When reading "Thirst" and "In The Penal Colony," the first thing I noticed was the lack of names given to the main characters. In "Thirst," the commander and his wife remain nameless, while in "Penal Colony," the officer, the explorer, the convict, and the soldier are unnamed. At first glance, this seems trivial, a pointless point, yet when you look deeper, it is what makes the story a universal study on human character, instead of just a story.
Think of it this way. If the commander's was named Hank, and his wife Linda, then it would be a story about Hank and Linda, and how they would react in such circumstances. But because they are simply 'the commander' and 'the commander's wife,' this becomes a story about anyone. They could be anyone, you, a friend, anyone. How would a human react? Not Hank, not Linda, but any human being.
The same situation occurs in "Penal Colony," with the explorer, officer, and company. We have multiple character archetypes here, each sharing a completely different point of view. Again, because of the lack of names, this becomes not a "what would Jack do?" situation, but instead, a "What would you do? What would humanity do?" situation. When the explorer struggles with his conscience, it is not 'Rick' struggling, it's any human being. It could be you.
That's the beauty of this stories. They make you stop and think about what you would do in a similar situation. Not Rick, not Jack, not Linda--what would YOU do. And that is a difficult question to ponder. What would you do.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Formalist Theory
The formalist theory looks at works of literature based on craft, that is, how the story is put together. They look at things like character, plot, setting, and point of view to analyze the work. The main thought behind it is that everything, every word, comma, and apostrophe was used by choice, specifically put there by the author for a reason.
The first set of stories we had to analyze in this fashion were from France (as this is also our international stories unit). The first I quite enjoyed, "The Other Wife," by Colette, and "The Necklace," by Guy de Maupassant. Unfortunately for me, this blog is supposed to be on "The Necklace," as we discussed "The Other Wife" at length in class.
Let me say that I am not a fan of this story. I had to read it in my ninth grade English class as an explanation of irony, and while it is an incredible example of this, it's not a style of story I am fond of. I do not care for dramatic irony, as I feel that the problems it causes could easily be solved by simple common sense.
Anyway, "The Necklace" we are to discuss so "The Necklace" I shall talk about. I'm just going to focus on one part of it, to make this as painless as possible--the words, more importantly, the imagery. Maupassant uses a blend of juxtaposed words to cast a sharp distinction between Madame Loisel's real life, and her imagined. This shows the audience exactly how much she longs for riches, how much she craves it. Phrases like "She suffered endlessly...from the poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly curtains. All these things...tormented and insulted her (The Necklace, page 1)," phrases like these show poor Madame's life.
Her imaginings, however, are filled with richness. Take this phrase, for example. "She imagined vast saloons hung with antique silks, exquisite pieces of furniture supporting priceless ornaments..." Even with this one small sentence, we are given access to Madame's mind, to her dreams, and they are truly wondrous.
If not for the words Maupassant chose, this distinction would not be so glaring, and the entire point of the story would be lost.
The first set of stories we had to analyze in this fashion were from France (as this is also our international stories unit). The first I quite enjoyed, "The Other Wife," by Colette, and "The Necklace," by Guy de Maupassant. Unfortunately for me, this blog is supposed to be on "The Necklace," as we discussed "The Other Wife" at length in class.
Let me say that I am not a fan of this story. I had to read it in my ninth grade English class as an explanation of irony, and while it is an incredible example of this, it's not a style of story I am fond of. I do not care for dramatic irony, as I feel that the problems it causes could easily be solved by simple common sense.
Anyway, "The Necklace" we are to discuss so "The Necklace" I shall talk about. I'm just going to focus on one part of it, to make this as painless as possible--the words, more importantly, the imagery. Maupassant uses a blend of juxtaposed words to cast a sharp distinction between Madame Loisel's real life, and her imagined. This shows the audience exactly how much she longs for riches, how much she craves it. Phrases like "She suffered endlessly...from the poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly curtains. All these things...tormented and insulted her (The Necklace, page 1)," phrases like these show poor Madame's life.
Her imaginings, however, are filled with richness. Take this phrase, for example. "She imagined vast saloons hung with antique silks, exquisite pieces of furniture supporting priceless ornaments..." Even with this one small sentence, we are given access to Madame's mind, to her dreams, and they are truly wondrous.
If not for the words Maupassant chose, this distinction would not be so glaring, and the entire point of the story would be lost.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
1990
1990s
Now we move into my decade. I was a 90s baby, although you wouldn't know it to look at my childhood (me being homeschooled and all), but I digress. We had three stories this time around, by Pam Houston, Lorrie Moore, and Carolyn Ferrell. We discussed the Lorrie Moore and Carolyn Ferrell stories at length in class, so I am going to focus this blog on the Pam Houston one, "The Best Girlfriend You Never Had."
Like the other stories of this decade, "The Best Girlfriend You Never Had" focuses mainly on relationships. Not just romantic relationships, but all types--parent and child, husband and wife, woman and lover--many different kinds. It also deals with the topic of unrequited love, as all of the characters in the story are dealing with some form of it. The main character, Lucy, talks at length about the relationship with her parents, her father especially. There's a scene in particular where Lucy is talking about a car ride with her parents that illustrates this perfectly (pgs 783-784). She is driving, and gets pulled over. Her father proceeds to totally humiliate her in front of the officer.
Another scene, on page 781, explains her childhood. She describes 16 car accidents she was in with her parents, and how they would fight so much that a young neighbor girl took Lucy and refused to give her back, even when the police came with a warrant. There is something very strong about how it's written, something realistic, and when we look at Pam Houston's biography, we realize that it is realistic. Houston's life directly reflected what she wrote. Houston was in upwards of 15 car accidents with her drunken parents, and would be thrown from the car only to have her parents stand and fight while she cowered beside the wreckage. This is all illustrated in her story, all of it.
In my opinion, out of all the stories we read, this one demonstrates the import of biographical criticism the best.
