Oswald's Motivation

Before, I thought Lee was sort of deluded in the way he talked about himself within the scheme of something larger. He's always assuming things that aren't really there. For example, when he wants to write a book in Russia about his experiences, he's convinced that everyone is going to love it and find it significant. Similarly, he tends to say stuff that makes him seem very self-centered and grandiose. In my previous blog post, I used the following quote as an example:

Lee caught the general's eye and smiled as if to say, Bet you don't know who I am. Untouchable. He had his hand inside the jacket, gripping the stock of the .38, just to do it, to get this close and show how simple, how strangely easy it is to make your existence felt (376).

Here, Lee seems like he is actively seeking a role that will give him power and control. He sounds eager to just have the knowledge that he is capable of transforming the moment and impacting history forever. The thing is, though, that he doesn't actually act on his impulse to carry the gun with him to the lecture. It's like he likes knowing that he could do something if he wanted to so easily, and that's enough for him.

The passage starting on page 383 really changes the way I think about Lee's motivations, though: "Everything he heard and saw and read these days was really about him. They were running message into his skin." The last sentence of this quote especially makes it seem like things are passively happening to him, as opposed to him actively going out and actively seeking a role in the assassination plot. It sounds like there are pressures that are really affecting him. Maybe all that Lee ever wanted was for people to take him seriously--for him to be able to change something in a way that would be heralded as a person of importance.

Furthermore, there's the matter of fate and Lee's role in all of this; it's almost too easy to say that it's just fate that Lee happens to kill the president, yet that's what it seems like sometimes, because I don't really see him being very excited or even particularly willing to go through with the assassination. And of course, he does, but even in the first In Dallas November 22nd, we don't see Lee very enthusiastic about the whole thing.

JFK Assassination Footage

When I first watched the footage of JFK's assassination in class the other day, I had heard a lot about the different moments in the clip: his initial wave to the public, the first little duck (which was actually in response to the first shot), the second shot, and Jackie O climbing into the back of the car. Nothing could have prepared me for the actual moment, though. The first time, I winced...and the second, third, fourth, and fifth too. Watching something like that over and over never really seems to make it any more palatable. Even if I knew frame 318 (or at least, I think the second shot was around 318), was approaching, I was affected in more or less the same way. It also made me consider the role of fate in the book. The way it's structured really supports the idea that fate explains the way things transpired--that the whole Kennedy assassination can just be seen as an inescapable act of fate. The way in which the book's chapters are dates and places, culminating in the chapter for November 22nd gives the reader a sense of foreboding and fate; everyone knows basically what will happen, and yet, like in the footage, we're all still worried about how things will end up.

Meanwhile, Lee seems to be helping fate right along by continuing to think so highly of himself. For example, on page 376, after he takes his gun to the lecture Walker gives but doesn't actually shoot at him, he thinks,

Lee caught the general's eye and smiled as if to say, Bet you don't know who I am. Untouchable. He had his hand inside the jacket, gripping the stock of the .38, just to do it, to get this close and show how simple, how strangely easy it is to make your existence felt.

His frame of mind here seems to be leaning towards self-aggrandizement, and yet, he doesn't actually upon it. He seems to just like the knowledge that he is capable of altering the way a moment is structured forever. It's this mindset that makes him such a "good" Libra. He's just like a balance, and it's unclear which way he'll tip and when.

As a side note, on page 382, the last line before the break mentions the similarities between Kennedy and Lincoln's deaths. I happen to have a book (The World of Ripley's Believe it or Not!) that points out the similarities. It's CREEPY!

-Lincoln's assassin, John Wilkes Booth, was born in 1839. Kennedy's assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald was born in 1939.
-Lincoln had a secretary named Kennedy who warned him not to go to the theater that night. Kennedy had a secretary named Lincoln, who warned him not to go to Dallas.
-Both were shot on a Friday.
-Both were shot from behind.
-Both wives were present.
-Booth shot Lincoln in a theater and ran into a warehouse; Oswald shot Kennedy from a warehouse and ran into a theater.
-Both were succeeded by men named Johnson.
-Both Johnsons were Democrats from the South.
-The Johnson who succeeded Lincoln was born in 1808; the Johnson who succeeded Kennedy was born in 1908.
-Both presidents' names contain 7 letters; their successors names contain 13; their assassins have 15.

QUICK, someone right a conspiracy theory!

Lee a Libra

Here's my response to the following in-class prompt: What do you think about the title of the novel, Libra, and does Lee seem like a Libra?

