From the very beginning of Before Night Falls, by Reinaldo Arenas, a primary tension is between what Arenas does not have and what he does have, between absence, loss, or lack on the one hand and benefit, sensuality, and enjoyment on the other. For much of his life--and therefore for much of this memoir--the things that Arenas does not have increases, while what he did have or came to have decreases, until it seems he cannot survive the resulting privation. Although, fortunately, privation is succeeded by liberation, there is no happy-ever-after in which benefit outweighs loss. Arenas does not provide a narrative arc in which the tension, after reaching a climax, is resolved.
In the beginning was a father who left a mother who "did not have enough practical sense to be raising a child" (1, 3, Arenas), a house "filled with abandoned women" (4), and a God that did not answer prayers (5). Meanwhile, he was "a skinny kid with a distended belly full of worms from eating so much dirt." (1) In sum--a childhood characterized by abandonment and poverty. Then, at the start of the second chapter, Arenas transitions to those things that sustain and nourish him: "I think the splendor of my childhood was unique because it was absolute poverty but also absolute freedom, out in the open, surrounded by trees, animals, apparitions...." (5) Especially trees, about which Arenas writes this rhapsody:
I used to climb trees, and everything seemed much more beautiful from up there. I could embrace the world in its completeness and feel a harmony that I could not experience down below.... To climb a tree is to slowly discover a unique world, rhythmic, magical, and harmonious, with its worms, insects, birds, and other living things...telling us their secrets. (5-6)
Also at this time, Arenas develops a world of "almost mythical and supernatural characters and apparitions." (6) And--"I created and performed a series of endless songs and staged them all across the fields." (17) In a childhood characterized by poverty and abandonment, Arenas nevertheless discovered both the magic of the natural world and the world of his own imagination.
Arenas' early discovery of the natural world leads, at age six, to his discovery of his homosexuality. "This was the river," he writes, "that gave me a gift: an image that I will never forget" of "over thirty young men bathing in the nude...all those naked bodies, all those exposed genitals...I realized, without a doubt, that I liked men." (8) His sexuality is one of the things that Arenas does have, that benefits him and gives him enjoyment, during a short life marked by loss. Sex is a source of enjoyment, as in "I had switched from possessor to possessed and enjoyed it fully." (70) or "...I was able to enjoy those excited guys...." (165) Sex is an adventure, as in his recurring use of the phrase "erotic adventures" (80, 92, 159). Sex is a topic requiring focused attention, as in two chapters titled "Eroticism" (18-20, 93-116). Throughout the book, Cuban politics and homosexuality inevitably and frequently intersect.
The other thing that Arenas certainly has, that benefits him and gives him enjoyment, is his writing. His first story, a two-page story titled "The Empty Shoes," gets him out of "Fidel Castro's sphere" and gives him access to the "magical world of the National Library...." (71-73) His novel Singing from the Well brings him into contact with the Cuban writer Lezama Lima who, in turn, gives him inspiration for more writing--a felicitous cycle. Writing is central to "...a great feast. We would all bring our notebooks and write poems or chapters of our books, and would have sex with armies of young men." (101) In New York, a few years after getting out of Cuba, Arenas and friends created a magazine, Mariel, in which they could freely write what they really thought. Arenas assures the reader that, although "the magazine folded," it left behind "issues that are a real challenge to the literature of exile and to Cuban literature in general." (298-299)
Nevertheless, the collapse of Mariel magazine is a loss in a series of many losses for Arenas: the loss of a father, of previously loyal friends, of his manuscripts, and, ultimately, of his freedom. His imprisonment in Morro Castle in the Port of Havana, terrifying to read about (177-201, 207-217), must have been all the more terrifying to experience.
Arenas barely survives imprisonment in Cuba, only to find "really no solace anywhere" (308), including New York, which he experiences more as a place of painful exile than as happy haven. As opposed to, say, the fictional autobiography David Copperfield, depicting the triumphal march of David Copperfield, the memoir Before Night Falls does not present a rosy future for non-fictional hero Reinaldo Arenas.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
And now for something completely different
Why a mouthful of a name for a book club? Why a novel made up entirely of letters? There are reasons, good reasons. Let me count them.
