March 2024 – Jennifer's RMST 202 Blog

Faces in the Crowd: This Was the Hardest Book I’ve Read So Far but at Least I’ve Got an A+ (Mar 30)

I am happy to say that I have read all the 11 books for this course. But the bad news is that after reading this week’s book, I AM SO CONFUSED.

I’ve managed to get through 100 pages of the novel over the course of 3 hours. Now, I’m starting a blog to delve into and analyze my thoughts on what I’ve just read, because it’s so complicated I feel as if I will forget. I plan to keep reading and update the blog as I go. I apologize if my blog post will seem a bit unclear this time around. It’s challenging to articulate your thoughts when you’re having a hard time grappling with the material haha.

A. The First Half: Many Perspectives

The narrative begins with a young mother in Mexico City recounting her earlier days in New York. I’ll call her younger self “young woman” since the book deliberately distinguishes between her past and present selves. She worked as a “reader and translator at a small publishing house aiming to publish ‘foreign gems'” (Luiselli 1). She notes, “[n]obody bought them, though, because in such an insular culture, translations are met with skepticism” (Luiselli 1). She critiques the New York cultural scene for its narrow-mindedness, viewing translations with skepticism and demonstrating a lack of interest in literature from other cultures.

The narrative alternates between the perspectives of the mother and the young woman, portraying the mother as suffocated and constrained by her current life. She reminisces about her youth, a time when she “used to write all the time, at any hour, because [her] body belonged to [her]” (Luiselli 3). This is starkly contrasted with her present situation, where she describes how “her baby will catch [her] smell and shiver in her crib… her body is teaching her to demand her part of what belongs to us both, the threads that sustain and separate us” and mentions “her husband will also demand his portion of [her]” (Luiselli 19). It appears she is struggling to maintain her individuality. Her life is now limited to the confines of her home, a stark difference from her past life in the city as a translator, which, though routine, offered her a sense of comfort missing from her current existence.

B. The Second half: A Merging of Time and Narratives

This is where the story gets confusing. The mother discovers a postcard from a woman she suspects is her husband’s lover. She recounts how her husband allegedly leaves for Philadelphia to be with his mistress. Yet, the story twists as it’s revealed he hasn’t left. She asks her husband in her own narration why he’s leaving his family for Philadelphia to which he responds “[b]ecause that’s what you just wrote”, to which the mother replies “[b]ut it’s only a novel, none of it exists” (Luiselli 77). Luiselli’s use of unreliable narration here blurs the line between fiction and reality and this makes it difficult for me as a reader to distinguish what is truly happening in the story. The merging of factual and fictional aspects introduces ambiguity, challenging my understanding of the characters’ true experiences.

Further, while the narration of the mother and the woman are happening, there is a third narration happening in the perspective of Gilberto Owen, a Mexican poet and diplomat, for which the young woman (as well as the mother) have an obsession with. Owen’s life parallels the mother’s in several aspects: strained relations with his (ex) partner, his role as a writer, and his parenthood to a son and daughter. The blended narratives become complicated when a segment I believed was from the young woman’s viewpoint is revealed to be Owen’s. Specifically, the young woman has a friend named Salvador, and Owen also has a friend named Salvador—potentially Salvador Novo, another notable Mexican poet (I realize that the books we’ve read have some guest appearances from different authors haha). The overlapping of perspectives creates confusion, indicating that the young woman’s (and mother’s?) identity might be intertwining with Owen’s. This suggests a deep identification with him, to the point where their narratives and perhaps even their selves begin to merge.

Additionally, the plot becomes more surreal when Gilberto Owen, who passed away before the young woman’s story unfolds, encounters a girl named Dolores “Do”—who is known to the young woman as she helped her find the dead tree—during an outing with his children. This encounter defies chronological logic, suggesting a narrative where time is fluid rather than fixed. Additionally, Owen’s observation of “a woman with a brown face and dark shadows under her eyes” (Luiselli 89) on the subway, which matches the description of the mother. This observation muddles the perspective, creating ambiguity around whether we’re encountering Owen’s actual reality or delving into the mother’s imagination of Owen through her writing. If it’s the latter, this suggests the possibility that the mother is projecting her own experiences through Owen’s perspective, again reflecting her connection to him. Both characters are navigating the disintegration of their personal lives and marriages, which could imply that their stories are deeply interconnected.

