Daisy Miller, by Henry James

Daisy Miller by Henry James
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

“Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn’t exist here” (69).

I thoroughly enjoyed Henry James’ novella. My previous exposure to James’ work was through The Bostonians, another text that I enjoyed, and I was not at all hesitant to pick up this quick read from my gf’s bookshelf.

I won’t summarize the length of the story, but will remark that it concerns a rich, American family traveling through Switzerland and Italy—sans Father, which should, psychoanalytically, speak for the uncouth behavior of the protagonist, Miss Daisy Miller. What I most enjoyed were the brief witticisms used by James to depict Miss Miller, and, thus, this uniquely American behavior of flirtation and childish, light of air quality of person. While Daisy often refers to the narrator, Mr. Winterbourne, as “stiff,” he is, up until the end, mystified by Daisy’ and while regarding her as “uncultured” he is absolutely fascinated by her ‘devil-may-care’ attitude. It is for Mr. Winterbourne her very, to borrow the phrase, The Unbearable Lightness of Being that makes her so attractive.

As an American who frequents month long visits to Germany, and is in a relationship with a European, I can understand this relation quite well. It still rings true today, albeit often in far more vulgar behavior, that Americans are, well, “childish” (in a positive light) and “uncultured” (in a negative light). And, from this American’s perspective, the adjective “stiff” used by Daisy Miller could not more resemble the truth when regarding the European standard of behavior (68). (No offense to all those good, up-standing Europeans eating  with their tines down; or those hearty Germans organizing party games in order to coerce socialization out of their fellow “stiff” citizens.)

This little novella also spoke to the romance of Rome. After having lived in Rome for some six months, albeit over ten years ago, the propensity for Italian men to both attract and relentlessly court American girls has survived these 100 years. In other words, the myth of Giovanelli and Miss Daisy Miller is still alive for the American girl studying abroad. I recall many a fond night sitting on the Spanish Steps watching helpless, young, blonde American girls attract flocks of Italian men & boys—but it is unfair to pronounce them helpless, no?

So, yes, as you might have guessed, I sympathize with Miss Miller’s behavior—even her obstinate hold upon her cultural norms. And I think the greatest revelation of her and many—although they may not want to admit it—American characters & personages is contained in the following exclamation: “‘That’s all I want — a little fuss!’ and the young girl began to laugh again” (38).
My read shelf:

London Feb 2012, Day Three: Zurück zu Deutschland.

Because I never thought I would say with a sigh, “I am so happy to be back in Germany”.

Flying back to Frankfurt-Finally, a seat together.

Continued from Part 2

Our journey began on a Tuesday morning, February 21st, very, very early. An early flight from Frankfurt-Hahn (the outlying, thus cheaper, airport that is a 45-minute journey from Mainz) to Rome, meaning we had to get up at 6am, which in US time was 11pm… my regular bedtime…

Rome was scheduled far in advance before I left the US. I hadn’t been there for years, and since I was staying with my gf in Mainz, Germany for 18 days, I suggested a 2-day stay in my former city. London was not planned. London was a weekend conference that my gf was accepted to only weeks before my departure; and we planned our trips so that Tue-Thu would be Rome, and Thu-Mon would be London. This is not so easy.

Thursday morning we had breakfast at the apartment we were staying at in Rome and left a bit early for the flight to Frankfurt-Hahn. Rome’s Ciampino airport was clear across the giant city from our apartment (from Metro stop Cornelia to Anagnina, then a bus), so we decided to cut our trip short by going to Termini and catching a bus to Ciampino where we would fly back to Hahn, and stay there until our evening flight into London departed. (I am working on a short story about this crazy trip, and will post it upon its completion).

We arrived in London Thursday evening around 10pm. We had been traveling for nearly 12 hours through three different nations and one timezone. By the time our taxi had arrived, we were exhausted. We arrived at our destination in South London’s Peckham neighborhood just before midnight. The first thing we did after the owner of the apartment left was take a shower, and crash, hard.

This third day of sightseeing was a relief. It was calm, relaxing, and, since we were riding on a tour bus, we didn’t have to worry about transportation. I recommend it to anyone who only has one day to see London, and truly wants to see all of London. Hope you enjoy the pictures!

Thanks!

Rome, A Character Study: The Lonely Nun

Catholic:
1 (esp. of a person’s tastes) including a wide variety of things; all-embracing. Universal.
2 (Catholic) of the Roman Catholic faith.
• of or including all Christians.
• of or relating to the historic doctrine and practice of the Western Church.

