Why do I enjoy Chekhov and Joyce, and why do I find this part of the course the most rewarding to teach even if students often don't agree with me (let's face it, these stories are, at first glance, boring)? Mostly because I think both of these writers embed a lot of poetic complexity in soils of simplicity - basically what "realism" is and should be - and that if we allow the structures and subtleties of both writers to truly digest, we can take away personal meanings and "epiphanies" that are useful each day - that can also help us as writers (and thinkers).
In Gooseberries, where three men (arguably four) exhibit and reflect varying approaches to happiness, this passage reached me the most:
At the door of every contented, happy man somebody should stand with a little hammer, constantly tapping, to remind him that unhappy people exist, that however happy he may be, sooner or later life will show him its claws, some calamity will befall him—illness, poverty, loss—and nobody will hear or see, just as he doesn’t hear or see others now. But there is nobody with a little hammer, the happy man lives on, and the petty cares of his life stir him only slightly, as wind stirs an aspen—and everything is fine.
Joe Fassler, in his article in The Atlantic, sums it up much better than I can, as to why we should value this story and look at it from different angles:
"I always come out of that passage feeling like it’s a beautiful piece of rhetoric, one that articulates something I really believe. I’ve quoted this line on book tours, trying to explain why I don’t mind writing dark fiction: One role of literature, I’ll tell them, is to be the guy with the hammer, saying, “Look, we’re all pretty happy right now, but let’s just not forget the fact our happiness doesn’t eradicate the suffering of others.” It’s a beautiful insight about the lazy nature of happiness—and, for a few minutes, I think we’re meant to think that this stirring speech by Ivan is the whole point of the story."
Fassler's article made me think of a This American Life podcast episode I recently listened to, titled "The Show of Delights," where various people explore the little things in life that make them happy via "seeking joy." Even if it is not the topic of daily discussion, each of us has our own interpretation of what "happiness" is and what the little "pleasures" are that build the "state of happiness." While pleasure and happiness are related, but very different in that one can truly be depressed while also experiencing pleasure (drug addiction, eating disorders, gambling - pick any and all vices that produce a temporary sensation of pleasure), it is without doubt that if one is truly happy that daily delights and pleasures had something to do with it. In Gooseberries we see there's a relationship among the details Chekhov gives us - refreshing baths, silk pajamas, a pretty maid, and, arguably, good conversation. As Fassler continues:
"Looking at what happens during the digression [story of Ivan's brother], then, you start to realize that the story is a reflection on different forms of happiness. There’s a beautiful scene where they’re all taking a sensuous bath—“Oh my God, Oh my God,” Ivan keeps repeating, so completely moved by the feeling of the water. Then, later, this woman Pelageya waits on the men—and she’s so beautiful that they can only turn and stare at each other with their jaws on the floor. Why are these things here? Why are they worth giving space to in this extremely short piece? It’s because they’re both manifestations of beauty in the world, celebrating the things that make us pointlessly happy, and they complicate the dark vision of happiness that Ivan spells out later.
That’s one of my favorite things about Chekhov: his ability to embody what I call “on the other hand” thinking. He'll put something out with a great deal of certainty and beauty and passion, absolutely convincing you—and then he goes, “On the other hand,” and completely undermines it. At the end of this story you ask, “Chekhov, is happiness a blessing or a curse?” And he’s like, “Yeah, exactly.”"
In Fassler's last sentence, he sums up one of the keys to reading Chekhov: identifying the question he wants us to debate. So, what is happiness? How to be happy? Is it something we should work for, save for, wait for? Is is something that can coexist with the suffering of others? Is material happiness often connected with some sort of sacrifice - "joined to the present by an unbroken chain of events" - like an iPhone that produces happiness but came at the hands of human suffering in a Chinese factory?
Back to the podcast episode, The Show of Delights, where Ira Glass gives his intro:
"In these dark, and confusing, and combative times, where in just one month-- and it's a month that doesn't feel that atypical-- we have impeachment hearings, and Australia on fire, and a near war with Iran, and a deadly virus spreading around the world. We thought here at our show, we would try the most radical counter-programming possible. So today, we bring you our show about delight."
Sunday 13 February 2022
Monday 26 October 2020
Reading Journal #3: Form a "claim" about James Joyce's "Araby"
For this week, I want to do something a bit different and more structured. Some of you may find this "restricting" and maybe even more difficult than a straight-forward opinion piece, but I think it will help you focus on structure and paragraph concision, and force you to think about the many dualities of "Araby." As with most short stories in this class, there is plenty of ambiguity with Joyce where one can offer a "claim."
Similar to a fill-in-the-blank exercise, I'd like you to write a developed paragraph (almost like a mini-essay) that consists of 5 lead sentences that will soundly develop your opinion. You are allowed to tack on added sentences before you elaborate the others if you need them (so you don't blather on in massive run-on sentences); BUT you must use these 5 sentences and have them appear in this order. Your paragraph should end up fairly long.
