Milkman and Guitar

Please finish Song of Solomon before reading because this blog post talks about spoilers!

Guitar and Milkman begin Song of Solomon as friends and end the novel as….enemies?  I got a bit confused at the end of the book and I thought I would try to make sense of what happened by looking at their relationship throughout the book.

Clearly, Guitar is pivotal in Milkman’s development. From a very young age, he is Milkman’s only friend. The two met in school when Guitar saves Milkman from bullies: “Milkman smiled, remembering how Guitar grinned and whooped as the four boys turned on him. It was the first time Milkman saw anybody really enjoy a fight” (264). Guitar is slightly older than Milkman, both in age and in attitude. Because he is a member of the Seven Days (and has an actual job I think?), Guitar is one of Milkman’s role models. As the two get older, Guitar repeatedly encourages Milkman to do something with his life, like settling down with Hagar or escaping from his father’s shadow.

Guitar has no actual family, but he proves himself apt at creating a group of people that he considers family. He is a friend to nearly everyone, exemplified when he is allowed in the bar, while Milkman is questioned. Guitar also attempts to help Milkman discover a potential familial group, because Milkman’s family is so chaotic, by revealing the existence of the Seven Days and encouraging Milkman to branch out in the African-American community and take notice of lynchings. Milkman doesn’t really listen to him at the time, because he is more fascinated by the concept of the Seven Days and the fact that Guitar is a member. He starts to distrust Guitar after this. Overall, their relationship went from friends to more-distant friends in Part One.

In Part Two, Milkman seems much more trusting of Guitar. As Milkman discovers his family roots and meets new people, he becomes more caring and kind, even helping a worker lift a crate. He also begins to see the world from Guitar’s perspective: “he thought he understood Guitar now. Really understood him” (278). Completely on the other hand, Guitar has followed Milkman and decided that he is going to kill him, because thinks that Milkman is taking all the gold for himself and he wants the gold for the Seven Days. He refuses to accept Milkman’s answer that there was not gold; instead, he continues to hunt Milkman down. To me, this felt like something very uncharacteristic for Guitar, rather, something I could see Milkman from the previous part doing. However, despite Guitar’s attempt on Milkman’s life, they are still cordial towards one another:

“’One more thing. Why the message? Why’d you warn me at the store?’

‘You’re my friend. It’s the least I could do for a friend.’

‘My man. I want to thank you.’

‘You’re welcome, baby’” (298).

Milkman appears to accept Guitar’s targeting of him just after he was almost killed, when the group is cleaning the bobcat. An earlier conversation with Guitar is replaying through his head and is seems to have gained new significance. In that conversation, Guitar explains to Milkman that people are trying to control his life so much because “they want your life” (222). However, Guitar says, they don’t do this to be cruel, they do it out of love. Milkman thinks about this conversation a lot in the immediate aftermath of Guitar’s attempt, and, to me, it seems to be suggesting that Guitar is hunting down Milkman out of love.

              Another parallel that I noticed between that conversation and the end of the book involved this exchange between Milkman and Guitar:

“’Nobody can choose what to die for’

‘Yes you can, and if you can’t, you can damn well try to’” (223).

By the end of the book, Milkman’s perspective seems to have reversed; he controls his own death and chooses to stand up and jump towards Guitar even though it meant he would probably die. I’m not totally sure what to make of Milkman and Guitar’s role reversal, or whether or not Toni Morrison meant for it to happen. I don't really see how Guitar can be hunting down Milkman out of love, but that seems to be what the book is suggesting? 

What do you think? Why is Guitar hunting down Milkman?

Christophine

Christophine is as much of an observer to Antoinette’s development in Wide Sargasso Sea as readers are. She is with Antoinette through her early years, acting as a protector and guardian for Antoinette when Annette is unable to do so. As Antoinette grows older, Christophine seems to trust her to make decisions for herself, rather than being reliant upon Christophine. However, after Antoinette makes the decision to drug Rochester and becomes distraught, it is then when we see Christophine fully become a motherly figure.

Throughout the beginning of the novel, Christophine slowly distances herself from the Cosway family. Similar to Annette, she is at first an outsider to Jamaica and the world of Coulibri. Both Annette and Christophine come from Martinique. However, they adapt to their new world in different ways. Annette makes every effort to blend in with the local creole population, but she is still dismissed as lesser, especially when Coulibri begins to fall into disrepair. Annette and Antoinette are both openly ostracized by the white and black populations at Coulibri.

Christophine, however, seems to have used her outsider status to her advantage, or at least adapted to it. She is able to cross social boundaries and barriers because she doesn’t fit into any of the typical Jamaican molds. She does not censor herself unnecessarily to fit in, which we can see from Antoinette’s description of her appearance: “Her songs were not Jamaican songs and she was not like other women. She was much blacker—blue-black with a thin face and straight features. She wore a black dress, heavy gold earrings, and a yellow handkerchief—carefully tied with the two high points in the front. She had a quiet voice and a quiet laugh (when she did laugh), and though she could speak good English if she wanted to, and French as well as patois, she took care to talk as they talked” (18-19). Christophine is able to blend in and distinguish herself at once. Furthermore, she is feared because she practices obeah magic. Because of her foreign status, she is able to retain some power. While she might not fit in any of the traditional social groups, Christophine seems to have carved out a place in society for herself.

