Author: nicole

When I began working on my paper/presentation for In the Shadow… one of the places I started, just out of pure curiosity, was the September 1, 1939 poem by W.H. Auden. Not only does Spiegelman cite the poem in his book, but during at least two separate NPR interviews he mentions the poem again in reference to the “New York community” embracing poetry, finding solace in coffee house readings, in order to get a grip on what happened. I’m sure some of you, if not all, are probably familiar with Auden and his poem, whereas I was not. Aside from simply reading its entirety, I also found a deeply contradicting, and fascinating history attached to the poem. The poem was originally written at the beginning of WWII as Poland was being invaded, which leads me to believe that Spiegelman is more than likely completely aware of the poem’s historical context. The poem that people were finding comfort in and reciting in coffee houses, passing along through email, and even using in classrooms directly following 9/11, is the same poem used in the ever famous political commercial in 1964 with the little girl picking the petals off of a flower, the ominous countdown, followed by the mushroom-cloud image of an atomic bomb in the Johnson and Goldwater election. Bush senior also used the poem in his own fear commercials, and I just found it fascinating that a poem with such a rich history as being used as a political tool to fuel fear for the sake of political gain would be symbolically chosen as ‘the’ post-9/11 poem. Spiegelman does not directly cite this contradiction, or coincidence, or whatever you might call it, but I find it impossible to believe he is unaware of the connections considering his personal background. After understanding the history behind the poem, I re-read the panel including the citation (on page 10) and his commentary took on an entirely new meaning. Or maybe not entirely ‘new’ but definitely deeper.

I am not fond of the Giroux essay. I do not agree with just about all of what he has to say. Except agreeing and disagreeing about this essay isn’t that simple. I “agree” with the foundation of his argument… that when contemplating the issues presented in Fight Club, such as capitalism, consumerism, violence, misogyny, the emasculated male, it would be swell if Fincher/Palahniuk could have discussed the entire spectrum effected and not limited the issues to one particular class, race, gender, and so on. But I “disagree” because the story isn’t meant to embrace every single aspect. It’s specifically pointed at white, middle-class men for a rather valid reason and it just seems silly to say that the movie is any less insightful because it chose to narrow its concentration. It doesn’t mean that Fincher is saying anything against those other elements, that they aren’t as important, or that it isn’t worthwhile to explore, it just simply isn’t relevant to this particular story. Statements such as “Given Fincher’s suggestion that men have no enduring qualities outside of their physicality… (14-15),” “…romanticizing violence in the face of… abuse and violence that people involuntarily experience every day because of their sexual orientation, [their race], their gender, or their class status… (17),” just drove me a little bit crazy. My reading of both film and book is that “Jack” realizes the fault in their little experiment and attempts to right “Tyler’s” wrongs… i.e. realizes that violence and terrorism is not the answer, otherwise known as providing the moral to the story. “Jack,” however, fails in both texts and ultimately inflicts even more violence upon himself in order to find his true identity, peace, etc., but I can’t completely accept that it all promotes this chest-beating brute that Giroux sums it all up as.

The biggest critique, or question, I have always had is why the movie lessens Marla’s significance in “Jack’s” journey. Palahniuk says that Fight Club is first a love story, and then a whole bunch of other things afterwards. Julie is disturbed by the anti-feminist/misogynistic manner in which Marla is portrayed, and I completely agree, but mostly only in the case of the film. Marla’s role is much more positive in the book and I’ve always wondered why Fincher would have down-played the relationship so dramatically. Perhaps a victim of post-modern marketing?

I was very interested in the significance of the “cellar door.” Granted, it could merely be a foreshadowing element used to heighten anxiety when Donnie/Gretchen stumble upon, coincidentally, a cellar door later in the movie, but maybe there was more depth behind its choice. If a cellar door can be viewed as the deepest, darkest part of say, a house, then it could also represent similar things, such as someone’s deepest, darkest fears, vulnerabilities, dreams, etc. I think of crazy Tim Robbins out of his mind, lurking around the cellar of that old house in War of the Worlds, and the vision of a “cellar door” has a negative, creepy connotation. It’s where you hide the clutter and unwanted junk, or maybe the things too inappropriate for common living areas of a house. And so it is entering the cellar door that provides the catalyst to the climatic ending of the movie. Donnie is faced with his greatest, crippling fear, solitude, when Gretchen dies, and so I draw the conclusion that there is a connection between the image of a cellar door representing his fears, and the roll it plays in Donnie ultimately facing those same fears.

