The Blogg

I want to appreciate stream of consciousness writing, but I cannot find any artistic merit in it. Thankfully, John Dos Passos restricts that style to certain short sections of The 42nd Parallel, 27 mini-chapters intended to give a broader perspective than those of the expository characters. Perhaps for other readers it serves that purpose. The narrative is also interspersed with 19 “newsreels”, in which he cuts short phrases from the headlines of various contemporary news stories. Unfortunately, for a reader far removed from the time in which these events took place there is rarely enough detail to have more than guess at what is actually happening. I do enjoy the stories of Mac, Janey, J.Ward, Eleanor, and Charley, but even here Dos Passos manages to annoy by being cute with language, inventing his own compound words with no discernible rhyme or reason for their selection. Each of the narratives are interesting in their own right, but while a few of the main characters do have chance encounters there is no overarching plot holding them together. This is almost more like a collection of short stories written to together paint a picture of American life at the beginning of the 20th century than a traditional novel. I cannot say that this is among my favorite reads, but it has shown enough to convince me to give 1919 a try.

It is surprisingly enjoyable to read a novel about places you have been (Reading, Harrisburg, Allentown, Philadelphia), events you have attended (the annual Lehigh-Lafayette football game), and in general the culture in which you have lived. Appointment in Samarra is a bit like The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter in that the characters and relationships matter much more than the plot, even though three major events within 48 hours propel the book. If this were solely a book about Julian’s self destruction, there would be no need for chapters told from the perspective of Al Grecco, Lute Fliegler, and so forth. Yet these are important to the narrative, for the insights they give us into the variety of lives lived in Gibbsville and the collective societal climate. O’Hara seems to have a gift for the way people think and talk about each other in private. This was not one of the best novels that I have read recently, but it was one of the most enjoyable. I must admit that I care for the Maugham quote from which the novel takes its name more than the book itself.

It was not my specific intention to read two major discussions of African-American life and Communism in the 1930s, but it has been a happy coincidence. Native Son is much more gripping than all but the first chapter of Invisible Man, with a sense of pacing and action befitting a mass-market thriller. Although I like to think that I have much more in common with the intellectual, naive Invisible Man, Wright’s prose makes me identify much more closely with the rage-filled Native Son. My only complaint against Wright is that he needs to learn to “show, don’t tell”. The first part of the book is filled with introspection about the protagonist’s thought processes that could be inferred from a more expository approach, and the last section contains an overly long summation a la “This Is John Galt Speaking” (although much better written).

Ellison hits you hard from the beginning, with one of the most cruel and inhumane scenes you will probably ever read about in the first chapter and a story of incest (with strong implication of another case) in the second. From there the book slows down substantially until the end, but is never boring. Throughout it illustrates both overt racism and the more interesting seemingly benign form that actually drives much of the narrator’s life. It would be a mistake, however, to think that the message of the novel is solely about race relations; Ellison makes it clear that most people are “invisible” to the majority of people who look at them, and that many are willfully blind as well.

I find the title and main theme of the book to be a bit of a misnomer. The narrator calls himself “invisible” as he comes to realize that everyone sees him as a token black man, a useful tool, and so forth rather than seeing the man himself with all of his complexities. It seems more that something blocks their view of him than that people see past him to the background, but this does not diminish the power of the narrative. I would not list Invisible Man among my favorites, but it was most certainly worth the read.

I had great expectations for my first Vonnegut novel. I have heard so much praise for him as an author who is both critically acclaimed and enjoyed by the average reader, but I found this book mostly puzzling. I expected to read about Dresden, and I did for 20 pages or so. I was not expecting optometry, Tralfamadore, or being unstuck in time. I can only suppose that this is all supposed to demonstrate how the war experience addled Billy’s mind, but this makes little sense as he is not the narrator. The name “Billy Pilgrim” screams allegorical Everyman to me, but I do not see how his story is the same as mine, or even that of the typical infantryman. I do like the way Vonnegut tells a story so plainly and I get the theme that Billy and other pawns in the war have no free will, but I must say that I found Catch-22 a much more humorous and meaningful look at the absurdity of the second World War. So it goes.

