Past, Present, and Future

In class, we talked about themes, and spent some time on the idea that themes weren't like lessons or morals; stories usually aren't written for the express purpose of getting a message across, though that may be one part of the author's intention.  Most stories are primarily written to entertain (for the purpose of this post, I'll sweep parts of postmodernism under the rug briefly).

This is kind of a weird idea; in elementary and middle school English, most of us were taught that the theme was a sort of "lesson" (later replaced by "observation") about human nature or the world around us.  But when I started thinking about it, I realized that perhaps this view had always skewed my thematic interpretations.  Take, for example, the science fiction genre.

Most science fiction begins as an attempt to construct marginally-possible visions of the future, whether dystopian or not, often involving space travel, robots, and the like.  A notable number of these visions approximate the truth of the future; for instance, 'cyberspace' is a term which originated in William Gibson's fiction, interplanetary travel is about a decade away (caveat emptor), and robots have been developed quite significantly.

Additionally, while it may seem that sci-fi novels intend to present a survey of technological benefits or, alternatively, a horrifyingly-dystopian world, and thus attempt to influence the reader to support or oppose technological development, perhaps their themes are closer to simply predicting the future as the author sees it, and leaving readers to judge that future for themselves.

With that in mind, consider the following quote from a Paris Review interview with William Gibson in which he describes potential "plot drivers" of sci-fi novels in the 1980s:

           "Fossil fuels have been discovered to be destabilizing the planet’s climate, with

           possibly drastic consequences. There’s an epidemic, highly contagious, lethal

           sexual disease that destroys the human immune system, raging virtually uncontrolled 

           throughout much of Africa. New York has been attacked by Islamist fundamentalists,

           who have destroyed the two tallest buildings in the city, and the United States in

           response has invaded Afghanistan and Iraq."

When we consider these ideas through the lens of the world in 1981, they seem outlandish and unrealistic-- but here we are, in 2013.  The same kind of perspective can be seen with essentially all technology that we take for granted today.

In the same vein.

As a second example, imagine that you are reading a hypothetical science fiction novel describing a world in which machine augmentation (everything from artificial arms to minds hosted in computers) has become commonplace.  In fact, suppose that in this novel, characters express distaste at the idea of being fully human, and that the closer to a pure machine someone gets, the higher their sociopolitical (and perceived moral) status is.  Other than these details, the novel is a simple adventure story, perhaps with a vague ending or something of that nature.

I would expect three "classes" of reader reactions:
1. The premise seems ridiculous to this kind of reader, and the story seems uninteresting.
2. This type of reader interprets the story as a cautionary tale rooted in the ethics of keeping humans separate from machines, and reacts negatively to the premise.
3. This type of reader approves of the basic premise, if not of the idea that humanity is something to be rejected; to this reader, the story constructs a plausible (and somewhat awesome) view of the future.

I fall into the third class of reader; I'd gladly trade in my arm for a mechanical one.  (Provided that I saw the specs first, anyway.)

It seems that these basic subtypes of readers can be found with regard to any type of futurist fiction.  There are those who aren't all that into the genre (or, at least, that particular section of the genre), those who like the way the world is now or have ethical doubts, and those who wholeheartedly support technological development regardless of concerns.

So, after this oblong tangent, I will return to my initial point.  Let's consider the themes that each type of reader will retrieve from this story.  I'd venture that reader type 1 would not glean much in the way of a theme from the story; to them, it would not be very meaningful.  Reader type 2 would carry away the theme that technology can be dangerous to the structure and fundamental ideas of our society, and reader type 3 would say that the story demonstrates the enormous potential of technology, and that (citing mentioned circumstances such as the total disappearance of disability and crippling injury) technology will tend to improve the quality of life.

However, I think that these themes are produced more from the reader than from the author.  The story itself is close to neutral, or, at the very least, closer to neutral than its interpretations are; in this hypothetical, the author has no intent to persuade readers one way or another.  Still, readers pull meaning from the setting of the story and their own personal views.

Though of course there is essentially a consensus on the themes and intentions of some fictional works (e.g. 1984), I think that many modern works of literature, especially in science fiction, tend to be interpreted in different ways than the author intended, and that we should exercise caution in interpretation.  After all, perhaps we can learn more about the work-- and about our own beliefs-- if we stop for a moment to play Devil's Advocate and look at the story from other points of view.

Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore

Or, why I don't really like Cloud Atlas.

This topic came to mind when we were discussing chronological manipulation and the nature of plot and story in class.  A bit of background first-- last year, in Mrs. Turner's English class, I elected to read Cloud Atlas, a book by David Mitchell which was recently developed into a film.  It did win several prizes and all that jazz (although so did Wolf Hall), and after reading a brief description, I was hooked.

In short, Cloud Atlas is split into sections which differ in viewpoint.  The first section is narrated by Adam Ewing, an incredibly gullible American notary.  Halfway through his 'Pacific Journal', though, the section ends mid-sentence and is replaced by a series of 'Letters from Zedelghem', written by Robert Frobisher, a young composer.  These literary shenanigans continue, with the only interrupted section being in the middle; subsequently, the stories complete themselves, with the book ending with Ewing's record of his recovery from sickness.  Each section proves to be rife with foreshadowing and flashbacks, primarily for use in connecting the sections.

