First Corinthians and Porter

While searching for the name of the city that Milkman said he'd buy a plane ticket to get out of on Google in order to finish a blog comment, I stumbled across this blog post by an English teacher in Baltimore (read it!).

What the post examines is how First Corinthians is raped by Porter. Now, you might be thinking, really? That's what I thought too, until the author (Mr. Miazga) presented some really convincing evidence, framed in the context of sex. Honestly, it was pretty enlightening (I'm not being sarcastic or ironic or whatever at all)--before reading that post the idea didn't even cross my mind. When Corinthians keeps saying no, I thought she meant she didn't want the things Porter was mentioning, and just wanted him (romantic, right?). But like Mr. Miazga says, "There really isn't any other way to describe what happens above, is there? A woman says "no" four times in a row while a man is inserting his penis into her. There is no consent". When he put things like that, things made a lot more sense. Obviously, I have no idea how Toni Morrison meant for this scene to be read, but this is a pretty compelling interpretation. Something that I figure seems more fitting, if Mr. Miazga's claim is true, would be why Porter is described as "apologetically" asking Corinthians if he can get her something, when she asks where the bathroom is. 

If we accept that Porter does indeed rape Corinthians, then that adds a lot of confusion and complication to what their relationship really is. If it starts with rape, what does it mean for the two and their feelings for each other? What does it mean for our perceptions of the couple and the time they spent together before the rape, and the time they spend together after? 

Personally, I found the chapter with Corinthians and Porter the most moving one out of the entire book. It seems really earnest and desperate, and the sense of urgency and mix of both hopelessness and hope, I think, is extremely powerful. 

"The moment she had put her foot on the step leading up to the porch, she saw her ripeness mellowing and rotting before a heap of red velvet scraps on a round oak table." (not really relevant, but this sentence reminds me of The Bell Jar--which we read in Mr. Mitchell's Coming of Age class last semester--with its language)

"Corinthians continued to make roses, but she hated that stupid hobby and gave Lena any excuse to avoid it. They spoke to her of death. First the death of the man in the blue wings. Now her own. For if Porter did not turn his head and lean toward the door to open it for her, Corinthians believed she would surely die. She banged her knuckles until they ached to get the attention of the living flesh behind the glass, and would have smashed her fist through the window just to touch him, feel his heat, the only thing that could protect her from a smothering death of dry roses."

Isn't this really great writing? Isn't the emotion in it beautiful?

But, when we view this through the lens of before-rape (tacky term, I know, but I'm not sure how else to phrase it), things obviously get a lot more complicated. While Corinthians was feeling all these things, what was Porter feeling? What was he thinking? Was he just as emotional for Corinthians as she was for him? Did he want her to run back? Did he have an idea of what he was going to do if she ran back? Does accepting that Porter raped Corinthians sort of "ruin" the effect here, and make things seem a lot less beautiful or profound (almost a coming-of-age for Corinthians)? Does that matter? These are all questions I don't really know the answer to, and have to think on. 

Of course, we also have to address the aftermath. If Porter did rape Corinthians (which we can't be 100% certain about, but are accepting in this blog post), why do they stay together? Is this another example of "crazy love"? Do the feelings Corinthians has as she's running to Porter's (borrowed) car overpower whatever feelings she has on the rape? Is she okay? Does Porter feel guilty? Do they make up, somehow? Is it possible to make up and accept the rape as a thing that did happen and will be part of their history? I really have no useful insight to offer. 

Like Mr. Miazga, I'll also be ending this post on the topic of rape culture. If I hadn't read his post, I definitely would not have reconsidered the meaning and implications of Corinthians saying no, and definitely would not have spent so much time writing a (pretty long) blog post. What does this mean for me, and my awareness? What does this mean for the society I live in and the people around me, if others also didn't pick up on this idea? And, again, what did Toni Morrison intend for us to take away from that scene? It's complicated stuff! 

Rochester of Jane Eyre

I really enjoyed Wide Sargasso Sea. It's probably my favorite out of everything we've read so far; everything is so interesting and complicated (one word that kept showing up in the article for my group's panel presentation was "problematic", which I think fits)! After finishing the novel, something that I've been curious (and perhaps even a bit concerned) about is how reading it before Jane Eyre will shape my view of Rochester. I've never read Jane Eyre, mostly due to disinterest, but also partially due to some sort of unreasonable (and perhaps untraceable) bias. It seemed like one of those stuffy Victorian novels where nothing really happens, and all the characters are dull and pretentious. But having read Wide Sargasso Sea, I can't help but wonder what about Jane Eyre was so provoking that Jean Rhys had to go out and write a whole other novel ("fanfiction", I think Mr. Mitchell jokingly dubbed it) about it, and how Rochester in this other book presented. 

