Guitar

Despite initially liking Guitar, I haven't liked him much at all lately. Now that I've read chapter 13 though, I don't dislike him quite as much.

Even though his speech to Hagar about Milkman didn't help her in the end, he tried. As far as we know, he has never treated women as badly as Milkman used to. Had Guitar been able to help Hagar earlier on, maybe she wouldn't have ended up dead. Yes, he thinks to himself that she is spoiled, stingy, and greedy, but all of this is true. Guitar understands Hagar, and even though he thinks she is spoiled, stingy, and greedy, he also tries to help her. He tries to make her see sense. Yes, he fails, but Pilate and Reba fail too. He is not the only one. Guitar's redeeming characteristic, in my opinion, is his good treatment of women, especially Hagar.

Ultimately, I don't like Guitar very much. I think his ideas about killing white people for every black person that gets killed are crazy. I don't think that's the way he should be taking action. However, even while I hate his actions, I understand the intentions behind them. His intentions make sense to me, and his actions make sense too, because he has a right to be angry. When people are angry, they act irrationally. We've seen this with nearly every character in this book from Hagar to Macon Dead II.

I can't dislike Guitar as much as I did before though. Even though he tried to kill his best friend (who I feel sympathy for, partly because he is the main character) and is involved in the Seven Days, he tries to help those who need it. He really understands Hagar, and that shows his ability to sympathize with people and to care about people. Guitar was able to love and has loved, but he's been hurt by love all throughout his life. It makes sense for him to understand Hagar, and it also makes sense for him to be tough and irrational about killing white people and even trying to kill his best friend.

Flying

"It was a warm dreamy sleep all about flying, about sailing high over the earth. But not with arms stretched out like airplane wings, not shot forward like Superman in a horizontal dive, but floating, cruising, in the relaxed position of a man lying on a couch reading a newspaper. Part of his flight was over the dark sea, but it didn't frighten him because he knew he could not fall. He was alone in the sky, but somebody was applauding him, watching him and applauding. He couldn't see who it was." (Song of Solomon, page 298)

After meeting Guitar for the second time since Guitar has decided to kill him, Milkman goes back to Sweet's house and "[sleeps] the night in her perfect arms." He has just learned why Guitar wants to kill him and has told his friend that he never found any gold. This point is just before the morning when he reconsiders his entire life, and consciously recognizes that he has needed to change.

Flying has been an important image throughout this book, so when I read this passage it struck me. Milkman finally seems at peace. His flight is like "floating, cruising, in the relaxed position of a man lying on a couch reading a newspaper." He imagines someone "watching him and applauding." I would argue that this night marks him really growing from a boy into a man. His flight is easy and relaxed, rather than uneasy and hurried. This idea that he has now really changed is supported the next morning when he consciously realizes it. Maybe this dream about flying is Milkman unconsciously realizing that he has changed.

Song of Solomon and Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man

"He was as eager and happy as he had ever been in his life."

I think so far, chapter 12 is my favorite in this book. In it, Milkman consciously considers his entire life, his family, and his personality. He realizes that he's changed and reflects on what a jerk he has been. We were talking in class about how we weren't completely sure the change would carry over and how he may not consciously realize he has changed...but this chapter is proof that he has changed and taken note of that change.

As I was reading this chapter and reading through all of Milkman's "revelations" I was reminded of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce, which we read in Coming-of-Age. I remember being kind of disappointed by Portrait because Stephen Dedalus had SO MANY false "coming-of-age" moments. Reading Song of Solomon, I was a bit worried it would turn out similarly to the way Portrait did--leaving plenty to be desired. However, I am loving the way Song of Solomon is turning out. In this chapter, he has completely changed his way of thinking about his family, relationships, and all the women in his life (which is a huge deal considering the sexist ways in which he used to think), and he has also discovered significant information about his family and his past, not by being told creepy perverse stories, but by using his own mind and finding the information himself.

Milkman has finally (at almost 40 years old) grown up from the little boy in between his parents in the car, facing everything behind him but being made uncomfortable by everything he saw that had already happened without his input. Now that he can face his past, find his ancestors, and learn their stories, he has no reason to be scared of the past. Furthermore, when he thinks about the "perverted" part of the past now, it no longer seems perverse. He understand his "weird" mother and his controlling, greedy father. He's not selfish anymore and truly cares about how other people feel--his instinctive remembrance of Hagar when he was about to die has become more than just a passing thought. He now considers her feelings as important and significant, and even more importantly, recognizes his past cruelty toward her.

So the only question now is, will Macon Dead III escape death? Will he die at the hands of his first real friend, or will he be allowed to live a long life, enjoying the benefits of his new, mature personality?

The Voice of Reason

So far, the only person in Song of Solomon who seems mature and reasonable to me is Pilate. All of the other characters seem to be either far too "young at heart" or are just impossible for me to understand. It seems this has a lot to do with gender--the women generally seem to be the "younger" ones, while the men have control over them and are able to make them "crazy." Let's start with the Dead household: Macon Dead (II) is clearly in control, and is very controlling. I almost understand him, but he just seems so incredibly greedy, abusive, oppressive, and mean. Because of his jealousy complex, he abuses his wife, and therefore abuses his son in an attempt to further abuse his wife (whether he is consciously trying to abuse Ruth is debatable, but maybe it doesn't even matter), he oppresses all of his family members as if they are all very badly-behaved young children, and he is greedy for money and status, which is demonstrated by his crazy attempts to find the gold from the cave.

Now, if we analyze relationships with people outside of the Dead household, we see the same sort of gender dynamic. Milkman is a cowardly jerk in his relationship with Hagar, and although she is older than him, she seems like a child throwing a tantrum when he leaves her. This is entirely Milkman's fault, because he has treated her like something to be ashamed of for years. He has become his father in this respect, because he is emotionally abusing Hagar in the same way that Macon emotionally abuses Ruth. At least Milkman hasn't physically abused Hagar (as far as we know). In this relationship, Milkman is in the power position: he gets to make all the decisions and treat Hagar like a child. Of course, this puts Hagar below him in a very childlike position.

Looking at Corinthians's relationship with Porter draws similar conclusions. Although Corinthians is above Porter status-wise, she is humbled by Porter and must almost literally throw herself at his feet. Porter seems very much like the adult in this situation where she is banging on his window and then lies across the hood of his car, because he allows her to have her "tantrum," then rationally and calmly comforts her, and then gets his way and takes her home with him. This seems to be the most healthy romantic relationship in the book though. Corinthians genuinely cares about Porter and he seems to genuinely care about her. Of course, it is crushed by Macon (and Milkman who is dying to have the power that his father does).

Who keeps their head on throughout all of this? Pilate. Pilate is strong and tall like Macon, and this is a symbol for being just as powerful as a man. She is calm, cool, and rational, even more so than Macon, and gets her way for the benefit of not just herself, but for those she loves. Sure, Pilate is eccentric and a little bit weird, but she is incredibly intelligent. She is also pure--not in a childlike way, but in a non-corrupt way. In this way, she is similar to other women who maintain their childhood and therefore their purity in a sense. Pilate, however, does this in a very adult way. She doesn't become corrupt, power-hungry, and greedy like Macon and Milkman do; she sees the value in human life over the value of a bag of gold. Even though she didn't kill the man in the cave, she took responsibility for it and went back for the bones, in respect for the dead. Pilate is my favorite character in this book. She is confident and strong like a typical man, but she has not become corrupt and cruel the way so many male characters have.

An Online Journal Entry Reflecting on the Online Journal

I have really enjoyed keeping an online journal for this class. Although I do understand (and agree with) many of the reasons for keeping notebook journals, I definitely prefer this online method. The main advantage to actually writing on paper, for me, is that writing fits more with the pace of critical thinking. However, I think that writing a little bit in our notebooks at the beginning of some class periods is a great way to balance this out and keep up some good old fashioned pencil-and-paper writing.

I like the online journal so much because I have found that it forces me to write better--and to think better too. Since I know everybody can see that I am keeping up with writing or not keeping up with it, I am much more motivated to stay on top of things. Furthermore, because this is a published blog that anybody can read, I try to make my writing better, or at least write so that my ideas make more sense--I flesh them out more than I would in a notebook. This is good, because the more I flesh out an idea, the more I am forced to critically think about that one idea and delve even deeper into it than I originally intended. I do feel like this has improved my writing and made response papers much easier (the notebook did this too, but not to the same degree).