I took photos of two individuals while in Rome this past February, 2012. Instead of simply throwing my photos from my trip online without context, I decided to grab a handful of photos and examine them closely. I wanted to discuss these two individuals at length, and why I decided to take photos of them when I did. Here is the first part: my lonely nun.

I always like a good photo of a nun or two while in Rome, and the reason should be a bit obvious, but I found this lone nun a fascinating photo opportunity.

I was waiting in line to enter St. Peter’s Basilica and climb the duomo with my gf, when I spotted the lone nun above walking through the piazza. The thing is, she looks so alone amongst all those young Italians just hanging out, or the multitude of tourists snapping photos or waiting in line. But I needed to give that more thought.

The last time I was in Rome (2003-04) my friend hosted a guided tour of St. Peter’s, and from him I learned that the surrounding columns are shaped so as to mimic the metaphorical, all-embracing arms of the Catholic Church. Thinking upon this, I wanted to reconsider my first evaluation of this nun’s loneliness. She was alone, but it was a rough judgment to say lonely. How could a nun possibly feel lonely in Rome? Much less in the Piazza San Pietro. The reason I took these photos is because her singularity caught my eye, but was it not also because I thought there was some aesthetic dissonance in her walking alone? I recalled the first definition, listed above, of Catholic from my GRE vocabulary building exercises (I know, silly) and at first I thought her singularity amongst the many was some sort of soulful incongruity; as though it was not a personal assault on her as singular individual (everyone needs time alone), but a representation of what Catholic was supposed to be, e.g. all-encompassing. And I thought there was some dissonance with this image.

But I now think I am missing the point of all-encompassing. I am not a Catholic. I was raised Protestant, and I respect each individual and their religion. But I imagine that Catholicism, thought of as all-encompassing, is something that does not leave someone even if they are alone. That’s the point, right? God, Catholicism, Belief, these thoughts do not leave the faithful. In other words: that nun was not alone. Nor is she. I don’t believe I was in error in my first approach, nor for my initial reason for taking the photos, but I was ignorant of what this person may feel, think, and believe. I was ignorant that she was, at that very moment, in the arms of her God, and therefore, never alone.

What do you think? Have an opinion on this aesthetic dissonance or the representation?

A Story About Raskalnikov

A Broken Literacy Narrative:

Involving Crime, Lust, World Travel, Fear, and a Fictional Axe

I.

It began with Raskalnikov entering my life. No, that can’t be. Because if I told you that I chose Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (1956) on a whim you would believe there is an exceptional person writing this narrative, but I didn’t, and I’m not…

So let me go back to a watershed moment in my life that changed my conception of reading and writing forever. Lest this moment be qualified by a courteous acknowledgement of the struggles of other cultures—thus deafening my moment’s personal merit—I’ll go ahead with the banal truth: my ‘watershed moment’ took place after completing my undergraduate work at a local state college in 2002. A very important point of independence for a young, American, white, male, Lutheran, of rural working-class origins, who is attempting a sustained penetration into the middle-class in all its glory.

But the devil is in the details, as is said, so instead of continually approaching the scene from an impressionistic perspective—fuzzy and abstract even at close range—this moment would be better illustrated with poignant details: My car had crank windows, no air conditioning, and due to a theft, no radio. The evening rush-hour commute from work to my home was some forty-five minutes; longer if there was traffic, and there most certainly was loads of traffic. So I spent my early evening hours avoiding traffic in relaxation: reading and examining the shelves of Borders bookstore.

As it so happens, there was no less coincidence in my choice of Borders than the vast influence this retail bibliotheca had upon my life: for this Borders would later be the scene of my break from standard cubical employment, and it also served as the place where I met the mother of my child. But for now it served as respite from the world at large; a place to collect a pile of books, a journal, a coffee, and a space of my own. I read Kesey, Kerouac, Burroughs, Chomsky, Salinger, Kafka, Hemingway, Dostoevsky, Sartre, Marx, and perused much more.

II.

I often joked that my idea for traveling to different countries was spurred on by the particular letter with which the country began: “I chose ‘I’ at random, thus resulting in Italy, maybe India was next!” I asserted one night over dinner. Hindsight provides the distance to expose that this joke was taken seriously by my mother, or her shock may have had more to do with my wayward respect towards life and superficial carefree attitude. Nonetheless, disregarding all concern for a ‘career,’ I quit my office job, bought a plane ticket, and on November 6, 2003 flew alone to Rome, Italy.

