Clarice Lispector stretches the idea of what is “realistic” in her short story collection Family Ties. The stories in Family Ties are intimately realistic, even if they do not adhere to strict realism. The reader really gets inside the heads of the main characters, while not learning of her every thought, hope, or fear. Her prose is detailed to the minutest degree; we get the feelings of some characters as they stand or throw a fit, as in “Preciousness.” Even in “The Chicken,” we are with the chicken, viewing the world at her level, though cognitively processing it above her level of thinking. It allows one to observe them while actually being with them as the action unfolds. Which isn’t much.
Most of the stories are defined by a single event: for Laura, it is when she receives a bouquet if roses in “The Imitation of the Rose,” for the chicken, it is when she makes a break to escape her fate; for the woman in “The Buffalo,” it is when she meets the buffalo while wandering aimlessly at the zoo. Not much happens outside of the characters’ heads, but so much happens inside of them that we still get to know the characters one way or another. Lispector’s stories must be carefully read, and separately, so that one can process the psychological and existential crises occurring in the everyday lives of her characters, and consider their motives. In this way she is creating distinctly feminist prose.
Most of her characters are women who feel alone or oppressed in one way or another, and in painting their sadly ordinary lives, Lispector creates characters and situations that are not only uniquely female, but also human. The humanity of women was and still is often negated from artistic expression in the Western world, women’s roles being relegated to the background or as archetypal representations or love interests. Literary critics outside the feminist circle have not even labeled Family Ties as feminist, even while such stories as “The Chicken,” “The Interpretation of the Rose,” and “Preciousness” make some pretty obvious critiques of perceptions of female beauty and maturity, the confines of the home, and the general oppression of women by the patriarchy. This could in fact a good thing, however, as it shows that she is worthy of being shelved next to the likes of Borges, instead of being slapped with a specialized label that would detach her work from canonical texts. Her stories, after all, rival the artistic innovation of many of her male contemporaries.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Critical Response Archive: The Aleph
Before postmodern literature gained momentum in the sixties, there were several writers here and there who flouted even the conventions of modernism, the forerunners of the stylistic and conventional trends to come. Jorge Luis Borges’ story collection The Aleph is an example of the prototypical postmodern literature, combining intellectual and philosophical mind-games with artistic skill and innovation. His short stories question the nature of reality and truth, and reveal the nuances of human consciousness.
One of the most notable aspects that ties all these stories together is authorial presence: Borges himself is often called by name, and the main narrator often remains outside of the action, while another character tells the main story, as it occurs in “Ibn Hakkan al-Bokhari, Dead in his Labyrinth” and “Rosendo’s Tale.” Even in the stories where the narrator is present, even among the main action, he can be identified as Borges, which the author gives away in the commentary at the end of the book, revealing the names of characters based on people he had really known. In “The Aleph,” the narrator does go by the name of Borges. This blurs the line between reality and fiction even in the real world, though most presume that no such things as Alephs exist.
By presenting fantastic events such as universe-viewing, time travel, and legendary weapons in a frank manner, often told from the person who had witnessed the event, Borges takes on three things at once: the denial and revelation of science-defying phenomena by human beings, the flaws in human perception, and the gullibility of memory. In many of his stories, all three are at work: in “The Aleph,” Borges first accepts that he had indeed witnessed it, but later came to question whether it was an aleph, or if he had seen one at all; in “The Other Death,” the men whom the narrator speaks to remember a cowardly Damian, then can’t remember him at all, then remember him as a war hero who died in battle—all due to a possible fluctuation of the time-space continuum as the past was somehow changed, possibly. Above all, Borges tells his fiction like nonfiction, eyewitness accounts of newsworthy events (even if the news media would not have heard of it); and this creates the feel of a true story, or a legend…it may be true, but it probably isn’t. This creates a certain illusory realism within the tone and content of his work.
