Jasmine’s RMST 202 Blog

Looking back on this semester, I can honestly say I’m really happy with the selection of books I read. There was a wide variety in terms of style, setting, and narrative voice, but at the same time, there were some interesting similarities that tied everything together. It also feels especially meaningful that this was my last class of undergrad and that it fulfilled my literature requirement in such an engaging and memorable way. I couldn’t have asked for a better course to end on.

Something I really appreciated about this class was the format itself. Writing weekly blog posts was honestly a fun way to engage with the readings. Instead of feeling like a chore, it gave me space to reflect more casually on what I noticed, what confused me, and what stood out to me personally. I also really liked having the ability to choose which books I wanted to read. That level of flexibility made the course feel more personal, and I found myself more invested in the material because of it.

Another thing that made a big difference for me was how the class was run. Jon made discussions feel genuinely engaging rather than forced. He brought in perspectives that I hadn’t considered before and encouraged us to think more critically about what we were reading. What I appreciated most was that he was always open to different interpretations, even more controversial or unconventional takes. That made the classroom feel like a space where ideas could actually be explored rather than just repeated.

In terms of favourite texts, The Shrouded Woman was definitely the one that stood out the most to me. There was something about the way it explored memory, identity, and perspective that really stuck with me. The structure itself felt unique, and I found it interesting how the narrative challenged the way we usually think about life and death. It also connected back to some of the broader themes we saw throughout the semester, especially around how people understand themselves and how their lives are remembered.

Overall, this course changed the way I think about literature. I’ve come to see it less as something that has a single meaning to uncover, and more as something open to interpretation and discussion. Romance Studies, to me now, feels like a space where literature becomes a way to explore culture, history, and social issues all at once. The readings were sometimes challenging, but ultimately really rewarding, and I feel like I’m leaving the course and my undergrad as a whole with a much more open and thoughtful approach to reading

Reading Love Me Tender by Constance Debré felt kind of like being dropped into someone’s brain mid-thought with no filter, no neat explanations, just raw emotion and sharp observations. It’s definitely not a traditional narrative, and that’s one of the first things I noticed. The writing is stripped down, almost blunt, and it moves in fragments rather than a smooth, linear story. At times it felt disorienting, but I think that’s intentional and it mirrors the instability in the narrator’s life.

What I found most interesting was how Debré explores identity, especially through loss. The narrator gives up a lot whether it be her marriage, her role as a mother (at least in a conventional sense), and her place within a certain social class. There’s this constant tension between freedom and consequence. On one hand, she’s rejecting societal expectations and trying to live authentically. On the other, the cost of that authenticity is incredibly high, especially when it comes to her relationship with her son. That trade-off felt like one of the core emotional conflicts of the book.

I also liked how unapologetic the narrator is. She doesn’t try to make herself likable or justify her decisions in a way that would make readers comfortable. There’s something refreshing about that honesty, even when it’s hard to sit with. It forces you to confront your own judgments, like why do we expect her to feel guilt in a certain way? Why do we measure her choices against traditional ideas of motherhood or success?

That said, the style didn’t always work for me. The fragmented structure and repetitive phrasing sometimes made it hard to stay engaged. There were moments where I felt like I was reading the same emotional note over and over again without much development. I get that this might reflect obsession or fixation, but it did make parts of the book feel a bit stagnant.

One thing I found puzzling is the emotional distance in the narration. Even when describing really intense experiences like losing custody of her child, the tone can feel almost detached. I’m not sure if that’s a defense mechanism, a stylistic choice, or both. It made me wonder how we’re supposed to interpret her emotional state: is she numb, or is she deliberately refusing to perform emotion for the reader?

In class, I’d want to talk more about whether the narrator is meant to be sympathetic. Not in a simple “like or dislike” way, but in terms of how the book challenges our expectations of empathy.

One of the first things that stood out to me in My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante is how intense Lila and Lenù’s friendship is. It’s not just a normal “best friend” situation, it’s kind of messy. There’s a lot of jealousy, competition, and comparison going on. I kept noticing how much Lenù bases her self-worth on Lila, like she’s always trying to prove she’s just as smart or better. It made me think about how, growing up, friendships can shape how you see yourself more than anything else.

Another thing I found really interesting is the neighbourhood itself. It feels super limiting, like no one can really escape it. There’s a lot of violence and strict expectations, especially for girls, and that clearly affects both of them. What stuck with me is how both Lila and Lenù are really smart, but only Lenù gets the chance to keep going in school. Lila doesn’t, even though she might actually be the more brilliant one. That difference slowly creates distance between them, and it felt kind of unfair but also very real.