When I search up terms like "rochester jane eyre" or "rochester's character in jane eyre", I get results that include stuff like "Byronic hero", "conventional romantic hero", "passionate", or "extremely appealing and sensual". Now, that really goes against all of my biases towards that awful asshole (okay, like Christophine said, he's "not a bad man", in that he's not bad through and through, but I feel as though this reflects my current sense of indignation). Some search results attempt to convince me otherwise and explain how I'd be hard pressed to not fall in love with him due to Bronte's writing, especially considering how easy it'd be to put myself in Jane's shoes (honestly, in this aspect, Jane Eyre is more fan-fiction-esque than Wide Sargasso Sea). Again, I've never read the book, so I might really be qualified to make a judgement. However, going off of some less convincing (and more so infuriating) search results, I'm very inclined to believe that Rochester is still (if we take Wide Sargasso Sea as his legitimate history) a person of pretty low caliber.

"how old is rochester in jane eyre": Rochester is 37 and Jane is 18 when they meet. So, he's twice her age. Awesome. He's totally not taking advantage of this girl who he's employed as a governess (that's another power dynamic that totally won't skew things!) and her lack of experience. Sure, you can tell me to not judge stuff in the past with the lens of now (or something better worded than that, probably), or that love is love, but it really can't change the fact that there are inherent (and significant) imbalances to their relationship, right off the bat. 

Mr. Rochester is a Creep: A List: I don't agree with #7 (honestly I think that's a very biased--am I the pot calling the kettle black?--way of looking at things), but if all the other examples are true, Rochester seems to be secretive, manipulative, and possessive (who knew?!?). 

Mr. Edward Rochester: The author of this piece is trying to justify Rochester's horrible personality ("always on the edge of violence, likes to order people around, keeps his wife locked in the attic, and teases Jane on at least one occasion until she cries... that’s why he’s so awesome"), and basically tells us everything's okay because "passion" and "moral relativity" and how Jane's different from all the other women and changes him. Uh huh. 

Yes, my analysis might be overboard or a product of confirmation bias (also, it's not extensive enough to actually obtain that much credibility, but...). But if you really don't believe me, please check out those links yourself. Actually, what confounds me isn't that Rochester is still horrible in Jane Eyre, but rather that lots of people seem to like him (check out the Goodreads page on the book). What merit does he really have? Is Bronte's writing really that compelling? Am I misunderstanding something fundamental? Do I have to read Jane Eyre to figure things out for myself? If I read it and still don't understand, is it because I'm already too biased from Wide Sargasso Sea? 

Meursault's Morality

Meursault doesn't seem to have much sympathy for anything. This can be evidenced by his lack of opinion on Salamano's treatment of his dog, and also by how the Arab that he murdered never crosses his mind in the second part of the novel. In general, 'normal' people would feel bad for both of those things (in these cases, because they're obviously wrong); maybe "poor dog" or "holy shit I ended a man's life". Meursault doesn't feel bad, and it also doesn't really seem like he can make a distinction between what's wrong and what's not (and to him, maybe it doesn't matter). We can say that he's trying to maintain impartiality, but what if it's not that he's trying, but just that he does? As we've said in class, he's very attuned to the present and his physical comfort, but he doesn't seem to think much more past that. Actually, we're never told that Meursault feels any sort of remorse or guilt for his murder of the Arab, or that he even really thinks about what he actually did.

Because Meursault doesn't seem to have sympathy or the ability to distinguish right from wrong (or at least form an opinion on right verses wrong that he can share with the world), it might be reasonable to say that he doesn't have a very developed sense of morality. Morality, in a quick Google search, can be defined as "principles concerning the distinction between right and wrong or good and bad behavior". If we take this definition and hold Meursault up to it, the lack of such a thing is pretty consistent with his behavior. Meursault doesn't hold his actions up to any principles that make a distinction between right and wrong or good and bad. He does things because they serve his immediate physical comfort or state of being. He doesn't look at their implications or far-flung effects. He doesn't really think about how his actions may affect someone else (telling Marie that he doesn't think that he loves her, killing another man...).

One thing to take into consideration, however, is that the people that know Meursault don't seem to dislike him for this lack of morality. Marie, Celeste, Emmanuel... They all seem to get along with and like him pretty well. Maybe this is because Meursault has adopted 'normal' social customs (no matter his opinion or lack of opinion on them) and is able to blend in. Or maybe, it's because those people don't really mind, because the contexts in which they've interacted with him haven't been very strenuous. Is it okay to not have a developed sense of morality, as long as you're contained in situations that don't require it?

