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.