Hagar: A Love Story

I did not begin the novel liking Hagar. For she was too rough, too foreign and too needy to empathize with.  Her love for Milkman, her cousin once-removed or what not, was an obsession that frightened me. The careful distinction between Hagar and her two Mamas, Reba and Pilate, was not one that tilted in her favor. She was the spoiled princess who demanded luxury. While her caretakers struggled to please her every whim - her happiness was the goal of their lives after all - she was still unsatisfied.

But as selfish and singleminded as Hagar appears, she does have a vulnerable side to her that draws sympathy. Her affections degrade her, rendering her subservient to the wishes and estimations of her beloved. As Guitar bluntly points out, she thinks that she is worthless because Milkman doesn't love her and believes completely in his judgement of her worth. For Hagar, love is about belonging. Yet rather than the typical you belong with me dynamic, she sees it as a belonging to kind of relationship. To love is to own, and to someone who is as prideful and self-indulgent as Milkman, that forceful affection is stifling. He who is used to convenience naturally despises being restrained by a woman, one who he only loves for her availability. One would almost say that he takes advantage of her and her boundless love, but can he really be accountable when she is willing to give herself to him so completely?

Guitar, who somehow transforms into a Dr. Phil-like character, observes that it is Hagar's lack of value for her own life that causes Milkman to lose interest in her. "He can't value you more than you value yourself" (Morrison 306). There is something overwhelmingly pitiful about that, and it puts a new light on Hagar's attempts to kill Milkman. She will never succeed because of how much she cares for him, yet she will never stop either because she can't bear for him to go on without her. It's a cruel and tragic circle. And the resulting death of Hagar only strengthens the sadness of this affair.

iBlog.

I like blogging for it provides me with a chance to jot down my thoughts when I forget my notebook at school. It's fortunately easy for me to open up Blogger in a tab and keep it there, going back as I read to record some new revelations. It's even better than writing because I type faster than I write, and it's easier for me to record some of my straying digressions that might turn out to have an interesting meaning. Other than that, the biggest perk of keeping an online blog is that it's public. My friends and peers can easily access my writings and leave their feedback. Their words encourage and challenge me, and since many of my blog entries are continuations of class discussions, my classmates' inputs inspire me to think critically outside of the classroom.

Another advantage of this online journal is its accessibility. Although it shames me to admit it, I am not the most organized person in the world; I like to write my ideas in the margins of my notebook, crowding them with doodles that express my visual interpretations of the novels. But they are not easy to track down, and I have often found myself frustratingly turning pages of my notebook trying to find a promising paragraph I had written the week before. Blogger gives me the option of storing my ideas in one place - one that can be found at my home and at school.

Freud, Freud, Freud.

I wonder about Ruth's mental condition. If anything, I would have to say she seems to be Freud's ideal woman. Her actions seem senseless to me, but since I have only read so far into the story, I suppose that is understandable. From what I do know, her mind seems to be in a perpetually childlike zone. She is, as she aptly puts it, "her daddy's daughter" (Morrison 67). I know that her mother died and she takes after her with an alarming likeness. She demands kisses from her father, and lets him be her doctor even after her marriage. Can we interpret this as an intense love from daughter to father, or are we too bothered by the intimacy between the two?

Taking up Freud's side, I would like to argue that Ruth's actions are just a manifestation of her subconscious - the Electra Complex. With her mother dead, the Freudian shade of Ruth would have had no competition for her father's affection, and thus could allow her affections for her father to flow freely. And her freedom of expression clashed inevitably with her husband's expectations. Macon Dead Sr., who was obviously too chicken (at least on a Freudian scale) to admit to any sexual desire for his mother, would have interpreted Ruth's paternal love as the symptom of a grave madness. 

Yet because I am not a devote follower of Freud, I can sympathize with Macon's revulsion. Ruth is strange; her actions do hint at some ulterior motive, if not a bipolar personality. She seems to possess sexual instincts towards her young son, which is perhaps an even more frightening prospect than incestuous relations with her father. For it implies that she is spreading her fondness of incest, and ruining Milkman's possibility of a normal future.

As an end note, I feel like there is immense potential in conducting a Freudian analysis of Ruth Foster Dead. 

Jotting down some thoughts.

(This blog post is more for my own benefit. I want to keep track of my views on these characters as the reading progresses.)

I really, really dislike Macon Dead Sr. He has an attitude that needs to go. His behavior towards his family is abysmal, and his conduct in regards to others is equally horrifying. But I still hesitate to condemn him for I know he has had a troubled childhood, and based on my previous experience with tough and rough characters like him, I want to believe in him and his ultimate love for his family. However, it's hard to find justification for his behavior towards Pilate. He cares for her, and yet feels ashamed about her and her poverty, which I feel like is a moot point since he can help her with his money.

As for Pilate herself, I find her interesting. She has an air of mystery that begs for examination. I wonder why both her daughter and granddaughter call her Mama, why she sings so well, and why she makes wine.  There is a connection between her and Milkman that intrigues me too. She cares for Ruth and her brother too. She does mention that there are three Deads still alive - which makes me wonder who is the last one that we haven't met.

Ruth strikes me as a confusing character. She seems to suffer under a light form of mental disease. Her behavior is childlike, which annoys Macon. And her insistence on breast-feeding her son is almost obsessive. Yet she is incredibly pitiful. Her role as the oppressed and misunderstood housewife is one that almost always attract sympathy.

I'll keep you safe in my attic.

