Tag Archives: memories

Faces in the Crowd – What Did I Just Read???

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“Faces in the Crowd” was undoubtedly one of the most challenging books I have ever read in this class. This novel requires immense attention and sophistication as the narrator constantly switches back and forth from the perspective of the narrator to Gilberto Owen, a Mexican poet who is featured mostly in the latter half of the novel. Initially, I thought that the narrator and Owen have separate storylines featured in the same novel. However, upon further reading and reflection, I noticed that this trend has become more complex. On several occasions, I had to rewind and re-read the parts that I had overlooked, but seemed rather significant to the plot. For instance, Luiselli writes, “But the days those things begin to arrive – the blindness, the cats, the ghosts, the pieces of furniture… I knew it was the beginning of the end” (37), and “All novels lack something or someone. In this novel there’s no one. No one except a ghost that I used to see sometimes in the subway” (38). As for Owen, he says, “He replied that I was a ‘subwanker’ and that instead of going around looking for ghosts where there weren’t any, I should send him a poem about a subway…” (48). The multiple references to ghosts from both voices evoke a sense of unconsciousness and the blurred boundaries between fictionality and facts. The element of “ghosts” is shared by both voices as if they form a parallel narrative with one another. The fragmentation of memories from both characters brings about realism; at the same time, I don’t think it’s entirely appropriate for me to categorize Luiselli’s novel as a work of fiction. This novel transcends the conventional boundaries of what constitutes fiction or not.

The convergence of the two voices is most prominent toward the end of the novel, especially when the narrator and Owen seem to be in conversation with one another. The narrator says, “Autumn leaves are falling down and Papa’s missing” (76), and this is instantly replied by Owen “I feel the blazer that covers my eyes rising, the heart of the room entering and shaking my body, the excited voice of a little boy beating my face: Found!” (77). I think that this key scenario is when the two storylines ultimately converge as one; no one is stealing anyone’s light here. As the narrator’s son plays hide and seek in his own space, he discovers Owen, as evident by Owen’s line above. It seems that Owen has even become the father in the narrator’s storyline. Owen physically senses the boy beating his face; this makes me wonder if the characters finally perceive each other’s existence in the same space now. The idea of space alludes to the constant references to ghosts that I have previously mentioned since ghosts are not constrained by time and space. Hence, this allows Luiselli to deconstruct the linearity of time and utilize the idea of space to develop a parallel plot.

My question for this reading is: How does the anonymity of the narrator contribute to the idea of fictionality and fact featured in the novel?

The Lover – Where Does Duras Situate Herself in Her Relationship?

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“The Lover” left me in a state of perplexity long after I had finished reading the novel not because of its plot, but because of its power dynamics between Duras and her lover, the Chinese man. I find the title “The Lover” intriguing because it seems to me that Duras refuses to be identified as the lover of the man; instead, she reverses the narrative by establishing the Chinese man as her own lover, thus asserting possession and power in their relationship.

Initially, I was inclined to pass judgment on the older man as a despicable person because of his willingness to be in a sexual relationship with Duras, who then was just a young girl. However, as I progressed through the novel, I became increasingly confused as to whether Duras feels she has control over the man. For instance, she writes, “She tells him she doesn’t want him to talk, what she wants is for him to do as she usually does with the women he brings to his flat… And she, slow, patient, draws him to her and starts to undress him…” (38). This sentence makes me reflect on the power dynamics in their relationship. Duras lacks a tone of condemnation, nor does she resist the man. This corresponds to the part where she describes how outsiders would view her relationship with the man. Duras says, “Don’t tell me that hat’s innocent, or the lipstick, it all means something, it’s not innocent, it means something, it’s to attract attention, money…” (88). Contrary to conventional societal norms, it seems to me that Duras embraces her identity and behaviour in the sense that she deconstructs people’s conception of what should be deemed as “decent”. I find her alienation of people’s obscene judgement powerful because it only reinforces Duras’ centrality in her relationship with the man. Duras also writes, “I discover he hasn’t the strength to love me in opposition to his father, to possess me, take me away… his heroism is me, his cravenness is his father’s money” (49). Her contemptuous tone enables her to attribute cowardice to the grown man. By doing so, Duras displays authority by belittling her lover since bravery is usually one of the qualities that is associated with males.

Another element that I want to explore is Duras and her relationship with her mother. On multiple occasions, I find it sinister when she mentions how her family is depicted as dysfunctional. She writes, “She shouts, for the whole town to hear, that her daughter’s a prostitute, she’s going to throw her out, she wishes she’d die, no one will have anything to do with her…” (58). However, later on, her mother personally asks the head of the boarding school to let Duras return to the dormitories whenever Duras wishes. This is the part where I got confused. Her mother’s decision seems to give Duras a moral license to remain in her relationship with the man; it also makes me wonder if Duras’ mother is torn between financial pressure and moral boundaries, or if she knows that she cannot possibly “restrain” her daughter in a conventional sense.

