Over the past month that we've been working on our historiographic metafictions I feel like I've learned a lot and gotten a lot of unique writing experiences. The worst experience thus far has been getting sick with flu-like symptoms while reading Maia's terrifyingly realistic depiction of the Spanish flu outbreak (complete with gory death scenes!). Although I do admit trying to write an extra scene full of dialogue of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle while I've had a stomach virus hasn't been a walk in the park either. Regardless, I thought it might be fun to share what I've learned about writing in this style and how I can improve in the future.
The first thing I learned was that in creative writing I tend to be a bit too ambitious. For my short story concept I chose a complex twisting drama about the murders of "Jack the Ripper" and a conspiracy involving the press and others to perpetuate the myth for their own benefit. This idea already seems a bit to complex for a "short" story, but I also initially wanted the story to involve the perspectives of 12 different characters who were all equally important and contributed evenly to the tone and message of the piece. I quickly realized that I was setting out to either write a decently sized novel or the world's longest short story. I realized I was too envious of the highly complex and well thought out plots and themes of our books that I sought out to create my own equally intricate attempt. I was eventually able to narrow the perspectives down to 3 but I still have the concepts and character backgrounds to do the larger project if I wanted. Perhaps if I find some free time over the summer I can make a hobby out of it. The point is that I learned early on that ambition is good, but you must keep your goals realistic.
I went fairly deep into some of my research, as my story deals with a lot of historical people and events, much like Libra or Ragtime. It was here that I discovered it is never enough to simply skim the surface in terms of research if you want to truly write a realistic historical portrayal of your time period. For example, at one point in my preliminary research I found that it is widely believed that journalist Tom Bullen was behind the "jack the ripper letters." Once I looked into the sources that the website cited, however I found that they were misquoting their information, it is true that many believed Tom Bullen to be behind the letters, that opinion has been largely discredited after a recent discovery of a confession by Bullen's colleague Fred Best. I would use this info to change a wikipedia article to more truthfully reflect it's cited material.
The last thing I learned about historiographic writing is that little details are everything in terms of setting up your setting and overall tone. I spent a lot of time researching the methods of Victorian constables and the mannerisms of dollymops (cheap Victorian prostitutes) so that I could portray them naturally and not feel that I was artificially manufacturing their dialogue and actions. I write best when I feel I understand everything about the character first, then simply letting them unfold naturally into a situation. If I do it correctly, it is the easiest and most natural way to write, but if I phone it in it can feel samey and unappealing.
I'm very happy to have done this project, as I feel it's really improved my skills as a writer and reader of historiographic and metafictional pieces. It helps that the assignment was also quite fun to do, something that doesn't happen often enough in classic educational learning if you ask me.
Monday, May 14, 2012
My thoughts on the ending
It seems that the ending of Libra, like so many of the past semester, has divided our class in terms of assessing its quality. I, for one, seem to fall somewhere in the middle between those who praise this ending's effectiveness and those who find it confusing and abrupt.
In regards to many who feel that the story should have gone on longer than it did, we must consider the structure with which this story was built. Considering 50% of this novel was built around the perspective of Lee, it would be impossible to have the same level of thematic balance once he's dead. I will admit that this is a problem in terms of the flow of the narrative, as we never get a chance to revisit some of the perspectives that would be interesting and captivating after the death of Lee, but DeLillo had already created such a long and balanced story structure that it would be jarring to change to a new one for the final hundred pages or so. Even taking that into consideration, however, the ending does have a rushed and abrupt quality to it, with the events we were so looking forward to analyzing and delving into happening within a very short time frame. It gives off the feeling of a lot of importance packed into a compact space, which many would say overwhelms the reader and gives them no amount of space to step back and assess what they had just experienced. I do think it's possible though, that this feeling is created intentionally. Experiencing the end of the book is much like how an observer would experience the sudden and shocking events of Kennedy and Oswald's assassinations, overwhelming you over a short period of time and leaving you with a lingering feeling of confusion and exhaustion. It's quite possible in my mind that DeLillo tried to capture this tone in the ending of his book, and so the reactions many members of our class are having are purely intentional. This could, also, be a simple attempt to grasp at any straws that justify the strange tone and experience of reading this book, which is one of the most uniquely impactful novels I've read in a while, leaving me not quite knowing what to feel.
Whatever the intended reaction of the reader or the true nature of this book's tone, I'm sure the debate of this ending's effectiveness will power onward for some time after we've all stopped.
In regards to many who feel that the story should have gone on longer than it did, we must consider the structure with which this story was built. Considering 50% of this novel was built around the perspective of Lee, it would be impossible to have the same level of thematic balance once he's dead. I will admit that this is a problem in terms of the flow of the narrative, as we never get a chance to revisit some of the perspectives that would be interesting and captivating after the death of Lee, but DeLillo had already created such a long and balanced story structure that it would be jarring to change to a new one for the final hundred pages or so. Even taking that into consideration, however, the ending does have a rushed and abrupt quality to it, with the events we were so looking forward to analyzing and delving into happening within a very short time frame. It gives off the feeling of a lot of importance packed into a compact space, which many would say overwhelms the reader and gives them no amount of space to step back and assess what they had just experienced. I do think it's possible though, that this feeling is created intentionally. Experiencing the end of the book is much like how an observer would experience the sudden and shocking events of Kennedy and Oswald's assassinations, overwhelming you over a short period of time and leaving you with a lingering feeling of confusion and exhaustion. It's quite possible in my mind that DeLillo tried to capture this tone in the ending of his book, and so the reactions many members of our class are having are purely intentional. This could, also, be a simple attempt to grasp at any straws that justify the strange tone and experience of reading this book, which is one of the most uniquely impactful novels I've read in a while, leaving me not quite knowing what to feel.
Whatever the intended reaction of the reader or the true nature of this book's tone, I'm sure the debate of this ending's effectiveness will power onward for some time after we've all stopped.
The Zapruder film and the inevitability of events
I think that in connecting the dots between Delillo's writing on the Zapruder film and his portrayal of Oswald's perspective a theme emerges that states that some things in life are inevitable and cannot be changed.
When Delillo describes the strange artistic party in Underworld, he talks about how the events of the film become slowly engrained into the audience's expectations, all the while still provoking shock and disgust when the same result always emerges. It was eerie to watch the clip on loop while Mr. Mitchell read that passage, as I began to feel and observe the very same reactions emerge in the classroom. We watch the clip over and over again, knowing on the surface that Kennedy will always be shot, and yet we continue to sit and watch, transfixed, some small part of ourselves hoping that this time will be different.