And then I read a whole Alice in Wonderland analogy on a website specifically titled “Cellar Door,” and well, it made a lot more sense.

I also think it’s interesting, and probably intentionally planned, that White Noise/Donnie Darko/In the Shadow of No Towers all share a very similar theme. The primary characters are all paralyzed by their fear. I’m not sure if you would say that Donnie was afraid of death as much as his lack of control of death, his fear of being alone in death. Jack and Babette’s whole “who will die first” was based on the same fear of being alone, dying alone. In the Shadow of No Towers is less about being alone in death than it is about fearing the uncertainty, the lack of control over death – something Jack and Donnie both grapple with. And then there’s Fight Club, and I just can’t bring myself to think about that yet. Anyways, my point is that I wonder if this is a postmodern theme – fearing, and fearing death specifically, because it’s something that we have no control over. Technological advances make it to where there is ultimately very little about your day that you can’t control. Jack went so far as to obsessively control his image. Donnie relies on medication to control his anxieties (Dylar connection). And so we begin to obsess on the things that we can’t control, such as death. But then we create things such as “time travel” to control even that. But then again, I’m pretty sure people have always obsessed over death, and it might not have anything to do with being postmodern, and it’s just a little coincidence that I noticed between the texts.

One of the things that struck me about White Noise is how there were many things very un-artistic that were viewed in very beautiful and artistic ways. The manner in which Hitler is idolized, Murray’s seminar on car crashes, the toxic, pollutant-caused sunsets that everyone stands around in awe over, the idealization of sitting in a snake pit, Jack and Heinrich finding beauty in a house burning down… I don’t really have any enlightened ideas of what it all means, but I just kept thinking how unsettling it was that the characters in general, found things that would usually be taken as negative aspects of our society, or of life, and could transform them into beautifully artistic, or as Jack said at one point, “literary.” Jack’s romanticizing of carrying around a loaded pistol was another example of something that would usually be seen as dark, creepy, or as a breakdown of safety, is somehow turned into an empowering, fantastic experience. And I guess the real question is why is it easy for some things to be transformed into positives, and yet the greatest of all negatives, death, can’t be? Jack can find a burning house poetic but he can’t find the strength to accept the inevitability of dying. And so I was thinking of how accustomed we are to seeing violent things on television, how ‘entertaining’ it is to play Grand Theft Auto on your brother’s Playstation where you can use anything from a bat to an automatic machine gun to kill you opponents, and even how things such as the most recent hurricane season can almost feel like primetime television, just as entertaining and fascinating as any other network drama. None of it seems real so it can be glorified and artistic. I don’t know if it really has anything to do with why DeLillo chose to portray certain things in certain lights, perhaps he was just being artistically “literary” by providing such uplifting descriptions of such negative things. I just thought there was a definite contrast between how so many horrific things were described in a lighthearted manner throughout the novel, up until the final confrontation between “Mr. Gray” and Jack. The actual shooting of Mr. Gray is a very dark and eerie scene, even though I fully expected Jack to find something beautiful in the way the gunfire sounded, or the way Gray bled on the tile floor. But he didn’t because it was real, and I guess those are my thoughts on all that.

I thought that one of the major encompassing themes in Dream Jungle was the issue of perception in history.  Most history is based on perception, and therefore it’s very difficult to have cold, hard truth when discussing it.  Hagedorn’s story is based on real people and real occurrences, which makes her story a historical account, except through a different perception.  She said that the idea of the novel came from seeing Zamora’s (his real-life alter ego, I forget his name) picture and obituary in the newspaper one day.  The character of Paz portrays Hagedorn’s real-life experience with Zamora, and so she plunges into the novel, re-creating a fictionalized account of actual events and people, thus re-writing history. (Hagedorn and Zamora’s families really did know one another, she really did sit through an awkward interview on his terrace, etc) By using the different character’s voices to narrate the novel, she is pushing the concept of “perception” that much further.  Each character has a different, unique perception to what is occurring and the world around them.  Lina’s perception of Zamora, Fritz’s perception of his father and Zamora, Moody’s perception of the Philippines, etc.  The narration is schizophrenic, but it’s also very intentional and goes along with Hagedorn’s attempt at re-creating the mixed, jumbled feeling of collecting historical accounts in order to form one succinct interpretation – and never coming to a solid truth. This is paired with Pierce’s “perception” of Vietnam, creating a movie to depict the event, but also re-writing history.  He in fact re-writes his version of history over 90+ times.  And really, isn’t all history re-written about a thousand different times.  The movie is virtually the same mode of historical portrayal as the book, because it’s based on a real event, real people, but there still isn’t any truth.  I think I’m confusing myself now.  I was just thinking about how future generations, my generation even, will watch movies like Apocalypse Now and our perception of Vietnam will come from those images.  The first thing I think of when WWI or WWII comes up is Tom Hanks storming Normandy, it’s my version of truth, it’s my perception of history.   Hagedorn re-writing the history of Zamora, the Taobo, the making of Apocalypse Now, although fictionalized, is still her perception of a reality, and she uses the voices of the various characters to emphasize the varying degrees of interpretation an event can have.