Perhaps this is why Antoinette gravitates towards her. From a very young age, Antoinette is aware that she does not fully fit in with Creole or British culture. Christophine helps Antoinette try to navigate this bridge between cultures, for example setting up Antoinette with Tia. As Antoinette grows older, Christophine becomes less of a helper and more of a motherly figure. This dynamic dramatically shifts when Antoinette seeks help from Christophine with the love potion. Though Christophine thinks it is a bad idea, she gives the love potion to Antoinette. As a result, Antoinette and Rochester’s marriage fully falls apart.

Christophine’s final conversation with Rochester brings out what we as readers are feeling towards him. Having read all the background information and grown up with Antoinette, we (or at least I) sympathize much more with Antoinette. Christophine channels both her own anger and the reader’s anger towards Rochester, which is perhaps why many of Christophine’s sentences end up ringing in Rochester’s ears. She acts for Antoinette, who is unable to speak for herself, which is a very motherly stance to take. However, Christophine’s efforts are ultimately useless when Rochester sends her away and takes Antoinette to England.

What do you think?

Meursault's Trial

As I was reading about Meursault’s trial, I noticed a strange pattern: all the named witnesses called to testify in the trial seemed to believe Meursault, or at least not fully blame him for his actions on the beach.

Meursault’s friends (or the closest acquaintances he has) very much give Meursault the benefit of the doubt. Celeste seems to understand what has happened with Meursault. He repeatedly states that what happened to Meursault was “bad luck” and that it could happen to anybody (92). He believes that Meursault’s criminal actions were completely out of his control. While Celeste might not fully buy Meursault’s explanation that the sun caused it, he seems to understand Meursault’s circumstances. He accepts that there might not be a simple ideological reason behind Meursault’s actions. Similarly, Salamano provides testimony that portrays Meursault positively (he was nice to his dog) and, when asked a question about Maman and Meursault, he says “You must understand” (95). Salamano assumes that everyone has a baseline understanding of why people do things sometimes. Marie explains that after her testimony, “it wasn’t like that, there was more to it, and that she was being made to say the opposite of what she was thinking, that she knew me and I hadn’t done anything wrong” (94).  She understands that there can be other unexplained forces (she was made to say things). Raymond says that Meursault’s experiences were “just chance” (95).

People who have no reason to be on Meursault’s side make excuses for him. The director home said that Maman complained about Meursault, but no more than one would typically complain about relatives (89). After Meursault verifies the caretaker’s testimony, the caretaker “gave [him] a surprised and somehow grateful look” (90). Perez does not incriminate Meursault because he did not see anything. The prosecution seemed to cherry-pick what the witnesses said about Meursault’s behavior, and even nudged some witnesses to get back on track—trying to incriminate Meursault.

The jury, a group of nameless people, finds Meursault guilty of a crime which he did commit. They see everything each witness says—luck, chance, other mysterious forces—and disregard it. Yet, as the judge points out to Celeste, “we are here to judge this sort of bad luck” (92). Camus gives the reader a moral dilemma: where do the facts of the murder and the “excuses” (luck, chance, etc.) intersect? As readers, we know that there isn’t really a cause for the murder other than forces neither us nor Meursault understands. His friends seem to have faith that he wasn’t to blame for this sequence of events. Where do we stand? Where does Camus suggest we should stand?

Where would an outside Meursault-like character stand on Meursault’s own guilt? Meursault does not believe in fate, chance, religion, or any mysterious outside forces, so he might take the murder at full face value and think that Meursault is guilty. However, he could also accept Meursault’s testimony about the sun and believe that. What do you think?

Gregor

The Metamorphosis is one of those stories that sticks in your head, maybe because it’s troubling, a little funny, and thought-provoking all at once. In this post I’m going to write about what I’m going to remember from this story the most (other than that Gregor wakes up as a roach).

Gregor never fully adjusts to his new body. When he wakes up, he is entirely confused and doesn’t know what is going on. The most striking image is his legs waving in the air “helplessly before his eyes” (Kafka 64). He dislikes his new body and the fact that he is unable to control it: “he shut his eyes so as not to have to watch his struggling legs” (Kafka 65). Throughout the first section, he attempts to get out of his room to explain what is going on to his family and boss. Though he views his body as a hinderance to getting out of the room (think him desperately trying to roll over), he doesn’t immediately perceive any issue with his going to work as a roach.

