"she was used to it"

Heyo everyone, welcome back for (hopefully not) my final blog post!! I wanna maybe expand this one next week but who knows if that will happen lol

Okay

Since we've  begun Song of Solomon, I'm sure that it's become an expectancy that Morrison loves to throw us random plot twists almost every chapter.From things like the breastfeeding scene, the bones/"gold"- stealing scene, and all the unsettling discoveries about Milkman's family past, there's a bunch of messed up shit going on in this book, for sure. Yet the characters keep living, and continue pushing on.

Every time I consider the above concept, this quote from The Stranger comes up in my mind:

When she was at home with me, Maman used to spend her time following me with her eyes, not saying a thing. For the first few days she was at the home she cried a lot. But that was because she wasn’t used to it. A few months later and she would have cried if she’d been taken out. She was used to it. 

Shmoop  summarizes the quote well, saying "After a while one can get used to, or accept, almost anything."

When we first encountered that line in The Stranger, it struck me pretty hard. The concept of "getting used to"-ness seemed weird to me, but at the same time made perfect sense. Obviously, we adapt and become comfortable in our situations. Is that within itself an integral part of existentialism? I believe it's a key part of understanding The Stranger, which is essentially a novel written through heavy philosophy and thought experiment. But to stretch and say it helps explain Song of Solomon feels if-y, but I'm gonna try to do it any way, lol watch me

There's a lot of weird emotional manipulation, as well as potentially traumatic events and  weird "happenings" without too much explanation, within SoS, and the way we learn about most of these things is through characters telling each other about them. Namely, it's Milkman who finds out all the weird stuff. One of the first things Milkman learns that could be potentially gross or traumatic to him, of course, is in the scene shortly after he hits his father, wherein his father explains the whole doctor-finger-sucking incident. Here, Milkman gets pretty shaken, and even has to leave the house for a while. He's deeply bugged by this (also by remembering breast feeding at four), and tries to tell Guitar, but it just doesn't happen. 

After a few more weird reveals and twists and turns in his life, we find Milkman simply not wanting to hear about any more weird shit, to be frank. He's  a 30-something living at home with parents who keep opening up about secrets he had no idea were even things, and he's come to not wanting to hear about them anymore, rather preferring to be out on the town away from his family. This, I believe, could be him "getting use to" his family's weird sneakery and secretive persona, and coping in a way he's been taught to. Milkman is absolutely the kind of kid that has been raised learning how to supress emotion, so it comes as no surprise that he would deal with confrontation of trauma or honesty from his parents by just wanting to brush it off. 

However, I would say there's a bubbling up point for almost all characters. In Meursault, this may come with the beach scene, or his breakdown in front of the priest. With Milkman, though, I would argue there are a few breakdowns, but not his. He gets in quarrels, and when Guitar and Lena tell him straight, it sort of pushes him over the edge and out into the daunting unknown, aKa the east coast. Milkman is taken out of his place of "used to," and confronted directly and without a place to run twice, and these sequences make him begin to think (or at least I'm pretty sure they do). He realizes once he's been moved out of his usual partying-and-ignoring-his-weird-family-problems dynamic that he is genuinely dependent on so many people, and decides he finally wants to do something alone. This, as I see it, is a direct subconscious response to the removal of his comfort zone, or as Meursault puts it, his sense of "used to."

I'm still trying to work through the point I want to make here, but I think the concept is pretty cool; apathy (I'm using the term loosely hear KEEP THAT IN MIND) and adaption to situations is always inevitable. Who are we to blame when Milkman stops wanting to hear about his family's weird incest-breastfeeding-human bones-murder past? His sense of push back is the way he survives while maintaining his personally favored amount of sanity. Who are we to blame Ruth for sucking on her father's finger after his death? She was used to him being the only person to love and care for her, to show her she was important; when that was taken away, she broke down, and who are we to judge? I think we're quick to conclude sweeping generalities in class, like this family is just "craziness" or the characters do random shit, but it all makes sense; we get used to our lives, even if it's in a bad twisted way, and when that starts to change we tend to get really uncomfortable and desperate.

