An Ode To Hemingway

"The mountain that was beyond the valley and the hillside where the chestnut forest grew was captured and there were victories beyond the plain on the plateau to the south and we crossed a river in August and lived in a house in Gorizia that had a fountain and many thick shady trees in a walled garden and a wistaria vine purple on the side of the house."

Ernest Hemingway is the only author I know who can use three weak verbs in a 68 word sentence and still be considered a "good" writer. That, and either he lived in a dark age before the comma was invented, or nobody bothered to tell him that there is indeed a literary device used to denote pauses mid-speech. If I had a dollar for every time Hemingway used a comma in A Farewell To Arms, I'd have roughly 75 cents. If I had a nickel for every time he used a weak verb, Bill Gates would have some serious competition.

Hyperbole aside, I don't think Hemingway is that bad. Thus far in A Farewell To Arms, I have wholeheartedly enjoyed a few sections where Hemingway details the events, thoughts, and psychological what-nots between Henry and Catherine. The biggest problem for me is that those enjoyable passages are sandwiched in between chapter-thick packing peanuts of bland, bland description. I'm fully aware of the Hemingway iceberg analogy that I'm supposed to keep on tap whenever I'm reading Ernie, but I have some pretty intrinsic disagreements with that concept.

"If a writer knows enough about what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one ninth of it being above water."

Okay, the idea seems elegant on the surface. Next time I get a C+ on a research paper, I'm going to tell my professor that I know so much about what I write, that I purposely omit key points, and really, the fault lies with him not being a perceptive enough reader. I'm sure that'll go over great. I simply don't see the virtue in deliberately omitting important things in your writing, for the express purpose of 'dignity'. If I'm going to read a book, I don't want to have to go through a motif-mapping section where I draw a bunch of red lines all over the paper, make a note every time the author uses the word "bedsheet" and finally unlock my golden key, only to realize the story about a sailor and his wife is actually an allegory for the merits of communism. To me, that's just silly.

Although, again, I give Ernie a little too much flack. We're talking about the opposite ends of two writing extremes here: One is Hemingway--the author who describes sparingly, leaving breadcrumb clues so you can follow his trail of repetition and weak verbs all the way to the treasure chest at the end of the book. The other is Dafoe, who spends 5 goddamn chapters talking about the awesome rowboat he made. If Hemingway is an iceberg, then Dafoe is Snooki, because there is nothing below the surface. I can definitively say that I'm enjoying Ernie much more than I enjoyed Dafoe--but is there no middle ground?

The answer to that question is obviously "yes", because I'm in a class where we deliberately read and analyze different styles of novels, and the only way to accurately represent them is by providing stark contrasts between various eras. But, hey, it's more fun on my part to complain about being submerged to my cheekbones in weak verbs. 

So, while I do think Hemingway's style sets an odd precedent for readers and writers, I think it's a valid precedent, because I'm sure there's someone--probably more than someone--out there who thinks my stuff is worse than Hemingway's. Just ask my past couple English teachers. Ha!

Of Forests, Demons, and Creepy Little Children

A dark, mystical forest, resting on the fine line between reality and the "other" side. Shameful adulteresses meet under the cover of night, to discuss plans with their lovers. The trees wield the eyes and ears of "the black man", and terrifyingly precognizant children make startlingly accurate predictions.

If all this sounds familiar to you, you're probably really into grade-B horror movies, or you've read The Scarlet Letter.

The forest on the edge of town presents some interesting food for thought in The Scarlet Letter. Many a plot point occur within it's grasp. Hester, for whatever masochistic reason,  decides to maintain residence near Boston, in a cottage just next to the forest. But the closer one gets to the forest is directly proportional to the concentration of grade-B-horror-movie level happenings: take it from Hawthorne.

"A mystic shadow of suspicion immediately attached itself to [Hester's house]. Children, too young to comprehend wherefore this woman should be shut out from the sphere of human charities, would creep nigh enough to behold her plying her needle at the cottage-window, or standing in the doorway, or labouring in her little garden, or coming forth along the pathway that led townward, and, discerning the scarlet letter on her breast, would scamper off with a strange contagious fear."   

Oh my gosh, an old abandoned cottage occupied by a barren, harsh, ostracized woman, where children creep near to the windows, peek in, scream, and run away in fear? Color me terrified. If that doesn't scream grade-B horror movie, I don't know what does.

...Well, I take that back. You know what else does? Creepy clairvoyant little girls.

"‘Mother,’ said little Pearl, ‘the sunshine does not love you. It runs away and hides itself, because it is afraid of something on your bosom. Now, see! There it is, playing a good way off. Stand you here, and let me run and catch it. I am but a child. It will not flee from me—for I wear nothing on my bosom yet!’"

