Is John Self happy?

When I posed the question in class today, about whether someone could argue that John Self’s behavior was anything less than self-destructive, it was really meant as a rhetorical question because I didn’t assume anyone would argue that point. To me, his behavior is a categorical, textbook example of self-destruction. I think the difference in opinion stems from one’s definition of “happiness.”

Some in class suggested that John was “unhappy” only because he held some guilt for not conforming to what we classified as “societies norms.” I was surprised when people argued that John was in fact happy, since I see him as anything other than happy.

“Are you familiar with the stoical aspects of hard drinking, of heavy drinking?” the narrator asks the reader. “It isn’t easy,” he answers. “I never meant me any harm. All I wanted was a good time.” This sounds like a lament to me, and he openly admits doing harm. If he had been actually having a good time, wouldn’t “at least I was having a good time” be a more appropriate response.

Part of the disparity in opinion, I think, rests with the definition of what it means to be happy. John comes across as someone who lives by his own rules, not caring what anyone else thinks, doing as he pleases, a pot-bellied rebel without a cause, James Dean approaching middle age. When I was younger, happiness for me was the newly acquired freedom to make my own choices, to do what I wanted to do with my life, think and feel the way I wanted to feel and think. I didn’t want someone else telling me how to live. Being able to do what I wanted—that freedom—was happiness.

John, however, is not a kid—or even a young adult. He is in his mid-thirties, and not pledging a fraternity. If you are in your thirties, drinking at 9:00 AM, you are not a happy person. You are no longer rebelling. At the risk of moralizing, you are not living your life as you see fit. Rather, you’re escaping, or self-medicating. I’ve known people who have said they intend to live their life the way they want to live, and forget want anyone says they have to do. They said they would live their life “with no regrets.” Now, some of these same people regret every decision they have ever made.

As readers, we tend to romanticize characters that live outside of societies norms, and may tend to read John as such a character. However, John directs commercials. I can’t imagine a less rebellious, conformist way to live one’s life. I would argue that he is not a rebel at all, and would argue instead that he is a conformist, selling himself and his integrity, walking a tightrope between his humanist values and capitalist desires. I don’t see his actions in the novel up to this point as anything other than a form of slow suicide–through a million little cuts and stabs.

Perhaps my interpretation of the character will change as the novel progresses. Perhaps we will become some type of hero, whether through his actions or his refusal to act. Perhaps I will view him as being happy, however one defines the word. For me, happiness is being content, whether content to be depressed, in love, obsessed, angry, etc. Perhaps John will become content. 

“You can never tell, though, can you, with suicide notes.”

Invisible Man and the narrator’s “identity”

This thought struck me after class, as many do, regarding the narrator and his identity or lack there of. During class, someone said they had a problem with, and I paraphrase, knowing the character or identifying with him. They said we know very little about him, and that his past is filled with people whose names we do not know; we only know them by generic classifications, such as grandfather, mother, father, etc.

I feel the same way. It is hard, as we are asked questions during our discussions, to identify why the narrator would do this, that, or the other because we don’t know him. There is very little for us to look at in order to make a judgement regarding how we think the character would respond in a given situation. Thus, it is hard for us to say what is he wants or really feels. He’s almost a blank slate, filling up with odds and ends as the novel unfolds, giving us the sense that–maybe, hopefully–we can have a clearer picture once the slate is full.

I began wondering if there was a parallel between his lack of identity and the notion someone else brought up about the narrator serving as a type of “everyman.” Since the narrator seems to exist only in the context of the story, meaning he lacks a type of back-story or history and we learn what happens to him as it happens, has Ellison made him an everyman or a type of reflection?

What I mean to say is this: has Ellison left the reader free to project their history onto the narrator? Since (I feel) it is hard to predict how he might act, and I’ve felt that several times throughout the novel, and since he seems to act so passively in many instances until he has no choice but to react, are we left with a blank slate that we fill with our experiences and even prejudices; are we left to internalize everything that happens?

Just a thought.

Invisible Man

After today’s class, I was thinking about the battle royale scene and what we had said the meaning of the scene was to the story, and I wanted to elaborate a little more on what I had said toward the end of class.

