March 2024

Death with… clichés?

Saramago View all 2 comments

I have mixed feelings about this week’s book. I guess it’s an interesting concept and all, but honestly I felt disappointed with the storyline overall. At the beginning, it’s clear that Saramago is having some fun imagining a country’s reaction to the sudden absence of death, describing in depth the various governmental and societal changes that come about in its wake. This part of the novel is largely satirical- Saramago’s invention of the maphia (spelled with a ph instead of an f), responsible for the illicit transport of bodies over the border so they can die, is just one example of this parody of a country he creates. Also worth mentioning is the entire funeral industry having to switch to burying pets, given the shortage of human bodies. I particularly liked his portrayal of the “constitutional monarch” of the novel, the king, who is always the last to know what’s going on his own country and completely at the mercy of the prime minister. I actually laughed out loud on page 91, when the king is asking for reassurance that there won’t be a revolution sparked by the republicans, and simply crosses out the word “republicans” in his diary after the prime minister’s dismissal of the problem. This is a monarch operating at a very high intellectual level.

I think my main gripe with this novel is that it’s asking us to think too much about death, and life for that matter. About what would happen if death threw in the towel for a bit, if she were a real person with feelings just like us. She does seem like an average human being in many ways. She’s unhappy with her life (if we can call it that), constantly changing her mind about things, and seems to question her identity and purpose quite frequently. And then, of course, death meets her match, so to speak- someone who will not die, at least not by her command. Of course, this seemingly average man becomes a love interest, and death takes a chance on living an actual human life. It kind of feels like, after all this, Saramago is saying something corny like “love overrides death” or some other cliché idea. And while I’m sure he had his own intentions while writing, I’m just not sure what those were, or what he’s trying to say exactly with this story. Sure, it makes you think, but it’s all very surface level, and is really only asking the same question over and over.

I guess I’m trying to say that it feels a little gimmicky after a while, for lack of a more sophisticated word. I could see this same idea being used in a tacky YA novel; a beach read if you will. Forgive me if that sounds pretentious- I just expected a little more from a Nobel prize winner, that’s all. All in all, this novel just didn’t really have the same affective impact for me as many of the other books this semester have. I found myself hoping for more than just entertainment value, but ended up coming up short.

My question- did you find yourself especially moved by any parts of the novel and if so, why?

A focus on the Blond Gaucho – cycles of violence

Piglia View all 6 comments

This week’s book was an adrenaline filled, action-packed (yet surprisingly emotional) glimpse into the criminal Argentine world in the 1960s. I’m sure a lot of people had the impression while reading that this novel reads a lot like a film- you get this very clear picture of the characters’ actions through Piglia’s simple yet eloquent description. It was quite a fun read, but I don’t think this one breaks the pattern of the mostly sad or tragic novels we’ve been reading in this class. For one thing, the background of the characters, Dorda in particular, is quite heart-wrenching and difficult to stomach. It’s made clear that he was sexually abused (presumably more than once) as a child, and that he never really had a chance at a “normal” life. Dorda is obviously severely mentally ill, with symptoms that seem to suggest schizophrenia. His mind is more often than not occupied by a multitude of female voices, getting in his way and often causing him to act in ways he doesn’t entirely want to. He thinks of his dead mother often, who told him “you’ll come to a bad end” (p.183), as if he’s fulfilling a prophecy. Yet considering the childhood abuse and serious mental dysfunction, it seems like Dorda didn’t really have much of a choice with how his life turned out. Sure, he’s a criminal and has killed a lot of people- I’m not justifying his actions, just pointing out how the odds were stacked against him in a lot of ways. Even describing the first person he killed, a prostitute, it’s clear that he wasn’t in his right mind (the voices told him to do it) and he could have benefitted from some real help/intervention (although it’s the 1960s so that probably wasn’t going to happen).

Okay, I don’t want to talk about Dorda the whole time, but also…. His relationship with the Kid was one of the most fascinating parts of the book, and seemed to represent a very pure form of love. The moment of the Kid’s death and Dorda’s subsequent capture was the toughest part of the book for me- Dorda watches the only person he really loves die and essentially loses everything. This part was interesting for another reason- the public’s reaction to Dorda being carried out of the apartment building. Obviously he’s just killed a number of cops and is seen as a deranged, evil murderer, but he’s also incredibly weak and already well on his way to death. The brutality with which people, police and bystanders alike, begin to attack his vulnerable body is sickening and almost hypocritical, given their judgement of him as a violent criminal. It’s interesting to think about when excessive violence is acceptable to people, and when people allow their moral boundaries to dissipate. You might think that people had seen enough violence during the standoff, that they would be sick of the blood and grateful for peace. But no, everyone is infected with this hunger for more blood and most of all, for vengeance.

