November 22 and the Zapruder film; the ending of the novel

All of us reading Libra were aware of where the web of conspiracy theories was leading to--the assassination of John Kennedy. This isn't a secret, and it honestly doesn't need to be. I think what made the chapter "November 22" really get to me as a reader was seeing the actual assassination footage, as shown in class.

Up until this chapter, I feel like I was always loosely aware of the fact that DeLillo was weaving and crafting a narrative of his own based on a few key facts, and that everything was obviously fictional. In retrospect, though, I don't think that the point DeLillo was trying to make was to convince everyone who read Libra to accept the events as a possible narrative, but to consider the nature of conspiracies and how it actually relates to what concrete information we have available to us. Seeing the Zapruder film had a significant effect on how I interpreted the chapter, definitely.

First of all, DeLillo's description of some of the events don't seem to stray from what is actually happening in the film. The moment that stuck out to me the most was when Jackie Kennedy was described as scrambling over the rear of the moving vehicle to grab an errant piece of her husband's skull. It seems nearly impossible to conjure up a depiction of that kind of haphazard action without referencing something that actually happened. Looking a little more closely at the film, it's easy to see the other small characters that he mentions--the person in the white sweater, caught mid-wave or mid-clap, the girl that appears to be running towards him.

This attention to detail and structure of sticking to what can be proven, at least in this specific chapter, helps to ground DeLillo's argument in something that us readers can accept. For me, it's kind of harrowing--being able to theoretically gain access into the mind of the actual Lee Harvey Oswald as this scene unfolds is very uncomfortable. Reading it the first time (yeah, I went back and read the chapter again after seeing the film) was striking enough, but having the added real-world context definitely added an extra layer to my experience as a reader of Libra.

I think the ending of the novel is something that the Lee of Libra (Lee-bra, ohhhhh my goodness) would have wanted. Despite the fact that he was, in his own words, a "patsy" in the whole plot, after realizing that there was another shot that was not his own towards the President, the ending somehow gives him redemption. On the very last page of the book, DeLillo describes as two boys come to "grab a clod of souvenir earth," and his mother reflects: 

"Lee Harvey Oswald. No matter what happened, how hard they schemed against her, this was the one thing they could not take away--the true and lasting power of his name. It belonged to her now, and to history."

It almost gives Lee... redemption? I wasn't really amongst the people that felt bad that Lee realized that everything that happened wasn't really because of him, especially since I believe he clearly had agency in going through with the assassination (no help from Ferrie, obviously), but I do admit that this is the ending that gives Lee peace, so to speak. His goal was to be remembered in history, with his name spoken with some sort of awe (note: not reverence), and he was shown to have achieved that. 

In the end, this was a wild ride of a novel, and if I were to recommend someone read it, I'd definitely suggest having them do some minimal research into the subject. Knowing that some of the parts of the novel were historically accurate (such as Lee getting his job in the infamous bookstore only a small while before the Kennedy's rolled down the adjacent street) actually enriched my experience of reading the book, and gave me that "wow--mind blown" feeling.

Father and Husband Oswald

Up until the middle of Libra, we had seen Lee Harvey Oswald only from the perspective of a rugged, lone teenager and a young man aspiring to become entangled in the dangerous world of politics. With this in mind, it's interesting to get a glimpse of Oswald as just... a "normal" person with modest desires, such as marrying a woman, Marina, and starting a family. As much as he would probably not like for this to be the case, one thing is clear--both of these worlds, that of politics and that of personal life, overlap, and it's evident in the way that he and Marina engage with one another after moving to America. (It also comes across in the way Lee treats his mother, but that's just somewhat related.)

Looking at their relationship before having a child, they seemed to have been "the same as anyone, completely ordinary," as DeLillo loosely claims on page 202 of the novel. The way he describes their relationship beginning to form is incredibly sweet, with Lee being amazed with facts about Marina, and the two being windswept into love and marriage. At this point, before other significant events happen in his personal life, Lee and Marina really do seem to be like any other couple in love, and having a good time with one another.

However, the frays in their relationship crept up on me. First, it was they were like anyone else in love, and soon, "they were like people anywhere ... if they quarreled it was only because he had a different nature in America and that was the only way he could love." Sure, there were speed bumps in any relationship, especially with such a move and culture shock, but this came across as a little sinister to me.

Marina doesn't understand Lee's hostility and dismissive nature geared towards his mother, and when she's only trying to gather more information about him, understand his life a little more: "He hit her in the face. A open-hand smash ... she stood there with her head tucked against her left shoulder, one hand raised in blank surprise." (230)

Though this moment concerned me just as much as it probably shocked Marina, I wasn't surprised when Lee began to turn violent. Or, was he even "turned" violent? I think at this point in the novel, it's clear that Lee's frame of mind is all over the place. He can't handle her questions, her inquiries, her really just trying to understand where Lee was coming from... and he couldn't handle that. It's not just the fact that Marina isn't taking what Lee is saying for word. It's the fact that he wants to keep any part of his life private from her, especially any part that leads to her finding out more about his involvement in the riskier side of politics.

