Today is August 5th, 2012. You can see that under the post, I'm aware. But today is approximately smack-dab in the middle of this year's Ramadan. Ramadan is the Islamic month-long holiday during which Muslims attempt to closely monitor their life choices, behavior, and mindsets via fasting, community dinners, prayer, and reading the Qur'an. An Imam (leader of prayer) once said that Ramadan creates an atmosphere or environment in which Muslims can better understand themselves, their faith, and their actions. Through this lens, it is easier to control oneself. I would liken it to a trial period for all New Years Resolutions-- except working out more, which is a little harder with no water. Even so! It's entirely possible.
I digress. I'm writing today about Ramadan because a friend recently sent me a blog post written by an Imam trying to note his personal discoveries and thoughts during the holy month, and I find it ripe for discussion. Here's the link to the article: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/imam-khalid-latif/ramadan-reflection-day-14-marriage-dating-healthy-relationships_b_1733760.html
Give yourself a moment to read it and reflect. I think it's fairly accessible to those who don't practice Islam, but even so, it may help to clear some things up.
I've been asked a number of times how Muslims are supposed to meet potential life partners, if not through dating. Imam Latif touches on this concern briefly, but not in a way that is easily understood by those who don't worry about it in their own lives. By which I mean, the article seems targeted toward a primarily Muslim audience. Nothing wrong with that. As an interpretive answer, I submit that his answer (and typically mine) is that one's family will arrange with another's family for meetings. Typically, the individual considering marriage is completely aware of this, and often involved. Their preferences and choices are respected, but the family tries to establish meetings and chances to get to know the potential mate through decent and respectable meetings.
My mother looks at this process as "Yenta-ing"-- a reference to her experiences in New York with very enthusiastic Jewish mothers looking for suitable husbands for their daughters. One could also liken it to the Japanese custom of marriage interviews-- meeting up with a potential partner in a public place, talking to them about their life, hopes for family, etc, with the permission and attention of both families. I look at it as good old fashioned courtship.
With all that said, I think we can speak a little more openly about the blog itself. It's an entry regarding how Muslims today struggle with an ideal relationship within the context of a modern, diverse environment, or having come from a very conservative background. There's a tricky negotiation that lies between the two.
Some Muslims have families who are a little Islamophobic, and don't wish to promote this form of courting. Some Muslims have super-conservative Muslim families who never let them interact with the other sex. Lastly, there are, of course, all the people in between.
Imam Latif calls to attention the flaw in the two extremes. Islamophobia is the main flaw on one end-- fearing or hating Muslims simply for being Muslim isn't fair and doesn't make sense. A family should respect an individuals religious choices, and not refuse them help in establishing a happy family just because of those choices. As for never interacting with the other sex, Imam Latif thinks that some people take it a little too far. The Qur'an does not forbid interaction between youths of both sexes-- though it does warn against being alone with them. On the contrary, Islam is a religion that strives for equality.
Yes, there are lots of ways to attack that assertion, and lots of cultures that could support an offensive case that way. In light of that, I'd like to bring up Islamic laws that dictate that women have their own money and property, and that they have the right to demand a divorce if they are not treated properly by their husbands. Not everyone notices these, but these laws were in place long before customs like this were tolerated in Christian-majority countries or even the US. Not to mention voting-- which was considered acceptable for women in Islamic communities hundreds of years before it was okay in our good old USA. (Albeit, the laws for voting were a little strange at that time, as well.)
My point is that women and men are equal parts of a community, and therefore expected to interact regularly. In fact, the aim is to control behavior during these interactions, as opposed to banning them altogether.
As for decent relationships, Imam Latif only really talks about marriage. I think that a big question for Muslims who fall into the "in-between" category is what to do with feelings for a decent young man or woman at a time in one's life when you just can't marry (you don't have the money, living space, etc...). The answer is: suppress them. I personally have a lot of trouble dealing with that, but it seems to me the only answer. Or rather, you might be able to express them, but don't expect anything good to come of them.
I consider myself a romantic-- it's a little tragic, but reasonable, I suppose.
Without making excuses, I'd assert that the US is an environment overwhelmingly populated by people who date, messages that promote dating, and even an educational system that makes other ways of life seem cumbersome and illogical. I speak from experiences of teachers who give you weird looks if you say you don't think kids should date, or assignments on Romeo & Juliet that make students answer when is an appropriate age to start having romantic relationships. It's a little weird. It makes you uncomfortable. Honestly, I'll go out on a limb and say that these sorts of things are reasons why I can empathize with the gay community. When everything in the world around you tells you to be something you won't or you can't, you feel alienated and uncomfortable. It really, really sucks.
Unfortunately, I can't provide much more of an answer to those concerns than the Imam could. It's just something interesting to think about-- a means of stepping into new shoes and considering the life choices of people who aren't you.
Let me know what y'all think. It might be really interesting to follow up on this theme with some new perspectives.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Friday, July 13, 2012
Endless Possibilities
Actually, I finally got around to finishing the 1984 a few weeks ago. It was satisfying to finish, and fairly chilling.
Honestly, there's too much to say about it. Any post or summary I could give would either ruin the experience for those who haven't read it, or it would do it little justice. Initially, I was thinking that I would compare the choices Orwell made in creating his utopia to those made by other utopia inventors. The anime Ergo Proxy was rich with interesting comparisons, but when it came down to it, it couldn't be done. At least, not in a way that would keep from spoiling many of the delicious secrets in both works.
So, let's talk about Neil Gaiman. I would argue that he is my favorite author as of now. For anyone unfamiliar with him, Gaiman is an extremely successful and fairly prolific fantasy and sci-fi writer, churning out a series of novels, at least two of which now adapted into movies (Coraline and Stardust), and a collection of graphic novels, including the complicated and fascinating Sandman Chronicles.
The Sandman Chronicles are about the adventures and history of the Sandman, Morpheus and his interactions with his siblings known as the Endless, and some very important and unique mortals. They're rather expensive books and no longer carried at Barnes and Noble, for some reason, but they're certainly worthwhile, when you can find them. (Recently, actually, I visited a quaint and magical little shop in Alexandria called Aftertime Comics, and they sold almost the whole series, as well as a bunch of accompanying books to the series.)
Why are we talking about this series? Well, I've been itching to discuss the Endless for quite some time. They're not gods, nor mortals, nor spirits or fairies; the Endless are simply the embodiments of the essential elements of being. By that, I mean, they're the family of Death, Destruction, Despair, Desire, Delirium/Delight, and Dream. I'd also like to point out how nifty it is that their names all start with D.
