What We Sense About the Past, Prevents It From Ending

This past Saturday's get together discussed Julian Barnes's A Sense of an Ending. Some of the other books we've read that it reminds me of are Catcher in the Rye, Mrs. Dalloway, and Franny & Zooey. The comparison comes more from style than content. Since so much of the story's plot became clear through conversations, it was easy to link it w/ Franny & Zooey. The philosophy of prep school that characterized the first section made me think of Holden Caulfield--minus the repeated use of the word "phony." Lastly, the stream of conscious format was very Dalloway. Of course, Barnes was much nicer than Virginia Woolf in that he gave us page breaks & dialogue.

In terms of content, the surprise ending and the use of mathematical constants brought our discussion to Life of Pi. Of course, the theme of the fluidity of history is a little harder to place right now. A Christmas Carol deals w/ changing our future. But it's hard to come up w/ one of our stories that explores the shifting nature of our pasts. Remains of the Day, perhaps?

Anyway, since the book won England's 2011 Man Booker Prize, we talked about why writers write. Do they write for prizes? For themselves? For their audiences? Fame? We decided that professional writers write for their niche markets, and if one of their books becomes a movie or an award winner, then all the better. But very few can afford write w/ those types of rewards in mind. What makes a book film or tv or award worthy have so much to do w/ fortune and circumstance, that one can't write w/ an eye towards those things and still do their best.

Well, that's all I have for now. Feel free to add anything. Already looking forward to Game of Thrones next month.

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes--Who Watches the Watchmen?

“We have labored long to build a heaven, only to find it populated with horrors.” -–Professor Milton Glass from “Dr. Manhattan: Super-Powers and the Superpowers”

“I am going to look at the stars. They are so far away and their light takes so long to reach us.” --Dr. Manhattan (while staring off the precipice of Mars)

In hopes of stretching our ever-expanding range of themes and book types, our group decided to discuss a story form new to our club: the graphic novel. So with Ben's suggestion, we decided to upon Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons'Watchmen. The energy of our discussion was muted slightly by the knowledge of that this was Ben's last discussion with us (since he & his wife have both taken teaching jobs at Appalacian State in Boone, NC). But back to happy thoughts....

I couldn’t help but be impressed by the Russian-ness of the story. In a novel set during the apex of the Cold War, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy by the zig zag narration. Nichole compared it to Lost, the way the story broke off and then entered into a character’s back story. I loved that Watchmen had so many layers. I’ve never seen the movie, but I wonder if Moore & Gibbons’ vision wouldn’t have been better filmed as a 2 or 3 part series instead of 1 film.

The book seems to be an exploration of the superhero psychey every bit as much as an action story. Moore uses several voices to tell his story, not just dialogue, but the end chapter additions that included excerpts from Hollis Mason’s autobiography to letters from Ms. Jupiter’s fan mail.

Yet beyond the actual words, when dealing with comics, you must acknowledge the artwork’s contribution to the overall telling of the story. That’s where Ben came in. As an artist, he pointed out Gibbons’ use of foreground and background to provide emphasis of specific ideas. For example, the scene where Dan sees Laurie in her superhero costume, he’s shocked, and she’s in the background of the panel. The authors make her sexiness low key, thus producing a subtle joke. Whereas the film emphasizes her sexiness in her outfit, the novel subverts that obvious & easy attention-getting. I wouldn’t have been able to compare the different uses of sex & imagery. Ben noticed.

We also noticed the greatness of the book. The committee that puts together the Hugo Award created a special category just to give this book its award. Special things receive special attention. This is important in that the book deals with superheroes, people who are by definition, above the rest of us. But what makes a person or a story super? What makes it uncommon? Being different isn’t enough. Dr. Manhattan is the only one who’s actually super, and even he isn’t as powerful as his abilities suggest. What characteristics denote a specific denotation? The answers are slippery but fun to wrestle with. And with complex questions comes complex answers, hence the layered yet satisfying narrative.

Discussing Arthur's Roundtable at a Sbux Brown Table

“We seem to discuss this idea every few months, so it must be important.” --Nichole

While reading T.H. White’s The Once and Future King, I realized I wanted to talk about the section titled Incipit Liber Primus, translated from Latin meaning “the book’s first section, which discusses Merlyn’s education of Arthur while he was a young boy. Disney recounts this portion of the book in its 1963 movie The Sword and the Stone. As a kid, I never liked a lot of kid entertainment. Sesame Street never held my attention, and I found many Disney films unbearable. But I always liked The Sword and the Stone. I still don’t know why, but I do know why I liked the first part of this book: it deals with teaching. When Merlyn uses his magic to Wart (Arthur’s nickname as a youth) into an owl, or a fish, or one of Robin [H]ood’s Merry Men, he is giving the young king the equivalent to a liberal arts education. Arthur experiences new worlds and new ways of seeing, all so that he can one day bring forth a new Europe, a continent freed from the inequity of feudalism.

I love books that chronicle how people are trained to do great things. And since our group is made up mostly of teachers, we spent time on it. In fact, Ben pointed out that Merlyn’s teaching was often begrudging. For example, he felt games like jousting were a waste of time, yet he shows Arthur a jousting match. Nichole talked of how much of Merlyn’s teaching didn’t involve much instruction but more putting him in a certain situation and then leaving Arthur to learn on his own, similar to how a teacher may give a vague assignment and leave it to the student to mold it. But that is just one section of the book.

And White does more than simply tell a story. He uses the Arthurian legend to show dispel some of the romance surrounding our concept of knightly chivalry. The Round Table is broken apart by jealousy, greed, and resentment. True chivalry, true change, and true legends don’t come merely from great actions; great sacrifice is a prerequisite. And that sacrifice could destroy you. For example, Lancelot returns from his Grail Quest broken…but more godly.

So implicit in this discussion is a question our group seems to return to every few months: how far does sacrifice go? How much should we give? And what should we give? And to whom? These are not easy questions. But if we are to transcend ourselves, should we not ask them? And, just as importantly, how do we answer them? Of course, the answers are different for everyone, which is why we switch books every 4 weeks…

Next book: The Watchmen by Alan Moore

Teaching Amanda Bynes (or What You Will)

Our last get together was good. We discussed casually Twelfth Night. We tried to find an American equivalent to the twelve Christmas celebration that Shakespeare used as the backdrop. We don’t really have a festival of opposites where, for a day, servants are masters, absurdity is normality, etc. We have Mardi Gras, and students have Spring Break. But those are niche celebrations, one being local to New Orleans, the other narrowly confined to students who can afford to go on Spring Break.

For me, understanding the play’s context would be integral for teaching it. How else could students even begin to understand a story whose language is a bit obtuse? That’s when Bob brought up a good point about the need to have a visceral rather than intellectual reaction. This play is built heavily upon the festive mood of the year. Its absurdity makes sense within the part-religious, part-bacchanalian framework. Bob talked about how it’d be good to help students identify with the whimsicality of the story more so than its intellectualness.

