Kindred, or Dredded Kin?
Dana, a modern black woman, is celebrating her twenty-sixth birthday with her new husband when she is snatched abruptly from her home in California and transported to the antebellum South. Rufus, the white son of a plantation owner, is drowning, and Dana has been summoned to save him. Dana is drawn back repeatedly through time to the slave quarters, and each time the stay grows longer, more arduous, and more dangerous until it is uncertain whether or not Dana’s life will end, long before it has a chance to begin
Perhaps the greatest benefit to English 173 (Science fiction and the portrayal of race, gender, and society… or something similar) was my introduction to Octavia E. Butler. She’s a fantastic sci-fi novelist and my go-to gal for racial commentary in a fantastical context. I thoroughly enjoyed Dawn, despite the embarrassment I faced carrying my copy of Lilith’s Brood (the collection of the trilogy) on the bus (for it had a cleavage-showing gal covered by bed sheets as the cover… oh cover art designer, how I loathe you!). Fledgling was also a delectable treat, though the thought of a sexually active vampire with the appearance of a 10 year old (and an onslaught of suitors/lovers) made me slightly uncomfortable...
Kindred has been on my mental “To Read” list for almost a year. The greatest compliment I can give to this quick read is that Butler’s narrative never fails. It never stalls, gives great insight into the mind of strong womyn of color, and the character’s voice is always firm and interesting. However, that can also be a problem. If you’ve read Dawn and Fledgling, you’d notice that the voice of the female protagonist is practically the same. It gets tiring; only the premise differs. However, I must give Butler props on her quick-wit and crazy premises. The idea of a modern black womyn transported back in time to the Antebellum East coast to confront her ancestor (a slave owner who rapes her great-great-great-grandmum) is definitely an alluring concept.
Overall, it was a great read–very standard Butler fare though. I enjoyed it just as much as I enjoyed her other work. Butler never offers a reason for the fantastical element — the time travel, multiple timelines, etc. — but I was still content with the way everything played out.
8/10
I bet Mona’s Secret is more Scandalous
As millions of readers around the globe have already discovered, The Da Vinci Code is a reading experience unlike any other. Simultaneously lightning-paced, intelligent, and intricately layered with remarkable research and detail, Dan Brown’s novel is a thrilling masterpiece—from its opening pages to its stunning conclusion.
I. Digression, Otherness, and Introduction
I’ve been meaning to read The Da Vinci Code ever since the film came out. Apparently, the movie is trash, and if one has yet to read the book, the whole “experience” may very well be tainted. So I waited, and to this day, have actively abstained from laying eyes upon Tom Hank’s fugly hair-don’t or Audrey Tatou’s loveliness (who, by the way, does not fit the character description at all apart from the fact that she’s female and slender).
II. Love and Satisfaction
The most appealing factor to Da Vince Code is the incredibly quick pace. Every chapter is 2 – 4 pages, so even though you only read 10 pages, you’re at chapter five… and that sense of satisfaction is intoxicating and very much welcome. Plus, no one can hate a thriller. It’s a criminal chase story, and this is where I see the movie coming in. The premise is interesting — secret societies, hidden meanings, puzzles, France (exotic country? yes please!), multiple interrelated conspiracies, a masked mastermind, religion, politics, and a combination of street smarts + book smarts. The way in which the chapters were organized (switching back and forth between different perspectives) also made it seem as though the book came alive in one’s mind …just like them movies.
III. Criticism and Petty Claims
Even before I finished the book, I kept telling myself “What a load of bull crap.” Because seriously–some parts seem idiotic. I don’t know if it’s the whole “woman was robbed of her rightful claims” angle Brown kept playing or his writing style, but I just couldn’t completely buy what he was selling. By the way, if I hear “sacred feminine” one more time, I will mentally vomit. Not only does it sound corny, but when Brown can only conjure maybe one or two synonyms… you really just want to go “UGH, REPETITIVE. CHEESE.”
Reading was Never so Easy
The Reader, 1995. When fifteen-year-old Michael Berg falls ill on his way home from school, he is rescued by Hanna, a woman twice his age. In time she becomes his lover, enthralling him with her passion, but puzzling him with her odd silences. Then she disappears. Michael next sees Hanna when she is on trial for a hideous crime, refusing to defend herself. As he watches, he begins to realize that Hanna may be guarding a secret she considers more shameful than murder.