We can see from the continuation of the novel that the domestic violence gets worse, and becomes more commonplace. Lee's frustration with Marina is evident when he mentions how she "[tells] those Russians how [they] live their lives ... [their] private lives." The biggest proponent to Lee's violence is that he's worried about the spheres of his life overlapping, which we know is futile, considering the characters that put themselves into contact with Lee towards the end of the novel. It's hard for me to empathize with Lee here, now that his dealings are not only affecting himself, but those around him that are unaware.

Alice losing her sense of identity in Kindred

There have been many frustrating instances of insensitivity and carelessness exhibited by Rufus Weylin during the course of Kindred. A few examples include, but are certainly not limited to: the point where he sold Sam simply because he was talking to Dana (and perhaps showing interest, though really just for talking to her since there was no real way for him to know Sam's intentions), sending Dana out to work in the fields when it was clear that she wouldn't be able to handle such a situation, and using the persuasion of a rifle to coax Dana and Kevin into going where he wants them to go. However, none of these moments caused me the most surprise--the real shocker was when Alice was found to have hanged herself after Rufus convinced her that he had sold their children south (when, in reality, he had simply sent them to live with their aunt).

At first, I could only wonder why this was Alice's last resort. Not that there were many options for her in the first place, but couldn't she have just run away again? Rufus had gotten rid of their children forever (or so she had thought), so wouldn't she not have anything to lose? I don't think the answer to such a question is simple, but I have an idea: Alice had finally lost all forms and senses of agency and identity at that point in the novel. There are no more identities that Alice can take up such that she would be able to reconcile continuing to exist.

Having an identity and a sense of self/purpose is one reason that people continue making the best of their situations. However, Rufus has seemingly crushed every since option Alice seemed to have to rationalize continuing to press on as being Rufus' partner. First, she has already proven by succumbing to Rufus' unwanted advances in the first place that her motives do not lie in being the rebellious slave. She isn't interested in being that one slave who managed to break free of their masters' grip by taking the very dangerous initiative of running away. (This doesn't mean that she hasn't thought about it, obviously. But it's clearly one of the least safe options she has, out of what few are available to her.) Secondly, she can no longer motivate herself with the designation of being Isaac's wife, as that was something that was taken away from her when they were captured and he was sold south.

One of the most important and probably the strongest identity Alice had was that of being a mother. Her children were able to keep her at least somewhat rooted to the plantation. When Rufus was attempting to scare her into being more obedient by telling her that her children have been sold south, Alice could no longer claim to have a reason to remain. She had gone through quite some time of being Rufus' unwilling partner, but being that again (as opposed to running away) is no longer something she can rationalize as being an option. Thus, seeing no further options for her to exist in the world, Alice elected to commit suicide.

It was probably one of the most heartbreaking moments in the book for me to read. Considering how much trauma Alice had already been through, while it was a shock to me just because I wasn't expecting that plot twist, I feel like I understood how Alice felt, and how much of an importance and focal point an identity really can be to someone.

Billy is the only real character in Slaughterhouse-Five

        Okay, not exactly. I’d also consider the tralfamadorians characters, as unrealistic and inhuman as they are. A big theme in Slaughterhouse-Five is that there is an inherent struggle with the idea of there being “free will” in society. As the Tralfamadorians explained, war just is: there’s no point in trying to promote peace because war is something that’s simply fated to happen. Billy is the only real “character” in the book (besides Vonnegut himself, I support) because he’s living what the aliens are saying. Sometimes it’s unclear if, when he’s traveling back and forth in time, that he understands that he’s been traveling, but it actually doesn’t even matter—it just is.
The listless Billy that we see throughout the duration of Slaugherhouse-Five is one that most likely is aware that his situation is “hopeless” in a sense that he’s incapable of changing anything that’s happening to him. Billy is aware that he’s in an “anti-glacier” (in reference to the quote about how trying to write an anti-war book is like trying to write an anti-glacier book; you’re going against something that’s impossible to get rid of) situation. I think one of the most independent decisions that Billy makes during the duration of the book is the decision to try and tell humans about his experiences on Tralfamadore. Upon his attempt at educating the world, he is called a fool by those closest to him, and dismissed as someone who is clearly crazy. If we’re taking Billy’s perspective throughout the novel at face value (which is easy enough, since this is a work of fiction), we know that he did go to Tralfamadore and his experiences are authentic. It’s possible that the message here is that it was fated that the rest of the human population wouldn’t know about the Tralfamadorians, and no matter how much Billy tries, he’s going to continually be met with confusion and doubt.
What counts as someone being a true “character” in the book is their ability to actually make decisions that attempt to go against what is going to happen, regardless of their decision. I’d also make a small case for Edgar Derby—when he stood up for what he believed in against the American Nazi, he was making a small attempt to change his fate. We know that he still ends up getting shot (after several reminders throughout the book), and even though he might not have been self-aware of his fate like Billy, it’s still notable that he made an subconscious effort to distinguish himself from other characters in the novel. Overall, I would say that the model Vonnegut uses--having characters with "free will" (not actually) operating within fate--was an interesting way to make readers question their own existence and what having free will really means.