Twelfth Night is one of Shakespeare’s problem plays. The main characters fall in love. But no one actually earns their love. Mood and circumstance dictate action. The play is poetic and has elements worth discussing. But Shakespeare doesn’t seem to be putting forth a clear message or philosophy that many of his other plays provide. This is why Bob talks about the importance of emphasizing feeling. Even thoughts about feelings can teach. And theories are seldom born in the void.

Speaking of students and Shakespeare, our group also talked about the Amanda Bynes movie She’s the Man, which is apparently an adaptation of the play in a high school setting. I do find Amanda Bynes’ cheeriness rather delightful, but I’ve never seen it (although Nichole admitted to watching it twice in a 24 hr span). I imagine the appeal with both the play and its younger film-adapted cousin is that they, like the twelve night Christmas festival, help us cope with the absurdity of life by allowing us to purposely court absurdity in a controlled context.

Next book: T.H. White’s The Once and Future King

The Remains of the Day

One of the first things we discussed with this month's book The Remains of the Day (If the title sounds familiar, that may be because it was made into a movie with Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson.) was Ishiguro's writing style. What particularly struck me was the fact that a novel about a very traditional, bordering on stereotypical, English butler was penned by an Asian author. The biographical information provided at the back of the novel states that Ishiguro, who was born in 1954, has lived in England since 1960. This fact may help account in part for his ability to capture the ideas of the English relationship between master and manservant as well as the language. Bob also helped me out on this one by explaining that the English and Japanese feudal systems have many similarities. While one might argue that as a butler Stevens and his story do not quite fall under the heading of feudal, the premise is the same as both systems are based upon strict standards of conduct such as masking one's emotions and exerting a sobering amount of emotional control. At one point in the novel, Stevens addresses this idea under the term dignity, though it is a dignity which I would argue few of us are in a position to truly understand. The writing at times has an almost stream of consciousness feel, particularly when Stevens appears to be having a revelation of sorts about himself and his life, and these revelations are in fact what the book is all about. I'm not even sure that I fully understood or appreciated the depth of the character Steven's until Bob and Nick discussed him. My initial impression was, "Show an emotion, any emotion!" Bob pointed out that while Stevens is quite disconnected from his emotions, such as the handful of instances when he is crying and doesn't seem to realize it, he does in fact feel things deeply, but these feelings remain veiled behind his professional exterior. This veiling is exactly why the line where he is discussing Miss Kenton and he states something to the effect of "My heart was breaking" hit me so forcefully. At last he seems to be having an truly authentic emotion.

This idea of authenticity was also addressed as we see that in most instances Stevens takes on the views of those around him rather than establishing his own opinions and positions. This tendency to avoid a conflict of opinion is seen with regard to his feelings toward his former employer Lord Darlington. In his private thoughts, Stevens asserts that Lord Darlington was real gentleman who fell under a manipulative influence, resulting in the tarnishing of his good name. However, on at least two occasions Stevens denies that he worked for Lord Darlington. What then is the cause for his denial? While he attempts to convince himself that is not in good taste to discuss one's former employers, to actually address his behavior would first force Stevens to assert an opinion and secondly would force him to acknowledge the foibles of his former employer.

This novel is a journey for Stevens, not only a journey across the English countryside but a journey toward an understanding of himself, one that is authentic by casting aside the rigid exterior and assuming for better or worse a bit of Lord Darlington by making his own decisions. Toward the end of the novel, the reader finds Stevens on a park bench with another older man who also served as a manservant, though at not nearly so prestigious an estate as Stevens. The man tells Stevens that they can and must make use of the remains of the day, both the literal day once one's work obligations are done and the metaphorical in the remainder of the days of their lives. One thing that we were all curious about and that another 100 or so pages of text would put to rest is where does Stevens go now? Now that he has had the epiphany what does he do with the knowledge such a revelation brings? Of course, that may very well be Ishiguro's intended response for his audience as to end the story at this moment leaves an infinite realm of possiblity open for Stevens that he has been blind to prior to his journey, and we as the reader are allowed the luxury of filling in the blanks in any way we choose.

What are the small things?

July's meeting had an awesome turnout to discuss The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. In contrast to the posting on Lolita, this month's book led itself to a wonderful discussion of not only the novel itself but the religious and caste influence at work during the period in which the novel is set. As was pointed out in the discussion, if one has some background into both the social and religious dynamics at work in India, then the interpretation of events in the text bear examination in another light. A great example of this that Bob pointed out is the dizygotic nature of the twin's relationship. Dizygotic twins are the result of two individual eggs being fertilized and carried to term as opposed to monozygotic twins which occur when one fertilized egg divides. Dizygotic twins are not identical nor do they (supposedly) possess the famous twin bond. In fact, the twin expert in the novel addresses this concept when the topic of separating the twins is brought up, and the expert testifies that the result would be no greater than if any two non-twin siblings were separated. Now in the context of the novel, this is obviously not the case as the twins have what could be considered a supernatural bond. What Bob pointed out is that in Eastern literature and beliefs the spiritual/supernatural often supersedes the natural, and I think that one would be hard pressed to argue against that belief in The God of Small Things.

This discussion of the bond between Estha and Rahel provides a starting point for our discussion of the act of incest that takes place between them. In most cases our automatic response to incest is one of at worst horror or at the least the subject of bad jokes. However, much like the sex scenes in Lolita, this act is not described in such a way as to arouse those intial responses. In fact, this act is yet another continuation of the theme of love in the novel, particularly who can love whom and how and how much. Over and over again those words are repeated when describing relationships, and the first that comes to mind is the relationship between Ammu and Velutha. Their was a relationship that was doomed from the start due to the caste divide between them. Velutha is an untouchable, and while he is kept around for the invaluable services he can provide the family, he is never really considered a true human being. Thus, when Ammu, who it must be noted is already condemned for her failed marriage, lowers herself to a relationship with an untouchable, nothing but destruction can befall them.

Actually, in many ways this is a novel of destruction with Estha and Rahel paying the greatest price. The events of their childhood from their parents' divorce, to their separation, to their mother's scandalous relationship, to their role in the death of Sophie and Velutha have contributed to make them what I can't help but consider damaged characters. Though they are adults, these childhood events haunt them and continue to impact every aspect of their lives. Perhaps one of the best ways to examine the haunting nature of these events is through an examination of some of the language in the novel. One thing that comes to mind and ties into the theme of love is the remark that Ammu makes to Rahel in which she states that one's actions can make others love that individual a little less. What a statement to make to a young and impressionable child. Of course this sticks in Rahel's head, and throughout the childhood portions she returns back to it and measures the amount of love she believes she receives from Ammu. Language also comes into play when Baby Kochamma forces Rahel and Estha to implicate Velutha in order to salvage the family's name and reputation. They are told that if they do not go along with what Baby Kochamma says then they will be sending their mother to prison. Although she is never presented as an admirable or even pitiable character, this is the most damning act that Baby commits as she manipulates the children. While everyone is complict to evil or wrongdoing in the novel and must receive blame in some way, arguably it is the children who continue to pay for the sins of the family.

