Overall, I really enjoyed History as Fiction. I think it's a really interesting topic for an English class as opposed to say, a history class or philosophy class. Lots of the things we dealt with could have fit in either of those courses, but it was nice to look at it from a literary standpoint.
I'm surprised that there were so many books that could work for this course. I mean, I know there is a whole genre of historical fiction, but for there to be that amount of books with a metafictional aspect, I was shocked by. I think this metafictional aspect brings in the philosophical thoughts to the equation, and that is what makes the course mentally challenging.
Sometimes, during our discussions, I would find myself contemplating the big questions, especially when Mr. Mitchell would ask things like, "what is history?" That's not exactly something you can answer in a sentence or two. But even if we never figured out a concrete answer, those questions that led to discussions, supported by the books we were reading, helped me to think about the true nature of history and fiction (if there can be a
"true" nature).
Although this course was a lot of work, I really liked the variety of the assignments. There was reading, blogging, big papers, small papers, and presentations. It was difficult to get through everything, but it was never boring to accomplish, and in the end, I felt like I had created something worthwhile to read and listen to.
Thank you, Mr. Mitchell, for an amazing two semesters during my senior year; you have made me a better writer, reader, and ultimately, a thinker.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
I wanted to quickly clarify one of the comments I made in class yesterday, this having mainly to do with my feeling that the actual scene where Lee shoots Kennedy is anticlimactic. It wasn't that it was different than the climax I was expecting, it was just that at the end of the section, I wasn't actually sure whether or not the President had been shot.
While I was having my difficulties articulating this fact to the class during discussion, I tried to figure out exactly what it was that made me unsure about the scene. I think I finally found it. This scene occurs on page 396, and it is the top section where Lee actually pulls the trigger. My problem, and perhaps this was just unobservantness on my part, but DeLillo never actually says, "Lee shot the president."
Granted, this might be a little too obvious to be at all literary, but he could have at least said something along the lines of "Lee fired," or "the president was hit." As the scene is, the only references to the gun going off are vague to me because I know nothing about guns. To me, I'm not really sure what "Lee turned up the handle, drew the bolt back," and "Lee drove the bolt forward, jerking the handle down," actually mean. Does that mean he shot the gun? Does it mean he was preparing the gun to be fired? I don't know. I guess I took it as being his preparation for the shot, loading the gun and things like that.
I suppose I should have taken the president's reaction as a hint, but that could have been a reaction to many things, and I guess I just didn't put two and two together. So, in the end, it wasn't that the scene wasn't exciting enough for me or anything like that, it was just that when I came to the page break, I was thinking, "wait, did he just shoot Kennedy?!?" which I feel like shouldn't have been a question I should ask in a book that is entirely about this event.
While I was having my difficulties articulating this fact to the class during discussion, I tried to figure out exactly what it was that made me unsure about the scene. I think I finally found it. This scene occurs on page 396, and it is the top section where Lee actually pulls the trigger. My problem, and perhaps this was just unobservantness on my part, but DeLillo never actually says, "Lee shot the president."
Granted, this might be a little too obvious to be at all literary, but he could have at least said something along the lines of "Lee fired," or "the president was hit." As the scene is, the only references to the gun going off are vague to me because I know nothing about guns. To me, I'm not really sure what "Lee turned up the handle, drew the bolt back," and "Lee drove the bolt forward, jerking the handle down," actually mean. Does that mean he shot the gun? Does it mean he was preparing the gun to be fired? I don't know. I guess I took it as being his preparation for the shot, loading the gun and things like that.
I suppose I should have taken the president's reaction as a hint, but that could have been a reaction to many things, and I guess I just didn't put two and two together. So, in the end, it wasn't that the scene wasn't exciting enough for me or anything like that, it was just that when I came to the page break, I was thinking, "wait, did he just shoot Kennedy?!?" which I feel like shouldn't have been a question I should ask in a book that is entirely about this event.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
One scene that I'd like to talk about briefly is the scene with the two Jacks. One of them is Jack Ruby, who is talking to another Jack about getting a somewhat Mafia-affiliated loan. In this scene, they are sitting in the back room of Ruby's club, and the dialogue is quite unique, and posed some problems to some readers in our class.
To me, the dialogue was written in the vernacular, verbatim as it would be spoken in a conversation. Some qualities of this involved not directly referencing important topics in the conversation, but merely hinting at them because both parties knew what was being discussed. This is what would happen in a normal conversation; no one is going to have a conversation with someone who also knows the whole situation and explain every little detail for the benefit of those listening. If you were eavesdropping, you probably wouldn't understand everything that was going on, because everything would be explicitly spelled out.
Another quality of this conversation was that it wasn't always exactly grammatically correct. Sometimes we say things that don't actually make sense were you to deconstruct them or write them, but that make absolute sense when you're speaking. One instance of this that came to mind is when people say "No, I know." Normally, you would say "Yes, I know" because you would be agreeing with whatever the other person had just said. However, what we are denying is the assumption that you didn't know whatever they had said. Sorry, kind of a tangent, but I think it's interesting.
I really enjoyed this vernacular-ness because it felt like a real conversation. Some readers felt like it seemed unnatural and were really confused by it, but I liked it so much better. I felt like I was in the flow of the conversation, and by picking up little bits and pieces, I even felt like I was a part of the conversation.
To me, the dialogue was written in the vernacular, verbatim as it would be spoken in a conversation. Some qualities of this involved not directly referencing important topics in the conversation, but merely hinting at them because both parties knew what was being discussed. This is what would happen in a normal conversation; no one is going to have a conversation with someone who also knows the whole situation and explain every little detail for the benefit of those listening. If you were eavesdropping, you probably wouldn't understand everything that was going on, because everything would be explicitly spelled out.
Another quality of this conversation was that it wasn't always exactly grammatically correct. Sometimes we say things that don't actually make sense were you to deconstruct them or write them, but that make absolute sense when you're speaking. One instance of this that came to mind is when people say "No, I know." Normally, you would say "Yes, I know" because you would be agreeing with whatever the other person had just said. However, what we are denying is the assumption that you didn't know whatever they had said. Sorry, kind of a tangent, but I think it's interesting.
I really enjoyed this vernacular-ness because it felt like a real conversation. Some readers felt like it seemed unnatural and were really confused by it, but I liked it so much better. I felt like I was in the flow of the conversation, and by picking up little bits and pieces, I even felt like I was a part of the conversation.
CIA strippers.
In the scene where we get a background look at Jack Ruby's club in Don DeLillo's Libra, there's a very interesting parallel that I didn't notice until I was leading the class discussion of that chapter. This parallel has to do with double lives, and specifically those of the CIA agents and the strippers.
In the cases of both the CIA agents and the strippers, each have a public and private persona and life. With people like Larry Parmenter, the public life has to do with day to day household chores, and there is even a scene where we see him helping his wife carry groceries into the house. When you contrast this mundane task that everyone does with Parmenter's secret CIA life, the difference is striking. Parmenter has to lead such a double life because he can't even tell his wife about the things he does at work. To think that there are all of these ideas and this secret knowledge stored up in his head when on the outside, he just looks like a helpful husband helping with chores.