I think the title of the novel is very apt; it is, after all, a book that focuses on the realm of possibility where things unforeseen or unplanned may happen. The whole idea of the conspiracy is that it's supposed to be well-mapped out, but we don't know yet how well it's going to work out. And the reason we don't know largely lies within one character: Lee. He has the power to decide what happens, as he's a gunman. The question then becomes which side of Lee--and there are two distinct sides--will win out when November 22nd rolls around. Lee can be careful and calculating, as we see when he has all of his information forged without being told to do so. He can be, "well-balanced, levelheaded a sensible fellow respected by all." On the other hand, he can be impulsive (for exampled, when he shoots himself in the arm). The fact that Lee has a lot of qualities that are paradoxical is really crucial to the whole idea of history as comprised of "lone facts." Facts can't paint a complete picture of an event; they're lonely because people are unpredictable to the core.

Grandiose Aspirations

Looking back at what I wrote for today's in-class prompt makes me wonder how well we know Oswald (as presented in Libra) even though we've spent quite a bit of time with him. From the beginning of the book, I kind of realized that he has grandiose ambitions--but never to the extent that we've been seeing recently. First of all, he defects and decides he wants to become a Russian citizen and is so sure of his decision that he gives up his American papers. He also spends large amounts of time working on learning Russian, but when he takes the test Alexi gives him, he fails everything except the urine test. Somehow, none of this appears to affect him, because he remains unfazed. Then, he realizes he actually wants to go back to America, but of course, he has practically forced his papers on the Russian officials. And then there's his book--he thinks that people will eventually read what he has to say in his "Kollection" with great interest.

All of these things make obvious Oswald's delusions about his own importance, particularly within the larger scheme of things. It also makes the reader question the whole plan, what with Mackey and Parmenter getting suspicious of various people and whether or not they will follow through. It's also interesting that they chose Oswald as their main hitman because he seems to me very unpredictable. He lashes out (in a physical way) at his wife seemingly randomly. If I could choose three words to describe him, I'd probably say unpredictable, deluded, and dangerous. Why they would rely on someone who has an agenda of his own is the mystery; if they want everything to be in place without any room for error, Oswald isn't the guy they're looking for; he makes his own fake identification and has an investment in this--most likely to do with his own self-perceptions. In any case, there's no way this plan can end well. 

 

Libra

Today in class we talked about how credible the various conspirators in Libra seem to us. I'd say that they all seem pretty realistic to me. I don't really have the psychological background to say what exactly is "wrong" with them, but I think it's pretty clear that the way these men think is not the norm. They literally lead double lives; they have false names, passports, back accounts, etc. and this, no doubt, affects them significantly. The most striking scene so far for me has been when Win is thinking about the plot but is then brought back to reality by an activity as mundane as unloading groceries:

"He respected the President for going to Miami. He was surprised and touched when the President's wife poke Spanish to brigade members. But the ceremony had not renewed the cause, the forceful devotion to a free Havana. He saw it now as pure public relations, the kind of gleaming imagery that marked every move the administration made. The car pulled up and he went down the steps to help Mary Frances take the groceries inside. He gripped the heavy bags. A wind sprang from the east, an idea of rain, sudden, pervading the air. He saw himself go inside, a fellow on a quiet street doing ordinary things, unafraid of being watched. (51)

The juxtaposition of the thinking behind an assassination attempt and the domesticity of the task of unloading groceries is a really sharp image. It's also pretty disturbing, though; it makes you wonder how well you can truly know a person. For example, Mary Frances, Win's wife, doesn't know very much about him and yet he still seems to function as a husband and father just fine. Neither Mary Frances, nor his daughter, Suzanne, question Win's "normalness." It just goes to remind us that it's really hard to recognize a deranged or mentally unsound person based on outward behaviors. This strengthens DeLilo's case in writing Libra because it adds plausibility to the fact that Oswald was the only one officially charged with Kennedy's assassination. The other conspirators were so good at leading their double lives that they were simply never caught. How convenient (yet plausible)!

Speaking of Mary Frances, Beryl, Parmenter's wife, is about the same in terms of character. We see her trying to elicit some information from Larry, but when he doesn't give many specifics, she sort of just drops the issue. This brings me to something else I've noticed: part of the reason I (and a lot of my classmates, from what I can tell) are having some trouble keeping plot elements straight is that the conspirators blur together. I couldn't tell much of a difference in character between Beryl and Mary Frances, for example, and their husbands treat them about the same as well. It's very easy to lose track of who is who, and I wonder if DeLilo did this on purpose or not.

Lyndon

I liked Lyndon. Although I knew the character Lyndon didn't necessarily reflect the "real" Lyndon, it offered a lot of insight into the rather normal life of someone we might not otherwise get to hear or read about. It's really odd to hear about all of the personal, yet innately human things we know about but don't actually talk about. I know some people feel that all of the references to bodily functions were just repulsive--and I agree--I highly doubt Wallace added those in just to cause his readers discomfort. As was brought up in class, the fact that he chooses to add such natural and humble details creates a totally different representation of President Johnson. I don't think there's anything perverse or weird of about creating such a perspective for readers because it's just putting into writing what we all know but choose not to recognize.

