The Myth in Song of Solomon

Throughout our class discussions of Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon, we have often returned to the idea that Milkman's story has a mythic quality to it. Milkman is the first colored baby born in the hospital, and his survival against his father's wishes seems miraculous. There's also the dramatic suicide of Mr. Smith, which sets Milkman's birthday in the minds of the townsfolk for many years to come.

As the book progresses, these mythic themes only grow more prominent. Once Milkman finally leaves home, the narration takes on a more epic tone. He faces numerous hazards, is forced to confront strange people like the somehow-living Circe, and undergoes significant personal development as he struggles to uncover his family history. The narrative style here is worth further study, and it is exemplified by the novel's ending.

"Without wiping away the tears, taking a deep breath, or even bending his knees--he leaped. As fleet and bright as a lodestar he wheeled toward Guitar and it did not matter which one of them would give up his ghost in the killing arms of his brother. For now he knew what Shalimar knew: If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it."

This section is cinematic in its depiction of the final showdown between Guitar and Milkman, and it's clear that the confrontation will become a legend regardless of the winner, a new story about the Dead family and Solomon's Leap. It also ties Milkman in more firmly with his ancestors and brings his story full circle. He is finally able to fulfill his lifelong dream of flight, and his leap relates back to Mr. Smith's suicide at his birth, giving a finality to an otherwise highly ambiguous ending. In jumping, he is becoming a legend and thus fulfilling his family's legacy, coming of age at last.

I believe that the mythic quality of this novel is what completes Milkman's story, allowing him to be happy by the conclusion. If this were told just like any other story, his actions would appear mundane and boring, just like the rest of his life. There would be no reward, nothing to give closure. However, because the story is treated as a myth, his tale is given the same qualities as that of his ancestors. That is what makes his quest a success and makes the book complete as a result.

The Semester Summarized in 21 Memes (Open Genre Submission)

For my Open Genre Project, I decided to make three memes based on each of the seven books we read this semester. The first meme for each book is based on the cover, and they're presented here in the order we read them in class. Let me know what you think, and enjoy!

Parallels Between "The Phantom of the Opera" and "Wide Sargasso Sea"

As we finished Part Two of Jean Rhys' Wide Sargasso Sea, I felt a strange sense of familiarity as I watched the relationship between Antoinette and Rochester collapse into hatred. Around the scene where Antoinette drugged Rochester, I realized that some parts of the novel were uncannily similar to The Phantom of the Opera (the musical, I'm afraid I haven't read the book yet). Rochester seems a lot like Firmin and Andre, the new owners of the theater in the show--he can be kind of a jerk, but isn't (initially) a bad person. He gets thrown into a situation he is completely unprepared for, where everyone around him is spreading rumors of madness and strange, dark secrets. He has no idea what to believe and makes bad choices as a result. If you're interested, I think the song 'Notes' best exemplifies how this is paralleled in Phantom: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JWAJgfWNSg (the most relevent part is from ~3:00-6:00). Firmin and Andre have to deal with a phantom who they think is just a prankster while also handling various other characters, who have no idea what's going on either and are terrified. In the end, their decisions lead to a significant number of deaths, despite the fact that the two are generally well-meaning.

To make a different analogy, we could also argue that Antoinette plays the role of the Phantom and Rochester is really more like Christine. From Rochester's perspective, he has been bewitched/tricked into a relationship with a madwoman. This isn't that different from how the Phantom calls himself Christine's 'Angel of Music' and draws her down into his secret lair before she knows about his deformities (The relevent song here is 'Music of the Night': https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPXPwRgV-NM). When Christine sees the Phantom's face for the first time, she freaks out, which leads to most all of the conflict in the show as their potential love turns into a nightmare. Similarly, Rochester freaks out after he has been drugged by Antoinette, which is when things really start going south.