That same theme presents itself in Libra, especially near some of the later chapters in Dallas. Lee and Ferrie begins to view the act of killing the president as an acceptable inevitability, that there is no way to avoid it and that they might as well accept it for the historical moment that it will be.
On the whole, this reminds me a lot of the tralfamadorians and their views of history and its progression. This line of thinking also led me to consider how my reading has been effected y my understanding of history. In a sense, I haven't read this book before, but have instead known only bits and pieces, a vague overview. This leaves me with a thinly connected progression of events that the book proceeds to fill in. Libra seems to hit a perfect balance between engagement and inevitability, as I know certain events are destined to occur, and yet I am intrigued as to how they will be reached. I know from the onset, for instance, that Oswald will be in the book depository during the day of Kennedy's assassination, but I do not know for what reasons that might be or how Oswald got to be there. A similar reaction occurs with Jack Ruby, who, when he is introduced, I recognize as the assassin of Oswald, yet I do not know the motivation behind the act. The book still has the same air of inevitable occurrences that a second reading brings with it, but it is still engaging, as the events themselves are shrouded in mystery and doubt.
This has been one of the most interesting themes of some of the books this semester, and of all the ideas we explored in terms of postmodernist writing I think it is by far the most advanced.
When Delillo describes the strange artistic party in Underworld, he talks about how the events of the film become slowly engrained into the audience's expectations, all the while still provoking shock and disgust when the same result always emerges. It was eerie to watch the clip on loop while Mr. Mitchell read that passage, as I began to feel and observe the very same reactions emerge in the classroom. We watch the clip over and over again, knowing on the surface that Kennedy will always be shot, and yet we continue to sit and watch, transfixed, some small part of ourselves hoping that this time will be different.
That same theme presents itself in Libra, especially near some of the later chapters in Dallas. Lee and Ferrie begins to view the act of killing the president as an acceptable inevitability, that there is no way to avoid it and that they might as well accept it for the historical moment that it will be.
On the whole, this reminds me a lot of the tralfamadorians and their views of history and its progression. This line of thinking also led me to consider how my reading has been effected y my understanding of history. In a sense, I haven't read this book before, but have instead known only bits and pieces, a vague overview. This leaves me with a thinly connected progression of events that the book proceeds to fill in. Libra seems to hit a perfect balance between engagement and inevitability, as I know certain events are destined to occur, and yet I am intrigued as to how they will be reached. I know from the onset, for instance, that Oswald will be in the book depository during the day of Kennedy's assassination, but I do not know for what reasons that might be or how Oswald got to be there. A similar reaction occurs with Jack Ruby, who, when he is introduced, I recognize as the assassin of Oswald, yet I do not know the motivation behind the act. The book still has the same air of inevitable occurrences that a second reading brings with it, but it is still engaging, as the events themselves are shrouded in mystery and doubt.
This has been one of the most interesting themes of some of the books this semester, and of all the ideas we explored in terms of postmodernist writing I think it is by far the most advanced.
Pity for Lee
Lee Harvey Oswald is not a historical figure that I've usually looked on with much kindness. Looking at just his actions from my twenty-first century perspective, I see little that I could sympathize with or relate to. This is probably the greatest achievement of Libra in my mind, because this work of fiction has forced me to reconsider my opinions of historical characters and readjust the ways in which I seek to justify my evaluation of others.
The tired old adage goes "walk a mile in someone else's shoes." Libra does much more than that, showing you how the shoes were made, expectations of the shoes, and the flaws inherent in the shoes' design. To get away from this INCREDIBLY tortured metaphor, Libra serves to help us understand what makes Lee tick, and better understand him as a flawed human being, not just the black and white deranged villain of the twentieth century that historical photos seek to portray him as.
Interestingly though, much of this character is little more than interpretation. The Lee we find in Libra is a patchwork of history and fiction, with DeLillo filling in the missing bits with his own unique interpretations and assumptions. No person in their right mind would defend the historical Lee Harvey Oswald by saying "oh don't be so hard on him, haven't you read Libra, he's really an unlucky guy who sought to be more than he could reasonably achieve, a modern day Icarus!" Instead, we are meant to consider the plausibility of this Oswald's existence. In other words, Lee Harvey Oswald was not necessarily the person that DeLillo portrays, but he COULD be, and that's what's important.
I started this book with the belief that Lee Harvey Oswald was a mentally sick individual who brutally murdered a man he never met, whether by chance or by conspiracy, and believed his actions were inherently commendable. While it is entirely possible that Oswald behaved this way, DeLillo has shown me that he could reasonably be a pitiable man who sought to prove himself and be a part of something bigger, showing his own worth as a thinker and a man of ideals. Neither interpretation has more weight on my mind when I consider the historical figure, and this has also trained me to view more than just the surface appearance when judging the actions of individuals.
The tired old adage goes "walk a mile in someone else's shoes." Libra does much more than that, showing you how the shoes were made, expectations of the shoes, and the flaws inherent in the shoes' design. To get away from this INCREDIBLY tortured metaphor, Libra serves to help us understand what makes Lee tick, and better understand him as a flawed human being, not just the black and white deranged villain of the twentieth century that historical photos seek to portray him as.
Interestingly though, much of this character is little more than interpretation. The Lee we find in Libra is a patchwork of history and fiction, with DeLillo filling in the missing bits with his own unique interpretations and assumptions. No person in their right mind would defend the historical Lee Harvey Oswald by saying "oh don't be so hard on him, haven't you read Libra, he's really an unlucky guy who sought to be more than he could reasonably achieve, a modern day Icarus!" Instead, we are meant to consider the plausibility of this Oswald's existence. In other words, Lee Harvey Oswald was not necessarily the person that DeLillo portrays, but he COULD be, and that's what's important.
I started this book with the belief that Lee Harvey Oswald was a mentally sick individual who brutally murdered a man he never met, whether by chance or by conspiracy, and believed his actions were inherently commendable. While it is entirely possible that Oswald behaved this way, DeLillo has shown me that he could reasonably be a pitiable man who sought to prove himself and be a part of something bigger, showing his own worth as a thinker and a man of ideals. Neither interpretation has more weight on my mind when I consider the historical figure, and this has also trained me to view more than just the surface appearance when judging the actions of individuals.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Linden as a Human
I felt that this interpretation of our former president wasn't as offensive as many seem think.