I think there's something about existentialism (and most philosophical concepts for that matter lmao) that really goes against human nature. We tend to want to sort of discredit other people's choices and ideas by saying "that's wrong for that situation" but, as I've said many a time before, who are we to judge? We weren't there. I think this idea was introduced really well in The Stranger and continued in Song of Solomon in an equally interesting way. I hope to expand on this a little more next week like I said once I've maybe consolidated my thoughts some more -- but for now, that's all !!

We'll all die at some point, flip the world off while you can

So, we finished The Wide Sargasso Sea (WSS) today. I was initially going to write all about sympathy and where we place our's//why, but after today's reading i just don't really want to talk about that. A topic I do find interesting, though, is the idea of fate. Although it isn't talked about in a broader sense in WSS, it is talked about, and we also saw it in our last book, The Stranger. The two books take very different looks at fate, however, and I think it's cool to compare them.

In WSS, Antoinette is repeatedly confronted with the idea of fate in relationship to her mother, and the impending doom of her "inherited madness." Along with Rochester's near enslavement of Antoinette at the end of the novel, it's arguable that the idea that nothing could change the ever-approaching insanity in some ways made her go mad. Like, "I know this is going to happen to me, it must be happening now because I feel crazy" -- like a placebo effect. The other instance of fate in this book is the fact that it's a prequel, we know what's going to happen after it. Similar to the first three (but later released) episodes of the Star Wars series, we know the ultimate fate of all the characters, and in a lot of ways it makes the story eerier, because we wait to see how such a bitter end is going to come; we know that's it's going to end in one specific, heartbreaking way, and the only question is how.

This really contrasts the idea of fate in The Stranger, where Camus seems to suggest the only inevitability is death, the only thing we know is for sure about life is that at some point, it will stop. Looking at the novel from a reader's view, it's easy to see Meursault is going to die, and it's sad, but he has a real turn-around at the end, and brings up some incredibly beautiful, life affirming ideas, which completely contradicts the way Antoinette feels at the end of WSS.

Obviously, there are just some thematic differences that really change the outlooks each character has at the end of their novel, but one thing i think is a crucial piece to understanding the final moments of the novels is free will. We were talking today about how, by the end of WSS and especially on the voyage to England, Antoinette essentially becomes a slave, a prisoner of Rochester. Meursault is literally a prisoner at the end of The Stranger, condemned to the torturous task of waking every day to find out if that will be his last. In Antoinette's case, she ebbs between lucidity and insanity, waiting for her husband to visit her, heartbreakingly aware of what's been done to her. For Meursault, the last days are similar; he has fits, lashes out at the priest, but also has shockingly tender moments of clarity; it's even during one of these clearer moments that he delivers the line about opening himself to the universe, an incredibly insightful resolution to come to.

Meursault spends a lot of time thinking about his execution, and at one point imagines running away from the guillotine, a final "fuck you" to the system that so quickly ordered him worthy of erasure. He'll still be shot down, but in a moment of ever-important resistance, a way of knowing he went out with a bang. Similarly, Antoinette, or rather, Bertha, burns down Rochester's manor and in doing so kills herself, and this, as Mr. Mitchell hinted at today in class, seems to be a final "fuck you" to Rochester, to his utter destruction of her life, to his total lack of acknowledgement of her as she sits wasting in his attic.

Of course, we have to think about condition and context in each story; Meursault was a white man living in colonial Algeria who killed an unnamed Arab man, the embodiment of an anonymous antagonist -- we never knew the Arab man, his family had no chance to speak at the trial, he never even said a word. Antoinette is in many ways the opposite of Meursault, characteristically speaking. She's a racially confused creole woman, tricked into a marriage she soon regrets. Her sense of free will, of knowing decision-making, isn't really there; we see her mostly pushed into situations, talked into things she soon realizes she should have denied. Where Meursault has free will and privilege, Antoinette has no sure voice and an eerily unreliable idea of safety. Yet, they both seem to come to their demises with the same futile sense of rebellion in their last moments. This hints at the whole Myth of Sisyphus argument, the shouts into the silence, shaking your fist at the heavens thing. I'm not really sure how to tie it into WSS quite yet, but I think it's a cool concept to think about when you consider Antoinette's family history, her marriage to Rochester, her dabblings in Obeah, etc. I'd get into it more but I'd get super off topic lol