Gregor sustains major bodily harm throughout the story. In the end of section one, Gregor is shoved into his room by his father, who doesn’t understand that Gregor is still acclimating to his new body. By the end of section two, Gregor has an apple permanently lodged in his back. After these experiences, Gregor seems to recover. Rather than staying still after his injuries, Gregor, instead of thinking about how he is a burden to the family, “set himself in motion and crawled up and down the room” (Kafka 80). Habit has taught him how to place the needs of his family before his own, but when these are too unbearable for him to think about, he turns to crawling and moving around to distract himself. He learns to find enjoyment in crawling around the room. What else can he do, in this insect form?

Later, Gregor walks out of his room to listen to Grete play violin, but is forced back into the room when the lodgers see him: “He was amazed at the distance separating him from his room, and failed to understand how in his weak state he had recently covered the same stretch almost without realizing it” (Kafka 106). His weakness is emphasized much more towards the end of the story. We’ve discussed in class how the story is anchored in Gregor’s perspective for the most part, and as Gregor nears the end of his life, he thinks much more about how much of a burden the cockroach form is, to himself and to his family.

Right before Gregor dies, he contemplates how the pain he had gradually disappears. He collapses and is unable to move, but “this caused him no surprise; he was more inclined to think it strange that he had, until now, managed to propel himself at all on those thin little legs” (Kafka 106). For me, this thought is incredibly sad because he thinks it was odd that he had been able to sustain himself in this somewhat unfriendly environment, both as a human and as a roach. And I can’t totally fault him for being surprised, because, to some extent, I am as well (which is also sad!).

What parts (if any) of The Metamorphosis are sticking with you?

Swimming in San Sebastian

Please finish The Sun Also Rises before reading!

Something that jumped out at me towards the end of the novel is Jake’s thoughts and actions while he is alone. Throughout The Sun Also Rises, there are very few moments when Jake is fully alone; in a “typical” scene, he is a member of a group in which he often plays the role of observer. He has one-on-one interactions with main characters (like Brett, Bill, or Robert), and through those interactions we learn more about Jake’s character. In class, we’ve said that one of the distinctive traits of Hemingway’s style was use of dialogue to expand on character. So what happens when there’s no one Jake can talk with?

Throughout the entire time he is alone, Jake seems more unburdened. When he goes swimming, we are given a detailed description of the beach, the ocean, and Jake’s experiences. He swims for a while and then stops on a raft, where a boy and girl are sitting and talking. While these two are clearly reminiscent of Jake’s ideal relationship with Brett (“The boy lay face downward on the raft and talked to her. She laughed at things he said (…).), Jake doesn’t seem particularly upset by them or even mildly interested in them (239). We don’t overhear any dialogue, Jake doesn’t even get involved. Instead, Jake describes his dives in the ocean, then gets out and walks around town and people-watches. He seems content to be out of the drama.

The next day, he goes swimming again, but this time he is fully alone. We get a vivid image of what life is like for him (see p. 241). He marvels at how small the people and the town are, and how big the ocean is. Overall, the passages with Jake alone in San Sebastian seem very calming and relaxed, even though for me they evoke memories of Brett. Jake doesn’t seem sad to me, instead he seems unburdened, which puzzles me because he just was very upset about what happened with Brett. In this case, I’m not entirely sure whether or not Jake is thinking about Brett without actually articulating anything in the text (relying on iceberg-theory thinking) or if he isn’t thinking about her at all. But why describe these ocean scenes so thoroughly if we aren’t meant to see that Jake is thinking about Brett? Hemingway could have made the San Sebastian scenes much more clear-cut and simple, unless the scenes are meant to give the reader a chance to process what’s happened. And, if Jake is thinking about what happened with Brett, why is he so calm?

One of the scenes the swimming reminds me of in particular is the fishing trip with Bill, which was also very nature and detail oriented and away from people. Both the fishing trip and the trip to San Sebastian feel very introspective in that Jake is distancing himself from others, not letting himself be sidelined in the observer role. However, once Brett sends him the telegram, he returns to his typical position.

Thoughts? Why does Hemingway choose to include these details at the end?

What happened to Rezia?

Rezia is Septimus’ companion throughout Mrs. Dalloway. She left her home so that she could live with him in England. While at times she gets frustrated with him and his condition, she stays with him and loves him. She tied up and kept his messages of Universal Love, which was very meaningful for Septimus. On pages 144-145, Septimus sees Rezia as “a flowering tree” who “triumphed” over the doctors. Overall, (in my opinion), they genuinely loved each other, and (hear me out) the death of Septimus is to Rezia what the death of Evans is to Septimus.

After Septimus’ death, we stay in Rezia’s point of view for five paragraphs, then do not return to her for the remainder of the novel. In these paragraphs, we seem to get Septimus-like thoughts as someone she has a deep connection with has just died. Directly after Septimus dies, Woolf narrates from Rezia’s point of view: “Rezia ran to the window, she saw; she understood” (146). Not only does Rezia understand what has happened to Septimus; she also understands how Septimus felt after losing Evans. Septimus had formed a close bond with Evans throughout the course of the war, and, very close to the end of the war, Evans died. The preceding section where Septimus and Rezia are together is very reminiscent of that: they are on the same side, against the doctors. Mrs. Filmer’s apron reminds Rezia of a flag, and she thinks “Men killed in battle were thus saluted, and Septimus had been through the War” (146).