As a literary invention, I'd consider them extremely impressive. Gaiman has successfully given them all personalities and histories too incredibly rich and complicated for belief, by which I mean that they're too relatable. One finds oneself wondering, as one passes from book to book, "Is it lonely to control dreams? Why should it be? Well, of course it would be..." etc, etc, and eventually you fall for them in their independent ways. Even Despair, who is the most ugly and revolting character I've read or seen in as long as I can remember, has a sort of tragedy about her that fosters sympathy.
Initially, I'd believed them to be elements of human life, ideas that feed on human sentiment. Reading on, though, one finds that Gaiman had intended for them to exist even before humankind, before sentient humanoids, even to attend to the lives of stars.
Now, that puts things in perspective, huh? Gaiman took personification and blew it up, like a pinata filled with confetti. True, stars are born and die. They give birth to planets that sleep until they awake with life. They live tragically short lives, I suppose, sometimes, or lonely long ones. Naturally, it takes some practical application of personification to these seemingly inanimate celestial objects, but that can be reversed, in a sense.
Certainly, stars can be destroyed. They must be, in order to create other things. But if one needs to apply so much personification to stars so that they might feel Despair or Desire, then one should consider: what does Destruction mean to humans?
That question is a little tantalizing. We destroy ourselves, each other, and things economically, spiritually, physically and figuratively. How does Destruction work within our scope? How can it be the same Endless as the one that destroys stars?
I think that's something of a clash. The definitions of existence don't line up the same way.
Just something to consider. Certainly give the series a read, and let me know what y'all think.
Honestly, there's too much to say about it. Any post or summary I could give would either ruin the experience for those who haven't read it, or it would do it little justice. Initially, I was thinking that I would compare the choices Orwell made in creating his utopia to those made by other utopia inventors. The anime Ergo Proxy was rich with interesting comparisons, but when it came down to it, it couldn't be done. At least, not in a way that would keep from spoiling many of the delicious secrets in both works.
So, let's talk about Neil Gaiman. I would argue that he is my favorite author as of now. For anyone unfamiliar with him, Gaiman is an extremely successful and fairly prolific fantasy and sci-fi writer, churning out a series of novels, at least two of which now adapted into movies (Coraline and Stardust), and a collection of graphic novels, including the complicated and fascinating Sandman Chronicles.
The Sandman Chronicles are about the adventures and history of the Sandman, Morpheus and his interactions with his siblings known as the Endless, and some very important and unique mortals. They're rather expensive books and no longer carried at Barnes and Noble, for some reason, but they're certainly worthwhile, when you can find them. (Recently, actually, I visited a quaint and magical little shop in Alexandria called Aftertime Comics, and they sold almost the whole series, as well as a bunch of accompanying books to the series.)
Why are we talking about this series? Well, I've been itching to discuss the Endless for quite some time. They're not gods, nor mortals, nor spirits or fairies; the Endless are simply the embodiments of the essential elements of being. By that, I mean, they're the family of Death, Destruction, Despair, Desire, Delirium/Delight, and Dream. I'd also like to point out how nifty it is that their names all start with D.
As a literary invention, I'd consider them extremely impressive. Gaiman has successfully given them all personalities and histories too incredibly rich and complicated for belief, by which I mean that they're too relatable. One finds oneself wondering, as one passes from book to book, "Is it lonely to control dreams? Why should it be? Well, of course it would be..." etc, etc, and eventually you fall for them in their independent ways. Even Despair, who is the most ugly and revolting character I've read or seen in as long as I can remember, has a sort of tragedy about her that fosters sympathy.
Initially, I'd believed them to be elements of human life, ideas that feed on human sentiment. Reading on, though, one finds that Gaiman had intended for them to exist even before humankind, before sentient humanoids, even to attend to the lives of stars.
Now, that puts things in perspective, huh? Gaiman took personification and blew it up, like a pinata filled with confetti. True, stars are born and die. They give birth to planets that sleep until they awake with life. They live tragically short lives, I suppose, sometimes, or lonely long ones. Naturally, it takes some practical application of personification to these seemingly inanimate celestial objects, but that can be reversed, in a sense.
Certainly, stars can be destroyed. They must be, in order to create other things. But if one needs to apply so much personification to stars so that they might feel Despair or Desire, then one should consider: what does Destruction mean to humans?
That question is a little tantalizing. We destroy ourselves, each other, and things economically, spiritually, physically and figuratively. How does Destruction work within our scope? How can it be the same Endless as the one that destroys stars?
I think that's something of a clash. The definitions of existence don't line up the same way.
Just something to consider. Certainly give the series a read, and let me know what y'all think.
Friday, June 15, 2012
A Problem with Barnes and Noble
Don't get me wrong. I love Barnes and Noble. Most likely, this is an issue that most book stores have. Actually, it's an issue with novel writing these days.
It is impossible to go into a book store-- at the very least, a Barnes and Noble-- and expect to find a respectable, positive novel, that will not destroy all of your feelings.
This is, of course, not including comics or manga. Or the romance section-- I did say "respectable." Maybe sci-fi. I guess it's just fiction, really.
Good fiction is now defined as a story that presents you with a flawed or helpless protagonist who loses everything and begins a touching and brave journey toward fixing or getting over whatever happened. Of course, you will not be recompensed for having accompanied her-- it's most likely a her-- on her journey. You, too, will have your heartstrings pulled out. You turn slowly to the last page, and the very last period hits you like a heavy stone in still water, and as a result, a tear springs forth, and strikes the table beneath you, and you feel empty inside. So empty.
This is a good novel. That's like saying a good friend is someone who meets you on the street, tells you their life story, gives you hope about your own life, and then takes all your money and beloved possessions while you watch. A good novel is a con artist. A good novel these days is someone who scams you out of your right to happiness.
Either that, or it's a funny tale about zombies. I guess I can't complain about that. Zombies are fun, but there are only so many original plots you can come up with when writing a zombie novel. Believe me, I tried, and already there are novels out that did almost the exact same thing.
Thoughts, anyone? I recently picked up Jane Austen's Emma, in hopes that it won't, at least, break my heart, but any good, contemporary novels that are written to be happy?
It is impossible to go into a book store-- at the very least, a Barnes and Noble-- and expect to find a respectable, positive novel, that will not destroy all of your feelings.
This is, of course, not including comics or manga. Or the romance section-- I did say "respectable." Maybe sci-fi. I guess it's just fiction, really.
Good fiction is now defined as a story that presents you with a flawed or helpless protagonist who loses everything and begins a touching and brave journey toward fixing or getting over whatever happened. Of course, you will not be recompensed for having accompanied her-- it's most likely a her-- on her journey. You, too, will have your heartstrings pulled out. You turn slowly to the last page, and the very last period hits you like a heavy stone in still water, and as a result, a tear springs forth, and strikes the table beneath you, and you feel empty inside. So empty.