Wrapping up Wide Sargasso Sea, I feel an overwhelming surge of sympathy for Antoinette. Her humanity and sanity have been reduced physically to shrivers. And she is no longer Antoinette, but another. She is chained legally yet unwillingly to a gentleman who parades off to France to make merry with prostitutes. There is nothing left for her in this life except memories. Her caretakers - and I use that term lightly - do not care for her. The kind and understanding Mrs. Fairfax (or Mrs. Eff as she is called in this novel) we admired in Jane Eyre appear here to be entirely biased and narrow-minded. She calls Mr. Rochester "gentle, generous, brave," and scorns Antoinette. "He has grey in his hair and misery in his eyes. Don't ask me to pity anyone who had a hand in that" (Rhys 178). Yet the reader is very much like a Mrs. Fairfax to Antoinette. We have seen her struggle through her miserable childhood, and we have observed her own acts of humanity. We know her trouble with an unsympathetic mother and a hostile world. And most of all, we know her reluctance to marry Mr. Rochester.

For me, the moment when she attempts to back out of the upcoming nuptials is a testament to her own sanity. Somewhere perhaps in her subconscious, she knows that this union will bring nothing but trouble. It was Mr. Rochester who drags her into this marriage with well-placed words of cajolery, and by doing so, he has assumed a responsibility to fulfill the promises he made to Antoinette. "When you are my wife there would not be any more reason to be afraid," he tells her, "I'll trust you if you'll trust me" (Rhys 79). He sure kept her safe, locked away in an attic in the middle of England. Some stubborn defenders of Rochester will argue that Antoinette is safe and alive, and he ultimately will rescue her from the burning fire. But why couldn't he have just let her go? Christophine even offers to take her off his hands and Antoinette too wishes she could leave and never bother him again. It does not make sense to argue that Rochester has pride and refuses to return to England as the gentleman scorned by a Creole girl  for he returns to his homeland pretending elaborately to be a bachelor. So why can't he let her go? Why bring her here to a miserable home even he flees from to make her suffer? By forcing Antoinette in an attic where she is cut off from everything she knew and loved, he has become the worst of villains and the most terrible of tyrants.

Ruminations on Rochester.

I will not pretend that I don't have a bias against Mr. Edward Rochester. As a reader of Jane Eyre, I have seen his interactions with Jane. While he may claim to love her, he tests and teases her with a humor that is almost cruel. And his treatment of Antoinette is simply unacceptable. He courts her for his own gains. No matter how much his Father affected his decision to marry Antoinette, his actions are ultimately his own choices. When he persuades her to marry him through devious and questionable words of sweetness, he not only gives into his own selfish greed for money and familial approval, but he even ropes in an innocent girl.

I do sympathize with him, to a limited extent, given his position as the second and less favored son. He has to go out and seek his fortune the hard way. His success - thirty thousand pounds! - is a remarkable sum. But with great power comes great responsibility. Antoinette tried to back out of the wedding, claiming that she is "afraid of what may happen" (78). Yet Rochester kisses her fears away, churning out the mechanical phrases every woman probably wants to hear: "I'll trust you if you'll trust me... You will make me very unhappy if you send me away without telling me what I have done to displease you. I will go with a sad heart" (79). These hollow consolations have thrown any respect I might have for Rochester out the window. He is not afraid of exploiting his resources to get what he wants.

Yet I also realize that Antoinette is not entirely faultless either. She tried to poison him and she has an intense pride that rivals his. But what makes her character more bearable is her flaws: her struggle with self-identity, her loss of her mother, and her childlike naivety that can become an ugly ferocity. Her ups and downs are what defines her humanity and draws my sympathy. When Rochester tries to rename her "Bertha," he is trying to give himself, I think, an excuse - a reason for superiority if you will. He is clearly uncomfortable with the fact that she has purchased him - to think, a Creole has bought an Englishman, the outrage.

And Daniel "Cosway" provides him with the perfect yet dubious evidence. By allowing for his richer wife to be crazy, Rochester gives himself the justification for a moral and mental superiority. It now falls entirely on him to take care of her fortunes and who is a mad woman to challenge his judgements?

The Lost Eden.

Reading the beginning of Wide Sargasso Sea is like stepping into a corner of Eden. There is a "tree of life" blossoming in the overgrown garden at Coulibri Estate. "It had gone wild," we learn, but why wouldn't Eden be wild and untamed, preserved by Nature? "Orchids flourished out of reach for some reason not to be touched. One was snaky looking" (19). Placed side by side, the latter description seems to be foreshadowing an unfortunate end. Despite its sinister flaws, the garden nevertheless strikes me as an ideal home for Antoinette. She lives in Jamaica where she is hated, yet also where she thrives and loves. It is her home, the only one she physically knew. She "loved it because I [she] had nothing else to love" and called it "the most beautiful place in the world" (130). But like Adam and Eve, she and her family is chased out of paradise without a choice.

When she marries Mr. Rochester, she introduces him to her home with obvious affection for the place. She "picked up a large shamrock-shaped leaf to make a cup and drank. Then she picked up another leaf, folded it and brought it to me. 'Taste. This is mountain water'" (71). Then a few days after, she tells her husband where to find the bathing pool; "there are two pools, one we call the champagne pool because it has a waterfall... underneath is the nutmeg pool, that's brown and shaded by a big nutmeg tree" (86). But Mr. Rochester does not fit in and he even says that he feels "that this place is my [his] enemy and on your [Antoinette's] side" (129).

