Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar Nafisi

Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I was surprised that I enjoyed this book. It was recommended to me by a reader of an essay I am writing, and after reading a few Goodreads reviews, I had my doubts. But I found the writing to be articulate, emotional, and intelligent; and it was an enjoyable read.

Azar Nafisi’s memoir is structured as a memory, with the beginning and ending containing a framing structure of a present tense private course she is teaching out of her home for seven promising female students. The middle two chapters (“Gatsby” and “James”) contain past memories leading up to Nafisi’s leaving her academic position in 1995, and, thus, teaching this literature course from the sanctity of her home. I felt that the structure of the story is quite engaging, and Nafisi’s oft-pedantic nature concerning various literature to be quite refreshing against the critical discourse of women’s rights, freedom, tyranny, and such. I think it would be too easy to make this a story only about the antipathy between Iran and “the West,” and the lacing of literatures and literary criticism offers a layered approach to these contentious themes.

As you might presume, my criticism does not contend with the story, its structure, or its popularity. Instead my criticism considers something close to my own sensibility: this content regarding the innumerable influences upon the Iranian government and its revolutionary subjects: namely, who and how those individuals are represented by Nafisi throughout her story.

The difficulty is clear: when criticizing a non-fictional memoir, whom, or what, is one criticizing? Usually it is the author and that author’s real life experiences. It is illogical to criticize any individual’s real life experience, because they will retort with the infallible, “but you weren’t there,” “you didn’t experience it” rejoinder. And, they are verily right to do so. So, as I have no position on these things regarding Iran or Dr. Nafisi’s personal experiences with Iran, I will assume my criticism of a representation. That of the various revolutionary groups in the story, and the students who are given the most prominent voices for these groups: Mr. Nyazi, from Chapter 2; Mr. Ghomi, from Chapter 3; and Mr. Nahvi, in Chapter 4. These are the classroom voices (all male) denouncing Western literature as “decadent, vile, corrupt, imperial” and therefore un-Islamic and a decrepit influence upon Iran’s holy culture, politics, people, etc. (290). I want to promote a shocking argument with these representations in mind: they are correct.

Let me explain.

Dr. Nafisi is writing a book in English for an English audience about reading Western literature in a country that is attempting to eradicate, through criticism and more obvious and violent means, the influence of said literature and culture. Against this argument, a few in the story articulate that literature is innocuous in its ability to cause change, revolution, or independence. It is first voiced against Mr. Nyazi, who possess the fault that he “‘can no longer distinguish fiction from reality’,” and must be reminded that “Gatsby was a work of fiction and not a how-to manual” (128, 120). The presumption is that Mr. Nyazi, et al are taking literature to literally and bestowing it too much power. The counterargument is that literature has little or no power, or is rather, not a “how-to manual,” as voiced by a student of Dr. Nafisi’s, Zarrin, who argues, “Did people all go on strike or head west after reading Steinbeck? Did they they go whaling after reading Melville? Are people not a little more complex than that?” (135). No. But they did commit suicide in droves after the publication of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe‘s The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings. To this extent, the social purpose of literature is to communicate, reflect, and inspire. And to this even Zarrin concedes that Gatsby is “an amazing book… It teaches you to value your dreams…” something the Islamic Republic cannot afford (ibid, my emphasis).

In order to consider this argument, one must accede that literature is influential; it’s form, language, illustrations, chapters, structure, everything; all of this informs and mirrors a culture. Whether you read or not, reading influences our culture in the very form of the solipsistic and silently contemplated novel. Mr. Nyazi knows this when he argues that the West and its literature is a “‘sinister assault on the very roots of our culture'” (126). The problem, the very sincere issue here, is where a person departs from knowing how important literature is to a culture and uses violent means to annihilate its influence. Mr. Nyazi, et al, are far to busy criticizing and violently eliminating a supposedly antithetical literature to be busy doing what he should be doing to combat this “sinister” culture he depicts: creating his own literature. In fact, this is voiced by a student during Dr. Nafisi’s class who states to Mr. Nyazi: “‘Why don’t you write your own novel?'” (133). But that’s the point: how could he? where would he begin?

Art is not created in a bubble. It is not created without the appreciation and understanding of art that comes before or beside it. When eliminating Western literature, Mr. Nyazi has eliminated his people’s own ability to truly triumph over Western literature: with “Eastern” literature. The problem would be for Mr. Nyazi that he would have to engage with the literature itself before overcoming and creating his own works. Hmmm… for example. Nikolai Gogol is considered the first “Russian novelist”. But before him, Russia had a great poet and producer of written art: Alexander Pushkin. The difference between the two? Pushkin imitated and mimicked French style and art, which was necessary to gain influence at the time due to the French influence in Russia’s aristocracy, and Gogol wrote Russian stories with his own Russian style. In other words, Gogol used Russian folk tales to create his stories, where Pushkin used French novels and poems to create his. The point is that Mr. Nyazi is so busy destroying and condemning an influential Western literature that he is unable to become Gogol—in fact, he can’t even be Pushkin! And it is made apparent by a conversation between Mrs. Rezvan and Dr. Nafisi that a national literature is needed because “[t]he state of literature in this country could not be any worse, and the state of English literature is most hopeless of all” (179, my italics).

