All posts by klewis05

Cue the tears and sentimental speeches about the meaning of life and literature

Conclusion View all 4 comments

Alas, we have reached the end of the semester… crazy to look back at all the books we’ve studied over the past three months. If anything, this course has shown me that I do in fact have time to read, and need to stop making excuses for why I’m too busy to do so. I’m grateful that this course allowed me to reconnect with my love for reading, while encouraging me to read in new ways and consider perspectives that might have previously escaped me. These texts, for better or for worse, forced me to face unfamiliar realities, and to confront them in the contexts in which they were born. Black Shack Alley, for instance, is a text I likely wouldn’t have picked up on my own, and it made me aware of a place and time period that previously seemed distant. This novel, and many others this semester, really placed you inside the story, and often inside history, in a way that I don’t think could be achieved through any other means. There is something deeply personal about many of these texts that has left a lasting affective mark on me.

I truly believe that the discussions we had in class, as well as those outside of it with my peers, have shaped the way I read and will continue to stay with me long after the end of the semester. There is something refreshing about the way we approached texts in this course- not trying to exaggerate meaning or intent, a feeling I often have in English courses, but rather drawing our own, sometimes questionable inferences. The beauty is in the not always getting it or not knowing what the “right” answer is- it challenges you to think further. I enjoyed the surprises throughout these texts- Proust is a good example. While I might have described his writing as dense and tedious at first glance, Combray showed me his wonderful affinity for humour, woven into the text in a subtle but brilliant way.

Perhaps most importantly, this class influenced my thoughts on writing, and even inspired me to pick up a pen and start writing again myself. I loved how many of these novels were heavily influenced by the authors’ own experiences. It got me thinking about the various forms of meaning in my own life, especially those that might not be as obvious; little things that I might look back on in twenty years with newfound appreciation. Anyway, it’s safe to say that this has been one of favourite classes throughout my time in university, and definitely one that I’ll actually remember. Thank you to Jon and the TAs for making this such a fun and engaging course!

Oh and a final question – if you had to live inside the literary world of one of the novels we’ve read this semester, which one would you pick?

Sono stanco… but this book was great

Ferrante View all 2 comments

Ahh last book of the semester! This was definitely a fun one to end with. I watched the HBO show a few years ago and fell in love with the characters, so I had a preformed image of how they looked and acted. I watched the show with my dad, who is also Italian (but only half so that makes me a quarter!), and speaks the language fluently. His family lives in Sardegna, an island I’ve been very lucky to visit several times over the years, and I couldn’t help but draw comparisons between some neighbourhoods there and the one described in the book. Cagliari (the city my dad is from) isn’t Naples, but while I was reading I pictured the familiar graffitied streets I walked down on summer vacations, the buildings crowded together, the laundry hanging between balconies. It helped conjured an image of the world depicted in this novel.

What first struck me was the acceptance of violence in the neighbourhood, as this is how things have always been. The tensions between the various families are seen as part of life, not something to be solved or ameliorated. Lenu is aware of this from an early age, and it carries into her later experiences. Even when she is assaulted, she tells no one, and while she is tormented and disgusted by it, she accepts it as part of the violence she’s known her whole life.

I also find it interesting to observe the role of class in Lenu and Lila’s relationship, how there is a constant back and forth between them- first Lenu is above Lila for her ability to go to school and further her education beyond what Lila is capable of. Lila finds another way to rise above Lenu, however, by marrying Stefano, the wealthiest and most respectable man in the neighbourhood. Sometimes it seems that the two only make decisions based on each other, either to compete with the other or help her in some manner. They are truly bound to each other, and it makes sense when their relationship appears to be deeper and more real than many of the ones they see around them. While Lenu serves as the sole narrator of the story, there are glimpses of Lila’s equally warm feelings to her, such as when she refers to her as “my brilliant friend” at the end of the novel.

