The Great American Novel

So the other day I was on Facebook and I saw an article linked through The Great Gatsby fan page. It was an article Jay McInerney talking about why The Great Gatsby is the best American novel of all time. I skimmed through what he said and I found myself in agreement with much of what he said, but then it got me thinking about the larger category of novels Fitzgerald’s book belongs to – the Great American novels.

Huck Finn, I believe, was the first book to be called the Great American novel, and since then people like Fitzgerald, Pynchon, and Wallace have been inducted into this club. The interesting thing about the Great American novels is that they are so very different from one another. Huck Finn is worlds different from Gravity’s Rainbow, and all the others are equally different in their own way. So, what is it about these novels that make them all so great?

Well, I think a lot of it – and I think this sort of goes without saying – has to do with the way that these books encapsulate the current feeling of the American paradigm. America is an ever-changing nation, and that is perhaps the main reason why all of the Great American novels are all so different. But, who is to say that the novels in this club are the best representations of America? Is that even the standard?

I’m not sure.

I do know, however, that the books on the list that I have explored are rather interesting, and I think that some are very deserving of the title and some I’m just okay with. I think there are other novels that better capture the state of America. Thompson’s Rum Diary, for instance, is a great novel when it comes to the whole capturing America bit.

So, folks, what do you think a novel needs to express in order to be called the Great American novel? Do you think some of the novels on the list are less deserving than others? What are some you wish were on the list? You tell me.

Until Next Time,

J

Not a Very Mother's Day Appropriate Blog

I read an article in the Chronicle a couple of days ago about orphans in literature.  Seems like a strange topic, right? Well it kind of is, but, according to Terry Castle, the author of the article ("Don't Pick Up"), orphans are all over the place in literature and the theme of them is an important one to the story of humanity. 

Castle points out that one of the first places we see orphaning in literature is with the exilement of Adam and Eve from Eden. In that tradition, we see the concept of orphanhood as essential to the process of becoming human.  After all, Adam and Eve lose any real claim to their only parent figure in the moment they are exiled; they become orphans. 

The author exemplifies several other works of great literature that involve and center on orphans and the theme, but most interesting in the entire long article (it's over 7,000 words! Which is one of the reasons I'm giving you the Cliff's Notes) is her perspective of her own students. 

While, she believes that the concept of "becoming an orphan," a true individual without ties (of the sort that restrict), is essential to an individual's growth and increased ability to think and reason on their own, she argues that young people today are not necessarily indulging themselves in any sort of self-orphanage.  She says, rather, that they, as products of helicopter parents, are allowing themselves to remain too close and in too constant of contact with their parents even as they go through their college years, years meant to be some of the most invigoratingly independent of them all.

The bewilderment with which she contemplates her students 24-7 attachment to their parents (seven-plus phone calls a day, constant text messaging back and forth, etc) is wonderful and enlightening because a reader cannot help but ask themselves what side of the table they're on: a momma's boy/girl or an "orphan"?    

I do agree with Castle when she argues that we are killing our chances for independent thinking and independent action when we stay in constant contact with parents and when we base our concept of ourselves on them- what they do, what they expect, what will make them proud, etc.  It's freeing to have someone recognize that this is not the way we should live our lives and that to do so is counter to a literary theme of, and a human need for, self-exploration and a certain amount of self-orphaning in order to fully grow up. 

To somewhat more objectively confirm her point beyond just my instant emotional reaction to it, I compared notes with some of my favorite literary characters.  Let's start with Jay Gatsby (where else?)- he has such a desire to free himself from the ties that bind him- to his past, his upbringing, his family- that he even changes his blood name (James Gatz, anyone?).  Let's go to the other end of the spectrum and take a look at Jo March of Little Women.  Admittedly, this is a story that is pretty centered on family; however, it is undeniable that Jo must break away from her family, move to the city and live on her own, before she can become the person she is going to be.  And with that said, this theme becomes a much more commonplace one- people need to venture out on their own in order to evolve- they must seek out new frontiers, they must cast off expectations. 

