12/4/08 - Term Paper

Ricky Spenner
Professor Gleason
English 303
4 December 2008
I Cannot Find the Other Half: An Analysis of A Wild Sheep Chase
Pp294-302, 312, 340-341, 353

What I found most appealing about the selected passage, which for the most part is “The Sheep Man Cometh”, is how Murakami writes A Wild Sheep Chase to lead up to this point. For a novel that started out as a cheesy pastiche of old hardboiled detective fiction, Murakami gradually builds Boku’s travels into a horror story as readers question his sanity, motives, and experiences. I feel that Boku’s first interaction with the Sheep Man is the focal point of A Wild Sheep Chase for this very reason. I believe this is the beginning of Boku at his most vulnerable. Up until this point, he is a very apathetic character, leaving women and his belongings at will without paying them much thought. However, something about Boku’s run-in with the Sheep Man seemed to stir something in him, leaving him to wonder the same thing I was thinking as I was reading: Is Boku losing his mind? Is the Sheep Man really there?

There is something about the Sheep Man that seems to put Boku in his place. Normally a sarcastic and humorously crude man, the Sheep Man appears to be “Boku Mk. II,” making up for his diminutive size with stern bluntness and an almost total disregard for Boku upon first meeting him. Upon first viewing the Sheep Man, Boku states, “I opened the door, and standing there…was the Sheep Man…the Sheep Man was barely taller than the mailbox. Four foot ten at most…as if ignoring his decisive shortcomings, he continued his scrutiny of the mailbox” (Murakami 294). This is where I feel Murakami turns A Wild Sheep Chase into more of a horror story than detective story. The Sheep Man is written as more of a creature than a man from his very first mention. As strange as some of the mentions in this novel are (ear fetishes, whale penis envy), a man wearing a full sheepskin seems almost barbaric. The Sheep Man is a perfect hellish character to haunt Boku, with dwarfish height, horns sticking out of his head, and animal carcass stretched over his body. What strikes me most upon reading this however is Boku’s reaction upon studying the Sheep Man. He is slowly starting to break. While first playing things casually, Boku fetches some whiskey for himself and his wooly guest. However, when the subject is shifted to his girlfriend, the Sheep Man exclaims, “Youdon’tthinkaboutanythingbutyourself” (Murakami 298), to which Boku, for what may be the first time in the entire novel, is held speechless. I believe this becomes the first instance in which Boku takes a step beside himself and evaluate his actions. I think this moment becomes a foreshadowing of Boku’s “crying scene” towards the novel’s conclusion, which I view as Murakami’s attempt to humanize the otherwise emotionless Boku.

The Sheep Man’s tone intrigued me from his first appearance. Once again, the way he combines words in a sort of speedy slur presents him as less human. Murakami crafts him perfectly, giving him just the right amount of dialogue and a strange diabolical tinge that seems to get under Boku’s skin. During their conversation about Boku’s girlfriend, the Sheep Man simply says, “You’llneverseethatwomanagain” (Murakami 298), not giving any inclination as to whether or not Boku’s girlfriend is living or dead, further adding to the mystery of the Sheep Man, what he does or does not know, and what he is capable of doing.

As previously mentioned, “The Sheep Man Cometh” appears to be the point in A Wild Sheep Chase in which Boku starts to break down mentally. Normally smooth, stoic, and confident, Murakami effectively instills his Coltrane influences into the creation of Boku. However, it is when Boku is left alone in the Rat’s cabin to face the Sheep Man face to face that the bebop feel starts to wander from Murakami’s style. It is here that A Wild Sheep Chase turns more into a mental thriller. Though the entirety of A Wild Sheep Chase is narrated by Boku and the reader is let into Boku’s mindset throughout, his encounter with the Sheep Man leaves the reader—and Boku himself—questioning his sanity. Keeping this in mind, there are many parallels that can be drawn between Boku’s mindset in this chapter and Dredg’s masterful song, “The Canyon Behind Her.”

On an album dedicated to sleep paralysis and Salvador Dali’s "One Second Before Awakening from a Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate," “The Canyon Behind Her” beautifully captures feelings of paranoia, seclusion, and raw insanity. Musically, the song fluctuates between ambient guitar swells and piano flourishes and crashing drums and walls of noise. There is an anxiousness that carries the tune, thanks mostly to a repeating two-note bass line and nervous-sounding snare hits. The song instantly conjures images of a shaken Boku after his first meeting with the Sheep Man as singer Gavin Hayes belts, “Does anybody feel this way? Does anybody feel like I do?” This immediately brings to mind Boku’s humorously pathetic attempt at detective work when trying to figure out if the Sheep Man was in fact real. “Had the Sheep Man been an illusion? Yet here were a bottle of whiskey and Seven Stars butts left on the table, and there on the sofa were a few strands of wool” (Murakami 302).

