By now it should be clear that a common theme in this unit of our class is going to be the idea of change. Certainly this is something that doesn't take us by surprise. After all, each of us has dealt with, struggled with, and made it through many changes in our own lives. America--and, by extension, American literature--is no different. America and its literature are both relatively young in the scheme of things, and as such, they will be in the process of massive change for many years to come.
And some of the biggest changes in both the country and its literature were happening in the early stages of the century, when the entire world was reeling from the world wars. Even the time between these wars--the 30s--proved fruitful in its change. Americans were becoming increasingly isolationist; they were seeking a national purity and rebelled against anything that was foreign or "hyphenated." Distrust of immigrants, of African-Americans, and involvement in foreign affairs grew. And it's no wonder, of course. Americans in the 1930s were dealing with the far-reaching effects of The Depression. Jobs, money, and housing were scarce. It was a struggle to make it through each day. Therefore, it seemed appropriate to Americans that they expend all the energy they had in returning the country to its earlier robust glory.
Considering this, it's no wonder that both William Faulkner's "That Evening Sun Go Down" and Dorothy Parker's "Here We Are" both focus their narratives around fear of the unknown. The unknown--whatever was out their lurking around the next corner--was what everyone in America was afraid of.
Nancy, one of the main characters in Faulkner's story, is quite literally afraid of that which is lurking around the next corner. Jubah, her man--unhinged, violent, roaming--is rumored to be back in town and ready to get revenge upon Nancy, who, it is intimated, is carrying (perhaps unwillingly) the child of a white man. Already wronged by whatever circumstances have gotten her into her predicament, Nancy must suffer more fear when she is stalked by Jubah, who wishes her dead. She wakes every day convinced that this will be the day he finally takes action and kills her.
The core drama of "Here We Are" by Dorothy Parker may be markedly less violent than that of Faulkner's story, but the drama is founded in the same fear--the fear of the unknown.
The two characters--the newlyweds--are on the way to their honeymoon in New York City when they realize the gravity of their situation. After all, they got married with certain expectations--that things would suddenly become different than they were before (and it is clear the way things were before was tense and confrontational)--but the reality is, of course, that very little changes after the introduction of wedding vows.
The young wife is the first to be made breathless by this realization, and she--suddenly feeling alone, scared, and perhaps a bit hopeless--lashes out with anger at her husband, who, despite an attempt to keep a level head, eventually answers in kind. Both admit to having no real idea of how things will be, how their marriage will manage to work, and they resort to making promises to each other, and these promises seem empty to the audience, who, because of Parker's keen writing, understands the dynamics of this couple. The audience, as quiet spectators of their habitual bickering, becomes sure of the constancy of their communication style, that they will be locked in this pattern for the length of their marriage.
And while both authors travel different avenues to show us the deep-seated fear of that which was coming from the future, that which was unknown, both expertly convey that hopeless and terrifying resignation that we all must come to when we realize we have little control over that which life is going to give us, that which we cannot yet comprehend. And all of this reflects so perfectly that which consumed the American public in the 1930s. Even in their literature they could not fully rid themselves of the dark shadow of tragedy and fear that hung thickly over their everyday lives.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Changing American Landscape: Progressive Ideas and Technology in "The Killers" by Ernest Hemingway and "Blood-Burning Moon" by Jean Toomer
America hadn't in a long time seen progress and change like it did in the 1920s. After all, this was the "New Era," where many industries (including plastic, rayon, and automobiles) were enjoying a new surge of interest and prosperity. World War I had bolstered the country's economics, and Americans began to consume in ways they had never before.
This was the time of the burgeoning motion picture industry, of impressive improvements in home appliances (toasters, washing machines, and vacuum cleaners all came into the American housewife's home during the 1920s), and great strides for the American worker (wages were bettered and hours were shortened).
And because of its far-reaching influence, the boom of the 1920s infiltrated the literature being written during the decade. The automobile industry factors squarely into the central terror of Ernest Hemingway's story "The Killers" and progressive new ideas about race and culture are the core focus of Jean Toomer's "Blood-Burning Moon."
