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.