I wrote earlier that Dr. Nafisi agrees with me that literature and reality often intertwine and heavily influence one another, although many of her characters and her own statements contradict this statement. In the final chapter, Nafisi writes that “Fiction was not a panacea, but it did offer us a critical way of appraising and grasping the world—not just our world but that other that had become the object of our desires” (282). Yes. This is the pursuit and love of fiction: that other world. And when Mr. Nyazi, et al, destroy and burn all books that hold those other worlds, then he will finally have incinerated the desire to see and experience a world other than the one he has created. His war against literature is not against Western decadence, etc., but against outside influences in general. Because Power, unlike Art, can exist and flourish inside a bubble.

View all my reviews

Praise of Folly, by Erasmus

Praise of Folly by Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

For the layreader, I would recommend skipping the introduction to this text, which comprises the first fifty pages of this edition, and continuing on to Erasmus’ essay, Praise of Folly. The essay itself is quite an easy ready, if one approaches it in a superficial manner excluding historical, metaphorical, or personal references. Without those things considered, this essay reads something like our modern bestsellers that reveal some secret way of living that eludes anxiety, stress and worry, e.g. The Secret, or author, Sylvia Browne. Approaching Erasmus’ philosophical treaty as a popular self-help book is problematic, but I think reveals more about our culture then we would like.

Structurally, Erasmus’ essay is organized in “chapters,” or small sections that cover a certain topic, e.g. marriage, play, common sense, fools, science, etc. The “plot,” if there is one, is limited to a speech or oration by the goddess, Folly, who is speaking on her own behalf—and defense. The reader can extract at the very least one aphorism from each chapter, and perhaps find themselves enlightened by a banal truism—although it may confront the very thing they perform on a regular basis.

I don’t believe I can do justice to this review without quotations and examples—I will now flip through the text at random… einen Moment, bitte. Folly states, “But it’s sad, people say, to be deceived. Not at all, it’s far sadder not to be deceived” (135). Is this not the precursor to Friedrich Nietzsche and his Dionysian man? Is not the absolution of facts for the beautiful complexity of opinion a mode that informs our postmodern, interrogative culture? Folly continues, “For human affairs are so complex and obscure that nothing can be known of them for certain…” (ibid). There are no facts, only opinions. Quite the statement in 1509 for a religious scholar—even if he is highly critical of theologians and the church.

To return to my earlier assertion that Praise of Folly is obscurely related to our self-help books. One of the gods who follow in Folly’s leadership is Self-Love. Self-Love is continually and highly praised by Folly—even so more than the other followers, e.g. Pleasure, Flattery, Idleness, etc. (73). Folly states in a glorious rhetorical aphorism, “Now tell me: can a man love anyone who hates himself?” (94). And later on states that “happiness consists in being willing to be what you are [and] Self-Love [ensures] that no one is dissatisfied with his own looks, character, race, position and way of life” (95). Beautiful. One can extract quotes continually, but they add up to our culture’s way of selling self-recognition and self-affirmations through quick guides to better living. Of course this is only one aspect of Erasmus’ essay, but the usefulness of Folly’s instruction and observations are reflected in our culture of self-denial and overwhelming desire to treat Self-Love as a mortal sin.

Folly Steps Down from the Pulpit (Wikipedia)

Folly is in direct conflict with the pretensions of knowledge. Her skewer cleaves itself in the wise man—the very man who escapes Plato’s cave—and, as I read it, neither Folly nor Erasmus, is expounding this theory in jest. The wise man, according to Folly, does not lead a happy life—and this is THE goal of Folly’s mortal tutelage. The wise man does not admit himself a beast, nor does he admit himself to the absurdity of the basic elements of man. For example, Folly takes complete responsibility for the propagation of the entire human race (75). Why, you may ask? Well, ahem, excuse my vulgarity, but it is basic biology. Folly states that the part of the body that reproduces men is unspeakable do to its humors and that “it can’t be named without raising a laugh” (76). And that even philosophers, if they want to reproduce, must come to Folly. For, Folly asks, what woman does not praise a man for his humor, his pleasure, his love, his wit? Rather then his ability to expound numerous theses. And since Pleasure is a follower of Folly, it is but that emotion to bridge the necessary gap of reproduction…

But, I digress.

I caught myself underlining text, laughing out loud, and sharing my thoughts with my friend while reading Erasmus’ essay. I think it shall be a text I refer to from time-to-time, and look for when my “adulthood” is called into question, or when I am considered childish or immature. For the pretension of man stands upon the annulling of the very nature of Folly, and the absurdity of man a far too beautiful a thing to bear without Folly.

My read shelf:

Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Ugh, what a dreadfully boring novel. Now that I’ve written that bold statement, allow me to continue.

This is my third Austen novel, Pride and Prejudice and Emma being the first two novels many years ago, and I trudged through the last 50 pages of Sense and Sensibility. So, I’ll begin at that point of the exegesis with a spoiler: after the elder Dashwood sisters retreat to Cleveland estate before going home to Barton Cottage, Marianne becomes deathly ill, and Austen writes in five chapters what could have been written in two sentences. (I can hear the drum of Philistinism being beaten outside my door at this very moment!). I do realize the point of a novel is to do just that: explain in five chapters what could have been rendered the same in two sentences, but it is painfully obvious with this novel, and, perhaps, with Austen in general. But more on that later…

For the plot: this portion of the novel is always my least favorite of Austen’s and the “comedy of errors” genre—save for William Shakespeare. Specifically the portion of the plot where there is a lulling dramatic moment to induce fervent sympathy and regard for the romantic character, e.g. Marianne’s sickness. It is then that a character or characters is given the ability—through some turn of events, e.g. John Willoughby’s surprising nocturnal arrival—to explain their previous actions and thus redeem themselves. For sure this is a hackneyed, yet sincere, way to create well-rounded, believable characters; but it does not follow for my reading.

