This is it

I’m glad this is over! Let me say that again: I’m glad that I did not (nearly) break the contract until the very last moment of this course, and I am astonished by the new perspectives that have opened up to me as a result of the fantastic combination of readings and the guidance from both Professor Jon and Daniel. What a ride it has been! Never have I ever imagined in my wildest dreams that I, myself in a position to do so much reading in such a short span of time. To be frank, I’m quite proud of myself for accomplishing this feat, and feel like an educated person, once again.

One of the aspects that I wholeheartedly enjoyed throughout the course was the opportunities given to “play” with the elements encountered within the text together with my personal experiences—creating sparks between elements that would have been parallel to each other otherwise. Reading allowed me to feel, flow, think, unthink, connect, and disconnect in a way that creates a unique, surreal, and personalized experience for me; and I very much like it since I never once experience this from any of my engineering courses.

This personalized experience of reading was unique to each of my classmates as well, and it was fascinating to see how the same piece of text could evoke different responses based on individual backgrounds and pretexts. I learned a lot from my classmates in this regard, and it was interesting to see how our readings varied based on our individual perspectives. One of the biggest takeaways from this course is that I have gained a better understanding of the power of literature and its ability to transcend time, remaining relevant even as the world changes. Although there may be gaps in understanding due to the historical context of the texts, it is remarkable to see how the themes and ideas remain pertinent to our modern lives.

Overall, I am grateful for the opportunity to have engaged with these texts and to have learned so much about myself and others in the process. The experience has left me feeling enriched and eager to continue exploring the world through the lens of literature.

To end the last blog post playfully: If you had to choose one of the characters you read about to be stranded on a deserted island with, who would it be and why?

The Taiga Syndrome

In her novel, The Taiga Syndrome, Cristina Rivera Garza weaved a web of mystery and intrigue, inviting readers on a journey through the unknown. From the very beginning, the repetitive use of the word “That” left the reader uncertain about the credibility of the narrator, creating an aura of skepticism that persists throughout the book. The semi-retired detective, who was described as a failure from the outset, adds to the doubt and questioning of the story’s conclusion. The final line of the book, “That, as always, I told the truth. Yes. That I had,” (78) only adds to this uncertainty, as the repetition of “That” suggests that perhaps the truth is not what it seems.

Yet it is precisely this ambiguity that makes the book such a profound and thought-provoking read. I believe Rivera Garza’s intention was not to present a straightforward fantasy story where the readers follow along the journey of the main characters, but rather to evoke the imagination and allow the reader to also partake in the journey. As the narrator said in the book, “My new method was to recount a series of events without disregarding insanity or doubt. This form of writing wasn’t about telling things how they were or how they could be, or could have been; it was about how they still vibrate, right now, in the imagination.” (13)

Another theme touched upon in the conversation video between Professor Beasley-Murray and Professor Rivera Garza was the inevitable mediation between the relationship of writing and experience, as well as the ways in which language can both convey, distort, and obstruct message/meaning. This theme is echoed in the narrator’s musings on journals, which she describes as “written in an intimate code capable of escaping the reader’s – and often the writer’s – understanding.” (20)

Yet despite these weighty themes, The Taiga Syndrome is also a masterful work of atmosphere and description. Rivera Garza’s prose is delicate and vivid, evoking the smells, sounds, and movements of the natural elements with a keen eye for detail. The result is a book that transports the reader to a world both familiar and strange, where the boundaries between reality and imagination blur and shift with each turn of the page.

In the end, The Taiga Syndrome is a book that invites us to question everything we think we know – about ourselves, about language, and about the world around us. Its use of repetition and ambiguity creates a rich and complex narrative that leaves an indelible impression on the reader, long after the last page has been turned. It is a book that demands to be read slowly and savored, as each new revelation and twist deepens our understanding of its enigmatic and haunting world.

Question: How does the novel’s exploration of the mediation between writing and experience, as well as the limitations of language in conveying meaning, resonate with broader cultural conversations about representation, translation, and communication in today’s world?

My Tender Matador

As I delved into the pages of Pedro Lemebel’s My Tender Matador, I was immediately drawn into a world of raw emotion and vivid imagery. Lemebel ingeniously weaved together a fictional (hi)story that not only tackled the issues of identity, politics, resistance, and social justice but also explored the complexities of gender and sexuality. It was a powerful and poignant read that left me with a new perspective on these topics.