I. Digression, Otherness, and Introduction
A devoted Kate Winslet fan, I drove to the nearest independent theater in the city in order to catch a screening of “The Reader”. I remember, vividly, how embarrassing it was to stifle one’s tears next to complete strangers (though I found comfort in that I wasn’t one of the few who were outright bawling). Though it is a widely accepted “fact” that film adaptions of novels cannot compare to the original, the 2008 film was surprisingly close. Total digression here, but how do you pronounce “Ralph Fiennes”? I say “Ray-ph Fuh-ennes.” Huh.
I always seem to pick this exact copy of The Reader up when I’m at the library waiting for a ride. It’s always on the first floor. And with my apathy towards Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves (I am dissasppointed in the fact that I actually bought it. *le sigh* Oh book club, I don’t even…), I decided to finally finish this lovely little gem of a bestseller.
II. Love and Satisfaction
Schlink’s style is easy and quick. I loved the candor of the speaker; he never really tip-toed around his thoughts or suppositions and instead stated what he believed directly, matter-of-fact-ly. Even when it was only a theory or an interpretation of Hanna’s reaction or inner thoughts, one can still take it as fact. Cool. The length only makes me adore the short novel more. One can easily finish it in a day; the pace was steady and focused on the only subject we really cared about: Hanna. It’s a little depressing to imagine a boy (and then a man) whose life is always haunted by the memory of her. Very Dante Gabriel Rossetti, eh?
What was so moving was that, yes, an inability to read and write is considered shameful in contemporary first world countries. Communism may not rule the world, but education is, for the most part, public. But to be able to live into adulthood (36 years) as a secret illiterate… I was full of “WUT?” It illuminates how different society was 50 years ago. It was embarrassing then and it’s more embarrassing now. Parents hate to even think of their children as being a little bit behind for their age group.
I appreciated how Schlink juxtaposed his two leads; they were polar opposites. On one hand we have the bright, young (15 years) Michael, boy, middle class, and educated (he goes to university). On the other hand we have the realist, middle-aged Hanna, woman, working class, and secretly illiterate. It was fascinating to visually imagine them grow farther and farther apart as they moved on with their own lives. And yet, the impact that each other had on their lives remains with them well into adulthood, continually having repercussions in the manner in which they approach monumental decisions. Very nice.
III. Criticism and Petty Claims
The sterilization of Nazi crimes and the horrors of the Holocaust is my only complaint. I appreciate Schlink attempting to address that what Hanna committed was, without a doubt, heinous and inexcusable, but we were made to like her; as a member of the audience, we were made to sympathize with her and maybe even pity her. Schlink had his ‘protagonist’ Michael visit an internment camp to counteract the trial in order to subtly say, “Yes. Hanna is, by association, vicious for being a Nazi. Don’t get me wrong!” But that is the reason why the novel is so captivating–because she is a Nazi. Otherwise, she’d just be a pitiful, illiterate pedophile.
Time is a very Curious Thing
The Remains of the Day, 1989. James Stevens has devoted his life to Lord Darlington as an aristocrat’s best friend — his butler. After three decades of loyal service, Darlington Hall is now owned by a tasteless American. The estate, now a shadow of its former self, is in desperate need of staff for its upkeep. Upon receiving a letter from an old colleague, Stevens sets out on a motoring trip to meet the former head housemaid, convinced that her sentimental letter includes subtext for a desire to return to service. On his journey, he reminisces about his master and the events of great importance that occurred within the walls of the Darlington Hall, ultimately questioning whether or not his master was as “great” as he had rememered.
After a year or two of begin-stop-forget-star-over, I have finally managed to complete Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day. I had been meaning to read it ever since I watched the Merchant-Ivory production in middle school (which, coincidentally, was the same day I watched the other M-I film coupling Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson – Howard’s End — as well). First impressions? Absolutely lovely. A huge admirer of pre-World Wars (yes, both of them) pieces, I found myself quite enthralled in the setting. But I suppose more so than just being a period piece was the muted behavior of the characters and their helplessness.