I drew a parallel between this juxtaposition with Parmenter and with the strippers at Ruby's club. When we first see the strippers, we see them backstage discussing things like wages. This seemed striking to me because when we think of strippers, the first image that pops to mind is a woman performing on a stage of some kind. As Mr. Mitchell pointed out, even though they are revealing their body, in a way they are masking themselves because you don't really get to know who they are by simply watching them. You are much more likely to learn something by listening to their mundane backstage conversations.
I hadn't really drawn this parallel until I asked the class what they thought of the strippers and how we get a view of them that we don't normally see. Nobody seemed to have thought about this, so I figured I should explain why I thought it was interesting. And this is what I told them!
In the cases of both the CIA agents and the strippers, each have a public and private persona and life. With people like Larry Parmenter, the public life has to do with day to day household chores, and there is even a scene where we see him helping his wife carry groceries into the house. When you contrast this mundane task that everyone does with Parmenter's secret CIA life, the difference is striking. Parmenter has to lead such a double life because he can't even tell his wife about the things he does at work. To think that there are all of these ideas and this secret knowledge stored up in his head when on the outside, he just looks like a helpful husband helping with chores.
I drew a parallel between this juxtaposition with Parmenter and with the strippers at Ruby's club. When we first see the strippers, we see them backstage discussing things like wages. This seemed striking to me because when we think of strippers, the first image that pops to mind is a woman performing on a stage of some kind. As Mr. Mitchell pointed out, even though they are revealing their body, in a way they are masking themselves because you don't really get to know who they are by simply watching them. You are much more likely to learn something by listening to their mundane backstage conversations.
I hadn't really drawn this parallel until I asked the class what they thought of the strippers and how we get a view of them that we don't normally see. Nobody seemed to have thought about this, so I figured I should explain why I thought it was interesting. And this is what I told them!
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
brief first thoughts on Libra
Don DeLillo's Libra strikes me as being a really promising book. It has the same tone as Mumbo Jumbo in that you're not always quite clear as to what is going on, and the narrator is kind of vague and mysterious, but it has narrative content that reminds me of Kindred. I am much more engaged in this story because I feel like things are actually happening and I can relate to the characters, which always makes me more interested in the story.
While I didn't always like the blatant postmodernist-ness of Mumbo Jumbo, Libra doesn't make me as angry when it says vague things and releases important information without any warning. I think this might have something to do with the subject matter, because I am really interested in the CIA and in politics and international relations. I really like thinking about conspiracy theories, so a book that is going to provide a back story for one of the most conspiri-cized events in history is really exciting.
I like how DeLillo switches back and forth between Lee's past and his narrative, and the retired CIA operatives and their personal story. This book seems really exciting and I can't wait to get into it!
While I didn't always like the blatant postmodernist-ness of Mumbo Jumbo, Libra doesn't make me as angry when it says vague things and releases important information without any warning. I think this might have something to do with the subject matter, because I am really interested in the CIA and in politics and international relations. I really like thinking about conspiracy theories, so a book that is going to provide a back story for one of the most conspiri-cized events in history is really exciting.
I like how DeLillo switches back and forth between Lee's past and his narrative, and the retired CIA operatives and their personal story. This book seems really exciting and I can't wait to get into it!
Monday, April 9, 2012
final thoughts on Rufus.
While this in no way will encompass everything I've come to think about Rufus (because I don't think such thing is even possible), I just wanted to give my last impressions about the boy we've watched grow up throughout Kindred, especially focusing on the last scene that he is with Dana.
Throughout the book, I couldn't help but liking Rufus. To me, he was a generically good guy who was merely a product of his culture and society, thus making him do bad things. This could just be wishful thinking, benefit of the doubt, etc., but I'd like to think I'm right. Moving on, I always felt bad for him when he did bad things because I felt as though he was just acting out. He drew a gun on Kevin and Dana because he didn't want them to leave him. Instead of knowing how to express himself and explaining his emotions to make them understand how much he needs them, all he can think to do is threaten them to stay.
Another example of this poor expression occurs with Alice. I believe that Rufus actually loves her (or at least believes he loves her) but just doesn't understand how to express it in a way that she will understand and that will make her love him back. He wants her, he loves her, he gets her. The rape and all the acting out associated with Alice is all part of a misguided attempt to win her trust and her love. Rufus loves his childhood friend, he just doesn't know how to show it.
With regards to the last scene, and Rufus's attempt to rape or seduce Dana, all I see is desperation. Here is a man who has been abandoned by people he cares about through his entire life. We hear about his nightmares that Dana will leave and not come back, or will return but not save him. In this final scene, we Rufus devastated by the death of a woman he actually loved, and the confusion of loving his half black children, yet also owning them, and the subsequent contradictions associated with slavery.
I feel sorry for Rufus, and it is because I see all of this desperation that, in the end, I like him. I pity him a lot, but I think that rather than him being a genuinely bad person, he is more a product of his awful society.
Throughout the book, I couldn't help but liking Rufus. To me, he was a generically good guy who was merely a product of his culture and society, thus making him do bad things. This could just be wishful thinking, benefit of the doubt, etc., but I'd like to think I'm right. Moving on, I always felt bad for him when he did bad things because I felt as though he was just acting out. He drew a gun on Kevin and Dana because he didn't want them to leave him. Instead of knowing how to express himself and explaining his emotions to make them understand how much he needs them, all he can think to do is threaten them to stay.
Another example of this poor expression occurs with Alice. I believe that Rufus actually loves her (or at least believes he loves her) but just doesn't understand how to express it in a way that she will understand and that will make her love him back. He wants her, he loves her, he gets her. The rape and all the acting out associated with Alice is all part of a misguided attempt to win her trust and her love. Rufus loves his childhood friend, he just doesn't know how to show it.
With regards to the last scene, and Rufus's attempt to rape or seduce Dana, all I see is desperation. Here is a man who has been abandoned by people he cares about through his entire life. We hear about his nightmares that Dana will leave and not come back, or will return but not save him. In this final scene, we Rufus devastated by the death of a woman he actually loved, and the confusion of loving his half black children, yet also owning them, and the subsequent contradictions associated with slavery.
I feel sorry for Rufus, and it is because I see all of this desperation that, in the end, I like him. I pity him a lot, but I think that rather than him being a genuinely bad person, he is more a product of his awful society.
divide by 2 and add 7..?
One thing that I was wondering as I was finishing Kindred is what effect Kevin's five year separation from Dana had on their relationship. For Dana, this separation was only several months, but we have several references from Butler that this time lapse has aged Kevin significantly. He was already older than Dana to begin with, and my musings led me to wish that Butler had given us more insight into their relationship once they returned to the present day together.
Kevin is already about ten years older than Dana (if I remember correctly), and this additional span of five years that he's stuck in the past without her merely adds distance between their ages. This is a pretty significant age difference, but Butler never seems to let on that anything has changed between them. While Mr. Mitchell did make the point earlier about Butler letting on to a potential "generational gap" between the two in certain situations, nothing else is every said about their age gap, even though, if I were in their position, I think it would affect me a lot.
For one thing, Kevin has now experienced a lot more than Dana has. Dana, while she's been having kind of a rough time of it, has only experienced life on the Weylin plantation. Kevin has had to make a way for himself and live by his wits up North, and we can see that what he's seen has changed him. I wonder that this would not make him jaded and cynical towards present day, and even to Dana. In some ways it does; springing to my mind is when he makes the reference to the woman he saw dying in childbirth, and this memory being spurred by a commercial on television. There we see the effect his experiences have had on him, but it doesn't show up in his relationship with Dana at all.
