These complete the bulk of my coursework for the next four months. Of the lot are two plays, two books of poetry (which I am most pleased about), and two are verse-type narratives written in Anglo-Saxon language; of which one is Middle English (legible) and the other, Beowulf, Old English (illegible).
Now, The Lord of the Rings, which took the wind out of my sails when I learnt that I'll be reading it, will be studied contrapuntally to the other most-original books of literature. To shortly sum up the trilogy's purpose: they are the contemporary response to the old – or rather ancient, even archaic, but surprisingly still relevant and evident in today's ways – culture and ideas (of religious, social, and cultural and and conversation).
Here are very unprofessionally taken photographs of the Beowulf text and from the Canterbury Tales, to give you an idea of what's been contributing to my ever-increasing insanity.
To the right: Beowulf. As of now, I've only seen its film adaptation. I won't lie, I enjoyed watching it. (I am generally a read-the-book-first type of person, however, ahem, this occasion of medieval/renaissance lit proved to be the exception to my rule.)
To the left: Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. I am meant to read all these thousands and thousands of Middle English lines untranslated and convert it into my own understanding via poetry, or prose (which is quite a fun way of stretching one's imaginative muscles). One of my favourite prologues so far, to be honest, I haven't read many of them, is The Wife of Bath's. Read it here, in English you'd understand: Wife of Bath's Prologue – If you have ever heard of proto-feminism (feminist philosophies before "feminism," prior to the 20th century), this is it. And bear in mind too, this is centuries before Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew, which is widely known and believed to be the very first subject matter of feminism in literature of the Western world traditions.
There is a world of references in these texts at my disposal to use in my writing. I am a born-researcher, so I am able to read one word and go on to discover a world of possibilities beyond its singular language, meaning, context. I love that. It makes for a long road of reading, watching, listening, observing, channeling... but it's worth the miles. Now, if I could only find the time to write...
If ever there was a list that is impossible to complete, it's the TO–READ list. Therefore, I have decided to list all the books I've yet to read or have been recommended to, on my blog. Not only will this help me to keep an orderly track of them all (I've too many notebooks and make scraps of notes and recommendations all over the place, I subsequently forget about or lose them altogether) but it will serve as a spot for other readers looking for books to read. In addition to these lists, I will also post a list of the books I have read. I, unfortunately, cannot keep up with writing read reflections for all the novels, plays or poems I engage, so this list will at least enable you to have an idea of those that I have. And it's never too late to do a reflection on a read, so then I could just select from the list when the time avails itself to me to do my unique "reviews". It already is quite cumbersome keeping afloat all the drafts of my creative writing pursuits and even if I wanted to, I can't drop a post whenever. There's my studies and there's life too, and the odd laze haze. That's that. Next update on this matter will be about said lists compiled, and up-and-running.
This post will comprise of excerpts (randomly selected, by me, of course) withdrawn from the afterword in The Bluest Eye as written by its author, Toni Morrison (November, 1993). I will do this to provide added context, and also just for the sake of it, to my post about the novel that comes before this particular post. I love how she articulates her meaning, reasoning and purpose behind the construction and the how-to read of the narrative. "The novel pecks away at the gaze that condemned her." (p.167)
"'Quiet as it's kept' is also a figure of speech that is written, in this instance, but clearly chosen for how speakerly it is, how it speaks and bespeaks a particular world and its ambience. [...] Sudden familiarity or instant intimacy seemed crucial to me." (pp. 169 & 170)
"The assertion of racial beauty was not a reaction to the self-mocking, humorous critique of cultural/racial foibles common in all groups, but against the damaging internalisation of assumptions of immutable inferiority originating in an outside gaze. I focused, therefore, on how something as grotesque as the demonisation of an entire race could take root inside the most delicate member of society: a child; the most vulnerable member; a female. [...] In exploring the social and domestic aggression that could cause a child to literally fall apart, I mounted a series of rejections, some routine, some exception, some monstrous, all the while trying hard to avoid complicity in the demonisation process Pecola [focal character] was subjected to." (p. 168)
"A skip, perhaps, in the natural order of things: a September, an autumn, a fall without marigolds. Bright, common, strong and sturdy marigolds. When? In 1941, and since that is a momentous year (the beginning of World War II for the US), the "fall" of 1941, just before the declaration of war, has a "closet" innuendo." (p.170)
"...a problem lies in the central chamber of the novel... the void that is Pecola's "unbeing"' (p.171)
"With very few exceptions, the initial publication of The Bluest Eye was like Pecola's life: dismissed, trivialised, misread. And it has taken twenty-five years to gain for her the respectful publication this edition is."