Hopefully more on the ending once we talk about it in class, because as of now, I don't know what to make of it!

Dana and Rufus's Relationship

Kindred's ending surprised me, namely the part where Rufus tried to rape Dana. It was disturbing on so many levels that I had many mixed feelings. For one thing, I've always thought of Dana and Rufus's relationship as sort of a parental one. Dana meets Rufus for the first time when he's a child and saves him from drowning, just as a mother would save her child (unless it's Margaret Weylin, apparently....). Furthermore, the way Dana is always forgiving Rufus. No matter what he does, somehow, Dana is constantly forgiving him. This also struck me as a parent-child relationship because even if a kid does something wrong, the parents generally reprimands him/her and then eventually forgives the child. The way Rufus becomes rebellious and is quick to assert his authority over Dana also reminded me of the way teens become "rebellious" and constantly remind their parents of their independence.

So when Rufus tried to rape Dana, the whole parent-child relationship didn't seem to fit. In fact, as the book progressed, the dynamic between Rufus and Dana changed in such a way that Dana wasn't really sure what to make of Rufus. For example, when she has to tell Alice that Rufus wants her in his bedroom and Alice asks her what she would do, Dana says she wouldn't go. At this point, I wondered if she was just saying that because she wasn't in Alice's position and it was easy for her to say no. But of course, when this actually does happen to her, Dana follows through. Anyway, Rufus and Dana's relationship becomes a lot more about who has more control. Before, there was a sense that they both needed each other; Rufus needed Dana to keep him alive and vice versa, since Dana is a descendant of Rufus. Once Hagar is born, though, the balance shifts; Rufus is no longer in control because Dana doesn't need him anymore. She has secured her safety in that she will be born, regardless of whether she keeps Rufus alive or not. She knows this and isn't hesitant to remind him several times that she could just conveniently not save him the next time he gets into trouble.

So their relationship goes from a parent-child dynamic with fairly equal footing to unequal footing in Rufus's favor, then in Dana's favor, and finally, into the termination of the relationship altogether by Dana. A lot of this has to do with Alice. Upon her death, we see Rufus begin to lose it. The resemblance between Dana and Alice has been mentioned several times up until now, but at this point, Rufus remarks on it. He says that they are "two parts of a whole." Then, when he tries to rape her, it's as if he's seeing her as a replacement for Alice, since before, he had never seen Dana in this way. When Tom Weylin tells Rufus to take Dana instead of Alice, Rufus is miffed and says that Alice is the only one he wants. This is the very thing Dana told Alice she would refuse to do, and placed in the position, she asserts her control and kills Rufus. (N.B. Had Rufus raped Dana anyway, he would be having sex with his own great-great-granddaughter. Then what would their child be, anyway? It just violates all kinds of laws). The way the book ends up is perhaps the only way it could have ended: with Dana forcefully severing the relationship when Rufus was essentially trying to rope Dana into his world. Of course, she still has a reminder of that world--she's lost her arm--but Dana belongs in the twentieth century, so I think the ending makes sense.

The dynamic Butler creates between Rufus and Dana is a really interesting and complex one. I feel like their relationship is constantly changing as Dana learns more and more about how far Rufus is willing to go to get what he wants. Each time Rufus goes a little further, Dana is surprised but eventually forgives him. It makes me wonder how far she's willing to go for his sake; no matter what he does, Dana feels a connection to Rufus. They're kindred spirits in that they are tied to each other and have a relationship that no one else can possibly fathom. In many ways, Dana is an anachronism--literally, of course, but also in that her relationship to Rufus is one that wouldn't exist under the given social conventions of the time.

Rufus needs Dana and he knows it. Furthermore, he finds comfort in talk to her. Though he could try to talk to Alice, it's not the same. Rufus prefers talking to Dana, and Alice is no stranger to this. She remarks that she would never get away saying some of the things Dana says to Rufus. There's also the fact that should Rufus ever need help, Dana will be there for him--literally and figuratively. Their relationship is so unique because Dana isn't just the object of a slaveholder's desire; in fact, in a way, she's the one with all the power. The societal reaction to their relationship is also indicative of its unusualness. People don't know what to make of the two of them and some slaves take out their frustration of Dana because they're jealous of her. Tom Weylin is certainly perplexed by it as well; he recognizes Dana's power but has no idea what to make of it.

Initial-ish Thoughts on Kindred

Kindred is noticeably easier to read for me, in comparison to the other books we've read so far. Part of it has to do with the narration; it's more conventional in that it is plot-oriented and reads very much like a story. Furthermore, the historical context is one that we're at least somewhat familiar with. Though I find the plot fairly interesting, I have some issues with the main character already, which doesn't bode well. I was talking to Nikita, and she mentioned that it annoyed her how Dana thought through everything so rationally because it seems unrealistic. I agree with her; whenever Dana is transported suddenly, she seems to very quickly be able to overcome her emotions and disorientation. It just seems sort of unrealistic to me. Not that I have experience in time travel or anything....

