Author Archives: neko smart

Byeeee!

Okay, I have to start by saying I’m a tad surprised I made it through my contract. I thought reading a book a week would be impossible given the zaniness of this semester in particular, but I did it! I made it through and I’m pretty stoked about it. After taking RMST 202 with Jon last year, I knew what to expect coming into this course, and felt more prepared as a result. I also (with the exception of Borges) enjoyed this selection of novels, and the creative freedom we were granted through both the variety of books available to us, as well as our blog posts. I never felt pressured to adhere to a specific structure or writing style, but rather to be honest and entirely myself.

Lispector’s The Hour of the Star was absolutely my favourite read of the semester (and possibly ever). She for sure redeemed herself in my eyes after really not enjoying The Passion According to G.H last year. I was very moved by her prose and her insistence that her syntactical choices be respected in translation. Honestly, I would read her grocery lists. Some other honourable mentions include Bolano’s Distant Star and Indiana’s Papi. I even have to (very reluctantly) hand it to Borges for pushing me (angrily) out of my comfort zone. These aren’t books I would have read, let alone discovered in my own time; what makes this course truly unique is the agency we’re afforded through the contract grading and the opportunity to plunge into tales (and authors) we wouldn’t generally gravitate toward.

I think this is the only course I’ve taken outside of my Creative Writing workshop courses with poetry in the curriculum. Another bonus is having gotten to know some really cool people in class, which is (of course) always appreciated. Thanks for the thoughtful comments and conversations. And a big thank you to Jon and Daniel for the instruction, lecture videos, and facilitation of meaningful dialogue around the texts explored. We did it, people. We made it through. Going forward, I’m going to try to read more styles I don’t usually feel inclined to explore as I think it’s important to continue to challenge myself both within and outside of academic contexts. I guess I don’t really know what I like until I try it.

Is there a novel you didn’t necessarily enjoy but are glad you read? Why or why not?

Garza’s “Taiga Syndrome”

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I would like to begin this blog post by commending Jon for taking that shot like a champ. Didn’t even flinch or anything. I am very impressed. I am also very impressed by Rivera Garza’s prose and overall writing style; the line “Death makes us want to put things into our mouths” is great—not entirely sure what it means, but I’m here for it. I also found the decision to begin most chapters with the word “That” super interesting and authentic. I’ll admit I struggled to find the syntactical sense in this at times, but am always in support of bold creative choices.

I think the “poetics of failure” is a great concept, as well as a means of humanising the protagonist. Yes, not getting all the answers in the culmination of the novel was a touch frustrating, but lends itself well to the scattered, twisty narrative the speaker creates for us, with the fantastical elements interwoven throughout. I can see Rulfo’s influence in Garza’s work in that he also doesn’t rely on a particularly linear writing style, and leans heavily into prose as well. A “magical-realist fable” is a perfect way of describing this book. Definitely touch to track at times, but the magical elements are enough to keep readers engaged throughout.

Prior to watching the lecture video, I actually didn’t clock that the man who’d sent the narrator on the mission beat her up in the end. I really thought a wolf did it; I think I like that the novel’s surreal enough to go either way, yet still grounds itself in reality. The man’s anger was foreshadowed earlier through the narrator’s revisitation of the moment he grabbed her by the elbow and “with a dexterity that was pure elegance, led [her] from inside the gallery toward the terrace” (10)—the man’s forceful action almost overshadowed by his “elegance”, perhaps hinting at an underlying anger coveted beneath an innate charisma. I never did grasp exactly why his wife ran away, but perhaps it is for this very reason; she didn’t want to circumnavigate his temper, and running into the deep wood felt easier than staying under a roof with him.

Why do you think she ran away (unless this was explained and I missed it entirely)? Do you think the man’s first wife really died in a car crash? Why did he take the time to mention her to the detective?

Week 12 — Indiana’s “Papi”

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What an interesting read! Indiana’s imaginative prose is colourful and inimitable; I sailed through this novel. Something that really stood out to me is the grief palpable throughout the narrative; it is as if the young narrator is mourning her Papi’s death before she even learns of it, creating these elaborate scenarios of a life she, nor her father, even lead as a means of mitigating the feelings of abandonment she’s been grappling with since eight years old, and likely long before then.

