Lee's Historic Smirk--Smile?

Lee Harvey Oswald. Upon hearing the name, one of the first images that comes to mind is Oswald's—Lee's—historic smile. In Libra, DeLillo describes Lee’s “peculiar” and “immortal” smile (289, 279). These descriptions of his smirk especially reminded me of Lee Harvey Oswald the assassin, who I constantly forgot about for a lot of the previous Lee-plot. It is odd to feel sympathetic towards an individual who disturbed so many people and I think that’s why when asked if I feel sympathetic towards Lee, I respond with a look of confusion. I do feel sympathetic, but should I because he is an assassin? DeLillo does a good job at making Lee more human-like than the numerous news reports that readers have if not read, then at least hear about. In Libra, Lee had grown to be a more likeable character in my mind after the first chapter because he seemed childlike and his education and home conditions were far from ideal. I must add, however, that I have become less sympathetic towards Lee after finding out that he abuses Marina, his wife. Even with this recent distancing of myself from sympathy for Lee, DeLillo's excerpt on Lee’s smile made me once again feel that Lee is a human, not just an historic assassin.

On page 319, DeLillo describes Lee’s smirk with more insight into Lee’s mind. He says,

When Lee has a certain look on his face, eyes kind of amused, mouth small and tight, he finds himself thinking of his father. He believes it is a look his father may have used. It feels like his father. A curious sensation, the look coming upon him, taking hold in an unmistakable way, and then his old man is here, eerie and forceful and whole, a meeting across worlds.

His “eyes kind of amused” and “mouth small and tight” is a fairly accurate description of the killer’s smile that has survived through history. Yet, I was more struck by the idea that Lee’s smile reminds him of his father, making his smirk less evil and rather childlike. A smile that will later become ominous and possibly abhorrent in the eyes of the public is actually an innocent way for Lee to connect with his deceased father, who Lee never even had the chance to meet. A while ago in class, we talked about how it seems that Lee wants a father figure in his life and men like David Ferrie or George de Mohrenschildt fill in that spot because Lee listens to them. The innocence and good intentions of his smile is further emphasized because his subtle desire to have a father has been unfulfilled. Still, this contradiction between the public’s view of his smile and Lee’s view of his own smile makes me especially indecisive on my feelings towards Lee, for I know (as do almost all readers) of Lee’s smirk as a representation of his disturbingly casual response to murdering the president, but to Lee, it gives him the mental support of his father. Feeling his father’s force with the smile may also be a way for Lee to justify his plan or find a type of approval for his actions. Nonetheless, to think that Lee smiles in the videos of reports after his arrest because he feels his father’s spirit “forceful and whole” is indeed rather “eerie” as it adds a more human aspect to Lee’s actions and suggests that Lee maybe did not mean to cause as much damage as he did (319).

I also find the “meeting across worlds” to possibly show another contradiction in Lee. Previously, we find out that Lee is not very religious or superstitious, yet he believes in a “look” from some force “coming upon him” (319). Ferrie, however, we know believes everything (and therefore thinks there is no coincidence) and talks to Lee, emphasizing the inevitability of his actions, saying “it’s been waiting to happen” (384). This inevitability is the same that the reader has—we know that Lee is going to take a shot (or more) at the president and we are waiting for that to occur in the plot, giving the feeling that there is a sense of destiny for Lee. It’s unclear whether Lee believes in the destiny that Ferrie (and the readers) have planned for him because Lee is not religious, yet he does believe in feeling his father’s spirit-like presence in his smile.

Furthermore, Lee’s “meeting across worlds” with his father is similar to his and Kennedy’s worlds crossing, of which Ferrie later informs Lee. Lee seems to believe that the coincidences between he and Kennedy have a meaning, that the two are connected in a way. Yet, going back to childish, sporadic Lee, it seems that he is looking for meaning in these coincidences and therefore doesn’t realize the gravity of shooting the president. 

