I really really really really (really really really) like Wide Sargasso Sea! I'm not exactly sure why, given that the main character's house was just burned down, her mother hates her, everyone in their town hates the family, and basically everyone is miserable, but I have seriously enjoyed reading this book. For both sections of reading, I've wanted to continue into the next section, but I have (reluctantly) resisted.
I think one of the reasons I like this book is that it's the "prequel" to Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre. Personally, the scene where Jane first sees Bertha physically scared me when I read it last year; as in I was reading in my bedroom upstairs and had to come downstairs and continue reading with my mother in the room. Given this reaction, I'm actually totally psyched to see how Bertha (or Antoinette...?) came to be the way she was in that book.
I think another major reason that I like this book is that it's very simply written. Ever since The Sun Also Rises, I've been kind of addicted to minimalist-ly constructed sentences describing riveting subject matter, and Wide Sargasso Sea follows right along with this structure. I love how simple the book is to read, because you don't have to worry about parsing through what the words are trying to tell you, and you can focus on the implications of what they're telling you. (Mind you, I like a good 19th century novel as much as the next brooding hunk fan, but it's nice to have a break sometimes.)
I think this is a promising book, and I'm very excited to see what happens!
Monday, October 31, 2011
I have no "interest" in the big questions.
This semester, I'm in a lot of classes that seem to contemplate things far beyond my intellectual abilities (at least such as my intellectual abilities are at 9:40 in the morning). Psychology, which makes me think about morals and their (apparently) questionable existence, makes my brain hurt most of the time. I find the topics we cover very interesting, but a lot of the time, I'm left thinking, "What is the actual point of thinking about these things?"
Let me explain. I think, up to a point, it's neat to go a little deeper and examine our every day actions and motivations, and the rules which govern society. At a certain point, though, you get so deep into thinking about whether or not morals exist that you have never actually experienced any of your life where you would need to exhibit morals. You'd be an old, moral, wise man (with a ever-whitening beard, certainly) but you'd just be doing a lot of thinking. And where does it actually get you?
That was my train of thought as we were finishing up The Stranger. I enjoyed listening to the conversations about whether or not Camus thinks we have free will, and what Meursault's final conclusions with regards to life actually mean. But towards the end, I suppose I adopted Meursault's mentality (Nothing really matters, I have no impact on the world, etc...) in an inverted sort of way. I thought, "It doesn't matter whether or not I decide if we have free will or if I've been predestined from the beginning to do certain things. Regardless, I am alive and I should be doing productive and enjoyable things. Whether or not they're actually of my own doing isn't really relevant, because the more time I spend thinking about it, the less time I have to do the things that I would do once I had decided if I was actually the one deciding to do them."
Clear as mud?
And what I mean by adopting Meursault's mentality in an inverted sort of way is that he (at least in Part 1) decided that the decisions he makes don't matter, and therefore he is released from emotion and responsibility. When I realize that things don't matter, at least in relation to trying to figure out the world, it's because I want to get on with it and live. I really am interested in the philosophy of the world, and I think it's really neat that some people have spend their lives paving the thought pathway for the rest of us, but I'm more inclined to keep it simple.
This is weird for me, since I tend to over-analyze everything, but when it comes to the big questions, I'm fine with a sort of blissful ignorance. The big questions, sure, they're interesting to contemplate, but I'm cool not really having all the answers.
Let me explain. I think, up to a point, it's neat to go a little deeper and examine our every day actions and motivations, and the rules which govern society. At a certain point, though, you get so deep into thinking about whether or not morals exist that you have never actually experienced any of your life where you would need to exhibit morals. You'd be an old, moral, wise man (with a ever-whitening beard, certainly) but you'd just be doing a lot of thinking. And where does it actually get you?
