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Signing Off

I honestly do not have anything super profound to say for this final post, but I can say that this class was a really new experience for me in the best way. I come from a very tech and science-heavy background, so most of my day-to-day life is usually just me sitting behind my laptop coding, working on assignments, or doing something very logic-based. Because of that, taking this class felt really refreshing and different from what I’m normally used to.

A lot of the books we read are probably books I would have never picked up on my own, but I’m really glad I got the chance to read them through this course. Some of them confused me, some of them surprised me, and some of them were way more interesting than I expected. I think that was one of my favourite parts of the class, being pushed a little outside of what I usually read and think about.

I also really enjoyed hearing everyone’s interpretations during class discussions, because it made me realize how many different ways a single text can be understood. And I have to mention the quizzes at the beginning of class too, because somehow they have left me knowing the favourite drinks and oddly specific details of so many random literary characters.

Overall, this class was a nice change of pace for me and a reminder that it’s actually fun to spend time with things outside of your usual field. Thank you to Jon, Julian, Daniel, and everyone in the class for making this such an interesting experience.

And with that, M. Aurelia signs out. Good Night!

Categories
AGUALUSA

Selling Pasts, Escaping Truths

Going into The Book of Chameleons, I expected something more literal about chameleons, but the title ends up being more of a trick than a promise. That already sets the tone for the whole novel. Nothing is exactly what it seems, and that includes identity, memory, and even reality itself.

What stood out to me the most is Félix Ventura’s job as a “seller of pasts.” He doesn’t just lie, he creates entire histories for people, complete with documents, photos, and family stories. What’s interesting is how believable these fake pasts become. At some point, they don’t even feel fake anymore. It made me think about how much of identity is actually based on stories. If people can accept a completely invented past, then what really makes something “real”?

The character of the gecko adds another layer to this confusion. He remembers being human and sometimes questions whether he is a gecko dreaming of being a man or the other way around. That line between reality and imagination keeps getting blurred. His perspective makes everything feel slightly off, like we can’t fully trust what we’re reading. In a way, he represents the idea that identity isn’t fixed, it can shift depending on memory, perception, or even dreams.

The whole situation with José Buchmann takes this even further. What starts as a fake identity slowly becomes real, as he finds actual proof of the life that was invented for him. This was one of the most confusing but also interesting parts of the novel. It almost suggests that if you believe in a story strongly enough, it can become reality. But at the same time, the ending reminds us that this idea has limits.

The reveal of Buchmann’s true identity and his connection to Angola’s violent past changes everything. Suddenly, the playful idea of reinventing yourself becomes much darker. His actions are tied to revenge, and the past he tried to reshape ends up catching up with him anyway. This moment felt like the novel saying that no matter how much you try to rewrite your story, some things can’t be erased, especially trauma and history.

Overall, the novel seems torn between two ideas: that identity is flexible and can be reinvented, and that the past is permanent and will always return. I think that tension is what makes the story so interesting. It’s not giving a clear answer, but instead showing both sides.

Question: Do you think it’s actually possible to fully reinvent yourself, or will your past always find a way to come back?

Categories
Piglia

When Crime Stories Blur the Line Between Truth and Fiction

One of the things that stood out to me while reading Money to Burn is how the novel constantly blurs the line between truth and fiction. The story is based on a real robbery, and the narrator often presents the events in a way that feels almost journalistic. There are references to reports, witnesses, and newspaper coverage, which makes the story feel very factual. At times it even feels like we are reading an investigation rather than a novel.

But at the same time, it becomes clear that not everything can actually be proven. The book sometimes describes characters’ thoughts or private conversations that no one could realistically know about. This made me realize that even though the story is inspired by real events, it is still shaped by the author’s imagination. Instead of simply retelling history, the novel is creating its own version of the story.

Personally, I did not find this misleading. If anything, it made the story more interesting. It made me think about how crime stories are always told from certain perspectives and how easily details can be changed or emphasized to create a stronger narrative. In that sense, the novel is not just about a robbery but also about how stories themselves are constructed.

Another moment that really stayed with me is when the gangsters start burning the stolen money during the siege. It is such a shocking scene because the entire robbery was about getting that money in the first place. They risked their lives for it, and people died because of it. Yet in the end, they destroy it themselves.

The reaction of the crowd is also interesting. Many people watching seem more horrified by the burning of the money than by the violence that led up to it. This moment made me think about how much value society places on money. Even though money is technically just paper, people treat it as something extremely important and almost untouchable.

By burning the money, the gangsters are almost rejecting the system that gives it value in the first place. Instead of escaping with their reward, they turn it into ashes. The scene feels symbolic, as if they are breaking the rules of the system they were already fighting against.

Overall, what I found most interesting about the novel is that it is not just a crime story. It also raises questions about truth, storytelling, and the things society chooses to value. The book shows how easily reality and narrative can mix together, especially when it comes to dramatic events like crime.

