What is "A Real Durwan" about?

When I first finished reading "A Real Durwan", I was pretty perplexed. It didn't seem right for the story to just end with Boori Ma losing all her life savings and keys, and then being kicked out by the residents. It didn't make sense. It wasn't as though I thought the story would culminate in some spectacular event (such as her reuniting with her family), but I thought that at least there'd be some sense of closure or of being at peace. Instead, we're presented with this injustice, and we feel even worse for Boori Ma. Right?

If we accept that Boori Ma is a "victim of changing times" (for example, with being so stuck on the past), and the the basin is "a sure sign of changing times", then it makes sense that the basin would herald Boori Ma's departure. If the residents are so serious about improving the conditions of their building, then it's inevitable that Boori Ma will have to leave at some point or the other. No matter how much she goes on about rice cooked in rosewater, or comforts we cannot dream, we understand that her current state is pretty unfortunate, and perhaps even squalid. She cleans and guards the building in exchange for simply a place to sleep. The conditions she so easily accepts (such as sleeping on newspaper under the rain) are not very respectable or presentable, and so if the residents want to better the building (and probably also themselves), Boori Ma's outlook is incompatible with theirs.

Still, it seems kind of cruel to just kick out a woman you've known for (presumably) years, and has been responsible and courteous all that time. Perhaps it's true that Boori Ma could've prevented the basin from being smashed, had she stayed in the building rather than go out, but I still find it pretty disheartening that they all jump to the conclusion that she somehow purposefully caused its destruction. One plausible explanation, I think, would be their sudden and extreme focus on material goods overwhelming their good sense and sound judgement. Unlike Boori Ma, who talks about the better things she once had, but seems fairly okay with living so spartanly, the residents now seem obsessed with better things. The installation of the two basins, and the good fortune of the Dalals seem to have changed something in the residents. Whether it's a case of keeping up with the Joneses or something more nuanced, I'm not totally sure. But, it's definitely something relating to materialism. Take this: "Boori Ma has endangered the security of this building. We have valuables. The widow Mrs. Misra lives alone with her phone". Isn't it interesting that the residents' focus is on their valuables and Mrs. Misra's phone? The implication, at least from my interpretation, is that Mrs. Misra can't protect her phone if she's alone, and not that Mrs. Misra can't protect herself if she's alone.

Honestly, I'm still not too sure what to make of the story. If there's some hidden moral or message, it's a bit difficult to see. Perhaps a commentary on the potential pitfalls of modernization or materialism? Something I think that is very interesting to consider, though, is Boori Ma's development through the story. She's (presumably) never strayed from the building too far since she's arrived, but as the workers come in and disrupt her daily work, she starts venturing out. She starts spending some of her life savings on small treats, and she eventually loses the rest of her life savings and skeleton keys to a thief. Which, yes, is sad. But also, perhaps, freeing. If Boori Ma has held on to those things for all this time in hopes that some day she will go back home or find her family, the fact that she loses them sort of helps her gain some closure. When she loses those things, she's no longer a victim of changing times in that sense. While the residents are busy bettering their building and acquiring more possessions they'll feel attached to, Boori Ma is out exploring and ridding (not intentionally, but still) herself of possessions she feels attached to. At the very end of the story, when Boori Ma is kicked out, she only brings her broom. So perhaps this story also advocates for some sort of minimalism or austere way of living.

Don't go like this

The idea of death, or dying, is pretty scary when you think about it. It's probably pretty high up on the list of most people's greatest fears. The only experience we have is with life, and so when we imagine darkness or nothingness or emptiness, it seems absurd and strange and frightening. Still, some people make conscious decisions to die rather than to live. Focusing on a subsect of those people, we turn to assisted suicide. These are people who typically suffer some sort of severe physical illness and make a deliberate and informed decision to end their life. 

"Go Like This", at a basic level, is about a woman in the days leading up to her assisted suicide. She seems fairly resolute and collected, at least to other people, though at the end of the story we wonder if her decision was really for the better. While she claims that "I have chosen suicide as the most rational and humane alternative to my cancer, an act not so much of self-sacrifice as of beauty, of sparing", we hesitate to believe her so readily. 

