"The Literary Imagination"

In my last entry, I mentioned that there were similarities between Charles Dicken's Hard Times, which I coincidentally happened to be reading for my British Literature class, and Rushdie's novel. Then I read the essay, "The Literary Imagination," by Martha C. Nussbaum and was surprised to find that her entire essay focused on Hard Times.

Nussbaum does a great job in talking about the value of literature and what the literary imagination does for us. She points out that if Mr. Gradgrind finds that literature must be suppressed, then clearly literature has great power over us. In Rushdie's book, the politician Snooty Buttoo hires Rashid to help him gain popularity by telling stories. Although he tries to utilize Rashid's storytelling for a political cause, it's the storytelling that intrigues people. In the end, storytelling has greater power. In fact, we are so intrigued by literature and the literary imagination that the more it is suppressed, the more we are drawn to it; when speech and storytelling are in danger of suppression, the Land of Gup finally goes to war with the Land of Chup. As the Cultmaster says, and as Mr. Grandgrind says, Fact is to be given the greatest importance and fanciful thoughts are to be shunned. Nussbaum adresses this question--"why novels and not histories or biographies?" She answers this question by writing, "Literary art, [Aristotle] said, is more 'philosophical' than history, because history simply shows us 'what happened,' whereas works of literary art show us 'things such as might happen' in human life."

But what happens in Rushdie's novel can't happen in real life. While reading the book, I was quite sure that Haroun's adventure would turn out to be a dream and was surprised when it wasn't. This is where literary imagination plays its biggest role. In presenting things that are absurd and unrealistic, it urges us to imagine a world of absurdity and surrealism. Through the surrealism, we are able to discern "what could happen." Though it's impossible for the Earth to have a second moon inhabited by creatures who are at war with one another about free speech, this fanciful story brings us to the realization that the suppression of free speech and the "public imagination" is all too real. This brings me back to what I wrote in my paper on Sylvia Plath's poem. Literary works shock us into realizing things. Nussbaum writes, "Because it summons powerful emotions, it disconcerts and puzzles. It inspires distrust of conventional pieties and exacts a frenquently painful confrontation with one's own thoughts and intentions...Literary works that promote identification and emotional reaction cut through those self-protective stratagems, requiring us to see and to respond to many things that may be difficult to confront." In his essay "Circles," Emerson says the same thing when he talks about the effect of being unsettled: "People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them." Literature "disconcerts and puzzles" us, or in Emerson's words, unsettles us. Emerson says that being unsettled is a desirable condition and Nussbaum explains that this is so because "[literary works] make this process palatable by giving us pleasure in the very act of confrontation."

Haroun and the Sea of Stories

Spring break may have involved a great deal of procrastination but somehow, I managed to finish reading Salman Rushdie's Haroun and the Sea of Stories. Even more shocking is the fact that I was able to finish reading it in one sitting, perhaps because I found it to be a lighthearted and enjoyable.

I've been meaning to read other books by Rushdie, only that I never got around to doing it. So I looked up Rushdie on Wikipedia and found that he wrote this book right after his highly controversial publication, The Satanic Verses. I wonder if this had anything to do with the blatantly emphasized themes in Haroun and the Sea of Stories. The most obvious of these themes is the suppression of free speech and more importantly, the pollution of people's imaginations. As a children's book, it encourages children to imagine. Reality is more often than not imposed upon us; it's enough that it's always with us. When the Cultmaster says, "You'd have done better to stick with Facts, but you were stuffed with stories," I was reminded of Charles Dicken's Hard Times which I finished reading only a few hours before picking up Rushdie's book. This is something Mr. Grandgrind might have said to Sissy Jupe. Dickens and Rushdie both write the word "fact" with a capital F. The first letter of various other words is capitalizes. This gives the word more emphasis and importance.