For me, the story would have been enriched by Butler's letting on that the couple has some issues between them to work out, perhaps having to do with their increased age disparity, or perhaps by Kevin's new experiences. As I saw it, there was an unrealistic (if this term is even relevant with a book like this) amount of calm in their relationship. I doubt that after not having seen your wife for five years that you would immediately adjust to her again, and that your only problem would be adjusting to your new house. Somehow that doesn't strike me as the natural course of things.
However, never having been in this situation, I wouldn't know for sure, but I would have liked it if Butler had given us a little more detail with regards to this aspect of Dana and Kevin's relationship.
Kevin is already about ten years older than Dana (if I remember correctly), and this additional span of five years that he's stuck in the past without her merely adds distance between their ages. This is a pretty significant age difference, but Butler never seems to let on that anything has changed between them. While Mr. Mitchell did make the point earlier about Butler letting on to a potential "generational gap" between the two in certain situations, nothing else is every said about their age gap, even though, if I were in their position, I think it would affect me a lot.
For one thing, Kevin has now experienced a lot more than Dana has. Dana, while she's been having kind of a rough time of it, has only experienced life on the Weylin plantation. Kevin has had to make a way for himself and live by his wits up North, and we can see that what he's seen has changed him. I wonder that this would not make him jaded and cynical towards present day, and even to Dana. In some ways it does; springing to my mind is when he makes the reference to the woman he saw dying in childbirth, and this memory being spurred by a commercial on television. There we see the effect his experiences have had on him, but it doesn't show up in his relationship with Dana at all.
For me, the story would have been enriched by Butler's letting on that the couple has some issues between them to work out, perhaps having to do with their increased age disparity, or perhaps by Kevin's new experiences. As I saw it, there was an unrealistic (if this term is even relevant with a book like this) amount of calm in their relationship. I doubt that after not having seen your wife for five years that you would immediately adjust to her again, and that your only problem would be adjusting to your new house. Somehow that doesn't strike me as the natural course of things.
However, never having been in this situation, I wouldn't know for sure, but I would have liked it if Butler had given us a little more detail with regards to this aspect of Dana and Kevin's relationship.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Full Circle
During today's in-class writing, Mr. Mitchell made a comment about how the book comes full circle. We basically know what happens at the end because we've read the beginning; we know that Dana's arm is trapped, and that she and Kevin both make it home, to their time, safely. Or as safely as can be expected under the circumstances. I have always liked this literary device of wrapping a book up by starting it with the end and ending it with the beginning, so to speak, and I think in Octavia Butler's case, Kindred definitely benefited from it.
The main reason I liked the use of this "full-circle" concept is because the rest of the book, by nature of its content, is so hectic and confused. There is a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, lots of nausea, lots of danger, nervousness, and anger. There are seldom any calm moments, and the very laws of time are broken by Dana's time travel. Given this, I think it's really comforting to begin at the end, to know that both Dana and Kevin are alive and at home by the end of the book, just to keep in the back of your mind while you read about their struggles in the 1800s, and to know that everything will be fine eventually.
When Butler ends with Dana's loss of her arm, even though we're technically brought back to the same point as we began, as readers, I feel as though we've gotten somewhere. At the beginning, we have absolutely no idea what Dana is talking about. At the end, we understand it perfectly well, and it doesn't seem strange to us at all that she got her arm meshed with a wall on her last time travel trip back home. I really feel like this ending bringing us back to the beginning ties up the book nicely, and puts it all in a neat package that you can understand, if not well, at least a little better.
I liked Kindred a lot, and I think this was a really practical and coherent way to end a book that could have had a really vague ending under different circumstances.
The main reason I liked the use of this "full-circle" concept is because the rest of the book, by nature of its content, is so hectic and confused. There is a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, lots of nausea, lots of danger, nervousness, and anger. There are seldom any calm moments, and the very laws of time are broken by Dana's time travel. Given this, I think it's really comforting to begin at the end, to know that both Dana and Kevin are alive and at home by the end of the book, just to keep in the back of your mind while you read about their struggles in the 1800s, and to know that everything will be fine eventually.
When Butler ends with Dana's loss of her arm, even though we're technically brought back to the same point as we began, as readers, I feel as though we've gotten somewhere. At the beginning, we have absolutely no idea what Dana is talking about. At the end, we understand it perfectly well, and it doesn't seem strange to us at all that she got her arm meshed with a wall on her last time travel trip back home. I really feel like this ending bringing us back to the beginning ties up the book nicely, and puts it all in a neat package that you can understand, if not well, at least a little better.
I liked Kindred a lot, and I think this was a really practical and coherent way to end a book that could have had a really vague ending under different circumstances.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Kindred
Kindred, so far, is proving to be a very intriguing book. I am already completely invested in all of the characters, and find myself flying through the book because I want to find out what happens. While I was reading the assignment for today, some ideas were running around in my mind, and here they are!
One observation I had came in The Fire section after Dana has knocked her attacker unconscious and feels dizzy. At this point in the story, we are so absolutely caught up in Dana's struggles and in her life in 1815 that we forget that she actually has a way to get home. We are so worried, as she is too, that her attacker will regain consciousness and kill her for what she has done to him. We're so invested in the scene that it's not until we connect her feeling of fear and dizziness to her time travels that we realize she's going home, and that she is no longer in any immediate danger.
I thought this was brilliant on Butler's part. Not only is she setting the historical scene so well and accurately that we feel like we're there with Dana, but we are so far there that even in the context of the book, we forget that she has the ability to return to where she really belongs. Once she does, we are jolted out of 1815 and back into the book's present, and we feel the same relief she does at being safe and at home.
Something else that I liked was Butler's characterization of Kevin. He seems to be very quiet and un-emotive, but Butler made it clear that he cares about Dana. My favorite line was "[h]e gave me a look that I knew wasn't as malevolent as it seemed" (13). I know people fairly well whose actions resemble this look, and it takes a while to realize that they aren't just mad all the time, it's either that they don't express emotions easily, or something about their face makes them seem upset when they're really just zoning out into space.
I thought that instead of portraying Kevin and Dana as a lovey-dovey couple and showing that they care about each other that way, Butler shows it in Dana's understanding that he's really not upset even though he looks it. This tells us that they know each other well enough to read each other's emotions even if they're not immediately evident. Butler shows us their feelings in other ways, for example, Kevin doesn't express melodramatic concern for Dana when she returns home, which some people might see as him not caring about her. However, when Dana wakes up, she has been cleaned up and has a stocked up kit bag tied to her waist in case she were to disappear in the middle of the night. I can imagine Kevin sneaking around the room trying not to wake her, and preparing all of the things for the bag so that she would be safe on her travels. That, to me, shows the great deal of affection and a deep level of caring that Kevin has for Dana, even though it's not showy.
Anyway, I cannot wait to get to tonight's reading assignment and find out what happens next!
One observation I had came in The Fire section after Dana has knocked her attacker unconscious and feels dizzy. At this point in the story, we are so absolutely caught up in Dana's struggles and in her life in 1815 that we forget that she actually has a way to get home. We are so worried, as she is too, that her attacker will regain consciousness and kill her for what she has done to him. We're so invested in the scene that it's not until we connect her feeling of fear and dizziness to her time travels that we realize she's going home, and that she is no longer in any immediate danger.