As we go further after the death of Septimus, Rezia begins to focus on things that Septimus tended to focus on, such as Big Ben: “The clock was striking—one, two, three: how sensible the sound was; compared with all this thumping and whispering; like Septimus himself” (146). Because Rezia has gone through a similar traumatic experience, she now understands the sensibility of Septimus’ reactions and behavior.

Perhaps the most distinct emotion Septimus has after the death of Evans is his inability to feel. Rezia has this too, as she talked with Mrs. Filmer: “’He is dead,’she said, smiling at the poor old woman who guarded her with her honest light-blue eyes fixed on the door.” (147). Contrary to what we would think of as a normal reaction, Rezia seems very subdued, almost content. She is in a dream-like, hallucinatory state for our last interaction with her. Now, how much of that reaction comes from whatever sedative Dr. Holmes put in her drink and how much of it is genuine is up for debate, but either way, it seems almost as if Rezia can’t quite feel any emotions either.

A similarity Rezia and Septimus have is their distrust of the doctors. Septimus truly hated the doctors and placed special emphasis on their use of the word “must” in their prescriptions, where Septimus felt he must do things because the doctors told him. After Septimus’ death, Rezia hears Dr. Holmes: “She must be brave and drink something, he said (What was it? Something sweet), for her husband was horribly mangled, would not recover consciousness, she must not see him, must be spared as much as possible, would have the inquest to go through, poor young woman” (146). Later on, there is the sentence “But they must do as the doctors said” (147). While Rezia herself does not say that she is bothered by the word “must,” it still comes up a lot in our final paragraphs with Rezia.

Readers leave Rezia in an ominous position: “She saw the large outline of his body standing dark against the window. So that was Dr. Holmes” (147). Rezia finally fully sees and understands the Dr. Holmes that Septimus saw. By showing Holmes as a dark figure against the window in Rezia’s point of view, Woolf shows readers that Rezia knows the cruelty of Holmes and that Rezia suffers similarly to Septimus.

That is where Rezia disappears and readers are left to wonder what would happen to her next. Woolf could have just as easily omitted this part of the story, cutting off where Septimus dies. But I think she includes it to prove a point: that when Rezia underwent a traumatic event, she easily sees the reasoning behind Septimus’ behavior; that responses like Septimus’ are not unsual when someone has been traumatized. Throughout the novel, I tended to think of Rezia's perspective as normal, but Woolf shows how quickly that can all change. 

Thoughts?

Woolf, Character, The Mezzanine, and a lot of questions

Right before we started Mrs. Dalloway, we read two essays by Virginia Woolf. In these, she writes that she, and all other authors, should be in search of character and accuracy of life of that character. In her scenario with Mrs. Brown, she criticizes other authors for describing only the carriage and scene and forcing readers to fill in the blanks when it came to Mrs. Brown’s character. She is frustrated by the materialistic tendencies of this fiction. This made me think back to The Mezzanine and wonder what Woolf would think of the novel, specifically Howie’s “character”.

On the one hand, The Mezzanine is incredibly materialistic. It could essentially be characterized as a person going on and on about things he encounters and sometimes talking about an aspect of life. We are presented with a picture of Howie, but only through the objects he describes and the experiences he shares with us. In many ways, the reader’s only way to glean Howie’s character is to analyze his analysis of life, or his descriptions of life.

On the other hand, after finishing The Mezzanine, I feel like I know about the character of Howie. The footnotes and the way in which he describes objects and characterizes his interactions with the world define a rather specific kind of character. How many people would refer to escalators as “a pair of integral signs”? And even if you wouldn’t typically refer to the escalators as integral signs, I think it says something about Howie (and Baker?)  that, when trying to make the mundane seem important, their instinct is to go for this specific wording. When I was writing my pastiche, I felt like parts of my character/personality made subtle appearances. Even when I was writing in Baker’s style, I had some control over my word choice and portrayal of the world.

I think that Baker does create a character from Howie, and I think this has to do with the perspective. If all of the events were simply told, without the personal anecdotes or quirky phrases, I would have been bored out of my mind and unable to relate to the issues and joys Howie points out in life. But how would the events be told without character (assuming that it could not simply be presented as fact, because then it would not be fiction)? If the “events” were just written, without a traditional character’s voice (such as Howie's), would the narrator’s voice (the omnipotent) count as a character? One of the things that gives me pause in saying Howie does have character is that I don’t know how much of the writing depicts the world from Howie’s perspective and how much of the writing is the world from Baker’s perspective. Where do we stop learning about Howie and start learning about Baker? Does the author count as character?

I don’t know, but I’m hoping that reading Mrs. Dalloway will help me learn more about what counts as character (because at this point, even an attempt at a definition would help).