Austen is heavy, at least in Sense and Sensibility, with deus ex machina; which, when rendered absurd, is entertainable, but when used and treated as exegesis and a sincere moral motive for a character feels completely false due to its conspicuous nature. In other words, when used within the realm of realism, the deus ex machina appears out of place; discordant with my expectations as a reader. If other character absurdities and plot oddities are present, then the machina seems natural; but when used as a device to surprise the reader—again, e.g., Willoughby’s nocturnal arrival, or even Colonel Brandon’s  announcing in London against Marianne’s expectations (Chapter XXVII), which is nearly entirely forgivable as a plot device—it seems unnatural.

As per a discussion that followed the reading of this novel, I made the all too obvious sexist remark that Austen’s writing is noticeably feminine. I even hated to make the remark due its cliché nature, but it had to be done. (I backtracked and stated that women rave about Austen the way men rave about Hemingway.) So, why is this remark true for me? Why is it even a cliché, i.e. an oft-repeated cultural observation? This interests me a great deal. I think it is rightly attributed to the very nature of the elongated exegesis, and the way Austen can pinpoint emotions. Austen’s use of emotions is sacrosanct. Her study of human character and human folly in general is immaculate; and here it seems as though I am contradicting myself, but I am not.

I will argue here that her precision of human emotion does not oft-align with the necessary absurd plot intervention of the comedy of errors. The gossiping Mrs. Jennings, the Palmer’s, the Steele’s, these characters are gorgeous; but the comedy of errors requires them, not the sincerity of Colonel Brandon, Edward Ferrars, or even Miss Elinor Dashwood. I was informed that Austen’s early novels revolve around this comedy of errors plot device, which is easy enough to notice in the three novels I have read, but that a later novel of hers, like Mansfield Park, is much richer; and lacks the deus ex machina of the “comedy of errors” genre.

Finally, we watched the 1995 film of Sense and Sensibility, and I must add that I thoroughly enjoyed each character. Perhaps it is my own sensibility that is lacking, but I prefer a comedy on stage or on film, and a tragedy, history, historo-tragedy, etc. in solitude. I even enjoyed the stuttering ineptitude of, ugh, the ineffectual Hugh Grant as Edward Ferrars. Alan Rickman, “Snape, Snape, Severus Snape…“, as Colonel Brandon is phenomenal in his solemn love of Marianne; and Emma Thompson is wonderful in her quiet expressions as Elinor Dashwood.

I do not quite think I am done with Jane Austen, or does my critique of Sense and Sensibility keep me from reading her other novels. But, I think I shall approach her under new auspices. One that seeks her writing instead of picking a novel up at random—for that was my position for this reading.

My read shelf:

Related articles

• How Austen caught zeitgeist of medical belief (thetimes.co.uk)
• Solved: Why Jane Austen’s characters get ill from the rain (telegraph.co.uk)

Ham on Rye, by Charles Bukowski

Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

There is something about reading a novel within 48 hours: you fully inhabit another person’s life for a very brief period of time. It is also quite intense. 200 pages in one afternoon. That is often intense. But this seems to be the way I approach Charles Bukowski’s writing. The last of his stories that I read, and my first, was Hot Water Music. I found it on a shelf while working at a hostel in Rome, Italy over ten years ago; and I read it within 48 hours. This is not to note that I couldn’t put it down; oh no, I put it down. A few times, in fact. But I picked the book back up soon after it hit the floor.

Bukowski’s writing possesses a strange allure for me. I can’t quite decide what it is that attracts me to his writing, but I do know that my liking is only for a brief period. And while I do not think one should imbibe too much Bukowski—it is like being drunk on 150-proof misanthrope—a little from time to time is good. He creates well-reasoned and well-observed notions about America’s class system. And there is not a fear about his masculinity. I like that. I think that particular trait of an author or protagonist is hard to find in our postmodern writing.

Many of our (American) male authors find it difficult to write about sex, love, or basic attraction from a patriarchal, masculine, what-have-you standpoint. It is an understandable fear. But it seems that one must smoke Marlboro’s, possess numerous acne scars, and have an abusive childhood in order to make such patriarchal observations. Without these boorishly virile traits in an author, quite often, reading a male protagonist’s coming of age novel that does not include allusions to a burgeoning interest in masturbation in all its illusions, fears and fantasies is false at its very core.

Don’t get me wrong: I am not incredibly interested in reading about Holden Caulfield‘s discovery of his erect penis, but after reading Bukowski, all those existential fantasies Caulfield imagines seem so false and pretentious. But, again, too much of either seems dangerous to me.

There is a lot of hate in this novel. And this is why I strongly recommend not reading a lot of Bukowski’s work. Too much of that can turn one’s outlook. I only write that because of something unique in Bukowski’s writing: I do not feel any pity for his protagonist, Henry Chinaski. And that profoundly bemuses me. Why is that? He is beaten severely—of which we are given great detail. He is ostracized by all his classmates and on a daily basis is forced to fight or be beaten. He is beaten at home, in school, by the kids, by the teachers; his friends are beaten at home, in school, etc. and yet, I end up feeling very little sympathy for him. Is it because it is not real enough? I don’t think so. I think because it is too real. And mostly because the reader gets the feeling that Chinaski (and Bukowski, if I may extend myself) doesn’t need or want your sympathy.

