January 2024

Death, love, suffering… and Fernando?

Hmm… I have lots of thoughts on this novel but am not sure exactly where to start. I think it’s safe to say that this piece touches on a question we’ve all spent some time thinking about: where do we go when we die? I’ll be honest, when I read the description of The Shrouded Woman, I thought it sounded a little cliché and potentially not all that interesting. Let’s face it, this is a topic that has been a little overdone in many forms of media. I’m not going to name specific examples, but there’s definitely a number of TV show, movies, and books that all touch on this question with their own, often tacky twist on it.

Bombal’s novel, in my opinion, avoids these tasteless aspects and instead offers an insightful glimpse into life after death. Her carefully woven, heart-wrenching recounting of the narrator’s life makes it hard to look away or feel like she’s using death as some kind of novelty to pull readers in. What I liked about this novel was how it felt truly real and raw in the way that it portrayed love. There are many quotable lines that I could cite here, but I particularly liked one on page 247: “how difficult it is to love as one should”. I mean, yeah. Bombal really demonstrates how complex and confusing loving someone can be, and how it never quite happens the way you expect it to.

Also, I now realize the title of my blog may have been a little misleading, but I do want to touch on Fernando briefly, simply because his character amused me. There are a few moments in this novel that I find ridiculous in an over the top kind of way, and Fernando is one of these. I just find it morbidly funny that while every other character is, to some degree, dancing around their true feelings and keeping secrets, Fernando is out here confessing that he wasn’t bothered in the slightest by his wife’s suicide and didn’t even visit her grave. He expresses his love for Ana Maria in such a bold, explicit manner, even as she rejects him, which I have to respect him a little for. Maybe we could learn something from him (but probably not, he’s got his own issues).

This novel managed to be simultaneously off-putting, in its vivid descriptions of a dead body looking at out the world and its intense emotional moments, yet also comforting, in the closure (if you could call it that) that is ultimately found in the face of death. The narrator doesn’t necessarily have some profound final realization, but she does come to view the people and events of her life with renewed clarity, and perhaps is able to understand them each a little better in her passing. Maybe there are some things which only make sense in death, which is perhaps a naive thought, but a comforting one nonetheless.

My question- did you like the way Bombal described the world from a dead woman’s perspective and did it make you at all uncomfortable?

 

Nadja- The original manic pixie dream girl?

I think for anyone who’s familiar with the manic pixie dream girl trope, André Breton’s Nadja stands out as an obvious example- the girl you can never have, the girl of your dreams, the girl who’s too damaged to be loved, etc. A prime example- when Breton asks Nadja who she is on page 71, she replies “I am the soul in limbo”. How intriguing, how arcane and captivating she is! No wonder Breton was so entranced. Although there’s more to this book than Breton’s apparent obsession with her, this definitely is an overarching theme, and can be hard to get past at times. We’ve all seen it happen in popular media, and even sometimes in reality- a guy becomes suddenly infatuated with a strange and elusive woman, they begin spending all their time together and having deep, meaningful conversations (usually accompanied by sex), only for things to end abruptly when the mysterious outer layer is peeled back and things, so to speak, get real. Breton’s fleeting yet passionate relationship with Nadja reflects this common trope, but there are definitely more layers to this novel that are worth delving into.

For starters, the first sixty pages of Nadja discuss events and topics completely separate from her, and we are not introduced to her character until after this first exploration of Breton’s thoughts. I appreciated Breton’s search for meaning within his work and elsewhere, which he describes as concerned with “facts that present all the appearances of a signal, without being able to say precisely which signal” (p.19). In this first section of the novel, Breton presents a number of seemingly unrelated, often mundane events, in an attempt to express their meaning to him. It feels in many ways like a wander through his thoughts, as if he’s trying to make sense of them as he writes. These range from his apparent puzzlement over the play Les Detraqueés, and the strange dream that ensues, to his fixation on a woman’s blue glove at the Centrale Surréaliste. Breton portrays these moments as “truly unforeseen” (p.59) occurrences, and claims to find significant meaning in these small, unpredictable events, rather than “premeditated, continuously applied actions” (p.59) such as work, which he condemns.

Given that Nadja is a surrealist text and written in a style largely unfamiliar to me, I found certain passages to be quite opaque and found myself spending a lot of time pondering over their meaning. This didn’t make the reading experience unenjoyable- in fact, I quite liked having to stop and think about Breton’s intention behind the words, trying to put the pieces together. Honestly, I feel like there is A LOT more to say and unpack about this novel that I don’t have the space to write about here, so I’m looking forward to talking more about it in class. Overall, I thought it was quite an entertaining read and found it had some pretty amusing moments.