One thing that we might find a bit disconcerting about our narrator's (Liz) plans is how easily her friends accept them, and how there seems to be way more of a focus on the beauty of death and making some sort of statement with one's own than the loss of life and the loss of someone so close and dear.  This "cool intellectual lot", middle class bearers of worldliness and sophistication, indulge Liz's desires for a meaningful and poignant death. They say that "suicide can be, often is, the most definitive statement one can make about one’s life". Liz's husband, Elliott, even adds that "it will possibly be the most creative act Liz has ever accomplished... I mean, it could be viewed that way". It feels like there's such a need for artistry or pretenses that actual emotions and opinions are cast aside and left unsaid. We would hope that our friends would try to discourage us from assisted suicide, even if we did appear reasonable and rational and confident. Sure, part of not wanting loved ones to die can be attributed to selfishness--we don't want to lose them. But part of it is also caring and being sincere and more concerned about someone's wellbeing than agreeing with them for the sake of supposed art and beauty. As William says, "it sounds beautiful, but it’s fishy. Something’s not right underneath".

Liz claims that she is committing suicide for her husband and her child. Do we believe her? There is this idea that when faced with a disease such as cancer, one should stick it out and fight until the very end. Assisted suicide, in that sense, could be seen as an 'easy' way out. And yet, what's wrong with an 'easy' way out if it spares you from some suffering and pain, and you're fully aware of the impact of your actions on not only your life (and how it will end), but also loved ones'? Liz claims that "the cancer is poisoning at least three lives and that I refuse to be its accomplice"; a bold statement. We see Liz talk with her daughter Blaine about her plans, and she reveals to us some worries about some things Blaine will encounter, growing up without her mother (such as menstruation), at the end of the story. But even from all of this, while Liz tries to be intellectual and logical, there seem to be inconsistencies and a lack of consideration for others (despite what Liz says). A part of me wants to be contrary and ask, "what about the legalities? how will this be explained to the hospital or the police? have you considered the toll on Elliott for being a single parent? what will your daughter think of you when she's older? will she really appreciate what you're doing?". 

Perhaps one of the most frustrating things, for me at least, is Liz and Elliott's relationship. They don't seem to communicate much, and in such a time of need, they don't seem to be comfortable with showing vulnerability. We should assume that couples who make such important decisions such as one of them committing suicide take time to have thoughtful discussions and show each other love. But that's not the case here. Something I find particularly offputting is Liz's fixation on Elliott's (lack of) sexual attraction to her, and how much significance she gives it. She's so lonely, making such a life-and-death decision, and needs attention and love and care. She bases her worth off of his actions towards her, and it isn't much. Liz tries to be a heroic figure who's sacrificing her life so her husband and daughter will be better off, but they aren't playing their roles properly. Her husband is paralyzed and doesn't seem to be able to show how he really feels, and her daughter is distraught and doesn't understand the full extent of what's going on. 

Moore as an Author

Lorrie Moore, I think, has some really nice lines. For example, from “How”:

He is living rooms and turkey and mantels and Vicks, a nip at the collarbone and you do a slow syrup sink into those arms like a hearth, into those living rooms, well hello Mary Lou.

Personally, I think that’s pretty compelling. It conjures up images of domesticity and comfort and a quintessential American middle class life. Or, take this from “How to Talk to Your Mother (Notes)”:

Think about your mother. Sometimes you confuse her with the first man you ever loved, who ever loved you, who buried his head in the pills of your sweater and said magnificent things like “Oh god, oh god,” who loved you unconditionally, terrifically, like a mother.

This quote implies lots of things about what a mother ideally is like, and its similarities with first love, and also the intensity of these experiences, free of disillusionment. By themselves, these sort of snippets already have emotions attached and a certain amount of impact. The thing is, though, I feel, is that Moore tries to do this way too often, and ends up with stories full of interchangeable lines. Sure, there are some things that would need to stay consistent in order for the story to retain its plot, but so much could be moved around and the story would still keep its feeling. In a way, it seems a bit uninspired. 

Speaking of uninspired, another descriptor that I think could fit Moore’s writing (at least in Self-Help), would be lifeless. Her characters are often in perhaps relatable situations (divorce, infidelity, death or sickness of a loved one, etc.), and yet they’re sort of unrelatable. Sure, you can recognize the similarities in your experiences and theirs, and perhaps even shared feelings, but you can’t really feel for them much. There isn’t a whole lot of sympathy you can give them. Maybe it’s because they seem just a slightly bit detestable?

 Sometimes I get a bit confused because I’m not sure of Moore’s intentions. I’m not certain if she’s purposefully making her characters pretentious or apathetic or dislikable, and is trying to say something with that, or if she just doesn’t mind and doesn’t really have anything more interesting to say. I suppose it might be similar to being an English teacher and trying to find deeper meanings in your students’ work. Most of the time, in that case, though, there really isn’t anything to find, and the student is astonished when the teacher somehow manages to draw some obscure connections into something meaningful (I’m mainly thinking of Dr. E to be honest).

