Consciousness reality (objective reality perceived by the awaken mind and the symbols of language) and sub-consciousness reality (the world of the dreams) are interconnected, inhabit the same realm.
Ryder lives in the dream and travels to reality the same way we live in reality and travel to the internal dream. In the novel both realms are switched: reality is dream, and dream is reality. This furthers Kafka’s technique, for it makes the full crossover to the other side. In the dream, Ryder is an omniscient being, the same way it happens to us in a dream, where we see all like in a movie and have access to all that happens inside each of the characters’ minds.
• Topologically, Ishiguro also furthers the physical Kafkaesque landscape:
• In a dream time and space are beyond the laws of mechanical physics
• The very dark and the very luminous
• The places we dream of from childhood in a recurrent manner
• Space and time lose meaning and substance and shift shape
Sunday, June 26, 2011
"If on a winter's night a traveller" by Italo Calvino
Italo Calvino has been one of my favorite writers for some time. This book is clearly the epitome of meta-fictional narrative. There is one main technique similar to Kafka and Ishiguro: the multiplicity of stories. Except that in Calvino’s book there is a central thread, She-Reader and He-Reader relationship and their quest to uncover the mystery of truncated books. This is of course a mask, what Calvino is addressing is the relationship writer-text-reader. The supporting, side stories Calvino uses to make different points about the art of writing fiction. The variegated voices, styles, settings, and themes are just the backdrop to what is beyond fiction (hence, metafiction); in other words no matter what each story is “about”, the point is that this book is about writing fiction, how readers co-create in their minds the realities a writer tries to convey, this is a story about writing and reading stories. True there are powerful governments (portrayed as stupid even comical), that resemble Kafka’s omnipresent government, but the real intangible power is the structure of metafiction itself and the strong bond writer-reader via text.
There is also one main difference: no dreamlike landscapes, unless we take the central story column as a dream and the many frame stories as dreams within dreams. Where Ishiguro presents us with a fractal field of stories in one plotless narrative, Calvino presents us with many insinuated plots supporting one central story, which at times is irrelevant (crazy plot) yet it is the place where the act of writing is really analyzed. If Ishiguro works on the surreal, Calvino works on the unreal. If Ishiguro works in the realm of non-fiction, Calvino does so in the realm of metafiction.
Where is Kafka here? Kafka did not finish his novels. Calvino does not finish his plots, he is just playing with us, showing how he can mimic many styles and voices.
My favorite narrative is “On the Carpet of Leaves…”, for the richness of detail, the intensity of language, and the sensuality of theme. It is chapter eleven (p. 258) what reveals the fundamental thing of the book: the titles of the many stories form a paragraph that could be yet another story. And this is the virtual fractal: allegedly we can take any paragraph of any story and divide each sentence into the title and the beginning of another, brand new story, and that one into more stories, and that one into more, ad infinitum, like Zeno’s Arrow, never reaching our destination, the end of the story. Story telling never ends. Forget the one thousand and one nights. Calvino’s work forces us to peek into an infinite mirror, a book of sand, ever shrinking and at the same time expanding, universes and realities of fiction.
There is also one main difference: no dreamlike landscapes, unless we take the central story column as a dream and the many frame stories as dreams within dreams. Where Ishiguro presents us with a fractal field of stories in one plotless narrative, Calvino presents us with many insinuated plots supporting one central story, which at times is irrelevant (crazy plot) yet it is the place where the act of writing is really analyzed. If Ishiguro works on the surreal, Calvino works on the unreal. If Ishiguro works in the realm of non-fiction, Calvino does so in the realm of metafiction.
Where is Kafka here? Kafka did not finish his novels. Calvino does not finish his plots, he is just playing with us, showing how he can mimic many styles and voices.