Now we move into my decade. I was a 90s baby, although you wouldn't know it to look at my childhood (me being homeschooled and all), but I digress. We had three stories this time around, by Pam Houston, Lorrie Moore, and Carolyn Ferrell. We discussed the Lorrie Moore and Carolyn Ferrell stories at length in class, so I am going to focus this blog on the Pam Houston one, "The Best Girlfriend You Never Had."
Like the other stories of this decade, "The Best Girlfriend You Never Had" focuses mainly on relationships. Not just romantic relationships, but all types--parent and child, husband and wife, woman and lover--many different kinds. It also deals with the topic of unrequited love, as all of the characters in the story are dealing with some form of it. The main character, Lucy, talks at length about the relationship with her parents, her father especially. There's a scene in particular where Lucy is talking about a car ride with her parents that illustrates this perfectly (pgs 783-784). She is driving, and gets pulled over. Her father proceeds to totally humiliate her in front of the officer.
Another scene, on page 781, explains her childhood. She describes 16 car accidents she was in with her parents, and how they would fight so much that a young neighbor girl took Lucy and refused to give her back, even when the police came with a warrant. There is something very strong about how it's written, something realistic, and when we look at Pam Houston's biography, we realize that it is realistic. Houston's life directly reflected what she wrote. Houston was in upwards of 15 car accidents with her drunken parents, and would be thrown from the car only to have her parents stand and fight while she cowered beside the wreckage. This is all illustrated in her story, all of it.
In my opinion, out of all the stories we read, this one demonstrates the import of biographical criticism the best.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
1980s Part Two
1980s Part Two:
We had two stories to read for the latter half of the 1980s, "Janus," by Ann Beattie, and "The Way We Live Now," by Susan Sontag. They were both interesting, but very different.
"Janus" is the story of a woman and her bowl. Well, that's the the short version. The main character, Andrea, is a rather singular woman, a real estate agent, who has an obsessive relationship with this ceramic bowl that her lover had purchased for her at a flea market. And yet, if one looks closer, the bowl isn't just an object, nor is it the meaning of the story.
Ann Beattie wrote this story shortly after a divorce and remarriage. When she remarried, her stories changed, moving from the darker stories that anticipated her divorce to slightly more optimistic tales. "Janus" was written after her divorce, and is a story about a woman who lives an abnormal lifestyle, one that is not common to her time, yet she is satisfied.
This is compared to "The Way We Live Now," which also is about lifestyles, only this story is about lives that are affected by AIDS and HIV. Before I go any further, I must mention that Susan Sontag loved getting people riled up. Her stories focused on pressing social issues, and this story is no different. It doesn't just write about someone with HIV, it connects all the people involved. It writes, not from the point of view of the victim, but from a 3rd person omniscient point, showing the minds of everyone through dialogue, showing the backstabbing, the cattiness that goes on behind the scenes. It is a political statement, one designed to cause a commotion, and that is exactly what Sontag intended. A commotion.
We had two stories to read for the latter half of the 1980s, "Janus," by Ann Beattie, and "The Way We Live Now," by Susan Sontag. They were both interesting, but very different.
"Janus" is the story of a woman and her bowl. Well, that's the the short version. The main character, Andrea, is a rather singular woman, a real estate agent, who has an obsessive relationship with this ceramic bowl that her lover had purchased for her at a flea market. And yet, if one looks closer, the bowl isn't just an object, nor is it the meaning of the story.
Ann Beattie wrote this story shortly after a divorce and remarriage. When she remarried, her stories changed, moving from the darker stories that anticipated her divorce to slightly more optimistic tales. "Janus" was written after her divorce, and is a story about a woman who lives an abnormal lifestyle, one that is not common to her time, yet she is satisfied.
This is compared to "The Way We Live Now," which also is about lifestyles, only this story is about lives that are affected by AIDS and HIV. Before I go any further, I must mention that Susan Sontag loved getting people riled up. Her stories focused on pressing social issues, and this story is no different. It doesn't just write about someone with HIV, it connects all the people involved. It writes, not from the point of view of the victim, but from a 3rd person omniscient point, showing the minds of everyone through dialogue, showing the backstabbing, the cattiness that goes on behind the scenes. It is a political statement, one designed to cause a commotion, and that is exactly what Sontag intended. A commotion.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
1980s
1980's Part One:
At first glance, these stories seem unconnected, and from a textual point of view, perhaps they are. But when you look at the author's lives, you realize that the connection is there, with the writers. John Updike, author of "Gesturing," wrote in an autobiography that art, sex, and religion are the "secret things" of life. Is it a wonder then that he chose to write a story about them?
Sex is the more prevalent theme, yet art as well makes a play, but not in the way one would think. Take another look at the title--Gesturing. Amid the sexual tensions between Joan, Richard, and Ruth, is the prevalent mention of Gesturing. That is the art form he refers to. There is something so poetic about how he describes the gestures, especially in the last paragraph, when he says "...with a gesture akin to the gentle clap in the car a world ago...the motion was eager, shy, exquisite, diffident, trusting..."
That is art in its most basic form, the art of human gesture.
In the second story, "The Shawl," by Cynthia Orzick, we are faced with an entirely different situation. Orzick was Jewish, and her focus was on the post holocaust world. Her stories reflect this, and "The Shawl" is no different.
Finally, we have Raymond Carver and his story "Where I'm Calling From." Carver suffered through alcoholism, and this particular story was written shortly after he received treatment for it. Again, the theme directly reflects the author's life. That is the connection betwixt the three stories--the effect of the author's lives.
At first glance, these stories seem unconnected, and from a textual point of view, perhaps they are. But when you look at the author's lives, you realize that the connection is there, with the writers. John Updike, author of "Gesturing," wrote in an autobiography that art, sex, and religion are the "secret things" of life. Is it a wonder then that he chose to write a story about them?
Sex is the more prevalent theme, yet art as well makes a play, but not in the way one would think. Take another look at the title--Gesturing. Amid the sexual tensions between Joan, Richard, and Ruth, is the prevalent mention of Gesturing. That is the art form he refers to. There is something so poetic about how he describes the gestures, especially in the last paragraph, when he says "...with a gesture akin to the gentle clap in the car a world ago...the motion was eager, shy, exquisite, diffident, trusting..."
