(Note: I read The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, by Edgar Allan Poe, in a compilation called The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Tales.)
First off, Edgar Allan Poe's only novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, feels like two distinct narratives. The first narrative (Poe 202-304) chronicles various dangerous and horrifying adventures at sea, ending in rescue by a ship named The Jane Guy. The second narrative (304-371) chronicles the (ultimately dangerous and horrifying) exploration of islands in the Southern Indian Ocean near Antarctica.
Within both narratives, there are recurring extremities, like despair or joy, deprivation or deliverance. There is rarely a "happy medium" throughout. At one point, Pym writes in his journal: "In moderate weather we might have easily captured [the shark]." (296) But, the point is, it is not moderate weather and so they do not capture the shark, which remains an imminent danger in Pym's narrative of many "imminent dangers" (270). Which brings me to another recurring issue in Poe's novel--precariousness. From the start, Pym finds himself in dangerously uncertain situations. Hiding on board ship the Grampus has this scary consequence:
My head ached excessively; I fancied that I drew every breath with difficulty; and, in short, I was oppressed with a multitude of gloomy feelings. Still, I could not venture to make any disturbance by opening the trap.... (218; italics mine)
Although Pym does escape this trap, he escapes into an even more precarious situation. More on that later.
The first striking thing is the extremity of Pym's experiences evoked by Poe's language, such as "ravenous appetite," "state of absolute putrefaction" and "great disquietude...disorder of mind" all within six lines of each other on p. 217. And this is only the beginning of one nightmarish situation for Pym. "Disorder of mind" is soon followed by dreams "of calamity and horror," followed by "some huge and real monster," followed by "an overpowering sense of deliverance...." (219-220). Despite this deliverance, Pym has fever and almost intolerable thirst. He becomes almost too feeble to move. Not much later, Pym swings from "exceeding joy" to "extreme horror and dismay" (222, 223). More extreme horrors--about five more--occur, until his rescue by his friend Augustus, at which point Pym swings back to that "exceeding joy" again.
The mutiny on board the Grampus--itself presenting an extreme of butchery--is successfully defeated only after Pym disguises himself as a corpse that "presented in a few minutes after death one of the most horrid and loathsome spectacles...." (259). After this, however, survival remains tenuous, to the point of cannibalism, a "last horrible extremity" (287) that Pym tries to avoid but cannot. This horrible extremity, followed a dozen days later by the horrific death of Augustus, swings to rapture at the sight of a ship, the Jane Guy. After rescuing Pym and Peters, the only survivors left on the Grampus, the Jane Guy diminishes any extremities. A more or less "happy medium," involving exploration of islands in the Southern Indian Ocean, ensues for several months. This does not last, and, by the end of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, extremely "unusual phenomena" indicating "a region of novelty and wonder" (368) lead Pym and Peters to "a shrouded human figure, very far larger in its proportions than any dweller among men." (371) Poe has established that extremity--not moderation--is the norm.
Another norm in this narrative is uncertainty. After leaving behind the stability of home on Nantucket, Pym finds himself almost immediately threatened by very precarious situations. If Pym had ventured to make a disturbance by opening the trap, he might have been discovered by the mutineers and thrown overboard. If Pym had not disguised himself as the corpse of Rogers, he, Augustus, and Peters might not have "found ourselves masters of the brig" (265) after all. If Pym et al. had not "lashed themselves firmly to the fragments of the windlass," they would have drowned--"As it was, we were all more or less stunned by the immense weight of water which tumbled upon us...." (268). Indeed, since most of Pym's narrative takes place on the ocean, the forces of wind and water (and sun and sharks) are often the cause of many precarious situations threatening the ships or the lives of its sailors. Nature is as potentially destructive as other human beings. No Peaceable Kingdom is to be found anywhere in this narrative.
Sometimes strategizing does prove effective. We do not have to abandon all hope on entering this narrative. This is not Dante's Inferno--but maybe it is not far from it, either.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
What's going on here, Gregory?
Who or what is lost in Lost, by Gregory Maguire? Probably wandering Winnie, or perhaps the troubled ghost (a la "Ghost Whisperer") that Winnie discovers in her cousin's flat near Hampstead Heath, London. In any case, it sounds from the title that the state of being lost will the central problem to be solved, or at least evaluated, in the novel. I am not so sure.