In response to Professor Gold’s question regarding the use of irony in the story, I said that the scene was ironic because even after all that happened to the narrator, all he had seen and been put through, he still regarded the audience–the rich white men in the crowd–as civilized. He still saw them as being better than himself and a group to which he should be, for lack of a better term, subservient.

In the end, however, they still helped him; they still gave him a scholarship; they still did “right” by him in their own sick and twisted way. I was beginning to wonder if Ellison includes this scene to give an idea of the type of bigotry a black person encountered, and how it might not even feel like bigotry if it is indeed a simple fact of life. They are white, in a sense the owners of Monopolated Light & Power, and if a black person wants to “get ahead” this is exactly the type of treatment they should expect.

Although they are willing to do “right” by him, the right or advancement comes with a price. In the narrator’s case, he had to “entertain” them, like Armstrong maybe, unaware of what he was doing. He doesn’t, at this point in the story, see it that way. He doesn’t see that he is being degraded, since he–representative of black people in society–has always been degraded.   

The Royal Shakespeare Theater Company’s: The Tempest

My wife and I went to London over the weekend for a short vacation. While we were in the Covent Market section of the city, I looked up and saw a huge sign advertising The Royal Shakespeare Theater Company’s: The Tempest, starring Patrick Stewart (of Star Trek fame) as Prospero. 

Although the entire weekend was sold-out, we were lucky enough to get “return tickets” for Saturday’s show. Compared to the production we watched during class, this seemed like a different play. Although seeing the play in London, performed by the RSTC, certainly added to the experience, the production was amazing. It wasn’t a play I had enjoyed reading or watching, but after seeing it in London I have a new appreciation for the play.

Some of the differences:

First, the time period had been updated. Although the time period wasn’t mentioned, the opening took place on a steamship and—given the characters clothing—I would say it was supposed to be around the turn of the 20th century. Before the play started, there was a curtain covering the stage with a radio and a radar screen. When the play began, they projected a storm at sea against the backdrop and a radio voice was heard mentioning a big storm. Then, the radar screen disappeared and the actors appeared in its place, running around below deck.

One of the major changes, aside from the time period, was the island. It was not a tropical paradise like in the production we saw; rather, it was a frozen island. This made Gonzalo’s speech about the utopia he would found their seem very optimistic, and made Gonzalo a very sympathetic character; you could see just how good his heart was because we was always looking for the best even in a bad situation.

Also, the portrayal of Ariel was very different. He was more of a gothic type of demon than a ”airy spirit.” His face was covered in white and black makeup and he wore a high-collared trench coat that covered his feet, giving the impression of him “floating across the stage.” He had a very acrimonious relationship with Prospero and their lines were delivered with more venom than we witnessed. Prospero did not seem as controlled or calm as he was portrayed in the version we saw. He came across as a man robbed of his title that had been stuck on an island for twelve years.

Since Gonzalo came across as this optimistic, good-hearted man who had helped Prospero, the scene between Ariel and Prospero, where Ariel tells Prospero of the tears Gonzalo sheds, is more impacting than the version we saw. This scene doesn’t just pass by like so many others. In this scene, in this version, Ariel acts like Prospero’s conscience and seems to convince him, subtly, to change his plans.

After having just read the play, it was really quite amazing to see this kind of production in, of all places, London by the RSTC.

Charlotte Temple and New Criticism

Our Bedford Glossary of Literary Terms has a lengthy definition of New Criticism; one that is too involved and detailed to be listed here, so I’ll just list the highlights. New critics view a work of literary art as a “self-contained, self-referential object”; that is, nothing other than the work itself is needed in order to understand the text. The understanding of how rhythm, structure, irony, paradox, images, symbols, repetition,  and other literary devices work in the text helps to define how the text is working and no outside sources, such as historical context or author biography, are needed.

While a reading of Charlotte Temple such as this could be done, I think it would be ineffective. If the point of an essay is not to criticize the worth of a particular text but to analyze that text in order to find some deeper meaning or understanding, than the New Critic approach, I feel, would lead to a limited analysis and would end up sounding more like a defense of the author and her choices.

One could probably take the New Critic approach and argue about Rowson’s narrative intrusions. However, I see that type of essay inevitably digressing into defending whether or not the intrusion of the narrator–her direct address of the reader–works. The New Historicism approach–taking the same topic–could provide a more objective essay, detailing why Rowson may have felt the need to take such an approach, thus leaving out any subjective critique.

