Books

Henry James is nature.

In re-reading Turn Of The Screw and Other Short Stories this past week, I have come to realize that no matter how ridiculous it may sound, the above statement is wholly true. My previous experience with Mr.James had come in the form of several short stories, mainly reading Daisy Miller:A Study eight times for five different classes. With each reading, I came to like Henry James less, as his prose to me seemed to resemble a mirror that fogged with condensation. The image I saw was always initially striking, but quickly became clouded in a haze of unnecessary detail and flowery language.

Upon delving into this small volume again last week, I made a promise to myself that I would not only finish each and every story, but that I would also forge several connections between Mr. James and the topics I am covering in my coursework. Imagine my surprise when everything in Washington Square somehow related back to the natural world. In what might be one of the most cosmopolitan transatlantic short stories of the 1800's, yet I was somehow able to tie James's sense of clouded human motive into a more primal tradition of patriarchal dominance in nature. It struck me about halfway through the story, in the middle of somesuch thought, exactly how much this quarter's Environment and Literature has course redefined my methods of reading the novel. Rather than seeking to solely focus on the human motives in a work, I have expanded my eye to the outer edges of the text, seeking any implicit or explicit connection between the characters and a larger presence outside their insulated thoughts. This connection seems to be flowing through most books- Henry James's romanticized Europe, Faulkner's skeletal trees, Thomas Pynchon's frosted visions of Italy in V. all indirectly expose an atuhorial connection to the natural world. Whether these moments are intentional is another matter altogether. That is what makes Eco-Criticism so fascinating. There is ambiguity, but within this ambiguity is a piece of the human consciousness that has evaded any sort of literary definition for countless generations. Critics working in within the Eco school are striving to lend shape to this abstract concept of nature, in everyone from Shakespeare to Delillo, from Milton to Amiri Baraka. Nature is relevant in almost every work, and it is about time for us to note it.

Entropy

Entropy- a short story built on alcohol, a scientific theory and random combinations of East Coast philosophising and a dying bird. To be clear, and for the sake of full disclosure, Thomas Pynchon is one of my favorite American authors working today. There is very little about the elusive Mr. Pynchon that I do not like, or at least find endearing on a literary level. With that being said, I think those who do not proclaim to enjoy his densely manipulative texts have a valid reason for feeling ill at ease when seeing Entropy's plot do black flips and jumping jacks across the page in strangely beguiling patterns. Pynchon was once quoted as saying "Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength". Many people reading this work for the first time could probably come to that conclusion without reading a single biographical note about it's author. Yet, the question always arises when I am reading Pynchon in a group setting- Where does weird end and genuis begin? Seeing the dubious looks of my classmates made me wonder, as I described the plot of the novel in a concise fifteen line summary. Regardless of one's reaction to Pynchon's narrative tornado, it is undeniable that he has a sickening knack for pulling hundreds of disparate topics into a coherent, although rarely embraced, literary form. The end result may not always be pretty to read, but it is clever and more than a little self-aware, ready to pump you full of facts and leave you breathlessly wondering what the hell just happened. Pychon is a man with an infinite amount of intellectual trivia and the ability to spill it on the page using sentences that both contradict and support one another. Today was one of the best group discussions I have ever had about a novel, and there were many interesting points I has failed to consider in any of the previous five readings of this text. The party is entropy, the characters are entropy, the narrative is entropy, moving forward until it can sustain itself on new ideas no longer. Brilliant.

Poetry and Politics

The discussion was raised in class on Thursday, as it usually is at some point in an American Lit course-"Should poetry be political?"

There are two ways to answer such a question. Giving my opinion is one way, but there is also another way, which is less easily defined, but more legitimate in the eyes of most readers. This second method is founded upon a lineage of poets writing for change, whose voices were acknowledged in all corners of society. These poets, who have sustained a proven historical impact, i.e. poets who are taught in schools decades, or in some cases, centuries after their active period of writing, are hard to argue against, even if you are a poetic figurehead like Billy Collins or Rita Dove. If you break social and societal barriers with your poems, then there is a truly unique, and often undefinable force at work within them. Whether you view this force in a positive or negative way depends largely on your political stance and investment in literature as an agent for change.