That is art in its most basic form, the art of human gesture.
In the second story, "The Shawl," by Cynthia Orzick, we are faced with an entirely different situation. Orzick was Jewish, and her focus was on the post holocaust world. Her stories reflect this, and "The Shawl" is no different.
Finally, we have Raymond Carver and his story "Where I'm Calling From." Carver suffered through alcoholism, and this particular story was written shortly after he received treatment for it. Again, the theme directly reflects the author's life. That is the connection betwixt the three stories--the effect of the author's lives.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The 70s
I must apologize for the delay in posting this--I had a week of personal crises, and could barely wrap my head around reading anything, much less processing it. However, my head is clear, the crises are over, and here goes!
We read three stories for the 1970s--"Roses, Rhododendron," by Alice Adams; "Verona: A Young Woman Speaks," by Harold Brodkey, and "How To Win," by Rosellen Brown. What struck me as I was reading was the prevalent theme of childhood. Each story was centered around children, their lives, and the interactions between children and parents.
To begin, let's look at "How To Win." In this story, a mother is faced with the grave difficulty of having a child with autism. During the 1970s, schools finally began introducing IEPS, that is to say, Individualized Education Plans, to help the lesser-functioning students make their way through school. This was a novel thought at the time--no one had taken any interest in these children before. The struggle this poor mother has with her child is a direct reflection of the difficulties of the time...there were no supports like there are now, and parents had to make do on their own. Education about the disorder was lax as well, as is evidenced by the father's comment on pages 511 and 514. He is of the 'boys will be boys' notion, and seems to disregard the fact that his son has a justifiable developmental disorder.
The remaining two stories are not pertaining to the first in terms of disorder, but only in terms of childhood. Each story, in fact, has a completely unique view on it, although some parallels can be drawn between the last two, to describe the relationship a girl has with her mother. I digress (again), however, so back to the point.
"Roses, Rhododendron" is the story of a young girl who's mother is a little, shall we say, flighty. She moves her daughter to North Carolina based on the whims of a Ouija board, and sets up shop dealing antiques. The daughter becomes close friends with a local family, despite her mother's jealousies. However, when she goes off to college, she loses touch with her friend, only to reconnect with her at the very end of the story.
What strikes me the most with this piece, is the author's ability to describe the mind of a child perfectly. When the girl witnesses a fight between her friends parents, she forgets about it, just like any other child who refuses to accept that their world is less than they desire it. When she loses contact with her friend, she builds a world around her, nearly idolizing her, only to discover that her friend had done the same with her.
The final story, "Verona: A Young Woman Speaks," is narrated by a very young girl who is traveling with her parents in Europe. The time period is set quite before the 70s, probably even before WWII, but it is not specified. The girl is having the time of her life, as is the whole family, yet the dynamics are fascinating. The father is the material parent, relying on presents and trips to solidify his place in his daughter's life. The mother on the other hand, with her strong personality, is simply the girl's Momma. There is a beautiful scene on the last page which demonstrates this, where the girl and her mother are on a train, simply looking out at the scenery passing them by. The father doesn't recognize the beauty, and goes back to sleep, but the girl, snuggled in her mother's arms, is happy (pg. 538).
The similarities between these stories, the theme of childhood and family dynamics, are closely related to some issues during the 70s. Families were being redefined by the prevalence of technology, and even close family ties were changing. It's no wonder then, that family played a large part in the literature of the decade.
We read three stories for the 1970s--"Roses, Rhododendron," by Alice Adams; "Verona: A Young Woman Speaks," by Harold Brodkey, and "How To Win," by Rosellen Brown. What struck me as I was reading was the prevalent theme of childhood. Each story was centered around children, their lives, and the interactions between children and parents.
To begin, let's look at "How To Win." In this story, a mother is faced with the grave difficulty of having a child with autism. During the 1970s, schools finally began introducing IEPS, that is to say, Individualized Education Plans, to help the lesser-functioning students make their way through school. This was a novel thought at the time--no one had taken any interest in these children before. The struggle this poor mother has with her child is a direct reflection of the difficulties of the time...there were no supports like there are now, and parents had to make do on their own. Education about the disorder was lax as well, as is evidenced by the father's comment on pages 511 and 514. He is of the 'boys will be boys' notion, and seems to disregard the fact that his son has a justifiable developmental disorder.
The remaining two stories are not pertaining to the first in terms of disorder, but only in terms of childhood. Each story, in fact, has a completely unique view on it, although some parallels can be drawn between the last two, to describe the relationship a girl has with her mother. I digress (again), however, so back to the point.
"Roses, Rhododendron" is the story of a young girl who's mother is a little, shall we say, flighty. She moves her daughter to North Carolina based on the whims of a Ouija board, and sets up shop dealing antiques. The daughter becomes close friends with a local family, despite her mother's jealousies. However, when she goes off to college, she loses touch with her friend, only to reconnect with her at the very end of the story.
What strikes me the most with this piece, is the author's ability to describe the mind of a child perfectly. When the girl witnesses a fight between her friends parents, she forgets about it, just like any other child who refuses to accept that their world is less than they desire it. When she loses contact with her friend, she builds a world around her, nearly idolizing her, only to discover that her friend had done the same with her.
The final story, "Verona: A Young Woman Speaks," is narrated by a very young girl who is traveling with her parents in Europe. The time period is set quite before the 70s, probably even before WWII, but it is not specified. The girl is having the time of her life, as is the whole family, yet the dynamics are fascinating. The father is the material parent, relying on presents and trips to solidify his place in his daughter's life. The mother on the other hand, with her strong personality, is simply the girl's Momma. There is a beautiful scene on the last page which demonstrates this, where the girl and her mother are on a train, simply looking out at the scenery passing them by. The father doesn't recognize the beauty, and goes back to sleep, but the girl, snuggled in her mother's arms, is happy (pg. 538).