As he is our narrator, Stevens is the most revealing character in Remains. In the flashbacks and his description of his greatest employer, Lord Darlington, we readers do recognize the former possessing a professional fondness for the latter, but when inquired about his former employ in the book’s present time, he has denied at least thrice of ever having been more associated with the man other than operating within his old estate (Ishiguro 120). And though Stevens has addressed this issue directly once, emphatic that he was not ashamed of his connection to Darlington, the author cleverly insinuates otherwise. But who can blame Stevens? To be associated with a Nazi sympathizer (and one who later uses his position to politically influence trans-continental policies no less) is as damning as denying the Holocaust ever occurred. Or being chums with Bill O’Reilly. Whichever, whatever.
His behavior may be going against self-preservation and the ‘dignity’ he so passionately illustrates to his audience time and time again. He even once concludes that, yes, he had reached the level of a dignified manservant. And so in the end he is absolute, after an entire book, that Lord Darlington was indeed a kind soul, though a little misguided. His former master had the most pure of intentions (well, I thought so too actually), he was just too easily influenced. But as impressionable as he may be, I still find it hard to excuse his Antisemitism.
Apart from Darlington was Stevens’ other most precious relationship — the constrained one he shared with Miss Kenton, err, Mrs. Ben. I was most disappointed in Stevens in regards to his lack of emotional maturity. It was one thing to show a lack of care towards his dying father because of his duty as butler, but when one must read instance after instance of his failure to act… well, it just seems like he’s a tease! The stifled emotion between Stevens and Kenton were …not heart-wrenching per se, but they were incredibly infuriating. Perhaps I was too emotionally invested, but I could not help but feel anger towards his ambivalence and lack of reciprocation to, well, anything. When Kenton tries, in vain, to illicit a reaction — any sort of response — from Stevens in regards to her proposal of marriage, the fact that all Stevens can say is
“I will do my best to secure a replacement at the earliest opportunity, Miss Kenton. Now if you will excuse me, I must return upstairs” (Ishiguro 216)
I felt it was a cop-out; complete cowardice on his part. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t aware of of her emotions, even regarding at one point that their relationship had reached an “inappropiate footing” (Ishiguro 160). His regret eventually manifests in the idea that Mrs. Benn’s letter was laden with the desire to return to Darlington Hall. It turns out however that her marriage is not doomed as Stevens had hoped (yet does not admit to himself), and that she and her husband — their relationship indeed tenuous at times (on her part) — are happily awaiting the birth of their first grandchild. At the very end, Kenton explicitly voices that she often wonders what could have been, in effect, explicitly stating that she did loved Stevens (“Why??”, asks the Universe). (And please refrain from debasing my opinions solely on the fact that I am of the female gender; we are not all so controlled by our passions and romantics!)
And no, Stevens is not asexual. Though the way he presents himself may appear so, he does know about the birds and bees. Ishiguro made sure to make this apparent as a subplot in one flashback where Stevens is tasked with explaining what men and women due to the god son of his employer. Very subtle, but very smart!
It makes me sad that all Stevens has in his life is ephemeral. No family (even his father, as professional as he was as a butler, found time to start a family). No real love. Even his small fame as a distinguished butler will be forgotten as British class structure re-works itself into a better form of employment. All that remains is regret and his delusional reasoning that his impact on the world was through his fine servitude of greater men who used their greater power to influence the greater world (the idea of structure and agency and how, demonstrated with his limited agency as a member in his confined structure of lower working class).
I can only assume that ‘remains of the day’ refers to Stevens coming to terms with his life and his situation. Lord Darlington is now dead. Kenton has moved on. He is no longer young, and he certainly is not the butler he once was. There are many regrets, but he must now focus the remainder of his days looking forward and serving his new employer, Mr. Farraday.
On another note, Ishiguro has always enthralled my sister and I. He is able to so vividly describe and characterize post-War Britain and the realm of “below stairs” service despite 1) never having actually lived in that era and 2) being a Japanese immigrant. A naturalized British citizen he may be, but his Anglo-awareness I find always interesting.
When You’re in Bed, You’re Dead
Tuesdays with Morrie, 1997. Sports columnist Mitch Albom reconnects with his old college professor after he learns that the man is suffering from ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). What begins as a sympathy-ridden guilt trip down memory lane concludes as the final lesson among a myriad of life lessons taught from teacher to student.
