Anderson’s writing is decidedly paratactic- first this happens and then that and then that. But the effective flow of it is a result that despite the fact that that the ideas seem isolated from one another, they do ease into the next. Anderson is the master of the story- he doesn’t tell us what happens, he explains what happens. There is no separation here between action and meaning, we get it all at once.
Anderson constantly resorts to “you see”, which in a way it’s him saying “you see, I’m telling you the story”. We don’t get to decide the mustache is ludicrous, he tells us and then explains why.
The entire piece reads like a montage, Anderson doesn’t spend much time in one scene, he instead lists events and what these mean.
His talky tone and use of low style (“Quite a fuss was made about the matter”) make the writing approachable, even if what he’s saying is quite esoteric:
“He was like a pregnant woman, only that the thing inside was not a baby but a youth.”
Anderson is the master and commander of the story, but he’s not pompous about he’s power. He’s flawed and thinks as he goes along. Here, he corrects himself in the midst of narration:
“No, it wasn’t a youth, it was a woman, young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight.”
It’s like a witness talking to a sketch artist. He has authority and confidence in guiding us through the story, but he’s flawed. When he finally finds the word or idea he’s been looking for, he proceeds with emphatic confidence, like when he first introduces the idea of the grotesque, and goes on to expand on that
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Hills Like White Elephats, highs and lows.
Because he is so invested in realism, the only thing that’s hidden in Hemingway, particularly in “Hills Like White Elephants” are details that the plot itself hides. We don’t know precisely what the couple is discussing because we’re eavesdropping out of context, and Hemingway is not about to be the master and commander of the world of story by telling us “behind her distant eyes and elusive words, the girl imagined the life she dawned inside, dying before the physician puts on his gloves”- she simply takes dinks the beer.
Hemingway, then, shows off how observant he is. In his prose, his words filter what we need from what we don’t, noting the character actions that make up for the intricate sentences that paint character psyches. This story is praised for what it doesn’t say.
Leaving it to the words of the characters, Hemingway took on the god-like task of creating a world so “real” that lends itself for assumptions we would take on conversation in real life. Except that Hemingway is a god that allows his characters to have free will, unlike other writers that trickle their worlds with foreshadowing and telling symbols.
It is widely said that this story is all about the subtext, that it’s merit lays in the trick of having a story without saying it. But the real achievement is in what the story does say, in creating that frame that lends itself to have such subtext. Liberated from the anxiety of deciphering intricate symbolism, or any stylistic devices someone in “high” style would use, we are free to observe knowing things happen because they happen, and that there is no majestic plan behind them.
“ ‘Dos cervezas,’ the man said into the curtain.”
He ordered to beers, nothing tricky about that. Two because one is for him, the other for the girl, not because the two beers represent the twins she’s carrying in her womb, and them gulping them representing the abortion.
We only have to interpret for the sake of understanding what words mean to the characters. It’s relevant that she lies about being fine because it tells us what she’s like, at least with him.
Here’s a conversion to high style:
Hemingway’s:
He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.
High:
The American picked up the suitcases, equal in style, the naked eye would presume they’re identical, matching, belonging to the same set. But he knew what was inside; he knew the stiff blazers in one and the fragile floral dresses in the other, he knew the garments in the suitcases were entirely different and not matching at all, for he had packed them himself while the girl pretended to be asleep.
Back at the bar-room, the others stood patiently for the train like schoolchildren at a bus stop, sipping their drinks with no more malice than children would sip from their juice boxes. His eyes waltzed through them as he drank an Anis, he stood in the same way he’d stand at the playground- alienated, frightened, different.
He walked through the bead curtain and found she was also alone. With her eyes just as scared, she shed of smile of both relieved recognition and frightened anxiety.
That came off as a satire of high style, but the distinction is evident.
Hemingway, then, shows off how observant he is. In his prose, his words filter what we need from what we don’t, noting the character actions that make up for the intricate sentences that paint character psyches. This story is praised for what it doesn’t say.
