Goodbye!

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When I first enrolled in this course, I’ll admit it was simply for the literature credits, and I had absolutely no idea what to expect. On top of that, I wasn’t sure how the whole contract grading thing would play out, as it is a new concept for me. However, I was pleasantly surprised. I thought it would feel like a lot of work doing so much reading, especially on top of my readings for other classes, but turns out reading as homework is right up my alley; it never felt like a chore at all.

Weeks later, a book that still stands out as one of my favourites is “Bonjour Tristesse” by Françoise Sagan; I think I especially appreciated this novel because it is centred around a young woman, and written by a young woman who was the same age as the protagonist at the time. Many of the novels we’ve read this semester are coming of age ones, and the manner in which this text carefully illustrates the complexities of growing up, and having difficulty adjusting to change, and to a semi-stable life the protagonist has never had the opportunity to lead before, is very touching and certainly relatable at specific points of the book. I also really enjoyed “The Society of Reluctant Dreamers” by José Eduardo Agualusa, its fascination with the act of dreaming, and its revolutionary background. Moreover, many of these novels, despite being translated from their original languages to English, are chalk full of the most stunning styles of prose, each different, yet individually gorgeous. I’ve kept a list of my favourite quotes throughout the semester, and suffice to say, it has grown incredibly long, and has almost extended beyond the confines of my notes app into something simultaneously monstrous and ethereal (in the best way possible).

Most of these texts I would have never discovered, let alone elected to pick up in my own time. I’ve said before that I’m grateful to be pushed out of my comfort zone in this course, but I’ll restate it now; the opportunity to read entire novels each week has been an incredibly nourishing and enriching experience. I want to extend a big thank you to Professor Beasley-Murray, Patricio, and Jennifer for their teachings and guidance this semester. I have learned so much, and remain open to exploring a wide array of literature I would not ordinarily explore, as you never know what you’ll garner from a new text.

Did this course also push you out of your comfort zone? If so, in what way?

 

Agualusa’s “Society of Reluctant Dreamers”

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This was one of those novels where you finish reading, and have to sit in complete silence for a few minutes as you process the brilliance of the book; by far my favourite novel of the semester, and the perfect one to close it off with.

First, I loved how the various storylines were integrated into the novel so seamlessly, no matter how far in they appear; the manners in which they intersect are also so well executed. For instance, Melquesideque and Tukaiana’s appearance at the end of the novel brought their story full circle and was a welcome surprise, as I had sort of forgotten about them by this time. Moreover, I found the style of prose stunning; one of my favourite lines was, “Sharing a house with a cat is just an elegant kind of solitude” (149). Also, from Moira to Karinguiri, there was an array of different, albeit uniquely empowering, female characters, which is always a bonus.

I was initially drawn to this novel by the title; I have always been fascinated by dreams, and what they communicate to us. Daniel, Moira, and Hossi’s unorthodox interactions with other individual’s dreams, as well as their own, is such an interesting premise within an already beautiful narrative. I especially love and connect with the idea of time as “a dimension, just like length, or breadth, or height. […] [Time] doesn’t pass. It is” (171); I’ve always thought of our lives as playing out at once, no matter the year. Time as a linear construct has never made sense to me, so it was as if this book was whispering its agreement in my ear (eg. “I like the idea that you can remember somebody I haven’t yet become. I look at myself in your eyes, […] and I see who I’m going to be” [171]).

When Hossi passed, I was already emotional, so when the citizens banded together to overthrow the dictator following Hossi’s appearance in their dreams, I was beyond choked up (eg. “The people, far from retreating, were throwing themselves against the barriers” [258]). This, punctuated by Moira and Daniel’s happy ending and her pregnancy (eg. “She still dreams, she still creates depictions of her own dreams, and her work has lost none of its unsettling power. But since becoming pregnant, she’s found a new calm” [264]) left this narrative in the perfect place. Agualusa asks readers to suspend disbelief just enough to transport them into a fantastical tale, while also delivering a realistic story of bravery, love, and connection.

I noticed that the baobab tree is mentioned many times throughout the novel; this could be attributed to it simply being a part of the setting, but do you think it could represent something more? Does it symbolise anything?