Sentence #1:
From a distance, James Joyce’s "Araby" might appear .....
In this first sentence, you will get to a direct point very clearly and concisely. Your job is to finish that sentence in your own words with a reasonable "claim" that pinpoints an issue of contention about “Araby.” Be clear, but don't be general.
Similar to a fill-in-the-blank exercise, I'd like you to write a developed paragraph (almost like a mini-essay) that consists of 5 lead sentences that will soundly develop your opinion. You are allowed to tack on added sentences before you elaborate the others if you need them (so you don't blather on in massive run-on sentences); BUT you must use these 5 sentences and have them appear in this order. Your paragraph should end up fairly long.
Sentence #1:
From a distance, James Joyce’s "Araby" might appear .....
In this first sentence, you will get to a direct point very clearly and concisely. Your job is to finish that sentence in your own words with a reasonable "claim" that pinpoints an issue of contention about “Araby.” Be clear, but don't be general.
Sentence #2:
After all, when the nameless narrator .....
Developing the often overlooked contention of the first sentence, you are now going to establish why we need to dig deeper into the subtle subtext.
After all, when the nameless narrator .....
Developing the often overlooked contention of the first sentence, you are now going to establish why we need to dig deeper into the subtle subtext.
Sentence #3:
However, on the other hand, ....
You are now going to complicate your contention with a contrasting notion that shows your level of thought. There are many conflicting things at work in Joyce's tale, and you have to illuminate the depth.
However, on the other hand, ....
You are now going to complicate your contention with a contrasting notion that shows your level of thought. There are many conflicting things at work in Joyce's tale, and you have to illuminate the depth.
Sentence #4:
Therefore, it is perhaps more accurate to assume that "Araby" ....
Conclude this sentence with your official claim that reveals an isolated area of subtext. This sentence should capitalize on what the former ones have set up. Set up your claim.
Therefore, it is perhaps more accurate to assume that "Araby" ....
Conclude this sentence with your official claim that reveals an isolated area of subtext. This sentence should capitalize on what the former ones have set up. Set up your claim.
Sentence #5
In this sense, ....
Work towards your conclusion and support sentences that back your claim. Explore it. You may wish to describe a literary device or something that Joyce did, and why he might have done it. This is your time to sound like Mr. Tame and Mr. Tweedie.
Wednesday 22 April 2020
Magic Realism: The Handomest Drowned Man In the World - By Gabriel Marquez
Before we examine what, inexactly, "magic realism" is (or might be), I'd like to simply read this story in class without any pretext. We don't know who Marquez is, or when and where he wrote the story, and we have no idea what "magic realism" is (though the title of the genre more than hints at what it could be).
Again, this is short and sweet, and a lot of fun to read:
By Gabriel Marquez, 1927-Present
Saturday 11 April 2020
"The Dead" by James Joyce
Here, I found a nice PDF for the story, if you prefer reading them rather than HTML text.
Here is a text version if you don't like PDF.
Here is an annotated version of the story WITH A LOT to click on and learn on a much deeper level.
http://www.mendele.com/WWD/
Pretty amazing resource if you have the curiosity to understand EACH sentence and word.
As you can see above, it was made into an award winning film, which me may watch if you feel it is interesting enough AFTER reading.
We will spend at least two weeks on this one, because it is a tad long.
Friday 27 March 2020
The endless process of dissecting Joyce...
Here is the PDF of "Araby" : https://www.plato-philosophy.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/Araby.pdf
Points of discussion: male gaze, the quest (Hero's Journey), setting as character
On a whim, I googled "Mangan's sister" to see what the internet turned up. We know so little about her, and perhaps we ignore her more than we should. Is she more than just a pretty face? Is there something in the text that we can stumble over?
We know that Joyce, as a male author, had issues with women, and dealt with that heavily in his writing. Especially in The Dead. But what about in Araby? Here is an interesting view from someone, who decided to dig a bit deeper and consult female professors.
Wednesday 19 February 2020
"Eveline" by James Joyce
Here is the YouTube audio book version you may wish to listen to while reading along. I think the reader does help draw attention to mood in some ways:
PDF: http://openmods.uvic.ca/islandora/object/uvic%3A661/datastream/PDF/view
Pay attention to how Joyce treats a female character in a third person narrative, compared to the first person we met in Araby. His choices present interesting comparisons and questions.
As well, watch for correlations in terms of themes of urban landscape (decay, change, industrialization) and how overtones of religion and duty hang in her midst as she ruminates her life decisions. As always, pay special attention to "the epiphany" and how that relates to "paralysis" - something that Dubliners turns to again and again to show how culture and tradition often results in stasis and lack of fulfillment.
