Tag Archives: narrative

Schweblin

Week 13: Fever Dream and the Contamination of Anxiety

Fever Dream by Samanta Schweblin was haunting to say the very least. I read the entire book in one sitting – less out of choice, and more out of an inability to ever comfortably set it down and step away. From the very start, the reader is invaded with anxieties and disorientation. We are placed in the body of Amanda, who we quickly learn knows about as much as we do in regards to what is taking place in this town. As Jon says, there is a low-level anxiety and paranoia that permeates the narrative and we are never really able to escape. There is no moment of refuge, no pause in the spiral of disturbing events to catch our breath. We are stumbling through a fever dream of horror as much as our narrator, Amanda, is. Even the cadence of the dialogue and the hazy, but simple scene descriptions were downright creepy and reminiscent of jarring horror movie moments.

The frequent references to time running out and the need for urgency, kept me constantly on my toes, terrified of what I’d read on the next page. David and Amanda exchanging innumerable hot-and-cold guesses, like “we are very close now,” “this is the moment isn’t it?,” “this is the last moment of peace” (paraphrased), kept me activated and uneasy through every page. The sense of ever-nearing doom was inescapable. The lack of any answers or context further heightened this experience. It was frustrating and almost suffocating to feel as in the dark as Amanda; I found myself feeling indignant that we (the readers) were not given more context than the narrator, it was maddening to feel so blind and uninformed.

Learning about the history behind the very real horror of the novel made me appreciate the narrative style so much more. I can only imagine that the Argentinians affected by glyphosate poisoning felt this same maddening frustration and confusion on a massive scale. The fear that environmental contamination inspires is so visceral and unmoving. Fever Dream, if inspired by real experiences, is a heartbreaking but understandable reaction to this nightmare – meaning-making in dark, magical forces, desperation for dubious cures, and enduring paranoia about everyone in sight. In this light, Fever Dream is really a beautiful, if difficult, portrayal of this very real and devastating sociopolitical issue. Like Jon, suggests generational poisoning of rural Argentina is just the painful manifestation of real, contaminating forces that continue to seep into Latin America via exploitation, colonization, and violence: “The poison was always there,” says David (169).

Question for discussion: What are your thoughts on Amanda’s increasingly heightened paranoia for Carla? There’s a moment when she believe Carla’s fallen bikini strap and overwhelming perfume were perhaps intentional, malevolent distractions. Do you think Carla had intentions to poison Amanda? What do you think became of Nina?

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Menchú

Week 10: Rigoberta’s Resistance

I feel so grateful to carry Rigoberta Menchú’s story of resistance with me. Although the events of her life are deeply painful and tragic, it feels cheap to classify her life’s story as just that, a tragedy. Rigoberta’s story is one of incredible and unyielding resistance, in every form, from the seemingly mundane to the most compelling. This is evident immediately from the introduction by Elisabeth Burgos-Debray. She talks about Rigoberta’s cultural resistance practiced intentionally and thoughtfully even while making tortillas. “By resisting ladina culture, she is simply asserting her desire for ethnic individuality and cultural autonomy… Rigoberta’s refusal to use a mill to grind her maize is one example… a way of preserving the practices connected with preparing tortillas and therefore a way to prevent a whole social structure from collapsing” (xviii). Throughout Rigoberta’s testimonio, we see that resistance is an active practice, taken on by necessity. Her own survival becomes an act of resistance in itself as the profile of her community rises and her family is steadily taken from her.

Rigoberta’s many references to secrets also carry this practice of resistance. For Rigoberta’s community, secrets provide security of more than one kind: physical security from enemies, social and emotional security from violence, and cultural security from colonization. It is so simple yet so powerful in its defiance, as if saying, you may think you’ve conquered all of us, but you’ll never have this; this being Quiché traditions, customs, ceremonies, practices, or wisdom we can hardly imagine. Rigoberta’s final words in the text are monuments to this kind of resistance. As if she’s speaking directly to Burgos-Debray and her readers, it’s a chilling and unequivocal reminder that through everything, she retains her autonomy and narrative agency. “Nevertheless, I’m still keeping my Indian identity a secret. I’m still keeping secret what I think no one should know. Not even anthropologists or intellectuals, no matter how many books they have, can find out all our secrets” (289).

