Author Archives: mg444

Conclusion

I don’t think I’ve ever taken a course like this before, but I very much enjoyed both the content and the structure this term. Getting introduced to new literature was quite exciting, of course; and I think the focus on the “Romance World” or lack thereof made me even more curious about the languages, cultures, and periods of history that I have yet to study. I hope that I’ll be able to reread some of the works in their original language (probably French or Spanish) so that I can compare them with the translations. Course structure-wise, I thought it was nice to be able to choose between the readings, and once I got used to it, I liked that the requirements for the blog posts weren’t overly specific. The meetings sometimes made me nervous in the beginning, because I was used to discussing books in chapters or sections over a number of sittings, rather than as a whole in one session; but after going through the process a few times, I think the Romance Studies way ended up feeling to me like a much more natural style of literary discussion.

It’s difficult to say which readings I enjoyed most during this course, but the ones that currently stand out in my mind are María Luisa Bombal’s The Shrouded Woman and Roberto Bolaño’s Amulet. I love how each of these novels is written to play with the concepts of time and reality in certain ways, and I very much felt for the protagonists (Ana María and Auxilio) as I came to understand the challenges of their positions and the weight of their losses. There is a certain element of tragedy to both stories that I couldn’t help but be drawn in by, even as someone who often struggles to appreciate the tragic in literature. Maybe this tragedy just felt too true to be brushed aside.

Speaking of which: were you able to find truth in the fictional aspects of certain course readings? Did you prefer the works that stayed closer to facts (or seemed to)? And finally, has your understanding of “truth” or “reality” changed?

Soldiers of Salamis (Week 11)

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I struggled for quite a while to get into Solders of Salamis. I’m not sure that I enjoyed it completely, but it did give me a lot to think about in relation to history and loyalty and writing.

The Spanish Civil War is one that I haven’t studied very deeply. The little that I do know about it comes mainly from the film El laberinto del fauno and Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s The Cemetery of Forgotten Books series. Through reading Cercas’ novel and watching the lecture, I think I gained a much better understanding of the different “sides” and their efforts, as well as the role of the Falange. I was a little surprised to learn that Franco was considered to have given up on some of whatever he had initially pictured for the country – I had assumed that his victory meant that it was all achieved.

I found the exploration of ideas of loyalty and heroism in this novel to be pretty unique. As mentioned in the lecture, there seems to be a certain amount of praise for “heroes” like Antoni(o) Miralles, specifically because of the kind of infidelity that they practiced – “carrying the flag of a country not [their] own […]” (p. 246). Sometimes the portrayed heroism becomes mixed with the idea of betrayal, and it can be difficult to tell whether or not certain actions should really be seen as heroic or as anything at all. I think this idea comes up more when Cercas speaks with Miralles: although we never learn for certain that Miralles is the man who let Mazas go, Miralles doesn’t see anything very heroic about the choice – and at the same time, he doesn’t seem to think of it as disloyal. Something about this neutrality on the subject of saving a man’s life was very striking to me.

The parts of this novel that I enjoyed less were mainly the ones about the narrator’s life and insights. Although I’m sure that Cercas’ life story (the fictional one or the real one) could have been interesting on its own, I was much more curious about the book that he was trying to write, and I never felt that the links between the two were particularly strong or significant. To me, even the narrator’s expressions of his commitment to writing a “true tale” and his refusal to “betray” the facts seemed to have much more to do with his deeper issues than with the importance of the story. Did you feel that what the narrator shared of his own life and feelings made your reading experience better? Was it frustrating or distracting at any points?

Amulet (Week 10)

“The Trenchcoat” (Week 9)

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Having studied pretty much nothing about Romania up until now, I appreciated the glimpse into history that “The Trenchcoat” provides. At the same time, the censor-conscious writing and the inability of the characters themselves to acknowledge exactly what is happening to them made this period seem even more mysterious to me. Nearly every paragraph of the text had me feeling simultaneously frustrated and intrigued.

As mentioned in the lecture, “The Tenchcoat” involves a lot of small and possibly meaningless details that are brought up in largely ordinary situations – observations and bits of conversation that might be perfectly normal during a car ride, a dinner party, a marriage. Most of what happens is so “normal” that, when the air of suspicion started to set in, I was almost inclined to brush the characters’ concerns away. I believe this could have to do with the idea that nothing “exciting” happens to “boring” people in literature – I think I’ve gotten used to characters that are meant to stand out or appear likeable in some way, and so it was a little more difficult for me to believe that Manea’s characters really weren’t getting nervous over nothing.

Strangely enough, even though I doubted the characters’ suspicions at some points, I was still very much affected by the atmosphere of uncertainty that Manea creates. I fully believed in the power of the Romanian government and the existence of the interrogation practices referenced, and I think that helped me to understand why the characters have their concerns, despite my hesitancy to admit that there might be any particular truth in them. In this way, I was able to connect with the idea of “close reading” (as described in the lecture) in both literature and the lives of the characters.