I am sure that a recurring theme in Lost has to do with being closed off (from external influence) versus being open (to external influence). Specifically, Winifred Rudge, from the start, tries to close herself off from the people around her and, therefore, from any impact those people might have on her. On p. 12, Maguire tells us that Winnie "hid in a herd of other bleary registrants...." Repeat--hid. She is intending to keep herself at a distance from Mabel Quackenbush, a coordinator for an adoption agency called Forever Families. This doesn't work out. A couple sentences later, "...one of the Boys ambushed her by the coat-rack" (Maguire 12). A couple pages later, "...her cover was blown" (14), and, not much later than that, Mabel Quackenbush says to Winnie--"You. Sorry. They ran you through the computer. They said you have to leave. No discussion." (17) Thus, despite trying to close herself off from the people at Forever Families, "they" have an impact on Winnie, anyway.
Winnie very briefly mentions her cousin, John Comestor, then leaps into her "mental map of London" (29). She briefly mentions him a short while later, then leaps back into her own thoughts: "She worked up some jovial remarks so she could enter with a flourish" (34). Again, her goal is to keep her distance from someone else, to prevent meaningful contact. She insists to herself that "[her] relationship with John wasn't a relationship. It was cousinhood, and stepcousinhood at that" (38). This sounds like self-deception, since "cousinhood" does not prevent meaningful contact. Meanwhile, if it was only "cousinhood, and stepcousinhood at that," why does John's absence unsettle her as much as it does? Probably, it is too late for Winnie to keep her distance from John. And--it becomes clear--it is.
If Winnie was bent on closing herself off, she would have immediately returned to Boston. Instead, she stays in the London flat and speaks with the construction workers that John has called in--a conversation that leads her to the resident ghost. At this point, she might have flown back to Boston. Instead, she visits another building tenant, Mrs. Maddingly, and says, "We hear a rapping noise...We thought you might be having some renovations done." (53) After an extensive visit with Mrs. Maddingly, Winnie goes to see Allegra Lowe, introduced earlier as "the lead so-called girlfriend, who did arts therapy of some sort...But [Winnie] liked standing apart from all that." (39) And yet, Winnie stands in Allegra's kitchen and says--"I arrived from Boston last night and John doesn't seem to be in residence. Do you know where he is?" (65) An extensive visit with Allegra Lowe leads to a visit with Allegra's neighbor, Rasia McIntyre--another extensive visit, which leads later on to meaningful contact with the clairvoyant Ritzi Ostertag and history professor Irv Hausserman. Far from closing herself off, Winnie is opening herself up to various outside influences.
Indeed, there's a part of Winnie that's always been open--her imagination. She studies a painting of an ancestor, Ozias Rudge, that John displays in his bedroom, and relates it back to her present--
The old man staggered toward the viewer, but his eyes were unfocused and his knees about to unhinge...he didn't know where John Comestor was, either...his eyes were trained inward, at some abomination in his own mental universe. (44-45)
Later, while talking with Mrs. Maddingly, part of Winnie, a novelist, is "channeling [her heroine] Wendy Pritzke, dialing her up" (55). It seems that Winnie is open to what is not rational, more so than she is willing to admit to others or herself, so that it is the history professor Irv Hausserman who points out to her, "Nothing odd in the supernatural as a field of interest. Nor in our sharing the interest. We did meet in a clairvoyant's salon, after all." (159)
After discovering John, Winnie unequivocally tells him, "There is a paranormal presence in the house...." (197) Winnie is so open to this paranormal presence that it takes her over and Winnie develops a second self, leading her to France. At the very end, Winnie is willing to go to Cambodia with one of the parents from Forever Families to bring back the baby the parents have adopted. Winnie cannot close herself off, after all.
Winnie is disoriented, but (I think) not lost.
I am sure that a recurring theme in Lost has to do with being closed off (from external influence) versus being open (to external influence). Specifically, Winifred Rudge, from the start, tries to close herself off from the people around her and, therefore, from any impact those people might have on her. On p. 12, Maguire tells us that Winnie "hid in a herd of other bleary registrants...." Repeat--hid. She is intending to keep herself at a distance from Mabel Quackenbush, a coordinator for an adoption agency called Forever Families. This doesn't work out. A couple sentences later, "...one of the Boys ambushed her by the coat-rack" (Maguire 12). A couple pages later, "...her cover was blown" (14), and, not much later than that, Mabel Quackenbush says to Winnie--"You. Sorry. They ran you through the computer. They said you have to leave. No discussion." (17) Thus, despite trying to close herself off from the people at Forever Families, "they" have an impact on Winnie, anyway.