I’m especially grateful to carry Rigoberta’s story, because, upon graduating this May, my friends and I will travel to Guatemala for two weeks. We have been planning this trip for over a year, committed to doing months of research to make ourselves aware of the cultural context we’ll be guests of. In this, I’ve learned an incredible amount about the Indigenous communities of Guatemala, which represent more of the population than non-Indigenous Guatemalans. As travelers, it’s paramount to make ourselves sensitive to the cultures we are passing through and resist treating local customs as circus spectacles when we encounter them. I’m glad I will be able to carry Rigoberta’s voice with me as I enter her home and remind myself of my responsibility to her memory and survival. Decolonization and resistance is a daily practice we must all undertake no matter where we find ourselves.

Question for discussion: Do you think Rigoberta Menchú and Elisabeth Burgos-Debray were as close as the introduction would lead us to believe? Rigoberta’s final words make us question what we’ve just read and how much we’ve been trusted to hear; it reveals that Rigoberta is much more aware and intentional about her narrative agency than Burgos-Debray may have implied.

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García Márquez

Week 7: One Hundred Years of Solitude and Spiral

The first half of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez was a vibrant and overwhelming ride. It felt as if the narrative spun into chaos within the first 30 pages. It was beautiful to experience but also disorienting and somewhat tedious. Like the title suggests, and as Jon mentioned in his lecture, the greatest enemy of the characters (and the readers) here is tedium. A slow-boiling circus of chaotic personalities and circumstances that never seems to progress past its repeated mistakes.

Given the nature of magical realism and also the events of this novel, I found it difficult to differentiate the momentous from the mundane. Metaphorically speaking, García Márquez’s writing was extremely saturated and rich – it felt like a deluge of vivid colors – and hence, at times I wanted to put on sunglasses to mitigate the blinding intensity. Even the syntax of García Márquez’s writing seemed to contribute to this flood of imagery. He crafts his narrative through large blocks of text in which context, points of view, and time periods can fluctuate without apparent connection. Even dialogue would sometimes be buried in these long paragraphs, giving the reader a choppy sense of organization and progression. As I settled into the book, I began to acclimate to García Márquez’s game and found myself getting used to finding profound passages embedded in seemingly unrelated text – for example, “Amaranta’s sensibility, her discreet but enveloping tenderness had been weaving an invisible web about her fiancé, which he had to push aside materially with his pale and ringless fingers in order to leave the house at eight o’clock” (107). Breathtaking passages like these felt like were difficult to identify and ruminate on because they were often sandwiched by an excess of equally intense descriptions and events.

One thing I loved in particular about the text was the absurd humor, planted dryly at unexpected moments. There are too many instances to mention, but this one in particular truly made me laugh out loud: “He soon acquired the forlorn look that one sees in vegetarians” (71). Moments like this especially stuck out because their simple and blunt delivery stood in contrast to adjacent passages of serious intensity.

Disney’s Encanto popped into my head repeatedly in the first half of the novel. Upon further research I found that I’m definitely not the first to make this connection and many believe that One Hundred Years of Solitude may have been a significant (or entire) source of inspiration for La Familia Madrigal. Both the Buendía and Madrigal families live in massive, multi-generational mansions in the jungle of Colombia, acting as the social and political leaders of their village, and juggling surreal and magical powers. I loved thinking about this possible connection as the novel progressed; it helped to lighten some of the darker aspects of the plot.

Question for discussion: How did you make sense of time in the novel? At times it felt like the narrative crawled along at snail’s pace and then sped into overdrive skipping across decades. I could never get a sense of the children’s ages or relationships to each other. Do you think time is also subject to the magic of Macondo?

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Borges

Week 5: Labyrinths and the Maze of Understanding

Exactly as the title foreshadows, I found myself quickly getting lost in Jorge Luis Borges’ Labyrinths. The first definition Google provides for labyrinth is “a complicated, irregular network of passages or paths in which it is difficult to find one’s way; a maze.” Fittingly, I found Borges’ narrative style to be at times complicated, meandering, or just misleading. I found myself needing to read sentences or passages more than once – usually several times over. And even when I felt that I was properly following the storyline, I’d come across a passage that would make me question my understanding of what came before. In this way, both frustratingly and amusingly, I felt like I was navigating a real labyrinth consuming Borges’ work. I’d like to think this was his exact intention.