This is a good novel. That's like saying a good friend is someone who meets you on the street, tells you their life story, gives you hope about your own life, and then takes all your money and beloved possessions while you watch. A good novel is a con artist. A good novel these days is someone who scams you out of your right to happiness.
Either that, or it's a funny tale about zombies. I guess I can't complain about that. Zombies are fun, but there are only so many original plots you can come up with when writing a zombie novel. Believe me, I tried, and already there are novels out that did almost the exact same thing.
Thoughts, anyone? I recently picked up Jane Austen's Emma, in hopes that it won't, at least, break my heart, but any good, contemporary novels that are written to be happy?
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Fairy Tales
One thing we take for granted as a staple of our culture is the development and maintenance of fairy tales. They were often originally written or told so long ago that we can't remember their origins. They're also retold often enough that rarely do we recall the originals in their purest form.
I want to talk about that: adaptation. I've gotten into quite a few arguments over whether the plot of a fairy tale should be changed or not. All of us know that there are a good share of both terrible and excellent alterations to what we believe to be original fairy tales. This has led to some interesting debates about the purpose and worth of these alterations.
This is a great time to start thinking about these sorts of debates for two reasons:
1. I just finished an anthology called Snow White, Blood Red
2. Snow White and the Huntsman
Snow White, Blood Red is a collection of short stories and poems that are adaptations of classic fairy tales. Some of them are reset in modern times, and others are simply retellings with new wording and fresh style. The two editors, Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, each wrote essays at the beginning of the anthology, discussing two important aspects of the best fairy tales of all time: the ability to use elements of truth, of satire, and real problems in a fantasy setting, and the ability to use violence in order to make them more vivid.
Now, I'm sure there are better ways to phrase that, but hear me out. Let's talk about the first aspect first, then we'll get into all the gory details.
Terri Windling wrote the essay called "White as Snow: Fairy Tales and Fantasy," and started it off with a group of comparisons between original fairy tales and the way we know them to be now-- often Disney remakes. She points out extremely mature themes in some of our favorites, Red Riding Hood being blatantly sexual, Sleeping Beauty giving birth during her sleep, and other disturbing notions. Windling argues that fairy tales are not-- or were not-- stories for children, but stories for adults, relaying mature themes and warning against the sorts of things that haunt people throughout their adult lives. Since then, they've been stripped of their intensity, dressed up in capes and given handsome heroes to solve the problems, instead of creating them (how do you think Sleeping Beauty got pregnant?).
Windling says, "A proper fairy tale is anything but an untruth; it goes to the very heart of truth. It goes to the very hearts of men and women and speaks of things it finds there: fear, courage, greed, compassion, loyalty, betrayal, despair and wonder. It speaks of these things in a symbolic language that slips into our dreams, our unconscious, steeped in rich archetypal images." Archetype-- a word that sends shivers and unpleasant memories of high school down our spines-. (As a reminder, an archetype is a prototype or original concept that works as a foundation for almost all other concepts related to it.) And yet, it's so very poignant here. Carl Jung argued that such concepts existed in all individual minds, even if they were not taught to each other, connecting humanity unconsciously through essential, important themes. They work in fairy tales the exact same way.
The remakes of fairy tales that we've experienced over the past few centuries not only make commentary about the styles and notions of an age (consider the outfits and the personalities of our princes in movies and books these days as compared to the old ones), but also show a connection to the sorts of issues that all cultures deal with. We can say this of mythology as well. There always seem to be elemental gods or champions who save their people, and pure, idyllic princesses that are beacons of hope. The list could go on forever. It means that there are people and ideas that almost all cultures believe in, despite changes in history, despite differences in culture. In other words, adaptations of fairy tales put an often refreshing, sometimes infuriating spin on traditions that we've maintained for much of human history; these spins are changes in perspective, like remembering a traumatic event in different ways.
Note, though, a pattern in mythology throughout history. Not only do we find champions and heroes, but there are always villains, always battle, always violence. Violence, like hope, affects the psyche in bafflingly deep ways. It affects every individual, reacquaints us with our sense of mortality, and with our passions. Like hope, it moves us, fueled by fear and passion alike.
Such power lies within fairy tales for a reason.
One thing that I must admit: fairy tales are different from mythology, and the violence works differently within them. In "Red as Blood: Fairy Tales and Horror," Ellen Datlow argues that fairy tales are "about ordinary men and women in extraordinary circumstances." Myths have actual heroes, people with powers. Fairy tales thrust flawed human beings into horrific and enchanting environments. Naturally, there is no clear line as to what makes a fairy tale, but we know certainly that they involve ordinary people, they are set in fantastic worlds, there is magic, and there are rules, and they have archetypes that strike us deeply. "The ones that touch us most deeply are often blunt about the darker side of human nature, filled with violence and atrocities." It makes you wonder: is the fairy tale about the princess, or the evil witch? Which person do we relate to? Who do we aspire to be? Where do our desires lead-- salvation or ruin?
Happily enough, Snow White and the Huntsman is an excellent medium for discussing all of this stuff. Before anyone asks, I do recommend the movie. It's one of the more refreshing and curious remakes of an old fairy tale. The Snow White I grew up with in Disney's movie is slightly more terrifying and revolting for all the wrong reasons. This one is much truer to the way a fairy tale should feel: gripping, fear-inducing, relatable, and repulsive in exactly the right ways.
I do want to comment on some of the elements of the movie that fit well into the fairy tale style.
1. It focuses quite a bit on the Queen. We rarely get to appreciate the perspective of the bad guy. This, I think, stems from a tendency to try to avoid the dark parts of our hearts, but the movie forces its audience to admit: she's really cool. She's got reasons for what she does. She's powerful and interesting. The darkness is acknowledged and given a form that is both fearsome and beautiful, the way power and violence appear to us in other circumstances.
2. The heroes are relatively ordinary. The princess and the huntsmen have no powers. Well, not significant ones. The princess can apparently talk to deer-- a deer that has been heavily influenced by Princess Mononoke-- but that doesn't do much. But focus on the huntsman! He's not magical. He's a drunkard, and something of a loser, actually, but his own strength of character, body, and mind get him through things.
3. It is set in a fantastic world. Anyone can see from the trailers that there is a crazy Black forest, and a fairy wonderland in this movie. Interestingly enough, most of it is somewhat believable. Historical influences touch the setting and the story-- the Lord's Prayer being spoken, the medieval castle, the references to Elizabeth Bathory... That's natural in a fairy tale: again, the presence of historical themes speaks for influences of the present day. I wonder what those influences say about us?