My favorite narrative is “On the Carpet of Leaves…”, for the richness of detail, the intensity of language, and the sensuality of theme. It is chapter eleven (p. 258) what reveals the fundamental thing of the book: the titles of the many stories form a paragraph that could be yet another story. And this is the virtual fractal: allegedly we can take any paragraph of any story and divide each sentence into the title and the beginning of another, brand new story, and that one into more stories, and that one into more, ad infinitum, like Zeno’s Arrow, never reaching our destination, the end of the story. Story telling never ends. Forget the one thousand and one nights. Calvino’s work forces us to peek into an infinite mirror, a book of sand, ever shrinking and at the same time expanding, universes and realities of fiction.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Google Blog Search
Google Blog Search
1
Of how Aleks left his homeland to reunite with his brothers
Some men have the same face since they are born, except for a few little details here and there, a moustache, the gray hair, a random scar… the semblance of old souls is imprinted on them. They just die older and their soul keeps migrating from body to body in their search for eternity, for the union with the Cosmic Mind.
Such is the case of Aleks. Take away the thick moustache and the strands of gray hair on the sides of his head and you find the same air of defeat, the same longing for a state of being not achieved, the same anxiousness for searching. They are all present in his first photograph at age five, in 1877 after a labor day in the family farm in the village of Drenova in southeastern Albania, as in this other one dated 1947, a few months before his death in Bucharest, Hungary.
If one characteristic he must be remembered by, it should his curiosity for knowing his roots, his mad love for his country -no, not Albania as the Westerners and Soviets had renamed it, but Shquipëria, as it is called by the nationals in the ancient language of Illyrian. “Shquipëria, Shquipëria”, he repeats with languor like a mantra as if holding to the last vestige of a culture that survived the Greek, Roman, Slavic and Turk invasions.
“How was my mother?” he asked his father at age ten while helping his father toll the field with an oxen. “She was like autumn leaves chased by the wind, like a passing moment that escapes us, or a summer night’s dream that veils its trace”. He never asked again. Not to his father, who grew ill day by day, or his two older brothers who had left to Hungary earlier the same year in search of a better life. “Why did my brothers leave?” he asked candidly his father. “They grew tired of my melancholy and so will you, if I don’t beat you to it”. This last part was more a mumbling than a response, and less a thought than a menace. The sun shone hard on the squalid soil, away from the gentle breezes of the Adriatic. Two shepherds hushed in the distance to a large flock of goats. The ruins of a Roman castle where his brothers used to spook him watched from a nearby hill. Ideas boiled in Alek’s mind.
Later in his room he repeated in the language he had learned in elementary school: “”. Was it then when he decided to be a poet?These very same lines are found in his poem “Forgotten Memories” contained in his third and last book Psallme Murgu (Psalms of a Monk) published in Bucharest in 1930. In one of his diaries he wrote: “Maybe one does not decide to be a poet, one is chosen by the Muses, one is entrapped, incarcerated, and raped by them. They never let go of you. You do not want to leave”.
The day he found his father hanging from the high beam in the living room, he did not blink or cry. He readied himself to attend school like always. He presented and successfully passed his oral exams. He met with the Headmaster and explained he would not be attending high school after all. “I have to leave the country. My brothers need me”. “How about your father?” Mr. Noli inquired. “Not him, he does not need me. He has all he needs and is where he wants to be”. He walked back home at 3:00 PM. On returning to the house he did not look at the corpse. He went to his room, packed a few belongings on a small valise and took his diary under the arm. He went then to the living room and said “You beat me to it”. He then left the house and started his trip to Bucharest, in search of his brothers. He was thirteen years old.
1
Of how Aleks left his homeland to reunite with his brothers
Some men have the same face since they are born, except for a few little details here and there, a moustache, the gray hair, a random scar… the semblance of old souls is imprinted on them. They just die older and their soul keeps migrating from body to body in their search for eternity, for the union with the Cosmic Mind.
Such is the case of Aleks. Take away the thick moustache and the strands of gray hair on the sides of his head and you find the same air of defeat, the same longing for a state of being not achieved, the same anxiousness for searching. They are all present in his first photograph at age five, in 1877 after a labor day in the family farm in the village of Drenova in southeastern Albania, as in this other one dated 1947, a few months before his death in Bucharest, Hungary.
If one characteristic he must be remembered by, it should his curiosity for knowing his roots, his mad love for his country -no, not Albania as the Westerners and Soviets had renamed it, but Shquipëria, as it is called by the nationals in the ancient language of Illyrian. “Shquipëria, Shquipëria”, he repeats with languor like a mantra as if holding to the last vestige of a culture that survived the Greek, Roman, Slavic and Turk invasions.
