Lowry is making about the human condition is that how one responds is never predictable. Hugh realizes his own futility in impacting the world, yet in the very next sentence discusses his romantic plans. Yvonne sees the horrible alcoholism that plagues Geoffrey and the terrible way it has impacted his life, yet decides to come back to him, somehow sees a new beginning in him. And, of course, the Consul himself who sees his life coming back to him, literally given a second a chance, and decides to essentially seek his own destruction, which may be his only true success.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Pale Horse, Pale Rider
In the novella Pale Horse, Pale Rider, Katherine Anne Porter creates a very formal, almost 19th century version of her setting and characters before demolishing them and submerging the reader and the story in a modern, metaphysical journey through pain, despair, illness, and death. Similar to Melancholy Whores, the writer is able to both prove a universal truth while questioning it at the same time. After all, as the main character seems to embody, both before and after her illness, that being alive is a wonderful thing. And it is. However, while Porter does seem to prove this true, the beauty of the story is how she questions the point of being alive, and further, questions the motives of the human race to ruin the life we all have to live.
One consistent theme throughout the story is the war, which, although happening elsewhere, is a looming symbol of death, regardless of the different arguments for or against its existence. Miranda consistently views those who are going to fight the war as “sacrifices” or “sacrificial lambs,” suggesting that this war is not one that requires skilled soldiers to win it through strategy, but rather blood and bodies, that the war simply requires a certain number of lives before it can end, and this means that Adam will certainly die, at least to Miranda. When she is at the show with Adam and the man on stage is ranting about the war, she even thinks, “Did you mention Adam? If you didn’t, I’m not interested. What about Adam, you little pig?” (175). This is the ultimate mistake in viewing war in its natural place, because once it hits home, once its personal, can the sacrifice really be justified? Perhaps, but it makes life difficult to justify at the same time. At the end of the story, when Miranda discovers Adam has died from influenza, she presents this concept as she is having a discussion with the ghost of Adam. She asks him, “what do you think I came back for, Adam, to be deceived like this?” (208). Shortly after, Miranda realizes that she has only returned from death to continue on the path directly back to death. Perhaps Porter intentionally has Adam die from influenza to further complicate the feelings on the doomed relationship; that for all the war, all the death and destruction, all the young men maimed or crippled or killed, there will always be death, both fair and unfair. That although Miranda seemed to know that Adam would perish in the war, and therefore their entire relationship was inevitably pointless, he died even sooner, leaving her there attempting to be grateful for her second chance.
I enjoyed this collection of short novels immensely, but my appreciation of the title novella was much greater than the previous two. I think the reason for this is primarily based in the duality of the story that I discussed at the beginning. I think the way Porter is able to dismantle this world she has so carefully and deliberately created is what gives the story such a masterful stroke. The pacing of it is perfect, involving the reader in wartime America, the workplace for women at the time, the strange contradiction between the proud young men who are going to fight (and die, in many cases) and the older, prideful men who have trouble reconciling their inability to do their duty, and so on. It is extensive and complicated, and Porter handles it all so deftly that it is not a 600 page Henry James epic, but a quick, modern look that takes the reader as deep as possible. Perhaps that is easy to do, jump on the praise-for-Porter bandwagon, but it is truly so well deserved.
One consistent theme throughout the story is the war, which, although happening elsewhere, is a looming symbol of death, regardless of the different arguments for or against its existence. Miranda consistently views those who are going to fight the war as “sacrifices” or “sacrificial lambs,” suggesting that this war is not one that requires skilled soldiers to win it through strategy, but rather blood and bodies, that the war simply requires a certain number of lives before it can end, and this means that Adam will certainly die, at least to Miranda. When she is at the show with Adam and the man on stage is ranting about the war, she even thinks, “Did you mention Adam? If you didn’t, I’m not interested. What about Adam, you little pig?” (175). This is the ultimate mistake in viewing war in its natural place, because once it hits home, once its personal, can the sacrifice really be justified? Perhaps, but it makes life difficult to justify at the same time. At the end of the story, when Miranda discovers Adam has died from influenza, she presents this concept as she is having a discussion with the ghost of Adam. She asks him, “what do you think I came back for, Adam, to be deceived like this?” (208). Shortly after, Miranda realizes that she has only returned from death to continue on the path directly back to death. Perhaps Porter intentionally has Adam die from influenza to further complicate the feelings on the doomed relationship; that for all the war, all the death and destruction, all the young men maimed or crippled or killed, there will always be death, both fair and unfair. That although Miranda seemed to know that Adam would perish in the war, and therefore their entire relationship was inevitably pointless, he died even sooner, leaving her there attempting to be grateful for her second chance.
