One Hundred Years of Indifference

As one of the most heralded and influential pieces of Latin American literature to date, Gabriel Garcia Marquez's epic novel One Hundred Years of Solitude has become an extremely important magical realist work in the literary canon. The novel spans the rise and fall of the remote and reclusive town of Macondo, as well as the progression of several generations of the legendary Buendia family, leading from their origin in patriarch Jose Arcadio Buendia, to their demise at the hands of Aureliano and Amaranta Ursula almost a century later. Throughout the novel and time in Macondo, Marquez, from an authorial point of view, adopts a characteristic element of magical realism, exhibiting authorial indifference and reticence in order to establish the supernatural components of Macondo and its inhabitants without undermining their existence. This brilliant use of reticence creates somewhat of an ordinary, mundane perspective of magic from both the narrator and the characters themselves. To them, these occurrences of the supernatural and otherworldly experiences are part of their everyday routines. For example, the levitation and disappearance of Remedios the Beauty into the sky is narrated calmly, observed almost with a note of indifference and nonchalance. The narrator states, "Remedios the Beauty began to rise... waving goodbye in the midst of the flapping sheets that rose up with her, abandoning with her the environment..." (Marquez 255). She is hardly even noticed by her family, or by other members of the community, as they "accepted the miracle" as she suddenly begins to float in the air and gradually vanish from sight, until she is all but gone (Marquez 255). Even her grandmother, Ursula, "was sufficently calm to identify the nature of that determined wind and she left the sheets to the mercy of the light" (Marquez 255).

Furthermore, this authorial reticence is displayed in patriarch Jose Arcadio Buendia's quest for the philosopher's stone, responsible for the transformation of lead into gold and eternal life. An element of magic itself, the philosopher's stone, and Jose Arcadio Buendia's search, is viewed plainly by the narrator, as if it happens frequently and is rather uneventful. Lastly, the reappearance of Melaquiades, who "really had been through death, but had returned beacuse he could not bear the solitude" is also treated rather modestly by both the narrator and the Buendia family (Marquez 54). They easily welcome the apparently dead man into their home without any hesitation, "dusting off old friendships" and acting as if the resurrection of this gypsy is an ordinary occurrence.

Marquez creates this authorial reticence and indifference in order to further point out and signify the
occurrence of these supernatural and magical events. Ironically, the use of this authorial technique and the equivalent character's responses throughout the novel alert the reader at a heightened intensity of when these enchanted events occur. Because of this setup, the reader is more likely to notice among the mundane lives of the residents of Macondo that such an event is happening, and thus be able to clearly discern between magic and reality. One Hundred Years of Solitude, a revolutionary novel filled with both the supernatural and the all too real, exhibits the characteristic components of magical realism, including authorial reticence and indifference. This application of reticence by Marquez allows for the reader to produce their own understanding of the magic in Macondo and create their own reasons for why such events would occur, changing the field of narration and including the reader in a firsthand experience of a lifetime.

The Individual and the Community: A Structuralist View of Brave New World

The modern classic, Brave New World, opened reader's eyes to the disturbing and an all too possible future based on psychological control, genetic and technological manipulation, and the dominant feature of the community throughout society. On a deeper lever of analysis, Aldous Huxley's masterpiece conveys one important binary oppositions hard at work to establish root conflicts that propel the plot and its narrative functions forward.