While Lenu’s education may offer her a way out of the neighbourhood, out of the constant cycle of violence and allow her to reach the world beyond, Lila is confined by her marriage to that familiar poverty. It’s quite sad in the end, as it seems this isn’t a fate she wanted but one that she was forced into given her family’s situation. There’s lots more to discuss about this novel, but I’ll try not to ramble. Overall, one of my favourites!

My question- do you think there were some aspects of Lila and Lenu’s relationship that were toxic or unhealthy?

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?

I’m not crying, you’re crying – the literature equivalent of listening to Yo La Tengo

Rodoreda View all 2 comments

Damn. This one was a lot to take in. I felt drawn into this book from the very beginning, when Natalia talks so bluntly about her dead mother and how she no longer has someone to guide her life decisions. From the start, it feels like Natalia doesn’t have a real sense of autonomy and that she is somewhat helpless, floating through life and just letting it happen to her. It’s not a weakness in her character that leads to things happening this way; rather, it feels like she is too tired to fight for a different life, and that she is forced to begrudgingly accept whatever changes come. She is obviously an incredibly strong person, given all that she endures. It makes me wonder what kind of life she could have had if she’d lived in different historical circumstances, without the war and the limits it placed on her already constrained life. Would she have found peace? Or would that lingering sorrow stay with her no matter the context?

This whole novel is tinged with melancholy, with a kind of sadness that takes hold of you and seeps into your bones and makes you want to curl up and fall asleep for a long time. If you’re a Yo La Tengo listener, you know kind of how it feels. Almost a comforting kind of sadness. Natalia embraces this sadness as if it’s simply a part of her, as if she was born with it baked into her being. She often describes this feeling as being worn out or tired, without making specific reference to the sorrow she carries around. There are several moments where she allows herself to really feel that pain and let it out, like after Antoni offers her a job, and that long overdue scream on page 197, but it never really feels like she experiences a true moment of release.

And the doves… oh those damn doves. The doves, for Natalia, seem to represent the lack of control she has over her own life, the pervasive sense of heaviness that hangs over her like a dark cloud. Like how Quimet calls her Colometa (little dove) and never her own name, never giving her a choice or caring to ask what she wants. The stench of the doves lingers throughout her entire life, it seems, haunting her, reminding her of choices made, time passing, people lost. On page 174, later on in her new life with Antoni, Natalia imagines these doves differently, imagines herself caring for them and keeping them healthy in the dovecote. She makes up a story about having a tower of doves, like the one Quimet promised, and tells it to the women in the park. This part is so sad- it feels like she is holding on to bits of the past, to the familiar, even though it’s not something she wanted necessarily. These fragments are all she has to cling to, without any real happy memories to look back on.

There’s also some crazy, rampant misogyny in this book, but I’ll leave that for the class discussion. Overall, this was a heart-wrenching and bleak read that I’ll be thinking about for a while.

My question- what do you think of Natalia’s relationship with Quimet?

Love, oppression, and growing up

Zobel One Comment

Okay, Black Shack Alley… this is a really good read, and though it can feel slow at times, I appreciate how Zobel brings us from the narrator’s life as just a small boy at the age of five all the way into his adolescence, without ever making the narrative feel rushed or forced. The simple yet eloquent style of prose that Zobel employs makes the story all the more engaging- I felt as if I was growing up alongside the narrator, witnessing the ways that his thoughts and perceptions change with age and maturity. So many aspects of his childhood, although foreign to me in most senses, evoked strong memories from my own, especially in his carefree escapades with friends or the imaginative worlds (like the shrimp world he dreams up by the river on p. 55) he builds. Zobel beautifully captures this simplicity of childhood, before all the harshness of the world comes crashing in to taint things.