One of the most notable aspects that ties all these stories together is authorial presence: Borges himself is often called by name, and the main narrator often remains outside of the action, while another character tells the main story, as it occurs in “Ibn Hakkan al-Bokhari, Dead in his Labyrinth” and “Rosendo’s Tale.” Even in the stories where the narrator is present, even among the main action, he can be identified as Borges, which the author gives away in the commentary at the end of the book, revealing the names of characters based on people he had really known. In “The Aleph,” the narrator does go by the name of Borges. This blurs the line between reality and fiction even in the real world, though most presume that no such things as Alephs exist.
By presenting fantastic events such as universe-viewing, time travel, and legendary weapons in a frank manner, often told from the person who had witnessed the event, Borges takes on three things at once: the denial and revelation of science-defying phenomena by human beings, the flaws in human perception, and the gullibility of memory. In many of his stories, all three are at work: in “The Aleph,” Borges first accepts that he had indeed witnessed it, but later came to question whether it was an aleph, or if he had seen one at all; in “The Other Death,” the men whom the narrator speaks to remember a cowardly Damian, then can’t remember him at all, then remember him as a war hero who died in battle—all due to a possible fluctuation of the time-space continuum as the past was somehow changed, possibly. Above all, Borges tells his fiction like nonfiction, eyewitness accounts of newsworthy events (even if the news media would not have heard of it); and this creates the feel of a true story, or a legend…it may be true, but it probably isn’t. This creates a certain illusory realism within the tone and content of his work.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Critical Response Archive: Strange Pilgrims by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Fairy tales, according to convention, belong to the middle ages, relics of a bygone age that shall be retold and reinterpreted in future centuries. Yet Gabriel Garcia Marquez shows that fairy tales—and original ones, at that—can still be composed, and appreciated by readers. What makes them fairy tales is the timeless, seemingly ancient tone of each of the twelve stories. The stories collected in Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Strange Pilgrims all differ, but they all have a similar unifying feel. Strange Pilgrims is a collection of fairy tales for the twentieth century and otherwise modern era.
Most of these stories would be described as “traditional,” but like Marquez says in his prologue to the collection, these stories have no beginning or end; if they do, it is because of the arbitrary structure of storytelling, not necessarily an inherent element in the story itself. Many stop at the lowest point, with only a slight indication that there may be some hope left, if only because the stories were told in the past tense. Yet the narrator is an outsider to the action, telling the readers what he has learned of other characters, creating a sense of the modern oral tradition of journalistic storytelling.
These twelve stories are like fairy tales in the sense that there is no sense of time in most of them: only a vague sense of the “present,” however that’s defined. Some stories’ ties to a time period are minimal, as in the brief “Light is Like Water,” in which only the existence of electricity and a prize-driven school system restrict the period in which the story takes place. But in others, the time period plays a crucial role, making the tale more akin to folklore and legend: “Maria dos Prazeres” would just not be the same had it not been set in Franco-era Spain, with the clash between fascism and anarchism roaring in the background of the title character’s quiet life. The fundamental struggle between freedom and oppression holds strong for any era, as well as the anticipation of death—which Maria dos Prazeres is waiting for.
Another recurring characteristic of the stories in Strange Pilgrims is their largely mournful and tragic storylines: death and disappearance are among the most prominent of the tragedies that take place within these twelve stories. This differs greatly from the conventional idea of a fairy- or folktale as being a happy story. The characters, like Billy Sanchez in “The Trail of Your Blood in the Snow,” just seem to be chronic victims of misfortune: in the course of a week he loses his wife, and never finds her again, for she has died and been buried in her hometown. But the personal anguish and disappointment that the characters feel are a part of a larger cultural and human consciousness, stemming from the fear of death, and even more profound, losing our loved ones, either through death or otherwise. That resonant element is what has made fairy tales from centuries ago enduring, and what makes these stories endure.