Hayes goes on to indirectly describe Boku, singing, “I built a wall, it stretched one thousand miles…never content nor satisfied.” Going back to a previous point, this seems to back up what the Sheep Man said about Boku only thinking about himself. In all reality, he is a selfish person, but that is probably all he knows to be. However, because of his selfishness and the walls that he built, he will never see his girlfriend again. Hayes also drops a startlingly fitting (as discussed in section three) line in reference to the Sheep Man, crooning, “The massacre changed our history,” followed by, “Borderline paranoia yelling at their own rights.” There is a lot going on here, going from a Hiroshima/Nagasaki reference to feelings of paranoia and lashing out at others. This seems fitting, however, given the bizarre back-and-forth between Boku and the Sheep Man.
It is the bridge and finale of “The Canyon Behind Her,” however, which the most chilling moments are saved for. In the middle of the song, Dredg opts to journey from a swirling epic buildup to a restless breakdown of industrial-type guitars, trash-can sounding drums, and dissonant sampling. Having already perfectly capturing the anxiety and helplessness of sleep paralysis, the bridge also syncs up with Boku’s strange dream after his meeting with the Rat. The music in this section effectively captures the tense nature of Boku’s dream sequence—the relentless need to break out of the obscure sequence of images is further accentuated by the strange guitar work in the bridge. There is a feeling of breaking out in this section—the green cord, red cord relationship constantly making itself known.

For the song’s finale, it is first important to revisit Boku’s final moments on the beach. He says, “I walked along the river to its mouth. I sat down on the last fifty yards of beach, and I cried. I never cried so much in my life” (Murakami 353). This is the first time in the entirety of A Wild Sheep Chase that we the readers see any speck of emotion come from Boku, and it is on the final page. What is most shocking about this is the type of reaction that Boku offers at the end of his journey: he cries out in a sudden outburst of emotion. The ending of “The Canyon Behind Her” is much like the ending of A Wild Sheep Chase, in which Hayes re-claims, “Does anybody feel this way? Does anybody feel like I do?” before professing, “Though half of me is gone, the lonesome part is left. I cannot find the other half.” Hayes exclaims “I cannot find the other half” several times in an emotional climax, much like Boku’s. With this in mind, it is not far-fetched to think that Boku had a side to him that yearned for love, belonging, and camaraderie. Boku seemed to genuinely care for his girlfriend towards the end, before she was taken away. It can be argued that Boku took up the hunt for the sheep not only to save his life, but to reestablish those seemingly “human” emotions and connections he had either lost touch with or never really had in the first place. He wanted his girlfriend; he wanted to see his good friend the Rat again. Instead, he ended up losing everything, and there was no one else to blame for this than himself. It is now up to him to pick up all of the pieces.

Spivak says people share characteristics that are essential to humanity. While she most likely had a more feminist idea in mind, it can apply for Boku at this point in the novel. For the duration of the novel, Boku straddles the line of machismo, offering a very stoic and apathetic approach to the world and how he treats women. However, his behaviors on the beach seem to go against Spivak’s notion of essentialism in that Boku is rebelling—consciously or subconsciously—against the male nature. That is, he is allowing himself to have a moment of vulnerability. This is his “other half.”

For a novel that does not provide many answers, the Sheep Man offers a particularly revealing moment during his second meeting with Boku. The relatively secretive Sheep Man offers insight as to why he lives such a reclusive life. “Ididn’twanttogoofftowar,” he sheepishly admits (Murakami 312). Though it appears the Sheep Man is in hiding for essentially being a draft dodger, many of his behaviors can be traced back to several disorders stemmed from the bombings on Nagasaki and Hiroshima, Japan on August 6th and 9th, 1945 that killed over 320,000 people. Possible diagnoses for the Sheep Man could include Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Acute Radiation Syndrome, Fungal Toxin Poisoning, and Hand-Arm Vibration Syndrome. Given the time that A Wild Sheep Chase supposedly takes place (about 30 years after the bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima) and his relatively young age (he appears to be late twenties/ early thirties), it is possible Murakami wrote the Sheep Man to be either a victim of the brutal attacks on Japan in World War II or the spawn of a victim of the bombings.
If we the readers are to take the Sheep Man at his word that he was not a soldier during World War II, it is very possible that his physical stature, speech patterns, and apparent need to cover his entire body results from Acute Radiation Syndrome (ARS). The Annals of Internal Medicine describes ARS as a sickness that affects the human body only minutes after being exposed to radioactive material. The most common effects of ARS are vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue, and fever; none of which directly applies to the Sheep Man. However, the Annals of Internal Medicine also lists a symptom of ARS to be fetal abnormalities, which can include growth retardation (Boku recalls the Sheep Man to be no taller than four feet ten inches tall), fetal malformations, and increased teratogenesis (structural and functional defects, much like the Sheep Man’s hurried and slurred speech patterns and bow-legged stance). The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDCP) also mentions several skin deformations that result from ARS, including swelling, extreme redness, and hair loss. The CDCP reports that many of the survivors of the World War II bombings were diagnosed with ARS, and showed these symptoms within days, if not minutes, after exposure to the radiation from the bombs.