Although I haven't finished the rest of this novel, I have read and enjoyed Jane Eyre. I know the inevitable fate that awaits "Bertha," and compared to her life in the imperfect Eden, it is a frightening future.

Duality.

Duality gives a sense of balance, of companionship. With one is the other, ying and yang and all that jazz. In Wide Sargasso Sea, this theme of dualism is explored meticulously. The heroine, a sheltered and sensitive young girl, Antoinette Cosway is caught between the two cultures that have defined her childhood - white and black. She is biologically one and yet heavily influenced by the other. As a result, she does not fit in easily. The blacks reject her for her skin and the whites shun her for her impoverished roots that degrade her to a slave-like status in their eyes. And she herself is confused at her situation. On one hand, she yearns for the affection and approval of her French mother. Yet on the other, she longs for the comfort and attention of Christophine, her "da" (72). It's hard to place and describe her for she is so many things, but it's extremely easy to sympathize with her. 

One of the most emphatic use of duality happens in the scene where Antoinette stares at Tia, as if "in a looking glass" (45). Running towards her lone friend, Antoinette thought feverishly that she "will live with Tia and... be like her. Not to leave Coulibri. Not to go. Not" (45). Yet Tia rejects her too by throwing a rock at her. Standing before her injurer, with blood running down her face, Antoinette pauses, seemingly emtionless, and remarks lightly on the tears Tia is now weeping. We know from a previous passage that Antoinette has never seen her cry (23). But no longer. The strong and unbreakable Tia, symbolizing perhaps the resilient and black side of Antoinette, has yielded. And now our heroine is swept away into a foreign world of England and marriage. 

What's in a name.

In class discussions, the meaning of Meursault's name was tossed up in a digression, and my attention was immediately snared. I admit that I have a secret weakness for hidden meanings in the names of characters. It's like a spy code, one implanted by the author slyly to us curious readers. One of the best examples I can think of is the name Voldemort in Harry Potter - for the few who do not already know, Voldemort literally translates into "flight of death." When I discovered this fact (after three years of French mind you) I was ecstatic. And given that French is the language I have studied at Uni, The Stranger, originally written in said tongue, seems to be the perfect opportunity to hone my craft of name analyzing.

Like any other wise student, I mentioned this small quest of mine to my French teacher. (Thank you Madame Lopez!) It was she who suggested I break up the name Meursault into two parts: "meur" and "sault." The latter is a word in itself meaning truffles while the former is not quite a word. I highly doubt that Camus would name his main character after a mushroom - no matter how absurd it may be. A little more research turned out to be productive: "meur" sounds exactly like "mer," which means an ocean, and that translation is a lot more meaningful to me. The second half, "sault," is also similar to "soleil," or sun in English. If "Meursault"means Ocean Sun, then this name suddenly opens up a new prospective. For we know that Meursault takes his fateful walk down the beach and shoots the Arab because of the sun.

But, just to undermine my own argument in the name of the Truth (a rather Meursaultian act), Camus also uses the name "Mersault" as a surname for another character, Patrice Mersault, the protagonist in A Happy Death, a novel composed before The Stranger. Perhaps this startling coincidence can help me pinpoint a reason for choosing this name for two characters. Camus grew up in Algeria and he loved the sun-drenched landscape and he would have doubtlessly be able to explore its oceanic views. Was he an avid lover of nature? Or is it something else?

the story about the Czechoslovakian.

This passing mention of the newspaper article has always intrigued me. Why bring it up? It seems undeniably significant given it is the only story Meursault reads over and over in prison, but am I misled to attach so much importance to this story within the story? The premise of the tale of the Czechoslovakian is a deeply bitter one - a man leaves home, becomes rich, comes back to surprise his family, and gets unknowingly murdered by his mother and sister for his wealth. Is this the son's fault for this turn of misfortune? Can we attribute his death to bad luck? Or does the blame lie with his murderers who later kill themselves? Does the story ultimately trace back to the fundamental criticism of human greed? And what does it mean for Meursault?

Well Meursault is a bit skeptical of the story, but he does blame the son for attempting to deceive his family. Yet his concept of lying is a bit stretch. The Czechoslovakian did not set out to lie to his family for an evil purpose - he merely wanted to surprise them. It's much like a birthday surprise: you don't tell that person about the party because you want to heighten the pleasure he or she will surely derive from the party. But Meursault recoils from this idea strongly. For him, it's the act rather than the consequences of deception that is repulsive.

Meursault speaks the truth with similar deliberation. And tying in what I learned about Camus's stance on Absurdism, this story seems to affirm the philosophy that life is ultimately meaningless. Sure we search for meaning, much like how the Czechoslovakian did by trying to surprise his family, but where does that ultimately leads us?

Well, reading The Stranger, the answer seems to be death.

Huh?

So I had just finished chapter six of The Stranger, and before I could even close the book, I felt a looming mass of confusion beating around in my mind jumping and stomping around threatening to burst. Why did Meursault shoot the guy? Why did he both walking towards the guy? Could there possibly be a logical explanation behind his actions? The way I read it, it seemed as if he was suffering from heat hallucination. Sure the Arab guy had pulled out a threatening weapon, but he wouldn't have if Meursault had not walked towards him in the first place. Who is to blame? And why must there be any blame? I mean yes someone died, but for what purpose?