Finally, the ending leaves me puzzled. Is the father truly out of the picture? And the hide and seek theme—does it symbolize the mother’s transition into a more ghostly presence? Moreover, what does it mean when the little boy finds his mother at the end of the story? Does this indicate she’s regained some form of tangible existence? I’m really not sure…

C. Did I Like ANYTHING??

HOWEVER, if there’s something positive to highlight about the book, it would be the narratives involving the young woman and her friendships in New York. Her relationships with White and Dakota stand out. The dynamic between White and the young woman had a depth reminiscent of a father-daughter relationship, making the end of their relationship particularly emotional. Her decision to not publish the forged translation was commendable, yet it was heartbreaking to witness the dissolution of her relationship with White, leaving her with the impression that he “had never believed in [her]” and that he only hired her because she “smelled a bit like his wife” (Luiselli 68). The adventures with Dakota brought a lighter, more mischievous tone to the story, especially their escapade to Baldy’s house. Further, Dakota’s gesture of bringing her a writing desk was a touching testament to their friendship.

Additionally, the revelation about Salvatore, the biology professor, being 70 years old caught me by surprise. Considering how the young woman slept with him, I had assumed they were closer in age, so that was unexpected!

D. My Concluding Thoughts: I’m a Hater

Unfortunately, I disliked this book so much, and honestly, I’m going to hate on Valeria Luiselli’s writing style as I find myself questioning the critical acclaim her novel has received. The narrative was like random streams-of-consciousness that felt very discombobulated. The novel opens with a quote that seems to allude to the idea that an obsession can consume one’s identity, as seen with the mother’s fixation on Gilberto Owen, which potentially transforms her into a ghostlike presence within his narrative. This concept had the potential to be engaging, but the way it was executed made it less effective. My disappointment stems from the novel’s inability to clearly convey its themes and its choice to prioritize stylistic experimentation over narrative clarity, sorry! 🙁

E. Questions for Discussion

Q: What do you think the game of hide-and-seek symbolized?

Q: What did you think this story was REALLY about?

The Book of Chameleons: Kafka if He Were a Gecko (Mar 25)

I. Loved. This. Book.

Although a quick Google search might call this novel a “murder mystery,” I think that’s quite a stretch. By the halfway point, I felt the book was leaning more towards fantasy because of its whimsical, mysterious, and somewhat unsettling tone (I’ll explain this more later!). However, towards the end, it shifted towards resembling a thriller, which is exactly what I like.

A. Who is Felix?

The narrative revolves around an affluent, older albino man who earns his living by assisting bourgeois individuals who have bright and promising futures but have an undesirable past. Essentially, Felix assists these individuals in crafting identities that “resonate with nobility and [the dominant] culture” of Angola (Agualusa 16). But despite his involvement in fabricating histories, Felix doesn’t see himself as a criminal for doing this. When working on Jose Buchmann’s story, he insists he is “not a forger” (Agualusa 18) and refuses to fake Buchmann’s identity documents. Instead, Felix describes his role as that of a storyteller who crafts people’s histories through genealogy and family trees (Agualusa 16), but despite his claims, it’s clear to me that Felix operates as a forger in essence lol.

B. A Kafka-Like Narration: “The Metamorphosis”

Interestingly, the story is also narrated from the perspective of a Tiger Gecko named Eulalio, Felix Ventura’s best friend. Initially, I mistook the narrator for Felix’s house, given the descriptions imbued with human-like qualities, such as breathing and moving (Agualusa 9). Felix describes Eulalio’s gecko species as possessing a laugh remarkably similar to that of humans, hinting at the novel’s conclusion where Edmundo identifies Jose through his laughter.

The narrative style, especially from Eulalio’s point of view, reminded me of Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis.” Like the protagonist in Kafka’s work who becomes a beetle, Eulalio was once a human man whose “soul [is] [now] trapped in this [new] body” (Agualusa 40). Eulalio frequently reflects on his past human life, such as his inability to form human connections -– especially with women — due to his upbringing and his sexual experience with Dagmar. This really prompted me to question the purpose of his transformation within the context of the story. It indeed made Eulalio more human, but I can’t seem to connect it with the themes within this story (such as deceit or revenge).