“How was my mother?” he asked his father at age ten while helping his father toll the field with an oxen. “She was like autumn leaves chased by the wind, like a passing moment that escapes us, or a summer night’s dream that veils its trace”. He never asked again. Not to his father, who grew ill day by day, or his two older brothers who had left to Hungary earlier the same year in search of a better life. “Why did my brothers leave?” he asked candidly his father. “They grew tired of my melancholy and so will you, if I don’t beat you to it”. This last part was more a mumbling than a response, and less a thought than a menace. The sun shone hard on the squalid soil, away from the gentle breezes of the Adriatic. Two shepherds hushed in the distance to a large flock of goats. The ruins of a Roman castle where his brothers used to spook him watched from a nearby hill. Ideas boiled in Alek’s mind.
Later in his room he repeated in the language he had learned in elementary school: “”. Was it then when he decided to be a poet?These very same lines are found in his poem “Forgotten Memories” contained in his third and last book Psallme Murgu (Psalms of a Monk) published in Bucharest in 1930. In one of his diaries he wrote: “Maybe one does not decide to be a poet, one is chosen by the Muses, one is entrapped, incarcerated, and raped by them. They never let go of you. You do not want to leave”.
The day he found his father hanging from the high beam in the living room, he did not blink or cry. He readied himself to attend school like always. He presented and successfully passed his oral exams. He met with the Headmaster and explained he would not be attending high school after all. “I have to leave the country. My brothers need me”. “How about your father?” Mr. Noli inquired. “Not him, he does not need me. He has all he needs and is where he wants to be”. He walked back home at 3:00 PM. On returning to the house he did not look at the corpse. He went to his room, packed a few belongings on a small valise and took his diary under the arm. He went then to the living room and said “You beat me to it”. He then left the house and started his trip to Bucharest, in search of his brothers. He was thirteen years old.
The gloved hands
2
The gloved hands
“Truth is what is real to me”, whispered the voice in the penumbra. But wait, look down, a gloved hand is also writing the same phrase on a white piece of paper. We can fairly conclude that the voice and the hand belong to the same body, to the same brain. It is the same mind directing the act of writing, the symbol of language, herein written, not spoken.
The hand is using a fountain pen made of black lacquer. The ink flows rich and dark blue on the rugged surface of a paper that seems to be handmade, with one of those kits you can buy in a neighborhood store like Target or an on-line website like Arnold Grummer’s. We infer this because of its rustic texture and odd mix of several hues of white and fibrous appearance. The rasping of the metal tip on the paper surface resonates in the stillness of this moment. This is a left hand writing so the tip stays away and from the humid letters, not cursive letters but block letters, as to not blotch the phrase. The right hand, also wearing the same black leather glove, holds down the paper to assist in the writing.
Now they fold the paper, it is a note written at the center of an 8 inch by 5 inch piece of paper. They fold it, the hands, that is and now they move away. We catch a glimpse of an old dark oak desk the person was sitting at. We still don’t have enough light or a reflecting surface, like a mirror or a window pane, to make who this person is. We just see the gloves and a long black coat moving through the shadows.
The person stops in front of an open box. It is one of those brown boxes with a lid that you use to place your meager belongings when you quit a job or are fired. But instead of some dear files, personal books, the quasi dead orchid your other half gave you, or the photograph of rigor, this box in particular contains… books? No, not books, journals. Yes, journals like those a teenager or an amateur writer acquires at Barnes & Noble or Borders. Or better yet at Michael’s when they are on sale at 99 cent apiece. These are not the famous Moleskine, nevertheless, the ones that advertise “culture, imagination, memory, travel, personal identity” and claim these are the same used by van Gogh, Picasso, Hemingway and Chatwin, as if using them will make you a better writer or a writer at all. The journals in this box look different. They are not black. They display different covers. One has a Doric capital in sepia with the words Kirche zu Constantinopel (nacht Salzen.., another has a series of fountain pens of all types and colors sitting atop postcards with post stamps from different countries, France, Luxembourg, Bettlembourg, Munsing, etc. Another one has a map of the world and the date 1752 at the bottom. This is all we can see when the hands open the flaps of the box and place the note inside.
