Author Archives: Daniel Choi

Week 4 – Neruda, “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair”

Pablo Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair was a beautiful read. As I watched the lecture video before I read the book, I was able to set aside the controversies surrounding the author and focus solely on the work itself. Accordingly, I will only reflect on the work itself and the author as he is—directly or indirectly—represented within his work.

My first interest was the translation of Neruda’s poems. Although the English version was beautiful, resonating, and—at times—heartbreaking, I constantly wonder how accurate W. S. Merwin’s translations are. I have no doubt that Merwin is a superb translator; however, there are words, tones, and nuances that just cannot be translated accurately. Moreover, translation in itself is a new form of representation; the translator ultimately decides—based on his own perspective—what words fit best for a certain translation. I wonder how different Neruda’s untranslated version is from the English version.

Throughout the chapters, I found it interesting that I kept reading with an emphasis on the words “I” and “My.” Throughout the first half of the book, the narrator uses the words “I” and “My” a lot. This tendency is only disrupted in chapter 4, when the tone shifts—as if the poem was addressed to a third person, many uses of “our” and “her” instead of “I” and “My.” In line with the lecture, the fact that I kept reading with an emphasis on these words revealed to me that these poems are extremely one-sided—as in, it only shows ‘his’ side of the love story. Reasonably inferring that this is a heterosexual relationship, ‘her’ perspective is nowhere to be found. Even in places where we might be able to assume ‘her’ perspective, that too is a conscious representation of the male narrator. Relating back to the idea that “history is written by the victors,” these poems were written by one side of a two-way relationship. This left me wondering what she might think of these poems… Considering the frequent mentioning of a “toy doll” and the overall desperation/ resentment shown by the narrator, I wouldn’t be too pleased to read the work if I was ‘her’.

Solely as a literary work, this book is just mesmerizing. The quality of the poems (lines, rhymes, metaphors, imagery, etc.) are just amazing. I am not so much into poetry but some lines just resonated with me. My top two favourites were: “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees” (46-47); “The biggest stars look at me with your eyes” (58). As a poetic work, I think there are multiple ways the reader can approach this book. Whether that is to take it in face-value or try to find some ‘hidden message’ (perhaps a political message), these different approaches would entail different interpretations. I think that is the beauty of poetry—and literature in general.

Question: What is your most favourite line or phrase from the poems in the book?

Week 3 – Campobello, “Cartucho”

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Nellie Campobello’s Cartucho was an intriguing yet fascinating read.

Firstly, the content of the book was interesting as it depicted a unique perspective on the Mexican Revolution. Going away from the more conventional “victor’s narrative” of the Revolution, it provided a detailed firsthand account of the brutalities and violence that were experienced by those who suffered. These accounts were not just limited to physical sufferings—ex. torture or death—but also included psychological sufferings—mainly in the form of mourning. The extremely detailed and sensual narrative content made me question why the author decided to depict the Revolution in a rather unconventional way. However, this quote from the lecture, that “[w]hat counts is what sticks in the mind” answered this question (2). As much as outcomes are important (ex. who won or lost which battle), the everyday lives and trauma experienced by the population are equally as important to record. Perhaps Campobello’s Cartucho was a way in which agency was given back to those who suffered—or died. Perhaps, those that were kept silent were finally given a voice through this book.

Secondly, Campobello’s use of a child narrator for this story was confusing and disturbing at times but also beneficial at other times. First of all, I wondered why the author decided to use a child narrator for a book that deals with a topic as heavy as the Mexican Revolution—containing diverse ideologies, politics, and gruesome imageries. The whole part of “General Sobarzo’s Guts” was particularly disturbing because the imagery was quite gruesome. The most disturbing quote was probably when the child narrator and some others said “Guts! How nice! Whose are they?” While on one part the use of a child narrator felt odd, it also seems like the extremely detailed portrayals and unfiltered depictions were only made possible because it was told by a child narrator—who seemed to driven by affect more than any internal political considerations of the war.

Lastly, the lack of a chronological or logical continuity made it difficult to get used to the narrative style of the book. However, the conversation video cleared things up. A key point that I was able to develop from watching the video was questioning the necessity to make sense of a ‘non-linear’ narrative. Do we have to make sense of a narrative in a chronological or logical continuity? Or would this, in itself, be a form of bias/ presumption? While there is a seductive effort to make sense of what happened, for both us (as readers) and those that suffered from the war (trying to make sense of what the war entailed), reality proves different; in reality, there were lots of senselessness—especially in war. Perhaps making sense with some kind of a happy ending was damaging—or misrepresenting—what happened in reality.

Question: Isn’t Campobello’s use of a “child narrator” a form of play-acting? Do you think Campobello successfully portrayed the war in a “child narrator’s perspective”, despite writing the book as an adult?

