This Is Not Your Cure For Meanness?

So, I was looking through my blog to make sure I had all my posts and saw that I didn't have my review of the short stories I read for my paper. (I guess they didn't go through? Gah, I hate technology. So much.) But anyway, I'm going to try this again:

It is coming down to either writing about "What Is The Cure For Meanness" by Brock Clarke or "This Is Not Your City" by Caitlin Horrocks.

"What Is The Cure For Meanness" has a really dark, biting humor that I enjoy. Basically, after the dad leaves the mom, the son tries to make her feel better by giving her gifts. Each gift, in turn, dies or backfires. It's actually quite sad. I don't know what I'd write about this one, but I think I'd analyze the Clarke's style for the narrator's voice. It's very run-ony and fluid, the way someone talks when they're angry or nervous, where they just keep going until something stops them. To me, that's the main draw of this short story. I can really hear the narrator in my head--and he's a person I can relate to, to some extent.

"This Is Not Your City" is also pretty dark. Mother and husband split. Mother and daughter don't get along. Mother sells herself as a mail-order bride. Daughter gets new boyfriend. New boyfriend dies while with daughter. Mother and daughter bond. If I write about this one, I'm definitely going to be writing about language. It's hard to explain without actually writing down everything I thought about language when reading this, but the mom and the daughter have to learn a new language and there's definitely a theme about lacking a way to communicate. But I'd really want to tie it in to the last scene--the daughter has just told the mom that the boyfriend is dead. And then they sit in silence--and they're so much closer and communicating so much more in that silence than any other time. I really liked that.

Marlowistrate

Heart of Darkness and Waiting For The Barbarians are both tales of a character's recognition and rejection of a corrupt community.

In Heart of Darkness, Marlow joins "The Company" because his unbridled curiosity naturally makes him want to explore the unexplored and, more pragmatically, he needs a job. Shortly after accepting his position in the company, Marlow begins to recognize the darkness and corruption of what is actually a brutal, imperialistic, racist, and dishonest organization. When Marlow tries to reject this corruption, he is regarded as "unsound" and company members, who initially tried to ally themselves with Marlow (because they believed Marlow to be allied with Kurtz, and the company is, above all else, ruled by self-serving political alliance and desire for power and control)became wary of their interactions with him. Marlow seems to be inherently independent-minded. He recognizes inconsistencies (the brick layer with no bricks, etc) and is able to form conclusions about the lack of integrity in the company. He has no massive illusions of idealism he has to dispel beforehand (he even mocks his aunt's readiness to accept the idealist propaganda).

The Magistrate is different in this respect. He has been a tool of the Empire for decades. He believes in and, also significantly, WANTS to believe in the integrity of the Empire that provides him with his title and relatively worry-free lifestyle. He has ties to the Empire and is not inclined to oppose it. His character, therefore, undergoes more of a transformation than Marlow, though they both walk the same path of rejecting a corrupt power. The Magistrate's opposition to The Empire starts unintentionally. When he picks up the lantern, he never expected to see the dead, beaten old man and the tortured little boy. He even thinks of how he wishes he had never seen it, he doesn't want to be a part of any conflict, he simply wants to return to his normal life, but he sees too much and is not able to sit idly by. By the end of the novel, the Magistrate labels himself an enemy of The Empire and wishes to see no similarities between himself and The Empires agents (mainly Colonel Joll).

Snow and Dreams and Children and Stuff

In WFTB, the Magistrate has a recurring dream about the children in the snow:

“In the night the dream comes back. I am trudging across the snow of an endless plain towards a group of tiny figures playing around a snowcastle. As I approach the children sidle away or melt into the air. Only one figure remains, a hooded child sitting with its back to me. I circle around the child, who continues to pat snow on the sides of the castle, till I can peer under the hood. The face I see is blank, featureless; it is the face of an embryo or a tiny whale; it is not a face at all but another part of the human body that bulges under the skin; it is white; it is the snow itself. Between numb fingers I hold out a coin.”

Why is the Magistrate haunted by this dream? What is its significance? What does snow symbolize in WFTB?