Better Late Than Never Lolita

There is no real excuse for me to be posting our discussion of Lolita at the beginning of August. However, as I think back over the book and the discussion, it does make me question what is factor that determines what your conversation over the book will be like? Some books stimulate heated conversations while others seem to fall flat, and surprisingly, at least for me, Lolita was one of those books. Given the still somewhat scandalous reputation of Nabokov's novel, I expected that we would have much to talk about. However, I presumptuously think that we still struggle with Humbert Humbert's narrative in light of both A. What we know he is and B. The way in which our society views individuals like him. Obviously we recognize that a grown man essentially kidnapping (though I may use that term a bit too freely) and sexually exploiting a young teen is a no-no. Therefore, I think many readers have difficulty with Humbert's narrative version of events because while he knows that his actions are taboo in society, he also attempts to explain to the reader how he cannot help himself. Sounds like a great mental defect defense, huh?

One thing Nicole brought up and which after having read the book is still not something I have sorted out in my mind is the significance of Lolita both in the novel and in present day language use. In Nabokov's work Lolita is pretty much reduced to Humbert's sex object who learns to barter her "favors" for small desires typical of many teens. One could argue that if she's going to be forced to give in to Humbert's demands she might as well get something no matter how small in exchange. However, I would argue that Lolita is the victim here; yet, the word/name Lolita has taken on its own negative associations in modern society. What I am curious about is how did this association come about as if she is somehow at fault and culpable for the things that happen to her while she is with Humbert.

Lastly and perhaps the most noteworthy portion of our discussion was our analysis of Nabokov's language. In Lolita Nabokov executes a use of poetic language that would be noteworthy in any writer, and his skill is even more notable given that English is not his primarly language. Somehow he manages to order Humbert's narrative in such a way as to allow Humbert to both rationalize and romanticize his actions. This manipulative function of narrative often purposefully influences the reader's unconscious response to the narrative, and to a certain extent I see this same thing taking place in Lolita. While I had a basic idea of what the novel was about, I have to admit that I was very surprised by the fact that the sex scenes were not nearly so graphic as I anticipated. In fact, some were so subtle that they could almost be missed. This lack of graphic imagery as well as the narrative properties of Humbert's story work together to almost lessen the intensity of what Humbert does. I'm not exactly arguing that Humbet does or should escape judgment, but what I do argue is that the judgment we exact is somewhat different, thanks to Nabokov's narrative style, than it would be if he included violent rather than romanticized images and language.

Calling Out Ishmael

Our discussion on Ishmael by Daniel Quinn ranged across a myriad of topics. Personally, I was skeptical before reading it, especially when Nancy told me that the premise of an ape teaching a man. I anticipated a drudging through this like a wearied soldier through a 3 foot marsh. Yet when I finished reading, it had been less than 24 hours from when I began.

I’m very interested in worldviews, epistemologies, and how they develop, so the content intrigued me. I knew the book would provide good discussion material, but I wasn’t sure how everyone else would receive the novel.

We always look to compare the current book w/ past ones we’ve read. The discussions about captivity and man’s relationship w/ animals remind me of Life of Pi. And the theme of teaching, degrees of learning, and the sacrifice needed for education, call to mind A Lesson Before Dying. Yet Ben brought a classical comparison from a work we have not read: Plato’s dialogues.

Ishmael’s format of teacher lecturing student appealed to me, Nichole, Nancy, and Ben. But Bob felt that Quinn relied so heavily on Ishmael’s (the ape) teachings, that he neglected the elements that make for a good story. Bob’s point was that Quinn’s ideas would have been better complimented with a more intellectual active narrator. He liked Quinn’s discussion but would’ve felt the narrative would’ve been richer if Ishmael had been challenged more in his thinking. Of course, we know Quinn has a sequel, and good writers often clarify or strengthen the obtuse or weak parts of their arguments.

Speaking of arguments, the main question the book addresses concerns whether or not man is equal to or superior to other earthly beings. Are we as much part of the earth as juniper trees and warthogs or are we the crown of creation made by God to subdue the earth? Quinn makes the question more political than religious, and so any religious or mythological arguments are used as foundations for his central point, which is that we should think seriously about overpopulation and wasting of natural resources.

I don’t think we disagreed with the theoretical aspects of Quinn’s points, but we were left wanting more in terms of the ways in which he said we should enact his ideas. Controlling population sounds fine until you’re the one being controlled. Again, I’d like to see how he adjuncts these arguments in the sequel My Ishmael.

Since I love speaking for the group, I’ll do so here: we’d recommend this as a compelling read and as a good book to discuss. In fact, we decided it would work well as a text in an environmental science course or maybe even an upper division English class. But I don’t think any of us are going to check out My Ishmael. That said, I wasn’t too interested in Ishmael before I flipped through its pages and ran my eyes across its opening lines. 

What Side of Paradise are You on?

Yet another late post, this time on F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise. Fitzgerald is of course best known for his examination of the American dream in The Great Gatsby, but this novel, his first, is the one that actually thrust him onto the scene of American literature. One of the things that first comes to my mind is the fact that Fitzgerald belongs to that group of American writers considered, thanks to Gertrude Stein, the "lost generation." After reading This Side of Paradise, that description seems particularly fitting as Amory acts as a representative figure of this "lost" concept given the sense of disconnect and alienation between Amory and essentially the rest of the world. In many ways Amory may be seen as representative of many of the authors of the lost generation who were well read, well educated, and yet somehow adrift in the world they lived in. Amory's life of privilege, one many readers may look at with envy, in fact seems to do little to ground him. Instead, as he flits from place to place and often woman to woman, the most overwhelming feeling of his experience is that of emptiness. While Amory often comes across as the sort of character one either wants to throttle or simply abandon his story, in fact, minus the world travels and Ivy League education, could be that of countless other youth. The novel may best be read as the struggle of a person trying to find his way, something everyone must do at some point in life. Behind his facade of false and to me often annoying bravado is the overwhelming desire to fit in, revealing a lack of self-esteem that the exterior seeks to conceal. Hhmm, imagine art imitating life here...

One of the chief topics of discussion for this book was whether or not we like Amory. In some ways this may seem oh so unscholarly, but I think back to what I try to ingrain into my students, the fact that we should have an emotional response to literature. Otherwise, what's the point? However, rather than inciting us to action by exposing some injustice in the world around us, Amory perhaps forces us to look inward rather than outward. In response to this, a couple of the questions we examined were: Not only do we like him or not but do we praise him or agree with him? As some of my earlier comments show, I often grew weary of Amory, but there are at times redeeming qualities about him, such as when he takes the blame for a friend in the hotel room scene as well as his recurring thoughts on the death of his college cohorts in the war. At the end of the novel, readers are left with two possible options for Amory's life: he will either become a Darcy or a Beatrice. One road leads to redemption and the other to destruction, or at least the equivalent of such in the emotional/psychological sense if not the physical one.

One last thing we discussed was Fitzgerald's writing style. The text mimics Amory's own world view, as illustrated by certain sections, in which life is either a poem or a play. These ideas are supported by his attempts at writing poetry as well as the references to other poets as well as the portion written as play's script would appear on paper.

