Carter & Paley // Julia Spangler

Why does Carter reverse the transformation that takes place at the end of “Beauty and the Beast” in her revision “The Tiger’s Bride”? What is the role of fairy tales in postmodernism?

            In de Beaumont’s early version of “Beauty and the Beast,” as well as in the well-known Disney movie, the tale concludes with the Beast’s transformation from hideous monster into handsome prince. The audience finds out that the Beast had actually always been a prince, under the spell of an evil fairy (or a fairy who’s trying to teach him a lesson, in the Disney version). It is Beauty’s offering of love and devotion that breaks the spell and returns him to his true form. Angela Carter conspicuously reverses this familiar transformation in “The Tiger’s Bride”—instead of the Beast becoming human, Beauty herself becomes a beast. What is Carter saying through this intentional switch?

            I first came across “The Tiger’s Bride” while writing an English 102 research paper on the feminist aspects of Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been by Joyce Carol Oates. A source I was reading mentioned the female-empowering aspects of Carter’s story, particularly the scene in which “Beauty” (the main character/narrator isn’t officially named) responds to the Beast’s request to see her naked by laughing and insisting on her own terms. Though I tried not to let my partial knowledge of the story influence my reading of the whole thing, I believe that Carter was indeed making a statement about the roles of women, which accounts for the way she chose to end the story.

            Throughout the story the main character becomes more and more aware of how the role she has been playing in life has been unsatisfactory. First of all, her father treats her as property by betting her on a hand of cards. The Beast correctly observes and reprimands the father’s insincerity when he refers to his daughter as his “pearl beyond price” (54). When the main character, the Beast, and the valet are horseback riding, “Beauty” considers how she has been treated like a commodity instead of like an individual. She ponders the mechanical doll that bears her exact likeness and wonders, “Had I not been allotted only the same kind of imitative life amongst men that the doll-maker had given her?” She realizes that, by being different from men, she is similar to her two animal companions (neither women nor beasts possess souls, according to “all the best religions”) (62). Eventually, the main character is overcome by the beauty and complete un-humanness of the tiger’s revealed form, and she offers herself to the Beast in a somewhat similar way as does the traditional Beauty. However, instead of joining her in her powerless human state, the Beast transforms the main character into a free and powerful tiger. She is liberated from “all the skins of a life in the world” and will no longer be treated as a piece of property, but as the majestic creature she has become (66). By changing the ending, Carter transforms this fairy tale from a story about morality and wish fulfillment into a statement about women’s social roles and an exploration of potentially animalistic aspects of their identities.

 

What is the role of fairy tales in postmodernism?

            Even though we addressed this question in class on Thursday, I would really like to revisit it if we have the time, because I just don’t see the connection between the two. Every explanation I’ve thought of feels like a stretch. Was the interest in fairy tales merely a trend among postmodern authors, or were they trying to accomplish something specific by appropriating folkloric subject matter? Do all postmodern fairy tales share some common goal? Were the authors interested in imbuing old stories with more psychological realism and truth, to replace antiquated morals? Why use old stories instead of creating new ones? I don’t have any answers to these questions (and I’m not counting them in the length of my QQ, don’t worry), and they could probably be answered through research, but I thought I’d mention them since they’ve been rolling around in my head.

 

What are the postmodern characteristics of “A Conversation with My Father”? Is autobiographical fiction a contradiction?

            When I was reading Grace Paley’s “A Conversation with My Father,” the first thing that occurred to me at the end was that the father’s insistence that his daughter face tragedy was actually a reference to his own impending death. Imagine my surprise when, in the secondary source, I discovered that Paley hadn’t intended to include that meaning at all; in fact, she says she still doesn’t see it! However, Paley adds, “That’s not up to me to say. Maybe the reader of a particular story knows better than the writer what it means” (1528). This statement of Paley’s resonates with a tenet of postmodernism, which is that a story can have multiple meanings, and that the author isn’t necessarily in control of what those meanings are. For Paley, the story is about literature and how different generations have different outlooks on life. But other readers, the content about death may come to the forefront instead. Rather than despair over the story’s ineffectiveness, Paley acknowledges that both interpretations are valid, giving the reader the power he or she so enjoys in postmodernism.

            Paley’s story is also postmodern in that it explores the writing process. Her father challenges her to write a “simple story…the kind de Maupassant wrote, or Chekhov, the kind [she] used to write” (1081). The author doesn’t remember ever having written simply, but she makes two attempts to fulfill her father’s request. Throughout the process the father and daughter discuss Paley’s writing strategy and her methods for creating endings for her characters, but after hearing her stories, her father concludes that she “can’t tell a plain story,” something Paley probably knew all along (1083). According to postmodernism, there is no such thing as a “plain” story; authors and readers are always hindered by the unreliability of language and perception and by unlocatable truth. Going along with the postmodern liberty she permits her readers, Paley also desires freedom for her characters: “Everyone, real or invented, deserves the open destiny of life” (1081).

 

Is autobiographical fiction a contradiction?