To conclude, I guess, fate is a definite to both of theses authors as their writing seems to suggest, and the way they handle it is cool -- where Camus treats it as only a distant definite, a sort of "yeah, death will happen, find beauty in the moment," sort of thing, Rhys treats fate as a more haunting idea, a looming threat. Either way, both of their characters end in fiery, messy ways, but with a final wink to the camera-- one last kick to the shins of their captors before they're out.

Meursault, Sisyphus, Sartre, & Septimus: tender existentialism examined (rly long post)

((This blog post is pretty long, but goes much faster if you read it out loud, and sounds  a lot better out loud, too. good luck have fun do well))

so, we've been talking about Meursault's passivity a lot within our two or three days of discussion. I mentioned in class how I couldn't really tell if there was something deeper, and we repeatedly came back to the idea of how Meursault reminded everyone of a child; impressionable, passive, not lost necessarily, but more so allowing things to pass around him. I agree with this train of thought, but the way he writes really reminded me more of the classic "lost teenager" trope. I mentioned a photo series in class today, and here's one of the pics from it:

Here's a link to the i-D article about it

It perpetuates this idea of passivity, calm reaction to the world but no real strong emotions, all that. I'm still kind of drawn to Meursault as a character, because he feels sort of apathetic in an intentional, almost experimental way. He chooses to behave the way he does in reaction to the world around him; there's the part where he says he used to have ambition, and then once he had to leave school he decided nothing mattered. Firstly, this excerpt feels SO classically teenager, like "I used to be a kid, then I realized nothing mattered and GAVE UP"

Meursault is apathetic, but, as within the trope of teenage angst and apathy, his apathy seems to come with a hint of consciousness. He's aware of what he's doing.

His sort of "emptiness," if you will, also reminded me a lot of Yoko Ono's cleaning pieces:

 

I guess they seemed similar because of the whole "no judgement" part. Yoko Ono is famous for her conceptual art, which perpetuates these ideas of the impermanence of life, the lack of importance of the moment, kind of futility but in a conscious and sweet way
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote that part above a couple days into our discussion, when we were at part 1 chapter 3 or 4. I think it creates a really interesting conversation now that we know that Meursault is going to die, he's accepted universal passivity, etc.




I guess the point I want to make with this blog post is kind of hard to communicate, cause for the last 20 minutes I've been writing a sentence and erasing, writing and erasing. Essentially, I think Meursault, in the final chapter and the moments leading up to the end of the book, becomes a really honest, emotional person; even more so than in the rest of the novel. Now, you might be like, "but he didn't FEEL any emotions in the rest of the book!!" but I really have to disagree. There's this recurring line of thought in Meursault's head like, "who am I to judge? What can I say about your thoughts and actions?" and I think as readers we tend to agree with that, then judge Meursault. I believe he had every right to not cry at his mother's funeral. Who are we to say he should be mourning in one certain way? Who are we to say he has to feel despair, has to react in one way, understand her death within one line of thought? Her life was lived, and within it there were moments of joy and moments of despair. Like Meursault mentioned in the last chapter, and I'm quoting from page 122 here, "[s]o close to death, Maman must have felt free then and ready to live it all again. Nobody, nobody had the right to cry over her." We get so upset over Meursault's lack of tears because at funerals people are supposed to cry, it's an outward display of sadness. But who are we to judge Meursault for not crying, when he doesn't feel grief? Maman lived, Maman died. So is life!

 Early in the novel, I had trouble telling if there really was a deeper emotion within Meursault beside apathy; at the end I can say I do believe there is. Meursault lives life on a very bodily level, does things that will make him happy, feels emotions in a genuine way. We can see throughout the book his justification of his own feelings, and they all make sense to him. So who are we to critique the way that someone experiences the world? It is their conscience, after all.

