The Allure of Astrophysics

I studied writing, literature, and publishing in college, so I didn't get a whole lot of exposure to math and the hard sciences. The closest I came was the biological and chemistry aspects of environmental science and measurements made in a print-media design class. And I didn't mind so much--math and science weren't boring, but their formulaic consistency (especially as they got more complex) depicts a false representation of a constantly changing world. Could the earth itself ever be as predictable as the sine of 9?

But there's something about astronomy--and physics in relation to astronomy--that always intrigued me. Maybe it was my childhood obsession with Sailor Moon (a pop-culture phenomenon that I am dying to talk about, just waiting for the right time), or the lyrics in some metal songs that refer to astrophysical phenomena, but the planets and outer space, and space-time, have held my interest. Not enough to deter me from my more--er, creative--passions, but present nonetheless. And it's just one of the reasons why this blog can often appear unfocused: my mind is a multi-faceted prism of thoughts, interests, and ideas, so it's difficult to single out any one passion without outright rejecting the others.

Today I got to look through an actual astrophysics textbook (it's my job for the summer), and I wanted to sit down and READ it. At least attempt to make sense of all the formulas and diagrams permeating the book. I am far from incapable of understanding the complexities of astrophysics--last year I read an article by Stephen Hawking, and could follow it quite closely. I want to read more, but it can be hard coming across a relevant article when I lurk around unrelated websites.

I think the primary allure is that of the more neglected portion of my brain, if that's really how mental tasks are divided up. I always think through my writing applying logic and considering certain scenarios--more of a pragmatist than your average fiction writer, perhaps. It's also easier for me to understand astrophysics than other sciences, which I'm less well-versed in: computer science, for example. I know how to work MS Office and Adobe, but I don't really care too much what makes them work (well, maybe a little).

It can be disconcerting (at the very least) to be thinking about the vastness of the universe, and mind-boggling to think about how light perception is not objective, but subjective, and how time and space are interrelated. At the same time I like thinking about it when the subject comes up. It's fascinating to explore these mysteries, and I am totally behind those who do it for a living. Perhaps it's just an intersection between logic and intellectual spirituality.

The thing is, while the universe is fucking awesome and all, I tend to want to focus on stuff that's happening here on earth--and incredible entity in and of itself. And though scientists may have found a planet truly capable of housing life, we got to take care of this one.

Photo credit: Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics. Another cool thing about space: it makes amazing art.

Critical Response Archive: Brief Interviews with Hideous Men

And now finally, just in time for graduation, the final critical response from my postmodernism independent study, featuring one of my all-time fave writers, David Foster Wallace!

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The subject matter of David Foster Wallace’s short story collection Brief Interviews With Hideous Men is nothing new (relationships between straight men and straight women), nor is the dominating perspective (ostensibly white middle-class men). However, the experimental style of Wallace’s prose breathes new life into tired themes and perspectives, taking postmodernist literature to the next stage in its evolution. As a successor to the likes of Robert Coover, Vladimir Nabokov, and John Barth, David Foster Wallace is a natural heir, building upon such techniques as the non-linear linear tale (several stories are annotated tangentially a la Pale Fire), authorial presence and involvement, meta-fiction, and a dry and detached sense of humor. In some cases Wallace literally extends these postmodernist ideas, with long multi-clause sentences and footnotes, keeping the reader from getting too lost in the story and paying attention to his rather exhausting structure of lengthy-but-spare paragraphs and complete sentences. By synthesizing and building upon the style of the canonical postmodernist writers, Wallace continues their legacy and brings postmodernism to contemporary times.

The most striking thing about Brief Interviews is the non-linearity of the arrangement of the stories, and the interviews of the title story. None of the interviews printed in the book are arranged in a particularly numerical or chronological order, nor are the numbers consecutive. It’s clear that these interviews are the only ones “selected” for publication, since not all of these interviews are featured. These interviews are scattered throughout the text, divided into four parts, fragmenting them. This was definitely intentional, perhaps only for the superficial reason that the particular style of “Brief Interviews” may get tiresome for the reader or because they went on too long. A variant example of this fragmentation is “Octet,” which in fact has only five sections, and the fifth discusses how the eight sections became four among the other facets of the formulation of the story. “Octet” most obviously contains the classic characteristics of postmodernism, referring to itself, explaining itself, describing how its existence as a story came about, disregarding the conventional notions of character and plot altogether. “Adult World (II)” in fact disregards all formal pretense in its structure, reduced to a mere outline of the plot and character developments. Since it’s such a radical change from the preceding story, one might think that Wallace deliberately changed the tone to avoid and flout convention.