A Reaction to Mumbo Jumbo

I'd say many of my other classmates would agree with me when I say that Mumbo Jumbo was a new experience when it comes to novels, especially postmodernist historical fiction. Upon picking it up in the beginning, I was frustrated: I felt confused as I was thrown into the action, and frustrated that I didn't seem to gain a sense of clarity as a meandered my way through the first couple chapters. However, the beauty of Mumbo Jumbo is that Reed appears to intentionally not conform to normal "guidelines" of most novels like, for instance, starting the first chapter after the title page. In retrospect, there were a couple things I learned.
First of all, reading between the lines and understanding how certain concepts interact with each other in the text is incredibly important, even if you don't understand the concepts to begin with. This is where the "historical" aspect of the novel comes in--I'm not ashamed to admit that I didn't understand 90% of the references to certain events and texts in history, but it wasn't incredibly necessary for me to have that background knowledge. Sure, there are things to be gained from the text by researching facts of voudou and Googling uncertain terms here and there. It made me feel better having some sort of background on what a "loa" was, but Reed's general point--that there are cultural influences that tends to rise and fall in phases, like jazz, and that there are opposing forces contesting such cultural forces--was still graspable to me regardless of that knowledge.
Besides the fact that general knowledge of what Reed is trying to convey is important, it’s also important to note that Reed didn’t have to conform to conventional methods of novel-writing to create a successful and interesting postmodern novel. Oftentimes, when we’re thinking about how images relate to the text, there’s an easy, direct correlation when authors decide to include them amongst their chapters. However, sometimes that way Reed includes images seem to have little to no relation to the words that they’re near… if that makes sense. For example, there was a scene in which Berbelang and a cohort of the Mu’tafikah were discussing plans to rescues art from a Detention Center, and right after a character said that white people were “devils,” there was a pictures of a very ugly beaked creature. In many novels, there are usually cues, like captions, to help us figure out what we’re looking at. Besides signs that includes words, there aren’t signals or clues to tell us why Reed included a certain image or what the image is even supposed to be. I sort of figured that maybe it was a manifestation of how such “devils” are perceived, but for all I know, that could be a complete reach and not what Reed intended at all.
That’s how I felt most of the time while reading this book—wondering if I was picking up on things that weren’t actually important. When I’m reading, I’m always putting myself in the shoes of the author whose book I’m reading—why did Reed include this? Why didn’t he include this? What’s the significance of this historical figure? Doing this does make it incredibly difficult to actually explore the various meanings throughout Mumbo Jumbo, since the book is so unorthodox and there are endless interpretations of what Read has created.

Ragtime in Review

Note: I'm posting this the day before the end of the book is actually discussed in class so, uh... if you haven't read to the end yet you should skip this blog post for a sans-spoiler experience.

Though this is the understatement of the century, Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow was certainly a wild ride. With the final chapter having been completed, it's hard to articulate all of the thoughts that I've had while reading.

I think the most striking thing to me was how a definite shift in narration style was present the further along the reader engaged with the novel. I don't mean that suddenly the narrator actually took on a tone that was more than neutral on the surface, but that things became less ironic (at least to me) with the introduction of Coalhouse Walker's plot. In the beginning, with the likes of Younger Brother and Houdini and Evelyn Nesbit, there was not end to ironic phrasing and subtext when poking fun at these characters and delving into their worlds. However, I picked up on less of the irony designed to make fun of  other characters, rather than carefully-chosen words and phrases that appeared to be trying to expose injustice of other characters. That last sentence made almost no sense, but hear me out!

Flashback to Chapter 23, which is the beginning of Coalhouse Walker's situation with his Model T Ford. On page 176, while Coalhouse was considering plans of action, a curious sentence appears on behalf of the narrator: "Apparently it did not occur to him to ingratiate himself in the fashion of his race."

On a basic level, this seems inherently racist--does the narrator really think that Coalhouse's plan should have been to become deferential to the fire station bullies. Here, I think the statement is incredibly ironic. Apparently Coalhouse didn't even know that he should have started acting like he was actually back (and also throwback to when Father noted that Coalhouse 'didn't realize he was black'). Really, I think the narrator was trying to express a common sentiment of the time (in the novel); most others in this situation wouldn't have reacted defiantly in the manner that Coalhouse did, and it seems like the obvious to just go with the status quo and make things less difficult for yourself. And so this is what I mean by exposing injustice: I could see the firemen having this sentiment, I could see Father having this sentiment, and I could see the common public and maybe the black community in the town adopting the same view.

