I claim them all.

I have to admit that after reading two of Flannery O’Connor’s short stories, I wasn’t exactly brimming with anticipation at the idea of getting through one of her full length novels–I had become disenchanted with her blatant religious themes that could have been so much more deeper had we been given the freedom to analyze her works from a non-religious standpoint.

That said, I had finished the entire novel by Thursday.

Wise Blood felt like such a breath of fresh air: relatively quick-moving, laced with humorous interactions involving some of the oddest yet believable characters imaginable, and of course, the delightful surprise that I was wrong in my initial presumptions. You win this time, O’Connor.

I’m hesitant to say too much about my overall experience with the book simply because I don’t wish to give any unwanted information away to my classmates (not like anybody reads anybody else’s blog anymore), so I’ll save any deep discussion for class time. After all, isn’t the first blog post on a novel expected to be more observatory than thematically rich?

I will say that O’Connor’s characters somewhat remind me of Walker’s characters in The Moviegoer, the exception being that they are interesting. Enoch and Hazel succumb to their compulsions much like Binx and Kate, although Hazel may have an impulse to jump on a car and preach blasphemy while Binx may simply feel inclined to sleep on the floor for part of the night. O’Connor seems to take that peculiar aspect of her characters and magnify it to the point that it propels action and plot forward. After all, at times Enoch commits crimes simply based on a “feeling”.

Just another ordinary scene in "Wise Blood"

I assumed that this would be just another blog covering ideas and remarks on certain gems within The Moviegoer. Miscalculating as I can occasionally tend to be, I find that this blog is now about my interpretation of overall meaning. Unfortunately, I’m sure I missed a meaty little conversation in the AP Lit classroom as I sat in a squeaky  hallway desk getting through the last 30 or so pages. Regardless, I felt that I’d developed a sense of meaning by around the end of Part II, so I suppose I don’t feel as blind as I could be when it comes to analysis of Percy’s work.

Obviously, I could name the screaming issue of “the search”, but that’s almost too easy. No doubt Percy meant for “the search” to play a large role in theme and meaning, as shown by his outlining of it through repetition and blatant overuse. Ironically, there is never a really concrete definition of “the search”, despite it’s celebratory status in the novel. Instead, Percy refers to what I can only assume as loose synonyms to mold “the search” into some scarcely tangible idea: “the mystery” and “the wonder”. The search, to me, doesn’t seem as much like reaching a distinct endpoint as not allowing oneself to fall into a rigid and predestined path of routine. Even the idea of being content that we discussed in class doesn’t necessarily work for me–I would prefer to call it a state of numb, neophobic, close-minded, consistence.

I carried with me a very cynical outlook while reading this novel, yet I do find myself changed in some ways–how could there be no overall meaning if I feel different on a very raw and sensory level after reading 20 or so pages at a time? Percy speaks to me and tells me to go out and experience the new that is hidden in a thick shroud of everydayness–walk to school one day just to know what happens in all of that dead, nonexistent space between my home and school; sleep on the floor when things are getting just a bit too comfortable.

Of course, there are much more complex themes woven together, but I won’t even attempt to cover them in a modest blog post. Give me 30 pages of paper and 48 hours, and I may be able to wrap my thoughts around Percy’s work. Until then, I am stuck giving a sensory interpretation of Percy’s overall meaning, because it resounded most strongly with me on that level.

P.S. The quote is from pg. 180–one of my favorite encounters.

And THIS is why I love Robert Frost.

Well, it’s certainly been an eventful weekend, and I have managed to make it to Part Three of “The Moviegoer” through deliberate reading on crowded airplanes and in bumpy taxis–it certainly is hard to believe that I’m already more than halfway done with the book. I’ve read so much, and yet nothing has happened…

I like to give every novel I read a chance, regardless of whether I choose it or it is chosen for me, initially having an open mind and void of any preconceived notions. Despite my diligent attempts to appreciate “The Moviegoer”, however, I simply cannot keep myself from glancing up at a clock and counting the minutes as I flip through page after page. It’s just boring. Yes, I catch the philosophical questions raised (at least some of them) and am aware of the beautifully complex characters (Kate in particular), but I guess I can’t get through the fact that this whole novel is much ado about nothing…again. I can appreciate a slow-moving, even stagnant novel every now and then if it compensates with rich dialogue that makes me view my surroundings differently after setting it down, but I can only take so many of these in a short time span. “Emma”, “Mrs. Dalloway”, and “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead” have left me thirsty for another epic story such as “Moby Dick”. Needless to say, “The Moviegoer” does nothing to satisfy these cravings.