So then, why write?

I think it is because Bukowski is so unflinchingly honest in his writing—even in his fiction, even in his lies. Maybe because that is where he can finally tell an honest story in an audaciously bold and benevolently destructive manner. And people listen to him. Maybe that is the only place people do listen to him. Yeah, maybe.

I always picture Bukowski as the guy at the end of the bar whose loud and lewd stories possess grit, danger, and a bit of magic; only, you don’t want to get to close to him because you are afraid you could smell the years of whiskey on his breath and in his sweat. The difficult part is that you will never be him, but you want to be that tough, that gritty, that courageous, that ballsy. And the other difficult part is that you hate him for being that way in the first place; for surviving that punishing life for so long.

My read shelf:

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It is my sincere declaration that Tom Sawyer, if he were to be found in our modern age, would be diagnosed with ADHD. He would be given pills and treatment to correct his behavior. It is for this reason that I state: Tom Sawyer does not exist in our culture; we have cured him.

As Marx adroitly asks in his work, The Grundrisse, “is Achilles possible with powder and lead? Or the Illiad with the printing press…?” (The Marx-Engels Reader 246). The answer is a resounding, No. So then, neither is Tom Sawyer possible in our modern age. His behavior is erratic. The boy cannot concentrate in either church or school—Chapter V is completely devoted to a singular church distraction: a beetle, or “pinch bug”! Tom constantly misbehaves, much to the torment of his tenacious Aunt Polly, and runs away whenever he has the chance. Tom also has a terrible work ethic—consider the infamous whitewashing chapter. He even fakes his own death! It is obvious from this example that Tom cares little for the concern of others; or, in other words, he lacks sympathy, empathy, and is unfeeling and uncaring.

“Now wait,” you may say, “Tom does some great things!” Agreed. Tom exhibits what I would like to consider as a “CEO quality”. Tom is what we often refer to as a natural born leader: he is persuasive, adventurous, opportunistic, and intrepid. And he also possesses integrity—consider the moment in school when he “lies” about the tear in the headmaster’s book to protect his love interest, Becky Thatcher. But, I contend that Tom Sawyer would never have the opportunity to perform these acts and thus redeem himself. Our culture would only highlight the bad—the misbehavior, the disobedience, the fidgeting, the inability to focus—and ignore any opportunity that Tom may happen upon to use these natural qualities to better himself and his community.

This is an obvious exaggeration, and Tom is obviously a fictional character; so, my argument is an odd one. Mostly because Tom Sawyer is, admittedly by Mark Twain, an amalgam of boys he knew and stories he either partook in or heard from someone—although he does account them all as true in the Preface. What I mean to state is that Tom Sawyer cannot occur as a fictional character in our modern era; there isn’t room for him. He is no longer an adequate representation that reflects our youth; again: we have cured him of his fidgeting, his restlessness, his distractions. Any character created on Tom Sawyer is created against Tom Sawyer; he is created both in his absence and his shadow. If a wayward youth arises in our fictional arsenal he is indebted to Tom Sawyer, but he is not him.

This is not nostalgia. As Marx rhetorically states: we can only create characters that reflect our epoch. So to read Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer is to read about a time in our nation’s history where values were considerably altered. We should not want to harken back those times any more than we are able. But texts like these should serve as a reminder; no, not to the “better, more simpler times” [blaah], but to a time when our lives presented different values, morals, challenges, and opportunities for children and adults alike. To consider that some of the same opportunities and challenges in Twain’s world could occur in ours is far-fetched due to a great deal of modernity; but on the other hand, the reason this text are still read, printed, mass-produced, anthologized, and remembered is because we come so close to reflecting Twain’s world. Tom Sawyer should tell us as much about us as he does about himself.

My read shelf:

Who Has Choice?

There is currently a wonderfully written article on The Atlantic Monthly‘s website entitled, “Put Your Shirts Back On: Why Femen is Wrong,” by Uzma Kolsy that I urge all of you to read. But my post isn’t about Uzma’s writing. It is about the comment section.

First cover of The Atlantic Monthly magazine. November 1857.

I love reading articles from The Atlantic—possibly because they are free and often deal with topical cultural/gender/racial issues. But what is often times more revealing, and interesting, than the articles themselves are the comments made by The Atlantic‘s readers. First, let’s acknowledge something: all of those leaving comments must sign in somehow; whether that is through Facebook, Gmail, or whatever online system the kids use these days to remember their friends’ birthdays. They must take the time to sign in and leave a comment. So, it is with some effort and time that they devote to their often inane and dimwitted comments. Okay. Have I lost you yet? I’ll get to my point in a moment.

The article concerns Femen‘s activity regarding Muslim/Islamic culture—and their assumptions about a monolithic, oppressed Muslim female who must be represented, spoken for, and rescued (if you do not know who Femen is, please follow my .org or wiki link). Uzma argues that Femen’s “core flawed presumption” is that “Muslim women are oppressed because Islam is inherently oppressive” (Kolsy). She goes on to write that instead of removing their shirts and presumably speaking for, i.e. representing, Muslim women, they should donate their time to Muslim charities and social organizations. Her bulk argument is that the Femen organization is not helping Muslim women by considering them “unfree” or “oppressed,” but rather they are, first, bringing negative and fallacious attention on Islam, and secondly making Orientalist, racist and sexist presumptions about a women’s right to “choose” the hijab, or any other clothing.