The struggle of the individual among the herd of the community, is a binary opposition prevalent throughout Brave New World. In this society, the individual is all but abolished, discarded for the importance of the community, either psychological manipulated at an early age to accept this fate, or placed into a drug-induced state (incorporating the notorious soma) as a way of cooperating. The remaining individuals, if there are truly any, lie within the highest castes of the society, the Alphas and Betas, and are intellectually superior then the rest of their fellow citizens. Even so, these "individuals" must fight against the grip of his community, they must find a way to speak out as a voice in the crowd without being crushed underfoot. One man brought to mind in this struggle of opposite concepts, Bernard Marx, a brilliant Alpha Plus, retains his individuality and does not conform to the community's standards. As a result of his individuality and nonconformist status, he is constantly alienated, ostracized, rumored to have blood-alcohol in his surrogate, unaccepted by his society and his peers. He spends most of the entire novel searching for a way of acceptance in the eyes of his contemporaries, some way to fit in without destroying his individuality. When he finally discovers such an opportunity into the communal fold with the discovery of "The Savage", Bernard's popularity skyrockets, and he is finally somewhat accepted by the members of his community. Here, the binary opposition in direct conflict makes itself known, as Bernard is pulled into the lure of his popularity, he begins to conform to their standards, completing certain actions just so that they will accept and like him further. During this time, he gives up a touch of his individuality, and begins to conform to the standards of a large group of his peers, finally motivated by the feeling of acceptance. As the novel comes to a close, however, and Bernard's scientific discovery runs amuck throughout London, he loses that popularity and conformity to the community that he earlier possessed, and is exiled to Iceland. Bernard is never able to fully abandon his individuality, or cover it up in a fog of drugs, as his difference in ideas and opinions still separate him from his "community" at the end of the novel.  Thus, the binary opposition of the individual and the community, two concepts in direct conflict, cannot function equally in Brave New World. Either the individual is overridden by the community, swallowed up whole to live a conformist and shared life, or removed from society completely. The individual causes instability in a world that strives for COMMUNITY, IDENTITY, AND STABILITY, his difference in ideas, opinions, and values, creates a rift, a variable in the community that could produce, if not dealt with, chaos and an end to the society itself.

Revisting Brave New World

As a conflicted individual living through a period in which many other individuals were stripped of their personal freedoms and subjected to harsh life under a dictatorship, Aldous Huxley observed first-hand the methodologies of famous 19th century dictators and their control over their subjects in crowds and as individuals. His essay, titled Brave New World Revisited, further discusses some of the more provocative and slightly disturbing techniques found within his fabled society, and also warns of coming dangers like overpopulation and over-organization. Overpopulation, a problem still facing some of the world's most populous countries today, is described by Huxley as an "impersonal force which [is] now making the world extremely unsafe for democracy", and is "the central problem of mankind" (Huxley 240, 242). In the 19th centuries, among technological advances in medicine that extended the life span of the average man and women and the creation of the developed, modern metropolis that supported millions of people in a small space, overpopulation became an up-and-coming complication for the world's leaders (the world's population in 1951 was two million and eight hundred million). Huxley believed that this imbalanced birth to death ratio, caused by advances in medicine and food production, would lead to a host of other problems, placing economic strain on a nation and eventually endanger "social stability" and "the well-being of individuals" (Huxley 242). Overpopulation leads to strained existing resources, eventually creating economic insecurity within a nation, which then according to Huxley, would allow for "more control by central government and an increase in power" (Huxley 245). Therefore, overpopulation is one of the key factors in the development of an all-powerful totalitarianism dictatorship, as it allows for a gradual release of freedoms by the nation's people in order to obtain economic and social stability from their government.

As the world progresses into the 21st century where even more of these technological developments are available and the birth to death ratio becomes increasingly skewed, overpopulation is still a remaining danger to the loss of democracy. At 7 billion strong, the world stretches its limited natural resources, especially those required for fuel sources (i.e. petroleum, coal, natural gas). Food sources, while mostly plentiful in nations that are wealthy, are dependable on harvests and fluctuating market prices and thus, cannot be depended on by the people to provide for. Countries like China, which are facing large overpopulation calamities, have tried to implement a strict birth control policy like the One Child Policy, which have largely been unsuccessful due to the uncooperative attitude of the Chinese people. For the most part, the world grows and grows to even larger populations without much effort to combat the effects of overpopulation and its drawbacks, including the threat to democracy and the individual.

"A Good Man is Hard to Find" Reaction

 What did I just read?!?!