What do you think?

Future Posts are for 20th Century Novel!

Beryl

*This post is talking about a scene that is in the final In Dallas. So go read that first. 

Beryl intrigued me more and more as the novel went on. She is by no means a primary character, nothing like Jack Ruby or Oswald or Marina, but her presence at the end of the book felt important to me. She’s just sitting there, watching and rewatching the assassination of Oswald, knowing that she’s supposed to feel something like satisfaction, but she can’t. It’s only a sad experience. That said, she continues watching and is unable to pull herself away because it just keeps replaying over and over. “She felt morally bound to watch.” (DeLillo 446).

On the one hand, Beryl is interested in the shooting: “The camera doesn’t catch all of it. There seem to be missing frames, lost levels of information. Brief and simple as the shooting is, it is too much to take in, too mingled in jumped-up energies. Each new showing reveals a detail” (DeLillo 446). The way this is phrased reminds me of Nicholas Branch and the entire conspiracy theory culture out there around the JFK shooting. Each time people look at the assassination, a new plot aspect or piece of evidence is considered. Throughout the novel, Nicholas Branch is overwhelmed by the amount of information, but there seems to perpetually be something missing.

Beryl is not by any means rooting for Oswald; she remembers Kennedy fondly and does not like Oswald. She understands Jack Ruby’s motives and even realizes that hers are somewhat similar. But she still questions why they keep showing the Oswald assassination: “We want him [Oswald] out of here too. And now he’s gone but it isn’t helping at all” (DeLillo 446).

Beryl cries when Oswald is shot, and yet she keeps watching because of “something in Oswald’s face” (DeLillo 447). She feels bad for Oswald and at the same time is curious about what Oswald knows. She seems to pick up on the fact that Lee was living his life for history: “He is commenting on the documentary footage even as he is being shot. Then he himself is shot, and shot, and shot, and the look becomes another kind of knowledge. But he has made us a part of his dying” (DeLillo 447).

This passage has been sticking with me. Beryl seems relatable for me and my opinions of Libra and the JFK conspiracies as a whole. On the one hand, I am interested in finding out what really happened. To some extent, it is a feeling of being “morally bound” to be interested; someone shot the president. Almost all my instincts are programmed to find the truth; that is the moral thing. I should want to know what actually happened. And to some extent I do, but I question what would come from knowing the truth. What issues would it actually resolve? JFK is killed, Lee is killed, Jack Ruby dies. If we know what actually happened, would that add to or take away from the tragedy? I'm always down to hear a good conspiracy theory, but part of me wonders what they actually do in terms of helping. 

Lee in Jail

By now, we’ve read about Lee’s formative years in Libra. Lee has gone from a kid on the streets to a marine in Japan. Lee is thrown into prison for “wrongful use of provoking words to a staff noncommissioned officer,” a relatively minor charge when he could be arrested for treason or use of an unauthorized weapon (DeLillo 97).

Lee believes that prison is an incredibly formative experience for great minds and thinks that his stay will be similar. His studies of communism and his idealization(?) of its leaders made him think that being imprisoned or isolated is crucial in his development as a communist. Lee describes Trotsky, Lenin, and Stalin (I’m assuming the description is influenced by his perspective and not purely factual):

“These were men who lived in isolation for long periods, lived close to death through long winters in exile or prison, feeling history in the room, waiting for the moment when it would surge through the walls, taking them with it. History was a force to these men, a presence in the room.  They felt it and waited.” (DeLillo 34).

Once Lee is actually imprisoned, he attempts to make his short stay into something like the lives of Stalin, Lenin, and Trotsky. “He tried to feel history in the cell,” implying that his quest to find the force of history is unsuccessful (DeLillo 100). He is disappointed in Dupard for not being the wise cellmate that he read about. His entire jail stay doesn’t seem particularly successful (if what he was going for was important thought, epiphanies, etc. But then I have no idea how one measures how successful jail time was). I don’t know how critical his jail time was to his development as a communist thinker.

However, “he could see how he’d been headed here since the day he was born,” so he still feels somewhat in place (DeLillo 100). He doesn’t act particularly different when he is in jail (I’m mainly thinking of how he tries to antagonize people). Lee realizes that the jail “was just another name for the stunted rooms where he’d spent his life” (DeLillo 100). This made me think about the other “stunted rooms” he lived in: the Bronx and New Orleans.

This ties in with something else I’ve been noticing: DeLillo uses repetition of phrases, sort of similar to what Kurt Vonnegut does in Slaughterhouse-Five. The one that jumped out to me the most was the phrase “spent serious time…”, firstly because I thought it was odd that a phrase that reminds me distinctly of prison would be used in Lee’s case (because he spent such a short time in jail before getting killed) and secondly because it’s only used with important aspects of his life. A list of all the places where I’ve spotted it:

·       - “Learn the alleys, use the dark. He rode the subways. He spent serious time at the zoo” (DeLillo 6)

·       - “He spent serious time at the library” (studying communist works) (DeLillo 33)

·     -  “Or he sat in an unused office in a far corner of the third floor, where he spent serious time reading the Marine Corps manual” (DeLillo 42)

·     -  “Back in Atsugi he went on a movie binge. He saw every movie twice, kept to himself, spent serious time at the base library, learning Russian verbs.” (DeLillo 112).

