What I enjoyed most about the second of these stories, 'The Nothingness Forest,' was its fairytale overtones. I know that I already noted this in class, so it seems a little like a cop-out to rehash it here, but hey. The fairytale aspect to the story should perhaps not be surprising when we consider that Ekstrom is a Scandinavian writer; these countries have a strong tradition here.
There is something slightly magical, otherworldly, about the entire piece. 'There's an excitement in the air,' Ekstrom writes- perhaps the crackle of magic. The journey of the infant and dog to the woods seems almost charmed; the boy on the bike has been delayed by the loosening of his shoelace, the lady beating rugs has dust in her eyes; it is 'as though [they are] enveloped in a cloak of invisibility.'
The child walks into the forest 'as though pulled by a string,' and the forest itself is certainly an old, almost mystical place. It is when they enter the forest, in fact, that a sense of foreboding, common to fairytales, sets in. Just before entering, 'the temperature falls a few degrees,' and once inside, it is as though the forest itself is trapping them: 'a fallen tree blocks their way with its pointed roots.' The dog senses it, aided by the calls from the searchers. But it is as though the forest has possessed the girl, driving her to push away her only companion, as he smacks him in the jaw.
Like Hansel and Gretyl, and countless others, she finds herself marooned in the woods, alone. Interestingly, at this point, the fairytale ends: 'so that's what the world is like.' Interestingly, this is juxtaposed with a 'Once upon a time.'
The Gifts of War's main talking point, probably, is the word uttered by the mother; but, really, what was said is irrelevant- its importance lies in the significance of it being spoken. The climax of the story is fantastic. Interestingly, what 'they had done' to the mother is seen by Frances as 'dreadful,' and we are left to wonder whether or not the older woman was better off in her stoic existence. For Frances, the other's coming of age made Vietnam 'an irrelevance,' and is described by Drabble as 'an unknown wound.'
It is clear that the older woman here has been irrevocably altered, but, frankly, it seemed more like a snapping, almost a breakdown, than a positive realization.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
Since I read the book all in one sitting, I'll post an overall response here.
What I, and I imagine most people, found most interesting in this book immediately was the narrative voice. For me, its absolute authenticity was the most striking feature; as someone who used to be a 10-year-old British boy, I could certainly identify easily with much of the psychology behind Paddy's words and actions, even though I experienced and did little of what Paddy does.
As the book progressed, however, what struck me most was the shift in power in the relationship between Paddy and his brother. Initially, Paddy is very much the dominant force, mainly because he doesn't seem to care about Sinbad, and Sinbad is unwilling to fight back. It's not an unusual sibling relationship; the younger trails behind the older, who in turn treats them abysmally- not maliciously, just because that's what older brothers do. So, Sinbad plays along with Paddy, who gives him the mouldy faux communion bread, and tries at every opportunity to get him into trouble: 'Francis didn't lift the seat! I shouted.' Here, the violence enacted upon Sinbad is casual, meaningless, and with no real intent: 'I kicked Sinbad when he was wiping the seat with his sleeve.' Sinbad comes to expect it, worried to play a leper in case he gets kicked.
Nevertheless, Sinbad is always present, always comes back for more abuse uncomplainingly. Perhaps he idolises his older brother to an extent. As the troubles at home become more and more pronounced, however, there is a shift. Partly this is because Sinbad (now Francis more often) retreats into silence whilst Paddy wants to talk about the situation between their parents, but it becomes even more significant when Francis transfers this silent resentment into his dealing with Paddy.
One of the most poignant scenes of the novel comes when Paddy tries to make amends to his brother, and shelter him from the turbulence at home: 'I was going to look after him.' Paddy even calls him Francis intentionally, only to be met with a harsh coldness: 'leave me alone, he said.' Later, equally heart-wrenchingly, Paddy is still trying to reach his brother, who has taken silence to extremes (scene starts p.239). Paddy kicks his brother in this scene, but everything is different. Now, he kicks Francis simply to elicit some kind of response- he gets none. As he subsequently explains: 'I wanted to help him... when he wouldn't do what I wanted him to I couldn't help going back to annoying him, frightening him, hitting him. Hating him. It was easier.'
