Final Thoughts on Mao II

I finished the book early so that I would have time to work on other end-of-semester projects next week, so if you don’t want details past chapter 11 spoiled, you may want to avoid reading this post.

Anyways, my opinion hasn’t changed. I haven’t read many novels in my life, maybe 20 at most, but if somebody asked me what the worst novel I ever read was or who the worst writer I ever read was, I would probably nominate Mao II and Don DeLillo. Sentences like “she talked to the woman in the plastic bag, offering to get a shopping cart for her, which is something I might be able to do” are just infuriating to me. Why write it like that? Why deliberately write so unconventionally when it doesn’t seem to add any value? Is the sentence more “powerful” or meaningful written like that instead of using “she” in both places or “I” in both places? I don’t think so. The same is true for most of the ungrammatical sentences DeLillo uses. Most of them don’t seem to add any value as opposed to a more grammatical way of writing them, so why choose to write fragments and mix perspectives? My opinion of DeLillo is kind of similar to what I said about Jack Kerouac in a previous blog post. Sometimes it seems like people embrace writers simply for doing things different, but in my opinion different doesn’t necessarily mean better.

But I don’t want to spend this whole post complaining about DeLillo’s writing. A more neutral topic worth discussing is Brita’s character. I just don’t understand it. It seems almost like her sole purpose in the novel is to serve as a sort of human diary for Bill and Rashid to vent to. Her character just doesn’t seem properly fleshed out to me. Her sudden development of a smoking habit is unexplained, she suddenly quits photographing writers with no explanation other than “it stopped making sense” even though she had previously considered it her reason for living. She just ignores Bill’s message on her answering machine as if never happened, which isn’t a big deal but confused me a little because it’s just not a normal human reaction. I mean, if somebody leaves you a message you call them back, or at least acknowledge that you just got a message. She didn’t even comment on it at all—you’d think she didn’t even hear it. And those are just a few of the things leaving me with questions about Brita. If I fully explored all the questions I have in connection to all the characters, this post would end up over 10,000 words. This novel makes me self-conscious about my ability to comprehend what I read, because I honestly can’t fathom why anybody would praise it. It makes me feel like I’m missing something, and maybe I am, but I don’t think I could handle a reread.

I’ll end with the one thing I appreciated about the novel from chapter 11 to the end: the scene describing Ruhollah Khomeini’s death and the crowd reaction. Granted, I’m not sure how it fit in with the story and it is yet another thing I have questions about, but it drove home a poignant point. The masses were distraught by his death, which is especially significant considering some of the things he was accused of doing. Somewhere in the scene, I can’t find it now, there’s a brief mention that something like 8 people had been trampled and killed in the mourning crowd. And then the description of the scene as a whole continues. It got me thinking of the way people’s deaths are remembered depending on their station in life. Even in America, where we claim that all people are created equal, we don’t treat all deaths equally. We rally behind causes seemingly chosen at random, get outraged about some particular kid being shot and killed as if there aren’t several others that suffered the same fate. And celebrity deaths receive the most attention of all! Just like the 8 (or however many it was) people who died in the crowd weren’t spared a second thought even as Khomeini’s death drew a response from thousands and was broadcasted on television as well, some deaths in real life fall completely under the radar while others are mourned around the world. There’s something wrong with that. I appreciate that DeLillo got me thinking about it, even if I didn’t particularly care for his novel as a whole.

Thoughts on Mao II chapters 1-5

This is probably going to be my shortest blog post. The old adage "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" was drilled into my head almost daily in elementary school, as it probably was for many of us. And after five chapters, I honestly don't have a single positive thing to say about Mao II. I guess it's just not my cup of tea (why do Americans use this expression--I don't even drink tea!)

Actually, on second thought, there was one thing I appreciated: Bill's comments about photographs merely being an announcement of death. I've never pondered the nature of photography to such an extent (or any extent for that matter) but it's certainly something interesting to think about. Bill seems an incredibly pessimistic fellow, but I tend to agree with him in this regard. We (the public) generally know what living famous people look like. I mean, they're famous--almost by definition their appearances are well-known. So why bother taking pictures of people we all already recognize? Because the pictures aren't really for us, they're for future generations to associate with the names. In that sense, having your picture taken really is just preparing for your death. You're trying to make sure your persona doesn't die when you do. It really is a grave sort of thing, but treated so frivolously usually.

Another thing I can imagine people might appreciate about the novel, though I don't, is the way Don DeLillo makes the reader interpret things. His writing is incredibly fragmentary at times, as if he's trying to make the reading experience more interactive, giving the reader an opportunity to interject their own words and actions where DeLillo leaves them out. I can definitely see how some people would enjoy that, but personally I feel it hinders the reading experience a little, makes it feel a bit less cohesive. I'm just not enjoying it, or really anything about DeLillo's writing style to be honest. But I better stop now before I start venting all my complaints with the novel so far.

A couple parting questions: What's with Brita's sudden constant need for a cigarette after not smoking for 25 years, assuming she was being truthful about that? It's not like she just feels a need for a cigarette in a stressful moment once, she even took a second cigarette during her photo shoot with Bill pretty much immediately after finishing the first. That's what we call chain-smoking. So why does a non-smoker start chain-smoking almost immediately upon meeting Bill? And what's with the apparent randomness of the dialogue at times? It's especially difficult to follow during the dinner conversation. Hardly ever are two consecutive lines of dialogue about the same subject, it seems! Not only that, but it's not always even obvious who is speaking--to me at least. I hope the dialogue becomes easier to follow as the story progresses, but non-sequiturs and tangents seem an essential part of Bill's character, so I don't envision the dialogue becoming any less convoluted any time soon, unless Bill disappears from the story. Guess I'll just have to get used to the extremely non-linear conversations.

Reactions to "Cathedral"

For once, I think I'll just discuss my thoughts and reactions to a reading rather than focus on anything in particular. After reading Raymond Carver's author profile, I feel like I shouldn't be trying to explore any deeper significance or symbolism in his stories anyway, not that that's a bad thing.

First of all, Carver's "Cathedral" defied my expectations at every turn. I can't be the only one who thought this was going to be a story about an affair between the narrator's wife and Robert, am I? And with all the tension between the narrator and Robert, I certainly thought the two of them being left alone together was a recipe for disaster. Instead, they actually develop a stronger connection while the narrator's wife sleeps. Maybe it's just me, but I think those expectations are pretty reasonable given the context, which indicates to me that it's not coincidental that my expectations were turned upside down, but rather an intentional effect Carver created. So I guess I am exploring a deeper significance anyway, but perhaps Carver intended to demonstrate that that's exactly how reality works. Things don't always happen the way we expect, so why should a work of realism be any different?

And while I'm questioning the significance of things after I said I wouldn't, I wonder what to make of the way the narrator and Robert begin to connect. They eat excessively, have at least three or four drinks (without going back to count, something like that,) and smoke a couple joints. I'm not sure what to make of it. Is that just the way it happened, no further explanation needed? Or is Carver trying to make a statement of some sort about that kind of indulgence? If he is making a statement, what is it? The fact that they become closer through that indulgence seems to point toward it being a good thing. But I hesitate to consider that Carver was promoting hedonistic activities. Was it perhaps more of a satirical portrayal? Was he scorning the fact that people connect through such activities rather than praising it? I just don't know. Carver is very good at just "telling it like it is," not interjecting his own opinion. What do you all think he was asserting through the way Robert and the narrator connect, if anything?