The person folds the flaps, tapes them and places a glued white 4 inch by 6 inch card on top that reads “HORACIO P. 1234 MOLERA DRIVE, AUSTIN TX 76108”. The person then turns in the shadows and we see another person standing close by. Again, because of the lack of light we only see a gray dress shirt with black buttons. This person moves away along with the one with the gloved hands, and we see a room. It is a bedroom, a bed, undone, in disarray. Someone is in there… dead? Sleeping? We can’t say for sure. We hear a door slam. A lock click. Then, silence. We move closer to the bed, are those blood stains? We can’t tell for sure. We must end this chapter and move on in search of the truth.
The gloved hands
“Truth is what is real to me”, whispered the voice in the penumbra. But wait, look down, a gloved hand is also writing the same phrase on a white piece of paper. We can fairly conclude that the voice and the hand belong to the same body, to the same brain. It is the same mind directing the act of writing, the symbol of language, herein written, not spoken.
The hand is using a fountain pen made of black lacquer. The ink flows rich and dark blue on the rugged surface of a paper that seems to be handmade, with one of those kits you can buy in a neighborhood store like Target or an on-line website like Arnold Grummer’s. We infer this because of its rustic texture and odd mix of several hues of white and fibrous appearance. The rasping of the metal tip on the paper surface resonates in the stillness of this moment. This is a left hand writing so the tip stays away and from the humid letters, not cursive letters but block letters, as to not blotch the phrase. The right hand, also wearing the same black leather glove, holds down the paper to assist in the writing.
Now they fold the paper, it is a note written at the center of an 8 inch by 5 inch piece of paper. They fold it, the hands, that is and now they move away. We catch a glimpse of an old dark oak desk the person was sitting at. We still don’t have enough light or a reflecting surface, like a mirror or a window pane, to make who this person is. We just see the gloves and a long black coat moving through the shadows.
The person stops in front of an open box. It is one of those brown boxes with a lid that you use to place your meager belongings when you quit a job or are fired. But instead of some dear files, personal books, the quasi dead orchid your other half gave you, or the photograph of rigor, this box in particular contains… books? No, not books, journals. Yes, journals like those a teenager or an amateur writer acquires at Barnes & Noble or Borders. Or better yet at Michael’s when they are on sale at 99 cent apiece. These are not the famous Moleskine, nevertheless, the ones that advertise “culture, imagination, memory, travel, personal identity” and claim these are the same used by van Gogh, Picasso, Hemingway and Chatwin, as if using them will make you a better writer or a writer at all. The journals in this box look different. They are not black. They display different covers. One has a Doric capital in sepia with the words Kirche zu Constantinopel (nacht Salzen.., another has a series of fountain pens of all types and colors sitting atop postcards with post stamps from different countries, France, Luxembourg, Bettlembourg, Munsing, etc. Another one has a map of the world and the date 1752 at the bottom. This is all we can see when the hands open the flaps of the box and place the note inside.
The person folds the flaps, tapes them and places a glued white 4 inch by 6 inch card on top that reads “HORACIO P. 1234 MOLERA DRIVE, AUSTIN TX 76108”. The person then turns in the shadows and we see another person standing close by. Again, because of the lack of light we only see a gray dress shirt with black buttons. This person moves away along with the one with the gloved hands, and we see a room. It is a bedroom, a bed, undone, in disarray. Someone is in there… dead? Sleeping? We can’t say for sure. We hear a door slam. A lock click. Then, silence. We move closer to the bed, are those blood stains? We can’t tell for sure. We must end this chapter and move on in search of the truth.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
When Mr. Pirzada came to dine
Jhumpa Lahiri’s “When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine”: The Process of Setting and Character Arc
In her short story, “When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine”, Juhmpa Lahiri uses three techniques: i) time linearity, ii) settings contrast, and iii) a reminiscing point of view, to illustrate three changes (arc) in the story’s main character and narrator: i) socio-political awareness, ii) compassion wakefulness, and iii) identity discovery.
