Month: February 2022

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Week Seven: Existential Truth in Lispector’s “The Passion According to G.H.”

    Introspection, dread and existentialism: these were the primary themes which came to mind while reading Lispector’s “The Passion According to G.H.” The story itself is a strange piece of fiction. It reads more as a frenzied confession from a madwoman—or if not mad, recently informed of life’s secrets through some traumatic event and left unable to come to terms with its answers. Because of its odd content, it forgoes the traditional plot structure containing a beginning, middle and end. Instead, the story opts for a dizzying downward spiral into a questioning of religion, ethics and one’s place in the world. 

   The existentialist nature of the piece struck me as a natural progression from the surrealism of Louis Aragon’s “Paris Peasant.” While reading Aragon, I was left confused and with only a vague sense of plot to string me along through unlikely images and parallels: the tone at many times often took priority over any discernible message. Lispector, by contrast, almost makes this style of writing seem lucid. Questioning everything in the house, G.H. expands surrealism not only to shine the spotlight on the absurdity of the world, but inwards, into the soul itself. 

    In my view, this is the crucial differentiation between surrealism and existentialism. From my past readings of Camus and Sartre, I saw surrealism evolve from focusing on setting reflecting self into existentialism, wherein setting and self increasingly merges into one to encompass being. “Every moment of finding is the losing of oneself,” writes Lispector on this discovery (pg. 8). Introspection is not always a good thing, and often leads to dread. Sometimes knowledge–like forbidden fruit, to borrow the biblical imagery utilized in the text—only kills our primitive joy in the world. Conversely, perhaps it is better to know than to live in ignorance. “Truth doesn’t make sense, the hugeness of the world makes me shrink” (pg. 10). Are these the words of someone who has attained enlightenment and is sad to see their solitary form go, or is delighted in the fact they have entered an immaterial form and lives on, as is later said, among winds and rust? Both extremes, happiness and despair, are oscillated between in this philosophy. 

    Overall, I was struck by the continuity one can see from previously studied works in this class. Although dense and unrewarding at times, I did appreciate what the author set out to capture in trauma leading to revelation. Similarly intriguing were the allusions to biblical imagery, those which almost underscored the story as being a new kind of existentialist, godless scripture where the present and connection between all living things–-even humans and cockroaches—are prioritized for happiness. 

    One final question: Is introspection worth pursuing if dread is all that comes from it?

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Week Six: A Creative Revolution in Zobel’s “Black Shack Alley”

    In the context of French history, Black Shack Alley is a remarkable time piece. With the unique perspective of the French-Caribbean, Zobel analyzes the effects of revolts: the aftermath of the French Revolution which changed the world in regards to viewing dynasties and absolutism as negatives; the subsequent slave revolts in Haiti which struck pointedly at the colonialism which sustained them. There is a void left in the place of monarchies and the rule of the few. It is therefore through the eyes of the oppressed one can see a distinct return to the unfulfilled revolutionary promises of the 18th century. 

    Unrivalled by all (except perhaps Albert Camus and the contemporary struggle for Arab liberation in Algeria), one can see a novel approach in the way colonization and circumstance drives the plot. Haiti, a liberated colony, serves as the backdrop for a story concerning suppressed voices throughout history. It is set in a period of decolonization which took place in the 20th century, and this mirrors the bildungsroman—a term describing the growth of the artist—of the protagonist José. This is shown in his love of reading, used to escape “the destiny of one born in Black Shack Alley” (pg. 181). Literacy among Blacks was very low at the time. By revealing oneself as educated, it is not only seen as a betterment of one’s low lot in life—to use a phrase from George Orwell, it is a revolutionary act. 

    Dislocation of the slave trade lends itself to the disillusionment of not just José and his kin, but the individual as an artist. His family is originally from Africa, and so retains a certain affinity for banners neither French nor so-called liberated Caribbean; the roots of slavery, as it turns out, run deeper than any nationale. 

     When speaking of their true home, it is described as “another country even further away, even deeper than France [. . .] that of his father: Guinea” (pg. 36). Later on, the tradition of oratory is evidenced in the Creole population despite a lack of literacy. This institutional blockade evidences a conscious attempt on the part of the collective to silence voices, believing their stories hold less value than traditional European tales.  

    Nonetheless, with the oppressed servant in one ear and the inspired artist in the other, one finds a confluence; their voices are soon heard. “Assionis would be relating stories and would play his drum with a soul full of compassion and with frenzied inspiration” (pg. 219). Although not a direct decrying of borders and states, there is misplacement felt on the part of the marginalised. And when placed alongside the role of the artist in society, the intention of Zobel cannot be viewed as a call to tear down corrupt societies, but rather rebuild them with the freedom of all individuals in mind. 

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Week Five: The Necessity for Love in Moravia’s “Agostino”

    While reading “Agostino,” I was struck by a distinct tone of the Freudian; the ways in which maturing from the child to the teenager–and various ventures into adulthood in-between–are contrasted with a love, innocent or otherwise, of a maternal figure central to one’s life. Although one may be tempted to refer to the relationship between Agostino and his mother as toxic in the ways they feed off of and manipulate the other’s emotions (and this claim would not be incorrect), I believe the bigger theme at play here is a story of “leaving of the nest.” 

    On both the part of the mother and the child, there is an exploration of the strangers once observed in life, never spoken or interacted with. As they grow less reliant on each other for happiness, there is both a clinging desperation and a cruelty shown which is unmatched by anyone hated–instead, it is the loved one which receives the most vitriol. It is through the mother and child the author highlights the pains of growing up: the struggles and misunderstandings which often accompany familial severance. 

    There is a sense of tragedy when Agostino loses his mother to the young man. “It had been his fate to fall from the summit of an illusion and crash to the ground, aching and bruised,” the author states, and when considering the fall of Icarus—pride of having the mother, his metaphorical sun, before losing her—one can see an allusion to the Greek lesson, that which occurs when flying too close: a founding text for romance literature (pg. 8).

    Yet highlighted here is a masochistic element to his loss as well. According to the omniscience of the narrator, “[t]he humiliation and repulsion of the daily outings had almost become his reason for living” (pg. 14). One of these many confessions lend themselves to a sexual interpretation of the relationship. Yet I do not believe such descriptions are intended to be directly incestuous; they are simply a desperate plea for love. 

    After finding himself in the company of villainous boys, acquaintances rather than friends, the narrator makes peace with his mother’s escapades. This is in part due to him no longer being dependent on her for happiness. “It was right that his mother should behave in such a way with the young man,” he states (pg. 39). And coupled with his newfound view of her as just another “woman,” not his mother by blood, there is an ambiguity on whether it is for buried hatred or a mere indifference which causes his pain. 

    By the conclusion of this reading, I am left with the question of how far ambiguity contributes to a narrative. One quote in particular stuck with me: “Descending suddenly from respect and reverence to the opposite sentiments, he almost hoped that before his eyes her clumsiness would turn to vulgarity, her nudity to provocation, her innocence to naked guilt” (pg. 44). Whether or not this is a buried desire to love his mother in the fashion of the young man, or simply a desire to feel loved in the innocent way of boyhood, remains a mystery to me. In either case, I enjoyed the exploration of love as a need by the author—once more, sexual or otherwise. 

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