I haven’t had the chance to sit down and write about anything I’ve read lately due to school (though I will make an effort to write about a really stellar ethnography I read recently for Cultural Anthropology). Despite the fact that I’ve two unfinished books waiting for me in the wings, I started Tuesdays on Saturday night. Albom’s bare-bone way of unfolding the pretty and the ugly facets of dying is admirable and a true delight to read, but I couldn’t get past the preachy-ness of it all. I realize this is to be an eye-opener to all the materialism and superficial lives that Americans, if not every human being on the face of the earth, lives his life, but… perhaps it is because as a member of the masses, I and my peers are force-fed such violence and righteousness that it all becomes drivel and bitter regurgitation, but I felt that the message of Tuesdays to be old and uninteresting. It was the same ol’ “live your life with no regrets; live life with love, not leverage!!”
If anything though, I realized two things. 1) Morrie is one awesome dude and 2) damn… I wish I had that sort of relationship with any of my college teachers / professors. To be able to call each other “Coach” and “Player”; to be familiar with each others’ relationships and innermost thoughts. Yes, I have a mentor, but I’ve never opened up to her as Mitch did with Morrie. Their relationship seems almost too good to be true. I know it isn’t impossible, but with the alienation and the impersonal modes in which we all operate today, such a close ‘de-facto family’ relationship seems almost like a fantasy (well, it is a fantasy for me bahaha).
Loved the way Albom interwove the 90s contemporary headlines to juxtapose the severity of Morrie’s situation (and the progression of his inner decay) with the mundane, almost pathetic cult-like, fetishism that exists within America–it’s obsession with the OJ Simpson case, babies in garbage cans, murders over homosexual admiration, etc. etc.
Overall, a good read to pass the time. Though I was not as touched as I hoped to be, Tuesdays was sweet and simplistic in language while totally complex in nature. Albom succeeds in bringing the lightness and the glow that surrounds death.
On a sidenote, I’m listening to the “Nine” soundtrack, and jesus beezus! It’s awful! Whoever arranged these songs practiced some god-fuckery beyond imagination.
Gangstas Exist in All of Us
The Gangster We Are All Looking For, 2003. A story written in an understated, simplistic form… in a way that resembles a memoir, much like a mockumentary imitating the standard style of a documentary. Thuy’s unnamed heroine travels backwards and back to rummage the ghosts of her past–the self-induced silence and internal suicide of a Vietnamese refugee, the experiences felt by an “outsider” growing up as an “insider.”
The only book I successfully completed during the month of March is Le Thi Diem Thuy’s The Gangster We Are All Looking For. I suppose it can be classified as semi-autobiographical or historical fiction; either way, it was a lovely read… decidedly my favorite for the books required for Asian class (yes, simply dubbed “Asian class”). Perhaps it was so enthralling because I can relate to the narrator on some level.
Like the author, I am of Vietnamese heritage (though I often get called out, literally, for being a Sino-Vietnamese). I, too, had to learn English as a second language, and to this day, have trouble with verbally expressing my views (my speech often slurring together disgustingly). My parents, too, long suffered from the civil war, and I believe that as a nation and as a people, the Vietnamese population can never forget the tragedies suffered. So I suppose this corresponding experience of being an Asian American has made the narrator’s emotionally-charged journey pang so much harder.
The structural order of the story is not in chronological order; Thuy jumps backward and forward in time, having her central character–an unnamed protagonist–narrate the novel in her current mindset (i.e. when she first arrives in America she describes her feelings and surroundings through the sensory influx she receives). As such, I mentally cringed when the glass cabinet shattered.
I have heard complaints in class about the lack of identifying markers–the existence of a beginning, middle, and end or the presence of a climax. Simply put, there wasn’t much of anything typical about Gangster, but at the same time, it’s been done (structurally). Readers should not take it at face value. I forgot what concept it was that expressed the idea that the whole is worth more than its parts… this is Gangster in a very broad nutshell. The vignettes tied all together… like Salvidor Dali’s Madonna (1958), one must step back and consume the work as a whole.
Akin to the archetypal indie flick, Gangster exudes a quiet, understated (and underrated… though that doesn’t always apply to film) aura. This reader only wishes that Thuy had described the trials and tribulations following the father-daughter pair’s exile from Mel’s and the appearance of the mother. How did she arrive in America?
But all in all, one of the best books I’ve read in a while… short and beautifully bittersweet.