1) This book club was born (of scary, hasty necessity) as the Guernsey Literary Society. Then, insisting on refreshments at book club meetings, a book club member "concocted a potato peel pie: mashed potatoes for filling, strained beets for sweetness, and potato peelings for crust." (Shaffer and Barrows 51) Thus--the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Fair enough (as my trainer might say) but why a potato peel pie in the first place? This brings me to--
2) Very importantly, this novel is set on the English island of Guernsey during German occupation in World War II. No doubt because of the occupation, butter, flour and sugar--the usual ingredients for a pie--were scarce, and so this book club member, Will Thisbee, made do with beets, potatoes, and potato peelings. Thus was necessity the mother of invention, of a potato peel pie.
Actually, a similar necessity gives birth to the invention of the book club at all. German patrol officers are about to arrest Amelia Maugery and friends for breaking curfew, when one of Mrs. Maugery's friends, Elizabeth McKenna, claims that "we had been attending a meeting of the Guernsey Literary Society, and the evening's discussion of Elizabeth and her German Garden had been so delightful that we had all lost track of time." (29) Necessarily fast thinking brings about the invention of a literary society.
3) This entirely epistolary novel--a form of novel I associate with the 18th century--makes possible a focus on significant anecdotes, like the anecdote about the creation of the Guernsey Literary Society, an anecdote demonstrating the bravery of Elizabeth McKenna, an aspect of her character that is demonstrated in other anecdotes in other letters throughout the novel. Interestingly, at one point, the book publisher for the protagonist, Juliet Ashton, tells her, "Strings of anecdotes don't make a book" (200), and yet anecdotes do make this book.
There are many anecdotes about the German occupation of Guernsey in World War II, in which it is shown that necessity is the mother of invention, in grave--and less grave--circumstances. A couple such anecdotes inform us about making soap from pig's fat (80) and a way to stalk German soldiers with intermittent whistling (172). There are anecdotes about the members of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, an especially memorable anecdote having to do with Isola Pribby's determination to read head bumps (224). Then there are letters in which the letter-writer's choice of anecdote tellingly reveals the character of the letter-writer: letters of recommendation (or not) for Juliet Ashton, from Lady Bella Taunton and Reverend Simon Simpless, and letters from Guernsey resident Adelaide Addison, warning Juliet away from the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. (Adelaide Addison--who signs off with the absurd "Yours in Christian Consternation and Concern" (67)--reminds me of the persistently proselytizing Miss Clack in The Moonstone, by Wilkie Collins. Miss Clack, however, is a more fully realized, and therefore more sympathetic, character than Adelaide Addison, who is only, briefly, a thorn in the side.)
In the same letter in which he declares that strings of anecdotes don't make a book, book publisher Sidney Stark tells Juliet Ashton that the core of her book is Elizabeth McKenna. He writes--
I'm sending back the ms and your letters to me--read them again and see how often Elizabeth is spoken of. Ask yourself why. Talk to Dawsey and Eben. Talk to Isola and Amelia. Talk to Mr. Dilwyn.... (201)
I see Sidney's point (Mary Ann Shaffer's point?), and yet, once again, I do not agree with him (Mary Ann Shaffer?). I came to dread yet another story about the spirited Elizabeth. She is as un-believably heroic as Little Dorrit (in Little Dorrit, by Charles Dickens) is un-believably saintly.
It seems to me, the core of this book is the importance of reading. Early on, Juliet makes clear to Sidney "my interest in their interest in reading" (93), an interest that has a significant impact on the lives of the members of the literary society. For instance, an interest in Thomas Carlyle brings about a new friendship, while an interest in Marcus Aurelius nearly ends an old friendship. Reading is not an incidental thing to do for these Guernsey residents.
In sum--although the voice of the protagonist, Juliet Ashton, can veer towards perkiness-overload, Juliet's focus on the act of reading (and writing, and story-telling), explicit and implicit throughout, is wonderfully obdurate in the era of the iPhone and Windows 7.