C. The Truth Always Comes Out

Returning to the unsettling aspect mentioned earlier, the novel starts dropping hints that things are not as they appear in the second half. First, the gecko notices changes in Jose Buchmann, describing it as a “metamorphosis” (Agualusa 55). Specifically, Jose’s accent begins to shift, losing its Slavic-Brazilian blend in favor of a Luandan rhythm (Agualusa 55). It felt as though Jose had always been “Jose Buchmann” (Agualusa 59), even though this was not his identity. This uneasy feeling extends to Felix, especially when Eulalio notes how the man recounts “his childhood as though he’d really lived through it” (Agualusa 88), casting doubt on Felix’s own reliability (even though he is close to Eulalio).

Ultimately, the novel reveals that Jose’s real name is Pedro Gouveia, seeking Felix’s services to commit revenge against Edmundo, a communist revolutionary responsible for his personal tragedies. This included killing his wife as well as torturing his newborn daughter, who we find out was Angela!

D. Duplicity and Translation

What captured my attention was the novel’s exploration of duplicity, especially illustrated when the Minister seeks Felix’s help to fabricate a genealogy that connects him to a notable historical figure, aiming to boost his appeal. Dr. Beasley-Murray’s discussion on how “dissimulation is designed to deceive us, making us vulnerable to exploitation” and the advice to “remain vigilant of the true essence concealed behind the facade” (1-2), prompted me to reflect on the nature of truth and falsehood in our society and history. It’s fascinating, and somewhat meta, to realize that some of the truths we accept in this world might actually be constructions and we blindly accept them as fact.

Moreover, I also wanted to discuss the author’s point that “every translation is a re-creation” (Agualusa qtd. in Beasley-Murray 2). Here, Agualusa underscores the transformative power of translation, emphasizing that every translated version of a story provides a unique lens through which we view it. With each translation, we encounter a different facet of the narrative, colored by the translator’s choices and interpretations, which is obviously heavily relevant to Romance Studies — it’s interesting to think about the ways in which we interpret novels may not be the way the author originally intended.

Consequently, the true essence of a novel remains ever elusive and hidden (like a chameleon lol), as we are always interacting with a version that has been shaped and reshaped by layers of interpretation — there are infinite possibilities contained within a single piece of literature and the idea that our understanding of a story is continually evolving.

E. My Ending Thoughts!

Although the book does not feature the kind of heart-wrenching fatalities that leave readers in tears (like in Time of the Doves or Hour of the Star), it made me very emotional towards the climax when Felix uncovers the truth about Angela and Pedro. Their duplicity regarding their identities, though devoid of harmful intentions, underscores the irony of Felix’s situation—he, a fabricator of identities, finds authenticity and realness in the least expected place: Eulalio, an actual chameleon. The ending, however, was quite satisfying as it hinted at Felix’s quest to find Angela. Contrary to Felix’s philosophy on life, I hope that the two “live happily ever after” (Agualusa 89).

F. Questions for Discussion

Q: What’s the point of Eulalio being a former human?

Q: Do you think parts of our history were constructed?

Money to Burn: The Morally Gray (Mar 18)

Hey everyone. This week has been a real struggle for me. Even though March is coming to an end, I still have two midterms looming over me. Why does it feel like midterm season never ends? 🙁

Anyway, let’s talk about the book. As a big thriller fan, I was eager to dive into “Money to Burn” by Ricardo Piglia. While I usually gravitate towards psychological thrillers, I was intrigued by the idea of trying something different this week.

The story centers around a real-life bank heist in Buenos Aires, 1965. The gang responsible for the heist is quite a mix, with characters like Twisty Bazan, who is battling drug addiction; Crow Mereles, who is sex-obsessed and has a disturbingly young girlfriend, and the intellectually sharp (BUT TRAITOR) Mad Malito. While I might not be a fan of each character individually, I do appreciate a solid found family trope, especially when it’s made up of such diverse personalities.