Many people I've discussed this with have cited the ways in which Johnson is viewed as weak or obnoxious as reasons that this interpretation is disrespectful or diminishes Johnson's memory. I disagree with this assumption. If anything, i think that David Foster Wallace wanted to make Johnson more human by making him both sympathetic and relateable.
The way that we have been trained to treat presidents does a few separate things to how we view them as people. For one, we are taught that the President represents the country as a whole. He is meant to be wise, respectable, and level-headed in his approach to everything. Because of this way we portray our leader, we also find ourselves unable to relate to them.
We work so hard to make them seem professional and focused that we could never picture them doing a normal everyday task. This habit has changed for the most part, with the development of larger journalistic groups and the advent of paparazzi, but for Linden Johnson, many still viewed him as a wholly serious individual.
Those who didn't respect Johnson despised him. His involvement in the Vietnam War made him the closest relateable image for protestors to latch on to. This meant that Johnson was only ever viewed as traditional strong or diabolical and heartless.
Wallace uses the human flaws and "gross" asides to take apart the concept of Jonson we all hold in our countries collective memory, smashing it to pieces like taking a sledgehammer to a statue. Wallace also serves to present a human Johnson by showing the man's reaction to many socially and emotionally pressuring situations, such as the protestors heckling him.
Wallace allows the reader to consider how they've viewed great leaders of the past. By presenting Johnson in a human and vulnerable context, he's reinforced the idea that no one person is beyond doubt, weakness, or vulnerability. Ideally, a reader should walk away from this book with a new perspective of politics and celebrity of today.
Many people I've discussed this with have cited the ways in which Johnson is viewed as weak or obnoxious as reasons that this interpretation is disrespectful or diminishes Johnson's memory. I disagree with this assumption. If anything, i think that David Foster Wallace wanted to make Johnson more human by making him both sympathetic and relateable.
The way that we have been trained to treat presidents does a few separate things to how we view them as people. For one, we are taught that the President represents the country as a whole. He is meant to be wise, respectable, and level-headed in his approach to everything. Because of this way we portray our leader, we also find ourselves unable to relate to them.
We work so hard to make them seem professional and focused that we could never picture them doing a normal everyday task. This habit has changed for the most part, with the development of larger journalistic groups and the advent of paparazzi, but for Linden Johnson, many still viewed him as a wholly serious individual.
Those who didn't respect Johnson despised him. His involvement in the Vietnam War made him the closest relateable image for protestors to latch on to. This meant that Johnson was only ever viewed as traditional strong or diabolical and heartless.
Wallace uses the human flaws and "gross" asides to take apart the concept of Jonson we all hold in our countries collective memory, smashing it to pieces like taking a sledgehammer to a statue. Wallace also serves to present a human Johnson by showing the man's reaction to many socially and emotionally pressuring situations, such as the protestors heckling him.
Wallace allows the reader to consider how they've viewed great leaders of the past. By presenting Johnson in a human and vulnerable context, he's reinforced the idea that no one person is beyond doubt, weakness, or vulnerability. Ideally, a reader should walk away from this book with a new perspective of politics and celebrity of today.
Understanding symbolic injury
When Dana first lost her arm, I quickly recognized that it would have important symbolic importance. Using loss of limb or injury in general (also exemplified by Kevin's scar) as symbolism for a painful past or loss of innocence, has been a long-running theme in literature, film, and interactive media, and I've always enjoyed the element when it is used.
The reason I enjoy the symbolic event so much is because of its effectiveness. When a character loses a limb it is an obvious visual change. They are severely hampered, and they are constantly reminded of the event that stole it from them. Films like The Empire Strikes Back understand that seeing a person lose their arm is a brutal thing to see, and so when Luke is disarmed (ha) we are just as shocked and upset as he is. From that point, Luke is no longer a pure and honest innocent, and doubt begins to fill his mind with the revelation of his father's identity.
The use of scars as symbolism has also been done effectively in series like Avatar: the Last Airbender. In that series, the character of Zuko was an optimistic and ambitious youth, but when he angers his father the young prince is severely burned, leaving a horrible scar on the side of his face. From that point on Zuko was sullen and bitter, carrying his shame in the same way he carried his scar.
In these ways, scars and losses of limb can be some of the most effective ways to demonstrate a characters hardship, and here is no different. When Dana looses her arm, it symbolizes how she has lost part of her own innocence. She has left it behind, and she can never be the same person she was before. This specific use of the symbolic element reminds me of the Coen Brothers' interpretation of True Grit, a story in which the young girl Mattie, loses her innocence (along with her arm), and becomes bitter and cold. On the whole, this is one of my favorite forms of physical symbolism.
The reason I enjoy the symbolic event so much is because of its effectiveness. When a character loses a limb it is an obvious visual change. They are severely hampered, and they are constantly reminded of the event that stole it from them. Films like The Empire Strikes Back understand that seeing a person lose their arm is a brutal thing to see, and so when Luke is disarmed (ha) we are just as shocked and upset as he is. From that point, Luke is no longer a pure and honest innocent, and doubt begins to fill his mind with the revelation of his father's identity.
The use of scars as symbolism has also been done effectively in series like Avatar: the Last Airbender. In that series, the character of Zuko was an optimistic and ambitious youth, but when he angers his father the young prince is severely burned, leaving a horrible scar on the side of his face. From that point on Zuko was sullen and bitter, carrying his shame in the same way he carried his scar.
In these ways, scars and losses of limb can be some of the most effective ways to demonstrate a characters hardship, and here is no different. When Dana looses her arm, it symbolizes how she has lost part of her own innocence. She has left it behind, and she can never be the same person she was before. This specific use of the symbolic element reminds me of the Coen Brothers' interpretation of True Grit, a story in which the young girl Mattie, loses her innocence (along with her arm), and becomes bitter and cold. On the whole, this is one of my favorite forms of physical symbolism.
Time Travel as a Metephor
I've always enjoyed stories that involve time travel. It's truly the epitome of the fish out of water scenario, but in these specific situations, the main character is constantly viewing their new setting as either the origins or result of the setting they've become familiar with. It wasn't until Kindred that I realized how perfectly this represents historical analysis.