I enjoyed this collection of short novels immensely, but my appreciation of the title novella was much greater than the previous two. I think the reason for this is primarily based in the duality of the story that I discussed at the beginning. I think the way Porter is able to dismantle this world she has so carefully and deliberately created is what gives the story such a masterful stroke. The pacing of it is perfect, involving the reader in wartime America, the workplace for women at the time, the strange contradiction between the proud young men who are going to fight (and die, in many cases) and the older, prideful men who have trouble reconciling their inability to do their duty, and so on. It is extensive and complicated, and Porter handles it all so deftly that it is not a 600 page Henry James epic, but a quick, modern look that takes the reader as deep as possible. Perhaps that is easy to do, jump on the praise-for-Porter bandwagon, but it is truly so well deserved.
Memories of My Melancholy Whores
This novel(la) by Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a fictional autobiographical account of a man’s first love at the age of 90. The elderly, scholarly narrator has lived a life where he’s made a point to only sleep with whores, or at least, pay for any woman he’s bedded. He describes his life, frequently in brothels when not writing for the newspaper or teaching, as it was; that is, when he discusses his personal history, there is very little negative or positive applied, but rather, he speaks about how he has responded to aging. In that sense, it is very much a story about aging, about how an elderly person sees himself and how those around him see him differently. As usual, Marquez proves adept at presenting a sexual theme in a respectable and even ethereal light, even when that sexual relationship is presented in the first line as, “the year I turned ninety, I wanted to give myself the gift of a night of wild love with an adolescent virgin” (1). The fact that the setup and execution of this affair works is not necessarily expected, similar to the effect Lolita had, but I want to discuss two main points that allow Marquez to create such a beautiful and emotional story.
First, the more puritanical element is the lack of consummation. Although he is seeing a young girl naked, lying with her, touching her, there is never an actual sexual act. What makes this interesting is that our narrator gives us his sexual history, which could be considered at least prolific, if not sordid; however, against the advice of madams and other prostitutes, he never does wake her up each night as he sleeps with her. And because of this, he experiences love, true love, and I believe it is this first physical fact, the continuation of her virginity that allows the reader to accept the relationship as real and beautiful.
Another choice Marquez makes in the narrative that I found very interesting is a somewhat reversal of another Puritan belief, that sex is a byproduct of love. And perhaps that’s not even fair; while it’s unusual in our contemporary time to be a virgin at marriage (or at least not as commonplace as it has been historically), it’s not an entirely conservative view that love produces a better relationship, both physically and overall. However, this is a man who has known a lifetime of sexual exploits without ever experiencing love. And ultimately, although it’s a story about aging, it’s also a celebration of love, as a man is transformed by it, and even transforms others’ lives through his column in the newspaper. He even goes to the button factory, looking for his love, which is presented as almost a wasteland for youth, where the beauty of women risk being lost. At the factory, a young girl asks if he is “the man who writes love letters in the paper” (89). It’s almost a surreal moment, where this old, notoriously ugly man is recognized for something that has never been a part of his life for 90 years.
It’s tough to say the story is not about love, although aging is discussed so much by the narrator, especially in light of the ending. What is love without a blow-up, a moment where the passion of love threatens to destroy it? However, though this is arguably the first time the girl has ever seen the scholar, the story ends with the affirmation of her love for him, and the lengths to which he will go to ensure that love for the rest of his days. The use of a brothel, a notorious madame, and a child prostitute is perhaps a bit of arrogance on Marquez’s part, taking on the challenge and succeeding in showing his reader that love can conquer all, whether it be age, station, or even social constructs that are seemingly unbreakable. And, in the novel(la), love does conquer all, and, in the most pure sense of the phrase, shows that it is never too late.
First, the more puritanical element is the lack of consummation. Although he is seeing a young girl naked, lying with her, touching her, there is never an actual sexual act. What makes this interesting is that our narrator gives us his sexual history, which could be considered at least prolific, if not sordid; however, against the advice of madams and other prostitutes, he never does wake her up each night as he sleeps with her. And because of this, he experiences love, true love, and I believe it is this first physical fact, the continuation of her virginity that allows the reader to accept the relationship as real and beautiful.
Another choice Marquez makes in the narrative that I found very interesting is a somewhat reversal of another Puritan belief, that sex is a byproduct of love. And perhaps that’s not even fair; while it’s unusual in our contemporary time to be a virgin at marriage (or at least not as commonplace as it has been historically), it’s not an entirely conservative view that love produces a better relationship, both physically and overall. However, this is a man who has known a lifetime of sexual exploits without ever experiencing love. And ultimately, although it’s a story about aging, it’s also a celebration of love, as a man is transformed by it, and even transforms others’ lives through his column in the newspaper. He even goes to the button factory, looking for his love, which is presented as almost a wasteland for youth, where the beauty of women risk being lost. At the factory, a young girl asks if he is “the man who writes love letters in the paper” (89). It’s almost a surreal moment, where this old, notoriously ugly man is recognized for something that has never been a part of his life for 90 years.
