18th March: Dark Depths of Yellow

Serious stories are always connected to current affairs or issues experienced by or known to the author. Exceptions can be the ones dealing with topics never out of season, thus they're not really exceptions. After reading 'The Yellow Wallpaper', I supposed it doesn't belong to the latter, so I had to look up its background before evaluating it. The story seemed to be only about a woman driven nuts by a lack of stimuli, so there had to be just more to it. It was reassuring, though, to find out that's exactly the case, only with a reference to the era's medicinal methods partly based on contemporary stereotypes of women.

Her developing madness may be evident from the beginning for those who are keen to suppose it, but assuming other possibilities makes the story more exciting for open-minded readers (provided they don't know the background). Since the narrator is the woman itself, everything is described in a perfectly subjective way. That keeps some questions open, at least unless the creeping woman appears everywhere, that being very typical of madness. Supposing the woman to be more or less sane at the beginning, the wallpaper is already damaged when they arrive, which would allow some space for a fantastic hypnotizing or magical pattern on the wall, though it seems to be ridiculously far from the author's concern.

The criticism of this aspect of the era's medicine is really clear and straightforward: a depressed woman is destroyed being a sister and a wife of two well-recognised doctors, who are never going to assume that their 'modern science' may be flawed at some points. (That should be considered highly unscientific, shouldn't it? It have been typical all along human history, though.)

It's also interesting to see how far we've come from that conception of women (a little bit too far, maybe) that almost totally distinguished their emotional needs – and how this change changed women themselves in the meanwhile.

11th March: L'amour est éternel

I’ve found myself in the embarrassing situation of not having two stories to compare; however, a slight analogy with ‘An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge’ should be observed: dozens of clues are given to the end result, but they’re also misleading at the same time.

Although the readers may sense the irony throughout, they likely perceive it being only against the preconceptions of ‘civilised and tender white people’ and ‘barbaric and rough black people’ when it ‘turns out’ that Desiree is partly of black origin. The facts otherwise seem to be in order. Seeing an austere white man who is softened by love is just natural, just like a ‘black woman’ who seems to be simple in her emotions and was a foundling anyway.

Overrating of genetic differences’ relevance is affected in two aspects in the story. The more apparent one was discussed above, and the other one is overvaluing the state of being a descendant of great families; it's half cultural even for Armand, though, since he rather talks about ‘names’ than ‘blood’. In addition to the above preconceptions – which lead Armand to a ridiculously immature, yet also disastrous decision – another related problem emerges. When Armand turns out to be the ‘black’ one, one may comprehend that Desiree wasn’t that plausible to be the culprit, after all; we’ve just found that logical because we wanted to. If a situation is supposed to be logical, then it will usually seem to be, and that is what makes preconceptions really dangerous.

It should be mentioned that the vocabulary of the story was almost simple enough to read without a dictionary, and those words I had to look up were mostly French loan-words, which wasn’t really the case in the previous ones.

4th March: The Wild West

The thing this week's novels had in common was the confrontation of civilised and barbaric forms of human life, or at least what are called such in our culture. In 'The Bride Comes To Yellow Sky' by Stephen Crane, it happens directly and by completely devastating the idea of barbarism, while in 'The Law of Life' by Jack London, 'barbarism' is meant to be contrasted with the reader's own culture, and while it definitely degrades the former for some degree, it also leaves space for musing.

The town marshal and his newly married wife are representing the wilderness of Yellow Sky and the spreading civilness simultaneously – on the train and at home, respectively. The story actually concentrates on the way how sophistication (and thus civilisation) wins over barbarism. We may see it on the train already, but it’s the end of the story which is devastating for the latter: it demonstrates that no self-confindence is unbreachable if it’s hit at the right point, even by chance (and the only way to improve its probablity is being more sophisticated). It's also worth observing that any kind of behaviour connected with childish activities may look ridiculous in an instant to anyone when confronted with adult matters.

The second story about the former indian chieftain however, makes only a slight judgement about barbarism, referring to the narrow-mindedness of the old man’s ideology. The narration is intended to be neutral, and there are no things in the forest that would make a contrast. It could be seen as a comparison between the values of pagan religions and Christianity – obeying nature and living in harmony versus reaching for Heavens and incurring all the illnesses of a misused body and mind. The average reader however – and the century in which the story was read may not make a difference – is probably not impartial enough to make objective judgements on the story, and it’s also questionable if the writer was. It may be an effective tool to write a neutral narrative while letting the prejudice of the audience to do the rest.

25th February: Two Tragedies

I think I'm supposed to find some parallelism between this story about the leaping frog and the hanged man at the bridge. While the former seems to be utterly funny and pointless, and the latter a deeply emotional and mournful one, I'm not to be distracted easily.

The point I'd like to make first is that – while I may be completely wrong regarding this story – sometimes a piece of literature may have a desired effect other than entertaining, even if there's no definite message. Due to this nature of the effect, it would be hard to express its essence; perhaps an adjustment in the way we see the lives of different people. In both stories I think, we've got protagonists who made the right decisions in the beginning, but then, they forgot to pay proper attention and made bad mistakes. One can find real tragedy in the leaping frog’s story by ignoring the comfortable set of a supposedly fictitious story in a supposedly fictitious story and the fact that Mr. Smiley hasn’t got any particular features to deeply sympathise with. It is funny though that the reader enjoys a writing that (s)he more or less agrees to be pointless and basically boring.

A completely different, yet interesting issue of the second story is that whether the imagined escape is unreasonably long considering the few seconds of fall in which it was experienced or not. Probably the best answer is that the writer didn’t care, and nor should he. Many of us have already experienced dreams that seemed scores of minutes long, while they occurred in just a few minutes’ sleep, and that phenomenon may be strengthened further by extremes of danger. It’s also somewhat surprising that the dénouement surprises most of the readers, although several clues are given. The most important perhaps is the ticking of the watch that seems to slow down infinitely, and the environment being a bit surrealistic during the escape. Half of the readers may take those as regular exaggerations, and half may concentrate too much on the success of the protagonist; as for me, I’ve fallen to both.

18th February: Slavery.

I have to tell I read the two excerpts without having an authentic image about slavery in America. The most serious material I've seen in the topic was probably that quite naturalistic film I saw when I was 13 or so. (The film itself was about a black American woman being sold by a black master to another black master, but I can't recall much more about it.) I had, therefore, to rely on my sense of realism in order to decide what I should think about the two stories.

The first one by Harriet Beecher Stowe was hard to believe even in the beginning, but it deliberately passed the line of realism afterwards. One may accept that the slaves of the household were favoured by the masters (at least for the sake of comfort), but I just can’t help visualising the whole scene exactly like a Walt Disney-cartoon. You can almost see the floating smell of the cookies, and you most probably wouldn’t be suprised if one of the ill-behavioured slave kids – isn’t their behaviour surpassing any expectations regarding a situation like this? – would emerge and float around smiling along the trail of smell. Even if the surreality of the chapter doesn’t ring a bell, you may wonder how come that slaves are free to bake the things they please, and even if their master could be that permissive, how committed the author can be to reality if she depicts the life of slaves as such an idyllic business in an age of actual slavery.

The other excerpt by Harriet Ann Jacobs featured a favoured slave from the household, too, yet in a much more believeable way. Her master – like most of mankind – being unable to deal with the situation of possessing other people, acts with some hints of controversy. While most of us would consider him cruel and hypocrite, he seems to believe that he’s doing his best to his slaves. This is what allows the slave girl to rebel against his master almost directly without making the story too romantic or killing herself – we could call this set-up a stroke of a genius, provided it wasn’t a true story.