I was interested to read in the secondary source that, though it was inspired by an actual conversation, the plot of “A Conversation with My Father” never actually occurred. The idea of autobiographical fiction is puzzling to me and raises many questions in my mind. Is it important to distinguish between the real and fictional elements of the story? Presumably not, since the reader would have no way of knowing what was true without further research. What does the author achieve by casting him- or herself as a fictional character? How much does “reality” really matter? Tim O’Brien, another writer of autobiographical fiction, believes that an author can convey more universal truth through fabrication than through an accurate report of real events. I think Grace Paley might share O’Brien’s opinion. For example, it’s extremely likely that she and her father actually had different perspectives on life, shaped by the generations in which they grew up. But if they never had a real, concise, and interesting conversation in which their beliefs were clearly evident, is it untruthful for Paley to fabricate one? I don’t think so. Autobiographical fiction can be a tool for communicating truths from our lives in a concise and artistic manner, rather than recording the countless incidents (which may be mundane, unmemorable, or fraught with tangential details) from which we have gleaned those truths.

(Speaking of tangential details, since we just read Cortazar, I wanted to be sure to point out Paley’s own switching between first- and third-person, on the bottom of page 1527, in case anyone missed it: “In ‘The Immigrant Story’ a man tells me, ‘You have a rotten rosy temperament.’ But then she says, ‘Rosiness is not a worse windowpane than gloomy gray…’” [italics mine]. I may be misinterpreting the passage, but it appears that Paley may identify with Cortazar’s shifting narrator.)

 

Garcia Marquez&Cortazar

February 24^th, 2009

Short Story

Dr. Drake

Xiaofeng Zhu

 

                          Garcia Marquez&Cortazar

Julio Cortazar’s essay—On the Short Story and Its Environs. What’s the main point in this essay?

In Julio’s essay, the author stated what was short story“ This concept of the “small circle” is what gives the dictum its deepest meaning, because it defines the closed form of the story, what I have elsewhere called its sphericity; but to this another, equally significant observation is added: the idea that the narrator can be one of the characters, which means that the narrative situation itself must be born and die within the sphere… to put it another way…as if the narrator…that creates the spherical form in its perfection”(1437). Then the author told readers the difference between the story and long short story“the difference between the story and what the French call the “nouvelle” and the English call the “long short story” lies precisely in the successful story’s insistent race against the clock…”(1437).

Garcia Marquez’s essay—A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings, which is a fairy tale, full of fantasy and unreality. For example, at the beginning of the short story, Pelayo killed many crabs and tried to throw them into the sea“On the third day of rain they had killed so many crabs inside the house that Pelayo had to cross his frenched courtyard and throw them into the sea, because the newborn child had a temperature all night and they thought it was due to the stench”(462). I could not help wondering what is the certain relationship between the child’s illness and the killing. The reason seems weird and surprising. Another unreal moment is the appearance of the angel ”He had to go very close to see that it was an old man, a very old man, lying face down in the mud, who, in spite of his tremendous efforts, couldn’t get up, impeded by his enormous wings ”, which is fantastic. The author gave a very detailed description of the angel ”They both looked at the fallen body with mute stupor. He was dressed like a ragpicker. There were only a few faded hairs left on his bald skull and very few teeth in his mouth”(462). Thus, readers could imagine what the angel look like as if he were in front of you. After the appearance of the old angel, a wise neighbor woman starts into readers ”they called in a neighbor woman who knew everything about life and death to see him…He’s an angel…he must have been coming for the child, but the poor fellow is so old that the rain knocked him down”(462). Her words sounds absurd, which continues to make the work mysterious. Following the angel, a flying acrobat arrives ”The curious came from far away…because his wings were not those of an angel but, rather, those of a sidereal bat”(463). Then, a spider woman arrives ”It so happened that during those days…who had been changed into a spider for having disobeyed her parents”(464). These mysterious people appear one after another.

Marquez and Cortazar

Q & Q- Cortazar and Marguez
In his essay “An overview of ‘A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings’” Tom Faulkner terms Marquez’s style as “magic realism.” Where do we see the magic/fantasy moments? Realism elements?

The first place the reader sees a moment of fantasy is when Pelayo is throwing dead crabs into the sea because his newborn baby “had a temperature all night and [Pelayo and Elisenda] thought it was due to the stench” (462). The Pelayo’s reasoning for his actions seems bizarre and not connected to reality. The most obvious moment of magic is the appearance of the unnamed “angel.” Pelayo and Elisenda’s blind acceptance of the “wise neighbor woman[‘s]” verdict that an angel landed in the chicken coop adds to the magical atmosphere. If an angel can exist in the world, anything can. Other amazing people do exist, like the woman-spider who eats meatballs from an audience, or the man who couldn’t fall asleep because the stars were too loud.
As Faulkner points out, the existence of other characters with fantastic qualities described with realistic details allows the reader to believe in “this timeless, nameless village.” Marquez described the angel in such human and realistic terms the reader has to believe. The reader has to believe and see this angel who had “only a few faded hairs left on his bald skull and very few teeth in his mouth, and his pitiful condition of a drenched great-grandfather had taken away any sense of grandeur he might have had” (462). The angel is real in the reader’s mind because Marquez describes the angel in the same way he would describe any other important character. The use of realism or realistic descriptions forces the reader to believe the magical moments.
How does “magic realism” relate to postmodernism?
Postmodernism is often a spattering of different styles rolled into one. We can see realism being put into play by how accurate the descriptions and language seem to be. The “magic” is a sprinkling of modernism, very similar to Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis.”
Another characteristic of postmodernism is the questioning of the accuracy perspective. This might be a stretch, but follow me a little. The priest, Father Gonzaga, in Marquez’s story does not believe the angel is truly an angel. Father Gonzaga questioned the accuracy of calling the winged man an angel. The priest continually answered mail; Rome kept wondering if the winged man had a belly button or whatever else struck their fancy to ask about. The narrator pointedly says “[t]hose meager letters might have come and gone until the end of time if a providential even had not put an end to the priest’s tribulations” (464). The priest’s persistence could be a metaphor for the postmodernist’s persistence to constantly inquire and question what others might accept without resistance.
“This concept of the ‘small circle’ is what gives the dictum its deepest meaning, because it defines the closed form of the story, what I have called elsewhere its sphericity; but to this another, equally significant observation is added: the idea that the narrator can be one of the characters, which means that the narrative situation itself must be born and die within the sphere, working from the interior to the exterior, not from outside in as if you were modeling the sphere out of clay.” (1437)
The above quotation from Julio Cortazar’s essay “On the Short Story and Its Environs” describes a type of short story. Does Cortazar’s story “Blow Up” fit his own description?

