"The Necklace"

I first read "The Necklace" as "La Parure" in my AP French class, so it was kind of weird to read it in English. It was a lot easier to read it in English, of course, but I wondered how much was lost in translation, how it always is when you don't read something in the language in which it was written.

Of course, the most obvious thing about this story is the ridiculous irony. Mme Loisel attempts to live beyond her means. She reaches too high to pretend to be something she is not. Her pride and vanity lead to her ruin. Her husband wishes to please her, but she treats him with nothing but contempt. He gives her what she wants, even at sacrifice to himself, yet she shows no gratitude toward him, no thanks, only demands for more. Perhaps this is why she is punished. She believes herself above her class, like she was born to be in a rank higher than hers. This is what happened to Anna Anderson--the woman who claimed she was the lost Grand Duchess Anastasia. Anna Anderson was actually a Polish peasant who always believed herself meant to be royalty. Anna Anderson's memory is now in infamy for an impostor who claimed to be a lost princess. History does not look kindly upon her.

Mme Loisel becomes the woman she was always supposed to be--strong, rough, sturdy, ruined hands. She still dreams of the old days, but she has become accustomed to a life of hard work and labor. Yet had she not tried so hard to pretend to be something she was not, she would still have a moderately comfortable life. Yes, she would still be dissatisfied, but she would not suffer. Maybe she is happier accepting her lot and working hard toward a goal because she must, rather than moping around and lamenting the fact that she did not have a dowry when it was time for her to marry.

The bitter irony is too much to bear. Mme Loisel could have told Mme Forestier the truth, and Mme Loisel would never have had to pay back such a ridiculous sum. Mme Forestier ends up the richer in all aspects--she has the diamond necklace replacing her fake one, she still looks young and beautiful, and she is still above Mme Loisel in social stratification. It's a sacrifice Mathilde makes--one night of joy and beauty for a lifetime of servitude and poverty. Ten years of hard work is the price she pays for her one night of high society and class, living the life she thinks she was supposed to have. But she is punished for her vanity.

It's a short, simple story, but it makes you wonder what Maupassant's message was. Don't try to reach beyond your means? Don't be proud? Appreciate what you have? Mathilde suffers much more in the beginning of the story than the end, even if she does have a housemaid. But once she gets down to work, maybe she is happier. Accept things for what they are and be happy about it? Ah well, I'll enjoy the irony in it like in "The Story of an Hour."

"Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?"

I'd say my biggest reaction was simply "disturbed." I guess "upsetting" works as well. The ending is just so ambiguous. At least in "A Good Man Is Hard To Find" you knew what happened in the end--they all died. You don't get much psychological insight into the Arnold Friend character, and one can only guess what became of Connie.

The mysterious older man luring away the young girl is an archetype in literature. The dark older man enshrouded by enigma never fails to captivate. Plus young impressionable girls like the idea of being wanted, of being attractive. Connie doesn't fail to mention her youth and beauty and how her mother is jealous of her. She looks in mirrors and other people's eyes to see her reflections, which reminds me of one of the characters in Jean-Paul Sartre's, and that character definitely got hers (an eternity in the most messed up love triangle in hell sure would do it). It definitely had a Go Ask Alice feel to it when Connie first locks eyes with Arnold Friend. His name was interesting to me because his last name is "Friend," when in truth he is deceitful, conniving, and well, just plain creepy.

I enjoyed (well enjoyed isn't really right, but I was intrigued) the slow progression of the dialogue between Connie and Arnold when they are at her door. Her panic mounts gradually as his anger and force builds. His manipulation of her in discussing her family and his terrifying gathering of information combined with his age is overpowering. He messes with her mind, saying what her family is doing, what they're wearing, what they will and won't do. His talk of promises about not coming inside are ridiculous, because Connie cannot keep him at bay indefinitely. First of all, he is a terrifyingly older age, and secondly, no one can talk and distract someone forever.

Connie finds that her vanity and foolishness can attract the wrong sort of people, and playing with fire gets you burned.