One last observation: does this story leave you hanging, or what? Does the narrator's perspective on life forever change, or does he wake up the next day and blame the scotch and weed for a weird night? How long does Robert stay at the house? Does the narrator's wife approve of their new-found friendship, if you can call it that, or does she continue to think her husband is constantly mocking Robert (that's the impression I got from her throughout the story, anyway)? The story definitely leaves you with at least as many questions as it does answers, which, I guess, is pretty typical of reality, actually.

Manipulating Religion

We've had emotionally provocative readings all semester, but for me the two short stories from this round of readings take the cake. Using religion to advance personal ambitions bothers me more than just about anything, and both Philip Roth's "Defender of the Faith" and Flannery O'Connor's "Good Country People" involve that terrible misdeed.

Sheldon Grossbart in Roth's story is a despicable character for using his Jewish background to get special treatment, but my response to that story wasn't quite as strong as O'Connor's. I think it is probably because Grossbart's deception wasn't revealed so suddenly; it was obvious from the start. At least as far back as the synagogue service it was apparent that Grossbart and Fishbein were only interested in obtaining special privileges (though by all appearances Halpern was an honest Jew--then again, he also went along for the Chinese food, so maybe not.) On the one hand, it's slightly harder to commiserate with Marx and Barratt since it was so obvious what Grossbart was doing, though apparently not to Marx until the end. On the other, we live in an era in which people are so sensitive to racial discrimination--rightly--that people like Grossbart can get away with using religion to advance their own ambitions, and nobody can stop them for fear of being accused of religious persecution. It's a sad, sad reality, and the reason why that story was so depressing, for me.

"Good Country People," for whatever reason, was even sadder to me. It's mainly this quote that the bible salesman repeats several times that bothers me: "You can never tell when you'll need the word of God." In hindsight after reading the story in full, it's terrible to think about. That anyone could say such a thing knowing that the only reason he actually brought the valise was to stash Hulga's leg along with his other stolen goods is beyond my comprehension. It's seriously upsetting to think about. I'm glad it's only a work of fiction--but then, this sort of thing does actually happen. People do use other people's perception of religion for personal gains, as despicable as it is. O'Conner's story is a poignant reminder of that reality, a reality many of us would like to pretend isn't one. The worst aspect is it's not an easy problem to solve  by any means. I'm certainly not willing to start trying to judge whether every Christian who proclaims their faith is sincere or not. That's not a determination for me to make. And those people know that honest Christians aren't going to try to be God, but instead will accept their word at face value--and they prey on that. Religion should not be a game to see who can manipulate the most people most successfully, but that's exactly what some people have turned it into.

A Difficult Reading

Normally with my blog posts I try to explore some larger idea in connection to a particular event or symbol in our readings, but I found the excerpt from Big Sur such an unpleasant reading that I can’t help but use this post to complain about it. Seriously, I think I would rather read technical writing than Big Sur!

My main issue with the story is that Jack Kerouac’s unique writing style is incredibly distracting for me. I had trouble reading more than a sentence or two at a time before I had to stop and wonder what on earth I just read. All of the double dashes and nonconventional spellings and missing commas are distracting enough, but the general tone is the most distracting, to me. The way Kerouac writes seems almost like a conversation. I’m sure some people might appreciate that, but not me. If I want to have a conversation with somebody, I’ll have a conversation with somebody. If I want to read some literature, I’ll read some literature. To me, they cannot be mixed. Why? Because I can’t actually have a conversation with the story. It isn’t a dialogue; it’s a monologue. We’ve all encountered at some point a person who is an overly aggressive speaker: interested in speaking only about the topics they want to talk about, won’t let you get a word in anyway, and generally just seem to talk for the sake of hearing themselves talk rather than actually having a conversation. To me, that’s exactly how Kerouac’s writing feels. It feels like he’s just talking at me since he can’t talk to me, and I don’t particularly enjoy being talked at.

In the author profile, it mentioned that Kerouac usually took only three days to six weeks to write a novel. I can definitely believe that. Feel free to disagree, but it seems to me from this small sample that Kerouac was able to take advantage of the fact that there will always be people who just want to read something different, and who will be enthralled by anything that they come across that deviates from the norm. Kerouac’s “conversation”-style writing is definitely different, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he just churned out stories with little effort knowing people would be interested in the style of writing regardless the substance of the stories. I would be more surprised to discover that he actually spent time revising his stories.

I think my dislike for the story was compounded by the setting. Some people like to read about unfamiliar things, thinking “what’s the point in reading about things I already experience in my own life?” Personally, I have a poor imagination, so reading about familiar things is much easier for me and the imagery is much stronger. Seeing “Los Gatos” and “Santa Clara Valley” in the first paragraph obviously clued me in that the story would take place in California, and being a loyal, proud Californian, my expectations were probably higher than usual. Finally, a story that I could easily visualize since it relied on familiar scenery, and scenery I love to boot. Instead, I got a story that was harder for me to read than any other I’ve ever encountered. I just finished reading it before starting this post, and already I honestly can’t remember a single detail from the story other than somebody named Cody being involved—that’s how distracting the writing style is for me. I wholeheartedly hope that Big Sur isn’t going to be on the next test.

If there are any Kerouac fans in the class, let me know what I’m missing, where the appeal is, why Kerouac’s writing is so appreciated as to be included in the Norton Anthology. With as harshly as I just critiqued him, he probably deserves a little defense!

Not all African-Americans are Richard Wright

This post may be a bit of a tangent, but it’s as good a time as any with all four writers assigned for this reading being African-American (I think.) In the Ralph Ellison profile, it’s noted that Ellison was troubled by the way Invisible Man was being read. He wanted it be read not as a statement about African-Americans, but rather “simply as a novel” (1210). The profile also mentions that Irving Howe, who criticized Ellison’s lack of devotion to “the Negro cause,” believed that “African-Americans should write social protest novels about the tragedy of black ghetto life” (1210).

Does that statement strike anybody else as incredibly short-sighted? Howe has a single-minded concern that he pushes without considering the full ramifications of what he’s saying. Besides, it’s incredibly presumptuous of Howe, the son of Jewish immigrants according to his handy Wikipedia page, to criticize an African-American for not devoting his fiction to African-American causes. In an attempt to combat racism and social inequality, Howe contributes to both instead. To demand that all African-Americans write about a particular thing, no matter what that thing is, is a racist act whether it’s intended to be or not. Howe (and other critics) wouldn’t presume that all white people think exactly alike and have exactly the same concerns, but that’s exactly what is implied about African-Americans in such a demand. Not all African-Americans want to make statements about “the Negro cause”; some, like Ellison, just want to tell a story. When people refuse to allow this by reading those statements into the works when they’re not intended, they limit the African-American writer’s creative freedom, which is incredibly ironic.