It’s tough to say the story is not about love, although aging is discussed so much by the narrator, especially in light of the ending. What is love without a blow-up, a moment where the passion of love threatens to destroy it? However, though this is arguably the first time the girl has ever seen the scholar, the story ends with the affirmation of her love for him, and the lengths to which he will go to ensure that love for the rest of his days. The use of a brothel, a notorious madame, and a child prostitute is perhaps a bit of arrogance on Marquez’s part, taking on the challenge and succeeding in showing his reader that love can conquer all, whether it be age, station, or even social constructs that are seemingly unbreakable. And, in the novel(la), love does conquer all, and, in the most pure sense of the phrase, shows that it is never too late.
Lunar Park
I've been a hot and cold fan of Bret Easton Ellis for a while. I've found issues with his work and his subsequent success, but I've also gained a lot of insight from him as a young writer. However, I only intended to read Lunar Park as entertainment on my travels back from Vermont. This novel really surprised me. It played with the idea of artist and distance from artistic endeavors so well and in such a fresh way. It is written as, at least at first, a seemingly accurate autobiography. Ellis uses a first-person narrator, which is actually himself, and discusses his past success, mentioning books such as American Psycho, Rules of Attraction, and Less Than Zero. What is interesting in this beginning section of the book is the author is writing a fictionalized autobiography which satirizes the "reality" an audience tries to place on fiction. Eventually, these books, particularly the father in Less Than Zero and Patrick Bateman in American Psycho, both characters based on Ellis' own real life father, begin to haunt the narrator (Ellis) literally. The novel turns into an almost sci-fi suspense story, where the author is attempting to deal with the "monsters" he has created rather than dealing with the problems in his life. I think part of what made such an impression on me in reading this book is that I had somewhat low expectations, and I say that without any disrespect. While Ellis might be a bit of a one-trick pony, he really did write in a style that was completely appropriate to his generation and more or less invented a new style. However, this was the first book of his that broke that mold, and it was such a creative approach, it surprised me quite a bit. The reason the novel works as well as it does is because it is a pseudo-autobiography that is established as extremely believable. In fact, the first 30 pages or so are almost actually autobiographical, talking about real people, real events, real books, real success. Throughout the novel, he discusses his agent "Binky," who is actually his literary agent at ICM. These facts thrown in amongst fiction make it almost believable when the house shifts to his childhood home, the bird doll he bought for his daughter comes alive and turns evil, Patrick Bateman exists and is murdering people, and the ghost of his dead father comes back to life. I'm not much of a science-fiction fan, but this (quite literally) literary sci-fi is a genre I could grow quite accustomed to reading.
Resuscitation of a Hanged Man Pts. 1 and 2
Pt. 1
I enjoyed Resuscitation of a Hanged Man immensely and have all sorts of margin notes that I have thought of applying in my own creative work. I had only read Jesus' Son of all Denis Johnson's work prior to this, and although I enjoyed reading a (somewhat) fresh take on the world of drug addiction, I was able to appreciate this novel much more as I think he is definitively a novel writer. I'm sure someone might disagree with me on that, but the sparseness of Jesus' Son, however fitting and effective it may be, pales in comparison with what Johnson does with the prose, dialogue, and mental landscapes and degradation in the amount of space that a novel likes this grants him. It was a great recommendation and I look forward to reading more of his work in the future.
I enjoyed Resuscitation of a Hanged Man immensely and have all sorts of margin notes that I have thought of applying in my own creative work. I had only read Jesus' Son of all Denis Johnson's work prior to this, and although I enjoyed reading a (somewhat) fresh take on the world of drug addiction, I was able to appreciate this novel much more as I think he is definitively a novel writer. I'm sure someone might disagree with me on that, but the sparseness of Jesus' Son, however fitting and effective it may be, pales in comparison with what Johnson does with the prose, dialogue, and mental landscapes and degradation in the amount of space that a novel likes this grants him. It was a great recommendation and I look forward to reading more of his work in the future.
