Tag Archives: language

03/20/23

Week 10: Autobiographies as a Force for Change in I, Rigoberta Menhcu, Others

    Reading the shortest text that we have been assigned for this course, I cannot help but feel against its brevity that it was one of the most impactful. It tells a story from an unlikely origin, owing to the author’s differences in class and language compared to her readers. In this sense, I am reminded of several other works of literature written by minorities in the 18th century and which have since found a surging popularity in contemporary academia—from the works of Phillis Wheatley, utilising the elevated poetic language of modern society to question the morality of the Atlantic slave trade to the narrative of the former slave turned “freeman” Olaudah Equiano. Both authors utilise “white” language to liberate themselves through the model of the Enlightenment. For these similarities, the themes which runs throughout I, Rigoberta Menchu mentioned in the foreword that “Rigoberta learned the language of her oppressors in order to use it against them”  and “[w]ords are her only weapons”  strike me as especially powerful in the context of the postcolonial literatures (xxi, xxi). 

    Latin America provides an interesting lens to view the reach of colonialism and the differing ways it affected its inhabitants. Comparing this work to others I’ve studied, I noticed some key similarities, the first of which comes in the form of the author providing background as a way to humanise the “other,” thereby building sympathy with her white audience. From there Rigoberta goes on to describe her family and the hardships they must endure often in part due to their oppressors. 

    There is often an element of real world tragedy to connect to the oppressor as a means of change; this is represented in the death of Rigoberta’s brothers Felipe and Nicola, the first of which dies as a result of the oppressors spraying the coffee with pesticides wherein the author shares “my brother couldn’t stand the fumes and died of intoxication” (38). Additionally, the intimate nature of the medium of autobiography or account allows the distant reader to glimpse into a life beyond their own, thereby breaking down racial and class barriers which continue to oppress the “other.” Yet language can be beneficial as much as it can be a detriment. In the author’s encounter with those from different Guatemalan ethnic groups, she finds that “linguistic barriers prevent any dialogue between us Indians, between ourselves” (40). In my view, this mirrors the author’s dogged attempts to learn English as a means of writing as a story which is ubiquitous in its message, and her use of the captor’s language to introduce radical change. 

My question for the class is in what ways does the language of the autobiography articulate, but also hold captive, the stories authors try to tell? S

02/6/23

Week 5: An Obstruction of Understanding in Labyrinths

    I am convinced that the writings of Jorge Luis Borges—an Argentinian writer infamous for his playful nature and toying with language—are not merely a method to be reckoned with in the literary canon, but also a turbulent force which makes us question our expectations when approaching future literature as a whole. The writing itself seems very much rooted in the genre of surrealism, or like minded postmodern movements of the 20th century. When considering the social change of the time (brought forth by wars and revolutions alike in Latin America) it is no wonder that conventional ways of writing were challenged by Borges, as with many other writers as a way to spearhead an intellectual revolution in the way we think and act towards objects of power, as in the literary–often viewed as “elitist”–realm. 

    In terms of content, I enjoyed the unique way the text was ordered with a sporadic use of headings to guide the bewildered reader–in this way it reminded me of Hopscotch by Julio Cortázar, the namesake of the course. The author relies on the use of allusions to tell a complex tale befitting of our time, ranging from a religious critique, as in “The Lottery in Babylon,” to commenting on military jingoism in “The Garden of Forking Paths.” Both are situated near each other and represent, in my interpretation, a duality of ideology, or two sides of the same coin. “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,” the heading that starts the book, is a fitting introduction, as it revolves around the use of language and stored knowledge in a literate culture. Through a conversation the narrator has with one of the few characters in the novel, Bioy Casares, there is a fourth-wall break in the way he essentially discloses the omission of facts to shape reality which would be commonplace in the narrative going forward; in this sense, it almost reads as a disclaimer. 

    A great disclaimer it is, as well: the story often proves difficult to follow and jumps back and forth through time, memory and fabrication—most separated, but not always, by headings—leading the reader to believe they are in fact stuck in a maze of some kind, with that maze being their own struggle of comprehension. As mammals, we enjoy solving puzzles. I think Borges, in the way he has structured his narrative, appeals to this common instinct between us all. There is a democratisation of intellect in his work, and therefore a sense of unification. Yet restricted by the written word, there is also an unavoidable elitism at play owing to the medium—and as Marshall McLuhan will tell any soul, this is the message: The fact that those who are illiterate will not comprehend this story is in itself a barricade to understanding, larger than any artificial or tangible maze. And so there is conflict even in the work of postmodernism. 

    My question this week is to what extent does Jorge Borges appeal to the reader’s instinct to solve problems and think critically about meaning; and by contrast, what does the obstruction of our understanding represent? S