Wallace exhibits the detachment from his characters peculiar to postmodernist writers in a new way, writing of them as an unattached observer, with so much focus on detail that people and plot are all but forgotten. He utilizes this technique in “The Depressed Person” (who is referred to as that throughout the story), “Death Is Not the End,” and “Suicide as a Sort of Present.” The observational (though not usually objective) and often scientific language of these and many of the other stories cultivates the humor that pervades within them. In spite of the tragedies many of these characters endure, the reader can laugh due to the absurdly detailed and matter-of-fact voice of the narrator. Of course, the reader feels sorry for these characters, who often come off as victims of their own circumstances or pawns of plot, but in an abstract and distant way. Even the narrators who are an obvious part of the story (as in “Brief Interviews” and “On His Deathbed, Holding Your Hand”) reveal this sort of detachment from the characters they’re interacting with, due in part to their roles as listeners rather than speakers.

Wallace’s satirical and long-winded prose has evolved obviously from the postmodernist writers of the 60s, and his observational narrative style a more modern adaptation of their detachment from their subjects. He took postmodernist literature to new lengths, showing that even a movement that had become old hat could be revitalized and made anew in the face of a new century. After all, literature, like all art forms, always has room to evolve.

Critical Response Archive: Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

As more experimental literature entered the literary world, the question of what could be classified as “postmodern” had to be asked when examining these texts. While a novel could be experimental, it did not necessarily make it postmodernist. Jeanette Winterson’s novel Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is one of those novels that some would consider to not belong in the post-modern canon, for though she does some rule-breaking and experimenting that include stories-within-stories and unreal moments in the novel, it’s not so radically deviant from convention like the works of John Barth, William Burroughs, and Donald Barthelme. Yet one could argue that Oranges is postmodern, just in a different way from those canonical authors—after all, postmodernism is a flexible movement.

The most obvious element of experimentation, and the nature of its post-modernism, is the fact that much of the novel could very well be directly lifted from events that happened in her real life, and are nakedly so. Like Winterson, the narrator’s first name is Jeanette, she was adopted by Pentecostal evangelists, trained to become a minister, and she is a lesbian, among other autobiographical similarities. One begins to wonder how much truth lies behind the story—it could all be true, or it could be false; the reader doesn’t know enough about Winterson to draw any conclusions. Since it was published as a novel, one must accept it as fiction, with some facts and a grain of truth behind it. This is quite a contrast to the traditional memoir, which one reads expecting all the events that take place to have actually happened, when they might be exaggerated or even untrue.

And though the novel is basically a straightforward bildungsroman about her coming out and her relationship with her mother (framed within her coming out), there are some peculiarities about the prose—not just her unique writing style—that set it apart from typical autobiographical novels. For one, there are abrupt transitions from one scene to the next, big moments are interrupted tangentially, and in between we have lengthy metaphorical or direct real-world commentaries—an entire chapter, “Deuteronomy”, follows this vein. Images of such things as oranges and demons that would only appear in a carefully constructed reality constantly pop up, instead of being camouflaged in realism, glaringly symbolic of Jeanette’s conflicted identity. One character that pops up only in times of distress is her orange demon, and though this pebble that he gives her exists in the real world, the reader wonders if the demon is real or a hallucination—after all, nobody else could see him. It calls into question the realism of visions: as Jeanette was raised to believe in such visions, she believed the demon was real, even if it was never there at all. Winterson makes no argument that these visions are inconsequential: after all, the fictional Jeanette is compelled by her demon to leave home and stay true to herself.

Winterson also plays with perspective: though the story is obviously told from an adult Jeanette, descriptions of observations and beliefs she held in childhood reflect the point of view of a precocious child, or else a childlike adult—otherwise a person who does not understand the conventions and traditions of the world she grew up in. The reader witnesses her perception of the world develop and change, just as she does from childhood to adulthood. Her particular point of view as a lesbian could be a part of its uniqueness, as that perspective is hardly given a spotlight in serious literature.

In Oranges, Winterson blurs the line between fiction and memoir, fantasy and reality. One could classify her novel as a “fictitious memoir,” since Jeanette’s personal history parallels her namesake’s, though the various details may be exaggerated or fabricated. While Winterson does not deviate from convention to critique fiction, she does critique the memoir, showing that every person’s life story is just that—a story, shaped by his or her perception of the world—though this does not take away from the significance or uniqueness of that story. So in a way, her first novel could be classified as postmodern.

The Hunger Games, and the Art of the Hook

*WARNING: SPOILERS*

So last weekend I read The Hunger Games, uncertain as to whether I would love it or just like it. I got into it after a lot of hype: the folks at my internship raved about it, and I’ve come across a lot of Harry Potter and Twilight comparisons. So when I began reading I wondered: will it be more like Harry Potter (yay) or Twilight (boo)?

Believe the hype.