Yeah. If I were Hester, I'd be worried about my kid, too. Especially the way Pearl seems perpetually unfazed by how terrifying her cognizance is. Pearl is an innocent object--a small child--and as such, the realizations that she makes about her mother are unblemished by society, and any preconceived definitions that someone who isn't a three-year-old might have. Thus, when she says something that requires either superhuman level comprehension, or prior knowledge, it's really creepy.

"‘Come, my child!’ said Hester, looking about her from the spot where Pearl had stood still in the sunshine—‘we will sit down a little way within the wood, and rest ourselves.’
‘I am not aweary, mother,’ replied the little girl. ‘But you may sit down, if you will tell me a story meanwhile.’
‘A story, child!’ said Hester. ‘And about what?’
‘Oh, a story about the Black Man,’ answered Pearl, taking hold of her mother’s gown, and looking up, half earnestly, half mischievously, into her face.
‘How he haunts this forest, and carries a book with him a big, heavy book, with iron clasps; and how this ugly Black Man offers his book and an iron pen to everybody that meets him here among the trees; and they are to write their names with their own blood; and then he sets his mark on their bosoms. Didst thou ever meet the Black Man, mother?’"

"The Black Man", in this case, means Satan.
That passage just got a whole lot creepier, didn't it? Especially when Hester acknowledges that the Scarlet Letter is the Black Man's mark, and that she did indeed meet him.

All of these passages occur in the forest, just outside Boston. The forest is a place detached from Puritan society--despite being so close to Boston, the ideals change so drastically inside it. It's a mystical, surreal landscape, that overturns, and exposes the underlying flaws of Puritan society.  Dimmesdale is able to meet with Hester to discuss their relationship, something that would invariably get them killed, or at least jailed, if they were to do it in public. The Puritans believe their methods of punishing Hester to be good for her, and an improvement to her character, for both the good of their community and Hester herself. But in reality, Hester hates it. It not only causes her extreme pain, but that pain is shared by Dimmesdale, because he cannot openly acknowledge their sin. Thus, they hide in the forest, alone and ashamed, to reconcile each other about the wrongs brought upon them. Pearl, however, does not realize how the forest is different from Boston. She frequently berates Dimmesdale for not publicly recognizing them as a family, because she doesn't understand that there is a clear line between the quasi-surreal forest, and the early Puritan society in Boston. Despite her spot-on psychic accuracy, she is unable to parse basic social norms.

It's interesting, how the horrifying concept of an innocent psychic child personifying the remorse we all feel for our sins, has seeped it's way even into today's media. Hawthorne was able to tap into some basal human fear that hasn't eroded despite 300 years of perpetuation. It's no secret that a hypnagogic landscape--where closed doors open, shadows move, and things change--and unnaturally aware children are staples of, well, grade-B horror movies.

 In a Noble-Savage-esque way, Pearl is both an object for comparison, and the lens that we use to compare. Pearl is unabashed by society--so the observations she makes about Hester are true and pure, despite what her messages might connotate. But just as well, Pearl herself is a personified Scarlet letter--she is at the same time Hester's shame, for committing adultery, but also her love for Dimmesdale, and the result of that. It is, indeed, Pearl's namesake: she's the treasure that Hester gave everything for. And that's enough dichotomy for 4 PM on a Saturday.

Crusoe, Dafoe, and The Enlightenmento

Do you often say to yourself "Gee, I sure wonder what parallels there are in the text Robinson Crusoe, connecting Dafoe's book to enlightenment ideals?" I know I do. Well, fear not, for the answer to all your quandaries is listed herein. But not so fast--let's start from the beginning. 

First, a brief outline of enlightenment ideals: The enlightenment revolved primarily around rationalism, embodying all of the ideals Locke put forth over a century earlier. This mentality was supported by such upcoming rational ideas/constructs as the scientific method, and the industrial revolution. Overall, the enlightenment desired experience over theory. "But John! How do these enlightenment ideals permeate Dafoe's text?" Don't worry! We're getting there.

These enlightenment ideals permeate Dafoe's text, but not in the preachy, exemplary kind. These ideals are crumpled up, stomped on, and thrown in the trash by Crusoe, in the beginning of the book, as he goes off to sea. Think about it--everything Crusoe does is what the enlightenment doesn't.  What Crusoe does is in no way rational. It is, in fact, quite the opposite. He glorifies theory over experience, and convinces himself to ignore the sage advice of his parents and peers, and sets sail, because goddamnit he thinks it's gonna be awesome. And what happens? He gets enslaved, has the worst time of his life on a boat hit by a catastrophic storm (twice), and ends up on a deserted island full of cannibals, in no particular order. It's pretty clear that Dafoe isn't very fond of Crusoe's irrational state of mind, so as the author, he punishes him for it. Crusoe, you idiot! How dare you leave the lethargically comfortable quicksand of middle class life. What did you think was going to happen? 