I can see why people don't love the online journal. When we're stressed and neglecting it, it becomes obvious that we haven't done any work in a while. Not only is it much harder to procrastinate, but procrastination also leads to much more guilt. This is a good thing, because it forces us to update our blogs more regularly and be less stressed to throw something together the night before it's due (not that everybody did that; but occasionally I'm sure we all felt a bit rushed during that week of the journal deadline). It's also difficult to write for the public. Even though it's not likely other people will read this blog, it is very public to our classmates. While I think this makes for even better writing, it does not allow for as much scattered writing or more reflective writing that we may not want to publish on the internet. I think the simple solution to this is for us to write in notebooks if we feel compelled to write something that we don't want to publish. Or, we could simply compose a post but not publish it. Then we would still be doing all types of writing, but we could simply write without publishing.

The biggest advantage I see to an online journal is that it is easy to keep track of. I remember Mr. Mitchell stressing in Coming of Age that he wanted our journals to be something we could look back on as a record of our thoughts the first time we read these books. I agree that the journals are extremely valuable in that sense, and the fact that they are online makes it much easier to keep track of them (paper notebooks are much easier to lose over the years). So even if we didn't publish everything we wrote on these blogs, we could still come back to them ten years later and read both the published and unpublished entries, without having to worry about searching our old school things for an easy-to-lose paper notebook.

Overall, I really like the online journals and hope that they will continue to be used in years to come (and if they aren't, then I'm glad I at least got to create one), but I also see the value of private paper-and-pencil writing and I hope that remains a part of this class as well.

My Thoughts on Our Panel Presentation Article

I probably made this pretty clear in class (and in my previous post), but I do not think Antoinette goes insane. She is incredibly sane considering the fact that she's been locked up for years. Her desires are simple: she wants to leave the cold, gray, oppressive house and be free. Yes, by the standards of her society she is "insane." However, are we really that stuck in the past that we can't let go of standards for mental illness that claim that "insanity" is inherited, and characterized by "crazy" actions that are not womanly? A man living during Antoinette's time period would not be expected to be sane while being locked in an attic. A man would not be considered crazy for getting drunk and yelling at his wife. There is definitely a sexual double-standard here, and it unfortunately causes Antoinette to be judged rather harshly--by her society.

However, this is the twenty-first century! Antoinette is from the nineteenth! Why does it make sense to dismiss her as being "insane" when we are supposed to have progressed away from that way of thinking? What really makes her insane? My definition of insanity is being completely incapable of rational thought and rational desires. Antoinette is surprisingly rational in her thoughts and desires, and is even very calm and peaceful when she is not being treated badly by Richard or Rochester. Her relationship with Grace Poole does not seem like a bad one: although Grace views Antoinette as "mad," Antoinette does not act "mad" when she is alone with Grace. She does not give Grace a hard time. All she does is ask to be set free, or ask for food or fire for warmth. Those of you who believe Antoinette is mad, please tell me: what is your definition of insanity, and how does Antoinette fit that definition at all? I think we all agree that she is mentally ill, but we do not classify mentally ill people as insane. Our understanding of mental illness should have progressed enough since the nineteenth century that we understand mental illness does not equal insanity. Even by Antoinette's society's standards, she is not as insane as people believe. People in her society do not understand why Richard angers her so much when he says he cannot legally help her. They do not understand her identity crisis, or the way she has been hurt by Rochester.

Can we really classify anybody as insane or mad? I would argue that we cannot. It is impossible to fully understand a person (unless we have a handy book about them that explains their mind to us perfectly), and unless we really understand how somebody's mind works and whether their thoughts are rational or not, we cannot call them insane. We know that insanity is not hereditary (even in Antoinette's case where her mental illness is a self-fulfilling prophecy, it is not inherited and it did not have to happen), and we know that there are various degrees and intensities of mental illness. We even claim now to understand the human mind better than we did back then, but do we really? If we are still dismissing people as insane simply because they are mentally ill for perfectly legitimate reasons (but still entirely rational), has our thinking about mental illness actually progressed that much?

Given my previous assertion that we cannot call anybody mad or insane, I do not think Rochester is mad. I understand what our author is saying about him having a "mad" quality, and that makes sense to me, but I do not think we can call him mad. Our author was definitely on Antoinette's side and not at all on Rochester's, which would explain her reluctance to sympathize with the latter. I do not hate Rochester. I don't like him in this book (I do overall, when I consider both this book and Jane Eyre, because I like the person he becomes), but I do understand his pride, his frustration at being the "second son," his fear of being the rejected suitor, and his "need" for power because society tells him to be the powerful man. Rochester is a victim of society's sexism just as much as Antoinette is. I do not think that Rochester is mad, just like I don't think that Antoinette is mad: if they were, how could we understand them at all (unless, of course, you want to argue that we are all mad)?

Antoinette Is Not Crazy

I don't think Antoinette is ever out of her mind at all in the entire story. First of all, she has a right to be incredibly angry with Rochester after he deliberately hurts her by so obviously cheating on her. It is only because she is a woman who "should" be quiet and sweet and obedient that Rochester is so freaked out by her drunken yelling at him. She's drunk though--it's easy to view the scene where she's yelling at him as the beginning of her "insanity," but it's not at all the beginning. Everybody's emotions and actions are escalated when they are drunk, and Antoinette has every right to be furious at this point. She's just showing emotion here, and because that's not really "allowed" of her, she can easily be viewed as insane at this point.

There is, of course, the issue of the Antoinette in the attic, who we know from Jane Eyre as Bertha Mason. It is so easy to say that because she tried to attack Richard, she is insane, but she doesn't attack him until he says he legally can't do anything about her situation. She is so frustrated at being so trapped, and her brother, the one person who she hopes will recognize and help her, has failed her and is clearly frightened of her. Yes, at this point, her mental state has definitely spiraled downward, but she is not insane. She has perfectly civilized conversations with Grace Poole, and her thoughts seem rational to me as well (we did not declare Septimus "insane" when we were inside his head, even though he appears insane on the outside!).

Another question is that of why she burns the house down. This is open to plenty of interpretation, but I do not think she does it as a means of revenge. I don't think that attempting to hurt anybody is really on her mind when she does this. In her dream that made her "realize" what she had to do, the act of setting the fire and killing herself is centered around her. She constantly talks of Coulibri, Christophine, Tia, Aunt Cora, and her childhood. Rochester is involved, and is referred to as "the man who hated me," and he seems to be beckoning Antoinette to stay, and not to jump. He's calling her name (well, he's using the name he gave her anyway), and since he is the one who brought her away from England and her childhood, he seems to be telling her not to jump, and to stay in the world he has created for her. Her choice is to jump into what is the pool in her dream (but what we know will actually be her death in real life), and this seems to be her way of finally escaping Rochester and going back, in a way, to the life that she truly identifies with. She is not an English girl in the end. She is Antoinette, not Bertha.

Does this make her insane? Is she insane to kill herself in order to escape a life that she's not happy living? We didn't denounce Virginia Woolf as insane for committing suicide; we understood it to an extent. I feel like we can understand Antoinette's suicide in the same way. Yes, she is mentally ill to a degree, but this does not make her insane. She is never insane, and her mental illness is absolutely brought on by Mr. Rochester's treatment of her. How "sane" can we expect a woman to be if she is confined to an attic for years? In my opinion, Antoinette is surprisingly sane at the end of the book.

I Remembered Something!

In Nineteenth-Century Novel, while we were reading Jane Eyre, we discussed the idea that Jane and Bertha are doubles. The main idea that I remember was that Jane feels trapped working as a governess for Mr. Rochester, in the same way that Bertha Mason is trapped in the attic. Jane has a free spirit the same way that Bertha does; Bertha's free spirit is just "overly" free, because she is so trapped by society. I thought this idea was very relevant, because of my last post, and parallels I'm noticing between Jane's back-story and Bertha's back-story (or Antoinette's story). It gives my last post about Jane and Antoinette much more meaning.