I think the gradual build of these hypothetical tales before—boom—the reveal of Papi’s death in the last section of the novel is effective in eliciting readers’ empathy on a deeper level; up until this point, we’ve been planted in the young girl’s mind experiencing her emotions as if in real time, so the plunge into her anguished perplexity as she attempts to come to terms with her father’s loss is especially visceral. The most notable sections for me were page 111 (“The first car, crazy. It crashed into you, it crashed into you. A driverless car, a headless driver. Here it comes”)—especially after learning he wasn’t hit by a car but shot…or I think he was shot? Honestly, it’s hard to track truth from fiction in this book. Tactful on Indiana’s part I’m sure—and page 125 (“That is not my dad. You have to see, just look. You have to look at him”). This chaotic prose is easy to follow, yet difficult to process, which I believe should be a place to land in when sitting in on someone else’s mourning.

I appreciate what Jon had to say about the themes of sexuality and gender in this novel, particularly “the narrator’s desire to take on [Papi’s] attributes and ultimately to replace him entirely”; I hadn’t picked up on this in my reading, but in thinking of Papi and his associates’ chauvinistic view of women coupled with the narrator’s gender expression, it’s quite possible the narrator wants to stray away from being objectified in the manner her Papi objectifies women just as much as she wants to be more masc, or to more specifically be her father. This is exemplified when Papi takes the young narrator to a business dinner and the men “talk about their pals’ wives, about their pals’ wives’ daughters, and how much those daughters look like them” (60), harping not only on the sexualisation of women, but the sexualisation of girls, girls like her—…super disturbing. Moreover, the feminising of Papi (as Jon also pointed out in his lecture) in combination with the narrator’s androgyny could hint at the fluidity with which the narrator sees their own gender, and perhaps gender as a whole.

I notice this novel delves deep into the mind of a young female narrator, similar to the perspective Campobello employs in Cartucho; both novels engross readers in the language and emotions two distinct young voices lean on to convey the aftermath of death and how one navigates grief. Both narrators are compelling, but not super reliable. Did anyone else pick up on this? Can you draw any other parallels between Papi’s narrator and others explored in the course thus far?

Week 11 — Bolaño’s “Distant Star”

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I ~think~ this is the first mystery-ish novel of the semester, and I have to say I really enjoyed both the change of pace and the novel itself. I recall being quite fascinated by Bolaño’s Amulet in RMST 202, and was absorbed by his eloquent and slightly grotesque writing style yet again in Distant Star. Although the main narrative—that of Wieder and his connection to the bizarre disappearances of young poets in Chile—was at times tough to follow amid the plot diversions, such as when the narrator tells us the story of Lorenzo/Lorenza (best quote: “In the current sociopolitical climate, […] committing suicide is absurd and redundant. Better to become an undercover poet” [80]), I actually liked these moments the most. These extra narratives allow readers to better understand the speaker and what stories attract him in contrast to his almost exposition-like delineation of the novel.

I found Jon’s point in the lecture video on “Wieder’s art [as] fascist in that it […] [celebrates] extermination as a ‘cleansing’ that eliminates everything that no longer belongs” especially interesting. The section of the novel depicting Muños Cano’s experience attending Wieder’s twisted art exhibition was the hardest to get through, yet by far the most memorable. I think that, following the murder scene Wieder makes of the Garmendia twins’ home in the novel’s beginning, I was sort of primed for something this grotesque and extreme to occur, but was still taken aback by the descriptions of the photographs. Wieder as a serial killer is particularly frightening because he simultaneously embodies the ‘pretentious poet’ archetype; his ‘art’—the lecture video asks if we can call it that and I’m going to say no—is allowed to push (crazy) boundaries and break rules (laws) because it represents something greater—it ‘cleanses’. It is “the art of the future” (93). Seems to me Wieder is no more than a man frustrated by a lack of poetic skill who cannot think of an idea more original than killing folks and claiming their art as his own.