If you’re the sort of person who brings up things like your partner not knowing what supercilious means or who Coriolanus is in efforts to make them seem lesser, you can take a hike. Same if you care more about the ‘art’ and ‘creativity’ and ‘intelligence’ and ‘defiance’ of your death than actually planning it out well and self-reflecting on what you really want and why you’re really doing what you’re doing. I mean, yeah, I guess I’m also offended by how Moore portrays her characters. Usually, in books, you might have main characters who seem sort of morally corrupt or unlikable or what have you, but they also have some redeemable qualities. Or, the author is skilled enough to make us aware of their intentions and sympathize with the main character.

I guess it’s just a strange experience reading this different stuff.

Not Just Sonny's Blues

I feel like there's a lot more to "Sonny's Blues" than just a story about Sonny and the narrator and their relationship. It's the plot, yes, but what I felt myself thinking while the narrator was describing things (such as his reflection on and reaction to Sonny's performance) so vividly, was the circumstances of all the people around him and the realities they have to face. 

One connection that I think would be helpful to make would be how the narrator comments on the boys at his school:

"They were growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were two darknesses, the darkness of their lives, which was now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies, which has blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively, dreamed, at once more together than they were at any other time, and more alone."

I know how we discussed in class that it seems like the narrator doesn't really seem all that empathetic (or willing to be empathetic), but I feel like his insight here, if it isn't empathy, is still very keen. He grew up in Harlem, and he's still in Harlem, and while he's now an Algebra teacher who doesn't do drugs and has a nice family, I feel like there's also this sense of loss, or resignation. It's so true that these boys have such limited possibilities in life, and it's also probably true that our narrator wanted more out of his life as well. 

When the narrator was describing Sonny's music, and all the feelings it evoked, I thought it was extremely well-put. Yes, there is so much darkness and suffering out there, and it will be there for a very long time, if not forever. Yes, no matter what Sonny does, whether if it's music or drugs or some other way to make his life a little bit better, he'll never truly escape or break free. However, his music acknowledges the darkness, and it provides these moments of hope and beauty. Of course, Sonny will continue to struggle and hurt, and he'll keep doing that forever--"I heard what he had gone though, and would continue to go through until he came to rest in earth". The world will remain "as hungry as a tiger" and trouble will continue to stretch above them, "longer than the sky". But in those moments, our narrator recognizes the hope and the freedom that Sonny's music provides, and that helps him accept Sonny and his fight. 

After carefully considering everything, I feel like Baldwin's story is really also a way to talk about the struggles of black people in the United States. I feel like Sonny's struggles with heroin and his music acts as a vehicle for this conversation. If Baldwin were more explicit, I feel like it might have made people (more so during that time period, probably?) defensive or dismissive*. I find the most compelling parts in our narrator's language when he describes Sonny's music. Honestly, I kinda felt like I was out of my element thinking about this stuff, since we didn't really discuss it in class all that much. The things I was thinking about seemed... Not exactly like a reach, but there was this worry that I didn't really get the full extent of what Baldwin was trying to do? I guess that's because I am in unfamiliar territory. Just like how the narrator can try to work on his empathy, and try and understand Sonny's experiences, I can think about these things hard, but I won't really get what exactly he meant to do. There might even be more distance. And I think identity and historical context plays a big part--he's a black man in the 1950s, and I'm an Asian girl in the 2010s. One thing that hasn't changed (of many, I suppose), though, I think, is the darkness, which is still here. 

* I get part of this idea from reading one of Baldwin's essays that I stumbled across, while I was trying to find PDFs of his stories. Here's a link if you'd like to read it--it's pretty nice. 

Sonya and Rebecca

Honestly, when reading "The Toast", I thought the whole thing about Sonya quitting her job at an Ivy League university to become a health coach was absurd and a satirization of people in real who do that. After all, people who talk about fluoride rotting your brains out and everything are all quacks, right (slight exaggeration, but still)? I mean, you can't take

"I offered free consultations to all the fat, hormonally imbalanced women I met in local health-food stores and sent “You need a health coach” emails to all my former Ivy League colleagues."

seriously. It seems at least a bit exploitative, and also brings to mind MLM schemes--the likes of Herbalife, belly wraps, and various homeopathic remedies.