Since the beginning the first person narrator situates the reader “In the Autumn of 1971”. The narrator, Lilia, a 10-year-old child at the time, reminisces years later (we don’t know exactly when) on the events and dates and relates her perceptions of Mr. Pirzada’s predicament and her own realization on several subjects. This indicates that her awareness, wakefulness, and discovery was completed only years later. The technique of process is manifested by the constant reminders from the narrator of the dates of when things occurred: March of 1971. Dacca is invaded by West Pakistan and horrible things happen to its population, which awakens Lilia to socio-political themes. She also sees her parents looking for surnames similar to theirs in the university directory to invite the person to dine, in this year, Mr. Pirzada. Autumn of 1971. Pakistan is engaged in civil war. Lilia’s parents complain that in the US at large and Boston in particular, there is no mustard oil in the supermarket, physicians make no house calls, and neighbors make no visits un-announced, as it happens in India.
End of Summer 1971. The death toll mounts to 300,000 and, after several visits, Lilia learns that Mr. Pirzada is a regular at dinner time, asking her mother for a fourth glass for “the Indian man”, who is visiting Boston on a grant. Her father gives Lilia a geo-political lesson on India, Pakistan, and the new republic to come, Bangladhesh, explaining about the Partition by the British and the separation based on religion (Muslim and Hindu). Lilia becomes aware of the contrast between the perils taking place thousands of miles away and the safety she enjoys at home, the ignorance of the ongoing war at her school (“no one in school talked about the war”). She becomes aware of the cultural affinities between her family and Mr. Pirzada (the separation “made no sense” to her), and her nous of compassion flourishes (“I had never prayed for anything before”, “above all I wanted to console Mr. Pirzada”). The visitor becomes the embodiment of the suffering of many families. She probably projects her own image into that of the visitor’s daughters and the image of her father into that of Mr. Pirzada. Lilia also acquires a deeper sense of identity by hearing her parents and the visitor comment –rather sarcastically- on the local customs (“what is this thank you?”, “figure out what made him different”, and “the peculiar eating habits”).
In October Lilia becomes aware of the temporariness of US news media (“more and more rare to see any footage from Dacca”), the structure of international politics (USSR versus the USA), the perils of war versus the safety of home, and continues her own identity definition process, when Mr. Pirzada questions about “large orange vegetables”. Her sense of community is heightened when the sit at the table “for the first time” and her self-definition is expressed, I think, when she compromises a frown or a smile with a non-expression face on the pumpkin. This non expression could also mean that even though this is a time of celebration (within the scare) there should not be much celebration in the face of the war and Mr. Pirzada’s suffering. The 12 days of the war after December 4 are spent in Lilia’s house with no TV, customary candy or large meals with Mr. Pirzada staying in “sharing a single meal, a single body, a single silence, and a single fear”. Finally in January 72 the war is over and Mr. Pirzada goes back to Dacca. Only several months later Lilia and her parent receive a post card from Mr. Pirzada celebrating the Muslim New Year and communicating that his family spent the war safe in the mountains of Shillong. They are reunited.
Lilia’s arc was probably completed only several years later, when the narrator writes the story, but the continued setting contrasts of war in Pakistan versus safety in the USA, the simple geo-political lessons at school versus the live TV news and conversations at home, and the home environment versus the outer relationships, brought Lilia through a coming of age process a=that is well narrated and depicted in a clear timeline in this story.
See Appendix 1 for a depiction of the above analysis in chart form.
APPENDIX 1: CHART FORM ANALYSIS OF THE PROCESS OF SETTING AND CHARACTER ARC
time socio-political compassion identity
March of 1971 Dacca invaded (only flashback) torching, shelling, shooting, rape.
vs
Boston folliage parents looking for Indian surnames in university directory
Autum 1971 Pakistan engaged in civil war no mustard oil, no house calls, no neighbor visits
End of Summer 1971 300,000 deaths Mr. Pirzada family left behind
End of September 1947 Partition by Britain based on religion Hindus and Muslims.
Vs
safe and easy life and opportunity in US. , but no knowledge of world affairs.
US education
vs
no knowledge of world affairs: every year the revolutionary war in a superficial manner
history lessons thru TV, "no one in school talked about the war", doing her own research in the library "hand me a fourth glass" for the visitor, not an Indian man
Perception of time and place: a father with a family in Dacca
Pirzada as the embodiment of the pain seen on TV, "I had never prayed for anything before"
"above all I wanted to console Mr. Pirzada" Separation by religion "made no sense"for they shared the same customs (food and manners)
"What is this thank you?"