I wish Butler developed some of the more minor characters a little more because I'm finding it hard to relate to some of the moments in the book when I know I'm supposed to be feeling the "realness" of the situation and of the history. For example, when Dana witnesses the Alice's father getting beaten for sneaking into her house, the description is certainly detailed and clearly horrible to imagine:

The the man's resolve broke. He began to moan--low gut-wrenching sounds torn from him against his will. Finally he began to scream. I could literally smell his sweat, hear every ragged breath, every cry, every cut of the whip. I could see his body jerking, convulsing, straining against the rope as his screaming went on and on. (36)

And I don't mean to sound like an awful person, but I just can't bring myself to be really invested in the story, particularly when Alice's father hasn't really been developed, even as a minor character. I'm just finding it difficult to really feel the way I think Butler wants the reader to feel. Her goal, it seems to me, is to help readers gain a new perspective about the history we all learn and I'm just not getting that, although I can't say I'm not enjoying the book.

Vonnegut's Paradox

Our class discussion on Friday got me thinking about the conflict between the rather disheartening view the book presents and the historical aspect, which seems to present the bombing of Dresden as a significant event. The way the narrative is written--disjointed, anachronistic, and disorienting for the reader--seems to emphasize the phrase "So it goes," which is liberally sprinkled throughout the pages of the novel.

The non-linear format of events creates for the reader a look into what the Tralfamadorians try to describe to Billy; they see the world as a collection of moments, and they see these moments all at once. They have no concept of time:

"I am a Tralfamadorian, seeing all time as you might see a stretch of the Rocky Mountains. All time is time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I've said before, bugs in amber" (86).

The disorganized collection of Billy's memories and his life in the present create has exactly this effect for us; we see his life like the Tralfamadorians see the world. We lose the sense of time and sense of linearity that we usually have to guide us through most novels. Furthermore, we lose all interest in the book for purely plot-driven events. Instead of worrying about who will die and who will survive--we already know, of course--we are simply reading because we want to see the entire picture. There's no doubt it my mind that Vonnegut did this on purpose, meaning for us to look at the story of a life in a totally different way.

So then, what do we make of the fact that this unique narrative also seems to advocate the fact that there is no sense in worrying or trying to change the future? The Tralfamadorians are very clear that they do not have a concept of free will:

"'If I hadn't spent so much time studying Earthlings,' said the Tralfamadorian, 'I wouldn't have any idea what is meant by "free will." I've visited thirty-one inhabited planets in the universe, and I have studied reports on one hundred more. Only on earth is there any talk of free will'" (86).

Just as we know that Edgar Derby will die at Dresden, we know we cannot change it and must simply accept it. The Tralfamadorians' way of thinking, which emphasizes this way of looking at the world, seems to rub off on Billy; his recurring "So it goes" phrase seems to remind us that there is nothing that can be changed: "When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in that particular moment...Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is 'So it goes'" (27). This creates a seemingly disheartening picture of the world, though. No matter what anybody says to us, we are still going to believe that there is a reason to live; if we truly believed that we have no free will and there is nothing to be done about anything, we would all most likely have serious psychological trouble. Truth is, we, as humans, have trouble grappling with the idea that our lives are useless. (Just like in The Stranger, when Merseult says "It doesn't matter," we may agree that it makes some sort of sense, but we do not truly believe it.)

When we compare all of these aspects of Vonnegut's writing coming together to create a fairly pesimistic view of the world to the message he seems to be sending about the bombing of Dresden, it's easy to get confused. The two sound like they're making totally conflicting points. At the beginning of the book, Vonnegut makes it clear that the bombing of Dresden is important and that we should all know about it. He writes, "It wasn't a famous air raid back then in America. Not many Americans knew how much worse it had been than Hiroshima, for instance. I didn't know that either" (10). Clearly, if Vonnegut decided to write Slaughterhouse-Five, there must be something significant about it. It's not as if we can simply shrug it aside with a "So it goes," right? I really don't think Vonnegut is saying that. There is a reconciliation between Billy's/the Tralfamadorians' way of thinking and the fact that the air raid of Dresden is not something to be overlooked. I think it lies in that Vonnegut is showing us the affects of what going to war can have on individuals; after they see and know so much, feelings of helplessness are largely inevitable. Therefore, war veterans may find comfort in thinking about the world in a way that makes death seem like just another part of life--which it is, but we tend to not think of it as such because it's very hard for humans to have that kind of nonchalance about something they feel does matter.

Initial Thoughts on Slaughterhouse-Five

I'm really enjoying Slaughterhouse-Five so far. I love the style it's written in; it's sort of casual and disjointed, but it does actually sound like a conversation. There are breaks for memories and the switch between tenses can be a little disorienting at times, but the overall effect is neat. I also like the way that there are elements of science fiction incorporated into the narrative seamlessly. Plot-wise, the meta-fiction aspect of the book is really interesting because it makes us, as readers, look at the novel in a different way. For me, at least, it adds a sense of fabrication--which isn't necessarily bad. The note on the first page is also interesting because it seems to do the opposite; it adds a sense of reality to the fiction.