I thought this was brilliant on Butler's part. Not only is she setting the historical scene so well and accurately that we feel like we're there with Dana, but we are so far there that even in the context of the book, we forget that she has the ability to return to where she really belongs. Once she does, we are jolted out of 1815 and back into the book's present, and we feel the same relief she does at being safe and at home.
Something else that I liked was Butler's characterization of Kevin. He seems to be very quiet and un-emotive, but Butler made it clear that he cares about Dana. My favorite line was "[h]e gave me a look that I knew wasn't as malevolent as it seemed" (13). I know people fairly well whose actions resemble this look, and it takes a while to realize that they aren't just mad all the time, it's either that they don't express emotions easily, or something about their face makes them seem upset when they're really just zoning out into space.
I thought that instead of portraying Kevin and Dana as a lovey-dovey couple and showing that they care about each other that way, Butler shows it in Dana's understanding that he's really not upset even though he looks it. This tells us that they know each other well enough to read each other's emotions even if they're not immediately evident. Butler shows us their feelings in other ways, for example, Kevin doesn't express melodramatic concern for Dana when she returns home, which some people might see as him not caring about her. However, when Dana wakes up, she has been cleaned up and has a stocked up kit bag tied to her waist in case she were to disappear in the middle of the night. I can imagine Kevin sneaking around the room trying not to wake her, and preparing all of the things for the bag so that she would be safe on her travels. That, to me, shows the great deal of affection and a deep level of caring that Kevin has for Dana, even though it's not showy.
Anyway, I cannot wait to get to tonight's reading assignment and find out what happens next!
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
I'm not judging.
So, now we're done with Slaughterhouse Five, and I realized I basically only have one post on it, which made me sad, as this is definitely my favorite book so far. So, this post will be a little disorganized, but I'd like to share some of the things that I've been thinking about now that the book is over, and after the discussion we had in class today.
To refresh everyone's memory, today we talked about what effect that one guy's discreditation had on Vonnegut (if any), when he cited a death toll somewhere around 100,000-200,000 when it was really more like 20,000-40,000. I started to think about this, and I came to the conclusion that it's not Vonnegut's moral responsibility to put out some kind of annotation or anything to correct the error. Vonnegut cited the number 100,000 (or whatever it was). That is how Slaughterhouse Five was written. That was the effect it created, and it was created from what was going on at the time. It is what it is. So it goes.
Your moral stance on firebombing is going to be the same whether or not you know the death toll or not, and it may only shift slightly depending on whether or not the city actually was active during the war effort. I feel like nothing else really matters. The way that the information is presented surely has an effect on how we view the information, but I don't think it is our job to fact check every single piece of information that we encounter in our lives. That would be impractical. I don't mean we should take every "official" view or "expert" opinion to be the truth at all times in every situation. I mean that an "official view" like a death toll of 100,000 has to be trusted, and is really all you have, until you hear anything differently.
I suppose what I'm saying is there's nothing inherently wrong with keeping to an "official" view of history. It's just that if other information arises then you need to take it into account and decide what you think "really happened." If one can.
I'm not sure how that related to what I was saying earlier, but it was a little jarring in class to hear the official view bashed so much just for being the official view. It's like saying you were going to do what the government says to do anyway, but now that they're telling you to do it, you're not going to do it. That's just stupid and impractical, because if you're views were already that way, why should it change just because "the man" is telling you to do it?
Anyway, I liked Slaughterhouse Five and I thought it was one of the most thought-provoking and engaging books we've read so far this semester. I connected with lots of Billy's struggles; being consumed with the things in your past and afraid of the things in your future, meaning that you won't enjoy any of the things in between. In any event, things work themselves out and everything is fine.
So it goes.
To refresh everyone's memory, today we talked about what effect that one guy's discreditation had on Vonnegut (if any), when he cited a death toll somewhere around 100,000-200,000 when it was really more like 20,000-40,000. I started to think about this, and I came to the conclusion that it's not Vonnegut's moral responsibility to put out some kind of annotation or anything to correct the error. Vonnegut cited the number 100,000 (or whatever it was). That is how Slaughterhouse Five was written. That was the effect it created, and it was created from what was going on at the time. It is what it is. So it goes.
Your moral stance on firebombing is going to be the same whether or not you know the death toll or not, and it may only shift slightly depending on whether or not the city actually was active during the war effort. I feel like nothing else really matters. The way that the information is presented surely has an effect on how we view the information, but I don't think it is our job to fact check every single piece of information that we encounter in our lives. That would be impractical. I don't mean we should take every "official" view or "expert" opinion to be the truth at all times in every situation. I mean that an "official view" like a death toll of 100,000 has to be trusted, and is really all you have, until you hear anything differently.
I suppose what I'm saying is there's nothing inherently wrong with keeping to an "official" view of history. It's just that if other information arises then you need to take it into account and decide what you think "really happened." If one can.
I'm not sure how that related to what I was saying earlier, but it was a little jarring in class to hear the official view bashed so much just for being the official view. It's like saying you were going to do what the government says to do anyway, but now that they're telling you to do it, you're not going to do it. That's just stupid and impractical, because if you're views were already that way, why should it change just because "the man" is telling you to do it?
Anyway, I liked Slaughterhouse Five and I thought it was one of the most thought-provoking and engaging books we've read so far this semester. I connected with lots of Billy's struggles; being consumed with the things in your past and afraid of the things in your future, meaning that you won't enjoy any of the things in between. In any event, things work themselves out and everything is fine.
So it goes.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Vonnegut & Hemingway...
...sittin' in a tree.. no, just kidding.
ANYWAY. This post is about my first impressions of Slaughterhouse Five, and let me just say that they are very favorable. I really enjoy this book so far, and one of the main reasons is that Vonnegut's writing style reminds me of Hemingway's style which I hold so dear.
I might just be lazy, but I really enjoy a simple writing style. When I read novels, or read anything for that matter, I don't like to have to work hard to figure out the content of what is being said. (I leave that for poetry, and I don't mean that in a disparaging way. I find that sometimes, the beauty of the words masking their meaning so that it's not readily apparent is neat, but that "sometimes" does not include novels. Just poetry.)
In novels, I really appreciate a simple writing style that is conversational and explains things. I like a writing style that doesn't try to do to much, or "try" to do anything at all; it just is. It's something written down in a way that you could imagine the author speaking to you, and what's really important is the content of what is being told to you.
Hemingway does that; he has very sparse prose to which I once likened the writing of an intermediate-level foreign language speaker. Let me explain that: when we have a rudimentary knowledge of another language, we kind of sound like children when we speak. The grammatical structure is very simple, and could be something along the lines of "The blanket is red." In that example, the sentence is simple but so is the content, thus sounding like a kid. Hemingway, however, sounds like an adult foreign language speaker because his grammatical structure is simple but his ideas are complex; for example, "Love is confusing." A kid could understand what that sentence means, but they're not likely to grasp the content.
Anyway I should probably stop talking about Hemingway and start talking about Vonnegut, and the reason I'm talking about them in the same post is that Vonnegut has this simple sentence structure as well, though he's not quite as spartan as Hemingway. I like that in this book, I can focus purely on the story and immerse myself in what is happening to Billy Pilgrim. I also like that Vonnegut is not trying to play any tricks on us, or make things complicated for us. If anything, he's deliberately making things easier for us to understand. He not only tells us what happened, but then goes on to explain it, or give his interpretation of it.