There are more instances of this later in the novel, and I think that the fact that there's more of this injustice-exposing irony prompts the reader to take the events of the novel more seriously. It's completely laughable, in a way, that Younger Brother was outfitting himself as a minstrel worker, but it's also kind of... exposing injustice in its own front. He appears to be either taking the focus of Coalhouse's movement away from himself (as he is white), or poking fun at the fact that there's a typically racist icon fighting for anti-discriminatory purposes and hurling bombs alongside actual black people.

Even though we all saw it coming, Coalhouse's death (basically his suicide; the narrator notes that Coalhouse knows that he would be struck down if he made one 'wrong' move) was definitely saddening. The end of the book is basically a parade of death juxtaposed against happy frontiers: we have Coalhouse, Younger Brother, and Father all lined up in succession with their deaths, and then Mother's marriage to Tateh and their patchwork family somehow making it through life positively. Regardless, I'm really glad that Doctorow finished the novel by returning to our fictional characters.

In the end, I'm glad that I got to read a novel that was well out of my comfort zone, but it still leaves a lot of questions from discussion unanswered. Coalhouse brings up a good point: how much violence in the name of justice is acceptable? Somewhere there was probably a line, and Coalhouse definitely crossed it with his mind out for vengeance, but still! Mr. Mitchell made a good point by bringing up and considering how militant protesting by a group belonging to the #BlackLivesMatter movement would be perceived today. What really was going on with J.P. Morgan and his death post-Egypt? (I personally wasn't very sure what was really happening after Morgan hightailed it out of Egypt.) Did Younger Brother actually become a more serious character, or is he still cloaked in irony because of his name and other actions later in the novel? It's too much to answer in one blog post, but it's been interesting food for thought.

The Narrator in Ragtime

It's pretty early to be making a blog post on Ragtime already, but I actually think there are several blog-worthy subtopics that were brought up in class discussion, with the most interesting one being the narrator.

Now, if you were in 20th Century Literature last semester, you'll definitely remember the term free indirect discourse--hopefully. It's basically a term that describes third person narration that moves between the consciousnesses of different characters, and fades in and out of those consciousnesses. I definitely got the vibe that a type of free indirect discourse was at play here. Looking only at that beginning paragraph, you wouldn't really see that, and the narrator actually comes off as being somewhat objective--it appears at if they're painting a picture, and are just giving the reader some good ol' facts about what it was like to live back then. However, not soon after in the chapter, we do catch some actual character insight. On page 9, after the infamous Houdini smashes into a pole and is invited in for tea, the novel reads:

"Houdini wanted to undo his collar. He felt trapped by the heavy square furnishings, the drapes and dark rugs, the Oriental silk cushions, the green glass lampshades."

I could totally see how someone could make a case for this just being a third person case for Houdini, but I just found it incredibly noticeable next to sentences that explained the inner workings and thoughts of other characters as well. There is a kind of "fading" in and out of character consciousness here.

Character thoughts aside, I think the question of whether or not the narrator is objective or not is a good one. Like I said, a lot of the information in the novel so far had been presented in a manner that implies that the narrator is neutral, and doesn't really have a... personality? Voice? There's probably a better word for what I'm thinking about, but basically, the narrator appears to be neutral. I really had to slow down my reading and think about the subtext of the "information" we're receiving. There are several examples I had in mind, but the one that sticks out the most is in the second paragraph of the book. We're introduced to Evelyn Nesbit, and her not-so-secret admirer, Mother's Younger Brother. Page 5:

"[Mother's Younger Brother] had closely followed the scandal surrounding her name and had begun to reason that the death of her lover Stanford White and the imprisonment of her husband Harry K. Thaw left her in need of the attentions of a genteel middle-class young man with no money."

This screams 'irony'. Obviously, a bachelor with no money isn't desirable at all; the narrator, at closer inspection, seems to be making a subtle tongue-in-cheek jab at Mother's Younger Brother's attitude. It was definitely funny, and I had a hard time perceiving that comment as truly neutral. There was definitely some sort of tone, and there are even more examples of this elsewhere in our text.

I'm definitely enjoying the novel so far! (At the time of this blog post, I've read up to Chapter 7, not just up to 4; I think I can safely say that I like it and will continue to do so? I hope so!) I'm totally bewildered by how the narrator just throws the reader into the context of the novel, and I don't even recognize half of the historical facets they're bringing up, but somehow it still makes sense enough for me to understand what's happening. With the rest of Ragtime in mind, I'm looking forward to it.