Dana's Left (Behind) Arm

Although part of me feels incomplete without knowing why Dana time travels, like the other books we’ve read in this class, I still (again) enjoyed Kindred. The final section of the novel, “The Rope,” is intense and sort of scary as well. Dana losing an arm is not what I found scary, mostly since Butler told us that would occur in the prologue. Rather, I found it scary that Rufus tried to rape Dana—and even more so that Dana was almost okay with it. Throughout the novel, Dana resists integrating into the 1800s antebellum south culture, yet she slowly begins to feel more at "home" there and begins to become friends with Sarah, Carrie, and others. The science fiction aspect of time travel emphasizes how Dana, who belongs to the 20^th century, can become influenced to leave her 20^th century ideas and unwillingly adopt the antebellum south lifestyle. Even though (unlike Vonnegut's postmodern description of the Tralfamadorians) Butler never goes into detail regarding why the sci fi aspects happen—the time travel and Dana's arm becoming part of the wall—occur, both science fictions aspects seem to have significant roles in part of Butler's point in writing Kindred. As I've already delved into the topic of time travel on a previous post, I will focus this one on Dana's arm.

After injuring Rufus, Dana time travels back to 1976 and finds herself “joined to the wall as though [her] arm were growing out of it—or into it” (261). She then “[pulls her] arm towards [herself]”and no longer has her arm “from the spot where Rufus’ fingers had grasped it” and down (261). The first thing that I find curious is why Butler chose to have Dana’s arm become stuck in a wall, rather a part of the wall. On the surface, the wall may seem to represent the end to Dana’s time traveling as a literal boundary between the past and the present. Yet, the notion of a separation between the past and the present seems contradictory to Butler’s motive throughout the rest of the novel—which is, to write a story that gives readers a more tangible understanding of the slavery institution in the antebellum south. Therefore, I think that her connection to the wall is not as a boundary. Instead the wall represents something that is unchanging, like the past with Rufus that Dana experienced. I think it is important that Rufus, as he is dying or becoming “cold and nonliving,” (like a wall,) is holding Dana’s arm as she time travels. By comparing Rufus in the 19^th century to a stationary wall that Dana is literally joined with at the point where Rufus was holding her, Butler emphasizes that like the wall, the past exists and is connected to Dana as much as she is connected to it. Although Rufus is not living in 1976 California, he is a closer part of Dana than she may believe.

Butler’s choice to have Dana loose her left arm also intrigues me. Butler says that she “couldn’t let Dana return whole,” because Dana was so changed by her experiences in the 19^th century. Before knowing about this quote, I was curious as to why not let Dana bring something back from the past. Aside from possibly being somewhat cliché and uninteresting with the tool of science fiction, bringing something or gaining something from the past may be more natural to understand, as Dana gains a better understanding of her relatives' experiences in the antebellum south. Losing an arm, however, seems to take this idea one step forward, as well as emphasizing that Dana has changed. Yes, her arm is gone, but it is part of her history, as are her relatives. Although her arm, like people from the past, are not present in the same century or place or year, it (they) are relevant to Dana's life and their actions/beliefs continue to shape the constantly changing society. Deciding not to live with knowledge of their experience may be like living physically whole but intellectually/emotionally incomplete, possibly similar to feeling incomplete without all information regarding the Kennedy assassination. I am still wondering about any further meanings that Dana's arm may have...any thoughts?

Continuous Time Travel: For Comparisons and a Pillar of Salt

I am very much enjoying Kindred so far, especially because of Butler’s deep character development, where she depicts complex controversies between and within characters. Also, I really like Dana (the protagonist) especially because of her strength and willingness to help others throughout the oppressive situations when she time travels back to the early 19^th century antebellum south. So far, Dana has travelled back in time five times and has returned to the present (1976) four times. Unlike Marty in Back to the Future (a reference to which was made during class recently) who travels back in time once, Dana is constantly switching between centuries. It is curious as to why and how Dana is able to do this, but even more intriguing is to wonder why Butler decided to do this to Dana.