Obviously, this book is a philosophical vessel. The impulsive murder of another person is pretty hard to justify within the real world, but in a universe where we approach things in a dream-like, Woolf-ish way of "our bodies will fall down dead and become covered in blossoms and moss soon enough," it seems almost,,, acceptable?? Obviously I would never just shoot someone, but I think if we're to throw away personal and social morals for a moment and objectively look at the novel, the Arab man's murder falls into place in relationship to the rest of the happenings well. It provides the later context of Meursault v. society and the court, and gives Camus eventual place to talk about his philosophical ideas. At times, I think our classroom discussions got a little hung up on what WE consider morally right, and how WE think about the world. This book, as I see it, was not written with modern societal norms as the definition of right and wrong, but rather written in a way to bring them in to question, but also keep them on the sideline; make them seem relevant only when directly addressed.

The Stranger really reminded me of The Book of Monelle by Marcel Schwob. My copy is currently being lent out to someone, so I can't include any passages. However, I know Schwob was an early surrealist, and the book was written for this prostitute he fell in love with, and is all about love, heartbreak, the death and creation of the moment, and the ultimate passing of the world around us. One major concept in it is that people come and go, and the relationship between a pair of people and their love, their love being this separate entity that ebbs and flows around them. The novel approaches the universe in a fairy tale way, and teaches the lesson of "you can't change the inevitability of death, so make those moments you have now tender and real." It's another really cool philosophical book and i highly suggest it if you liked The Stranger.

I would also say that, at its core, The Stranger is a really "life affirming" novel, as Mr. Mitchell put it. Meursault reminds me of Septimus in a couple ways, and if not Septimus, he reminds me more broadly of the way Woolf approaches characters. A primary point in Woolf's writing is the beauty of life, the preciousness of the moment, yet the futility and undeniable passing of the world around us, just like Schwob's thoughts in The Book of Monelle! I imagine Meursault's understanding of the universe as sort of similar to Woolf's in The Waves, a book all about consciousness and "what does it matter? I just want to go back home and lay in the grass where I'm happy, out in the sun." Camus seems to also love this idea of being out in the world, which is expressed through Meursault really well. Meursault loves and thinks of, primarily, physical passions, being on the beach, and sitting out in the open air. Camus also talks about this idea in his essay about Sisyphus, which has this as the final few lines:

"But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. 

He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him 

neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain,

 in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. 

One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

There is something so basic, so human and bodily, about the brilliance of, quite simply, consciousness -- of being. To feel those things as integral as physical satisfaction, standing in the sunlight, breathing in cool air, etc. is what life is all about. Sisyphus works endlessly in an ultimately meaningless limbo, yet everything around him and everything about existing brings him joy. His ability to resist, to shout angrily up at the sky, shake his fist into the darkness, is what makes it good. It's about pushing against whatever threatens that basic right of being able to step outside when you wish. Meursault thinks of running away from the guillotine, as one final "fuck you" to the French people, the force that wants to kill him for not crying at his mother's funeral. He brings a chaplain to tears because the chaplain wants Meursault to fall in to faith, when Meursault is utterly uninterested in faith -- faith will not stop the ever-encroaching end of life, faith will not bring meaning to us. Ultimately, I think Camus's main point is this: we're all going to die, and there's nothing sad about that. Life is good, the sun is hot (eh?), run like hell when people tell you to live in  a way you don't want to. Bring your own meaning to your life, or don't; it's up to you. Who am I to say anything about you choices? Breathe deeply, feel honestly, lay down in the sand and close your eyes, feel the sun on your eyelids.