Alice Walker’s Everyday Use  also demonstrates the way certain behavior or attitudes are forced on African-Americans. Dee wants to take all of Grandma Dee’s quilts to hang them and appreciate their history, while Maggie would actually make use of them, saying “I can ‘member Grandma Dee without the quilts” (1536). Dee becomes frustrated and claims the narrator and Maggie don’t understand their heritage. From Maggie’s statement, the implication is apparent: they can remember their heritage without revering objects for the sole purpose of appearing to remember their heritage. People aren’t all the same, and there isn’t a one-size-fits-all answer to everything. For some people, those quilts might truly help them remember their heritage and they might desire them for that reason, and that’s fine. But it’s also okay if they want to remember their heritage another way or even to not think about it much at all and just worry about the present.  Similarly, if an African-American writer doesn’t want to focus on the past or the social problems of the present, we should extend to them the same courtesy we would any other writer and read their works as written, not expecting them to make statements they don’t want to make. And just because an African-American writer doesn’t want to write about their heritage or current social problems doesn’t mean they don’t care about those things. Is a white writer who doesn’t write about murder prevention secretly a serial killer? No, and nor is an African-American writer who doesn’t write about African-American social problems a sell-out, traitor, or anything else they unfortunately get accused of.

 As English majors who spend plenty of time interpreting texts, it is important for us to remember to read texts as they are written, and not expect every African-American writer we come across to be making a statement about “the Negro cause.” (I would love to hear Howe’s explanation of what exactly the Negro cause is, as if every African-American has one indisputable goal to accomplish with no variance.)

Carnival Post (Free Admission!)

We began the unit with poetry from Robert Frost and Wallace Stevens, and already some themes emerged. First of all, poetry doesn’t seem to be our class’ “thing” for the most part (though there are obviously exceptions, as some even wrote their own poetry.) Only about half or less of the blogs mentioned Frost or Stevens, which is a telling theme in itself.  Many of us are apparently either uncomfortable writing about poetry or simply prefer literature. Those who did write about Frost and Stevens lend credence to the former, as nearly everyone who wrote about them remarked on the complexity or strangeness of the poems. Perhaps we all struggled with understanding their poetry, but only some felt comfortable attempting to do it anyway. It’s worth noting that our general difficulty in understanding the poetry didn’t necessarily mean we didn’t like it, as indicated in this post.

                The next round of readings provoked quite a variety of posts, but there were still some common elements. Generally, those who wrote about “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” had something to say about the relationship between Harry and his wife, none of which was positive. The treatment of women, in general, is a consistent theme throughout this unit. This is, of course, a consequence of the feminist movement that was gaining traction throughout the time period we covered.  Some of these readings were filtered through that lens, so it’s only natural that it would surface in our blog posts. The feminist elements in general and the specific contempt for Harry’s character both feature in this post. The other two readings, “A Rose for Emily” and “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufock”  were also discussed in a fair number of posts, most of which pondered the town’s significance in the former and the strangely unromantic nature of the latter. Both trends can be seen in this post.

Moving on to Their Eyes Were Watching God, it didn’t take long for trends to emerge. Most of us initially found Zora Neale Hurston’s writing style a bit off-putting, yet were willing to give it a chance based on the actual content. This post embodies that perspective perfectly.  Generally, we were rewarded for our patience, as most indicated that they enjoyed the novel at some point—some a little more emphatically than others. Other common topic of discussion was Janie’s growth as a woman and as a mature human being. Finally, there was a general sense of scorn for Janie’s first two husbands, and a healthy dose of skepticism for Tea Cake in response.

The last round of readings for this unit was poems from Langston Hughes. There have been only a few posts about his poetry thus far, but everyone that has discussed them in their blog posts appreciated them. Interestingly, it seems Hughes’s poetry was preferred to Frost and Stevens, at least partially because we had an easier time understanding it. This post was especially exuberant about Hughes’s poetry. Those who posted about Hughes were particularly enamored with “I, Too” and “Theme for English B.” One post was even dedicated to the poignancy and personal implications of “I, Too.”

But of course, the theme of this unit is not to be forgotten, and our class didn’t. Several posts searched for connections between modernism as a literary movement and the stories we read. Some analyzed the poetry of Frost and Stevens through a modernist lens to arrive at a greater understanding of the poems, as in this post. Others did essentially the same thing for Hemingway, Faulkner, and Eliot, as in this post. Modernist literature can be fairly ambiguous, but savvy bloggers used their understanding of modernism to help guide their interpretations and engage more fully with the readings.  

My first and probably last post about poetry

I don’t generally much enjoy poetry, and I struggle to make much sense of it most of the time—which is probably why I don’t usually enjoy it in the first place. Since poetry appeals to me so little, I haven’t read much of it, so there could be some poets out there that really resonate with me that I have yet to discover. That being said, there is one poet who I’ve always appreciated: Langston Hughes. It seems almost wrong that I am mostly uninterested by the poetry of the likes of Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens, and others we’ve read for class, but can appreciate the poetry of the comparatively far less famous Hughes. Well, I’ve never been one for mindlessly abiding by society’s conventions, so I suppose it’s only fitting my taste in poetry is no different.

The point of this blog post, though, is to figure out why? There must be some reason Hughes’s poetry has always appealed to me when others’ have not. After doing the readings for class, I think I might be able to pinpoint the appeal. Hughes’s poetry is simply profound. Whereas a lot of poetry tends to be more abstract, Hughes can convey profound ideas through fairly simple language and imagery. I’m a pretty literal and analytical person, so I tend to struggle to grasp abstract concepts. Hughes’s style alleviates some of that strain for me. Lines 31-36 of “Theme for English B” describe a concept many have struggled to adequately express even in long, prepared speeches—but Hughes’s description seems perfectly fitting even though it uses only one word of more than two syllables, and even that word (American) is familiar to all readers. My biggest weakness as a writer is concision, and Hughes’s poetry is as concise as poetry can be, while still conveying profound and compelling ideas. Perhaps my interest in his poetry is an acknowledgement of respect and admiration for his ability to so easily do something I struggle with.

Addressing Robert Stepto's criticism of "Their Eyes"

It still annoys me that I have to use quotations in the post title...

Anyways, as per the foreword, one of the major criticisms of Their Eyes is Zora Neale Hurston’s decision to tell the courtroom scene in third person. By not letting Janie speak for herself at that critical juncture, some argue that the novel’s efforts to show Janie finding her voice are undermined. Personally, I think there are practical reasons why Hurston takes Janie’s voice away in the courtroom.

Essentially, my thinking is that Hurston was making a different point. The courtroom scene wasn’t about Janie finding her voice—the rest of the novel focused on that aspect plenty. Rather, I see it is as Hurston making a final statement about both racial and gender inequality, through a concrete example. One man comments after the trial, “aw you know dem white mens wuzn’t gointuh do nothin’ tuh no woman dat look lak her.” The point of not letting Janie speak, then, is to demonstrate that it doesn’t matter what she would have said. Society would not punish her for killing a black man regardless her justification.