4. Magic. The queen's magical. We all know that. It's amazing magic, though. The Disney version has the queen turn into an old hag and travel miles to find Snow White. This queen can transform into a number of things, travel by a number of fascinating and intricate means, and her magic follows a set of rules.
5. Rules. Fantastic settings don't make any sense unless there's a system that normal people can understand. This ties into the archetype notion: in the midst of chaos, people love to-- need to-- find a system. Snow White is fairer than the Queen, the Queen feels threatened and reciprocates, the princess runs away, but the princess can defeat the Queen because she is fair. Also, true love overcomes death. This is a whole new motif that we can trace through a lot of cultural stories, but I won't take the time now. If we accept those conditions, then everything makes sense, and it's still the same fairy tale. That and the apple, which in itself is a symbol of a lot of other things...
6. Violence. We all know that this is a hook for crowds. It's exciting. Warfare is exciting. That, and stabbing is certainly impactive (insert drum and snare here). The fear that our heroes could fail-- that Snow White could die-- is what keeps us hooked. How can a mortal defeat death? How can good prevail? Not to mention, some death scenes were certainly directed with the intention of stunning and shocking. Violence puts one on an emotional roller coaster, moving from sadness to rage and all of those messy emotions in between. It also causes us to question: if the Queen uses violence, then why must Snow White, also?
So, just think about it. The next time you hear of a fairy tale, consider that its history is much richer and more worth-while than one would initially assume. Be wary; look out for the shallow reminders of society's current obsessions, but believe when good writers attempt to rewrite an old classic. It's certainly okay, certainly allowed, and still just as valid and truthful as the almost-forgotten originals.
PS: Neil Gaiman wrote a story for Snow White, Blood Red. It's an excellent collection of works. Please give it a look.
This is a great time to start thinking about these sorts of debates for two reasons:
1. I just finished an anthology called Snow White, Blood Red
2. Snow White and the Huntsman
Snow White, Blood Red is a collection of short stories and poems that are adaptations of classic fairy tales. Some of them are reset in modern times, and others are simply retellings with new wording and fresh style. The two editors, Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, each wrote essays at the beginning of the anthology, discussing two important aspects of the best fairy tales of all time: the ability to use elements of truth, of satire, and real problems in a fantasy setting, and the ability to use violence in order to make them more vivid.
Now, I'm sure there are better ways to phrase that, but hear me out. Let's talk about the first aspect first, then we'll get into all the gory details.
Terri Windling wrote the essay called "White as Snow: Fairy Tales and Fantasy," and started it off with a group of comparisons between original fairy tales and the way we know them to be now-- often Disney remakes. She points out extremely mature themes in some of our favorites, Red Riding Hood being blatantly sexual, Sleeping Beauty giving birth during her sleep, and other disturbing notions. Windling argues that fairy tales are not-- or were not-- stories for children, but stories for adults, relaying mature themes and warning against the sorts of things that haunt people throughout their adult lives. Since then, they've been stripped of their intensity, dressed up in capes and given handsome heroes to solve the problems, instead of creating them (how do you think Sleeping Beauty got pregnant?).
Windling says, "A proper fairy tale is anything but an untruth; it goes to the very heart of truth. It goes to the very hearts of men and women and speaks of things it finds there: fear, courage, greed, compassion, loyalty, betrayal, despair and wonder. It speaks of these things in a symbolic language that slips into our dreams, our unconscious, steeped in rich archetypal images." Archetype-- a word that sends shivers and unpleasant memories of high school down our spines-. (As a reminder, an archetype is a prototype or original concept that works as a foundation for almost all other concepts related to it.) And yet, it's so very poignant here. Carl Jung argued that such concepts existed in all individual minds, even if they were not taught to each other, connecting humanity unconsciously through essential, important themes. They work in fairy tales the exact same way.
The remakes of fairy tales that we've experienced over the past few centuries not only make commentary about the styles and notions of an age (consider the outfits and the personalities of our princes in movies and books these days as compared to the old ones), but also show a connection to the sorts of issues that all cultures deal with. We can say this of mythology as well. There always seem to be elemental gods or champions who save their people, and pure, idyllic princesses that are beacons of hope. The list could go on forever. It means that there are people and ideas that almost all cultures believe in, despite changes in history, despite differences in culture. In other words, adaptations of fairy tales put an often refreshing, sometimes infuriating spin on traditions that we've maintained for much of human history; these spins are changes in perspective, like remembering a traumatic event in different ways.
Note, though, a pattern in mythology throughout history. Not only do we find champions and heroes, but there are always villains, always battle, always violence. Violence, like hope, affects the psyche in bafflingly deep ways. It affects every individual, reacquaints us with our sense of mortality, and with our passions. Like hope, it moves us, fueled by fear and passion alike.
Such power lies within fairy tales for a reason.
One thing that I must admit: fairy tales are different from mythology, and the violence works differently within them. In "Red as Blood: Fairy Tales and Horror," Ellen Datlow argues that fairy tales are "about ordinary men and women in extraordinary circumstances." Myths have actual heroes, people with powers. Fairy tales thrust flawed human beings into horrific and enchanting environments. Naturally, there is no clear line as to what makes a fairy tale, but we know certainly that they involve ordinary people, they are set in fantastic worlds, there is magic, and there are rules, and they have archetypes that strike us deeply. "The ones that touch us most deeply are often blunt about the darker side of human nature, filled with violence and atrocities." It makes you wonder: is the fairy tale about the princess, or the evil witch? Which person do we relate to? Who do we aspire to be? Where do our desires lead-- salvation or ruin?
Happily enough, Snow White and the Huntsman is an excellent medium for discussing all of this stuff. Before anyone asks, I do recommend the movie. It's one of the more refreshing and curious remakes of an old fairy tale. The Snow White I grew up with in Disney's movie is slightly more terrifying and revolting for all the wrong reasons. This one is much truer to the way a fairy tale should feel: gripping, fear-inducing, relatable, and repulsive in exactly the right ways.
I do want to comment on some of the elements of the movie that fit well into the fairy tale style.
1. It focuses quite a bit on the Queen. We rarely get to appreciate the perspective of the bad guy. This, I think, stems from a tendency to try to avoid the dark parts of our hearts, but the movie forces its audience to admit: she's really cool. She's got reasons for what she does. She's powerful and interesting. The darkness is acknowledged and given a form that is both fearsome and beautiful, the way power and violence appear to us in other circumstances.
2. The heroes are relatively ordinary. The princess and the huntsmen have no powers. Well, not significant ones. The princess can apparently talk to deer-- a deer that has been heavily influenced by Princess Mononoke-- but that doesn't do much. But focus on the huntsman! He's not magical. He's a drunkard, and something of a loser, actually, but his own strength of character, body, and mind get him through things.