Cercas’ “Soldiers of Salamis”

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I would say my engagement with this novel fluctuated. As the fictional Cercas states to Bolano (fun little cameo by the way), “It’s a story with real events and characters. A true tale” (192), though the lecture video renders it clear that this novel is definitely partly fictionalised. The parts I found the most engaging were the ones relaying the narrator’s process of writing the novel; I like getting to know characters through first person accounts. Conchi, for instance, only appears in the first and last parts of the book, yet is arguably one of the more interesting characters, and definitely has one of the biggest personalities.

This novel has so many moving parts, I got lost in the middle. It’s very dense with history, which is not my strong suit. I had to backtrack multiple times just to figure out what was going on. This isn’t a novel I think I would have ever selected to read in my own time, but I’m ultimately grateful this class is pushing me out of my comfort zone and forcing me to digest a wide array of literature.

The section that stood out to me the most is the one where Miralles appears; it adds a layer of mystery as readers wonder, who is this man? And could he be the soldier that spared Mazas’ life? As the narrator explored this possibility, while striking up a friendship with prominent novelist Bolano in the meanwhile, I felt like I was on this journey with him. When Bolano describes Miralles “dancing very close, very seriously, in silence, barefoot on the grass, wrapped in the unreal light of the moon” (189) with Luz, it was almost as if I was right there with him, lingering behind that trailer. Moreover, Miralles’ comments on what makes an individual a hero are haunting (eg. “Heroes are only heroes when they die or get killed. The real heroes are born out of war and die in war. There are no living heroes, young man. They’re all dead. Dead, dead, dead” [233]). This unapologetic show of emotion is perhaps the most powerful moment in the novel. At least, it was for me. Despite the novel’s structure being confusing at times, it never took away from my enjoyment of the especially valuable occasions of character introspection and development. And Miralles not providing all the answers the narrator seeks, yet still functioning as the missing piece in the building blocks of the larger story, is a rather fitting way of closing the novel.

Which character or part of the novel stood out to you? What/who did you resonate with the most?

Bolano’s “Amulet”

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I thoroughly enjoyed this novel, particularly the style of prose. I love poetry, so this was a riveting read. It is not surprising that an author writing about poets is a poet himself, and thus uses poetic language/devices in his writing. One of my favourite lines is, “women, dust and literature have always gone together” (4)—what’s yours? I also like the moments where Bolano pokes fun at the absurdity of poets (eg. “the poets educated me in Mexican literature by lending me books, their own books of poems for a start [you know what poets are like]” [17])

I took SPAN 280 last semester, which is a course centred around the different Latin American revolutions. Though we did not read this particular novel, we explored texts written by certain revolutionaries, including Che Guevara, who is mentioned on pages 122-123 (in a rather odd context, I might add). Having prior knowledge going into this novel definitely aided my understanding of what was happening in Mexico during this time. Funnily enough, I am also taking a Classics course honing in on Greek tragedies this semester, so I already knew the tale of Electra and Orestes when their story was mentioned by Coffeen (eg. “Electra and Orestes, the children of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, decide to avenge their father and regain control of the kingdom” [139]). I didn’t, however, know the story “of the daughter of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, Erigone” (139). Horrifying stuff. I also appreciated when Ovid popped up in the beginning of the novel (eg. “He opened his mouth as if gasping for air, […] and said something about the Art of Love, by Ovid” [18]).

It was nice having LGBT+ representation, with the appearance of Ernesto San Epifanio, albeit this section of the novel is deeply upsetting. The author does make it clear “this is going to be a horror story” (1) from the very beginning, so Ernesto’s background is perhaps in keeping with theme, also shining light on certain tragic realities. Still, I grow tired of there being little room for queer joy in novels depicting the experiences of LGBT+ folks. However, I know this is (sadly) not the novel for it. On a different note, the quote discussing how women are “brought up […] to be polite in all circumstances” (24) resonated with me; Bolano has zeroed in on some hard truths about women’s lived experiences, which I think is very touching and speaks to his character, though (obviously) I do not know him personally.