Again, all excerpts are taken from Toni Morrison's foreword in the book
Ah, found this picture from almost three years ago. It was me on a road trip with my mother to Maputo, (formerly known as Lourenço Marques, before independence)Mozambique. It was a trip that elevated both my consciousness and desire to demand dignity for all peoples. It showed me not only the strength and resilience of those who are seemingly less favoured in social and economic ranks, but also opened my eyes to how it is (always) possible to have a thriving (and joyful) spirit despite your circumstances. The few days I spent there afforded me a kind of spiritual liberation too, being able to interact and hold hands with what I believe to be one of the world's most loving, giving and endearing people alive. Mozambicans visibly exude a warmth that is unrivaled to many other encounters I've had. Genuine smiles, sincere conversation, and delicious catering. I haven't been back since, even though I promised myself to go again within a few months of my visit. My parents have been there on numerous occasions I was little though, their visits grew less frequent as I got older (er, ja). I have an aunt over, my family there is where I've learnt the little Portuguese I am now familiar with. But... I will visit again and when I do it will be for much longer than just a week, and preferably a solo excursion. I also did plenty of reading and writing; and talking and reminiscing and reflecting and foresighting and loving with me mommy on the trips back and forth. We chose to transport there by land for these very reasons, I fell even more in love with her during this time, as if that was any more possible, but it was. And the stories we ricocheted between us will forever be a product of the woman I am. And of course, I took the window seat (shout out to Badu "I just need a chance to fly/ A chance to cry and a long bye-bye")
"When I began writing The Bluest Eye, I was interested in something else. Not resistance to the contempt of others, ways to deflect it, but the far more tragic and disabling consequences of accepting rejection as legitimate, as self-evident. I knew that some victims of powerful self-loathing turn out to be dangerous, violent, reproducing the enemy who has humiliated them over and over. Others surrender their identity; melt into a structure that delivers the strong persona they lack. Most others, however, grow beyond it. But there are some who collapse, silently, anonymously, with no voice to express or acknowledge it. They are invisible."
"The origin of the novel lay in a conversation I had with a childhood friend," as written in the foreword of Morisson's novel by the author herself (the above quote is taken from the same foreword.) 172 pages of literary gold, including a foreword and an afterword, and the Dick and Jane primer pages.
When Toni Morrison started writing this story (1962) it was during a time when the black girl had no beauty aesthetic to model after. There was only the image of whiteness and white beauty, that of Shirley Temple in particular in this novel, with her golden locks and blue eyes and a world seemingly eating from the palm of her hands due to these physical traits. At least, that is what it seemed like to Pecola, the starring character in The Bluest Eye (1970).
The Bluest Eye, a tale of black identity, colourism, dominant standards of beauty, internalised racism, sexuality, (incestuous, psychological) rape, etc. It is set in a communal town where the people are troubled. Troubled not just by domestic issues but by their oppressive upbringings, troubled by the lurking shadows of colonisation and the loss or lack of an established identity. There is adolescence. There is the adult world and the world of the child, and that of the child leaning on the demarcation between the two, looking in on its neighboured world. A community of friendship, sisterhood, motherhood, parenthood and the married complexities of these relationships.
Morrison presents a set of experiences, many experiences, devastating experiences. There is no one narrator, protagonist or antagonist (not according to how I read it). I'd say the antagonism are the issues this community deals with: the social, political and economical ills. The detail employed to narrate some of these experiences are nothing less than abject; however, the novel would be less effective if these were written differently.
The characters often experiences bouts of rejection, ridicule, terror, hatred (from the outside and from within), resentment, nervousness, belonging and unbelonging, lots of hopelessness and helplessness, sacrifice with little reward, little redemption, and no happy ending.
But more than the story and the undertones of racial, social, identity and whatnot politics, is Morrison's writing.