Ironically, just before Meursault decides to take the fateful walk on the beach, a thought flashes through his mind: "to stay or to go, it amounted to the same thing." Such a typical attitude for him, but how drastically he was wrong. There is something deeply bitter about this course of actions. Camus seems to be berating those individuals who do nothing against the wrongness of society. By letting it pass you by, you are helping and therefore implicated in the crime. You may feel indifferent and innocent, but it is your refusal to stop the evil that is the most terrible crime of them all.

How Strange!

Reading Camus reminds me an awful lot of Hemingway. They write in the same short, clipped, almost angry or resigned voice, veering away from detailed descriptions to terse facts. And in the same magical way, they both manage to hint at something hidden beneath the surface. Their characters too are strikingly similar. Jake Barnes, a crippled war veteran, is a stoic, silent, and ultimately dependable guy. Monsieur Meursault is a stoic, awkward, and caring person whose mother has just died. The two heros are both incredibly honest. Jake, when speaking, always says what is on his mind - for example, when Robert Cohn asks him about Brett, Jake gives him a complete rundown of her history including a warning to not get involved. While this act does seem selfish of Jake, who is also in love with Brett, it can also be viewed as an earnest attempt to prevent Cohn from getting hurt. In reflection, Cohn ignores the advice and loses all his friends in the process.

Monsieur Meursault has a comparable tendency to speak openly. When asked by Marie, his girlfriend, if he loved her, he replied with a negative, and was puzzled by why she seemed sad. When Marie asked him if he wanted to get marry, he didn't have any particular reason against it, so he said sure. Some people tend to view his veracity as an autistic inability to lie, but it appears to me like his own brand of personal charm. He has no reason to lie and thus he does not. Sometimes, this tendencies to tell the truth conflicts with social conformity, and Meursault is understandably not particularly popular. So why is he the hero of this story? It's hard to grasp all the reasons given that I have read only a limited number of chapters, so I will reserve judgement for now.

In Regards to Prose.

The authors we have been reading have such a diverse array of prose styles that it felt like quite the dynamic contrast placing them side by side. From the  the flowing, unwinding flow of Woolf to the concise chop of Hemingway, then to the plain yet bitter words of Kafka, I have found myself oftentimes in awe of how these authors use their different talents to attain a common goal - to write a good story. I really do miss Woolf and her beautiful way of descriptions. Her words have often struck me as a kind of abstract art, each sentence layering on top of another like watercolor washes. She paints a vivid and incredibly scenic picture. Transitioning from her to Hemingway was a challenge for I could not bring myself to entirely let go of her style. And Hemingway's prose is much like the antithesis of hers.

The Sun Also Rises was a short and dense novel. It had sentences that averaged about seven to ten words. Judging by prose alone, Hemingway is familiar territory for me. Modern authors have imitated him, and reading his novel was soothing. No longer would I have to seek out the meaning behind every sentence like I had for Woolf because everything was stated as clearly and concisely on the surface. His words didn't quite fly like the way words combined and weaved through Mrs. Dalloway, but they did resonate. And Hemingway's prose is very dramatic. He says everything like it's a royal decree. His words make you pause and wonder. For example, his description of bullfights is a great example. He does't go into meticulous details, but he gives us even better ones - "the crowd didn't want it to end," or "Pedro Romero had the greatness."

Lastly, there's Kafka. His prose is undeniably unremarkable. It's good, but not extraordinary. There's a curious edge to his tone as if he too is wondering about how the story will end. He writes as if he's recording data - for example, Gregor Samsa woke up one morning and found himself transformed into a giant insect. There's something similar between the way Kafka and Hemingway writes. They both seem to strive for objectivity in their voice and they focus on facts rather than on the inner mind, which Woolf loves. There is also a shared bitterness between the two. One chose an injured war veteran to be his hero and the other a traveling salesman that is turned into a cockroach. Both seem to be writing in reaction to the society around them - for Hemingway it's WWI and for Kafka, it's the world.

The Dreadful Conclusion.

Finishing up The Metamorphosis, I would like to get some comments off my chest. First of all, this book was bizarre. It was a great read - gripping plot, excellent imagery, etc., etc. But it disturbed me deeply. Gregor's plight and his family's inexcusable misconduct made this short story one of the saddest and perhaps truly unfortunate novella I have ever encountered. There are layers on top of layers of bitter humor, and reading the book was deeply uncomfortable. Not only do I despise insects, but it was Kafka's descriptions of Gregor as the hapless, helpless type of rodent that struck me as a reader. His sister treats him as a wearisome pet; after the initial excitement of caring for him faded, she turned against him. His parents are not a different story. His father is ashamed of him and his mother, while kind and perhaps maternal, is hopeless at caring for him. It was her futility and lack of effort that upset me too. Why doesn't she try harder for Gregor? Sure she's physically weak, but that doesn't mean her mental faculties have to be correspondingly weak too.

Secondly, there's the ending to consider. The way the parents sized up their daughter was definitely portending something dreadful. They were planning to marry her off, which was a normal thing to do when one's daughter comes of age. But the way they saw her stretching her young body reminded me of animal owners examining their livestock for dinner. Certainly marrying Grete off would bring connections and perhaps salvation to the withering yet managing Samsa family, but considering that their son had just died last night from their neglect and mistreatment, this immediate attention turned on their daughter made the parents seem awfully parasitic. They were desperate for comfort and not above selling off and exploiting their children to satisfy their own whims.

Family ties in The Metamorphosis.