What makes Marquez’s collection of stories unique is not just their timelessness, but also their ties to a specific time and place. “I Only Came to Use the Phone” reads like a wary horror story, one that couldn’t possibly happen today, with the proliferation of cell phones, GPS, and the internet; but in a way, it makes the reader feel that much more for the hapless protagonist’s plight, as we ourselves would feel completely helpless if we were to get in that situation today. “Bon Voyage, Mr. President” seems inspired by true events, since the second half of the twentieth century saw many oppressive leaders come and go throughout the Americas. This strong sense of place creates a folkloric tone, as if the events that take place are quite unique to the time and the place.
The stories in Strange Pilgrims immerse the reader into a world that isn’t quite like our own, full of fantastic happenings like ghosts, clairvoyants, light that literally floods the room, and a magic wind that brings tragedy, yet the emotions that the characters experience resonate long after one has finished reading. With this collection of short stories, Marquez has created a new set of fairy tales, legends, and folklore for the twentieth century; stories that haven’t forgotten about the time and place in which they were conceived and set, but are unlikely to be forgotten by those who read them.
Most of these stories would be described as “traditional,” but like Marquez says in his prologue to the collection, these stories have no beginning or end; if they do, it is because of the arbitrary structure of storytelling, not necessarily an inherent element in the story itself. Many stop at the lowest point, with only a slight indication that there may be some hope left, if only because the stories were told in the past tense. Yet the narrator is an outsider to the action, telling the readers what he has learned of other characters, creating a sense of the modern oral tradition of journalistic storytelling.
These twelve stories are like fairy tales in the sense that there is no sense of time in most of them: only a vague sense of the “present,” however that’s defined. Some stories’ ties to a time period are minimal, as in the brief “Light is Like Water,” in which only the existence of electricity and a prize-driven school system restrict the period in which the story takes place. But in others, the time period plays a crucial role, making the tale more akin to folklore and legend: “Maria dos Prazeres” would just not be the same had it not been set in Franco-era Spain, with the clash between fascism and anarchism roaring in the background of the title character’s quiet life. The fundamental struggle between freedom and oppression holds strong for any era, as well as the anticipation of death—which Maria dos Prazeres is waiting for.
Another recurring characteristic of the stories in Strange Pilgrims is their largely mournful and tragic storylines: death and disappearance are among the most prominent of the tragedies that take place within these twelve stories. This differs greatly from the conventional idea of a fairy- or folktale as being a happy story. The characters, like Billy Sanchez in “The Trail of Your Blood in the Snow,” just seem to be chronic victims of misfortune: in the course of a week he loses his wife, and never finds her again, for she has died and been buried in her hometown. But the personal anguish and disappointment that the characters feel are a part of a larger cultural and human consciousness, stemming from the fear of death, and even more profound, losing our loved ones, either through death or otherwise. That resonant element is what has made fairy tales from centuries ago enduring, and what makes these stories endure.
What makes Marquez’s collection of stories unique is not just their timelessness, but also their ties to a specific time and place. “I Only Came to Use the Phone” reads like a wary horror story, one that couldn’t possibly happen today, with the proliferation of cell phones, GPS, and the internet; but in a way, it makes the reader feel that much more for the hapless protagonist’s plight, as we ourselves would feel completely helpless if we were to get in that situation today. “Bon Voyage, Mr. President” seems inspired by true events, since the second half of the twentieth century saw many oppressive leaders come and go throughout the Americas. This strong sense of place creates a folkloric tone, as if the events that take place are quite unique to the time and the place.