A historian is presented as a tragic hero by Butler, a soul who is forever cursed to look back upon the mistakes of the past without any ability to change them. The same is true for Dana. She is quite literally forced to view the events and ideas of the past and not only accept them as unchangeable, but also understand them as an inseparable part of her culture's history.
The framing device of time travel allows the author to give a more personal explanation of a historians process, allowing us to better understand how history affects us. In a way, the book has the same goals as many of the historical novels we've read: transforming the reader into their own self-aware historian. I really admire these books for doing this, and think that time travel has been one of the most effective so far, because of how it provides a surrogate for the reader's modern mindset.
A historian is presented as a tragic hero by Butler, a soul who is forever cursed to look back upon the mistakes of the past without any ability to change them. The same is true for Dana. She is quite literally forced to view the events and ideas of the past and not only accept them as unchangeable, but also understand them as an inseparable part of her culture's history.
The framing device of time travel allows the author to give a more personal explanation of a historians process, allowing us to better understand how history affects us. In a way, the book has the same goals as many of the historical novels we've read: transforming the reader into their own self-aware historian. I really admire these books for doing this, and think that time travel has been one of the most effective so far, because of how it provides a surrogate for the reader's modern mindset.
Friday, March 9, 2012
PTSD in WWII
I was dumbfounded today during our discussion of PTSD and its associations with warfare when Mr. Mitchell commented on how representations of the disorder are conspicuously absent from many depictions of WWII as compared to other grand conflicts like WWI or the Vietnam war. I had never really thought about it, given that I associate more with the film and literature that was created during my lifetime, but WWII didn't engage the topic of PTSD for a significant period after the end of the war.
I did a bit of research into how the conflict has been portrayed (in literature, theatre, and film, the latter being my greatest area of expertise) and was shocked to see how long it took for soldiers to be portrayed as anything but inhuman and unfeeling champions for truth and justice. There are always exceptions that hang on the periphery, but for the most part films and literature about WWII based themselves around heroic and steadfast figures, portrayed by people like John Wayne.
Compare this treatment to that of WWI and Vietnam. WWI is portrayed as a maddening experience wrought with emotional tortures in pieces such as "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse", "Mrs. Dalloway", and "All Quiet on the Western Front". Even though PTSD wasn't fully understood at the time, these depictions are still able to capture a lot of what a soldier must endure. Vietnam is even more complex and nuanced in its portrayals, with films such as "The Deer Hunter", "Platoon", "Full Metal Jacket", and "Born on the Fourth of July" realistically and brutally depicting the horrors of combat and the debilitating effects of PTSD. We can see that film and literature had the potential to portray WWII realistically, but because of the rhetoric and heroic fantasy built around the war it was tacitly considered un-American to do so. When the Vietnam war emerged into the public mindset, Kurt Vonnegut and many other authors broke free from these restrictions and tried to show a truly realistic WWII soldier in their literature. Film, however, continued to lag behind reality. WWII films would still draw crowds and receive raving reviews, but if it was ever portrayed as a horror of human experience, those affected would be civilians or otherwise unrelated individuals. Even films like "Saving Private Ryan" which depict PTSD only do so with a untrained soldier tasked with cartography, preserving the other soldiers as steadfast and relentless patriots. It has only been in the past decade or so that film has been able to portray strong able-bodied individuals breaking and becoming emotionally crippled as a result of WWII, with characters such as Lynn "Buck" Compton in the fantastic miniseries "Band of Brothers".
Discussing these themes in class has opened my mind to whole new realms of thought about the progression and evolution of fiction and the effects of rhetoric on culture and the resulting delusion of historical reality. I would love to do more than the 20 minutes of research I did here to uncover things like if early realistic depictions of WWII era warfare never occured or have simply been forgotten, or why exactly there was and is such a refusal to believe WWII era soldiers were anything more than superheros that fought "the bad guys".
I did a bit of research into how the conflict has been portrayed (in literature, theatre, and film, the latter being my greatest area of expertise) and was shocked to see how long it took for soldiers to be portrayed as anything but inhuman and unfeeling champions for truth and justice. There are always exceptions that hang on the periphery, but for the most part films and literature about WWII based themselves around heroic and steadfast figures, portrayed by people like John Wayne.
Compare this treatment to that of WWI and Vietnam. WWI is portrayed as a maddening experience wrought with emotional tortures in pieces such as "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse", "Mrs. Dalloway", and "All Quiet on the Western Front". Even though PTSD wasn't fully understood at the time, these depictions are still able to capture a lot of what a soldier must endure. Vietnam is even more complex and nuanced in its portrayals, with films such as "The Deer Hunter", "Platoon", "Full Metal Jacket", and "Born on the Fourth of July" realistically and brutally depicting the horrors of combat and the debilitating effects of PTSD. We can see that film and literature had the potential to portray WWII realistically, but because of the rhetoric and heroic fantasy built around the war it was tacitly considered un-American to do so. When the Vietnam war emerged into the public mindset, Kurt Vonnegut and many other authors broke free from these restrictions and tried to show a truly realistic WWII soldier in their literature. Film, however, continued to lag behind reality. WWII films would still draw crowds and receive raving reviews, but if it was ever portrayed as a horror of human experience, those affected would be civilians or otherwise unrelated individuals. Even films like "Saving Private Ryan" which depict PTSD only do so with a untrained soldier tasked with cartography, preserving the other soldiers as steadfast and relentless patriots. It has only been in the past decade or so that film has been able to portray strong able-bodied individuals breaking and becoming emotionally crippled as a result of WWII, with characters such as Lynn "Buck" Compton in the fantastic miniseries "Band of Brothers".
Discussing these themes in class has opened my mind to whole new realms of thought about the progression and evolution of fiction and the effects of rhetoric on culture and the resulting delusion of historical reality. I would love to do more than the 20 minutes of research I did here to uncover things like if early realistic depictions of WWII era warfare never occured or have simply been forgotten, or why exactly there was and is such a refusal to believe WWII era soldiers were anything more than superheros that fought "the bad guys".
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Understanding Vonnegut and his feelings on war.
I found yesterday's class' discussion to be really interesting, not only because of the startling inaccuracies (and possible hidden agenda) in the supposed recorded history but also because of how I felt in reaction to learning of Slaughterhouse Five's origins.