Now, I have “cherry picked” two incendiary comments from the article to diagnose, and I realize that not all people think this way, but I wanted to mention that I am aware of that bias. I would also like to acknowledge that by highlighting these quotes I realize I am bringing a type of promotion or fame to these ideas—which I certainly do not promote or champion. Here are two comments made by readers of the Atlantic article in question:

1) “Muslim women are not making choices. They are making choices within a very limited set circumscribed by men, or by their mothers or other women who have a vested interest in the system.”

2) “If the Muslim women of the world did remove their hijabs in solidarity, you know exactly what would have happened to most of them: they would be beaten, if not murdered. Whipped back into compliance by men who are cowards and cannot trust their own wives to fend off the advances of another man.”

Now, here comes the controversy: I agree with point one, but on the condition that it be changed to “no one is making choices”. “Choice,” for me, is a highly contentious term. Many of us take it for granted that we have “choice” or that we feel the necessity to exercise some conception of “choice” on a daily basis, e.g. I “choose” to write this late at night instead of sleeping, even though I know I have to get up early (I will refrain from using ironic, and rather annoying, quotes from now on). But the problem is that a division wedges itself between those who have choice, i.e. those free to act, think, vote, etc., and those without choice, i.e. those oppressed by some larger force like culture, class, religion, etc. But the thing is: we are ALL influenced by immutable social forces, such as ulture, class, religion, gender, etc.; these things ALL enforce our decisions, actions, and lives.

Let’s be obvious for a moment. Do you wear glasses? Yes? Then you have a different mindset than someone who does not. Thought about corrective surgery? Investigated the price? Someone with 20/20 has not. Think about your glasses? Their care and cleanliness? Do you think about wearing contacts when you pick out sunglasses? A person with 20/20 has not had these thoughts. “Sure,” you say, “that’s biological”. Right. Okay… Guys, where do you buy your underwear? Target? Walmart? Is it Hanes? or Fruit of the Loom? Have you ever bought a single pair of Calvin Klein underwear at Macy’s for the price of four pairs of Hanes? No? You should. Because you have that choice.

Choose…

Here’s where it gets sticky. You don’t have that choice, but you think you do because a nice mix of consumerism and late capitalism is an empowering and entitling narcotic. The danger is when that entitlement bleeds over into politics, ethics, gender, sexuality, etc. That you think you have choice is all that matters to Ronald McDonald, underwear factory owners, or managers at Target or Walmart. Even if you try to prove to me that you have choice, you are doing so out of a condition—sure, go buy the Calvin’s, gentlemen, you will love them! That condition is that you are trying to prove something to me, so the action is a necessary one, not chosen. Even a seemingly random act has a causal condition. But when we use the term choice, we are isolating a phenomenon in order to distinguish that act from others as important. We are telling a story. You are selecting, most often unconsciously, what information to exclude and what to include based on your experiences and the inherit desire for social acceptance. And that story needs a beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning isolates and solidifies the cause, the middle is the detail-y bit, and the end, well, the end is our moral justification—”I may have done something wrong, but here is why I did it. Do not condemn me“.

I find the use of the term choice abhorrent and despicable when used to distinguish one group from another as those possessing choice and those not possessing it. In its most casual and vulgar form it is employed to justify personal morality, and isolate and punish the other individual’s failure to achieve—”I have been able to do this, therefore you are able to do this. If you do not, then that is your choice“. This example ranges from arriving to work on time, living a healthy lifestyle, to earning a degree. Rather than choice, I prefer the terms desire and decisions. These terms allow for social influences and a range of numerous possibilities—as opposed to the either/or of choice. As far as I am concerned, choice is an absolute: either everyone has it or no one does. There is no way to clearly distinguish between those who have choice and those who do not. By creating that distinction to judge others lives of which we often know very little, we reveal the forces that have shaped our own morality; and more often than not, we reveal our bigotry, our fears, our hatred, and our ignorance. Just as some of those individuals making comments on Uzma Kolsy’s article have done.

Related articles

• Put Your Shirts Back On: Why Femen Is Wrong (theatlantic.com)
• Topless Jihad: Why Femen is Right (theatlantic.com)
• FEMEN Topless Jihad: Who’s Got Feminism Right, FEMEN Or Muslim Women? (akandezainab.wordpress.com)
• “FEMEN needs to recognize that Muslim women do in fact have agency, and the idea that Muslim women…” (anoncentral.tumblr.com)

The Trial, by Franz Kafka

The Trial by Franz Kafka

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

While I don’t think my opinion of Franz Kafka’s The Trial is unique, I think it offers a different approach then the traditional “man vs. modernity” synopsis. Let me be clear: I think this struggle is a prominent feature of Kafka’s work, and it is meant to be noticed by the reader; but, for me, the event of Josef K.’s trial is far too fantastic to be a theatrical polemic against the coarse, lifelessness of bureaucracy. I think Kafka trickier than that.

My analysis begins here: I do not think that Josef K. is in direct conflict with a bureaucracy or those who represent the bureaucracy (the thugs, the judges, the lawyers, etc.). What I mean to state is that Josef K. has invented his trial. It is not real.