I also feel as though this book transcended its lighthearted tone in terms of its content. Rushdie presents a world in which all speech is barred being at war with a world that loves speech. This land of silence attempts to spread its influence over the land of speech. This entire scenario is very grave and serious if we take it outside the context of a children's book. What I found particularly interesting was the part where Rushdie talks about the burning of the Pages. It reminded me of excerpts I've read on censorship and the burning of books. Being strongly opposed to censorship, I appreciated Rushdie's book a lot. As the Hoopoe said, "Is not the Power of Speech the greatest Power of all? Then surely it must be exercised to the full?" (Power with a capital P. Speech with a capital S.)

Aside from talking about the suppression of speech and imagination, Rushdie seems to be making a big statement about what a good story is made of. General Kitab, who's name literally translates to mean book, "was on many occasions actually provoking such disputes, and then joining in with enthusiastic glee, sometimes taking one side, and at other times (just for fun) expressing the opposite point of view." This happens to be what good books do: present all aspects of a topic (though they eventually must take a stand.) Another instance in which Rushdie talks about good stories is when Blabbermouth says, "I always thought storytelling was like juggling. You keep a lot of different tales in the air, and juggle then up and down, and if you're good you don't drop any." To me, this also meant that in order to keep the appeal of literature in general, alive, one has to be good at keeping a balance in terms of the elements which the work is comprised of. For some reason, this reminded me of the differences between the Homeric Odyssey and Walcott's Odyssey which were created entirely as a result of a difference in language and setting. By juggling the olden tale with the contemporary language and the surreal settings, Walcott, too, presents something that is authentic and entertaining.

Authenticity is another thing that Rushdie talks about. If people rely on their imaginations, they can come up with innovative stories. Along with the need to be creative, Rushdie stresses the need for individuals to articulate their ideas as well. Silence pollutes and destroys great stories.

Walcott's Odyssey

From the beginning, Walcott's Odyssey is a complete departure from the Homeric Odyssey. Starting with the narrator, blind Billy Blue who represents the blind bard Homer, we see that this play is a parody. Homer invokes the muse in the beginning. Billy Blue says he is telling us the story because we like to hear such stories. This says a lot. For one thing, entertainment value is the primary reason why people watch plays. The contemporary speech makes the play altogether more interesting to watch. Our familiarity with the plot as a classic makes it humorous.

It seemed as though Walcott made it a point to present everything as the opposite of how Homer presents it. Homer starts with the story of Telemachus. Walcott starts with Troy. He gives us a glimpse of the hero, Odysseus, first. Odysseus is not the valiant and amazing hero we see in the Homeric Odyssey. He is rather warlike and we see his internal conflict right away through the use of Thersites as a foil.

Moving on, we see Walcott's characterization of women; Penelope is more assertive, Circe's sexuality is played up to an extreme and Nausika's character is put in an entirely new perspective. In the Odyssey, we don't see much of Nausika. She is the pure and completely restrained daughter of King Alcinous. Walcott shows us a lot more of her character. She's a typical teenager caught in between childhood and adulthood. She is extremely flirtacious and constantly wants to talk about sex. Clearly, she's not getting any. This brings us back to the Homeric theme of growing up which was only seen in Telemachus. Here, Nausika parallels Telemachus's story of growing up. He is desperately trying to make the transition into manhood while she is desperately trying to make the transition into womanhood. Here, Arete is not present. In Telemachus's life, Odysseus is not present. This has a tremendous impact on how these two characters mature into adults.

What I found to be most intriguing about Walcott's play is his rendition of the underworld scene. Walcott's surreal choice of setting is most important in this scene. Earlier, the Cyclops scene was set on a "long, grey, empty wharf" and Odysseus and his men randomly encountered a philosopher who said some very strange things to them. Now, the underworld is set in the underground and there is a random machine with a mirror. His mother, Anticlea, is dressed in a coat, hat, and scarf. This is all very strange. Also, Odysseus does not encounter all of the other characters such as Agamemnon and Achilles.

But why the underground? Yes, it is under, but it is also a place of transportation. Anticlea says, "You never get off. The train goes on forever." This is a different perspective on death. In Homer's Odyssey, death is presented as static condition. The dead are in one place, oblivious of their surrounding and suffering. Here, they are oblivious, but moving constantly on a train going nowhere. This nonetheless comes back to Homer, but from a different direction, as it all amounts to not going anywhere in the end. Anticlea cannot see her reflection in the mirror. She is gone from the real world and is underneath. We can envision a train, going on endlessly in a dark tunnel.