If the Sheep Man is in fact near 30 years old, it would make him a perfect candidate to be the child of a victim of ARS. If his mother was a bombing survivor with ARS, he would have been an infant at the time of the bombing and could in fact showcase the fetal deformation traits mentioned earlier, which do seem to fit him rather well. The idea of the Sheep Man suffering functional defections does explain his speech, posture and almost autistic lack of eye contact. However, one piece of information does not fit with this theory; that being the skin deformation and hair loss. For this to be true, the Sheep Man would have to be an actual survivor of the bombings, having been exposed to the radiation. This would mean that the Sheep Man is older than Boku or the Rat, meaning of course either the Sheep Man indirectly lied about his age by leading Boku to insist he was the Rat in disguise, or Boku was simply wrong about his faux detective work. If the Sheep Man is in fact a survivor with ARS, it would explain his need to cover his body in order to hide any unsightly skin deformities. This is highly unlikely, however, given that most Japanese people exposed to the radiation took anywhere from two months to two years to recover. Those who did not recover from ARS typically died within months, not thirty years, which would have been the Sheep Man’s case. In this instance, it is not likely the Sheep Man is a direct survivor, though it is possible his mother was pregnant with him when the bombs hit Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

The Sheep Man’s wood dwelling ways can also play a part in his bizarre ways. In 1955, 10 years after the bombing of Japan, a disease called Alimentary Toxic Aleukia (ATA) began to circulate throughout Japan. Though it was first seen in post-World War II Soviet Union, it was said to have been spread throughout Japan through contaminated rice and toxic fungus. The effects of ATA in the Soviet Union were said to be very similar to those of ARS in Japan, and further tests showed the Japanese cases of ATA to parallel ARS as well. While this does not fully explain the behaviors of the Sheep Man, it could give more validation to the theory of his having ARS given that the ATA outbreak occurred 10 years later. This would give the Sheep Man 10 extra years to contract the disease and showcase its symptoms—which are very similar to ARS—without dying in the process.

Fitting in with the Sheep Man’s forest inhabitance, Yoshiharu Fukuda and Makoto Fatatsuka recently conducted a study of Japanese forestry workers and their bouts with Hand-Arm Vibration Syndrome (HAVS). HAVS is typically caused by constant use of vibrating tools and machinery such as power drills and saws. (Those with HAVS experience a change in color in their hands, ranging from a pale white, to deep blue, and finally to a bright red. Though the exact cause is unknown, it is said to have something to do with repetitive damage to small nerve endings and blood vessels found within the hand. The jittery and restless motions associated with HAVS are close to the motions of the Sheep Man). In their research, it was found that HAVS was a primary ailment amongst forestry workers in the 1960s and 1970s. Most of these workers had already started to die out by the time Fukuda and Fatatsuka began their research, though it was noted that wood dust and chemicals also contributed to the health of forestry workers, which resulted in cancer and—once again—symptoms resembling that of ARS.
Perhaps one of the most fitting diagnoses for the Sheep Man’s bizarre nature is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). According to the National Center for PTSD, those with PTSD are known to relive the traumatic event in their heads (often triggered by familiar sounds, smells, similar events), avoid situations that remind them of the traumatic event, avoid memories by refusing to fully express feelings, and hyperarousal (constant paranoia, sudden anger spurts). Though many cases of PTSD are cured over time, 33% of all people with PTSD continue to show regular symptoms. Though a majority of cases of PTSD during World War II were reported by Americans, it is not outlandish to reason that Japanese soldiers and citizens were also affected the traumatic events of the time.