While I usually refrain from a Psychoanalytic approach to texts, my reading of The Trial begins with that this thought: Josef K. is dreaming. (Phew, now I can commence a more sensible, e.g. Marxist, reading of the text). Josef K. is an overworked, overstressed, unappreciated, undersexed, lonely, and paranoid CFO. His shadows in life are Dostevsky’s Underground Man (Notes from Underground), Akaky Akakievich Bashmachkin (The Overcoat), and more recently, Tyler Durden—not to mention many others that I do not have at hand.

The first time I recognized the dreaming was during the second of two shrieks that K. hears during his court proceedings. The second is on page 71. Kafka writes:

“K. was now approached by a guard, who could be recognized chiefly by a saber whose scabbard, to judge by its color, was made of aluminum. K. was amazed by this and even reached out toward it.”.

While the shrieks are not odd as an event, their peculiarity is derived from their abruptness and seemingly unnecessary nature. In the first, we never find out what happens to the screaming man; in fact, most everyone at the trial ignores the couple as though it never occurred. For the latter, the guard leaves with an intent to examine the scream himself. What caught my attention was K.’s motion to grab the saber. What an odd detail. And it is only with curiosity that K. attempts this maneuver. He does not wish to escape or attack the guard; he is like a child exploring every oddity he encounters. He is a man grasping for meaning; for reality; like a pinch for the dreaming man who discovers the guard’s scabbard is aluminum, only then to suddenly wake up.

Now, once I had made a decision to venture down this “dream” path, I noticed it everywhere. For instance, in the beginning of the chapter featuring the Painter. It begins, “K. was sitting in his office, already thoroughly fatigued in spite of the early hour” (111). It is my contention that K. often falls asleep and dreams these fanciful events. The visit to the Painter is surreal: the heat, the paranoia concerning his jacket, and finally the escape through the rabbit hole just above the Painter’s bed that, of course, leads to the court halls. Or in the chapter with Block, the Merchant. Kafka writes: “This resolution drained K. of a great deal of energy… he worked at unusually slow pace, stayed late at the office” (166). And again, in the chapter featuring the Flogger, Kafka takes note that K. is “almost the last to leave [the office] that night;” indicating that K. may have fallen asleep and dreams the absolutely absurd scene featuring Franz and Willem (80). And of course, “the next day… he had difficulty concentrating on his work, and in order to finish up he had to stay at the office slightly longer then he had the day before” (86). K. is almost disappointed that Franz and Willem are not being flogged that night as well, and in a rage makes his assistants clean out the junk room.

Each chapter of The Trial could exist on its own. There is very little narrative continuation between the chapters, i.e. the characters appear and disappear just as easily and are rarely mentioned again, and the plot does not require any cohesiveness. They are episodic and farcical; as a man trying to piece together a dream in an attempt to make sense of it all. But this dreamlike state does not erase the “man vs. modernity” aspect. All it does is make it an indirect conflict. It is not K., the physical character of the novel who is overworked and paranoid, it is his dream that confronts the bureaucracy—mainly because K.’s position does not allow him freedom to confront it. He is it. He is at the top of the bureaucratic food chain (so to speak), and he knows there is absolutely NO way out. The trial is his invention. It is his psychosomatic illusion wrestling with his position and his responsibility as CFO. The trial is his way out.

Lastly, I have to add that the priest’s story of the doorkeeper is perhaps one of my favorite moments of this text. There is so much to draw from it as an allegory or metaphor. And the literary criticism of a text within a text is an astounding feat for any author. Not to mention that it is positioned as the initial conception of the Law. I think it is K. that waits at the metaphorical door. He does not realize he is free, which is exactly why he believes that the doorman deceives the man; because K. believes he has been deceived by the grandiose promise of life, steady employment, trust in the system, etc., and now that he has ascended to his coveted position any chance to be truly free is over. After all, “Worker bees can leave. / Even drones can fly away. / The queen is their slave” (Durden).

My read shelf:

The Aura and the Art Museum

This post has been inspired by a fellow blogger, one Peter Galen Massey. Recently, he and I had a reply-style discussion that mentioned the value of art and Walter Benjamin‘s interpretation of “aura”. This discussion has inspired my reconsideration of Benjamin’s work, and my own recent visit to the Art Institute of Chicago—where a Picasso exhibit is currently featured.

So, let’s start with the basics. Walter Benjamin, an exiled German Jewish philosopher, critic, historian, etc. wrote a significant essay entitled, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”. (Here’s a link to the pdf). Benjamin defined something he called “aura”. This “aura” is a work of art’s unique presence in time and space. So, one would feel this “aura” if one viewed Monet‘s original Lily Pad paintings. It is akin to authenticity, except “aura” is a thing (for lack of a better term) that the original art work possesses (due to its history, its changes in ownership, its chemical changes, etc.). The thing is that this “thing” that the original work of art possesses can not be felt/interpreted/experienced by a subject, e.g. you, if it is a copy. So, that Mona Lisa on your coffee mug does not possess “aura”. You dig?

You know why? Because, as Benjamin states, “that which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art” (221 of Illuminations). So, any replica loses this “aura”. Only the original possesses an “aura”. (In an exchange of letters between Georg Lukács and Benjamin, Lukács told Benjamin that he was (paraphrasing here) not Marxist enough. I totally understand that now). And with that, let me make a bold statement: that aura stuff is bull**it.