Antoinette and Jane

While I was reading tonight's section, I could not help but notice many parallels between the lives of Antoinette and Jane Eyre. Both are fatherless when their stories begin, and their mother figure is not the most compassionate. (Although Jane is an orphan, her Aunt Reed is in the position of her mother.) Also, neither of them fits in with their communities. Jane is  hated by her cousins and Aunt, and her uncle who she remembers as being part of a happier time, has died. Antoinette is not exactly English, and the Jamaican people dislike her because her father was a cruel slaveholder.

One specific example of a parallel that I noticed was the point at which Antoinette is being picked on while she walks to school with the girl who smells like hair oil and the boy with red hair. They make fun of her, physically hurt her, and the boy makes an ambiguous threat: "One day I catch you alone, you wait, one day I catch you alone" (p. 50). This reminded me vividly of the scene in Jane Eyre when her older cousin throws a book at her, causing her to hit her head on the corner of a table.

Also, when Antoinette is at school, she is happy, just like Jane is at school. The nuns are nice to her and the one who doesn't have the "starched apron like the others" (p. 52) reminded me a lot of Miss Temple, the head of the school in Jane Eyre. Antoinette clearly looks up to this woman in the same way that Jane looks up to Miss Temple. She describes her beauty the same way Jane describes Miss Temple's beauty, saying, "She had large brown eyes, very soft...Her cheeks were red, she had a laughing face and two deep dimples." Immediately after this scene, the nun sends Antoinette off with another girl, Louise de Plana, who reminded me so much of Helen from Jane Eyre. Antoinette says, "She was very pretty and when she smiled at me I could scarcely believe I had ever been miserable" (52). Of course, unlike Helen, Louise is well-liked by all of her teachers.

Another scene that struck me as being shockingly similar to a scene from Jane Eyre occurs soon after Antoinette meets Louise. Mother St. Justine points out to all the girl the excellent way that the de Plana sisters look. She notes Miss Helene's hair, and Helene takes the praise. This reminded me (in a contrasting way) of the scene in Jane Eyre when one of the teachers is criticizing Helen (Oh look, the names are even similar! Possibly coincidental?) for her appearance, which the teacher claims is not put-together enough.

Another way that Antoinette reminds me of Jane Eyre is in her attitude toward religion. Initially Jane doesn't have much faith in God or in prayer, but once she goes to school and is convinced that "God loves us all" by Helen, she sets more faith in religion. Antoinette doesn't seem to ever reject religion the way Jane does. The way she approaches it worries me a bit actually. She seems terrified of sinning, of thinking bad thoughts, of going to Hell. She finds safety in prayer, but on page 57 she gets terrified of sinning too much, and is comforted by the thought that if she banishes thoughts quickly enough, she will be okay. After this, she notes, she stops praying very much, and is in the same sort of position that Jane is in before going to school. Later, Antoinette has a dream that she is in Hell, so obviously she is still terrified by religion.

So what is the difference between these two girls? Why is it that Jane ends up happy and successful (I would argue that she is happy with herself before she is happy with Mr. Rochester), but Antoinette, as we know based on Jane Eyre, will end up being "the insane woman in the attic?" I'm sure this question will be answered more as I read, but I expect it has a lot to do with the fact that Antoinette's family is not seen as all that respectable (and that her mother was declared insane), and the fact that Antoinette faces much more of an "identity crisis" than Jane does--Jane at least is confident in being "English," whereas Antoinette doesn't fully fit into any category.

I'd like to note that I loved Jane Eyre, and the first time I read it, I read an abridged version because I was pretty young (sometime in elementary school), and I was terrified of Bertha Mason because there was a very horrifying picture of her in the attic: she had long, wild, black hair and a crazed expression. Since then, that has been my impression of Bertha Mason, and when I reread the book in Nineteenth-Century Novel, I was able to dispel that impression a little bit, but it was always in the back of my mind. I'm excited to be reading her side of the story now, and I'm surprised at how much her story seems to mirror Jane's, and by how similar their characters are. It will really change the way I read Jane Eyre in the future (although I'm positive I will always love both books!).

Dear Joey and Annie

First of all I would like to say that your presentation was very good, and I agreed with what you both said.

However, when you mentioned there being an "arc" in the books we're reading, my first thought was that it had to do with character. Yes, philosophies on life and death is an arc as well, and perhaps character is part of that arc, but I had actually been paying a lot of attention to portrayal of characters as representations of human beings.

Nicholson Baker encouraged us to focus on every little moment. He only paid close attention to one character, and during the course of an escalator ride, he was able to flesh out his character so much that we knew Howie very, very well. Woolf's style was similar to Baker's in that she did flesh out characters a lot over a short period of time. However, Woolf took it to the next level by fleshing out (nearly) every single character in her novel. She made it impossible to really hate anybody. After spending so much time reading Woolf, her writing has really impacted the way I've read other books in this course. While reading Hemingway, I was constantly searing for what was underneath the surface, because I was so used to that being very important in Woolf's writing. This was obviously also important in Hemingway's, and I was very glad we had read Woolf first because it made it much more obvious that I had to look beneath the surface while reading Hemingway. Gregor's transformation in The Metamorphosis was like one huge metaphor not only for the awful family dynamic, but also for Gregor's insect-like personality. While reading The Stranger, our sympathetic view of characters was challenged by a character who seemed incredibly inhuman to us. We looked as hard as we could for human traits in Meursault, but it was difficult to find any at first. We even called him a psychopath. Once his trial began, however, and he started to change as a character, we began to like him because he was showing emotion for the first time we had seen. Now that we're reading Wide Sargasso Sea, I'm not sure what it will do for our perception of human nature and character, but I expect it to tell us something important as well.

I agreed with the points you two made during your presentation, but I wanted to offer an alternate "arc" that these books are forming, at least for me.

"I had only to wish...that they greet me with cries of hate."

By the end of The Stranger, this is what Meursault wants; however, during his trial when he realizes that everybody hates him, he wants to cry. His desire to cry is significant because it is the first real emotion he has shown during the entire book. It seems to me that by that point in his trial, his life has caught up with him, from his failure to completely college to his entire personality being judged as wrong in some way.

Meursault is generally a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. He doesn't care who his buddies are, who he gets married, or even whether or not he gets married. The one thing he does seem to care about is what other people think of him, or at least what his boss thinks of him. Although he may not care much about the thoughts of the other people at his mother's funeral, he cares a great deal about what his boss will think about him missing so much work. He also clearly cares what the jury think of him. When his entire life is set out to be judged, he questions himself. Until now, most people like him (although I'm not sure why, especially in the case of Marie). Being a people-pleaser who is all of a sudden judged as inhuman by other people is something that is very difficult for Meursault to face.

When Meursault receives the death sentence, he changes yet again. Initially, he reacts as anybody would. He hopes desperately for some way out, even though he knows that escape is impossible. However, he soon realizes that everybody must die eventually, and whether he dies now or later, it will amount to the same thing. He is then able to say he is ready for death and he hopes "for me to feel less alone...that they greet me with cries of hate." What snaps in Meursault to make him go from wanting to cry at the thought of being hated to hoping that people cry out at him in hatred? Just before making this profound statement, he reflects on his mother's death, noting that so close to the end, she must have felt free and tried to live as much as possible, which would explain why she "had taken a 'fiance.'" He states that nobody had the right to cry over her. Perhaps this is because he sees her as having been happy at the end? Or he believes that nobody could have possibly understood her? It would make sense that nobody can understand what it truly means to be mortal unless they know they are close to death. Meursault seems to recognize this, and because of it he feels that nobody has the right to cry over people when the die (or maybe just his mother?). At this point, he is certain that he is feeling what his mother was feeling. He does not feel alone in the world. I would even say that he feels that anybody who knows they are going to die feels the way he does. For that, he does not feel alone. He hopes that he will be greeted with hatred on his execution day because he doesn't think anybody has the right to cry over him, since they don't really understand him. Perhaps there is a part of him that hopes people are truly upset that he killed someone. Perhaps he values human life a little bit more now. But this doesn't seem to be about the Arab. It seems more like he's stronger as a person now, and he can take the hatred, because he finally knows that he is not really alone.

I Feel Uncomfortable

Reading The Stranger is making me feel incredibly uncomfortable. Initially, I was surprised at the seeming lack of emotion Meursault has when his mother dies. He never once explicitly states that he's upset about it. This could be Hemingway-esque, but it feels like it's different than Hemingway. When Jake is alone in his room crying at night, it's extremely clear that he's sad. However, as I'm reading The Stranger, I'm noticing that although it could be interpreted as a sort of scratching-the-iceberg-tip narrative, it's much more open to interpretation than The Sun Also Rises was.