Amidst clothing and toiletries, I packed Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1781)[Abridged], my Oxford English Dictionary, a small collection of poems by Walt Whitman, a borrowed copy of Daniel Quinn’s Ishmael (1992), and Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. There was a plan; well, a formula for a plan, as I later learned my plan was backward: I would get a job at Yellow Hostel in Rome (who I had been having communications with before my departure), see the sights, and then travel a bit before wandering home. The average traveler would exhaust all his or her moneys and then find a job; my approach was more apropos the “prodigal son” tale, but with a hint of underlying fear to temper my mettle. The worst part is: this was my second time living the prodigal tale. My first trip was to Rouen, France in March 2003 to visit my then girlfriend and spend four weeks traveling, only to return home broke and jobless.

It wouldn’t be fair to leave my writing unexamined at this point, since my travels were as equally driven by my journal, as my journal by my travels. I can’t remember my first journal, nor can I remember what purpose I set forth in writing my thoughts down on paper, but I found a voice I did not know existed which took almost 23 years of life to find its specific articulation. It seems as though I should not proceed without a list of activities found in my journal that advanced my self-imposed educational standards—I’m confident the list will be revealing—so I’ll proceed despite my better judgment towards a “narrative structure”.

Found in my journal between undergraduate work, and my developed study of English as Literature at a local community college and then the University where I attained my MA in English Literature: the recording of dreams, alliteration exercises, quotes collected along the way, beginning and end dates of books I read and why I read them, a list of the countries I’ve been to and dates, bad short stories, letters to person’s far away, poor grammar, poems asserting personal definition, novice critique of political texts, musings on ideology and Existentialism, song lyrics, and the occasional sketch. For the first page of each journal I began discussing the challenge of writing that ominous first page of a journal: the empty page of possibilities, the impetus to create a witty remark that will be instantly recognized later in life when the time for journal entries is gone.

III.

I had made the mistake of reading the first part of Crime and Punishment and then going directly to bed. Dostoevsky’s prose weighed heavy upon my head. When I quit the evening to my four-bedded room at a hostel in Krakow, Poland, there was another traveler. He had arrived late and his friends were sleeping in another room. He took the lower bunk adjacent to me, and I the upper. We said “goodnight” after exchanging formal “hello’s” and polite inquiries to each others comings and goings.

(Dear Reader, are you familiar with Crime and Punishment? Rather than assume you are I’ll briefly summarize so as to lend a hand to my ensuing narrative: the first part out of six of Dostoevsky’s mystery, told from the point of the criminal, involves the crime: murder; only it’s not that simple. Rodion Romanovich Raskalnikov is a student who has as of late been reading about Nihilism. In order for Raskalnikov to take control of his life he convinces himself that he should murder a person of little concern with an axe, a pawnbroker for example. The philosophical concept inspiring Raskalnikov is the Nietzsche-ian Superman: the idea that foregoing good and evil, man can do anything with a clear conscience. Even murder.)

I awoke in the middle of the night to screams of frustration below me. My roommate was cursing me for snoring! I thought little of it and, helplessly, returned to sleep. Suddenly he continued his yelling, “Hey you! You are too loud!” What could I do? I was over-tired from traveling, and unable to control my snoring. I drifted back to sleep. As soon as slept consumed me I awoke again to the sounds of my roommate’s metal bed frame rattling violently against the opposite brick wall. He tossed and turned muttering loud complaints and venting his frustration upon himself as he shook with impotent rage. I tried turning on my other side, facing away from the wall in order to maybe ease my companion’s sleep. And once again I hesitantly drifted off to sleep.

I frantically awoke. My bed was now shaking! The metal frame of my bed pounded against the wall causing me to wake with adrenaline and fear only to find my companion shaking my bed to gain my attention. Anxiously my mind assessed the situation, “How can I stop snoring? Should I turn to my other side?” Then in an instant the image of an axe popped into my imagination. The pawn-broker, murdered. If a man as Raskalnikov is capable of cold-blooded murder, then what would this ordinary traveler do to me? I trembled with fear and loneliness. I didn’t know whether I could stop snoring, or whether he would stop shaking my bed. I lay with my eyes open and the covers pulled up to my eyes, fearing the least inclination of sleep.

At last he fell asleep before me. I woke the next morning to find the room empty, and my former roommate complaining about my cacophonous snoring to the hostel’s receptionist. I waited for my light-sleeping cohort to leave, eaves-dropping on his rant. I later spoke with the receptionist and offered to exchange my room with another. He would return later that day to a peaceful room of his own, as would I.

That day (February 9, 2004), I wrote in my journal: “Dostoevsky has left me insane. His writing is so engaging, so frightening. I didn’t want to put Crime and Punishment down, but I was frightened to turn the page. I could see everything in my mind. Every action, every squeaking door, every drop of blood, every home, every street. It was amazing.”

18.12.2009