Winnie very briefly mentions her cousin, John Comestor, then leaps into her "mental map of London" (29). She briefly mentions him a short while later, then leaps back into her own thoughts: "She worked up some jovial remarks so she could enter with a flourish" (34). Again, her goal is to keep her distance from someone else, to prevent meaningful contact. She insists to herself that "[her] relationship with John wasn't a relationship. It was cousinhood, and stepcousinhood at that" (38). This sounds like self-deception, since "cousinhood" does not prevent meaningful contact. Meanwhile, if it was only "cousinhood, and stepcousinhood at that," why does John's absence unsettle her as much as it does? Probably, it is too late for Winnie to keep her distance from John. And--it becomes clear--it is.
If Winnie was bent on closing herself off, she would have immediately returned to Boston. Instead, she stays in the London flat and speaks with the construction workers that John has called in--a conversation that leads her to the resident ghost. At this point, she might have flown back to Boston. Instead, she visits another building tenant, Mrs. Maddingly, and says, "We hear a rapping noise...We thought you might be having some renovations done." (53) After an extensive visit with Mrs. Maddingly, Winnie goes to see Allegra Lowe, introduced earlier as "the lead so-called girlfriend, who did arts therapy of some sort...But [Winnie] liked standing apart from all that." (39) And yet, Winnie stands in Allegra's kitchen and says--"I arrived from Boston last night and John doesn't seem to be in residence. Do you know where he is?" (65) An extensive visit with Allegra Lowe leads to a visit with Allegra's neighbor, Rasia McIntyre--another extensive visit, which leads later on to meaningful contact with the clairvoyant Ritzi Ostertag and history professor Irv Hausserman. Far from closing herself off, Winnie is opening herself up to various outside influences.
Indeed, there's a part of Winnie that's always been open--her imagination. She studies a painting of an ancestor, Ozias Rudge, that John displays in his bedroom, and relates it back to her present--
The old man staggered toward the viewer, but his eyes were unfocused and his knees about to unhinge...he didn't know where John Comestor was, either...his eyes were trained inward, at some abomination in his own mental universe. (44-45)
Later, while talking with Mrs. Maddingly, part of Winnie, a novelist, is "channeling [her heroine] Wendy Pritzke, dialing her up" (55). It seems that Winnie is open to what is not rational, more so than she is willing to admit to others or herself, so that it is the history professor Irv Hausserman who points out to her, "Nothing odd in the supernatural as a field of interest. Nor in our sharing the interest. We did meet in a clairvoyant's salon, after all." (159)
After discovering John, Winnie unequivocally tells him, "There is a paranormal presence in the house...." (197) Winnie is so open to this paranormal presence that it takes her over and Winnie develops a second self, leading her to France. At the very end, Winnie is willing to go to Cambodia with one of the parents from Forever Families to bring back the baby the parents have adopted. Winnie cannot close herself off, after all.
Winnie is disoriented, but (I think) not lost.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
What is going on here?
Before I write a commentary on another book, I'll pause for station identification--what is "Cognosco"? There are a couple things that it is not. 1) It is not book reviewing. I am not praising or attacking, recommending or rejecting a book. 2) It is not literary criticism. I am not studying a book through the lens of a literary theory, e.g., structuralism. Because I never developed an interest in the use of literary theory (a requirement in my English BA), I never developed strength in the use of literary theory, either. (N.B.: This weakness may be unfortunate. I just read about many kinds of literary criticism: formalist, structuralist, and deconstructionist criticism--involving discussion of the text only--sociological and feminist criticism--discussion of the text in relation to society and history--and mythological/archetypal and psychoanalytic criticism--discussion of the text in relation to religious beliefs, archetypal imagery, or psychoanalytic concepts. To name a few. Once again, ignorance is not bliss.)
So--what is this? The answer lies (surprise) in the Latin word "cognosco," which means "I am getting to know," as opposed to "scio" or "I know." I am a student of the book I have chosen to write something about, as opposed to an authority delivering a truth. First, I choose a book that has got my attention somehow. Then, I select an aspect of the book that especially interests me. In both cases, I am following up on a question once posed by a professor at the Boston University School of Education: "What interests you?" This may sound like a rather innocuous, commonplace question to you, but it revolutionized the way I looked at any text. Instead of selecting some obvious subject or theme in a book, whether or not it really engaged me, I zeroed in only on that part of a text that I really cared about. Thus, by honoring myself and my interests, I ended up writing about the text with enthusiasm and thoroughness, as opposed to dull dutifulness leading to something fragmented.