 Sure, she may have found her voice, but what good was it if everybody made their decision based on the skin colors of the victim and perpetrator? Hurston expresses that simply finding one’s voice is only half the battle—people have to listen and care about what you are saying for your voice to have any value. In 1937, when the novel was originally published, women were very much struggling with this problem. Women were newly given rights and social statuses they never before possessed, but those things didn’t do much good if men didn’t acknowledge their worthiness in these new positions. It’s difficult to think about now, because the days of students doing a double-take when they walk into their class and see a female teacher are long since passed, but there was certainly a time when women struggled to make use of their new rights and social positions. Some feminists would argue that society as a whole still doesn’t take women seriously enough.

Thus, the man’s comment on page 180, “Well, you whut dey say ‘uh white man and uh nigger woman is de freest thing on earth.’ Dey do as dey please” is obviously ironic. Continually throughout the novel, Hurston demonstrates that black women, even if they “do as they please,” are never free. Constantly, Janie had other people’s thoughts and opinions projected on to her. The courtroom scene drives the point home emphatically. She was free to say whatever she wanted, but it didn’t matter, because the jury was going to vote the same way regardless. In that sense, Janie had no freedom whatsoever, and neither did many women at that time, even if given the superficial appearance of freedom.

So it may require a little reading between the lines—and hey, my reading might not be what Hurston intended—but it seems to me that she said a lot more by not letting Janie talk than she ever could have with Janie talking at her trial. My interpretation of the courtroom scene, if correct, doesn’t provide solutions as such, but it lays the problem out starkly, and sometimes that’s a solution in itself.

Why am I so distrustful of a man with such a happy name?

Human beings are creatures of habit, by and large. We try to create links and patterns whenever possible because it’s easier for us to understand things when they are consistent. That’s why, after Janie’s first two husbands quickly transition from doting partner to bitter oppressor, it’s hard for me to read chapters 12-16 without a heavy dose of suspicion. Even though Janie says Tea Cake never wronged her in chapter 1, I can’t help but expect his “true colors” to begin to show, despite the fact that he hasn’t given me any reason to do so.

Of course, that’s an intentional effect Zora Neale Hurston knew she was creating. She even seems to be stringing readers along that path, probably to jerk the rug from under our feet and laugh at us when we fall. If Tea Cake does prove to be truly in love with Janie and married for honest reasons, I can already hear Janie yelling at me through the pages, “I told you so!”

But Hurston creates plenty of doubt and suspicion to make that told-you-so more surprising, even though she tells you it’s coming in the first chapter. First, Tea Cake disappears with Janie’s two hundred dollars and explains to her that he was at a gathering she wouldn’t have enjoyed. Okay, sounds a bit sketchy, but not a real big deal. Then, he leaves again to gamble the remaining money to recover the lost funds, and returns with over three hundred dollars. Perhaps colored by the expectation of ruined marriage created from the first two marriages, I initially assumed that Tea Cake simply stole the money. Later, Janie does actually see him gambling and winning plenty of times, so it’s not so inconceivable that he would have been able to win the three hundred dollars. Eventually, we see Nunkie flirting with Tea Cake, and again my first assumption is that he’s going to cheat on Janie.

It’s unfortunate, because if the first chapter is any indication, poor Tea Cake doesn’t deserve my suspicion and lack of trust at all. I’m sure Hurston has a compelling vindication in store for him, or she wouldn’t have so obviously set him up to be distrusted. In the meantime, I’ll try not to automatically assume the worst every time Tea Cake gets into these situations that can so easily be misconstrued.

A Frustrating Protagonist Makes A Good Protagonist

Janie is a frustrating character. Sometimes it’s impossible not to sympathize with her, and sometimes it’s incredibly hard to. Joe’s treatment of her makes her sympathetic, but she’s definitely a flawed character. That’s not a bad thing; I’d rather be frustrated with a flawed character than bored by a perfect(ly fake) one.

I suppose, considering her lot in life (being repressed by her husband,) it’s unreasonable to expect her to know everything, but sometimes she just doesn’t think things through very thoroughly. I was bothered by her realization that she hates her grandmother. It seems to show that she either doesn’t have a very good grasp of how society treated black women in her time, or she just didn’t take the time to consider the issue more thoroughly. Logan Killicks may not have been an ideal husband, but her grandmother didn’t marry her off maliciously. It was, in fact, the opposite: she wanted to ensure Janie didn’t end up like her mother, and wanted to make sure Janie would be protected and provided for after her death. It may not have turned out the best, but it was an act of love that you’d think would be appreciated even if it didn’t have the intended results. Clearly Janie has never heard the expression “it’s the thought that counts.”

Additionally, it’s hard to agree with Janie’s decision to unload her thoughts on Joe. I can understand the desire (maybe even need) to let those thoughts free after having to keep them to herself for so long. But couldn’t she have unloaded them elsewhere—to Phoeby perhaps? Joe was not a good husband, but the guy was on his deathbed. Let him die in peace! It was no coincidence that he died while she was venting to him. The sudden and severe stress surely brought his death about sooner.

If Janie gave her speech to Joe because she wanted him to recognize his sins before it was too late, it would be understandable. But from the context, it doesn’t seem that was the case. From my reading, it seems that she just couldn’t bear the thought of him dying without knowing how she felt about him, which is pretty much the height of selfishness. Again, maybe she just didn’t think it through thoroughly. Either way, it makes her a frustrating character that I continually alternate between pitying for her lot in life, admiring for her initiative and willingness to speak her mind at times, and being annoyed by her seemingly short-sighted and under-thought decisions. And I appreciate that Zora Neale Hurston was able to write her protagonist to provide such conflicting feelings about her.



Also, I have to mention the two excerpts from this reading that I found humorous:
 
“Aw naw they don’t. They just think they’s thinkin’” (67). Oh really, Joe? Nice self-contradiction.

And let’s not forget: “You heard her, you ain’t blind” (75). Amidst all the tension from Janie’s outburst, I picture Walter delivering that line perfectly seriously.  

A Rant About Feminism and Double Standards

Through five chapters, the feminist elements in Their Eyes are readily apparent. For example, the final sentence of chapter three: “Janie’s first dream was dead, so she became a woman.” (Hurston 24) I can appreciate this and other feminist elements, but I’m concerned it may end up being taken too far. This often occurs outside of literature, and it creates more problems than it solves.

 To be clear, I have nothing against feminism and I’m glad to have been born into a society that provides mostly equal opportunities for both genders. But, sometimes modern feminists take up a cause that’s more detrimental than beneficial in my opinion. For an extreme  example, and I’m about to delve into a topic that may offend some, but consider the popularly quoted “1 in 4 women will be raped before graduating college” statistic. Here’s an ABC News story discussing it.  While acknowledging that I am not a woman and couldn’t possibly understand the threat of rape the same way, and that there are countless unreported rapes not figured into those statistics, I find it irresponsible and potentially dangerous for feminists to promote awareness of those sorts of rape statistics.

Don’t think I’m a rape apologist—I have nothing but the utmost contempt for rapists. However, I find the statistic damaging because it’s not true. Included in that statistic are victims of “drunk sex.” Essentially, if a woman goes to a party and gets drunk and has sex with a man, and wakes up the next morning regretting it, she was, by law, raped. Of course, this introduces an incredibly unfair double standard, which is ironic considering that sort of thing is supposed to be what feminism is against. Certainly, no court will take a man’s claims seriously if he tries to accuse a woman of rape in the same circumstances, despite the fact that drunk men, well, let’s just say they can end up in some pretty awful predicaments in the morning as well.