PDF: http://openmods.uvic.ca/islandora/object/uvic%3A661/datastream/PDF/view
Pay attention to how Joyce treats a female character in a third person narrative, compared to the first person we met in Araby. His choices present interesting comparisons and questions.
As well, watch for correlations in terms of themes of urban landscape (decay, change, industrialization) and how overtones of religion and duty hang in her midst as she ruminates her life decisions. As always, pay special attention to "the epiphany" and how that relates to "paralysis" - something that Dubliners turns to again and again to show how culture and tradition often results in stasis and lack of fulfillment.
Monday 10 February 2020
"Gooseberries" by Anton Chekhov
Text to read along: https://www.colorado.edu/globalstudiesrap/sites/default/files/attached-files/gooseberries_by_anton_chekhov_1898.pdf
Audio Book:
Much more similar in structure and tone to The Student than Lady With the Dog, Goosberries features another Ivan walking the fields, this time with a friend, and this time entering the space of a landowner rather than humble widows. Below I've included an excerpt from a really great article in The Atlantic about the hidden meanings in the story which is worth reading. The entire article is worth reading but very long, so here is the meat of it:
https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2017/02/george-saunders-on-chekhovs-different-visions-of-happiness/516798/
The story is an extended meditation on the idea of happiness. It’s basically a story of two friends who get caught in a rainstorm while they’re out hunting, and they go to a nearby house of someone they know named Alekhin. After they take a swim, one of the friends, Ivan, tells a story about his brother, who had an obsession with owning a small estate, and with eating the gooseberries that he grew on the porch. As Ivan tells the story of his brother it becomes a kind of a screed about how happiness—especially his brother’s happiness—disgusts him, how pig-like people who pursue their own happiness are.
Ivan’s story builds in intensity, and by the end he’s making this beautiful, passionate case for why happiness is a confusing, undesirable emotion. In his telling, it’s almost a delusion to be mindlessly happy when others are sad. The sentiment is so heartfelt that it’s almost as though it came right out of Chekhov’s journals:
At the door of every contented, happy man somebody should stand with a little hammer, constantly tapping, to remind him that unhappy people exist, that however happy he may be, sooner or later life will show him its claws, some calamity will befall him—illness, poverty, loss—and nobody will hear or see, just as he doesn’t hear or see others now. But there is nobody with a little hammer, the happy man lives on, and the petty cares of his life stir him only slightly, as wind stirs an aspen—and everything is fine.
I always come out of that passage feeling like it’s a beautiful piece of rhetoric, one that articulates something I really believe. I’ve quoted this line on book tours, trying to explain why I don’t mind writing dark fiction: One role of literature, I’ll tell them, is to be the guy with the hammer, saying, “Look, we’re all pretty happy right now, but let’s just not forget the fact our happiness doesn’t eradicate the suffering of others.” It’s a beautiful insight about the lazy nature of happiness—and, for a few minutes, I think we’re meant to think that this stirring speech by Ivan is the whole point of the story. In a way, it is. Except, on the next page, we see that Ivan’s audience is bored and disappointed by the story. They wish that he’d had something better to say, and the whole evening ends on a flat note. But then there’s this wonderful little reversal at the end, a mysterious and beautiful turn. It happens when Ivan goes up to his room, which he’s sharing with his friend Burkin. They’re both in bed, beds which have been made up by Alekhin’s beautiful maid:
Their beds, wide and cool, made up by the beautiful Pelageya, smelled pleasantly of fresh linen.
Ivan Ivanych silently undressed and lay down. “Lord, forgive us sinners!” he said, and pulled the covers over his head.
His pipe, left on the table, smelled strongly of stale tobacco, and Burkin lay awake for a long time and still could not figure out where that heavy odor was coming from.
Rain beat on the windows all night.
Ivan leaves his unclean pipe out all night, keeping his friend Burkin awake. And that’s how Chekhov gets away with putting his real feelings about the oppressive nature of happiness into a character’s mouth. Without irony, without condescension, he just lets the character have his say. But then, here, Chekhov destabilizes the beautiful rhetoric of the previous section by showing another side of the guy who made that impassioned speech: He’s also self-obsessed and thoughtless enough to burden his friend with a smelly pipe. It's a great double whammy. You get the beautiful, articulate case against happiness, and then you get this complicating overtone of selfishness in the person who just made that beautiful speech.
We’re often told not to put our passions and political feelings into a story. But I actually think it’s a good idea. Put them in there, then step away. Imagine that the idea isn’t you, that it’s just an idea that part of you expressed. Then you can use the structure and the form of the story to kind of poke at your own beliefs a little and see if you can get more light out of them.