Yes, I understand that there is leisure-reading, and then there is literature. There is entertainment and then there is art. Excellent literature does not need to keep me at the edge of my seat, and a fun read doesn’t have to contain weighty thematic statements, but there should be some middle ground between the two in which I can simultaneously stay glued for periods at a time and struggle with difficult and complex ideas. I must preach: great literature needs not be boring! There are plenty of novels out there that paint beautiful and creative scenarios while leaving me reflective into the late hours of the night: “Catch-22″, “Brave New World”, and “Atlas Shrugged” are all perfect examples of this.

I have respect for Walker, and I will certainly continue to absorb as much from this work as possible (even if it takes a bit more effort than I normally would want to exert), because I know that we are being made to read it for a reason. I have caught on to some lovely ideas planted within the novel, and would have discussed them in this blog had I not felt so inclined to complain instead. The class is called AP Literature rather than AP Literature Criticism for a reason, so I will continue to gather my thoughts and hopefully have something fruitful and beneficial to share in my next blog post/paper.

Before I talk about something new, I just wanted to play a bit off of my previous blog and point out a new and rather humorous stage direction: Ok, I absolutely cannot find the context because I forgot to bring my book to school today, but the stage directions describe an embrace as “somewhat Oedipal”, which gives a reader of this work just another small “advantage” of entertainment over a viewer.

Also, when Guil says, “Give us this day our daily round…” on pg.93, the stage directions describe it as “coda”, or “conclusion”. Maybe I was drawn to this simply because the word is commonly used in sheet music, but I have noticed that these “Give us this day our daily ____ ” statements tend to conclude topics although they seemingly offer no rationale or explanation. Speaking of this phrase, I’d initially taken interest in it’s play off of the “Our Father” and have been pleasantly surprised to notice its appearance about 4 or 5 times so far. I like how the word after “daily” always rhymes with the last word of the previous sentence, which maybe offers some sort of poetic conclusion in that it is aesthetically pleasing rather than a rational conclusion contained in the meaning of the words.

Stoppard’s style is unlike anything I’ve previously read, and I’ve got to say…I really love this book.

A large topic that we discussed in class regarding Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead was the idea that Stoppard created the work expecting it to be performed as well as read. The genre of this piece of literature is neither play nor novel, but somewhere in that grey area of writing. Although I’m not sure what Stoppard’s motivation was in doing this (I intend to speculate in the future), it is interesting to point out a couple of circumstances in which stage direction becomes almost a sense of necessary narration, adding information to situations that would go unknown had this work simply been performed. In fact, the “narration” is so thoroughly developed that it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to consider it an actual character in the work.

Of course, there is the famous case of the stage directions describing a bit of Ros’ dialogue as “lugubrious”, which is much more eloquent than simply saying “mournfully, or sadly”. I first interpreted this as a mild bit of humor inserted by Stoppard, attempting to keep our attention and keep us alert to the ostensibly unimportant stage directions, but I later found that he uses stage directions to offer further insight into situations. Allow me to explain; just a page later, Guil calls Ros saying “Rosencrantz” and Ros replies. After a small pause, Guil calls “Guildenstern” and Ros again answers “What?”. Although this would normally appear like a situation that simply emphasizes Ros’ foolishness (he has sort of developed that trait as a character), the stage directions to Ros’ second reply “What?”, say “(irritated by the repetition)“. Rather than just saying “irritated”, the stage directions actually delve into Ros’ perceptions and thought process, highlighting Ros’ inability to distinguish between his identity and that of Guil’s, and thus Stoppard hints again at that massive existential question: Who are we?