I really liked the writing style a lot. It’s very simple, but in a good way. Since Lenù is telling the story as an adult, there’s a lot of reflection and overthinking. She questions her memories and even admits she might not be remembering things perfectly. That made it feel more honest, like she’s trying to make sense of everything rather than just telling a clear and perfect story.

That being said, I didn’t always enjoy reading it. The vibe can get really heavy. There’s constant tension and violence in the neighbourhood, especially toward women, and it gets draining after a while. I also got kind of annoyed with Lenù sometimes because she’s so focused on Lila. It feels like she doesn’t really know who she is without comparing herself, which made me wonder if she ever actually becomes her own person. Lila, on the other hand, is just confusing. She’s obviously super smart and strong, but also unpredictable. Sometimes she seems like she wants to break out of her situation, and other times it feels like she’s giving in to it. I couldn’t always understand her choices, especially when she turns away from opportunities that could’ve helped her. It made me question if she’s actually in control of her life or not.

In class, I’d want to talk about whether their friendship is actually healthy or not. Like, is Lila pushing Lenù to be better, or kind of holding her back? And also, how much choice do they really have in their lives when their environment is so controlling?

Going into The Book of Chameleons, I wasn’t expecting a story about someone who literally sells new identities. Félix Ventura’s job immediately caught my attention and not just because it’s unusual, but because it feels like an exaggerated version of something people already do. We constantly reshape how we present ourselves, just not with forged documents and invented family histories. That idea kind of stayed with me throughout the book.

What made the novel even more unexpected was the gecko narrator. At first, I wasn’t sure how seriously I was supposed to take it. A talking gecko that remembers being human felt random, and I found myself a bit thrown off. But over time, it started to make more sense as part of the novel’s larger focus on memory and identity. The gecko’s reflections added a quieter, more philosophical layer that contrasted with Félix’s more practical (and strange) work.

I think what I found most interesting is how the book plays with the idea of truth. The identities Félix creates aren’t just surface level but they’re detailed enough that his clients begin to fully believe in them. That made me wonder, if someone completely accepts a fabricated past, does it stop being fake? Or does it just blur the line between fiction and reality altogether? The novel never really gives a clear answer, which I actually appreciated.

At the same time, I did struggle with parts of the book. The plot can feel a bit fragmented, especially when it shifts between different perspectives or storylines. I was sometimes left feeling like I was missing something important. I’m not sure if that was intentional or just a gap in the narrative.

Another thing I kept thinking about is how the story connects to Angola’s history. Even though the novel has these surreal elements, it’s still grounded in a real political and cultural context. The idea of rewriting personal histories seems to parallel how national histories can also be shaped, erased, or reimagined after conflict. It adds a layer that makes the story feel more meaningful beyond just its quirky premise.

If there’s one thing I’d want to discuss in class, it’s whether Félix’s work should be seen as ethical. Is he giving people a second chance, or is he helping them escape accountability? I also think it would be interesting to talk more about the role of the gecko, whether it’s just a narrative device or if it represents something deeper about memory and identity.

Overall, even though I found parts of the novel confusing, I liked how it pushed me to think about identity in a way that isn’t straightforward. It’s the kind of book that sticks with you more for its ideas than its plot.

I thought that the story of Money to Burn would eventually make sense and have a clear direction but it did not. I actually thought it would read more like a movie with a standard plot building towards a robbery. However, it does not have a central narrative from beginning til end. The group planning the robbery doesn’t come across as competent or in control. Most of them appear paranoid and have a drug addiction which creates the impression that they are moving forward towards the robbery mostly by chance, rather than by any strategy.

The actual robbery itself is much more chaotic than I had expected. Once it starts, it ends instantly. People are going about their business and then all of sudden a gun is fired. After the incident, the whole thing gets really confusing. Witnesses’ accounts don’t match up, police try to reconstruct the scene and no one really knows what happened. The way the robbery is presented makes it appear to be more realistic than to have any drama associated with it.

One of the other things I thought about was how much character development we got to see from the criminals themselves. Even though they are clearly criminals and doing awful things, the book shows us their personalities and how bizarrely they think. Some are superstitious, some are drug obsessed, and many believe money will somehow fix their lives. At the same time, they are all depicted as people who would still not become ‘normal’ if they got away with the crime. The money appears to be an excuse for them to escape their situation.

