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.