Works of art are locked up behind gates, guarded by numerous security guards, and under constant surveillance. You know why? Aura. Those paintings represent a movement, a theory, a statement, a something; but, Man must eat first, before he or she contemplates art. So, we set aside our earned $30 and stand in line to enter our local Art Institute that houses works of art that should make us feel something (aura, perhaps?). And we see said art, and, lo and behold (!), it produces this feeling! “Yes, I am inspired! I will paint! I will draw! I will siiiiing!” But what inspires this inspiration? Is it aura? No. I will not grant mysticism to oil on canvas, nor charcoal on paper. What inspires us is our own expectation: the room, the lighting, the locks, the guards, the waiting, the entrance fee, etc.; that is what produces this so called “aura”. We don’t need to know about aura to feel this feeling. It is already in our collective consciousness simply by the fact that these works of art are placed in special spaces that are reserved just for them. This grants them an “aura,” not some mystical pronouncement or terminology. It is a collective will to place a value on certain objects (reification…), a value that does not exist, that is what makes these objects special and elite.

Inside the Picasso exhibit, housed under a long wooden table with glass mounted on top, there were roughly a dozen early sketches of Picasso’s before he began painting a series of portraits featuring the infamous Minotaur. These sketches were unfinished and meant to be understood and valued as such. As I walked around the table, I noticed that I was in a room full of people looking at drawings of a Minotaur f*cking a lady, or sometimes two ladies. And I thought this odd. My second thought was: this Picasso guy is a hornball! Drawing pictures of bestiality and such. What a silly fellow! I laughed a bit out loud and caught the eye of my gf who was earnestly studying the sketches, as though she was imagining the burgeoning genius that was Picasso furiously creating this bestial sketch. She shook her head at me and walked on.

After the museum we stopped at ye old coffee shop and discussed “art”. My gf called me cynical due to my slight scoffing at Picasso’s Porn. I took offense. The last thing I am is cynical, my dear reader (a philistine, most likely. But, cynical? far from it). Her defense to my above accusation of Picasso is that he is a genius. My reply was that Picasso was a man. And the sketches of porn he was drawing proves that he eats, sh*ts, loves, f*cks, and drinks just like any other man. Period. He does not possess a gift or genius, he is a man with significant artistic skill, important social connections, and the right social conditions provided so that he could develop that skill and those connections. Punkt. Full stop—as my lady would say.

My point here is not to argue that art and its value is good or bad. No. Our esteem for art reflects our own cultural value. And our culture values art. It shows that despite decades of simulacra, postmodernism, mechanical reproduction, Mickey Mouse, far too many Transformers films, and thousands of $10 Monet Lily Pad prints adorning hundreds of college dorm walls so that some girl will think some boy is smart yet sensitive in the hopes that she will have sex with him, we still value art. It is one of the best ways in which we know how to reproduce and share the human experience. It is one of the best ways to demonstrate to past and future generations that creativity is valued in our society. It is one of the best ways to inspire passion, beauty, love, hate, honor, envy, morality, sex, lust, war, happiness, frustration, etc. And it is one of the best ways to communicate our Truth. Even if it is a sketch of a Minotaur f*cking a lady… or two.

Woodbury, Walt Disney, The Walking Dead, and Why Plants are Better than Zombies

Over three years ago a co-worker of mine at ye old coffee shop was playing a game on her iPhone entitled, “Plants vs Zombies“. I was neck deep in my Literature MA at the time, and I thought quit well of myself for having never succumbed to such plebeian banality. Well, let me tell you something: I was wrong. It is now April of 2013, and I have completed “Plants vs Zombies” in its entirety three times. And it was fun.

What I noticed over the past few months is that not only was I playing “P vs Z,” but I was also deeply involved in watching AMC’s “The Walking Dead” every Sunday night. I had watched all the previous seasons via Netflix, and I was very excited to watch Season 3 on a weekly basis. I’ll leave criticism of that show to the professionals (check out The Atlantic‘s weekly series on TWD), and instead I am going to attempt to figure out exactly why I like zombies so much.

These supernatural beings should have some psychological relation and reflection to our own selves, right? Frankenstein is an allegory for capitalism, and as is Dracula, but what’s with zombies? Some are fast. Some are slow. Their origin could be a toxic event, a plague, or more often something unexplainable. But what do they represent for the fan? There is a bit of Biblical references, right? The dead rising from the grave and all that—”Judgment Day” as Ray Stantz so eloquently states in Ghostbusters. And fans of other horror genres, and critics of zombie films, will often argue that zombies are boring due to their horde-like, slow movement. After all, you just keep killing and killing, as though there is no end! But here’s the thing: that is exactly why I like about the zombie genre.

I have to work at ye old coffee shop at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. Sunday. When we open—about 6:30 a.m.—they will pour through the doors not saying a word; not a greeting, a hello, a thank you; they will throw their remaining pocket change in the jar, go about their day reading the paper or making conversations with their neighbor about the weather. At 9:30 a.m., the masses will come. They will come after early church, before the later service. They will come in their sweatpants, their suits, their bow ties, or their stocking caps. They will come in SUV’s, on bikes, by foot, or lumber down from their condos right above us. And they’ll play noisy games like zoozit and kazay, a rollerskate type of lacrosse and croquet! … Oh, wait. That’s the Grinch. Sorry, I was on a roll…

Where was I? Oh yes. It is mornings like these when I realize my fascination with the zombie film: the horde. Retail/food service (the number one employer in America) is a special animal. They just keep coming. It is the nature of the business, I suppose; and if I wasn’t there for any other reason than health insurance, it is possible that those folks in their Sunday attire would not be starring in my own version of the zombie apocalypse. But they are. To me they are the walking dead. Sure, there are a few who make an impression, but for the most part I am fighting to stay alive. I am feeding them lattes and brewed coffee so they won’t eat at my flesh. I toss them a 400-calorie donut or two so they won’t tear off my arm and make me one of them. It’s life or death.