Another thing I liked about the book is that it doesn’t try to make these criminals look cool or impressive. A lot of crime stories turn robbers into anti-heroes, but that doesn’t really happen here. Most of the time they come across as reckless and unstable people who are making terrible decisions. At the same time, the book doesn’t turn them into simple villains either. We see their fears and the logic they use to justify what they’re doing. It makes them uncomfortable to read about because they feel like real people.

Honestly, the robbery itself wasn’t even the most interesting part. It was how everyone started talking about it, all the rumors and different versions of the story. It’s interesting how one event can turn into different ‘truths’ depending on who you ask.

Question for discussion: Do you think the book is more interested in the criminals themselves, or in how society reacts to crimes like this after they happen?

The Time of the Doves by Mercè Rodoreda tells the story of Natàlia, a working-class woman living in Barcelona before, during, and after the Spanish Civil War. What stood out to me most was how quiet and emotional the story felt. Instead of focusing on big historical events, the novel shows how everyday life, relationships, and survival are affected by war and social pressure. This made the story feel more personal and real.

One thing I noticed right away was the simple writing style. The language is easy to read, but it carries a lot of emotion. Natàlia’s voice feels honest and natural, which makes it easy to understand her thoughts and feelings. I also noticed how often the story shows her feeling trapped in her marriage, her home, and her responsibilities. As the story goes on, her life becomes smaller, which shows how limited her choices are.

What I found most interesting was the symbolism of the doves. At first, they seem gentle and peaceful, but later they become a burden. This change reflects Natàlia’s marriage, which begins with hope but slowly becomes controlling and overwhelming. I also found it interesting how the war stays mostly in the background, yet completely changes her life. Instead of showing battles or politics, the novel focuses on how regular people struggle to survive, which made the impact of war feel more real.

One thing I liked was how honest Natàlia’s experiences felt. Her struggles with fear, poverty, loneliness, and identity were easy to understand and connect with. I also liked the quiet, simple way the story is told. It allows readers to think more deeply about what is happening instead of being told directly.

However, I sometimes found the middle of the book slow. Some parts felt repetitive, especially when describing Natàlia’s daily routine and exhaustion. While this probably shows how tiring and hopeless her life feels, it made parts of the story drag. I also found Natàlia’s passiveness confusing and frustrating at times. Her silence and acceptance of her situation made me wonder whether she truly had no choices or if she had learned to believe she didn’t deserve better.

In class, I would like to talk more about the meaning of the doves and how their symbolism changes. I would also like to explore whether Natàlia’s later changes show growth, strength, or just survival. Overall, The Time of the Doves is a powerful novel that shows how ordinary people experience hardship, and it leaves a strong emotional impression.

After reflecting on each chapter, I either felt a sense of loss or weight. I believe the author wanted the reader to not have an easy time reading the novel.

Ernesto observed his surroundings like a curious child. He saw things that one may perceive to be insignificant; however, in the end, they ended up being everything. For example, stones weren’t just stones, walls weren’t just walls, and rivers weren’t just rivers, but rather they were living things that have memories of their own. There were times where I almost didn’t know how to feel about this. But then again, I thought to myself, what a good way to portray how children see the world as long as they lack the verbal abilities and power to describe what they see. The world is alive with energy and larger than life.

I was surprised by the parts involving the pongo. Not in an entertaining way (that’s not the best way to explain it), but because they dragged on for so long. The treatment of the pongo is humiliating; the even more unsettling part is that no one is disturbed by the treatment of the pongo, they appear to be all in agreement with how the pongo is being treated. Also, it made me think that Ernesto is observing this action, but does not have the words to describe what’s going on. However, he knows something is wrong. This made sense to me because I know when something is wrong even if I can’t articulate why yet.

Cuzco felt overwhelming to me. Although it’s beautiful, it still feels a bit heavy. To me, the sound of Maria Angola’s bell wasn’t relaxing, but rather it sounded sad and judgmental, like it carries the weight of everyone’s suffering rather than bringing comfort. I wondered why there was so much emphasis on religion throughout the novel, and why religion does not seem to provide any relief to anyone.

