Kevin McGrath's X084 Intro to Lit Sec 002

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.

To start, I must say that this reading assignment was by far the easiest and most enjoyable to get through. First of all, the short number of pages covered in Nella Larsen's "The Wrong Man", "Freedom", and "Sanctuary" was a relief to see, much less daunting than the 70-to-80 page excerpts that were required for previous blog entries. However, even the smallest number of pages can be taxing if the content is uninvolving and uneventful (see, for example, the first and much of the second chapter of "A Farewell to Arms"). Fortunately, since we are dealing with short stories, there is less room for trivial details, leaving only the basic story (something that would have helped "Saturday"). And the basic stories in these three short stories were interesting enough to keep my attention.
The first of the three, "The Wrong Man," begins less than promisingly, appearing to just be a femme-centric story about a restless, dissatisfied woman. I immediately assumed that this story would be high on inner monologue and low on actual occurrences. But much to my surprise, Larsen takes a different path, putting the characters and events of Myra's party into a suspense story that slowly unravels itself as the story deepens. Larsen just lets us know about the seemingly random things that are so troubling to Julia Romley – the “Indian chief” standing with Myra, his history with Julia’s husband, etc. – and doesn’t reveal their seedy connection until the closing scene.
“Freedom” is an initially humorous story that soon evolves into a dark and more complex character study that reminded me of “The Raven” by Edgar Allen Poe. At first, I felt that our narrator’s funny way of constantly second-guessing himself and overthinking to be reminiscent of the type of thought process that I often go through, with even the most miniscule of occurrences. Seeing his shift through numerous emotions even at brief hypothetical thoughts instantly felt realistic and believable. However, I didn’t relate to the second half of the story, where the narrator sinks into his own paranoia and guilt, or his sad eventual suicide.
“Sanctuary” is the most socially “important” of Larsen’s three short stories. It deals with several of the usual hard news topics: race, crime, the law. Though at first I had trouble grasping the intended meaning of the character’s butchered use of the English language (“a-gwine,” “hyah”), it eventually became easier, even if I had to move through this story more slowly than the other two. But ultimately, despite an intriguing buildup, I was disappointed by Annie Poole’s final action, letting Jim Hammer go free after killing her son just because he isn’t white. Overall, I appreciated Larsen’s slow-building, suspenseful stories, and hope that the same will be seen when we read “The Passing.”