The first aspect, the narrator as a character, is used in Cortazar’s “Blow Up.” Although, it did take me a good long while to see that the narrator was the character Michel. The narrator constantly switches from referring to himself in first person to the second person. I did not understand that Michel was the narrator until the later pages of the short story.
The confusion Cortazar creates with his narrator’s scattered thoughts helps the reader to see sphere within the story. Michel repeats himself in the first and third person; “we were photographers, I’m a photographer” (494). Also, Michel narrating the incident with the boy as he imagined, as it happened, and, later, as the photo reenacted itself all lend to the idea of a sphere within the story. The reader is in this limbo, or ground hog day, repeating the same scenario with different actions and reactions. While reading I wondered when it was going to end. It seemed like Michel could muse and ponder forever.
A sphere does exist in the story, but I’m not sure if the ‘narrative situation’ is born and dies within the sphere. I can see the birth. Michel’s stroll is the beginning, if circles had beginnings. The constant musings are the rounded curves. I suppose the end could be Michel’s strange epiphany where he discovers “the game was played out” and then he “broke into tears like an idiot” (502). But this scene does not work as a strong enough death in my mind. In my mind, the narrative is so buried and saturated with Michel’s commentary and thoughts that the story never reaches an “exterior.” It stays internalized within Michel and within the sphere.
An unreliable narrator is a characteristic of postmodern literature. Is Michel unreliable?

Michel’s thoughts are laced within the text so tightly that it makes sees the actual events difficult. I want to say Michel’s reliable, and all the extra stuff is just musing, but I don’t think that really works. Michel makes so many assumptions, like what the woman originally intended to do with the boy. Some assumptions might be harmless, but amount of assumptions paired with the depth of the assumptions makes Michel’s unreliability apparent.
If Michel’s excessiveness wasn’t enough, Michel himself acknowledges his unreliability. Michel knows he “is guilty of making literature, of indulging in fabricated unrealities” and will “set [a] scene” in his head (498). A character admitting his unreliability, coupled with the fact that the text supports his admission, in my mind, makes it a true statement. Michel’s unreliable narration is a characteristic of postmodern literature.

Cortazar & Marquez // Julia Spangler

What is the role of the church in “The Old Man with Enormous Wings,” and how does its portrayal demonstrate principles of magical realism?

In “The Old Man with Enormous Wings” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, magical and realistic elements combine to create a mysterious and ambiguous tale. The village and its people have apparent contradictions between their fantastical and realistic features, and I was personally intrigued by the significant portion of the story devoted to Father Gonzaga and the church in relation to the old man. When the old man first arrives, washed up into Pelayo’s courtyard, the “wise neighbor woman” immediately dubs him an angel. Since angels are traditionally thought of in the context of religion, I was interested to find out the reaction of Father Gonzaga and the church to this phenomenon. However, his puzzling response raised some questions about the alternate universe in which the story takes place and whether or not Marquez intended to include a critique of the church in his portrayal of the priest.

First, the reader has to figure out if this is the same church that actually existed in 1950’s Latin America or a different one, constructed as part of Marquez’s alternate universe. Some things seem to be similar to the real Catholic church: priests are called Father, the structure includes bishops and a Supreme Pontiff, their official language is Latin. However, since the world itself has key differences, so must the church also. This is a church in a world where insomnia from the noise of the stars is a serious health condition and where girls can be turned into spiders for disobeying their parents, struck by a bolt of lightning seemingly from heaven. Miracles are also apparently common in this world, since the old man’s miracles, such as a leper sprouting sunflowers from his sores, are written off as the signs of mental illness or mockery. How would Catholicism as we understand it function in such a world? That is obviously not a question that Marquez was aiming to answer, but since the activities of the church are a personal interest of mine it stood out to me as something worthy of fresh consideration, and that seeing with fresh eyes was, I believe, a goal of the author. My specific examination of Marquez’s representation of the church helps illustrate the general principle of magical realism: reality and fantasy overlap to create something completely different that makes the reader look at both common things and magical things in new ways.

