Conflict between Societal Eras in Shalimar

            One of the most interesting questions that Mr. Leff proposed in Freshman History was whether or not it was a mistake for humans to make the transition from small hunting and gathering tribes to large agricultural societies. One common argument is that in such a hunter-gatherer society, everyone depends on everyone else, and so there is a much greater sense of community. Crime is almost non-existent, and since all property is communal, no one is rich or poor. Everyone is equal, and there is almost no cause for envy, jealousy, or anger among the people in the tribe.

            While this is a fairly romanticized view, I still find it to be an interesting concept, and even today, many people, such as religious ascetics, take it to heart. I was reminded quite strongly of it near the end of Song of Solomon, where we are introduced to the village of Shalimar, which seems to be the quintessential example of what used to be a traditional community being tugged into the modern day and age. Throughout Milkman’s time there, Toni Morrison portrays it as having a lot of the romantic characteristics of hunter-gatherer society. First of all, everyone claims to be a descendent of the original Solomon, and the atmosphere of the village does feel like one big family. The adults know and respect one another, and the children play happily together. As an all-black community, they also don’t have to deal with racial discrimination and violence as much as they would have had to in a big city in the south. Susan Byrd herself says that Shalimar “is a dull place (…). There’s absolutely nothing in the world going on [there]. Not a thing” (325). In this case, she is saying it by way of an excuse for Grace Long stealing Milkman’s watch, but it felt to me like many of the villagers appreciate this. Nothing going on implies that there is no crime and not many problems, something very rare in modern society.

            This becomes even clearer when Milkman arrives. As a well-off, big-city northerner, the villagers in Shalimar see him as a representation of the “revolutionary” new American society that is disturbing their peaceful lives, filled with racial discrimination and crime. When he does nothing in Saul’s store to disprove their stereotype, their resentment boils over, and they get into a fight. After he comes hunting with them, however, they warm up to him, as they realize that he is willing to take part in their activities, and that he does not want to impose his culture upon them. They welcome him into their community and for the first time, he feels that he really belongs somewhere. It is this sense of belonging, in my opinion, that makes him so happy when he realizes that these people are part of his family, and what leaves him bouncing with joy as he rushes home to tell Pilate and Macon.

Open Genre Project - 20th Century Cryptography Challenge

20th Century Cryptography Challenge

The Iceberg Theory in Wide Sargasso Sea

One of the things that I have been most impressed by in Wide Sargasso Sea is Jean Rhys’s ability to convey the emotion underlying a situation without confronting it directly; she chooses words and phrases that not only accurately describe the situation, but also have certain connotations that allow us to better understand the narrator. The beginning of Part II, in my opinion, is the perfect example of this. The narrative switches from Antoinette’s point of view to Rochester’s, and so one might think that we would get a short introduction to our new protagonist. Rhys, however, dives right into describing the new setting, and yet is still able to indirectly give us enough information about him for us to orient ourselves.

Rochester’s reservations about what is to come now that he has left England are made clear from the first two sentences. He says, “So it was all over, the advance and retreat, the doubts and hesitations. Everything finished for better or for worse (59).” In my opinion, this doesn’t sound exactly like the language one would expect from a man who was just married, about to arrive at his honeymoon house. First of all, he seems to be characterizing the events leading up to his marriage as full of “doubts and hesitations.” Then, rather than being happy, optimistic about life as a married man, he says that he is afraid that this new chapter in his life could be “for worse.” Already, Rhys is foreshadowing the tragic outcome of their relationship.

Rochester’s next sentence compounds this feeling of a lack of affection towards his wife. He describes the setting by saying “There we were, sheltering from the heavy rain under a large mango tree, myself, my wife Antoinette and a little half-caste servant who was called Amélie (59).” This is the first time we learn that Antoinette is married, and yet the words, “my wife Antoinette,” are only given as an aside, shoved between “the heavy rain” and “the half-caste servant who was called Amélie,” both of which Rochester seems to think are a lot more important.

Such subtle clues about what the characters are really thinking, without acknowledging their thoughts and emotions directly, occur throughout the book, and this gives it a very Hemingwayesque feel. Indeed, I think it is clear that Hemingway and his characteristic “Iceberg Theory” were major influences on Jean Rhys’s writing style.

The Outsider by Albert Camus

            Out of all the books we have read so far, The Stranger has been my favorite by far. I have been absolutely astounded by the fact that even though Meursault is such a seemingly emotionless, robotic, and even animalistic protagonist, he has managed to evoke some of the strongest reactions and most intense debates that we’ve had all semester. How did Camus pull this off? The key, in my opinion, was his language. Every word has a deeper meaning, and every sentence offers not only a clinically precise description of events, but also a subtle glimpse into Meursault’s true character. It is easy to imagine a romanticized version of Camus, working far into the night by candlelight, slaving over each word to make sure it fits absolutely perfectly in his portrayal of Meursault. And yet, how disappointed he would have been to realize that all his work had gone to waste – it had all been lost in translation.