In the beginning of my reading Resuscitation of a Dead Man, I was first drawn to the strength, the awkwardness, and the inherent characterization present in the dialogue. I think that it's a very modern (more accurately, contemporary or post-modern) approach to provide character's with quirky dialogue, and this can do great things for a piece when done well, but is often not. Since fiction has always been, and is still very much used to examine the actual world around us, it is interesting to see how dialogue has changed. In older literature, dialogue most commonly fit a character's class level as well as level of education. While that may still be true, Denis Johnson's piece is a great example of how that has disappeared as the primary focus in writing dialogue. A character can be extremely well-educated, but if the author's intent is to satirize or even mock that formal education, the character can be used to make silly generalities or masturbatory attempts at self-aggrandizing. Likewise, a character with no formal education can often provide great insight or prophetic observations. These are the sorts of paradoxes I thought of when reading Resusciation.
In the novel, Johnson presents an extremely paradoxical, although consistent, protagonist in English. His dialogue, especially in the conversations he has with Leanna, who has been placed in his life serendipitously multiple times, shows him to be an honest, strong, but confused man. Rather than establish his social class or his level of education, his dialogue and thoughts are used together to create a portrait of a man on the brink, who is searching for something to keep him from ending up on the end of a rope again, though he couldn't offer a single guess about what brought his search to Provincetown. Ostensibly, he has come for a job and, perhaps, a simple change of scenery. However, in his speech and his thoughts (told through a close third-person), he is obviously searching for much more. This is not a completely novel idea; many authors create this exact type of character with, literally, the exact same life experience and crossroads. However, quite often, this type of character and the subsequent uncertainty is overwritten. Their fear and insecurity is so blatant that they become a caricature, and the reader has no interest in connecting to the character.
Some early notes, but I'm looking forward to continuing on. Interesting and enjoyable read so far. More to come.
Pt. 2
Although introduced early on and leaned on somewhat in the first half of the book, the use of religion, conflict in faith, and all things related to such was extremely witty and engaging. So often I read authors like Denis Johnson, mostly contemporary authors, who deal with faith negatively or critically by making their character(s) or narrator "not a spiritual person," or someone who somehow drives this point home. I don't mind this. Personally, I am not a religious person, and I respond to people who express their issues with religion intelligently as well as religious people who counter those things intelligently. It is always engaging to hear motivated and interesting debate. However, the seemingly recent requirement in "edgy" or "underground" types of fiction to completely discredit religion and do it through stereotypes, be they religious or anti, has become tiresome. What I loved about Resuscitation is that faith is presented as something not black and white, not something good or bad depending on the perspective, but as something so total and powerful that the man who attempts to wield it goes insane. I'll talk more about the way Johnson did this through a third-close narrator, but the multiple conflicting manifestations of God shows how easily one can be consumed by the awesome task of trying to understand faith, destiny, and the one being that is meant to control all those things as well as the things that have come before them. By the end of the novel, I was slipping into that frame of mind with English, where events and coincidences can't be brushed off as just that, but rather, through the lens of providence and fate, they all mean or lead to something else.
Part of what made this novel so interesting was the voice used by the author to grant an insight to English's perspective, while maintaining the ability to see outside of his own paranoia and loss of reason when necessary. I love how seamlessly the narrator's voice slips back and forth between an honest, straightforward view of the world and the view that English has daily, a perspective that is constantly slipping deeper into a distorted one. One reason this is done so well is because the author trusts his audience to follow, to know the difference when a street is being described as it is and when a beach is being described as English sees it; and Johnson is right to trust us, because the steps English continues to make towards what we are meant to see as insanity are paced perfectly, and up until the end, we still think he might be able to hold on, and we're not quite sure he's going to pull the trigger until he does. The use of close-third also provides an interesting correlation to the fact that English is a private investigator, and actually comes to know the woman he ends up loving much as we come to know him, by spying, looking in from the outside, although in a very intimate and close way. I also think the relationship he establishes with Leanna is very well presented in this voice, as we see both her reasonable, though a bit erratic, behavior and discussions, as well as the way English sees them, as malicious and intentionally deceptive, which we are somewhat sympathetic to at first, but slowly grow to see it as another delusion created by his deteriorating mind.
So much of the way in which I am discussing English as a character may seem disrespectful or one-sided, but I do feel some understanding and, in a way, respect for him. He is intelligent, and the ideas he has and conclusions he comes to are complex, almost genius in a way, and it is difficult to entirely discredit them in a world that maintains a bit of surreality throughout. It also makes the leaps and brashness in his dialogue, whether in a discussion or in a "rant" or thought or other solo expression, more believable and not just the author placing his voice in his main character.
New Blog
OK, so I decided it was time to switch things up when I realized that the other blog had apparently deleted entries. Unfortunately, all my entries will carry the same date now, but hopefully this works better. Sorry for the technical difficulties, Jess.
Walker
Walker
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