Arnold friend is a confusing character. On the one hand he is controlled, cool for the first part of their interaction, meticulously closing in on her like a wolf on its prey. Yet he speaks in an affected, lilting way, which is mentioned several times in the story. He also quotes a series of song lyrics when he speaks. Although I did not catch all the musical allusions, I think his speech is littered with insertions of song lyrics.

He is so forward about the subject of raping Connie. He says, "'Yes I'm your lover. you don't what that is but you will...But look: it's real nice and you couldn't ask for nobody better than me, or more polite. I always keep my word. I'll tell you how it is, I'm always nice at first, the first time. I'll hold you so tight you won't think you have to try to get away or pretend anything...And I'll come inside you where it's all secret and you'll give in to me and you'll love me--'" For one thing, Arnold Friend could never be a kind and gentle lover. Although Connie does not fit the criteria for Arnold to be pedophilic, he might be hebephilic. It's equally disgusting and contemptible, but hebephilia has a different set of diagnostic criteria, and the psychological characteristics between pedophiles and hebephiles differ. Arnold is attracted to Connie, who is fifteen, not an eight-year-old child. Hebephilia is similar to ephebophilia.

So it's sexually disturbing, and although the story is slightly coming of age, how much can you come of age if you get murdered? Connie does feel like she has never seen her room before, that she doesn't recognize anything in her house or in her life. "He ran a fingernail down the screen and the noise did not make Connie shiver, as it would have the day before." She no longer feels that her heart belongs to her, and she will never see her family again. Arnold tells her that her father's house is just a cardboard box he can knock over whenever he wants.

It's coming of age, but Connie's experience of adulthood is probably short lived.

"This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona"

This story left me without feeling, just like "Yellow Woman." It dealt with Native Americans as well, but I felt like it had different themes. The only real similarity is discussing how nobody wants to listen to Thomas' stories anymore; their oral history/heritage no longer matters to them.

The story focused more on the unfortunate circumstances of living on a reservation. Even though the story was about a son going to gather up the remains of his father, there was no concentration on the classic father/son theme. All we know is they are estranged, and he is going so he can collect a few hundred dollars from his father's account and collect the body. There was no emotional attachment to that part of the story, at least not that I could find. The death acted merely as an initiation, or part of the conflict. Its function wasn't central to the story.

I didn't know whether or not the story meant to focus on Thomas' and Victor's friendship. I didn't quite put together how the flashbacks were related. I think it might have been to juxtapose how they were once friends and their strained relationship now. It also heightens the fact that Victor will not renew his friendship with Thomas even after their trip. It was selfish on Victor's part, even when he knows that his father asked Thomas to look after him.

Another interesting part of the story was the death of the jack rabbit from the car. For some reason I was reminded of The Grapes of Wrath and the discussion of the turtle in the beginning of the novel. I recalled Jim Casey for some reason, though I don't think there are in Jesus figures in this novel, maybe Thomas, except no one listens to him. The symbolism of Thomas beginning to drive and almost immediately killing the jack rabbit is puzzling to me. I can't make it fit together, just like the rest of the story.

The story also briefly touches upon the poor quality of treatment in reservations. The tribal council speaks condescendingly to Victor, saying over and over, "Now, Victor." They only give him one hundred dollars even though he needs to go do Phoenix. Also, "Who does have money on a reservation, except the cigarette and fireworks salespeople?" There isn't too much focus on poor living conditions and poverty on the reservation, but it's evident in the way the council treats Victor.

I was also confused by the plane scene where Thomas starts laughing and joking with the Olympic gymnast and he makes the comment that they have a lot in common for being angry with the government. Victor is embarrassed by Thomas' gaffe, yet later he apologizes for beating Thomas up when he was drunk while they were kids. Thomas even saved Victor from stepping in an underground wasp nest (a scene which made me cringe and had to put down the book for a minute or two).

I also liked the quote of "They hated Thomas for his courage, his brief moment as a bird. Everybody has dreams about flying. Thomas flew." It's ironic that Thomas is someone they all shun for retaining their cultural heritage, but he is the only one brave enough to go out to Spokane or try to fly, even if he does break his arm.