The Current State of Jes Grew

Since we established at the end of class today that Jes Grew isn't exactly equatable with Jazz, it would probably be a good idea to identify what Jes Grew is. The epilogue adds to our understanding: "Jes Grew was the manic in the artist who would rather do glossolalia than be 'neat clear or lucid.' Jew Grew, the despised enemy of the Atonist Path, those Left-Handed practitioners of the Petro Loa, those too taut to spring from sharp edges, wiggle jiggle go all the way down and come up shaking (211). It sounds to me like Jew Grew describes a mindset more than a specific form of art, music, etc. It describes the seemingly-innate ability of humans to question the world around them. Of course, just because everyone has the ability to think for themselves doesn't mean that they will embrace that ability. As in the narrative about Osiris and Set that Papa LaBas recounts, there will always be people who will be resistant to the idea of change, lack of order, and spontaneity. So anyway, for my purposes, I'll refer to Jew Grew as the phenomenon in which people embrace their ability to make decisions for themselves and the idea of change.

So what about Jes Grew today? I would agree with LaBas when he says "Jes Grew has no end and no beginning...we will miss it for a while but it will come back, and when it returns we will see that it never left. You see, life will never end; there is really no end to life, if anything it will be death. Jes Grew is life. They comfortably share a single horse like 2 knights. They will try to depress Jes Grew but it will only spring back and prosper" (204). This makes the whole idea of Jes Grew more clear to me in that as long as someone is willing to keep it alive, Jes Grew will not die. Thus, I think Jes Grew is certainly still alive today.

One of the first examples that comes to my mind of Jes Grew being present today involves the food industry. When fast food first became big, it was celebrated for its convenience, affordability, and general yumminess. As the years have gone by, the food industry--and fast food chains in particular--have become increasingly vague and distant. By that I mean to say that it has become very easy and convenient for us to forget about how and where we obtain our food because the industry has made it so. Out of sight, out of mind, right? With the increasing level of detachment comes a general lack of awareness. In more recent years, though, people have begun to realize that there's a real problem when we don't even know what we're eating anymore. To tie this back to Jes Grew, people have begun to question what's going on; they want more transparency and more options. They are going against the order and power the big names in the food industry have created, and as long as there are people who are willing to challenge the status quo, Jes grew will live on.

Learning from Myth

In class today, I talked about how I felt like the story Papa LaBas tells was myth and seemed too oversimplified to apply to society as a whole. I'd like to expand on that here; first of all, I think it's certainly fair to call the narrative either fiction or myth (or both) because in my mind, they're almost the same. I just think of the two being different in that myth traditionally is passed through oral tradition and therefore varies a lot. I think of fiction as a less changing form of narrative. But in any case, I still stand by what I said in class; I don't think the conflict between Osiris and Set can explain society as a whole (which was the original question). I think that would be a gross oversimplification. However, I definitely think the dynamic between the two does tell us something significant. It's recognizable and brings the point home that there will always be people whose viewpoints about the world differ in such a way as to cause conflict regularly. Like Nikita was saying, we can apply that dynamic to recognize similar situations that we deal with all the time--any time we have a conflict, in fact.

Depiction of Western Culture and White Characters

As much as I would like to reiterate the amount of confusion this book causes, I'll instead attempt to put together something at least a little significant. This is based on the prompt from class today regarding the way Reed chooses to depict Western culture and white characters:

It's certainly not a favorable view of western culture that Reed presents in writing Mumbo Jumbo. All of the main white characters (Biff Musclewhite, Thor, and Hinkle) are presented in a negative light--namely, as power-hungry, unreasonable, and largely intolerant. Biff, for example, is just the muscle behind everything; he's essentially a hired thug. Meanwhile, Hinkle is presented as smart but also power-hungry. He almost seems like a total maniac to me, given the way he's so determined to join the Wallflower Order in crushing Jes Grew. Even Thor, who at first seems like he is able to make decisions for himself eventually ends up being sympathetic to his companions.

On a side note, the names in this book are too ridiculous to ignore. I mean, Biff Musclewhite? If that's not an illusion to the fact that Biff is all brawn and no brain, then my name is Joe Shmuck. And what about Black Herman? Or Thor Wintergreen. I feel like these names are supposed to be allusions, and some of them I think I get, but others I'm not so sure. Once again, Reed is winking at me and sometimes I get it, but more often, I have no idea what he's trying to say.

