Letters to the Romance World

    Reaching the end of this course, I am filled with an appreciation for the Romance World. Beginning with “Combray” and spanning eleven other great works, I was exposed to authors I would normally glance over on the shelves of libraries or bookstores in my native country; through the guidance of lectures and my peers, my understanding flourished alongside my newly-aligned perspective on what this world entails. As I learned about the stories which may be considered obscure, the esoteric—or in the case of Lispector’s cockroach, outright bizarre—concurrently I found myself stepping out of the bubble of classic literary convention to find a treasure trove of new techniques with which to form my own writing. Leaving this course and moving onwards, I can only think I have taken a valuable step in my journey as an English major. Outside of this course, I cannot see these texts being encountered again. 

     The structure of the course, at first disorienting, was soon revealed as a great idea. In most courses, one is not able to see the work of their classmates, and is instead left like many artists, in a prison of their own making, slaving away at a work which has the potential to either enhance their lot in life or leave everyone confused if not hostile to them. Oh, the lonely lot of the artist! — but in all seriousness, as much as I enjoy the romantic image of clacking away at a typewriter over candlelight, a half-finished bottle of spirits by my side, the collaborative nature of the course was a welcome change. Especially in the form of the lively discussions, I never found myself zoning out of any of the readings. 

    This was owing to a fact that was surely not coincidence: whether through a breaking of convention, or toying with memory and unreliable narration, or a shared genre of bildungsroman as the development of the artist, all of our texts were linked in some way or another despite their vastly different settings. Among them, my favourite readings were Louis Aragon’s Paris Peasant and Alberto Moravia’s Agostino. The former work, although a difficult read at the surface, was technically a very impressive piece of writing and a strong venture into surrealism; the latter was riveting to me due to its subversive, incestuous nature, as I was unsure how explicit the story would get, or the direction in which it was headed. 

    At the conclusion of this course, I am for the first time—on my last blog post, fortunately for me—at a loss for words. There is much to proverbially chew on. Although I may not remember every one of these blog posts I have written or every second of our turbulent discussions ranging from philosophy to politics to artistic temperament, I have a feeling the memories of this course and what I have learned from studying the authors will, indeed, remain by my side and stand the test of time. 

    Thank you to the Professor, Patricio and Jennifer for making this course so engaging. Bon voyage—and to a great summer ahead!