3. It is set in a fantastic world. Anyone can see from the trailers that there is a crazy Black forest, and a fairy wonderland in this movie. Interestingly enough, most of it is somewhat believable. Historical influences touch the setting and the story-- the Lord's Prayer being spoken, the medieval castle, the references to Elizabeth Bathory... That's natural in a fairy tale: again, the presence of historical themes speaks for influences of the present day. I wonder what those influences say about us?
4. Magic. The queen's magical. We all know that. It's amazing magic, though. The Disney version has the queen turn into an old hag and travel miles to find Snow White. This queen can transform into a number of things, travel by a number of fascinating and intricate means, and her magic follows a set of rules.
5. Rules. Fantastic settings don't make any sense unless there's a system that normal people can understand. This ties into the archetype notion: in the midst of chaos, people love to-- need to-- find a system. Snow White is fairer than the Queen, the Queen feels threatened and reciprocates, the princess runs away, but the princess can defeat the Queen because she is fair. Also, true love overcomes death. This is a whole new motif that we can trace through a lot of cultural stories, but I won't take the time now. If we accept those conditions, then everything makes sense, and it's still the same fairy tale. That and the apple, which in itself is a symbol of a lot of other things...
6. Violence. We all know that this is a hook for crowds. It's exciting. Warfare is exciting. That, and stabbing is certainly impactive (insert drum and snare here). The fear that our heroes could fail-- that Snow White could die-- is what keeps us hooked. How can a mortal defeat death? How can good prevail? Not to mention, some death scenes were certainly directed with the intention of stunning and shocking. Violence puts one on an emotional roller coaster, moving from sadness to rage and all of those messy emotions in between. It also causes us to question: if the Queen uses violence, then why must Snow White, also?
So, just think about it. The next time you hear of a fairy tale, consider that its history is much richer and more worth-while than one would initially assume. Be wary; look out for the shallow reminders of society's current obsessions, but believe when good writers attempt to rewrite an old classic. It's certainly okay, certainly allowed, and still just as valid and truthful as the almost-forgotten originals.
PS: Neil Gaiman wrote a story for Snow White, Blood Red. It's an excellent collection of works. Please give it a look.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Hell
There's such a satisfying feeling in finishing a book-- especially in a timely manner. This is especially true if a class expects it of you, but happily, that's not a concern right now. (It will be, though. It will be...)
I'm happy to report that Damned has indeed expanded Chuck Palahniuk's previous outlines of novel shape and growth. In terms of my question last time--is Palahniuk's contemptuous attitude toward the everyday schmuck based on a criticism of everyone else, or the criticism of the self within a system of schmucks?-- I assert that it is indeed the latter. Why?
Because Madison-- the protagonist of Damned-- makes significantly more growth or even evolution, than any of Palahniuk's former characters to my knowledge. Being young is probably a huge influence on that, but it also is important to note that she's also not alive, and therefore thrown into a system of being that is entirely up to Palahniuk's composition. Which is hugely ironic because the notion of the character-within-story comes into play. (I'll try to avoid any spoilers.)
Let's just say that on one or two occasions both Madison and the reader are forced to consider whether or not Madison is actually a free-willed character-- as in an entity with her own life that is being told in a story-- or a bound character-- one who was a character from the get-go and is bound by the fate of the story already written.
As a young author, I got a little excited over this. Why? Because it does fascinating things with the notions of perspective, of fate, of life and death, and the identity of an individual. These notions are the stuff of legend. Seriously. Look at any Greek epic, tragedy, any Shakespearean play, almost any great contemporary novel and if it's not about politics or satire, then it's going to be about someone trying to find himself, to find a lover with whom to build a life, to struggle with the inevitability of death, or to transcend mere mortality.
In Madison's case, this is complicated by the aspects of her early death, her youth, and therefore a shaky idea of "selfhood" to begin with, her ambivalence between loving and hating herself, the notion that this ambivalence is a reflection of Palahniuk's own sense of identity, and the idea that she has been written into existence-- along with her family and possibly all of her friends and anyone else she's met-- by a rather exceptional and questionable entity.
I'm sighing as I write this. I don't want to give away who her supposed writer is, but it's just such a juicy topic...
Well, I'll leave that to you. Take my frustration as a sign that it's actually a tantalizing read; Chuck Palahniuk broke the 4th wall with dynamite and hellfire, revealing a frustratingly snarky, but refreshingly ambitious and willful character with a great amount of depth and growth to go through. That, and there's a bit of promise for a sequel-- something I've never experienced in a Palahniuk novel. Clearly, he's taking this particular character and plot seriously as well. Well...as seriously as Palahniuk can take anything...
My point is that Palahniuk uses Madison not only as a vessel for some of his doubts and ambitions in negotiating the "self." There are quite a few moments in the book that would back that assertion up, but I'll simply use: "No, it's not too late for me to devote myself to being funny or artsy...however, having failed at my initial strategy, I'll never again have such faith in a single identity." Sure, Palahniuk is probably a 40-something-year-old and not worried about a middle school identity anymore, but it's true that he rarely addresses the notion of identity so openly and with so much confessed doubt in his works. I'm not saying that he doesn't use his other protagonists in a similar, if not the same manner, but that Madison is a prime and unusual example. In addition, he intends to expound upon this, continuing to use Madison's identity and rebellious existence to fuel a new novel.
Since this sequel has yet to be written, I've moved on to the other spectrum of excellent--and hellish-- writing with George Orwell's 1984. This book has been on my bookshelf for at least two or three years, so I'm excited to finally get on with it, though I'm not very far in just yet.
For anyone unaware of its incredible reputation, it's a dystopian novel based on Orwell's-- actually Eric Blair's-- ideas of what the world will degrade into after the 1940s, filled with terrifying depictions of the confiscation of individual freedoms in the face of war.
George Orwell-- Eric Blair-- has also written Animal Farm, another chilling social commentary that uses the lives and organization of animals on an every day farm to reflect the political rise of a nation in turmoil. For anyone who has yet to read Animal Farm, I can wholeheartedly recommend it; I realize that the notion of social commentary and political metaphors can drive interest out of a person like a whirlwind, but it's written in such a way that the political metaphors occur as a back-of-brain phenomena. Not occurring within the occipital lobe, of course, but I mean to say that it occurs quietly, almost subconsciously, and that the true appeal arises in realizing why the horrific events and transformation from innocent farm to complicated community actually strike a cord within every individual.
Whew-- I just got chills.
So, from one hell to another, I suppose. In addition, I'm planning on dipping my toes into the murk of Amnesia: The Dark Descent soon as well as Fear: First Encounter Assault Recon, two horror games that I hope will be just as nourishing to indulge in.