Kid Brignone and Blond Gaucho Dorda emerge as central figures in the narrative, sharing a connection so deep it mirrors the closeness of twins, despite their lack of blood relation and different origins. Specifically, Brignone “the Kid” turns his back on his affluent upbringing to embrace a life of crime, contrasting sharply with Dorda, who battles his own inner turmoil and addiction. This difference between them is also shown physically, with Dorda being “heavy, quiet, with a ruddy face and an easy smile” and Brignone being “thin, slightly built, agile, has black hair and a complexion so pallid, it looks as if he’s spent more time in jail than he actually has” (Piglia 1). Yet, this pair, with their contrasting backgrounds, have a profound connection that forms the core of the narrative. Their journey is characterized by a blatant disregard for the law, marked by drug use and impulsive violence. As someone with a somewhat strong moral compass when it comes to the law, it was difficult for me to empathize with their actions, even though their backgrounds shed some light on their motivations. However, Piglia cleverly intertwines these criminal actions with a political undercurrent, revealing corruption within the police forces. This blurs the lines between who is really innocent and guilty, challenging societal perceptions. The deception within the police force is exemplified through the scene of Commissioner Silva with Blanca Galeano. Blanca’s involvement with the gang and subsequent brutal treatment by the police paint a stark picture of violence and exploitation in law enforcement, especially against women. Specifically, in order to get information regarding the robbery, Silva beat up Blanca Galeano — girlfriend of Crow Mereles, — who is 16 years old (15 at the start of the book)! It was hard reading a scene where a young woman gets tortured, but Piglia writes it regardless to show the depth of corruption and moral decay hidden in the seemingly “law-abiding” aspects of society.

Additionally, Piglia offers psychological insights into the main characters, delving into their flaws and troubled pasts. Whether it’s drug addiction, sexual perversions, or mental health issues, each character is portrayed with complexity. Dorda, for instance, is depicted as nervous and paranoid. He hears voices, has been in jail where he is sexually assaulted, and has a long history of violence with the police. Piglia’s dive into the characters’ psychology offers a nuanced understanding of their motivations, instead of just seeing them as “dangerous individuals, antisocial elements, homosexuals and drug addicts” (72). In my view, Piglia attempts to create a moral gray area, particularly with characters like Kid and Dorda. While we may despise their actions, we begin to understand the circumstances that drive them to such extremes, highlighting the societal neglect faced by marginalized individuals.

I think this brings us to the conclusion of why the money was burnt at the end/middle of the book. To me, the act of burning the money represents a significant turning point in the characters’ psychological journey. Specifically, characters like Dorda perceive it as a decisive moment of liberation from societal constraints, despite society’s condemnation of such an act as typical of “crazed killers and immoral beasts” (Piglia 188). Dorda’s acknowledgment of his mental illness and its social effects, encapsulated in his admission of being a “hopeless case” since childhood (Piglia 188), adds depth to his character and sheds light on his motivation for burning the money. This isn’t a rash decision; rather, it’s a deliberate rejection of a system that has marginalized and excluded him. Dorda’s indifference towards the burned money stems from his belief that the societal system has never offered him assistance or support. In his eyes, as someone who has never benefited from the system, the loss of the money holds no significance.

Questions for Discussion:

Q: What did you think the burning of the money symbolized? Can be general, or for a specific character.

Q: Did you empathize with any of the characters at the end of the book?

The Lover: And the Victim (Mar 12)

I feel SUPER strongly about this book. Parting from my usual neutral stance in my usual blogs, today I’ll be sharing my very biased and personal viewpoint on “The Lover” by Marguerite Duras; specifically regarding its commentary on power dynamics and agency within relationships that have significant and inappropriate age gaps.

A. He Has the Power.

I see in many blogs where people have stated that the relationship between young Duras and the man is equal, an interpretation with which I strongly disagree. The novel’s depiction suggests a scenario where the young protagonist believes she possesses power and believes that the man is “at her mercy” (Duras 35), potentially subverting traditional power hierarchies. However, this perception of control is illusory and significantly problematic when examined within the context of how predators operate. In relationships with considerable age disparities, especially those involving minors, the older individual inherently holds more power due to a combination of factors including life experience, emotional maturity, and societal status. The belief of the young girl in her control or dominion over her lover can be seen as a narrative constructed by herself to rationalize or cope with the complexities of the relationship. However, this self-perception doesn’t change the reality of the power dynamics at play. Predators often manipulate their victims into believing they have autonomy and control in the relationship. This manipulation is a tactic that serves to further entrench the power imbalance, making it difficult for the younger individual to recognize the exploitation and abuse. The girl’s belief that she is in control, or her actions within the relationship, can be understood as responses to the manipulative strategies employed by the older man. Her perceived agency then becomes a part of the predatory dynamic, not an indication of genuine power or control!