There's something really tender about this idea, something human and bodily. The Stranger is often talked about in combination with Nausea by Sartre, which is funny to me because the title, which is also a recurring theme in the book, is literally a bodily feeling. Ultimately in Nausea, the main character comes to the conclusion that, though life will undeniably end in death, and this fact constantly looms, it is up to us to bring our own meaning to the table. The world -- in a physical sense, as well as in the larger concept of the universe -- hurdles endlessly forward -- we can do nothing about that, and the world does not care for us. Therefore, it is our job to create our own meaning.  This conclusion is pretty much the exact same one Meursault comes to in the final chapter of The Stranger.
_________

I'm not really sure what I'm trying to say in this blog post, just that we can't approach this novel with a sense of "he needs to fit our idea of moral righteousness," because who are we to judge? Meursault lives with the constant knowledge that the human conscience means nothing to the world, and it is his own job to create a sense of purpose. He chooses to do this through impulsive pleasures, and, truly, how can we blame him for that? It's a beautiful novel, in my opinion, and I love this "life affirming" take on existentialism; it feels tender, sweet, honest. IDK, just some ideas. ALSO, I know I'm leaving out a lot of plot points, but they didn't really seem suuuper relevant when talking about broader points in relation to other books and ideas. Sorry for the super long post again, LOL

Frankenstein and Cockroaches and the Modern Psyche

During our student-only discussion on Friday of last week, we briefly talked about Gregor's relationship with the world around him. I mentioned how it reminded me of Frankenstein, and didn't really think about it that much then, but now I'm gonna think about it that much.

In Frankenstein, we see the monster as a creature; not alive, not dead -- not human, but undeniably a human. An incredibly important part of understanding the creature, as mentioned by Mr. Mitchell, is keeping in mind that he read Milton's Paradise Lost, another story about punishment, tragedy, and the delicacy of creation, which was a major inspiration for Shelley when she wrote the novel. The monster's ability to articulate his feelings through the language of Paradise Lost is a crucial part of the comparison I'm making; the monster can speak in sophisticated English; to observers, his humanity is apparent in his language, but not beyond that point. He is still, outwardly, a creature. Victor even refers to his creation as a "vile insect" at one point.

We can see a strong connection between Gregor and the monster in a few ways. Gregor has a human psyche. As he dies, he thinks tenderly of his mother and father, his sister. There is a vital part of his existence that is human, yet from his family's perspective that is not apparent. To them Gregor is simply a giant insect. Like the monster, Gregor has a deep inner sense of humanity, but cannot communicate that; is never given the chance to show the world what he truly is.


I found all of this to be interesting when considering Kafka's own personality. Like Woolf, he is an author that, I think, is best read while knowing a bit about his background. Kafka was German and Jewish, born and raised in Prague. It is widely accepted that he suffered from depression, and even social anxiety, which are evident within the novel. Being Jewish in Prague made finding a place difficult, between the German-speaking community and the Czech-speaking one. Here, we see the first real feeling of isolation in Kafka's life. Within the novella, there are signs of depression I picked up on almost immediately. Gregor feels separated, as if he cannot relate to the modern world around him.  A classic symptom of depression, the feeling of watching the world pass by through a pane of glass, is taken literally in The Metamorphosis, not only when Gregor stares longingly out of the window as it fogs over, but with the majority of the story taking place as Gregor listens to his family continue with their lives through the closed doors of his bedroom. Gregor's room becomes dusty, they move furniture in around him, they essentially act like he's not there; there are so, so many ways to look at this story through the lens of depression and mental illness.


As I mentioned a  second ago, Kafka was also thought to have social anxiety. This is shown in Gregor's constant need to please and his worry about his family only. He dies to please them, LITERALLy. Also, a point I find to be pretty important is that no matter Gregor's state, he cannot connect to the people around him. When in human form, the truly insectoid aspects of his personality are blown up; he only focuses on work, making frames, and looking at train timetables. He doesn't socialize, isn't really there. When an insect, he is an insect. Though his psyche is human, he cannot reach out and seek human contact, because he might get murdered if he tries to. At all times within this novel, he is an other.

This ties to Shelley in an interesting way. Though Frankenstein was perhaps not as reflective of her personality, Shelley was also prone to bouts of depression, and this can somewhat be seen in her novel. However, Frankenstein was written at a time when mental illness was less talked about. I'm just speculating here, but perhaps The Metamorphosis is a modern reflection of Frankenstein, in a society where mental illness was felt and explored in  a more direct way. With Freud and other psychoanalysist's works becoming very popular in the early 20th century, as well as Kafka's known interest in spirituality, reincarnation, etc., one could argue The Metamorphosis was a giant reflection of Kafka's own mental state. I'm not sure if the novella was intended for the world, but it seems so much more personal than Frankenstein; Gregor has major daddy issues, the whole insectoid thing can be taken in SO many different ways, and the story is essentially one big psychiatric analysis wet dream.