Despite feeling occasionally uncertain, I really enjoyed the reading journey Labyrinths led me down. The stories were unusual and unexpected yet vivid and compelling. In each, I am positive something significant or interesting completely flew over my head. But, again, faithful to the title, I think the stories were written to provide unique paths for every reader and allow certain details to go unexamined upon your first pass. Typically in a maze, people will walk up and down the same corridors repeatedly in the process of way-finding, and in this same way, I expect multiple reads of Borges’ text to be necessary to reveal all the nuanced mysteries.

Before reading this text, I had known Borges to be associated with the genre of “magical realism,” but upon finishing, I was surprised that scientific-fiction (sci-fi) wasn’t a more affiliated style. The short stories were full of incredible invention, science, mathematics, physics, and philosophy. Certain passages were so formal and academic – almost mathematical – that I sometimes felt a rigorous background in these topics was needed to properly appreciate what was being said.

Throughout, Borges remained faithful to the themes of time, plurality, and importantly, labyrinths. In many of his stories, Borges completely deconstructs my understanding of time and introduces extraordinary layers of possibility in each narrative. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the way Rick Riordan describes the Labyrinth in the fourth novel of the Percy Jackson series; a self-aware, self-expanding maze that bends time and has a fragile relationship to reality. Similarly, Labyrinths felt like an infinitely vast, infinitely layered maze, with supernatural intelligence. There is one quote in the very first short story that I think perfectly reflects the text’s enormity: “This plan is so vast that each writer’s contribution is infinitesimal. At first it was believed that Tlön was a mere chaos, an irresponsible license of the imagination; now it is known that it is a cosmos and that the intimate laws which govern it have been formulated, at least provisionally” (8).

Question for discussion: Do you think Borges could have achieved the same maze-like reading journey in a single narrative arc rather than across multiple short stories/essays?

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Campobello

Week 3: Cartucho and Collective Memory

Nellie Campobello’s Cartucho was a fascinating read. The text was structured in the exact way that I think memory often operates: short, vivid pictures of vague people and experiences. Reading Cartucho, I felt I was actually experiencing and reflecting on these snapshots of the Mexican Revolution with the narrator.

The text had an unsettling contrast between the curiosity of childhood and the haunting depictions of death and violence around her. Campobello’s narrative embrace of the gruesome was both poetic and upsetting. One passage in particular that stuck with me came on page 8 in “El ‘Kirilí,'” “El ‘Kirilí lay there in the water, his body turning cold, the tissue of his porous flesh clutching the bullets that killed him.” In this way, Campobello’s vignettes are both eerie and beautiful, as I’m sure childhood itself was in this exact time and place in history.

The juxtaposition between childhood bliss and the inhumanity of war was inescapable in Cartucho. One scene illustrative of this tonal shift came on page 36 as Campobello “buries her nose” in a slice of watermelon just before seeing a man be hanged before her very eyes.

What I found especially interesting was not only Campobello’s acknowledgement of the brutality around her, but also her complete embrace of it. One quote that illustrates this comes on page 39, “I liked hearing those tragic stories. It seemed to me I could see and hear everything. I needed to have those terrifying pictures in my child’s soul.” Given the deluge of tragedy she was subject to, it’s not surprising to me that Campobello would be able to describe these atrocities in such detail while being detached from nostalgia.

I believe that Campobello viewed herself, even at that young age, as a valuable collection of memories and stories from the front lines of tragedy. As a child and a girl, she was powerless to stop any violence or death around her, but her true power lay in her capacity to be an archive of truth and a vessel for the memory of those who had lost their lives.

This brings me to think about the function of memory and how Campobello’s text serves as an inheritance of collective memory. The stories were not just her own personal accounts but also many of her mother’s, which had been passed down to her almost as heirlooms. In a broader sense, I think the ballads Campobello included later in the text also serve this function – as a heritage of collective memory. She writes, “They all had favorite songs, which they left as an inheritance to others who loved them too… This song belong to all of them. They would sing it together, in a circle, with their arms around each other’s shoulders” (78-79). In this sense, collective memory is a ballad itself, shared among comrades and neighbors and passed down through the generations, forever holding the legacy of those who could no longer sing along.

Question for discussion: Storytelling seems to be a very unique talent (that I do not possess!); would you consider yourself an effective storyteller? How do you know?

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