Something that I’m still curious about is the role played by each of the three men – Ali, Mr. Beldeanu, and “the Learned One.” Ali seems to be friends with the other two, but they aren’t exactly friends with one another; Beldeanu is an important man, but much of his significant “action” comes from Ali’s accounts; and “the Learned One” – whom I briefly thought to be an actual child – never does anything particularly interesting except for appearing to be out with Mrs. Beldeanu. Are these “learned” men truly more aware of what is happening than the others are? Are they unconcerned, or simply unable to discuss the situation within “earshot” of the reader?

W, or The Memory of Childhood (Week 8)

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It took me a while to get used to how the chapters alternate between autobiography and fiction, but I did end up enjoying this novel. I liked Perec’s writing style, in particular, and I appreciated how he was able to make use of the more mysterious parts of his own life while also giving an element of mystery to the fictional situations.

The mixed levels of clarity in Perec’s autobiography definitely spoke to me. As Perec sorted through details clearly remembered and others nearly forgotten, I think I noticed that sense of guilt or complicity mentioned in the lecture, and something about it really made me consider the role of memory in the lives of Jewish people (including myself). I have no idea how much of a connection Perec maintained with his heritage or what role Jewishness played for him in writing his autobiography, but I know that I sometimes do feel guilty for not holding more memories of my family’s history. At the same time, I can imagine that living through the Holocaust might make a person want to forget about their heritage, which could then bring an entirely new level of guilt.

Although we do not immediately see how dystopian the island colony of W truly is, even the early descriptions of it reminded me of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. I think this is probably because each society was created with the intention of representing – at least in the mind of a certain person or group – the utopian: organization, peace, and higher morals of some kind. However, if the intentions ever were entirely pure, there is soon evidence to suggest that the ideals of focus have been taken too far: “organization” is maintained through cruel and isolating laws; “peace” is only a response to an atmosphere of brutality and fear; and “morals” are nothing but an excuse for enjoying absolute control over the lives of other humans. By the end of Perec’s novel, the similarities between W and the concentration camps are undeniable.

Overall, I found W, or The Memory of Childhood quite striking and quite sad. Something that I’m still trying to make sense of is the idea of “silent resistance,” as discussed in the lecture. Is one part of Perec’s novel more of a resistance than the others, perhaps partially hidden in that way? Or is the resistance in the entire work, performed simply by sharing the stories of experiences that some would rather ignore?

The Passion According to G.H. (Week 7)

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Clarice Lispector’s The Passion According to G.H. was not at all what I expected it to be. Given the position of the protagonist and certain details about her way of life, I read through more than a little of the novel assuming that there would be some kind of message relating to intersections between gender and class or social status: I thought that the former maid would play more of a role in some way, and I wondered if G.H.’s feelings about the maid would relate more directly to developments in her view of the cockroach. I certainly did not anticipate how a moment of surprise and disgust would evolve into a massive crisis and endless references to “oozing” substances.

Although the focus of the novel is on the “abject” and the protagonist’s “sacrifice” of depersonalization – as discussed in the lecture video – I found myself wondering again and again, somewhat contrarily, about the subject: I wanted to care about G.H.’s musings, but I also really wanted to know more about the woman herself and her role in the human world. We learn that G.H. is a woman and a sculptor; that she has enough money to live well and to employ a maid; that she was pregnant once, and that she chose to have an abortion; but who G.H. is in everyday life remains somewhat mysterious.

In addition to the mentions of “oozing,” the use of the words “salt” and “saltless” caught my attention more than once as I read this novel. I believe G.H. first makes reference to salt in relation to the cockroach, when she refers to her curiosity about tasting “the salt in the roach’s black eyes” (p. 74); and later, G.H. mentions salt in a more metaphorical way when she describes “tedium” as “saltless” (p. 147). Something that is “saltless” might be described as “bland” – not lively, but still in a kind of existence; therefore, I think the “saltless” experience that G.H. talks about could be compared to the loss of her sense of self.

Of the many aspects of this novel that I have yet to understand, one is simply the particular significance of the cockroach. Why would Lispector have chosen to represent the “abject” with a cockroach, rather than with a different animal or a person? Is there some other creature (one that would inhabit a closet or not) that might have been able to affect the protagonist in the same way?

Bonjour Tristesse (Week 6)

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I didn’t expect to feel very much while reading Françoise Sagan’s Bonjour Tristesse, but I did. I felt frustration both with and for the characters throughout most of the novel; I felt confusion and curiosity with each change of Cécile’s feelings towards Anne; and by the end, I mainly felt something like pity for Cécile and Raymond (although I’m not entirely sure that pity is what they deserve). In fact, perhaps appropriately, I would say that I ended up doing much more feeling than thinking as I read.

One aspect of the novel that I did find myself thinking about was the translation from French into English – especially the lack thereof that we see in the title. In our lecture on Sagan, it is mentioned that there could be something untranslatable or very culturally specific about the term “tristesse,” and I would say that this idea makes sense. I also think that the limitation of our understanding in one area could expand it in another: maybe we can’t grasp the exact weight of “tristesse,” but we can still feel something when we read it, and maybe in that way we can come closer to recognizing the author’s intention.