The first reason that comes to mind for why Butler has Dana travel back and forth through time is to give a blatant and understandable comparison of the early 19^th century with the 20^th century. Though, as readers, we are told about the violence that occurs towards slaves in the antebellum south at this time, Dana makes the violence comprehensible by saying “that most of the people around Rufus know more about real violence than the screenwriters of today will know” (48). By making a comparison of the 19^th century violence to the fairly gory movies that are produced, Butler is able to help readers understand the level of violence better than a history textbook description of violence could. Also, by placing the background to Dana and Kevin’s relationship right after a glimpse of the oppressive, white supremacist violence used against Dana and other slaves, Butler seems to point to the continuation of racist views that stem from the 19^th century. (There appears to be a connection between white male dominance in the Weylin home as well as with Kevin, where Kevin practically forces—with a threat of separation—Dana to type for him even though Dana “hated typing” (109). Even though with the context, it may seem that Kevin thinks he can tell Dana what to do because of race, I think it’s more a matter of gender than race.)

After reading Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, another main motivation for Dana’s multiple time travels may be to emphasize that history is not just a part of the past, rather it has shaped the present culture and society, so, like Lot and Billy’s actions, people of the current day should look back at the past. Although Kevin initially tells Dana to forget about her first time travel to the past, she (and later Kevin as well) increasingly realize that it is hard to forget about that “shadowy and threatening” “dream” (18). Each time Dana returns, the 19^th century occupies more of her thoughts, even though she and Kevin remind themselves that they are just “playing the part” to avoid being influenced by the antebellum south culture (79). It can be seen that Dana is still an actress in the 1800s antebellum south because she packs “props” in her bag to use in the past, but these items can also be seen as luggage that she is taking to her new “home” (as she refers to Weylin’s on 190). Yet, we see that Dana is influenced by the past and even admits that “it takes time…for things to fall back into place” after returning from the past (194). But, will things seem the same as they did before to Dana now that she has taken a deeper look into America’s history?

Postmodernists on Tralfamadore

Like Ragtime and Mumbo Jumbo, Slaughterhouse-Five has been another enjoyable read. Vonnegut’s ability to incorporate humor in such a serious and deadly event surprises me, and the Tralfamadorians somewhat confuse me, but both lead me to wonder why Vonnegut wrote this narrative of the bombing of Dresden the way he did. The Tralfamadorians, especially, seem out of place at first, but I think that they further support Vonnegut’s mission to create an antiwar novel.

In chapter one, Vonnegut explains “how tempting Dresden has been to write about,” yet “not many words about [it] came from [his] mind” (2). In class, we discussed that he wanted to make this novel an antiwar novel and anti-war novel, which may have been part of his delay. Just so we’re on the same page, an antiwar novel (we defined) is a novel that portrays war in a negative view—or at least claims to do so. Sometimes, antiwar stories can sort of glamorize the struggles that soldiers and civilians face, making war and the problems that those who are directly involved deal with, a distant reality that portrays those individuals as clearly suffering but possibly also heroic for facing those issues. Vonnegut, rather, goes a step further and creates an anti-war novel, a novel about war but is nothing like what one would expect from the traditional war or antiwar novel.

The Tralfamadorians obviously make Slaughterhouse-Five an anti-war story, for no other story about war prior to this novel incorporates such “unrealistic” science fiction. Nonetheless, I find that they have a somewhat postmodernist view of history. They see history as scenes without “any particular relationship between” them—“no moral[s], no causes, no effects” that can be drawn from, lead to, or result from the events—rather, just events or facts that are not influenced by any overarching metanarrative (88). Vonnegut’s writing style of direct, unemotional descriptions of the war along with this Tralfamadorian/postmodernist style makes it seem that Vonnegut may be suggesting that war is similar to and maybe should only be seen through the Tralafamadorian style. War, like Tralfamadorain history, is just a series of events that, although have much effect to mainly those who are directly involved (so it goes,) have no causes (what are the motivations behind bombing civilians?) and no morals. Usual war and antiwar novels incorporate strength in difficulties (in two very different connotations, one promoting war while the other criticizing it) or other morals, but Vonnegut disproves the strength needed in war as two skilled soldiers of the Three Musketeers are quickly killed, but the weak Billy Pilgrim survives. By placing this events-only Tralfamadorian view of time and history beside a war story, Vonnegut seems to be asking us what is the moral to be drawn from war and is there a moral to be drawn from war? in the same unanswerable way of “Poo-tee-weet?” As an antiwar novel, the answer may be that there is no moral of strength, toughness, etc. to be found in war, but thousands of deaths can lead to the conclusion that war is unnecessary. 