One could argue that Meursault has experienced some sort of trauma (his mother's death, or something else?) that has influenced his personality and made him extremely passive. Passive is really the only way I can describe him. He is so passive that he seems indifferent to everything. He doesn't care where he lives, who he marries, or what his "friends" do no matter how awful it is. He does care about drinking good coffee and having nice swims with Marie and having a nice physical relationship with Marie. In Psychology we studied a theory of love that said to have the perfect relationship with someone, you need passion (lust), intimacy (very close friendship), and commitment. It seems that Meursault is only capable of passion and commitment. However, his commitment isn't really even entirely there; he only agrees to marry Marie because he doesn't see why he shouldn't, which doesn't seem like true commitment to me. It doesn't seem like he'll cheat on her though (he refuses to go to a "whorehouse" with Raymond, although he doesn't say why he doesn't want to), so he is committed to her in a very technical sense. It seems that all of Meursault's passions in life are related to physical pleasures: the good coffee makes him happy because it tastes good, swimming make him feel nice, and having sex with Marie feels good. I have yet to notice him mention any pleasures that aren't purely physical. Yes, these are simple pleasures, but they are all only physical. Even when he talks about missing his mother, he misses her because the apartment feels physically too large for him alone.

Sarah mentioned in class that Meursault could possibly be a psychopath. Now that I'm thinking about it, I think there is a lot of evidence to support this idea. We have no evidence that Meursault feels any emotions at all. He just goes with the flow and does whatever pleases him physically. He satisfies his instinctual needs (i.e. he thinks Marie is attractive so he wants to have sex with her so he does--a very Freudian example of fulfilling basic desires of our id), but he doesn't seem to have any emotional needs at all. This makes me feel so incredibly uncomfortable. I want to get to know Meursault better, but he's definitely not telling us something, and I need to know what that something is. Until I do, I can't think of any rationalization for his lack of emotion, and that's very creepy in a way (also, I don't see how Marie is in love with him and wants to marry him--he's made it clear he feels no love at all for her!).

Gregor and Cohn?

Perhaps the most frustrating thing about The Metamorphosis is that Gregor's family cannot understand him. As readers, we get to hear all of Gregor's thoughts and we know that he is still "human" in the sense that he still has his consciousness. Not only is he still human-like, he is overly compassionate toward his family. Even though they do not seem to care much for him and treat him absolutely awfully (both as a bug and a human, but even more so as a bug), he remains loyal and compassionate to them until the very end.

He actually reminds me a bit of a dog (or a puppy), which is weird because I was thinking of Cohn as a puppy as well...but Gregor is loyal to his family no matter how badly they mistreat him, in the same way dogs are. I've had two dogs growing up (right now I have just one) and the sad, but amazing, thing about dogs is that no matter how much you neglect them or yell at them or push them out of your way, they're still excited to see you when you walk in the door. Gregor reminds me of a dog because no matter what his family does, he loves them unconditionally. I don't think that this is a very human thing at all. People tend to hold grudges (at least I know I do), and don't forgive others easily when they are being obviously mistreated. Gregor goes against this typical human behavior (even BEFORE his transformation) and irrationally cares for his family no matter what.

So by some transitive property of logic or something, Gregor reminds me of Cohn. I wasn't aware at all of this comparison until I began writing this blog entry, but the puppy/dog comparison really does seem to fit. In the same way that Cohn chases after Brett no matter how much she stomps all over him, Gregor chases after and cares for his family no matter how much they stop all over and mistreat him. It is weird to think about Gregor as similar to Cohn, because I really disliked Cohn but I really like and sympathize with Gregor, but the comparison makes a lot of sense to me. It also provides me with more insight into Cohn's character, and makes me slightly more sympathetic to him. Of course both Cohn and Gregor are being irrationally clingy and loyal, but since I sympathize so much with Gregor, I can't help but sympathize a bit with Cohn now too.

Grete Samsa

Today in class we discussed Grete and her initial reaction to Gregor's transformation. We agreed that initially she seemed to be the most caring out of Gregor's entire family, but that she cared for him as if he was a pet. However, Grete's attitude toward Gregor quickly changes, and she stops cleaning his room, stops paying attention to his eating habits, and seems completely indifferent to his needs. This seems to me to be the place that his parents are in as well, though his parents do initially react in specific ways: his mother is devastated that her little boy has become a giant bug, and his father tries to be authoritative and tough, but both parents soon unhappily accept the fact that their son has been transformed and move on with their lives. Though it takes Grete longer to do this, she still does it.

In fact, Grete eventually becomes more alienated from Gregor than her parents do. It is she who suggests getting rid of him and letting him die: "It has go to. That's the only answer, Father. You just have to try and get rid of the idea that it's Gregor. Believing it for so long, that is our real misfortune. But how can it be Gregor? If it were Gregor, he would have realized long ago that it isn't possible for human beings to live with such a creature, and he would have gone away of his own free will." When I read this passage, I was astonished at Grete. Initially, I saw her as the most compassionate of all of Gregor's family, as she is the most cared for by Gregor. She has completely dehumanized Gregor, and it's also an indication of how dehumanized he was in her mind before the transformation, because she expects that her self-sacrificing brother would have left his family simply because he was in a predicament that is even more unfortunate for him than it is for his family. Because the insect has not allowed itself to die (ironically, that is what Gregor is doing at the moment), Grete says that he is not self-sacrificing enough and that they should abandon him--that they, who have taken advantage of Gregor for years, should abandon him now that he needs them!

To me, Grete is actually the least sympathetic character. Both Gregor's parents, although they do not take care of him initially the way Grete does, still believe that their son is there. His father, just before Grete's outburst, says, "If he could understand us, then maybe we could come to an agreement with him." Mr. Samsa clearly believes that Gregor is still there, he just doesn't realize that Gregor can understand them (and why should we expect him to realize that a giant insect can understand what his family is saying?). Mrs. Samsa can't help but see Gregor as her dear boy, even though he's an insect. She is the one who, although it is unnecessary, insists upon going in to see Gregor in the beginning. She is the one who, in an effort to avoid dehumanizing Gregor, argues with Grete about removing the furniture from his room. I actually sympathize most with Mrs. Samsa.

Of course, I see where Grete is coming from. It's hard to imagine how difficult it is for her to realize that inside this disgusting giant insect is her brother's consciousness. She does still love her brother. She wants to go on living and honoring Gregor's memory, but the way she sees it, it's impossible to live with Gregor anymore, because he is so dehumanized in her eyes that he's essentially just not there anymore. So I don't dislike Grete. I feel bad for her. I feel bad for her not only because she's lost her brother, but also because in the end, her parents are dehumanizing her in the same way as they did to Gregor. Someone mentioned in class that it sounded like she was being thought of as a farm animal, and I definitely agree. In the way that Gregor has lived and helped his parents as much as he could, but then died because dying helped them too, he reminds me of a pig that is raised to be slaughtered. I worry that the same thing will happen to Grete. She may not turn into a giant cockroach, but her parents are already planning to raise her so that she can benefit them, and if "slaughtering" her will also benefit them, I have no doubt that they will do that. But I feel so much worse for Gregor. He cares so much for his sister, and all he wants to do is show her compassion, and tell her about how he wanted to send her off to school and provide her with everything he could, but his sister cannot move past the fact that he is an insect and show him any affection at all. Even initially when she sees him as an insect, she feeds him as a duty, but is obviously completely repulsed at the same time. As time goes on, her repulsion increases to the point where she sees Gregor as having completely swallowed up by the body and mind of a huge, revolting insect.

Cohn Is A Puppy

As I was writing my response paper, I was surprised at how much Cohn reminds me of a puppy in The Sun Also Rises. In my paper, I mentioned that when Frances is giving him a piece of her mind, he just sits there and takes it like a puppy with its tail between its legs. I also see Cohn's behavior toward Brett as very puppy-like, but in a different way. With Brett, Cohn is an annoying puppy who is constantly begging for attention and trying to lick her face, whereas with Frances, he was more of a timid and shy puppy.

