Tag Archives: narrative

Week 14 – Conclusion

SPAN 312C was an enjoyable journey, one that I’m extremely sad about it’s closure. Being an RMST 202 alumni (lol) I was really looking forward to learning more about the themes related to Latin American literature, especially magical realism, from Professor Jon. Reflecting on the past four months, that is certainly what I got out of the course.

First of all, I have to say that I still don’t quite know what magical realism really is. I can’t really define it, nor can I pick it out within a certain book like I can do with other narrative devices. However, one thing I learned was that magical realism should be approached more as a ‘lens’ through which we view certain aspects of a story, and not so much as a literary device. For me, Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude was most helpful in giving me a better understanding of what magical realism might be within a book. For example, the fantastical event of the flight to heaven alongside a heavier theme of the book that ‘everything comes to an end’ seemed to me as a good indicator of what magical realism could be. The constant interplay between fantasy and reality seemed to me like the best definition I can come up with magical realism, and it also goes along with the title of our course, “Hopscotch!”

Secondly, a very interesting aspect of a lot of the readings was the use of a child narrator—from Mama Blanca, Cartucho, etc. While at first I questioned the credibility of a child narrator, reading such books made me change my mind. The unfiltered, perhaps naïve, perspective of a child felt more authentic and credible. At times it was gruesome, like the part on “General Sobarzo’s Guts” in Cartucho, but at least it felt like the child narrator wasn’t ‘picking and choosing’ what to include or exclude in the book. At the same time, however, all the books weren’t actually written by children; this realization raised more interesting thoughts. Why did the authors choose a child narrator? What purpose those the child narrator serve? Is there some sort of political agenda that the author wants to spread, secretly, through the narration of a child? While these questions cannot be answered directly, they still feed interesting thoughts and discussions. In a fairness, Cristina Rivera Garza did write, “Sometimes the best informants are women and children” (The Taiga Syndrome, p. 25).

To end this course with a question: What was your favorite book from this course? Why? Were there any aspects of the book that helped you understand magical realism and/ or Latin American literature in general?

Thank you very much Professor Jon and Daniel for making this an unforgettable journey for all of us.

Week 11, Bolaño, Distant Star

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Roberto Bolaño’s Distant Star was an intriguing novel. The book’s narrative style felt innovative, weaving a chilling story of political extremism, artistic ambition, fascism (though I still struggle to grasp this idea), and the destructive forces of love. Bolaño’s use of a fragmented, non-linear narrative structure created a sense of disorientation, perhaps mirroring the chaos and uncertainty of the novel’s historical and political context. At the same time, Bolaño’s character development and dialogue helped me empathize with the novel’s flawed and damaged protagonists, even as their actions became increasingly brutal.

Professor Ryan Long, during the conversation video with Professor Jon, pointed out the specialty of Bolaño’s narrative style. He stated:

“It’s really interesting that the novel sometimes uses the first person plural, you have a first person singular narrator who sometimes uses first person plural and sometimes it seems like he’s referring to himself and Bibiano kind of working together through these correspondence, but you could also imagine that it’s the first person narrator and Arturo kind of having a conversation; the novel has a really strong oral quality as if its narration were a conversation at times” (10:20 ~11:20).

This quote interested me because I didn’t perceive the narrative style to be sort of a ‘conversation’ or ‘collaboration’ until suggested by Professor Long. I’m not sure if having this insight would change my perception of the book or the credibility of the narrator, but I wonder if there would be any change in my reading experience if I were to go back to the book with this new thought.

Furthermore, one of the most striking aspects of Distant Star was the way that Bolaño used different narrators and perspectives to create a complex and multifaceted portrayal of the novel’s central character, Wieder. Initially introduced as a charismatic young poet, Wieder gradually becomes a murderer, obsessed with the coup. However, Bolaño never allowed me to see Wieder solely as a villain; instead, the readers were shown glimpses of his vulnerability, his fear, and his twisted sense of love, which made him a complex figure.

Reading this book reminded me of Roberto Bolaño’s other novel, Amulet, which I read last year in RMST 202. For a very quick context, in Amulet, the narrator is a woman who is held captive in a public bathroom during the Pinochet coup. Thinking of the two novels side to side, both novels explore the legacy of political violence and repression in Latin America, and both use innovative narrative techniques to explore themes of memory, identity, fascism, and artistic ambition. However, while Amulet felt like a more straightforwardly structured novel, Distant Star felt more fragmented and complex.

Question: Although this book is fiction, how credible was the ‘unnamed narrator’ for you? In comparison with Menchu last week, were there any narrative styles/ techniques that made the narrator of Distant star more (or less) credible?

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?