Basically, Gregor = Frankenstein of the modern era (?)

Vid link

The first five or six miutes in this vid are really good, and I feel like they sum up the idea of imposed gender roles that I touched on in my blog post about Jake being gay pretty well -- enforced gender roles (in Jake's case, from the war and his childhood) really mess people up. This guy articulates it super well! Really cool series too, would recommend, its my fave

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LeCyxA7CG88

"there's f*cking nothing there" - my dad

So.

I was considering writing about gender for this blog post, and sort of ranting about how I didn't actually think Brett was a vessel for Hemingway's critical analysis of gender roles as we had seemed to consider in class, but more of an embodiment of them. I was thinking about all of our discussions, and how people were making good points about her masculinity and behavior being a sign of Hemingway's role reversal, but also how we could draw conclusions that argued she was really a tired trope, and realized quickly that my thoughts were getting all knotted and lost. It took me a while to figure out why I couldn't really decipher stuff, and then it hit me, and i was like "yo, I can't come up with any solid arguments or sort out my thoughts cause they're aren't any solid arguments! Nothing is solid with this book besides straight up textual stuff!! I wrote a 1600 word blog post on nothing at all!!" (it was a dope post but the point still stands)

I got to thinking and this is what I came up with: you can theorize as much as you want with most books and root your ideas in the text, the thoughts. But this book skimps majorly on personal thought and deeper emotion, peels the text itself back to the absolute basic -- verb, noun, subject, object. Getting at that kind of serious analysis, therefore, is really difficult. Now, it's definitely possible; we can allow ourselves to read into the text and through that bring out some really cool ideas; but a lot of the time they're for sure ideas that get dragged out of the novel, not gracefully presented. With most literature, theory is based mostly on a few quotes from the book and understanding the context it was written in, and we could do that with The Sun Also Rises. We could totally do that -- but to a limited extent, and in a very particular context. When I began reading this novel I really didn't like it; Hemingway writes in a way that, alone, it's hard to draw ideas out of. It's a really surface-level style of writing, that I didn't pick up on when I was reading on my own. In-class discussions were awesome, but had those not been presented as a different lens to look at the book thru, I most assuredly wouldn't have taken away the greater ideas and concepts I ended up getting from this novel.

So, why did Hemingway like writing in the tip-of-the-iceberg style? I'm about to go totally out of line, but it really reminds me of the way Stephenie Meyer, the author of the Twilight series writes. They both strategically use a vague style to allow us to fill in where we will; for Meyer, its her main character Bella; the reader can essentially push themselves in to her silhouette and project onto her their own personality and experience as they see fitting. For Hemingway, it's the reasons, the conclusions, the motives, the thoughts, all of that stuff. Hemingway allows the reader to think to themselves, "why did this character do this? What is the larger context of this? How can I explain this to myself?" He wants us to fill it in on our own, answer our own questions to a large degree. It seems to be taken as a really smart move, kind of creaking into modern literature and theory and stuff like "oh man, Hemingway was so smart he made YOU decide what the book was about," but I found it to be really tired after a few chapters. It also made me think of the fake deep phenomenon, which is honestly best described by just looking at how people quote fake deep stuff on twitter. Basically, you front like you're saying something thoughtful and multi-faceted, but... you're not really saying anything. Hemingway followed that path, for me, because he allowed everything in this novel to be up to reader interpretation outside of the most basic aspects and character traits. It just didn't feel like he was actually saying anything solid, but instead provided a vessel for the reader to float their ideas on. Some people find this book to be super macho and sexist, others think it looks at deeper emotions and gender role reversal. And the big thing is, you could argue for ANY of those points, because it's such an open-ended novel. Sure, I wrote a giant post about how gay Bill and Jake are, but I could also spit one out in a few hours about how straight they are; how their fishing trip was just them hanging out and bonding with no connotations outside of that. This writing style got on my nerves because it came off as Hemingway trying to point a mirror at the reader and inspire their ideas to be pushed into how they understood the novel, but it just ended up, for me, being too open -- things were just blank in a lot of the text. The point I'm trying to make here is that this novel is whatever you take from it, it's anything you want it to be, because Hemingway didn't really say all that much; literally and metaphorically. I see it as a bad thing because I feel like Hemingway is using the method of presenting the novel as being "thoughtful and deeper than it looks" to actually not write anything meaningful and not really make any points. But hey, it's your decision on how you take it, you're the reader after all!!