Lee’s experiences in all these places and times seem very important and formative. I’m wondering how influential his prison stay actually is to his opinions and development, because he doesn’t really change throughout his prison stay, but communist works and the Marine Corps manual are very influential for him. I’m also excited to see where DeLillo takes Lee’s idea of and experiences in prisons, particularly at the end of the story.

Thoughts?

Dana's Morality

In Kindred, Dana is repeatedly forced to visit the Antebellum South and adapt to her surroundings. By using this unpredictable mode of time travel and the relatable way in which Dana’s story is told, Octavia Butler forces us to reckon with what we would do if we were in Dana’s place.

Dana’s first trip to the 1800s seems like the most straightforward version of the time travel. She is sent back without warning, but upon arrival, she knows exactly what she has to do: “Before me was a wide tranquil river, and near the middle of that river was a child splashing, screaming…Drowning! I reacted to the child in trouble. Later I could ask questions, try to find out where I was, what had happened. Now I went to help the child.” (Butler 13). Dana is the hero in this situation. She saves Rufus using 1970s technology, despite not totally knowing artificial respiration. Margaret beats Dana and Tom threatens to kill Dana, but nonetheless, she saves Rufus. She is then transported back to the 1970s. This is probably the most cut-and-dry situation Dana faces:  A toddler needs her help in a life-or-death crisis. Dana is immediately sympathetic. As readers, we would like to think that we attempt to do the same. This creates a precedent for a reader’s perception of Dana: she is a reliable narrator and moral person by our contemporary standards.

The reader’s initial identification with Dana makes her subsequent choices more understandable.  In her second encounter with Rufus, Dana learns more context about the time period of her travels. She puzzles out the real reason she keeps travelling back in time is “to insure my family’s survival, my own birth” (Butler 28). Therefore, a sense of preservation prevents her from harming Rufus or Alice because doing so could jeopardize her own life.

Throughout the rest of the novel, Dana makes incredibly difficult moral decisions about what to do in the 1800s.  Rufus is a slave owner.  Dana must struggle with the immorality of his position and his actions with the need to preserve her own life. As readers, we recognize and identify with her contemporary morality.  Thus, we are forced to go along with her choices.

Butler makes it very hard for readers to question Dana’s decisions. By painting Dana as a morally responsible character who is trying her hardest in unpredictable situations, Butler makes Dana sympathetic to the reader.  Through Dana, we must confront the difficult and uncertain options of what it means to behave morally.

blue and ivory

The phrase “so it goes” encompasses the attitude of Billy Pilgrim and the Tralfamadorians, particularly about wars and the bad parts of life. It represents their views of time and gives detachment and inevitability to any death for Billy. Because the phrase is used to describe the death of anything, from prisoners to a half-full bottle of champagne, it assigns a certain equality (and therefore loss) to any death. It also shows how disturbingly easy it is for Billy to process death and immediately dissociate with it.

Another phrase that is repeated often in a variety of situations, both in the war and out of it to show and critique Tralfamadorian thinking is “blue and ivory”. The first time the phrase is used is after the plane crash, when Billy is writing a letter to a newspaper about Tralfamadore. It was cold, he was in the cellar, and, “He was barefoot, and still in his pajamas and a bathrobe, though it was late afternoon. His bare feet were blue and ivory” (Vonnegut 28). Later, Barbara visits Billy, but can’t find him: “Billy didn’t answer her, so she was nearly hysterical, expecting to find his corpse” (Vonnegut 28).

The next time “blue and ivory” is used is while Billy and Roland Weary are walking after being captured by the German soldiers: “Billy found the afternoon stingingly exciting. There was so much to see—dragon’s teeth, killing machines, corpses with bare feet that were blue and ivory. So it goes” (Vonnegut 65). This is a striking difference to the scene before. What was once describing a very mundane experience now describes a corpse—something deeply disturbing and traumatizing to see.

The next few quotes all come from the scene where Billy is about to be abducted by the Tralfamadorians (at the beginning of chapter 4). Once again, each mention of the “blue and ivory” seems normal and not at all associated with anything that happened during the war from Billy’s perspective:

“He felt spooky and luminous, felt as though he were wrapped in cool fur that was full of static electricity. He looked down at his bare feet. They were ivory and blue.” (Vonnegut 72)

“Billy Pilgrim padded downstairs on his blue and ivory feet.” (Vonnegut 73)

“Out he went, his blue and ivory feet crushing the wet salad of the lawn.” (Vonnegut 75)

“Blue and ivory” is also used when Billy is in the boxcar: “Listen—on the tenth night the peg was pulled out of the hasp on Billy’s boxcar door, and the door was opened. Billy Pilgrim was lying at an angle on the corner-brace, self-crucified, holding himself there with a blue and ivory claw hooked over the sill of the ventilator.” (Vonnegut 80).