The stories in Strange Pilgrims immerse the reader into a world that isn’t quite like our own, full of fantastic happenings like ghosts, clairvoyants, light that literally floods the room, and a magic wind that brings tragedy, yet the emotions that the characters experience resonate long after one has finished reading. With this collection of short stories, Marquez has created a new set of fairy tales, legends, and folklore for the twentieth century; stories that haven’t forgotten about the time and place in which they were conceived and set, but are unlikely to be forgotten by those who read them.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Flannery O'Connor is Metal
It seems like a strange statement, but Flannery O'Connor is a metal writer, if you think about it. I just finished reading Wise Blood, and it was one of the most metal novels I've ever read. (I'll articulate later on)
Now, you may be thinking, "But she's a lady writer! Who lived before heavy metal was even a glimmer in Ozzy Osbourne's eye!" But that's no excuse. Being "metal" only comparatively relates to the musical genre.
So why is Flannery O' Connor metal?
1. Grotesque, Dark, Arguably Anti-Religious Subject Matter
Serial Killers. Mad, anti-Jesus preachers. Racist Grandmas. Kids drowning in a river during a religious rite. These are the people that O'Connor writes about. All of her stories are rife with religious, racial, cultural, and/or class tension, mostly of the first one. Though she was a devout Catholic, the sentimentality and hope of Christian literature doesn't show up in most stories...these people aren't saved, even if they think so, but they aren't damned, either. It's as if she's writing about religious (or in the case of Wise Blood, anti-religious) people living in a godless or at least god-could-care-less world. There's no shortage of violence, death, and gore: favorite subjects of classically metal lyrics.
2. She's From the South
The South isn't the only region that's metal in the US--New England, Alaska, and even California each exhibit certain metal traits. But the South has a history unique to other regions--it experienced most of the devastation of the Civil War, and ever since has been a troubled region, from race relations to high obesity rates. Religious tension is also remarkable in the South, where due to its traditionally rural makeup has harbored stronger affiliations to religious (specifically Protestant) beliefs. The South is also the birthplace of bluegrass and country, which in this part of the country is not all horseback riding and wide-open skies. Some musicians wrote about downright dark and depressing things. Some even wrote about squaring off with the devil. One can be reminded of these songs when reading Wise Blood.
3. She's Catholic
While any Christian religion has been musically criticized (and eviscerated) by classic metal bands such as Black Sabbath and Slayer, Catholic imagery is the most ubiquitous of all genres, metal and otherwise. That's likely because Catholicism has such distinguishing iconography, from the rosary to the nun's habit to the holy grail. Plus Catholicism has this rich history of violence and conflict...ripe material for any writer or musician to write about.
4. She doesn't take her stories (or herself) too seriously
Flannery O'Connor once said that her shining moment was when she was five years old and a TV crew came to her home to see how she had trained a chicken to walk backwards. Most people would disagree with that--the chicken bit is just an odd factoid that literature students of the future can brag about knowing. Of course, she also has said the typical joke-y quip about how hard it is to write a novel and the like--easy for you to kid about, published author--but from what I've read, she carried her fame well.
As for her literature, there's always this oddly comical (or at least absurd) undertone, notably so in Wise Blood. "Serious" literature can often dress itself up and revel in drama and despair, playing with cliche, but Wise Blood doesn't fit in with "serious" literature. It's not all, "oh, poor people, how their lives suck"...a schtick I'm really sick of regarding fiction exploring middle-class angst. Of course, O'Connor doesn't write about middle-class anxiety--she writes about murderers and religious nuts. How "serious" can you get with that subject matter without depressing the shit out of everyone?
5. She doesn't really give a fuck...
...about what anyone else thinks. Though the literary world revered her as an exceptional writer rather early on (as in, before she died)--a remarkable achievement for a woman writer, she didn't exactly gush with gratitude for the establishment, which hadn't taken her work so well at first. Wise Blood was "indescribable" to reviewers, who, like me, had probably never read anything like it before...but unlike me, didn't really like its uniqueness. Of A Good Man is Hard to Find, O'Connor wrote, "I am tired of reading reviews that call A Good Man brutal and sarcastic. [...] when I see these stories described as horror stories I am always amused because the reviewer always has hold of the wrong horror."
Sometimes, folks just don't get it. Same goes for the genre of metal.