            But was Marquez perhaps including a bit of commentary on the church? Father Gonzaga approaches the old man with many expectations about what a true angel should be and dismisses the possibility when he realizes the old man does not “understand the language of God or know how to greet His ministers” (463). Plus, the old man smelled far too bad to be an angel. Marquez may be saying that the church isn’t necessarily the best judge of spiritual or mystical matters, being bogged down by their expectations and traditions. Father Gonzaga shows no love, reverence, or basic respect for the old man, which also doesn’t cast the church in the best light. Marquez even mentions the “hellish heat of the…sacramental candles” brought by religious visitors to the angel’s coop (464). Despite these details, it is perhaps better to understand Marquez’s critique as applying to society as a whole, not merely the church. Everyone in the story is desensitized to the wonderful and miraculous, and no one else behaves any better than Father Gonzaga does toward the old man. Elisenda views him as an “annoyance in her life” (466) and “even the most merciful [onlookers] threw stones at him” to make him stand up (464). Marquez was probably making a point about the loss of a sense of wonder and reverence, both in the church and in the public at large.

 

How does the narration function in “The Old Man with Enormous Wings” and “Blow Up”?

Marquez’s narrator addresses the realistic and magical elements of the story in sometimes contradictory ways. I actually didn’t notice the shifts in the narrator’s tone until I read the secondary source by Tom Faulkner. Faulkner points out that the narrator sometimes speaks of the magical things as fact but sometimes uses a sarcastic tone. For example, he describes the spider-woman “in simple factual terms, seeming to accept it as readily as his characters do” (3). But at the same time, he also seems to be outside of their world, ironically reporting the opinions of the “wise” neighbor woman and the “visionaries” who hoped to breed the angel to produce a master race (463). I’m not quite sure of the function of this style of narration, since I didn’t notice it at first and I don’t think it really affected my reading of the story. I agree with Faulkner that the narrator helps the reader know “how to take” things, but I’m not sure the narrator’s differing opinions on various aspects of the story necessarily make him unreliable (3).

Cortazar’s narrator, on the other hand, is definitely unreliable. He somewhat identifies himself as the protagonist, Roberto Michel, but neither the reader nor the narrator himself can be certain of his identity. “It’s going to be difficult,” he says of telling the story, “because nobody really knows who it is telling it, if I am I….” (494). The narrator, after his introduction, begins the actual story in the third-person point of view but switches to the first-person within the first paragraph. The fragmented narration and description of the photograph’s strange transformation at the end suggest that, if the narrator is indeed Michel, he may have some psychological problems. What does this confused and confusing narrator add to the story? Cortazar is clearly not trying to make a statement of universal truth. He intends to deprive the reader of certain familiar areas of solid ground, and by playing with the narration he questions perception and the relationship between author, narrator, and character. Just like in “Lost in the Funhouse,” in which Ambrose, the narrator, and Barth were three separate but interacting entities, here Michel, the narrator, and Cortazar remain distinct units, though they sometimes overlap or meld together. In the Reference Guide to Short Fiction, Genaro Perez writes that the narrator “is both a persona of Cortazar and an embodiment of the narrative consciousness and perspective” (2). Through the unconventional and ever-shifting narration Cortazar is drawing further attention to the writing process (without including as many asides as does Barth). Cortazar’s experimentation with the role of the narrator makes sense for his postmodern style, but I’m still unsure of what it accomplishes in a magical realist story like Marquez’s.

Barth and Cortazar

Carol Brown

What kind of structure does Barth use in the story and is it effective?

While reading, “Lost in the Funhouse,” I found the structure to be quite interesting. Barth would begin telling the story and then would switch to explaining what type of writing he was doing. I found this interesting because it allowed me to see how he was going about telling the story. He begins by describing what he is doing as a writer of fiction, “Description of physical appearance and mannerisms is one of several standard methods of characterization used by writers of fiction.” After he explains this he then moves back into the story concerning Ambrose. It definitely added more to the story, however it when Barth was explaining what he was doing he was also foreshadowing part of the story, such as when he writes, “At this rate our hero, at this rate our protagonist will remain in the funhouse forever.” This preludes to end when Ambrose ends up being the operator of funhouses for the rest of his life. After reading the secondary sources I realized exactly what Barth was doing, “The story is an example of metafiction—[…]—because it is not only about Ambrose’s trip to the park but also about writing a story about Ambrose’s trip to the park.” Thus, Barth is trying to write the fiction in third person about Ambrose writing a story about his trip with all his thoughts throughout which makes it kind of about the writer’s aspect. Barth also tends to write in fragments or unfinished thoughts that made me have re-read his sentences and finish them myself with what I knew about the story. His lines just kind of end at points or repeat phrases, such as, “The smell of Uncle Karl’s cigar smoke reminded one of.” The thought is not completed, which makes me agree with Seymour when he writes, “[…] the sense of the story as unfinished, a rough draft perhaps, full of uncompleted thoughts, false starts, and options expressed but not exercised.” I felt as though it was a rough draft in a sense because of how confusing it became for me. I did not know what he was really saying because some thoughts were just left open such as Uncle Karl’s cigar.

What similarities can be drawn between, “Blow up,” and “Lost in the Funhouse?”

