Tag Archives: time

Death with Interruptions – Power and Violence

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“Death with Interruptions” has to be the most complicated novel that I have read so far in this course, not because of its content, but its exploration of death. Apart from philosophical works by Kant, Descartes, Plato, and Aristotle, I have rarely come across novels that centre on philosophical matters, so it took me quite a while to unpack the novel. The first observation that I made was the narrative style and use of punctuation. The lengthy sentences that are only connected by commas, and the lack of quotation marks when dialogues are in place made me wonder why Saramago writes in this way. Perhaps he intends to invite readers to reflect upon the content as well as the theme of death with him as readers read along the lines.

The absence of periods may also symbolize a collective stream of consciousness that knows no end; the characters in the novel yield a sense of urgency to me. For instance, Saramago writes, “But things would not stop there, People, without having to make any perceptible effort, continued not to die, and so another popular mass movement, endowed with a more ambitious vision of future, would declare that humanity’s greatest dream since the beginning of time, the happy enjoyment of eternal life here on earth, has become a gift within the grasp of everyone” (6). This line stuck with me the most regarding the connection between excessive commas and the sense of urgency because it seems to me that humans are always in pursuit of something seemingly daunting, resembling the ongoing flux of sentences, yet when they think they have attained it (in this case, immortality), they don’t settle. The quote that I have picked above hints at another popular movement arising from newfound immortality. Our unfulfilled desire seems to be inherent in us, and I think Saramago does a brilliant job of unveiling human nature.

Moreover, I find the conversation between the Prime Minister and the cardinal evokes a strong sense of violence in me regarding human nature. Saramago depicts the scene where with temporal immortality, the cardinal feels threatened because immortality means no resurrection, which in turn diminishes the power of the church. Saramago writes, “The church has never been asked to explain anything, our specialty, along with the ballistics, has always been the neutralization of the overly curious mind through faith” (12), and “The advantage of the church has is that by managing what is on high, it governs what is down below” (12). The unquestioning authority of the church enables the cardinal to situate himself at the top of the hierarchy to manipulate the people “down below”. These lines bring out the idea of chaos and violence to me because the authorities seem to care about their own political interests when it comes to a national crisis, but not as much about the people. The lack of collectiveness and communal support alludes to the idea of flawed human nature.

Toward the end of the novel, I find the humanization of death interesting because Saramago deconstructs the dualism of life and death. He writes, “… For the first time, death knew what it felt like to have a dog on her lap” (172), and “Death went back to bed, our her arms around the man and, without understanding what was happening to her, she who never slept felt gently closing her eyelids. The following day, no one died” (238). By attributing human-like qualities, such as external sensory impressions and thoughts to death, death’s omniscience and horror seem to be undermined. The parallelization between death and humans reverses my understanding. Maybe it is humans’ fear that strengthens our image of death as something detestable and daunting. Instead of treating it as something formidable, embracing death might even bring peace of mind.

One major aspect that I am confused about is the gendered depiction of death, so my question for this reading is: Why does Saramago assign death as a female character?

Agostino – A Shattered Dream

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In the beginning, Agostino’s jealousy toward his mother’s lover immediately reminds me of Proust, since he also yearns for his mother’s kisses. Both characters coveted attention from their mothers; their identities are partly contingent upon their mothers’ affection. For instance, the kisses from Prosut’s mother give him satisfaction and a sense of connection with her. As for Agostino, Moravia writes, “…Agostino was filled with pride every time he got in the boat with her for one of their morning rides” (3). Agostino’s sense of pride is attached to his mother’s presence, and this, in my opinion, helps mould his identity. Later on, when the boys mock him and say, “…Go back to your mamma” (22), this reinforces how Agostino’s sense of self is inseparable from his mother.

Agostino’s romanticized image of his mother may exacerbate his mingled feelings of devastation, loneliness, and betrayal when he knows of the presence of his mother’s lover. Moravia says, “He would dive into the mother’s wake and even feel as if even cold compact water conserved traces of the passage of that beloved body” (4). His mother, a feminine figure, is characterized by flawlessness in the eyes of Agostino. Everything is in harmony, and it seems to me that Agostino does not want any of that to change. The appearance of the young man is described as “a shadow obstructing the sunlight shining down on him (Agostino)” (5). The juxtaposition of light and darkness, with Agostino’s initial relationship with his mother as “light”, and the presence of the young man as “a shadow” highlights his abrupt appearance. Just like how the shadow “obstructs” Agostino, the young man breaks the harmonious cycle between Agostino and his mother.

I am saddened by Agostino’s failure to successfully become a mature “man” in the end because it is something that he has longed for since he was acquainted with the gang of boys. What stuck with me the most was Agostino’s conflicting perception of his mother. “All of these gestures, which had once seemed so natural to Agostino, now seemed to take on meaning and become an almost visible part of a larger, more dangerous reality…” (69). His mind is torn between his initial understanding of his mother as a nurturing mother and his newfound perception as a woman. The transition of his understanding becomes evident when his mother is reduced to “the woman” on page 88. Referring to Agostino’s mother as merely “a woman” toward the end strips her identity from a loving figure to an ordinary woman, alienating the intimacy between Agostino and his mother. At the same time, I find Agostino’s determination to become a “man” when he thinks that visiting the house with Tortima will affirm his identity only shows his immaturity. His identity is again partly contingent on other people’s expectations to perceive him as a mature man. The fact that he is rejected from entering the house and is told to “be home at this hour of the night” (97) highlights his failure to be recognized as a man. Similar to his humiliation when he sees his mother getting cozy with the young man, Agostino still feels humiliated when he is rejected from entering the house. In both cases, Agostino is still deemed as a “boy”. Hence, I don’t think that Agostino has fully transformed into a man, the one that he has longed for.

My question for this reading is: How does the setting at the beach and the seaside help bring out the themes of growth and adolescence?

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?