I still defend the point that I made in class, that the exact number of victims at the firebombing of Dresden is irrelevant to what Slaughterhouse Five is trying to do. When you get down to the core of what this book is, it's about the horrors of war and the inevitability of terrible acts of hate and murder, not Dresden itself (although the example of Dresden does serve to disillusion naive readers who believed WWII to be a clear cut war of "the good guys" and "the bad guys").
I think in Vonnegut's mind, all death in war is pointless and wasteful, this being based on the author's early narration and insistence on discussing the horrors committed during WWII. Although this is the interpretation I tend to stick with, the inclusion of the tralfamadorians and the passive narration of "so it goes" seems to also give the possibility of a strange apathy from Vonnegut. It sometimes seems that Vonnegut is trying to teach the belief of real world death and war being ultimately meaningless. Both these ideas are thickly embedded in the book, seeming to cancel out one another. In the end, however, I continue to reach the first conclusion about Vonnegut's meaning, as he portrays himself feeling this way, whereas the apathetic mentality is portrayed through the character of Billy Pilgrim and the tralfamadorians, possibly being used as a way to explain the tortured and emotionally detached life of a person who has experienced terrible hardships.
I still defend the point that I made in class, that the exact number of victims at the firebombing of Dresden is irrelevant to what Slaughterhouse Five is trying to do. When you get down to the core of what this book is, it's about the horrors of war and the inevitability of terrible acts of hate and murder, not Dresden itself (although the example of Dresden does serve to disillusion naive readers who believed WWII to be a clear cut war of "the good guys" and "the bad guys").
I think in Vonnegut's mind, all death in war is pointless and wasteful, this being based on the author's early narration and insistence on discussing the horrors committed during WWII. Although this is the interpretation I tend to stick with, the inclusion of the tralfamadorians and the passive narration of "so it goes" seems to also give the possibility of a strange apathy from Vonnegut. It sometimes seems that Vonnegut is trying to teach the belief of real world death and war being ultimately meaningless. Both these ideas are thickly embedded in the book, seeming to cancel out one another. In the end, however, I continue to reach the first conclusion about Vonnegut's meaning, as he portrays himself feeling this way, whereas the apathetic mentality is portrayed through the character of Billy Pilgrim and the tralfamadorians, possibly being used as a way to explain the tortured and emotionally detached life of a person who has experienced terrible hardships.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
The Second Look at Slaughterhouse Five
It's interesting that of all the books in our class, this is the one I've read before. It's interesting because, unlike most books, nothing is really spoiled plot-wise by having read the book once. Vonnegut specifically designed the book to spoil most of everything in the first chapter, so essentially, the first time a person reads this book it will feel like the second time. I hope I'm making sense here.
The point I'm trying to get across is that I can't talk about my second reading of this book in the same way I could with a book like Ragtime or Mumbo Jumbo. This fact made me reconsider what it usually means to read a book a second time, and what is gained in the second reading.
In the first reading of a book, much of the focus of the reader is devoted to following plot-lines, character arcs, and story developments. Even when a reader is incredibly focused, there is an element of understanding about the novel and its characters that isn't achieved. The way to reach this new level of appreciation for the writing is either through writing papers (the quicker and more common academic tactic) or re-reading the text with your newly gained understanding of the developments of the story. Doing these things allows you to use hindsight to better understand how a character grew and changed. To quickly think of an analogy, reading a book for the first time is like riding a roller coaster; a thrill ride which can turn any which way, surprising you at every turn. Whereas reading a book for the second time is like viewing a roller coaster from above; you can see all the turns and twists coming, and can better understand how the ride functions as a whole.
The way Slaughterhouse-Five is different is that Vonnegut seems to intend for the reader to skip the first step entirely, pushing them directly into the realm of analysis, greatly de-emphasizing the importance of story development. He does this both in his spoiling of important plot elements early on and his use of the Tralfamadorian writing style. There is no tension involved in Billy Pilgrim's direct survival, because we know he dies much later in life from an assassin's lazer bolt. At the same time, the book is incredibly engaging, because the reader adapts to this style and focuses their energy trying to understand Billy's mental state and character development.
The way that Vonnegut does this means that my second reading of the text is still very similar to how I first read it. This does not however, result in the book being boring, as many simple story based books tend to be on the second read, because by the end of my first reading, I had formed many opinions about Pilgrim's character arc and how Vonnegut designed it as a writer and now, in my second reading, is my time to test how those theories hold up to direct comparison of the text. Vonnegut has found a way to make reading a book almost purely analysis and critical thinking from the very first to last time you pick it up.
The point I'm trying to get across is that I can't talk about my second reading of this book in the same way I could with a book like Ragtime or Mumbo Jumbo. This fact made me reconsider what it usually means to read a book a second time, and what is gained in the second reading.
In the first reading of a book, much of the focus of the reader is devoted to following plot-lines, character arcs, and story developments. Even when a reader is incredibly focused, there is an element of understanding about the novel and its characters that isn't achieved. The way to reach this new level of appreciation for the writing is either through writing papers (the quicker and more common academic tactic) or re-reading the text with your newly gained understanding of the developments of the story. Doing these things allows you to use hindsight to better understand how a character grew and changed. To quickly think of an analogy, reading a book for the first time is like riding a roller coaster; a thrill ride which can turn any which way, surprising you at every turn. Whereas reading a book for the second time is like viewing a roller coaster from above; you can see all the turns and twists coming, and can better understand how the ride functions as a whole.
The way Slaughterhouse-Five is different is that Vonnegut seems to intend for the reader to skip the first step entirely, pushing them directly into the realm of analysis, greatly de-emphasizing the importance of story development. He does this both in his spoiling of important plot elements early on and his use of the Tralfamadorian writing style. There is no tension involved in Billy Pilgrim's direct survival, because we know he dies much later in life from an assassin's lazer bolt. At the same time, the book is incredibly engaging, because the reader adapts to this style and focuses their energy trying to understand Billy's mental state and character development.
The way that Vonnegut does this means that my second reading of the text is still very similar to how I first read it. This does not however, result in the book being boring, as many simple story based books tend to be on the second read, because by the end of my first reading, I had formed many opinions about Pilgrim's character arc and how Vonnegut designed it as a writer and now, in my second reading, is my time to test how those theories hold up to direct comparison of the text. Vonnegut has found a way to make reading a book almost purely analysis and critical thinking from the very first to last time you pick it up.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Wallflower Order Sighting
Ishmael Reed is one of those writers that takes such a radical stance that it's hard to agree with all or some of his ideas. One that I can definitely agree with, however, is that western culture has worked very hard to take many blossoming art forms of the twentieth century and dull them to the point of irrelevancy. I've found one particularly poignant example during chorus.