My original concern was about how to address our upcoming essay, and not the broader idea regarding types of literary critiques. I only pointed out “defects in Rowson’s text” if one assumes a particular type of literary critique holds more value than another. If New Critisim is seen as a more intellectual or literary way of viewing a particular work, and I were to say that type of critisim cannot be applied to Charlotte Temple, than one might assume if a=b than Charlotte Temple must be inferior to, for our argument, Shakespear’s The Tempest.

However, that is not what I meant. I have been told many times, by many professors that whether or not I “like” something or think that something “works” or not is irrelevant. They want a well articulated reading of a text carried throughout a well formulated, grammatically correct essay. My concern about using the New Criticism approach hinged on whether or not I could avoid saying that something “worked” or “did not work.” 

With the New Criticism approach, I think that is a pitfall, whether the opinion is explict or implicit.

Charlotte Temple/Tempest New Criticism vs. New Historicism

Maybe its just me but it would seem nearly impossible to write a paper on Charlotte Temple using anything other than the New Historical approach, if we have two options to choose from. Writing about Rowson’s novel with the approach of New Criticism would lead to a paper no longer than a page or so, since the narrator tells the reader everything and there is very little for the reader to try and analyze or figure out. Not only does Rowson tell us exactly what the characters are thinking and feeling but exactly how we should feel about them.

The Tempest, on the other hand, could be approached with either criticism. One could simply look at the text and ignore everything else, or one could approach it with an historical persepective by examining the role that British colonalism plays.

 Just trying to work a few things out.

Charlotte Temple

In our group today, we talked a little about the role of the narrator in the story. Rowson, if this is whom we assume to be the narrator, interjects quite often and addresses the reader directly. Often, her interjections seem as though they are designed not to explain what is happening but to justify the reasons for their inclusion.

At times, this seems somewhat self-conscious on the part of the narrator. Either she is attempting to justify what might seem a ludicrous plot-point or she is attempting to explain the motives of the character. Also, she seems to want us to feel for Charlotte, but instead of allowing the text or narrative to give us a reason for empathy, Rowson feels the need to tell us why we should feel empathy.

Considering this is a very early novel, perhaps this is nothing more than the way it was done at the time. Also, I was wondering does her interjection into the story help or detract. By not allowing us (the reader) to draw our own conclusions, does Rowson take away from the story.

As our mid-term paper approaches, these are the things I will be thinking and considering when searching for a paper topic.

Shakespear and Prospero cont.

After our class discussion from last week, I no longer see Prospero as an extension of Shakespear; that is: in do not see Prospero as the writer of the drama. Since we discussed the role of British colonialism, and since I now know that Shakespear had more than a passing knowledge of British colonialism, I have a different reading of the play.

Prosepro is userped and “banished” to the island. When he gets there, he does the same thing to Calaban that his brother did to him; he, in a sense, gains Calaban’s confidence only to userp the island from him. While I haven’t formulated a purely British-colonialism-reading that can run through the entire play, I am considering it.

RE: Shakespear and Prospero

Professor Gold posted the following response on 2/13/07:

It wasn’t his last play, but it was close to it — as the Preface to our edition notes, Henry VII and The Two Noble Kinsmen came later.   

That same Preface notes that The Tempest has been read as Shakespeare’s “swan song,” but reports that scholars are now “suspicious” of readings that align Prospero’s renunciation of illusions with Shakespeare’s farewell to the stage.  Of course, it’s a very tempting connection to make . . .

Shakespear and Prospero

One way to read this play—and I know it has been read this way already—is to view Prospero as Shakespeare. He is the magician or writer who brings the characters together, and in many instances is the one who tells their stories. Shakespeare as the writer is the magician of the theater, controlling the characters with his will, making them do what he wants.

Early in the play, Prospero seems like an unlikely hero. He’s pushy, demanding, uncompromising, and he lies, as well as telling very one-sided accounts of events. One could assume that this is very comparable to the creative process.

It is the end of the play, however, where Prospero asks the audience to forgive him and clap in order to set him free, that the reading of Prospero as a stand in for Shakespeare seems most obvious.

Was this his last play?