Question: When reading a story based on real events, do you think it is more important for the author to stay completely accurate, or is it okay to change details if it helps tell a more powerful story?

Categories
Duras

Memory, Power, and Uncertainty in The Lover

Marguerite Duras’s The Lover feels very different from a typical love story. What stood out to me the most while reading was how much the novel focuses on memory rather than simply telling a story about a relationship. The narrator is looking back on events that happened more than fifty years earlier, which makes everything feel reflective and a little uncertain. It sometimes feels like she is not only telling us what happened, but also trying to understand it herself. Because of this, the story moves between different memories: her family, her childhood, and the relationship with the Chinese man.

One moment that really stood out to me is when the narrator first meets the man on the ferry crossing the Mekong River. This scene feels like a turning point in her life. She is only fifteen and a half years old, but the narration suggests that she senses something important is about to change. The way she describes what she was wearing, the silk dress, the gold high heels, and the hat also makes the moment feel symbolic. It shows how she is caught between childhood and adulthood. She is still very young, but she is also starting to see herself in a more adult way.

The relationship itself is complicated, especially when we think about power and control. At first, it might seem obvious that the older man has the power. He is older, wealthy, and able to take her to his apartment in Cholon. However, the narrator often suggests the opposite. She repeatedly says that she feels in control and that he is vulnerable because of how much he desires her. This idea challenges the usual assumption that the person being looked at is powerless. Instead, Duras suggests that desire can actually make the person who is looking more vulnerable.

At the same time, their relationship is shaped by several social hierarchies. The narrator is white and French, which gives her racial privilege in colonial society, but her family is poor and struggling. Meanwhile, the lover is extremely wealthy but still limited by racial divisions and by the expectations of his own family. Because of these differences in age, race, and class, it becomes difficult to clearly say who really has the upper hand in the relationship.

In the end, the novel seems less interested in giving clear answers and more interested in exploring how memory works. The narrator keeps returning to this moment from her past, almost as if she is rewriting it each time she tells it.

Question:
Do you think the narrator truly had control in the relationship, or is this something she convinces herself of when looking back on the past?

Categories
Calvino

When a Book Won’t Let You Finish It

In If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler by Italo Calvino, I honestly didn’t know what I was getting into at first. The novel immediately addresses “you” as the reader, which felt strange but also kind of cool. It made me feel involved in the story in a way that most books don’t. Instead of following a single main character in a clear plot, I was suddenly part of the narrative. At the same time, it was a bit disorienting because I kept waiting for a “normal” storyline to begin.

What makes this book so unique is its structure. Every time a new story starts, it pulls you in with a completely different setting, tone, and genre. Just when things get interesting, it cuts off. Then the novel shifts back to the Reader trying to find the rest of the story. At first, I found this creative and exciting. It felt like opening ten different books at once. But after a while, it became frustrating. I realized how much I rely on closure when I read. I like knowing that if I stay invested, I’ll get answers in the end. Calvino doesn’t really give that satisfaction, at least not in the way we expect.

I also noticed that once it becomes clear that the “Reader” character is male, the second-person narration feels less universal. In the beginning, “you” felt like it could be anyone. But when the book reveals that this Reader is a man, it shifts the dynamic. I felt slightly distanced from the role I was supposed to step into. Ludmilla, the Other Reader, is interesting because she seems to genuinely love reading for its own sake. However, I sometimes felt like we only see her through the male Reader’s perspective. Even though she has her own opinions, the story still centers him.

The ending surprised me because it felt very traditional compared to the rest of the novel. After so many interruptions and experiments with form, the book closes with marriage. In a way, it almost feels ironic. After constantly denying us complete stories, Calvino still gives us a neat conclusion for the main characters. I’m not sure if that was meant to be comforting or slightly mocking.

Overall, I’m still deciding how I feel about this novel. I admire how bold and different it is, and I liked how it made me think about why I read and what I expect from fiction. At the same time, I sometimes missed the emotional depth that comes from staying with one story for a long time.

Discussion question: Do you think the frustration of unfinished stories adds to the meaning of the novel, or does it take away from your connection to it?

Categories
Rodoreda The Time of the Doves

Quiet Endurance

In The Time of the Doves by Mercè Rodoreda, what struck me most was how ordinary everything feels, even when Natalia’s life is falling apart. The story never becomes dramatic in a loud or exaggerated way. Instead, it stays close to Natalia’s daily thoughts: what she notices, what she worries about, what she endures. That simplicity made the painful moments hit even harder.

At the beginning, Natalia is swept into marriage with Quimet almost before she has time to think. There isn’t a long period of reflection or hesitation. Things just happen to her. Quimet renames her Colometa, fills the apartment with pigeons, and slowly takes over the space, physically and emotionally. I found it unsettling how easily her identity seems to shrink. Even her own name feels unstable. It made me wonder how much of Natalia’s passivity is personality, and how much of it is the result of the world around her.