The similarities between these stories, the theme of childhood and family dynamics, are closely related to some issues during the 70s. Families were being redefined by the prevalence of technology, and even close family ties were changing. It's no wonder then, that family played a large part in the literature of the decade.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Ledge
*Apologies in advance for the sarcasm*
Oh my, where on earth do I start with this one. First off, can anyone say depressing? Holy crap! Every single story we read this week was abysmally depressing--from suicide, to wartime, to this. I'm sorry, but I fail to see the point of this level of depression. Of course, I am fully aware of the blinders I wear--I definitely prefer happy endings with rainbows and unicorns and fluffy kittens. Yeah, just kidding. I used to, though. In fact, I used to shun anything with even a remotely sad ending. Now, on the other hand, I am proud to say I can recognize the worth of a depressing ending, and when you look at this story in the context of history, it becomes even clearer.
"The Ledge" was written in 1960, by Lawrence Sargent Hall, and is the story of a grizzled fisherman who takes his son and nephew duck hunting on Christmas morning. And there ends any inkling of a happy story. Yes, they do have a slightly heart-warming "bonding" moment out there on the ledge, their hunt being incredibly successful. We can tell that the fisherman cares about the boys, although he has difficulty showing it, but still, the entire attitude of the text is harsh and frigid. It doesn't help that in the end, the skiff drifts off to sea, and the entire party freezes to death. Well, the fisherman does--the boys' bodies are never found.
I had to take a minute to think about this one, and finally realized that in historical context, the depressing ending is justified. It was in the start of the 60s that the horror of WWII was processed, and a lot of this came about with a blossoming of realistic fiction. Of course, I don't know who decided that 'realistic' had to mean 'depressing' but oh well. Everyone needs time to process, and that is what these stories are. They are processing the events of the previous war, as well as the impending horrors of Vietnam. Granted, the events of this story take place before the inklings of Vietnam, but as a cultural thing, many stories in this decade were influenced by it.
And enough with the history, let's take a look at the author. This connection is pretty straight-laced--Lawrence Sargent Hall spent a good portion of his life running a marina on the coast of Maine, and was quite concerned with how humans deal with situations under pressure, and he tended to write about gruff "manly men" in his stories. Anyone catch the similarities? Hall's life on the coast and his love for the sea was his inspiration, it is no wonder that his stories reflect this. I feel every writer does this--creates a story to either illustrate an inspiration or to cope with an emotion. In Hall's case, I believe it was to illustrate an inspiration...his love for the sea and his fascination with human behavior.
Oh my, where on earth do I start with this one. First off, can anyone say depressing? Holy crap! Every single story we read this week was abysmally depressing--from suicide, to wartime, to this. I'm sorry, but I fail to see the point of this level of depression. Of course, I am fully aware of the blinders I wear--I definitely prefer happy endings with rainbows and unicorns and fluffy kittens. Yeah, just kidding. I used to, though. In fact, I used to shun anything with even a remotely sad ending. Now, on the other hand, I am proud to say I can recognize the worth of a depressing ending, and when you look at this story in the context of history, it becomes even clearer.
"The Ledge" was written in 1960, by Lawrence Sargent Hall, and is the story of a grizzled fisherman who takes his son and nephew duck hunting on Christmas morning. And there ends any inkling of a happy story. Yes, they do have a slightly heart-warming "bonding" moment out there on the ledge, their hunt being incredibly successful. We can tell that the fisherman cares about the boys, although he has difficulty showing it, but still, the entire attitude of the text is harsh and frigid. It doesn't help that in the end, the skiff drifts off to sea, and the entire party freezes to death. Well, the fisherman does--the boys' bodies are never found.
I had to take a minute to think about this one, and finally realized that in historical context, the depressing ending is justified. It was in the start of the 60s that the horror of WWII was processed, and a lot of this came about with a blossoming of realistic fiction. Of course, I don't know who decided that 'realistic' had to mean 'depressing' but oh well. Everyone needs time to process, and that is what these stories are. They are processing the events of the previous war, as well as the impending horrors of Vietnam. Granted, the events of this story take place before the inklings of Vietnam, but as a cultural thing, many stories in this decade were influenced by it.
And enough with the history, let's take a look at the author. This connection is pretty straight-laced--Lawrence Sargent Hall spent a good portion of his life running a marina on the coast of Maine, and was quite concerned with how humans deal with situations under pressure, and he tended to write about gruff "manly men" in his stories. Anyone catch the similarities? Hall's life on the coast and his love for the sea was his inspiration, it is no wonder that his stories reflect this. I feel every writer does this--creates a story to either illustrate an inspiration or to cope with an emotion. In Hall's case, I believe it was to illustrate an inspiration...his love for the sea and his fascination with human behavior.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Miami-New York
This was my favorite story of all of them, but strangely I am having a difficult time deciding what to say about it. Well, I suppose I can start with the author. Martha Gellhorn was first described to me as "kinda badass" and I wholeheartedly agree with this assessment. She was a little pistol, passionate about her work, her life, and her lovers. She was most famous for her war-time correspondence, if fact, it was said that her correspondences were even better than Ernest Hemingway's. Interestingly enough, she ended up marrying him, although it did not last long due to the potency of their personalities.
It is not surprising, then, that this passionate woman of great strength and many lovers would write a story such as "Miami-New York." A woman in a loveless marriage meets a young officer on a plane, and in the darkness of the red-eye flight, they share an interlude of passion and intimacy. Not fated to last, this interlude is cut short by the realizations of who they are--the woman realizes the officer is young, merely 24, while he realizes that she is actually 35. They maintain a slightly awkward conversation while the flight finishes up, then part ways at the airport, never to meet again. I must admit, given Gellhorn's passionate nature, it makes me wonder if a chance meeting in her life turned into something more torrid, then faded with the morning's light.