It would make sense for the Sheep Man to suffer from PTSD, especially since he specifically mentions “the war” on more than one occasion (all on p. 312). However, the Sheep Man mentions on page 312 that he went into hiding to avoid “the war,” making it difficult to place him within World War II. Still, readers must take into account the Sheep Man’s relatively dishonest and misleading nature. There is something about the Sheep Man’s experiences in World War II that he is not letting on, as evidenced by his attitudes towards soldiers and war in general. When Boku asks him his opinion of the town below the forest, the Sheep Man relies, “Don’tlikeitatall.toofullofsoldiers,” (Murakami 312). The Sheep Man’s avoidance of anything remotely symbolizing war is a classic symptom of PTSD. However, in what seems to be a last effort to extend his comfort zone, the Sheep Man tries to conjure up war talk with Boku:
“Whereyoufrom?”
“Tokyo.”
“Heardabouthewar?”
“Nope”
At that point the Sheep Man seemed to lose all interest in me (Murakami 312).

The Sheep Man’s behaviors are sporadic at best. While medical and historical explanations seem to fit him at times, there is nothing concrete to explain the Sheep Man. Perhaps it is better this way. It is very doubtful that Murakami would write such a bizarre and intriguing character with the intent on giving him a clear-cut past history. Presenting the Sheep Man—and the majority of A Wild Sheep Chase for that matter—with unanswered loose ends is part of the brilliance of Murakami. Though he writes enough to give his characters just enough ambiguous back stories, it is up to the reader to find the other half—something Murakami has gone through great lengths to hide.

Works Cited
“Acute Radiation Syndrome”. Centers for Disease Control andPrevention. 10 May 2006. 01 Dec. 2008
<>
Dredg. El Cielo. Universal Records. 2002.
Fukuda, Yoshiharu, and Futatsuka, Makoto. “Mortality in a Cohort of Patients with Vibration Syndrome in Japan.” Journal of Occupational Health. 2000:245-250.
“Hand-Arm Vibration Syndrome”. Patient UK. April 2006. 01 Dec. 2008
“Medical Management of the Acute Radiation Syndrome: Recommendations of the Strategic National Stockpile Radiation Working Group”. Annals of Internal Medicine. 15 June 2004. 01 Dec. 2008 <>
Murakami, Haruki. A Wild Sheep Chase. New York: 1989.
“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”. National Institute of Mental Health. 14 Oct. 2008. 01 Dec. 2008 <>
“What is Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)?”. United States Department of Veterens Affairs. 01 Dec. 2008 <>

12/20/08 Iweala, "Beast of No Nation"

What I have found most intriguing about the novels we have read this semester has been the use of language each author has used. With every text, there have been small nuances in word choices, word order, and the overall voice of the author. Gabo’s poetic style, Roy’s child-like rationale, and Rushdie’s political-fueled magical realism are all unique to the respective authors, but what makes them especially interesting to me are the English translations within the texts, or even the ways the authors might approach writing the texts to perhaps appeal to a more American audience. Solitude may not be a great example, because the translations were done beautifully, but even then, how are we to know the true text when words, phrases and elements might have been lost in translation? Emily and I talked briefly about this after class last week in regards to Persepolis. However, I find Persepolis to be a special exception, because it is a graphic novel. Though the wording may change in translation, the picture element still tells the story—this point can be made for either the graphic novel or the film.

Iweala’s Beasts of No Nation is ingeniously written. Although an American born author, Iweala’s African heritage really plays to his favor. His use of language is very compelling, if not a bit difficult to comprehend at times. Though I have read novels in which the narrator tells the story in the present, Iweala’s approach is much different. His broken English adds to Agu as a character, making the text even more haunting. It almost reminds me of Roy’s writing, in a sense. Since the main character/narrator in Beasts is a child, it should only make sense for him to speak in a way he knows how, not how the reader expects him to speak.

A very strong read, so far.