B. Adding Race: She is Objectified and She Isn’t 100% Aware.

The role of race further introduces a layer of complexity to the power dynamic between the young girl and her older lover. While on the surface, the girl’s whiteness might seem to grant her a form of power or superiority within the colonial context of Southeast Asia, this interpretation fails to capture the nuanced realities of colonial power structures and the way these structures impact interpersonal relationships. Firstly, the term “little white whore” used to describe the young girl serves to exoticize and objectify her. This terminology reflects a colonial gaze that fetishizes her youth and race, placing her in a position of vulnerability rather than empowerment. In a colonial setting, whiteness can indeed confer certain privileges and statuses; however, when coupled with her gender and youth, her race becomes another axis along which she is objectified and commodified. This complicates the notion of racial superiority, as her perceived “power” is undercut by the ways in which she is diminished to an object of desire.

Secondly and I believe most importantly, the older man’s understanding of these racial dynamics signifies a manipulation of the colonial power hierarchies. His awareness doesn’t necessarily mitigate the power his age and experience afford him; rather, it complements it. He understands that within the colonial context, the young girl’s whiteness makes her both desirable and vulnerable, and he leverages this to maintain control over the relationship. His manipulation of the racial dynamics at play reveals a deliberate exploitation of the power imbalances rooted in colonial history and social hierarchies. Moreover, the young girl’s lack of awareness regarding the full implications of her racial identity highlights her naivety and further emphasizes her vulnerability. While she may navigate some aspects of their relationship with a sense of control, her lack of understanding about the interplay of race, colonialism, and power means that any perceived authority she has is limited and ultimately superficial. She is not fully aware of how her identity is constructed and constrained by the colonial context, which limits her ability to wield it in any meaningful way.

C. Conclusion: Warning to Impressionable Readers!

“The Lover” by Marguerite Duras could lead readers to perceive an equal power dynamic in a relationship marred by a significant age gap, thereby glossing over the young protagonist’s vulnerability and potentially glamorizing an exploitative relationship. While not aiming to blame Duras, who is narrating her personal experience that might inherently carry a complex, subjective viewpoint, it’s essential to highlight how such narratives might be misinterpreted by impressionable readers. Misinterpretations could dangerously normalize or even romanticize harmful dynamics, overlooking Duras’s potential critique of colonialism and age-related power imbalances.

D. Questions for Discussion:

Q: Do you believe this relationship is equal? Do you think the young girl actually held any significant power over the man?

Q: How do you interpret the role of racial dynamics in their relationship?

Hour of the Star: Nonhaving or Having? (March 5)

A. First: A Surface-Level Reading

In “Hour of the Star,” Clarice Lispector introduces us to Macabéa, a Northeast Brazilian girl living in Rio de Janeiro’s slums. Through Rodrigo S.M., the narrator, we see not only Macabéa’s life but also a critique of the societal disregard she faces. Rodrigo’s musings, “[s]ee the northeastern girl looking in the mirror…in the mirror appears my weary and unshaven face. We’re that interchangeable” (Lispector 14), reveal Macabea’s invisibility. Rodrigo sketches Macabéa’s life as a cycle of basic survival, yet, Macabéa carves moments of identity, like painting her nails red, against a backdrop of neglect. Further, her interactions with fellow Northeasterner, Olímpico, exposes the contrast between their approaches to their identities. Olímpico de Jesus is determined to redefine his identity and move up in society. He calls himself a “metallurgist” (Lispector 36) to emphasize the class standing of his blue-collar career; he adds “Moreira Chaves” to his name even when “de Jesus” is the “name of those who have no father” (Lispector 36); and he leaves Macabéa for Gloria, who “was born and bred in Rio” meaning that she “made her belong to the longed-for clan from the South” (Lispector 50). Olímpico foils against Macabéa’s acceptance of her circumstances, shown in their conversation when she doesn’t “think [that she’s] people” (Lispector 39). Throughout the novel, Rodrigo describes Macabéa as robotic and inhuman as she “never broke her habits” (Lispector 18) and had “no consciousness of herself… [she] thought she was happy” despite her unfortunate situation (Lispector 60). Interestingly, Macabea’s dream of becoming a movie star and achieving a moment of glory is ironically fulfilled only in her death, where she becomes the center of attention. This moment, where “people sprouted in the alleyway out of nowhere and gathered around Macabea” (Lispector 71), grants her the visibility she never had in life.