After reading both these short stories I realized that there were several similarities in the writing that is used by Barth and Cortazar. “Blow up” begins by saying, “It’ll never be known how this has to be told, in the first person or in the second, using the third person plural or continually inventing modes that will serve for nothing.” Here Cortazar is discussing how to start the story and this continues for several lines throughout the short story. This can be compared to “Lost in the Funhouse,” where Barth continually tells the reader about the writing strategies used as well as what is going on in the story, for example, “The more closely an author identifies with the narrator, literally or metaphorically, the less advisable it is, as a rule to use the first-person narrative viewpoint.” They are both discussing the perspective that the story should be told in and while Cortazar is torn for his story; Barth is quite sure that if the author identifies greatly with the narrator then they should not write the story in first person. Perez explains that, “Cortazar explores the artist’s relationship to his art and to the reader, examining the narrator’s role in this relationship.” Cortazar is thus giving commentary on the art that is included in his writing while Barth is doing almost the same thing by examining what type of writing he is using at a particular time.

The Worn Path

What effect does the changes in the story’s pacing have on the overall meaning?

As the story “The Worn Path” begins, the syntax is soft, flowing and easy on the ears. Slowly, we learn of Phoenix Jackson, and the pace stays steady. “On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers.” (1327) On and on Phoenix walks, then tangles in a thorn bush, and the pace picks up, only to slow again once the old woman is free. Through the cornfield, Phoenix dances with a scarecrow, a jolly little jig. And on she goes, until she reaches a path she calls “the easy place…the easy going.” (1328). And here too, the pace slows further to account for the ease and calm of the walk. Finally reaching a road, Phoenix encounters a dog that trips her into a ditch from which she cannot exit, and a young man with a dog of his own and a gun appears, lifts her from the ditch and has a time of chasing away the black dog that put the old woman in the ditch. All around this man, there is energy. This shows in his laugh, as it “fill[s] the whole landscape.” In fact, the majority of his sentences end with exclamation points. This man livens the trip and when he does leave on his way, Phoenix walks on. On and on she walks, finally reaching the town and the doctors office. In the office, the pace quickens some, as the secretary and the nurse press Phoenix for answers to their questions. When they receive only a short paragraph on her grandson, the give her the medicine, and leave her be. Her medicine in hand, she returns from where she has come.

As Welty herself says in her essay, Phoenix’s walk “had to be a journey, and all these things belong to that,” (1566) To have a single pace in a story, or in life, is to be boring and uneventful. In varying the pace, Welty create the image of constant movement and flux. As Phoenix came across the scarecrow, she is wary of it and questions is as a ghost, and along with her questioning the tone of the story is cautionary; when Phoenix tells of her forgetting her grandson, the story slows again, to show that the aged woman is reminicing, and in the mind the reader sees a woman in a doctor’s office, sitting and telling of her grandson and how he’s all she has left, while nurses look on with sympathy. Phoenix must be and see and do these things, these “jolts to her pride, some flights of fancy to console her, one or two encounters to scare her, a moment [to give] her cause to feel ashamed…” (1566) Without them, the story would be simply that: a story. Words on a page with a plot and characters, but nothing to relate outside of the page. With them, the reader feels the life in the story, the hope and the pride, the sadness and the fear, and through these things, the reader, and Phoenix, experience life in its own way. Through living.

The Misfit’s final final quote: what is really being said there?

“It’s no real pleasure in life.” (1041) So says the Misfit, a cold-blooded murderer after shooting an old, helpless woman in the chest three times. But that is only in the context of the action itself, not what Bobby Lee said to him moments prior. This young men just assisted in murdering a mother, father, two children and a baby, and all he has to say is “Some fun!” Sickening.

The Misfit, criminal though he is, finds no pleasure in the killing of this little family. He finds no pleasure in commiting the various crimes of his past, and, had the grandmother not recognized him in the first place, would have been more than happy to fix the family car and be on his way. But the grandmother stupidly blurts out the Misfit’s “name,” thus forcing his hand. And it is here that we come to O’Conner’s point of the Misfit as a fallen prophet. The Misfit is beyond what the grandmother can cognitavily process, and “her wits are no match for the Misfit’s, nor is her capacity for grace equal to his,” (1626). But in the end, through her conversation with him, she discovers “that she is responsible for the man before her and joined to him by ties of kinship,” (1626). The Misfit knew this immediately, and perhaps for that reason he kept her alive longest. However, this digresses from the main point.

The Misfit knows that the killing and robbing and horrible things he does are wrong, have a place outside society and cannot be abided by anyone with a “sane” mind, but he knows also that the society in which he lives is itself corrupt and twisted. “‘Jesus thown everything off balance. It was the same case with Him as me except he hadn’t commited any crime they could prove and I had commited one because they had the papers on me. Of course,’ he said, ‘they never shown me my papers.'” (1040) As if papers could prove everything and condemn a man to prison.

Regardless, the Misfit’s final lines mean this above all else: violence solves nothing. However, in the grandmother’s case, and in the case of many others, it is only through violence and tradgedy that a message can go through. “Their heads are so hard that nothing else [besides violence] will do the work.” (1626) Time and time again the world has seen this in the various disasters that plague our united history. Katrina, the Tsunami in 2003, Hiroshima, Titanic, the countless lives lost due to negligence in the home, the workplace, the field of play. We don’t act unless forced to, and the Misfit sees that even if violence is the last answer, it is the answer that brings us back to that basic truth we always sought, whatever that may be.