Something else in this novel that interested me is Sagan’s portrayal of desire. While most of the characters seem to have an active desire for one thing or another – a relationship, an experience – Cécile’s feelings of desire struck me as very passive: she wants to get rid of Anne, but her commitment to the scheme is inconsistent; she wants to be with Cyril, but not enough to do much of anything about it. I found it hard to tell whether Cécile’s behaviour comes more from uncertainty or from a general lack of interest in anything remotely deep.

What stood out to me about the end of the novel is how Cécile and Anne sort of switch roles: Anne acts spontaneously and emotionally by driving away – off of a cliff – in reaction to Raymond’s infidelity, and Cécile is finally forced to reflect on the weight of her actions as she attempts to stop everything from falling apart. Still, considering how quickly Cécile and Raymond appear to move on from Anne’s death, can it be said that Cécile has experienced any real growth by the end? Is the welcoming of sorrow a sign of emotional maturity, or only a symptom of one who chooses again and again to lead a careless life?

Agostino (Week 5)

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Pretty much every moment of Agostino made me very uneasy. The (possibly) Freudian undertones of Agostino’s feelings towards his mother were definitely somewhat disquieting to me; and the mother’s lack of focus on her son’s wellbeing may have been even more so. However, I think the part that stood out to me most was the cruelty and toxicity of Agostino’s new “friends”: these boys basically spend their days running wild and hurting one another in various ways, and Agostino – “Pisa” – almost immediately becomes a particular target for the group. Another disturbing factor in their dynamic is the role of Saro, the lifeguard. Saro “supervises” the boys, but he seems to facilitate their prejudice and cruel behaviour far more than he keeps them safe – and, as we learn later on, his interest in the group is at least partly predatory.

In some ways, Agostino reminded me a lot of Proust’s work: like the narrator of Swann’s Way when he is a child, Agostino is shown to experience a complicated attachment to his mother, a pointed sense of loneliness or isolation, and the brimming of desires or impulses that don’t entirely make sense. I would say that both stories are about growing up and the uncertainty that comes with it, especially when parental or emotional support is limited or absent. Interestingly, while the narrator of Proust’s novel seems to try to hold onto his childhood – or at least doesn’t make much of an effort to show his maturity – Agostino is struck by the need to become more like a man. I think that the reason behind this is mainly situational: Proust’s narrator, although not exactly encouraged in his “childishness,” is not pushed very frequently to behave in any other way, while Agostino is strongly influenced by both his growing discomfort around his mother and the attitudes of the local boys.

Freudian undertones aside, the relationship between Agostino and his mother is an aspect of Moravia’s novel that I am still curious about. Does Agostino’s love for his mother go beyond his initial view of her as dignified and beautiful? Should the mother be defined by her fondness for Agostino, or by the fact that she slaps him and frequently leaves him for the young man from the beach? Maybe the unclear nature of the relationship between mother and son is a significant example of the power of the unspoken – how something of the “real” can be revealed even as it is left unnamed.

The Shrouded Woman (Week 4)

Paris Peasant (Week 3)

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I didn’t expect to find Paris Peasant so interesting, but I really did enjoy reading it. Between the French setting and the persistent attention to detail, it sort of made me feel like I was revisiting Les Misérables – if Les Misérables had been narrated by some kind of immortal being with intense nostalgia and an unstable grip on reality. Then again, I suppose “reality” is one of the concepts that Paris Peasant aims to challenge: the narrator blends descriptions of the world around him with dreamlike musings and bits of history in order to bring out the sense of “superior reality” that we might not otherwise be able to reach.

In the lecture on surrealism, there is a quotation about “intellectual and aesthetic turmoil” – I think “turmoil” is an excellent name for the situation that is explored in Paris Peasant. On the one hand, we have the turmoil of a changing city: the arcade, the roads, the people – not what they once were, and not likely to return to their former state. At the same time, the narrator seems to be experiencing some inner turmoil: although he does physically exist in this changing world, he doesn’t give the impression of one whose mind is firmly anchored in the moment – he dwells on the past, he contemplates events to come, and what he sees of the present that isn’t strictly observational mainly involves the “ghosts” of those other times. Furthermore, as the narrator wanders through the city and observes and remembers, I think that the turmoil of surrealism becomes a tool for processing all of the chaos within and around him.

As I was reading, I became quite curious about the identity of the narrator. I tried to imagine what a “Paris peasant” would look like, and what I came up with was basically the “flâneur” – an average “someone” who can blend in as he walks the city. After a while, though, I got the sense that “peasant” may not be a completely accurate descriptor for the narrator – that maybe he sees himself as “the man of the crowd” because he can go unnoticed, rather than because he is truly an average sort of person. In fact, I was almost ready to go back to the “immortal being with intense nostalgia” idea. How do you picture the narrator? Do you think that the term “Paris peasant” can be applied to him?