Continuing off of class discussions about the nature of Gregor's parents, I would like to propose that they are symbols for an oppressive familial obligation. They swarm around his room, which somehow has an incredible number of doors through which his relatives can peek in. The way they hover and beg him to come out of his room is strikingly claustrophobic, both literally and figuratively. Doubtlessly, Gregor has a filial obligation to his parents and a fraternal one to his sister, but its the way that his family expects it from him shamelessly and almost condescendingly that does not resonate with me.

For it raises the question of how deep that obligation really goes. Do you still owe something to a person who has rejected you because you cannot provide for him any longer? I do not believe so, but then again my experience is limited. I love my family despite our disputes, and I'm sure Kafka appreciated his too, and he expresses it through Gregor all the while layering a mocking undertone to Gregor's family. The father is weak yet strong and can't be expected to work; the mother is always gasping under the window, and the younger sister, lovely person that she is, is still childish and naive. It seems as if Gregor is the only sensible creature - ironic there since he's actually a cockroach - and through his reflections, we perceive a caring yet overbearing family.

Poor Gregor.

There is something superficially absurd about the plot of Kafka's The Metamorphosis. The sheer idea of transforming a character, your own, into a rodent is ridiculous and fascinating. It has perhaps never been pursued before seriously and that's what makes this novella stand out. And when an author is capable to generating something so bizarre and intriguing, his story will no doubt last for generations. I am terribly, perhaps guiltily, repulsed by and attracted to this idea of a metaphor comparing the mindless worker to an equally thoughtless insect for there is so much to be argued for this point: there's a dumb work, repetitive and looked down upon, done by these office workers that is similar to the actions of rodents, and there's a secondary status that they both share as well. The insects, perhaps not cockroaches, perform a basic yet important role in our world - they pollinate our crops, give us valuable raw materials and are even nutritious. And like the workers, they labor incredibly hard, perhaps all their lives, for a seemingly unknown purpose.

Given what I already know of Kafka's own background, I would like to argue that this story is his way of bemoaning the deprecated state of workers as well as the general ineptitude and ingratitude of parents. Of course, this is hidden beneath layers after layers of bitter irony, which is the reason why I find Gregor Samsa a pathetic and sympathetic character. His excessive groveling - please, he just wants to work - is endearing, and his family's complete intolerance, except in the case of his sister, of his condition is disgusting. Kafka himself seems to be struggling between making Gregor a pitiable creature and mocking him, and himself by extension.

Brett is not a Brat.

Many of my peers, mostly male just to point out, believe that Brett is a terrible character who can be characterized by another five lettered word that starts with a "b." I disagree, quite strongly. Primarily, there is the problem with the narration through Jake's perspective. No matter how stoic a character he may seem on the surface, he does subtly inject self-sympathy into the story. Jake portrays Brett as a complex, unattainable love interest who plays around and has a lonely life. He loves her, there's no doubt about that, but he's forcing his love for her to take precedence over her love for him. In other words, the readers can see and coo over how much Jake thinks of Brett, but cannot gain access to her thoughts. To them, Brett is a party girl with a sad history and promiscuity as wide and as deep as the sea. In a way, they are correct because she does taken on those characteristics, but on the other hand, they are absolutely wrong.

When I analyze Brett, I see her as a tragic figure. Her true love - one that must have been something to ensnare her - died in the war, and her next love (assuming her first true love wasn't Jake's masculinity because that would just be shallow) cannot provide her with the comfort she needs. She marries the first man, an abusive tyrant, who comes along and suffers terribly. And despite her great looks and lovely personality, she has an inferiority complex. She drinks to cover it up, sleeps around to hide it, and cannot be with Jake absolutely because of it. For Brett, I think, Jake is the perfect man, one who cannot taint a relationship with sex and whatnots. While she is drawn to that idea (as we all are attracted to something ideal), she is too insecure of herself to jump for it. Instead, she finds temporary solace in the flawed guys such as Mike and Robert.

Perhaps my analysis is bias and skewed. That's your opinion. But everyone has their faults, some more obviously than the other. If you are willing to forgive Jake for his inability to communicate his love and need, then you ought to consider pardoning Brett for her insecurities.

Ezra and Ernest.

Due to the panel presentation, I was eager to research relationships and influences between Ezra Pound and Ernest Hemingway. What I came across was a letter, read here by Yale University, from Hemingway to Pound and his wife. The former had broken his arm and several fingers, and the fact that he persisted to write despite his handicap speaks volumes about his affections for his poet friend. In the letter itself, Hemingway says he's rather sore that Pound still hasn't won a Nobel Prize for his work, and such praise is not lightly said. It hints at a deeper and perhaps reverential appreciation for Pound's work. Human nature strives to imitate what it respects, and I think that case can be applicable in this case.

It will certainly be difficult to ascertain how deep that influence is, but one thing is clear: Pound admired Hemingway's boxing talents, and asked him to teach him. In return, Hemingway would later joke that Pound taught him how to write. While probably spoken in jest, this nevertheless confirms the fact that the two men shared writing tips. Whether this influence was mutual or just one-sided, I am unable to answer for. But I think this really strengthens the idea of the "Lost Generation" for all these writers and artists bond together in reaction the war and ideas of an antiquated century. It's their obvious friendship that has survived in each others' works that strike me as the most remarkable production of this talented generation.

Crazy Cohn.