In both cases, Cohn's puppy-like behavior is not appreciated. Jake hates the way he takes Frances's criticism without sticking up for himself, and everybody hates the way Cohn follows Brett around as if he has possession of her. Now, I love dogs, but Cohn is loyal to Brett in a bad way. It is never really a compliment to tell someone they are like a dog, or that they follow someone around like a needy puppy, and Cohn is the perfect display for why being a "puppy" is not at all a good thing. Being a puppy is definitely not manly either; Cohn is not a big confident dog, although he may try to be. This exemplifies his puppy-like behavior, because in the same way kids look up to adults and try to be like them, puppies look up to older dogs and try to imitate them as well. Cohn's attempts at being loyal, friendly, and defensive of Brett are feeble, because he is like a puppy and is unable to be a dog, no matter how hard her tries.

The Purpose of Robert Cohn

As I was considering response paper topics, I thought seriously for a while about discussing our first impression of Brett and how that affects our perception of the story. Then, I realized that our first impression of another character--Robert Cohn--holds just as much, if not more, importance in The Sun Also Rises. Why does the story begin with Robert Cohn? Why does Jake tell us about him in the voice of a narrator who has far too much ironic distance from him? Initially, when I was reading, I expected this to be a story narrated by a sarcastic narrator about the life of Robert Cohn. It reminded me of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, from Coming of Age, because the narrator did seem to understand Cohn, but was also very obviously critical of and distant from Cohn.

When I began this book, I felt sorry for Cohn, because of the way Jake described him as being weak, dorky, dull, and extremely forgettable. He sounded like the kid who is socially awkward for some reason out of his control. However, as the book progressed, I quickly began to dislike Cohn with a passion. He was annoying, inexcusably oblivious to all social cues, and overall very easy to hate.

BUT the book still begins with him. The book begins as though it will be about his life. Cohn must have some important role other than just being a scapegoat in every situation. It is not unlikely that Jake is actually jealous of Cohn--in fact, it is very likely. Jake is clearly angry when Cohn runs off with Brett, and he seems to be much more pissed off with Cohn than with Brett. Even though Jake keeps his feelings from showing while the group is in Spain, he gets just as annoyed, if not more annoyed, with Cohn as everybody else does. Jake really hates Cohn, which is understandable because he loves Brett and Cohn is stupidly attempting to "take care of" her, but Jake doesn't hate Romero, or the Count, or even Mike, who has plans to marry Brett. Why do Jake's feelings of hatred and jealousy make themselves most apparent when concerning Cohn?

This definitely goes back to Jake's war injury. Jake sees Cohn as not being masculine enough, and therefore is extremely bitter that Cohn still has his "masculinity," whereas he does not. Brett's other suitors are definitely masculine enough; they are deserving of their masculinity. Jake cannot understand why fate has played such a cruel joke on him, and that joke is much worse when he much consider the fact that someone like Cohn, who does not act masculine, still technically has his masculinity. We also see this same dynamic when Jake reacts to Brett hanging out with the group of gay men, and feels unhappy because Brett is spending time with these men who he does not view as properly expressing their masculinity. He sees their technical possession of masculinity as wasted, because they do not act masculine enough to his standards.

What does masculinity mean to Jake anyway? Take Cohn for example: even though Cohn takes Jake's advice and basically tells Frances to go to hell, but then does not extend this "masculine" behavior as far as he should. For one thing, he tells her to go to hell in the most cowardly way possible. It's like he's really just hinting at her that he wants to get rid of her, rather than coming our and saying it, which is what would be the "masculine" thing to do. Furthermore, he allows Frances to verbally assault him in front of Jake, and just sits there and takes it like a puppy with its tail between its legs. Jake doesn't think Cohn is masculine because he knows that Cohn can't ever stand up for himself or be sure of himself in any situation. A huge part of masculinity for Jake is self-confidence, and that is an area in which Cohn is severely lacking.

It seems to me like Cohn serves as Jake's double in a way: while Cohn technically has his masculinity but doesn't act masculine, Jake acts masculine and knows what it means to be masculine, but doesn't technically have his masculinity. Jake is definitely jealous of Cohn, because he realizes that if he could have the one thing Cohn has, he would actually know how to use it. Jake thinks that if he technically had his masculinity, he would be able to woo Brett in the same way Cohn wishes he could woo her. This is the biggest indication of the similarities between Cohn and Jake. Both of them believe that they could (and should) be the man to finally woo and marry Brett, making an honest woman of her. Both of them are wrong. Cohn doesn't understand that Brett doesn't actually like him, because he is so incredibly socially awkward and foolish (in Jake's mind, this makes him less of a man), and Jake doesn't understand that he would probably never be with Brett, even if he hadn't suffered his war injury. Even though Brett loves Jake now, and wishes she could be with him, if Jake had his technical masculinity, he would lose his appeal of being something that Brett can never have. Their entire relationship is based around Jake's injury. Brett has always known him as injured Jake, and so for her, that is an essential part of who he is. It is what keeps their relationship so pure and longstanding. Because they can never completely have each other, they will always want each other, and will never be able to let go of each other. Of course, they have a deep emotional connection as well, but if they could have a sexual relationship, their emotional one would probably lose meaning, simply because of the way Brett is.

Jake is delusional to think that if he was uninjured, he and Brett could be happy together, in the same way that Cohn is delusional to think that he could have any sort of chance with Brett if only he could prove himself by fighting for her (literally, as he does with Romero). The truth is, the best Jake can hope for is to be Brett's closest and most important friend, and the best Cohn can hope for is to avoid infuriating Brett to the point that she stomps completely mercilessly all over his heart.

In Defense of Brett

When I was doing the reading last week, I made note of a section that I wanted to go back to and look at a bit closer: the conversation between Brett and Jake as they're walking outside just before Jake sets Brett up with Romero. The section I'll be referring to specifically begins on the bottom of page 186 when Jake says "Don't feel bad." It is just after Brett is rude to Cohn and Jake tells her he would act just as badly as Cohn does.

The most repeated phrase at the beginning of this passage is Brett's "I'm a goner." She tells Jake that she's crazy about Romero, and that "it" is tearing her up inside, and that she can't stop "it." The two "its" could refer to two different things, and the more obvious reading seems to be to assume that her "love" for Romero is tearing her up inside, and that she can't stop her flighty behavior in general. However, I read it as if the "its" both refer to her flighty behavior. Especially in light of later passages in this book, I see Brett as an extremely sympathetic character. When you look at the fact that she has tried a relationship with Jake and really does love him combined with the fact that it must hurt her just as much as it hurts Jake to decide that it won't work out, and then add in the bit about her difficult marriage to Lord Ashley, as Mike mentions to Jake; it's very clear that Lord Ashley has been abusive to her in their marriage. According to Mike, "Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he'd kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he'd gone to sleep. She hasn't had an absolutely happy life, Brett" (207).

In light of what we can infer about Brett's past, she is so much more sympathetic during her conversation with Jake. She tells Jake, "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect...I can't just stay tight all the time" (187). This implies that in the same way that Jake drinks to make himself feel better, Brett feels that she must run around with men and do what she "really [wants] to do." I imagine she feels as though she's lost her self-respect because she feels constricted by Lord Ashley, Cohn's possessiveness, and even her engagement to Mike. I also get the feeling that because she will never be able to do what she really wants to do, which is be with Jake, she must convince herself that she really wants to do other things and really wants to be with all these other men. This way she can feel less constricted and more independent, as though she has some sort of choice. With Jake, she doesn't feel that she has a choice. She has tried a relationship with him (although we don't know details) and decided it wouldn't work out. From this point, she has no choice at all in the matter. The decision has already been made. It makes perfect sense that her flightiness is a result of her need to have a choice and to get something that she really wants, because she can't have the one person she really wants.

Brett also realizes that there is a problem with her behavior. She says, "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch" (188). She feels bad about her behavior. On some level, I'm sure she realizes it hurts Jake. On a more obvious level, she realizes that she's hurting every romantic interest she has. She does see her behavior as right for her though. This is hard for readers to understand and sympathize with because we see her through Jake's eyes (as Sarah and Shruti pointed out in their Panel Presentation). If we try our hardest to understand where Brett is coming from and what her life is been like, it is possible to understand why she engages in this behavior. It is analogous to Jake's drinking: both of them are unable to be with the person they love and so they cope with it by doing things to help them numb the pain of dealing with what they truly care about.