Leaving it to the words of the characters, Hemingway took on the god-like task of creating a world so “real” that lends itself for assumptions we would take on conversation in real life. Except that Hemingway is a god that allows his characters to have free will, unlike other writers that trickle their worlds with foreshadowing and telling symbols.
It is widely said that this story is all about the subtext, that it’s merit lays in the trick of having a story without saying it. But the real achievement is in what the story does say, in creating that frame that lends itself to have such subtext. Liberated from the anxiety of deciphering intricate symbolism, or any stylistic devices someone in “high” style would use, we are free to observe knowing things happen because they happen, and that there is no majestic plan behind them.
“ ‘Dos cervezas,’ the man said into the curtain.”
He ordered to beers, nothing tricky about that. Two because one is for him, the other for the girl, not because the two beers represent the twins she’s carrying in her womb, and them gulping them representing the abortion.
We only have to interpret for the sake of understanding what words mean to the characters. It’s relevant that she lies about being fine because it tells us what she’s like, at least with him.
Here’s a conversion to high style:
Hemingway’s:
He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.
High:
The American picked up the suitcases, equal in style, the naked eye would presume they’re identical, matching, belonging to the same set. But he knew what was inside; he knew the stiff blazers in one and the fragile floral dresses in the other, he knew the garments in the suitcases were entirely different and not matching at all, for he had packed them himself while the girl pretended to be asleep.
Back at the bar-room, the others stood patiently for the train like schoolchildren at a bus stop, sipping their drinks with no more malice than children would sip from their juice boxes. His eyes waltzed through them as he drank an Anis, he stood in the same way he’d stand at the playground- alienated, frightened, different.
He walked through the bead curtain and found she was also alone. With her eyes just as scared, she shed of smile of both relieved recognition and frightened anxiety.
That came off as a satire of high style, but the distinction is evident.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Sister Mary
What is readily apparent about the play, is how much control Durang has over it. His protagonist is at the core of it, this is her world and these are her rules, but above Sister Mary, Durang is God.
Every line in the play is working towards something, be it bubbling to the end or tapping to a punch line. The presence of a playwright is apparent as the piece abandons every trace of realism and has its lines acting as gears with a clear purpose.
Sometimes, it feels too contrived. Durang, it seems, had a list of issues to address in their catholic context (homosexuality, abortion). Without easing us into this or any subject, Sister Mary jumps from a family anecdote to sharing her views on abortion. The transition is unnatural, but the play never claims to be anything but. If fact, the play takes the liberty of taking the protagonist’s scattered, forced way of thinking and applying it to it’s format.
Again, this is Sister Mary’s world, and she has decided this will function as a Q and A of sorts, a perfect excuse for Mr. Durang to touch on a myriad of subjects without easing in an out of them, or even weaving them in any way. The play allows itself to be as choppy as the character, and gets away with it for the most part.
In many ways it’s like being inside the nun’s head. We get the sense there is no filter between her thoughts and her words, she firmly believes everything she speaks which works in pro of the play’s decidedly disturbing tone. Repetition emphasizes the restrained insanity (restrained at least at the beginning).
Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Our Lord Jesus Christ.
There’s something frightfully robotic about Sister Mary. She is savvy with her delivery, conveying the scary notion that she is scholarly, in her own way. Her repetition sometimes works towards a punch:
“Dear God, please make my mother not be crazy.” God’s answer: No.
“Dear God, Please let me recover from cancer.” God’s answer: No.
“Dear God, please take away this toothache.” God’s answer: All right, but you’re going to be run over by a car.”
It is in these instances of controlled rhythm and masterful delivery that Durang succeeds in entertaining. There are a number of rhythmic paragraphs that tap their way to the punch line, drawing in the laughs. “It is a sin to follow horoscope… Christ was warm, loving, ad not attracted to anybody. Give me a cookie, Thomas.” Durang suspends the tension until the very end, we expect it and are anxious to see what it will be.
In fact, this is the stylistic roller-coaster-like skeleton of the play. We start out slowly, but steady go up and then descend into insanity, as Sister Mary’s dialogue gets more aggressive and the plot intensifies. Durang is at the end of the ride, going “ta-dah!”