Amnesia is a PC game-- now Mac, too-- that basically models the old point-and-click adventure games. However, it's reputed to be terrifyingly confusing. Your character is someone with-- everyone say it together-- amnesia, and can't recall who he really is or why on Earth he's appeared in this creepy castle where the game is set. The point of the game is to get out of the castle and try to recollect what happened to you before the game started. Naturally, there's a creepy monster that makes creepy noises, and lots of dark murky water to wade through, so it's going to have its startling moments.
Fear is the first in a series of horror First Person Shooter/Adventure games. You play as a soldier encountering a paranormal and supposedly horrifying force that is murdering people. I've actually only played part of the third game before, but from what I've gathered, there's a complicated family involved with a number of fascinatingly dangerous and mysterious powers, as well as a very creepy and possibly incestuous history. Don't take my word on that just yet. It's just a vibe I'd been getting.
So Hell on all sides, perhaps. I'm curious to see whether there are some parallels among them-- horror does have basic elements, no matter the medium of expression, so it might be fun to find those connections and maybe even exploit them in future works.
P.S. I knew it was impossible to die from a marijuana overdose. Madison's actual death is much more interesting and it makes sense why she would repress the memory. Read Damned.
I'm happy to report that Damned has indeed expanded Chuck Palahniuk's previous outlines of novel shape and growth. In terms of my question last time--is Palahniuk's contemptuous attitude toward the everyday schmuck based on a criticism of everyone else, or the criticism of the self within a system of schmucks?-- I assert that it is indeed the latter. Why?
Because Madison-- the protagonist of Damned-- makes significantly more growth or even evolution, than any of Palahniuk's former characters to my knowledge. Being young is probably a huge influence on that, but it also is important to note that she's also not alive, and therefore thrown into a system of being that is entirely up to Palahniuk's composition. Which is hugely ironic because the notion of the character-within-story comes into play. (I'll try to avoid any spoilers.)
Let's just say that on one or two occasions both Madison and the reader are forced to consider whether or not Madison is actually a free-willed character-- as in an entity with her own life that is being told in a story-- or a bound character-- one who was a character from the get-go and is bound by the fate of the story already written.
As a young author, I got a little excited over this. Why? Because it does fascinating things with the notions of perspective, of fate, of life and death, and the identity of an individual. These notions are the stuff of legend. Seriously. Look at any Greek epic, tragedy, any Shakespearean play, almost any great contemporary novel and if it's not about politics or satire, then it's going to be about someone trying to find himself, to find a lover with whom to build a life, to struggle with the inevitability of death, or to transcend mere mortality.
In Madison's case, this is complicated by the aspects of her early death, her youth, and therefore a shaky idea of "selfhood" to begin with, her ambivalence between loving and hating herself, the notion that this ambivalence is a reflection of Palahniuk's own sense of identity, and the idea that she has been written into existence-- along with her family and possibly all of her friends and anyone else she's met-- by a rather exceptional and questionable entity.
I'm sighing as I write this. I don't want to give away who her supposed writer is, but it's just such a juicy topic...
Well, I'll leave that to you. Take my frustration as a sign that it's actually a tantalizing read; Chuck Palahniuk broke the 4th wall with dynamite and hellfire, revealing a frustratingly snarky, but refreshingly ambitious and willful character with a great amount of depth and growth to go through. That, and there's a bit of promise for a sequel-- something I've never experienced in a Palahniuk novel. Clearly, he's taking this particular character and plot seriously as well. Well...as seriously as Palahniuk can take anything...
My point is that Palahniuk uses Madison not only as a vessel for some of his doubts and ambitions in negotiating the "self." There are quite a few moments in the book that would back that assertion up, but I'll simply use: "No, it's not too late for me to devote myself to being funny or artsy...however, having failed at my initial strategy, I'll never again have such faith in a single identity." Sure, Palahniuk is probably a 40-something-year-old and not worried about a middle school identity anymore, but it's true that he rarely addresses the notion of identity so openly and with so much confessed doubt in his works. I'm not saying that he doesn't use his other protagonists in a similar, if not the same manner, but that Madison is a prime and unusual example. In addition, he intends to expound upon this, continuing to use Madison's identity and rebellious existence to fuel a new novel.
Since this sequel has yet to be written, I've moved on to the other spectrum of excellent--and hellish-- writing with George Orwell's 1984. This book has been on my bookshelf for at least two or three years, so I'm excited to finally get on with it, though I'm not very far in just yet.
For anyone unaware of its incredible reputation, it's a dystopian novel based on Orwell's-- actually Eric Blair's-- ideas of what the world will degrade into after the 1940s, filled with terrifying depictions of the confiscation of individual freedoms in the face of war.
George Orwell-- Eric Blair-- has also written Animal Farm, another chilling social commentary that uses the lives and organization of animals on an every day farm to reflect the political rise of a nation in turmoil. For anyone who has yet to read Animal Farm, I can wholeheartedly recommend it; I realize that the notion of social commentary and political metaphors can drive interest out of a person like a whirlwind, but it's written in such a way that the political metaphors occur as a back-of-brain phenomena. Not occurring within the occipital lobe, of course, but I mean to say that it occurs quietly, almost subconsciously, and that the true appeal arises in realizing why the horrific events and transformation from innocent farm to complicated community actually strike a cord within every individual.
Whew-- I just got chills.
So, from one hell to another, I suppose. In addition, I'm planning on dipping my toes into the murk of Amnesia: The Dark Descent soon as well as Fear: First Encounter Assault Recon, two horror games that I hope will be just as nourishing to indulge in.
Amnesia is a PC game-- now Mac, too-- that basically models the old point-and-click adventure games. However, it's reputed to be terrifyingly confusing. Your character is someone with-- everyone say it together-- amnesia, and can't recall who he really is or why on Earth he's appeared in this creepy castle where the game is set. The point of the game is to get out of the castle and try to recollect what happened to you before the game started. Naturally, there's a creepy monster that makes creepy noises, and lots of dark murky water to wade through, so it's going to have its startling moments.
Fear is the first in a series of horror First Person Shooter/Adventure games. You play as a soldier encountering a paranormal and supposedly horrifying force that is murdering people. I've actually only played part of the third game before, but from what I've gathered, there's a complicated family involved with a number of fascinatingly dangerous and mysterious powers, as well as a very creepy and possibly incestuous history. Don't take my word on that just yet. It's just a vibe I'd been getting.
So Hell on all sides, perhaps. I'm curious to see whether there are some parallels among them-- horror does have basic elements, no matter the medium of expression, so it might be fun to find those connections and maybe even exploit them in future works.