            Translating a masterpiece, like The Stranger, is always a daunting task, but it is compounded by the fact that English is a relatively simple language. It just doesn’t have the tools to express many aspects of French, and as a result, in almost all translations, including the one by Matthew Ward that we have been reading, a lot of Camus’s implied meaning has been lost.

Recently, however, a new version has come out by the American translator Sandra Smith, which is targeted specifically at dealing with some of the holes in earlier translations. Her translation deviates from previous attempts from the very first word. Camus’s original title for the book was L’Étranger, which had always been translated as “the stranger.” In French, however, it means more than just that; it describes someone who is foreign, someone who doesn’t fit within the community. Therefore, Smith’s version of L’Étranger is actually titled The Outsider, a title which I feel much better describes Meursault’s personality, as well as others’ inability to understand his mentality. A second important change she made is how she dealt with the distinction between tu (the informal version of “you,” which you would only say to an adult if you had an extremely close relationship with them) and vous (the formal “you”). This difference is especially important to this book in particular, as it allows us to better understand the depth of Meursault’s personal relationships. One example of this occurs in the scene where Meursault becomes Raymond Sìntes’s “pal.” In the original French, Camus writes: “Je ne me suis pas aperçu d’abord qu’il me tutoyait,” which Ward translates as “I didn’t notice at first, but he had stopped calling me ‘monsieur’” (33). Smith, on the other hand, translates it as “At first I didn’t realize he’d started addressing me in a very personal way,” which portrays the depth of the implication of the statement a bit better. While not being called “mister” is quite common (most adults I know introduce themselves to other adults by their first name), being addressed extremely personally seems to be more of the intrusion and violation of one’s dignity that is implied by being called “tu” in French.

While no translation is perfect, The Outsider definitely serves to resolve these and many more of the issues with previous versions. I would be very interested to see if our class discussions would have gone along a different path if we had read this or another translation of the book.

The Metamorphosis - Experiencing Racism

            I think we can all agree that the story of the Metamorphosis has very little chance of happening in real life. Unless quantum mechanics goes berserk, none of us will probably ever have to worry about waking up and realizing that we have metamorphosed into some kind of despicable vermin – insectoid or otherwise. What makes this novella unique, however, is that once we accept the premise that Gregor Samsa has turned into a “monstrous insect,” the rest of the story follows quite logically and realistically. In fact, Gregor’s experiences after his metamorphosis felt oddly familiar to me, as if I had heard such stories before. It took me a while to figure out why, until recently I realized that I had read many stories like this throughout my academic career, each one slightly varied, but always along the same lines. Gregor’s life as an insect is uncannily similar to the lives of people in minority groups in our inherently prejudiced culture.

            The parallels begin on the very morning that he mutates. As he tries to get out of bed, he does not seem to think that being an insect will hinder his ability to be a travelling salesman at all – the fact that his appearance is not like anyone else’s does not mean that his mind and personality are any different. When other people see him, however, even his parents, they are repulsed. All they see is what he looks like on the outside, someone different and untrustworthy – someone who they should leave alone and not mix with. The next incident occurs a few hours or so later. For the first time in five years, he is a little bit late to get to work, and immediately the chief clerk comes knocking at the door, asking what is wrong with him. One would think that out of all the employees at the firm, there would be at least a few who were late, and who would have worse track records than Gregor, and yet it is the chief clerk himself who comes to check on him. Why? Even though he has been one of the most faithful workers at the firm, his employers don’t trust him solely because he works for a purpose different from everyone else’s – to repay his father’s debt. As the story goes on, such incidents continue to occur, with his father throwing apples at him, his sister not caring enough to give him the food he wants, and finally with the three lodgers who refuse to pay the Samsas when they discover that they had been living alongside Gregor.

            By this point, Gregor, being of very practical disposition, had mostly accepted the effect his appearance had on others, but as with everyone who has to endure such callous and unwarranted torment, it took a toll on him, and he became depressed. The sheer savage power of racism had caused him to be so shamed and mistreated that eventually, the man who had once worked incessantly and tirelessly to support his entire family was broken, and he had no energy left to do anything but lay down and die.

Is Cohn with the Wrong Crowd?

            Throughout The Sun also Rises, Jake’s narrative depicts Robert Cohn as someone who takes things way too personally, spoils their fun, and is generally irritating to be around. He is the odd one out in their group, and yet, if we look at what Cohn does that actually annoys them, we see that it is never anything serious, or for that matter, even necessarily bad. It is really just a combination of unfortunate circumstances and conflicting ways of life. Jake, Brett, Bill, and Mike lead very carefree lives, joking ironically, never taking anything seriously, and drinking and partying all the time, whereas Cohn is much more serious. He lives and dies by his own chivalrous principles, and he gets very offended when they aren't respected. This makes it hard for each of them to understand what the other person / people mean, and so they get angry all the time over petty misunderstandings.

            One example of this is when Cohn tells Jake about what happened between him and Brett after the party in Paris. Although Jake narrates the story in a way that makes Cohn seem like a complete idiot for thinking that his relationship with Brett could go anywhere, Cohn’s point of view makes sense objectively. For most people, if a relationship went as far as theirs did, it would be clear that both people were serious about it, but for Brett it didn’t mean anything; she was just having a bit of fun. In fact, if anyone was in the wrong, it was Brett. She led him on, even though she loves Jake and is engaged to Mike, whereas Cohn just made a relatively logical assumption.