Initial Thoughts on Mumbo Jumbo

I'm not a huge fan of this book. It's so disorienting and completely foreign to me. And it's not that I don't enjoy the concept, it's just that I don't recognize much in this novel, whether it's the setting, characters, plot details, pretty much anything, actually. In terms of plot, I find it really hard to keep track of what is going on, especially because there are so many details buried within other seemingly random bits of information (and pictures, puzzles, etc.). I certainly think there are lots of interesting parts to the book but it requires a lot of work to figure out what's going on. More on this when I'm more clued in....

Ragtime: More that Just a Novel

The following is my response paper on Ragtime. I think it better illustrates why I think the novel does have a point.

At first glance, Ragtime’s detached narrator and unusual mix of fictional and real characters can easily be used to pass off the book as pointless. This couldn’t be further from the truth; not only is Ragtime not pointless, but it also speaks great volumes as to the nature of historical truth. In writing the novel, Doctorow calls into question the way we think about history—namely, as distinct from fiction in its “truth.” His cast of characters and their relations to each other, along with ambiguous narration, create complex situations which help illustrate the multi-faceted nature of history.

One of the first things readers are bound to notice in reading Ragtime is its narration: detached almost always and ambiguous often. The first couple lines read,

In 1902 Father built a house at the crest of Broadview Avenue hill in New Rochelle, New York. It was a three-story brown shingle with dormers, bay window and a screen porch. Striped awnings shaded the windows. The family took possession of this stout manse on a sunny day in June and it seemed for some years thereafter that all their days would be warm and fair. (Doctorow 3)

The tone is very dry and sounds almost as if it could be the narration of a documentary. One reason Doctorow may have chosen to keep his narration detached is that it mimics the way in which history is presented. Historians take great pride in their writing being purely fact-based, scholarly, and unbiased. In writing in a style similar to that of historians, Doctorow seems to invite us to re-think the way we distinguish history from fiction. Furthermore, he doesn’t name some of the most important characters in the novel: Mother, Father, Younger Brother, etc. This adds to the sense of detachment Doctorow creates through the narration.

Similar to the way the narration resembles historical discourse, the ambiguity it creates can also be seen as a parallel to the nature of history. Doctorow seems to be pointing out that there are many different ways to interpret situations, and that history generally strives to paint a monochromatic picture. One of the best examples is Doctorow’s description of Ford: “He had caused a machine to replicate itself endlessly…Tears were in their eyes. He allotted sixty seconds on his pocket watch for a display of sentiment. Then he sent everyone back to work” (112). There are many ways to interpret this statement: Doctorow could simply be pointing out Ford's discipline and nature; on the other hand, given the nature of Ford's whole theory, we may be inclined to view this as Doctorow mocking Ford's lack of humanity. Both interpretations are valid because there is no way to verify what Ford was thinking (nor does it really matter) and because a second-hand account is inevitably skewed. There is no way to completely accurately portray any person or circumstance, as there are so many layers to everything, and Doctorow subtly points that out to readers.

Perhaps the most unique part of Ragtime is the way the cast of characters—both fictional and “real”—interacts with each other. In writing in characters we recognize, Doctorow simultaneously molds them to meet his purposes and creates his own version of these people. For example, he doesn’t claim that he is presenting Ford and Morgan exactly as they lived. Instead, he says,

I'm under the illusion that all of my inventions are quite true. For instance, in Ragtime, I'm satisfied that everything I made up about Morgan and Ford is true, whether it happened or not. Perhaps truer because it didn't happen. (Levine, 68-9)

Doctorow completely acknowledges that he made up stuff about Morgan and Ford, yet he believes it is still true—in the sense that it could have happened, specifically within the framework of the story he writes. It’s also true in the sense that Doctorow describes dynamics that readers recognize. This is a great example of when an author is able to embrace uncertainty and run free with an idea to address certain points, whereas a historian would most likely feel the need to choose a particular theory or interpretation to portray.

It all comes down to what we, as a society, have come to expect from fiction and history. We allot an author a lot more creative license than we do to historians, and that creates a lot of the distinction we perceive. Having said this, it is still important that we remember that history and fiction aren’t all that different, especially since we have an unspoken idea of what we think the distinction is. Doctorow serves us very well in this regard; he makes up things for real characters without so much as considering their ridiculous nature. At the same time, he makes it seem like he has done plenty of research on fictional characters. For instance, Doctorow’s Morgan “[L]istened to the dark and stared at the dark and waited for whatever signs Osiris would deign to bring him. After some hours he dozed….He became aware of being crawled upon” (Doctorow 262). It seems outlandish that J.P. Morgan tried to spend the night in a king’s chamber in the middle of the desert, and serves as a reminder that this is Doctorow’s created version of Morgan. In contrast, Doctorow pretends he has researched Coalhouse Walker Jr. even though he is not a real person:

Here, given subsequent events, it is important to mention what little is known about Coalhouse Walker Jr. Apparently he was a native of St. Louis, Missouri....There were never located any of his school records in St. Louis and it still is not known how he acquired his vocabulary and his manner of speaking. Perhaps by an act of will. (152-3)

Again, we see that although Coalhouse is a fictional character, he isn’t any less real than Doctorow’s representation of Morgan. In fact, to many readers, Coalhouse may seem like he is based on a real person. In any case, Doctorow does a remarkable job of mixing up his “constructed real” and fictional characters, making us reconsider our notion of truth.