B. A Deeper Analysis: Societal Reinforcement of the Visibility of People and the Idea of “Non-Having”

Rodrigo’s Role

At a glance, the story explores Macabéa’s perceived low self-esteem, highlighted through Rodrigo S.M.’s narration, which discusses her “shameful” life. A deeper dive reveals the societal pressures shaping Macabéa’s identity and her struggle for recognition within a system that consistently marginalizes her. Specifically, the narrator Rodrigo’s storytelling goes beyond mere recounting; he actually partakes in the societal oversight Macabéa endures. He explicitly comments on Macabéa’s lack of self-image, suggesting it is due to “shame because she’s modest or because she’s ugly” (Lispector 14). This observation by Rodrigo does more than depict Macabéa’s personal insecurities; it underscores how societal attitudes, influenced by factors like socio-economic status and gender, play a significant role in her self-alienation and the broader issue of her invisibility. Through Rodrigo’s narrative lens, we see how the narrator’s portrayal itself acts as a mechanism that perpetuates the systemic neglect Macabéa experiences. Further, Rodrigo portrays Macabéa as “liv[ing] in an impersonal limbo, without reaching the worst or the best. She just lives, inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling. Actually—why should she do anything more? Her existence is sparse.” (Lispector 15). Again, Rodrigo negatively reinforces Macabéa’s existence, suggesting she lives a life diminished to its barest essentials, where dreams and desires find little room to flourish. In contrast, I believe Macabéa does try to assert her identity—be it through engaging with advertisements to learn new facts or painting her nails red—standing as a quiet defiance against a society who belittles and disregards her. These are her attempts to construct a sense of self against a backdrop intent on diminishing her presence.

Nonhaving

The lecture’s discussion on the “story of ‘nonhaving'” (Beasley-Murray 6) helps us understand Macabéa’s story. This concept illuminates the challenge the narrator faces in presenting Macabéa’s life, a life so starkly defined by absence—of material possessions, of societal validation, of a coherent self-identity—that it escapes conventional comprehension. Rodrigo’s difficulty in crafting “an accurate and ethical portrayal” (Torres in Beasley-Murray 6) of Macabéa speaks to an ethical dilemma: how to articulate a life that defies the societal frameworks available to us. It highlights a persistent hesitation and doubt, not just in the act of narration but in the very attempt to understand a state of being so alien to Rodrigo’s own experiences and, by extension, to those of the wider society.

Professor Beasley-Murray’s insight adds another layer to this discussion, pointing to the dual nature of consumption in the construction of ourselves (4). He suggests that how we build our identities through available resources can simultaneously foster can lead to both self-making and self-erasure. From this perspective, Macabéa’s struggle could stem from her disengagement with societal consumption practices—practices that validate an individual’s societal status, practices eagerly embraced by Olímpico as he seeks to elevate his social standing. Yet, it’s crucial to question if Macabéa’s downfall is due to her non-consumption, or rather, if her hesitant attempts at self-invention—despite the external belittlement and societal marginalization—represent a form of resistance against an imposed invisibility given to her at birth. Contrary to the total erasure suggested by her socio-economic status and the narrator’s portrayal, Macabéa’s endeavors, though modest, signify her struggle against the societal forces that seek to deny her personhood. Her fascination with ads and the ritual of painting her nails red, acts that might seem trivial, are her ways of asserting a self in a world that refuses to acknowledge her. In light of this, one might argue that Macabéa’s life, as presented through the external gaze of the narrator and the societal context of her existence, is not merely a tale of “nonhaving” but also a critique of the societal and narrative structures that determine what having means. Indeed, Macabéa’s life of poverty is “unknown to most individuals and to which [we] cannot fully relate” (Torres in Beasley-Murray 6).

C. Conclusion

I believe Macabéa’s story, and the struggle of the narrator to ethically and accurately capture her essence, underscores the limitations of our societal narratives in encompassing the full breadth of human experience, especially those lived on the margins of visibility and comprehension. Admittedly, I’m also uncertain if my interpretation of her story in this blog post is correct.

D. Questions for Discussion

Q: Do you think Macabéa was content with her life?

Q: How would you contrast Olímpico with Macabéa?