The pigeons are impossible to ignore. They crowd the home, make a mess, and become another responsibility Natalia never asked for. To me, they felt less like symbols of peace and more like a burden that keeps multiplying. When she starts shaking the eggs to stop them from hatching, it feels like a small act of rebellion. It’s quiet, almost hidden, but it’s one of the first moments where she takes control of something in her life.

Then the war begins, and everything becomes about survival. The shortages, the hunger, the fear, it all strips life down to its most basic level. Natalia’s thoughts grow more practical and less emotional. She sells her belongings piece by piece. When she considers killing her children to save them from starvation, it doesn’t come across as cruelty. It feels like exhaustion. That part was deeply uncomfortable to read, but it also forced me to think about how extreme circumstances can blur moral boundaries.

What I appreciated most is that the novel doesn’t end in complete despair. Her second marriage is not passionate or romantic in the way her first one was. Instead, it feels steady. Almost quiet. There’s no grand declaration of happiness, just a sense of stability. After everything she has endured, maybe that kind of calm is enough.

This novel made me think about how resilience doesn’t always look heroic. Sometimes it just looks like continuing to wake up each day. Do you think Natalia ever truly regains a sense of self, or does she simply adapt to survive?

Categories
Zobel

Education Isn’t Always an Escape

Reading Black Shack Alley felt heavier than I expected. At first, it seems like a familiar story about a smart kid escaping poverty through education, but the more I read, the more uncomfortable that idea became. José’s success never feels fully like a victory. Instead, it feels complicated, almost like a trade-off where something important is quietly lost along the way.

Education is clearly presented as the only possible way out of Black Shack Alley, but the novel also shows how that same education pushes José away from his community. School teaches him French history, French literature, and French values, but none of it reflects his own world. When José struggles to name his grandmother’s work in French, it really stood out to me. It’s such a small moment, but it shows how the system refuses to even acknowledge the labor that keeps society running. If her work has no name, it’s almost as if her life has no value within that structure.

M’man Tine’s sacrifices make this even more painful. She works her body into exhaustion so José can have a chance at a “better” life, yet that life slowly distances him from her. Her love is practical and harsh at times, shaped by survival rather than comfort. I kept thinking about how many parents and grandparents today make similar sacrifices, believing education will protect their children from the struggles they faced, even if it means emotional distance or misunderstanding later on.

The lecture’s discussion about literacy versus orality also helped me see the novel differently. Black Shack Alley is full of stories, music, and shared knowledge, but none of that is valued in school. José’s movement toward literacy gives him opportunity, but it also separates him from the oral traditions that shaped his childhood. Even when he tries to write about his own experiences, he’s accused of plagiarism, as if his reality doesn’t fit what literature is “supposed” to look like.

By the end of the novel, José has technically escaped Black Shack Alley, but the question of whether that escape is truly freedom is left unresolved. His story suggests that development doesn’t erase inequality; it often just reshapes it. That’s what makes Black Shack Alley so unsettling, it doesn’t offer an easy solution, only the reminder that progress can come with invisible costs.

Question: If education requires distancing yourself from your community to succeed, is that success really worth it?

Categories
LAFORET Nada

Nothing and Everything: Finding Meaning in Andrea’s Barcelona

When I think about Nada, what stays with me most is how difficult it is to explain what the novel is “about” without saying that not much really happens. Andrea arrives in Barcelona full of expectation, spends a year surrounded by hunger, tension, and emotional decay, and then leaves feeling like she has gained nothing. There is no dramatic transformation, no clear resolution, no moment where everything suddenly makes sense. And yet, the more I think about it, the more that emptiness feels intentional rather than disappointing.

Andrea comes to Barcelona expecting a story, not just a place to live, but an experience that will shape her life in a meaningful way. As a literature student, she constantly tries to interpret the people around her as characters in some kind of narrative. Everyone in the apartment has fragments of stories to share, whether it’s Gloria insisting her life is like a novel or Román accusing Andrea of imagining them all as characters. But as Román also points out, their arguments and suffering don’t lead anywhere. There are no neat causes or conclusions, only repetition.

The lecture helped clarify why this lack of narrative coherence matters. The Spanish Civil War is never directly discussed in Nada, yet its presence is everywhere. It appears in the family’s poverty, the overcrowded apartment, the violence, and the constant hunger Andrea experiences. These characters are living in the aftermath of something they cannot openly name. The trauma becomes an “open secret”: everyone knows it exists, but it cannot be fully expressed. Instead, it shows up indirectly, through details like drinking vegetable water, broken furniture, and a house that feels more like a mausoleum than a home.