It is my belief that all poets are inherently political, as each is writing in a language that has been acquired across generations of violence and unrest. For instance, I am an American poet writing in English. In it's most primary form, English came to the British Isles with multiple Germanic tribes sometime around 5 AD. The language previously spoken in this string of islands was a version of the Celtic, possibly with a Britannic dialect. Through savage violence, the English Speaking tribes displaced the Celtic speaking natives, forcing their language and beliefs upon the land. The new way of writing and speaking was introduced violently, leaving the population no choice but to conform.

Granted, the above example may be an oversimplification, yet when thinking about the dominance and cross pollination of languages within any society, it is hard not to read or write EVERYTHING in a slightly political context. If we really want to think about languages and their political undertones, we need go no further than a novel written by an author in a post colonial country, a place where a dominant language has changed every aspect of the way a people read, think and write. Or, we could look at the counter culture's use of slang in the American 60's and 70's, a phenomenon born out of anti-war movements, sit-ins, and the growing drug culture. Language changes with the times. In many cases, these times share the symptoms of a turbulent political climate. Sometimes words protect a people from an oppressive government, other times they protect that government's military from it's people. The tide goes both ways, but no two waves ever look or sound exactly the same.


My opinion is just that-one man's idea about a subject. Yet, I am using language to put these ideas out there, to share information, to symbolically open myself up to the world. What I say is different from what one of my seventy year old professors would say. Language has changed drastically in a few decades, and will continue to change, just like politics. I have a political slant, as do you, and it has changed with the passing of birthdays. No one is really as "apathetic" as they might wish to believe, especially when it comes to choices impacting their lives. Those choices are changing everyday, whether we are for them, or against them. It's the way we live, day to day, thought to thought.


Many poets have become famous on political grounds,-Allen Ginsberg, Amiri Baraka, Gregory Corso, Niki Giovanni,Robert Lowell, the list goes on and on. Of these same poets, many have been publicly reprimanded for using poetry to air their political grievances. There seems to be levels of social acceptability within the ranks of modern political poetry. Amiri Baraka, for instance, was removed as Poet Laureate of New Jersey for "Somebody Blew up America," while we read some of Shakespeare's sonnets aimed at the throne and laud them for being audacious. Although a disparate comparison, it still drives me crazy that these levels exist. In twenty years will "Somebody blew up America" be read as reverently as "Howl?" In five hundred, will it be acclaimed for as a poetic snapshot of a pivotal moment in American history? It is hard to guess. Maybe Baraka's race and vitriol will cast him into obscurity within two decades, causing someone like Denise Levertov to rise and assume his place. Perhaps this poem will be seen as a point in which America had to change, as it coincides with Obama's election. The future is infinite, but will always be political, until the sun burns out. This is such an interesting subject. I am all written out, and have to go to work now. Bye.

Plath/Sexton/Baraka

So, Osama Bin Laden is dead. Millions of different opinions collide in the air over large and small cities alike, people shudder in either joy or disgust, and our nation is divided once again.Regardless of one's political or ethical stance surrounding the melee, one thing is certain- the tumultuous events of the past weekend have created an ideal backdrop for examining liberation poetics, or what I have come to think of as poetry for those marginalized, disenfranchised, and just plain enraged by mainstream cultural values*.

I will attempt to chronicle my experiences first with Sylvia Plath, a poet I enjoy greatly, and am equally pained by, and feel pain for. I discovered the work of Sylvia Plath by accident, while perusing my 8th grade teachers "personal" bookshelf. Graciously, she allowed me to borrow the book, and in turn, blew my mind. Although I understood little of what Plath was saying or why she was saying it, the gut level pain and alienation were undeniable, even to a slightly apathetic 8th grader. I needed to know more about her, and fast.
In High School, through reading Her Husband, an outstanding Plath/Hughes biography by Diane Middlebrook Wood (read it...seriously) I discovered Wood's Anne Sexton biography, and after reading that, purchased The Awful Rowing Toward God. If an author could win the Pulitzer Prize on the basis of a chill inducing poem or Book title, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath would've been consistent contenders. I always thought Sexton somewhat subordinate to Plath, Lowell and at times, Snodgrass, even after reading the book in it's entirety. It wasn't until a few years ago that I really started to absorb and appreciate Sexton's gift for crafting blindingly gorgeous imagery that makes your heart happy and terrified at the same time..like the summer sun being coated in ice. Now, I count Sexton amongst my favorite poets ever, Confessional or otherwise.
As for Amiri Baraka...wow. The most angry and arguably, most fluid poet of this bunch has always given me positive chills, even in his most cringe inducing moments. Somebody Blew Up America owned my mind when it was first read aloud. The ensuing controversy, in my opinion, only served to strengthen Baraka's most recent poetic efforts, as it seemed he needed a shot in the arm. The way New Jersey's Governor handled the entire situation serves as a direct illustration of the perceived oppressive force Baraka has been battling for close to thirty years. Be it with the Beats, The Black Panthers, or the Black Mountain Poets, Baraka can blend in and lash out with the best writers of his, or any generation.