It was the poignancy of this story that struck me the most...a woman trapped in a marriage she is unsure about, saddled with a husband who (she believes) loves her not. Is it no surprise then that she falls for the sensual hands and brooding features of the young officer? I think about how this would be different if she had a good relationship with her husband...if her mind was full of tender memories, reassurances of love and devotion, would she have even looked twice at John Hanley? I doubt it. I doubt he would have seen the vulnerability in her features, the need to be thoroughly kissed. And that is where I feel the point Martha Gellhorn was making. She was a woman who had many relationships, many of which simply did not work out. Perhaps this is her message of validation to women in Kate Merlin's situation. Perhaps she is encouraging them to be free, to live their own life, and society be damned.
It is not surprising, then, that this passionate woman of great strength and many lovers would write a story such as "Miami-New York." A woman in a loveless marriage meets a young officer on a plane, and in the darkness of the red-eye flight, they share an interlude of passion and intimacy. Not fated to last, this interlude is cut short by the realizations of who they are--the woman realizes the officer is young, merely 24, while he realizes that she is actually 35. They maintain a slightly awkward conversation while the flight finishes up, then part ways at the airport, never to meet again. I must admit, given Gellhorn's passionate nature, it makes me wonder if a chance meeting in her life turned into something more torrid, then faded with the morning's light.
It was the poignancy of this story that struck me the most...a woman trapped in a marriage she is unsure about, saddled with a husband who (she believes) loves her not. Is it no surprise then that she falls for the sensual hands and brooding features of the young officer? I think about how this would be different if she had a good relationship with her husband...if her mind was full of tender memories, reassurances of love and devotion, would she have even looked twice at John Hanley? I doubt it. I doubt he would have seen the vulnerability in her features, the need to be thoroughly kissed. And that is where I feel the point Martha Gellhorn was making. She was a woman who had many relationships, many of which simply did not work out. Perhaps this is her message of validation to women in Kate Merlin's situation. Perhaps she is encouraging them to be free, to live their own life, and society be damned.
The Hitch-Hikers & The Peach Stone
A question was brought up in class regarding "The Hitch-Hikers," by Eudora Welty. It asked how the concept of hospitality changed in the 40s, and how this affected the story. In the 30s, with the Great Depression, things were much more conservative and isolationist. With the advent of WWII, America became much closer-knit, standing strong together.
his affects the story in a simple way. The hitch-hikers. Harris picks them up because they're clearly not bums (page 3). Nowadays, one would hardly ever pick up a hitch-hiker, back then, it was fairly common. Even with the party later on, Harris is invited over, even though he may not have seen Ruth in ages (page 7). Five years ago, this may not have happened, not that there were many parties going on then.
Paul Horgan, the author of "The Peach Stone," loved the West. He moved out there, and most of his stories take place there as well. His stories usually revolve around the characters and there development, and this story is no different. It starts with a family on a trip. This is not a happy trip, though. The family is on their way to their hometown to bury the body of their dead daughter in the family graveyard. In keeping with Horgan's style, the family, the mother especially, moves from pure grief to the glimmer of hope for the future.
The story is truly a an insight into small-town Western life, complete with the character who went East to study, and came back to teach. Arleen Latcher has a superiority complex to rival Emperor Palpatine (forgive m\y geeky reference). She's a hyper-religious, stuck-up snob, basically. Everything she says brings the attention to herself, and most of it casts her in the role of a Christian martyr (page 232). But then again, what world would be complete without a character like that?
his affects the story in a simple way. The hitch-hikers. Harris picks them up because they're clearly not bums (page 3). Nowadays, one would hardly ever pick up a hitch-hiker, back then, it was fairly common. Even with the party later on, Harris is invited over, even though he may not have seen Ruth in ages (page 7). Five years ago, this may not have happened, not that there were many parties going on then.
Paul Horgan, the author of "The Peach Stone," loved the West. He moved out there, and most of his stories take place there as well. His stories usually revolve around the characters and there development, and this story is no different. It starts with a family on a trip. This is not a happy trip, though. The family is on their way to their hometown to bury the body of their dead daughter in the family graveyard. In keeping with Horgan's style, the family, the mother especially, moves from pure grief to the glimmer of hope for the future.
The story is truly a an insight into small-town Western life, complete with the character who went East to study, and came back to teach. Arleen Latcher has a superiority complex to rival Emperor Palpatine (forgive m\y geeky reference). She's a hyper-religious, stuck-up snob, basically. Everything she says brings the attention to herself, and most of it casts her in the role of a Christian martyr (page 232). But then again, what world would be complete without a character like that?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Here We Are
I'm going to try and keep this post fairly short, simply because if I try to tackle everything that's going on in this story, I'll never leave my laptop. Instead, I'm simply going to tackle one prevalent theme: the lack of self confidence in the characters on the subject of marriage, a theme that ties directly into the history of the time, simply by addressing marriage in this light. The story was written just after the great stock market crash, and it takes place in a time where women are coming into their own, and family values are being stressed by the economics of the Great Depression. Everything in that time was uncertain, an uncertainty that is reflected by the characters of this story.
We have two main characters, a bride and groom, who remain unnamed. They have only been married for 2 hours and 26 minutes, and both are nervous about their decision, the bride more so. Their nerves are in different areas, though. The bride is concerned about the marriage itself, in fact, she brings it up right away, talking about how many people think about marriage "Just as if it wasn't anything." (page 128, line 21) This becomes a common thread, and one can infer from the text that she is freaking out about her decision. She doesn't know the first thing about marriage, a fact that becomes clear when her new husband begins alluding to the wedding night (page 132-133). She talks about having to write letters, and wanting to go to sleep, while her poor husband is beginning to despair of ever being "married" in his sense of the word.
The husband's nerves stem from not knowing how to handle his new wife. He tries to soothe the discussion when she begins to panic, but it only escalates, until he is frustrated as well. He mentions that her friend Louise looked pretty at the wedding (page 129), little knowing that it would spark a debate that lasts for 3 whole pages.
Finally, in the very end, they decide to put it all behind them and start over. One would like to think that it would work out, but I highly doubt it.