1) This book club was born (of scary, hasty necessity) as the Guernsey Literary Society. Then, insisting on refreshments at book club meetings, a book club member "concocted a potato peel pie: mashed potatoes for filling, strained beets for sweetness, and potato peelings for crust." (Shaffer and Barrows 51) Thus--the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Fair enough (as my trainer might say) but why a potato peel pie in the first place? This brings me to--
2) Very importantly, this novel is set on the English island of Guernsey during German occupation in World War II. No doubt because of the occupation, butter, flour and sugar--the usual ingredients for a pie--were scarce, and so this book club member, Will Thisbee, made do with beets, potatoes, and potato peelings. Thus was necessity the mother of invention, of a potato peel pie.
Actually, a similar necessity gives birth to the invention of the book club at all. German patrol officers are about to arrest Amelia Maugery and friends for breaking curfew, when one of Mrs. Maugery's friends, Elizabeth McKenna, claims that "we had been attending a meeting of the Guernsey Literary Society, and the evening's discussion of Elizabeth and her German Garden had been so delightful that we had all lost track of time." (29) Necessarily fast thinking brings about the invention of a literary society.
3) This entirely epistolary novel--a form of novel I associate with the 18th century--makes possible a focus on significant anecdotes, like the anecdote about the creation of the Guernsey Literary Society, an anecdote demonstrating the bravery of Elizabeth McKenna, an aspect of her character that is demonstrated in other anecdotes in other letters throughout the novel. Interestingly, at one point, the book publisher for the protagonist, Juliet Ashton, tells her, "Strings of anecdotes don't make a book" (200), and yet anecdotes do make this book.
There are many anecdotes about the German occupation of Guernsey in World War II, in which it is shown that necessity is the mother of invention, in grave--and less grave--circumstances. A couple such anecdotes inform us about making soap from pig's fat (80) and a way to stalk German soldiers with intermittent whistling (172). There are anecdotes about the members of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, an especially memorable anecdote having to do with Isola Pribby's determination to read head bumps (224). Then there are letters in which the letter-writer's choice of anecdote tellingly reveals the character of the letter-writer: letters of recommendation (or not) for Juliet Ashton, from Lady Bella Taunton and Reverend Simon Simpless, and letters from Guernsey resident Adelaide Addison, warning Juliet away from the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. (Adelaide Addison--who signs off with the absurd "Yours in Christian Consternation and Concern" (67)--reminds me of the persistently proselytizing Miss Clack in The Moonstone, by Wilkie Collins. Miss Clack, however, is a more fully realized, and therefore more sympathetic, character than Adelaide Addison, who is only, briefly, a thorn in the side.)
In the same letter in which he declares that strings of anecdotes don't make a book, book publisher Sidney Stark tells Juliet Ashton that the core of her book is Elizabeth McKenna. He writes--
I'm sending back the ms and your letters to me--read them again and see how often Elizabeth is spoken of. Ask yourself why. Talk to Dawsey and Eben. Talk to Isola and Amelia. Talk to Mr. Dilwyn.... (201)
I see Sidney's point (Mary Ann Shaffer's point?), and yet, once again, I do not agree with him (Mary Ann Shaffer?). I came to dread yet another story about the spirited Elizabeth. She is as un-believably heroic as Little Dorrit (in Little Dorrit, by Charles Dickens) is un-believably saintly.
It seems to me, the core of this book is the importance of reading. Early on, Juliet makes clear to Sidney "my interest in their interest in reading" (93), an interest that has a significant impact on the lives of the members of the literary society. For instance, an interest in Thomas Carlyle brings about a new friendship, while an interest in Marcus Aurelius nearly ends an old friendship. Reading is not an incidental thing to do for these Guernsey residents.
In sum--although the voice of the protagonist, Juliet Ashton, can veer towards perkiness-overload, Juliet's focus on the act of reading (and writing, and story-telling), explicit and implicit throughout, is wonderfully obdurate in the era of the iPhone and Windows 7.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
What's going on, Mann?
Well, curiosity did not kill me. It perplexed me. It brought me to a state of exasperation, annoyance, even a little sadness. Here's how it happened--
About a dozen years ago or more, I started work on a novel that I called "Yours, Loco," in which a bisexual man with manic depression (Theo) writes letters within his journal to a younger male co-worker (Zack). He never sends these letters--which he signs "Yours, Loco"--and which are partly journal entries and partly declarations of love for this (slightly) younger man. Upon reading some of "Yours, Loco," my sister Eliza said that it reminded her of Death in Venice. I had run across a copy of Death in Venice in my parents' house, and I could not imagine what "Yours, Loco" could have in common with Thomas Mann's masterpiece. So, I consigned Death in Venice to the Recycle Bin of my brain.