That was my train of thought as we were finishing up The Stranger. I enjoyed listening to the conversations about whether or not Camus thinks we have free will, and what Meursault's final conclusions with regards to life actually mean. But towards the end, I suppose I adopted Meursault's mentality (Nothing really matters, I have no impact on the world, etc...) in an inverted sort of way. I thought, "It doesn't matter whether or not I decide if we have free will or if I've been predestined from the beginning to do certain things. Regardless, I am alive and I should be doing productive and enjoyable things. Whether or not they're actually of my own doing isn't really relevant, because the more time I spend thinking about it, the less time I have to do the things that I would do once I had decided if I was actually the one deciding to do them."
Clear as mud?
And what I mean by adopting Meursault's mentality in an inverted sort of way is that he (at least in Part 1) decided that the decisions he makes don't matter, and therefore he is released from emotion and responsibility. When I realize that things don't matter, at least in relation to trying to figure out the world, it's because I want to get on with it and live. I really am interested in the philosophy of the world, and I think it's really neat that some people have spend their lives paving the thought pathway for the rest of us, but I'm more inclined to keep it simple.
This is weird for me, since I tend to over-analyze everything, but when it comes to the big questions, I'm fine with a sort of blissful ignorance. The big questions, sure, they're interesting to contemplate, but I'm cool not really having all the answers.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
A slight shift.
At the beginning of chapter 6, part 1 of The Stranger, I noticed a little bit of a change in narration. Before, there was little to no mention of feelings, emotions, or anything along those lines; I'm not saying that Meursault starts to open up to us in this chapter, but right from the first page, there was a little bit more of a "normal" feel to the narration.
Meursault begins the chapter by saying that he had trouble waking up that morning because he "felt completely drained and...had a slight headache." This isn't a great leap indicating that Meursault is coming out of his shell by any means, but it kind of surprised me how he mentioned something so similar to a feeling or an emotion. "Drained" is a very evocative word, and what he's describing seems very un-Meursault-like.
It's not only this first paragraph that discusses more emotions and feelings, but there are little bursts here and there in the next few paragraphs as well. Meursault keeps saying how tired he is (which I suppose is a physical state also, but in the context I read it as describing an emotion/feeling), and he describes Marie as joyful and says she "laughed with delight." Sometime later, Meursault even says that he "felt a little better."
The final piece of this emotion-puzzle that I've put together from this one page in the book is when Meursault offers an explanation in the form of a normal human. Usually, people say, "Something happened, which was __________." The "which was" part is important. Meursault never gives us the "which was". But he does here! At one point, he describes Raymond's arms as "all white under the black hairs." The next sentence is, "I found it a little repulsive." Yayyyyy! We got a "which was" from Meursault!
Maybe this is a super minor point, but it made me really happy to read all the snippets and mentions of emotions and feelings, and to finally get a "which was" out of Meursault.
Meursault begins the chapter by saying that he had trouble waking up that morning because he "felt completely drained and...had a slight headache." This isn't a great leap indicating that Meursault is coming out of his shell by any means, but it kind of surprised me how he mentioned something so similar to a feeling or an emotion. "Drained" is a very evocative word, and what he's describing seems very un-Meursault-like.
It's not only this first paragraph that discusses more emotions and feelings, but there are little bursts here and there in the next few paragraphs as well. Meursault keeps saying how tired he is (which I suppose is a physical state also, but in the context I read it as describing an emotion/feeling), and he describes Marie as joyful and says she "laughed with delight." Sometime later, Meursault even says that he "felt a little better."
The final piece of this emotion-puzzle that I've put together from this one page in the book is when Meursault offers an explanation in the form of a normal human. Usually, people say, "Something happened, which was __________." The "which was" part is important. Meursault never gives us the "which was". But he does here! At one point, he describes Raymond's arms as "all white under the black hairs." The next sentence is, "I found it a little repulsive." Yayyyyy! We got a "which was" from Meursault!
Maybe this is a super minor point, but it made me really happy to read all the snippets and mentions of emotions and feelings, and to finally get a "which was" out of Meursault.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Howie + Septimus + Jake + Kafkaesque setting = Meursault?