Eben Bass Attempts to Word His Article So That His Point Seems Valid

I chose this article because I don't agree with Eben Bass.

In the first paragraph of his criticism, Bass avers that the "reader gets scarcely any sense of order" or time in Benjy's narrative due to his mental condition. I disagree. Though Benjy is unable to interpret incidents any better than a three-year-old, he gives very detailed accounts of his memories. His memories skip around and are not explained and analyzed, but he still "tells" readers about a few very distinct memories of his life, that can, for the most part, be placed on a timeline if the reader simply accepts that, since Benjy is not fully aware of the timeline his own memories, the reader must take on the responsibility of interpreting time himself.

Bass goes on to say that Jason's version of the story is also "flawed"--not in the sense that it was a mistake in the writing, but in that it doesn't entirely satisfy the reader's apparent need for a reliable, understandable, forthright narrator who outlines an explicit timeline--"in that he tries to go back in time by getting revenge on his sister." I don't buy it. Bass tries to set up his article to make the symbols he discusses more important than they really are--to make them the only threads that hold the story together. It's true, the continuity of certain possessions and places help readers understand what happened where and when, but so does the continuation of dialogue from certain memories and the actual narration of the three brothers. These things cannot be dismissed. Maybe Jason is living in the past, trying to get some form of belated revenge on Caddy, but that doesn't affect the reliability of his narration. He is dwelling in the past, making decisions based on the past, yes, but not actually so deluded as to interchanging past and present in his narrative or believing that he actually can alter what has been.

Bass also tries to write off Quentin's section because "he too arrests time, by committing suicide," not acknowledging the 70 pages of meaty narration readers receive before that point.

Bass then goes further, saying, that the "biases" of the three sections "serve to cancel each other out." If that were true, I could have just read section four and understood the novel as well as if I'd read it in its entirety! Even if the sections contradict each other, to say they "cancel each other out" is going too far, creating a poorly-worded, false, absolute declaration. At the end of the day, the three brothers' sections are different, but they tell the same tale and each brother's voice adds another dimension to the story.

After giving a slightly manipulative description of the inaccuracies and holes in the brothers' stories, Bass goes on to discuss how the story's ultimate truth lies in the consistency of the characters' "props". This discussion very quickly digresses into a simple listing of symbols in the story, citing how and when they were used. Awesome.

Waiting for The Barbarians (When?)

I give Waiting for the Barbarians a thumbs-up. I love that most of the characters are not named. The namelessness is stylistically intriguing to me because it is fairly uncommon in "popular" new stories. Right now, I am also reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy, so it will be interesting for me to compare and contrast the significance and rationale of characters' namelessness in the two books. In Coetzee's case, it seems he uses namelessness as a means to convey the story's timelessness. Names go in and out of fashion fluidly, constantly. Even within a single country, within just a generation or two, names go in and out of fashion. Tell me, what era were Gertrude, Mildred and Esther born in? Would you put them in a different time period than, say, Matt, Greg, and Katie? Names can also inadvertently (and sometimes misleadingly) elude to a certain socioeconomic class or position (William and Catherine versus Joe and Trixxie) or nationality (Julio versus Julien versus Julius). By refraining from naming his characters, Coetzee is coyly strengthening the timeless nature of his novel. The first line of the novel, at first glance, seems to give a major hint as to the time period: sunglasses are strange and new. But, because the actual origin of sunglasses is unknown (sometimes being accredited to Nero's looking through emeralds to shield his eyes, sometimes accredited to 12th century Chinese innovators, etc), the detail doesn't pin the book down to a specific time, but instead gives the effect that this story could have taken place anywhere at any time in history, and, in fact, has--with some variation. I really like the timeless aspect of the book.

That being said, I really hate the human-on-human cruelty (which, unfortunately, also has a certain timelessness). There are some things I just can't stomach. A lot of things, actually. And some of the descriptions of the Colonel's "investigations" made me sick--sometimes because of the actual violence, but mostly not. Something about the way the characters talk about the torture, and the narrator's willingness to turn a blind eye on his fellow man, gives me that awful feeling where your stomach sinks so much you feel like you have to clench your stomach just to keep it from falling out.

