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.

Big Sur/Kerouac

In the summer of my 8th grade school year, I became obsessed with Jack Kerouac. In May, knowing little about the man or his work, I was goaded into picking up On The Road by a cousin who thought I needed "a more mature taste in literature". By the end of June I was saving pocket change and taking regular trips to the local bookstore (I was usually a browser, not a buyer). That summer just happened to be the year I joined my folks on a trip to San Francisco. Venturing to landmarks like City Lights Bookstore and the coast of Big Sur only reinforced my growing interest in Beat culture and writing. Kerouac was my gateway to several seminal writers of that time period, as it was through his work I learned of William S. Burroughs, Henry Miller, and Allen Ginsberg, among others. Needless to say, I had many great conversations with my English teachers the following school year..."you heard of him how?"..and ..."your parents let you read those kinds of books?" were popular questions. Oh, and of course- "don't imitate him, he died young!" Thankfully, my parents, being the progressive souls they are, figured a book was a book, and that if the subject matter interested me, then I should be allowed to read it and draw my own conclusions. Being young, it was easy to romanticize Kerouac's life and philosophy. Drink, write, take Benzedrine, drink..write. The older I get, the harder it is for me to read Jack's work with the same blind youthful enthusiasm. Where I once saw endless adventure and possibility, I now see aimlessness. What were once fleeting moments of bliss now read like alcohol induced ramblings. For me in the present day, reading Kerouac is something like this: Idealized moment...my friend is a deity, idealized moment...there is hard truth in reality...but it's okay...I will drink more so it all disappears. The later writings seem less spontaneous and more formulaic. It is as though Kerouac was merely roaming the country, looking for something to hold on to, which is why he vested so much faith in the life of Neal Cassady, gradually coming to devalue his own individual beliefs. Kerouac died of cirrhosis at the age of 48, and Cassady froze to death sleeping on train tracks in the borderlands of Mexico. Sad endings to brilliant flashes of life. They started bright, dosed themselves heavily, and drew America's picture in bleary lines. That is how I visualize their lives. I still think On The Road is one of the greatest novels of the time period. Without Jack Kerouac, I may never have been exposed to the wide scope of authors I feel lucky to have read. Wow..I wish The Duluoz Legend would've been completed! There is so much more I could say....

Michael Pollan

In Weeds Are Us, Michael Pollan examines the idea of horticultural vermin as human social construct in an effort to contrast his opinions with those of legendary American nature writers. At first, it is hard to tell which direction Pollan will take, as he is clearly influenced by Thoreau and Emerson, yet seeking his own philosophy concerning weeds and their unshakable presence in the modern world. The author's garden stands as a great metaphor in the essay, with it's terrain transforming much like the author's opinion. First, the presence of vines and other prickly ground dwellers is welcome in his peaceful corner of the yard. There is an air of natural beauty, as Pollan suggests, in their winding and lawless climb toward sunlight. As weeds overtake the garden however, the context of both viewer and viewed is shifted dramatically. Pollan's examination of weeds can, at this point, be read in more than just a literal sense. The imagery of his grandfather killing weeds (hippies)with the fervor of a man rejecting the "summer of love" is a great introduction to the author's wide scope of enviro-cultural exploration. Through the concept of weeds, the reader is able to look at a multitude of American attitudes about our natural surroundings across time. Philosophical/ethical questions abound throughout the piece: Why do weeds (I read this as a symbol for vagrants/the dienfranchised) especially thrive in industrialized cities? Do weeds have a greater right to the land than hybridized plants? How do we as Americans decide what is appealing and what is a weed? What is a weed in the first place? Pollan ultimately feels that weed infestations are a by-product of human civilization, supplying the reader with compelling images of vines shattering a blacktop parking lot. It is the close examination of the everyday which lends power and evidence to his argument. The idea of "the everyday" is central in my reading of the piece. I look at weeds everyday-in cracks, on the driveway, in the yard, in my food, but never gave them a second thought nor considered their origins or omnipresence in our world. This loose idea of the everyday can be applicable to any number of subjects I might not be conscious of: the poor, the marginalized, the sick, stray animals etc. My stance, strictly on weeds in this case,was completely neutral. I had never thought about weeds in connection with Transcendentalist authors or literature. Pollan breaks bravely from Thoreau and Emerson's stance that a weed has more right to this land than a flower or human, and in doing so does a lot more than write about plants. The essay ultimately reflects on American society and it's overbearing social hierarchy, or as Pollan might see it:...the good..the bad..and the weed.