I think the sections where our protagonist wanders through the icy landscape, and then the valley (eg. “I left the immense regions of snow behind and saw a valley before me” [178]) is similar to the funeral procession in Bombal’s The Shrouded Woman. Did anyone else catch this? Or did this novel remind you of a different one you’ve read, in or outside of this class?

Manea’s “The Trenchcoat”

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I’m very confused. Though I appreciate the lecture video providing historical context for this novella, it does not assuage the bulk of my confusion. I suppose some stories don’t provide, nor should they have provide, clear answers in their endings. However, I would have appreciated some sort of explanation regarding the meaning of the trenchcoat, which is central to this narrative. I suspect it may represent general suspicion/mistrust of others? This tracks for Romania at the time this novella takes place. It may also represent judgment; the story shines light on individual’s tendencies to be harsh critics of one another as a result of character, socioeconomic background…anything really. Judgment is one of the more unfortunate aspects of the human condition, but we’ve all been guilty of it at one point or another. Ioana’s line, “what about Lady Di and her grand airs? Come on, you couldn’t have missed how hard she was trying last night to seem relaxed and informal, poor thing. Playing at being just us folks, with her fancy clothes and furniture! Then she’s amazed when her guests never come back…” (213-214), coupled with the Kid’s, “…An arrogant, vain, stupid woman, that’s what I wanted to say, that’s what you seemed to be…then there was that legend, wasn’t there, when you ran away…” (223) are excellent examples of these harsh judgments and speculations directed at Dina, who I felt sympathy for by the end of the story. I don’t think Manea set out to write a tale in which readers are intended to like or connect with any particular character, but more so, to create an illustration of humans shackled down by their own mistrust and abhorrence of one another; the shortcomings of the human condition.

I think it’s interesting how Manea changes how he refers to certain characters, such as ‘the Kid’ who is, at times, called ‘the Guileless one’ or ‘the Learned One’, and so forth. However, I found the constant name changes hard to follow, and it actually took me a little while to figure out that the Kid is Felicia’s husband due to his frequently shifting names. Manea’s dialogue is enticing, accurately describing one person’s side of a mundane conversation (eg. “What would you like? Tina Turner, or Michael Jackson? You bet! Or maybe one of those little french girls who sing…” [205]), but it is also very hard to follow. Often, I found myself having to backtrack so as to identify who exactly is talking.

All in all, I feel pretty indifferent about this read. I could take it or leave it, but I am definitely looking forward to hearing Manea speak this coming Thursday. My question is, what do you think the trenchcoat represents?

Perec’s “W, or The Memory of Childhood”

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This novel was unlike any novel I’ve read before, from the alternating narratives to the magical realism to the truths revealed of the unreliability and significance of childhood and memory. To begin with, I have always loved the use of repetition as a poetic tool, and Perec’s use of lists in the early chapters of the novel to illustrate memory added an element of prose to what can be considered a rather dense, semi-historical read (eg. “1. In fact the declaration made in accordance with clause 3 of the Law of 10 August 1927 was entered by my father a few months later […] 2. According to my aunt Esther, as far as I know the only person who can now remember the existence of her only niece […] ” [20]). I also loved how the author called out his own uncertainty of what may have actually transpired in his past; this gives readers good reason to trust Perec, as we know he is not trying to embellish any details. Rather, he is determined to be as honest as possible (eg. “I do not know the source of this memory, which nothing has ever confirmed” [37]).

I will admit, I was a little lost in the second part of the novel, as Perec began to elaborate more and more on the land of W. I was very impressed by the thoroughness of his world-building, but I struggled to understand how this fit into the earlier narrative of Gaspard Winckler and Perec’s own childhood. At first, I thought that perhaps Winckler had become a citizen of W. However, as the injustices of W were rendered clearer and clearer, I forgot about Winckler altogether. The treatment of women is especially horrific (eg. “when the women have got far enough ahead, the Starter switches off the current and the men can set off in pursuit of their prey” [130]), notably how this world Perec has built makes a game of assaulting and humiliating women. However, at the statement, “There are competitions every day, where you Win or Lose. You have to fight to live. There is no alternative. It is not possible to close your eyes to it, it is not possible to say no. There’s no recourse, no mercy, no salvation to be had from anyone” (140), the larger allegory begins to reveal itself. Perec is trying to show us that this world he has created, with all its atrocities, is his own familial history, and such narratives will reappear, so long as our culture continues to make a game of injustice and discrimination. The statement, “It is more important to be lucky than to be deserving” (118), is especially haunting. This was not an easy read, but it was most certainly a worthwhile one.