One example I just came across was on page 60 in my edition where the narrator is talking about Billy Pilgrim not being able to find his steering wheel and thinking that someone had stolen it. After Billy passes out, Vonnegut writes, "He was in the backseat of his car, which was why he couldn't find the steering wheel." I like how simple and frank this is. It's like, "Hey, I'm just going to flat out tell you exactly why he couldn't find it. It's cause he was in the backseat!" This tone and okay-ness with just saying what you actually mean is not lost on me. I am a big fan.
In any event, I think I'm going to like this book a lot; since the writing style is so uncomplicated, and the plot seems to be at least somewhat character-based, I think I can really connect to what's going on in a way that I couldn't with Ragtime and Mumbo Jumbo.
ANYWAY. This post is about my first impressions of Slaughterhouse Five, and let me just say that they are very favorable. I really enjoy this book so far, and one of the main reasons is that Vonnegut's writing style reminds me of Hemingway's style which I hold so dear.
I might just be lazy, but I really enjoy a simple writing style. When I read novels, or read anything for that matter, I don't like to have to work hard to figure out the content of what is being said. (I leave that for poetry, and I don't mean that in a disparaging way. I find that sometimes, the beauty of the words masking their meaning so that it's not readily apparent is neat, but that "sometimes" does not include novels. Just poetry.)
In novels, I really appreciate a simple writing style that is conversational and explains things. I like a writing style that doesn't try to do to much, or "try" to do anything at all; it just is. It's something written down in a way that you could imagine the author speaking to you, and what's really important is the content of what is being told to you.
Hemingway does that; he has very sparse prose to which I once likened the writing of an intermediate-level foreign language speaker. Let me explain that: when we have a rudimentary knowledge of another language, we kind of sound like children when we speak. The grammatical structure is very simple, and could be something along the lines of "The blanket is red." In that example, the sentence is simple but so is the content, thus sounding like a kid. Hemingway, however, sounds like an adult foreign language speaker because his grammatical structure is simple but his ideas are complex; for example, "Love is confusing." A kid could understand what that sentence means, but they're not likely to grasp the content.
Anyway I should probably stop talking about Hemingway and start talking about Vonnegut, and the reason I'm talking about them in the same post is that Vonnegut has this simple sentence structure as well, though he's not quite as spartan as Hemingway. I like that in this book, I can focus purely on the story and immerse myself in what is happening to Billy Pilgrim. I also like that Vonnegut is not trying to play any tricks on us, or make things complicated for us. If anything, he's deliberately making things easier for us to understand. He not only tells us what happened, but then goes on to explain it, or give his interpretation of it.
One example I just came across was on page 60 in my edition where the narrator is talking about Billy Pilgrim not being able to find his steering wheel and thinking that someone had stolen it. After Billy passes out, Vonnegut writes, "He was in the backseat of his car, which was why he couldn't find the steering wheel." I like how simple and frank this is. It's like, "Hey, I'm just going to flat out tell you exactly why he couldn't find it. It's cause he was in the backseat!" This tone and okay-ness with just saying what you actually mean is not lost on me. I am a big fan.
In any event, I think I'm going to like this book a lot; since the writing style is so uncomplicated, and the plot seems to be at least somewhat character-based, I think I can really connect to what's going on in a way that I couldn't with Ragtime and Mumbo Jumbo.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
"I knew that song before it was popular."
One of the things that popped into my mind during History as Fiction yesterday came up in relation to somebody's comment about Jazz music (or any other kind of cultural phenomenon) selling out. Selling out would encompass the phenomenon becoming more common and more accessible to more people. Another effect is that the phenomenon strays from its original intentions and purpose, and becomes diluted and different.
The question that arose in my mind was, "Isn't this inevitable? Does it not make sense that the longer something is around, the more dispersed throughout the world it will get and the more it will change?" I feel like the answer to these questions is that this occurrence is inevitable, but that it's not necessarily bad. Nothing can really stay the same forever, especially something that is amorphous and undefinable as a cultural phenomenon. Although it might be sad that something changes in its nature because it is enjoyed by a large and diverse group of people as opposed to a small and select group of people, I think we shouldn't be surprised by this; it's only natural, and is only a matter of time that the phenomenon is going to morph, change, and spread. I think this is what happened to Jes Grew; it ended because the times moved on, and the world as a whole was concerned with different things. Jazz was still alive, it was just that the Jes Grew associated with it had run its course.
Another question arises that's not really related to the book, but was just something I was wondering about. It kind of connects to something cultural being enjoyed by a larger group of people, and it generally leads to the comment, "I knew that song before it was popular," or "If that's the only song you know by [fill in the blank], then you're not a real fan." These comments beg the question, "Why does something have to be obscure to be good?" Or perhaps not obscure, but exclusive? I'm not quite sure I know the answer, but I don't think it has anything to do with the song (or whatever cultural phenomenon the conversation is about) intrinsically. I think it's mainly to do with the fact that people want to feel like they know something that others don't. That a song is special, and therefore "good" because it's a secret. Once the secret gets out, and once the song becomes popular and commercialized, then it has "sold out" in a way.
I think this reaction is kind of sad, and like I said in my first few paragraphs, this development is inevitable. No artist that's any good is going to stay underground forever. People are going to discover them, and share them with others, and eventually, even if they don't get uber famous, they will become more well-known. This doesn't change the quality of the work, it just changes how people feel about the work. If people subsequently feel like the artist sold out because they are more popular, it's not really the artist's fault, it's just that the perception of them is changing.
Anyway, I don't really have any conclusive answers; I just think it's kind of interesting to try to figure out why we (and I include myself in this) want to have this feeling that we know something that other people don't; that we know about this super obscure band that's so awesome and once people start to like them, they become "old," but you can say that you knew them before they were popular.
The question that arose in my mind was, "Isn't this inevitable? Does it not make sense that the longer something is around, the more dispersed throughout the world it will get and the more it will change?" I feel like the answer to these questions is that this occurrence is inevitable, but that it's not necessarily bad. Nothing can really stay the same forever, especially something that is amorphous and undefinable as a cultural phenomenon. Although it might be sad that something changes in its nature because it is enjoyed by a large and diverse group of people as opposed to a small and select group of people, I think we shouldn't be surprised by this; it's only natural, and is only a matter of time that the phenomenon is going to morph, change, and spread. I think this is what happened to Jes Grew; it ended because the times moved on, and the world as a whole was concerned with different things. Jazz was still alive, it was just that the Jes Grew associated with it had run its course.
Another question arises that's not really related to the book, but was just something I was wondering about. It kind of connects to something cultural being enjoyed by a larger group of people, and it generally leads to the comment, "I knew that song before it was popular," or "If that's the only song you know by [fill in the blank], then you're not a real fan." These comments beg the question, "Why does something have to be obscure to be good?" Or perhaps not obscure, but exclusive? I'm not quite sure I know the answer, but I don't think it has anything to do with the song (or whatever cultural phenomenon the conversation is about) intrinsically. I think it's mainly to do with the fact that people want to feel like they know something that others don't. That a song is special, and therefore "good" because it's a secret. Once the secret gets out, and once the song becomes popular and commercialized, then it has "sold out" in a way.