Arthur Miller

Death Of a Salesman is a drama that has made several appearances in my college life. Like Ellison, Arthur Miller created a work that was so disturbing to the common American that it was impossible to ignore. That is probably why it has been taught in three of my classes, and I have been able to gain new insights into it's characters with each reading. The first time I came across Miller's play was in my Junior year of high school. At that time, the kaleidoscopic dialogues and scene changes disoriented me in a way that made it tough to get anything more than frustration from the work. It was, I think, a drama course three years later that re-introduced Arthur Miller to my world, and this time I was ready. Existentialism, as a philosophy/ideology was a set of values and beliefs my skeptical brain immediately aligned itself with. Yet, when reading the play in said drama class, I missed the message. I didn't initially read Death of a Salesman as any type of warning or philosophical manifesto, I only felt sorry for Willy Loman. It took me two years, and lots of personal ups and downs, to finally realize what Miller is writing about in the play. Now, reading the work as a clearer, calmer 26 year old, I notice there are a lot of "should've, would'ves. might haves, maybes, we will's and someday'" trickling through each character's lines. I now read Willy's reflections on the past as less historical fact than mere delusional fantasy. Everything is idealized-the future, the outside world, his sons and their business propositions, the neighbor's life, the past, nothing can be "okay" as it stands. The only thing Willy doesn't idealize is the present. Everything else was, or could be great, but not the moment he is presently experiencing. Each character represents a part of Willy, as he has long given up on his own dreams and now lives vicariously through his children. Rather than being proud of them for trying their best (whatever that may be), Willy makes the same mistake with his children that he has made with himself-blaming everything on forces beyond a human being's control. The paradox lies in that fact that Willy ultimately idealizes these "outside forces" as being pinnacles of human achievement, I.E. his brother's business, Bernard's grades, Charley's wealth. Whether these memories are real or idealized is never truly known. Additionally, there is always an outside reason Willy or his sons didn't achieve things in a similar fashion. Personal responsibility can change lives...sometimes you have to learn that the hard way, or die without choice.

My world

The relationship I have with trees. rocks and grass around my home is one that is hard to define. To me, "home" is a term that is created through fleeting emotion and moments frozen in my brain. For instance, I can look at the Oak tree in my backyard and clearly remember the time my parents brought my dog home for the first time. I looked at the tree that day, and in my mind, it's image will forever be associated with a happy moment in which I made a friend. Another time, when my girlfriend and I had first met, we took a hike through the woods near my home. It was a long walk, maybe three hours. It began to rain about an hour in, and gradually, we became lost. I remember the exact point in the path we were on when she told me she was leaving to go to school in Arizona. For a moment, I was sad, then happy, then sad...but I walked it out. Being lost was what I needed that day, and helped me to forget about the looming departure in our near future. Things eventually worked out, and that trail now represents a turning point in my life. It was a character altering moment, a time (maybe the first time) when I truly put another human's needs ahead of my own. Every tree, rock and blade of grass on that trail reminds me of that. I feel at home in such spaces of memory, in forests that represent personal growth and in fields of tragedy. Every branch and creek represents a thought I have had. To me, it seems that Thoreau felt many of the same spiritual/emotional connections to the natural world, to an even greater degree, perhaps. These pieces of the natural world are essential to my own personal history, and without them, I am lost. When I lived in Arizona for a year, the desert didn't speak to me as did the trees and grass. Nothing seemed to feel right without them. So I moved back to Ohio. Thoreau seems to have built his personal philosophy and mythology out of the natural habitat surrounding him. I have done the same thing, albeit, in a modernized way. It is harder for me to become lost in the woods. Some days, when I really need to think, I drive the desolate country roads, listening to the wind, and sometimes music. I feel like Thoreau might have done the same if he were alive today,well, if he could afford the gas. There are new factors for me to consider in my relationship to nature that Thoreau didn't have to deal with. I'm sure there was plenty he had to be conscious of that I wouldn't give a second thought to. Countless eras and modernity serperate our lifestyles, but our modes of relating to nature seem to be very similar.