"The Killers" is essentially a story about the new largeness of America. In terms of land mass, America had always been big, but it may not have felt so to its citizens, who, until the 1920s, were generally bound to their hometowns. There was not an easy way--especially for rural residents--to travel uninhibited from place to place. (Think, for example, of the slowness and inconvenience of travel in "A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell.)
This all changed with Ford's introduction of the Model T, which, in the 1920s, cost a reasonable $290. And even if $290 was out of a family's price range, owning a new car was still possible. The new automobile industry prompted the popularity of credit plans that are established to help working-class families purchase automobiles.
The federal government, recognizing the new, more mobile American landscape, worked tirelessly to produce the first national system of highways. And suddenly--just like that!--the American public had options. Citizens were no longer sedentary.
This is what makes the fear that's imbedded deeply into Hemingway's "The Killers" so raw and fresh. After all, the simple folks sitting in and working at a hometown diner encounter two strange men from out of town who, because of all these new improvements--cars, fast-moving highways--have spent their time hunting a man from town to town in order to kill him to settle old debts for their boss.
Imagine the new kinds of fear that bloom for Americans at this time: It is no longer easy to disappear, to run. It is no longer easy to believe that small-town life is safe. After all, now anyone--even the fast-talking, dangerous men from urban areas, where, in the 1920s, mob life is running rampant--can show up in town with a violent agenda. They can do their work and disappear just as quickly as that. Nothing is easily-contained anymore--not men, not cultures, and certainly not violence.
Similar ideas are at work in Jean Toomer's "Blood-Burning Moon." Like "The Killers," this is a story about quickly-changing America, but Toomer's story deals with changing cultural mores. At its heart, it is a story about race relations. In fact, it is a story with plot points and themes we've been examining for years, but instead of concentrating on the differences between the two male characters--white Bob Stone and black Tom Burwell--the story sheds light on the similarities between these two characters.
After all, both men find themselves bewitched by Louisa, the object of their affections. She is portrayed in imagery that is both natural and spiritual (the controlling metaphor used to describe Louisa is that of a tall, strong oak tree; throughout the story she seems to control the actions of the world around her). And when each of the men hears rumor of the other, they react in the exact same way: They are singed by the hate and jealousy that roars up inside them. This is conveyed through the oppressive imagery of heat and fire that pervades Toomer's text--even the title ("Blood-Burning Moon") snaps with anger and fire.
Eventually, the men square off over Louisa--even Bob Stone, who represents a man on the very verge. He is, after all, a man steeped in the old tradition of master and slave and is caught between the old attitudes toward African-Americans and his feelings for Louisa, who he thinks is "lovely" and "beautiful" and "sweet." He decides to go to her, to seek her company out, to romance her, even if there is a part of him that feels it is his right to take her, as though she were his slave and he her master.
Both men, who have equal "claim" to Louisa's affections, have the same notion: They need to confront one another and determine once and for all who will have Louisa. The men scuffle, and Tom Burwell strikes a fatal blow to Bob Stone, who is quickly avenged by his neighbors who are more than eager to throw Tom Burwell into a fire, to let him burn under the blood-burning moon.
Therefore, both of the stories from our 1920s decade do well to show us the consequences of the massive changes that are rolling across America, which are substantial in things (automobiles, travel, and consumer purchases) and in idea (race relations, fear, and new awareness).
This was the time of the burgeoning motion picture industry, of impressive improvements in home appliances (toasters, washing machines, and vacuum cleaners all came into the American housewife's home during the 1920s), and great strides for the American worker (wages were bettered and hours were shortened).
And because of its far-reaching influence, the boom of the 1920s infiltrated the literature being written during the decade. The automobile industry factors squarely into the central terror of Ernest Hemingway's story "The Killers" and progressive new ideas about race and culture are the core focus of Jean Toomer's "Blood-Burning Moon."
"The Killers" is essentially a story about the new largeness of America. In terms of land mass, America had always been big, but it may not have felt so to its citizens, who, until the 1920s, were generally bound to their hometowns. There was not an easy way--especially for rural residents--to travel uninhibited from place to place. (Think, for example, of the slowness and inconvenience of travel in "A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell.)