Also, I think it's interesting that when Victor says he needs to look for valuable things, Thomas assumes he means money or valuable items, when really Victor only means mementos, photos, sentimental items. That redeemed Thomas just a little bit in my eyes, but not by much. I wasn't much of a fan of Victor. I didn't dislike him exactly, but I didn't like him either.

All in all, this story was empty and bare to me. It wasn't even like Ernest Hemingway, because I couldn't even begin to feel the layers underneath. I couldn't read between the lines or look underneath the surface. There was nothing there, and I don't know how to interpret. Simply put, I was dissatisfied.

"A Good Man Is Hard to Find"

This story was, easily put, disturbing. I recently read The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson, which follows the murders of a serial killer, Dr. H. H. Holmes. Because I finished this book just last night, the intertextuality between this short story and the novel was intense for me.

Although I had a great number of questions about the literary and symbolic aspects of the story (e.g., why does the mother of the grandchildren have no name, and why does she barely speak?), I was more concerned with The Misfit's relationship with religion and with the psychopathic mind itself.

The Misfit only kills the grandmother. He uses his underlings to order the murders of the three children, Bailey, and the unnamed mother. He has no conscience, no feelings of remorse, and has lost touch with reality where he can't even remember the crimes he committed--in my opinion, someone sane would probably be able to remember how they murdered their own father.

The Misfit is charming, and at first you think to trust him. But as Red Sam said, "'A good man is hard to find.'" People shouldn't trust blindly anymore. You have to lock your doors at night; you can't depend on people who charge their tabs. It reminded me a bit of how in Thornton Wilder's Our Town, Grover's Corners becomes less of that safe little small town. People become wary of each other. It's not that secure miniature world anymore. It's dangerous, and people can't be trusted.

Although The Misfit isn't suave or classy (he was shirtless, after all), the family does believe at first that The Misfit is an ordinary man who will help them. He might have helped them and not murdered them if the grandmother had kept her mouth shut. Most serial killers are the kinds of people whom you'd never expect to be offing people on a semi-regular basis. At first glance, they're nice, the kind of person you'd ask for a cup of sugar or have them house-sit while you're away for the weekend.

But underneath there's something twisted, something that isn't like what happens in the rest of our heads. There's a question I've heard of that criminal psychologists use when interviewing murderers. It goes as follows:

A young woman attends the funeral of a relative. There, she meets a handsome young man, and they hit it off immediately. The next week, this woman kills her sister. Why?

Depending on your answer, you may think like most people or you might think like a sociopath. I was confused by this question, and I said that maybe the young woman was afraid that the sister would steal the young beau. However, I get chills when people I know calmly reply the answer not long after I ask the question, "She thought that if she killed another relative, the man would show up to her sister's funeral." Creepy.

Ah, but I'm no longer discussing the story. The other part of the story was how much I disliked every single character. June Star is rude and selfish; John Wesley is disrespectful and mean. Bailey, the son, is self-centered and impatient, while not much information is given on the wife. The main character, the grandmother, who was no name that I could find, is also irritating. She's officious, self-righteous, and imperious. No wonder her child and grandchildren disrespect her and ignore her. The only thing in her world that matters is her. And yes, I do feel bad that they were taken off into the woods a couple at a time to be shot, but I couldn't empathize with them or feel remorse. Maybe I'm off my rocker, too.

The part of the story that confused me the most was the discussion of Jesus, prayer, and Jesus bringing back the dead. I understand the whole bit about how prayer can give you redemption and salvation for your sins, and the woman is praying for mercy from Jesus, but the rest of it is a bit fuzzy for me. How did Jesus throw things off balance? What is the whole "raising the dead" part about?

And my biggest question is why did the grandmother call The Misfit one of her own children and then touch him? And why did he react so negatively and harshly to her touch?

"'No pleasure but meanness.'"

"Seen From Above"

On page 41 of A Book of Luminous Things is Wislawa Szymborska's poem "Seen From Above." I picked this poem to potentially discuss in class today, and it affected me so strongly I thought I would blog about it.