            The other reason Cohn is portrayed badly is because Jake is biased. He is jealous of Cohn’s accomplishments and his relationship with Brett, and he even admits to this when he says “I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. […] I certainly did hate him” (p. 104 – 105). We can see this bias even from the very beginning of the book. When Jake introduces him, he says that “Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn” (p. 1). He acknowledges Cohn’s accomplishments, but makes his opinion very clear, and I think that because this occurs extremely often throughout the book, it has a big impact on how we subconsciously perceive Cohn.

            These two factors – Jake’s bias and their contrasting personalities – are what make me wonder if Cohn would be better off around people who are more like him, perhaps people from the more conservative older generation, as opposed to the reckless, adventurous, and cynical modern generation.

The Power of Free Indirect Discourse in Mrs. Dalloway

            After reading the first three chapters of The Sun Also Rises, I was, quite frankly, relieved. Compared to the maddeningly complex sentence structure in Mrs. Dalloway, which I was only able to fully parse at a rate of thirty seconds per sentence, Hemingway’s clear cut sentences were gifts from heaven, and reading Jake’s narrative induced a sort of drugged, euphoric sensation in my brain. Needless to say, if I had to choose one to read on my own, The Sun Also Rises would be the obvious choice.

            Reading the books in an English class, however, with daily discussions and debates, changed things. Mrs. Dalloway, once an impenetrable mess of semi-colons, near run-on sentences, and confusingly unrelated thoughts, started to become a little more accessible, and I found to my surprise that it actually contained a lot of valuable insight. The idea of Septimus and Clarissa making up two halves of the person, for example, is one that I would never have considered, but is actually quite eye-opening. From the point of view of someone who goes through Bipolar Disorder or something similar, such as Virginia Woolf herself, I imagine that they might feel that each of their alter-egos is really a completely different person, and that neither version of themselves should be judged by the actions of the other. In fact, many people with multiple personality disorder who have committed crimes when one particular personality is dominant but are normal, law-abiding citizens when the other is dominant have argued this very point.

Another example of the power of Woolf’s free indirect discourse was her criticism of the accepted treatment for the mentally ill in England in the 1920s. By describing Septimus’s most intimate thoughts, we see that his reality is fundamentally different, and that the simple treatments prescribed by Dr. Holmes and Dr. Bradshaw were in fact grossly inadequate. Even more interestingly, the reader is the only person who truly understands Septimus, with the possible exception of Rezia, and we see that although he is perceived by many as simply insane, he actually has a lot of extremely deep and profound thoughts, thoughts that are even described by Rezia as “beautiful.” This phenomenon is something that I would never have expected, and it was only through free indirect discourse that Woolf was able to portray it accurately.

Although Mrs. Dalloway was often hard to understand, I think it was definitely worth taking the time to unravel, as it allowed us to really get into the heads of the characters, and led to a lot of profound realizations that I never could otherwise have gotten.

The Mezzanine - A Tale of the Ultimate Passion

When I first started reading The Mezzanine, I was expecting a book that followed the normal plot line, suspense increasing until we reach a climax, after which the tension is resolved. After two or three chapters, however, I began to suspect that Baker was not merely setting the scene for some future event, and I resigned myself to 135 pages of unnecessarily meticulous description of the lunch hour of an ordinary guy who I didn't even care about.

As it turns out, I was in for a bit of a surprise. Baker’s narrative was insightful, engaging, witty, and altogether remarkably enjoyable. How, then, was he able to create such a successful novel with such a seemingly humdrum vehicle to drive his plot? There were many factors, of course, that played a part (e.g. his juxtaposition of arcane adjectives and run-of-the-mill objects, or his use of footnotes to allow the reader to really experience his train of thought), but I think the one that truly lifted The Mezzanine to its current status as an extremely successful experimental novel is Baker’s, or rather his main character, Howie’s, relentless passion for absolutely everything, no matter how prosaic.

From the very first page, his passion for escalator rides in the sun spills over into the first footnote, as he proclaims that he “loves the constancy of shine on the edges of moving objects.” Such observations of the various undocumented aspects of day to day life continue throughout the rest of the book, and his devotion to detail often brought up vivid memories that I never knew I had. Another thing that really emphasized the passion he had was his extensive research on questions that I had never thought about, but also didn’t know the answer to myself, such as why shoelaces snap, or why some plastic straws float. I often found myself trying to improve upon his hypotheses, and that lead me to read more and more. Even things he talked about that I couldn’t relate to, such as records or CVSs, were interesting, and his passion for each one came across in spades.

All in all, while this wasn’t exactly what I expected at the beginning, I found that reading it a few pages at a time prompted some really interesting ideas, and not only did I enjoy the book, but I also learned a lot. I have a feeling that future readers, while perhaps not understanding everything he discusses from the 1980s, will still be able to connect with and appreciate his passion, and will find themselves intrigued by the myriad viewpoints and theories he postulates.