In Walcott's Odyssey, we clearly see the emotion better. We don't have to search for it in metaphors. This differentiates drama from poetry. Drama can be altogether more enjoyable and entertaining, as the characteristics and emotions are expressed entirely in dialogue. We also note that Walcott is, in many ways, poking fun at the Odyssey. It's like taking a classic down from its pedestal and placing it within the sphere of our tangible world. Parodies thrive on humor. This reminded me of one of my favorite parodies: the movie, 10 Things I Hate About You, which is a parody of Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew. Parodies just go to show how a drastic change in setting and language can entirely change the the interpretation and the tone of a literary work.

"One Art"

Elizabeth Bishop’s poem had a lasting impact upon me. Perhaps, we feel a deep connection to things we can relate to in our own lives. Who hasn’t felt the heavy, debilitating, crushing force of loss? Elizabeth Bishop talks about loss and we remember our own losses. We remember “lost door keys, the hour badly spent.” Bishop says so eloquently what we all want to say sometimes.

Truth is, we all lose what which we love in life. We lose door keys, we lose watches, we lose homes, we lose our roots and finally, we lose our loved ones. Loss progresses. We start by losing trivial things and then we lose things that have the ability to create a disaster in our lives. We “master” the art of losing because quite frankly, we have no choice. It’s an immutable feature of life. “So many things seem to be filled with the intent / to be lost that their loss is no disaster.” Is it really not a disaster? Does the narrator force herself to believe this? She does indeed force herself to “write it!” How can it not be disaster then?

It is disaster but we don’t want it to be. We want to “accept the fluster,” we learn to “[lose] faster,” so loss becomes something that’s not hard to “master.” This works because then, we lose “vaster” things, and keep reminding ourselves that loss is “no disaster.”

But what is the art that Elizabeth Bishop is really talking about? Is it our ability to force ourselves to rationalize our situation without throwing ourselves into disaster? Sylvia Plath’s poem represents loss in a painful and horrific way. Sylvia Plath was not so concerned with rationalizing. Sylvia Plath killed herself at the age of 30. Is rationalizing our losses what ultimately keeps us sane and alive?

Through the mechanics of Bishop's poem, we see the narrator constricting herself. She is suffocated by her rationality. Her poem is a villanelle, difficult to write, and very controlled. The narrator is also very controlled. She forces herself to get over herself. Sylvia Plath forces herself upon us. We cared about Sylvia Plath because she forced us to care. We care about Bishop because we care about the realities of our own lives. Stifling our emotions makes us sad. Allowing our emotions to control us kills us. We’d rather be sad than dead.

The word “disaster” is repeated several times. The rhyme in this poem brings us back to this word. Disaster would readily define us if we allowed it to. We’re always leaning towards that state, being pulled towards it. And we resist. We resist disaster so much that even when it is disaster, we refuse to accept that it is. Accepting disaster would make reality swing back with great force, debilitating force.

I’ve read “Daddy” about a hundred times now. I keep trying to pull out every emotion and every word connected to that emotion. I keep trying to find one single unifying theme in Plath’s poem. It’s an outburst. It’s obnoxious. Then, I think about Bishop’s poem and realize that Plath’s poem is about losing control.

Why should we care?

From an early age, we're told that poetry is beautiful. Does that make us like it? It certainly makes us believe that we should like poetry because we like beautiful things. I spent some time hating on poetry instead. This was until I realized that everything we find beautiful is poetry. A beautiful song is poetry. Beautifully written prose is poetry. Poetry is technique and through the clever use of technique, poets draw us in. But why should we care to be drawn in? I hated poetry because I believed that anything that requires a tremendous amount of effort to comprehend is not worth my time and patience. Why force understanding upon ourselves? Good poetry is that which forces us to feel rather than understand. This is what the element of shock does to us. Shocking poems are great.