What I, and I imagine most people, found most interesting in this book immediately was the narrative voice. For me, its absolute authenticity was the most striking feature; as someone who used to be a 10-year-old British boy, I could certainly identify easily with much of the psychology behind Paddy's words and actions, even though I experienced and did little of what Paddy does.
As the book progressed, however, what struck me most was the shift in power in the relationship between Paddy and his brother. Initially, Paddy is very much the dominant force, mainly because he doesn't seem to care about Sinbad, and Sinbad is unwilling to fight back. It's not an unusual sibling relationship; the younger trails behind the older, who in turn treats them abysmally- not maliciously, just because that's what older brothers do. So, Sinbad plays along with Paddy, who gives him the mouldy faux communion bread, and tries at every opportunity to get him into trouble: 'Francis didn't lift the seat! I shouted.' Here, the violence enacted upon Sinbad is casual, meaningless, and with no real intent: 'I kicked Sinbad when he was wiping the seat with his sleeve.' Sinbad comes to expect it, worried to play a leper in case he gets kicked.
Nevertheless, Sinbad is always present, always comes back for more abuse uncomplainingly. Perhaps he idolises his older brother to an extent. As the troubles at home become more and more pronounced, however, there is a shift. Partly this is because Sinbad (now Francis more often) retreats into silence whilst Paddy wants to talk about the situation between their parents, but it becomes even more significant when Francis transfers this silent resentment into his dealing with Paddy.
One of the most poignant scenes of the novel comes when Paddy tries to make amends to his brother, and shelter him from the turbulence at home: 'I was going to look after him.' Paddy even calls him Francis intentionally, only to be met with a harsh coldness: 'leave me alone, he said.' Later, equally heart-wrenchingly, Paddy is still trying to reach his brother, who has taken silence to extremes (scene starts p.239). Paddy kicks his brother in this scene, but everything is different. Now, he kicks Francis simply to elicit some kind of response- he gets none. As he subsequently explains: 'I wanted to help him... when he wouldn't do what I wanted him to I couldn't help going back to annoying him, frightening him, hitting him. Hating him. It was easier.'
Monday, April 7, 2008
Ceremony Wrap-Up
The close of Ceremony makes even more explicit what has been clear throughout the novel; Silko's very strong affinity for her Native American heritage. Tayo is healed not only by the Native America medicine man, Betonie, but by an almost mystical Native American girl, and alongside her, the very land itself. Those set in opposition to those ideals- and they are Native Americans, too, as well as Whites, are portrayed by Silko as monsters. They are drunk, disloyal, and brutal. Silko paints them as odious, capable of great atrocity and disrespect.
This comes to a head with the pseudo-crucifixion of Harvey, an act which makes the slightly ambiguous nature of who Silko blames even more so. For it is Emo, a Native American, who is the most evil character- symbolic 'flashing yellow eyes' are evident on his glasses as they reflect the fire, and his impaling of Harvey is described as 'witchery'- the same 'witchery' that brought Whites into the world; and who performs the witchery? Native Americans. So where does the blame lie here? Silko seems to be suggesting that the most atrocious acts are those of the Native Americans who reject their own culture, or dabble in great evil (both), rather than any external race.
This comes to a head with the pseudo-crucifixion of Harvey, an act which makes the slightly ambiguous nature of who Silko blames even more so. For it is Emo, a Native American, who is the most evil character- symbolic 'flashing yellow eyes' are evident on his glasses as they reflect the fire, and his impaling of Harvey is described as 'witchery'- the same 'witchery' that brought Whites into the world; and who performs the witchery? Native Americans. So where does the blame lie here? Silko seems to be suggesting that the most atrocious acts are those of the Native Americans who reject their own culture, or dabble in great evil (both), rather than any external race.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Ceremony from 120 to Picture Page
In this section, the standout for me was the start of Tayo's recovery. This begins immediately after his visit to Betonie. Nowhere is this more obvious than during his truck ride with Harley and Leroy. Previously in the novel, Tayo had clearly shown himself to be at unease around his erstwhile friends; he refused to join in their laughter, and was especially peturbed by the fact that this merriment is alcohol-induced.