11/13/08 Persepolis

One of my favorite aspects of Persepolis is Satrapi’s tone throughout the novel. Much like Roy, she has a very innocent and somewhat juvenile writing style that brings out the beauty and terror of her time in Iran and Europe. What I find most interesting about the text is that Satrapi does not reveal more information about Iran than she herself knew at the time of the story. In this way, the reader learns of Iran’s progress (or lack thereof) as Marjane does. A great example of this occurs during Marjane’s stay in Austria. Strapi speaks of being ashamed and disconnected from Iran, choosing not to look into the events occurring in Iran at the time. This approach makes Marjane’s (and the reader’s) arrival in Iran even more intriguing. My response to Marjane as a character in Persepolis has been very mixed, however. For the most part, Marjane is a very likeable character—early on, she is a young girl with a thirst for knowledge and protest—however, as she grows up and reveals more of her “rebellious “side, she grows to be a bit more obnoxious and superficial. I believe Marjane had such a difficult time adjusting in Austria because she was given so much freedom. It is much easier to rebel when there are strict sets of rules to oppose. However, because there were no veil rules, restrictions on women’s dress, or mass oppression in Austria, Marjane ran out of things to rebel against. She couldn’t “Fight the Power.” This kind of goes back to your mention of fake punks in class on Thursday. Personally, I feel the teenage Marjane fit into this category. When she was finally given the freedom in Austria that she openly protested for in Iran, she yearned for some set of rules to help her get back on track. This isn’t to take anything away from Strapi or her accomplishments, but it should be noted that she laid out her failures for us to read. And if not being as punk as she thought she was turns out to be her greatest fault, it’s not a bad ticket.

As a side note, as an avid Captain America/Avengers fan, I was ecstatic to find the Hulk reference on page189. Costumed superheroes are always welcome in graphic novels (V for Vendetta, Watchmen), but there will always be a soft spot in my heart for Marvel.

As we’ve pointed out several times in class, Solitude bears resemblance to the book of Genesis. However, there are more Genesis-like factors I found within the text that extend further than the story of creation and the Garden of Eden, though the theories I have run in completely opposite directions. Knowing Gabo is opposed to organized religion, one of my first reactions to Solitude was that it is his own re-writing or personal commentary of the Book of Genesis. However, whereas Genesis opens with the earth as a blank mass for God to create and expand, Solitude instead starts with a simple village and ends with a simple village. Much like the gloriously fabled Garden of Eden, there is not much left of Macondo or its inhabitants by the end of Solitude. In fact, if one were to look at the beginning and end of Solitude, it would be argued that no progress was made in Macondo.

This brings me to my thoughts on the notion of “progress” in Solitude, and whether progress was actually made in Macondo. Personally, I link progress with accomplishment, rather than the advancement of time, which was suggested in class. With this notion in mind, I do not believe the people of Macondo made any significant progress—besides having all members of the family and community killed off, Macondo seemed to digress in time. Though time evidently went forward, despite all of the events that took place, nothing really ever happened. Gabo was able to cleanly slip in railways, electric lighting, automobiles, and AMERICANS, but in the end, nothing ever came of it, and Macondo went back to being a desolate village.

The brief mention of pastiche in class also got me thinking. Could it be that even though Gabo is opposed to organized religion he still holds respect for the Bible and the Book of Genesis, not as a religious doctrine, but as a literary text? This could explain the parallels drawn between Solitude and Genesis, but at the same time, it would still allow room for Gabo to offer his commentary on organized religion and the fate of its blind followers. It is very difficult to say at this point. Solitude is such a dense and downright intimidating text that it demands multiple reads and can take on multiple meanings. A very strong and compelling text—I am anxious to revisit it this winter.

10/31/08 One Hundred Years of Solitude

This week in class, we explored the idea of the labyrinth and how it relates to Solitude. When traversing through a labyrinth, at least in a spiritual sense, it is common to follow the maze-like passages to the center of the labyrinth, all the while in a meditative state. Once in the middle, it is usually common to spend time reflecting before leaving through the same passage. One suggestion brought up in class was that the labyrinth can be compared to the life and death of the characters in Solitude—many of the characters are born in Macondo, spend time away from Macondo, and eventually make their way back to die. While this is an astute observation, I have been thinking of the comparisons in a different way. I have found the “modernization” of Macondo to be very labyrinth-like in the way changes have come about. Throughout the novel, Macondo has gone through steady changes without really ever digressing or falling back to its roots. The turning point—or the “center” of the labyrinth—of Macondo has been its westernization and arrival of outsiders, including Fernanda del Carpio and the Conservative party. All of the steady changes in Macondo have seemed to lead up to this point, but if Solitude is to remain like a labyrinth, something needs to happen to tip the scales. If Macadno’s “advancement” is the centerpiece, what will lead us back through the passage?

10/23/08 One Hundred Years of Solitude

So much for progress. I said I wanted to write from the text-world stage. I said I felt myself growing as far as responses are concerned. I said I didn’t want to write about intertextuality or how much the text reminds me of something I already know. To hell with it, I suppose—there’s time for progress next week.