At times, I hoped that Ernesto would be more proactive in expressing his thoughts. However, sometimes I thought this is not entirely fair considering he is a young boy who has been forced to move many times and is used to seeing adults abuse one another as if there’s nothing wrong with it. Silence may be the only thing he knows. Overall, this book wasn’t a sudden emotional hit, but rather more of a slow build-up of sadness that stayed as I continued to read. I noticed that the book is full of bells, churches, and religious imagery, but everyone is still suffering. One question I’d like to discuss is, What do you think religion is actually doing there? Is it helping people, controlling them, or just distracting them?

One of the first things I noticed about The Shrouded Woman is how abruptly it begins. There’s no buildup or explanation, we’re immediately inside Ana María’s consciousness as she lies in her coffin. What surprised me most was how calm and reflective this perspective is. Death isn’t portrayed as frightening or chaotic, but as quiet and observant. That choice really shapes the tone of the novel and makes it feel intimate and almost dreamlike, rather than morbid.

What I found most interesting is how memory works in the story. Time doesn’t move in a straight line at all. Instead, memories surface based on emotion where someone standing near her body triggers a thought, which leads into a memory from childhood, marriage, or a past love. These shifts feel natural rather than confusing, and they made me think about how we actually remember our lives, not as a clean timeline, but as moments that resurface because they still carry an emotional weight.

I also really liked the idea that death becomes a space for clarity. Ana María only seems to fully understand her life once she’s no longer alive. While living, she’s constrained by expectations placed on her as a woman like marriage, motherhood, and emotional restraint. In death, those pressures disappear, allowing her to look honestly at her relationships. Her marriage stood out to me in particular because it wasn’t overtly cruel or dramatic, just quietly empty. That emotional distance felt very real and in some ways, more unsettling than open conflict.

That being said, there were parts I didn’t enjoy as much. At times the novel felt slow or repetitive because so much of the story takes place inside Ana María’s thoughts, and so some memories blurred together. I occasionally found myself wanting more grounding in the present moment or clearer distinctions between different periods of her life, even though I understand that the blurred structure is intentional.

What I found most puzzling was the ending. Ana María’s final merging with nature and the universe feels peaceful, but also very abstract. I wasn’t sure whether to read it as a hopeful form of liberation or as the complete erasure of her individuality. That ambiguity is interesting, but it left me uncertain about how to interpret the novel’s final message.

In class, I’d really like to talk about what Bombal is saying about women’s fulfillment. Do you think the novel is saying women can only feel free outside of life’s usual expectations? What did you think about the way the story jumps between memories? did it make it more powerful or harder to follow?

While reading Mad Toy, one of the first things I noticed was how uncomfortable and raw the novel feels. Arlt doesn’t try to make Silvio Astier likeable or heroic, and that actually made the story more interesting for me. Silvio is intelligent and imaginative, but he’s also resentful, impulsive, and often self-sabotaging. Instead of a typical coming of age story where the main character grows or learns meaningful lessons, this novel feels like a coming of age story where things just keep going wrong, no matter how hard Silvio tries to escape his circumstances.

What I found most interesting was how much Silvio lives in his head. He is constantly imagining himself as a criminal genius, an inventor, or someone destined for greatness, but reality never matches those fantasies. His obsession with books, crime stories, and adventure novels made me think about how imagination can be both an escape and a trap. On one hand, these stories give Silvio a way to mentally escape his poverty and feel powerful or exceptional, even if only temporarily. On the other hand, they raise his expectations for what life should look like, which makes his real circumstances feel even more disappointing. Instead of motivating him, his imagination often leaves him stuck comparing himself to fictional ideals he can never live up to.

Something I liked about the novel was how honest it is about failure. Silvio fails repeatedly, as a thief, as a worker, as a student, and as a romantic partner. There’s no clear redemption arc or moment where everything suddenly improves, which feels bleak but also realistic. It reflects how social and economic conditions can limit people’s choices, especially those from poorer backgrounds. At the same time, I disliked how emotionally heavy the novel became by the end. The constant sense of frustration and hopelessness made parts of the book hard to read, especially knowing that Silvio never really catches a break or finds a stable sense of belonging.

In class, I’d like to talk more about whether Silvio should be read mainly as a victim of society or as someone responsible for his own downfall. On one hand, his difficult social and economic circumstances clearly shape many of his choices and limit his opportunities, which might suggest he is largely a product of his environment. On the other hand, he repeatedly makes impulsive decisions and sabotages himself, which raises questions about personal responsibility. I’m interested in discussing where we should draw the line between the influence of society and individual choice, and whether Arlt is critiquing society, human nature, or both.