It has the same edge-of-your-seat story structure that engaged me in Harry Potter and other book series in my youth. For the first time since the Princess Diaries (whenever the last book came out), I read a book in four days of my own volition, and not because I had to read it for a class. The pace picked up really quickly, and before I knew it I was engrossed in the adventure.

Like Harry Potter, The Hunger Games was almost a completely positive reading experience. I got engrossed in the story almost immediately, and there was no shortage of violence, intrigue, and of course romance. It's almost indescribably good. The characters that we got to know were rich and complex, the protagonist Katniss a strong but flawed woman. I teared up when Rue was killed, and was nearly bawling when District 11 gave Katniss the bread as a token of appreciation. (something similar happened in Book 2, which I'm already almost done reading) I can't really remember the last time a new book got me so emotional and excited. Maybe Lolita, which I read back in January... and that was a different kind of reading experience.

However, unlike Harry Potter, I am glad that this world is not possible in reality--and hopefully never will be. In spite of all the violence and gore (which, as a formerly avid video game player of Grand Theft Auto, Super Smash Bros. and the like, I enjoyed in an abstractly sadistic way I guess), this was not glorified or celebrated by the sympathetic characters. In fact, because they are forced to kill to survive, one finds the violence abhorrent. It's the characters that matter most in this YA series.

I was actually surprised at how much romance was actually IN the book, and how quickly we learn of Peeta's love for Katniss. One could almost classify it as a YA romance...with a dystopian twist. It didn't put me off too much...I used to read fantasy/sci-fi stories with a pivotal romantic subplot all the time--though they were shojo manga, not YA prose. How did I get swept into it?

Authors like Suzanne Collins and JK Rowling have some sort of magic touch--a mixture of writing talent, cleverness, and ability to craft a story that has the audience asking for more--that captivates readers so much. I think it's an impossible talent to learn, as it's almost impossible to articulate why these books are so good. It's not the same way that David Foster Wallace or Vladimir Nabokov or Joyce Carol Oates are good writers. Or maybe it is...they're just working with different genres.

All in all, I've found a new obsession. I can't wait to read through the end of Book 2! (I'm already on Chapter 21...) I might even see the movie. The pacing of the book is so brisk it was practically made with a movie deal in mind.I give it a 4.5...and will probably like it even more on a second go-around. But I have plenty more to say about this book: expect more gushing in the coming weeks.

Review of The False Friend

I first came across Myla Goldberg in a short story anthology, with a story titled "Going for the Orange Julius."It captivated me on the first read, and it put her name on my "Authors to Watch" list. When I learned that she had a new book coming out, I just had to check it out. The result was pleasing, but not enthralling. While the premise is certainly intriguing, it falls far short of classic status.



The False Friend follows Celia Durst, twenty years after her best friend at age 11 disappeared. After a freak epiphany, she decides to fly home to Jensenville and face the truth. While she believes that she lied about the circumstances surrounding her friend’s disappearance, her friends at the time and family not only believe her story, but they have their own set of recollections to back it up.

The heart of this story is not the mystery--that’s obvious early on, so the reader isn’t led to believe that that the missing girl will reappear in some way. Rather, it’s the fallibility of memory, the emotional toll of an intense and competitive girlhood friendship, and the ways in which people change. It’s fascinating to learn the fates of each of the characters who witnessed the disappearance, none of whom turned out to be the mean girls they had once been--except perhaps the one who had been picked on most of all. After learning of Celia’s past, I was intensely interested in accompanying her search for the people who were a part of it, and would have been sorely disappointed if we had not learned of what had happened to each of the three girls.

The prose itself is expertly written, the craft of it nearly invisible, save for the occasional artful passage and redundant metaphor. It was easy enough to read at a comfortably adult level, but not too easy. The plot was unpredictable enough that I could keep guessing, until the end...and while I’m not generally a fan of most endings, this one worked well for me. However, Goldberg repeated some ideas much too often through her characters. There was an over-emphasis on the squandered "potential" that Celia and a few other gifted characters had when they were young...which is saddening, yes, but we got it the first time somebody mentioned it. Then there’s the sporadic injection of "we" into the narrative--the narrator’s third-person, outside of Celia’s mind, so a "we" is quite jarring, confusing the reader and creating a clichéd "universal" mentality.

The tone was consistent: quietly sad and existential. The prose felt muted. If it were a movie, all the colors would be washed out, and in order to hear properly the volume would have to be turned up all the way. I read this book best when it was really quiet, or so noisy that I couldn’t hear anything at all. This tone can turn dull in large doses, keeping me from reading more than a few chapters at a time in spite of my interest in the plot, characters and themes.

So while I did like the book, I did not love it. Perhaps I will read some of her other work, like Bee Season, the premise of which is interesting enough. Will I read The False Friend again? Maybe in a decade or two. I give it 3.5 stars...though that may be a bit generous.