"figure out what made him different"
"peculiar eating habits"
October temporariness of US news "more and more rare to see any footage from Dacca",
the safety of Halloween for Lilia and Dora
vs the perils of war
The US-W Pak vs the E Pak-India-USSR "large orange vegetables"
"for the first time we all gathered around the dining table"
"a compromise" smile or frown also for identity? Or pity? Custome and basmati rice box? "never saw an Indian witch"
On December 4 12 days of war: Pakistan army surrendered, No TV, no candy No TV, no candy, no large foods, Mr. Pirzada staying in and "sharing a single meal, a single body, a sngle silence, and a single fear"
In January Reconstruction Mr. Pirzada back to Dacca
Several months later Reunited with his family they were safe in Shillong all the time card from Mr. P celebrating Muslim New year
In her short story, “When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine”, Juhmpa Lahiri uses three techniques: i) time linearity, ii) settings contrast, and iii) a reminiscing point of view, to illustrate three changes (arc) in the story’s main character and narrator: i) socio-political awareness, ii) compassion wakefulness, and iii) identity discovery.
Since the beginning the first person narrator situates the reader “In the Autumn of 1971”. The narrator, Lilia, a 10-year-old child at the time, reminisces years later (we don’t know exactly when) on the events and dates and relates her perceptions of Mr. Pirzada’s predicament and her own realization on several subjects. This indicates that her awareness, wakefulness, and discovery was completed only years later. The technique of process is manifested by the constant reminders from the narrator of the dates of when things occurred: March of 1971. Dacca is invaded by West Pakistan and horrible things happen to its population, which awakens Lilia to socio-political themes. She also sees her parents looking for surnames similar to theirs in the university directory to invite the person to dine, in this year, Mr. Pirzada. Autumn of 1971. Pakistan is engaged in civil war. Lilia’s parents complain that in the US at large and Boston in particular, there is no mustard oil in the supermarket, physicians make no house calls, and neighbors make no visits un-announced, as it happens in India.
End of Summer 1971. The death toll mounts to 300,000 and, after several visits, Lilia learns that Mr. Pirzada is a regular at dinner time, asking her mother for a fourth glass for “the Indian man”, who is visiting Boston on a grant. Her father gives Lilia a geo-political lesson on India, Pakistan, and the new republic to come, Bangladhesh, explaining about the Partition by the British and the separation based on religion (Muslim and Hindu). Lilia becomes aware of the contrast between the perils taking place thousands of miles away and the safety she enjoys at home, the ignorance of the ongoing war at her school (“no one in school talked about the war”). She becomes aware of the cultural affinities between her family and Mr. Pirzada (the separation “made no sense” to her), and her nous of compassion flourishes (“I had never prayed for anything before”, “above all I wanted to console Mr. Pirzada”). The visitor becomes the embodiment of the suffering of many families. She probably projects her own image into that of the visitor’s daughters and the image of her father into that of Mr. Pirzada. Lilia also acquires a deeper sense of identity by hearing her parents and the visitor comment –rather sarcastically- on the local customs (“what is this thank you?”, “figure out what made him different”, and “the peculiar eating habits”).
In October Lilia becomes aware of the temporariness of US news media (“more and more rare to see any footage from Dacca”), the structure of international politics (USSR versus the USA), the perils of war versus the safety of home, and continues her own identity definition process, when Mr. Pirzada questions about “large orange vegetables”. Her sense of community is heightened when the sit at the table “for the first time” and her self-definition is expressed, I think, when she compromises a frown or a smile with a non-expression face on the pumpkin. This non expression could also mean that even though this is a time of celebration (within the scare) there should not be much celebration in the face of the war and Mr. Pirzada’s suffering. The 12 days of the war after December 4 are spent in Lilia’s house with no TV, customary candy or large meals with Mr. Pirzada staying in “sharing a single meal, a single body, a single silence, and a single fear”. Finally in January 72 the war is over and Mr. Pirzada goes back to Dacca. Only several months later Lilia and her parent receive a post card from Mr. Pirzada celebrating the Muslim New Year and communicating that his family spent the war safe in the mountains of Shillong. They are reunited.