I really dislike Cohn. It's a very straightforward feeling. I don't even care that he's Jewish for that fact has nothing to do with my judgment of him. It's the way he talks, the way he's awkwardly trailing after Brett, the way he sends Frances away, and the way he's so easily susceptible to others' influences. Like Jake, I do not consider him a masculine figure, certainly not one worthy of Brett's love. At best, Cohn is pitiable, rather like a puppy. Brett takes him to San Sebastian out of pity, Jake befriends him to offer him advice - reading the interactions between the two, I think Jake is very much motivated by a feeling of sympathy and perhaps a bit of jealousy for Cohn still has his life, his masculinity, but he's squandering it away.

And then there's the fact Cohn's a punching machine. He's extremely volatile, almost naively so. He has a complete lack of control over his emotions and resorts to the most brutal and crude way of expressing his rage. Unlike Jake and Bill, and to a certain extent Mike, Cohn is unbelievably sensitive. It's almost feminine the way feelings leap and soar in him. It's a terrible weak trait in a Hemingway hero, and it certainly not admirable. It makes him susceptible to others' derision and an easy target. I do not condone the way Mike jeers over his Jewish ancestry, but there is a shade of justification for Mike. Cohn hangs around Brett like an adoring knight, which would be fine, almost sweet if you were utterly romantic, but he thinks too highly of himself. For he sees Brett as a woman to be claimed and protected by him, hero extraordinaire, when she doesn't need him and certainly doesn't want him.

Why does the sun also rise?

Last night, as I finished perusing the book, I closed it and stared at the cover. There, the title of the novel, a perplexing yet poetic title, stared back at me. What was this? What does it mean, I wondered. Why did Hemingway choose such an ambiguous almost lyrical title for his book. Sure there's something masculine about the Sun, hint Apollo, but is this ultimately a book about men? The Sun is bright, constant, and arbitrary. When it shines, it does so passionately, but when there's rain, it shies away behind the clouds. Are we supposed to interpret that strange, changing nature of the Sun to be the theme of the novel? Does it explain the irrational behavior of our heros and heroine? 

Or is the focus of the book rather centered on the words "also rises?" For there is something profound about the two words. Rise, and rise again, and again. It suggests a motif of resiliency, of life constantly pushing and churning against obstacles, and succeeding. There is something that hints at Jacob Barnes and Brett and all the rest, maybe except for Cohn. They are all veterans of war, one of the most devastating wars in history then known. It has cost them and left behind varying shades of damage. And yet they have survived. They have loved and lost, fought and been beaten. Life goes on, and the sun will also rise. 

Jake as Septimus

I didn't believe that a book could be more sorrowful than Mrs. Dalloway until I read The Sun Also Rises. God, the latter was just like a punch to the gut. Jake Barnes, an incredibly normal and respectable guy, is so very much like Septimus Smith. There is something fundamentally lacking about Jake and this wound, physical and physiological, prevents him from seeking the love that he so obviously desires. And yet everywhere, he is bombarded with other people in love. Walking in the street, he notices "a man and a girl... walking with their arms around each other (83)." He silently criticizes the careless matrimonial behavior of Robert Cohn, and derides the crowd of chaps that follow Brett around who are so thoughtless with their gift to procreate life. 

Septimus too suffered from his inability to feel particularly because everyone around him showered him with feelings. To realize that you lack something so essentially ingrained in everyone else is a frightening realization. It is an unbelievably lonely feeling. To escape it, Septimus commits suicide and Jake exhibits bitter behavior. What Jake will do though remains to be seen.

Reflection on Laura Brown

While my position may appear strange to many, it is one that resonates profoundly for me. The one character who I found to be most sympathetic with was Laura Brown, the mother who abandoned her children without regret and ended her life without death. To me, her actions and background do not appear fictional; she is, in many ways, very much like Clarissa Dalloway. In the novel The Hours, the author explains the reasons why Laura married Dan: "Why did she marry him? She married him out of love. She married him out of guilt; out of fear of being alone; out of patriotism." Was the love she had truly love? Or was it a self-induced kind of affection that arose out of the fear of loneliness - that eternal gripping fear - and patriotism? In the movie, Laura explains to Peggy that she feels as if Dan had deserved her for his actions in the war. But this sentiment, even coming from herself, is unspeakably degrading. For it sets her up as an object, a prize, to be won; Dan deserved her, not because she loved him, but because he needed a reward for putting his life on the front line for their nation.

There is also the matter of her fear of being alone to consider, and it too is not her fault. Everyone is a bit afraid of the chasm of isolation. Perhaps Laura married Dan to escape from it, but she must have found that feeling even more overbearing after marriage. There was undeniably comfort and happiness, if only one-sided, in their lives as husband and wife, but Laura came into this marriage with that feeling of unworthiness, which crept on and strangled her heart. How could she be happy when she didn't feel worthy of it? Like Clarissa in the novel, Laura was agonized by her own thoughts and by the world that demanded her to be happy. In some way I think she parallels Septimus, who too was tortured by his inability to feel what others expected him to experience.

I do not advocate abandoning your family, but desperate times do call for drastic and sometimes unforgivable actions. Laura did so with open eyes and she did not expect forgiveness. It takes courage to leave such a wonderful life behind, yet her act was one to preserve herself, much like Septimus's defiant suicide. It was selfish of her to leave behind Dan, Richie and her daughter, and perhaps some can argue it was too selfish, but it's her desperation to find a life of her own, her enforced sense of unworthiness, and her courage to do so that wrenches my heart and draws my sympathy like no other.

Clarissa + Septimus = Survival 101?