Interestingly enough, we could flip the analogy here. Rochester could be seen as the Phantom with Antionette more like Christine. This perspective is backed up by the sections told from Antoinette's point of view. As she sees it, she has married this man, fallen in love, become completely dependent on him, and is helpless to break free as he becomes a monster. In Phantom, Christine is infatuated with the Phantom and finds herself unable to break away from him; he turns up wherever she goes. However, the Phantom starts committing more and more egregious crimes until Christine is unable to love him.

Which way of seeing things is right? I think they both work equally well. The question of sympathy for Christine and the Phantom is as hotly debated as that of sympathy for Rochester and Antoinette. I've met people who say that everything in The Phantom of the Opera is Christine's fault, and others who say that the Phantom is responsible for everything. It's fitting then, that it's nigh impossible to tell which mapping is better. It depends on who you sympathize with more in both works.

Regardless of which way you see things, there are also some important similarities in the endings of both Phantom and Wide Sargasso Sea. By the last scene or two in both, any affection between the main characters has dissolved into hate, as evidenced by these lines:

"The tears I might have shed
For your dark fate,
Grow cold and turn to tears of hate!"
 -Christine, "Down Once More" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgCaYkkBQh4 (~6:20)

"You hate me and I hate you. We'll see who hates best. But first, first I will destroy your hatred. Now. My hate is colder, stronger, and you'll have no hate to warm yourself. You will have nothing."
-Rochester, pg. 102

Everything has fallen apart, and the characters are locked together in impossible situations. However, in the very end, both Antoinette and Christine manage to free themselves by taking a third option. Christine has to choose between living forever with the Phantom and letting her true love die, and she takes a third option by showing compassion towards her tormentor, which shocks him into letting them both go. Antoinette is trapped both socially and physically, but she breaks free by destroying Rochester's estate and committing suicide, refusing to play by his rules. Both of the endings are very ambiguous, although these descriptions don't make it seem so. Whether they are happy, sad, or somewhere in between depends entirely upon who the reader feels sympathy for, and I think that is what makes both of these works so fascinating to study.

The Impact of Translation

The Stranger has had a huge impact on the literary world since its original publication in 1942, and as such it has been translated into English multiple times. Stuart Gilbert in 1946, Joseph Laredo in 1982, Matthew Ward in 1988 (the one we read), and Sandra Smith in 2013 have all attempted to capture the essence of the original as best as possible. These translations convey the story in surprisingly different ways, based largely on their translations of a few key sentences and phrases.

For example, the original Gilbert book translated the opening sentence (Aujourd’hui, maman est morte.) as, "Mother died today." The use of 'mother' here seems cold and distant, which influences our perception of Meursault throughout the novel. It's a lot harder to believe that Meursault loves his mother when he only refers to her in such a formal manner. The Ward translation, in contrast, leaves the French word Maman unchanged. This is meant to be a sort of compromise between the formality of Mother and the childishness of Mama, but it has the disadvantage of not actually being an English word. I personally prefer the Ward translation, but opinions differ and none of these translations match the French syntax. If the French word order were followed, we would have to say, "Today, Maman died." None of the English translators have done this because their versions flow better, but such slight differences, especially at the beginning of the book, can have major effects on how we read the novel.

Even the title of the book isn't always translated the same way. The French title is L’Étranger, which can be translated as The Stranger, The Outsider, or The Foreigner. Which of these titles is best? I actually think The Outsider may be a better fit for the novel than The Stranger, since Meursault is more an outsider than a stranger (especially during the trial). Even so, only by combining impressions of all three titles can we get a complete image of the implications carried by the French word. Every translation is doomed to be imperfect, and so the best thing we can do is read the original French or, failing that, read various translations and compare their merits.

The Nightmare of Gregor Samsa

While reading Kafka's The Metamorphosis, our class repeatedly mentioned how the novel felt dream-like somehow, despite the author's assurances that it was not. This tone is best exemplified in a passage from the first segment, soon after Gregor awakens.