So, if you're into metal, or just good fiction for that matter, pick up a book of Flannery O'Connor's: you might just enjoy it.
Now, you may be thinking, "But she's a lady writer! Who lived before heavy metal was even a glimmer in Ozzy Osbourne's eye!" But that's no excuse. Being "metal" only comparatively relates to the musical genre.
So why is Flannery O' Connor metal?
1. Grotesque, Dark, Arguably Anti-Religious Subject Matter
Serial Killers. Mad, anti-Jesus preachers. Racist Grandmas. Kids drowning in a river during a religious rite. These are the people that O'Connor writes about. All of her stories are rife with religious, racial, cultural, and/or class tension, mostly of the first one. Though she was a devout Catholic, the sentimentality and hope of Christian literature doesn't show up in most stories...these people aren't saved, even if they think so, but they aren't damned, either. It's as if she's writing about religious (or in the case of Wise Blood, anti-religious) people living in a godless or at least god-could-care-less world. There's no shortage of violence, death, and gore: favorite subjects of classically metal lyrics.
2. She's From the South
The South isn't the only region that's metal in the US--New England, Alaska, and even California each exhibit certain metal traits. But the South has a history unique to other regions--it experienced most of the devastation of the Civil War, and ever since has been a troubled region, from race relations to high obesity rates. Religious tension is also remarkable in the South, where due to its traditionally rural makeup has harbored stronger affiliations to religious (specifically Protestant) beliefs. The South is also the birthplace of bluegrass and country, which in this part of the country is not all horseback riding and wide-open skies. Some musicians wrote about downright dark and depressing things. Some even wrote about squaring off with the devil. One can be reminded of these songs when reading Wise Blood.
3. She's Catholic
While any Christian religion has been musically criticized (and eviscerated) by classic metal bands such as Black Sabbath and Slayer, Catholic imagery is the most ubiquitous of all genres, metal and otherwise. That's likely because Catholicism has such distinguishing iconography, from the rosary to the nun's habit to the holy grail. Plus Catholicism has this rich history of violence and conflict...ripe material for any writer or musician to write about.
4. She doesn't take her stories (or herself) too seriously
Flannery O'Connor once said that her shining moment was when she was five years old and a TV crew came to her home to see how she had trained a chicken to walk backwards. Most people would disagree with that--the chicken bit is just an odd factoid that literature students of the future can brag about knowing. Of course, she also has said the typical joke-y quip about how hard it is to write a novel and the like--easy for you to kid about, published author--but from what I've read, she carried her fame well.
As for her literature, there's always this oddly comical (or at least absurd) undertone, notably so in Wise Blood. "Serious" literature can often dress itself up and revel in drama and despair, playing with cliche, but Wise Blood doesn't fit in with "serious" literature. It's not all, "oh, poor people, how their lives suck"...a schtick I'm really sick of regarding fiction exploring middle-class angst. Of course, O'Connor doesn't write about middle-class anxiety--she writes about murderers and religious nuts. How "serious" can you get with that subject matter without depressing the shit out of everyone?
5. She doesn't really give a fuck...
...about what anyone else thinks. Though the literary world revered her as an exceptional writer rather early on (as in, before she died)--a remarkable achievement for a woman writer, she didn't exactly gush with gratitude for the establishment, which hadn't taken her work so well at first. Wise Blood was "indescribable" to reviewers, who, like me, had probably never read anything like it before...but unlike me, didn't really like its uniqueness. Of A Good Man is Hard to Find, O'Connor wrote, "I am tired of reading reviews that call A Good Man brutal and sarcastic. [...] when I see these stories described as horror stories I am always amused because the reviewer always has hold of the wrong horror."
Sometimes, folks just don't get it. Same goes for the genre of metal.
So, if you're into metal, or just good fiction for that matter, pick up a book of Flannery O'Connor's: you might just enjoy it.
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