Tag Archives: violence

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?

Money to Burn – Criminality and Justice

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Among all the novels that I have read so far, “Money to Burn” is definitely unique in the sense that its narrative style is not constrained to one single genre. Though I know that the novel is based on a true event that happened in Argentina, I find the constant switching of narration interesting; I don’t think I have ever encountered similar works before. There are times when I feel like I am watching a movie; other times an informative documentary. For instance, the scenes where the gang flees from the pursuit of the police after the robbery very much resemble a movie-like scenario. Piglia writes, “The gang sought refuge at a flat in apartment number nine at 1182 Herrera and Obes Street” (111), and “They had to go back across the 200 metres that separated the Bank (on one corner of the square)…” (21). The specific details, coupled with the live actions of the gang, evoke a strong sense of realism, which is something that I find refreshing.

Though Piglia is describing a scene based on a true event, I think he inserts these thrilling scenes subjectively, making them suspenseful. At the same time, Piglia depicts the scenario objectively by constantly making references to primary and secondary sources, which makes me feel like he is speaking from the perspective of the public. Piglia writes, “Two guys leapt on to the pavement and one pulled a woman’s stocking over his face (or some witnesses said)” (22), and “According to one version, armed guards in a building opposite the Town Hall managed to exchange fire with the gunmen, but this remained unconfirmed” (28). I also notice how Piglia switches the lens from the public to the lens of a detective, as evident by the line “From inside the car they recovered” one long-sleeved grey pullover, one hand towel… There were traces of blood on the car floor, as well as several syringes…” (39). The multi-faceted approach to illustrating a true event truly deconstructs my understanding that every literary work must fall into the category of a specific genre.

Expanding on Piglia’s distinct narrative style, I think this connects to the element of criminality and justice in the novel. As mentioned above, Piglia brings in multiple perspectives and perhaps enhances readers’ understanding of the event. This may even prompt people to contemplate the question regarding who is the real perpetrator here, the corrupt authorities, or the violent gang? There are times when I find myself torn between supporting the gang and condemning their behaviour, particularly the scene in the end when Dorda talks about how he killed the girl because of the voices in his head. Piglia vividly portrays Dorda’s resentment to the police in the line “He’d killed him, that Gaucho Dorda, not because the policeman posed a threat but just because. He killed him because he loathed the police more than anything else in the world…” (26). His resentment is thus tied to his sense of justice as he strives to overpower the authority by literally annihilating the person who executes the law. While Commissioner Silva portrays the gang members as “dangerous individuals, antisocial elements, homosexuals, and drug addicts” (72), the El Mundo journalist states that the gang’s courage is “directly proportional to the willingness to die” (144). I find the stark contrast unveils the complexity of their power dynamics. Though the police and the gang diverge from one another because of their dichotomous roles in society (law enforcers vs. criminals), it seems to me that the two parties are not so different after all. Piglia talks about the normalization of police brutality, such as torturing inmates with lashes and electricity on page 121. In this case, both parties exhibit immense violence to society and themselves as they have to endure the repercussions of their horrifying behaviour for the rest of their lives. Hence, Piglia’s narrative style consolidates people’s conceptualization of the event.

My question for this reading is: How does violence manifest in society, the gang, and the authorities?

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?”

Robert Arlt, “Mad Toy”

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Reading Arlt’s “Mad Toy” left me with a heavy heart. As I read through the chapters, I feel that Arlt’s narration of his life only gets more depressing. It seems to me that Arlt has never had a genuine connection with anyone before he met Rengo, yet he loses him in the end. From joining the band of thieves, and working at a bookstore, to his attempt to commit suicide, they all ended in failure; toward the end of these chapters, they all manifest loneliness in Arlt’s life. Just when I thought that Arlt finally had a connection with other people, as evidenced by Rengo’s disclosure of his plan to rob Vitri’s place, the chapter ends with Arlt’s betrayal of Rengo, which makes me feel more upset. He says, “…inside of me there is joy, a full, conscious kind of joy” (150). After everything that he had been through, I feel his calmness in the end makes the atmosphere even more sinister.

I like Arlt’s structure of his novel into four different parts, with the previous three ending with illicit behaviour, and the last one ending with a seemingly righteous act. I also interpret that Arlt centres his novel on the idea of justice, and its relationship to society. In the first chapter, Arlt says, “I don’t remember what subtleties and twisted reasoning we used to convince ourselves that robbery was a noble and beautiful act…” (29). He also mentions, “Don’t talk about money, Mama, please!” The financial pressure he is burdened with diminishes his happiness in his childhood. Coupled with his critique of the affluent young ladies who exploit the working class yet call them “riffraff” on p.40, arson, and the insults that he has to bear while working at the bookstore, they all instigate his deep-seated resentment of the highly classist society where people in the working class, like Arlt, have scarce social mobility. The oppression that Arlt feels channels to retaliation, hence his criminal behaviour as he seeks justice for himself. I see Arlt’s behaviour not only as a symbol of rebellion, but a desire to deconstruct the system that almost everyone he encounters seems to adhere to. The sarcasm in the end is that the righteous act, which is normally embraced by society, in his case entails a brutal betrayal, which makes me question the binary opposites of righteousness/betrayal, and whether they are in fact interconnected.

Another feature that I noticed was the dysfunctional relationships between people and their constant reference to life in the novel, which I found interesting. For instance, Maria shouted at Don Gaetano multiple times, “I was beautiful. What you done with my life” (68). This reminds me of Senora Naidath as she tells Arlt’s mother about her arguments with her husband and says, “What a life, Frau, what a life…” (87). Toward the end, Arlt says, “I know that life will always be extraordinarily beautiful for me…” (162). Though Arlt does not have a partner, all these people seem to detest their stages in their lives, and they all feel repressed in different ways, thus depriving their abilities to express their true identity. Despite being an adolescent, I think the case for Arlt is more complicated than the adults. At a young age, he already knows that poverty is despised by society, the harshness of reality, and the volatility of life while he is still trying to make sense of where he is situated in society.

My question for this reading is: How does Silvio’s tranquillity toward the end reveal his outlook on life?