My question for this week is: The ending of the novel illustrates the scene where the man phones Duras and expresses his love for her. How might the sense of irresolution enhance our analysis of Duras’ relationship with the man?

Black Shack Alley – Community, Resistance, and Empowerment

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Despite finding “Black Shack Alley” a bit slow-going at first, I appreciate how Zobel depicts the reality of Caribbean society following the abolition of slavery in implicit, but nevertheless, powerful ways. His emphasis on the sense of community throughout the novel goes hand in hand with the idea of resistance. Zobel illustrates his childhood memories, such as his daily interactions with his grandmother, as well as his neighbours. They all originate from the same community, which reminds me of how they hold a shared identity. I also notice how the presence of white people is scarcely mentioned in Chapter 1; Zobel unfolds his memories from the perspective of his community and neighbourhood. In particular, José’s relationship with Mr. Médouze adequately exemplifies the idea of collectiveness. Though Médouze is not kin to José, he takes up the role of a parental figure, being the first person to enlighten José in terms of his political consciousness. Médouze says, “But when the intoxication of freedom was spent, I was forced to remark that nothing had hanged for me nor my comrades in chains… I remained like all the blacks in this damned country: the bekés kept the land, all the land in the country, and we continued working for them…” (45). Zobel highlights the change and continuity of poverty and white supremacy following the abolition of slavery through the perspective of Médouze, constantly alluding to the idea the Caribbean people remained a tool for white settlers to maximize their economic interests, and that blackness inevitably entails oppression. Zobel rarely condemned colonialism in a militant way in the sense that he would explicitly incite his readers to resist, yet his narrative style makes me reflect on the continuity of injustice in Martinique.

I love how Zobel depicts the relationship between José and M’man Tine, José’s grandmother. José is raised by his strict yet loving grandmother; M’man Tine perceives the harshness of reality, especially with the fact that José and her are in a white supremacist society, and therefore seeks the best interests of her grandson. She frequently scolds and punishes him as if she intentionally finds faults in José, but her unconditional love for José is evident by her refusal to let him work. She says, “Well! If I didn’t put your mother in one (petités-bandes), I’m not going to out you!” (56) M’man Tine is determined to break the perpetual and generational cycle of impoverishment, deprivation of education, and bondage. With the frequent absence of José’s mother during his childhood, M’man Tine’s feminine role as a caregiver features a nurturing and motherly figure to José.

Another aspect that I want to explore is the simplicity of language used in the novel. I think language plays a significant role in delivering the theme of nationalism. Médouze and other neighbours always say “Eh cric” and “Eh crac” before telling stories. Zobel also brings a number of superstitions and cultural beliefs to light. He writes, “And when at night, you smell anything bad, don’t say a word, for your nose will rot like an old banana” (45). These cultural beliefs that he holds onto contrast with the assimilative education system that he is in in which the language of instruction in school is French. I interpret the contrast as a symbol of resistance that shows how Zobel is inclined to preserve his Martinican culture despite the environment that he is in. Again, Zobel retaliates against colonialism in an implicit yet empowering manner.

My question for this reading is: How does the imagery of the black shacks represent inequality and resistance?

María Luisa Bombal, “The Shrouded Woman”

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Bombal’s “The Shrouded Woman” presents a complex perspective on love. Written from the perspective of a deceased woman, Ana María takes on a variety of roles to unfold her memories and complicated relationships around her. Being a wife whose marriage is disastrous and lifeless, a mother whose children all encounter troubles of their own, and a selfish lover who manipulates Fernando, I find Bombal’s depiction of Ana María captivating. In particular, I like how Bombal parallelizes Ana María to Ricardo while Ana Maria is in an affair with Fernando. In both cases, Ana Maria and Fernando’s unrequited love are vivid. It is interesting to see the transition from Ana María’s despair owing to Ricardo’s abandonment to her selfishness, allowing Fernando to pursue her. Having gone through abandonment, I wonder if Ana María’s behaviour here reflects her inclination to elevate her self-worth about men.

Bombal’s peaceful portrayal of death highlights the transcendence of the soul. She writes, “But now, now that I am dead, it occurs to me that possibly all men once in their lifetime long to make some great reunifications…” (166), and “The woman in the shroud did not feel the slightest desire to rise again. Alone, she would at last be able to rest, to die…” (259). It seems to me an epiphany occurs within Ana María in the sense that her death brings about insights that she would never have gained when she was alive. Having re-figured the fragments of memories in her life, she ultimately embraces death and liberates herself from the chaos, sorrow, and resentment in her lifetime. I find this amazing because she rejects the binary concepts of life/death, and implies that her life is not complete without the said mental process.