At the time of my reading, I was quite impressed by Mitchell's style.  I had never read a book of this sort before, and I found the interweaving chronologies captivating.  However, the themes struck me as somewhat uninspired; nothing from the different responses of characters upon encountering evil to the flowery language in the final chapter had particularly interested me.

Then, a fateful moment: looking for the date of publication, I happened to read in the Wikipedia page that the style of Cloud Atlas, which had so drawn me in, was actually almost entirely derived from an earlier work, Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore (or, if you prefer, as I do, If on a winter's night a traveler.)

This book is not quite what it seems, and yet it presents its ideas clearly and simply.

(Although I honestly didn't think it was all that possible to spoil Cloud Atlas because of the detailed nature of the different parts, I take a different view of this novel, and so my synopsis will be cursory and nonspecific.)

If on a winter's night a traveler is about the reader-- you!  Yes, the greater part is in second person, something that was disconcerting at first, but was clearly demonstrated as a powerful tool in Calvino's capable hands.

Essentially, though the book does involve the splitting of viewpoints, it is quite different in nature (and reading experience) from Cloud Atlas.  The latter is exactly as it sounds-- weighty, complex, and just a little difficult to immerse oneself in.  By contrast, Calvino's book is much like a puzzle cube.  It mimics more common strategies of literature, such as continuity, and then turns them on their heads.  The author says to himself, and to the reader-- aha, you didn't expect that, did you?

Reading If on a winter's night a traveler is like playing a game of chess with a Grandmaster.  You feel interest, then confusion at a turn of events, mild irritation, and increasing engagement as you try to figure out what is going on; after a while, you feel intense rage at your failure to comprehend what was going on when it first happened, and in the end, you accept your lot in life.  You are the reader, and you have just been tricked into reading a book about reading a book.

That being said, I have never met anyone who, after reflecting on the book, did not enjoy it thoroughly.  There aren't heavy themes like Cloud Atlas, just a playful demonstration of style.  It was genuinely a fun book to read, which was weird, because it was postmodern.

In summary, the manipulation of chronology and continuity can be wonderful literary techniques-- when used by the right authors.  To me, Cloud Atlas was overly-ambitious, and though it was a very good read, it did not deliver the revolutionary impact that it had intended to.  By contrast, If on a winter's night a traveler knows exactly what it is trying to be.  It wasn't a life-changing work; after all, it wasn't intended as such.  But it was perfectly tailored to appeal to a careful, thoughtful reader.

To end this post, I'll make a shameless sales pitch!  If you haven't ever heard of Calvino, and you enjoy reading, I would highly recommend giving him a try.  You won't regret it.

Tolkienian Symbolism

All of this discussion on the symbolism of Hills Like White Elephants and Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been? got me thinking about hidden symbolism in some of my favorite works-- more specifically, the Lord of the Rings.  And the more I thought about it, the more meanings I uncovered.

Searching Google still blew my mind, though.

The obvious symbolism is that of good and evil; however, there is a great deal of underlying similarity to influences ranging from Beowulf to Tolkien's central moral and religious principles.  Tolkien was a devout Christian and enthusiastic linguist for much of his life, and so that wasn't a huge surprise.  (Fun fact-- Tolkien actually invented the languages first, and wrote the stories to complement them.)

From lotr.wikia.com

(I was able to come up with the Beowulf similarities on my own, but the religious symbolism flew right over my head.  I think it was subtle enough that if I weren't looking for it, I wouldn't have found it.)

The similarities to Beowulf are mostly shallow in nature.  Gollum, and the orcs, are thought to have been inspired by Grendel; likewise, many of the events in The Hobbit and LotR parallel plot points in Beowulf.  By contrast, the religious symbolism (I've used that word too many times, but Tolkien repeatedly stated that he hated allegory) is a little more deeply interwoven with the themes.

Some Google searches revealed that several of the characters are actually thought to represent common archetypes in religion, though no one character is a Christ-figure (as in the case of Aslan.)

First, and most evidently, Gandalf.  He is introduced as a wanderer, in the form of Gandalf the Grey.  He dies in a battle against a Balrog, sacrificing himself to allow the rest of the Fellowship to escape, and is later resurrected.  This appears as an immediate parallel to the death and resurrection of Jesus in Christian beliefs.

Aragorn is thought to represent the 'King' aspect.  Like Gandalf, he undergoes a transformation, but in his case, it is a change from the inconspicuous ranger Strider to the king of Gondor; this transformation chiefly occurs at a figurative 'death', when he convinces the dead men to fight for him.

The roots of Frodo and Sam, as characters, are subject to quite a bit of debate.  Some scholars hold that Frodo represents humanity and Sam represents Jesus (or the Holy Spirit) in a Christian sense; others believe that both represent different types of sacrifice.  I find myself more drawn to the second idea; I do not think that the books were intended to represent religion, but rather that they were written by a religious writer, and thus share some thematic similarity.  Additionally, sacrifice in and of itself is a motif in all of Tolkien's works.  Examples are found throughout the Silmarillion, especially in the case of [Beren and Lúthien], in which the two repeatedly sacrifice things important to them for the sake of the other.