Also of note: Baraka's daughter was murdered in the early 2000's in Newark. I always wondered if this horrific event occurring in his mythic hometown had any impact on his later poetry. Poor guy.

*I realize that Plath and Sexton are not conventionally labeled Poets of Liberation, but their contrasting representations of gender dynamics cause me to think of them as two of the original Feminist poets in America, besides Rich.

Sonny's Blues

James Baldwin is a true master of what I have come to call "Fiction of the American Psyche ." Having read this story for a past course, and I still find it relevant in discussing the construction, and loss of identity in Modern American culture. In Sonny's Blues, the vanishing of innocence is propelled by the geography in which the story unfolds, and the oncoming realities of aging. The process of growing older often leads to the death of childhood dreams, especially in the fictions of James Baldwin. There are references (I am paraphrasing from memory) to children's expectations growing into the ceilings of their realities, as well as countless mentions of dirty streets, and the darkness that gradually encapsulates the narrator's surroundings. When I think of James Baldwin's true artistic power, one particular scene, in which Sonny is explaining his life philosophy to his brother, always comes to mind. In this exchange, the narrator refers to his brother as "baby." Sonny then proceeds to gesture aimlessly with his hands, rubbing and poking at his clean-shaven face, calling to mind the image of a helpless newborn baby. Baldwin consistently succeeds at giving the reader chills throughout this story, slowly drawing Sonny and the narrator's hazy paths through a dark, post-industrial Harlem. The idea of "the storm inside" and a "great block of Ice that settled in my belly and kept melting there all day long" are hugely important images that emphasize the hopelessness of the story's characters. As the ice melts and trickles into the author's "veins," I can't help but wonder if Baldwin is referencing the rivers and tributaries leading in and out of New York City. These polluted bodies of water trickle across the country, only to be heaved into a roaring ocean. The waters have no control over where they are lead, they just coarse haphazardly across America. To me, the characters in this story move in similar patterns, raging, grasping and rushing for anything that might lessen their pain. This story, much like it's Author's life, explores the limits of control- control over one's identity, the control of one's surroundings upon their lives, a substance controlling a human through addiction, the examples become a story in themselves. Baldwin felt the U.S., New York City particularly, was keeping him down, both creatively and socially. Most of his life was spent between Paris, Switzerland and Germany, a fact there are countless echoes of, both across this story and within it's themes. Despite Baldwin's expatriate status, one thing is for sure: the Blues are a purely American art form, and this story strives desperately to find out why.

Edward Abbey/Monkey Wrench Gang 1

This blog is quickly becoming a clearinghouse for my reflecting on literature. If I were to let these thoughts linger, without promptly recording them, I fear they would drift away forever.