A few questions—do you have a favourite quote? One of mine is “Nature intervenes actively in history” (121). Who do you think hired Romero to assassinate (or simply track down) Wieder if not Bibiano? Do you think it’s an individual we’ve encountered in the novel or someone else entirely?

Week 10 — Menchú and Burgos-Debray’s “I, Rigoberta Menchú”

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I really enjoyed this read. I like that Burgos-Debray stayed true to Rigoberta’s words and lived experience through her transcription of the tapes, modifying very little. I listened to sections of the audiobook as well; hearing the words aloud was very powerful, and I can only imagine what it was like to sit in the same room as Rigoberta as she shared her story. No wonder they cultivated an important trust and camaraderie in the process.

There is a ton packed into this novel, but I’m going to hone in on a section I found super interesting—Rigoberta and her mother’s thoughts on machismo (I’m not sure if the word should be italicised, but it was in the book, so I’ll stick with it) and the role of women in Guatemala. She believes, “men [aren’t] to blame for machismo, and women [aren’t] to blame for machismo, but that it was part of the whole society” (216). Later, Rigoberta goes on to say, “it would be feeding machismo to set up an organisation for women only, since it would mean separating women’s work from men’s work. […] What is the point of educating women if men aren’t there to contribute to the apprenticeship and learn as well? […] We must fight as equals” (222). I don’t have a fully fleshed out opinion as to whether there should or shouldn’t be organisations for women only in Guatemala; since I know very little about the country or the culture, it doesn’t seem right to form an opinion from an uninformed background. However, I like what Rigoberta has to say about men and women working together to puzzle through the concept of machismo, and contribute their perspectives on one another’s respective roles. From what I’ve observed in Western culture—especially in recent years as I have a thirteen year old brother whom I’ve watched grow personally and academically from an adult standpoint—I think more care is being put into ensuring young women are learning how to embrace their voices and advocate for themselves, and more dialogue regarding boundaries and consent is entering quotidian life. However, I notice that there is still a separation between young men and women. For instance, my brother’s school still divides boys and girls when it comes to sex education and puberty talks; it’s vital we educate children on the functions of both AFAB and AMAB bodies, otherwise they may grow to fear not only their one but each other’s bodies or feel ashamed to ask questions or explore gender identity and expression when encouraged to think in such binary terms. Perhaps this is not what Rigoberta meant when she said “we must fight as equals”, but I think an important step to working as a unit is eradicating any lingering fears in regard to airing perspectives and asking questions to better understand different viewpoints.

Rigoberta’s mother stood out to me as an important female figure in the novel. She believe “a woman should learn her womanly occupation” (219), and she, along with many other women, play a large part in the struggle for Indigenous justice and rights. She believes in embracing a woman’s role as a homemaker of sorts, but also of standing alongside men in the fight for Indigenous sovereignty. Her strength is demonstrated especially when “she was capable of seeing her son even as he was dying and doing everything she could to save him” (219). If I can make a comparison, she sort of reminds me of One Hundred Year’s Úrsula in her extreme resilience and stoicism in the face of immense suffering, while continuing to uphold her values as a wife and mother.

What did you think of what Rigoberta and her mother have to say about machismo?

Lispector’s “Hour of the Star”

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I am blown away by this novel. I don’t even know how to articulate just how much I loved it and exactly why it lingers with me still, but I’ll give it my best shot. There is so much I could talk about, but for the sake of word count, I’ll limit myself to two points: Lispector’s careful poeticism, and the depictions of masculinity and femininity throughout the story.