I like how the relationship between Ricardo and Ana María makes multiple references to nature. Physical intimacy between them, such as arms touching and Ana María’s cheeks pressing against Ricardo’s chest, took place in nature. I think the plainness of nature here connects to Ana María’s emotional nakedness to Ricardo. Ana María shows her side of fragility when she begs Ricardo not to leave her, and her physical submission to Ricardo. I find this connection very beautiful and vivid since it enables readers to experience her infatuation with Ricardo through readers’ senses.

I also noticed how Bombal contrasts Ana María’s relationship with Fernando with Antonio’s relationship with Sophia. The moral lines become complicated to me; Ana María retains the reputation of being a “loyal” wife since Fernando never kissed her; on the other hand, Antonio was seen kissing Sophia. Their unfulfilling marriage, marked by jealousy and suspicion, connects with Antonio’s indifference toward his infidelity. He says, “For a few kisses I took from her (Sophia), she is now treated like nothing at all and you even ignore the great affection she had for you” (245). I see Antonio’s behaviour as a sign of vengeance, alluding to patriarchy. Ricardo’s presence in Ana María’s life humiliates Antonio and is perceived as a threat to his manliness. His desire to re-assert control over his wife displays his insecurity. Women also develop emotional dependence on men; their sense of identity derives from their husband’s affection and attention. Bombal writes, “Indeed, as a woman, she understands Silvia’s frenzy, her desire to measure herself against Maria Griselda” (189). Alberto also says, “There is always something that escapes out of everything… It’s just like Maria Griselda! As soon as she moves, I feel her already distant…” (198). Lateral oppression among women owing to insecurity shows how they yearn for their husbands’ affection to reinforce their self-confidence. At the same time, patriarchy indoctrinates men into thinking that they must look dominant; possessing their wives is seen as a symbol of success and manliness. In this case, I think patriarchy oppresses both women and men.

My question is: What roles do religion and gender play in depicting the miseries of male and female characters in “The Shrouded Woman?”

Marcel Proust, “Combray”

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Proust’s “Combray” was definitely challenging for me to follow along, with its lengthy sentences and extremely detailed descriptions of his own memories. I found the plot dreary at first. That said, I appreciated how Proust depicts the scenes where he drowns in his own thoughts, creating a gloomy atmosphere right from the start that signals readers that they are about to immerse in his mind. The constant references to darkness and light, exemplified by the blown-out candlesticks, midnights, and moonlight connect with both Proust’s and readers’ sense of sight, hearing, and imagination, enabling readers to visualize Proust’s struggle to make sense of everything. Proust writes, “I would go back to sleep, and would sometimes afterward wake again for brief moments only, long enough to hear the organic creak of the woodwork, open my eyes and stare at the kaleidoscope of the darkness…” (4). Proust also evokes a sense of loneliness which I deemed as a key feature in the section.

I noticed that the setting of the novel is almost always centred on his bedroom and his childhood residence. This made me think about how we would associate bedrooms with comfort and solace, yet Proust’s portrayal of his bedroom is somewhat depressing. It becomes the place where Proust ponders the question of his state of mind; specifically, whether he was in the state of wakefulness or unconsciousness.

The blurriness of memories is another theme, and I liked how Proust inserts fragments to express his confusion about identity, instead of simply outlining his memories chronologically. “I lost all sense of the place in which I had gone to sleep, and when I awoke, not knowing who I was, I could not even be sure at first who I was…” (5). Proust delves into his own mind, and it seems to me that he is tangled by his own thoughts. His mind was like a labyrinth. While reading Proust’s work, his boundless mind intrigued me because when it comes to memories of his mother and his times spent in Combray, he regains consciousness again.

I adored how Proust depicts his relationship with his mother. Proust rarely uses phrases such as “love” and “affection”, yet he effectively conjures up heartwarming scenes of intimacy. He writes, “So much so I reached the point of hoping that this goodnight which I loved so much would come as late as possible…” (15). The fact that they were written from a child’s perspective was interesting to me because they contrasted with Proust’s delineation of the adults as a world of hypocrisy. For instance, his great-aunt and others are portrayed as opinionated adults as they often gossip about Swann, such as his love life and his social circle. Such a contrast thus magnifies the simplicity of Proust’s childhood life and innocence since he only ever covets for his mother’s love. Also, I loved how Proust seamlessly injects the complexity of emotions, rejecting the binary assumptions of love/misery. He says, “My body, conscious that its own warmth was operating hers, would strive to become one with her… I would abandon myself altogether to this end” (5). While I interpreted the use of strong diction as his way of connecting with his memories, I thought this could be viewed as misery emerging from love. His sense of longing features both melancholy and love in the section, and I must say that Proust’s sophistication in his writing was inspiring.

Hence, this leads to my question: What is the significance of sensorial experiences to Proust’s depiction of his memories?