"Just the Facts"--or Not

I have to say that I am quite impressed at how Reed ties up all holes in and confusion regarding the plot of Mumbo Jumbo is the final few chapters. It is interesting how the plot settles with a clear signing off-like end to the novel, but I still feel very much suspended in Reed’s metanarratives and claims, especially his Afro-centric metanarrative of the course of history, which follows historical facts (as we know them) fairly well and therefore makes me question the validity/truth history I’ve learned. As I was flipping through the pages of the book, (still) stuck in the novel’s provoking points, the “news” clippings and S.R.’s (situation reports) caught my eye.

Naturally, I read them over and after doing so, I feel that they have a significance in Reed’s view of history. I think that news channels often present themselves as providing “just the facts,” though, as we discussed in class a few weeks ago, any retelling of an event that has passed is usually a metanarrative that contains connections of the facts from which a certain claim/lesson can be formed regarding the event. The same facts, however, can be connected in a different way to result in a different meaning that can be gathered from the same event. Thus, although news reporters claim to provide us with the facts, they naturally give us a narrative that includes and possibly shapes the facts. Generally, I think that published news is commonly accepted as historically accurate, though the single perspective may not be true. Reed plays with the idea of many histories rather than a single correct version with Papa LaBas’ proposal of the Afro-centric course of history.

I think that the S.R. and “news” clippings serve as the immediate general public knowledge in Mumbo Jumbo, since the public usually gets its information from the media. Most of these sections of news have an obvious Atonist view, where the “war hero” Musclewhite “slays” the “bad” Berbelang, though we (the readers) know that Musclewhite is actually the “bad” one (123). The newspaper also exhibits Atonist intolerance to other cultures, calling the Olmec head “ugly,” “sausage-lipped,” and “big-headed” (123). In this section of a newspaper, Reed obviously portrays an Atonist bias, probing us to question our acceptance of the immediate news we receive from the media.

Reed also provides an example of news that is anti-Atonist—the revealing of American troops in Haiti. The immediate “overload” of “questions from the populace concerning Haiti” is significant because such influx of questions does not follow other Atonist news updates (like the one where Musclewhite “slays” Berlbelang) (58, 123). With this anomaly in news articles, I think Reed conveys the general acceptance of history through a single metanarrative rather than through multiple metanarratives, so when a different one appears, much skepticism surrounds it. 

Also, slightly off topic, but the idea of looking at history presented in the news through multiple metanarratives rather than just one metanarrative reminds me of polytheism (Osirian) and monotheism (Atonist). 

Tateh or Baron or Both

Even after having finished Ragtime for a while now, Tateh is the character who I am most intrigued by and still think about. Chapter 34 reveals the story of Tateh’s transformation from the solemn socialist to the “voluble and energetic” filmmaker, Baron Ashkenazy. I never suspected Tateh as being capable of such drastic change for most of the novel, but I think his change allows for interesting connections to other parts of the novel.