Jake heart Bill, Bill heart Jake: Post-WWI culture and the lost generation

I wanna preface this by saying that I'm aware of the fact that this is my third blog post in a row about sexuality, making  3/3, 100%, all of my blog posts about 'gay stuff' in modern fiction. I'll get into why I find it so interesting in a hot second, but yeah, jus' sayin'

So, I guess this post is more sorting out some of the passages in The Sun Also Rises which seem (so far) a little homoerotic, and looking at their context within the 20's, and maybe looking at how they work with Woolf's queer story line within Mrs. Dalloway. Idk, we'll see where it goes.

To start, let's look at Jake. Hemingway seems to write him in a way that is conscious of Jake's homophobia; in the scene in which he's describing the group of young men Brett enters the bar with, he skirts around slurs, and instead uses very... particular wording to describe the boys so that the point is gotten across without Jake coming out and saying what it is that bothers him about them. This creates a sort of "shh, don't directly confront that" vibe, which comes up later. In the scenes where he talks about the jazz drummer and Bill talks about the fighter in Vienna, however, there is no hesitation to let on that they're both openly a bit racist; whether a conditioned Kansas white man mentality, or genuinely a picked up trend of Jake's, Hemingway let's the reader see that Jake still aligns with old world ideas about race. Also, he's a tad bit antisemitic, and just seems like a more conservative guy in a liberal area. So why does Hemingway seem to make Jake's homophobia so subtle? I only really picked up on it when we talked about it in class. The language he uses is very specific, very intentional.
Before we get into Jake's psychology (i guess that's what to call it??), let's look at his relationships to Brett, the woman he is madly in love with, and Bill, his dude friend. Brett is clever, loves to banter with Jake, and is described in sort of feminine-but-masculine terms. Jake claims she was rocking that particular look before it was cool, before it was socially acceptable for women to cross into a more masculine aesthetic while maintaining a certain lady sex appeal. There are more obviously "dude" qualities about her, too: her name is almost always a man's name, and she asserts a sense of typically "male" sexual promiscuity (guessing it was a little more taboo then for women to be open about their numerous marriages, affairs, and flings). So,  we see Jake madly in love with this woman who, for the 1920's, tends to be cool with a little bit of line blurring. Then, we meet Bill. Bill loves bantering with Jake, drinking heavy (which Brett also loves), and is generally rough n' tough in a way that, I think, Jake really admires (hint hint). He is loud and ironic, and isn't afraid to be considered "offensive." There are some subtle parallels between Bill and Brett I would argue are pertinent here! I think they're important because, essentially, they show who Jake likes to be around, the type of person he gets along with well (again, hint hint).

Keeping all that stuff in mind, let's move on. When the novel first got to the Spain narrative, there was an obvious shift into a pastoral mindset; Jake seems more relaxed, time seems to move slower. He becomes more "honest" and indulges in classically romanticized ideas of labor and country livin'; he even goes to church for the first time in the novel while they are in Spain. Jake and Bill share a hotel room, and one morning Jake leaves the room to collect worms, leaving Bill to sleep in late. When Jake gets back to the room, a long banter-fueled conversation ensues, with this little part that I found particularly, like, cute? Here (on page 118):

"I saw you out of the window," he said. "Didn't want to interrupt you. What were you doing? Burying your money?"

"You lazy bum!"

"Been working for the common good? Splendid. I want you to do that every morning."

"Come on," I said. "Get up."

He climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to his chin. 