Welty & O’Connor QQ

Elizabeth Lewis

University of Indianapolis

February 19, 2009

 

How do the tones of “A Good Man is Hard to Find” and “Worn Path” affect the story, and perhaps, interpretations of the story?

In both stories there appears to be a clear sense of an overhanging sorrow that is present throughout the entire story–not just the ending. This could be due to the fact that both stories’ settings are in a wooded area, which usually invokes a fear upon readers.

Furthermore, it seems that “the woods” in both stories can represent the unknown. In “Worn Path” the old grandmother continually stumbles along different objects, including sticks, animals, and even a frightening man. It seems that the most frightening of all instances involves the man, because his motives appear unclear and irrational.

When the grandmother first encounters him, he seems pleasant; however, further into their meeting he reveals a darker side. He has two dogs, which are illustrated as somewhat violent, and he owns a gun. After scaring off the two dogs with his gun, he proceeds to point the gun at Old Phoenix. He warns her to return home, where nothing will happen to her. On page 1330, she matter-of-factly tells him that she will continue to go about her way whether he likes it or not.

This small event seems crucial, because it leads readers to wonder what will happen to Old Phoenix if she continues along her path; and, more importantly, readers (rightfully so) worry about Phoenix and could possibly be wanting her to return home. However, because she continues her path in the woods–the unknown–the story becomes suspenseful, and the tone gradually becomes darker.

Because of this dark tone, it seems that the ending should be dark as well. When Phoenix is asked about her grandson on page 1332, it seems that she is in denial about his death–or his illness. Readers probably interpret the ending as Phoenix struggling with the loss of her grandson. She appears to be wandering aimlessly and without purpose (as readers find near the ending) since the illness or death of her grandson. Certainly, the tone of the story adds to the sorrow that readers feel for Phoenix.

Along with Old Phoenix, Bailey’s family becomes stranded in a wooded area, and suddenly a fear of the unknown begins to take hold in this story as well. Shortly after becoming stranded, the family finds themselves face to face with cold-blooded murderers. Since the tone of the story has been somewhat dark from the beginning, it seems to be no surprise that the tone becomes even darker (and more frightening) when the murderers arrive.

Although at first the audience is not aware that these men are killers, the gradual idea begins to become obvious. Once these men begin to order various members of the family into the woods, readers discover the horrifying details of the murders. Near the end, however, the grandmother is the last character to die.

The dark tone of the story clearly alludes readers to believe that the grandmother will die, despite her best efforts to put off her death. On page 1041, readers begin to visualize her desperation, when she tells the Misfit that he is one of her children in an attempt to reach out to him, and create a bond.

Because of the tone in the story, readers finally begin to feel pity and sorrow for the fact that the grandmother has to die. In a sense, readers are able to connect with her, because they realize her desperation and her will to live. Again, despite her efforts, she faces an unfortunate death.

It seems that the mood of both stories creates a sad interpretation for both stories. Both stories appear to be on the same page–denial. On one hand, Phoenix is unable to come to terms with her grandson’s death; and, on the other hand, the grandmother is unable to come to terms with her own death. Had the mood been different, perhaps readers would not feel pity for both characters. However, because the mood was clearly dark and unknown, this created a sense of fear for the readers, which allowed them to feel sympathy and remorse for the events that occurred.

Does the grandmother in “A Good Man is Hard to Find” represent repentance?

It seems that the grandmother had suddenly found a sense of religion, which is somewhat humorous–despite the mood of the story. It seems that most people only seek a “higher power” (God) upon their death; more comically, they believe that by seeking a God, they will suddenly be forgiven of their sins and immoralities, and the gates of Heaven will suddenly open for them–and, maybe, death will not be so painfully long.

On the final pages 1040 and 1041, the grandmother tries to reconcile with her God (it seems), and tries to invoke the idea of religion upon the Misfit–who clearly has no religion, nor does he have a God. Despite this, the grandmother begins to talk to him about Jesus, and the miracles that He was able to perform (such as raising the dead).

Although the mood is serious and dreary, this seems to be a comical part of the story. The grandmother cannot suddenly “pick up” a religion, and claim it to be hers as if it has always been such. However, she also represents human nature and the fact that all people are afraid of death. It seems that a convenient way to ease the process of death is to find religion.

By finding religion and trying to take the Misfit as her own son, the grandmother is somewhat representing forgiveness–as well as desperation. She seems to be the epitome of a human in desperation. Although this may be true, it seems important to recognize the fact that she is able to bring religion into such a dark time.

By doing so, this could lead readers to believe that the grandmother represents what COULD become of the Misfit, if he would only choose to stop killing. The grandmother is willing to forgive and forget, so long as she is able to keep her life. In keeping her life, readers would imagine that she most likely was able to “make a deal” with God. Because she is unable to make this deal, she remains religious until her death, and readers could possibly view her attempts to save her own life as an attempt to repent as well.

Hurston & Wright QQ

Elizabeth Lewis

University of Indianapolis

February 12, 2009

 

Is Hurston advocating Women’s Strength?

 

As a modern audience, which usually consists of feminist-women, it seems that the modern audience would rather cheer Delia on if she leaves her husband than watch her take him back into her loving arms. On the other hand, at the time that the story was written, women were expected to “stand by their men,” no matter the circumstance. This shift in view points clearly shows the change in women throughout the centuries.