While there can be circumstances in which drunk sex can border on rape, to consider every single instance a rape is wrong, in my opinion. Though there are plenty of unreported rapes understating the statistic, I think there are a lot more that were reported wrongly. Feminists sponsor polls that create these statistics, and I’ve personally seen how the polls trick women into saying they’ve been raped. For example, there will be a question asking “have you ever had sex while drunk” and every woman who checks “yes” gets added into a big bucket of people who answered affirmatively to other similar questions. Then, the total becomes the rape statistic, despite the fact that an unknown number of those included answered “no” to more direct questions like “have you been a victim of sexual assault.”

So, if rape statistics are overstated, the reason I don’t think feminists should continue misleading poll respondents (in my opinion) is obvious: it promotes unease and fear, puts a barrier between men and women that doesn’t belong. Women are conditioned to fear men and assume they’re all sexual predators, and that doesn’t create healthy relationships, whether romantic or platonic. There are a lot of repercussions of this attitude that are hard to directly trace to it, and perhaps that’s why it still happens, but I genuinely feel society would be better off if feminists eased up in this case. The feminist movement was originally about creating equality, yet modern feminists that attempt to promote this negative attitude toward men only divide us further. Besides, discussing how prevalent something is is a good way to make it so. Quite literally, I believe these feminist-sponsored rape statistics actually encourage rape more than inhibit it. That's why I take this issue so seriously--I truly believe some feminist movements actually hurt their own cause, and it pains me to see that.

Anyways, back to Their Eyes. As I said, I can appreciate the feminist elements in it. But, there has already been one instance in which it was taken perhaps a bit too far. The event I’m referring to is Janie’s leaving with Joe without divorcing her husband. He was not an ideal husband, probably, but he did provide for Janie. Feminists hate the marginalization of women, yet Logan was left high and dry without a second thought. Perhaps he resurfaces later in the story, but thus far no mention has been made of him since Janie left him. If their roles were reversed, I have a feeling feminists would bash the novel for marginalizing the poor married woman who was dumped at a moment’s notice, and condemn the male version of Janie for being the scum of the earth.  Sadly, I'm not sure how hyperbolic that is, even though it was meant to be.

In this case, though, there may be practical reasons why the event played out how it did. It may not have been realistic for a black woman to pursue a divorce from a white man, and perhaps she would have been punished for even mentioning it. Similarly, she may not have had any choice but to run off while Logan was gone. If she had tried to tell him before she left, it’s doubtful he would have just said “oh, okay, see ya!” In that sense, her infidelity is a message of empowerment, as Janie took her life into her own hands rather than settling for the hand dealt her. So, this may not be a case of feminism being pushed too far—but it is enough to keep me alert. I will be on the lookout for more double standards throughout the novel, as well as the positive feminism elements.

Zora Neale Hurston's writing style in Their Eyes Were Watching God

Presently, I’m only through chapter 2 of Their Eyes Were Watching God, but something about Zora Neale Hurston’s writing style is strange enough to me that I had to stop and write this post about it. I’m not talking about the Black English. What I find strange is that Hurston decided to write the novel in third-person. Generally, I prefer third-person to first-person, but in this case, first-person seems more appropriate. So far, there is a lot of dialogue—sometimes multiple pages without any narration. For me, it makes the transition between dialogue and narration rather “clunky.” It just seems, to me, that the novel would read better if written entirely in Black English rather than just the dialogue—the transitions are almost distracting.

In the foreword, Mary Helen Washington states that one reviewer described the novel as “a rich and racy love story, if somewhat awkward.” Though not for the same reasons, I think, I agree that the novel is a little awkward. I don’t understand at this point why Hurston wouldn’t have written the novel in first-person, allowing Janie to narrate, so that the transitions between dialogue and narration wouldn’t be so awkward. I can’t imagine that Hurston didn’t realize the strangeness of switching between Black English and something more closely resembling Standard English, so I’m assuming it was a deliberate stylistic choice. But why? I’ll be paying close attention to these transitions as the story progresses, and hopefully by the end I’ll have some idea as to why Hurston chose to write Their Eyes the way she did. Though I find the transitions a little awkward, the story isn’t bad, so I don’t mind having to get used to them. And who knows, maybe by the novel’s end I’ll have grown accustomed to the style and agree with Hurston’s choice.

Death and Taxes

One aspect of William Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” that intrigued me despite its relative lack of importance to the story as a whole was the apparent commentary on Benjamin Franklin’s famous declaration: “in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” I don’t know that Faulkner was necessarily trying to impart any particular message about the concept, but nonetheless it seems worth mentioning that the main character, Emily, seemingly rejects the notion. Her taxes were remitted and she not only refused to accept the death of her father for several days, but she also kept Homer Barron’s decaying corpse in her house for decades, if I’m following the story correctly. Thus, she truly rejected the inevitability of both death and taxes.

Again, I’m not sure what the significance of that is. The whole “death and taxes” concept, while sadly true, isn’t really discussed seriously. Most often, in my experience at least, it’s used as a sort of “too bad, that’s life” when somebody complains about an event not turning out as planned. It’s rarely if ever a topic for critical thought. Then again, maybe that’s why Faulkner chose to comment on it—to get us thinking critically about something mundane. Yet, I struggle to comprehend what he could have been implying. Surely the point wasn’t to embrace Emily’s perspective, as rejecting the inevitability of death in particular is absurd unless framed in a religious context—many religions believe in life after death—but Faulkner does not frame the story that way. Conversely, he could be trying to demonstrate the futility of denying the inevitability of either thing, since having her taxes remitted didn’t appear to improve Emily’s quality of life any, and sleeping with a rotting corpse definitely didn’t do her any favors. But there wouldn’t be much sense in making such a point; few would argue it. It would be similar to trying to convince readers that the sky is blue.

Maybe it’s just an innocent allusion to a famous quote, and efforts to attach particular meaning to it are wasted. That answer just doesn’t satisfy me, though, so what do others think? What, if anything, is Faulkner trying to say through the allusions to Franklin’s quote?

Ernest Hemingway's self-commentary in "The Snows of Kilimanjaro"

To preface, I don’t know much about Ernest Hemingway outside of the introduction in the Norton Anthology. “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” is now, I think, his only work I’ve even read. So, my speculation here could be entirely pointless, but I couldn’t help but make a connection between the author profile and the story. The profile states that when Hemingway’s father committed suicide, he blamed his mother. (1019) Central to “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” is Harry’s recognition that he has wasted his talents and, ultimately, his life procrastinating and enjoying a luxurious lifestyle rather than achieving his ambitions, particularly related to his writing career. While he eventually assumes responsibility for his own regrets, he initially lashes out at his wife, blaming her wealth for his predicament, as if her presence in his life was a debilitating poison for which he had no antidote.