The change in Gregor's voice probably could not be noticed outside through the wooden door, as his mother was satisfied with this explanation and shuffled away. But this short conversation made the other members of the family aware that Gregor, against their expectations was still at home, and soon his father came knocking at one of the side doors, gently, but with his fist. "Gregor, Gregor", he called, "what's wrong?" And after a short while he called again with a warning deepness in his voice: "Gregor! Gregor!" At the other side door his sister came plaintively: "Gregor? Aren't you well? Do you need anything?" Gregor answered to both sides... [he] congratulated himself for his cautious habit, acquired from his travelling, of locking all doors at night even when he was at home. The first thing he wanted to do was to get up in peace without being disturbed, to get dressed, and most of all to have his breakfast.

Everything about this situations is absurd. Gregor has just transformed into a huge bug, and yet he is mostly concerned with mundane things. His family is inordinantly worried about him because he isn't up by quarter to seven, and they're all questioning him at once through the doors of his room, of which there are apparently several. Oddly his boss arrives soon after to check on him because he failed to catch the five o' clock train that morning. No one is acting normally, and this is before they even know that Gregor has changed! This sort of bizarre behavior is reminescent of dreams, where the strangest situations seem perfectly reasonable.

As the narrative continues, this 'dream' becomes more and more of a nightmare. Gregor is left alone in his room and treated increasingly badly while he loses his ability to see the outside world and communicate. Eventually, he loses his furniture and his mobility as well. However, I believe that the crux of this blooming nightmare is how his family reacts to his change. They are repulsed by his visage and treat him like garbage. He has spent years as the only working member of the family, struggling to pay off their old debts, and yet they have no trouble finding work the instant he is incapacitated. Worse yet, the family is actually far better off without Gregor's aid. They are more successful and more healthy once they have to do things for themselves. In the end, his sister Grete says that the best thing Gregor can do is go die so they don't have to put up with him any more. To me, this is one of the scariest things imaginable: discovering that despite doing absolutely everything in your power to help others, they would do better if you had never existed. The inclusion of this fear solidifies my belief that this book tells of a nightmare, a dark dream in the recesses of our minds rather than a simple, fictional 'reality'.

How much is Jake actually drinking?

As I read The Sun Also Rises, I was continually amazed by the sheer volume of alcohol consumed by the main characters. From Harvey's stack of saucers early in the book to Jake's three bottle of rioja alta in the last chapter, it seems impossible that their livers haven't long given up the struggle. Although I tried not to worry about it too much, I couldn't help but wonder how this sort of drinking could be plausible in Hemingway's time.

After some research in class (kudos to Kyra), it seems that bottles of liquor were a little smaller than they are today (~24 ounces) and the alcohol concentration is now about the same in beer as it was in Hemingway's wine. This means that when Jake drank three bottles of rioja alta, he consumed the modern equivalent of 24 oz/bottle * 3 bottles * 1/16 beers/oz = 5 beers! This is quite a lot of beer, but it's plausible that someone could drink that much without getting visibly drunk if they had a high enough tolerance, as Jake evidently does.

With my concern assuaged, I began to wonder more about the implications of the heavy drinking in this novel. As we discussed in class, many of the characters drink to help them escape from things, although some also indulge for other reasons. Mike drinks to forget about his debts, Brett drinks to party and not think about her complicated love life, Cohn drinks to fit in with the others, and Jake drinks both to forget about his wound/unrequited love and to be sociable. Although these reasons are varied, in a way everyone is drinking to forget about the problems that make them stand out in the group. When they're drunk, they can all focus on partying without thinking about individual problems. They can just be a group of friends. I find this insight into why Hemingway's characters drink so profusely rather tragic, made all the more so by the fact that the volumes are not as humorously impossible as I once thought.

Interpretations of Septimus' Suicide

In Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, the climax for me was when Septimus Smith committed suicide just as he seemed to be recovering. This death scene was both shocking and deeply interesting, due largely to the fact that we get to see his thought processes in the final moments.