Anyway. Kind of a crazy read, and it gets even crazier when you learn that Ricardo Piglia actually met one of the people connected to the criminals (Blanca) on a train shortly after these events, and that’s how he started writing the story.

My question- what did you think of the crowd’s reaction to Dorda’s capture? Justified or not?

 

Three little guys in a trenchcoat

Manea View all 3 comments

It’s safe to say that I wasn’t aware of much of the historical/political context surrounding this novella, so upon initially reading I had the feeling I was missing something. It was helpful to learn about the history of Communist Romania and its totalitarian rule under Nicolas Ceausescu. Understanding the ubiquitous presence of the Securitate during this time helps make sense of the strong current of unease running through the story. I quite like the unsettling world that Manea creates in this novella- to me, it feels unreal in many aspects, and it seems like he is trying to create a disconnect between the (semi) fictional world he builds in the novella and the context from which one is reading it. I particularly liked the opening scene, when the guests are on their way to the dinner party and Manea describes the rain outside as an ocean, as if the car is travelling underwater. This drawn out metaphor for the weather reminded me of magic realism- describing a world that is similar to the reality we know, but with some unfamiliar, fantastical elements woven in. Similarly, the characters’ casual references to waiting for several hours in line at the butcher (p.244) create a sense of unfamiliarity and alienation for the reader from the world in this novella. I know that this isn’t magic realism in a true sense, but it’s a thought that kept coming back to me while reading.

As for the titular object of concern, the trenchcoat, maybe it’s nothing more than that, just a coat. If anything, the trenchcoat seems to represent a general paranoia. In this totalitarian world, as Ioana states on p. 257, “nothing is what it seems”. To her, there is reason to be suspicious and fearful, but of what, exactly? What does it mean that Dina and the Kid are wearing matching coats suddenly; “some kind of complicity”, as Ioana describes it (p.252). Complicity in what? Does this represent more than a simple reunion of childhood companions while one is going through a hard time? What sinister agenda could those coats be linked to? I think that Manea wants us to be asking these questions as we read, as he creates a feeling of uncertainty that leaves plenty of room for interpretation. There is no true answer to what all these strange events mean, just a lingering sense of unease and unknown threat. For all we know, the trenchcoat hanging on the Beldeanus’ coatrack could be disguising three little guys watching them and monitoring their every word. I’m only half joking, because in truth these incidents are left entirely to the reader’s discretion. Given that members of the Securitate allegedly have access to people’s apartments, it seems that anything is possible. To quote Ioana one final time (she seems to be the most quote-worthy character in this story) “anyone can become anything” (p. 257). Manea leaves it up to us to decide what that means.

My question- what do you think the trenchcoat(s) represents and why?

 

 

The hour of wishing you could look away but not being able to

Lispector View all 3 comments

After reading this book I’ve come to the realization that we must kill the CEO of every single mega corporate conglomerate.–>  Thanks to Jack for starting off this blog post strong. This novella was a lot to take in- I found it deeply unsettling from the very beginning, and perhaps this was the author’s intention. It was uncomfortable to look in on Macabéa’s life and realize all that she was missing, knowing that she didn’t realize it herself. The narrator’s uncertain tone made me feel like I was constantly on the edge of something- I felt that Macabéa was completely at his mercy, that he could do what he wanted with her at any time- and ultimately, of course, he could. His apparent fascination with her seemed sickly and unnatural, like he was utterly disgusted by her but at the same time couldn’t look away. That’s kind of how I felt while reading this novella. It was quite captivating, but in a way that felt almost voyeuristic, like I was just another person taking advantage of Macabéa. Just like the narrator, there were moments where I wished I could comfort her and tell her that her life was worth something, like when Olimpico calls her a “hair in a soup” after breaking up with her.

I think Lispector was trying to make us uncomfortable by placing us so effectively into these conditions of poverty, this bleak portrayal of life the only way that Macabéa and so many others knew it. This life is a reality for people, and she forces us to face that. Early on in the story, the narrator states that “the girl doesn’t know herself except living aimlessly” (7), and that to ask herself “who am I” would “create a need.” The girl doesn’t seem to have many needs other than just getting by, surviving on hot dogs and her observations of the small details of the outside world. At the end, on the edge of death, she says to herself “I am, I am, I am”, as if reassuring herself. For her, being alive was nothing more than that, just existing. It is only in this moment of death that she becomes something more than her closed off little life, that she becomes a spectacle of sort. It feels like the narrator is playing a sick joke, like he revels in this tragedy to a certain degree. He claims that Macabéa is “finally free of herself”, and maybe that’s true. Maybe life would have only brought her more suffering that she wasn’t even able to recognize as suffering. But there are those final words of hers, “as for the future”, that make me think she would have longed for something more, someday.

My question- do you think Macabéa was ever in control of her own life or was even a real person that the narrator observed?