The answer is yes! Meursault embodies traits of all three of these characters, mixed into one, plunged into a slightly Kafkaesque setting. And why shouldn't he? All of these characters are similar before you even start reading the books; they're young men, around 25-30 years old, they work in an office doing work that they're not super passionate about (maybe not Septimus, as he's more than slightly incapacitated), and they don't really react to things in a normal way, yet people seem to want to be around them (again, maybe not Septimus...but hey). On a deeper level, through my reading of The Stranger, and through class discussions, I picked up on some specific examples of how Meursault is all of these characters combined.
Jake is the first comparison I'll make. I believe somebody in class came up with this one, and it stemmed from somebody else's comment that Meursault really doesn't give us much in the way of editorial comment during his narration. He observes, records, and sometimes says whether or not he likes something, but he never delves into his feelings. We don't get a lot of insight into the things he discusses in the book, and we're almost left to fend for ourselves with regards to interpretation. The book could be read so many different ways; take the first paragraph for example. "Maman died today [...] yesterday" p. 3. You could read that as the most ambivalent reaction in the world, and could rephrase it as "Yeah, I'm not exactly sure, but it doesn't really matter, it's not like I liked her that much to begin with." Or, you could read it as somebody going through extreme shock from a traumatic experience. "I don't even know what's going on anymore, I can't figure out when she died, I'm just a nervous wreck." Or it could be somewhere in the middle. Either way, we have no idea! The whole book is like this, how you could read it so many different ways. During class, I was even thinking that a cool project could be to compile a series of videos of people reading this book with different intonations and facial expressions, etc., to show how many different meanings the text could have. But I digress. Jake is much more revealing than Meursault as a narrator, and though he too observes and records, we get more of a sense of his feelings towards what he's discussing. With Meursault, we get none of that. This sentence could mean one thing, or it could mean the exact opposite.
Next, is the Septimus connection. This comes in the form of Meursault's distance towards humankind as a whole. He seems utterly baffled by everything that happens at the funeral, he seems dumbfounded at his interactions with his boss, and just generally confused by life and the people who live it. As Mr. Mitchell put it, "Humans: what do they want?" and I think that sums it up nicely. Septimus seems to have an incredible distance between himself and the world around him. They don't get him, and he sure as hell doesn't get them. Meursault is perhaps a little more acclimated to life, as he is able to work and function in a relationship (of sorts), but there is a definite parallel.
The last character that Meursault reminds me of is Howie, especially in the beginning of chapter three, where he starts talking about how much he enjoys washing his hands at lunchtime, but not so much in the evening. He cites the reason for this as being that the towel is too wet by the end of the day, and says that he has, in fact, confronted his boss about it. The boss, to say the least, seemed nonplussed. I love this little detail about Meursault! We already know he's kind of a quirky guy, and this fact just sent me right back to The Mezzanine with Howie's many stories about the bathroom, and how he is grateful to his boss for continuing to stock the more expensive brand of white paper towels in their bathroom. This scene could easily have been an excerpt from The Mezzanine, and Meursault, with his watching the sky for hours and taking pleasures in the small things, definitely has some Howie qualities.
And, to connect this to the last book that we have read this semester, mix all of those character-traits into one person, and put him in a Kafkaesque situation. Meursault's mother has died, he has to go to this random nursing home, and attend a funeral that he doesn't understand. The people during the vigil stare at him, or fall asleep, and at the beginning, Meursault feels like they are going to judge him. I think it's safe to say he feels uncomfortable during the whole first chapter, and he feels like he's partaking in a worthless ritual that he can't quite get a grasp on, no matter how hard he tries. Nothing appears to be how he wants it, or expects it, to be, and everything at the beginning of the book (and also in snippets throughout, such as Raymond's continuing conversation with Meursault) is a little bit bizarre, a little bit Kafkaesque.
QED, the above equation just got proved right, ya'll.