We have two main characters, a bride and groom, who remain unnamed. They have only been married for 2 hours and 26 minutes, and both are nervous about their decision, the bride more so. Their nerves are in different areas, though. The bride is concerned about the marriage itself, in fact, she brings it up right away, talking about how many people think about marriage "Just as if it wasn't anything." (page 128, line 21) This becomes a common thread, and one can infer from the text that she is freaking out about her decision. She doesn't know the first thing about marriage, a fact that becomes clear when her new husband begins alluding to the wedding night (page 132-133). She talks about having to write letters, and wanting to go to sleep, while her poor husband is beginning to despair of ever being "married" in his sense of the word.
The husband's nerves stem from not knowing how to handle his new wife. He tries to soothe the discussion when she begins to panic, but it only escalates, until he is frustrated as well. He mentions that her friend Louise looked pretty at the wedding (page 129), little knowing that it would spark a debate that lasts for 3 whole pages.
Finally, in the very end, they decide to put it all behind them and start over. One would like to think that it would work out, but I highly doubt it.
That Evening the Sun Go Down
"That Evening Sun Go Down"
William Faulkner was an old Southern gentlemen from an old Southern family. This is evident in his works, which show a small Southern county and its transition from the old days to the new. In his story "That Evening Sun Go Down," this theme is prevalent.
"That Evening Sun Go Down" takes place 15 years prior to 1931, and depicts a wealthy Southern family and the Negros who live on their land. It's not a happy tale, per se, but instead one where fear runs rampant. But I digress. The point I wish to make, is that Faulkner casts a sharp contrast between the values of the Old South, and the changing values of the current times. He makes constant references to the differences between "whites" and "niggers," most markedly by the children in the story, saying "You were scairder than Frony. You were scairder than T.P. even. You were scairder than a nigger." (page 115, lines 27-28)
These are the white children saying this, comparing their younger brother to something clearly inferior. The youngest, Jason, vehemently denies this association, multiple times throughout the story, saying quite firmly, "I ain't a nigger." (page 117, line 29).
The "niggers" also make this distinction, most notably a line by the character Jubah, discussing how the white man can enter his home and it ceases to be Jubah's property (page 113, lines 29-33). Nancy too, makes comments about it--every page is chock-full of racial statements, so clearly defining the line between blacks and whites.
One might argue that Faulkner doesn't even bother to make a distinction between old and new values, that he simply glorifies the old values and makes no mention of the new. This assumption would be incorrect. The distinction is made in the first paragraph, when Faulkner is discussing life today (and by today, I mean 1931). He makes constant use of the word "now," distinguishing this part of the story from the rest. He draws a line, saying "...even the Negro women who still take in white people's washing after the old custom, fetch and deliver it in automobiles." He is stating quite clearly that even in this small Southern town, the dynamics have started to change. "Negros" have automobiles, and are no longer held to the same class level as they once were.
That is the distinction he makes. That is the contrast between old and new.
William Faulkner was an old Southern gentlemen from an old Southern family. This is evident in his works, which show a small Southern county and its transition from the old days to the new. In his story "That Evening Sun Go Down," this theme is prevalent.
"That Evening Sun Go Down" takes place 15 years prior to 1931, and depicts a wealthy Southern family and the Negros who live on their land. It's not a happy tale, per se, but instead one where fear runs rampant. But I digress. The point I wish to make, is that Faulkner casts a sharp contrast between the values of the Old South, and the changing values of the current times. He makes constant references to the differences between "whites" and "niggers," most markedly by the children in the story, saying "You were scairder than Frony. You were scairder than T.P. even. You were scairder than a nigger." (page 115, lines 27-28)
These are the white children saying this, comparing their younger brother to something clearly inferior. The youngest, Jason, vehemently denies this association, multiple times throughout the story, saying quite firmly, "I ain't a nigger." (page 117, line 29).
The "niggers" also make this distinction, most notably a line by the character Jubah, discussing how the white man can enter his home and it ceases to be Jubah's property (page 113, lines 29-33). Nancy too, makes comments about it--every page is chock-full of racial statements, so clearly defining the line between blacks and whites.
One might argue that Faulkner doesn't even bother to make a distinction between old and new values, that he simply glorifies the old values and makes no mention of the new. This assumption would be incorrect. The distinction is made in the first paragraph, when Faulkner is discussing life today (and by today, I mean 1931). He makes constant use of the word "now," distinguishing this part of the story from the rest. He draws a line, saying "...even the Negro women who still take in white people's washing after the old custom, fetch and deliver it in automobiles." He is stating quite clearly that even in this small Southern town, the dynamics have started to change. "Negros" have automobiles, and are no longer held to the same class level as they once were.
That is the distinction he makes. That is the contrast between old and new.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The 1920s
We read two stories from the 1920s--"Blood-Burning Moon," by Jean Toomer, and "The Killers," by Ernest Hemingway. I must confess, "Blood-Burning Moon" was definitely my favorite. While I admire Hemingway for his works, he is not my favorite author. I much prefer the lyrical beauty of Toomer's work to the austerity of Hemingway's. But that is mere personal preference, so now on with the point of this post. Because we didn't have time to finish it up in class, we are to use this post to answer two questions about the stories.
Firstly, we are to examine a line from "Blood-Burning Moon," and opine on why Toomer used the words he did. The quote is as follows.
"She was worth it. Beautiful nigger gal. Why nigger? Why not, just gal? No, it was because she was a nigger that he went to her."
I had a difficult time with this quote at first, unsure of how to answer it. Why does Bob Stone go to Louisa because she is "a nigger." I had to look at other passages to finally understand, and the one that stuck in my head was on pages 63-64, where Bob Stone is having an internal monologue about Louisa.
He is fighting with himself, fighting with the old Southern values and the new. He talks about Louisa from a master's point of view, talks about "taking her" with no pretense, "direct, honest, bold," but then merely a few sentences later, he blushes at the thought of his family knowing. He blushes--such a soft word for such a tense monologue. Why is that word chosen? It's a tender word, couldn't Toomer have used "colored?" His face colored at the thought? Perhaps even reddened, or heated...why blushed?