This all changed with Ford's introduction of the Model T, which, in the 1920s, cost a reasonable $290. And even if $290 was out of a family's price range, owning a new car was still possible. The new automobile industry prompted the popularity of credit plans that are established to help working-class families purchase automobiles.
The federal government, recognizing the new, more mobile American landscape, worked tirelessly to produce the first national system of highways. And suddenly--just like that!--the American public had options. Citizens were no longer sedentary.
This is what makes the fear that's imbedded deeply into Hemingway's "The Killers" so raw and fresh. After all, the simple folks sitting in and working at a hometown diner encounter two strange men from out of town who, because of all these new improvements--cars, fast-moving highways--have spent their time hunting a man from town to town in order to kill him to settle old debts for their boss.
Imagine the new kinds of fear that bloom for Americans at this time: It is no longer easy to disappear, to run. It is no longer easy to believe that small-town life is safe. After all, now anyone--even the fast-talking, dangerous men from urban areas, where, in the 1920s, mob life is running rampant--can show up in town with a violent agenda. They can do their work and disappear just as quickly as that. Nothing is easily-contained anymore--not men, not cultures, and certainly not violence.
Similar ideas are at work in Jean Toomer's "Blood-Burning Moon." Like "The Killers," this is a story about quickly-changing America, but Toomer's story deals with changing cultural mores. At its heart, it is a story about race relations. In fact, it is a story with plot points and themes we've been examining for years, but instead of concentrating on the differences between the two male characters--white Bob Stone and black Tom Burwell--the story sheds light on the similarities between these two characters.
After all, both men find themselves bewitched by Louisa, the object of their affections. She is portrayed in imagery that is both natural and spiritual (the controlling metaphor used to describe Louisa is that of a tall, strong oak tree; throughout the story she seems to control the actions of the world around her). And when each of the men hears rumor of the other, they react in the exact same way: They are singed by the hate and jealousy that roars up inside them. This is conveyed through the oppressive imagery of heat and fire that pervades Toomer's text--even the title ("Blood-Burning Moon") snaps with anger and fire.
Eventually, the men square off over Louisa--even Bob Stone, who represents a man on the very verge. He is, after all, a man steeped in the old tradition of master and slave and is caught between the old attitudes toward African-Americans and his feelings for Louisa, who he thinks is "lovely" and "beautiful" and "sweet." He decides to go to her, to seek her company out, to romance her, even if there is a part of him that feels it is his right to take her, as though she were his slave and he her master.
Both men, who have equal "claim" to Louisa's affections, have the same notion: They need to confront one another and determine once and for all who will have Louisa. The men scuffle, and Tom Burwell strikes a fatal blow to Bob Stone, who is quickly avenged by his neighbors who are more than eager to throw Tom Burwell into a fire, to let him burn under the blood-burning moon.
Therefore, both of the stories from our 1920s decade do well to show us the consequences of the massive changes that are rolling across America, which are substantial in things (automobiles, travel, and consumer purchases) and in idea (race relations, fear, and new awareness).
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Rapid Pace of the New World: A Blog Response Post for "Little Selves" and "A Jury of Her Peers"
What strikes me the most when I think about these two stories from the beginning of the 1900s is this: It must have been a remarkable thing to be an author writing in those times. The world was suddenly moving faster than it ever had before. The Industrial Revolution had changed much of how America (and the world) worked, thought, and produced. This was no small thing. The authors writing in this time period were witness to a major change in human history.
Nothing stayed the same. Now that processes had begun to be mechanized, the changes brought on by this rippled out into everyday life, touching each person in America. Working and living conditions improved. Life expectancy improved. Agriculture became streamlined. Urban areas began to flourish. And it all happened so quickly, that there was very little time for the people of America to process it all.
So, thank God for the writers, who, like all artists, acted as keen observers and tried with their art to capture what it meant to be alive at that specific moment in time. They also explored the consequences of these changes in their work, which is exactly what we can see in both our examples from today's reading.
"Little Selves" by Mary Lerner and "A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell give us a fascinating look into a world that is struggling to find its footing in the midst of amazing change.