A year ago, I joined a meetup called Classic Books, where one of the organizers talked a little about Thomas Mann, enough to revive my curiosity about his writing. Then, a few weeks ago, a member of Classic Books recommended that we read The Magic Mountain (by Thomas Mann). Although I was daunted by the length of The Magic Mountain, my interest in Thomas Mann was now thoroughly piqued, and so I went out and bought Death in Venice and Seven Other Stories. (At 75 pages, Death in Venice could be called a really long short story, or a novella.)
Like Professor Stepanovich in Anton Chekhov's "A Boring Story," Gustave Aschenbach in Death in Venice is distinguished but distressed. At the start, Aschenbach "undertook a walk in the hope that air and exercise might send him back refreshed to a good evening's work" (3), but instead the walk sends him to a "mortuary chapel...silent in the gleam of the ebbing day." (4) The day is not the only thing that is ebbing. Despite a heroic self-discipline that has produced a long and magnificent literary career, Aschenbach now yearns only for "new and distant scenes...flight from the spot which was the daily theatre of a rigid, cold...service." (6-7) And this is really the least of a profound ennui: "...he got no joy of [his work]--not though a nation paid it homage...his work had ceased to be marked by that fiery play of fancy which is the product of joy...." (7) Even Aschenbach's journey to Venice is joyless. He fixates with (un-provoked) disgust on a fellow passenger, he barely reconciles himself to the leaden, misty weather, and he dwells with disquiet on the un-licensed gondolier--despite getting a free gondola ride to his hotel. It seems that Aschenbach has become inclined to accentuate the negative, anywhere.
The first evening at the hotel in Venice, just before dinner, Aschenbach notices a Polish teenage boy with his slightly older sisters and their governess:
Aschenbach noticed with astonishment the lad's perfect beauty. His face recalled the noblest moment of Greek sculpture...the observer thought he had never seen, either in nature or art, anything so utterly happy and consummate. (25-26; italics mine)
From that time to the moment of his death, Aschenbach is only an observer of this Polish boy. He never speaks to the boy; he never interacts with the boy, called, he thinks, Tadzio. He witnesses Tadzio's appearance "with extraordinary grace" at breakfast the next morning (29). He contemplates the activities of Tadzio and his companions on a nearby beach, reserved for hotel guests. He especially notices one of these companions--
One lad in particular, a Pole like himself, with a name that sounded something like Jaschiu, a sturdy lad with brilliantined black hair..., was his particular liege-man and friend. Operations at the sand-pile being ended for the time, the two walked away along the beach, with their arms around each other's waists.... (32)
At a later time, Aschenbach has the opportunity to speak to Tadzio but hesitates and then passes him by without speaking (47). In the very last scene, Aschenbach observes a fight between Tadzio and Jaschiu, then watches Tadzio walk away to a sand-bar, far from Jaschiu--and Aschenbach, who collapses and dies. (74-75)
To borrow the concept of "observer/participant" from anthropology--Aschenbach becomes more of a participant in regard to reports of sickness sweeping Venice. He speaks to a shopkeeper, the hotel manager, and a performer at the hotel, about this threat of death hanging over Venice. No sickness, they all say, just the sirocco. Finally, a clerk in the English travel bureau in the Piazza tells Aschenbach the truth: cholera has spread from China through Afghanistan and Syria to Southern Italy, and to Venice, where "there was a hideously brisk traffic between the Nuovo Fundamento and the island of San Michele, where the cemetery was." (64-65) At this critical point, Aschenbach's "participant" behavior stops; he says nothing to Tadzio's mother, so he can continue being an "observer" of Tadzio.
There is much more to be said about Death in Venice. For instance, why the recurring references to Classical mythology? They may illuminate Aschenbach's condition to the reader, but they do not seem to illuminate Aschenbach's condition to himself...unless he does not want to save himself? Possible--and one of various puzzles to ponder in Thomas Mann's novella.