"A Good Man is Hard to Find", one of Flannery O' Connor's shocking and brilliantly crafted short stories, throws the reader for an unexpected and horrific surprise that changes the entire dynamic of the plot. Narrating the seemingly mundane family road trip among a grandmother, her son Bailey, and his wife and three kids, the story turns the expected upside down, using the road trip to set up a rapid, and ghastly chain of events involving a car wreck, blood, and a criminal named the Misfit. In my opinion, O' Connor's ingenuity is best displayed through her build-up of tension, and the unforeseen ending she masterfully creates. By selecting a situation that a majority, if not all, of her readers can easily relate to, she makes it that much more devastating when the Misfit comes along and begins executing members of the family. Personally, I was dumbfounded, completely shocked, when the criminals systematically murdered each family member. I found myself emotionally attached to each character (some more than others), and was horrified when they met their end at the hands of the Misfit. In less than ten pages, O' Connor forges this level of attachment between the characters and the readers, making it that much more traumatizing and harrowing after this surprise ending. She creates this attachment through general associations with her audience: every reader can relate to the matriarchal grandmother, the stressed father, and the annoying kids in the back seat, all together in one car on a family road trip. The reader may have experienced an exact situation like this, as either a child themselves, as the adult, or on some sort of media. Nonetheless, the reader knows the characters, feels a bond to them, and becomes somewhat attached with what little information is given. This attachment and association that O' Connor employes effectively draws the reader in and invests them into the story, setting them up perfectly for the dramatic, surprise ending. Without such  characters and the emotional investment, O' Connor's ending would have not been as potent and successful, the reader may have been slightly effected, but not to the degree that O' Connor creates.
"A Good Man is Hard to Find", containing Flannery O' Connor's amazing application of foreshadowing, tension, and the surprise ending, throws readers a ridiculous curveball and takes them on a rather emotional rollercoaster that both devastates and horrifies her audience.

Girl, Interrupted From The Death of H. Mildew

I did not kill Herman Mildew because I was trying to kill myself.
Honestly, Detective, I believe this interview, interrogation, chitchat, whatever you would like to call it, is completely unnecessary. Furthermore, it is not only a waste of your time and funds, but a waste of mine as well. You see, I am sick,
Detective. And here, in this very psychiatric hospital, I am now trying to heal after my failed suicide attempt.

Part of your routine, oh yes.

Just to cross me off the list.

Of course.

Well, where to begin? Perhaps with my relationship to the lovely Mr. Mildew. Yes, he was my editor, and yes, I hated him dearly. He hated me just as well. Thought my work was a product of hallucinogens, LSD fads from the 1980s, pure insanity. Believed I was on a slew of different drugs, a paranoid schizoid, that was his favorite term for me. Tried to enroll me in Narcotics Anonymous one time. I am not a drug addict, Detective, but rather a nonconformist, I see the world through different convex lenses that warps and distorts the very images. I am a individual and he hated me for it.  He had trouble accepting me for who I really was. My stories had too much angst, too much of an intellectual depth, teenagers my age wouldn't want to read this if it was the last book they'd ever have. They'd rather use it for firewood. Another fabulous comment from my affectionate and tender editor. My prose didn't relate to the teen population, no ludicrous love triangles, not enough vampires making love with werewolves, no girls fighting for hunger in a dystopian set of games, it just didn't work.  Herman Mildew hated me and thus, I hated him. However, Detective, that doesn't mean I murdered him. Believe me, I would have loved to stab him in the back and have him scream "Et tu, Brute?" like the famous Caesar, have him crushed in a meat grinder, lit on fire in front of me and to watch him burn to a crisp, but it was not to be. I will give the gentleman who finally retired the troll a pat on the back.

I was focusing more of my energy last night summing up the courage to cram fifty aspirin down my throat, and finally wash it down with half a bottle of good old Jack Daniels whiskey from the corner store. At the same time dear Herman was heaving for his last breaths, blood pouring crimson out from underneath that horrible, bloated potbelly, I was waiting for the alcohol to settle. It left a brilliant trail of fire down my throat, eased my suffering if only for a little while. By the time Herman was pronounced dead, the "kind" neighbor from next door had already found me and called 911. Bastard. If only he could have left me to die in peace.  When you, Detective and your other bumbling members of the police force had arrived on scene, I was hauled into the emergency room, a stomach pump crammed down so far down my throat I could feel it moving around in my esophagus. Fifty disintegrated aspirin mixed with a slew of discolored liquids, along with the remnants of my dinner, all over the hospital floor. And by the time you had even began to consider me as a suspect in his murder, I was here, in this very room, with this stupid bracelet on my wrist and my first meeting with my shrink in an hour.