First and foremost, The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter is a chronicle of persons. There are certainly events, some quite shocking in their significance, but they are important only in what they reveal about the characters and their relationships and are too episodic to form a significant plot. This sounds like it would be a great challenge, but I never had any difficulty finding a desire to continue onward.

The most important features of each character could probably be summed up in a few sentences, but they are far from one-dimensional. Rather, this may have the deepest, most mysterious cast of characters of anything I have ever read. McCullers tells us a great deal about Singer, Mick, and the like, but nearly every passage creates more questions than answers. I tend to think that their pasts and personalities are intentionally left vague so that we will read into them what we wish to see, just as the other central characters do to Singer in the book.

There is no indication of any physical attraction between them, but John Singer’s love for his friend Antonapoulos is surely romantic in nature. I can only hope that I love my wife so passionately. Even to the end I could not tell whether Biff Brannon wishes Mick were his daughter or lover; my best guess is both. There are further questions about Biff’s femininity, the rigor with which he keeps useless records, the reckless generosity he shows toward patrons of his cafe, and other unusual aspects of his personality. Blount raves about the evils of capitalism, yet his job seems to be one of few places where he can keep himself together. The righteous anger, shame, and disappointment that burn in Doctor Copeland are clear, but not the darkness that sometimes clouds his mind or how he intends to fulfill his one true purpose. Autobiographical Mick may be the saddest character of all, even if she is the only one with a shred of hope at the end.

Beyond the characters themselves, the book is about their relationships, chiefly each with Singer. Each feels that he can talk to Singer (who is a deaf/mute) about anything, and that Singer understands and agrees with them completely. From Singer’s point of view we find that he rarely feels that he knows anything about what they discuss, and the rare responses that he gives are always very simple. The other characters’ relationships with Singer are in a sense illusory, although he appreciates their company. How often do we hear that someone simply wants someone to listen to them? It appears McCullers believes this applies much more broadly to all of our relationships.

In spite of the theme of crushing loneliness and despair, I found reading this novel to be a joy. McCullers seems to have understood humanity quite deeply even at this young age, and she expresses herself quite aptly as long as you do not expect to have everything handed to you. If you want something to speak to your soul and make you wonder, I recommend it.

In the tragedies that I studied as a high school student the unfortunate protagonist was always a very important person such as a king or noble. Clyde Griffiths is no such thing, but I believe I see why this makes sense. In the United States our heroes are not statesmen or warriors, but the mythical “self-made” men who are born into poverty but rise financially and socially by their own skills, effort, and luck. Clyde is precisely this, and thus the perfect American tragic hero.

But what is his fatal flaw? It would be easy to blame his downfall on lust, for his every misstep is caused by seeking after one woman or another. I do not think, however, that this is what Dreiser has in mind. Rather, he does little to convince that this is not a burden of all mankind. Griffiths’s specific flaw, in my opinion, is that same financial and social ambition that makes him an American hero. It was his desperation for social advantage that led him to the Green-Davidson, his desire to fit in with his co-workers that introduced him to alcohol and sex, and his ambition that caused him to seek out Hortense rather than someone more obtainable. He traveled to Lycurgus with an expectation that his lot in life could improve, and he seems more infatuated with Sondra’s wealth and lifestyle than her person. Even at the very end he remains ashamed of his shabby youth and stricken by the thought of all the luxury that others are enjoying.

My edition of the book tells essentially the entire story on the dust jacket, enhancing the feeling as a reader that fate has captured Clyde: we can only read on to the inevitable conclusion. Most of Dreiser’s characters are quite well-defined, as should be expected of such a lengthy work. The length is not absurd, but the rehashing of the entire plot in the trial does get a bit tedious. The remainder of Book III is quite good, providing a more compelling view of a man awaiting execution than Darkness At Noon, combined with the wrenching conscience of a guilty man. Although it was written three quarters of a century ago, the book explores themes that remain controversial today such as abortion and capital punishment. This was definitely one of the better American novels that I have read.