Despite being set in 1980s Chile, Lemebel’s portrayal of the themes in the novel is still very relevant today, on a global scale, where issues of gender and identity continue to be at the forefront of social and political discourse. Throughout the novel, Lemebel painted a vivid portrait of a society that often fails to recognize the humanity of those who fall outside the narrow confines of societal norms of gender and sexuality aspects. This is perhaps most evident in the event where the Dictator and his soldiers overlooked Carlos’s planning of the ambush on their journey to the rural house.

I was also particularly struck by the language of destruction used in the novel, which portrayed masculinity and triumph in a way that was both intriguing and concerning. The character of the Queen of the Corner, in particular, stood out to me in her response to Carlos’s confession of his past amorous encounter with a male friend on the beach. I believe the way she spoke about the “brutal way they talk about the urgency of sex, like bullfighters‒Me first, I’ll stick it in you, I’ll split you in two, I’ll put it in, I’ll tear you to pieces‒with no tact or delicacy” (80) can be a powerful critique of the destructive language we often use in our daily conversations to describe triumphant achievements such as “You’re killin’ it”, and “Smashin’ the game”.

It is intriguing to consider the ways in which we use such language of destruction in our everyday lives. Whether it be in the context of sports, business, or personal relationships, the language of domination and victory is often used to describe our achievements. This begs the question: do we need to resort to destructive means in order to achieve success and triumph?

Perhaps we are living in a battleground of sorts, where the language of war and conflict permeates our daily lives. A prime example of this is the term “target” which is commonly used to describe audiences, and sales goals, in professional settings. It is worth considering whether this language is necessary for achieving our goals or if it perpetuates a culture of violence and domination.

Question: Can the pursuit of triumph and success be achieved without leaving a trail of destruction in its wake? Or is destruction an inevitable cost of achieving one’s goals? In a world where success is often equated with power and domination, is it possible to achieve greatness without sacrificing our humanity and the well-being of those around us?

Distant Star

The task of unraveling the intricate web of themes in Roberto Bolaño’s Distant Star proved to be quite challenging for me initially. Without the historical context in which the story is set, it was hard to fathom the significance of the novel’s central themes. However, my perplexity cleared up after watching the lecture that expounded on the story’s background, and I came to appreciate how Bolaño ingeniously interwove the themes of art and violence, as well as memory and trauma, to offer a fresh perspective on the relationship between art, politics, and culture.

Bolaño’s portrayal of Carlos Wieder’s transformation from an aspiring poet to a serial killer highlights the potential for art to inspire violence. Wieder’s gruesome acts were portrayed as an expression of his artistic vision, and Bolaño deftly showcased the powerful influence art can have on an individual’s actions. The military junta was also portrayed as a group of artists who use violence as their medium, censoring and repressing those who do not conform to their ideology. In doing so, Bolaño showed how closely intertwined the artistic and political spheres can be, and how art can be used to justify violence.

Memory is another theme explored in Distant Star, particularly through the lens of photography. Wieder’s obsession with the “process of killings” and his desire to capture their beauty through his photography is a central theme in the novel. Photography, like memory, is a way of preserving moments in time for the future. However, Bolaño also showcased how memory and photography can be distorted and manipulated. I believe the purpose of Wieder’s photographs was to serve as a form of propaganda, perpetuating the myth of the dictatorship’s success. In this way, Bolaño highlighted the power of memory and the dangers of allowing it to be controlled and manipulated.

Throughout the novella, Bolaño seamlessly blended the themes of art and politics, demonstrating how they can be both mutually reinforcing and destructive. His portrayal of the military junta as artists who use violence as their medium highlighted the potential for art to justify and propagate violence. Moreover, his exploration of memory through photography underscores the importance of preserving the truth and the danger of allowing history to be distorted and manipulated.

Question: In what ways does Bolaño’s exploration of memory through photography highlight the power of memory and the dangers of allowing it to be controlled and manipulated? How does this relate to our current societal context, where the manipulation of information and images has become increasingly prevalent?

I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala

This week’s reading on I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala, left me captivated by its unique categorization under the communal testimonio rather than autobiography or memoir, as I initially anticipated. What struck me most about this work was its focus on giving voice to the indigenous people in Guatemala who have been silenced, highlighting their struggles and injustices, and inspiring action. In contrast to autobiographies, which are typically concerned with telling a personal story for its own sake, the communal testimonio seeks to raise awareness about social and political issues and provoke change.