Week 2 – de la Parra, “Mama Blanca’s Memoirs”

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Teresa de la Parra’s Mama Blanca’s Memoirs was a pleasant read filled with feelings of childhood, memory, and nostalgia. Additionally, the book also fed thoughts on accuracy—and distortion—of representations, different perspectives within narratives, and the nature of storytelling. Lastly, Teresa de la Parra’s book provided an interesting—perhaps inaccurate, to an extent—depiction of the realities of a plantation farm in nineteenth-century Venezuela.

First of all, the foreword to the book gave me a lot of points to think about. As mentioned in the lecture content for this week, it stood out how the publication of Mama Blanca’s memoirs by the un-named editor was a “betrayal”. The editor and Mama Blanca seemed to have a very strong bond built upon trust, despite the significant age gap—the editor stated how Mama Blanca, in regards to age, was “a person who might have been my great-grandmother” (7). While the relationship seems unconventional based on people’s “judgement on outward appearances[,]” I thought the relationship between the editor and Mama Blanca was a precious relationship built upon kindness, love, and trust (7). To a certain extent, I can relate to this special type of relationship with an elder. I have somehow developed a very precious relationship with my middle school teacher and now we have a family-like relationship built upon sincerity, support, and mutual respect. Knowing how precious these types of relationships are, I wonder why the editor decided to publish Mama Blanca’s memoirs. Although Mama Blanca was dead by the time the editor published the memoirs, it was still breaking the trust that the former gave to the latter. Was there something about the memoirs—about Mama Blanca’s life—that made the editor feel compelled to publish it, despite that meant a “betrayal”?

Second, the fact that Mama Blanca was relatively privileged—being the daughter of the owner of a sugar plantation in Venezuela, part of an upper-class family—made me question the accuracy of her representation of the realities of sugar plantations in nineteenth-century Venezuela. For Mama Blanca and her sister Evelyn, “the mill was a club, theater, city” (84). The mill “seemed heaven” to them, which is quite different than what we normally would imagine when thinking of a mill. While Mama Blanca knew that “[p]eople did not gather at the mill to amuse themselves[,]” she nevertheless depicted the mill as “full of life and color” (86). This representation of the mill as “heaven-like” seems to reflect more about Mama Blanca’s social class and privilege, rather than providing an accurate representation of the realities of the mill. On a wider perspective, this reminded me that a story is a form of representation and image construction that is heavily built upon the author’s point of view.

Question: Mama Blanca stated that she sometimes “demanded an ‘old story,’ but stipulating tyrannical changes that reflected the varying states or desires of [her] spirit” (32). Do you have any experiences of allowing your imagination and feelings to create new endings to stories?

Week 1 – Introduction

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Hello everyone! My name is Daniel Choi, I am a third-year arts student majoring in International Relations and minoring in Law and Society. As evident from my minor, I am interested in law and how it affects—and, in turn, how it is shaped by—society. I am by no means a natural reader—if there ever is such a person. While I cannot describe reading, especially academic reading, as “enjoyable”, I can confidently say that Professor Beasley-Murray’s previous course (RMST 202) taught me that academic reading could in fact be interesting and engaging.

RMST 202 was about literatures and cultures of the Romance world. As such, the central question of the course was, “What is the Romance world?” “What is Romance studies?” Although there isn’t one definitive answer nor a clear definition, this intrinsic obscurity and abstraction was what made the course extremely interesting; it allowed us to be limitless in our approaches to the diverse texts, helping us keep our thoughts open to the new ideas, imagery, and symbolism that the books introduced to us rather than actively seeking for “hidden messages” based on our own presumptions. This unique approach was what helped me grow as a student and reader. It allowed me to find meaningful links between literature and life, literature and time, as well as interesting connections and contrasts between the texts and between related themes such as surrealism and modernism.

Watching the introductory lecture, a lot of SPAN 312 seems to have the same theoretical approaches to RMST 202. While the background context of a story is emphasized, the focus of our analysis is not limited to just context; as Professor Beasley-Murray stated, “we are not doing history here.” It is the unique focus on the “distortion, elaboration, invention, mystification, [and] fabrication” of literature that excites me. I mean, where else would we be allowed to adopt such a fascinating approach? It is certainly a new way of approaching texts, but once your focus falls into what Professor Beasley-Murray calls the “gap between representation and the real,” it will certainly open up a new journey.

Specifically for SPAN 312, I am excited to start thinking about the idea of Latin America and Latin American literature. Similar to Romance studies, I do not think there is one clear definition of Latin America. It could be thought of through multiple methods—for example, through geography, shared cultures and history, etc.—but it nevertheless does not provide an accurate definition. Rather, like the notion of “magic realism”, it only seems to be limiting the scope of our analysis. While having these thoughts and ideas in mind, I hope to allow myself to go beyond the limits of these approaches and find new, meaningful connections and disconnections between the texts that we read.

Question: What does Latin America mean to you? Do you have any past experiences related to Latin American literature? If so, in what ways do you think your experiences will affect your approach to the readings?