On to Edward Abbey...why I had never come across The Monkey Wrench Gang in my past reading/coursework/Internet dwelling is almost incomprehensible. There was a distinct moment in which I realized this author, and his book of eco-terror crossed with a mid seventies national lampoon sensibility was a truly great Nature..no,...a great American Novel. This moment occurred somewhere within the first three pages, in a flickering instant, between the images of Doc lighting a billboard on fire and Albuquerque being described in terms of a neon-glassed cement tomb. Something in those pages drew me in and refused to let go...but what? I'm still looking for an answer, but I think I might be getting warmer.
Now, being close to halfway through the novel, I would like to think myself capable of reflecting on my initial impressions of Abbey's characters, and analyzing how wrong I was and for what reason. Such a task is certainly easier said than done. A constant motion invades the lives of the four "environmental" crusaders, making them hard to pin down from one page to the next. Doc is up and down emotionally, Hayduke is by turns bloodthirsty and lonely, Abbzug is a brain pricked by meditative visions and Smith...well, Smith is Smith, an anchor of sorts for the entire collective, and a lusty anchor at that.
The two concepts that make it hard for me to quit reading this book are relatively simple: a sense of it's geography, and the blurry motives of it's characters. Having recently lived in the Southwest, many of the locations described in the novel are near and dear to my heart. Constructing a mental image is much easier when you have driven through the locations featured in Chapters 3,4,5,6 and 7 all within the last six months. Adding to that is my growing empathy for the characters, and my hoping against hope that they are carrying out their plan for the same reasons I (hypothetically) would. Being a peace loving English major, I have never personally considered eco-sabotage as a viable option in relation to our countries pillaging of undeveloped terrain. I would be lying however, if I was to tell you I had never walked the streets of Tucson on a summer night, mumbling to myself: "why would anyone build a damn city here? Too hot, not meant for us to invade..ugh...another thorn, ow." That is precisely why I find the question of personal motive so fascinating within this book. Maybe the characters are thinking the same way I was last summer or maybe we are a million miles apart. Only the next 125 pages will tell me for sure.
For me, an Ohio transplant, it was easy to view the Desert as a ghost of American civilization, littered with abandoned mining towns and soiled cities. Now, after returning to the Midwest, and reflecting on my expieriences and this book, I am viewing the Desert more in terms of being the last remaining hope for a boxed in people.

Death Of a Salesman-2

Today's discussion of Arthur Miller's play offered a chance for me to think about some of it's themes from perspectives I hadn't initially considered. Here is a short entry about some of the thoughts I had during, and following class.

I liked that Nathan brought Marxism and/or Marxist Literary criticism into the discussion of what Miller was trying to convey ideologically. The ultimate value of a Marxist critique is that it aims to look at widely accepted systems and beliefs in a work of literature, framing them in a way that exposes, and then analyzes their true values by means of subtraction. What is not said by the author is just as important as what is said. The most essential themes are hidden behind culturally accepted ideals or images, awaiting a deep reading to give them clarity. This form of analysis is perfect for Arthur Miller's play, since as Professor Cassel noted in class (to paraphrase): "Everything has meaning in Miller's work, and nothing any character says can be taken for granted." With this philosophy in mind, I began thinking about Death Of a Salesman from an economic/religious i.e. semi-Marxist standpoint. A few scenes stuck out to me in a different way when considering them from within this new context:

There are obvious entries to thinking in a way that reveals large and small scale oppression peppered throughout the work. Howard, Willy's boss, is a great example, ignoring Willy's pleading, and years of service in order to hire a new "more profitable" salesman. Willy was once controlled by Howard's father and now...he is controlled by Howard, an oppression that stretches across two generations. This opression is built on fear and finances- on Willy's fear of losing his source of income, and Howard's fear of losing money from his bottom line.
Before losing his job, Willy espouses his love for Chevrolet cars, only to denounce them a page later. Was it simply the carburetor making him angry? Or perhaps something more akin to the feeling of helplessness in the face of a towering corporation ? Miller clearly had the American economy on his mind when writing the play, centering a most of it's conflict around a search for the almighty dollar. In a few brief points in the play however, religious ideas and imagery are evoked and rejected, albeit in a more subtle fashion . The scene in which Willy is trying to fix something in the kitchen is a good example, in which Willy denies his worth as a carpenter to Linda and his children. The reader could view this as either an embarrassment about his past working of low level jobs, or read it in a religious context: Jesus was a carpenter, and at that time in the American religious climate, Catholicism and it's value system reigned supreme. In denying this moment of potentially divine recognition (from the audience or reader's view), Willy certainly seems to be rejecting the idea of religion on the whole, as though he knows he is the only being that can ever truly save himself. What is widely accepted is not necessarily right, religious or economically, seems to be Miller's take on mainstream American culture.
Miller was indeed on McCarthy's Hollywood Blacklist. This means little to nothing in the overall importance of the work or it's themes. To me, Marxism is just another way of reading or thinking. In my opinion, it is an ideology that has valuable uses, applicable to both culture and literature. To ignore or denounce Marxism because of what you "think" it may be is to lose out on a host of opportunities for deep thinking and reading. Thanks for bringing it up today, facetious or not, Nathan.

Two other points to consider: Why does Willy keep mentioning the "ceiling" he is building? What about his being "boxed in"? I would write more, but I have to walk the dog.