"Little Selves" is a touching portrayal of one woman's deathbed experience, as she searches to go far back into her memories to conjure up versions of her childhood self. This is a particularly telling character detail. After all, many on their deathbeds would easily wander off into memories of love and loss, dwelling, perhaps, on the might-have-beens and conscious mistakes made in the adult life. Our character, however, spends hours daily bringing forth the best, most magical memories from her youth, including the one that finds her realizing her talent in life.
She seems content with the shape of her life, even though she never married or raised children. This would've been a surprising path for a woman of that time, especially an Irishwoman, but she does not seem bothered by it. She does not seem to be wishing for another take, another chance at life. Instead, she seems almost content. The only thing that concerns her is the fact that when she passes on, those "little selves" of her will cease to exist. This causes her momentous sadness, but, thanks to a kindly niece, she passes on these memories of herself and the old country so that these things may be preserved.
And that preservation is something that would be of incredible importance to people living in the early parts of the century. The change is flashing past, bringing uncertainty and newness at every turn, and this, of course, would foster confusion and fear. And the fear of old traditions and memories being lost would be a motivating factor for many citizens--especially the many new immigrants--to clutch to these things even tighter. And isn't that one of the main themes of this story? It perfectly reflects much of what was going on at the time.
The case is similar in "A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell. In fact, the title sheds much light on which of the century's changes is being reflected and examined and perhaps even processed in this short story.
"A Jury of Her Peers" finds us at a murder scene, and two women--who have been mocked and talked down to by the majority of the men at the scene--are tasked with bringing some things back to the suspect who has been locked away for the murder of her husband.
The story's crux has to do with the changing role of women in society at the time. Women were starting to find a voice, starting to realize that they were more than another handy machine to have in the kitchen. They were starting to develop bonds and kinship and use them to their advantage. In fact, some of the first well-organized marches for women's rights were occurring at the time.
And while the characters in this story were not marching at a rally, they were engaged in their own brand of fight: They were examining the miserable situation of Minnie Foster, who had most assuredly murdered her husband, and they were sympathizing; they were recognizing the wretchedness of her life, and they were understanding that the circumstances had brought on something that perhaps she shouldn't be punished for. And so, in an amazing unspoken moment, the women bond together and perpetrate a lie in the faces of the men who had found no clues.
The story's great irony is in that the men, who blustered that they would be able to find Minnie Foster out, that they would be able to uncover some evidence to lock her away for good, were unable to uncover anything that damned Minnie Foster; the women, however, had used their own powers of deduction to suss out the entire mystery. So, while they were being called useless and silly by their male counterparts, they were actually solving the circumstances of the crime and covering it up as they went.
And once again, there it is: our author, Susan Glaspell, is teaching us a lesson through this story about the way things were for women and how they were on the brink of great change.
Nothing stayed the same. Now that processes had begun to be mechanized, the changes brought on by this rippled out into everyday life, touching each person in America. Working and living conditions improved. Life expectancy improved. Agriculture became streamlined. Urban areas began to flourish. And it all happened so quickly, that there was very little time for the people of America to process it all.
So, thank God for the writers, who, like all artists, acted as keen observers and tried with their art to capture what it meant to be alive at that specific moment in time. They also explored the consequences of these changes in their work, which is exactly what we can see in both our examples from today's reading.
"Little Selves" by Mary Lerner and "A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell give us a fascinating look into a world that is struggling to find its footing in the midst of amazing change.
"Little Selves" is a touching portrayal of one woman's deathbed experience, as she searches to go far back into her memories to conjure up versions of her childhood self. This is a particularly telling character detail. After all, many on their deathbeds would easily wander off into memories of love and loss, dwelling, perhaps, on the might-have-beens and conscious mistakes made in the adult life. Our character, however, spends hours daily bringing forth the best, most magical memories from her youth, including the one that finds her realizing her talent in life.