As far as the real world goes, though I can't speak for generations of yore, it seems that this trope of independent exploration as a right of passage to adulthood is somewhat uncommon.  Today, this can be blamed on a number of things; the economy is not the least of which.  Of people I know in their mid/late twenties more live with their parents (or are highly dependent on their support) than not.  Hell, the guy who lives in the apartment above me gets weekly grocery deliveries from his mom, to which he giddily exclaims, "thank you, Mommy!" every god-damn time.  Isn't that a little gross?

While I do find myself in disgust over grown men using the term "mommy" and being concerned in any way, shape, or form for their parents' sensitivities toward their lifestyle (I find myself often suppressing a "man-the-fuck-up! Do you think Jack Kerouac really cared if he offended his mom? No, he was busy worrying about the world at hand and giving voice to it!" or something equally irrational), I also recognize that I had the good fortune of being raised by some pretty badass, not-easy-to-offend people (though, I admit, to even point this out as a rationalization of my character may reveal my own struggle with parental over-identification).  Either way, I try to pity rather than judge those who've had more of a Little Woman experience.  But, come on, even Jo learned that at some point, you have to worry about you, and you have to become whoever you're going to be. All on your own.          

Thanks for reading. Until next time,

Leena

If you'd like to check out the article mentioned in the blog, you can access it at

http://chronicle.com/article/The-Case-for-Breaking-Up-With/131760/?sid=cr&utm_source=cr&utm_medium=en

Art: Magical Mystery or Definable Beauty?

I was listening to a recent Radiolab podcast (March 19th's "The Turing Problem") the other day, and one of the concepts that was discussed on the show really struck me. By the way, if you don't know what Radiolab is, please stop reading this blog right now and go educate yourself. The question that caught my attention was "are humans anything more than machines?" and if they aren't, what are the implications of this fact for humanity?

One of the commentators, author James Gleick, explored this notion by commenting that even if we are machines, this fact doesn't necessarily diminish any art we create, whether it's a beautiful song or a painting.  It doesn't matter if we are machines, as long as we still have a sense of mystery about how we create that art. Addressing the question posed by host, Robert Krulwich, "…if I built you a computer that could create equally beautiful watercolors and equally beautiful musical composition [to those created by human artists], would you feel happier, or diminished?" Gleick answers,

"I think in a way you’re asking is that if you see how the trick is done, does it then vanish?  Does it just become a trick – the trick being a great painting or a great piece of music? I feel the art I love is always art that I don’t fully understand. There’s some mystery there, always. I don’t quite fathom it [...] And when the machine produces music that is as lovely as the music that you and I love, I believe it will still be unfathomable."

I found this answer to be particularly interesting because of the effect it had on me: initially, I wholeheartedly agreed, and upon analysis, it all fell apart.  To reduce "beauty" and the act of classifying "art" to something being simply "mysterious" and "unfathomable" is a notion I find myself a bit weary of; it implies that we shouldn't try to understand something, and if we understand it, we will no longer appreciate it, and it will cease to be art.   

Why do we need to not understand something for it to be beautiful? To understand something is to destroy it?  And of course Gleick covers his bases by saying that true art will ultimately be mysterious no matter what, we won't be able to figure it out.  And I think, again, that's a little ridiculous.  It goes against a lot of things I believe about writing and about other forms of art- mostly that it can be analyzed and understood as a process.   

To argue that true art cannot be understood is to also imply that true art cannot be deliberately created.  I think to say that understanding the concepts behind photography and then taking a photo with those concepts in mind- to say that that would impede an individual from creating a piece of art implies that the only true art is created by ingénues or created spontaneously without knowledge or just with some sort of deep inherent knowledge and without any discussion of the process, and in some ways, this is an extremely anti-intellectual, anti-academic argument. And, as much as academia can sometimes miss the point through over analysis, I think it's an important element of all of our forms of art, of all of our culture, and all of humanity- the analytical element.

If we don't seek to understand art (to figure out why The Great Gatsby seems so perfect, why Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know" is so catchy, or why Degas' "Waiting" is so haunting), and if we are content to classify it as mysterious magic only, what else will be content with not looking at more deeply? Culture? Humanity? The universe?  Art is not some inherent ability that is bestowed upon only a select few at birth and that the rest of us can only look on in awe.  Nothing is too beautiful to be understood and through understanding, beauty is not diminished, but reaffirmed.    