That said, I was hoping for some sort of resolution to the mystery surrounding the disappearance of Gaspard Winckler. Why do you think Perec elects not to tell us? What do you think happened to the little boy?

Lispector’s “Passion According to G.H.”

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I found this novel exceedingly difficult to read. Sure, I liked individual lines amid the stream-of-consciousness style of prose, such as the early line, “I thought that throbbing was being a person” (6). However, for the most part, I found it to be an unnecessarily redundant read. Point blank, it said a lot of nothing. I think Lispector could have easily condensed this character’s identity crisis into fewer pages, and this is certainly my preference as a reader and a writer, but she seems to be in love with her own voice for the full 189 pages, similar to both Proust and Aragon, whose novels I also could not connect with.

Due to the density of this particular style of prose, I wonder how the translation impacts the flow of the language. The narrator states, “Language is my human effort. […] The unsayable can only be given to me through the failure of my language. Only when the construction fails, can I obtain what it could not achieve” (186). Lispector obviously places a lot of care into not only language as a whole, but to the individual words that make it up, and I can only assume this reading would be significantly more fascinating in its original form (that I unfortunately cannot read).

This read like a long dissociative episode. In some ways, the narrator’s transformation into the roach (eg. “The roach was touching all of me […] And now I was starting to let it touch me” [86]), could translate to ones struggle in understanding their purpose. The narrator gives into the roach, into passion, and into a more forgiving version of herself (eg. “I want the adult who is more primitive and ugly and drier and more difficult” [164]). This isn’t a coming of age novel. However, it echoes themes of loss within oneself that appear in previous readings, such as Agostino and Bonjour Tristesse. In order for the narrator to reach any kind of peace, she must completely detach from her human form and rebuild from there (eg. “I who had thought that the best proof of the transmutation of me into myself would be putting the white paste of the roach into my mouth. And that that way I would draw near to whatever is…divine?” [175]). This leads her to her conclusion that “living is a goodness toward others” (177).

That said, I found it hard to trust this narrator, as she is all over the place. This is also a hard blog post to write since I’m struggling to wrap my head around any aspect of this narrative. Like, are any understandings G.H. reaches toward the end of the novel reliable ones since she’s quite obviously in the midst of a serious identity crisis? Can she be considered stable? Did anyone understand this read?

Week 6 – Sagan’s “Bonjour Tristesse”

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Wow. This book floored me. On its own, it’s an incredibly engaging and well-written novel. However, it’s rendered so much more impressive when you factor in how young Françoise Sagan was when she wrote it. The uniqueness of a teenage author writing this narrative centered on the interpersonal relationships and teen angst of an adolescent girl the same age gives Bonjour Tristesse an authenticity that isn’t always prevalent in literature. Despite the narrator’s sometimes rude persona (eg. “I did feel vaguely uncomfortable in the presence of anyone completely devoid of physical charm. Their resignation to the fact that they were unattractive seemed to me somehow indecent” [8]), I admire her level of self-awareness. She knows who she is, and she also knows that her opinions and sense of self will shift over time (eg. “At the time, I believed what I said but I must admit that I was only repeating what I had heard. […] it was quite likely that in a month’s time I would have entirely different opinions on any given subject” [32-33]). I fluctuated from wanting to give the protagonist a big hug to wanting to chastise her.

