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?
Friday, February 9, 2018
Friday, January 26, 2018
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).
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).
Saturday, December 16, 2017
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!
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.
"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!
Friday, November 17, 2017
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?
Friday, November 3, 2017
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?
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?
Friday, October 13, 2017
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.
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.
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