Pimpin’ Plantation
All I Asking For is My Body, 1975. Kiyoshi Oyama and his family are modern slaves in sugar plantation-era Hawaii as they work to pay off their $6000+ debt compounded over a generation, inescapable poverty, and contractual obligations. A dual story about the cane fields and the hegemonic society that has so influenced the plight and the growth of the Asian American, All I Asking For is a psychological detail about traditional Asian conventions – with emphasis on the concept of ‘filial piety’.
Although required reading in Asian American Historical Experience class (I implore you to say that five times really quickly), I found it to be a very illuminating piece of literature. It was short and bittersweet.
In a historical, societal context, Murayama did wonders in bringing to life the experiences of indentured Japanese workers, discussing about the existence of plantation paternalism, the hierarchy and the intentional pitting of ethnicity v. ethnicity (the race relations between Japanese, Filipino, and White workers), and ersatz slavery (~$2 a day for hard labor equates to almost absolutely nothing, even if we adjusted figures for inflation) that existed not too long ago.
Despite the trials and tribulations faced by the Oyama family, what I found most touching was their family structure and, as an extension, the peek into the Japanese culture. We see Toshio, the first born son, constantly berated as an ingrate because he refuses to be subjected to working off his family’s debt. His parents demand at least 10 years of back-breaking labor before they can allow him to live his own life. And this is where the phrase / title “all I asking for my body” originates. Like a refrain, Toshio states openly that what he wants is not necessarily escape but respect and control. He not only serves his parents by helping them pay back their debt (giving them at least 20 years of his life and the lost of a higher education, which though completely and utterly off topic, brings me to mention the lovely film “An Education.” Watch it. Love it. Fall in love with a coming of age story set in ’60s England. How can you lose?) but also serves the plantation overseers. So one can interpret that socially this body belongs to his family and physically it belongs to the sugarcane fields (via family contract)… and yet it does not.
The most memorable mention, though, goes to the interpretation of Japanese-American mentality in relation to Toshio’s comment about how he was happy that all the Chinese in the Hawaiian plantations had moved on to the American mainland (revolving door migration… I can’t believe I actually absorbed details from ASA1), otherwise he would be too ashamed to face them after Japan bombed and pillaged China …was it the Rape of Nanking? I am not sure as I do not have the book by my side (else I would include quotes and references, for the hell of it).
Toshio may not be the main character of the text, but I found him to be the most compelling character in the whole novella. My only complaint is perhaps the ending with Kiyoshi (the narrator and, I suppose, the main character) amassing a large enough fortune in craps gambling to pay off the family debt — exactly $6000. In no less than 5 pages. Really, Murayama? I felt the ending (though I am happy that it’s happy) was decidedly contrived.
Lightning Bolts Aren’t Just for Harry P
The Lightning Thief, 2005. Perseus “Percy” Jackson is a problem child diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia. A native New York preteen who constantly shuffles in and out of private boarding schools, readers will be surprised to find that he is raised by his candy booth-selling ‘single’ mother and his abusive appliance salesman step-father (not to mention their permanent address is on the Upper East Side, albeit in a crappy apartment… economically impossible? I believe it’s quite a stretch). After being attacked by his mathematics teacher, Percy finds out he is a demigod—the product of a romantic love affair between his mother and (he discovers later) the sea god Poseidon. His appearance on the mythological Grecian circuit lands him framed for the theft of Zeus’ master lightning bolt, so he must clear his name and face abandonment issues amidst other life-threatening adventures that are entitled to ‘heroes’.
Before I forget to mention, Percy was attacked my his math teacher in the Greek sculpture wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art when no one is around. I’ve been lucky enough to go (fabulous, wonderful place. I would live there if it isn’t kind of spooky and cold), and the fact that the author even assumed that the place would be empty and then empty long enough for them to have a mini epic battle makes me think that he’s out. of. his. mind. The place is always packed!!
[/RL input + spazz]
This wasn’t on my ‘To-Read’ list because, not to sound like a finicky douche puppy (let’s keep the blog as clean as possible), it’s a young adult book (and yes I qualify, but the reading level isn’t college level is what I am trying to say). But to my surprise, I actually liked it. The pace was quick and the dialogue was quite clever… it had a juvenile wit appeal to it, i.e. at my age I only smiled in my mind. The vocabulary was simple and I was able finish the short novel in about 2 days, reading only before I slept.