Mr. Murphy and our student teacher announced that we would be singing "Satin Doll", a classic jazz song written by Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn. To excite us for the new song we would be practicing, our student teacher played a recording of famous jazz singer Ella Fitzgerald performing the song alongside the Duke Ellington orchestra. Here's the recording she showed us.
The song is soulful, and greatly benefited by the personality of Fitzgerald. Ellington and Strayhorn's composition is jazzy and exciting, making use of all the different sounds they have available. Although I loved this performance, I quickly realized we were not qualified to attempt a recreation.
My initial fears were proven correct when I looked over the copy of the sheet music (no the original of course, but an adaptation). The singer's boppin' melody had been changed to accommodate a four-part mixed choir, making the sound flatter and not allowing the performers to get lost in the song as Fitzgerald would. To compound the issue, instead of the sweeping reinforcement of the Duke Ellington Orchestra, we would be accompanied by the limited tones and sharp chords of a piano, resulting in a song that lacks any of the hearty flow present in the original.
I was ready to get over this and chalk all of it up to a bad adaptation that wasn't worthwhile, but then, halfway through the piece, there was a large scat session. For those of you who are unfamiliar with scat singing, it is when a jazz performer or singer takes a break from the chorus and verses to get lost in the rhythm of the piece. They vocalize this feeling of free-wheeling optimism by stringing nonsense words together in an improvised rhythm and order. An example would be Louis Armstrong taking a break from his trumpet to yell something like "Zoo-poo-doo wop bop-bow wop boo-boo." Something like this works perfectly with Jazz, but the entire point is missed here. By writing down in the music what the singer should specifically do while scatting, it guts the song of any believable soul.
A whole choral group improvising scat sounds terrible I admit, but that just shows why it doesn't work for this type of music. It just looks to me like an attempt by the old-fashioned "classical" demographic in the music industry to ship and sell the genre of Jazz, much like how the Wallflower Order seeks to remove the power of Jus Grew from the people.
Mr. Murphy and our student teacher announced that we would be singing "Satin Doll", a classic jazz song written by Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn. To excite us for the new song we would be practicing, our student teacher played a recording of famous jazz singer Ella Fitzgerald performing the song alongside the Duke Ellington orchestra. Here's the recording she showed us.
The song is soulful, and greatly benefited by the personality of Fitzgerald. Ellington and Strayhorn's composition is jazzy and exciting, making use of all the different sounds they have available. Although I loved this performance, I quickly realized we were not qualified to attempt a recreation.
My initial fears were proven correct when I looked over the copy of the sheet music (no the original of course, but an adaptation). The singer's boppin' melody had been changed to accommodate a four-part mixed choir, making the sound flatter and not allowing the performers to get lost in the song as Fitzgerald would. To compound the issue, instead of the sweeping reinforcement of the Duke Ellington Orchestra, we would be accompanied by the limited tones and sharp chords of a piano, resulting in a song that lacks any of the hearty flow present in the original.
I was ready to get over this and chalk all of it up to a bad adaptation that wasn't worthwhile, but then, halfway through the piece, there was a large scat session. For those of you who are unfamiliar with scat singing, it is when a jazz performer or singer takes a break from the chorus and verses to get lost in the rhythm of the piece. They vocalize this feeling of free-wheeling optimism by stringing nonsense words together in an improvised rhythm and order. An example would be Louis Armstrong taking a break from his trumpet to yell something like "Zoo-poo-doo wop bop-bow wop boo-boo." Something like this works perfectly with Jazz, but the entire point is missed here. By writing down in the music what the singer should specifically do while scatting, it guts the song of any believable soul.
A whole choral group improvising scat sounds terrible I admit, but that just shows why it doesn't work for this type of music. It just looks to me like an attempt by the old-fashioned "classical" demographic in the music industry to ship and sell the genre of Jazz, much like how the Wallflower Order seeks to remove the power of Jus Grew from the people.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
To "mumbo jumbo" and back
I was especially interested when today's discussion touched on the meaning and use of the Mumbo Jumbo's title phrase. From the very first chapter, the book seeks to simultaneously depict the belittling of black culture and the manner in which this can be combated.
The very first use of the phrase "mumbo jumbo" is by a white man attempting to describe the supposed inhuman jabbering of the people infected with Jes Grew. Here, we can see how the guardians of the mainstream combat a foreign and unknown cultural force: by belittling and dismissing it. Calling something mumbo jumbo does more than just show a lack of understanding, but also an attitude in which it can never be treated seriously. Nobody would ever try to understand "mumbo jumbo". It makes about as much sense as trying to understand the random chittering of squirrels.
That's how this novel depicts the treatment of the growing Jes Grew "epidemic", thus providing an intriguing metaphor for initial mainstream treatment of growing black culture forms throughout the modern era, specifically jazz and swing, but also pertaining to other forms such as bebob, rock, and hip-hop. These genres were all viewed as separate and uncultured by the generation that came before, and usually were not accepted fully into the popular consciousness until they were effectively adapted for white audiences. It also becomes interesting when you consider its effectiveness in essentially eradicating Voodoo's legitimacy in the public consciousness. We don't like to admit it, but the American cultural system has essentially tricked us into dehumanizing an entire form of belief, and that's a scary realization for us to make as modern "clear-thinking" Americans.
Reed is incredibly poignant with these uses of the phrase to depict the cultural oppression in America, but it's also interesting how he seems to endorse a form of protest or retaliation as well. Both in his use of the definition at the end of chapter 1 and the story of PaPa LaBas' Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral. The original definition of mumbo jumbo used directly after the first derisive use of the phrase serves to say that regardless of how these words and cultural movements may be treated, we mustn't allow ourselves to forget the truth of their origin, and by doing so preserve the culture that these people seek to take from the world. PaPa LaBas shows by example that by embracing the truth of these ideas, we can overcome the oppression heaped upon us. If people wanted to call it the "mumbo jumbo" cathedral, then the best form of defense is embracing the truth of the Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral.
I like how Reed is able to use subtlety to both disillusion the reader with the harsh realities of cultures at war, and the perseverance and determination of the human beings who would seek to preserve their way of life. It's especially impressive when you realize that all of this has come out of our first two readings, and that we have more than 2/3 of the book left in which Reed can work.