Even though I hate that he is able, or at least desires to ignore what is going on, I find his inner conflict fascinating. Should he stand up for something he never knew he believed in, but seems to know inside him is right or stand back and enjoy what he has always known, even if that life now seems empty--and even a little wrong? The protagonist fighting for and against the main cause, to me, is far more compelling than a single goal-directed hero (or villain) fighting solely against outside forces.

I am woman hear me roarrrr

Female characters in Heart of Darkness:

Marlow’s Aunt
Kurtz’s African mistress
Kurtz’s Intended
The blindfolded woman
The women weavers who resemble the Fates

The last two suggest that “women may have a significant role. . .in determining various fates in Heart of Darkness,” but “this determining influence may not be a knowing or intended one.”

Gender issues are tied into race and culture. Marlow’s statements about women don’t extend to African women.

Marlow, re: women: “It’s queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there had never been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset.”

The womens’ view of the goings on in Africa show the idealistic propaganda that the imperialists use to excuse their exploitation.

Kurtz’s Intended is described: “This fair hair, this pale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo…” She represents idealism. She is passive, sickly, and colorless. Idealism is corrupted, dying, sterile, due to “association with evil forces.”

Kurtz’s African Mistress is active, colorful, passionate, alive and ready for war. Represents the energy of the Africans as opposed to the sterility of European idealism. For her, “there is no division of ideals and aspirations from actuality.”

Their main link is that they were both abandoned and betrayed by Kurtz. “The duplicities of imperialism work their way through into human relationships through—among other things—their connection with gender divisions.”

Why does Marlow choose “to maintain the ignorance of the Intended”? Should the “world of their own” be allowed to exist? Will it make the mens’ world better?

Llama Llama Llama Llama Llama Llama Devil Llama

"I've seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men--men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of rapacious and pitiless folly."

Marlow had been describing the chain-gang of natives. Then he jumps to this. Is he still referring to the natives, or has he moved on to the white people who are controlling them? What or whom specifically is he referring to as the "flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil."? Is the term "devil" used mostly in regard to the natives, the white people, or his own folly?

Sarah Bauer made me title this : "Sarah Bauer rockz"

Quentin hears mother say things like, “what have I done to have been given children like these…except Jason he has never given me one moment’s sorrow since I first held him in my arms.” He hears how she disapproves of him, Caddy, and Benjy, knows that she considers them strangers, that she believes they are Compsons whereas Jason is the only true Bascomb. How does this affect his views about Caddy and about himself?

Mrs. Compson is extremely class-conscious. “I was taught that there is no halfway ground that a woman is either a lady or not but I never dreamed when I held her in my arms that any daughter of mine could let herself…I know things she’s done that I’d die before I’d have you know…” How does this affect his chivalric views and his views about shame and his views about how to deal with Caddy’s promiscuity?

You Can't Spell "Ambiguity" Without Spelling an Anagram of "Yam"

My first take on the ending of “Shiloh” was quite optimistic. In my mind, Norma Jean truly was beckoning to Leroy, a gesture maybe spurred on by some beauty of the scenery. The last line switched rapidly to a description of the sky (“The sky is unusually pale”) which is then linked to Mabel’s ruffle—“the color of the dust ruffle Mabel made for their bed")—, a symbol of Mabel’s love for both Shiloh and her late husband; This connection made me feel that my initial instinct about the situation had been confirmed. In my mind, the deliberate ambiguity of Norma Jean’s gestures served to make a subtle, coy ending.

And then I thought about it. I realized that it was more likely that the author, Bobbie Ann Mason, was trying to emphasize the fact that, even then, after years of marriage, at the very end of their relationship, Leroy still could not understand Norma Jean’s actions. Leroy—who is still hopeful about his and Norma Jean’s marriage, even after she essentially breaks up with him—gets a jarring slap from reality when he realizes how unlikely it is that she is actually waving to him. Empathizing with the Leroy’s sinking heart, I now saw the description of the sky as ominous. Now, my mind focused more on the fact that the sky is described as pale—which does not have a very uplifting connotation—rather than the fact that the sky is described at all. Similarly, the reference to Mabel brings to mind all the problems in their marriage, she having been an instigator of conflict: she never liked Leroy, she made deliberately hurtful comments about dead babies and their mothers’ neglect, interfered in Norma Jean’s and Leroy’s relationship, and tried to impose her own marriage onto their deteriorating relationship. The mention of Mabel is not a happy thing at all.