(Also, the Dick and Jane technique is genius. Her use of punctuation and grammatical faults in the first few paragraphs sets the mood and idea for what is to follow. This challenges the idea of the "perfection" of the predominantly white nuclear family. The same with the beginning 'Autumn' narration — it reveals to the reader everything they need to know, which is in contradiction to the old keep-the-reader-guessing approach, she goes against the grain in so many ways. Just as I revere her in so many ways.)
Her sentences read like lines of poetry. There's mastery in her lyricism. I don't recall the source of the interview, but she mentions how she detests being called a "poetic writer;" the reasons for this owes to a linear focus to her work that ignores her full scope of writerly talent.
I've mentioned many characteristics to be found laced in novel, but I failed to mention love. There is love. Latent, but it is. It's woven in the parts of the stories shared that seem to be most empty of it. Note closely Morrison's strategic use of the seasons as themes, rather than chapters, and the seeds planted, and at which intervals, they are most revealing.
Quoting one of my favourite lines from the novel:
"Love is never any better than the lover."
Soon after I had finished the read, Sept' of last year, I happened to stumble upon Malcolm X's May, 1962 address to a congregation of black folk about their internalised hatred of the black image. And so, I decided to add it to this post (below).
Also, If you haven't yet, I would like to take this opportunity to offer my recommendation that you read Frantz Fanon's Black Skin, White Masks (1952). Toni Morrison makes no explicit reference to Fanon's work, in the novel or elsewhere that I'm aware of (if she does, please do refer me), anyway, if you've read his psychoanalytical and theoretical explanations of the Black person's experience and psyche in a White world, you can easily relate Morrison's fictional depictions to be founded in hard-truths. Black Skin, White Masks was a life-changer for me. It not only told me but it showed me how lost I was in my perceptions and my experience of seemingly post- so-many-issues-to-list. It mapped out for me how latent my oppression was and how dangerously it lingered in my every day and threatened to cripple me, possibly until death, if I had not opened my eyes and ears to it soon. (This book deserves a post of its own. What has taken me so long to write one? I've lent it out so many times, I hardly know where to start looking for it.)
"Who taught you to hate the texture of your hair? Who taught you to hate the colour of your skin, to such extent that you bleach to get like the white man? Who taught you to hate the shape of your nose, and the shape of your lips? Who taught you to hate yourself, from the top of your head to the soles of your feet? Who taught you to hate your own kind—who taught you to hate the race that you belong to, so much so that you don't want to be around each other? No, before you come around asking Mr, Muhammed does teach hate, you should ask yourself: who taught you to hate being what God gave you?"
When I render that “I’ve run out of words” what I’m really saying is that I have nothing left in me but the feeling consuming, making full my inside.
ii.
I’m telling that there are no linguistic gymnastics my tongue can perform to speak sense of this. I’m trying to get you to understand that you have somehow, against my good sense, seeped through my skin and you’re steadily creeping into me. You’re jostling feelings that appear as goose pimples.
iii.
Breath-taken. Unrestrained. That is what I mean when I say, “I’ve run out of words.”
iv.
I put the sentence out there, bitterly hoping that you read intention into it yet crossing my fingers that you don’t see it at all. I’m afraid of my suspicions. I shut up. Don’t affirm the insinuations.
v.
My mind is heavy with all that I long to say but my mouth bears a hollow vessel. Stuck to the back of teeth – are thoughts not quite ready to face the world, therefore “I've run out of words.”
vi.
Feelings happen quickly, uninvited and unintentional. Reciprocity needs mending, unbinding and understanding. Two parts, one whole, three stories, four heartbreaks, five sleeplessness nights, on count six I’ve suddenly had enough. I’m going to scrub my flesh clean of you. I don’t desire to become familiar with seven, eight, nine, eleven because they might never come alone. Bringing with them more numbers that would eventually add to more chaos and before long we would have lost count of the madness and no method would bring it to a sum. “I've run out of words.”
vii.