In reference to the post title, I find that – unfortunately or not – preteen magical adventure literature could be categorized as “Before Harry” and “After Harry”. As I read, I found numerous similarities with Harreey Pottahh, i.e. a camp for Half-Bloods and other special, magical people (a la Hogwarts), locations and positioning of LARRRGE buildings in plain sight but unseen by ‘mortals’, a “we” versus “them” (yuppie normal folk) mentality, categorizing by Gods / powers in place of Hogwart Houses, etc. etc. But of course, these attributes can be attributed to any piece of magical literature. One thing I wish The Lightning Thief had in common with Harry Potter, though, is the latter’s timelessness. The former is bogged down by cultural references, topics ranging from the Amtrak, Hillary Duff, etc. etc.
Though I praise author Rick Riordan for creating an engaging piece of literature, I really wish he would make better use of his editor and trim the fat. The chapter where Percy, Grover, and Annabeth unknowingly spent four days in an arcade where time is suspended and children from different eras (i.e. the 70s) are unable to escape, I asked myself, “What the hell?” It felt completely disjointed; it had no relation with Greek gods or any other monsters that the trio delt with, leaving the only possible explanation is for readers to assume that “it’s mahjik!! durr~”
FAIL, Riordan, FAIL. Instead of making some half-assed CHOPPY scene where they are trapped for four days in a luxury arcade meant only for children (highly questionable in Vegas) filled with technology impossible even now, much less the ’70s, in order to cut four days off their deadline to retrieve Zeus’ master bolt… you could have just limited them from the start of their journey. Don’t mean to sound like a hater, but that little chapter crippled the overall story more than it already was.
Though I felt no emotional connection to the characters nor found any convincing depth, this is the first book in a series so hopefully the sequels can expand and add something more than lackluster quasi-depressing back stories. I enjoyed the short history lesson in Greek mythology and the creativity taken to update the imagery for young adults (i.e. the Underworld like an airport or Medusa as a garden-ware shop owner), but found more often than not that they were sanitized and “dumbed down” more than necessary. Was it for the children’s sake? Hopefully and perhaps. And while we’re talking about sanitized… there were some really heavy issues in the book. Abandonment, poverty, depression, loneliness, domestic violence, animal cruelty, willful murder…. and they weren’t handled very well in my opinion. I don’t want to spoil more than necessary, so I’ll leave it at that.
So to sum up: pace is good and fast (the book moves so quick that you have a hard time putting it down), characters need work lest they become archetypes*, the general structure is formulaic but they don’t call it ‘formula’ for nothing, and although I found that the impossible and the illogical outweighs the meat of the text, one should not forget that it is fantasy adventure. All in all, The Lightning Thief is an enjoyable read in one’s spare time.
*i.e. (because I’ve been drilled that assumptions are what I make with no evidence) Annabeth is the smart girl with a hard exterior but she has a troubled past and deep down she’s really just gosh darn emotional. she crushes on the betrayer until she finds out that he’s evil and quite possibly devil spawn. Her hot and cold relationship with the lead male – Percy – will become something more, blah blah blah
Can I– Did I–… What?!
Candide, 1759. The eponymous character is willfully brainwashed with the idealistic, Utopian teachings of friend and mentor, philosopher Pangloss. Upon the discovery that he is romancing his host’s daughter, the beautiful daughter Cunegonde, Candide is banished from Westphalia. Antics, adventures, and witty satire ensue.
Unfortunately for the rest of society, I did not care too much for Candide as a whole. I mean I get it. I just didn’t enjoy it or found it ‘absolutely hilarious’ (as Ms. Hermatz had put it 3 years ago). I found myself trying to over-analyze each and every little bit of detail that would be useful for a paper on topics ranging from ‘What is the significance behind Candide’s departure from El Dorado?’ to ‘What do each character in the work represent?’. It was amusing how consecutive English classes can condition you into thinking in like manner at first, but upon conclusion, I found that my effort to find deeper meaning (which there is, I am sure) took away from the overall piece.
But I digress. As literature bent on irony and biting commentary on the flaws of society, humanity, and the existence of gray amidst black and white, Candide is perfection, if not the poster child for all things satire. It was obvious, but cryptic enough to fool readers who didn’t bother to learn a little history or read the footnotes (plenty of notes might I add… to the point where I felt Candide was a vehicle for Voltaire to personally attack people on his hit list). And though I didn’t care for the book as a whole, I felt that the characters were wonderful in all their imperfect, archetypal glory. I particularly enjoyed the pessimists, or really, the realists - Cacambo, the one-butt cheek old woman, and Martin.
