Kevin McGrath's X084 Intro to Lit Sec 002

As I read pages 75 through 145 of "Everything is Illuminated" by Jonathan Safran Foer, I decided that the section of the book revolving around the lives of Yankel and Brod is the most enjoyable thing that I have read in this Introduction to Literature course. This is especially surprising to realize because I found myself rather underwhelmed by pages 1 through 74, which I found to be more confusing and with less involving characters (The best part of those first pages was the introduction to the life of Yankel).The characters of Brod and Yankel are the reason that I found the second reading to be so much better than the first reading, or any other reading this semester. In fact, I managed to read through the first 25 pages of this reading remarkably quick compared to the time it took me to finish even the first 15 pages of the book. I was engrossed in pretty much every part of the relationship between Brod and Yankel – such as their somewhat existential conversations, their inability to love anything or anyone, including each other (and their reliance upon each other in spite of, or perhaps because of this), their seeming contentedness within their relationship and their dynamic despite their sadness in most other situations, etc. I found this part of Foer’s story to be refreshing and original, while still remaining understandable and relatable.
However, though it is not as interesting as the story being written by the fictional Jonathan Safran Foer, I am also interested in the story being written by Alex. Even though I still at times have trouble interpreting what Alex means in some of his writings, I now see Alex more as an actual and authentic character, as opposed to the less complex, slightly caricaturish character he sometimes came off as in the first reading; the same is also true for the rest of his cast of characters. As of now, between the three narratives (fictional Jonathan Safran Foer’s story of his family origin, Alex’s story of his trip with fictional Foer, and Alex’s letters to fictional Foer), I can only see the first as being able to stand on its own as an individual story. This is likely because only the fictional Foer’s story is structured like a conventional story, because the fictional Foer is supposed to be a writer (the fact that I can decipher this is further evidence of the actual Foer’s writing abilities). Perhaps as the book progresses, my feelings about the two lesser narratives may improve. However, the three narratives intertwined work better than any of them could have on their own.

I have just finished reading Chapters One through Six of Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar", and though I enjoy the book, I feel underwhelmed by the story that unfolded in the first six chapters of the book- that is, the dissolution of Esther's relationship with Buddy Willard. As I was reading, I had a completely different prediction of what would come. The first misleading passage was on the first page of Chapter Three, when Plath wrote, "With one exception I've been the same weight for ten years.” Aside from the obvious surprise at her implication that she had the same weight at age 9 as she did at age 19, I immediately assumed that she had weighed differently because she had been pregnant, and Buddy was the father. This belief was confirmed throughout the chapters as Esther continued to think of Buddy as a hypocrite, and kept saying that her discovery of his hypocrisy came with a baby, and happened "the day we saw a baby born." After all this build up, I was somewhat disappointed to discover that I found her problems to be so less dramatic and more circumstantial.However, I still am very confident in my prediction that Esther is going to take her own life by the end of "The Bell Jar." But then again, I feel like anyone with even a casual familiarity with the life of Sylvia Plath would be able to make that observation. Furthermore, even without having ever read “The Bell Jar” before or heard anything of its plot, I am aware of its reputation as a tremendous downer of a book. Based of the information given in the first six chapters, my guess is that Esther will kill herself by either A) throwing herself out of a window (because of her fury at her hotel windows’ inability to open), or B) drowning herself in the bathtub (this seems like the more likely situation, firstly because of Esther’s proclamations of a hot bath’s “purifying” abilities, and secondly because the smothering aspect of drowning feels closer to Plath’s own death by oven asphyxiation).Plath is clearly familiar with the concept of feeling like an outsider. The way that she accurately captures even the most personal of ideas that one experiences in such a situation – such as Esther’s inability to fit in with the people she wants to fit in with and feels more similar to, while feeling dissatisfied and out of place with those that do accept her – are too realistic and believable to be made up or imagined.