The book’s effectiveness in achieving its purpose with the use of distortions and exaggerations of events had a lasting impact on me as a reader, especially in provoking a sense of urgency to act. I also found that the use of extravagant components was incredibly effective in capturing the reader’s attention as well as creating a memorable reading experience, despite the content being repetitive and dry at times. Though unsettling, the dramatic and grotesque events depicted in the book were the main reason that kept me flipping through the pages.

Another intriguing aspect of the book was the repetitiveness of the language. I noticed that several events and rituals were repeated in later chapters, which, for me, created an additional layer of childlike narrative to the testimonio. The monologue-style narrative combined with the repetitiveness and simplicity of the language made it feel as though I was reading a child’s diary. This style has definitely made me keep the questions of the stories’ authenticity behind my mind.

Throughout the book, Menchú reminded the reader that she was holding back secrets. I believe this tactic was employed deliberately to create a connection with the readers on a selective part of her identity while withholding other parts. Unlike most literature, which seeks to bridge the gap between the author and the readers, I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala, intentionally keep this gap open, creating a distance between the readers and Menchú. This distance attested to the statement from the lecture: “Her struggle is not ours, and never will be”, which emphasizes that while we can advocate for her activism and learn about her struggles, we will never fully be her community and people.

Question: Does the revelation that some of the stories in the book were fabricated leave you feeling “betrayed” or does it make the reading experience more captivating? How do the distortions and exaggerations of events impact your reading experience?

Captain Pantoja and the Special Service

This week’s journey through Mario Vargas Llosa’s Captain Pantoja and the Special Service was a somewhat entertaining read. The tale conveyed a sense of exoticism, as the lascivious themes were played out against a backdrop of formality, which was entirely new to me. As emphasized in the lecture, the book cleverly mocks seriousness through seriousness. I was particularly impressed by the use of military dispatches as a narrative tool, which highlighted the extreme formality of the work. One of the dispatches sent by Captain Pantoja to his superior even went so far as to report his amorous encounters under his experimentation with porpoise oil, a natural aphrodisiac, in meticulous details: “He consequently found himself with the need to solicit from his wife and obtain from her, during the week in question, intimate relations on an average of twice daily…, since the undersigned was in the habit of having relations of an intimate matrimonial nature at a rate of once every ten days before coming to Iquitos and once every three days after arriving…” (66). One of Vargas Llosa’s techniques that particularly tickled my funny bone was his penchant for exaggeration, particularly in the details of mundane matters. This is made apparent in Pocha’s letter to her sister, wherein she vividly described the hookers’ behaviour: “They walk a straight line and look them in the eyes so fresh it stirs up some of the men to grab them by their boobs.” (54)

Captain Pantoja and the Special Service is undoubtedly a masterful work of satire that employs humour and irony to expose the absurdities of power, bureaucracy, and society. One aspect that particularly captivated me was the perpetual appearance of the Brothers of the Ark, a cult-like religious group founded and led by Brother Francisco, throughout the novel. I believe that the Brothers of the Ark represented a grassroots, alternative form of spirituality that serves as a counterforce to the powerful and established Catholic Church in 20th-century Peruvian society. Though the religion’s rituals and practices were peculiar and amusing (as in the tone in which Pocha used to describe the ritual in her letter, not the crucifixions of course), as illustrated by Pocha’s reaction to the crucifixion of animals, “This religion has a mania for crucifying animals and I don’t like that because every morning I find cockroaches, butterflies, spiders nailed to her little crosses and even a mouse the other day” (54), it still serves its purpose in highlighting the differences between organized religion and more unconventional forms of spiritual expression.

I believe that the Brothers of Ark also serves as a warning about the perilous nature of fanaticism. The followers of Brother Francisco were depicted as blindly devoted to him, “The people listened to him hypnotized, the women were crying and got down on their knees.” (53) As the story progresses, this unbridled loyalty transforms into dangerous fanaticism, with attempts at human crucifixion escalating towards the end of the book. This narrative arc also hints at the protagonist, Captain Pantoja’s, own fanaticism in his pursuit of perfecting the Special Service, which ultimately unleashes an uncontrollable sexual appetite in Iquitos.

Question: Personally, I have found that exaggeration serves as an effective literary tool that contributes to the humorous atmosphere of the novel, occasionally eliciting laughter. Do you share my perspective on the impact of exaggeration in the book? Why and why not?