What I find most compelling is Andrea’s claim at the end that she leaves having taken “nothing” from her year in Barcelona. While this feels true to her at the moment of departure, the novel itself contradicts her. By narrating this experience later, Andrea is already giving shape to what once felt meaningless. Memory turns fragments into something resembling a story, even if it never becomes a comforting one.

In that sense, Nada is less a coming-of-age novel than a portrait of survival. It captures what it feels like to live inside the emotional wreckage left behind by history. The irony is that a novel about “nothing” ends up revealing how much can exist beneath silence.

If meaning in Nada only emerges through memory and hindsight, does Andrea actually need to recognize her growth for it to be real, or is survival itself enough?

Categories
BOMBAL

Reflections on The Shrouded Woman

This week’s reading, The Shrouded Woman by María Luisa Bombal, felt very different from the texts we’ve read so far in this course. Compared to Proust especially, I found this much easier to read and follow. Even though the novel deals with heavy themes like death, regret, and unhappy relationships, the writing itself feels fluid and almost dreamlike. It’s the kind of text where the mood carries you through more than the plot does.

What stood out to me most was Bombal’s choice to begin the novel with Ana María already dead. From there, the story moves through different memories from her life as she lies in her coffin, waiting to be buried. This structure made the memories feel fragmented and emotional rather than orderly, which I think makes sense given her state. Time doesn’t feel linear in the novel, and the repeated calls that pull her into different moments give the sense that these reflections are happening in her final moments of consciousness.

Many of Ana María’s memories are centered on love and relationships, but love in this novel is rarely comforting. Her marriage to Antonio is especially unsettling, and it made me think about how romance is often shown as something that limits her rather than fulfills her. Even relationships that begin with affection seem to turn into sources of pain, disappointment, or control. This made the novel feel less like a romantic story and more like a critique of the expectations placed on women in relationships.

Another thing I noticed was how much importance is placed on women’s appearances. From the opening scene, where Ana María is carefully prepared to look beautiful in death, to the way women are constantly compared to one another, beauty seems to be tied directly to worth. Even in death, Ana María takes comfort in knowing she looks lovely. This suggests how deeply she has internalized these expectations, which feels both sad and telling of the social world she lived in.

There’s also a strong sense of loneliness throughout the novel. Ana María longs for connection, but many of her relationships feel incomplete or fragile. Even friendships between women are shaped by jealousy, betrayal, or competition, which makes genuine connection feel rare. Looking back on her life from this in-between state highlights how much of it was shaped by longing rather than fulfillment.

Overall, The Shrouded Woman feels like a quiet but powerful reflection on love, memory, and loss. Instead of idealizing romance, Bombal seems more interested in showing how love can be shaped by social pressure, trauma, and regret.

Why do you think Ana María’s memories focus so heavily on painful or unresolved moments rather than happier ones, is Bombal suggesting that these are what define a life in the end?

Categories
Nadja

Nadja: Love, Madness, or just a Muse?

To be honest, Nadja is definitely not the typical “romance”. Instead of a love story, it feels more like a surrealist experiment or a diary where Breton uses a woman as a mirror to figure out his own identity. It’s a messy mix of philosophy, Paris street life, and random photographs, which makes the whole thing feel less like a novel and more like a “case history” that we’re supposed to solve.

The thing that stood out to me most was the opening question: “Who am I?” It feels like Breton isn’t actually interested in Nadja as a person, but as a key to answering that question. He’s drawn to her because she’s “pure” and “free of earthly ties,” basically floating through Paris and ignoring all the rules of normal life. To him, she’s not just a girl he met; she’s the “furthest determinant” of everything the Surrealists were trying to achieve. She lives her life like a story, and Breton is totally obsessed with that at least at first.

But things get uncomfortable when Nadja’s behavior shifts from “quirky” to actually scary. She starts seeing “heads upside down” and talking about secret underground tunnels. I found the inclusion of her drawings really helpful for immersion, but also kind of disturbing. It makes you wonder: is she actually tapped into some higher reality, or is she just losing her grip?

What really bothered me is how Breton reacts when things get real. As soon as Nadja becomes vulnerable and messy, he starts backing away. He talks about how he and his friends have “minimal common sense” that keeps them from going over the edge, but Nadja doesn’t have that safety net. It’s pretty unsettling that he calls her his “sun,” yet he doesn’t even bother to visit her once she’s locked up in an asylum. It feels like he loved the idea of her madness, but as soon as she became a “patient” instead of a “muse,” he was done with her.

Ultimately, I think the book is a bit of a cautionary tale about turning people into symbols. Breton got his book out of the deal, but Nadja (or Léona) lost her freedom. It makes me wonder if Breton’s “search for meaning” was really just a way to avoid the responsibility of actually caring for another human being.

Is Nadja actually a “character” in this book, or is she just a projection of Breton’s desire to live a life beyond reason?

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