See, my state of mind in this welcomed affliction is that your mind is out there and not consumed with enough thoughts of me. That it’s reaching for heights more ambitious than what I have on offer. That your head is free from the toil to forget my name, my face, my words, my intrigue. That your own name is wandering in somebody else’s head, and they’re happy about it. Whereas I? I am nothing but a consumed fool whose flesh is crawling with a developing sentiment for you. It’s all underneath my skin. And it’s beginning to show to the world. And my mouth won’t allow me to speak because my words are clutching onto the back of teeth that will soon start bearing scars plastered there by kisses that are meant for only another and we’re losing our sense of math and order and this entire sentence is becoming too long and unbearable, and… Maybe, I've already said too much. Sigh. Sob. Sing.
viii.
I know that I've leapt and admitted to all this but there’s something crazier yet: I'm willing to risk this dialogue. Things take crazy shape in the dark; silhouettes that would speak but can’t. I prefer not having your lips find mine when there’s no light for us to bask under. The dark equates to crazy shapes and stories that would not break. I'm frightened by the dark. It’s ugly and aggressive.
ix.
“I’ve run out of words,” will repeatedly appear to me in song sung in nightmares for as long as we allow this. Its ugly would take shape that no dance could make beautiful.
I've read quite a number of books in recent months. I'm not going to share Read Reflections on each one of 'em - I may only mention them - and instead rather really opine on the ones I do review.
First up, Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1962). The book's a thick read: 393 pages. I took some time to finish it as I read it over the course of a busy schedule. But I did finish it, and that's what counts because we tend to abandon books quite easily, especially when there's little time to devour said book plus said book makes for a tad boring read.
Albeit, I do not abandon reads. Well, I rarely do. It might take me a while to start up a new read but once I've started I almost always see it through. This could also attest to my reading for depth that goes beyond a story's plot. I do close readings, building context as I go; I savour the brilliance of the written word, or even just the writer's unique method of story-telling - as a writer, I use every text I read as a basis for learning - every book has a quaint detail to it, and that is what keeps me reading to the very last line. The quaintness could be a likeable detail or a not so likeable detail, depending on your reasons for reading. As I've already mentioned, mine are many. I'm a student of the arts, this may or may not be of influence.
I have to admit, though, Kesey's writing style is not my favoured style, nor is the narrative style he adopted. It tends to be dreary and builds very slowly and even its climax is not much of a, er, climax. With that said, the text as a critical reading on society is rich in insight and allows the reader to question a lot of what we have accepted as 1) normalcy and 2) insanity. Who is the big shot that determines characteristics for either? Who or what determines what stays and what goes?
At an even closer read you find that the text deals with many metaphors. The setting is a mental hospital, for the most part. The narrator, protagonist and all the other characters are constituents of this situation. Some would read the text as a metaphor for norms, acceptance, rejection; for psychological ills; (contemporary) American society and on a greater platform for the human experience in society in general. Kesey does a great job at not being explicit about this and at keeping the narratives based inside this asylum, where I might mention a matriarch heads. Yup, this idea created quite the contestation in the literary/social critic parts of the world, from what I've studied. Given that the book is published in the very early 60's before the era of pronounced feminism, and when women were largely the subordinate subjects of society; does make one wonder why Kesey set such an antagonist structure for his novel. But again, if you ask enough questions measured against the contents of what Kesey implies within the narrative you'd come up with enough reasonable ideas as to why. I'm going off on a tangent... The thing is, the text is rich. If you love critically dissecting literature this one is a dream. Read it along with Michel Foucault's Madness and Civilisation (1961) and with literature on the panoptical world. On the ward of the hospital is a glass station where Nurse Ratched (the matriarch) stations to observe the patients - this is alluded to the panoticon in the sense of its purpose (designed for prisoners/inmates to be constantly conscious of being observed) - limiting personal freedom and constraining behaviour. Also, the narrator suffers a history of colonial and imperial-induced violence to his identity, culture and familial community. Read into this too, or at least pay mind to it in observing his character and narration. The protagonist acts an an evasive character and saviour to the patients. There are biblical and Christian connotations written to him too. I read him as representing the instrument to anti-establishment. He is eventually-- nah, I won't give it away, but I found his fate rather sad, given the role he had taken upon himself in this institution of social organisation, hierarchical dominance, emasculation, punishment and surveillance; of dementia and frontal lobotomies. The other characters all represent some type of repressed identity, "otherness" - it's quite a triumphant read when you read it for a full and rich comprehension. I'd go out on a limb and say the novel was written from an entirely masculinist perspective, rejecting all political correctness - and as feminist and womanist as my own perspective tends to be, I believe in being open to reading or hearing other narratives to make for complete reasoning of your own, allowing for measured critique or praise - views are verily misogynistic; and there is an act of sexual violation that alludes to "victory" (against turning man into machines) for the group of male patients. The scene is violent, yet I read it as representative of all other global conquests performed the world over, in history, that was termed as the "rape" of continents or states by way of patriarchal language. Well, I had written a much longer post than intended. Hence I will only add one other Read Reflection, that of J. D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye (1951). Holden Caulfield, what a grim character. He really is. Most everything is of the phony nature to him. His narration is repetitive, exaggerated, inconsistent, and grim. But there are reasons to all of this. Andrew Blackman, author of On the Holloway Road, wrote a review to the book better than anything I could think up to sum up Holden and Salinger. He really did. Please do read it HERE.