A Long Time Ago in a Starbucks Not Far Away

Curious about the title? Well Books and Bucks friends, this is the ridiculously late posting for James Baldwin's Go Tell it on the Mountain. By the way, that title always makes me think of the Christmas song with those lines. You know it goes like this: "Go tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere. Go tell it on the mountain that Jesus Christ is born." These lines somehow seem quite fitting given the fact that bulk of the novel centers around faith or sometimes a lack of faith of the characters. Arguably the central character John is most directly impacted by this struggle of religion in his life. He is expected to have a forceful religious conversion experience, the kind that knocks a person off his/her feet and causes him/her to dance, shout, and possibly even speak in tongues, all signs of the Holy Spirit at work in that person. However, as young teen, John does not yet possess the faith that his elders believe he should have. In fact, at times I felt that John was being pressured to profess to this faith in much the same way a child may be pressured to perform in sports or academics. This type of pressure can be so overwhelming that at times it seems it would be easier to "fake it" in order to eliminate the pressure and dispel the questioning nature of those around one. However, John does not submit to this easy way out. Instead, the novel follows him through this process as well as providing the background story of his mother, his step-father, and his aunt (his step-father's sister). Each of these characters has had his/her own struggles both in the faith and outside of it, bringing to mind the question of what does it really mean to have faith at work in one's life.

A prime example of this question can be found in John's step-father who the reader discovers resents John because he is not his own son, though John is unaware of this lack of blood relationship. In his early life, he lived what could be considered if not a immoral life certainly not a religious one. However, his religious conversion far from tempering him and making him a more compassionate man seems to (or at least this is the way he makes it seem) provide him with the basis by which he casts out judgment on others. If they do not measure up to his almost impossibly high standards, then they are inferior and will be treated as such. This is particularly interesting and yet extremely pathetic as it seems his version of God and faith does not include forgiveness for transgressions or the frailty of man before God. The exception to this case can be found in the form of Roy, his biological son. Young Roy is in many ways his father's son as he too is wild, rebellious, and almost certainly destined for a bad end. However, rather than send down his wrath on Roy, he shows at times an infuriating sense of love, bordering on worship, of the boy, while casting John, the "good son," to the side. The irony is not lost here as this relationship brings to mind two Biblical father/son relationships: the stories of Jacob and Esau as well as the prodigal son, though at the end of the novel, Roy has not seen the error of his ways as the prodigal son does.

To return to the principal character John, he is caught in the conflict that seems to accompany a religious conversion experience, that battle between God and the material world. While he is expected to choose God, one might wonder at this choice given the hypocritical nature of some the religious figures. It makes me think of many people's argument against organized religion because they see it as filled with hypocrites who go to church on Sunday but live another lifestyle during the week. However, at the end of the book, John does experience the filling of the Holy Spirit that marks his fulfillment of the expectations of those around him. While it seems like this experience would bring a sense of acceptance, at least temporarily, from his step-father, this is not the case. Instead, it is almost as if his step-father does not truly believe John's acceptance of the Spirit is real. This lack of support along with the fact that life for John seems contrary to such a sense of fervor brings to to mind the question as to how long this passion can be sustained. Will John be able to feed and nurture his young faith or will it wither and die? Is it possible to sustain such fervor in the world? This is something I have to admit I wonder both inside and outside the discussion of the text as the acceptance of faith into one's life is found both in other literature we have read as well as the world we live in. John's struggle and seeming desire to feel what others around him feel brings to mind both Rick Bragg's All Over but the Shoutin' and Annie Dillard's An American Childhood as this concept is addressed in each. Bragg recalls how he attended a small, cinder block church as a boy, and in this account he talks about how week after week he sat in the pew waiting to be touched by the hand that he believed was on all those around him. He desperately wanted to believe, but he says that that hand never touched him, igniting that passion of belief. Dillard too recounts the experience of attending church as a child and the shock with which she saw the boys around her in the act of prayer. To her it seemed that the possibilty of her peers actually possessing an active faith was beyond her comprehension. Baldwin leaves us as readers with this question unanswered, and perhaps this ambiguity is fitting by allowing the reader to answer this question for himself/herself by examining one's own beliefs system.

Did you live An American Childhood?

Okay, first off, I realize I've been a bit of a slacker with regard to actually posting the notes I've taken at our meetings. So, here goes with our March read Annie Dillard's An American Childhood. I had heard of Annie Dillard, but ashamedly I really knew nothing about her. That made this read which chronicles her childhood in Pittsburgh intriguing; plus, I love a good memoir. Thinking back over the book, one of the things that struck me the most with the book is that so many other books that seek to recount the author's childhood are filled with horrific accounts of abuse, poverty, deprivation, loss, etc. etc. Very rarely does this sort of book really focus on the life of for all practical purposes a functional, stable, loving family. Since Dillard came from a fairly affluent family, I don't know if I'd go so far as to say Dillard had the typical American childhood, whatever that is, but it certainly captured many elements of growing up that I think most children experience.

In fact, this ability to relate to the text was something we discussed pretty heavily, and everyone could find some experience that she documented that we had in our own growing up years. One of the things pretty much everyone had in common with the text was that feeling of discovery and all consuming interest that Dillard found in reading, rocks, her microscope, and drawing. As a child, we are creators of wonder. Things grab our attention and we want to learn about them purely for the joy of discovery and knowing. Drawing on my litany of educational terminology, we are actively engaged in the learning process. However, we also discussed the fact that as we move toward adulthood much of this wonder is lost. Dillard herself begins to address this movement in the portion of her novel that deals with her teen years. Between school, friends, and the awakening to the mysteries of the opposite sex, somehow that wonder and feverish desire to know fade into the background. In fact, as self-educated as Dillard was, she often notes that as a female growing up in the fifties there were arenas that she was not privilege to. In one discussion of her male contemporaries, she explores the inequality of the sexes, though not in those exact terms. She describe the boys as being part of a club who "knew things" and whose futures had been planned for them from the moment of their birth. These boys were the future lawyers and bank presidents and company executives; while Dillard's opportunities as a female were much more constricted.

This idea of male versus female roles lead me to another element of discussion with regard to the book. On numerous occasions she describes her mother as being different from the other women of the time, more progressive in a sense. Yet, for all her progressive sensibilities, she was still very much the stereotypical fifties American housewife whose time was primarily dedicated to taking care of her family. In the opening section of the book, Dillard actually hints at but never openly addresses the stifling nature of such a life. She talks about the atmosphere of the neighborhood after the men have left for work that seems to capture this almost stagnant quality of the days. Of course, time also seems to pass much more slowly when one is a child, so this may account for a portion of the mood this section gives off. Still, it brings up another point in our discussion, that idea of being awake and truly living in the moment that can be traced back to the Transcendentalist movement. In fact, perhaps it is this strong connection to the Transcendentalists that leads to the poetic language and nature of the book.

While we reached the consensus that perhaps this was not the most discussion provoking book we have read, it certainly has its merits, and if nothing else it made us reflect a bit back on our own childhoods and how those experiences have helped to shape us into the adults we are today.