He used it for the same reason that he used the word "love" on page 64. "He was going to see Louisa tonight, and love her." Despite all his internal arguments, Bob Stone is in love with Louisa. She represents something he could never find with a white girl. She is dark and exotic, forbidden. She satisfies his need for power, after all, he is a white man, and she is only a "nigger gal." In that time, in that culture, he could do anything he wanted. Yet he chooses not to. He chooses to meet her in the canebrake, to sneak around and respect her need for secrecy.
Why? Because he cares for her.
Our second question is from "The Killers," by Ernest Hemingway. We are to discuss what Hemingway is telling/showing his audience about life in the 1920s. My answer was actually rather succinct.
The mob is everywhere. The 1920s were not all about flappers and speakeasies, they were also a dangerous time to be in. The rise of organized crime coupled with the prevalence of automobiles made the world a dangerous place to be. If you got into trouble, then the mob would surely track you down, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. You might as well make like Old Andreson and just plain old give up.
To be a little more in depth, he also almost glorifies the mobsters. They are the hardened criminals, while the other characters in the story are mere wet-behind-ears lads. They're naive and effeminate, and are treated as such by the author. He berates them, makes fun of them, and continuously treats them like idiots, a classic move for Hemingway.
There is also the element of racism, as is evidenced by the introduction of Sam, the diner's cook. It actually takes a good 17 lines to establish the fact that "the nigger" has a name.
To sum up, Hemingway has established a world where fear is a part of life. There are new methods of crime, and new avenues in which crime can be carried out. No matter where you are or how far you run, they will track you down and kill you.
Sure sounds like a fun place to be, if you ask me.
Firstly, we are to examine a line from "Blood-Burning Moon," and opine on why Toomer used the words he did. The quote is as follows.
"She was worth it. Beautiful nigger gal. Why nigger? Why not, just gal? No, it was because she was a nigger that he went to her."
I had a difficult time with this quote at first, unsure of how to answer it. Why does Bob Stone go to Louisa because she is "a nigger." I had to look at other passages to finally understand, and the one that stuck in my head was on pages 63-64, where Bob Stone is having an internal monologue about Louisa.
He is fighting with himself, fighting with the old Southern values and the new. He talks about Louisa from a master's point of view, talks about "taking her" with no pretense, "direct, honest, bold," but then merely a few sentences later, he blushes at the thought of his family knowing. He blushes--such a soft word for such a tense monologue. Why is that word chosen? It's a tender word, couldn't Toomer have used "colored?" His face colored at the thought? Perhaps even reddened, or heated...why blushed?
He used it for the same reason that he used the word "love" on page 64. "He was going to see Louisa tonight, and love her." Despite all his internal arguments, Bob Stone is in love with Louisa. She represents something he could never find with a white girl. She is dark and exotic, forbidden. She satisfies his need for power, after all, he is a white man, and she is only a "nigger gal." In that time, in that culture, he could do anything he wanted. Yet he chooses not to. He chooses to meet her in the canebrake, to sneak around and respect her need for secrecy.
Why? Because he cares for her.
Our second question is from "The Killers," by Ernest Hemingway. We are to discuss what Hemingway is telling/showing his audience about life in the 1920s. My answer was actually rather succinct.
The mob is everywhere. The 1920s were not all about flappers and speakeasies, they were also a dangerous time to be in. The rise of organized crime coupled with the prevalence of automobiles made the world a dangerous place to be. If you got into trouble, then the mob would surely track you down, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. You might as well make like Old Andreson and just plain old give up.
To be a little more in depth, he also almost glorifies the mobsters. They are the hardened criminals, while the other characters in the story are mere wet-behind-ears lads. They're naive and effeminate, and are treated as such by the author. He berates them, makes fun of them, and continuously treats them like idiots, a classic move for Hemingway.
There is also the element of racism, as is evidenced by the introduction of Sam, the diner's cook. It actually takes a good 17 lines to establish the fact that "the nigger" has a name.
To sum up, Hemingway has established a world where fear is a part of life. There are new methods of crime, and new avenues in which crime can be carried out. No matter where you are or how far you run, they will track you down and kill you.
Sure sounds like a fun place to be, if you ask me.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Biographical Mathematics
I was watching an episode of Numb3rs earlier, and it made me think of the stories we just read in class. We're working on analyzing stories using the historical/biographical critical theory, which is to say, using a combination of world events and the author's history to further understand the story.
With the first of our stories, "A Jury of Her Peers," this was fairly easy. We had an extensive biography on the author, Susan Glaspell, and were able to tie her life to her story.
Mary Lerner, the author of the second story, was a completely different situation. We didn't have any information on her. None at all. We could do a historical analysis of the text, but not a biographical. It made me wonder, as I was watching this particular episode of Numb3rs, if we could reverse the process...work backwards and instead of analyzing the stories from the author's life, determine the author's life from the stories.
I'm not a math person, I couldn't do it. Numbers and I, well, let's just say that we're not always the best of friends. Still, it made me think...what if it was possible to reverse the analysis? What if, somewhere, someone could write an equation that took all the information in the stories, extracted the common threads, and spat out a generalized biography? I don't know if it's possible, but it's something that made me stop and think.
With the first of our stories, "A Jury of Her Peers," this was fairly easy. We had an extensive biography on the author, Susan Glaspell, and were able to tie her life to her story.
Mary Lerner, the author of the second story, was a completely different situation. We didn't have any information on her. None at all. We could do a historical analysis of the text, but not a biographical. It made me wonder, as I was watching this particular episode of Numb3rs, if we could reverse the process...work backwards and instead of analyzing the stories from the author's life, determine the author's life from the stories.