These structured segments of dialogue mirror Sister Mary’s systematic way of thinking. Religion is no mystery to her, it’s an easy to grasp (even if tricky) bureaucracy. Prayer to St. Christopher was forwarded to St. Jude at a specific moment in history- it’s like they’re clerks at an office.
Sister Mary knows the exact population that turn s a city into Sodom and a precise range of years one could spend in purgatory. She knows God, almost intimately. She knows he’s not attracted to anyone, that sometimes he gets “grouchy” and that he’ll cut her some slack for killing Gary.
Her ideal students are robotic. Little Thomas is deprived of personality, he simply memorizes and repeats. Diane comes in as a point of comparison.
Her dialogue is heartfelt, human, doubtful. There is pain and skepticism in her sentences, she is perhaps the only “real” person in the play. We get the sense that Durang created her to showcase the results of painfully catholic upbringing- she’s part of his agenda.
Praising him, Frank Rich from the New York Times said that “only a writer of real talent can write an angry play that remains funny and controlled even in its most savage moments.”
But perhaps his anger eludes him sometimes, particularly where he pokes fun without there being a grander reason for it. In the pageant, Mary says she’s still a virgin and points at Joseph saying “he’s not the father.” His list of hell-bound celebrities also exists for the sake of comedy, however one of the main missions of this play is entertainment. But sometimes the jokes feel contrived, like a defense mechanism that mask resentment.
Sister Mary is the star of the show, she succeeds and earns our laughter, we don’t agree with her but we always laugh with her, never really at her. Her antagonists are for the most part bland, I don’t think anyone in the audience wanted this oddly-lovable nun dead. It’s here where Durang is successful- he creates a monster we can’t get enough of, he doesn’t render Catholicism as simply villainous and horrible, he seduces us with it. Ironically, everything in his play happens for a reason, which for the most part is very successful, even if sometimes he twists and bends the plot and words much in the way Sister Mary molds dogma in her favor.
Every line in the play is working towards something, be it bubbling to the end or tapping to a punch line. The presence of a playwright is apparent as the piece abandons every trace of realism and has its lines acting as gears with a clear purpose.
Sometimes, it feels too contrived. Durang, it seems, had a list of issues to address in their catholic context (homosexuality, abortion). Without easing us into this or any subject, Sister Mary jumps from a family anecdote to sharing her views on abortion. The transition is unnatural, but the play never claims to be anything but. If fact, the play takes the liberty of taking the protagonist’s scattered, forced way of thinking and applying it to it’s format.
Again, this is Sister Mary’s world, and she has decided this will function as a Q and A of sorts, a perfect excuse for Mr. Durang to touch on a myriad of subjects without easing in an out of them, or even weaving them in any way. The play allows itself to be as choppy as the character, and gets away with it for the most part.
In many ways it’s like being inside the nun’s head. We get the sense there is no filter between her thoughts and her words, she firmly believes everything she speaks which works in pro of the play’s decidedly disturbing tone. Repetition emphasizes the restrained insanity (restrained at least at the beginning).
Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Our Lord Jesus Christ.
There’s something frightfully robotic about Sister Mary. She is savvy with her delivery, conveying the scary notion that she is scholarly, in her own way. Her repetition sometimes works towards a punch:
“Dear God, please make my mother not be crazy.” God’s answer: No.
“Dear God, Please let me recover from cancer.” God’s answer: No.
“Dear God, please take away this toothache.” God’s answer: All right, but you’re going to be run over by a car.”
It is in these instances of controlled rhythm and masterful delivery that Durang succeeds in entertaining. There are a number of rhythmic paragraphs that tap their way to the punch line, drawing in the laughs. “It is a sin to follow horoscope… Christ was warm, loving, ad not attracted to anybody. Give me a cookie, Thomas.” Durang suspends the tension until the very end, we expect it and are anxious to see what it will be.
In fact, this is the stylistic roller-coaster-like skeleton of the play. We start out slowly, but steady go up and then descend into insanity, as Sister Mary’s dialogue gets more aggressive and the plot intensifies. Durang is at the end of the ride, going “ta-dah!”