I have just finished reading Book Three of “The Wicked Pavilion” by Dawn Powell, and I find Powell’s writing style (in this particular example of it, at least) to be frustrating. I find it easy to get lost within the narrative that seems to jump from perspective to perspective, with its wide array of intersecting characters and events. For example, at the beginning of “Journey Over The Bridge,” the first of the four chapters within Book Three, Dalzell Sloane is recounting details of his old house. But suddenly, the narration begins talking about Ben, using statements like, “Ben remembers…” Now, perhaps it my inattentiveness may be to blame, but as the focus shifted to Ben, I didn’t even realize the switch, and was believing that all of these details should be attributed to Dalzell. Once I realized my error, I was forced to go back and reread all that I had misinterpreted to get a proper understanding of the reading. However, beyond that quibble of mine (that may well be my fault), I find Powell’s writing itself to be rather funny at times, such as when she describes the motorboat tarpaulin in the kitchen as “humorously ribboned as if it were the finest lace canopy,” or when Dalzell refrains from rebutting Ben because, “he knew that the one thing s perfectly frank person cannot take is frankness.”
I am always intrigued by this type of story, where a large cast of characters live coinciding and often overlapping lives, especially when previously existing and possibly familiar characters are put to use, like Powell’s Dennis Orphen (from her previous novel “Turn, Magic Wheel”) and Andy Callingham. This is especially true in movies such as “Magnolia” or Short Cuts.”
Also intriguing to me is the disheartening and morbidly sad idea that a person benefits himself in some way through premature death. Powell’s description of the events surrounding Marius’ passing (and their positive effect on his career as an artist) is reminiscent of the stories of James Dean and, more significantly, Marilyn Monroe. Also, I found Powell’s description of a certain minority of people who attempt to lay claim to their fortunes by piggybacking off of “great names of the past” to be still credible and relevant today in our star chasing society full of Kato Kaelins and stalkerazzi and third-rate entourage members who write memoirs about their relationships with people like Princess Diana and JFK Jr. I thought Powell’s account of all of this in relation to Marius’ death felt accurate and realistic.

Book Two of “The Passing” from “The Complete Fiction of Nella Larsen” is significantly less gripping and enveloping than Book One, with its suspenseful tea party conversation and the introduction of Irene and Clare’s troubles. Reading “The Passing”, I get a feeling of anticipation for something eventful or momentous to occur with our main characters. Clare’s increasing comfort within the home and lives of Irene and her family (and thus the growth of her double lives) feels like it must be leading to something significant. However, I have an unfortunate feeling that such a large and noteworthy occurrence will not occur, and that I will eventually be disappointed by the ending, and therefore “The Passing” in general as well.
I don’t quite know what to make of either of the two lead characters yet. Irene, for starters, has no backbone when dealing with Clare’s disarming personality in person, which I found to be both frustrating and relatable. All of her buildup and rehearsal and defiance in relation to a confrontation with Clare, and the subsequent submissiveness and phoniness when she comes in actual contact with Clare, are understandable reactions. However, they do not make her any more endearing or supportable as a main character. I feel like I don’t know of any defining characteristics or events that make her a character that I would want to root for or look forward to a positive end for. Her mess of a marriage is nothing to speak of either. I wonder, if Irene chose to refuse her opportunity to not try and “pass” as white, then why did she choose to live in a marriage that is no more happy – or honest – than Clare’s?
Speaking of Clare, her personality through Irene’s eyes – easy to hate from afar, but hard to dislike in person – is a familiar type of character. I believe that her willingness to be pitied amongst Irene and her friends & neighbors in Harlem shows just how desperate Clare is to unearth her black roots. Also, her feelings toward her daughter reminded me of Delia’s relationship with her children in “The Old Maid” by Edith Wharton – as if children are a next step in the process of living a certain kind of life, something that is intended to help remove the problems that these two women face. I also wonder if I should take seriously Irene’s premonitions of condescension in her interactions with Clare (i.e., every time a statement by Clare is described by Irene with words like “scoffingly” or “mockery”). As we have covered in class, Irene is not a reliable narrator, and her mixed feelings toward Clare may have influenced these observations.
And lastly, I was confused by the interaction between Irene and Hugh at the N.W.L. dance. It seemed as if Irene had implied to Hugh that Clare was “passing” as white,
but I can’t be sure. Hopefully this can be cleared up in class.