Lilia’s arc was probably completed only several years later, when the narrator writes the story, but the continued setting contrasts of war in Pakistan versus safety in the USA, the simple geo-political lessons at school versus the live TV news and conversations at home, and the home environment versus the outer relationships, brought Lilia through a coming of age process a=that is well narrated and depicted in a clear timeline in this story.
See Appendix 1 for a depiction of the above analysis in chart form.
APPENDIX 1: CHART FORM ANALYSIS OF THE PROCESS OF SETTING AND CHARACTER ARC
time socio-political compassion identity
March of 1971 Dacca invaded (only flashback) torching, shelling, shooting, rape.
vs
Boston folliage parents looking for Indian surnames in university directory
Autum 1971 Pakistan engaged in civil war no mustard oil, no house calls, no neighbor visits
End of Summer 1971 300,000 deaths Mr. Pirzada family left behind
End of September 1947 Partition by Britain based on religion Hindus and Muslims.
Vs
safe and easy life and opportunity in US. , but no knowledge of world affairs.
US education
vs
no knowledge of world affairs: every year the revolutionary war in a superficial manner
history lessons thru TV, "no one in school talked about the war", doing her own research in the library "hand me a fourth glass" for the visitor, not an Indian man
Perception of time and place: a father with a family in Dacca
Pirzada as the embodiment of the pain seen on TV, "I had never prayed for anything before"
"above all I wanted to console Mr. Pirzada" Separation by religion "made no sense"for they shared the same customs (food and manners)
"What is this thank you?"
"figure out what made him different"
"peculiar eating habits"
October temporariness of US news "more and more rare to see any footage from Dacca",
the safety of Halloween for Lilia and Dora
vs the perils of war
The US-W Pak vs the E Pak-India-USSR "large orange vegetables"
"for the first time we all gathered around the dining table"
"a compromise" smile or frown also for identity? Or pity? Custome and basmati rice box? "never saw an Indian witch"
On December 4 12 days of war: Pakistan army surrendered, No TV, no candy No TV, no candy, no large foods, Mr. Pirzada staying in and "sharing a single meal, a single body, a sngle silence, and a single fear"
In January Reconstruction Mr. Pirzada back to Dacca
Several months later Reunited with his family they were safe in Shillong all the time card from Mr. P celebrating Muslim New year
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Franz Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis”: Unknown causes that that further and enhance the narrative
In his classic story “The Metamorphosis” Franz Kafka omits important information that would explain the basic premise of the narrative, yet, through two specific writing techniques in plot and character development, he leads the reader away from seeking such information.
Story is a sequence of related events and one of the central elements of storytelling is Plot , which answers the questions “what happened” and suggests “why did it happen” . The story begins abruptly, with a powerful inciting action: Gregor Samsa awakes one day and finds himself transformed into a monstrous vermin. The reader does not know: a) how such transformation occurred; and b) what sort of vermin is has become. Instead on elaborating on the cause of the transformation, Kafka concentrates heavily on the effects of the transformation; he follows the first sentence with a detailed description on Samsa’s new body. Even though the character Samsa asks “What has happened to me?” and verifies with horror that he is not dreaming, he does not dwell in the cause, but analyzes his room, recalls and criticizes his hated job, looks through the window, and worries for being late. This dense description of Samsa’s thoughts, one after the other, distracts the reader from the causes of the transformation and provides the necessary background that makes the character real and the transformation credible. Instead of the how did this happen? Of why did it happen? Kafka focuses on the consequences of the given premise through each of the characters. The hard fact of the transformation becomes the premise that governs the story from then on. The effects of such transformation move the story forward unveiling each character’s thoughts, intentions, and actions. The loving (love? Or calculated interest?) family he has, his sister Grete and his parents are transformed. Young Grete goes from loving, caring little sister (“Today he really liked it”, p. 701) to referring to him as it and plotting to kill him (“we have to try to get rid of it”, p. 716). His mother goes from hope and denial (“when Gregor come back to us”, page 705) to fear (“Oh God! Oh God! And collapsed, page 707). His father goes from anger (“furious and elated”) to sheer intentin of killing him (“begging him…to spare Gregor’s life”, p. 709). In other words, the plot concentrates on the family relationships.