But slowly, Crusoe begins to take control of his surroundings--shedding his former folly, he begins to recreate his own society on his little island. He adopts societal tendencies and mentalities. He builds a shelter,  later filled with amenities unprecedented for an island-dweller, and he maintains a calendar, always minding the date and time. Through Friday, his father, and the Spaniard they save, he almost is able to recreate a small society entirely. As the book progresses, Crusoe's mentality changes to that of a societal leader, assuming responsibility for the men that now populate "his island". How far Crusoe has gone from maniacally questioning his origins, to maintaining his very own colony on an island. And this reconnects to another enlightenment ideal--collectivism. The interdependence of every human being, and the truths found therein.

So--there you have it. According to Dafoe, what happens when you disobey enlightenment ideals? You end up on a deserted island, devoid of all humanity save for cannibals. And when you atone for your sins by building a society? You finally get off the island to return to "real" society, and end up wealthy, happy, and well. 

Don't Read This Article

While Robinson Crusoe wasn't necessarily my favorite book in the world--far from that, actually--like many books I read, I found small bits of entertainment or amusement here and there. In Robinson Crusoe, this mainly came from the surprisingly blunt presence and representation of the "vices of humanity", if you will, through the acts of Crusoe's character. However intentional or unintentional, Defoe was able to thoroughly exemplify the both disgusting and stubbornly charming aspects of being human. 

The first of these aspects--the disgusting one--comes to mind in Crusoe's changing opinion of his slave boy, Xury. When they first meet, he asks Xury to join him and form a pact of sorts, and is impressed by his loyalty: "The boy smiled in my face, and spoke so innocently that I could not distrust him, and [he] swore to be faithful to me, and go all over the world with me," (Defoe, 34). Xury aids Robinson in many a way, including helping to procure their freedom, and they develop quite a bond together on the African coast. At this point, Crusoe seems genuinely fond of Xury--but of course, the aforementioned vices take over. When a Portuguese ship finds it's way to their coast, Crusoe opts to sell Xury for 60 pieces of eight, which he was "loth [loath, I believe?] to take, not that I was unwilling to let the captain have him, but I was very loth to sell the poor boy's liberty," (Defoe 52). At this point, Crusoe is still obviously somewhat fond of Xury, but not so fond that he wouldn't sell his buddy back into slavery. Which, while Crusoe manages to frame it slightly "nicer" than the actual act that he committed, we can take a step back from that premise for a second and recognize that he just sold his friend into slavery. One page and a three-year time lapse later, Crusoe is already wishing for "His boy Xury" back, to help him out on his tobacco plantation. Yeah--not for the companionship of the guy who was alongside you while escaping slavery, for the slave labor that he could have taken advantage of to further his agricultural establishment. Way to go, Crusoe. And way to go, Defoe, because I think in his excessively detailed yet ever-so-frank writing style, he managed to stumble onto a gem of humanity. This gem's a blood diamond, but it's at least interesting to observe. 

The other more amusing aspect I found was Crusoe's on-and-off relationship to being at sea. When the book begins, Crusoe is a sailor at heart. He preaches it to his parents, and repeatedly denies his father's advice and warnings about life as a seaman. Crusoe's only wish is to go to sea, and the only way he can ever enjoy life or be liberated is to be out on the ocean. While no real motives are ever presented, it's definitely clear that Crusoe wants to go to sea. So finally, after disobeying every bit of advice, and the will of his parents, he runs away to go to sea. He's there! Woo, gotta be awesome, right? Haha... no. After a storm hits their ship, we get to read this monologue: "I made many vows and resolutions that if it would please God to spare my life this one voyage, If I ever once got my foot upon dry land again, I would go directly home to my father, and never set it into a ship again while I lived; that I would take his advice, and never run myself into such miseries as these anymore... And I resolved that I would, like a true repenting prodigal, go home to my father," (Defoe 10). So, naturally, after that horrible experience, and revelation about how painfully correct his parents were, Crusoe never goes back to sea. Right? Haha...no. Crusoe proceeds to stomp all over those past re-assertions of his assertions, go to sea many, many, more times. In all honesty, I think what drives this is another one of these unnamed vices--"Someone tells me I shouldn't do this? Better do it. Don't press this button? Eh, nah. Don't read this article? Hmm..". 