These structured segments of dialogue mirror Sister Mary’s systematic way of thinking. Religion is no mystery to her, it’s an easy to grasp (even if tricky) bureaucracy. Prayer to St. Christopher was forwarded to St. Jude at a specific moment in history- it’s like they’re clerks at an office.
Sister Mary knows the exact population that turn s a city into Sodom and a precise range of years one could spend in purgatory. She knows God, almost intimately. She knows he’s not attracted to anyone, that sometimes he gets “grouchy” and that he’ll cut her some slack for killing Gary.
Her ideal students are robotic. Little Thomas is deprived of personality, he simply memorizes and repeats. Diane comes in as a point of comparison.
Her dialogue is heartfelt, human, doubtful. There is pain and skepticism in her sentences, she is perhaps the only “real” person in the play. We get the sense that Durang created her to showcase the results of painfully catholic upbringing- she’s part of his agenda.
Praising him, Frank Rich from the New York Times said that “only a writer of real talent can write an angry play that remains funny and controlled even in its most savage moments.”
But perhaps his anger eludes him sometimes, particularly where he pokes fun without there being a grander reason for it. In the pageant, Mary says she’s still a virgin and points at Joseph saying “he’s not the father.” His list of hell-bound celebrities also exists for the sake of comedy, however one of the main missions of this play is entertainment. But sometimes the jokes feel contrived, like a defense mechanism that mask resentment.
Sister Mary is the star of the show, she succeeds and earns our laughter, we don’t agree with her but we always laugh with her, never really at her. Her antagonists are for the most part bland, I don’t think anyone in the audience wanted this oddly-lovable nun dead. It’s here where Durang is successful- he creates a monster we can’t get enough of, he doesn’t render Catholicism as simply villainous and horrible, he seduces us with it. Ironically, everything in his play happens for a reason, which for the most part is very successful, even if sometimes he twists and bends the plot and words much in the way Sister Mary molds dogma in her favor.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Point of View: Fualkner style.
Faulkner does play with point of view, but he doesn’t treat his characters equally. The shift in point of view is not a mere switching of perspective; it’s not that (sometimes gimmicky) resource were the purpose of switching is solely to “see” through the eyes of different characters. The narration is omniscient, but more so in Minnie’s sections than in those of the men.
When we see the barber, Butch and the other picturesque southern characters, Faulkner’s voice merely sets up the action, they carry the story with their dialogue. We know Butch because we see his sweat stains and hear his idiotic contributions to the conversation. Their interactions are vivid, the narration is then reduced to its most elementary function- telling us what’s happening, who’s getting on the car, who’s standing up, how their faces look. Occasional insight is dropped in sections I and III (“they looked like men of different races”), but for the most part the story is action-driven here.
Minnie doesn’t get the same treatment. In fact, in the second section of the story, it feels like she gets the short end of the stick- Faulkner won’t let her talk, which wouldn’t be so shocking if it weren’t for the importance given to dialogue in the first section.
In fact, we don’t even see her in real time, we only get a back-story that feels no more revealing than what the barber had to say earlier. Minnie is not yet real to us in real time, it’s not her part of the story but rather one about her. It almost feels gossipy: “Sure; I buy it for the old gal. I reckon she’s entitled to a little fun.” The passage reads like a documentary done without Minnie’s consent, one that pokes fun ever so slyly. By doing this, we become visitors of the town, being his readers doesn’t grant us the privilege of seeing her vividly, not yet.
It’s not until Minnie’s second part of the story that character analysis becomes part of the narration. Here, a shift occurs- suddenly, we’re not just hearing about Minnie but instead have earned that access as readers we yearned for earlier. Even if much of her remains in the dark, we at least spy on her as suppose to ask about her. Suddenly, we know her in a much more intimate way than the vivid characters in the other sections (e saw them as if bystanders in the town), a sensation we carry to the last part of the story, when we are shocked as readers at our intrusion in McLendon’s house. We never thought we could “see” him that way.