When the cleaning lady finds Gregor dead the family becomes melancholy, even remorseful (“They all looked as if they had been crying”, p. 719) and Mr. Samsa throws out the tenants. He fires the cleaning lady who disposed of Gregor’s corpse and goes from lazy and detached to taking charge and encouraging all to look at the future. As quickly as the family says good bye to Gregor, the reader is dragged by Kafka into the bright future the Samsas are preparing to live.
Concealing the type of vermin provides the reader with whatever her imagination can produce. For one a rat would be repulsive enough, for other, a roach, for still others a beetle. By not given a clear name to the “insect” Kafka gave each reader the dose for her own fear and repulsion. By concentrating the narrative on the effects of the primary cause on the characters, Kakfa creates a moving plot that forces the reader to question his own views and exploring his own reactions to the changes in others.
The Story and its Writer, page 1742
“Plot is the sequence of events in a story and their relationship to one another as they develop and often resolve a conflict” (The Story and its Writer, page 1742)
The Story and its Writer, page 1742
There is much debate about the correct translation that would identify the specific vermin or insect he has become. Kafka himself did not want to address this question.
In his classic story “The Metamorphosis” Franz Kafka omits important information that would explain the basic premise of the narrative, yet, through two specific writing techniques in plot and character development, he leads the reader away from seeking such information.
Story is a sequence of related events and one of the central elements of storytelling is Plot , which answers the questions “what happened” and suggests “why did it happen” . The story begins abruptly, with a powerful inciting action: Gregor Samsa awakes one day and finds himself transformed into a monstrous vermin. The reader does not know: a) how such transformation occurred; and b) what sort of vermin is has become. Instead on elaborating on the cause of the transformation, Kafka concentrates heavily on the effects of the transformation; he follows the first sentence with a detailed description on Samsa’s new body. Even though the character Samsa asks “What has happened to me?” and verifies with horror that he is not dreaming, he does not dwell in the cause, but analyzes his room, recalls and criticizes his hated job, looks through the window, and worries for being late. This dense description of Samsa’s thoughts, one after the other, distracts the reader from the causes of the transformation and provides the necessary background that makes the character real and the transformation credible. Instead of the how did this happen? Of why did it happen? Kafka focuses on the consequences of the given premise through each of the characters. The hard fact of the transformation becomes the premise that governs the story from then on. The effects of such transformation move the story forward unveiling each character’s thoughts, intentions, and actions. The loving (love? Or calculated interest?) family he has, his sister Grete and his parents are transformed. Young Grete goes from loving, caring little sister (“Today he really liked it”, p. 701) to referring to him as it and plotting to kill him (“we have to try to get rid of it”, p. 716). His mother goes from hope and denial (“when Gregor come back to us”, page 705) to fear (“Oh God! Oh God! And collapsed, page 707). His father goes from anger (“furious and elated”) to sheer intentin of killing him (“begging him…to spare Gregor’s life”, p. 709). In other words, the plot concentrates on the family relationships.
When the cleaning lady finds Gregor dead the family becomes melancholy, even remorseful (“They all looked as if they had been crying”, p. 719) and Mr. Samsa throws out the tenants. He fires the cleaning lady who disposed of Gregor’s corpse and goes from lazy and detached to taking charge and encouraging all to look at the future. As quickly as the family says good bye to Gregor, the reader is dragged by Kafka into the bright future the Samsas are preparing to live.
Concealing the type of vermin provides the reader with whatever her imagination can produce. For one a rat would be repulsive enough, for other, a roach, for still others a beetle. By not given a clear name to the “insect” Kafka gave each reader the dose for her own fear and repulsion. By concentrating the narrative on the effects of the primary cause on the characters, Kakfa creates a moving plot that forces the reader to question his own views and exploring his own reactions to the changes in others.
The Story and its Writer, page 1742
“Plot is the sequence of events in a story and their relationship to one another as they develop and often resolve a conflict” (The Story and its Writer, page 1742)
The Story and its Writer, page 1742
There is much debate about the correct translation that would identify the specific vermin or insect he has become. Kafka himself did not want to address this question.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)