Bits and pieces of Benjamin’s article along with blog postings have begun to tie into a project I’m doing on newsletters. (similar to Benjamin’s discussion of Letters to the Editor, etc). These were initially published by individuals with great expertise and who were sought after for their insider’s information, or insight, on whatever specialized topic. These individuals were well-educated, skilled writers, and often times publicly revered. The newsletters were done on typewriters and even when computers became available writers would still maintain the “typewriter”-style font and layout because it was what the targeted audience was used to. With time and technological advances, the newsletter industry boomed and now any Joe Schmoe with a PC, printer or an email address can spit out their own personal newsletter. Instead of using the same old fashion fonts and designs, they’ve advanced in skill and artistic expression. One of Benjamin’s issues with the evolution of “art” is that through technology, through the new emerging forms of artistic expression, the once isolated field becomes easily accessible by anyone. The reproduction issue arises. The traditional newsletter has lost its “aura” because it’s been poked and prodded by the masses, just as the “aura” of writing, or being published, has lost some of its magic because it’s become a universally accessible market. (232) Benjamin says, “To pry an object from its shell, to destroy its aura, is the mark of a perception whose ‘sense of the universal equality of things’ has increased to such a degree that it extracts it even from a unique object by means of reproduction (223).” I didn’t entirely understand what he meant by this, but through comparing it to the newsletter evolution that I’m reading about, I can see how something that used to be “artistic” is then lessened, or cheapened, by so many replicas and reproductions. Now, I also don’t think that personalized newsletters (or I guess the even more advanced form would be Internet blogs) can’t have their own artistic right, or that someone should be denied personal artistic expression through whatever medium they choose… but the fact that there are so many does make them less valuable. People don’t pay subscriptions to newsletters now like they used to before. Benjamin is criticizing the evolution of artistic expression because (I think) he’s saying it’s losing its unique appeal. Anyone can be an artist, just as anyone can be a writer, and with the use of technology it really doesn’t take a massive amount of talent to do so. I think in the postmodern genre that concept is made untrue because the filmmakers and authors and painters have retained their originality and unique expression through revamping the “aura” altogether. Although, in reference to Ada’s interesting response, I don’t know how Kinkade would fit into that assumption. This much I feel I understand, it’s when he begins to tie the evolution of art into Communism and Fascism and war that I get uh, well, confused.

One of my very first questions about The Female Man is why are there four alter-selves? Why four? What is the significance? Throughout the majority of the book there are only three, and even at the end when Jael becomes more prominent in the story, the girls are still frequently referred to as the only three. And yet I still wonder, why four? I’m not well versed in literary symbolism, even the most recognizable, so while maybe most of the class might automatically know, I am honestly perplexed. So I consider the earthiness of the novel as a whole. There is a lot of significance placed on the separate “worlds.” There is a huge inner-discussion on nature vs. nurture. And about a bah-zillion references to the moon. And so I’m considering these earthy issues, and I think that there are specifically four and only four because there are four primary directions. God help me if there is a fancy word for this. But, each girl represents the different direction that the one soul (?) went, and in physical terms, there are only four possible directions one can go. However, after Jael’s explanation of how she found the girls and how her Womanland people can explore all of the separate states of “time,” you were kind of left to wonder if there were even more J’s out there in yet undiscovered worlds. So with that hanging in question, my four directions theory might fall to pieces. However, considering only the information provided, there are only four J’s and to satisfy my own curiosity, I think it’s to represent the four directions.