I think this reaction is kind of sad, and like I said in my first few paragraphs, this development is inevitable. No artist that's any good is going to stay underground forever. People are going to discover them, and share them with others, and eventually, even if they don't get uber famous, they will become more well-known. This doesn't change the quality of the work, it just changes how people feel about the work. If people subsequently feel like the artist sold out because they are more popular, it's not really the artist's fault, it's just that the perception of them is changing.
Anyway, I don't really have any conclusive answers; I just think it's kind of interesting to try to figure out why we (and I include myself in this) want to have this feeling that we know something that other people don't; that we know about this super obscure band that's so awesome and once people start to like them, they become "old," but you can say that you knew them before they were popular.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Throwback blog!
I had an incredibly Mezzanine-like experience the other week, a I have to tell the world about it.
So. One day, my mother and I discovered that our right brake light was out. We subsequently fixed said brake light, and went on our merry ways.
The next day, the left brake light went out.
I nearly exploded with Howie-like excitement. What are the chances that one brake light would go out the day after the other one! 'This is crazy!' I thought. 'I have to tell Mr. Mitchell!'
For those of you who haven't read The Mezzanine, the main character, Howie, breaks one shoelace one day, and on his way to buy a replacement the next day, breaks the other one. He wonders what are the chances of this ridiculous coincidence. I wonder what are the chances of both break lights going out.
The world may never know.
So. One day, my mother and I discovered that our right brake light was out. We subsequently fixed said brake light, and went on our merry ways.
The next day, the left brake light went out.
I nearly exploded with Howie-like excitement. What are the chances that one brake light would go out the day after the other one! 'This is crazy!' I thought. 'I have to tell Mr. Mitchell!'
For those of you who haven't read The Mezzanine, the main character, Howie, breaks one shoelace one day, and on his way to buy a replacement the next day, breaks the other one. He wonders what are the chances of this ridiculous coincidence. I wonder what are the chances of both break lights going out.
The world may never know.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Mumbo Jumbo.
Oh God. That's all I can say at this point. I finished the first nine chapters, a short, but tightly packed section, of Ishmael Reed's Mumbo Jumbo today. I could tell from the beginning that this book was going to be a trip.
It is basically the definition of postmodernist. Anything that you could list as being something postmodernist is in this book. It is a literary collage. Instead of writing out numbers like "one," reed puts the actual number. Even when it's not in reference to a numeric value. Even the pronoun "one" is abbreviated as "1". There are random pictures and illustrations throughout the chapters, and the first chapter comes before the title page. As far as novel-writing conventions go, this book follows almost none of them.
However, I kind of like this. It's not the conscious decision to disregard conventions that I like, it's the result of that disregard. The text reminds me of prose poetry in the way that it has a strong flow and isn't necessarily grammatically correct. The way that the words sound is more important than keeping to a form, and it ends up sounding, at least to me, like a stream of consciousness.
I really like reading this style, and I especially like writing in it. I like how you can randomly add short sentences to mimic the style of your thoughts, and just write for the emotion and the meaning, not necessarily for comprehension, or grammar. This is a little surprising, even to myself, that I would like this kind of writing, because I'm usually a stickler for grammar and actually really love grammar, but somehow the prose poetry / stream of consciousness style really works for me.
So, I think I'm going to really like this book. Really. Because it's neat. Cool. Crazy and confusing but that's okay because it evokes the emotion that it wants to and doesn't care if you understand what's going on. It's going to pack an ocean-load of information into one paragraph and if you get it cool if you don't then you just have to catch up. Catch up to the scene that's crashing down around itself in descriptions of the characters and the chaos of the world I'm not entirely sure is our own. But it's okay. At least it still goes from left to right across the page.
It is basically the definition of postmodernist. Anything that you could list as being something postmodernist is in this book. It is a literary collage. Instead of writing out numbers like "one," reed puts the actual number. Even when it's not in reference to a numeric value. Even the pronoun "one" is abbreviated as "1". There are random pictures and illustrations throughout the chapters, and the first chapter comes before the title page. As far as novel-writing conventions go, this book follows almost none of them.
However, I kind of like this. It's not the conscious decision to disregard conventions that I like, it's the result of that disregard. The text reminds me of prose poetry in the way that it has a strong flow and isn't necessarily grammatically correct. The way that the words sound is more important than keeping to a form, and it ends up sounding, at least to me, like a stream of consciousness.
I really like reading this style, and I especially like writing in it. I like how you can randomly add short sentences to mimic the style of your thoughts, and just write for the emotion and the meaning, not necessarily for comprehension, or grammar. This is a little surprising, even to myself, that I would like this kind of writing, because I'm usually a stickler for grammar and actually really love grammar, but somehow the prose poetry / stream of consciousness style really works for me.
So, I think I'm going to really like this book. Really. Because it's neat. Cool. Crazy and confusing but that's okay because it evokes the emotion that it wants to and doesn't care if you understand what's going on. It's going to pack an ocean-load of information into one paragraph and if you get it cool if you don't then you just have to catch up. Catch up to the scene that's crashing down around itself in descriptions of the characters and the chaos of the world I'm not entirely sure is our own. But it's okay. At least it still goes from left to right across the page.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Younger Brother
So, as I was writing my last post, I found myself wanting to talk a bit about Younger Brother's situation. In class today, we considered YB's use of blackface, and whether or not that was a wise thing to do, and what it meant. Many people thought younger brother was "dumb," which I disagreed with. I really think he found a cause he could identify with, and was fully engaged and devoted to it.
Being of that aimless adolescent age myself, I can relate to YB's struggle to find a purpose. While I love painting my nails every other night while watching Friday Night Lights (the tv show) on my computer, that's probably not the most productive thing I could be doing, nor the most important. So, I get where YB is coming from. He doesn't get his family; as Mr. Mitchell has brought up on numerous occasions, he literally runs from the room feeling like he's going to suffocate if he has to listen to Father read from the paper once more. YB needs something to do, but not just a distraction. He needs to believe in something, and I truly think he finds something to believe in in Coalhouse's situation.
One distinction I think is important to make is that he doesn't really go looking for a cause to immerse himself in. That, I think, would constitute a distraction. What happens is that Coalhouse's situation so enrages him that he literally has no other choice but to do everything in his power to help him. People's comments today about the fact that he forgot the nice, eloquent, principled speech he was going to make, and only said, "I know how to blow things up," were a little frustrating to me because the comments indicated that the blowing things up was all that was important to YB, and that he had abandoned this higher moral ground in favor of a more rash, seemingly testosterone-driven approach. I don't think this was the case at all. I think he planned this speech because he felt highly principled about the situation, and still does throughout the entire playout of the situation. I think he just got nervous when he was confronted with Coalhouse, a man he never really talked to, but has come to admire and respect greatly, and who he wants to help. It's this nervousness that causes him to say "I know how to blow things up."
The fact that he's willing to abandon his privilege, which is somewhat cliched and, some might say, "poser-ish," I think it's actually a really big move, and I think YB does it because he genuinely believes that this is a cause worth fighting, and dying, for. (And after having used that phrase several times in the post, I now have "A Girl Worth Fighting For" from Mulan stuck in my head...) Anyway, Younger Brother is not just a poser, and however cliched he seems to us, he knows he's doing what's right and that he's fighting for what he believes in.