When we see the barber, Butch and the other picturesque southern characters, Faulkner’s voice merely sets up the action, they carry the story with their dialogue. We know Butch because we see his sweat stains and hear his idiotic contributions to the conversation. Their interactions are vivid, the narration is then reduced to its most elementary function- telling us what’s happening, who’s getting on the car, who’s standing up, how their faces look. Occasional insight is dropped in sections I and III (“they looked like men of different races”), but for the most part the story is action-driven here.
Minnie doesn’t get the same treatment. In fact, in the second section of the story, it feels like she gets the short end of the stick- Faulkner won’t let her talk, which wouldn’t be so shocking if it weren’t for the importance given to dialogue in the first section.
In fact, we don’t even see her in real time, we only get a back-story that feels no more revealing than what the barber had to say earlier. Minnie is not yet real to us in real time, it’s not her part of the story but rather one about her. It almost feels gossipy: “Sure; I buy it for the old gal. I reckon she’s entitled to a little fun.” The passage reads like a documentary done without Minnie’s consent, one that pokes fun ever so slyly. By doing this, we become visitors of the town, being his readers doesn’t grant us the privilege of seeing her vividly, not yet.
It’s not until Minnie’s second part of the story that character analysis becomes part of the narration. Here, a shift occurs- suddenly, we’re not just hearing about Minnie but instead have earned that access as readers we yearned for earlier. Even if much of her remains in the dark, we at least spy on her as suppose to ask about her. Suddenly, we know her in a much more intimate way than the vivid characters in the other sections (e saw them as if bystanders in the town), a sensation we carry to the last part of the story, when we are shocked as readers at our intrusion in McLendon’s house. We never thought we could “see” him that way.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Stranger in the Village
Baldwin knows he can’t convey his message through generalizations, not right from the start. He’s also aware that getting too personal would only result in a bitter rant exclusively about his feeling- one that would fail to get any message across aside from “I’m angry.”
So, instead, he opts for combining them by means of a personal anecdote that makes him reflect on the larger picture. He approaches his personal experience with a scholarly point of view, or at least frames his anxieties with it. The essay’s start is almost anthropological. It is Baldwin that studies these villagers- they are curious to him, almost primitive. One can easily picture a sophisticated urbanite amongst the rural folk. “In the village there is no movie house, no bank, no library, no theater…”
These villagers don’t know much about anything. He makes it appoint to assert this difference when mentioning his typewriter is the only one there; some villagers had never even seen one before. This removed, studious eyes he sees these people with, along with the annoyances that pepper his descriptions (“closed in the winter and used for God knows what”) is then undermined by his experience n the town. He becomes the curiosity, suddenly he is bellow them.
When this happens, Baldwin’s tone changes from observant to self-aware, and yes, bitter. His own experience, the way he became a curiosity, an inferior curiosity, serves to illustrate the point he’s making beyond his own anecdote- for some reason, he white man automatically, unquestionably superior in all scenarios. The village, then, is truly a microcosm for the way things work in the world.
“I know that no individual can be taken to task for what history is doing, or has done.”
Baldwin remains presents this story, as a tangible example of his thesis and remains true scholar despite it’s a source of anger in him.
He admits to the outrage, but is decidedly reasonable through the entirety of the essay. He is patient in his actions and patience in his words. He stops to realize he can’t outright hate these people, which gives him license to explore their, and consequently the world’s ugliness.
So, instead, he opts for combining them by means of a personal anecdote that makes him reflect on the larger picture. He approaches his personal experience with a scholarly point of view, or at least frames his anxieties with it. The essay’s start is almost anthropological. It is Baldwin that studies these villagers- they are curious to him, almost primitive. One can easily picture a sophisticated urbanite amongst the rural folk. “In the village there is no movie house, no bank, no library, no theater…”
These villagers don’t know much about anything. He makes it appoint to assert this difference when mentioning his typewriter is the only one there; some villagers had never even seen one before. This removed, studious eyes he sees these people with, along with the annoyances that pepper his descriptions (“closed in the winter and used for God knows what”) is then undermined by his experience n the town. He becomes the curiosity, suddenly he is bellow them.