Tolkien also highly developed the mythology of the elves in a way that paralleled Greek mythology.  Many of the principal deities resemble Greek counterparts, and like Greek gods, are separate from the idea of creation.

It is quite easy to see that The Lord of the Rings, together with Tolkien's other works, were highly influenced by various mythologies and earlier literature.  The central structure of the world of Middle-Earth, and the characters who inhabit it, are expressions of the most basic archetypes of Tolkien's beliefs.

Under-stand: Or, why you should have called Entomology Man.

[ Obscure reference? ]  [ Obscure reference. ]

In class, we discussed a few things: most chiefly, at least in my memory, was annotation and strategies for understanding and recalling details.

I have had a long and tumultuous love-and-hate affair with annotation and other strategies.  In middle school, I was forced to do Cornell notes, and worse, they were structured the wrong way.  So began my epic distrust of notation strategies.  After all, Gandalf didn't need notes to know everything, so why would I?

The fact that fictional wizards can do pretty much whatever they want was conveniently overlooked by my young mind.

Later, I began to discover that outline notes were easy to do and organized the material nicely, and happily wrote such notes for the month leading up to the first AP World History test.  However, there was a slight issue; I'm chiefly a skimmer, and rarely read word by word unless I'm analyzing the quality of the text or know that the writer will make it worth my time.  (Bradbury, I'm looking at you!)

This did result in some difficulties paying attention when I tried to study my notes directly, though.  After dozing through about an hour of "study" time, I ended up just reading the textbook over again.

I did just fine on the test.

This strategy first began to fail me in my AP English class last year.  Mrs. Turner's monumentally difficult quizzes broke through my refusal to take notes in fewer than three class periods, and I dutifully took Cornell notes for the remainder of the course (though with a certain twist-- I didn't write down questions or a summary, but shorter and shorter outlines of the notes).  I do remember much of the material to this day.

Which brings me to an interesting question.  What made that note-taking strategy so much more effective for me?  Why could I take Cornell notes and use those to study, while plain outline notes put me to sleep?  Did something about the format help my mind understand the concepts?

What is understanding, anyway?  Remembering things?  Computer programs can do that easily, but they can't synthesize concepts into new information.

To answer this question, we may have to draw on our old friend the dictionary.  The direct definition probably won't do us much good, but the older roots of the word might.  Words are a little bit like equations to me-- they're hard to figure out when they're whole, but if we break them up into pieces, they become more manageable.  (Sometimes, anyway.)

Under-stand, from the Proto-Germanic *under ("between") and *standana ("to stand"). [Wiktionary]

So, understanding means to stand between?  Or, maybe, to stand within a concept?  Not terribly useful to us; words often change in meaning so much that it's hard to glean any insight.

What about a modern language instead?  Spanish doesn't do us much good either-- entender?  A verb from the Latin intendere, but Latin never tells me anything about nuances.

Let's try Korean.

The most basic word for understanding that I know is 이해 (ihae).  I'm not nearly good enough to decipher the etymology, though (it's from these scary Chinese characters) so maybe 알아들어 (araduro) is better?  From my understanding, when used in a sentence, it means something close to understanding or learning; literally, it means "know-hear" or "learn-hear".

Hearing and learning-- or, in my case, reading and learning-- means something a little different from standing within things.

So as a composite definition, maybe understanding is listening or reading carefully, learning the concepts, and trying to look at them from all sides until you know them.

So where do notes come in?  Well, the concept behind Cornell notes is that the reinforcement of material multiple times, each time in a further-compressed format, will help to drive facts firmly into your brain.  But does this really help understanding?

Well, maybe.

As it turns out, whenever I take Cornell notes, I end up compressing them into shorter and shorter versions in the various spaces on the sheet each time I look at them.  I simply can't passively read things, especially my own notes, just as I can't listen in class without reading a passage, answering questions, or doing something with my hands at the same time.  (With that in mind, Mr. Mullins, I swear that I'm paying attention in class even if I'm fooling with a piece of paper or something!  I fall asleep if I sit still!)

And when I compress my Cornell notes, I am forced to make connections between facts even as they're hammered into my brain.  When writing down each art piece from the Northern Renaissance, I recall the details that I saw in the book, and make comparisons between pieces.  When writing down things that popped out at me from the Paris Review interviews and briefly looked at them later, I noticed similarities and differences between authors.  In this way, I ended up with a better understanding of the material than if I had written "normal" outline or Cornell notes.

So perhaps writing notes in the ways that I've found, even if they're not perfectly orthodox, helps me "stand inside" the material in a way that just reading the material or annotating the text doesn't.

Or maybe I'm making this far too complicated.  After all, Gandalf didn't need etymology to know everything.  I've found a system of notes that works, and that's good enough for me.

But even Gandalf needed a little upgrade, in the form of new robes.  I'm not ready to declare that grey is the best color-- maybe I just haven't seen white yet.