Shocking/good poems are belligerent and their poets are even more belligerent. They intrude into our calm, collected lives and pester us. They place images before our eyes that we may not necessarily want to see. They make us hear sounds which may annoy us. Poets suck us into their minds without our consent. We become confused, angry, bewildered, and most importantly, shocked.

Shocking poems are what we need to concern ourselves with as critics. But why in the world should we want to read 80 lines of poetry in which we find Sylvia Plath whining and bitching about her father? When I first read "Daddy," I thought, "Great, here's another self-pitying brat talking about loss and sadness and a dissatisfying childhood." Then, I heard Plath's reading of her poem with all the bitterness in her voice and I began to care. I cared enough to spend two days picking her poem apart--perhaps to try and comprehend where Sylvia Plath got the audacity to write something so outrageous and more importantly, to understand how and why "Daddy" riles us up like it does.

The thing about Sylvia Plath's poem is that it screams at us for no apparent reason. Plath is repetitive without being redundant. Her poem is yelling obscenities and so, after we hear her poem, we bash her, label her a whiner, and call her ignorant for likening the genocide of millions to her own individual suffering. But Sylvia Plath has gotten to us. She has made enough of a statement to get people riled up. Clearly, she wanted to shock her readers and shocked we readers are. We are shocked when she says she felt like a Jew even though she wasn't a Jew. We are shocked when she calls her daddy a Nazi and a bastard even though he was not a Nazi. Moreso, we are shocked that she refers to her dad as "daddy" in spite of depicting him as a Nazi. Sylvia Plath gets to us and sucks us into her own twisted mind.

As readers, we simultaneously love and hate the feeling of being unsettled and displaced from our comfort zones. Good poetry is able to do this to us. To interlope into our lives, bring us out into the open and carry us to a great height. We have a fear of heights but at the same time, a love for the feeling of freedom that great heights instill within us. Sylvia Plath's poem does this to us and though we may call her whiner, she is a creative, smart, and effective whiner. It's poetry! She can say whatever she wants and so she does, loudly. She forces us to believe her and we do because we can see all the ugly images and hear all the disconcerting sounds in her poem. Then, we find out she's not a Jew and these images are only in her head. Then, we become angry, but Sylvia Plath has already gotten to us. She has made us believe her suffering and she has made us care about her suffering because we care about good writers. We are intrigued by them because their poetry has the power to provoke our anger and our praise--by displaying either emotion, we've demonstrated the poem's ability to force us to care.

Are Great Books great?

Now, shifting my focus to literature, I do actually wonder what renders a work of literature as a classic (this thought was brought on by the reading from Richter). Would I ever have known that any book is a classic if I was not told that it was? Perhaps not. Today, I reflected on the fact that most of the books on my list of favorites are classics. One explanation that Tompkins discusses is that these works are classics because they have stood the test of time. They have persisted through changing times and have been widely read all this time, thus earning classic status. I do agree with this somewhat, yet I can also see the counterargument that these books are just imposed upon us. There are many books I've read in high school which I hated and was forced to complete, simply because people with bad taste (though pragmatically speaking, taste that just differed from my own) had decided that they were phenomenal. Nonetheless, I feel as though I would have missed out on vital literary experiences, had I not been prompted to read books such as The Great Gatsby, Frankenstein, Wuthering Heights, Gulliver's Travels (and the list goes on). Of course, one's own taste will render the final verdict on whether a book is good or bad, but it is safe to say that most of the Great Books are actually great and should be read.

What makes a book a classic is its ability to captivate the human experience. Times change, situations change, but the human experience remains intrinsic to all of mankind. Greek mythology is the framework of the Odyssey, but the prevalent themes encapsulate experiences that pertain to human beings regardless of culture. The content that emanates often from the subtext of a work is what makes the writing timeless, because at any given point, humans are going to experience these universal sentiments and emotions. It's true that there are many other books that address the same topics of interest yet do not qualify as classics. When I hear of the word classic though, I think of something that's the first of its kind.