Gregor's Devotion

After finishing The Metamorphosis, there are obviously going to be lots of lingering questions. The one that interests me the most, though, is how Gregor was brought up, and what spawned his incredible devotion to his family. As we are told at the beginning of this tragic (can I call it that?) story, Gregor has been operating as the sole breadwinner of the family, helping pay off their debt and also support their lifestyle (with all-morning breakfast and Anna the maid). Most people would probably grow resentful and want to escape from such a suffocating way of life. Gregor does entertain those thoughts, yes, but it seems as though his conscience and guilt always win, and he continues to suffer through work. In fact, as we discussed in class, Gregor actually seems proud of how he's able to do so much for his family.

Another thing we discussed in class was the idea of sinister undertones, and how the Samsa parents could be seen as quasi-parasitic. The Metamorphosis not only covers Gregor's slow deterioration, but also Greta's coming-of-age. At the end of the novel, the Samsa parents seem to be thinking about Greta's marriage, now that she has become a lovely young woman. From our perspective, that seems sorta off-putting--their son just died that day (though, it was also suggested that maybe Gregor was "dead" to his family once he lost his economic usefulness) and their minds are already focused on their daughter, thinking about marrying her off (probably to some rich guy)? This leads me to believe that perhaps that Gregor had been brought up in a similar fashion. That is, Gregor is so concerned about his family (and later, not wanting to be a burden) because trying to do the best for them (i.e. working and earning money) is the only way he knows how to get attention. 

Another (harsher) way of putting this: Gregor has been brainwashed by his parents into being so obedient (and feeling guilty and shameful when he's not able to do what he's supposed to--e.g. go to work when he's been transformed into this terrible vermin), thanks to the fact that they only give him attention and validate his efforts when he does what they want. This is pretty consistent with the Samsa parents' treatment of Grete through the novel. Initially, we are told that Grete's lifestyle (prior to Gregor's transformation) consists of dressing up, sleeping in late, doing some chores around the house, and playing the violin. The Samsa parents do not seem to care about what she does--they don't even seem to care that she's taking care of this monstrous bug who may or may not be aggressive. It's only when she's deemed "marriageable" by them does she receive their attention.

Compatibility between Brett and Jake

Brett's someone who's expressive about her feelings. When she's miserable or needs help, she lets Jake know. Jake on the other hand, as we've said in class, controls his feelings and presents a sorta "stoic" image. Even when we're seeing everything from Jake's perspective, he doesn't really let us in on his feelings. There's not a whole lot of introspection or internal dialogue, and that makes it difficult to tell what he's actually thinking or feeling. I suppose that's a part of Hemingway's iceberg theory, and thus partly a stylistic choice. Still, it makes me wonder if Brett and Jake are compatible if they keep living like this.

What exactly is this? We talked a lot in class about Brett and Jake's relationship, and how it always seems like Jake is the one giving, and that Brett doesn't really seem to give anything back. Because of Jake's injury, they can't have a fulfilling sexual relationship, and thus Brett needs to be with other men (at least for that aspect of a relationship). What can you do in a relationship without sex? Communicate and provide each other with companionship, right? But if Jake's so closed off about his emotions, and Brett relies on him so much for hers, is this relationship really going to be sustainable? If they can't communicate with each other properly--take the example of Brett not telling Jake about Cohn--then how can they work in an already difficult (ie. sexless) situation? How can you continue to love someone you can't share things with and don't know well?

As one panel presentation group proposed, many of the characters in The Sun Also Rises seem to drink in order to escape their problems and the reality of things. At the end of the novel, Brett keeps telling Jake that he doesn't have to drink. But he doesn't listen, providing another example of when he drinks away his sorrows (if I can put it like that). It's especially destructive, since he doesn't seem to be willing to tell Brett how he actually feels. Alcohol seems to be one of his only solaces. Even with Brett, who's presented as "tight" all so very often, has someone (Jake) she can confide in (for most things at least). Is this end the beginning of Jake realizing that he's not getting (or can't get) what he wants (or needs) out of this relationship?