Off With Their Heads

Now that the title has your attention, on to the latest installment of the Bucks and Books blog over Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. As children, several of us had seen the Disney adaptation of Carroll's fantastical novels, but at the age of six, one's scope of criticism usually falls under "I love it" or "I hate it." Personally, I remember enjoying the movie, but I did not find that same sense of enjoyment when reading the text. I kept thinking to myself, "What is the point of all this?" and after our meeting on Saturday, I feel safe in saying that at times in our reading we all felt a bit like Alice as she struggled to make sense of the Wonderland world. In fact, most of us came to the table with the same sense of having missed out on something critical in the text, leading once again to the question of Carroll's authorial intent.

Perhaps as educated adults, many of whom make a living out of reading and analyzing texts in one way or another, we are handicapped by our expectations that our reading contains subliminal messages or critical commentaries. Maybe the rambling narration and often nonsensical plot can best be appreciated by children, Carroll's target audience, who revel in stories and the more ridiculous the better. The introduction and annotations in the copy I read, explored Carroll's life and his friendships with children, particularly Alice Liddell, the Alice of Alice in Wonderland. Supposedly, Alice in Wonderland was the expansion of a story Carroll made up for the amusement of Alice and her two sisters while they were on a rowing trip one summer day. If this is the case, then perhaps the stories are simply glorified children's tales, and we as adults are discounting their entertainment value by looking for something more imbedded in the text.

Interestingly, if one believes these stories were solely for the entertainment of children, then years later they do in fact inadvertently provide insight into the time period in which they were written. The Victorian period brought about the concept of a true and marked childhood. Prior to this children were viewed as miniature adults. Secondly, these stories provide a departure of the norm of children's literature as instructional tool. Rather than building a story around a moral lesson or virtue, the story serves little purpose aside from enjoyment and even escape, interestingly one of the chief reasons for popular literature today. In many ways our difficulty with the text may also allow it to be cast as a satire due to way in which the disconnect between the worlds of children and adults becomes painfully obvious.

Needless to say, there is much more I could have written from our discussion, but in an attempt to create a cohesive thread, some has been omitted. Also, this seems a fitting time to mention the fact that while we did not go into a Freudian reading of Carroll's friendships with and adoration for young girls, there is plenty out there to read on the topic if one so desires. Secondly, this book really forced us to look at the way in which the introduction and the point of view expressed by that author can color a reading of the book and the reader's attitudes toward the author, yet another excuse not to read those pesky introductions.

Holiday on Trial or What We Thought of David Sedaris' Christmas Short Stories

"Ladies, you know what this is. Use it. I have scraped enough blood out from the crotches of elf knickers to last me the rest of my life. And don't tell me, 'I don't wear underpants, I'm a dancer. You're not a dancer. If you were a real dancer you wouldn't be here. You're an elf and you're going to wear panties like an elf."                             --David Sedaris, "The Santa Land Diaries"

In a letter to Richard Woodhouse, John Keats talks about the poetical Character being something that "is everything and nothing" and how it "enjoys light and shade." His point was that a true poet becomes invisible behind his (or her) writing, that the voice the reader receives is the voice of the given text. Though not poetry, David Sedaris' Holidays on Ice reflects several voices both likable and despicable, ironically humorous and slapstick humorous. And it's these voices and what they had to say that we discussed on Saturday Dec. 20th.

Since Holidays on Ice is a collection of short stories, we began our conversation by naming our favorite one (I know. I know. Very sophisticated). From there, we delved into the themes and significance of each story. Here's an abbreviated avatar of our discussion:

"Dinah, the Christmas Whore."

Here, we talked about the lesson a Young David Sedaris learned about Christmas, how it's not all about him. The beginning of the story centers around a teenage Sedaris focused on asserting his individuality while exposing the corporateness of Christmas. What Young Sedaris saw was an up-close imbuing of the Christmas spirit when his sister and later his mother feed and care for a prostitute with domestic problems. 

We discussed how the story, though not factually true, was probably based loosely on some incident that Sedaris was able to sensationalize and chronicle. We used this idea to spearhead a conversation about how writers create fiction. From there, we transitioned our discussion to how stories are constructed.

"The Santa Land Diaries."

This collection of diary entries about Sedaris' experience as a Christmas Elf for Macy's one holiday season sparked perhaps the funniest part of our get together, for it constituted us reading aloud our favorite parts from his entries. 

The amazing part of this story is the amount of topics Sedaris was able to touch on in such a short period of time (the selfishness of parents poorly disguised as love for their children, the issue of Santa Claus' race, and the juxtaposition of holiday cheer with biting anger--from the same person, and what the real Santa Claus would do if he were a mall Santa). As a group, this was our favorite entry, but we knew we had others to discuss.

"Season's Greetings to Our Friends and Family!!!"

The appeal of this story was the way in which it evolves like a CSI case. I don't want to give too much away, but our discussion turned into us analyzing evidence and coming to a conclusion about the story's conclusion. We also discussed the "WASPY tone" of the piece, and a few members of our group pointed out that being a WASP (I'm not one) can help you decode what the speaker is saying. Perhaps more than any other reading, this one had a didactic tone that is often characteristic of Christmas stories.

I don't want to make this blog too long, so I'll leave it up to y'all to add as you see fit. But "Us & Them" provided the platform for April's story of how she and her brother spent Christmas giving away their presents after they disobeyed their mom who told them not to snoop around the house hunting for them. "6 to 8 Black Men" was a story that April and Bob had a copy of, but not the rest of us. This was another text w/ a WASPy tone. "Based on a True Story" was probably Sedaris' most overtly satirical piece, which seems to be the overarching purpose of this collection. 

Okay, I've obviously missed some things here, so feel free to grab your bullhorn and speak loudly about what you thought of our get together. 

Works Mentioned:

"A Modest Proposal:

Me Talk Pretty One Day

When We're Engulfed in Flames

Anchor Man

A Christmas Carol

Four Long Roads, Two Good Friends, & One Great Book Club Discussion

“I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future, and maybe that’s why it happened…”   --Jack Kerouac, On the Road

This past get together featured Jack Kerouac’s Beat Generation classic, On the Road. Some books just pull discussion out of you like rope out of your hands in a lopsided tug-of-war match, and this book is one of them. I began our talk by mentioning how On the Road wasn’t what I expected. I thought I was going to get a hipper, updated, more accessible version of Walden. I thought the book would consist of 1/3 narration and 2/3 poetic, philosophical ruminations about post-war America. Since it wasn’t, we discussed what exactly the book was, not so much what it was about but how would we characterize it.

We wanted to separate expectations from reality. Keruouac’s intentions vs. our assumptions. Bob brought up the idea that the book is not about the literal journeys across the US but about the figurative inward one. It’s easy to get hung up on the adventurous aspects of this story, but the travels are only vehicles that Kerouac uses to get to what he’s really after: a discussion about the realization of confronting your limitations (self-imposed and otherwise) and trying to accede them. We added that the journey we have, whatever it is, must have an element of true danger. If the hazards are contrived, then the travels lack authenticity, which undercuts their effectiveness. The moments you find yourself in must be real, not manufactured, which is why Bob and his woman stopped using a safe word. But I digress…

…If I may oversimplify for a moment, the point is this: On the Road could’ve been about one journey from Nashville to Memphis if that’s all it took for him to come to the realization about who he is, who he was, and who he needed to be.