I think growing up without a mother, and then without a father when she was sent to a convent school, rendered Cécile afraid of love and attachment. We see this through her relationship with Cyril, in which she seems to be suspended in the space between loving him, and enjoying how much he loves her (eg. “Cyril came up to me and put his hand on my arm. I looked at him: I had never loved him! I had found him sweet and attractive. I had loved the pleasure he gave me, but I did not need him” [127]). This is likely partially attributed to the lifestyle that she’s witnessed of her father since he took her out of convent school a few years earlier (eg. “Late into the night we talked of love, of its complications. In my father’s eyes they were all imaginary. He refused categorically all ideas of fidelity or serious commitments. He explained that they were arbitrary and sterile. […] This conception of quick, tempestuous and passing love affairs I found enticing. I was not at the age when fidelity is attractive” [11]). However, despite this aversion to attachment, she remains close with her father, whom she knows very well; she knows Anne would be good for both of them, but she’s not ready to let her father and their carefree way of living go. Anne is the maternal figure she’s never had, and therefore doesn’t know how to act around. Anne isn’t afraid to call her out on the shortcomings Cécile is already quite aware of, and this makes her disgust toward herself redirect to Anne (eg. “it was this I held against Anne: she kept me from liking myself. I, who was naturally meant for happiness and gaiety, had been forced by her into self-criticism and a guilty conscience. Unaccustomed to introspection, I was completely lost” [52]).

Françoise Sagan does a magnificent job of bringing readers right into the head of the protagonist; I felt all of her fear, hurt, and anger as she experienced it. There were parts of the novel where I was actually mad at Anne, just as Cécile is. I think her wanting her fiancee and his daughter to lead a healthier lifestyle makes sense, especially since Cécile is young and impressionable. However, she wasted no time exercising what I believe to be an unnecessary level of control. For instance, forbidding Cécile from seeing Cyril, the semi-frequent slapping, and the all-around condescending attitude (eg. “Your ideas are fashionable, but you don’t know what you are talking about” [32]). I don’t think the protagonist was right in concocting and executing her plan to derail her father’s marriage, but it’s evident the events that lead to Cécile’s desperation for nothing to change; it’s also clear how conflicted she remains throughout (eg. “Neither anger nor desire had ever worked so strongly in me as my longing at that moment for utter defeat. My one wish was to give up all my plans and put myself entirely into her hands for the rest of my life” [79]). She loves Anne, but she is also terrified of losing her father, as well as her sense of self.

The ending of the novel devastated me. It seemed to come out of left field, but looking back, perhaps the part where they’re driving back from dinner with the Webbs and Raymond takes his hands off the wheel and Cécile thinks “For heaven’s sake, not on the Corniche!” (103) was foreshadowing Anne’s imminent demise. I also think it’s interesting that Cécile entertains the idea of it not being an accident, Anne having actually committed suicide (eg. Anne had made us the magnificent present of allowing us to believe it an accident. A dangerous spot on the road, a car that easily lost balance. It was a gift that we would soon be weak enough to accept.” [126]).

Now, my question is, did you sympathise with Cécile at all, as I did?

Week 5 – Moravia’s “Agostino”

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This novella was a rollercoaster ride, to say the least. I will first note that I used this site https://booksvooks.com/agostino-pdf-alberto-moravia.html to access the missing pages if anyone is looking for another copy. Now, to the novel.

There seems to be a bit of an oedipus complex in both this book, and Swann’s, though Agostino is much less subtle. It’s true that coming into one’s sexuality is a part of coming of age and Agostino is certainly experiencing this, as spurred by the lewd comments from the group of boys (eg. “these uncouth jokes aroused in him an unexpected, almost cruel feeling of pleasure” [29]) with whom he begins to spend time. However, his focus on his mother’s body was definitely disturbing to read. In fact, everyone’s focus on his mother’s body  (eg. “‘we snuck under her cabin to see her getting undressed, but she lowered her dress right on top of where we were looking and you couldn’t see a thing . . . she’s got nice legs . . . and those tits . . .'” [from missing pages, no pg. number available]) renders Agostino’s mother into no more than a body. Not ideal. I also find it interesting that she is referred to as ‘the mother’ and not ‘his mother’ throughout the novel, like Moravia’s trying to create a separation between the son and mother so the sexualization is slightly less weird? Definitely something to consider.