Another issue that I debated was Russ’s obvious conclusion on nature vs. nurture. She seems to be illustrating her belief that one’s surroundings determine how an individual develops. Regardless of genes, these four girls are completely different and each has their own unique self based on where they are from and the separate lives that they’ve lived. If there are suppose to be kin-like similarities they were brief and insignificant, because although I had a hard enough time keeping the initial three J’s separate, I certainly didn’t find a repetition of similar behavior, physical attributes or thought patterns. These girls were very different. Even in the description of the Manland, where they surgically alter the sex of people, the idea was that however they were raised, that’s how they’d turn out. If they were molded from a young age to be feminine, then they would serve a feminine role in adulthood, and if they were raised in a masculine environment (the rich men’s chosen children) then they would grow up to be soldiers, etc. Russ didn’t seem to put any weight in the genetic force behind someone’s development. I don’t have a conclusion on these thoughts exactly, it’s just an issue that I kept noticing and wondering why she chose nurture over nature. The only thing I can think is that perhaps to put such determining weight in nature would be admitting that there is absolute truth. That genetically you will without a doubt become A certain person. Whereas by basing someone’s individualism on nurture, it is all up to chance, and thus the four J’s similarities and differences are surprising and unknown. Very much looking forward to class so I can better understand this crazy book.

One of the recurring themes that I’ve noticed throughout the three novels we’ve read so far is the idea that these characters are at the center of the story’s “world.” I’m having a difficult time putting this into words, because naturally the main character is the center of every plot sequence… but what I mean is that they are not only the center of the plot, but also of the entire “world” around them. As in the depiction of W.A.S.T.E being this huge, underground thing that practically all of California (and the rest of the country?) was in on. Little Oedipa was running around, attempting to unearth the entire secret society that everyone seemed to know about but her. She was actively molding and shaping something that in a larger sense, was very, very big.

And then Orr being at the center of his “world”-changing phenomenon. He was actively manipulating the entire world’s sense of reality. This is very obvious to see how he was the center of not only the plot, but of the fictional “world.”

Now we have these elevator inspectors that seem to be a very serious and important facet in the city. So much so that the mob and the media are involved (the head of the department’s photograph plastered on city billboards?) Lila Mae is, once again, at the center of something that could potentially alter everyone’s lives with the “black box.” Her actions, her discoveries, her involvement, are all key to the development of the story, which therefore are key to the altering of this huge reality around her.

If you think about it, in each of these stories, the alternate, fictional reality revolved around whatever the main characters were involved in. Be it secret postal systems, reality-altering dreams or some sort of exaggerated significantly important Department of Elevator Inspectors. So then I was thinking about our reading from last week and how we discussed technology and scientific advancements effecting the development of postmodernism. One of the things that such advancements have achieved is giving the average individual universal access. For example, blogging, personal Internet sites, etc. (That annoying Tucker Carlson show on MSNBC comes to mind) One person can now speak to millions when before that was virtually impossible and probably realistically unimaginable. Therefore the similar concept found in all three novels thus far that one person can alter or effect the “world” seems to be yet another aspect of postmodernism.

One of the things we talked about with the Hassan chart was distance versus participation. Unlike having a character/narrator/point-of-view that is merely describing occurrences, perhaps actively involved in the plot but still being told from a distance, in these novels the characters that the novels are primarily written through are right down in the thick of everything. They are more than simple detectives directing a mystery, they have much more significance because the landscape itself is much more important. Everything is exaggerated and the elements of the story itself are deeply involved and significant to every development of the story. And THEN I was thinking of intuition versus empiricism/going on feelings, instinct versus facts and observation, and I noticed the type/mutant comparison in the Hassan chart. The Empiricists being type. They went by the standard, the old fashion way and thus held on to old fashion ideals. Then the Intuitionists changed things, found a new way, modified the old way, and are therefore the mutant. The old versus new theme that ran rampantly through The Intuitionist; the old being racist, unwelcoming and the new being more-so open-minded, inclusive – also being ignored by the old, although not exactly invisible. I think it was more of a conscious effort on the part of the “old” to ignore and make invisible the “new.”

I have decided to post before reading anyone else’s postings because last time I became so enthralled in everyone else’s thoughts, I couldn’t fixate on my own interpretation. Sooo, if I repeat anything already mentioned, I apologize.

Throughout The Lathe of Heaven, it was sometimes difficult to keep track of all the different changed “realities.” For instance, towards the end I was confused about why the gray people disappeared, but the aliens didn’t. Or why some gray people remained, but for the most part all of the aliens were left untouched by “The Break.” I really don’t understand the significance. And if Haber and Orr could always remember the outcomes of the effective dreams, why was Heather so oblivious to it after another reality shift? She was physically present for two or three, so wouldn’t she at least remember those instances? If Haber could remember all of them, even after Orr effectively dreamed without him (in the cabin) then why couldn’t Heather? This doesn’t have anything to do with analyzing the postmodern relevance of the novel, but I was certainly left confused over these issues.