The journey motif in literature is huge, and we could’ve spent all day discussing it, but there’s more to the book than his physical and metaphysical travels. We also talked about how Sal Paradise (the Kerouac character) and Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassady) were opposites who balanced one another. The two needed each other even as they worked in opposition to each other. For a group who spent 2 months reading Sherlock Holmes, we couldn’t help but point out how the name Moriarty has literary significance as the nemesis of Doyle’s hero. Kerouac drew upon that nomenclature to emphasize how, despite their friendship, the Paradise and Moriary are not to be identified synonymously.

Yet we modern readers have trouble separating them simply because we must identify them together as 2 figure heads of the Beat Generation. Along with the characters of the movement, we had to discuss the characteristics of it as well. So we also talked upon the language Kerouac employs. As mentioned earlier, I loved his poetic bursts of philosophical insight and was expecting more of it. But Mandy pointed out that had the whole novel been like that, we would not have the jazzy rhythms that mark the book’s style.

 The vapid moments could be characterized by the steady thumping of a bass guitar, while the philosophic commentary would parallel the improvisation of trumpet blasts. Mandy, whose husband is a musician, would’ve been more attuned to the musicality of the novel. Several of us mentioned that we were more familiar with jazz so that we could’ve appreciated that aspect of the story.

There’s a couple of interesting points that we hit upon such as the nature of belief, the non-linearness of the story, and the satire towards society that Kerouac incorporates. Perhaps some of you could hit on those things in the comments section. But I want to end by going back to the idea of balance. Just as Paradise and Moriarty balanced one another, I like the concept of balance in our personal lives. Kerouac could not have gone on the trips nor written the book had his mom not supported him both morally and financially. I like that we talked about how no one succeeds in a vacuum. Anyone who does anything has people willing to help them in some fashion. I’m reminded of a New Yorker article by Malcolm Gladwell, “Why do we associate Genius with Precocity.” It’s still in the essay section if you want to visit to NewYorker.com and check it out (There’s your plug. Can I have my money now?). But it’s about how we think of genius in terms of prodigies and that we often overlook late bloomers who develop slowly over a long period of time, often with someone supporting them while they write or paint or build their business.

I think we’d all recommend the book, but with a caveat: the more you know about post-war America, the better. Also, don’t expect a non-stop adventure. Some parts seemed (and I’m speaking just for myself here) a little insipid. I would read this with a friend or at the very least, with the intent of discussing it.

Some works mentioned during the discussion: Pimpin’ Pimpin’ by Katt Williams, Lolita by Nabakov, Dharma Bums and Big Sur both by Kerouac, “Howl” by Allen Ginsburg, Walden by Thoreau, The Illiad and The Odyssey by Homer

BucksandBooks Meets Capote's Blood

“On November 15, 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were savagely murdered by blasts from a shotgun held a few inches from their faces. There was no apparent motive for the crime, and there were almost no clues…"

 --The book jacket for In Cold Blood

“You know, my mom read this when she was 19 or 20, and she was so scared that while she was reading it, my granddad—her dad—came home from work, and she wouldn’t let him in the house until he slid his ID under the door.”

--Amanda C., One of our book club members

 And so our conversation began. We discussed why this book, written in the 60s, was scary and sensational then but not now. In Cold Blood certainly has a creepy, No Country for Old Men feel to it, but we certainly wouldn’t feel unsafe reading it alone at night. We concluded that true crime, perhaps an emerging genre in America when Capote wrote this, is now a relative familiarity, even if we don’t read them. Also, we’ve been desensitized to the idea of mass murderers: Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy…OJ. It’s like watching Psycho—we experience it because of its importance, not b/c we hope to experience what the original audience felt. And that divide is what makes In Cold Blood a seminal work but not a great book club book.

Our discussion was engaging at certain points, but overall, it was stilted. For example, we talked about the respective psychologies of Perry and Dick. We explored their relationship with each other as well as their individual motivations for the murder. The problem we kept encountering was this: we’re not psychologists. The individual points one of us would try to make and the collective understanding we tried to come to as a group would abruptly halt because we didn’t have the necessary background to delve deeper. It’s like our intellects wanted to run further, but our education (or lack of specialized education) kept cramping our strides.

We decided that this book would make for a good discussion among journalists, psychologists, even 20^th century historians, but not among us: a hodgepodge of teachers, students, and business people. Our talk did veer into the direction of what the book would have focused on had a woman written it. Would a female writer have focused on the same things that Capote did? Would more time have been spent detailing the relationships Dick and Perry had with some of the more tangential characters? Oddly, we spent the most time discussing the difference between male and female writing sensibilities. As always, we tried to make connections with previous books; the only books that really came to mind were the Sherlock Holmes volumes we read in ’06.

Overall, In Cold Blood is an interesting mystery full of colorful, real life characters. It just didn’t make for good discussion fodder. I don’t know how often this nonfiction novel turns up in book club circles, but I’m curious to know how well other groups have dealt with it.

 

 

Myth's Many Visages: Our Discussion of C.S. Lewis' Till We Have Faces

"The complaint was the answer...I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?"

--C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

First of all, this is Nick substituting for Nancy since she was out of town last Saturday. So any problems with what is written should be directed towards me. 

In our latest get together, we discussed C.S. Lewis' Till We Have Faces, which is a retelling of the Cupid & Psyche story found in Greek mythology. It's one of Lewis' lesser known fictions, and though it's palpable, philosophical, and interesting, you have to keep in mind that the story's rising action, climax, and falling action is more psychological than physical.

One of the first things we talked about, which Ben brought up, is that Lewis' note at the end of the novel where he summarizes the Cupid & Psyche myth is inaccurate. According to Lewis, Cupid kills her 2 sisters, yet Ben--who studied this myth while completing his MA--pointed out that Psyche is responsible for her sister's deaths. We talked about how that error, though not pertinent to Lewis' story per se, does hurt some of his credibility as a writer. I know it ruined Ben's enjoyment of the novel. I've since thought about what we said, and the only explanation I can come up with (other than either Ben or Lewis is wrong) is that, like any good myth, multiple versions of the story possibly exist. Thus Ben and Lewis may be working from different primary sources. I'm curious to see what the rest of you have to add concerning the issue. 

We did talk about the idea of myths being born out of multiple stories when we discussed how Orual's legend as a queen grew b/c of her military conquests along with the mystery surrounding her veiled face. The idea of stories, of histories, being living things that take on different forms over time is something that we haven't really examined in depth before. We hit on the idea briefly when we read The Alchemist and Haroun and the Sea of Stories but not until we talked about how the people viewed Orual and her accomplishments as queen did we spend a substantial amount of time on how we as people craft narratives over time to shape our notion of what we need stories to say. I imagine the theme will present itself in our next book, In Cold Blood. 

Also, another interesting thing that we haven't talked about in several months is the idea of the unreliable narrator (I think we discussed the concept with Vonnegut's Bluebeard as well as with The Autobiography of Malcolm X). Orual is essentially giving us her autobiography. And in so doing, she describes several fantastic scenes that we as readers can either accept as reality or dismiss as the ruminations of a crazy woman. We decided that accepting them makes more sense when you consider that one of the recurring themes in Lewis' writing is that the spiritual world is much more real than the physical one. Also, the book fits together much better if you accept that her encounters with Psyche and others who no longer inhabit this world are real, not concocted. 

