In her novel, Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf never really comes right out and says what she means. It seems to me that when composing a pastiche imitating her style, one of the main components would have to be complete subtlety. It's like her ideas are hiding in the bushes, always ready to be exposed and plucked out by the reader, but nevertheless hidden away, never smacking you in the face like those of some other novelists we have read in which a common theme and plot can be easily determined. For instance, when speaking of Clarissa's friendship and encounters with one Sally Seton, she never really states what Clarissa's feelings for Sally really are. Romantic, or otherwise. This is pretty much left to the determination of the reader. A similar situation evolves when Lady Bruton, a local aristocrat, fails to invite Clarissa along with her husband to a lunch party. Is the tone there outraged? confused? or merely disappointed? The reader seems to be privy to Clarissa's innermost thoughts, some of which she might not even be aware of herself and yet is often left to decide for themselves what her emotions towards a particular situation or person might be.
Really this is one of my favorite parts about this book. It leaves you thinking. It is very difficult to just put this book down and go about your normal life without trying at all to imagine yourself as Clarissa, or alter your thinking somehow, or just trying to figure out what the heck she is trying to say, if anything at all. Sometimes I find myself wondering (now this may be a bit paranoid) if anyone is listening to my random thoughts and judging me over my subconscious, and then writing a book about it for everyone to read. Poor Clarissa. However, not only does Woolf's subtlety make the book much more interesting to read, but also it makes for some great discussions with people who are reading along with you. Almost every aspect of the book down to each individual sentence is up for interpretation, and everyone's interpretation comes out just a little bit different.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Just Like Howie
Howie, narrator of The Mezzanine by Nicholson Baker, is essentially just a kid playing dress-up in a grown-up's life. Not only does everything excite him, just like it did for all of us when we were little, but he's incredibly observant. When reading this book I was struck time and again at how much I had in common with Howie, and I don't think I'm the only one to experience this weird sensation of reading about what seem to be your own thoughts in someone else's words.
Was anyone else ever fascinated by that conveyor belt at grocery stores that kind of forms a bridge over your groceries and makes the job of scanning the items so amazing awesome by sending them down that black rubber river to fall off at the end neatly into a waiting bag? Howie mentions this phenomenon in one of his extensive rambles (what I liked when I was little, on page 35) and it just completely struck me. I LOVED those belts when I was little. Still do. That seems to be what Howie is talking about in this passage. It is totally hypocritical to say "I loved that when I was a little kid" when you still love it and are in fact simply trying to make yourself seem more mature than you actually are. But then again, why should maturity mean that you are never excited by simple things like blue ice cream and moving grocer's belts?
Was anyone else ever fascinated by that conveyor belt at grocery stores that kind of forms a bridge over your groceries and makes the job of scanning the items so amazing awesome by sending them down that black rubber river to fall off at the end neatly into a waiting bag? Howie mentions this phenomenon in one of his extensive rambles (what I liked when I was little, on page 35) and it just completely struck me. I LOVED those belts when I was little. Still do. That seems to be what Howie is talking about in this passage. It is totally hypocritical to say "I loved that when I was a little kid" when you still love it and are in fact simply trying to make yourself seem more mature than you actually are. But then again, why should maturity mean that you are never excited by simple things like blue ice cream and moving grocer's belts?
Monday, August 22, 2011
Nicholson Baker's opinion of the value of life
On page 120 of Nicholson Baker's The Mezzanine he mentions a quotation that Howie is reading out of a work by Marcus Aurelius:
"Observe, in short, how transient and trivial is all mortal life; yesterday a drop of semen, tomorrow a handful of spice and ashes"
If you ask me, Howie is not at all subtle in relaying his opinions of this passage. He practically has a mental temper-tantrum in outrage. Of what I have read, he appreciates every minute of his life. Never did we hear about a complaint of an egregious task or a complaint of daily life. He notices things that spark his interest like the beauty of baggage belts in airports and describes things in a way that will spark everyone else's interest (such as describing the amount of force needed to push a button on a cigarette vending machine as being akin to the force necessary in a Foosball game). Everything is fascinating and worth the time to notice it, analyze it, metaphorize it (new word!) Take your time! Enjoy your time! What are you talking about, Aurelius?! Trivial??! Howie's whole persona seems to contradict what Aurelius says here. How can life be trivial, he seems to be saying, when so much is happening around you and to you or even just in your mind every day?
These seem to be the extremes in terms of the views of the value that our lives hold. It seems to me that most people fall somewhere in between: we aren't so amazed by quite everything that Howie is but at the same time don't seem to think, "Oh, well, it doesn't matter what I do today, I'll be dead in a few decades tops anyway. Who cares?" I don't anyway. I think more people should slow down, and I'd like to take a leaf out of Howie's book and try and appreciate the beauty that even the most everyday objects can hold.
"Observe, in short, how transient and trivial is all mortal life; yesterday a drop of semen, tomorrow a handful of spice and ashes"
If you ask me, Howie is not at all subtle in relaying his opinions of this passage. He practically has a mental temper-tantrum in outrage. Of what I have read, he appreciates every minute of his life. Never did we hear about a complaint of an egregious task or a complaint of daily life. He notices things that spark his interest like the beauty of baggage belts in airports and describes things in a way that will spark everyone else's interest (such as describing the amount of force needed to push a button on a cigarette vending machine as being akin to the force necessary in a Foosball game). Everything is fascinating and worth the time to notice it, analyze it, metaphorize it (new word!) Take your time! Enjoy your time! What are you talking about, Aurelius?! Trivial??! Howie's whole persona seems to contradict what Aurelius says here. How can life be trivial, he seems to be saying, when so much is happening around you and to you or even just in your mind every day?
These seem to be the extremes in terms of the views of the value that our lives hold. It seems to me that most people fall somewhere in between: we aren't so amazed by quite everything that Howie is but at the same time don't seem to think, "Oh, well, it doesn't matter what I do today, I'll be dead in a few decades tops anyway. Who cares?" I don't anyway. I think more people should slow down, and I'd like to take a leaf out of Howie's book and try and appreciate the beauty that even the most everyday objects can hold.
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