While reading "The Old Maid", Edith Wharton's most famous novella in "Old New York", I was at first amused by the high level of melodramatics that occurred within the story. Seeing Charlotte and Delia gasping and crying their way through their confrontations, throwing themselves extravagantly onto chairs and flailing around their handkerchiefs at every opportunity, was reminiscent of some sort of "Dynasty"- or "The Young and the Restless"- style soap opera.
Reading “The Old Maid”, I strangely felt a lack of allegiance to any of the characters in the story. Delia is hardly a suitable protagonist to root for. For the most part, her actions are self-concerned and often ill advised. Every time that someone comes to her in search for some kind of advice, especially Charlotte, she sends them in the direction that would be most to her benefit, and then she justifies it in the name of the Ralstons. This is first seen in Book One, when she takes in Charlotte’s daughter only after seeing her and realizing that she wanted to keep Clem’s child near her, and again when she advises Joe Ralston not to marry Charlotte, thus sealing her fate as an old maid. In Book Two, it is seen most obviously (and most irritatingly) when Delia considers intervening in Tina’s marriage to Lanning Halsey because she would prefer to have Tina stay with her until she grows old.
However, Charlotte is far from a fitting protagonist also. Within the confines of the story, she shifts from manipulated and desperate to somewhat shrewish and miserable. She falls into Delia’s self-interested meddling time after time, from when Delia takes Tina in to when she squashes Charlotte’s plans to leave high-society New York and has Tina’s last name changed to Ralston. By Book Two, she is a tired old woman whom everyone looks at as an old maid.I liked the way that Edith Wharton used Delia’s relationship with the children in the story to signify her true desires out of her life. She had her own two children out of desperation, an attempt to arouse her affection for her husband – to bring them together. But to her dismay, her plan fails, and consequently her children are like acquaintances to her. She sees them as “such darlings,” but she is as involved in their upbringing as Delia allows Charlotte to be involved in Tina’s. Tina, however, though not a product of Delia, is a product of someone that she loved, namely Clem Spender. Accordingly, she dotes on Tina and is actively involved in her life, whereas hired help tends to Delia’s children. Similarly, Delia engrosses herself in Tina’s wedding planning, as opposed to her “twelve dozen of everything” approach to little Delia’s nuptials.

As I have been reading "Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austen, I have been consistently struck by how Austen manages to make the process of writing a novel seem so deceptively easy. Her characters seem so understandable and recognizable that they often feel somewhat predictable and one-note, despite the fact that I know this not to be the case. Perhaps this is because in our current literary and artistic realm, people are more easily impressed and caught off-guard by characters and situations that surprise us with seemingly unorthodox or out of character actions. Look at current movies, like, for example, “Jerry Maguire” and the recently released “A History of Violence,” or a television show like “Felicity,” in which the events of the story unfold because of an unusual decision made on the part of a main character. Themes like this, when a protagonist that seems to fit a certain character shows characteristics that reflect otherwise, is an essential part of modern fiction. Compared to these current examples, seeing Austen create situations like when Charlotte chooses to accept Mr. Collins’ proposal for marriage, or when Elizabeth rejects Darcy’s, evokes the idea that since we get these characters, we could already guess what they’re going to do. It is a credit to Austen that she makes these true-to-character decisions still interesting. I often feel the same way when I read Shakespeare or see movies based on his writings, like “Macbeth” or the two film versions on “Dangerous Liaisons,” the same-titled one and “Cruel Intentions.”However, that being said, there was one particular instance in which I felt that Elizabeth was acting rather unusually, and I suspect that it will have unfortunate results in the future. After Darcy reveals in his letter the true character of Wickham to be deceitful and conniving, Elizabeth decides with Jane to keep this revelation private rather than reveal it publicly. As a result, Lydia and the rest of the Bennetts remain unaware of Wickham’s seedy past, even as Lydia embarks on a relationship with him. I thought that this was an odd decision on Elizabeth’s choice. I am not surprised that the easygoing Jane would let such a potentially troublesome secret go unrevealed, but Elizabeth has shown such attentiveness and hindsight in the earlier chapters of the book that it seems strange for her to withhold this information even after Wickham becomes so involved in a member of her family’s life. Unfortunately for the Bennetts, this will likely end up unhappily for Lydia, who is so easily won over by most any male. Though the well-intentioned but ultimately careless Mr. Bennett would likely not put a stop to this relationship, the interfering Mrs. Bennett would see this as excuse for Lydia to avoid the unwealthy Wickham.