One Hundred Years of Solitude II

As I reached the end of One Hundred Years of Solitude, I was struck by the uncanny resemblance between the novel and Borges’ labyrinthine short stories. The themes of repetition and cyclicity that permeate both texts were whimsically portrayed through the seemingly never-ending, similar fates of Aurelianos and José Arcadios, as well as the inevitable doom of the town of Macondo, where everything ultimately ended up back where it started, as depicted in the novel’s conclusion. It was as though the story of the Buendía family had been stretched out with gradually increasing force on a spring, in terms of spatiality and proliferation, until García Márquez had expended all his energy, at which point he released the spring, returning it abruptly to its original position, bringing the novel to a close. This prophetic end of the story reminded me of Borges’ short stories, particularly The Circular Ruins and The Library of Babel, where the cyclic nature of fate was depicted in a similarly haunting manner, as well as the resemblance of Melquíades’ manuscript to the nearly-indecipherable books in the library.

However, it was not just the cyclical nature of time that fascinated me; García Márquez’s portrayal of historicity through the massacre at the train station of Macondo also struck a chord. The only survivor of the massacre, José Arcadio Segundo, told a version of events that was deemed absurd by the inhabitants of Macondo, who accepted the government’s official version of history, where “there were no dead, the satisfied workers had gone back to their families” (309). This could be seen as a metaphorical event, reflecting the often silenced voice of the “loser” in history, a theme we had discussed in class during the week of Cartucho by Nellie Campobello.

As the novel drew to a close, I found myself pondering upon the fundamental question of whether the fate of the Buendía family was predetermined. Throughout the book, the Buendía family operates according to traditions passed down for generations, and impulsive decisions or acts that confront these traditions often lead the characters back to the same point, creating a sense of futility in breaking out of their predetermined fates, as evident in the experience of Colonel Aureliano Buendía who had fought for years only to return to his laboratory later and spent the rest of his life there as he did in his young age. It is as though the Buendía family is trapped in a cycle of love and loss, unable to escape their destiny.

Ultimately, the novel left me with a sense of futility and inevitability, as the Buendía family is trapped in a cycle of love and loss from which they cannot escape, as hinted at a few times in the second half of the book.

Question: Do you believe that the cyclical nature of time and predetermined fate portrayed in One Hundred Years of Solitude reflects the reality of human existence? Do our innate desires for never-ending advancement (e.g. AI) foretell our predetermined destiny, one that may ultimately lead us towards catastrophe, or do we have the agency to break free from the cycle?

One Hundred Years of Solitude I

As I delved into Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, I found myself being transported to a world that felt like a distant memory, a world that felt like it was ripped straight from the pages of a dusty old book that has been sitting in the attic for ages. García Márquez’s masterful use of comedic writing style was evident from the very beginning, and it had me hooked from the first page. As I continued reading, I couldn’t help but feel like I was listening to the bizarre stories my grandparents used to tell me when I was a child, stories that had been passed down for generations and were now a part of the family’s collective memory.

Despite the book’s length, García Márquez’s whimsical and light-hearted approach made it a joy to read. The Buendia family’s long history was made more enjoyable by the author’s use of humor, which was both masterful and playful. Even in the midst of tragedy, García Márquez found a way to inject humor, as seen in the scene where the attackers discovered the identity of the person who bravely defended the headquarters. The description of the corpse as having “a woman’s full head of hair held at the neck with a comb and on his neck a chain with a small gold fish” (118) was immensely amusing, despite the dark nature of the scene.

As I read on, I was struck by the book’s use of magical realism, which added a layer of folktale undertones to the story. The idea of giving birth to a child with a pig’s tail due to incest and the discovery of a Spanish ship in the middle of a forest were just a few of the many fantastical elements that made the book so enchanting. These stories were written in a nostalgic way, reminiscent of the bedtime stories I used to hear from my grandmother when I was young. They were the kind of stories that didn’t need much explanation, and often defied our understanding of the world around us.

But there’s more to One Hundred Years of Solitude than just whimsy and nostalgia. The secluded town of Macondo, which is located in the middle of nowhere and unaware of the ongoings of the outside world, is a metaphor for Colombia on the world stage. I did not come to the realization that the town of Macondo represented the state of Colombia until I watched Jon’s interview with Gerald Martin. It is the book’s ability to connect real-life events as such and weave them into the story that makes it a literary masterpiece. I believe García Márquez’s ability to make these connections is what elevates One Hundred Years of Solitude from a whimsical tale to one of the greatest literary works of the 19th century.