It seems silly to read, but I recognize that as something we all do--or maybe it's just me, and I'm as crazy as Crusoe--but that aside; I clearly remember being a six-year-old and having that same attitude about cleaning my room, and a myriad of other chores. I would come to do something of my own volition, and it would be reaffirmed by my mother--but somehow that declaration--even if I was already going to do it, would deter me from performing that action itself. In short, the fact that I was told to do it made me not want to. Inversely so, the same happens with Crusoe. He is told to not go to sea, and he disobeys. Even after that apocalyptic epiphany he has mid-storm, Crusoe still goes back to sea, again, I think, because he is told not to. This happens in everyday life too--say you're given an English blog post assignment that ought to be limited to 500 words, and you make it 900 instead. It's all about fighting the man. Don't let establishment keep you down. 

Dead is the New Perennial

When someone's last name is verbatim the file format for a word document, you know they've probably got something going for them. That anecdote remains true with Edward Docx's "Postmodernism is dead" critique, which I'll concede was a great read, and healthy food for thought. Despite that, though, I find that postmodernism is as ever-present as it has always been, and that what has really died is simply a contingency of starkly opinionated yet maladroit artists who get their kicks out of the closest thing to "trolling" in the art world.

For the majority of his critique, Eddy summarizes the existence of postmodernism as "really an attack not just on the dominant narrative or art forms but rather an attack on the dominant social discourse" and "that we are all in our very selves nothing more than the breathing aggregate of [social] structures. It contends that we cannot stand apart from the demands and identities that these structures and discourses confer upon us." Postmodernism is everything that modernism wanted to be—the righteous vandals who scurry under the radar, leaving their marks and dropping hints to help the rest of the art world, instructing them to follow the white rabbit out of the matrix that is these "structures" that dictate what art should be. And yet, wasn't that what modernism already was? From the Wikipedia article on Modernism: 

"In art, Modernism explicitly rejects the ideology of realism and makes use of the works of the past, through the application of reprise, incorporation, rewriting, recapitulation, revision, and parody in new forms. Modernism also rejects the lingering certainty of Enlightenment thinking, as well as the idea of a compassionate, all-powerful Creator."

The irony in this is that in Edward's article, he himself pokes fun at how postmodernism tears apart the predisposed ideas we developed in the Enlightenment.

What I see here isn't a unique new genre of music or art or expression, I see the rustled jimmies of displaced modern artists who felt as though their established state of unestablishment became too established, so they moved on to create something less established. An endless cycle of who can be the most disconnected. As a highschool student, this is pretty evident with the way basic trends work, too. Remember "Call Me Maybe"? Remember when it first came out, how cool it was to be into it, because not everyone was? But then it became uncool, because everyone was into it! So now Call Me Maybe isn't cool anymore. It's just overplayed. Need another analogy? Think of the Twilight Book series. When it first emerged and hordes of teenage girls were in ecstatic tumult about it, the few and the proud who remained contrary to that mentality were the cool ones. Slowly but surely, as the series ended, more and more people flocked to the "We hate Twilight!" crowds, though. And now, hating Twilight isn't funny anymore. Now, you don't even talk about it. The same thing happened with Justin Bieber. I could go on.

But given enough time, all of it moves in a cycle. This cycle tends to be very subjective, but probably at some point in the future, Call Me Maybe will be remembered fondly again, without any of the baggage it's developed from being played and talked about so often. Even now, the people who adopt the "Well, it's a very good song with a catchy tune and fun lyrics, it's simply overplayed" attitude are considered level-headed and adult, as they've again separated themselves from the crowd. 

So, then is postmodernism really dead? Was it never alive? Was it simply a bastardization of a legitimate genre that somehow weaseled itself into the annals of art history? None of the above! I see postmodernism as a genre that is ever-present, and continues to live on in the genres that it riffs upon. In this case, that genre is modernism. But the people with the aforementioned attitude are always there, as they themselves are the people who, hundreds of years ago, began the Enlightenment. The people who detached themselves from the group and looked for answers outside of social structures and discourse are not postmodernists, they are an ongoing mindset that is only defined by the establishment that they tear themselves away from. 

And while my tone towards these people has been slightly less than accepting, I do believe that there are absolutely lessons we can learn from these separatists, but all in moderation. Society as a whole can benefit from the teachings of those who have dared to dream beyond the boundaries of accepted discourse, and as evidenced by the Enlightenment, we already have. And we will continue to do so, for as long as society exists. But what we want as a society are truly unique viewpoints and attitudes delivered by scholars who've separated themselves from society purely for the purpose of enlightenment, not washed up existential cynicism from hipsters who thought their last clique wasn't obscure enough.