Jake is the first comparison I'll make. I believe somebody in class came up with this one, and it stemmed from somebody else's comment that Meursault really doesn't give us much in the way of editorial comment during his narration. He observes, records, and sometimes says whether or not he likes something, but he never delves into his feelings. We don't get a lot of insight into the things he discusses in the book, and we're almost left to fend for ourselves with regards to interpretation. The book could be read so many different ways; take the first paragraph for example. "Maman died today [...] yesterday" p. 3. You could read that as the most ambivalent reaction in the world, and could rephrase it as "Yeah, I'm not exactly sure, but it doesn't really matter, it's not like I liked her that much to begin with." Or, you could read it as somebody going through extreme shock from a traumatic experience. "I don't even know what's going on anymore, I can't figure out when she died, I'm just a nervous wreck." Or it could be somewhere in the middle. Either way, we have no idea! The whole book is like this, how you could read it so many different ways. During class, I was even thinking that a cool project could be to compile a series of videos of people reading this book with different intonations and facial expressions, etc., to show how many different meanings the text could have. But I digress. Jake is much more revealing than Meursault as a narrator, and though he too observes and records, we get more of a sense of his feelings towards what he's discussing. With Meursault, we get none of that. This sentence could mean one thing, or it could mean the exact opposite.
Next, is the Septimus connection. This comes in the form of Meursault's distance towards humankind as a whole. He seems utterly baffled by everything that happens at the funeral, he seems dumbfounded at his interactions with his boss, and just generally confused by life and the people who live it. As Mr. Mitchell put it, "Humans: what do they want?" and I think that sums it up nicely. Septimus seems to have an incredible distance between himself and the world around him. They don't get him, and he sure as hell doesn't get them. Meursault is perhaps a little more acclimated to life, as he is able to work and function in a relationship (of sorts), but there is a definite parallel.
The last character that Meursault reminds me of is Howie, especially in the beginning of chapter three, where he starts talking about how much he enjoys washing his hands at lunchtime, but not so much in the evening. He cites the reason for this as being that the towel is too wet by the end of the day, and says that he has, in fact, confronted his boss about it. The boss, to say the least, seemed nonplussed. I love this little detail about Meursault! We already know he's kind of a quirky guy, and this fact just sent me right back to The Mezzanine with Howie's many stories about the bathroom, and how he is grateful to his boss for continuing to stock the more expensive brand of white paper towels in their bathroom. This scene could easily have been an excerpt from The Mezzanine, and Meursault, with his watching the sky for hours and taking pleasures in the small things, definitely has some Howie qualities.
And, to connect this to the last book that we have read this semester, mix all of those character-traits into one person, and put him in a Kafkaesque situation. Meursault's mother has died, he has to go to this random nursing home, and attend a funeral that he doesn't understand. The people during the vigil stare at him, or fall asleep, and at the beginning, Meursault feels like they are going to judge him. I think it's safe to say he feels uncomfortable during the whole first chapter, and he feels like he's partaking in a worthless ritual that he can't quite get a grasp on, no matter how hard he tries. Nothing appears to be how he wants it, or expects it, to be, and everything at the beginning of the book (and also in snippets throughout, such as Raymond's continuing conversation with Meursault) is a little bit bizarre, a little bit Kafkaesque.
QED, the above equation just got proved right, ya'll.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
I'm not sure if I'm proud of this, but...
...Kafka is exactly 111 years older than I am! He was born on July 3rd, 1883 (I really hope my math is right), or at least that creepy Kafka biography website says so. I, of course, was born on July 3rd, 1994. I think this is pretty tight, just to be able to say I have the same birthday as Kafka. However, I hope this doesn't mean there are any weird cosmic similarities/Mayan calendar entries for birthdays 111 years apart, etc.
I'm not quite sure what this post was actually going to be about, but I thought I had to write something more cheerful than the one I just posted!
P.S. If I'm not at school tomorrow, it's probably because I've been transformed, after restless dreams, into a gigantic, stuffed number "111".