However, though initially reluctant to get and subsequently stay in(to) Leroy's truck, Tayo begins to show signs of being better throughout the journey. He remains in the truck because he realizes that 'they had been friends a long time; they were the only ones left now'- ie, he feels a cameraderie that had long been missing. Whereas in the bars previously, Tayo clearly felt removed from his friends, on this occasion 'he wished the truck would never stop moving, that they could ride like that forever.'
Inevitably, the ride doesn't last forever; and when it ends, Tayo is confronted by more unpleasantness- but this time, the catalyst for his misery comes from outsiders, rather than his friends.
However, though initially reluctant to get and subsequently stay in(to) Leroy's truck, Tayo begins to show signs of being better throughout the journey. He remains in the truck because he realizes that 'they had been friends a long time; they were the only ones left now'- ie, he feels a cameraderie that had long been missing. Whereas in the bars previously, Tayo clearly felt removed from his friends, on this occasion 'he wished the truck would never stop moving, that they could ride like that forever.'
Inevitably, the ride doesn't last forever; and when it ends, Tayo is confronted by more unpleasantness- but this time, the catalyst for his misery comes from outsiders, rather than his friends.
Ceremony, to p.120
What struck me most about the reading so far for Ceremony is the imagery of flies. I found it especially interesting because in my culture, the fly is presented is wholly unsavory, unhygenic, and even horrifying. Personally, I feel that I have a live and let live attitude towards every creature except the fly; upon reflection, that's probably a terrible way to feel, but still.
In the Native American culture of the novel, however, the fly is presented as one of the most important and admirable of the Earth's creatures. It is the fly who went to 'the mother of the people... asking forgiveness.' This is explained by Josiah to Tayo when the latter is found swatting merrily. Tayo had thought that flies 'are bad and carry sickness' because '[his] teacher said so.' This demonstrates nicely the disjunction between Native American and White (and, in all fairness, Black and Mexican) culture that Silko seems very keen to emphasize throughout the novel.
There are, of course, many other images of flies, and most are negative. The drunks in Gallup are 'like cold flies stuck to the wall,' and Rocky's corpse is festooned with them during the war.
In the Native American culture of the novel, however, the fly is presented as one of the most important and admirable of the Earth's creatures. It is the fly who went to 'the mother of the people... asking forgiveness.' This is explained by Josiah to Tayo when the latter is found swatting merrily. Tayo had thought that flies 'are bad and carry sickness' because '[his] teacher said so.' This demonstrates nicely the disjunction between Native American and White (and, in all fairness, Black and Mexican) culture that Silko seems very keen to emphasize throughout the novel.
There are, of course, many other images of flies, and most are negative. The drunks in Gallup are 'like cold flies stuck to the wall,' and Rocky's corpse is festooned with them during the war.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Iranian Short Stories
The first of the stories that we read, , I really enjoyed. On a first read, it's easy to just appreciate the aesthetic quality of the piece without particularly focusing on the plot so much. It's only when you step back and try to work out what is happening that the story becomes slightly puzzling; but not in a bad way.
Additionally, there is a significant degree of satisfaction when the 'a-ha!' (not the band) moment hits, and we feel that we understand what is happening. For what it's worth, here's my interpretation (which I think I also offered in class, which is when it occurred to me.):
Additionally, there is a significant degree of satisfaction when the 'a-ha!' (not the band) moment hits, and we feel that we understand what is happening. For what it's worth, here's my interpretation (which I think I also offered in class, which is when it occurred to me.):
Zenzele
There is no doubt that Zenzele's conclusion is something of a tear-jerker; however, what I found most poignant was not the revelation of the narrator's impending death, but rather her reflections of her life. This is especially relevant for the 'coming of age' theme.
The death of the un-named lover of our narrator is a moving moment in the book (as death scenes usually are). However, its full impact, though slightly foreshadowed at the time, is not fully realised until the conclusion of the narrative.
Also of interest is that, although the novel is presented as a letter from mother to daughter, it is the former's coming of age that we are privy to, rather than the latter's. In fact, we learn the bare minimum about the younger woman; simply her characteristics, which are idealized by her doting mother, rather than her development.