I'm not a math person, I couldn't do it. Numbers and I, well, let's just say that we're not always the best of friends. Still, it made me think...what if it was possible to reverse the analysis? What if, somewhere, someone could write an equation that took all the information in the stories, extracted the common threads, and spat out a generalized biography? I don't know if it's possible, but it's something that made me stop and think.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
"Great" Literature
As part of our first homework assignment, we were to create this blog. We were given three questions to answer at some point in our first post, but I felt that this question deserved its own forum. What makes literature great? For me, it is the title of this blog. Verisimilitude, the quality of appearing real. No matter how fantastical your story is, if you can make it feel real, you have succeeded in creating a piece of great literature.
I have read countless books by popular young adult authors, and I would never call them literature. The stories are simply too unrealistic. The emotions, the settings - there was nothing for me to relate to, nothing I connected with. On the other hand, there are books I've read that were written hundreds of years ago that till touch my heartstrings. Shakespeare...mere lines from his works can soothe the soul or inflame the senses. Jane Austen...even over a hundred years later, and in a completely different culture, we can sympathize with her characters.
Moving into this century, we have authors like Louis L'Amour, one of the greatest Western writers of all times. His stories are particularly austere, no flowery speech, no flamboyant descriptions, just story. Yet he managed to make his tales real. I read one of his books for the first time at age sixteen and loved it. My older sister was twenty, and she loved it. My youngest sister was but thirteen, and she loved it. How is it that an author can write a book that related to all of us? He made the stories real. That's all it takes - verisimilitude. Give your story the appearance of reality, and you have succeeded. Make your stories believable, and you have triumphed. Make them connect with your audience, and you have accomplished your goal.
I have read countless books by popular young adult authors, and I would never call them literature. The stories are simply too unrealistic. The emotions, the settings - there was nothing for me to relate to, nothing I connected with. On the other hand, there are books I've read that were written hundreds of years ago that till touch my heartstrings. Shakespeare...mere lines from his works can soothe the soul or inflame the senses. Jane Austen...even over a hundred years later, and in a completely different culture, we can sympathize with her characters.
Moving into this century, we have authors like Louis L'Amour, one of the greatest Western writers of all times. His stories are particularly austere, no flowery speech, no flamboyant descriptions, just story. Yet he managed to make his tales real. I read one of his books for the first time at age sixteen and loved it. My older sister was twenty, and she loved it. My youngest sister was but thirteen, and she loved it. How is it that an author can write a book that related to all of us? He made the stories real. That's all it takes - verisimilitude. Give your story the appearance of reality, and you have succeeded. Make your stories believable, and you have triumphed. Make them connect with your audience, and you have accomplished your goal.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Beginnings
To say that I like words would be a grave understatement. To say that I am hopelessly in love with them, addicted to them, completely and wholeheartedly enraptured by them would be far more accurate. I've always adored words, ever since I was a child, and that is what inspired me to write, which, in a roundabout way, is why I signed up for ENG 121: The Short Story.
I didn't really know what to expect when I registered for it. I was one of those late-registers, the kids whose plans fall through and they find themselves registering for classes a week before they start. Needless to say, most of the classes I needed were full, you know, classes like College Writing. I was lucky, they made an exception and slipped me into this class, ENG 121: The Short Story. I was beyond excited. I love short stories, I always have, and now I get to take a class that's solely focused on them? I couldn't have been happier.
Of course, that's not to say that I wasn't apprehensive. I think every student has doubts before starting new classes. What if it's a horrible professor? What if I hate the class? What if they ruin the material for me? Luckily, none of that happened. Not to be cliched, but I have a really good feeling about it. The material we're going to cover seems fascinating, the professor seems to truly love the subject, and I can't wait to see what happens next.
There are so many things I'm hoping to get out of this class, from a better understanding of the mechanics of a short story, to the multitude of styles and authors out there today. I'm hoping to better develop my own skills as a writer, and expose myself to the many different cultural aspects of writing as well. I suppose I'm an overachiever, but there's so many things I'm hoping to do during the course of this class. Besides the classic "going to get good grades" and "going to make sure I don't procrastinate on my papers," I'd also like to rework my own stories...polish them up once I've learned more about short stories. I have so many little bits that I've written over the years, but not one of them is completely finished. The drafts are finished, but every one of them still needs work, be it a sentence here, or a paragraph there.
Hopefully someday I'll have them finished, but knowing me, I'll never be satisfied with them. I'll always think there's something that can be fixed, a word that can be changed. And who knows? Maybe no one is ever completely satisfied with what they write. I guess the only thing that truly matters is that you write what you love and love what you write.
I didn't really know what to expect when I registered for it. I was one of those late-registers, the kids whose plans fall through and they find themselves registering for classes a week before they start. Needless to say, most of the classes I needed were full, you know, classes like College Writing. I was lucky, they made an exception and slipped me into this class, ENG 121: The Short Story. I was beyond excited. I love short stories, I always have, and now I get to take a class that's solely focused on them? I couldn't have been happier.
Of course, that's not to say that I wasn't apprehensive. I think every student has doubts before starting new classes. What if it's a horrible professor? What if I hate the class? What if they ruin the material for me? Luckily, none of that happened. Not to be cliched, but I have a really good feeling about it. The material we're going to cover seems fascinating, the professor seems to truly love the subject, and I can't wait to see what happens next.
There are so many things I'm hoping to get out of this class, from a better understanding of the mechanics of a short story, to the multitude of styles and authors out there today. I'm hoping to better develop my own skills as a writer, and expose myself to the many different cultural aspects of writing as well. I suppose I'm an overachiever, but there's so many things I'm hoping to do during the course of this class. Besides the classic "going to get good grades" and "going to make sure I don't procrastinate on my papers," I'd also like to rework my own stories...polish them up once I've learned more about short stories. I have so many little bits that I've written over the years, but not one of them is completely finished. The drafts are finished, but every one of them still needs work, be it a sentence here, or a paragraph there.
Hopefully someday I'll have them finished, but knowing me, I'll never be satisfied with them. I'll always think there's something that can be fixed, a word that can be changed. And who knows? Maybe no one is ever completely satisfied with what they write. I guess the only thing that truly matters is that you write what you love and love what you write.
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