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.