The poem discusses the sight of a dead beetle and discusses how humans view an animal's death. When humans die, we euphemize it, saying they "passed" or "they're no longer with us." But as the poem says, "For our peace of mind, their death seemingly shallower, / animals do not pass away, but simple die." Animals' deaths do not need to be put into less harsh terms. For some reason, animals' deaths aren't serious or harsh enough to merit denying it. In today's world, we deny death. People don't die; they pass. Death is rare in our lives, and when people do die, they usually die quietly in a hospital. Then they are promptly whisked away to a funeral home where they are embalmed and prepared for burial. The funeral is a quiet and muted affair. People do not openly mourn and wail and cry. They sit silently and primly in black. They do not hug or embrace the body; they tactfully keep a distance.

But for animals, none of this seems to be the case. "Their humble little souls do not haunt our dreams, / they keep their distance, / know their place." I'm not sure this is necessarily true. The first time I put down a pet, I was broken-hearted. My dog Hank had lung cancer, and we finally put him to sleep (another euphemism) when the tumor was blocking his airway. My whole family stayed in the room as they put him down, and the pain was more than I could bear. My whole family cried and sobbed together as we said our goodbyes. Fortunately we were in the room. I didn't want him to be alone. Hank's death was the first time I watched death happen, and I think that his loss didn't keep his distance. He was a family member, and his loss hit us all.

We recently had to put down Max, our 16-year-old Westie. We had had him since I was two; I don't remember a time without him. It's funny that when I moved in to college and my childhood effectively ended, Max's life went into a sharp decline, and less than a month later, he stopped eating and we put him to sleep. His loss was great, too, so I disagree with the poem in that sense. Yet I understand what Szymborska is trying to say. The death of a parent, sibling, spouse, or child weighs much more heavily on us than the death of a pet. We are able to push their deaths aside more easily. We recover quickly, and their loss does not sit in our chest for months on end. We do not become consumed by grief. Yes, we have sorrow, but we do not mourn for months on end.

"What's important is valid supposedly for us. / For just our life, for just our death, / a death that enjoys an extorted primacy." "Extorted" for me is a rather harsh word, and the diction in these last few lines of the poems says something sharp about humanity and how we view ourselves. It is okay to put an animal to sleep when they are suffering, but it is never okay for us to let a human die or to end their suffering. We value a human life far above an animal life. And apparently we "extort" this "primacy." She makes it sound negative that we view our lives so far above an animals', a difficult point that vegetarians try to counter.

The sadness for this beetle is "mitigated," "strictly local," and is not "contagious." No one minds or cares that this beetle is lying on a dirt road, dead. The sky is blue, and the death of the beetle is "seemingly shallower."

Death today is far removed. Death is no longer a part of life, as so many people often say. Before modern science, death was indeed common. Even young people died of contagious illness. Women died in childbirth, sometimes their children along with them. People got severe injuries that today would seem trivial. Babies became sick too soon and died long before they got the chance to live. And a community would grieve. Today, our grief is limited and kept in check. We do not encounter death enough to know how to handle it. We keep our heads bowed, our hands in our lap, and our condolences are expressed in the form of a frozen casserole.

"The Use of Force"

Up until now, the name William Carlos Williams always reminded me of the poem, "The Red Wheelbarrow."

so much depends

upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

This poem remains striking to me because of its inclusion in one of my favorite novels, The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. The character Adah says, "He wrote the poem while he was waiting for a child to die." Throughout the book, Adah says, "So much depends on ___." It's a theme that runs throughout her narration. However, it is not Adah's odd narrative style which made me think of this poem while reading "The Use of Force." It is the fact that he wrote this masterpiece while waiting for the death of a child.

And so this short story is another child who will probably die, and I wondered how often William C. Williams encountered death in his practice, especially with sick children. Was that his speciality? Did one event with a child scar him forever, or was it many individual patients, sick and dying children, that made at least a theme in both this short story and poem? This connection raised a lot of questions for me about William Carlos Williams and his history.

As for the story itself, I read it twice over and was still puzzled. It's short; its plot development consists of a single scene where a little girl fights a doctor while he tries to examine her. My first puzzlement was whether a not the little girl was scared because he was a doctor, or if she knew she was dangerously sick and wanted to hide it from the world? And if so, why did she want to keep her sore throat a secret? Did she know deep down that sore throat meant a serious illness and possibly death? Would the doctor's discovery have meant a confirmation of death for her? Children are surprisingly intuitive and precocious, so part of me thinks she understood in a way that the doctor examining her would reveal what she'd been trying to hide--her sickness and possible impending death.