Then I started to realize that maybe Norma Jean’s leaving Leroy was the happiest ending the reader could hope for. In essence, she is gaining freedoms she was never able to enjoy, first being controlled by her parents, then being hindered by an unexpected pregnancy and the husband that came with it. Without Leroy, she is free to take her classes and do her exercises and—well, whatever she wants. Again, the ending was happy for me.

I re-read the ending paragraph with this new thought in mind. It did not seem right. Like always, my mind decided to ruin things for me and turned something happy into somethiProxy-Connection: keep-alive
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terrible. When re-reading the excerpt, Norma Jean was no longer beckoning—or even doing an exercise—but rather preparing to jump off the bluff, committing suicide. Although unhappy, this seemed like a more appropriate action for the setting, the grisly battleground of Shiloh where the Confederacy and the Union each lost over 10,000 men. In that battle, there was no real winner. Though the Union technically claimed victory in the battle—after losing more men in that battle than in all other Civil War battles up to that point—, General Grant’s reputation was butchered in the North. Both sides felt the sting of loss over the heavy casualties, and neither side left with a victorious glow. The aftermath of the battle between Leroy and Norma Jean did not seem to have any more luck. Leroy has lost his wife—figuratively, and possibly literally—and if Norma Jean was indeed preparing to jump, she clearly felt that she too had lost what was important to her.

After stretching my brain to its limits and using my head until it hurt (though, admittedly, that did not take a great deal of time), thinking about the ambiguity of the ending and considering the four scenarios I have proposed, I have only been able to make one conclusion for certain: Bobbie Ann Mason is a jerk.


Re: the title
I intended to say "You can't spell 'ambiguity' without spelling" and then finding a word in ambiguity that was synonymous with "bad" or "annoying" or "a-terrible-literary-device". Nothing really came to mind. I figured "Yam" was just as good.

Also, I've tried to edit this about ten times now and I can't get rid of the weird html script that shows up in the middle of my essays when I view them.

Distraction from the Divine

Parker is wrought with internal conflict, stemming from a lack of self-understanding—an identity crisis, of sorts. He, more than anyone—or anything—else, is his biggest puzzle: “it was himself he could not understand.” Given the context of the story, it is clear that his lack of identity is in some way related to his lack of religion, though Parker himself, a dogged unbeliever, would never admit it. The purposelessness and emptiness that Parker feels, never thinking “that there was anything out of the ordinary about the fact that he existed” and “never [feeling] the least motion of wonder in himself“ connotes spiritual inadequacy. With no true understanding of who he is and no notion of what he wants to become, Parker takes to imitating the one person—a circus performer—who instilled in him the wonder that he could not find in himself. The inspiration came in the form of tattoos, which, on his role model, looked like an “arabesque of men and beasts and flowers.” Parker, however, did not have a clear enough understanding of himself to find that same satisfaction in his own body art and achieve the same effect; instead, he “would be satisfied with each tattoo about a month, then something about it that had attracted him would wear off.” He seems to be trying to fill his spiritual, or at least internal, emptiness by altering his physical appearance. Not surprisingly, the effects of these superficial alterations are short-lived.

Though Parker covers his entire front with tattoos, he has no interest in having tattoos on his back; this lack of interest, which is brought up many times, is abstractly indicative of his struggle with religion. Parker denies and ignores any part of him that he cannot directly see, whether it is his backside or his character. One could go as far as saying that his back is an analogue for his soul, blank and empty, always a part of him but out of immediate sight.