I finished reading The Hours last Wednesday, so unfortunately things are not as fresh in my head, but I was left with a few powerful impressions. Firstly, I cannot believe that I never made the connection between Richie and Richard, especially after taking time to wonder how Cunningham would connect his characters by the end. After knowing this important detail, I enjoyed going back in the novel and comparing Richie and Richard’s basic traits and how they do sort of reflect each other. Richie was this sensitive, analytical child who dreaded disappointing his mother in the least bit and seemed to appreciate the world in a very mature way at such a young age. I can see somebody like that growing up to be a profound and detailed writer, paying excruciating attention to detail (I think it mentions that in Richard’s novel, he has a woman decide whether or not to buy lipstick over the course of 50 pages). Aside from the whole shock of realizing that Richard and Richie were one and the same, I thought it very appropriate that Laura was able to meet this real-life Mrs. Dalloway, a figure that had so inspired her during her period of dark depression. It is interesting to note, however, a slight role-reversal: Laura, this presently very old woman, is now the seemingly more confident figure. I’m not sure if “confident” would be the right word, but she seems more comfortable with herself and more “at peace” than Clarissa, although they both agree that they wish they had done better in the past. She also has an aura of fame and reverence about her, seeing as she was the subject of Richard’s obsession in his writings. Maybe even the fact that she is much older now gives her a sense of wisdom and experience. It is hard to tell what Laura did exactly between the “Mrs. Brown” and “Mrs. Dalloway” time periods, although it appears that she eventually attempted suicide and then escaped the constrictions of her family by “fleeing”. It mentions that her ex-husband died of liver cancer, which leads me to believe that these events caused him to begin heavily drinking. On top of this, both of Laura’s kids have now died. I can pretty much conclude that her life has sucked, but I think she feels a sense of freedom that she would not have had if she’d stayed chained to her family.

On another note, isn’t it weird that Laura’s daughter was unborn in the Mrs. Brown chapters and already dead in the Mrs. Dalloway chapters? What unfortunate timing.

Although there are the blatant and then more subtle parallelisms between Clarissa’s chapters in The Hours and Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway that we discussed in class such as the noise heard while in the flower shop, the man watching Clarissa, etc., I have become more focused on what each character in The Hours represents. Cunningham does a good job in drawing similarities between characters as well as creating ironic contrasts, which is nice because it adds an element of complexity to his created characters rather than simply mimicking Woolf’s. For example, Richard seems to represent both the identities of Peter and Septimus due to his previous romantic encounter with Clarissa and his pending sanity. I look forward to drawing more comparisons between characters in Mrs. Dalloway chapters and perhaps even Mrs. Brown chapters as I continue reading, because I’m curious to see what traits certain characters share between both novels as well as creative touches Cunningham has added to his own characters.

One another note, it is interesting to view the thought processes of Virginia Woolf (in The Hours)–not necessarily her thoughts about writing her newest novel, but her emotional issues. Cunningham describes her private identity as somewhat irritable and almost spiteful towards certain characters, which is nice because it enforces a sense of genuineness in Virginia’s character, yet it is also shocking because normally as a reader I tend to view authors as these perfect, almost immortal figures. Cunningham really did his research, because apparently Woolf had the reputation of being rather impolite and growing impatient quickly–I was talking to Mr. Henry about Virginia Woolf (I have no idea how the subject came up), and he mentioned that a jazz piece has actually been composed called “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?”.

The quote that really caught my attention: “Ralph grins at her with a relief so visible she has an urge to slap him”

Ok, although Mrs.Dalloway is a more coherent stream-of-consciousness novel than Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying, I find myself drifting off much more easily when reading it (as in being unable to read too much in one sitting). Perhaps this is because the language is slightly reminiscent of Emma, or because some sentences seem to go on forever and thoughts tend to occasionally branch off into irrelevant observations or stories. Whatever the reason may be, I might read a paragraph and realize that I absorbed absolutely none of the information. I get that Woolf is trying to emulate thought processes through her syntax, but sometimes there are so many analogies and observations that I simply am not sure what in the world is going on at the present time. Oh well–I didn’t take AP Lit to complain about my personal issues with each novel, so I will elaborate on what I have found most interesting in Mrs. Dalloway so far.