Is this hard for you to believe, Detective? Unlike some of the other suspects on your list, I have an abundance of witnesses who will confirm where I was at any specific time window. Ask the doctors in the emergency room who fed me the stomach pump, the paramedics who brought me in last night within an inch of my pitiful life. Ask my psychiatrist, a lovely chap by the name of Melvin, ask him where I was yesterday evening at 7:29 PM. My psychoanalyst, Dr. Jodi Ann Fung, a wonderfully petite Asian woman from Taiwan, I believe. Or the other patients at this place. They saw me last night, stuck their demented little heads out of their rooms and watched me roll right in through the front doors at about 8: 49 PM, an unconscious and crumpled figure, sedated and without the will to live.

Detective, I would have liked to kill Herman Mildew, but alas, I was too focused on killing myself.

Initiation Stories

Of the four selections given as the sample Initiation Stories, I most enjoyed and was drawn to the first. "Stepdaughters", a short story written by Max Apple, treats the reader to the beginning of one girl's "womanhood", in which she pursues a peculiar sport that directly contradicts her gender. Throughout the plot, the teenage shot put phenomenon Stephanie goes against her mother's wishes to conform to stereotypical womanly activities, and instead follows her own aspirations, creating conflict between the two characters. This story, the most modern of the four as it was written in 2007, was an interesting and highly entertaining read, as well as a fantastic example of a coming-of-age, or initiation story. Like any other initiation tale, the protagonist in "Stepdaughters" struggles to create her own identity, defining her personal values and her road to a future only she can craft. Stephanie must create her own sense of self, rebelling against the conformist ways of her mother and the social stereotypes and conventions that tell her shot putting is not a sport for a woman. She transforms, as does every adolescent, preteen, and teenager through the initiation story, defining her own identity and setting the course for her future as an Olympic hopeful. She learns a significant truth, gender stereotypes are not set in stone and that she has the power to mold her own life, and no one can get in the way of that. Author Max Apple conveys all of these "initiation rites" in a modern and simple way that many readers are able to understand, familiarizing them with loads of allusions to modern culture and associations with many commonplace American experiences.

Moreover,"Stepdaughters" appealed to me in another personal way, connecting many of my own initiation rites as an adolescent. For someone who participates very heavily in martial arts, and had previously played rugby for several years, I transformed in my own way, setting what aspects of womanhood I thought appropriate, and others that I discarded. Because I can relate to Stephanie's experiences and of her coming-of-age, "Stepdaughters" affected me on a more personal level, allowing me to connect even more associations with the protagonist and her initiation rites.

The King of the Geats

Beowulf.
Now that's how I like my literature.

The epic poem, best translated by Irish translator Seamus Heaney, narrates the life and glory of the Geat warrior, Beowulf, and his many battles among the ancient Danes, the Swedes, and his own homeland. Considered as the first written novel, Beowulf brings to life an array of mythological creatures, demons and dragons that lurk in the night, as well as a vivid recollection of the medieval kingdoms of early Scandinavia. Overall, I enjoyed the relatively short poem, easy to comprehend, straightforward, and full of nail-biting, descriptive action. It had mythological influence, the perfect hero, and a great reconstruction of ancient Scandinavian culture and, on the whole, life. I really had no problem with any of the poem's mechanics, its plot, or characters. Heaney's translation was fantastic, creating a world that I could fully immerse myself into, and putting forward the words of characters like the great king Hrothgar and Beowulf himself into comprehensible statements.

Despite my adoration of the poem, I would like to bring to the surface one aspect that I believe to be important. Firstly, I noticed while reading that while Beowulf is set in an archaic and medieval Scandinavia, there are countless references to the Christian God throughout the poem. Whether the characters pray to their "Almighty Lord" or they refer to him as the only one who can decide both Beowulf and the Geat people's fate. As the poem was actually written during the Middle Ages, and the influence of Christianity would have dominated many people's lives, I can understand how the poet would allude to God and Christ. However, I believe that since the narrative is set in a time in which pagan gods commanded the religious scene and not Christianity, that it serves almost as an anachronism, the wrong religion in the wrong period of history. This "anachronism" broke the flow of the poem, I found myself stopping to consider the actual possibility of this religious philosophy in archaic Scandinavia, and it just didn't fit. By placing these allusions and mixing the faiths of these Scandinavian peoples (the Danes even declared the pagan gods as "heathen gods"), the poet creates a slightly confusing dent in an otherwise excellent piece of early Anglo-Saxon literature.