Agostino is drawn to the boys because they’re of a lower class (eg. “Agostino noticed that the boys, four in all, were dressed in clothes that were ragged and torn” [23]), but also likely because he’s an only child without a father (hence his intense attachment to his mother) and they form an odd brotherhood. This concept of brotherhood is prevalent in many stories depicting adolescents; Steven King, for example, leans heavily on the trope in works like Stand By Me and It. Perhaps what Agostino sees in these boys is an opportunity to bond with children his age that unleash the more rambunctious side he must keep contained within ‘proper’ society. It’s also interesting how violence is normalized within these brotherhoods; “the other boy […] placed his fists against Agostino’s chest, and with two hard blows to his stomach, almost knocked him out and left him gasping for air” (21). A unique spin on the sentiment  ‘bullies make bullies’. In this case, violence should apparently be met with more violence.

Lastly, I wanted to touch on the part where Agostino is in the boat with Saro. This part was the hardest to read, and easily the most disturbing. This adult male preys on the boys seemingly quite often, and they’re completely desensitised to it. Not only that, but they victim blame Agostino, as if it’s his fault or an indication of his sexual orientation because he chose to get in the boat. He’s clearly confused and traumatised; “Agostino still couldn’t fully understand what had happened. Everything was obscure both in and around him, as if rather than the sunlit beach, sky, and sea, there were only shadows, fog, and vague menacing shapes” (from missing pages, no pg. number available). I think this part could have been left out of the novella, but perhaps Moravia elected to include it as a way of saying that this stuff does happen and should be talked about more? I really don’t know what to think. There are certainly many themes packed into this quick read.

My questions are, why do you think Agostino’s mother is referred to as ‘the mother’? Do you think it’s intentional or a result of the English translation?

Week 4 – Bombal’s “Shrouded Woman”

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I really enjoyed this novel; I found it beautifully written and thought-provoking. Bombal’s use of magical realism to deliver a tale of a dead woman reminiscing on her life, and the various characters in it, was very touching and got me right in my feels. I admire her manner of subtly offering up bits of information without outright stating it. For example, the protagonist’s conversation with Zoila early in the novel in which she states, “I say sick because I don’t know how to say it another way. But you know what I mean” (170). I also admire the stunning visuals and the inclusion of different types of plants (eg. “Then she saw, close to the earth, an enormous cineraria, a cineraria of a dark, intense, dark-blue colour, trembling slightly” [212]), as well as the thoughtful use of repetition sprinkled throughout the prose (eg. “Did her lover’s sudden cowardly desertion of her result from a peremptory order of his parents, or from some rebelliousness in his own impetuous nature?” [175] as also stated on pg. 165). But my favourite line in the whole novel has to be, “There are people so small that life and death will always pass them over without reaching them” (182).

I think the section of the novel devoted to Maria Griselda was a little odd; it seemed to be the chapter in which every character continuously objectifies one woman. I understand wanting to convey how beautiful she is, but this was a little excessive; “Oh, her small firm breasts! so close to her body, with that fine sky-blue vein winding between them. And her round smooth hips. And her long, long legs!” (202). Like, they’re really ogling this woman as if she’s an exhibit at the aquarium. And while she’s asleep too! Super creepy. I guess this is the, quite literal, definition of ‘if looks could kill’. Get it?!

The way Bombal illustrates the perennial tension between Ana Maria and Antonio is very well done (eg. the scene with the slipper, “she saw and she could never forget it–brutally, almost with a fury, he flung it away with a kick” [225]); their passion for one another is evident, though unhealthy in the manner in which it’s expressed and verbalised. This line is especially haunting; “He tolerated her […] as a consequence of an act without recall” (225).

One of my favourite parts was the back and forth between Ana Maria and Sofia toward the end of the novel. Without minimising Sofia’s betrayal, I believe their interaction is an emotional exploration of how an intense friendship, particularly one that acts almost as a fling, can change your life; Ana Maria never stopped thinking about Sofia, to the point where she chooses to forgive her before moving into the afterlife (“Friendship, the sweetness of being able to love without passion, the joy of being able to give without fear!” [238]).

All in all, a really lovely and worthwhile read. And now, without asking you to offer up anything too personal, my question is, what is YOUR unfinished business? Is there something you need to do before leaving this life behind? (A little dark. Sorry.)