I'm not quite sure what this post was actually going to be about, but I thought I had to write something more cheerful than the one I just posted!
P.S. If I'm not at school tomorrow, it's probably because I've been transformed, after restless dreams, into a gigantic, stuffed number "111".
Inception!
Well, not really. I was flipping through my notes from class the other day, and I stumbled upon "real paranoia" scribbled on the page. I think paranoia is definitely a Kafkaesque trait, and though I don't see it at work as much in The Metamorphosis (or "The Metamorphosis", according to your position on the novel/short story debate), I definitely see it in Mr. Mitchell's description of Kafka's other books (if I remember correctly, The Trial was one that seemed particularly full of paranoia). This whole idea of "a cosmic joke" being played on you by the universe; someone who has authority over your life but you can't, for the life of you, figure out who it is; the idea that you're always being watched. That's what kind of reminded me of Inception.
Not with regards to content, per se, but the idea that there are some ideas that you just cannot think about. If you start thinking about them, you won't be able to live your life normally anymore. (I suppose this is also true of The Matrix.) These ideas are things like, "you are always being watched," "everything is a dream," "this is actually not real life," etc. Once you start to think in this way, you go down in a spiral of confusion and paranoia and you might never be able to get it out of your head that you're living in a dream.
This really has very little to do with the book, but I think it's so weird to think about ideas like this, and how somebody with an already disturbed disposition could run with an idea like this, and eventually go crazy from the paranoia. These are just the cheery thoughts I have on a quiet Wednesday evening.
Not with regards to content, per se, but the idea that there are some ideas that you just cannot think about. If you start thinking about them, you won't be able to live your life normally anymore. (I suppose this is also true of The Matrix.) These ideas are things like, "you are always being watched," "everything is a dream," "this is actually not real life," etc. Once you start to think in this way, you go down in a spiral of confusion and paranoia and you might never be able to get it out of your head that you're living in a dream.
This really has very little to do with the book, but I think it's so weird to think about ideas like this, and how somebody with an already disturbed disposition could run with an idea like this, and eventually go crazy from the paranoia. These are just the cheery thoughts I have on a quiet Wednesday evening.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Alrighty, Kafka.
As of now, I'm 22 pages into The Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka. It's weird. I'm just going to be honest. But it's also really interesting, and I am (for some odd reason) enjoying reading it. I always want to find out what Gregor is going to do next, even if it ends up being something like pushing the armchair up against the window so that he can see outside. One of the most interesting aspects of the story, however, and probably one of the least realistic, is how unconcerned Gregor seems to be with the state of events.
If I had, in the night, been transformed into a large insect, I would be very worried. I would probably think I was going crazy at first, and then I would realize that things like this literally cannot happen in real life. But in The Metamorphosis, both of these things are apparently not true. Gregor is a bug. He's also a salesman. He's missed his train. His boss is angry. Solution? Get the next train. But he's a bug? But he's late...so he has to catch the next train...duh.
This kind of ridiculous idea of...apathy (?) is probably best illustrated on page 10, when Gregor is trying to get out of his room. "He actually intended to open the door, actually present himself and speak to the manager; he was eager to find out what the others, who were now so anxious to see him, would say at the sight of him. If they were shocked, then Gregor had no further responsibility and could be calm. But if they took everything calmly, then he, too, had no reason to get excited and could, if he hurried, actually be at the station at eight o'clock."
Let's just sort though that: 1) He is a giant bug and he wants to open a door and show himself to his family and boss. 2) He needs to have people see him before he can gauge their reaction to his transformation (because he can't guess and what is so obviously going to happen next). 3) If, for some reason, this isn't a big deal, and Gregor is getting worked up over nothing, then he could totally make the next train if he tried.
There are so many things wrong here, and in the whole book, which is kind of frustrating, because you keep thinking, "Wow dude! How are you just accepting this?" but it's also very interesting and psychological because you think, "Wow, dude, he's just accepting this." It's a weird mix of way out there science fiction and super boring and mundane novel. This crazy thing happens, but Gregor takes it in stride and talks about the food that he gets fed, insted of wondering how this all happened in the first place. Like I said, a strange mix, but it's working for me.