On more than one occasion, the titular character made me mentally cringe and want to chuck the book across the room (but then I would have to get out of bed and pick it up… and the floor is cold). Such a spendthrift! So naive (though I suppose that was the point)!! So that I may know how they react to some foolish behavior on Candide’s part was a primary reason I kept reading on.
All in all, it was a decent read. One can say that I have no taste in literature, but I disagree. I didn’t love it, but that does not mean I absolutely hated it. The pace never lagged, the characters were enigmatic and symbolic in their own right, and the ending… was fitting.
By the way, Happy Festivus~
Round is good, flat… not so much ;)
Prompt #1 (Due 11/17 by 5PM): Identify one “Round Character” (defined on pp. 17 of the reader) in James Joyce’s “The Dead” and, citing specific lines or passages from the story, explain how Joyce makes them “round” as opposed to “flat.” Do we hear about the character from other characters? From the narrator? From the action? From the character his/herself?
In literature, round characters are those that display complexity with an excess of behavioral traits. Contrastingly, flat characters are one-dimensional and never changing. Though James Joyce’s “The Dead” includes a diverse cast of personalities, none is more developed than Gabriel Conroy. On the surface, Gabriel has it all—he is educated, he is settled, and he is held in high esteem by his fellow family, but by means of the third person omniscient narrative, we as readers can peer into his stream of consciousness to expose a man who, externally content, is so much more insecure and mistaken.
Gabriel’s self-doubt and the defense mechanisms that follow demonstrate his established character. This is first seen when he instinctively decides to “pay off” Lily after his question about her love life was responded with thinly veiled offense. A Royal University-educated teacher, he belittles his own speech as “a mistake from first to last, an utter failure” due to its pretentious nature; he automatically assumes that because he is a scholar, the “grade of culture [of his company] differed from his”, despite the fact that the guests included prominent musical talents and politically correct persons (2242). While in a heated conversation with Amy Ivors, an agitated Gabriel prefers to allow his state of mind to slouch as he blinks and smiles incessantly instead of directly and assertively responding to her inquiries. He alternatively decides to direct all his vigor and annoyance to “tak[e] part in the dance with great energy” until he ultimately flees (2249). His hesitancy in trying to actively coax Gretta for a night of romance is also an instance of Gabriel’s insecurity. Though he hoped to seduce her, “he did not know where to begin”, even to the point where he wished that she would “come to him of her own accord” (2265). His failure is illuminated by his inclination to talk about acquaintances instead. It isn’t so much the fact that Gabriel is apprehensive; it is more of the fact that he is too nervous to approach his own wife.
Perhaps the most evident of Mr. Conroy’s complexity are his false impressions—by way of himself and his marriage. He seems to possess a sense of hallucinated self-importance, made apparent by his need to sit at the head of the dinner table, professing nationalism, tradition, hospitality, and progression, all with an air of dramatic (to the point that it is virtually artificial) modesty and sincerity. But more than that is his hypocrisy and, possibly by extension, his rejection of his culture. Though Gabriel says he “will not linger in the past,” he is obviously distressed and upset when his wife brings up Michael Furey (2247). Instead of voicing his true thoughts, he implores his wife to bare her soul, though he does it in a sardonic manner (and thus is somewhat hoisted by his own petard). Gabriel is also only able to confidently deliver his speech knowing that Amy Ivors was not there to scoff at his duplicity. His previous conversation with Ivors is an implication, if not reveal, of his unconscious rejection of what it means to be an Irishman—wearing galoshes (“everyone wears them on the continent”), writing for a West Briton-affiliated newspaper, and, of course, announcing “Irish is not my language” and “I’m sick of my country, sick of it!” (2243,2248).
In the end, Gabriel experiences what flat characters would only hope to—a revelation. He is betrayed by all that he thought was true. By the story’s finish, he recognizes that his wife is not who he thought she was—she has felt a passionate love that he can only wish to undergo. He acknowledges that their marriage is, in a sense, empty and void of raw emotion. In conclusion, Gabriel accepts that it is “better [to] pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age”—an epiphany that relates the suggestion that he is wasting away in his galoshes, his self-deprecation, his lack of pride in where he came from (2268).