The final time “blue and ivory” is used is the most disturbing to me. It is used to describe the corpse of the hobo in the boxcar:

 “They came to the prison railroad yard again. They had arrived on only two cars. They would depart far more comfortably on four. They saw the dead hobo again. He was frozen stiff in the weeds beside the track. He was in a fetal position, trying even in death to nestle like a spoon with the others. There were no others now. He was nestling with thin air and cinders. Somebody had taken his boots. His bare feet were blue and ivory. It was all right somehow, his being dead. So it goes” (Vonnegut 148).

 “Blue and ivory” bothers me just as much as “So it goes.” The blue and ivory feet specifically associate with death for the reader. However, Billy doesn’t explicitly draw these conclusions even though he should be able to. Fitting with his character, Billy simply seems to not care. He appears to think that death is not awful, in fact he excitedly characterizes the corpse as something to see and says that the death of the hobo was “all right somehow” (Vonnegut 148). Though he has experienced his entire life before, he does not appear to draw the connections between his own blue and ivory feet walking down the stairs and the feet of the dead hobo. And while this is consistent with the Tralfamadorian ideas about death and time, it still disturbs me a lot (which is Vonnegut’s point, I guess).

Earline

We touched briefly on Earline’s role in Mumbo Jumbo during class and this post is a product of my thoughts on that.

Jes Grew is a phenomenon spread by the youth. One of the main issues the white people (and the Atonists) have with Jes Grew is that teens are getting into it as a form of rebellion. The only named white person in rebellion of Atonist beliefs, other than the dancing hordes affected by Jes Grew, is Thor Wintergreen, whose foray into the Mu’tafikah ends after he gives the rest of the group up to Biff Musclewhite. He starts out very committed to the Mu’tafikah, but eventually he is forced/convinced to go back to the dominant Atonist culture.

   

Earline seems to be the equivalent youth that doesn’t fit in with Jes Grew. Although she works for Papa LaBas, she is skeptical of his ideas and methods in the beginning, saying to LaBas, “There you go jabbering again… Your conspiratorial hypothesis about some secret society molding the consciousness of the West. You know you don’t have any empirical evidence for it that; you can’t prove….” (Reed 25). She obviously isn’t totally convinced of LaBas’ ideas about the Wallflower Order. She also says to LaBas that, “We need scientists and engineers, we need lawyers” (Reed 26). With the emphasis on fact and order, Earline’s ideas mix more with those of Atonism that those of Jes Grew. However, after Papa LaBas talking with her for a short paragraph, she breaks down, revealing that she’s stressed because of Berbelang. This breakdown reminded me a bit of Thor’s, but the circumstances are not as dire.

By the end of the book, however, Earline has changed, saying to LaBas that she’s “thinking about going to New Orleans and Haiti, Brazil and all over the South studying our ancient cultures, our HooDoo cultures. Maybe by and by some future artists 30 to 40 years from now will benefit from my research. Who knows. Pop, I believe in Jes Grew now” (Reed 206). Throughout the book, Earline commits herself to the idea of Jes Grew. However, rather than being forced to agree with Jes Grew, she is persuaded through her possession by a loa and Papa LaBas’ story.

Earline plays a background role, but nonetheless one that is very important. In my opinion, in addition to being one of the youths convinced by Papa LaBas, Earline shows the advancement of the reader’s perspective while reading Mumbo Jumbo. In the beginning, she has an Atonist background and is merely asking for some clarity, similar to what readers are thinking. By the end, she, as well as readers, have been relatively convinced that Jes Grew and Papa LaBas’ ideas are legitimate. Where we leave Earline is also significant. She invites Papa LaBas to a play “in Lafayette Theatre” called “Mumbo Jumbo Holiday” (Reed 206-207).  In class, we talked about how events in theaters are typically Atonist. Perhaps this is Reed’s way of reminding us that we are reading Mumbo Jumbo with an Atonist background and that we can't truly see Jes Grew in an unbiased way?

What do you think?

Irene Castle Quote?

Ishmael Reed uses many footnotes and other sources within Mumbo Jumbo to corroborate what he says.  In the first chapter and title page alone, he uses four quotes, a photo, and a dictionary definition. He uses a newspaper article in chapter 8 to tell the story of the times when Harding was elected: “A Period of Frazzled Nerves, Caused by the End of War-time Strain” (Reed 21). In class we discovered the bibliography at the end of the novel, which I thought was interesting in that it proved that Reed had done extensive and accurate historical research in order to write the novel.