So, I wonder if the two are related. Even further, it’s intriguing to ponder whether such a connection is intentional, or a subconscious expression. Does Harry’s eventual realization that he has nobody to blame but himself for the state of his life indicate a similar change in Hemingway’s perception of the events leading to his father’s death? Was he trying to implicitly acknowledge that through the story, or did it perhaps materialize without his intention? I believe people can learn a lot about themselves by analyzing their own actions, especially with hindsight, so the possible connection between Hemingway’s father and the story interests me. If he wrote “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” without thinking about his father’s death, but then noticed the connection in a similar manner as myself and consequently re-evaluated his thoughts regarding his father’s death, the story is infinitely more interesting to me. However, for all I know, he could have forever maintained the belief that his father’s death was his mother’s fault, making the similarities between that situation and the story purely coincidental, if not a figment of my imagination.

Anyone who knows Hemingway better than me care to chime in on the likelihood of the connection?

Interpreting the ending of "To Build A Fire"

In class, we’ve already discussed the most notable concepts from “To Build A Fire,” so I’ll leave those alone even though the instinct vs. intelligence dichotomy is probably the most intriguing aspect of the story. Digging for a topic for an eight blog post, I started to think about the ending a little more closely. Specifically, I’d like to talk about the man’s decision to accept his death. It may not have been Jack London’s intention—I have trouble reading too much into writers who claim they write solely for money—but it seems to allude to the clichéd generalization “it is better to have tried and failed than to have never tried at all,” which is, of course, an adaptation of Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem “In Memoriam” that originally used “loved and lost” in place of “tried and failed.”

Back on topic, if we read that allusion into the story, it’s interesting to note how it plays out. The man has the opposite mindset—he likens what he was doing (trying and failing) to “running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” (638) Instead, he settles down to die in peace. He was “bound to freeze anyway, and he might as well take it decently.” (638) As his life fades away, he treats himself to a little flight of fancy, making his last moments enjoyable rather than the terror we’d expect.

So what is London trying to say? The man decides it is in fact better to not try at all, and instead dies in peace rather than terror. From that perspective, it seems that London is rejecting the notion that it is better to try and fail. Yet, the man isn’t just trying and failing to dunk a basketball or some such inconsequential thing, it’s his life that’s at stake. The result of not trying was death. Perhaps London is implying that if you never try, your life is meaningless anyway—you might as well be dead. I think you could realistically interpret it either way, which I suppose might possibly detract from the value presented by whichever interpretation you do choose.

Or, the ending could just be part of the story, simple as that. That’s the problem with trying to analyze writers who claim they write solely for money—you always have to second-guess your interpretations and wonder if the author intended to impart wisdom or is merely telling a story, not that there’s anything wrong with telling a story for the sake of storytelling. So maybe I’m reaching by trying to interpret any deeper meaning from the man’s decision, but hey, it’s better to have tried and failed than to have never tried at all, right?

Three important concepts in "the Blue Hotel"

Considering it spans less than 20 pages, Stephen Crane's short story "The Blue Hotel" manages to evoke critical thought about an impressive array of topics of significant merit. Some are quite heavy, dealing with aspects of human nature, while others are less-involved observations that might not warrant as much discussion, but are still worth thinking about. For an example of the latter, note the shift in behavior in "the Swede" after Scully shares his whiskey with him. He was initially meek and cowardly, but the more alcohol he consumed, the more brazen, arrogant, and generally antagonistic he became. Eventually, this new behavior gets him killed. That cause-and-effect is worth thinking about, I suppose, but that people undergo personality transformations when they imbibe isn't exactly headline news.

More worthwhile for long-term consideration, I think, is the lesson learned from the Easterner at the end of the story. Of course, his assertion that each of the five tenants of the Blue Hotel were partially responsible for the Swede's death lends credence to the Swede's wild accusations upon first entering the Hotel. This makes for a nice storytelling device at least, while also potentially forcing readers to consider whether the Swede was truly crazy or if his supposition that "there have been a good many men killed in this room" (603) was meant to be interpreted in the same manner the Easterner interpreted the Swede's death.

I'm not sure how comfortable I am with this idea. Certainly, we can affect other people indirectly, and even harm a person indirectly. There are ample examples of this, to the extent that I don't feel compelled to provide another. However, to what extent can we truly assume blame for occurrences outside of our direct control? Sometimes, when trying to attribute things indirectly, we lose sight of the direct causes. Consider the unfortunate school shootings that have taken place over the last decade and a half; in every instance, somebody, be it family of the shooter or the media, decides to try to identify root causes of the act and use the opportunity to critique those influences. I find this problematic because it seems to defer blame from the shooter to external sources. Though nobody wishes to possess it, blame is not entirely a bad thing--when we are to blame for a shameful act, that scorn teaches us not to repeat the act. If we do not assume the blame for our own actions, how are we to ever learn not to repeat them?

Another important concept to take away from "the Blue Hotel," potentially, is the flimsy nature of human self-control. Even if it's tightly maintained 99% of the time, it only takes a moment of lost focus for disaster to ensue. The Gambler is described by Crane as "a man so delicate in manner, when among people of fair class, and so judicious in his choice of victims, that in the strictly masculine part of the town's life he had come to be explicitly trusted and admired." (616) Essentially, he is an upstanding gentleman who possesses great self-control, a man "so delicate in manner." However, it takes only an aggressive drunk Swede grasping at his throat for him to eschew caution and reason, and end up with a corpse on his hands and a prison sentence to boot.

Any and all of these three main concepts are worth applying to our daily lives, and there are surely others I either didn't address or didn't notice in my first reading, as this short story is densely packed with important concepts to consider. I cannot quite fully subscribe to the idea that a man's death at the hands of another man is the fault of a third man who cheated him at cards, but I do recognize the impact our actions can indirectly create without our awareness, and "the Blue Hotel" will serve as a poignant reminder for me to be more conscious of this effect and exert better control over my actions.

Divided We Fall

It’s a shame Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Du Bois are so frequently pitted against each other when contemporary critics discuss their careers. Sure, their ideas for African American integration differed on some key points, but by and large, their goals were the same, and we should not feel compelled to pick a side. Too often, we do feel that inclination, to the extent that Washington’s name is well-known outside of scholarly circles while Du Bois’s work is rarely discussed outside of academics—rarely in comparison to Washington’s work, at least. It seems as if the fact that it was Washington’s approach and not Du Bois’s that achieved African American integration—some would argue that the job still isn’t done, over a century later—invalidates or devalues Du Bois’s ideas. Sure, Washington’s approach turned out to be the more practical and achievable one, but does that necessarily mean it was better? Most realistic and “best” aren’t always the same. Perhaps Du Bois’s ideas are “better” conceptually (acknowledging the subjectivity of this point,) but they were simply “ahead of his time,” to borrow an oft-abused idiom.

Interestingly, to me at least, I actually think Booker T. Washington himself would agree that Du Bois’s ideas were “better,” that they held more merit. He was, though, perhaps a bit more of a realist, and he proposed methods that he believed to be achievable rather than argue for the ideal. It’s hard to condemn him for not sticking to his true beliefs, if that is the case, when we have the luxury of present-day context to guide us. Knowing that African American integration is in some ways still not fully complete over a century later—only the truly naïve believe racism to be dead—it’s fair to wonder how much longer African Americans may have had to wait to get even this far if they didn’t make concessions to allow the transition to occur gradually.