The death of the un-named lover of our narrator is a moving moment in the book (as death scenes usually are). However, its full impact, though slightly foreshadowed at the time, is not fully realised until the conclusion of the narrative.
Also of interest is that, although the novel is presented as a letter from mother to daughter, it is the former's coming of age that we are privy to, rather than the latter's. In fact, we learn the bare minimum about the younger woman; simply her characteristics, which are idealized by her doting mother, rather than her development.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Persepolis
Though I enjoyed the film version of Persepolis, I did feel slightly as though the very monochromatic nature of the comic hindered the movie a little. Simply from an aesthetic viewpoint, I found the film a little heavy-going.
I feel as though Marjane's coming of age here begins as a disillusioning event. She has moved to Europe, alone, excited, and nervous but eager. However, the stark truth is that, adrift of her very supportive family, Marjane lacks stability and is simply not prepared for the reality that faces her. The subsequent decision to return home can be viewed as a cowardly retreat, signaling immaturity- on the other hand, it can be seen as a rational decision, unclouded by pride; a simple acceptance that Marjane does not belong in Europe yet.
Once home, her isolation initially continues, but her attempt at suicide fails. This, as it can be for many, is a major turning point for her; waking up after three days asleep, she enrolls at University, becoming a major force there, and meets the man she decides to marry- although that, too, is to prove a disappointment.
I feel as though Marjane's coming of age here begins as a disillusioning event. She has moved to Europe, alone, excited, and nervous but eager. However, the stark truth is that, adrift of her very supportive family, Marjane lacks stability and is simply not prepared for the reality that faces her. The subsequent decision to return home can be viewed as a cowardly retreat, signaling immaturity- on the other hand, it can be seen as a rational decision, unclouded by pride; a simple acceptance that Marjane does not belong in Europe yet.
Once home, her isolation initially continues, but her attempt at suicide fails. This, as it can be for many, is a major turning point for her; waking up after three days asleep, she enrolls at University, becoming a major force there, and meets the man she decides to marry- although that, too, is to prove a disappointment.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Kite Runner wrap-up
Subsequent to Chapter 12, Amir's progression as a person becomes even more marked. He becomes a successful writer; something that he had been forced to keep from Baba during his youth, but which he is now able to do with confidence, even before the death of his father, with whom Amir continues to co-exist happily with. In fact, Amir makes his father proud several times towards the end of the latter's life; he marries, graduates, and writes. All of these mark a transition towards manhood; he has a job, has left school, and has a wife, traditional signposts of maturity.
Another significant change from the Amir of old is his greater willingness to face up to his guilt, and overcome his innate cowardice. This isn't to say that Amir doesn't still agonize whenever he has to make a decision that might upset or hurt him; but now he surmounts his fears. So, he visits Rahim Khan, and despite initial terror, agrees to find Sohrab- at great personal risk.
It's interesting to ponder how Amir feels about Hassan's death- clearly, he is upset by it. Is he bothered because he has lost his chance to atone, or maybe slightly relieved? I believe that it's the former, and he chooses to rescue Sohrab as a way to posthumously reconcile with Hassan.
When Amir places money under the bed in Wahid's house, we see a contrast (a little heavy-handed) between the Amir who betrayed Hassan, selfishly, and the grown, come-of-age Amir who thinks of others (finally).
Another significant change from the Amir of old is his greater willingness to face up to his guilt, and overcome his innate cowardice. This isn't to say that Amir doesn't still agonize whenever he has to make a decision that might upset or hurt him; but now he surmounts his fears. So, he visits Rahim Khan, and despite initial terror, agrees to find Sohrab- at great personal risk.
It's interesting to ponder how Amir feels about Hassan's death- clearly, he is upset by it. Is he bothered because he has lost his chance to atone, or maybe slightly relieved? I believe that it's the former, and he chooses to rescue Sohrab as a way to posthumously reconcile with Hassan.
When Amir places money under the bed in Wahid's house, we see a contrast (a little heavy-handed) between the Amir who betrayed Hassan, selfishly, and the grown, come-of-age Amir who thinks of others (finally).