Holmes was coming upstairs. Holmes would burst open the door. Holmes would say "In a funk, eh?" Holmes would get him. But no; not Holmes, not Bradshaw...There remained only the window, the large Bloomsbury-lodging house window, the tiresome, the troublesome, and rather melodramatic business of opening the window and throwing himself out. It was their idea of tragedy, not his or Rezia's (for she was with him). Holmes and Bradshaw would like that sort of thing. (He sat on the still). But he would wait until the very last moment. He did not want to die. Life was good. The sun hot. Only human beings -- what did they want? ...Holmes was at the door. "I'll give it to you!" he cried, and flung himself vigorously, violently down on to Mrs. Filmer's area railings.

What struck me most about the passage was how focused Septimus is on Bradshaw and (especially) Holmes. His whole reason for killing himself at this point seems to be that he needs to escape from their 'treatments' any way he can, even if that requires fleeing into death. As Holmes is a doctor, it's both ironic and horrible that he is causing his own patient's death by his lack of comprehension.

This whole passage also serves to drive home the idea that suicide is never definite. Up to this point, Septimus seemed to be improving significantly, and even in the moments before suicide he says that he does not want to die. If Holmes had not been so ignorant or Rezia had been able to turn him away, Septimus' death could have been avoided entirely. This idea makes Septimus' death all the more tragic and gives us insight into how we ought to deal with suicide. Suicidal impulses are often very much in the moment, and recognizing that gives us a much better chance of preventing people from taking their own lives with quick intervention and better understanding of the underlying problems.

Thoughts on Howie's Eight Developments

When I read Nicholson Baker's The Mezzanine one thought in particular stood out to me when I first came across it: Howie describing his Eight Advances in life. Most people would say that their biggest advances in life were when they graduated, started dating, married, or made some important decision. In sharp contrast, Howie's advances are things like shoe-tying, learning to brush his tongue, discovering that sweeping is fun, and (most intriguingly) deciding that brain cells ought to die. When I saw this, I had a reaction just like Howie's later in the book.

"Wrong, wrong, wrong!" I cried. "Destructive and unhelpful and misguided and completely untrue--but harmless, even agreeably sobering..."

My curiosity very much piqued by this assertation so utterly opposed to my own beliefs, I continued reading, hearing his rationals for the other seven advances. At the end of the next chapter, he finally explained his reasoning.

(a) We begin, perhaps, with a brain that is much to crowded with pure processing capacity, and therefore the death of the brain cells is part of a planned and necessary winnowing that precedes the move upward to higher levels of intelligence...[m]athematicians need all of those spare neurons, and their careers falter when the neurons do, but the rest of us should be thankful for their disappearance, for it makes room for experience...

(b) Used with care, substances that harm neural tissue, such as alcohol, can aid intelligence: you corrode the chromium, giggly, crossword puzzle-solving parts of your mind with pain and poison, forcing the neurons to take responsibility for themselves and those around them, toughening themselves against the accelerated wear of these artificial solvents...

(c) The neurons that do expire are the ones that made imitation possible...when your brain loses its spare capacity...you finally have to settle down to do well the few things that your brain really can do well...

(d) Individual ideas are injured along with the links over which they travel. As they are dismembered and remembered...they become subtler...

 This tangent was the most memorable in the book for me because I disagreed with it so strongly. All of his arguments for the death of neurons are extremely subjective and disregard the fact that neurons provide the processing power for everything we do, not just computations and mathematics. Destroying neurons limits one's faculties in those areas, certainly, but it also cripples one in fundamental abilities such as learning and remembering anything. Seeing these obviously wrong ruminations (although, to be fair, perhaps they weren't as obvious in 1986) was a great suprise to me, as Howie had seemed incredibly literate and well-informed up until that point.

However, I eventually decided that I like this passage because it gives Howie a little more depth as a character. By having Howie hypothesize even about things he clearly has little knowledge of and come to incorrect conclusions, Baker is showing us that Howie is willing to think about things that he hasn't researched in depth. In my mind, this makes him a more creative and thus more 'interesting' person, even if the passage made me stop reading.