Although initially my attention was drawn to the way Woolf transitioned from one character to another, particularly when the “royal car” was driving through the streets and when the airplane attempted to spell something in the sky. I enjoyed getting a taste of how some of the less important characters think and glimpsing into some of their personal problems (how nosy of me). Once Peter arrived at Clarissa’s house, however, I quickly became enthralled with another aspect of the novel–watching this love/hate relationship between the two that is just absurd. Both Peter and Clarissa express mixed feelings towards each other, over-analyzing the other’s every action and constantly judging. The encounter at Clarissa’s place went something like this: Peter comes in, they both are extremely happy to see each other, then a sort of shame and awkwardness sets in, then Peter cries and Clarissa attempts to comfort him, then Elizabeth comes in and Peter is disgusted at how Clarissa addresses the arrival of her daughter, then he leaves. Quite honestly, I’m not sure if this is what actually happened because my mind was all over the place, but if I am right then this is what physically happened. On top of the actual interaction, Woolf describes their thoughts, mainly Peter’s, as these events unfold, and it really shines light on the similarities between Peter and Clarissa in that they still have these feelings towards each other yet they seem to drive each other crazy.

These two characters remind me way too much of Emma and Mr. Knightley.

I can’t say that Faulkner has truly captivated my interest yet, but even at page 34 I am curious to see how this story is going to unfold. The stylistic approach that Faulkner takes does not necessarily distract me as much as it challenges me to remember who is narrating and when–the whole stream of consciousness is not particularly hard to get through, and I actually kind of enjoy the repetitive moments such as when Kate remarks that a rich woman should have bought Cora’s cakes or Mr. Tull predicts rain in the near future. The stream of consciousness ties the character’s many observations in with their unique personalities and attitudes, developing the characters even before a concrete plot is pointed out. Anyway, the syntax is much easier to understand than any work by Jane Austen or Shakespeare, so I have no complaints in that regard. My only concern at this point is that as a reader on page 34, my mind is toiling, desperately searching for connections between this large group of characters thrust upon me. Although it is not too difficult to keep the narrators straight if you concentrate, it does get rather tiring to try and fit pieces of a puzzle together before all of the pieces are given to you. If I am not making any sense right now, basically I’m trying to say that a plot has not really presented itself fully and as a reader I feel desperate and unsettled because usually I am this omniscient bystander, whereas in this novel I can only soak up whatever information is given to me from short little excerpts from characters. Faulkner is testing my patience, but that may not be a bad thing…

I love reading Robert Frost’s poetry, specifically the poems centered around death, simply because it is incredible to see how he ties the genuine imperfections of human nature into these works, creating a basis for self-reflection and deeper understanding. Big words aside, he does a good job of portraying a complicated subject (death) to his audience through writing relatively easy-to-understand poems and then lures the reader in a bit further to analyze the true power of his subtle messages latent within the text. Home Burial is a particularly intense poem set around a married couple whose relationship is falling to shambles due to the death of their baby. Frost maintains his countryside, farmer-like, natural mood in the background of the somber and almost awkward interaction between the couple; for example, he references stairs, the banister, the window, and of course the small graveyard outside (which, to me, seems to express a very subtle “countryside mood”, seeing as he refrains from using many other nouns to describe the setting).

In presenting us with a quarreling couple, Frost shows the different reactions they feel towards death (and dealing with death), yet he seems to take side with Amy, the wife, who is ashamed of and appalled at her husband who had simply dug a hole and practically disposed of the dead baby in the earth. Only a dirt mound showed sign of any event having taken place beneath the soil. Frost explores these conflicting personalities and emotions to not simply emphasize death, but to bring to light the reactions of the living towards the dead. He ties the supernatural (references of fear towards ghosts and unrest for the dead) and the natural through connecting these themes of death with the very real emotions of the living.