Most readers will probably find Ragtime an interesting read plot-wise, but the novel’s real merit lies in the way it questions our ideas about history and fiction, and how we respond when the line between the two blurs. Through narrative and a unique cast of characters, Doctorow creates a novel that’s more than just a novel.

Doctorow Answers

Upon reading the excerpt of an interview from Paul Levine's Conversations, I can say that I better understand what Doctorow was trying to do with Ragtime. Obviously I cannot say I know exactly what his intentions were with his portrayal of certain characters like Ford and Morgan, since I think those will always be up for interpretation, but his responses answer the question "what was Doctorow's goal in writing Ragtime?"

When the interviewer asks if Doctorow feels a responsibility to "explain, describe, invent, create the reality, unify the reality," his eventual response is illuminating: "I'm under the illusion that all of my inventions are quite true. For instance, in Ragtime, I'm satisfied that everything I made up about Morgan and Ford is true, whether it happened or not. Perhaps truer because it didn't happen." This is a really loaded statement; I think what Doctorow is describing here is the ability of narrative to reconcile history and fiction. In Doctorow's words, "there is no fiction or nonfiction as we commonly understand the distinction: there is only narrative."

Rather than advertising his novel as fiction, Doctorow acknowledges that he has created something true--maybe not true in the sense of a verifiable, physical truth, but certainly true in the possibility that it could have happened, even though it didn't. When Doctorow says "Perhaps truer because it didn't happen," I interpret that as him as applying what Doctorow refers to as "the power of freedom." That is, Doctorow knows that we cannot completely and with no doubt verify that Morgan did not go to Egypt and sleep in a pyramid. And this mere possibility allows writers (and even historians) the creative license to create something new and unhindered by what we observe as the distinction between fact and fiction.

Reflections on Ragtime

After our discussion in class just now, I feel slightly bad about being kind of harsh on Doctorow. The truth is, I don't really dislike the way Doctorow fuses the historical and fictional characters; it's more of just that I'm so not used to this kind of writing, particularly with historical fiction. I think our expectations have a lot to do with whether or not we like things on the first go-around, so for me, having never read anything like Ragtime, I couldn't help but be a little frustrated. I genuinely did like how Doctorow used several seemingly disconnected stories to tell one bigger story. I thought the plot was original and not overly complicated.

In terms of what we draw from the novel, I disagree with Nikita when she said that there's no real point to the novel. On the surface, there are definitely parts of the book that I thought were weird and glossed over (like the whole mirror scene in the Tombs), but I think there are certain ideas we can think about. For example, the whole Coalhouse situation says a lot about the race dynamic especially because it's not like he's making a scene just for the sake of fighting for equality. Another example is the way Ford and Morgan are portrayed. Just because Doctorow takes liberty with the way he represents both of them doesn't mean that there's no value to his fictionalized versions of the two characters.

I wish there was a way for me to just ask Doctorow what he was implying in so many parts of the novel, but on the other hand, I think the fact that it's all open to interpretation has a lot to do with the appeal. I generally liked Ragtime, and though I'm not very into re-reading books, I feel like being able to read it again expecting something different would help me enjoy it more.

Doctorow: Manipulative?

I've generally been pretty supportive of Doctorow's style of narration; unlike a lot of other readers, I don't really have a problem with the way he shapes--or as others may see it, manipulates--his real characters. For example, the way he portrays Ford certainly says something about how Doctorow himself views the inventor. It just depends on how we interpret Ford's language, since it can be pretty slippery at times. On page 136, he describes Ford: "He allotted sixty seconds on his pocket watch for a display of sentiment." Of course, we may see this as admirable; it could just be Doctorow pointing out Ford's discipline and nature. On the other hand, given the nature of Ford's whole theory, we may view this as Doctorow mocking Ford's lack of humanity. In any case, I haven't really had a problem with this ambiguity in narration because I think it allows for a lot of interesting viewpoints.

Funnily enough, though, I have had a problem with the way Doctorow talks about fictional characters as if they are real. For instance, on page 183, when Doctorow explicitly talks about Coalhouse Walker Jr.'s background, I was not only confused, but also a bit annoyed: "Here, given subsequent events, it is important to mention what little is known about Coalhouse walker Jr. Apparently he was a native of St. Louis, Missouri....There were never located any of his school records in St. louis and it still is not known how he acquired his vocabulary and his manner of speaking. Perhaps by an act of will." I'm not totally sure why this passage bothered me so much, but I think it has to do with the fact that up until now, Doctorow had only been fictionalizing real characters, not the other way around. So when he did start to come up with a real history for a fictional character, for some reason I was confused (because at first I thought Coalhouse was a real person) and then annoyed because Doctorow was messing with my head.