Lately I have been in a habit of linking texts with pieces of music, starting with the reading of A Wild Sheep Chase, finding literary comparisons to bebop (Murakami), zombie rock (World War Z), shoe gaze/trip hop (Mr. Vertigo), post rock (Krapp’s Last Tape), and drone( Can you guess? I’m going somewhere with this! I can only hope.)---to think, some people listen to only one genre of music!

I sprawled out on my couch Wednesday afternoon to read One Hundred Years of Solitude, and found myself playing “Even If You’re Never Awake” by Stars of the Lid on my iPod. The combination of the two art forms took me completely by surprise. There has been something about the track—and the entirety of And Their Refinement of the Decline for that matter—that fits One Hundred Years of Solitude so beautifully. I believe it was the constant death in Solitude that first drew the comparisons for me, matched with the ambiguity of both One Hundred Years of Solitude and the drone music of Stars of the Lid. As evidenced already in the readings, characters die, simply put. What I find interesting about the concept of death in this book is the naming of children. The Arcadio’s, the Aureliano’s, and the Remidios’ all serve as memorials to the deceased (or soon to be) named before them. For the most part, they are featureless: they are relatively flat characters, sharing nothing in common with their namesake except for their name. However, it seems to be a way of carrying on a legacy, ensuring the dead are not forgotten: even if you are dead, you are not dead. “Even If You’re Never Awake”, your name is never sleeping.

I thought of this as my term paper subject, but narrowing it down to ten pages seems like a daunting task. I have read all but the first 64 pages of Solitude with the guide of “Even If You’re Never Awake”, and I have found the two to sync up at any given page. Worth looking into, I suppose.

10/16/08 One Hundred Years of Solitude

If there was one literary term that encompasses all of the novels we have encountered this semester, it would undoubtedly be magical realism. Though it has been brought up briefly throughout the semester, it seems that One Hundred Years of Solitude will be the novel to best emphasize the term. What I have noticed most about Garcia Marquez is how matter-of-factly the mention of these examples of magical realism has been, yet at the same time, the reading thus far has not been littered with it to the point that One Hundred Years of Solitude begins to read like a fantasy novel. Murakami had a talent for blending the real and surreal, but A Wild Sheep Chase tended to be a surreal novel throughout, whereas One Hundred Years of Solitude seems to create a more balanced approach between the seemingly normal and magical realism. The best example that comes to mind would be Ursula and Jose Arcadio Buendia’s visions of Prudencio Aguilar’s ghost. What made the vision of his ghost more impactful than, say, Boku’s vision of The Rat was that One Hundred Years of Solitude started off relatively normal, with the exception of the surreal town in which nobody has died.

Blog Paper

I believe I have been at stage two of reading development for a fairly long duration of time heading into this semester. I have picked this up from past English and literature classes, especially when talking about postmodern concepts such as intertextuality and metafiction. I have learned not to give the “American Idol” approach to responding to a text, which I believe has forced me not only to make more concise opinions about a text, but to be more open-minded when selecting a text. I have not had very much experience with postmodern literature—only the three years or so that I have taken literature courses—but I feel that I have a confident grasp on most of the texts that I have encountered and I am able to find references to other texts and find how the text has inspired other texts. One example I keep coming back to is the influence William S. Burroughs’ cut-up technique had on Radiohead’s Kid A. I always get a kick out of how artists inspire other artists, and I think that reflects the texts I read outside of class. I think a big reason for this comes from the précis papers I wrote in Contemporary Literature. Writing about topics related to the units being covered in class allowed me to think critically about the concepts covered and how they relate to other texts I associate myself with outside of class.

I spent a lot of time reading Paul Auster over the summer, and looking back I was probably reading with a Text-Other reading mentality. One of the most relevant—and most pretentious—examples was found in Auster’s “Travels in the Scriptorium”, in which Auster indirectly writes himself into the novel, surrounded by other characters from past Auster novels. I read “Travels” twice over the summer, the first time taking notes on the characters and referring back to past Auster novels to mark each of the characters used. It became sort of a project for me, but I enjoy reading in this way.