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The Kite Runner, Chapters 11-12
Here, in America, there is an interesting shift in the relationship between Amir and Baba. Amir no longer seems in awe of his father- perhaps because his father is no longer the man he once was. Working at a gas station, suffering health-wise, and with a graying beard and 'hair thinning at the temples,' no longer is he a God-like figure. He's simply mortal, and sad.
Having said that, he still retains some of his old hold over Amir, who still 'liked being on the receiving end of that [proud] look' after graduation, and who was subject to 'one of his smoldering Baba looks,' which had the same old power- 'the words had vaporized on my tongue.'
Their relationship seems a lot healthier, for all this, though. Amir receives Baba's present of a car gratefully, in contrast to the contempt he displayed the gifts he received on his 13th birthday.
Hassan's shadow, however, still hangs heavily over Amir. The sound of his name evokes the feeling of 'a pair of steel hands' closing around Amir's windpipe.
The most significant moment in this part of the book is Amir's declaration that: 'I didn't want to sacrifice for Baba any more.' This was the decision we were waiting for, the first indication that Amir is breaking away from his father.
Having said that, he still retains some of his old hold over Amir, who still 'liked being on the receiving end of that [proud] look' after graduation, and who was subject to 'one of his smoldering Baba looks,' which had the same old power- 'the words had vaporized on my tongue.'
Their relationship seems a lot healthier, for all this, though. Amir receives Baba's present of a car gratefully, in contrast to the contempt he displayed the gifts he received on his 13th birthday.
Hassan's shadow, however, still hangs heavily over Amir. The sound of his name evokes the feeling of 'a pair of steel hands' closing around Amir's windpipe.
The most significant moment in this part of the book is Amir's declaration that: 'I didn't want to sacrifice for Baba any more.' This was the decision we were waiting for, the first indication that Amir is breaking away from his father.
The Kite Runner, Chapters 1-10
The character (in both senses of the word) of Amir clearly takes centre-stage here. His single most crippling feature is his single-minded desire to be somebody in the eyes of his father, and it is a desire that eclipses all else, and motivates his- often despicable- actions. It seems impossible that Amir will ever come of age until he becomes happy in his own skin, rather than trying to please his father constantly- something he will never be able to do, being so different.
His treatment of Hassan is, yes, abhorrent, but there are mitigating circumstances. Quite aside from the aforementioned desire for paternal love, there is the sheer selfless willingness of Hassan to put Amir before himself. Though we can see Amir's ultimate betrayal of his servant as horrifying, we have to be aware that leading up to it are numerous acts of charity from Hassan; to Amir, this was just another, the ultimate. Amir himself recognises it for this and gratefully (though not bravely) accepts the sacrifice, though perhaps he wishes it weren't so.
His treatment of Hassan is, yes, abhorrent, but there are mitigating circumstances. Quite aside from the aforementioned desire for paternal love, there is the sheer selfless willingness of Hassan to put Amir before himself. Though we can see Amir's ultimate betrayal of his servant as horrifying, we have to be aware that leading up to it are numerous acts of charity from Hassan; to Amir, this was just another, the ultimate. Amir himself recognises it for this and gratefully (though not bravely) accepts the sacrifice, though perhaps he wishes it weren't so.
Monday, February 4, 2008
South America/Caribbean
Reflections on the South America/Caribbean Stories
Columba
For me, the most intriguing part of this thoroughly engaging story comes at the end, with the sentence, 'this was not done.' In class, it seems as though the accepted meaning of these four words is that they indicate the ignorance of slaughtering the doves; though this is certainly one possible explanation, I personally felt that it was in reference to the moment that our heroine places her arm around the slave boy. This was, for me, her coming of age, her act of rebellion against 'what was done.' This can be seen especially when we contrast the sneaking around that she had to do to see Columba at the start of the story- now, she 'recklessly' walks into the bush.
Also interesting here are the political overtones of the basic coming of age story. Already touched upon is the taboo connection between slave and master, but there are further references to the dove-car being a 'colony within a colony,' and the birds themselves not being for killing- a fact not recognised by the colonists.