About a dozen years ago or more, I started work on a novel that I called "Yours, Loco," in which a bisexual man with manic depression (Theo) writes letters within his journal to a younger male co-worker (Zack). He never sends these letters--which he signs "Yours, Loco"--and which are partly journal entries and partly declarations of love for this (slightly) younger man. Upon reading some of "Yours, Loco," my sister Eliza said that it reminded her of Death in Venice. I had run across a copy of Death in Venice in my parents' house, and I could not imagine what "Yours, Loco" could have in common with Thomas Mann's masterpiece. So, I consigned Death in Venice to the Recycle Bin of my brain.
A year ago, I joined a meetup called Classic Books, where one of the organizers talked a little about Thomas Mann, enough to revive my curiosity about his writing. Then, a few weeks ago, a member of Classic Books recommended that we read The Magic Mountain (by Thomas Mann). Although I was daunted by the length of The Magic Mountain, my interest in Thomas Mann was now thoroughly piqued, and so I went out and bought Death in Venice and Seven Other Stories. (At 75 pages, Death in Venice could be called a really long short story, or a novella.)
Like Professor Stepanovich in Anton Chekhov's "A Boring Story," Gustave Aschenbach in Death in Venice is distinguished but distressed. At the start, Aschenbach "undertook a walk in the hope that air and exercise might send him back refreshed to a good evening's work" (3), but instead the walk sends him to a "mortuary chapel...silent in the gleam of the ebbing day." (4) The day is not the only thing that is ebbing. Despite a heroic self-discipline that has produced a long and magnificent literary career, Aschenbach now yearns only for "new and distant scenes...flight from the spot which was the daily theatre of a rigid, cold...service." (6-7) And this is really the least of a profound ennui: "...he got no joy of [his work]--not though a nation paid it homage...his work had ceased to be marked by that fiery play of fancy which is the product of joy...." (7) Even Aschenbach's journey to Venice is joyless. He fixates with (un-provoked) disgust on a fellow passenger, he barely reconciles himself to the leaden, misty weather, and he dwells with disquiet on the un-licensed gondolier--despite getting a free gondola ride to his hotel. It seems that Aschenbach has become inclined to accentuate the negative, anywhere.
The first evening at the hotel in Venice, just before dinner, Aschenbach notices a Polish teenage boy with his slightly older sisters and their governess:
Aschenbach noticed with astonishment the lad's perfect beauty. His face recalled the noblest moment of Greek sculpture...the observer thought he had never seen, either in nature or art, anything so utterly happy and consummate. (25-26; italics mine)
From that time to the moment of his death, Aschenbach is only an observer of this Polish boy. He never speaks to the boy; he never interacts with the boy, called, he thinks, Tadzio. He witnesses Tadzio's appearance "with extraordinary grace" at breakfast the next morning (29). He contemplates the activities of Tadzio and his companions on a nearby beach, reserved for hotel guests. He especially notices one of these companions--
One lad in particular, a Pole like himself, with a name that sounded something like Jaschiu, a sturdy lad with brilliantined black hair..., was his particular liege-man and friend. Operations at the sand-pile being ended for the time, the two walked away along the beach, with their arms around each other's waists.... (32)
At a later time, Aschenbach has the opportunity to speak to Tadzio but hesitates and then passes him by without speaking (47). In the very last scene, Aschenbach observes a fight between Tadzio and Jaschiu, then watches Tadzio walk away to a sand-bar, far from Jaschiu--and Aschenbach, who collapses and dies. (74-75)
To borrow the concept of "observer/participant" from anthropology--Aschenbach becomes more of a participant in regard to reports of sickness sweeping Venice. He speaks to a shopkeeper, the hotel manager, and a performer at the hotel, about this threat of death hanging over Venice. No sickness, they all say, just the sirocco. Finally, a clerk in the English travel bureau in the Piazza tells Aschenbach the truth: cholera has spread from China through Afghanistan and Syria to Southern Italy, and to Venice, where "there was a hideously brisk traffic between the Nuovo Fundamento and the island of San Michele, where the cemetery was." (64-65) At this critical point, Aschenbach's "participant" behavior stops; he says nothing to Tadzio's mother, so he can continue being an "observer" of Tadzio.