Similarly to the way that Brett is in the same boat as Jake, Jake shares Brett's feelings about their future together, and does not believe that they can be romantically involved. On the last page of the book, Jake seems even more pessimistic about their relationship than Brett does. When Brett says, "We could have had such a damned good time together" (251), she sounds entirely genuine to me, even to the point of believing it possible for a moment that she and Jake could still be together. When Jake says, "Isn't it pretty to think so?" (251), I get the sense that he's being much more cynical than Brett is, especially in light of his recent sarcasm toward her. It seems to me that a relationship is even less of a possibility in Jake's mind than it is in Brett's. Jake's last line seems to shoot down any possibility of the two of them having anything more than friendship in the future; at least that was how I read it.

Hard to Sympathize with Everyone

Having finished tonight's reading, I realized I don't like Cohn. I feel bad saying this because from an objective standpoint, Cohn really is not a bad guy at all. However, since I sympathize so much with Jake, it's really REALLY hard to sympathize with Cohn too. Cohn seems to be carrying on some kind of relationship with Brett, but Jake is in love with Brett and can't have her. It is odd that Jake seems to dislike Cohn above all Brett's other "suitors," but it makes sense to me in a way. If you're in love with somebody who you can't have (or who you have decided you can't have), you tend to hope for them to be with people you like at the very least. I don't think Jake is simply prejudiced about Cohn either; Bill was getting pretty exasperated with Cohn as well, and so was I.

I think that in comparison to Mrs. Dalloway, The Sun Also Rises does a great job of making us work hard to sympathize with characters. Especially after reading Mrs. Dalloway, I really really want to understand and like every character I read about. The Sun Also Rises is really challenging that for me. Part of me does sympathize with Cohn, but not all of me does. Because of this, I think The Sun Also Rises depicts life much more realistically than Mrs. Dalloway does. While Mrs. Dalloway gave us the amazing opportunity to delve deep into every character's mind so that we could sympathize with each character, The Sun Also Rises challenges us to sympathize with each character as well, but makes it nearly impossible for some characters. This frustrates me, maybe because I enjoyed being able to see people differently by reading Virginia Woolf's writing. Reading Hemingway's writing forces me to look at people from a much more subjective point of view, and therefore is like real life because it's incredibly difficult (impossible even?) to really like everybody.

"We are shockingly late, dear Mrs. Dalloway..."

"We are shockingly late, dear Mrs. Dalloway, we hardly dared to come in," she [Lady Bradshaw] said.

At Clarissa's party, it is interesting that nearly everyone refers to her as "Clarissa" when they see her, rather than "Mrs. Dalloway." As I was looking for a quote to put into my essay, I stumbled across Lady Bradshaw's line at the party, where she greets Clarissa as "Mrs. Dalloway." This struck me as very interesting; why would Woolf make a point of having the wife of Sir William Bradshaw refer to Clarissa as "Mrs. Dalloway" when nearly everyone else in the book refers to her as "Clarissa?"

It makes perfect sense though, because Virginia Woolf wrote Septimus's doctors with her own doctors in mind, who did not understand her at all. They didn't understand the nature of her illness (or of Septimus's) and therefore did not understand who she really was.

I see Clarissa in part as a reflection of Virginia Woolf, so it makes all the sense in the world to have Clarissa on similar terms with the doctor and his wife as Woolf was with her doctors. Lady Bradshaw doesn't understand Clarissa enough to see her as independent; she only sees Clarissa as the surface-level "Mrs. Dalloway" and nothing else. I imagine Virginia's doctors viewed mental illness the same way--as a surface-level only type of illness where there is nothing of value underneath.

(This is also another way that Clarissa and Septimus are connected; the doctors don't understand him, and their wives fail to understand Clarissa. Also, Septimus doesn't like them, and Clarissa has very similar feelings.)

Poet or Hostess?

"The poet will die--the visionary." This is the line from The Hours that strikes me most. It is Virginia Woolf's reply to her husband's question about who she plans to kill instead of her heroine and why. She has previously explained to him that it's for contrast, and "in order that the rest of us should value life more." As I thought about this conversation between Leonard and Virginia, I began to wonder where Virginia herself fit in with everything. You could say that Clarissa represents Virginia in a way--they are both married to similar men who give them space, love them very much, and take good care of them. Both love their husbands as well and are happy in their marriages (Virginia makes this clear in her suicide note to Leonard). Virginia seems to be connected to Clarissa in a more subtle way as well: both seem to enjoy being hostesses and having social lives. Think about Virginia's visit with her sister, nephews, and niece. She seems to love their company and is extremely sad when they must go. She wishes she could go to London and be invited to her sister's parties and have a more busy life. After her sister and the kids leave, Virginia tries to leave as well, and tells her husband that she will either go to London or choose death, because she is simply not satisfied with her life.

This is where Septimus comes in. Septimus kills himself because life is not enough. This seems to be Virginia's logic as well when she explains to Richard why they must move, and why she is so unhappy. Virginia, like Septimus, must deal with awful mental illness every single day; and although both of them are still able to think clearly and do have happy moments in their lives, ultimately their lives are not enough to cure them. I think Virginia wrote the Clarissa's character seeing her heroine as the person she wished she could be. Virginia wants life to be enough for her. She does appreciate and love life--how could she so accurately portray Clarissa's love for life if she didn't? On the other hand, Virginia also portrays Septimus's logic to end his life very well; how could she do that if she didn't understand him too?

The big question here is whether Virginia Woolf is the poet or the hostess. There is ample evidence pointing to each possibility, but I see her as the poet over the hostess; and I imagine she saw herself as a poet as well. She understands life and death. She understands life to the point where she does love it and can therefore portray Clarissa's immense love and appreciation for it; but she also understands death to the point where she can see it as a rational escape from life and can therefore portray Septimus's logical reasons for suicide.

It seems like Virginia wishes she could be Clarissa and overcome her unhappiness with life and realize that it really is enough for her and that life is worth living; on the other hand, perhaps Virginia wishes she had been like Septimus and simply ended her life before she was put under the care of doctors resembling Holmes at worst. In fact, this would make sense in her decision to end her life: she felt that something worse was coming, something she wouldn't be able to rise out of, and she made the logical choice to simply end it all--to escape. This is exactly what Septimus does, and also what Clarissa realizes she doesn't need to do. Why shouldn't Virginia wish she could be like Clarissa and not have to kill herself? Why should anyone want a logical reason to end their life, unless they need that escape? Virginia did not hate life--she hated the life she was stuck living. She ended it to avoid something worse.

Although it makes sense for Virginia to want to be the "hostess" (she cares for Clarissa, and realizes that Clarissa can't kill herself), she can't help but be the poet (she cares for and understands Septimus as well) because that is simply the course that her life takes.

It is also interesting that in The Hours, before Richard kills himself, he quotes Virginia Woolf's suicide note to Clarissa. It's kind of like drawing a circle--Clarissa understands Septimus's reasons for killing himself, as does Virginia. The Richard in the movie, who reminds me of both Virginia and Septimus understands Virginia's suicide as well as Virginia and Clarissa understand Septimus's. Now that I've mentioned the Richard character from The Hours though, I'm realizing that he's extremely interesting as well. He reminds me of both Virginia and Septimus because of his role as a poet, but he also reminds me of Peter because of his open criticism and love for Clarissa--he did not end up with her, but he still loves her (and she seems to love him as well) and because he loves her, he hurts her. It is Richard that causes Clarissa's breakdown in the kitchen.

All of this demonstrates that nobody is exactly one thing or another. Virginia Woolf has aspects of the hostess and of the poet. Movie-Richard has Peter qualities as well as Septimus-Virginia qualities. Laura Brown is absolutely a sympathetic character (we do feel for her and get a chance to understand her to an extent), but we also find ourselves disliking her a bit (and even being slightly creeped out by her) because of the damage she does to her son.

I loved The Hours. It brought up plenty of thought-provoking questions and made my head hurt, but in a good way. It's hard to understand and interpret the idea that the world isn't black and white. It's difficult to make accurate judgments about people when you consider every side to a story; but this is the point that Mrs Dalloway makes. It is a book about so many different things, and one of those things is that it is impossible to put people into categories. We can't just call Mrs. Dalloway a snob, because she is so much more than that. We can't just call Virginia Woolf the poet, because there is so much competing evidence that can't be ignored.