At this point in the semester, I feel I have made strides towards the Text-World stage of reading development, but I find myself in the Text-Other stage more often than not. Looking back at my blogs, I have noticed a pattern in which I try to relate the assigned text and terms to other texts. So far, I have made mention of Shoot ‘Em Up, The Wizard of Oz, Star Wars, Paul Auster, and Thelonius Monk in my blog entries, while mentioning the writing styles of the author only twice. I have not yet commented on how the text has commented on politics or the lower class, though I have consciously tried to change my approach in writing my blogs in order to challenge myself—I haven’t really taken a Text-World approach to reading before, and I feel that constantly taking a Text-Other approach in my blogs will not only be taking the “easy way” out of doing them, but it will also limit my thinking and responses to the texts. However, one thing I am happy about is that I have been able to stay away from “I” statements in my blogs. For the most part, I have been able to refer only to the text while keeping personal opinions out of the blogs, though the informal feel of a blog entry leads to some “I” centered moments along the way. Still, I feel it is important to question the assigned text and have a greater idea of the cultural impact it carries.

It will be challenging, however, because I have not previously taken much interest in the Text-World approach to my texts. Many of the texts I read outside of the classroom are not light reads, but there are times I prefer to take them at face value just for the sake of enjoying the text as-is. I think reading a lot of Auster has put me in this rut. There are times in his novels (and we saw this with Murakami earlier in the semester) that Auster writes himself into a corner, and rather than give explanations as to how or why something happens, he leaves it to chance. He does not raise many questions, but that is what works for him.

I also think my lack of experience with non-western literature has an impact on my development. So far, the non-western literature covered in class seems to have much more pride and awareness for the author’s culture, Rushdie and Roy especially. Though I have read western literature with social/cultural/racial contexts (Frederick Douglass comes to mind), I do not think I have ever read as many texts in which the authors were so proud and passionate about their cultural surroundings. This has gotten me a bit out of my element, but as I have said, I think this is good for me as it opens me up to new reading experiences.

There is no question that striving towards a Text-Other reading development will require me to step outside my comfort zone. Relating the text to world events and cultural history has not been a strong suit of mine, but it is more than doable. I believe accomplishing this task will be as simple as opening up to trying new topics for my blog. Pointing out intertextuality and similarities between texts is fine, but I would like to try extending my blog entries further. I feel “The God of Small Things” is a great text for me to start out on because it has so many different topics available. I am hoping to write about the roles of males vs. females or the westernization that is taking place in the novel. Starting out with these easily recognizable concepts will allow me to work my way up to doing more “stage three capable” blog entries, and develop a stronger way of responding to texts in the future.

10/02/08 Arundhati Roy, "The God of Small Things"

I am having a hard time so far following along with Roy’s “The God of Small Things”. I had a similar time getting trying to get into “Haroun”. A simple as it sounds, I believe it is the names that both Rushdie and Roy use that is causing me so much trouble. A main factor for this is most likely my unfamiliarity with Indian literature. I haven’t really reached out to artists like Roy or Rushdie before, so my initial response in “Haroun” was to “Westernize” the characters—that is, associate the characters with more “familiar” names—in order to easily recognize them. I have tried to stay away from this pattern with “God of Small Things”, though it has been difficult remembering so many characters after just reading a novel in which the characters were not given proper names at all.
Moving on, I would like to comment on just how innocent Roy’s writing style is in “The God of Small Things”. As we said in class, Roy uses a poetic tone that would seem a bit over-the-top by English-speaking authors, but instead fits rather well as an author who uses English as a second language. However, I find that Roy’s use of the English language makes her sound much younger and more naïve, at times sounding as if the novel is being narrated by a child. This writing technique is best used during Estha’s rape by the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man. Already a disturbing and uncomfortable reading experience, Roy’s ability to get inside of Estha’s head to describe the scene is even more unsettling. “Estha’s hand was wet and hot and sticky. It had egg white on it.” Details just how vulnerable, confused, and scared Estha was.

9/25/08 Murakami "A Wild Sheep Chase"

Having read through “A wild Sheep Chase” with the ­­notion that nothing really ever has to make sense (and in Murakami’s case, it almost never does), I decided to re-read the last section trying to come up with some sort of reasonable explanation for Boku’s actions, starting with “The Sheep Man Cometh”. The main section I wanted to look through was Boku’s interaction with The Rat, and the strange dream Boku had after their conversation. It is quite clear that Boku had gone insane by this point, as he had a meaningful conversation with his dead friend. However, what struck me most during their conversation was the amount of alcohol consumed. After all, if The Rat wasn’t really there, and was still drinking more than Boku, wouldn’t Boku actually be the one drinking? In other words, during his revealing conversation with The Rat, Boku drinks enough for two and in his drunken stupor, blows up the house.
In a novel so abstract, so mentally straining, could the end be so simple? Could Boku’s steady diet of whiskey, beer, and even more whiskey finally come back to haunt him? In a novel that poses many questions and offers absolutely no answers, could the outcome really be so simple? I wouldn’t put it past Murakami to lead us in circles only to show us an apathetic drunk pissing his life away.