There is a scene in "Saturday" by Ian McEwan in which Daisy, the daughter of the main character Henry Perowne, returns home from Paris to visit with her family and reveal the proofs to soon-to-be published book. As Henry and his daughter catch up, the conversation soon turns to one of the anti-war protest happening in Hyde Park, one of the paramount points in the story's plot. Quickly the tone of the book turns when Daisy realizes that her father's stance on the possibly impending war, and consequently also his stance on many related political matters, differs from her anti-war pacifist's opinion. What was once a rather content and relaxing reunion soon becomes loud, heated, and bitter, as a debate evolves out of their somewhat opposing positions. Both are defending their unwavering standpoints, fighting, as Henry puts it, "over armies they will never see, about which they know almost nothing."(McEwan, 195) Both are relentless in their dogged attempts to show the other what they feel should be obvious, and their argument leaves them emotionally and mentally drained. However, on a narrative level, this altercation is very revealing, as it not only shows Henry and Daisy's political views, but also helps further establish the two characters individually and fleshes out the family dynamic between them.

The topic is initially brought up when Daisy informs her father that she stopped by the war protest in Hyde Park before arriving home. The reader is made immediately aware of Daisy's position when she announces, "But it's completely barbaric, what they're about to do. Everyone knows that." (McEwan, 190) With this statement McEwan conveys not only the strong extent to which Daisy opposes the war (thanks to the phrase "completely barbaric," as opposed to simply "wrong," or "bad"), but also her assumption of her father's position. By saying "Everyone knows that," it is a foregone conclusion to Daisy that Henry will be in complete agreement with her on the issue. So when she discovers his rather halfhearted, wait-and-see approach to the invasion, the debate is effectively started.

Instantly, it is evident that Daisy is not very well versed in political matters, hence Henry's surprise that she is instigating a dispute ("She doesn't usually talk politics, it's not one of her subjects." [McEwan, 191]). She is essentially uninformed, and thus relies on, "…everything they've both heard in the park,… everything they've both heard and read a hundred times, the worst-case guesses that become facts through repetition…" (McEwan, 191) However, her diatribe lacks effect because, by saying what they both already know and what neither of them object to, she isn't making a point, she's just reiterating accepted facts.

Basically, Daisy stuffs her argument with these listless facts and figures for legitimacy. Her argument is rooted predominantly in her pacifistic values. She makes this clear after Henry follows up her recitation of fundamental common knowledge with some genuinely political-minded insights into what may or may not happen with Saddam Hussein and Baghdad. In response, Daisy, as McEwan puts it, "…pulls away from him and faces him with a look of anxious surprise. ‘Daddy, you're not for the war, are you?'" (192) Despite his impartial proclamation that a short war could perhaps result in fewer deaths, less famine, an undamaged U.N., the only thing that Daisy dwells on is the possibility that her father may support an action that will undoubtedly result in the deaths of many innocent people.

However, what Daisy lacks in factual evidence, she more than makes up for inunderhanded insults. This begins with Henry's rationalization that in five years the war will be revealed to be either a good or bad idea, to which Daisy responds, "That's so typical... of you." (McEwan, 193) It doesn't end here, though. Before the argument is even finished, she belittles Henry's defense ("...but it's all fine because you'll be glad." [McEwan, 194]) and patronizes him because of his age ("Why is it that the few people I've met who aren't against this crappy war are all over 40? What is it about getting old? Can't get close to death soon enough?" [McEwan, 196]). At some points she isn't even attempting to refute her father's claims. It's almost as if Henry is arguing in opposition to Saddam, but Daisy is arguing in opposition to Henry. Daisy's unsubtle condescension can likely be tied all the way back to her childhood, when Daisy began assigning her father readings in a homework-like fashion. Daisy has always seen herself as intellectually and culturally superior to her father. There are examples throughout the book, such as when she advises him to reinspect his copy of "Madame Bovary," warning him, "He was warning the world against people just like you."(McEwan, 67)But now it seems to her that the unrefined mind that she had tried so hard to educate to see things her way is now in opposition to her.

Overall, Daisy's argument is an undeniably flawed one. She is thinking from a much too idealistic perspective. Her reasons for opposition are not for any direct political reason, but rather just because "[she] think[s] terrible things are going to happen," (McEwan, 193) and this is why she disregards any of her father's logic in favor of more personal, individual cases.

Henry, as opposed to Daisy, did not enter this conversation in hopes of taking part in a full-scale confrontation. In fact, he initially seems to take a stance just for the sake of having "one of their set-pieces." (McEwan, 191) When he rebuts her opening speech of well-worn statistics and theories, he is "conscious of taking a position, girding himself for combat." (McEwan, 192) At this point Henry is still euphoric over the return of his daughter, anxious to reclaim some of the normalcy of their past. Nevertheless, Henry could have easily averted this discussion at any point, but by the time the arguing is done, he is into his third glass of alcohol, which leaves him "viciously happy," (McEwan, 197) and loosened up enough to continue to battle with his daughter.