Which brings me back to this blog. Having selected a subject that really engages me, I take notes, complete with quotes, and put them all together in paragraphs of (more or less) Prussian orderliness. Then, as I am writing, "cognosco" occurs--
"I am getting to know" my subject, and, of course I hope, so are you!
So--what is this? The answer lies (surprise) in the Latin word "cognosco," which means "I am getting to know," as opposed to "scio" or "I know." I am a student of the book I have chosen to write something about, as opposed to an authority delivering a truth. First, I choose a book that has got my attention somehow. Then, I select an aspect of the book that especially interests me. In both cases, I am following up on a question once posed by a professor at the Boston University School of Education: "What interests you?" This may sound like a rather innocuous, commonplace question to you, but it revolutionized the way I looked at any text. Instead of selecting some obvious subject or theme in a book, whether or not it really engaged me, I zeroed in only on that part of a text that I really cared about. Thus, by honoring myself and my interests, I ended up writing about the text with enthusiasm and thoroughness, as opposed to dull dutifulness leading to something fragmented.
Which brings me back to this blog. Having selected a subject that really engages me, I take notes, complete with quotes, and put them all together in paragraphs of (more or less) Prussian orderliness. Then, as I am writing, "cognosco" occurs--
"I am getting to know" my subject, and, of course I hope, so are you!
Monday, December 14, 2009
What's going on here, Wilkie?
"Do you believe in Dreams?" Midwinter asks Lydia, more than halfway through Armadale (Collins 505). Do you believe in dreams? I rarely remember my dreams, unless a Jungian psychoanalyst asks me to, and, even then, I'm able to recall at most a fleeting image. But Allan Armadale's Dream is so straightforward that his friend Midwinter is able to document it in a neat succession of sixteen scenes. This dream, so amazingly given to such complete and precise recollection, is like no dream I have ever experienced. Also unlike any dream I have ever experienced, this dream appears to be forecasting events, "dangerous events that are threatening [Armadale], and of dangerous people connected with those events, whom he would do wisely to avoid" (172-173). This dream sounds a lot like a weather map, rather than, say, a hazy reflection of the dreamer's preoccupations, present or past (but not future!). Then, in this predictive aspect, Armadale's Dream drives Midwinter's decisions for nearly half a year afterward. All of the above is impossible to credit, and yet, credibility is beside the point, or rather, beside the question: what is the function of this Dream? I can think of a few:
1) The Dream prompts three distinct responses. Armadale dismisses his own Dream as the result of indigestion, a response that is in turn dismissed by Dr. Hawbury--"I certify, on the spot, that you never had such a thing as indigestion in your life" (169). Hawbury then presents a "practical point of view" whereby a dream is "the reproduction, in the sleeping state of the brain, of images and impressions produced on it in the waking state..." (173-174). This, in opposition to Midwinter's superstitious view of the Dream as an omen. These three responses--dismissive, practical, and superstitious--cause me to wonder, which one am I, or maybe which two...and what did Wilkie Collins believe? The bait of this Dream has hooked me.
2) Armadale's Dream recalls the warning, within a letter, from Midwinter's father to Midwinter:
It may be, that mortal freewill can conquer mortal fate.... If this be so, indeed, respect...the warning which I give you from my grave. Never...let any soul approach you who is associated... with the crime which your father has committed. (55)
By recalling this warning, the Dream establishes a struggle between free will and fate that grips the mind of the reader. Like his father, with his doubtful "It may be" and "If this be so," Midwinter is inclined to fear that events are fated. Various events remind Midwinter of the Dream and the dangers it forebodes. The appearance of Lydia by the water, the smashing of the Statuette, the lemonade that causes Armadale to faint--all these things provoke Midwinter's fear of future fatality, so that he attempts, again and again, to separate himself from Armadale. Lydia does not believe in the Dream. She considers pretending to believe in the Dream, but clearly she really believes that her free will, not Fate, influences future events. She refers to "the infection of Midwinter's superstition" and "the influence of a mad superstition [possessing] him again" (534, 683). To Lydia, fatalism is a sickness or a demon, not a reliable guide.