Later in the "The Toast", we are brought to 2008, where Professor X (Sonya's clever disguise) is suffering from Lyme disease. It's six years before the story starts off, and we can see that she wasn't doing much better then either. She's behind on payments, being harassed by debt collectors, and her rent (which she probably doesn't have) is due the next day. And yet, we witness a phone conversation between her and a (supposed) nutritionist, who tells her that tap water gives people dementia due to the fluoride content, and is giving Sonya aluminum poisoning (a quick search on Google leads me to quite a few questionable sources). This nutritionist tells Sonya that she needs a good water filter (and heavy-metal chelation, which apparently is another big alternative medicine thing), and Sonya obliges, expenses be hanged. We can interpret this scene a bit more graciously, since we do see how sick Sonya is and how awful it must be to suffer from Lyme disease. We can understand her desperation to get better, and sympathize with her plight. And yet, something still seems a bit off, right? 

If we go back to Sonya and her sister's childhood, we can see the abuse they went through and infer how much they had to endure (both emotional and physical). One interesting thing is that Sonya never really mentions what exactly she does in the household or what verbal abuse her mother throws her way. Leala is portrayed as the responsible one and the one taking the brunt of things, being the oldest child. Sonya, on the other hand, seems to not get a lot of that variety of abuse (though she is threatened with physical punishment). But this isn't to say that she isn't affected just as much. For example, having your Barbies rape other Barbies or have sex with horses can be pretty indicative of having a messed up childhood. I'm not saying that everyone who plays with toys with the intent of rape/bestiality had a shitty home life (obviously it'll depend on things like age and previous exposure to those sorts of concepts; and sometimes you can just attribute things to curiosity and not really getting the seriousness of such topics), but it is pretty dang suggestive of such experiences. Especially if you find other indicators, which we do. Sonya manipulates her older sister's attention and feelings pretty fluently, and manages to get what she wants every time (animal abuse is another great sign of childhood issues). Even the stories Sonya writes in the present don't seem very typical of someone that well-adjusted. The evil older sister trope can get pretty questionable, especially since Sonya does have an older sister (who honestly doesn't seem that bad!).

Right, so we take Sonya's issues seriously, but we also see her as sort of ridiculous. Maybe it'd be too strong of an act (plain mean, really) to call her pathetic, but something similar to that would probably fit (but we are sympathetic). Okay, now here's the kicker: Rebecca Curtis, the author of the story, in real life, is a holistic nutritionist. She had (has) Lyme disease. She has a sister who has a husband and two kids. She used to teach at Columbia. How much of "The Toast" is coming from personal experience, and how much of it is just because of how literary fiction works--"the need for drama, the use of distortion, and the distinction between fiction and reality"?

Note: here's an interview with Rebecca that I read, if you'd like to see it 

Another Manhattan?

When I saw "Another Manhattan" on the syllabus, I thought it would focus on another Manhattan. That is, some other version of the city Manhattan; some other version of reality. Maybe some dystopia or futuristic society (or both), and the lives of people in them. I was kinda wrong... I think?

After reading the story, I wasn't very impressed. I didn't really like any of the characters and I didn't find anything particularly interesting. Sure, this guy steals this gigantic bouquet in an attempt to (somehow?) repair his (kinda bad, really) marriage. Okay. But that's it? Honestly, the only thoughts I had before our class discussion was that Jim and Kate really needed to go to marriage counseling (and Jim to therapy and also a psychiatrist's office) if they wanted things to work. Jim's initial thoughts were right--they really did just need to talk about things, rather than going out to diner with friends they cheated on each other with.

During our class discussion, I realized quite a few things that made the story more compelling. I have to admit--when I got to the latter part of the story, I started getting a bit distracted and so didn't notice as much as I should have. One thing that several people brought up was Kate and her relationship with Elliot. It's true; Elliot does seem pretty controlling, and their relationship definitely doesn't seem as nice as Jim imagines it to be. Another thing would be just how serious Jim's mental illness is, and how it seems to be so normalized. Actually, I got a bit indignant about how Kate was talking to him. Shouldn't she be more considerate? Doesn't she know how much her husband's going through? Of course, since we don't get her perspective on their relationship that much, she might also be having a tough time, at her wit's end. It's definitely a difficult situation--and so that's why I concluded that it really might be better for them to split up. Sometimes love isn't enough. You also need communication, trust, understanding, the works. I know that I have a tendency to comment on the relationships of characters of things I read, sometimes a bit too much (armchair relationship counsellor? maybe), but it's just hard not to, seeing all these people struggle and suffer!

Something that I went away puzzled about after our class discussion was the "pretty shop assistant" and her interactions with Jim. Initially, I didn't think much about her, and felt kinda bad when he ran away with the flowers. But as some people brought up, you could also interpret her trying to get him to buy them as taking advantage of an obviously mentally unwell guy. Sure, he looks rich, and sure, he did agree to all these lilies and irises and globs of baby's breath, but...
Though, I suppose Jim's also a bit weird (understatement?). I found it a bit amusing, but also pretty disheartening when he mentioned "using a shopgirl as a proxy to get himself worked up for sex later that night"--it really showed that his relationship was lacking in way too many aspects.