Whether any of these facts are important is irrelevant, and more so, they are merely opinions. Hurston brings up an interesting point in “What White Publishers Won’t Print.” On page 1605, she mentions that publishers will not print stories based on African American, Jewish (any minority for that matter) love affairs or triumph over hardships. As modern readers, it seems logical to resent this idea; however, as compared to the past, it would not appear to be anything different from the ordinary.

Furthermore, it seems logical to assume that perhaps Hurston ended her story the way she did, because she knew if Delia would triumph, the story would never be published. If this is the case, readers should wonder what the deeper meaning in the story is truly about. Is it about the sweat? Is it about female equality? Is it about overcoming a hardship? It seems that all of these questions are relevant, and it would be unfair to “assign” a theme to this story.

More to the point, because all of the above questions are relevant, and there is no theme, readers could possibly take the approach that this is a story written by a woman who is advocating the strength of women; however, in the end, it becomes contradictory. Why this becomes contradictory is hard to pinpoint; however, as mentioned before, it seems that Hurston clearly wanted her story published, which may have required her to tweak the ending.

Tweaked ending or not, Delia clearly faces struggles with her husband, race, and job. Her husband should be listed as her biggest hardship because he is a constant factor of pain in her life. On page 565 she tells him that she pours her “sweat and blood” into her work in order for them to have a comfortable house and money to live on, while he sits at home and does next to nothing. Clearly, Delia IS the bread-winner in the family, and it’s very detrimental to her existence.

However, despite the fact that she provides by herself, she endures beatings. What is more important about these beatings is the fact that she overcomes. Delia does not wallow in pity after her husband beats her—they seem to make her stronger and even more stronger-willed. It seems that Delia is very incomparable to other women and deserves special recognition.

Most importantly, although Delia endures a hard life, she remains optimistic and caring. She continues to attend church every Sunday and speaks nicely to the people she meets. It seems that no worldly thing can bring her down. Thus, it would be accurate to assume that by now Modern women are cheering for Delia’s success on her journey; more to the point, they feel as though they are on the journey with her.

 

Are Delia and Dave similar characters?

 

  In both stories, “Sweat” and “The Man Who Was Almost A Man,” it seems evident that the main characters are in search of something more out of life, whether it means Delia’s husband changing or Dave’s growing into a man. More importantly, it is clearer that both main characters demand and desperately seek respect from others.

To begin with, page 1371 should strike readers with an indication sign that Dave is seeking respect. The narrator states, “Nobody could run over him; they would have to respect him.” However, readers should already know that his method of gaining respect is anything but admirable. Most readers would probably agree that guns do not equal respect…at least many Modern readers would say this. However, thinking back on the time period that this piece was written in, it seems sensible that by owning a gun, a man would suddenly become magnificently “manly.” Be that as it may, after shooting Jenny, Dave still does not learn his lesson. For whatever reason, he still feels that his gun is a detrimental aspect in his life—even after he has caused the death of an innocent animal. Therefore, to some, he may appear unsympathetic and still childishly selfish.

On the other hand, in “Sweat,” Delia is witness to her husband’s beating. If this had been Dave, a good assumption may have been to think that Dave (if in Delia’s position) would have left him to suffer. However, since this clearly is not the case, Delia helps her husband, but still believes he deserves what he got. Even though these differences between them are small, they are defining and shape these two characters into completely different people.

Appropriately, it appears that Dave is extremely self-centered. A reader might guess that after being away from home long enough, he will probably come scurrying back with his “tail between his legs.” On the other hand, it seems Delia is very in touch with herself and understands the impact of the decisions she makes, and thinks through her every move. Of course, these differences may be from age differences; however, nonetheless, they are still monumental differences. More importantly, these differences shape the outcome of the stories themselves.

Hurston & Wright

Zora Neale Hurston is one of the most distinguished authors I have ever had the pleasure of reading. Her use of language and experience is enough to draw any reader in. The story of Delia Jones is one that has many different challenges intertwined into one extravagant story.

How does the use of language affect you as a reader?

I found that I struggled to read and understand the language initially. It took a few minutes to read each passage thoroughly and to put them into a contemporary setting. However, I found that by the second part, I had a general understanding and could read fairly well. Hurston uses this language to help take us to the place that Delia lives. She is a character in a seemingly poorer, African-American community. She is in an abusive relationship and as a result has become very strong minded. In the secondary source, on page 1608 it is said that “outside of racial attitudes, there is still another reason why this literature should exist. Literature and other arts are supposed to hold up the mirror to nature. With only the fractional ‘exceptional’ and the ‘quaint’ portrayed, a true picture of Negro life in America cannot be. A great principle of national art has been violated.” In my opinion, too many authors express the idealistic reality of most people. A white man or woman is most likely to be the good guy in a book or movie, just as an African-American is likely to be the bad guy. Yet this is not a realistic perspective! However, back to the use of language. Hurston’s use of real language allows the reader to really experience how Delia lives and it seems to draw the reader into the situation. The use of dialect and phrasing is astounding and creates an entirely new feel to the novel.

