NOTHING IS REAL

This is going to sound absurd, and it probably is, but hear me out. What if Lee H. Oswald isn't actually a person? He started as a person and became a brand. As the plot to assassinate Kennedy developed and started to depend on Lee being involved, fake Oswalds started getting planted to confuse and distract and whatnot. At the point I'm at, about halfway through In Dallas, Lee has a normal, boring job and Marina is doing normal wifey things like hanging out with other wives or whatever. So the plot continues to develop and they get less dependent on Lee because now they have all these fake Lees to carry out whatever needs carrying out in accordance to the plan. The original Lee Harvey Oswald is left to his humdrum life, and fake Lees start getting trained in shooting, if they weren't already proficient. This means that any one of the copies could have be the assassin. This also makes sense since Lee still wasn't entirely on board with assassinating Kennedy.

So yeah I'm probably extremely off-target because I haven't finished the book yet, but it's a nice little AU to consider. Thoughts?

Libra (the sign)

It's interesting that DeLillo would name the book after Lee Harvey Oswald's astrological sign, assuming that's what he did, because the typical characteristics of a Libra don't really fit with Lee's personality. Libras are supposed to be peaceful, charming, and diplomatic, and Lee is none of these.

One of the character traits of a Libra is being charming, but as we see in the first couple chapters of his story, Lee is the total opposite. He goads people on just to get into a fight, he knows he's smart, and he's not afraid to tell other people about it. He would have done well at Uni.

Libras are also supposed to be diplomatic, and handle things with grace and dignity. And yet, when Lee gets picked on by other Marines, he acts out in every possible way. In an attempt to stay at Japan, he shot himself in the arm. When Reitmeyer tries to mess with him, he almost cries out of frustration. That doesn't say grace or dignity to me. 

So what does it say about the book that the title is so starkly opposite one of the main characters? 

rufus why

As I make my way through Kindred, I'm struck by how shocked Dana seems at Rufus's reaction to things because really, he's extremely predictable.

Rufus was born into white planter life. He was, from the day he was born, conditioned to believe that blacks were inferior to whites. Dana first talked to Rufus when he was about 10 - at this point, he's already gone through his most formative years, and still has only a small understanding of sympathy and empathy. When she talks to him about his use of the n-word, he seems very confused. Clearly, her message didn't sink in. And yet, when she sees him again after he breaks his leg, she's seemingly shocked that he still uses the n-word. She says, "I don't like that word, remember?" As if a 5 minute conversation with a 10 year old could completely change how and when he used that word. It would be great if that's how the human mind worked, but it's not.

So at this point, when he's dealing with the broken leg, Rufus has two main role models - Dana and his father. They have completely different ideals, mindsets, etc. Rufus obviously wants to please both of them, but by trying to balance the two mindsets, he ends up with a very interesting personality. When he's alone with Dana, he's more likely to be kind towards her, but when they're in the presence of Tom Weylin, he becomes  more commanding. This pattern becomes apparent as we see more scenes where the three of them interact. By the end of the section, it seems like she's adapted to it, even if she isn't happy about it. She seems to have some level of understanding of what Rufus is willing to do in order to please whoever he wants at a given time.

Given that background, why was Dana so shocked when Rufus pulled a gun on her? My theory is that she was wedded to the childlike version of Rufus - the one who didn't realize that what he was doing was wrong. The one who was easily convinced into believing what she said. She didn't want to let that go because she felt she had some level of connection to him, and it's hard to protect someone who you hate. On another level, if something were to happen to him, she couldn't exist. So really, her need to have a good image of him in her mind is self-preservation.

sometimes curtains are just blue

As I read Slaughterhouse 5, I tried to come up with some possible deep, introspective things about the book that I could write about for my blogpost. The list was very short, and by the time I got around to writing, most of my ideas had already been covered in somebody else's blog. It occurred to me that this might not be entirely my fault. The other books we've read this semester have had something obviously deep and meaningful to delve into, but Slaughterhouse 5 seemed much more simplistic. Maybe it was the phrase "so it goes." It introduces a sense of finality to the statements Vonnegut makes. There's no room for the reader to look more closely at a passage and ponder, "what did Vonnegut really mean when he wrote about this?" because he's already told us what he means. When Vonnegut writes, "The champagne was dead. So it goes" (73), he was not subtly comparing the flat champagne to the monotony of Billy's life. He was saying the champagne was dead. So it goes. This doesn't mean there's absolutely nothing deep in Slaughterhouse 5 - There's still the underlying anti-war message, as well as the message that death is inevitable but it's okay because time is an illusion - it just means that the parts that are truly deep and meaningful have already been beaten to death. 

epilogue thoughts

So when I read the epilogue of Mumbo Jumbo, it occurred to me that Papa LaBas might have been narrating all along. My thoughts were more or less confirmed in the class the next day. (I say more or less because in cases like this, we can never be completely sure of how an author intended something unless they've told us directly)

Related to LaBas being the narrator of Mumbo Jumbo, I think it also makes sense that LaBas' lecture was the book, if you know what I mean. Like as we were reading the book, we were also "listening" to Papa LaBas' lecture. This would explain why students started wandering out. The book isn't short, and the language isn't very easy to comprehend. By the time you figure it out, it's exhausting to go too far below the surface.