What differentiates a good classic from a bad classic is diction and most importantly the manner in which the author executes the plot. For example, Ethan Frome is irrefutably a classic because Edith Wharton excellently captures the melancholy life of a man who makes a bad choice in life. I didn't like the book when I read it because the plot was mundane and the symbolism too excessive--I find that whenever the symbolism is being focused on more than the actual content and form, the literary quality of a work is being defiled. For one thing, when there are too many objects and details that can be interpreted as symbols, we start over-interpreting the writing and ultimately its literary appeal is lost. Why focus on symbols that may or may not be there when the author's content and form is already conveying the point in a more straightforward manner? The only kind of symbol that I feel is legit is a symbol in the form of a motif--there has to be a reason why Hawthorne brings up a scaffold and a rosebush more than once in The Scarlet Letter; it's not random. Another thing I've noticed is that for some people, themes are enough to make a book a fantastic read. Perhaps I'm just a stickler for good diction and syntax since I love words so much. However, an author's choice of words reveals far more than random details. Most importantly, instead of being forced to look for symbols, students should be forced to read closely! Not that details are bad, but in most situations I like referring to this quote by Oscar Wilde:

“One should absorb the color of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.”

After I've read a good book, I don't necessarily remember random details, but I always seem to remember quotes from the book and how the book made me feel (the feeling comes entirely from the manner in which the author conveys his ideas--formal quality of the text, the best of which is captured in memorable quotes). I'm all for absorbing the essence of literature rather than “[torturing] a confession out of it” as Billy Collins claims in his poem, “Introduction to Poetry.” And speaking of poetry, poems seem to be scrutinized and dissected to even greater lengths than books. Perhaps this is why I never developed a taste for poetry. We, as students, are told to look for many things, yet we are rarely encouraged to first comprehend the poem's meaning. We always come back to content and form when it comes to understanding the meaning of any written work, so why not just begin with content and form and stick with it? It happens too often that we're forced to take our opinions from others. Something can be a classic but it doesn't have to be good. Usually though if a classic, even if it's bad, is a classic indeed, it will leave the reader open to the idea of taking a second look. I never liked Ethan Frome but I do believe that it has substance and is worth taking another stab at.

Some last thoughts on the Odyssey

Whenever I sit down and try to write about the Odyssey I find that I actually don't have much to say about it, hence the amount of time that has passed since my last post. Perhaps this is because whatever I feel and think about the epic has already been thoroughly discussed in class. Also, the Odyssey has too much substance! There is just so much that Homer is trying to tell us in his frequent digressions and often I feel that in my writing, I'm not able to rise to the level of the text I am writing about. Anything that I might possibly write about is either way too generic or has already been discussed thoroughly enough.

Nonetheless, since I haven't really written anything for a while, here are a few general thoughts:

For one thing, I feel as though Odysseus's descent into the underworld could not be a more perfect climax to the story. And an interesting enough climax it is--normally, the climax is the highest point in the novel yet Hades is quite literally the lowest point. In some ways, it makes me envision an upside down Freytag's triangle. I honestly am of the opinion that one has to hit rock bottom before bouncing back up again. This is sort of like a rejuvenation of the soul. Who can better explain the appeal of life than a dead person? Every stop in Odysseus's journey poses the temptation of an ignorantly blissful life. Lingering in a stupor and forgetting the problems which plague the mind is a most appealing and tempting condition which allows one to move away from the act of living. The underworld is the most extreme form of that condition, in which one has literally moved away from life and eternally forgets life. Note that the ghosts are completely oblivious to everything until they drink the blood that is supposed to make them aware. This condition is not unlike the condition of the Lotos Eaters. What Homer is basically showing us is a contrast to the act of living, the underworld being the most blatant and literal. When the ghosts actually do remember, they find that they would rather be alive. Though we often desire to forget the things we'd rather not deal with, perhaps we might not desire the same if we actually did forget; once we've forgotten, we obviously can't remember that we've forgotten anything and therefore can never contemplate whether this is a condition we desire in place of our previous state of cognizance. Odysseus is allotted this opportunity to contemplate. Furthermore, after Odysseus has gone to the underworld, he has gone the farthest anyone can ever go. The farthest place is where the plot reaches its apex: the climax.