On Sunday
Again, I'm curious about the ambiguity of the ending here; specifically, what Miguel's 'golden future' might be. Superficially, of course, it refers to his earning the right to date Flora- indeed, this is all Miguel himself can think about: 'All Miraflores would soon know... and Flora would be waiting for him with glowing eyes'. More importantly, though, if we take the voice of the last sentence as Llosa's, this golden future is a reference to the fact that Miguel is 'getting to be a man;' he's overcome the paralysis he encountered before under pressure, and has bested the town's alpha male.
Girl
What I found most interesting here was the almost throwaway insertion of certain instructions that, on a closer reading, give pause for thought. The majority of the advice given is practical, typical, unsurprising: 'cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil... this is how you sweep a corner,' and it's delivered monotonously, in quick succession. As such, it's easy to miss slightly disquieting instruction, such as: 'this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child.' This is especially disturbing, given its juxtaposition to the more commonplace medicine for curing a cold.
There are also a couple of occasions upon which the advice seems to border on the superstitious, perhaps indicating more deeply the native culture: 'don't throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all... this is how to throw back a fish you don't like, and that way something bad won't fall on you.'
Columbus in Chains
Just as in Columba, I found the aspect of colonization an interesting one in this piece. Annie has sympathy for Ruth, who is labeled a dunce for not knowing her West Indian history- but this is an unfair tag, since Ruth is originally from England. Her sympathy, however, does not extend to Columbus, whom she is delighted to see in chains, just as the slaves would have been.
In a way, Annie is still subject to a kind of slavery; the English cultural kind. She rebels against this by belittling Columbus, dancing calypso at recess and later in the graveyard. This story appears a kind of turning point for Annie; at the start, she is prefect, top of the class, and clearly enjoys her home life. By the end, she's lost her prefect position, and returning home finds no comfort there at all.
Columba
For me, the most intriguing part of this thoroughly engaging story comes at the end, with the sentence, 'this was not done.' In class, it seems as though the accepted meaning of these four words is that they indicate the ignorance of slaughtering the doves; though this is certainly one possible explanation, I personally felt that it was in reference to the moment that our heroine places her arm around the slave boy. This was, for me, her coming of age, her act of rebellion against 'what was done.' This can be seen especially when we contrast the sneaking around that she had to do to see Columba at the start of the story- now, she 'recklessly' walks into the bush.
Also interesting here are the political overtones of the basic coming of age story. Already touched upon is the taboo connection between slave and master, but there are further references to the dove-car being a 'colony within a colony,' and the birds themselves not being for killing- a fact not recognised by the colonists.
On Sunday
Again, I'm curious about the ambiguity of the ending here; specifically, what Miguel's 'golden future' might be. Superficially, of course, it refers to his earning the right to date Flora- indeed, this is all Miguel himself can think about: 'All Miraflores would soon know... and Flora would be waiting for him with glowing eyes'. More importantly, though, if we take the voice of the last sentence as Llosa's, this golden future is a reference to the fact that Miguel is 'getting to be a man;' he's overcome the paralysis he encountered before under pressure, and has bested the town's alpha male.
Girl
What I found most interesting here was the almost throwaway insertion of certain instructions that, on a closer reading, give pause for thought. The majority of the advice given is practical, typical, unsurprising: 'cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil... this is how you sweep a corner,' and it's delivered monotonously, in quick succession. As such, it's easy to miss slightly disquieting instruction, such as: 'this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child.' This is especially disturbing, given its juxtaposition to the more commonplace medicine for curing a cold.
There are also a couple of occasions upon which the advice seems to border on the superstitious, perhaps indicating more deeply the native culture: 'don't throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all... this is how to throw back a fish you don't like, and that way something bad won't fall on you.'
Columbus in Chains
Just as in Columba, I found the aspect of colonization an interesting one in this piece. Annie has sympathy for Ruth, who is labeled a dunce for not knowing her West Indian history- but this is an unfair tag, since Ruth is originally from England. Her sympathy, however, does not extend to Columbus, whom she is delighted to see in chains, just as the slaves would have been.
In a way, Annie is still subject to a kind of slavery; the English cultural kind. She rebels against this by belittling Columbus, dancing calypso at recess and later in the graveyard. This story appears a kind of turning point for Annie; at the start, she is prefect, top of the class, and clearly enjoys her home life. By the end, she's lost her prefect position, and returning home finds no comfort there at all.
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