I also found the whole symbolism of the “onion” when describing Dr. Haber’s personality could also be applied to the book as well. The entire plot structure was layered, each dream pealing off… or rather adding on an additional layer to the already stacked storyline. A never-ending onion where it’s never exactly clear where the center is or how things truly began. Did Orr really start having his “effective dreams” when the world came to an end, or is that simply when he became aware that he was changing reality? Perhaps one of his dreams brought the world to an end, he just doesn’t remember. Ah, again, the postmodern theme of untruth. There is no true reality. None of the characters could offer trustworthy perspective on how things were literally supposed to be. I was also thinking about how the only way this book could work is through the science fiction genre. The author herself is creating an alternate reality by writing in the future, redesigning the world and the state of the country. The framework of Orr’s constant reality-shifting is based on a futuristic/unknown reality which itself is yet another layer, another transformation of the reader’s reality.

I also couldn’t figure out why the description of Heather was so over-the-top, emphasizing her harsh exterior, comparing her to a black widow. (But then her name was Heather, which bugggged me!) Orr liked her so he unconsciously changed her into someone more gentle and soft? Therefore he too used his dreams to make life better for himself and wasn’t all the time impartial to the personal results of the dreaming? Haber’s description was likewise exaggerated to portray a large, husky, overbearing individual. However Haber nor Heather have any of the actual power. Heather is helpless with the law. Haber is incompetent when left to his own effective dreaming. The only character with any control and power is the scrawny, small guy. Another level to the nothing-is-as-it-seems symbolism running through the novel. Nothing is true. Etc.

First, I’d like to say that I too found the novel to be extremely difficult to manage/understand. The scenes/conversations moved in such a dreamlike manner that it often times made it difficult to digest the concepts presented. So Karen, you were not alone. ?

I found myself giving Pynchon’s choice in names/titles a lot of thought. Not only the initial naming process, but also the way that the spelling of Tristero/Trysteo changed throughout the novel. Perhaps I missed some sort of significance between the two, but from what I could tell Tristero/Trystero was relatively interchangeable. I could find little distinguishing difference between the use. It was mentioned that “triste” means sad in Spanish, and yet “tryst” also means old lovers’ meeting in well, English. It might be a stretch, but Oedipa’s entire journey revolves around becoming reacquainted with her mysterious and deceased old boyfriend (on at least one level). Through her “investigation” of sorts, she’s discovering a whole new identity to Inverarity. Thus the separate spellings. Even the spelling of “W.A.S.T.E.” versus just regular old “WASTE.” There isn’t a consensus on whether to punctuate or not. Perhaps there is absolutely no significance to these issues, or perhaps it serves to merely solidify the lack of truth/consistency/identity.

The same train of thought leads to the flexible nature of each individual character’s identity either outwardly or through physical changes in names. Towards the end when Mucho calls Oedipa “Edna” instead and then to the stranger at Greek Way she is introduced as Arnold Snarb. And then on page 140, in the midst of Oedipa’s inner-revelations, it says “Change your name to Miles, Dean, Serge, and/or Leonard… Either way, they’ll call it paranoia.” These changes are significant examples of the loss of individual that has been previously discussed. Many of the characters go through transformations during the course of the novel, or perhaps they are never established as individuals in the first place. Such as the paranoids. They are a group of boys who have no distinguishing characteristics from the other. Inverarity is remembered as having several different names/accents/personalities. Metzger runs off with a 15-year-old out of the blue after seeming like a genuinely normal person. Mucho develops an entirely new persona. Dr. Hilarious looses himself as well. I’m not really sure how to tie all of these thoughts together, but I am certain that it has something to do with the theme of transparent identities and the loss of individuality.

OR since the story is told basically through Oedipa’s perspective, then perhaps these characters fail to establish a firm identity because their previous personalities were mere hallucinations. Such as the creepy way that Metzger fails to acknowledge he and Oedipa’s semi-relationship when he runs off with the young girl. Oedipa apparently shared a rather significant relationship with Inverarity, and yet she doesn’t seem to know anything about him. The characters tend to sweep in and out of the storyline in what literally felt like a dreamlike state. Oedipa flowed from one encounter to the next and I kept finding myself wondering if the whole thing wasn’t merely a dream. The scene when she is swept into the dance with the deaf-mute crowd dressed in Chinese communist attire was very, very dreamlike. And then after she runs from her dancing partner, the very next sentence reads, “Next day, after twelve hours of sleep and no dreams to speak of… (107).” Of course, whether the entire story was a dream or not is irrelevant, but when thinking of how the characters transformed with such lack of individuality, it made me think of imaginary encounters such as through dreams and/or halluncinations.