I am sure that Virginia Woolf has some grand thing to say in To The Lighthouse, but to me it is inscrutable. The eponymous lighthouse and journey to it must be symbolic of some yearning of the human spirit. I can certainly find some themes in this work: the relation between art and life, the complexity of human relationships, the emotional dependence of men on the approbation of women. Wrapped in a complete lack of plot this produces a great novel to learned critics but an incredible bore to me. The only section I can recall enjoying was three or four pages in the second section describing nature retaking dominion over an abandoned house. Hopefully if I continue to read literature of this type I will eventually come to understand its deeper meanings through some sort of osmosis.

John Taylor Gatto’s The Underground History Of American Education is freely available online, although not in the most convenient form imaginable. It is not particularly well written and the text seems to meander somewhat randomly through a variety of topics, but the ideas within are worth considering.

I do not agree with Gatto’s version of American exceptionalism, nor his belief (endemic among Libertarians, of which I am one) that highly successful people like Ben Franklin and George Washington were not an exception, but the rule among people free of government interference. Gatto also seems to talk out of both sides of his mouth on several issues, such as remarking on the way strict authoritarianism stifles the spirit while bemoaning the legal inability of contemporary teachers to discipline their students. He makes strong statements without providing justification, uses anecdotes as evidence, and harangues the reader with his own political philosophy.

I find some of the idea of a vast philosophy of statism and corporatism designing schools to produce dumb, compliant workers and consumers a bit too much to swallow. But not all of it. Too many of my own experiences match up too perfectly with what he is saying, and that is in spite of the fact that I think I attended quite a good public school and was part of what Gatto would call the Gifted caste destined to become great social managers. School does indeed consist of a great many arbitrary rules and punishments, and any illusions that students have the power to influence policy or seek redress are just that. I will not presume to know intentions, but I have no doubt that this does have the effect of ingraining Pavlovian obedience in some (and near-total disregard for authority in others). The rights of citizens, visitors, and even illegal aliens to the United States are generally not extended to students while on school property or during school hours, and school systems have been given or have taken authority far beyond their walls. (Should I really need a permit from my principal to work on weekends? In Pennsylvania, at least, I do.) Much of schoolwork is meaningless, and it nearly has convinced someone like myself that quite fascinating things are really tedious.

I mostly agree with the heart of the broader societal implications as well. Children and young adults are definitely more capable (physically, intellectually, emotionally, etc) than society generally gives them credit for. I do recall that as a child some of the best fun was being allowed to do “grown-up” stuff. People do seem to be consumers first and citizens second. I’ve never before heard the idea that part of the reason for the growth of management as a profession is that there is just not enough actual work left to be done. That sounds absurd with hungry people and crumbling infrastructure, but I can see it making some twisted sense to a macroeconomist. (The possibility that the continued profitability of food production depends on people starving is a topic for another day.)

If you can make it through the blustering, this is definitely a thought-provoking read. If you are interested in examining unorthodox perspectives on one of the pillars of modern society, this would be an excellent place to start.

As an exercise in collating evidence from multiple sources and writing a fictional narrative to explain them, I, Claudius is excellent. My knowledge of Roman history is quite poor, but from what I have read much of the book is either known to have happened or is at least plausible based on our records of the time. It also serves as the most thorough treatise I have seen on that old chestnut, “Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.” The text is mostly clear, but I must complain about the very large number of characters with similar names. People are mentioned at several points through the narrative with an expectation that you will recall what has previously been said about them and that you remember the distinction between Drusus and Drusilla, Urgulanilla and Urgulania, and so forth. Only the titular narrator is fully fleshed out, while most other characters we know only be their deeds deemed worthy enough of historical record. (Or in many cases, the deeds done to them.) I can imagine that I would have enjoyed this much more if I had been raised in an era that stressed knowledge of classical antiquity in education, but it was enjoyable even so.