There is much more to be said about Death in Venice. For instance, why the recurring references to Classical mythology? They may illuminate Aschenbach's condition to the reader, but they do not seem to illuminate Aschenbach's condition to himself...unless he does not want to save himself? Possible--and one of various puzzles to ponder in Thomas Mann's novella.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
What's going on here, Ivan?
Not all of Fathers and Sons, by Ivan Turgenev, features fathers and sons. Certainly the sparks of intergenerational conflict fly but less so between a father and son than between a university graduate's aristocratic uncle (Pavel Petrovich) and his friend from university (Bazarov). Meanwhile, from the start, there is tension between the two university friends, Arkady and Bazarov, who are presumably of the same generation. Paralleling this tension are two markedly different romances, between Arkady and Katia (relatively light), and between Bazarov and Mme. Odintsov (not remotely light).
At first, it seems that a rift has occurred between Nikolai Petrovich and his son Arkady, who has just graduated from the University of St. Petersburg. On the one hand, Arkady says, "...it's not for a son to sit in judgment on his father..." (Turgenev 91), but, on the other, he feels he is "being magnanimous" toward his father (91) who really has the less "emancipated outlook." (82) Undoubtedly there has been a shift but, it soon turns out, not a shift that creates a damaging rift between father and son.
The intergenerational conflict happens between Arkady's friend, Bazarov, and Arkady's uncle, Pavel Petrovich. After Arkady informs his uncle Pavel that Bazarov is a Nihilist, "a person who does not take any principles for granted, however much that principle may be revered," Pavel has this to say: "We of the older generation think that without principles...taken as you say on trust one cannot move an inch or draw a single breath." (94) These are fighting words (of a polite sort), and this is only the beginning of a fight between Pavel and Bazarov, which ends in a duel without any specific cause and with only one (reluctant) witness. Long before this duel, Bazarov tells Arkady that his father, Nikolai, is "a good man...but he's old-fashioned, he's had his day" (118), a comment that Arkady does not refute--but does not endorse, either. Bazarov, not Arkady, is the rebellious, potentially parricidal "son" here. Meantime, Nikolai, saying to Pavel that Bazarov may be right, is hardly "Cronos" defending his realm against the "Zeus" Bazarov. Pavel takes on that role, of the powerful, wrathful father, upon declaring to his brother, "Well, I shall not give up so quickly.... I have got a skirmish with that [Bazarov]...I feel sure of that." (121) In the end, neither "father" nor "son" wins.
A primary conflict in Fathers and Sons takes place not between father and son but between friend and friend, i.e., Arkady and Bazarov. Tension between the friends emerges slightly on the matter of Arkady's father's estate--
The friends walked on a few steps in silence.
"I've been all round your father's establishment," Bazarov began again. "The cattle are inferior, the horses mere hacks. The buildings aren't up to much and the labourers look like a set of inveterate loafers...."
"You are pretty censorious today, Yevgeny Vassilyich." (115-116)
Tension between the two simmers until (the Nihilist) Bazarov declares that Arkady is talking like his aristocratic uncle (211), a retort that nearly escalates into a wrestling match. Finally, upon leaving Mme. Odintsov, Bazarov also tells Arkady in an unmistakably friendship-severing diatribe:
"There's no audacity in you, no venom: you've the fire and energy of youth but that's not enough for our business. Your sort, the gentry, can never go farther than well-bred resignation or well-bred indignation, and that's futile. The likes of you, for instance, won't stand up and fight...."
(271)
And so on and so forth. Meantime, just as Arkady is a relatively light-hearted man, so is Arkady's courtship of Katia--during which he praises the Russian name for the ash-tree--relatively light-hearted. A short while afterward, Arkady's proposal to Katia initially veers between eloquence and nervousness but then gets to the point with a final emphatic "I love you...do believe me!" that is met with "Yes." from Katia. (268) And so, Arkady's romance with Katia ends in an engagement. On the other hand, just as Bazarov is a relatively heavy-hearted man, so Bazarov's romance with Mme. Odintsov becomes fraught with "unceasing awareness of unceasing danger." (264) It ends in separation.