But was she hiding it from herself or her parents? She stubbornly lied to her parents about her sore throat. Perhaps it was she didn't want the doctor to be called at all. I know that all little kids are terrified of doctors. They run away from needles and shy away from the popsicle stick. But I think this little girl's fear ran deeper than the classic little kid hating being poked and probed by a scary man/woman. No one likes going to the doctor, and no one hates a doctor's visit more than a little kid.

The narrator says at one point "I'm here to look at her throat on the chance she might have diphtheria and possibly die of it. But that's nothing to her." At first I was confused, because just a couple sentences later he says she's old enough to understand he needs to look at her throat. I think the narrator was saying she was to young to understand that her life is at stake and that this examination is a matter of life and death. I think the child is more understanding even than that. She comprehends that if she lets him see inside her throat, all will be confirmed and she will die soon. She is more than aware of the deeper meaning of the doctor examining her. She grasps this concept well, so she hides her secret, afraid of death, afraid of her parents, afraid of a stranger who wants to reveal her.

To us, the idea of diphtheria being a killer is foreign. It's not a threat. Diseases like that are on the periphery now, few and far between thanks to immunizations and good sanitation. My great-grandmother's second son died of diphtheria at Christmas; the family had to burn all his Christmas presents after his death (much like the Velveteen Rabbit, come to think of it). It was a tragic event from which my great-grandmother never recovered, even though she lived to be one hundred (she died when I was eight). This story is sad at the end, even if it not specifically stated. Her "tears of defeat" are more from the resignation of what will happen to her rather than the fact that the doctor got the chance to examine her throat despite all her attempts at resistance. One can only guess what happens afterward--her imminent death, probably. "She had been hiding that sore throat for three days at least and lying to her parents in order to escape just such an outcome as this." What outcome is this? Her parents now knowing the truth? The doctor uncovering the cause of her illness? The acceptance that she is seriously ill?

Such a short story, so many meanings, so much like "Hills Like White Elephants."

"Hills Like White Elephants"

I just re-read the short story this morning in order to catch details I didn't see during the first read-through. The first thing I noticed is that the man is called the American, and the girl is simply a girl. Why is she a girl, not a woman? And why is he the American? Does this say something about him with his actions? Is she European? And what's with the name "Jig?"

The American, as he's called, seems like he has a short temper and he's selfish. At least twice in the story he snaps at her, saying "'Just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove anything.'" and "'Oh cut it out,'" to her tart comment about absinthe. I remember my discussion about absinthe in senior English. What a drink!

Also, I missed the part of the dialogue about "'We could have all this.'" She says the world isn't theirs anymore. I didn't realize until this morning what that meant. She says that once she gets the abortion, things will never be the same again for them. They could have the fertile and lush green side of the station, but now that she has gotten pregnant, no matter which course they go, they can't live the lifestyle they've been leading. It just isn't possible. She won't be able to enjoy it the same way anymore. You get the feeling she doesn't want to go through the "perfectly natural" procedure where they "just let the air in" (great descriptions in my opinion). She wants to go through with it, as the American says, but he counters with "'I don't want anybody but you. I don't want anyone else.'" Then he repeats that it's "'perfectly simple.'" It seems so selfish that he refuses to raise a child because he just wants Jig. It shows concern only for himself and his feelings, not what will make Jig happy (what is their relationship, anyway? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Travel companions with benefits?) His only concern is his own satisfaction. He knows they "'could get along,'" but that doesn't matter to him. He wants to go on drinking and traveling.

And so the girl doesn't care about herself, or so she says, so she will give in to the American, and continue on even though the world isn't theirs anymore. It won't be the same, because that sort of change and the loss of that chance ruins it forever. Perhaps she doesn't care about herself and instead cares about her child, or maybe just about the American. But what she cares about isn't enough for her to stand up for herself. She's apathetic, willing to give in to anything.