P.S. I knew it was impossible to die from a marijuana overdose. Madison's actual death is much more interesting and it makes sense why she would repress the memory. Read Damned.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Style
One aspect of writing that I believe motivates the most competition and distinction among authors is the development of, and use of style. By style, I mean sentence structure, diction, the management of tone-- all of that stuff. It's like voice, but with more attention to the flexibility and capability of the writer.
I bring this up now because I'm ankle-deep in Chuck Palahniuk's newest work Damned. Some of you may know that Chuck Palahniuk is the guy responsible for Fight Club (yes, it was a novel first, as he doggedly tells everyone in the afterward), Choke, Lullaby, and Stranger Than Fiction. He is publicized in Damned as "American fiction's most brilliant troublemaker." This may or may not be true... I'll get into that. First!
Damned is the story of a self-proclaimed fat 13-year-old named Madison, a girl who has not really reached puberty, whose parents are self-absorbed, self-important, and well, the way you'd expect celebrity parents to be: indulging in lavish products, homes everywhere on the planet, and tons of adopted minority kids. Madison has recently died of a marijuana overdose and spends the book describing her journey through Hell-- a place ridden with old candy and popcorn and landmarked by monuments of excrement and other things that ooze out of people-- on her way to tell Satan how he messed up in bringing her there. Apparently, Palahniuk is greatly influenced by The Breakfast Club-- a movie I've never seen, come to think of it-- as she wonders around Hell with a cast of extremely stereotypical high schoolers (the Jock, the Bimbo, the Punk, the Nerd).
Now I've read quite a bit of Palahniuk's works (Lullaby, Fight Club, Diary, Invisible Monsters, and Pygmy); I picked up Damned because I thought it would be a change of pace from the style he uses in almost every one of his novels. (Now we're back up to speed.) Palahniuk has a general pattern: take a sulky, unnoticed, middle-aged protagonist, have them narrate a series of strange events-- often movingly described and mysterious up until the very end-- and then have them realize that they've had a crucial role in all of these things that no one fully understands until the very end. Along the way, the protagonist offers you an initially tantalizing array of satirical statements about where and how they live; they are hopelessly jaded, hate themselves and hate others because of the shallowness of it all, and can't wait to tell you about it in the most intricate language possible. There's probably some anal rape involved, too. Also, parent-hatred; parents are inevitably flawed and selfish and messed up in Palahniuk's works, even if they are the protagonists.
I had stopped reading his work after a while because I was tired of feeling like every one of his protagonists was hateful toward the reader for no particular reason other than that they were the sort of people who would read Palahniuk's books. Damned is narrated by a pre-teen. She is insecure, and surrounded by people her own age who are not the absurdly original characters Palahniuk normally creates. He had to do something new, I thought.
Somehow, he managed to make her almost just as jaded, just as spiteful and whiny and exploding with unprovoked sass. This got me thinking-- well, actually, the thought was simply, "WHAT IS THIS GUY'S PROBLEM?!"
Initially, I had believed that Chuck Palahniuk-- the "troublemaker"-- was only interested in putting his fingers in people's pies. Basically, I thought he just loved to remind the masses why they were boring and terrible people, and do so via characters who represent the sort of people who normally go unnoticed in the grand scheme of things. I thought he liked to have normal people berate other normal people for being too damn normal while thinking that they're (the others) the hot sh*t on toast by using strange and complex bodies of knowledge about the world's strangest trivia in order to reveal how completely mindless society is.
Take, for instance, Chapter 3 of Lullaby:
"Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950s. These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead... These people who need their television or stereo or radio playing all the time. These people so scared of silence. These are my neighbors. These sound-oholics. These quiet-ophobics.
Laughter of the dead comes through every wall."
I literally just flipped to a random page and found that quote. Lullaby is my favorite novel of his, but it's dripping with the same acidic loathing toward fellow man.
Don't get me wrong; I don't disagree when Palahniuk is described as "brilliant." I've been unspeakably moved by some of his works. I've been left in public places at the end of a work, mouth open, eyes wide, heart racing, thinking, "My God...have I been under a spell?"
Nevertheless, it's a bit much to be hit like that by beautiful scenes and words, and then pummeled with hateful remarks about the comforts of living a middle-class life.
So, reading Damned, it occurred to me: what if Palahniuk not only pities the masses? What if he also pities his protagonists? I mean, yes, some of them live in pathetic circumstances or are immoral enough that anyone would have to pity them. But what if he actually doesn't like them? What if they're just as despicable as the people they themselves despise?
Take Madison. She won't shut up about how pathetically fat she is. Which is, in itself, pretty pathetic. Think about it. Most of the time, if someone whines about that sort of thing, we-- the despicable masses-- think, "Well, you got yourself like that." If they deal with it and continue to be cool people anyways, or if they even overcome it, we think, "Wow, that's a cool person." Is Chuck Palahniuk secretly the same as us? Does he think Madison should shut up, too? Honestly, he makes her seem pretty ordinary, pretty annoying, even, in her stereotypical, whiny, pre-pubescent talk. Even if she continually blurts, "Yes, I know the word gender. Ye gods! I may be pudgy and flat chested and nearsighted and dead, but I am NOT a moron."
(First off, no one said you were a moron...secondly, no one cares if you're nearsighted, third-- almost EVERYONE knows the word "gender"...*grumblegrumble*)
But we could make this argument with a number of his protagonists. Fight Club's narrator is a guy with a job no one really thinks about, a personality dominated by his hunger for something new, and his bemusement over why he hangs out with such exceptional crazies as Tyler and Marla. The plot unwinds with his realizations of why he does what he does, what his feelings towards his parents have manifested in his pathetic life, that the popular products and brands in his home were meaningless, and that meaning comes from being the absolute lowest you can be. Lullaby's narrator is a guy who goes home alone and empty and angry, who destroys things to feel anything, who eventually experiences magic-- but only after meeting some nudists and a narcissist real-estate agent. Even Pygmy from Pygmy, the most original of the works (it's written entirely in broken English), is an ambiguous minority kid from an ambiguous (probably imaginary) country, who falls in love with a stereotypically snotty teenager but pities and condemns the pathetic American people. The ambivalence between hating and loving the mundane is prevalent in all of those novels, and makes up a good bit of character in each of Palahniuk's protagonists.
Palahniuk's series of patterns in plot and character development, as well as the snarky and defensive language that comprises most of his narration creates a style that is hard to pin down. Is it moving? Is it beautiful? Is it pure satire or some introspection? (Actually, honestly, there is a lot of introspection. Why else are there so many Freudian moments and examples of anal rape?) Is it contemptuous or pitying? Revolting or refreshing?
So the question stands: is Palahniuk's contemptuous attitude toward the everyday schmuck based on a criticism of everyone else, or the criticism of the self within a system of schmucks?