"Try and argue me into getting up."

I went on looking for the tackle and putting it all together in the tackle-bag.

"Aren't you interested?" Bill asked.

So, this scene could be taken in the Vaudeville, straight-man-and-comedic-relief sort of way, but it also reminded me of the classic domestic trope of the upright, organized wife bantering with her goofy husband. That sort of hand-on-the-hip, "oh, you!" Thing that can be seen in a lot of rom coms. This scene could totally be taken in a way that insists they're just bros being dudes in rural Spain; but I think the pastoral romance that Hemingway seems to emphasize makes it really hint at maybe, maybe something more. Taking the passage out of context and reading it, I could absolutely see it being between a wife and husband; there's just something endearingly flirty about the way they talk to each other.

Another excerpt to drive home the point would of course be on page 121, where Bill admits how fond he is of Jake. This scene was a really telling show of Bill's vulnerability to me, but he of course picks up his slack instantly with a little ironic joke at the end. It creates this sort of hushed dynamic between Jake and Bill, which I think is pretty reflective of both of them on more personal levels. They let people see their sensitive sides, but quickly cover them up afterward. With that,  I'm going to get into the old school vs. modern ideology stuff.

Jake lives in Paris in the 20's, a place that was a hub of liberalism and culture at that time. Yet he seems to be pretty conservative. Why? Part of it could definitely be accredited to his upbringing. He is from Kansas, a state we can guess wasn't the most liberal or diverse place in the country during the 1900's and 1910's . So, yes, that's a part of it. But, Brett is American (I'm pretty sure), and she's liberal in her beliefs. What pushes Bill and Jake into these conservative, prejudice mindsets? How about World War I? The harsh idea and culture soldiers were taught to conform to can be seen in Mrs. Dalloway, in the impact it leaves on Septimus. He went from being a reasonably romantic young poet to a hardened, numb veteran. Perhaps this same transformation could be applied to Jake and Bill in a different way. Where Septimus joined to "become a man" and get a bit tougher, Jake and Bill presumably had their beliefs and ideologies confirmed by wartime social dynamics. In short, WWI's emphasis on masculinity and the straight, white, Christian default of what it meant to be "a man" enforced these already ingrained ideas within Bill and Jake. Also, I'm not saying the role women played in WWI was any less difficult, but it was undoubtedly different; that would explain why Brett, who was a nurse during the war, didn't feel this pressure. 

Jake and Bill have been conditioned most of their lives to be cool with these racist, xenophobic, and generally bigoted ideologies, and especially since the war have they been fed the idea of hyper masculinity. After the war ends, Jake settles in Paris, on the left bank. Black musicians could make a living there, gay men could go out in pubic and have fun. He's caught between old world, wartime complexes and the real world, the world he is now surrounded by. This brings up the whole idea of the world "passing around you," which in my brain ties into the lost generation theme. So, I guess, I'm saying war veterans had these ideas smashed into their head about conforming then had to go live in a world that just wasn't like that anymore, and being honest and genuine and in the moment with all that going on in their heads must have been, like, super hard. 

In terms of modern ideas of gender and sexuality, I have written all three of my blog posts about such because I think the post-WWI landscape, as far as social issues tended to go, was a really new one; never before had one event rocked the world so hard. When the war ended, there was this sort of big exhale, a sense of relief. Then, of course, came the roaring 20's, and along with them this growing sense of social acceptance. Obviously these new ideas were mostly popular in big cities and certain scenes (think: art, philosophy, literature, etc.), but they opened the way for a lot of voices to be heard. Therefore, I think pulling evidence of this "big sigh" out of literature written in that time is pretty interesting. We can see ideas bubble up that are confronting the post-WWI world, the aftermath, the scars. Whether that's through tragic plot lines like Septimus, or more social-issue driven ones like the subtle exploration of queer affairs like Sally and Clarissa's -- and maybe something going on between Jake and Bill-- it's definitely there, and that's super cool to me. 

This post is kind of all over the place, but I just needed to lay out all my ideas. Huh! Lots to think about. Maybe Hemingway isn't as insufferable as I thought he would be.