Pitting the two activists against each other, forcing us to pick a side, fails to recognize this fact about the nature of their arguments: both were right. Washington simply had the privilege of living during the appropriate time period to convey his message. W.E.B. Du Bois could accomplish so much more today than he could in the early 1900s. African Americans have now been mostly successfully integrated on a physical level, but racism still exists because they have not been accepted on an emotional level by everybody. “The Souls of Black Folk” is a step towards correcting these moral deficiencies some people still possess, but it doesn’t receive the widespread recognition it should simply because it wasn’t put into practice when it was first proposed. Should we also have never gradually begun to accept that the Earth isn’t flat? Booker T. Washington may have been a more important figure in his time than W.E.B. Du Bois, but I would argue that Du Bois’s ideas are infinitely more relevant today and should receive far more recognition than they do at present. Perhaps when Du Bois’s name is known to as many households as Washington’s, the last few steps to complete African American integration can finally be taken. In that sense, their different approaches are merely two halves of the same whole, and the futility in pitting them against each other is even more evident.

Is Huck Finn ban-worthy?

I stated in a previous blog post that I would post my final thoughts on the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn's place in American literature and whether it deserves to be banned. Well, I'd rather not be made a liar, so I guess it's time to collect my thoughts. My apologies if this comes out as jumbled as I'm thinking it might.

First, to address what seems to me to be the most commonly held opinion in support of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: the clichéd aphorism "those who ignore the past are condemned to repeat it," or any variant thereof. Generally, people who hail the novel as a classic and oppose efforts to ban it do so on the grounds that it is important that we know our past, especially if we want to prevent it from reoccurring. While I would usually agree with that--clichés become clichés for a reason; they're often true--in this case, I'm not so sure the expression fits. To apply it to the issue of American slavery seems to suggest that slavery isn't inherently wrong, because we don't need to look to the past to figure out things that are inherently known to us. For example, we don't research the history of American cuisine to determine that we should eat food. We instinctively become hungry and eat; no particular knowledge is required. Slavery is similar in that regard. We should instinctively recognize that all human beings have equal humanity and should be treated as such. If we have to look to our past to see that slavery is wrong, it's more likely that we're trying to find logical reasons why slavery shouldn't exist, not moral or ethical reasons. I think I can safely say we all agree that there are ethical and moral reasons slavery is wrong, though, so the cliché doesn't fit very well in this particular case.


Additionally, that particular defense doesn't make much sense because slavery is now illegal. We don't need to look to the past to remind us that slavery is wrong, even without innately recognizing it, because the law tells us so. So, if there is a viable reason Adventures of Huckleberry Finn should have a place among American classics, for me, it's not because it helps remind us how horrible slavery is. Neither is it to remind  us of the harm done by the "N word," which is another reason some people say we should read Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, sans censorship (since some texts replace the racial epithet with "slave".) I would argue that the mere fact that most of us are bothered by the way Twain's characters speak demonstrates that our society has now internalized those feelings. We don't need to read Twain's characters using the "N word" hundreds of times to remind us how hurtful the term is; we've already internalized those feelings because that's how society taught us to feel, just as society taught Huck to use the word.

So is Adventures of Huckleberry Finn without value? I certainly don't think so, despite the ending. The value of the novel as a whole can be, I think, summed up in this one quote from Huck upon returning to Jackson's Island after pretending to be a girl named Sarah Williams: "Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute to lose. They're after us!" (143) It can be lost if you just skim over it, but this quote is powerfully compelling. We must remember that, in fact, they're not after "us," they were after Jim. Huck was supposedly dead, so who could possibly be after him? Nobody. The technology to locate a person we have today largely did not exist in Huck's time, and he could have probably lived out the rest of his days not far from home without anyone ever discovering him. His whole journey, then, isn't really his adventure, it's Jim's. The beauty in it is that Huck acted on impulse (since the men were already on their way) to hurry back to Jim and help him escape, indicating that he recognized his natural right to freedom instinctively, which is incredible when considered in light of his upbringing. In that, there is certainly value, and not even the poor ending can ruin it. In fact, the ending could lend it even more value. Tom may not have been concerned with Jim's well-being, but that only makes Huck's instinctual concern more admirable. He had no positive influences to help form his instinctual response to Jim's plight, but makes the right choice anyway.

Since I do see a certain value in reading Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, I couldn't possibly endorse banning the novel. In thinking about the debate, though, I've come to realize something even more significant: I don't believe any book should be banned. To be sure, some books can be dangerous and promote dangerous ideas, and it would be better if nobody read them. However, nobody should have the right to make that distinction. Giving a person or a group (I have no idea how banning books works) the power to ban a book is more dangerous than anything that could be written in any book. The right to decide what books we can read is essentially the right to decide what knowledge we can consume, and that's a dangerous proposition in a democratic country. I'll take the chance of somebody writing something that promotes harmful ideas, and trust in human nature to prevent the majority from attaching themselves to these ideas, over submitting to yet another control system, any day.

Tom Sawyer's prank

"They hain't no right to shut him up," Tom Sawyer begins, and for a moment it seems as if he's going to launch into an impassioned diatribe against slavery to cap off the novel, leading me to wonder how scholars could condemn it as racist.

And then it becomes oh so clear. Instead of a diatribe against slavery, we receive the knowledge that Jim has been free for two months, and the entire rescue was yet another fanciful Tom Sawyer adventure--essentially just a prank. Knowledge is power, but I'd much rather have never acquired that knowledge; I wish I stopped reading around Chapter 30, free to imagine my own ending.

By revealing that Jim was already free, Tom makes it much more difficult to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as a social protest, particularly in regard to slavery. Instead of Tom joining Huck in a noble quest to grant Jim his freedom in recognition of his equal humanity, it's Huck joining Tom (unknowingly, but the fact remains) in pranking the community to fulfill a desire for adventure, using Jim as an object in meeting those ends.

Up to that point, I was firmly in the camp defending The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but the ending requires me to re-evaluate. I'm not sure at this point if Tom's prank ruins or undoes the social commentary throughout the rest of the novel for me, but I can see why it might for some people. While much of the novel builds on the idea that Huck innately recognizes Jim's full humanity and identifies with him and his flight for freedom without conscious consideration, the ending seems to "flip the script" and objectify Jim. Tom doesn't seem to seriously consider Jim as he would another human being, since he risks his health and his very life by acting out his prank. Jim was lucky not to be lynched when he got caught, and Tom either didn't consider that possibility or that risk didn't outweigh the benefit of pulling the prank in his mind. Essentially, either Tom is a deeply disturbed character, or he doesn't take Jim's full humanity seriously.

For now, I'm actually leaning towards the former. Tom is clearly an eccentric sort--he was ecstatic to discover he'd been shot in the calf! Just as he doesn't see anything wrong with suffering that physical trauma, I'm not sure he really recognized what he was putting Jim through by making him sleep with rats, snakes, and spiders, among other things. If Jim were a white man, I think Tom would have asked him to do the same things. Do you agree?

One last consideration: even if we assume the latter instead--that Tom doesn't take Jim's full humanity seriously--does that necessarily detract from other messages we may take from the story? Does Tom's views have to be in line with Huck's for us to appreciate Huck's journey, both physical and spiritual? As I said above, I'm not sure if the ending ruins the novel for me yet. I need to think about it some more, and I plan to compose another blog post with my final take on the debate on the subject of whether the novel should be banned, which will be based largely on whether I decide the ending ruins the rest of the book. In the meantime, what do you think: does the ending ruin, or at least detract from if ruin's too strong of a word, the rest of the novel, or is it an acceptable or even enjoyable ending?