Frances

From what we've seen of Frances, she seems like a pretty off-putting character. Even before we get her name, we're introduced to the fact that how she took up with Robert Cohn simply to "rise with" his magazine, and how when it didn't, "she became a little disgusted with Cohn and decided that she might as well get what there was to get while there was still something available". From this, we can presume that Frances isn't with Robert because she loves or really cares about him, but because she wants things from him (at least from Jake's point of view). An example would be the dinner scene that followed these bits of description, and how Frances seems incredibly jealous and possessive. From what we can gather, it seems like Frances disapproves of Robert’s interactions with any girl. How come? I'd say it's because she doesn't want to lose him, as she thinks he's all she can get. And how does this affect Robert? I'd say that it makes him feel anxious and resentful. When we introduce Brett to the picture, and how Robert becomes infatuated so easily, it makes sense that he’d want to break things off with Frances. Brett seems to be confident and free, while Frances seems insecure and controlling. Brett is refreshing, while Frances is suffocating.

The way Frances talks to Robert in chapter 6 is a bit disturbing. Jake tells us how she’s wearing a “terribly bright smile” while saying extremely manipulative and hurtful things, and how “it was very satisfactory to her to have an audience for this”. If I were to practice a bit of armchair psychology (to use that term colloquially -- maybe it’s not really psychology but just being a bit presumptuous), I’d say that Frances is very insecure and hurt and this is how she deals with those feelings. One thing that she says that I think is suggestive of a warped mindset is when she complains about her “rotten luck”.

“And I don’t know now if any man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down were crazy about me. Now I don’t think I could get anybody.”

There are a couple problems with this. One, it’s just another example of how she doesn’t actually love Robert (and, let’s be clear here, he doesn’t seem to love her either -- but that’s for another time) and has been staying with him just to be provided for. Maybe she also enjoyed a sense of security and control, I don’t know. Another -- she seems to be placing too much of an emphasis on her appearance. I think Jake also touched upon this subject in an earlier chapter; now that she’s older, she’s less confident in how she looks and her ability to start a new relationship based off of those looks. Obviously this is concerning because it’s not only a shitty personal issue (placing your self-worth in how you look and not much else), but because it’s indicative of the societal expectations of women at that time. And third, and similarly, she seems to be focused not on her love for someone else, but on if someone else (who could provide her a lot of things) would be willing to marry her.

Love

From what we’ve read of Mrs. Dalloway, a significant thread seems to be Clarissa’s experiences (or lack thereof) with love, and how that affects her reminiscences of the past and her relationships of the present.

And what was this except being in love?

At Bourton, at age 18, during that fateful summer... Was Clarissa truly(1) in love with Sally, or was she merely(2) infatuated? Even if it were the latter, I don't think it would diminish the significance and value of their relationship and Clarissa’s experiences (which included “the most exquisite moment of her whole life”). However, it would prompt us to examine Clarissa’s life more carefully(3). Clarissa, it seems, was definitely enthralled with Sally — her worldliness, her extraordinary beauty, her sort of abandonment. But like we’ve reiterated so many times in class, due to Clarissa’s upbringing and the time period (among many other factors, I’m sure), a fulfilling lesbian relationship with Sally would have been completely off the table — Clarissa never would have even thought of it as a possibility. Thus, admiration and protectiveness are what Clarissa use to characterize her old feelings, and even now, Clarissa isn’t sure exactly if those things were indicative of love. 

How important is the idea of love in comparison to other things that are necessary for a healthy relationship? From what we’ve seen of Richard Dalloway, he seems like a pleasant person who really cares about (and perhaps even loves) Clarissa (despite not being able to tell her that in their first interaction that we’re shown). Sure, there doesn’t seem to be that much passion or vibrancy(4) in their relationship, but there is security, support, and mutual respect and understanding. While Clarissa feels as though she has somehow failed Richard, Richard does not seem to be aware of such a failure at all, continuing to be as earnest and sincere as possible. Is that enough to continue sustaining the relationship? Does he have enough love for two? I suppose if he's been able to for (around?) twenty years, it should be possible to continue to do so.

(1) I suppose by using “truly”, I might be making things more complicated. Being in love must be different for different people, and so I guess it’s probably not that great, as a bystander, to try and set certain standards, and call into question if a love is true or not. If Clarissa thinks that she was in love, then who’s to tell her otherwise?
(2) I guess using “merely” might make it seem like I’m making light of infatuations, so I’d like to clarify. It’s used in order to signal how much more love can be than an infatuation. It doesn’t mean infatuations are silly (though they definitely can be) or aren’t worth very much (the things one feels, of course, are completely legitimate).
(3) Not really in a “what’s wrong with her, why can’t she be in love” way, but in a “huh, how come" way.
(4) Butterflies in one’s stomach, flutterings in one’s heart, chills down one’s spine... Feelings of exhilaration or excitement, I guess?