Being of that aimless adolescent age myself, I can relate to YB's struggle to find a purpose. While I love painting my nails every other night while watching Friday Night Lights (the tv show) on my computer, that's probably not the most productive thing I could be doing, nor the most important. So, I get where YB is coming from. He doesn't get his family; as Mr. Mitchell has brought up on numerous occasions, he literally runs from the room feeling like he's going to suffocate if he has to listen to Father read from the paper once more. YB needs something to do, but not just a distraction. He needs to believe in something, and I truly think he finds something to believe in in Coalhouse's situation.
One distinction I think is important to make is that he doesn't really go looking for a cause to immerse himself in. That, I think, would constitute a distraction. What happens is that Coalhouse's situation so enrages him that he literally has no other choice but to do everything in his power to help him. People's comments today about the fact that he forgot the nice, eloquent, principled speech he was going to make, and only said, "I know how to blow things up," were a little frustrating to me because the comments indicated that the blowing things up was all that was important to YB, and that he had abandoned this higher moral ground in favor of a more rash, seemingly testosterone-driven approach. I don't think this was the case at all. I think he planned this speech because he felt highly principled about the situation, and still does throughout the entire playout of the situation. I think he just got nervous when he was confronted with Coalhouse, a man he never really talked to, but has come to admire and respect greatly, and who he wants to help. It's this nervousness that causes him to say "I know how to blow things up."
The fact that he's willing to abandon his privilege, which is somewhat cliched and, some might say, "poser-ish," I think it's actually a really big move, and I think YB does it because he genuinely believes that this is a cause worth fighting, and dying, for. (And after having used that phrase several times in the post, I now have "A Girl Worth Fighting For" from Mulan stuck in my head...) Anyway, Younger Brother is not just a poser, and however cliched he seems to us, he knows he's doing what's right and that he's fighting for what he believes in.
Observations
Lately I haven't had the most inspiring ideas for blog posts... Actually, make that *any* ideas for blog posts. So, as I read the last two assignments, I made a few notes in my book about things that stuck out to me. That will have to do until I start getting good ideas again. :)
One of the first things I made note of was on page 275, during the scene in which Coalhouse occupies Morgan's library. The DA is on the phone with Coalhouse as Coalhouse is issuing his demands, and what I noticed was about halfway through the main paragraph on that page is that the DA gives Coalhouse the first sound advice that he's been given during this situation. No one actually stops to think about what Coalhouse is feeling or tries to speak rationally to him. They either fully sympathize with him and join his ranks as Younger Brother does, or they are completely against him. The DA, however, upon hearing Coalhouse's wish to have Conklin turned over "to [his] justice," says, "you know that I as an officer of the court could never give over to you for sentencing outside the law a man who has not had due process. That puts me in an untenable position." I really appreciated this conversation because, really, Coalhouse needs to get that fact through his mind. There is no way that they're just going to let him have Conklin, and I feel like the sooner he realizes that, the sooner they can come to a realistic compromise. I thought it was nice that, instead of saying, No of course I can't do that; are you crazy?? The DA actually talks to him like an adult and says that really, he can't do what Coalhouse is asking.
My second observation is unrelated and on page 277. This was just a small thing, but I thought it was very striking. At the beginning of the first full paragraph, Emma Goldman is being taken off to jail, precautionarily, and Doctorow continues to say, "Goldman did not know of course that one of the Coalhouse band was the young man she had pitied as the bourgeois lover of an infamous whore." This sentence sort of runs on a bit, and holds a lot of information, touching on many subjects and people: Goldman, Coalhouse, Evelyn, bourgeois-ness, etc. I think this sentence is really representative of Ragtime as a whole, in a post-modernist sense; the book is really a mash-up of all of these topics, concepts, people, and events, thrown together to create a fictional story. This sentence captures the haphazardness of the style, and I thought it was amusing to see not exactly a summary, but a snapshot of the book in this one sentence.
Third and finally, on page 287, when father has been brought into the negotiations with Coalhouse and his men, and father realizes that "the situations was ready to be negotiated." Doctorow says, "It was father's opinion, furthermore, that since Sarah's death Coalhouse Walker's most fervent wish was to die." This immediately reminded me of Houdini's attraction to more and more dangerous illusions and situations to escape from. The narrator, in that case, attributes this to a subconscious wish to die, after his mother has died. I thought it interesting that this thought-pattern comes up twice in this book, once fictionally, and once "historically-fictionally." Although, it's interesting to note that in each case, this "wish" for death cause each man to do amazing (not necessarily in a good way) things, because at this point, what have they to fear? I think this ties in really well to Younger Brother's narrative: wanting to find a cause worth dying for. While never explicitly said, I think that's definitely Younger Brother's story.
Anyway, those were my observations!
One of the first things I made note of was on page 275, during the scene in which Coalhouse occupies Morgan's library. The DA is on the phone with Coalhouse as Coalhouse is issuing his demands, and what I noticed was about halfway through the main paragraph on that page is that the DA gives Coalhouse the first sound advice that he's been given during this situation. No one actually stops to think about what Coalhouse is feeling or tries to speak rationally to him. They either fully sympathize with him and join his ranks as Younger Brother does, or they are completely against him. The DA, however, upon hearing Coalhouse's wish to have Conklin turned over "to [his] justice," says, "you know that I as an officer of the court could never give over to you for sentencing outside the law a man who has not had due process. That puts me in an untenable position." I really appreciated this conversation because, really, Coalhouse needs to get that fact through his mind. There is no way that they're just going to let him have Conklin, and I feel like the sooner he realizes that, the sooner they can come to a realistic compromise. I thought it was nice that, instead of saying, No of course I can't do that; are you crazy?? The DA actually talks to him like an adult and says that really, he can't do what Coalhouse is asking.
My second observation is unrelated and on page 277. This was just a small thing, but I thought it was very striking. At the beginning of the first full paragraph, Emma Goldman is being taken off to jail, precautionarily, and Doctorow continues to say, "Goldman did not know of course that one of the Coalhouse band was the young man she had pitied as the bourgeois lover of an infamous whore." This sentence sort of runs on a bit, and holds a lot of information, touching on many subjects and people: Goldman, Coalhouse, Evelyn, bourgeois-ness, etc. I think this sentence is really representative of Ragtime as a whole, in a post-modernist sense; the book is really a mash-up of all of these topics, concepts, people, and events, thrown together to create a fictional story. This sentence captures the haphazardness of the style, and I thought it was amusing to see not exactly a summary, but a snapshot of the book in this one sentence.
Third and finally, on page 287, when father has been brought into the negotiations with Coalhouse and his men, and father realizes that "the situations was ready to be negotiated." Doctorow says, "It was father's opinion, furthermore, that since Sarah's death Coalhouse Walker's most fervent wish was to die." This immediately reminded me of Houdini's attraction to more and more dangerous illusions and situations to escape from. The narrator, in that case, attributes this to a subconscious wish to die, after his mother has died. I thought it interesting that this thought-pattern comes up twice in this book, once fictionally, and once "historically-fictionally." Although, it's interesting to note that in each case, this "wish" for death cause each man to do amazing (not necessarily in a good way) things, because at this point, what have they to fear? I think this ties in really well to Younger Brother's narrative: wanting to find a cause worth dying for. While never explicitly said, I think that's definitely Younger Brother's story.