That’s exactly what happens, structurally, in “Gooseberries.” Ivan starts to tell his story right on the first page, but he’s interrupted by the rainstorm. And while they get in out of the rain, meet their host, and bathe, a full third of this nine-page story goes by. I always ask my students: What’s the point of this digression? Because the short story form makes a de facto claim of efficiency—its limited length suggests that all the parts are there for purpose. If there’s a structural inefficiency that never comes home to roost, or never produces beauty later, we note that as bad storytelling. And so whatever ultimate meaning “Gooseberries” has, it has to have something to do with what's contained in that digression—or else it’s a flawed piece.
Audio Book:
Much more similar in structure and tone to The Student than Lady With the Dog, Goosberries features another Ivan walking the fields, this time with a friend, and this time entering the space of a landowner rather than humble widows. Below I've included an excerpt from a really great article in The Atlantic about the hidden meanings in the story which is worth reading. The entire article is worth reading but very long, so here is the meat of it:
https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2017/02/george-saunders-on-chekhovs-different-visions-of-happiness/516798/
The story is an extended meditation on the idea of happiness. It’s basically a story of two friends who get caught in a rainstorm while they’re out hunting, and they go to a nearby house of someone they know named Alekhin. After they take a swim, one of the friends, Ivan, tells a story about his brother, who had an obsession with owning a small estate, and with eating the gooseberries that he grew on the porch. As Ivan tells the story of his brother it becomes a kind of a screed about how happiness—especially his brother’s happiness—disgusts him, how pig-like people who pursue their own happiness are.
Ivan’s story builds in intensity, and by the end he’s making this beautiful, passionate case for why happiness is a confusing, undesirable emotion. In his telling, it’s almost a delusion to be mindlessly happy when others are sad. The sentiment is so heartfelt that it’s almost as though it came right out of Chekhov’s journals:
At the door of every contented, happy man somebody should stand with a little hammer, constantly tapping, to remind him that unhappy people exist, that however happy he may be, sooner or later life will show him its claws, some calamity will befall him—illness, poverty, loss—and nobody will hear or see, just as he doesn’t hear or see others now. But there is nobody with a little hammer, the happy man lives on, and the petty cares of his life stir him only slightly, as wind stirs an aspen—and everything is fine.
I always come out of that passage feeling like it’s a beautiful piece of rhetoric, one that articulates something I really believe. I’ve quoted this line on book tours, trying to explain why I don’t mind writing dark fiction: One role of literature, I’ll tell them, is to be the guy with the hammer, saying, “Look, we’re all pretty happy right now, but let’s just not forget the fact our happiness doesn’t eradicate the suffering of others.” It’s a beautiful insight about the lazy nature of happiness—and, for a few minutes, I think we’re meant to think that this stirring speech by Ivan is the whole point of the story. In a way, it is. Except, on the next page, we see that Ivan’s audience is bored and disappointed by the story. They wish that he’d had something better to say, and the whole evening ends on a flat note. But then there’s this wonderful little reversal at the end, a mysterious and beautiful turn. It happens when Ivan goes up to his room, which he’s sharing with his friend Burkin. They’re both in bed, beds which have been made up by Alekhin’s beautiful maid:
Their beds, wide and cool, made up by the beautiful Pelageya, smelled pleasantly of fresh linen.
Ivan Ivanych silently undressed and lay down. “Lord, forgive us sinners!” he said, and pulled the covers over his head.
His pipe, left on the table, smelled strongly of stale tobacco, and Burkin lay awake for a long time and still could not figure out where that heavy odor was coming from.
Rain beat on the windows all night.
Ivan leaves his unclean pipe out all night, keeping his friend Burkin awake. And that’s how Chekhov gets away with putting his real feelings about the oppressive nature of happiness into a character’s mouth. Without irony, without condescension, he just lets the character have his say. But then, here, Chekhov destabilizes the beautiful rhetoric of the previous section by showing another side of the guy who made that impassioned speech: He’s also self-obsessed and thoughtless enough to burden his friend with a smelly pipe. It's a great double whammy. You get the beautiful, articulate case against happiness, and then you get this complicating overtone of selfishness in the person who just made that beautiful speech.
We’re often told not to put our passions and political feelings into a story. But I actually think it’s a good idea. Put them in there, then step away. Imagine that the idea isn’t you, that it’s just an idea that part of you expressed. Then you can use the structure and the form of the story to kind of poke at your own beliefs a little and see if you can get more light out of them.
That’s exactly what happens, structurally, in “Gooseberries.” Ivan starts to tell his story right on the first page, but he’s interrupted by the rainstorm. And while they get in out of the rain, meet their host, and bathe, a full third of this nine-page story goes by. I always ask my students: What’s the point of this digression? Because the short story form makes a de facto claim of efficiency—its limited length suggests that all the parts are there for purpose. If there’s a structural inefficiency that never comes home to roost, or never produces beauty later, we note that as bad storytelling. And so whatever ultimate meaning “Gooseberries” has, it has to have something to do with what's contained in that digression—or else it’s a flawed piece.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)