Okay, first, I think the translator’s afterword says it best; Lispector “[rearranges] conventional language to find meaning, but never to discard it completely” (80). I’ve mentioned before that I don’t believe writing has to make literal sense so long as it makes you feel something. Lispector’s prose is exactly the type of poetry I seek out—it’s rejection of conventional syntax and grammar rules render it uncanny, authentic, and thoroughly stunning. Lispector herself states, “The punctuation I employed in the book is not accidental and does not result from an ignorance of the rules of grammar” (79). Like poetry, if the language is rearranged, shaped into something new, it loses its rhythm, and sometimes its meaning. A few of my favourite lines: “I don’t know what’s inside my name” (47), “a distant relative of some pale love” (51), “all she was really good for was raining” (71). None of these quotes make literal sense, but they evoke something, yeah?

Throughout the story, there are many moments where gender ideals are imposed on both characters and readers; eg. “he himself was a man of few words like a man ought to be” (47), “that’s a bad word for a decent girl” (41), “From her hips you could tell Glória was made for childbearing” (51). This is especially interesting when considering the novel is written by a woman. Take Macabéa and Olímpico’s dynamic for instance, in which he is constantly putting her down and ascribing to a toxic, violent masculinity; eg. “Knowing […] stuff is for queers, for men who become women” (41). Olímpico who “[has] the singsong tone and the oily phrases, just right for someone who opens his mouth and speaks demanding the rights of men” (48), yet ironically seems to know much less than Macabéa, a stranger to her own intelligence; she’s never been afforded the opportunity to employ such positive of an adjective in relation to herself.

Lispector’s ruminations on gendered attributes (eg. “even what I’m writing somebody else could write. A male writer, that is, because a woman would make it all weepy and maudlin” [6]) through the lens of her male narrator has me reflecting on her intentions. Perhaps the narrator has a closeted desire to embrace femininity in a manner hegemonic masculinity does not allow them to; they even goes so far as to state “there is no place for me in the world of men” (12). Perhaps Macabéa is the closest the narrator feels they can get to being a woman, therefore they elect to “write out all of [themself] through her amidst frights of [their] own” (16). Or perhaps Macabéa’s depiction as pathetic, not the woman Glória is, “far too delicate to withstand the brutality of men” (65) represents Lispector’s hidden desire to be more masc, to be perceived as men are, to not fight twice as hard for the same allowances. However, in this novel, masculinity seems to act as a cage as well, especially for the narrator who wrestles with its meaning and where they fit within it. And Lispector’s comments on womanhood, “a woman is born to be a woman from the very first cry. A woman’s destiny is to be a woman” (75) emulate the confines of femininity, how these gendered ideals follow you to death, and then through rebirth: “in death she would go from virginity to womanhood” (75). It’s all so binary. And sad.

I could go on and on, but I’m going to cut myself short here. My question this week is, what do you think Lispector was trying to say about masculinity, femininity, and gender roles?

García Márquez’ “One Hundred Years of Solitude” Part 2

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There weren’t many, if any, characters I felt particularly connected or drawn to in One Hundred Years of Solitude, but Úrsula Iguarán stood out to me as the most consistent. As mentioned in my previous blog post, her ordered and assertive personality renders her a grounding presence in the novel, especially since she outlives most characters. She is also, inarguably, deeply intelligent. As an example, when she states that “Time was not passing […] it was turning in a circle” (341), it could be interpreted as a nod at the nonlinear nature of time as a central theme in the novel, the cyclicality of events and, most importantly, of characters who share the same names, and subsequently, the same traits.

Moreover, García Márquez again references this cyclicality, and Úrsula’s awareness and role within it, through the statement, “Perhaps it was that crossing of stature, names, and character that made Úrsula suspect that they had been shuffled like a deck of cards since childhood” (197); this quote speaks of the twins being interchangeable in childhood before growing into their namesake, into their lineage. It almost acts as a warning; you have no choice but to become what is predetermined for you. Life has a plan and the body must abide by it. Úrsula’s early recognition of this ancestral repetition establishes her as a trustworthy voice in the novel, as the outsider looking in on these bizarre reoccurrences. It makes me reflect as to how this story would read written in Úrsula’s first-person perspective. Already, she embodies the reason and coherence I relied on to decipher the nonlinear unfolding of the novel, and she is, in a sense, the matriarch of both the Buendia family and the story as a whole. A pivotal backbone.