She seems content with the shape of her life, even though she never married or raised children. This would've been a surprising path for a woman of that time, especially an Irishwoman, but she does not seem bothered by it. She does not seem to be wishing for another take, another chance at life. Instead, she seems almost content. The only thing that concerns her is the fact that when she passes on, those "little selves" of her will cease to exist. This causes her momentous sadness, but, thanks to a kindly niece, she passes on these memories of herself and the old country so that these things may be preserved.
And that preservation is something that would be of incredible importance to people living in the early parts of the century. The change is flashing past, bringing uncertainty and newness at every turn, and this, of course, would foster confusion and fear. And the fear of old traditions and memories being lost would be a motivating factor for many citizens--especially the many new immigrants--to clutch to these things even tighter. And isn't that one of the main themes of this story? It perfectly reflects much of what was going on at the time.
The case is similar in "A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell. In fact, the title sheds much light on which of the century's changes is being reflected and examined and perhaps even processed in this short story.
"A Jury of Her Peers" finds us at a murder scene, and two women--who have been mocked and talked down to by the majority of the men at the scene--are tasked with bringing some things back to the suspect who has been locked away for the murder of her husband.
The story's crux has to do with the changing role of women in society at the time. Women were starting to find a voice, starting to realize that they were more than another handy machine to have in the kitchen. They were starting to develop bonds and kinship and use them to their advantage. In fact, some of the first well-organized marches for women's rights were occurring at the time.
And while the characters in this story were not marching at a rally, they were engaged in their own brand of fight: They were examining the miserable situation of Minnie Foster, who had most assuredly murdered her husband, and they were sympathizing; they were recognizing the wretchedness of her life, and they were understanding that the circumstances had brought on something that perhaps she shouldn't be punished for. And so, in an amazing unspoken moment, the women bond together and perpetrate a lie in the faces of the men who had found no clues.
The story's great irony is in that the men, who blustered that they would be able to find Minnie Foster out, that they would be able to uncover some evidence to lock her away for good, were unable to uncover anything that damned Minnie Foster; the women, however, had used their own powers of deduction to suss out the entire mystery. So, while they were being called useless and silly by their male counterparts, they were actually solving the circumstances of the crime and covering it up as they went.
And once again, there it is: our author, Susan Glaspell, is teaching us a lesson through this story about the way things were for women and how they were on the brink of great change.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Welcome to ENG 121: The Short Story!
First, a confession: I love Lorrie Moore. Her short story collection Self-Help is the first book of short stories that took my breath away, that made me think, That's exactly what I want to do! I wanted to tell stories of people who were smart and funny and lost, bruised by life, floundering, trying to find their way. And that's what Lorrie Moore does.
And if you're wondering where the name of my blog came from, it came from her, from one of her stories--"Real Estate"--from her brilliant collection Birds of America. The section I borrowed it from is in the blog's description, and it's representative of the kind of wit and humor Moore crafts in her work.
So what does that have to do with this class? Well, it's like this: My goal is to knock your socks off this semester, to find a story (or--better yet!--many stories) that will knock your socks off and take your breath away like Lorrie Moore's stories did for me back when I was an undergraduate scuffing through the magnolia petals in front of Fenton Hall at SUNY Fredonia.
I'll be blogging along with you as we work through our four units:
And if you're wondering where the name of my blog came from, it came from her, from one of her stories--"Real Estate"--from her brilliant collection Birds of America. The section I borrowed it from is in the blog's description, and it's representative of the kind of wit and humor Moore crafts in her work.
So what does that have to do with this class? Well, it's like this: My goal is to knock your socks off this semester, to find a story (or--better yet!--many stories) that will knock your socks off and take your breath away like Lorrie Moore's stories did for me back when I was an undergraduate scuffing through the magnolia petals in front of Fenton Hall at SUNY Fredonia.
I'll be blogging along with you as we work through our four units:
- Unit #1: A Century of Stories
- Unit #2: International Stories
- Unit #3: Flash Fiction
- Unit #4: Contemporary Stories
Follow along with me, keep up with your own blogging, don't be afraid to ask questions, and really throw yourself into the stories I've carefully selected for us. There's beauty in all of them, and it's our job to figure out what's made them so beautiful.
Welcome to the fall semester!
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