As well as the newspaper article on page 21, there was a footnote citing Irene Castle for the sentence “It would take a few months before a woman would be arrested for walking down a New Jersey street singing ‘Everybody’s doing it now’” (Reed 21). Irene Castle was also mentioned more extensively on pages 46 and 47. Castle endorses one of the techniques PaPa LaBas uses, and for that “the vicious campaign aimed at him had abated. The harassment from the bulls, the constant inspections of his Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral by the Fire Department, the reviews of his tax records” (Reed, 46-47). Because Castle seemed to have such influence, I thought that it was worth looking her up to see if Reed had warped her history or perspective as Doctorow did with some of his characters. What I found was that she was an actual person and that her views pretty much line up what is in the novel. She and her husband were dancers during the 1900s. Reed writes that Castle “taught…to do a diluted version of Jes Grew,” which would align with what I found, that she was more accepting of new dance movements but primarily taught more traditional dances to clients (47). This would explain her endorsement of PaPa LaBas’ techniques:

Nowadays we dance morning, noon, and night. What is more, we are unconsciously, while we dance, warring not only against unnatural lines of figures and gowns, but we are warring against fat, against sickness, and against nervous troubles. For we are exercising. We are making ourselves lithe and slim and healthy, and these are things that all reformers in the world could not do for us (Reed 46).

This endorsement is cited with a footnote leading me to the bibliography, where I found a citation for Castles in the Air, a book Irene actually wrote. After a deeper search, I found an online copy of Castles in the Air which was consistent with Reed’s bibliographic entry (with the publisher, publishing date, etc.). There was a “search in the text” option, which I used to look for the quote so I could see it in its original context. However, it appears that the quotation that Reed uses is not actually in the book?

            At this point I am unsure what to think. For one thing, it could be a real quote from Castle and I am just not finding it (let me know if you find it!). On the other hand, Reed does not use quotation marks to denote it, perhaps meaning that it is not a quote at all (maybe a summary?). However, I find this unlikely because Reed does not use quotation marks throughout the book. If this is simply Reed making up an endorsement, I guess that’s fine because it’s in the context of his book. Using these apparent sources is a really good technique to blend history with the fiction. It gives the book a feeling of authenticity. But it leaves me wondering, just how much can we trust of Reed’s sources? And how will he use these sources later in the novel to authenticate what happens?

Some links about Irene Castle (fun fact: she was born in New Rochelle NY!):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vernon_and_Irene_Castle

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Vernon-and-Irene-Castle

Here is the source where I found the copy of Castles in the Air (let me know if you find the quote!):

https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001374260

Evelyn's Obsession

Before Evelyn Nesbit’s encounter with the girl and Tateh, readers only know the basic facts. She was involved in a scandal involving the shooting of Stanford White by Harry K. Thaw. She gained most of her notoriety from modeling and, more importantly, being romantically involved with rich, powerful men. She is incredibly bored preparing to testify at the trial. The scandal only furthered her fame, evident when Doctorow states “the press followed her every move” (22). Once she gets away from the press and visits the Lower East Side, she encounters a young girl who “gazed at Evelyn without curiosity. She was the most beautiful child Evelyn had ever seen. A piece of clothesline was tied around her wrist. Evelyn stood up, followed the clothesline, and found herself looking into the face of a mad old man (…)” (Doctorow 42). Evelyn thus finds Tateh and the little girl.

After the discovery of the little girl Evelyn proceeds to slowly, and inappropriately, force herself into the family, primarily in a role she perceives as maternal to the girl. Tateh is clearly uncomfortable with her visits. Nonetheless, she sees Tateh and the girl often and helps care for her when she is sick. However, along the way, Doctorow’s sentences and tone often make me question what Evelyn feels for the girl. Is she drawn to the girl because she loves her, or sees a similarity between herself and the girl, or another reason entirely?

Doctorow undermines the validity of the emotional connection through wording and use of irony. A prime example is this description of one of Evelyn’s visits: “She went to Tateh’s corner, stood for her portrait and feasted her eyes on the little girl at the end of the clothesline. She was infatuated.” (Doctorow 45). “Feasted” and “infatuated” imply a fascination with the child as opposed to a genuine love for her. The family appears to be Evelyn’s hobby. She pretends to be poor without understanding that she is playing with real lives. Evelyn’s obsessive behavior surrounding observing, visiting, and helping the family also do not seem genuine because of the lack of emotion and motive.

Another potential point where Doctorow has an opportunity to express what the girl meant to Evelyn was after Tateh takes the girl and leaves Evelyn behind. Evelyn confides in Emma Goldman about her life with the family. While Doctorow writes that Evelyn “wept bitterly,” that emotional moment is directly undercut when Evelyn says, “I have lost my urchin” in a possessive manner (58). Evelyn’s actions later in the story, such as anonymously donating money to charity, show that she cares/cared for the poor, through her experience with Tateh and the girl.

Portions where Evelyn is shown as a character with a personality, motives, and emotions seem to be downplayed by Doctorow. Is this deliberate in order to further exemplify the irony in the situation? Or is it to give the tone of a historical account by including less emotion and having readers fill in the emotion “gaps” with how they think the character must have felt?