Parker’s denial of religion is a constant throughout his life; he—literally—runs from religion. When he was young, his mother tried to trick him into going to a church for an intervention, but when “he saw the big lighted church, he jerked out of her grasp and ran. The next day he lied about his age and joined the navy.” Years later, when he crashes a tractor into a tree, “the tree burst into flame.” Parker’s shoes fly from his feet, and so, shoeless like Moses, he is left to witness his own personalProxy-Connection: keep-alive
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urning bush. Immediately, Parker “took off” in his truck and “drove past his house on the embankment and straight for the city, fifty miles distant.” His running, however, does not help him. He cannot run from God and he cannot run from himself.

He can, however, run from his wife. Throughout the story, Parker wonders why he ever married his wife, repeatedly thinking about how he “couldn’t understand why he stayed with her” considering she was “both ugly and pregnant and no cook.” Though he never consciously realizes it, Parker stays with his wife because she provides a constant source of external conflict. The concrete conflict that she brings—mostly stemming from her opposing his religious views, or lack thereof—is easier to deal with than his personal crisis regarding his own self-worth, identity, and spirituality. When dealing with his internal conflict in the cot in town, he “longed miserably for Sarah Ruth. Her sharp tongue and icepick eyes were the only comfort he could ring to mind.” Clearly these characteristics of Sarah Ruth are not true comforts; rather, they are comparatively comfortable distractions from his personal dilemma.

When he is away, Parker has the image of Christ tattooed onto his back, superficially and impulsively trying to fill his soul. Again, he tries to alter is spirit by altering his body. Again, this fails. Only when his wife makes him state his real name does he suddenly feel the “light pouring through him.” Though changing his appearance was never able to change his soul, accepting his name—which means Servant of God—and thus, changing his soul, makes his spirit feel the way he has always wished his body looked: his “spider web soul” turns into “a perfect arabesque of colors, a garden of trees and birds and beasts.” Though Parker’s wife still does not approve of his tattoos, especially the Christ tattoo, which she declares idolatrous, Obadiah Elihue is saved. He accepts his true name (“there he was—who called himself Obadiah Elihue—”) and is able to overcome his previous feeling of purposelessness.

Books That Are Awesome

The Lorax, Dr. Seuss:
An inspiration to much of my art in addition to being one of the most incredible books ever written.

The Red Pony, John Steinbeck:
This book made me realize that it is indeed possible to despise an inanimate object.

Magic Time, Doug Marlette:
This book is too incredible for words. The day I read it, I skipped dinner because I couldn't put it down. It is also the last book I've read that has made me cry.

Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card:
After reading this book, I knew for certain that I wanted to become a writer. Though I find many of Card's personal ideologies (regarding race, etc) to be shocking and offensive, his writing has truly inspired me and my work.

The Complete Sherlock Holmes (Anthology), Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:
I read this book start to finish at the beginning of every summer between 4th and 7th grade. To me, summer break meant getting to sit down with that book (which at the time seemed huge) to experience the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes.

The Never-ending Story, Ralph Manheim (translated from Michael Ende's German):
My reading this is one of the most vivid memories I have of my childhood. Even more vividly than reading it, however, I remember being extremely upset finding out it had been turned into a movie--which I believe had destroyed its magic.

Harry Potter and the etc., etc. J.K. Rowling:
Like almost every kid in my generation, I grew up with this book and it grew up with me. I don't particularly admire J.K. Rowling's writing style, per se, but I've always found her ability to create such a compelling world remarkable and the story of her success inspiring.

Thief of Time, Terry Pratchett:
This book deserves to be on everyone's list. I'm pretty sure I've read it at least thirty times.

Good Omens, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett:
[see previous description]

Sophie's World, Jostein Gaarder:
A truly original novel.

The Science of God, Gerald L. Schroeder:
An intriguing read about religion's compatibility with science.

Astonish Yourself! 101 Experiments in the Philosophy of Everyday Life, Roger-Pol Droit:
This is a book that contains a series of "experiments" that help you think differently and experience more things. Not a novel or a series of essays in any sense of the words, but a most interesting read regardless.

To Kill a Mockingbird:
I'm pretty sure this one is self-explanatory.

Stargirl, Jerry Spinelli:
This book is at the reading level of anyone, but has a message for everyone. I wish I could base my life off of of Stargirl (the character, that is).