When this happens, Baldwin’s tone changes from observant to self-aware, and yes, bitter. His own experience, the way he became a curiosity, an inferior curiosity, serves to illustrate the point he’s making beyond his own anecdote- for some reason, he white man automatically, unquestionably superior in all scenarios. The village, then, is truly a microcosm for the way things work in the world.
“I know that no individual can be taken to task for what history is doing, or has done.”
Baldwin remains presents this story, as a tangible example of his thesis and remains true scholar despite it’s a source of anger in him.
He admits to the outrage, but is decidedly reasonable through the entirety of the essay. He is patient in his actions and patience in his words. He stops to realize he can’t outright hate these people, which gives him license to explore their, and consequently the world’s ugliness.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
"You know what I'm saying, right?"
It takes a while for Goodbye to All of That to warm up into a relatable, compelling piece (despite the fact it tries from the very beginning.) Relating seems to be a main anxiety in the piece, were the author uses a warm, conversational tone that almost seems to ask “you get what I’m saying, right?”
“…I mean that I was in love with the city, the way you love the first person who ever touches you…”
Didion has the I reaching for the You every step of the way, in a tone that is both confessional and conversational where her insights are also supposed to be our own, or at the very least understood by the reader. The reader weighs a whole lot in these paragraphs, It is the essays mission to get to its audience, reaching sympathy or a connection of some sort.
This persuasive quality drives most of the piece. Didion presents an idea about her, explains herself and concludes in a point that is hopefully universal. It’s formula, clean cut and efficient, is very much like those of essays in standardized reading comprehension tests, which is why it takes a while to warm up to its particularity.
“Someone that lives with a plane schedule in the drawer lives on a slightly different calendar. Christmas, for example, was a difficult season.”
Didion wants to explain a topic she deems complicated as opposed to complicate the mundane.
In the spirit of being universal, she aptly moves from “I” to an “us”. She started alone in New York and in the essay, but through a recognizable “transition sentences” she moves from describing her experiences to being part of a tribe- From I was alone to we were outcasts; perhaps with the intent of having us join at the end of our reading.
There is a distinct moment in the essay when the approach changes. Before the first break, the diction had been passive approachable. She spoke about her life but only by means of illustrating a point. After the break, it truly gets personal. It’s almost as if she’s done speaking, walks away and then comes back to really tell us about herself.
“That is what it was all about, wasn’t it? Promises?” For the first time, she’s not entirely sure. Her use of rhetorical questions here is different than earlier, where she wrote:
“was anyone ever so young? I am here to tell you someone was.” She was explaining something here, were as latter she’s thinking out loud.
Imagery is suddenly use. Now, she’s not going point-proof (or point, acknowledgement of counter point, proof) but rather allowing for a story to flow, particularly in the paragraph about viewing the sunrise.
“…I mean that I was in love with the city, the way you love the first person who ever touches you…”
Didion has the I reaching for the You every step of the way, in a tone that is both confessional and conversational where her insights are also supposed to be our own, or at the very least understood by the reader. The reader weighs a whole lot in these paragraphs, It is the essays mission to get to its audience, reaching sympathy or a connection of some sort.
This persuasive quality drives most of the piece. Didion presents an idea about her, explains herself and concludes in a point that is hopefully universal. It’s formula, clean cut and efficient, is very much like those of essays in standardized reading comprehension tests, which is why it takes a while to warm up to its particularity.
“Someone that lives with a plane schedule in the drawer lives on a slightly different calendar. Christmas, for example, was a difficult season.”
Didion wants to explain a topic she deems complicated as opposed to complicate the mundane.
In the spirit of being universal, she aptly moves from “I” to an “us”. She started alone in New York and in the essay, but through a recognizable “transition sentences” she moves from describing her experiences to being part of a tribe- From I was alone to we were outcasts; perhaps with the intent of having us join at the end of our reading.
There is a distinct moment in the essay when the approach changes. Before the first break, the diction had been passive approachable. She spoke about her life but only by means of illustrating a point. After the break, it truly gets personal. It’s almost as if she’s done speaking, walks away and then comes back to really tell us about herself.
“That is what it was all about, wasn’t it? Promises?” For the first time, she’s not entirely sure. Her use of rhetorical questions here is different than earlier, where she wrote:
“was anyone ever so young? I am here to tell you someone was.” She was explaining something here, were as latter she’s thinking out loud.