The very first use of the phrase "mumbo jumbo" is by a white man attempting to describe the supposed inhuman jabbering of the people infected with Jes Grew. Here, we can see how the guardians of the mainstream combat a foreign and unknown cultural force: by belittling and dismissing it. Calling something mumbo jumbo does more than just show a lack of understanding, but also an attitude in which it can never be treated seriously. Nobody would ever try to understand "mumbo jumbo". It makes about as much sense as trying to understand the random chittering of squirrels.
That's how this novel depicts the treatment of the growing Jes Grew "epidemic", thus providing an intriguing metaphor for initial mainstream treatment of growing black culture forms throughout the modern era, specifically jazz and swing, but also pertaining to other forms such as bebob, rock, and hip-hop. These genres were all viewed as separate and uncultured by the generation that came before, and usually were not accepted fully into the popular consciousness until they were effectively adapted for white audiences. It also becomes interesting when you consider its effectiveness in essentially eradicating Voodoo's legitimacy in the public consciousness. We don't like to admit it, but the American cultural system has essentially tricked us into dehumanizing an entire form of belief, and that's a scary realization for us to make as modern "clear-thinking" Americans.
Reed is incredibly poignant with these uses of the phrase to depict the cultural oppression in America, but it's also interesting how he seems to endorse a form of protest or retaliation as well. Both in his use of the definition at the end of chapter 1 and the story of PaPa LaBas' Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral. The original definition of mumbo jumbo used directly after the first derisive use of the phrase serves to say that regardless of how these words and cultural movements may be treated, we mustn't allow ourselves to forget the truth of their origin, and by doing so preserve the culture that these people seek to take from the world. PaPa LaBas shows by example that by embracing the truth of these ideas, we can overcome the oppression heaped upon us. If people wanted to call it the "mumbo jumbo" cathedral, then the best form of defense is embracing the truth of the Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral.
I like how Reed is able to use subtlety to both disillusion the reader with the harsh realities of cultures at war, and the perseverance and determination of the human beings who would seek to preserve their way of life. It's especially impressive when you realize that all of this has come out of our first two readings, and that we have more than 2/3 of the book left in which Reed can work.
Mumbo Jumbo and Ragtime: My Initial Thoughts.
After observing the lukewarm to negative reactions to Ragtime, I naturally assumed that Mumbo Jumbo, a book that in my mind tests the reader's patience even more, would receive the same if not higher level of hostility. To my surprise, the vocal majority was more than accepting of Ishmael Reed's experimental rollercoaster. Even the most vocally opposed to Doctorow changed their tune for Mumbo Jumbo.
Now, I feel I can count myself among those who, for the most part, like what they've found so far in Mumbo Jumbo. Ishmael Reed's writing is so crisp and engaging that I'm always ready to tackle more. I'm also a big fan of his ability to mix the fictional and the historical so realistically that they blend together like a complex watercolor of storytelling. I am occasionally thrown back by Reed's constant attempts to play outside of the modern conventions of writing and syntax, but I don't think this will provoke anything more than a few raised eyebrows and an aggressive rolling of the eyes. Seeing as I like the book, I don't have a problem with the sudden shift in opinion towards the positive. What I do have a problem with is the continued negativity towards Doctorow's Ragtime.
I found it difficult to support the newfound positive attitudes of my classmates while they continued to retroactively criticize Doctorow's work. This isn't because I'm a person with some sort of all-or-nothing policy in regards to literary taste, but because I couldn't quite understand the path of logic between why Reed works and Doctorow doesn't. From what I heard from the more vocal portions of our class, Doctorow's use of postmodernist style (such as the references to research being done on Coalhouse Walker) was distracting and detracted from their enjoyment of the piece. Reed, on the other hand, used postmodernist style in a much more effective and enjoyable fashion.
I'll try and explain my problem with this line of thinking. In my mind, the use of more postmodernist techniques by Doctorow make the book seem more realistically steeped in history as opposed to fiction. This was used, not only as a way to draw the reader in, but also as a way of expressing Doctorow's belief that both history and fiction are simply composed of narrative. Now, when I look at what Reed is doing with his book, I see much less method within the madness. Certain elements such as the constant metaphor of cultural revolution as some sort of toxic disease and the treatment of the first chapter as something of a cold open are interestingly executed, but for every element that works, I seem to find five that are strewn about the text without any reason or meaning. Things like the seemingly random use of pictures and headscratchingly blunt footnotes don't appear to serve any purpose other than to shout to the reader "I DON'T FIT INTO YOUR RULES, MAN!!!"
I feel you can definitely debate whether or not the elements Doctorow introduces to his narrative are effective, but I don't think anyone can claim that they weren't incorporated with a particular reasoning in mind. I don't feel the same standard applies to Reed. He seems so focused on rebelling against some unknown oppressive force that he forgets to back up his strange displays with some form of meaning or purpose. I feel Hanan was able to sum up my opinion well in class today, if a bit clumsily. To paraphrase, she stated that she understood that the mentality seems to be "why not?", but ... why... why not? With what purpose does Reed do the things that he does? And what exactly is he rebelling against? It almost seems reminiscent of a young teen walking down the street with his underwear on the outside of his pants. "Why are you wearing them like that?" you would ask him, and his responce would be "BECAUSE I'M INDEPENDENT OF THE STANDARDS OF YOUR CRACKPOT SOCIETY!"
Boy, you sure showed me...
Aside from the fact that this "statement" was unprovoked and will doubtfully receive any reaction aside from initial curiosity, the boy has also managed to remove any practical benefit from wearing underwear. So too has Reed sacrificed some of the practical benefits of style and syntax for some semblance of a rebellious statement. This is why I have trouble understanding the strong dislike for the style of Doctorow, while Reed is viewed as a more natural and effective author.
I want to reiterate that I do enjoy Mumbo Jumbo so far despite the flaws I've discussed, and that the purpose of this blog was to garner some form of appreciation for the work of Doctorow, and not necessarily spurn any fan of Reed's. I feel like every time I reread or discuss a chapter of Reed's I am able to spot another postmodernist element which bears heavy meaning and purpose for the writing. The same, however has been true for my reading and exploration of Doctorow, and I hope that those most vocal critics of the author give his writing the same chance at real analysis of style and meaning that has been given to Reed.