Obviously, José is aware of the inferior position that black people hold in society as a child- but growing up in Black Shack Alley, this is just how things have always been, and at this point he hasn’t known anything other than life on the plantation and subservience to the békés. This is quite an emotional novel, with touching moments of love and joy interspersed among the heaviness of oppression that characterizes this place and time period. The seemingly casual (or perhaps just desensitized) manner in which Zobel recounts instances of black people being exploited, whether it’s the békés “doing what they want” with the women in the cane fields, or the pitiful wages and food that José and his community are forced to live off of, is a product of Zobel’s own personal experience, and offers a very necessary window into the past.

One scene I find particularly difficult, yet also revealing of José’s character, is when the teacher at the lycée disregards his work as “plagiarism”, deeming it too good to be have been written by a student (particularly a black student). Rather than lash out in frustration, José vows to work even harder with a quiet determination, secretly pleased that the teacher is so impressed with his words. As he progresses to the more advanced stages of his schooling, José starts to notice the distance between himself and his former peers- not in a prideful manner, but with a deep sadness, as he realizes his dear friends will remain trapped in a cycle that he barely managed to escape himself. A heavy cloud of guilt seems to hang over this latter half of the narrative- José mourns the friends he has left behind, as well as Jojo and Carmen, who might never make it out of Petit-Fond, and above all the life that he will never get to provide for M’man Tine after all she has sacrificed for him.

My question- how did you perceive the ending of this novel- hopeful or melancholic? Or something else entirely?

BREAKING: Spoiled mama’s boy hits puberty and is confused!!

Moravia View all 2 comments

Well. This one had its moments. The first thing that jumps to mind, for everyone I’m sure, is Freud and his psychosexual theories. I’m not going to get into the details, as most people are probably familiar with these ideas (the Oedipus complex, etc.) but this novel clearly reflects some of those ideas, and I was not surprised to read in the translator’s note that Moravia had demonstrated an interest for Freudian psychology in his previous work. It’s clear that he is trying to paint Agostino in a distinctly Freudian light in this novel, with the sexual confusion and at times hatred directed towards his mother.

There are lots of passages worths discussing here, but I’ll point out a couple moments that stuck out to me. First, on p. 46, “he preferred not to love her at all and see her as merely a woman.” To me, this quote reveals the distinction between love and lust, implying that Agostino’s mother can only be loved as a maternal figure, but once she is “just a woman”, she is seen as a sexual object and no longer a worthy recipient of this love. Similarly, on p. 88 he sees the young man kissing “a woman”- not his mother, but someone separate. Agostino struggles with this new separation- this is not the woman that raised him and nurtured him with maternal affection, but a new seductive, sexual being. Or, and perhaps this is at the root of his anxieties, she is both at the same time – an overlap he cannot make sense of in his pre-adolescent mind. His ill-fated trip to the brothel is a desperate last ditch effort to rid himself of this overlap and replace the sensual image of his mother with someone else entirely, so that he can revert her back to the former, purely maternal image he holds in his mind.

Agostino has clearly been somewhat sheltered from the real world, largely due to his social class and strong attachment to his mother. He is coddled and dependent on her love and attention, so anything that distracts her from this leaves him jealous and sulky. I think this sheltering plays a considerable role in his frustration- he had no real notion of what sex entailed before meeting the group of boys at Vespucci beach.  These feelings of repulsion towards his mother, then, stem from a newfound awareness, along with a shift into puberty that his mind maybe hasn’t caught up with it. This sudden realization of a world he had previously been blind to results in a resentment for the woman that raised him simply because she is a woman, and is therefore capable of arousing these forbidden impulses in him. I wonder if Agostino knows what puberty is – maybe he would benefit from a sex ed course.

There are many other aspects of this novel that I would love to delve into- the dynamic of the gang of boys, the pedophilic Saro and his exploitation of Homs, and so on… but alas, we’ve hit the word count.

My question- do you think Agostino’s fixation on his mother reflects something more sinister than just a strange expression of puberty?

Death, love, suffering… and Fernando?

Bombal View all 7 comments

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?