Often I find female characters in novels of this time period (generally authored by men) are written to fit a specific archetype—the ideal femme, the doting wife, the loving mother. Interestingly, it’s not that Úrsula doesn’t embody some of these qualities; she is, after all, a caring wife and mother, as well as a proficient seamstress, cook, and midwife, yet there is a distinct stoicism to her I hadn’t yet encountered in female characters of this time. She is incredibly resilient and self-assured, attributes that carry no gender but are often associated with masculine figures in old-ish works of fiction. I wonder how much of García Márquez’ own family, and lived experience, influenced his creation of this lineage and those associated with it.

If the novel were to be more centrally foregrounded in one individual’s viewpoint, is there a specific character whose perspective you’d want to lean in on?

Garcia Márquez’ “One Hundred Years of Solitude” Part 1

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I’m unsure as to whether I enjoyed this book. It was definitely hard to follow, and the family tree at the top of the novel wasn’t super helpful given that everyone had pretty much the same name, but I do admire the authenticity of the story. I’ve never read anything that uses magical realism so naturally, or employs such a gripping opening line, “Many years later as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice” (1). Progressing from there to the descriptions of the camps (eg. “Every year during the month of March a family of ragged gypsies would set up their tents near the village, and with a great uproar of pipes and kettledrums they would display new inventions” [1]) the sheer mysticism of the novel is established in only the first few sentences. I’m not a huge fantasy reader, so I appreciate the strategic blend of magical realism with a sort of contemporary familial existence.

There is important exploration of individual relationships, such as that of José Arcadio Buendía and Úrsula Iguarán and the, at times, tepid dynamic between the two—Úrsula seems to occupy the more ordered and assertive personality of the couple, while “José Arcadio Buendía, whose unbridled imagination always went beyond the genius of nature and even beyond miracles and magic” (1) seems less wrapped up in the present, determined to remain focused on his experiments and discoveries. I find this couple especially interesting, as I learned that Gabriel García Márquez insisted on retyping (on a type writer) the first half of the novel each time he made a mistake. Eventually his wife, Mercedes Barcha, put her foot down and insisted he send off what he had; at the time, they were living with very little income and I imagine it would be frustrating watching one of their only means of monetary gain recreate itself each time a perceived error arose. I think this story alone demonstrates the similarities between the author and his wife, and the matriarch and patriarch of the novel.

An aspect of the magical realism that stuck out to me is the acceptance of the existence and presence of ghosts throughout the novel. Remedios the Beauty, for instance, drives men to literal hysterics and death with her incredible beauty (magical realism) and is described as literally “[ascending] to heaven” (240). More magical realism; no additional exposition is included. I appreciate Garcia Márquez’ willingness to lean into the absurd and impossible, to render it mundane. Did I like the novel as a whole? I haven’t decided. It certainly hurt my brain trying to keep track of the characters, but the language is bold and colourful which kept me relatively engaged.

What do you think the yellow butterflies present throughout the novel represent, if anything?

Week 6 – Rulfo’s “Pedro Páramo”

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This was a welcome change of pace after the brain-bashing I took from last week’s reading. I like that this tale isn’t linear, leans into the abstract, toys with the idea of time and purgatory, yet reads quite smoothly despite these inherent complexities. I didn’t struggle through this one—rather, I very much enjoyed it. And the writing is not only beautiful, but also really clever! I love the description of the heat in Comala: “They say that when people from there die and go to hell, they come back for a blanket” (6). I love the sifting memories echoing through the abandoned town, windows into the minds and perspectives of Susana, Dorotea, Abundio… I’ll admit that the novel’s refusal to follow a linear path was confusing at times, but also necessary in a way? This story demonstrates that time isn’t linear, that ghosts are just as alive as they are dead if their recollections live on within the land. The town exists in its own plain, and this is exemplified well through the vignette-like, episodic delineation of the novel.