I know this post has been kinda disjointed (I just have a little to say on a lot of stuff), but I'm still a bit confused about the title of the story. Yes, it could be in reference to the drinks Kate's downing. But, now that I think about it, it could also tie in with Jim's feelings of not belonging. He just feels so displaced and hopeless, and he really just does not belong. Of course, maybe he'll get better and finally be able to support himself and Kate, and they'll talk and work things out and live well and... Is that another Manhattan?

Reception to fake war stories

I don't know much about war. Sure, I've read All Quiet on the Western Front and Slaughterhouse Five and I've learned about WWI and WWII and the Korean War and the Vietnam War and I've heard about the Gulf War and the wars in Iraq and the war in Afghanistan... But I don't know much about war.

Okay, sure. So when I read O'Brien and he tells me that he's trying to convey some truths about war, regardless of the fact that The Things They Carried is a work of fiction, I accept it. He's a vet, he's been through these things, I'm sure he's just trying his best to represent the Vietnam War as what it felt like, from what he remembers. After all, maybe it seems too self-indulgent, or maybe it's too difficult, to write nonfiction about such experiences. So, I immerse myself in the book. I try to be receptive. I'm almost there with these characters and these places, almost feeling, almost believing. It's nice. Sometimes I'm emotional. I think I like the book.

Of course, O'Brien never forgets to remind us of this nebulous idea of truth, versus, say, reality, and how feelings and perceptions might play with actual facts when you're telling a story, and how paradoxes and contradictions are everywhere, and sometimes I find it a bit disruptive. Maybe it's because I'm lazy. If you tell me to believe you, I will, but I really don't appreciate you constantly calling into question if what you're saying is believable (it's kinda hard thinking about all of this!). Or, maybe it's just that I don't really understand what exactly O'Brien is trying to get at. Is he trying to prove a point about how truth is just what feels the most real? Is his purpose more making a distinction between story-truth and happening-truth, or sharing the Vietnam War? It's not super clear and I'm confused (and I don't really like being confused). Things seem a bit more clear during our class discussions, but when I'm thinking about these things on my own, I'm not sure where I'm supposed to go.

The Things They Carried starts off very well. I love the first story and feel deeply for the men, and especially Jimmy Cross. I enjoy the following ones as well. Our discussions in the classroom make me think about what I'm reading a bit more, but I'm not fazed or cynical about O'Brien's intentions or his representation of the war and the people. I guess what really changes things for me is finding out how the O'Brien's dear daughter Kathleen is actually a figment of his imagination. Maybe that sounds silly since it seems like such an inconsequential thing, but it seriously makes me reconsider my beliefs and what exactly I think O'Brien is doing. Kathleen ruins "Good Form" and "Field Trip" for me. I can't believe O'Brien would betray me like this. I give him my trust and I believe that he's earnest, even if not accurate, and he spins up this fictional daughter who serves only as a literary device. "Good Form" is supposed to be a heart-to-heart talk where we distance ourselves from story-truth for a while, and reflect, but it's not. I'm a much milder version of disgusted. 

I'm at the end of the book. Perhaps I'll be able to get back into it. But in the back of my head, I know that it won't be the same. Once I've come to know something and accept it, I can't pretend otherwise. When I finish the last story, I'm unsatisfied. Linda, like Kathleen, ruins the story she's in. She doesn't fit here, in a book about truth. For one, you can't fool me into believing that 9 year olds know what real love is like! Unless, I guess, it's all relative and depends on your perception at that time and how you ruminate over those experiences and feelings over the years and decide that--see how O'Brien makes things so confusing?!

Parts of The Things They Carried are still profound, and I do find them true (or I'd like to convince myself that they are true). I can separate, for the most part, what I like (most of the characters and their humanity, sad or pleasant feelings) and dislike (some of the things O'Brien forces me to think about, Kathleen, Linda), and that's nice. I have enjoyed some of O'Brien's meta moments. Sometimes he sounds cool, and sometimes things really do click. Feeling alive is exhilarating, war is absurd, and facing certain truths, such as death, is really difficult. I wish I could elaborate more, but this blog post is really getting kinda long, and I'd like to reduce some things to platitudes or generalizations just to make O'Brien disappointed, because that's how he'll react as that's how I imagine he would react (see how being meta can be annoying? this totally is to prove a point and not because I'm getting tired of typing).

Short Story

Spring 2018.

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?