In The Man Who Was Almost A Man by Richard Wright, the biggest thing that stuck out to me was the symbolism of the gun. In this short story, the gun that Dave wants resembles manhood. My question to you is, what is it about a gun that tells a boy he is a man? Is it the fact that it is a powerful weapon that could kill someone? Or is it something that is just innate in us that a gun is a man’s toy? Personally, I think that Wright used the gun as a symbol of manhood because it is not only a weapon and should be used to get food for the family but also a means of protection. I have always grown up in a home where I know that my dad has a gun for protection. It is his responsibility to protect us in any way he sees fit. Using a gun is his source of protection. It is funny to think about because logically there are other ways of becoming a man, yet even today, owning a gun makes boys feel like men.

In comparing the two stories, I feel that they are both easy to relate to. The common language just keeps you tuned in to the speaker. Although the first story may be a little difficult to catch on to, the latter is very simple and easy to understand. Both Hurston and Wright use tremendous methods of language and tone! Both are great stories. 🙂

Hurston & Wright

Although Zora Neale Hurston and Richard Wright wrote their short stories in different eras, it is striking to see how their trials as African-American authors were very similar. As one can see when reading the accompanied readings for the day, both of these authors felt much prejudice in regards to their skin color. Hurston discusses how difficult it was to get people to publish any work of literature with characters who were black, while Wright points out that the “white South” thought because Wright was black, he was an “inferior being” (1572). Putting that similarity between the two authors aside, their short stories are alike in that the main character makes a decision that alters their life. Other than that, the stories are quite different.

      The main thought that continually ran through my mind while reading “Sweat” is my first question of the day. If so many people knew that Delia was both being beaten by and cheated on by her husband (Syke Jones), why didn’t anyone do something to stop it? I understand that it was a different time back then, and that it was more of a common occurrence than it is now. However, it is very clear in the reading that people were bothered by it, even though it happened quite often around them. In one part of the story, some men-“village men on Joe Clarke’s porch” (566)-have a whole conversation about it, commenting that they should “…take Syke an’ dat stray ‘oman uh his’n down in Lake Howell swamp an’ lay on de rawhide till they cain’t say Lawd a’ mussy…we oughter kill ‘im” (567). However, as soon as the heat “melted their civic virtue” (567), they were up, getting ready to help the customers (including Sykes and his mistress), the earlier discussion forgotten.

     Maybe it is just because I am looking back from a different time with some naïveté, but as the story continues, I begin to become more and more frustrated with the other people who daily watch this one-sided battle (the parts where Sykes uses Delia’s giant fear of snakes against her bothers me the most). Of course, Delia does end up growing a backbone and eventually tells her husband that “Ah hates you, Sykes…Ah hates you tu de same degree dat Ah useter love yuh…Lay ‘round wid dat ‘oman all yuh wants tu, but gwan ‘way from me an’ mah house. Ah hates yuh lak uh suck-egg dog” (569). This empowering speech fills the reader with a bittersweet feeling. First of all, one would like to stand up and cheer for Delia after seeing how much she had to suffer throughout this “marriage”. On the other hand, it is very hard to see that she was forced to deal with this man-this tyrant-on her own.

     The end of “Sweat” is also quite hard for the reader to swallow, as it ends on a very unsatisfactory note. In an ironic turn of events, a snake (which is what Delia fears most of all, and is what Sykes always used to scare her) bit Sykes, causing him to die a slow and painful death. As opposed to attempting to help her abusive husband, Delia simply goes outside to wait for his inevitable death. Although one might think this is a triumphant ending, the last sentence contains a part which shows that it is actually quite sad: “…where she waited in the growing heat while inside she knew the cold river was creeping up and up to extinguish that eye which must know by now that she knew” (572). Now Delia must face this guilt the rest of her live, whereas if somebody had stepped in to help her, the ending might have been a bit more encouraging.

     “The Man Who Was Almost a Man” is a coming-of-age story which ends with a boy-Dave-who gets into some trouble with a gun he bought (which his mother intended for his father to have). At the end of the story, rather than facing his humiliation and his father’s inevitable beatings, Dave runs away from home with the gun and heads to the railroad tracks and “…pulls atop of a car, and lay flat…Ahead the long rails were glinting in the moonlight, stretching away, away to somewhere, somewhere where he could be a man…” (1376).

     After reading this story, and the related commentary (“Reading Fiction”), I began to connect the two, and that is where my second question came from. How are Dave and Richard Wright similar? I always think it fascinating when one can find parts of the author in his/her character(s), and Dave from “The Man Who Was Almost a Man” is no exception. The first glaring alikeness is easily found when one reads the story, then the commentary that the book provides (which is taken from his autobiography Black Boy). As one can see from above, the story ends with ellipses. The beginning sentence of the commentary reads “I was now running more away from something than toward something” (1570).

     Another similarity between Dave and Wright was that they both had a “weapon”-so to speak-which made them feel stronger. With Dave, it was that two-dollar gun he had originally purchased for his father so that the family would be safe. With Wright, it was books. He wrote that “It had been only through books…that I had managed to keep myself alive…” (1572).

     The last way that Dave and Wright are alike is that they both held on to, more than anything else, hope. The very last part of the last sentence in “The Man Who Was Almost a Man” talks about the moonlight “stretching away…to somewhere, somewhere where he could be a man…” (1376). From this sentence-and the rest of the short story-it is clear to the reader that Dave clings on to hope, hope that one day he will be a man. In Wright’s case, he holds on to the hope of abandoning his past in general. He writes that “In the main, my hope was merely a kind of self-defence, a conviction that if I did not leave I would perish…” (1571).