Question: What impact does García Márquez’s use of magical realism have on the reader’s understanding of the world around them? How does this technique challenge traditional notions of reality and storytelling, and what does it reveal about the power of literature to capture the complexities of human experience?

Pedro Parámo

Juan Rulfo’s Pedro Parámo employed a non-linear storytelling structure that weaves together past and present timelines of Comala, as seen from the perspectives of various characters, predominantly Juan and Pedro. Though the structure can be perplexing, the theme of timelessness was one aspect that I appreciated about the book, which I believe serves to emphasize the freedom of speech granted to each character in their afterlife. This aspect stands in stark contrast to the living world of past Comala’s, where Pedro Paramo’s tyranny stifled the townspeople’s voices. 

The fluidity and sudden shifts in the characters’ interpretations of death added a captivating layer to the story. The coldheartedness with which Pedro Paramo treated the lives and deaths of those around him, such as the taking of Susana’s father’s and Toribio Aldrete’s lives, demonstrated a disregard for human life. This disregard was later mirrored in the villagers’ apathy shown towards Susana’s passing, leading them to meet their own final resting place. It appeared as though a cycle was at play, and the doom of Comala had put an end to the oppressive rule of caciquism, poised to embrace a future of equality.

The representation of life and death for each character in the book was also thought-provoking. The characters’ definitions of life and death were distinct and personalized. For Pedro Parámo, living meant being with Susana, and for Susana, living meant dying along with her deceased husband, Florencio. The way each character defined life and death gave a unique perspective to the story. It made me think about the complexities of life and death and how each person’s experiences shaped their perspective on it.

In conclusion, Pedro Paramo is a captivating novel that explores the complexities of life and death. The unconventional narrative structure, which blends together past and present moments, and the unique representation of life and death for each character provide a haunting yet thought-provoking experience. I believe the deliberate blurring of the boundary between life and death could also symbolize the rural Mexican notion of the deceased still being present among the living, adding another layer of significance to the tales. The recurrent use of the “wind” metaphor throughout the narratives further highlights the fragility of life, particularly in the context of Mexican society.

Question: What are the other purposes of the non-chronological structure in Pedro Parámo, apart from providing freedom of speech and how does it contribute to the exploration of life and death?

Labyrinths

The journey through the collection of short stories in Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges was nothing less than a tumultuous ride. At first, Borges’ style of writing in the opening story, “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius” left me feeling disoriented, as I struggled to comprehend the theme and keep pace with his whimsical flow of thoughts. The proliferation of details only added to my confusion, making it difficult for me to stay on track with the plot, if indeed there was one.

However, as I delved deeper into the story, I gradually surrendered to the realization that it was okay not to understand everything, and that I could always revisit it later; or perhaps the confusion is intentional. By the end of “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius“, I was deeply intrigued by Borges’ playful use of labyrinthine storytelling to prompt readers to reconsider the concept of time, something we have taken for granted since we first learned to tell time from a clock on a wall. In addition, the idea that the “two imaginary regions of Mlejnas and Tlön” (5) might not be as imaginary as they seem, much like the world of Upside Down in the popular Netflix series Stranger Things, was both intriguing and thought-provoking. It raised questions about the connection between time and space and their relationship with reality and fantasy, leading me to wonder how our conventional temporal and spatial perceptions help us differentiate between reality and the imaginary.

Out of all the short stories in Labyrinths, “The Circular Ruins” was my personal favorite. Revisiting the story from the beginning after reaching the end, it was clear that the magician was nothing more than a dream, conjured by another. The cyclic nature of the story, where the magician and his son both appear in similar spatial settings, only added to its appeal. The circular ruins in which both the magician and his son were born were a temple long ago consumed by fire, and I found that reading the story linearly did not immediately reveal the spatial similarities between the two characters, as I sort of wandered off the main path from all the “playfully” created distractions along the journey.

In conclusion, I am grateful to have had the opportunity to discover this new genre of literature, one that I know I would not have known existed if not for this course. Borges’ writing has definitely challenged my preconceived notions about time and space and has encouraged me to reconsider my understanding of reality and fantasy.

Question: Personally, I quite enjoyed being lost in Borges’ words, picking up clues here and there, then reconstructing them to form themes that (sort of) make sense to me. Do you enjoy the feeling of being “lost” in Borges’ works?