Anyway, those were my observations!
Saturday, January 14, 2012
randomm..?
That title isn't actually very helpful, given how regularly Ragtime is random. Random made-up people meet random historical characters and they get into super random situations. I mean the whole Mother's Younger Brother in the closet scene, that is random. But some more random things happened in the latest reading assignment, ending with Chapter 21.
The first thing was that Henry Ford meets Pierpont Morgan. They discuss all of the things that Morgan has spend his time and money learning, and my reading of it was that Ford was very confused the whole time. That is until the end, when he speaks up and tells Morgan what about reincarnation, and how everything that he wants to know can be found in a book Ford read when he was a boy. I really wonder at Doctorow's intentions behind having these two characters meet. His narrative style is so ambiguous that I can't tell if he is trying to undermine Morgan by showing Ford to know everything, or if he's trying to make Ford look stupid by thinking that he knows everything.
The next random event is that Sarah, the black woman who Mother took into the house with her child, has a suitor. We barely even know this girl, and it seems to me that we learn much more about her suitor, Coalhouse Walker Jr., than we learn about her. Eventually they get engaged. This was so sudden to me, but with Doctorow, I feel like all you can do is accept what he tells you and move on to the next chapter. I think Doctorow does a good job of showing the views towards African Americans at that time through Father, because the whole time they are getting to know Coalhouse, the thoughts running through Father's mind are borderline (if not out and out) racist. Mother is more progressive, however, and encourages the relationship. We do learn a lot about Coalhouse, but by the end of the chapter, we still don't know how they met, and it is never explicitly said that Coalhouse is the father of the baby. I'm not sure if they'll show up again, but I kind of want to know the backstory...
So, these two random happenings fit in well with all of the other random events in the book. Oh E. L. Doctorow, why do you choose to confuse us so.
The first thing was that Henry Ford meets Pierpont Morgan. They discuss all of the things that Morgan has spend his time and money learning, and my reading of it was that Ford was very confused the whole time. That is until the end, when he speaks up and tells Morgan what about reincarnation, and how everything that he wants to know can be found in a book Ford read when he was a boy. I really wonder at Doctorow's intentions behind having these two characters meet. His narrative style is so ambiguous that I can't tell if he is trying to undermine Morgan by showing Ford to know everything, or if he's trying to make Ford look stupid by thinking that he knows everything.
The next random event is that Sarah, the black woman who Mother took into the house with her child, has a suitor. We barely even know this girl, and it seems to me that we learn much more about her suitor, Coalhouse Walker Jr., than we learn about her. Eventually they get engaged. This was so sudden to me, but with Doctorow, I feel like all you can do is accept what he tells you and move on to the next chapter. I think Doctorow does a good job of showing the views towards African Americans at that time through Father, because the whole time they are getting to know Coalhouse, the thoughts running through Father's mind are borderline (if not out and out) racist. Mother is more progressive, however, and encourages the relationship. We do learn a lot about Coalhouse, but by the end of the chapter, we still don't know how they met, and it is never explicitly said that Coalhouse is the father of the baby. I'm not sure if they'll show up again, but I kind of want to know the backstory...
So, these two random happenings fit in well with all of the other random events in the book. Oh E. L. Doctorow, why do you choose to confuse us so.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Consciously historical.
In the seven chapters of E. L. Doctorow's Ragtime that we've read so far, I can't help but notice that it is different from a normal historical novel. This difference was brought up in class today, and I observed it more and more in tonight's reading.
In other historical fiction, the author attempts to put you directly into the time period, as if you were just another made-up character. In historical non-fiction, the author attempts to inform you about a time period and give you all the facts. What Doctorow is writing seems to be a combination: an attempt to inform you about a time period and give you all the facts about made-up characters. It's kind of unsettling because it's written in third person, and the distance from, yet insight into, the thoughts of the characters that the narrator has is little bit frustrating. We don't know what relation the narrator has to any of the characters, but we know that he knows everything. But what he knows is happening in the early 1900s, even though he is writing in the 1970s. He's trying to put us in the setting, but he knows he's trying to put us in the setting. Yeah. Exactly. Confusing right?
I'm not sure if I like this self-conscious attempt at a historical novel. I enjoy the voice and I'm really interested in the story and want to find out what happens next, but at the same time, I wish he would either play along with the game he got us into, this setting a scene and trying to transport us there, or not. Either delve whole-heartedly into the novel and make us feel like we're there, or write us a non-fiction book about New York in the 1900s. The third person narration and the matter-of-fact style is more suited for such a non-fiction book, so I think he should pick a style and stick with it.
While I don't like the narration set-up, I do like Doctorow's writing style. His short, comma-less sentences remind me of Hemingway, which makes me grin a little bit. This sort of neutral, straight to the point writing leaves you to fully engage with the story the writer is telling while still appreciating the simple, good writing.
One last thing that I noticed after these first two reading assignments was that all of the individual story threads are slowly being connected together; how the family of Mameh and Tateh and the little girl were brought in at the beginning, and later Evelyn met them and begins to help them out, and how Freud sees Evelyn's portrait being cut, and later how Evelyn notices her "secret admirer" which is, of course, "Mother's Younger Brother." I love it when there are multiple threads in a novel and they all combine; it's like life: one person could know this person who saw that other person at the same time they were on their way to see another person. I think it's really neat, and I enjoy that Doctorow decided to use that kind of storytelling technique.
In other historical fiction, the author attempts to put you directly into the time period, as if you were just another made-up character. In historical non-fiction, the author attempts to inform you about a time period and give you all the facts. What Doctorow is writing seems to be a combination: an attempt to inform you about a time period and give you all the facts about made-up characters. It's kind of unsettling because it's written in third person, and the distance from, yet insight into, the thoughts of the characters that the narrator has is little bit frustrating. We don't know what relation the narrator has to any of the characters, but we know that he knows everything. But what he knows is happening in the early 1900s, even though he is writing in the 1970s. He's trying to put us in the setting, but he knows he's trying to put us in the setting. Yeah. Exactly. Confusing right?
I'm not sure if I like this self-conscious attempt at a historical novel. I enjoy the voice and I'm really interested in the story and want to find out what happens next, but at the same time, I wish he would either play along with the game he got us into, this setting a scene and trying to transport us there, or not. Either delve whole-heartedly into the novel and make us feel like we're there, or write us a non-fiction book about New York in the 1900s. The third person narration and the matter-of-fact style is more suited for such a non-fiction book, so I think he should pick a style and stick with it.
While I don't like the narration set-up, I do like Doctorow's writing style. His short, comma-less sentences remind me of Hemingway, which makes me grin a little bit. This sort of neutral, straight to the point writing leaves you to fully engage with the story the writer is telling while still appreciating the simple, good writing.
One last thing that I noticed after these first two reading assignments was that all of the individual story threads are slowly being connected together; how the family of Mameh and Tateh and the little girl were brought in at the beginning, and later Evelyn met them and begins to help them out, and how Freud sees Evelyn's portrait being cut, and later how Evelyn notices her "secret admirer" which is, of course, "Mother's Younger Brother." I love it when there are multiple threads in a novel and they all combine; it's like life: one person could know this person who saw that other person at the same time they were on their way to see another person. I think it's really neat, and I enjoy that Doctorow decided to use that kind of storytelling technique.
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