Buses Part 2

It is interesting that I do some of my best thinking while I'm riding the bus. It is also interesting that my wandering mind tends to fall on whatever book I'm reading. I already wrote about how my bus-thoughts were influenced by The Mezzanine, so now I would like to write about how they were influenced by Mrs Dalloway. Interestingly enough, the beginning of my thoughts was similar to something I wrote about in my Mezzanine pastiche: I wrote about how I was imagining who a stranger on a bus was (by this I mean I was coming up with my own story about her job, her personality, etc.). My thoughts this time led me to a different place, though. This time, I was looking out of the window at all the passing people, mostly college students, and I began thinking about Mrs Dalloway. In Mrs Dalloway, we are able to understand each character's "cave" when they are described to us, because in Woolf's descriptions she is able to expertly delve into the mind of a character and tell us simple stories about them that somehow give us a sense of who they are underneath. It's impressive how she does this (and if you've ever tried to describe someone's "cave" you know it's very difficult to do), but she has a way of explaining the character's childhood and how that relates to their fears and outlook on life. She explains to us what each character believes in and loves. She is able to capture the essence of every character she writes.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could do this in real life? Wouldn't it be nice to not only be able to describe someone else's cave, but to be able to describe your own so that someone could understand you perfectly? Wouldn't it be nice to meet someone, or see someone on the street, and be able to see at once who they really are: what they love, what they hate, what challenges they've overcome, what they fear, what's shaped their personality? Obviously this is impossible. One of the only places where a person can even begin to understand others on this deep level is by reading a book by an author that is able to convey every character's cave. In real life, there's hardly any chance of truly understanding others on such a deep level. Perhaps it's possible to understand your closest friends or siblings or spouse, but do we really understand those people? Probably not. I know that even my closest friends probably don't know me on this level, and I don't know them on this level either.

Looking at people walking on campus and sitting on the bus, it struck me that every individual has some interesting story. Everyone has a huge part of their life behind them and has had to deal with obstacles and has strong beliefs and motivations. To really understand just one person would be incredible; to understand many seems impossible. Woolf makes it possible, though! She makes it possible for at least the reader to understand all her major (and some more minor) characters with her writing. She allows us to understand her, as well, assuming characters in the book are based off of her and other people in her life. As we read Mrs Dalloway we see the world not necessarily through Clarissa's or Septimus's or Rezia's or Richard's or Peter's eyes, but through the eyes of Woolf herself. In painting such convincing pictures of the characters in Mrs Dalloway, Woolf also paints a picture of herself for the reader to decipher and understand.

This idea of understanding a person is both comforting and frustrating. It is comforting because Woolf proves that it is possible: she is able to make her readers understand every important character in her book, and allows her readers to understand herself on top of that. All I can say about this is that I'm impressed. There is no easy formula to do this properly, but Woolf succeeds perfectly. However, this idea also frustrates me. I don't like knowing how hard it is to truly understand others; if it's nearly impossible to know each other very well, how can we feel close to people? Don't we as humans need companionship and understanding and closeness? Maybe the way to make up for this is to form close relationships with a few people. Maybe that is how we compensate. Maybe it's in the same way that Richard and Elizabeth seem to understand each other on a deeper level. Maybe Richard and Clarissa understand each other on this level too, but I have a feeling that Elizabeth and Clarissa aren't quite at that point. We can only hope that they will eventually reach it. It is still frustrating to me though, that it is almost instinct to judge people we see on the street and ignore the fact that they, like us, have something underneath (a "cave?") that we will probably never understand.

Peter Walsh

I like Peter Walsh. At the same time, I don't like Peter Walsh. Peter is extremely judgmental of Clarissa; however, the faults he finds with her are the same ones that the reader finds. Peter recognizes that Clarissa is a snob. Some people may love this about him, and I am one of those people. I am also one of the people who hates this about him though, mostly because he loves Clarissa at the same time. Since I, as a reader, know Clarissa on a very deep level (a deeper level than Peter does), I'm slightly offended by Peter's judgmental remarks about her. It seems that if he loves her, he should know her better than he does. He should know who she really is deep down, the way Richard seems to when he says that Clarissa knows he loves her without him having to say anything. When compared to Richard, it seems as though Peter doesn't truly understand Clarissa--but does he?

I know I said earlier that he should know Clarissa on a deeper level. To an extent, I think that is true. But I also think that Peter does know Clarissa on a deeper level, simply because he knew her when they were younger. According to Peter, Clarissa had a lot more warmth and depth back then which he doesn't see in her now. He sees her now as cold and "not herself." Clarissa even notes herself that she doesn't really feel like herself at these parties, yet they're important to her and she still has them anyway. It's very possible that Peter recognizes this about Clarissa, but doesn't realize the extent to which Clarissa is self-aware and self-critical. She knows what criticisms others make about her. She knows what's wrong with her and what people like Peter dislike. Whether Peter realizes this or not, the point is he does know who she really is (based not only on who she was at 18, but also on who she presents herself to be now), and he loves her for who she is deep down and for the faults he finds with her. Peter is actually very much like the reader in a sense, because he both loves and dislikes Clarissa. He seems to understand her on a deeper level, but he also has the ability to be critical of her, so he seems to have a very "full" view of her.

Another role Peter seems to serve is an odd one: he seems to represent the self-critical part of Clarissa's mind. It seems that even if Clarissa doesn't consciously note everything that's wrong with her (if she did, I expect she would be less of a snob), she does unconsciously know that Peter's criticism is completely valid, and I don't think she even needs Peter's criticism in order to be self-critical, whether that's consciously or unconsciously. Perhaps Peter appears to be so closely linked with Clarissa's self-criticism because he has always been critical of her, since they spent time together at Bourton. No matter what, I think it's completely valid to examine Clarissa's unconscious (and conscious) ideas and criticisms about herself by looking at what Peter says about her--after all, he is the only character in the book who is truly openly critical of her, and that definitely influences Clarissa's own ideas.

Nothing is Black and White

Having just completed tonight's reading, I realized something that seems very significant: there are no "bad" characters in this book at all. Although Clarissa is a snob, she is also wise and has depth as a person. She loves life and doesn't lose value because she is a snob.

Initially, I did not like Peter at all because of how Clarissa introduced him as the type of guy who is obnoxious, pretentious, and judgmental even though he seems to be in love with her. However, after spending some time inside Peter's head, I couldn't help but sympathize with him. It was the same with Richard--I wasn't sure at first whether I liked him because of Clarissa's initial attitude toward him. She seemed like she didn't really care about him that much, and didn't seem to think he was all that wrapped up in her. After being in Richard's head though, I really like him. He's conscious of social classes and doesn't think very positively of them. Even though his wife is clearly a snob, he doesn't treat her in the rude way that Peter does, and he doesn't even think of her as a snob, which I think is pretty admirable.

The same goes for other characters, such as Lady Bruton. At first when Clarissa reacted to her own lack of a lunch invitation from her, I assumed that Lady Bruton was a snob to an even greater extent than Clarissa. Of course, when I got inside Lady Bruton's head and heard about her time spent with her brothers riding her pony named Patty. Hearing about people's childhoods makes me see them as more human and real for some reason, and the characters in Mrs Dalloway are no exception.

It is interesting and odd to be reading a book with characters that are actually all likable in one way or another. I can sympathize with every single one of them. This is especially weird for me, because with almost every character there is something I either don't like about them or something I think I don't like about them, but there are many more things that I do like. This mimics human beings so well, and ultimately contributes to Woolf's excellent job of creating "real" characters.

Clarissa's "Character"

A few days ago in class, we were discussing Clarissa's relationship with Sally, and someone mentioned that it seemed "out of character" for Clarissa to look up to Sally so much. I guess this depends on how you define "character"--generally when we read books we consider characters on primarily a surface-level basis. Many novels that we are used to reading for pleasure, that are much more plot-based than Mrs Dalloway (not that Mrs Dalloway is plot-less), don't go into as much depth about their characters as Mrs Dalloway does. I don't think that even The Mezzanine, which was more lacking in plot than Mrs Dalloway, explored the character of Howie as fully as Mrs Dalloway explores Clarissa.