9/18 Murakami, "A Wild Sheep Chase" 2

I’m sitting here at home, reading “A Wild Sheep Chase” and listening to Thelonious Monk, and all of the sudden everything is starting to come into perspective. I was excited to find Murakami was a John Coltrane fan early on and that jazz inspired his writing style. I was a bit hesitant at first as to how this could be, but after listening to Monk while reading Boku’s conversation with the Sheepman, the influences were obvious. Like Monk’s piano work, Murakami tends to jump from topic to topic, seemingly writing “Sheep” as he goes. At the same time, his writing shows a certain smoothness and quirky sarcastic swagger found in jazz. Both Murakami and Monk write complex and ostensibly random passages, questioning whether or not a piece necessarily needs to make sense in order to move forward. I haven’t read the ending of “Sheep” yet, but if it bears any resemblance to “Genius of Modern Music” or “Straight, No Chaser”, some beautifully bizarre moments are bound to appear.

9/11/08 Haruki Murakami, "A Wild Sheep Chase"

One of the main reasons I enjoy reading Murakami’s “A Wild Sheep Chase” is that reminds me of one of my favorite authors, Paul Auster. While it is not quite an example of intertextuality, Murakami’s choice to turn his main character/narrator Boku into a hardboiled detective is similar to Auster’s “New York Trilogy,” while The Rat’s letter to Boku is reminiscent to the letter Fanshawe writes at the beginning of Auster’s “The Locked Room.” I also find Murakami’s use of tangents very entertaining. His obsessions with seemingly random objects—ears, slips, whale penises—and his over explanations are comparable to Auster, although Auster usually focuses on bowel movements or baseball. I find that these strange lengthy passages show that the “fearless detectives” are in fact nowhere near qualified to be detectives in the first place. Instead, the characters are made more regular—pardon the bowel pun—or realistic in that they go through thought processes similar to everyday people. Perhaps not so much as Boku’s ear and whale penis infatuation, but certainly his love for music. After all, when is the last time Dick Tracy talked about his latest bowel movement or Bogart expressed whale penis envy?

09/04/08 Salman Rushdie, "Haroun and the Sea of Stories"

I have never been quite as confused as I was after reading Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories. One of the things that made the book interesting, however, was Rushdie’s use of intertextuality, namely the references to Alice in Wonderland, the Wizard of Oz and Star Wars. While the basic story of “Haroun” is similar to all three stories (a child finds himself in a strange land and interacts with surreal characters, much like “Wonderland” and “Oz”; the concept of “light” vs. “dark” found within “Star Wars”’ Force and Dark Side), it is the individual characters that I found to be the most interesting. My personal favorite, The Walrus, seems like Rushdie’s response to both Yoda and The Wizard of Oz. Haroun’s humorous response upon finding out the identity of the Walrus—“He’s the Walrus?!”—is similar to both Luke and Dorothy as the supposedly wise and mysterious master of each story turns out to be small, plain and free of impressive facial hair.

Bride and Prejudice Dir. Gurinder Chadha

Gurinder Chadha’s Bride and Prejudice was my first experience with Bollywood cinema, and I was admittedly put off at first without having actually known the genre’s defining characteristics. Upon reviewing some the concepts, Bride and Prejudice suddenly transformed into an unlikely sort of postmodern cinema. One of my favorite aspects of the film was its use of metafiction to justify its immense amount of overacting and cheesy dialogue. Chadha most likely wanted to include these overdone aspects out of respect for previous Bollywood films. By keeping this in mind, certain aspects of the film that might seem unnecessarily overdone (Johnny’s random first appearance, Balraj’s MC Hammer skills, the entire cast’s need to simultaneously join in song) are given a second chance with the knowledge that they were done in such a fashion on purpose, most likely with the intent to pay homage to Bollywood movies of the past.
Chadha’s approach reminds me of Michael Davis’ Shoot ‘Em Up, which combines clear-cut hero and villain roles, over-the-top stunts and acting, and overly-cliché dialogue, much like Bride and Prejudice. Like Chadha, Davis advertently chooses to make Shoot ‘Em Up as unrealistic as possible to transform his film into a live action Looney Tune. Bride and Prejudice is obviously at the completely opposite end of the spectrum as Shoot ‘Em Up, but both films do a good job of honoring their influences in a refreshing way.