One pervading theme that leaped out at me was the misogyny, the mistreatment and abuse of the women in the town. The introduction of Donis and his sister, and then later, Susana and her father, was incredibly uncomfortable. Though I don’t think it’s confirmed that Susana’s father was abusing her, that was the impression I gathered, particularly when following the obvious incestuous relationship between Donis and his poor sister who I interpreted as miserable (eg. “since he made me his woman […] I’ve been closed up here, because I’m afraid to be seen. […] Don’t you see my sin? [51]) but of only knowing, therefore feeling trapped within the life she’s lived captive by her brother (eg. “life had joined us together, herded us like animals, forced us on each other” [52]). I also think the end of that quote is intentional given the assault present throughout the novel, almost exclusively at the hands of Pedro and Miguel. Yet, amid these horrors, we’re exposed to the narratives of the women of the village. Juan listens. Juan’s been sent on this journey by his mother, Dolorita. In this way, I believe the female characters of this novel work behind the scenes, pulling the strings, unravelling the events of the story. A sort of reclamation of their voices and their power. This really moved me.

It was interesting reading in the introduction that Gabriel García Márquez loved this novel to the extent of memorising the whole thing; it makes me curious to see whether One Hundred Years will bear any similarities in theme or stylistic choice.

How did you feel about the female characters in this novel? Did you find their narratives to be more empowering or disempowering? Perhaps a combination?

Week 5 – Borges’ “Labyrinths”

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This book angered me. Not the whole thing, but at least ninety-five percent of it made me want to light my hair on fire and swallow it. First impressions (and then I’ll say something kinder, I promise, but I have to get this out of my system)—either this dude’s brain is truly leagues ahead of everyone else’s or it’s just large enough to hold his own ego but no one’s attention span. I really tried with this one. I really did. But I didn’t understand a word of it. And then I started to think—sure, maybe taking readers on this maze-like journey is a novel idea, but in practice, as someone who didn’t enjoy said journey, what’s the point? What is the point of creating an incomprehensible, teeth-gritting, makes-me-wish-I-never-learned-how-to-read, novel? I circled back and read the intro after reading the required pages hoping maybe it would explain the book enough for me to get through this blog post with some amount of clarity, but it did not. People love this book—it’s a literary sensation—so I must be missing something, right? Besides the entire premise and my sanity, I must be missing something. If you understood and maybe even enjoyed this monstrosity, then a.) I’m sorry for calling it a monstrosity and b.) what about it appealed to you? Which part reached out, tugged at your tear ducts, and made you want to meet up with William Gibson to rave about the artistic finesse of this literary messiah? I am LOSING MY MIND.

Okay, now for the kinder part. Prior to chatting with a classmate and then watching Jon’s lecture video (which I enjoyed much more than the reading) I didn’t know Borges had gone blind. Apologies if I’m mixing up my timelines here, but if he was blind at this point and had to dictate the whole thing? Wow. The mind on that man. This is where his brain takes him? I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast this morning, or even if I ate breakfast, and this guy’s just out here creating unlikely and evocative combinations of words? Some favourites: “The road descended and forked among the now confused meadows” (23), “At times some birds, a horse, have saved the ruins of an amphitheatre” (14). In the intro, Gibson states that Borges was a poet and this makes a lot of sense. I did a bit of a deep dive into his poetry (eg. ‘Adam Cast Forth’, ‘Elegy’, ‘A Compass’, etc.) and enjoyed it a lot more than his long-form writing. I think because it’s more digestible in a shorter, more intentionally poetic form? Or maybe because I tend to read more poetry than novels. And yeah, maybe I shouldn’t cast such harsh judgement on a style of writing simply because I don’t understand or can’t relate to it—we all like different things. We appreciate different forms and ways of manipulating language. This one just really wasn’t for me. I did, however, like how the lengths of sentences varied. He has a unique (and poetic) sense of rhythm, which is probably how I made it through the pages to begin with. The cadence is easy to fall into if you let yourself, though I imagine this translator had a beast of a job with this novel. Kudos to them.

I’m going to circle back to my genuine, albeit strongly worded, question from earlier—if you enjoyed this reading…why? What about it pulled you in and held your attention? And if you didn’t enjoy it, why not?