When we read The Mezzanine, we are certainly in Howie's mind, getting to hear some of his most private thoughts (which are not private because they are secret, but rather because by the nature of these thoughts, it is not common to share them with people), but we do not hear about his worries, regrets, what-ifs, and insecurities the way we do for Clarissa in Mrs Dalloway. Especially in light of Virginia Woolf's comments about characters requiring more depth in order to be realistic, I definitely think that it is her goal to create a character who is not seemingly perfect like Howie, but to break down the illusion of happiness and a nice marriage and show the reader what really goes on in the deepest corners of Clarissa's mind. Perhaps we haven't gotten to those really deep corners quite yet, but I expect that by the end of the book we will understand Clarissa in a way that we were never able to understand Howie by reading The Mezzanine.

So is it really out of character for Clarissa to be thinking of Sally, or even for her to have looked up so much to Sally previously? I would argue that it is completely in character, in fact more so than even her marriage. The fact that she cannot let go of Sally in her mind and that when she thinks of love, her first impulse is to consider her relationship with Sally, shows us that Sally is important to her in a way that nobody else is. Everyone else that Clarissa interacts with lives their life within boundaries the way that she always has; however, she has always been infatuated with the idea of being free-spirited like Sally (ironically though, Sally is now in the same sort of position as Clarissa--married with children). This is what her mind keeps going back to. This is a huge part of the person Clarissa really is. Yes, Clarissa appears to be an upper-class snob with a perfectly satisfying life, but since we are deep inside her mind, we understand that that is not all she is. She is still the 18-year-old girl who envied freedom of spirit and looked up to Sally Seton.


I really wish I could make this a footnote, but I just wanted to touch on Sally's current role in life in comparison to Clarissa's. I find it really interesting that both women ended up as what you could call "the perfect hostesses," especially Sally, who is expected to be the more outgoing, free-spirited one in life, who does not end up conforming to social "rules." I wonder if this is meant by Woolf to be commentary on the way that societal expectations and rules can stifle a person's true character. Sally probably wasn't raised with quite the expectations as Clarissa, but those expectations seem to have still affected her life and possibly her personality just the same, if not more, than they did for Clarissa. I would assume this would be worse for women, especially in the time period that this book takes place, but I would expect some degree of this to be true for men too, and even true for people in general today.

Buses

Every morning, I ride the bus to school from my dad's work, and every afternoon I ride the bus back from school. I never really realized this until reading The Mezzanine, but my mind wanders a lot on the bus. Until one day (maybe the second day of school) as I was riding the bus and letting my mind wander as usual, I didn't fully appreciate the wanderings of my mind or the wanderings and tangents in The Mezzanine. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed reading The Mezzanine. I just never realized how much the mind really does wander in a very short space of time. I never realized how many of the things I think about that are actually interesting, at least to me.

While I was on the bus, I found myself mostly thinking about social interactions and situations. I thought about the nature of bus rides, especially morning ones. For example, when I ride the bus in the morning, it is always an inherently independent and quiet activity. I began to consider what it would be like to ride the same bus as a teacher, or the parent of a friend, or some other person who I felt I had some obligation to talk to, but preferred not to. Would a conversation with one of those people be inevitably awkward or forced? Probably. I have been in a position similar to that before, in fact, and it was both forced and awkward, so now I tend to avoid that type of situation as much as possible.

So as I was sitting on the bus considering these extremely interesting thoughts, I realized that I was thinking in a way similar to Howie. I was surprised by this fact, and suddenly I fully understood Baker's (and Howie's) philosophy. I realized how interesting the social interactions on buses can be. Of course, during the course of the bus ride, I thought about other things, such as how the smell of olive oil reminds me of home (because my mom makes pasta all the time), and how nice it is to go to school when the weather is good (and how I am absolutely dreading the shorter, colder winter days).

I plan on writing my pastiche about a bus ride, though I plan to embellish that bus ride with thoughts from many bus rides, as I'm sure Howie did when he was writing his memoir about his elevator ride. I'm not entirely sure what this blog post is about--it's mostly just me writing down some of my ideas and planning to expand on them for my pastiche.

I guess what I discovered through all of this is that I'm actually really impressed that this novel has had such an impact on my way of thinking. It's sort of funny because back when we read Housekeeping, it had a similar effect on me, yet its philosophy is the complete opposite of The Mezzanine's; in fact, if Howie were to read it, I'm sure he would be deeply disturbed--though he may enjoy some aspects of it. It definitely does force you to slow down in the same way that his own book does. Now I've gotten onto a complete tangent (and I probably have The Mezzanine to thank for causing me to go off on tangents like this one). Maybe I'll pursue the comparison of Housekeeping and The Mezzanine in another post.

The Mezzanine by Nicholson Baker--Prompt 1

Prompt: "Near the end of The Mezzanine, as his lunch hour nears its close, Howie settles in the sunlit plaza with his milk and cookies to read a little of Marcus Aurelius's Meditations.He encounters the following passage:


'Observe, in short, how transient and trivial is all mortal life; yesterday a drop of semen, tomorrow a handful of spice and ashes' (120).


His response is immediate and impassioned: 'Wrong, wrong, wrong! I thought. Destructive and unhelpful and misguided and completely untrue!' (120).


So why is he so repelled by this passage? What insight might this reaction offer into Baker's more general aims in this novel? In some sense, might Baker's narrative method be construed as a kind of antidote to Aurelius's view?"

Response: The passage that Howie reads reminds me a lot of a book that we read in the Coming of Age Novel class--Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson. In Housekeeping, Ruth and Sylvie share the opinion that life is transient, and end up living their lives as transients. What this means, as Ruth explains throughout the book, is that each individual life is insignificant, no matter how much people try to create a significance and importance for it. According to Ruth, life is by nature transient. The world is constantly changing, and that seems to be okay with her.

Howie is Ruth's polar opposite. He spends his entire book trying to convince us that all the little, supposedly insignificant things in life, are important, significant, and worth thinking about. Since the passage that Howie reads speaks of life's transience in such a matter-of-fact sort of way, Howie is immediately repelled, and even disturbed, by this take on life. Since Howie sees the importance in what seems to be absolutely everything he encounters, the idea that he himself is insignificant and worthless must be terrifying to him. He immediately suppresses this idea of transience, exclaiming (to himself) that it is simply wrong and "completely untrue!" This alone tells us a lot about Howie's character. To him, since the little things in life are so important, actual lives of people must be incredibly important and significant as well. Take, for example, the way he thinks about the man who is cleaning the escalator handle. Howie takes this job (and this person), which is not generally considered very important, and elevates it (and the man doing it) to a very high, important, desirable level. Howie is able to see how the small things in life all work together like a big machine and keep his entire world running smoothly. Howie is fascinated by the systematic way his life works. He's so interested in these small things that once he's forced to think about transience he can't deal with it, so he shuts it out.

This tells us that, in the same way that Howie is Ruth's polar opposite, Baker can be seen as Robinson's polar opposite as well. While Robinson explains and advocates the idea of transience in Housekeeping, Baker advocates stability and routine and a sort of anti-transience in his novel. While I loved Housekeeping and found it to be very successful in explaining the idea of transience, I also found The Mezzanine to be successful in explaining and promoting ideas that go completely against transience. The way that Howie tells us about recognizable things such as awkward social situations and the feeling of running out of tape or staples makes us think to ourselves, "Oh! I know exactly what he means!" It makes us feel as though we're friends with Howie. It's as if we understand him and he understands us. This way, Howie (or Baker through Howie) is able to make us understand and agree with his appreciation for small things and hatred for the idea of transience. I think Baker is absolutely successful in doing this--The Mezzanine really made me slow down as I was reading it, and space out, considering the world around me, and then return to the book and smile to myself at whatever the next tangent was that had begun.

As for whether Baker's method serves as an antidote for Aurelius's, and Robinson's, views, I feel like it does without a doubt. Especially since I've read Housekeeping, I know what it's like to be immersed in the idea of transience, and to understand the thinking behind it. It's scary to think that human life is insignificant, when we basically spend our lives trying to plan for the future and, in many cases, to do something significant. Baker's novel is somewhat comforting, because it's so easy to relate to and recognize many of his tangents, so it makes the reader feel like there are many other people out there who share their fascination with little things in life. Baker's novel makes the reader feel as though life is significant, because Baker shows us how special and important the little things are.