We poured into this book from several different angles, and it's hard to re-construct our conversation as well as I'd like. But something else that I personally enjoyed about Lewis and this book in particular is the poeticness of the writing. I mentioned that reading this was like reading poetry except since it's a novel and I've read it before, it didn't require the patience that one needs for most poems. Lewis strings together some very sonorous phrases that I was able to enjoy even more than the story's action. 

Well, that's all I have. Feel free to add to/edit this blog as you see fit. See ya in the comments section!

The Jane Austen Fan Club -- Smyrna Branch

First of all I feel the need to apologize for the delay in posting our latest blog installment. All I can say is that I've been having technical difficulties. I have a love/hate relationship with computers, and this week has been heavy on the hating side. Maybe I'm taking some liberties with the posting title for our most recent read, but I want to say love, hate, or ambivalence last week's meeting to discuss Austen's Pride and Prejudice had great attendance. I hope to see all you back for subsequent books. Also, thanks to all who have read and posted responses to past posts, keep them coming, and keep me truthful. I take notes at our gatherings, but putting it all together here forces me to do some condensing and synthesizing. If I goof, misquote, or misrepresent something, call me on it. Now on to P&P.

One facet of the novel that we spent quite a bit of time discussing was Austen's use of exaggeration in her portrayl of characters and relationships. Some of us may have felt this exaggeration was a bit over the top to the point of being a distraction. Others saw it as Austen's tongue in cheek commentary on the idea of romantic relationships, more of which I'll get into later. Myself, I kept thinking that the novel was just like high school, and as a high school teacher, I feel somewhat qualified in my assessment of high school melodramas. I think what lead me to this conclusion was a mixture of the way romantic relationships are idealized by some characters to the exclusion of practicality, think Mrs. Bennett, Lydia, and even Mr. Collins and the importance of witty banter in the relationship between Elizabeth and Darcy. Now I want to go back to the analysis of Austen's exaggeration as commentary. Bob pointed out that this over the top style is played out with stunning regularity in our modern day romantic comedies, particulary in those movies where the characters seem to intially hate on another but end up falling in love at the end. It struck me as funny how we accept this arrangement somewhat blindly in our films but find it problematic when it shows up in our literature, particularly since Austen had a corner on the market far in advance of the advent of film. I wonder if our dismay comes from the fact we are more critical when we read than when we watch a movie, or if we've become so accustomed to seeing this played out in movies that we have become sort of immune to it. Bob made good case for the novel as a satire of the romance because it's seemingly too perfect. Everything wraps up a bit too neatly in the end, so the question becomes is Austen trying to remind us that real life and love don't always work in this way. Even Lydia, whose reckless behavior could have resulted in lasting shame for her family, is saved, though we are left to wonder about the possibility for true happiness in her somewhat arranged marriage.

Another interesting element of the Elizabeth/Darcy union that was discussed was the fact that their marriage is one of both love and money, whereas other unions in the novel are guided purely by one or the other. Jane's relationship seems to be based purely on love while Charlotte Lucas's marriage is portrayed as almost a business transaction. Mr. and Mrs. Bennett's marriage was based on what amounts to lust, and Lydia's marriage is arranged to prevent dishonor. Is one reason that readers support Elizabeth and Darcy because their marriage serves as an optimistic reminder that one really can have it all when it comes to romantic unions? Or, as someone suggeted, is Austen offering the novel up as a cautionary tale on marriage, which doesn't always have a happy ending like Elizabeth and Darcy's?

An interesting topic Nick introduced was the fact that Austen doesn't rely on descriptions of her characters or scenes to carry the novel. We discussed whether Austen left out the effusive detail prevalent in many other romantic novels because she didn't feel that these descriptions were important, of did she perhaps have an ulterior motive. Is this lack of feeding us information a veiled attempt to engage us as readers more fully in the text as we must visualize these things for ourselves? During this discussion Bob raised the important question, "What can we learn about ourselves and others based upon reactions to literature?". If I can be so bold as to state my own conclusions here, I have learned that we are if nothing else a thinking group. Our discussions never remain at the superficial level where we simply discuss what went on in the book. Instead, we seek to peel away the layers of our onion to uncover possible social commentaries or motives of the author while looking for relevance in today's society.

Another interesting element of the text that we offered up for discussion is the role that money plays in establishing power. The two characters who best exemplify this realtionship between power and money are Darcy and Lady Catherine. Each has enough money and enough social clout to do what they please; yet, they behave in a completely different manner due to this freedom. Lady Catherine uses her money and accompanying social position to put herself into a position of power over the other characters. This is best exemplified in her encounter with Elizabeth in which she orders her to refuse Darcy's advances. The isolated sphere she has constructed around herself through her wealth and power allows her to interact with those outside her realm in what can only be described as a condescending manner, and I'm using our modern day connotation of the word not that used in the novel itself. Darcy, on the other hand, is able to change and undergoes such a transformation while Lady Catherine remains stagnant. Perhaps the greatest evidence of Darcy's ability for change can be seen through his instrumental role in arranging for the marriage between Wickham and Lydia in spite of his distaste for both these characters.

While I am certain I have left out something someone may deem critical in our discussion of the novel, that's where your responses and posts come in. I look forward to reading them, so get to blogging.

Sadism Dostoevsky Style

June's book fell into the classics realm as we explored Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. In spite of the fact that I've read this book at least three times prior to this reading, it's always a good read, and as we discussed to today, there's always something new that I can get out of a reading. In the past I had read this book in the context of a class, so it was interesting to get a wide variety of perspectives from readers who were reading the text in a different setting. By they way, we welcomed three new visitors who were willing to get down with a little Dostoevsky, and after hearing their responses to what can be a challenging or at the least a dense read, I hope they make our Saturday gatherings a regular event. One of the thematic issues we addressed was that of redemption. As I stated earlier, I had read this book previously for a couple of classes, and as one of them was a Faith in Literature class, the concept of redemption was explored in great detail. The question that we threw around today is "At the end of the novel is Raskolnikov redeemed?". One participant posed the question that since Raskolnikov never actually expresses remorse for having murdered the pawnbroker and her sister, can be actually be redeemed because he doesn't openly repent. This theory brings about a wonderful question for thought, does one have to verbally, and here I use the word verbally to encompass both actual spoken language as well as internal thoughts and perspectives provided by the narrator, profess repentance in order to be redeemed? However, Dostoevsky appears to support the idea of redemption for Rodya as he serves his time in the Siberian prison where he opens the Bible Sonya gives him and reads the story of Lazarus. Lazarus was resurrected from the dead by Jesus, and one could argue that Raskolnikov is resurrected by Sonya and her presence in his life. To a person who has read the text, it isn't a long shot to say that Rodya was dead in the spiritual and emotional sense until Sonya comes into his life, and it is through her tireless perseverance that he is afforded the opportunity to be resurrected and join the world of the living. However, this concept brings about another topic of discussion with regard to Sonya. The question posed was why does she seemingly waste her time on Raskolnikov, who by all accounts is not the most approachable or lovable character?