An Ode to Wuthering Heights

Wuthering Heights. You silly little novel.
Thanks for giving me nightmares.

Well, I presume this "reaction" is supposed to be leaning towards more of an academic angle, so I will refrain from getting too creative here. Let me put on my academic writing cap.

Wuthering Heights, written by Emily Bronte, proved to be another example of why I completely dislike romantic Victorian literature, and why I tend to refrain from picking up these kind of novels in the first place. The story, set in the first decades of the 19th century, alternates between the recital of a mangled and turbulent relationship between the moody, volatile Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, as well as the later life of Catherine's daughter, also named Catherine, and her relationships with cousin Linton, Hareton Junior, and Heathcliff himself. Told using a loose frame narrative, in which Thurshcross Grange tenant Mr. Lockwood has former servant Nelly Dean recite the life of these characters through several narratives, the plot weaves a complex tale of passion, love, revenge, and a portrayal of early Victorian life.

As my first sentence above states, I did not enjoy this novel at all. I slogged my way through all three hundred and sixty six pages, I was uninterested and unaffected by the character's actions, I seldom cared whether they lived or died, suffered or experienced life's greatest passions. In my opinion, the story lacks a hook, something to interest me from the very moment I open to the first page, to the last moment when I finish it. Granted, I have already admitted that I am not one to enjoy Victorian literature and am particularly opposed to romance novels, so this novel being a blend of both, was not something that made me exceptionally ecstatic. Despite my bias, I believe that the novel still lacked any investment in plot or characters for the reader to experience, as I found the story dry and boring, and the characters mainly annoying, attention-seeking, and thus, I was never invested and interested in their outcomes. Furthermore, I believe the addition of a frame narrative is was an unnecessary move by Bronte. Mr. Lockwood is rarely in the story's context, nonetheless its key events or points, and should not have been included in the first place. I figure him to be a waste of a character, he is given little description and time in this novel, but rather serves as a unnecessary addition. Rather, the story should have been told directly by Nelly Dean, without the use of a frame, and instead have her recite the life of Catherine I, Heathcliff, Catherine II, Edgar, Hareton and the rest of the bunch as an entire flashback without reverting back every few chapters to Lockwood's bedside.

Despite my beliefs, Bronte's 1847 novel, revolutionary in its time, is still part of the literary canon, thought by many to be highly controversial and a Victorian masterpiece. I, however, will be tucking this story back into my bookshelf, and probably never take it out again.

Sorry Ms. Howard.

Micro Story

He’s sitting there, directly across from me, half-asleep, with his dopey face drooping and bobbing, fighting to stay awake. Early twenties, young and fresh face, snake tattoos covering his left arm and that distinct scar, the one right under his eye. That’s what gave him away, alerted the cops and put him right here, sitting amongst the commotion of the courtroom and the pounding of the gavel.

He’s sitting there without a care in the world, as if he hasn’t done a single thing wrong. As if he hasn’t taken away something precious. He’s sitting there, and I hate him now more than ever. Because I finally get to see him up close, twenty feet away. The man who took her away from me. My motherhood gone, in a blink of an eye.

He, who is sitting there, begins to stare at his hands, turning them over and over, curling his fingers into his palms. I stare at them too. I wonder if they looked the same that day, as he was stabbing and stabbing, covered in flecks and spatters of her blood. They may look clean now, but he hasn’t washed his hands of anything.

Suddenly, he looks up and begins to stare at me. Those eyes, without a soul, black and cold, looking right at me. And the judge, with his kind Southern drawl, finally speaks:

“Guilty”.

And so he, who sits there, sits no more. Becomes an unmarked grave, a body bag with no name in the prison morgue. There are no respects paid to him, no funeral procession and weeping souls, no roses on his grave. Just one mother’s justice to keep him company.