My concern for my Africa has grown over the last few months. My interests span Africa's history, its current state and that of foreign involvement in the continent; all the Five W's and How reasons. We all know about Africa's history of relentless colonialism and imperialism and how these have affected the continent's current environment. With a nearer gaze, we see too that Africa for the most part, has failed to derive any lessons from its past that reflect on-going and progressive expansion built on its previous cripplings. Take industrialisation for example, it could never revolutionise because of the calculated denial to growth and development it faced under colonial rule. However, the continent has not actualised any infrastructure to combat this, if economic growth and competitiveness is assumed to be of any concern. All that aside, what's most visible about Africa right now is its lack of assertiveness, in leadership, governance and security. And for this to materialise, as many experts point out, the continent needs to invest in capacity development -- this would help to actualise strategy that not only eradicates Africa's image of "needing aid" but would lead to stimulating and productive efforts in creating a collective wealth for the continent. Our challenges are socio-political and socio-economic, these stem from the Cold War era; and these are the very challenges that states were dealt with too post the Cold War. Back then Africa was used as leverage for those states to pull themselves up again, is the continent going to assume this pawn-like role forever? Africa was only ever "the plan" then - the strategic move - for the developed nation to bolster their ascendency into great-power status. I feel that the "Third World" (I don't particularly fancy this term) is in good stead to concentrate on common development and prosperity, rising in synergy against the Western dominance that has hung heavy over them in past centuries. Yes, globalisation is exploitative, but with a feasible framework Africa too, can derive benefits if it exceeds intelligently and strategically. I read about Africa's promising growth in the technology and banking sectors by new data released by the big credit rating agencies of the world. The trade and investment avenue has the potential of scale and scope for African governments to become more pro-active risk managers, and to take a driving position. Loans are not the sort of change or path to growth Africa needs to employ, and it is exactly what Africa is gracefully excepting from countries like, say, China. Rendering itself to future debt and a considerable disadvantage in the markets that have grown hyper-competitive in the face of globalisation and multilateralism. More than loans, Africa needs development in areas that would drive it to make use of its own resources to restore and build African economies; combat the escalating unemployment numbers; and improve conditions of living in Africa as a whole. What is the likelihood of this happening? --It is possible, only if and when Africa gains the capacity to make good use of infrastructure and capital. Which is the capitalist route of problem-solving but points as the best option for the land's current state. The continent has an abundance of lessons it can work on solely based on its past, and that coupled with examples of other regions making good on their disenfranchised territories and environments.
What a year! Took up a challenge and here I am, at the end of its first year. Another lesson to be taken, that things often seem intimidating but you'll never know your capacity for endurance and overcoming if you don't disregard the overwhelming and just decide to do. Also, it's not December 31 so I've little reason for being overly sentimental about the year that has passed. I have yet to celebrate (which is not actually synonymous for partying in my case) my birthday for the year 2012. That will happen soon though, as soon as November third. Yesterday I borrowed a bunch of sombre books from the library. I've never read Wuthering Heights, so that'll be crossed off of my to-read list. I also took out biographies on Sylvia Plath and The Bell Jar written by Plath herself. Spent a great deal over the weekend dissecting the literature of Toni Morrison and Shakespeare - literature has so much depth, I wish more people would take the time to engage with it at a level deeper than mere surface reading. I specifically looked at issues of gender and black identity. Fun. I'll blog more extensively upon these in the very near-near future. :-)