Now, I feel I can count myself among those who, for the most part, like what they've found so far in Mumbo Jumbo. Ishmael Reed's writing is so crisp and engaging that I'm always ready to tackle more. I'm also a big fan of his ability to mix the fictional and the historical so realistically that they blend together like a complex watercolor of storytelling. I am occasionally thrown back by Reed's constant attempts to play outside of the modern conventions of writing and syntax, but I don't think this will provoke anything more than a few raised eyebrows and an aggressive rolling of the eyes. Seeing as I like the book, I don't have a problem with the sudden shift in opinion towards the positive. What I do have a problem with is the continued negativity towards Doctorow's Ragtime.
I found it difficult to support the newfound positive attitudes of my classmates while they continued to retroactively criticize Doctorow's work. This isn't because I'm a person with some sort of all-or-nothing policy in regards to literary taste, but because I couldn't quite understand the path of logic between why Reed works and Doctorow doesn't. From what I heard from the more vocal portions of our class, Doctorow's use of postmodernist style (such as the references to research being done on Coalhouse Walker) was distracting and detracted from their enjoyment of the piece. Reed, on the other hand, used postmodernist style in a much more effective and enjoyable fashion.
I'll try and explain my problem with this line of thinking. In my mind, the use of more postmodernist techniques by Doctorow make the book seem more realistically steeped in history as opposed to fiction. This was used, not only as a way to draw the reader in, but also as a way of expressing Doctorow's belief that both history and fiction are simply composed of narrative. Now, when I look at what Reed is doing with his book, I see much less method within the madness. Certain elements such as the constant metaphor of cultural revolution as some sort of toxic disease and the treatment of the first chapter as something of a cold open are interestingly executed, but for every element that works, I seem to find five that are strewn about the text without any reason or meaning. Things like the seemingly random use of pictures and headscratchingly blunt footnotes don't appear to serve any purpose other than to shout to the reader "I DON'T FIT INTO YOUR RULES, MAN!!!"
I feel you can definitely debate whether or not the elements Doctorow introduces to his narrative are effective, but I don't think anyone can claim that they weren't incorporated with a particular reasoning in mind. I don't feel the same standard applies to Reed. He seems so focused on rebelling against some unknown oppressive force that he forgets to back up his strange displays with some form of meaning or purpose. I feel Hanan was able to sum up my opinion well in class today, if a bit clumsily. To paraphrase, she stated that she understood that the mentality seems to be "why not?", but ... why... why not? With what purpose does Reed do the things that he does? And what exactly is he rebelling against? It almost seems reminiscent of a young teen walking down the street with his underwear on the outside of his pants. "Why are you wearing them like that?" you would ask him, and his responce would be "BECAUSE I'M INDEPENDENT OF THE STANDARDS OF YOUR CRACKPOT SOCIETY!"
Boy, you sure showed me...
Aside from the fact that this "statement" was unprovoked and will doubtfully receive any reaction aside from initial curiosity, the boy has also managed to remove any practical benefit from wearing underwear. So too has Reed sacrificed some of the practical benefits of style and syntax for some semblance of a rebellious statement. This is why I have trouble understanding the strong dislike for the style of Doctorow, while Reed is viewed as a more natural and effective author.
I want to reiterate that I do enjoy Mumbo Jumbo so far despite the flaws I've discussed, and that the purpose of this blog was to garner some form of appreciation for the work of Doctorow, and not necessarily spurn any fan of Reed's. I feel like every time I reread or discuss a chapter of Reed's I am able to spot another postmodernist element which bears heavy meaning and purpose for the writing. The same, however has been true for my reading and exploration of Doctorow, and I hope that those most vocal critics of the author give his writing the same chance at real analysis of style and meaning that has been given to Reed.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Personal biases and how they effect my opinion.
I had been hesitant to bring up this subject on the blog or in class because I wasn't quite sure how to present the context. Luckily, Maia's presentation on Monday introduced the class to the musical version of Ragtime, and I was able to finally mention how the production had effected my impression of the text. For those who weren't there or don't remember, I saw the musical version of Ragtime when I was very young. I had never read the book before, and therefore judged everything on its own merits. When I heard that we were reading Ragtime this semester, I became excited for a passionate character drama based around discrimination and privilege in America. The secondary work influenced my expectations of the original content. If this wasn't the case, I think would have liked the book much more than I do.
The way I saw it initially, both musical and book have the same basic story, with a main focus in different elements of storytelling. The original was made as a more of a detached and ironic look at culture and historical events of the time, whereas the musical focused more on the fictional characters and their emotions. It was obvious to me as I read through the book (and especially during Coalhouse & Sarah's story) that the musical had spoiled me on characterization. IF I had read the book first, I would have been able to focus more on appreciating the complex and well written irony and subtext, and then the musical would have shown me how complex the characters were below the surface. As it stands, I feel unsatisfied and perplexed whenever a huge scene of character development or motivation is glossed over or ignored.
I still very much like Ragtime as a novel, and can still appreciate the writing if I am given a chance to remove myself from my bias, but it is still somewhat frustrating to have to deal with all of my preconceptions about the story, and I fear that it has seriously impacted my overall enjoyment of the book. I do think, however, that I should revisit this book, a year from now or later, and go through it again. Perhaps time will allow me to separate the two experiences in my mind, and the removal of the initial surprise and disappointment might redeem the novel in my eyes.
The way I saw it initially, both musical and book have the same basic story, with a main focus in different elements of storytelling. The original was made as a more of a detached and ironic look at culture and historical events of the time, whereas the musical focused more on the fictional characters and their emotions. It was obvious to me as I read through the book (and especially during Coalhouse & Sarah's story) that the musical had spoiled me on characterization. IF I had read the book first, I would have been able to focus more on appreciating the complex and well written irony and subtext, and then the musical would have shown me how complex the characters were below the surface. As it stands, I feel unsatisfied and perplexed whenever a huge scene of character development or motivation is glossed over or ignored.
I still very much like Ragtime as a novel, and can still appreciate the writing if I am given a chance to remove myself from my bias, but it is still somewhat frustrating to have to deal with all of my preconceptions about the story, and I fear that it has seriously impacted my overall enjoyment of the book. I do think, however, that I should revisit this book, a year from now or later, and go through it again. Perhaps time will allow me to separate the two experiences in my mind, and the removal of the initial surprise and disappointment might redeem the novel in my eyes.
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