My question- what did you think of the portrayal of Nadja? Did she remind you of any  female love interests in popular media?

 

Proust- A surprisingly entertaining Frenchman

Hey guys- welcome back to this absolutely enthralling reading blog. For this first week, we’ve all been reading Combray by Proust, whose writing I’ve found to be pretentious at its best moments and downright insufferable at its worst. Alright, that might be a little harsh; there were plenty of passages in this book that I found to be beautifully written and that I genuinely enjoyed. I did notice, however, that Proust’s rambling, detailed style of prose tended to wear me down the more I read. It felt like his overly wordy descriptions of landscapes, events, or relationships often could have been expressed in half as many words, without losing all of their poetic charm. Sometimes I could feel myself getting lost in a particular sentence and having to go back over it a couple of times in order to glean its full meaning.

That being said, there were parts of Combray that pleasantly surprised me, such as the entertaining nature of its characters, who I found to be much more whimsical and absurd than I’d imagined. I found the narrator’s aunts Flora and Celine quite funny, for instance, for their apparent “deafness” to any topic of conversation that they considered “boring” or “normal”. The thought that their ears literally stop functioning at the discussion of the mundane is a brilliantly obnoxious addition to their characters. As well, I found that Francoise’s relationship with Aunt Leonie stood out, especially Francoise’s disdain for the other servants in the house. The fact that Francoise cannot feel pain for a real, proximate human being, but breaks into tears at the thought of a stranger’s suffering, is another amusing piece of character description. One of the scenes that made me laugh was on page 124, where she breaks down while reading the medical description of the kitchen maid’s condition in a book, while simultaneously showing complete indifference to the kitchen maid’s real life pain in the interactions between them.

While there is something distinctly Freudian about the narrator’s attachment to his mother, her goodnight kiss in particular, I read this neediness as more of a natural childhood anxiety. This is a time when one is strongly attached to their parents and, for fear that something bad might happen to them and that they might be left alone, feels the constant need to be in their presence. The narrator’s elaborate schemes to say good night to his mother, even when circumstances don’t allow it, reminded me of my own childhood clinginess and disregard for reason. I found Proust’s description of childhood relatable in many other senses, like when he is reprimanded for visiting his Uncle Adolphe’s house without permission. The childhood innocence that prevents you from knowing why something is wrong, and the shame that comes after the scolding, is something that Proust does a beautiful job of describing. At times, it felt like I was living inside this child’s stream of consciousness, which was both entertaining and disorienting.

My question- what did you think of the child’s attachment to his mother- Freudian or part of a general childhood neediness?

Here we go

Hey everyone! I’m Kendra, a third-year psych student, currently questioning my choice of major (maybe a little late for that). I’ve always loved reading and creative writing, and the more time I’ve spent in the world of academia, the more I’ve started to crave classes that allow space for creativity and flexibility (which doesn’t happen very often in psych). I’m excited about the self-determined structure of this course and the way it allows us to learn on our own terms. I chose this course because I truly enjoy literature and the worlds it opens up to us, so I’m looking forward to reading these texts and having some fun class discussions!

I’m expecting the semester to be challenging, and while I would like to devote as much time as possible to this class, I know that other commitments will come up and complicate things. Time management will definitely be key, but I think the class discussions will be a motivating factor. Knowing that everyone else has put in the time to do the readings and that they have valuable insights to share will be helpful when it comes to finishing the novels on time. I think it’ll be fun to look at the texts from a range of perspectives and see things expanded on that I wouldn’t have necessarily noticed myself. I also appreciate the pre-watch lecture aspect of the class, which will provide some context heading into each novel, some of which I’m sure will be more challenging than others.

I particularly enjoyed the first conversation video, where Jon broke down what Romance Studies actually represents, and explains how the field has often been misconstrued/misinterpreted in the past. Hearing from two people who are clearly knowledgeable and passionate about the subject (Jon and his brother) really helped me get a clearer picture of what this course will entail, and how we might go about interpreting these texts. One of the points made in this conversation was the idea that language shapes thought and culture, which Jon disputes as an outdated and inaccurate representation. He refers to the Romance languages as “Latin’s bastard offspring”, given that this was the official language of the Roman Empire,  and urges us to escape “national canons” often associated with each language. I liked this idea of the “unruly family” of romance languages, and how bringing them all together, rather than dividing them into distinct categories, can actually enrich our understanding of the literature.

Okay, that’s it for now! Thanks for reading.