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.