Imagery is suddenly use. Now, she’s not going point-proof (or point, acknowledgement of counter point, proof) but rather allowing for a story to flow, particularly in the paragraph about viewing the sunrise.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Pretty dresses and a hint of blood.
Plath’s chief concern seems to be conveying this character at the core of her writing. From the moment she decides to write in the first person, she puts us in the head of this girl, and we as readers get to see the world through her eyes. It is through her descriptions of the world, through the things she takes note on and those she disregards that we understand who she is. Unlike Nabokov’s first person narrative, this character does not engulf herself with her thoughts, she does not dwell page after page on what she thinks abut what she’s thinking, in fact, it tends to be the oppose.
This character seems to avoid painful self-awareness and instead lays her eyes on images.
The description of such images, and their subjects add to the childlike quality of the character. Her skirt is like a lampshade, her sleeves like floppy angel wings. All girly, decidedly innocent metaphors to describe her clothes. She’s astute in her descriptions. Plath wants to convey a certain naiveté without ever mistaking it for silliness, for even if she describes cars as being “glove gray” she can still think of herself “negotiating” her way through an aisle.
We see her avoiding painful thoughts when she hastily mentions people looking at her, before she goes on to wonder why on earth people care about the blood in her face. Plath eases the disturbing into the innocence with an ease that hints the character wishes to undermined it, as if saying “I have blood in my face, what’s the big deal?”
The way she drops the uneasy in between the playful description lets us know of the character bias. There are things she wont dwell on, thus we won’t see them. Instead, look at the trees outside the window.
Her innocence is emphasized over and over again, without getting tiresome, for it’s a well-crafted tone that guides us through the writing.
“The motherly breaths of the suburbs enfolded me.” This character is young in more ways than one.
“It smelt of lawn sprinklers and station wagons and tennis rackets and dogs and babies.” The eagerness of the sentence via the repetition of “and”, plus the elements of the list (particularly the placement of dogs and babies in the end) serve to emphasize who this character is.
Also, it continues to hammer the way she thinks, which she would describe as “hotchpotch”, “baring no relation to another.” Plath describes one thing while actually referring to another in that first paragraph. The jumpy, scattering she mentions in that first paragraph sets the tone for the character’s stream of consciousness, when she jumps from not wanting her mother to see her pain to how clean and slippery the upholstery is.
This character seems to avoid painful self-awareness and instead lays her eyes on images.
The description of such images, and their subjects add to the childlike quality of the character. Her skirt is like a lampshade, her sleeves like floppy angel wings. All girly, decidedly innocent metaphors to describe her clothes. She’s astute in her descriptions. Plath wants to convey a certain naiveté without ever mistaking it for silliness, for even if she describes cars as being “glove gray” she can still think of herself “negotiating” her way through an aisle.
We see her avoiding painful thoughts when she hastily mentions people looking at her, before she goes on to wonder why on earth people care about the blood in her face. Plath eases the disturbing into the innocence with an ease that hints the character wishes to undermined it, as if saying “I have blood in my face, what’s the big deal?”
The way she drops the uneasy in between the playful description lets us know of the character bias. There are things she wont dwell on, thus we won’t see them. Instead, look at the trees outside the window.
Her innocence is emphasized over and over again, without getting tiresome, for it’s a well-crafted tone that guides us through the writing.
“The motherly breaths of the suburbs enfolded me.” This character is young in more ways than one.
“It smelt of lawn sprinklers and station wagons and tennis rackets and dogs and babies.” The eagerness of the sentence via the repetition of “and”, plus the elements of the list (particularly the placement of dogs and babies in the end) serve to emphasize who this character is.
Also, it continues to hammer the way she thinks, which she would describe as “hotchpotch”, “baring no relation to another.” Plath describes one thing while actually referring to another in that first paragraph. The jumpy, scattering she mentions in that first paragraph sets the tone for the character’s stream of consciousness, when she jumps from not wanting her mother to see her pain to how clean and slippery the upholstery is.
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