Wrapping up Mrs. Dalloway, I close this delightful book with only one regret. It's a small nagging burst of thought that I can't suppress - what if Clarissa and Septimus had met? Would they have been friends? Could they have fallen in love? Would she have been able to save him, or am I naive for wishing so? They are so impossibly similar and yet their fates are infinitely different. Whereas he chose to leap to his death in defiance, she paused, wondered, and lived.

Comparing the two, it's possible to see parallels: for instance, they were both victims of excruciating loneliness despite the comfort of their respective situations - he a favored worker and she a successful housewife - and the love they receive from their spouses. They each experienced a sort of past trauma - he the death of a close friend and she the death of a talented sister. And they both approach life with a unique perspective - he from the eyes of a poet and she with the theory that all life was interwoven. The one significant aspect on which they diverge is the ability to feel; whereas Clarissa is overflowing with empathy, Septimus despairs his stoic personality. This, combined with the joyous celebration of life that swirls around him in central London, overwhelms him to madness.

Yet, think for a moment, pretend Clarissa was a central figure in Septimus's life (just as she had been in Richard's life in The Hours), would she have been to help him move on from the struggles of life? The movie doesn't believe so, but that is only one interpretation. I personally believe (maybe because I'm passionately optimistic) that such a happy ending would have been possible. For while Virginia Woolf was a poetically wonderful writer, she was also a victim of suicide trapped in an unhappy marriage, and there are times when I think she underestimates the human resilience. That Septimus may have lived had he a Clarissa-like figure is the dream I hold on to.

What if!

Had Clarissa chosen Peter over Richard, her life would have been miserable. Where Richard can provide her with comfort, stability, and a room of her own, Peter would have consumed her life, ate up her vitality and stamped out her virtues. Peter, always toying with his knife, appears to me to be irregular and downright fanciful; he loves Clarissa, to be sure, but his love for her is hurting her. "Are you happy?" he had asked of her, but what kind of question is that to address to a married woman with a grown daughter and thriving household? He later stalks a young woman (a prostitute?) through the streets for the fun of it, and he enjoys an affair with Daisy, another married woman. The way he longs after Clarissa is as if she belongs to him and Richard has stolen her away; his love for her is selfish, almost despicable.

Many would sympathize with Peter's passionate, romantic soul, but his overwhelming emotions would have suffocated Clarissa who, like Woolf herself, enjoyed life at a distance. Where Richard feels lucky to have Clarissa, Peter takes great glee at picking apart her faults. Although there was a period in her life when Clarissa was undeniably radical, even Peter is forced to observe that she would likely marry Richard because of her conventional core. For someone with her delicate sensibilities and empathy, a marriage with the wild and untamable Peter would have been stifling. Even if we pretend that it was Clarissa's refusal of Peter's marriage proposal which was the catastrophic event that altered him forever, his dramatic removal to India seems to me rather histrionic. This act belies an overly dramatic personality that is unchangeably Peter's.

Panel Discussion: Septimus Smith (continued)

As a continuation of the panel presentation today, I would like to argue that Septimus Smith is a tragic Christ figure. His death, defiant as it was in the eyes of others, achieved nothing; the great message bursting from his heart failed to reach an audience. He and so many others in his generation sailed off to war, to glory perhaps, for the sake of England, and returned dead, mad or both. World War I, history books have argued, was fought over nothing. Whether it be German aggression or the assassination of an Austrian Archduke, what ultimately was the purpose of this war? Who were the true winners? And who were the real victims?

If we examine the biblical parallel a bit closer, we may observe that Jesus was God's sacrificial lamb to seal his covenant with his people. Likewise, Septimus and many others were sacrificed in the war to yield a victory. But where Jesus's death washed the people of their sins, what did Septimus's help to achieve? Where Jesus willingly laid down his life (for he was born to do this), Septimus didn't even want to die for the people, for his homeland. In fact, he died to escape from Dr. Holmes, who may or may not symbolize British society. Peter Walsh, who notices an ambulance that may have carried Septimus's broken body, pauses to observe the convenience of modern society. Clarissa, the most empathetic character we have in the book, gains a renewal of joie de vivre, but what about the rest of her party? If it can be argued that Septimus died for the lives of these "important" men of Parliament, then was his death worth it? Was anything that we note in England in the 1920s - the skywriting, the flower shop, the Prime Minister - worth the lives of millions?

"Are you happy?"

There is something striking about Peter's statement on page 46. It's the question that ends this soul-wrenching interview between him and Clarissa after years of separation. But what does it mean? What can it mean? Peter, the passionate suitor whom Clarissa rejected years ago but still harbors a distinctive affection for, asking her, the married woman, holding her hand, crying earnestly before her - what does it tell us? He goes on to ask "Does Richard-" but here we get interrupted, purposefully, from ever knowing the completion of his thoughts. Now enters Elizabeth, "my Elizabeth" Clarissa calls her much to Peter's annoyance, the living, breathing proof of Clarissa's marriage to Richard. An anchor perhaps, even a reminder for her of what her life has become.

But of Peter? He's so impossibly memorable. His letters boring, his mind radical, and his life a mockery. Why does Richard feel so unthreatened by him, clearly the more dynamic rival of the two? In the history between Clarissa and Peter, we see her happy, joyous, even different! There was a time when she too was a radical, reading Plato, Morris and Shelley "by the hour;" it makes us wonder why she would settle for a bland, conservative Richard? For me, Clarissa is insecure. She loves adventure, and like Septimus, she wants to do something meaningful with her life; yet she is frightened. It might be the misogynistic society that has torn away her independence or it might be her inner fear, but whatever it is, it's holding her back.