I'm starting to think it's the latter-- which would be pretty impressive-- but I'll get back to this in my next post, hopefully in addition to some other topics.
I bring this up now because I'm ankle-deep in Chuck Palahniuk's newest work Damned. Some of you may know that Chuck Palahniuk is the guy responsible for Fight Club (yes, it was a novel first, as he doggedly tells everyone in the afterward), Choke, Lullaby, and Stranger Than Fiction. He is publicized in Damned as "American fiction's most brilliant troublemaker." This may or may not be true... I'll get into that. First!
Damned is the story of a self-proclaimed fat 13-year-old named Madison, a girl who has not really reached puberty, whose parents are self-absorbed, self-important, and well, the way you'd expect celebrity parents to be: indulging in lavish products, homes everywhere on the planet, and tons of adopted minority kids. Madison has recently died of a marijuana overdose and spends the book describing her journey through Hell-- a place ridden with old candy and popcorn and landmarked by monuments of excrement and other things that ooze out of people-- on her way to tell Satan how he messed up in bringing her there. Apparently, Palahniuk is greatly influenced by The Breakfast Club-- a movie I've never seen, come to think of it-- as she wonders around Hell with a cast of extremely stereotypical high schoolers (the Jock, the Bimbo, the Punk, the Nerd).
Now I've read quite a bit of Palahniuk's works (Lullaby, Fight Club, Diary, Invisible Monsters, and Pygmy); I picked up Damned because I thought it would be a change of pace from the style he uses in almost every one of his novels. (Now we're back up to speed.) Palahniuk has a general pattern: take a sulky, unnoticed, middle-aged protagonist, have them narrate a series of strange events-- often movingly described and mysterious up until the very end-- and then have them realize that they've had a crucial role in all of these things that no one fully understands until the very end. Along the way, the protagonist offers you an initially tantalizing array of satirical statements about where and how they live; they are hopelessly jaded, hate themselves and hate others because of the shallowness of it all, and can't wait to tell you about it in the most intricate language possible. There's probably some anal rape involved, too. Also, parent-hatred; parents are inevitably flawed and selfish and messed up in Palahniuk's works, even if they are the protagonists.
I had stopped reading his work after a while because I was tired of feeling like every one of his protagonists was hateful toward the reader for no particular reason other than that they were the sort of people who would read Palahniuk's books. Damned is narrated by a pre-teen. She is insecure, and surrounded by people her own age who are not the absurdly original characters Palahniuk normally creates. He had to do something new, I thought.
Somehow, he managed to make her almost just as jaded, just as spiteful and whiny and exploding with unprovoked sass. This got me thinking-- well, actually, the thought was simply, "WHAT IS THIS GUY'S PROBLEM?!"
Initially, I had believed that Chuck Palahniuk-- the "troublemaker"-- was only interested in putting his fingers in people's pies. Basically, I thought he just loved to remind the masses why they were boring and terrible people, and do so via characters who represent the sort of people who normally go unnoticed in the grand scheme of things. I thought he liked to have normal people berate other normal people for being too damn normal while thinking that they're (the others) the hot sh*t on toast by using strange and complex bodies of knowledge about the world's strangest trivia in order to reveal how completely mindless society is.
Take, for instance, Chapter 3 of Lullaby:
"Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950s. These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead... These people who need their television or stereo or radio playing all the time. These people so scared of silence. These are my neighbors. These sound-oholics. These quiet-ophobics.
Laughter of the dead comes through every wall."
I literally just flipped to a random page and found that quote. Lullaby is my favorite novel of his, but it's dripping with the same acidic loathing toward fellow man.
Don't get me wrong; I don't disagree when Palahniuk is described as "brilliant." I've been unspeakably moved by some of his works. I've been left in public places at the end of a work, mouth open, eyes wide, heart racing, thinking, "My God...have I been under a spell?"
Nevertheless, it's a bit much to be hit like that by beautiful scenes and words, and then pummeled with hateful remarks about the comforts of living a middle-class life.
So, reading Damned, it occurred to me: what if Palahniuk not only pities the masses? What if he also pities his protagonists? I mean, yes, some of them live in pathetic circumstances or are immoral enough that anyone would have to pity them. But what if he actually doesn't like them? What if they're just as despicable as the people they themselves despise?
Take Madison. She won't shut up about how pathetically fat she is. Which is, in itself, pretty pathetic. Think about it. Most of the time, if someone whines about that sort of thing, we-- the despicable masses-- think, "Well, you got yourself like that." If they deal with it and continue to be cool people anyways, or if they even overcome it, we think, "Wow, that's a cool person." Is Chuck Palahniuk secretly the same as us? Does he think Madison should shut up, too? Honestly, he makes her seem pretty ordinary, pretty annoying, even, in her stereotypical, whiny, pre-pubescent talk. Even if she continually blurts, "Yes, I know the word gender. Ye gods! I may be pudgy and flat chested and nearsighted and dead, but I am NOT a moron."
(First off, no one said you were a moron...secondly, no one cares if you're nearsighted, third-- almost EVERYONE knows the word "gender"...*grumblegrumble*)
But we could make this argument with a number of his protagonists. Fight Club's narrator is a guy with a job no one really thinks about, a personality dominated by his hunger for something new, and his bemusement over why he hangs out with such exceptional crazies as Tyler and Marla. The plot unwinds with his realizations of why he does what he does, what his feelings towards his parents have manifested in his pathetic life, that the popular products and brands in his home were meaningless, and that meaning comes from being the absolute lowest you can be. Lullaby's narrator is a guy who goes home alone and empty and angry, who destroys things to feel anything, who eventually experiences magic-- but only after meeting some nudists and a narcissist real-estate agent. Even Pygmy from Pygmy, the most original of the works (it's written entirely in broken English), is an ambiguous minority kid from an ambiguous (probably imaginary) country, who falls in love with a stereotypically snotty teenager but pities and condemns the pathetic American people. The ambivalence between hating and loving the mundane is prevalent in all of those novels, and makes up a good bit of character in each of Palahniuk's protagonists.
Palahniuk's series of patterns in plot and character development, as well as the snarky and defensive language that comprises most of his narration creates a style that is hard to pin down. Is it moving? Is it beautiful? Is it pure satire or some introspection? (Actually, honestly, there is a lot of introspection. Why else are there so many Freudian moments and examples of anal rape?) Is it contemptuous or pitying? Revolting or refreshing?
So the question stands: is Palahniuk's contemptuous attitude toward the everyday schmuck based on a criticism of everyone else, or the criticism of the self within a system of schmucks?
I'm starting to think it's the latter-- which would be pretty impressive-- but I'll get back to this in my next post, hopefully in addition to some other topics.
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