So, why Walt Disney? In March of this year, I went to Disney World in Florida (with my daughter, x-wife and my mother. Yeah, I know. That’s a whole ‘nother post.). I did a bit of research and discovered that Mr. Walt himself designed Disney World’s Main Street after his own home town’s Main Street; thus mimicking this 1950s era Americana nostalgia that may or may have not existed for the burgeoning middle class—only with hourly parades and a life size replica of Neuschwanstein Castle at Main Street’s end. Sheesh. I truly think that Walt’s Main Street resembles the Governer’s town of Woodbury in TWD (non-fans, I may lose you here).

Woodbury is modeled after this Disney-esque, Norman Rockwell Americana of some bygone era (pre-zombie apocalypse). It is fortified with large pieces of welded steel, on which a cat-walk is located for snipers to shoot incoming zombies, so that the people on the inside may live their “normal” pre-zombie apocalypse lives—barbeques, picnics, an evening stroll, etc. There is also ammo, food, normalcy, and a low zombie to people ratio. The problem is that both of these spaces rely upon a falsification of reality. No, I’m not taking the fun out of Disney World (it was a blast!), I’m simply interested in why we need to shield ourselves from reality. Why this facade of nostalgia as a precursor to enjoyment? Or, rather, enjoyment in the form of peaceful consumption? (Beyond the obvious not-taking-out-your-wallet-because-a-zombie-may-eat-your-hand reason).

Our narrative is often that these utopians cannot exist without a catch. There is one little, insignificant detail that requires this peace. For Walt it’s that crazy castle bearing down on us, reminding us that his homage to Main Street is just as fatuous as Ludwig II’s efforts to build a castle in honor of Richard Wagner with German public funds. And our concentrated belief in Main Street as representative of some blissful nostalgic love of what we think of as a “simpler time,” without our modern problems. For Woodbury it is, well was, Penny: the Governer’s zombified daughter in whose name he was running experiments on Woodbury’s citizen’s in order to find a “cure” for her. And the fact that none of the citizens faced the reality of the zombie apocalypse, and were thus unprepared for the real world. Yeah, it’s a stretch to make that comparison, but I beg this question: to what lengths will we go to secure normalcy? What will we ignore so that we may consume peacefully? Who will we keep out so that we may keep ourselves in? I for one am arming myself with a Snow Peas plant to slow them down even more, a Wall-nut or two to keep them at bay, and a Potato mine to blow them to smithereens. Trust me, I know my zombies.

A Slight bit of Complaining and Humor

It’s Tuesday, April 9th in Minnesota, and it’s raining. Tonight it will snow. Tomorrow it will sleet, and snow again on Friday. Last year it was nearly 61 degrees Fahrenheit by this time. This state amazes me (or as our local weatherman said, “Considering it’s April 9th, these temperatures are pretty incredible”). But, to my point.

My girlfriend arrived from Germany this past Wednesday, and she is leaving one week from now. We made tons of romantic plans, and are even prepared for a nice trip to Chicago from this Thursday through Sunday (yes, it will be raining and cold in Chicago). Amongst the weather, the front brakes on my vehicle started grinding the day I picked her up! I noticed a squeal or two the days before that, but paid it no mind. Now they are full-on grinding. So, I have to drop my car off tonight and borrow my mother’s car to use while my brakes are being fixed tomorrow. Sheesh!

You want more? Okay. So, on top of all this happening: I got sick. I get sick perhaps twice per year. It is bad: coughing, runny nose, fever, hot flashes, but then there is the worst part: the chills. I have this thing where when I am desperately sick, I get severe chills. So, Saturday night my gf, my daughter & and I are sitting and watching Disney/Pixar’s Brave, and we proceed to bed about 8:15. I can do nothing but fall into bed and shiver. I am freezing. Not 10 minutes later, I realize that there are 5 blankets on top of me and I still shivered for hours. Eventually I drank some Nyquil and my fever broke about midnight when I realized how many blankets I had on me and that I was sweating like a mad man! My gf spent the whole night next to me making sure I got better. After my fever broke and I woke up, she discovered we don’t have mint tea, lemon, or honey in our house to which she replied, “You guys conquered the whole world without lemon or honey!” The next morning she threatened me with her Croatian grandmother’s cure for illness by rubbing me down with vinegar and garlic. We bought some peppermint tea instead.

So now I am downstairs feeling better, and, you guessed it, my gf is upstairs resting her burgeoning soar throat. But we have had some amazing moments together. Last night we went to see Silver Lining Playbook—our first actual date-movie ever after 2 years of being together!—it was great, btw. We Skyped with her parents last week, and made meals together. She had her very first PB&J ever and LOVED IT! And I got to see my gf and my daughter interact. That was fun. Of course I was incapacitated, but I noticed my gf’s caring manner.

So, we shall see how Chicago fares. I shall pack an umbrella, honey, lemon, and tissues! No garlic…