Faith, Truth, and Sloths

Any book that features sloths, as rated by my personal laws of literary evaluation, is--formally speaking--wickedly awesome. Therefore, Life of Pi seemed to be an incredibly promising read, its beginning pages almost entirely dedicated to various kinds of sloths. Continued reading, however, brought me disappointment; the author, Yann Martel, quickly deviates from his sloth-themed--but not slothful--writing to discuss more trivial subjects: the foundations of religion, the dark enigmas of the human mind, the fundamentals of animal psychology, morality in the face of death, death's eternal struggle to cling to life, and the ultimate truths of the universe. But, c'est la vie.

After coming to accept the lack of sloths in the later chapters of Life of Pi, I began to think more about the major tonal shifts in the writing. Not only does the actual narrator and narrative voice change repeatedly throughout the novel, the spirit of the book dramatically shifts from a thoughtful study of cultural belief systems to a gruesomely illustrated commentary on the base nature of all earthly creatures. I don't think I've ever read anything else which so seemlessly links something as innocent as a boy's peaceful introduction into a church, a mosque, and a temple with something as vulgar as the graphic decapitation of an incredibly adorable, slightly anthropomorphized orangu-tan mom, heartsick from the loss of her children. This book requires so much from the reader in terms of both open-mindedness and the ability to stomach what I thought to be fairly traumatizing moments; however, it rewards readers with such wit and language that even dead primates couldn't make me discontinue my reading--at least not permanently. Indeed, I was grateful when Martel granted a break from intellectual strain and esophageal and gastrointestinal discomfort through his periodic wordplay ("The camel at the zoo was unfazed, but that straw broke Father's back") and humorous situational commentary ("If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and said, 'Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!'--do you think they would shout and dance for joy? They wouldn't. Birds are not free. The people you've just evicted would sputter . . 'We're calling the police, you scoundrel"). In addition to finding that image ridiculously hilarious (yes, I actually laughed out loud), that entire section discussing the concept of animal freedom and captivity was intriguing. It brought to my attention an extremely relevant viewpoint that I don't think I ever would have considered if not prompted by this read. The religious discussions were similarly captivating. It was refreshing to view religions through Pi's open mind. I grew up with a very narrow religious upbringing, being repeatedly told the story of Christ and learning about the psalms and proverbs of the Christian Bible. These stories have been relayed to me so many times, so often, starting from such a young age, I cannot remember my initial reactions to them or to the Christian faith as a whole. I had not cultivated the required abilities of discernment necessary to judge any faiths or their doctrines; by the time I had such an ability, I had been so immersed in the Christian faith that it never occurred to me to question it or analyze it from the outside. Pi, however, is far more discerning than I. Though he has very clear preconceptions and prejudices against both Christianity and Islam, he has a childlike purity that allows him to dismiss his preconceived ideas when confronted with the reality of the faiths. He also has the drive and curiosity to question what he thinks he knows. Hearing Pi's complaints about the Christian faith was thought-provoking, to say the least. More than the overarching themes--morality, love, cruelty, human nature; more than the compelling story Martel weaves; more even than the admirable eloquence with which he weaves it, the simple novelty of Pi's views hooked me into Life of Pi. (662)


Plato and a Platypus Walk Into A Bar, Thomas Cathcart
Sophie's World, Jostein Gaarder
(re-read) Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
(re-read) Thief of Time, Terry Pratchett (I thoroughly intend to geek out at the Discworld Convention he is attending in Tempe!)
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Seth Grahame-Smith
Life of Pi, Yann Martel
How To Be Pope, Piers Marchant
Dialogue, Gloria Kempton
Flight, Various Authors (And Artists!)
A Little Bit Wicked, Kristin Chenoweth (Yeah, this shouldn't even count...)
How To Win Friends and Influence People, Dale Carnegie
A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, David Foster Wallace
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, David Sedaris
Dave Barry is from Mars AND Venus, Dave Barry


Currently reading: The Historian, Encyclopedia of Useless Information Vol II, Lies My Teacher Told Me
Currently writing: What Color Is God?