Sonya herself proves an interesting study when thinking about how to best answer this question. Sonya has been forced into prostitution due to her family's economic hardship. However, she holds her faith close in spite of her fallen status, and it is this faith that leads her to embrace Raskolnikov despite his misanthropic nature. She sees something in him that is worthwhile and worth saving. In the end, it seems that her faith both in God and in Rodya is rewarded as it can be argued that the Raskolnikov we see at the end is not the same one we met in the first chapter. If we're going to talk about faith in this novel, we must further address the fact that Sonya is a prostitute. By society's standards, she is an outcast and and untouchable. In fact, when the Marmeladov family's landlady finds out about Sonya's occupation, she is put out of the house, and she can only visit her family in the dark of night when she can sneak into the house. In the Bible, we find countless examples of Jesus reaching out to those who were relegated the bottom rungs of society, and in fact, these are the people that Jesus often sought out. Therefore, it is ironically fitting that the prostitute is the one who has the greatest faith of all the characters in the book. A personal literary note here, last semester I reread Stephen Crane's Maggie: A Girl of the Streets. When we were discussing the book in class, I couldn't help but draw parallels between Maggie and Sonya. In Maggie, Maggie too is forced into prostitution due to economic need. However, Maggie falls into the fallen woman role that is often found in literature of the time period because she dies at the end. Often the fallen woman dies which can be seen as morality tale of sorts because the woman who deviates from societal norms and expectations cannot be successful and must be punished. However, Sonya, while undoubtedly suffering more than her fair share of trials, does in many ways emerge victorious because she leads Raskolnikov to redemption and a new life, definitely breaking the curse of the fallen woman in literature.

Yet another hotbed of discussion revolves around the idea that various levels of crimes exisit. While numerous characters in the novel commit various and sundry crimes, are some crimes worse that others or is a crime a crime? If one crime is in fact worse than another, how can we determine the continuum of crimes? This also leads into Raskolnikov's initial theory that some people, those he deems extraordinary, are entitled to commit crimes such as the murder of an usurper like the pawnbroker. Is Raskolnikov's theory grounded in a grain of truth? Are extraordinary people afforded liberties that the rest of us are not allowed? Raskolnikov can be seen as committing his crime as a test to determine if in fact he is an extraordinary man. However, since he cannot pull his crime off in the manner he envisioned and in fact is obviously tormented as a result of his act, one would theorize that he is as ordinary and flawed as the rest of society.

These are only a few of the themes and ideas we threw around in our discussion of the amazing literary work. In actuality, there is no way all the themes or questions that this book contains could be covered in a two hour meeting, but I think we covered a commendable amount of ground in our brief time together.

Something to Shout About

Our May book was Rick Bragg's All Over but the Shoutin' because we'd been throwing around the idea of reading a memoir for some months, but we were holding out for just the right memoir. I think that Bragg's story fits the bill perfectly for a number of reasons. First, Bragg devotes a good portion of his story to life in the changing South of the 1960s, and while in 2008 we may not all be able to relate to his family's story, there are certain elements, stereotypical or not, of the South that resonate today. Bragg also explores intense family dynamic issues that are not limited to a particular time or place, and if per chance we haven't experienced these struggles ourselves, we only have to open our doors and look to our own communities to find similar stories of personal hardships and struggles.

In our discussion, we explored a couple of distinct themes both in terms of how they relate to the book and to life today. The first theme was that of the person who leaves home to seek his/her fortune or way in the world. This theme traces back to epic stories in which the hero must leave home and encounter the challenges of the world in order to learn something about himself. Bragg, through what he essentially calls his own dumb luck, embraces this epic theme by leaving rural Alabama for the scenes of his stories that projected him to role of a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. We then explored the similarities of this leaving home saga with those found in A Lesson Before Dying, our February book. In this novel, the protagonist, Grant Wiggins, has left the African American "quarter" to gain an education, but he has returned in the role of school master for the children of his community. An point of consideration when comparing these two texts is the idea of hope and who has hope. In A Lesson Before Dying, Grant dreams of leaving "the quarter" but is held back because he knows that the community has pinned all their hopes on him. Bragg, in leaving his corner of the South, leaves behind a family who has also pinned their hopes upon him. Both Grant and Bragg are the ones who have been given the opportunity, through the sacrifices of others, to serve as a representative of their community to a world that deals largely in stereotypes.

Another theme that brought about much discussion was that of religion. There is a reason the South is nicknamed the Bible Belt. Faith and church are still afforded a large measure of attention today, evidenced by the fact that many community and school activities are never scheduled on Wednesdays because that's church night. The question becomes what is it that allows some people to have faith, even those in the most dire of circumstances, while its comforting hand seems to pass over others. Bragg in not so many words poses this question himself when he recounts his experiences with church as a young boy. He states that he sat in the pew week after week and waited for that hand to touch him in the way he saw it touch those around him; yet, it never did. Another similar example is provided in Bragg's recounting a story about his brother Mark. In one of his many attempts to evade the law, he ducked into a church and was so heartily welcomed by the congregation that he kept going for two years. While Bragg never presumes to speak for his brother, the reader cannot help but wonder if Mark, like Bragg, kept going because he was looking for that consuming faith he saw in others. Interestingly, the character with the most unshakable faith of all is arguably the one who has perhaps the greatest right to question a God who allowed such suffering to touch her life, Mrs. Margaret Bragg. Despite the hardships she faced in her life, Bragg paints a touchingly vivid image of her standing in their little house, her hand pressed to the top of the TV, as the televangelist on the screen prayed. Perhaps she, like so many others of various religions and denominations, clung to her faith because it was all she had.

Welcome

A book must be an ice-axe to break the seas frozen inside our soul. ~Franz Kafka

Welcome book club folks! Whether you’ve been with us from the beginning or joined us in recent months, I’d wager a guess that if you’re reading this blog, you can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday morning than talking about a good book. When Nick invited me to participate two years ago, he stressed the club as a gathering of people who are committed to consistently reading the texts and coming prepared to contribute to the conversation. Over the twenty-four months we’ve been meeting, we’ve read books that we might never have considered otherwise and broadened our horizons through stimulating conversation. At a recent meeting, we discussed some ways that we can be more active in the workings of the club. The idea is that the more we each contribute to the book club experience, the more we’ll get out it. One of the ideas we came up with is this blog. The goal is to provide a venue for us to chronicle our meeting and continue the conversation. It also provides a way to check out what the club’s been up to if you’ve missed a meeting or two. Another great thing about this blog is that everyone should be able to post comments and contribute, so it’s not just me. Think of it as a continuation of our Saturday gatherings. This is my first attempt at blogging, so if anyone has any suggestions or ideas for me, send them my way. However, I hope you are all as excited as I am about blogging on our books. By the way, if any of you are wondering about the title of this blog, I sat staring at a blank box for a good five minutes waiting for something amazing and erudite to come to me. Bucks and Books is what I got instead. The Bucks comes from the fact our official meeting place is the Smyrna Starbucks, and the Books part should be pretty self-explanatory.