Henry's position, while inconclusive, is simple and effective: while no war is good, a short war would at least provide some sort of closure, and it may even help lessen Saddam's power. It is reasonable and understandable as the lesser of two evils. However, it is also something of a cop-out; Henry's flexibility is easily seen as indecisiveness, and as Daisy points out, it looks like he is hedging his bets. As Henry says himself, "It's true. I honestly think I could be wrong." (McEwan, 193) Fortunately, Henry, unlike Daisy, has backed his argument with legitimate and factual evidence, and uses them readily when he needs to refute one of Daisy's out-of-left-field accusations. For example, when Daisy tells her father that the "bullying greedy fools in the White House don't know what they're doing, they've no idea where they're leading us, and [she] can't believe [he's] on their side," (McEwan, 193) he dispels her belief that he wants troops on the Iraq border, and explains that when the invasion does occur, it will likely succeed and signal the end of Saddam and his reign. (McEwan, 194)

It is easy to see that Henry is much better at agitating Daisy than Daisy is with Henry. As Daisy assails him with insults and cheap shots, he doesn't let them influence his defense. But Henry clearly knows how to anger Daisy, such as when he explains that by being anti-war, her position is "effectively pro-Saddam." (McEwan, 195)

But once Henry finally does fight back in a more personal way, retaliating to Daisy's "over forty" comments, he makes some of his most impressive and true observations. Diminishing the protestors' actions as "singing and dancing in the park," he points a finger at the "iPod generation," telling her that they are just as despised as any others by the "religious Nazis." (McEwan, 197) Also, Henry manages to call Daisy's position into question when he brings up her "fellow writers in Arab jails." (McEwan, 197)

The relationship between Henry and Daisy reminds me of a part of Socrates' defense in Plato's "Apology." In "Apology," Socrates proves that he is the wisest man in the world because when he does not know or understand something, he doesn't claim otherwise, but when other supposedly wise men do not know something, they do not admit it, but rather attempt to explain it (albeit wrongly) anyway. Henry is like Socrates because he acknowledges that he does not have all the answers, and admits that he might not even be making the right choice. But Daisy, like the "wise" men, never admits the inherent flaws in her position, like the fact that nothing will change if no one attemots to stop Saddam. Henry's defense, while still flawed, is an improvement over that of Daisy. While Daisy's is a highly personal, emotional argument disguised as informational, Henry's is unbiased, reasonable, and fully accepting of the fact that neither of the two options are correct.

Personally, I see the appeal of both arguments. Obviously, a world without war would be an almost utopian turn of events, and all countries would be better for it. Unfortunately, there is no chance of such a perfect world, especially with tyrants like Saddam Hussein already in power. Since these horrible conditions already exist in the world, they must be brought to an end, and the only way for us to do that is through attack. Admittedly, much has gone wrong since the Bush administration went to war in March 2003. However, it can't be said that by not going to war, everything would have turned out right. (Kagan) It is unwise for America to be dormant and allow Saddam's

regime to act before going into action. As President Bush put it, "If we wait for threats tofully materialize, we will have waited too long." (Barry, 379) And indeed, now that Saddam has been apprehended by U.S. troops, we longer have to worry that one of the world's most vicious superpowers is causing any more unrest in his country.

Unfortunately, like Henry, I find myself in a bit of a contradiction also. Because although there has been both good and bad to come out of Iraq, time must be taken to consider the actions of other countries. See, for example, Iran. The country next to Iraq is believed to now be within a year of building their own atomic bomb, as a direct result of the war in Iraq. (Cornwell, et al, 4) Equally important is the now-diminished respect of America throughout the world. Countless countries believe that the administration manipulated and "fixed" data so that our troops would be led into war, and that this war is wrong and unjustified. (Lindbergh) These thoughts are just as important as any victories in Iraq, because they could have unforeseen consequences in the future for America. The decision to take forceful action upon another country based upon what we believe is right will always be a tricky choice. But ultimately, our actions are for the good of our country and the country involved, in this case Iraq. Regardless of the actions and judgements of any other countries, we as a country must be willing to follow through with decisions that may not initially prove beneficial, because we must prove, if only to our own citizens, that we have the best interests of the world at heart.