Besides Tateh’s ultimate success, Doctorow’s placement of Tateh’s joining of the “flow of American energy” next to his first discussion of Ford makes me want to compare the two. Although they both have a “rags to riches” background story, they are otherwise quite different. As discussed in class, Doctorow depicts Ford with heavy irony to possibly poke fun at the metanarrative of American success, but does not describe Tateh with any irony (at least from what I understood), somewhat displaying another side of this metanarrative. Tateh changes a lot, but I think that he is also in a broad sense static because he remains artist throughout the novel—from a street artist to a filmmaker, he is constantly and creatively replicating the world around him. Ford, similarly static, however, is (as suggested in class discussion) an industrialist, whose focus remains on mass replication of the same Model T design and treating workers as a part of the machine. Because Doctorow is not ironic with Tateh and Tateh is producing new art, unlike Ford who is replicating the same design, I think that Doctorow appreciates Tateh’s originality. In fact, Doctorow builds upon Tateh’s originality and representation of the world around him by naming one of Tateh’s movies A Daughter’s Innocence, which hints at being about Tateh’s own daughter.

I find that Tateh also has an interesting connection to the Little Boy. In Chapter 15, we get to go inside the Little Boy’s head and learn his idea of “self-duplication.” This section seems a little random by itself, but looking at the following Chapter 16, which begins with Tateh, again, I feel inclined to compare the idea of self-duplication with Tateh—I think that Tateh is the example of self-duplication in this novel. Although the final few chapters are focused on Tateh as Baron, the “old Tateh” is recognized as still existing in Baron. Tateh’s construction of his new self also goes along with the Little Boy’s view that “the world composed and recomposed itself constantly in an endless process of dissatisfaction.” Tateh recomposed himself because was dissatisfied with his life in the slum and he “felt he deserved his happiness.”

I think that there are many other interesting aspects of Tateh, but these are the ones I found most compelling. Do you have any observations regarding Tateh or Baron or both?

The Escape Artist(s)

We're about half way into Ragtime and I first just want to say that I'm really enjoying it. 

Anyway, while looking over my class notes, I found that a few days ago we discussed the appeal of the escape artist--that there is amusement and/or hope that comes from watching a restricted individual break free from the restrictions placed on them. It was mentioned that Houdini himself escaped from societal restrictions and anti-Semitic prejudices by changing his name. Interestingly, he then dedicated his life to his escaping, making it an art that is appreciated by almost everyone, except the wealthy elite, as Houdini understands from Harry K. Thaw's actions. The wealthy elite are not amused by Houdini's art since, as their status implies, they are above society's expectations, prejudices, and restrictions. Conversely, individuals who do face some sort of oppression are fascinated by Houdini's abilities to escape physical restrictions, possibly because of a sense of hope that witnessing such freedom gives. 

I've noticed that Houdini is not the only individual who seems to be escaping restraint, however. A comparison to Tateh, who is also a male Jewish artist, reveals that Tateh is escaping the restraints he faces as well. Tateh, a poor, hardworking artist and father, tries to make ends meet by selling silhouette portraits. Tateh is restricted by his poverty, as Houdini is by chains and locks, yet like Houdini, Tateh also has a scene of escape. At the end of chapter 16, Tateh is hanging onto a train's railing "with his head pressed against the bars like a man in prison begging to be set free," and is "freed" at the beginning of chapter 17 when two conductors lift him onto the train. The image of Tateh the "prisoner" becoming free (though it is not entirely clear of what) and joining the "flow of American energy" is hopeful and similar to Houdini. At this point, it is not certain that Tateh will become famous like Houdini, it was earlier mentioned that Tateh's silhouettes are "in private collections," implying that his artwork received recognition. 

This pattern of an artist escaping societal restraint appears again in regard to another more recently introduced artist, Coalhouse Walker Jr.. Father's racism towards Walker makes me mad and makes me dislike Father, but that's beside the point. Father's racism is important to note because it brings attention to the racial restrictions and expectations placed on Walker. Father's thinking that "Walker [doesn't] act or talk like a colored man," further implies that Walker has found his own way to break free of those stereotypes placed on him. Walker's appearance and behavior clearly bothers Father, which somewhat reminds me of the elites' contempt of Houdini's escape art. 

Three artists in this novel--Houdini, Tateh, and Walker--seem to be breaking free from restrictions. It is curious, I (Doc)trow!

...enjoy the pun :)