When the sleepy lecture hall was being described in the book, I thought of two possible reasons for the mood. One is the reason we discussed in class. Jes Grew isn't meant to be discussed in an academic setting. It's supposed to be chaotic and spontaneous and they're trying to turn it into an organized lecture. The other reason I came up with is slightly more cynical. Papa LaBas just might not be an interesting speaker. Sure he's crazy old, which is pretty cool, but that doesn't mean he can hold an audience. The part of his lecture quoted in the epilogue seems very tangential, and when you've been listening to someone speak for God knows how many hours, tangents aren't really appreciated. But maybe that's just me.

?????????

Okay so we started reading Mumbo Jumbo, and to my utter embarrassment I have no idea what's going on. I had little bursts of understanding as I read, but as a complete story not a lot registered. I thought the class discussion would clarify some things, but all it did was throw me into a whole other spiral of confusion. So I'm just going to get down everything I know and see if I can come to some kind of a consensus on what the hell is happening.

The book starts out with the mayor, who's with who is most likely a prostitute or something similar. He gets a call about some sort of sickness and takes a break from being a sleazy bastard to be the kind of mayor people generally trust. So far, so good. The problem I had was that I didn't expect phonetic spelling, nor did I expect that grammar. I don't know what these people are saying. There were almost no words commonly used in the English language. Just a bunch of mumbo jumbo, if I may. Not only that, but I didn't know what Jes Grew was referring to yet, so I assumed it was a literal plague.

Maybe Jes Grew refers to black culture? Is that racist? If Jes Grew is black culture is Reed being racist for characterizing it as a disease or is he writing it like that to point out that other people are racist?

Pretty sure chapter 3 was a glitch. Reading it reminded me of what happens when you have a really good idea but you're afraid you'll forget it so you just write down whatever is in your head. It's like Reed was brainstorming and he forgot to take the page out before publishing it.

That's pretty much all I've gotten out of the book so far, but hopefully, as I continue reading, I'll get used to the style of writing. Maybe I'll even figure out what the plot is.

Doctorow and his characters

At a first glance, the way E. L. Doctorow treats his characters is seemingly meaningless. But upon closer inspection, one can see how postmodern it is. In traditional literature, at least in my experience, there are three general ways in which the authors treat their characters: (1) all of the characters are seen from a distance, (2) all of the characters’ thoughts are written down in explicit detail, or (3) the author pays more attention to the thoughts of the main characters than the supporting ones. Doctorow does none of these. Rather, when he focuses on the thoughts of a character, it’s typically a means to add irony to a scene. An example of this might be when Mother’s Younger Brother sees the living room where the rest of the family sits as “suffocating.” Normally, attention wouldn’t be brought to something as trivial as a scene where the family merely sits quietly in their home, but Doctorow turns it into something very dramatic; at least in the eyes of Younger Brother.

Conversely, when something important is happening in the story, Doctorow backs off and lets us form our own opinions. For example, when Coalhouse Walker is being confronted by volunteer firemen, rather than getting into Coalhouse’s mind to see if his thoughts match his calm exterior, Doctorow sits back and lets the scene play out. Given how Doctorow treats all of his other characters, this gives Coalhouse a certain significance in the story. The author is no longer playing with history and creating strange vignettes that combine the magic of fiction and the solidness of history. Now, he’s transported us to a world that could potentially have historical truth to it.

However, one shouldn’t take this completely seriously. In a way, I think Doctorow is playing with our minds. He throws us into a world of insanity, where babies are found in gardens, and fictional characters interact with historical ones, and then yanks us out to drop us in a more realistic setting. Then, after you’ve grown accustomed to the seriousness of the situation, he tosses you right back in with the fictional madness.  It’s a clever tactic, and I believe it enhances the story in a way that doesn’t bring attention to the fact that he’s playing with us. This way, rather than focusing all of our energy on figuring out the what/why/how of this strategy, we’re free to look at other parts of the story.