So we beat on…borne back ceaselessly to our literary loves

We all have literary idols who we feel we have a connection to and who speak to very specific aspects of ourselves. As I'm sure I've mentioned on here before, one of my literary idols is Sylvia Plath. When I spend a couple hours reading her poetry, I am creatively ready to go in a way that nothing else could spark. Her poetry makes sense to me- the tone, the themes, the structure- and my understanding of her work gives me a confidence to write myself. Her writing is a friend to me that I sometimes feel I would be completely lost without, and like a good friend, I am immensely thankful for her.

Reading Milan Kundera has a similar effect on me. His very French aimless narratives that verge on babbling almost cause me believe I can make something of my disjointed abortions of short stories and commentaries that currently sit disconnected from their potential fate in a file folder on my desktop. He reminds me that art cannot always be categorized.

But neither Plath or Kundera necessarily bring out the best in me. Plath, though creatively inspirational, certainly does not encourage my best mind set. In fact, I tend to get downright depressed and just a touch hopeless when I read her too much. And Kundera causes me to jump ship on my attempts at structure, fancifully following his lead down a rabbit hold that sometimes leads to unproductive writing.

And then there's F. Scott Fitzgerald.

A few days ago I started reading Fitzgerald's autobiography, and, so far, it has been an interesting experience. It had been quite awhile since I'd read anything new to me by Fitzgerald. If you know me at all, you know that he is a favorite of mine and that I reread The Great Gatsby often, consulting familiar passages like a devote Protestant would a bible. And, in some ways, this ultimate devotion to that novel has obscured Fitzgerald in my mind; he has become only a name attached to one very meaningful book. Such has been only more so the case as I have not picked up another of his novels or short fiction in the last couple years.

Reading his autobiography now is reminding me of something to me that has been easy to forget in my frenzied love for Jay Gatsby. In fact, it could be said that Scott popped my literary cherry at the age of fifteen when I first read The Great Gatsby for an English class. But, it wasn't Gatsby that mattered- there was not and still is not anything particularly life changing about the story of a tragic young man who cannot accept that not all dreams are attainable. It's Fitzgerald's absolutely outstanding prose that I fell in love with all those years ago. He had me at "In my younger and more vulnerable years…" His was the first literary voice I fell in love with on my own accord, long before the Plaths and Kunderas that would come along later.

I'm somewhat shocked to find now that Fitzgerald's voice still speaks to me in a way that no one else does. His dry humor, his level yet uncertain perspective on life, his delicate annoyance at neediness, his assurance that he is an old man at the age of 25, his disillusionment at attaining everything he wanted, and most of all his candor and seeming lack of shame. This is probably the aspect of his writing that I with the most- he gives the impression that he'll tell you anything you'd want to know about him- his life is not a secret to be guarded and presented in a certain way. This impression is most strongly felt as a result of his romantic vulnerability, more Jay Gatsby than one might initially suspect. His famous declaration to be the greatest writer who ever lived and his contention that "every great poet had written great poetry before he was twenty-one" so he better get on it, he explains, at the age of twenty. Some people, such as Hemingway, have read this as a sign of weakness or desire for approval. I've never seen it as that. He just doesn't give a shit because he knows none of it- society, money, people's expectations- means anything. This critique and that hint at the absurdity of it all are imminently present in The Great Gatsby. And it is this very mixture of hopeful naiveté and utter lack of sentimentality that is endlessly fascinating and oddly comforting about Fitzgerald's writing.

Before I leave you to continue reading that masterful prose I've so gushed over, let me give you the point of it all: our literary icons are not abstract to us, even if we have spent much time away from them; they are old friends. And the effect they have on us often does not fade with time. So, if it's been awhile since you've read your "favorite," make sometime to do so soon and let me know what the visit's like.

Until next time,

Leena

F. Scott Fitzgerald. A Short Autobiography. Scribner.