Fathers and Sons also features a difficult relationship between Bazarov and his father, Vassily Ivanych, who, at one point, compares himself to the Ancient Roman hero Cincinnatus, as well as a lengthy characterization of Bazarov's mother, Arina Vlassyevna, "who ought to have lived a couple centuries earlier, in the days of Muscovy." (202) But what makes Fathers and Sons of especial interest is Turgenev's ability to capture the many kinds of relationships people may engage in with each other, of which father and son is only one.
At first, it seems that a rift has occurred between Nikolai Petrovich and his son Arkady, who has just graduated from the University of St. Petersburg. On the one hand, Arkady says, "...it's not for a son to sit in judgment on his father..." (Turgenev 91), but, on the other, he feels he is "being magnanimous" toward his father (91) who really has the less "emancipated outlook." (82) Undoubtedly there has been a shift but, it soon turns out, not a shift that creates a damaging rift between father and son.
The intergenerational conflict happens between Arkady's friend, Bazarov, and Arkady's uncle, Pavel Petrovich. After Arkady informs his uncle Pavel that Bazarov is a Nihilist, "a person who does not take any principles for granted, however much that principle may be revered," Pavel has this to say: "We of the older generation think that without principles...taken as you say on trust one cannot move an inch or draw a single breath." (94) These are fighting words (of a polite sort), and this is only the beginning of a fight between Pavel and Bazarov, which ends in a duel without any specific cause and with only one (reluctant) witness. Long before this duel, Bazarov tells Arkady that his father, Nikolai, is "a good man...but he's old-fashioned, he's had his day" (118), a comment that Arkady does not refute--but does not endorse, either. Bazarov, not Arkady, is the rebellious, potentially parricidal "son" here. Meantime, Nikolai, saying to Pavel that Bazarov may be right, is hardly "Cronos" defending his realm against the "Zeus" Bazarov. Pavel takes on that role, of the powerful, wrathful father, upon declaring to his brother, "Well, I shall not give up so quickly.... I have got a skirmish with that [Bazarov]...I feel sure of that." (121) In the end, neither "father" nor "son" wins.
A primary conflict in Fathers and Sons takes place not between father and son but between friend and friend, i.e., Arkady and Bazarov. Tension between the friends emerges slightly on the matter of Arkady's father's estate--
The friends walked on a few steps in silence.
"I've been all round your father's establishment," Bazarov began again. "The cattle are inferior, the horses mere hacks. The buildings aren't up to much and the labourers look like a set of inveterate loafers...."
"You are pretty censorious today, Yevgeny Vassilyich." (115-116)
Tension between the two simmers until (the Nihilist) Bazarov declares that Arkady is talking like his aristocratic uncle (211), a retort that nearly escalates into a wrestling match. Finally, upon leaving Mme. Odintsov, Bazarov also tells Arkady in an unmistakably friendship-severing diatribe:
"There's no audacity in you, no venom: you've the fire and energy of youth but that's not enough for our business. Your sort, the gentry, can never go farther than well-bred resignation or well-bred indignation, and that's futile. The likes of you, for instance, won't stand up and fight...."
(271)
And so on and so forth. Meantime, just as Arkady is a relatively light-hearted man, so is Arkady's courtship of Katia--during which he praises the Russian name for the ash-tree--relatively light-hearted. A short while afterward, Arkady's proposal to Katia initially veers between eloquence and nervousness but then gets to the point with a final emphatic "I love you...do believe me!" that is met with "Yes." from Katia. (268) And so, Arkady's romance with Katia ends in an engagement. On the other hand, just as Bazarov is a relatively heavy-hearted man, so Bazarov's romance with Mme. Odintsov becomes fraught with "unceasing awareness of unceasing danger." (264) It ends in separation.
Fathers and Sons also features a difficult relationship between Bazarov and his father, Vassily Ivanych, who, at one point, compares himself to the Ancient Roman hero Cincinnatus, as well as a lengthy characterization of Bazarov's mother, Arina Vlassyevna, "who ought to have lived a couple centuries earlier, in the days of Muscovy." (202) But what makes Fathers and Sons of especial interest is Turgenev's ability to capture the many kinds of relationships people may engage in with each other, of which father and son is only one.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
What's going on here, Edgar Allan?
(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.
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, 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!
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