If I had, in the night, been transformed into a large insect, I would be very worried. I would probably think I was going crazy at first, and then I would realize that things like this literally cannot happen in real life. But in The Metamorphosis, both of these things are apparently not true. Gregor is a bug. He's also a salesman. He's missed his train. His boss is angry. Solution? Get the next train. But he's a bug? But he's late...so he has to catch the next train...duh.
This kind of ridiculous idea of...apathy (?) is probably best illustrated on page 10, when Gregor is trying to get out of his room. "He actually intended to open the door, actually present himself and speak to the manager; he was eager to find out what the others, who were now so anxious to see him, would say at the sight of him. If they were shocked, then Gregor had no further responsibility and could be calm. But if they took everything calmly, then he, too, had no reason to get excited and could, if he hurried, actually be at the station at eight o'clock."
Let's just sort though that: 1) He is a giant bug and he wants to open a door and show himself to his family and boss. 2) He needs to have people see him before he can gauge their reaction to his transformation (because he can't guess and what is so obviously going to happen next). 3) If, for some reason, this isn't a big deal, and Gregor is getting worked up over nothing, then he could totally make the next train if he tried.
There are so many things wrong here, and in the whole book, which is kind of frustrating, because you keep thinking, "Wow dude! How are you just accepting this?" but it's also very interesting and psychological because you think, "Wow, dude, he's just accepting this." It's a weird mix of way out there science fiction and super boring and mundane novel. This crazy thing happens, but Gregor takes it in stride and talks about the food that he gets fed, insted of wondering how this all happened in the first place. Like I said, a strange mix, but it's working for me.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Alcoholism?
Yesterday, a group did a very nice panel presentation about the role of drinking in The Sun Also Rises. The group's article said that basically all of the characters in the book were alcoholics, but for some reason, while I was reading, I recognized some of the characters as alcohol-dependent, but not all.
Let's take, for our first example, Brett. I definitely thought she was dependent on alcohol, because the beginning of almost every scene involves some line of hers saying, "Can't a chap get a drink?" or something along those lines. She is almost always drunk, or needing a drink, and even if she's a "good drunk" according to Jake, she is still probably an alcoholic.
However, I did not read Jake as an alcoholic. He get's drunk, yes, but he's a good drunk, and he never says anything about needing a drink. He drinks because the alcohol is there, or because others are drinking, or because he enjoys the actual drinking itself. For me, that did not come off as being someone who can't go thirty minutes without a drink.
I don't know what light some sort of medical opinion would shed on this situation, in terms of who is clinically an alcoholic and who is not, but I didn't think all of the characters were alcoholics. They definitely drink wayyyy too much, I don't deny that, but for some reason, some of the characters, Jake especially, did not strike me as being alcoholics. I'm not quite sure if this distinction makes sense, or even exists, but that was how I read the characters.
Let's take, for our first example, Brett. I definitely thought she was dependent on alcohol, because the beginning of almost every scene involves some line of hers saying, "Can't a chap get a drink?" or something along those lines. She is almost always drunk, or needing a drink, and even if she's a "good drunk" according to Jake, she is still probably an alcoholic.
However, I did not read Jake as an alcoholic. He get's drunk, yes, but he's a good drunk, and he never says anything about needing a drink. He drinks because the alcohol is there, or because others are drinking, or because he enjoys the actual drinking itself. For me, that did not come off as being someone who can't go thirty minutes without a drink.
I don't know what light some sort of medical opinion would shed on this situation, in terms of who is clinically an alcoholic and who is not, but I didn't think all of the characters were alcoholics. They definitely drink wayyyy too much, I don't deny that, but for some reason, some of the characters, Jake especially, did not strike me as being alcoholics. I'm not quite sure if this distinction makes sense, or even exists, but that was how I read the characters.
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