Richard provides the comfortable house in Westminister while Peter offers the exciting journey into the horizon. We know the path Clarissa chose, but was it the right one?

Remembering Rezia

Last friday in class, a thought was brought up that struck me like an arrow - Would you pity Rezia? Lucrezia, the young Italian woman who married Septimus; a foreigner, a lonely wife, a talented hat maker, and an innocent whose life was unfortunately entangled by WWI. We learn that she likes "ices, chocolates, sweet things;" we are told that she's "gay... frivolous, with those little artist's fingers" and "apt to lose things." She was amused by Septimus's silence, enchanted by his seriousness. Overall, she comes off as a young girl unsuited, above all, to marry Septimus.

He becomes engaged with her in a fit of panic. He marries her thoughtlessly, lovelessly, and somewhat pointlessly. She wants children, a gentle, serious, clever "son like Septimus." He withdraws from her, shunning her outpour of eager love and attentions. For her part, she too is incapable of understanding the bleeding chasm war has torn in him. She is incapable of filling that empty hole; she is too young, too inexperienced, too innocent to suit Septimus. Yet there is no doubt that she tries. And watching her efforts fail over and over, his presence descend further and further into madness, and their paths slide farther and farther away from each other is heartbreaking. Was there ever a hope of reconciliation? Or a marriage of minds? If not, then who's to blame? Rezia with her feathery hats or Septimus with his gravity?

Peter Walsh: Romance Extraordinaire

If there ever was a fascinating character in Mrs. Dalloway, it would be the overlooked Peter Walsh. With his fumbling knives, with his childish sayings, and his dull letters, Peter has arguably had the greatest influence on Clarissa. He knows Clarissa better than she knows herself, and yet still manages to be "passionately" in love with her. His adoration of her isn't blind, and that is what makes it so compelling; it takes one glance for him to realize that the woman of his dreams will marry another man, and it will take him much more than a lifetime to forget her haunting. For even though he has given his love to a faraway Daisy, it is Clarissa whom he weeps before.

Peter, for me, symbolizes the complex and varying shades of human love. The feelings he possesses for Clarissa is far more complicated than any Disney movie; he hates her, derides her, and pities her. But it is her who stirs the most curious spark within him. After reuniting with her for the first time in years, he leaves, miserable, and dreams of "a solitary traveller" wandering down a path with the majestic "sky and branches" endowed with womanhood; he hears murmurs of "sirens lolloping away on the green sea waves" and sees his past, so tragically romantic. There are no perfect love stories, only snapshots. There is perhaps a human instinct that clings to the happier side of romance, but it is only the complete story that can be so compelling.

Virginia; Woolf

There are many things one can enjoy in Mrs. Dalloway: the writing ("to watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy"), the characters (oh Septimus!),  and even the endless semicolons (this; is; a; great; example). But my personal love for this book springs from the beauty it creates. Take, for instance, the quote: "As a cloud crosses the sun, silence falls on London; and falls on the mind. Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand (48)." From beginning to end, this sentence brews in one's mind like a relentless painter, its every word washes over like millions of brush strokes. When one reads Woolf, one reads the words; any of them is beautiful enough to be a novel; every turn of phrase worthy of a poem.

And yet, the author somehow manages to assemble a book out of all these perfect expressions - unimaginable! Now these words become parts of a greater picture, a masterpiece no doubt, and the sentences swirl together effortlessly into an splendid painting. It's incredible, enviable, and notably Woolf-esque. I don't know about you, but I'm planning to read ahead! (Sssh.)

(nichols)On Baker

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

Marcus Aurelius, short for Marcus Aurelius Annius Catilius Severus Antoninus Augustus with a Caesar thrown in somewhere given that he was a Roman emperor, was first and foremost a Stoic philosopher, which, and please forgive my crude summary, meant that he repressed most if not all emotions to achieve intellectual perfection; in the modern era, we would have called him antisocial. Given this background, one can almost forgive Aurelius's depressing account of life. Spending most of your impressive life purposefully shunning personal enjoyment and sensory pleasures would give anyone the impression that life is nothing more than a bore.

Howie on the other hand is damn cheerful that it hurts to pick up The Mezzanine on a gloomy day. His enthusiasm for everything that crosses his path and his remarkable ability to convey that to the reader make me equally nauseous and envious. Here is a guy with a curiosity that didn't just kill the cat - it suffocated whales - and life seems to shimmer off of him as naturally as breathing. The fact that he's even in close proximity with a book authored by Stoic should be labeled as a paradox; there is a fundamental, universal, and atomical difference between him and Aurelius a galaxy wide and a black hole deep.

In fact, The Mezzanine seems like a complete refutation of Meditations. Even on a surface level, the contrast between the titles is almost comical: whereas "meditations" ring out with austereness and grandeur, there is something light and vivacious about "mezzanine." Where Aurelius counsels against indulging in sensory affections, Howie is not afraid to pause and examine every ordinary object, always managing to marvel over something worthwhile hidden in the simplicity. Yet although Baker never advises anyone to follow Howie's mode of living, no one can help but smile at the happiness his character exudes. Look, Baker seems to say, I took a lunch hour that occurred years ago and made a sort-of-novel out of it! Don't praise me, he would protest, try it yourself! Had Aurelius ever picked up The Mezzanine, there is no doubt on my mind that he would have had it banned and its author burned.