3) To the rector Mr. Brock also, Midwinter's fatalism is utterly wrong-headed, not because it denies free will but because it denies Christian faith--a third option. Brock does not believe in a Dream that dooms Midwinter "to bring misery and destruction blindfold on a man to whom you have...united yourself in the bonds of love" (622). Instead, Brock urges Midwinter--
Be true to what Christ tells you is true. Encourage in yourself all that is loving, all that is grateful, all that is patient, all that is forgiving, towards your fellow-men. And humbly and trustfully leave the rest to the God who made you, and to the Saviour who loved you better than his own life. (623)
Heeding Brock, Midwinter alters what he believes, from believing in the Dream to believing in God, and therefore what he does, from severing contact with Armadale in England to re-uniting with Armadale in Italy. The Dream re-asserts itself and trumps Christian faith--for a short time--but, ultimately, Midwinter asserts his belief in God. Faith conquers fatalism--The End.
All this recalls to my mind a friend once asking me, "What are you believing?" Good question, Virginia. Do I believe in Dreams? Not as a forecast. I can believe that a dream is trying to tell me something about myself--but I rarely understand what that is. Do I believe in free will? To some extent. But--others right around me are also bent on influencing events, and so an outcome may not be the one that I seek. Do I believe in God? I'm afraid that whatever Christian faith I had got knocked sideways by god is not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything--and yet, not completely knocked out...what are you believing?
1) The Dream prompts three distinct responses. Armadale dismisses his own Dream as the result of indigestion, a response that is in turn dismissed by Dr. Hawbury--"I certify, on the spot, that you never had such a thing as indigestion in your life" (169). Hawbury then presents a "practical point of view" whereby a dream is "the reproduction, in the sleeping state of the brain, of images and impressions produced on it in the waking state..." (173-174). This, in opposition to Midwinter's superstitious view of the Dream as an omen. These three responses--dismissive, practical, and superstitious--cause me to wonder, which one am I, or maybe which two...and what did Wilkie Collins believe? The bait of this Dream has hooked me.
2) Armadale's Dream recalls the warning, within a letter, from Midwinter's father to Midwinter:
It may be, that mortal freewill can conquer mortal fate.... If this be so, indeed, respect...the warning which I give you from my grave. Never...let any soul approach you who is associated... with the crime which your father has committed. (55)
By recalling this warning, the Dream establishes a struggle between free will and fate that grips the mind of the reader. Like his father, with his doubtful "It may be" and "If this be so," Midwinter is inclined to fear that events are fated. Various events remind Midwinter of the Dream and the dangers it forebodes. The appearance of Lydia by the water, the smashing of the Statuette, the lemonade that causes Armadale to faint--all these things provoke Midwinter's fear of future fatality, so that he attempts, again and again, to separate himself from Armadale. Lydia does not believe in the Dream. She considers pretending to believe in the Dream, but clearly she really believes that her free will, not Fate, influences future events. She refers to "the infection of Midwinter's superstition" and "the influence of a mad superstition [possessing] him again" (534, 683). To Lydia, fatalism is a sickness or a demon, not a reliable guide.
3) To the rector Mr. Brock also, Midwinter's fatalism is utterly wrong-headed, not because it denies free will but because it denies Christian faith--a third option. Brock does not believe in a Dream that dooms Midwinter "to bring misery and destruction blindfold on a man to whom you have...united yourself in the bonds of love" (622). Instead, Brock urges Midwinter--
Be true to what Christ tells you is true. Encourage in yourself all that is loving, all that is grateful, all that is patient, all that is forgiving, towards your fellow-men. And humbly and trustfully leave the rest to the God who made you, and to the Saviour who loved you better than his own life. (623)
Heeding Brock, Midwinter alters what he believes, from believing in the Dream to believing in God, and therefore what he does, from severing contact with Armadale in England to re-uniting with Armadale in Italy. The Dream re-asserts itself and trumps Christian faith--for a short time--but, ultimately, Midwinter asserts his belief in God. Faith conquers fatalism--The End.
All this recalls to my mind a friend once asking me, "What are you believing?" Good question, Virginia. Do I believe in Dreams? Not as a forecast. I can believe that a dream is trying to tell me something about myself--but I rarely understand what that is. Do I believe in free will? To some extent. But--others right around me are also bent on influencing events, and so an outcome may not be the one that I seek. Do I believe in God? I'm afraid that whatever Christian faith I had got knocked sideways by god is not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything--and yet, not completely knocked out...what are you believing?
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