Finn the follower: Huck's sense of self-worth

With this post, I’d like to focus on Huck’s tendency to follow. At this point in my reading, I’m through chapter XXXVI, so Jim’s rescue hasn’t been completed yet, and I don’t know how it will turn out. But, as I read about Tom’s excessively gaudy and risky plan and Huck’s submissive behavior regarding it, I couldn’t help but revisit the follower-leader dynamic we discussed in class back in the early chapters.

Huck has demonstrated over and over again that he’s a follower—that much isn’t in question—but what I wonder about is why? For the most part, barring a few minor mistakes, Huck’s plans have always worked out well. Whenever he takes the lead, things generally move along without a hitch. For example, consider how successful he was in forming his own escape plan while faking his own death; he was suspected to be alive by no one. And when he and Jim travelled alone—making Huck the leader by default—they certainly had less problems to deal with than when following the lead of the “king” and “duke.” Yet, no matter how successful he may be when he’s in charge, Huck never embraces a leadership role. He compares himself unfavorably to Tom Sawyer many times throughout the novel, indicating that he does aspire to be like Tom, yet he never tries to assert himself as he knows Tom would.

At this point in my reading, Tom’s rescue plan has nearly got them caught twice and left several other opportunities for them to be discovered if Tom’s aunt and uncle weren’t so trusting and maintained better security. The plan that Huck initially suggested could have been implemented with ease and far more quickly, but he still acquiesces to Tom’s demand for greater style. Why won’t Huck trust in himself and assert his opinions more forcefully?

Mostly, it seems Huck has issues with self-worth that keep him from becoming the leader or independent thinker he seems to want to be. The fact that he has poor parentage would, you would think, predispose him to loathe being a follower. People that lack sound parenting—or involved parenting, at least—in their childhood generally become self-reliant; they must become their own leader in the absence of parental figures. Huck, though, somewhat resists this generalization. Interestingly enough, it may be partially for the same reason: Huck’s status as the uneducated son of the town drunk, without a mother, would have barely registered him as human in the eyes of his contemporaries. Nobody besides Jim would follow his lead even if he did try to lead. To do so would be degrading to themselves, or so they would have thought. I can only imagine it would be maddening to be born in such a way that promotes a desire for independent thinking, but also fails to provide appropriate status to be able to express yourself freely and still be taken seriously.

Furthermore, his conflicted feelings about Jim’s slavery also deeply affected his self-worth.  When the point finally comes that Huck commits to rescuing Jim and helping him secure freedom, he also commits himself to Hell—the moral climax of the novel. Huck measures his desire to set Jim free against the teachings society instilled in him, and determined that his actions so opposed those teachings that his fate was Hell. Consequently, his sense of self-worth becomes confused and it’s only natural that he would be hesitant to assert himself. It’s a terribly unfortunate consequence, though, as it need not be felt at all: for while he may consider himself “low-down and ornery” for his desire to help Jim, the truth is that God probably sees great worth in any person who would willingly cast themselves into Hell for the sake of another person, if the situation was as noble as Huck’s simple desire to free a slave.

The Grangerford-Sheperdson feud

There were a few interesting topics meriting discussion through chapters 18-22 of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but the one weighing most heavily on my mind is Twain's depiction of the Grangerford-Sheperdson feud. It's interesting in itself, but the reason I was particularly intrigued by it is because I saw the History channel's Hatfields and McCoys miniseries last year.

I did a little quick research to verify that Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was originally published during the Hatfield-McCoy feud, and since it's well known that Twain wrote the novel over the course of several years, he would have been writing during the height of the feud. It's probably safe to assume he was aware of the feud, and given the uncanny similarity between the Hatfield-McCoy feud and Twain's Grangerford-Sheperdson feud, it may be fair to guess that the parallels are deliberate.

Hatfields and McCoys was one of the most emotionally-moving experiences I've had, because of the sheer senselessness of the violence, and it certainly made Twain's depictions more vivid in my mind. It also made me try harder to find some sense in the feud--to this end, I was unsuccessful, and I'm doubtful that anyone could.

By bringing religion into the equation, Twain makes the senselessness of family feuds apparent in a way that the secular Hatfields and McCoys miniseries chose not to. Starting on page 171 and continuing onto page 172, Huck recounts his experience attending church with the Grangerfords. He notes that all the men brought guns with them and kept them within reach as they listened to the sermon about brotherly love, painting a ludicrous picture that tells us one of two things about the Grangerfords and Sheperdsons. They are either incredibly hipocritical and unapologetic liars, as they listen to and regurgitate biblical messages without really comprehending or believing them, or the feud had become so ingrained in their lives that they truly couldn't even see what's wrong with it. Considering members of both sides were unrepetant about hunting young children (by our standards, if not their contemporaries') it seems more likely that it's the latter. And when a gunfight in a church starts to sound like a viable option, there's something fundamentally wrong taking place. How does discontentment with the result of a lawsuit lead to such an outcome?

More on this later, perhaps.

Superstition in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Let my first remark upon creating this blog be a complaint: I'm mildly annoyed I can't italicize or underline parts of the post title. Now somebody might think I just have a superstitious friend named Huckleberry Finn who goes on a lot of adventures!

Thus far in my reading of Huckleberry Finn--I haven't read the novel previously--the one dynamic I find most intriguing is the convoluted relationship between Huck and superstition. Generally, in my own informal observations at least, people tend to perceive superstition from one end of the pendulum or the other. Either you pass under a ladder on your way to replace the broken mirror your black cat broke on Friday the 13th, or the mere thought of doing any of the above makes you queasy. In The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,  some of the characters' understanding of superstition is considerably more complex. Huckleberry Finn himself seems to fall somewhere in the middle ground.

While characters like Jim believe in every superstition you can think of and several others that don't have much of a following today, Huck determines on a case-by-case basis whether he believes in a particular superstition. In fact, I've dedicated my first blog post to this topic largely so that I will remember to think about the things Huck does or does not choose to believe, and consider what that might reveal about his character.

Thus far, it's been apparent that neither Jim nor Huck hold much stock in religious concepts. Jim dismisses everything Huck tells him about religious stories as many of us would superstitions today, which is even more intriguing when we consider that Jim wholeheartedly believes in worldly superstitions. Huck treats some religious concepts similarly to Jim--his thoughts on spiritual gifts demonstrate this--but he hasn't necessarily dismissed religion in the manner Jim seems to.

The complex nature of Huck's (and also Jim's) understanding of superstition has revealed itself in small glimpses, but there's a long ways to go in putting together this particular puzzle. For example, Huck accepts the myth that looking at the new moon over your right shoulder brings bad luck as absolute fact, but he is skeptical about the benefits of prayer, Jim's snakeskin superstition, and Tom's genie superstition. Huck treats elements of superstition differently than most, and once we can figure out why he dismisses the concepts he dismisses and accepts the ones he accepts, we'll have gained a great deal of insight into the workings of Huck's character.