I guess it's pretty weird because usually in historical fiction, making a fictional character seem more real by providing details rooted in history is not very odd. But there's just something about the way Docotorow shamelessly messes with the distinction between history and fiction that's unsettling. It's probably because as a society, we don't really see the line between the two blurring, but Ragtime definitely breaks that boundary.

Buying Into Capitalism?

Towards the end of today's class, Mr. Mitchell asked whether we thought Tateh had "bought into capitalism" and I think that's a really interesting question. Although technically, he does agree to have his flipbooks mass produced, I don't think that it was a definitive gesture indicative of his actual feelings about the matter. For one thing, we know that Tateh has very little money left after having spent a lot of it on transportation (not to mention having only $60 to begin with), so obviously he is in desperate need of money not only for himself, but also for his daughter.

Furthermore, it's not clear that he goes into the novelty store knowing that his flipbooks will be mass produced. He is definitely hoping to get some money for them, but that's all we know: "The man was amiable. Sure, he said, let's see it. Tateh took the girl's satchel, put it on the counter and, opening it, withdrew the book of the skater. Standing next to the proprietor he held the book at arm's length and expertly flipped the pages (Doctorow 132). Tateh has no way of knowing that the store manager would like them so much and offer the deal he did. So in terms of intention, I don't think we can say that Tateh intentionally goes out seeking to profit from capitalism. However, when the opportunity presents itself, he does decide to go for it, like most people probably would in his situation. After all, here is someone who's willing to pay him a significant amount of money on the spot. I think it's easy to hastily judge Tateh's actions and say that's he's definitely a capitalist because he does eventually profit from it, but he doesn't even seem to be thinking about capitalism. For all we know, he is probably just doing what he has to do to keep himself and his daughter alive. For example, at the end of the chapter: "Come, Tateh said to his child, we'll find a boardinghouse in a good neighborhood and then we'll have ourselves a meal and a hot bath" (133). In my opinion, these aren't the words of someone who embraces capitalism but rather that of one who is simply trying to make a decent living.

Initial Thoughts on Ragtime

I've never read anything like Ragtime. It's unlike any other novel in the historical fiction genre I've read because of it's total immersion in history. Whereas a lot of other novels are set in the past, they usually don't have as much complexity and richness in terms of interweaving the fictional characters with the real ones in the context of the time. The way in which Doctorow incorporates history into the story line and imagines fictional events for the real characters is really unique and makes for an interesting mix of what we recognize as a traditional trait of historical fiction and what we don't.

Although several people have mentioned that they don't like the tone because it is detached and even sounds a bit cynical or condescending at times, I really like it. I think it fits the content and style of the book in that it offers a seemingly unbiased view but still sounds like a literary voice, as opposed to one you might find in a documentary. There are moments when the narrative suggests something without saying anything specifically, which is the type of writing you often encounter in novels.

In terms of plot, all I can say is that at times certain events seem totally random and menagingless. For example, the mirror scene in the jail between Thaw and Houdini seemed significant but I failed to draw much from it. Another thing about the plot is that there doesn't actually seem to be one cohesive plot. Rather, there seem to be many different plots, each concerning a few characters at a time, and these plots tend to stay separate from each other. In any case, I have a feeling that very soon, we'll see that each mini-narrative will meld with the others and it'll make much more sense to us. For now, I don't really mind that there several seemingly-disconnected story lines going because they're each interesting, if not totally clear.

The Natures of History and Fiction

The following is my response to the question "how is history distinct from fiction?":

Before considering the differences between history and fiction, we should look at the similarities between the two. For one thing, they both strive to say something significant; there's a sense of importance when we come across anything written down or orally passed through generations. Furthermore, both history and fiction say something about our world--which is vague, I know. What I mean to say is that they both describe something recognizable, something unmistakably human. They represent the way we perceive things, our feelings and reactions, and the nature of humanity in general. Even science fiction, for example, has recognizable, human, elements to it. After all, can something written by a human, no matter how alien, say absolutely nothing "true" about the world we live in? In fact, I doubt we would even be willing to read, let alone consider, any piece of literature which we didn't understand in the context of our world. History tells us about all that is purportedly "true," and thus we take it as fact. Yet with history, too, there are many different points of view.

History and fiction both strive to mark the significant and bring to light the "true," with true being that with which we can relate and recognize. They do so in different ways, and this is the main distinction between them. While fiction uses fictional characters, settings, etc. to describe decidedly recognizable/true dynamics, history examines the situation and chooses a particular assessment to present as the truth. While fiction relies on the reader to recognize what they feel is true, history draws upon assessment to display a facet of a dynamic.