Hi everyone. If you actually are a person who likes my blog, or follows it, I do apologize for the extreme delay in this latest entry. But hey, this last book I read is "The Bus" by Steve Abee. And we all know public transportation in Los Angeles can be extremely unreliable, much like my frequency of blog posts! So, um, yeah. I actually finished this book quite a long time ago. I loved this book, and it was a pretty quick read. But since I am reading a lot to prepare for law school, and reading a lot of trashy gossip mags to avoid said preparation, I have just been so busy that I didn't yet post about this book!
"The Bus" is a stream-of-consciousness narrative about the author taking a bus in Los Angeles. No, silly, he's not carless in Los Angeles (gasp!) His car is being repaired in Santa Monica, and he has to take the bus from his house in Echo Park to go retrieve it. Along the way he writes about the sights, sounds, smells of the city bus and its surroundings. Often these serve as points of entry into his memories about family, friends, childhood, lovers. The book moves fast, the pace of the bus, popping, loud. The subtitle of this book is "Cosmic Ejaculations of the Daily Mind in Transit". You are pushed up against people, billboards, strip malls, and spaces of Abee's heart and brain that even he recoils from at times. I love that Abee can write like the rhythm of this city. I also love that this book is about a bus in Los Angeles, one of the major metropolitan cities known for its car culture and lack of effective public transportation. Abee brings you into a world where Angelenos have to touch eachother, sit next to eachother, and look eachother in the eyes. I know this world of the bus well, since I grew up in Los Angeles without a car. It can be an uncomfortable world, but also a very important one, a nexus of communication and point of contact that is so often missing from this city.
Los Angeles is haunted, and so are its inhabitants, including Abee. There is often no way to disentangle the physical space and historical presence of this city from the psyche of its residents. Just as an ex-lover's cologne haunts us when we think we smell it years later, so billboards and street corners, apartments and bus stops, attach themselves to points in our lives, linger and conjure specific memories, wanted or unwanted. I read somewhere recently that we are not only haunted by our own pasts, but also the pasts of our families, and our ancestors. I like this thought, and in this book, it is certainly true. Abee writes about how many of the old churches in Los Angeles were built by his grandfather, how his paretns met in this city and fell in love. He writes about his pre-birth, and ponders his post-birth. There is no escaping the past.
This book is also about the human gaze, and the simultaneous desire for and repulsion we have for human contact. Being on the bus puts Abee up close and personal with sad and tragic and beautiful and ecstatic people, who remind him of other people, and other times, and make him conjecture about people's lives other than his own. In Los Angeles we are often accused of being a snobby city, an unfriendly one, a fake city, full of self-absorbed people. But this book showcases another side to the city, one outside of the Hollywood hype, but not immune to it.
The human elements of this book could take place in any city, but it is very specifically Los Angeles. Each chapter has the name of a different main street that Abee rides the bus on his trek to Santa Monica, such as "Vermont" and "Fairfax" and "Alvarado" , and each area of this sprawling city is so different that the bus ride takes on a drastically different nature as it changes locales. I think I love this book so much for its familiarity to my experience, and my "insider" knowledge of the sights and sounds Abee refers to. I can breathe this book, it is palpable to me, it is the city that haunts me too, albeit in slightly different ways.
For some reason I could only read this book at night, maybe because only then could I feel the melancholy of this lonely city. And this book does have a melancholy air to it that I could not shake, for all its hopefulness and life. This book made me extremely sad at times, but it is also one of the first books I've read in a long time that actually inspired me to write.
I can't wait to read the next book by Steve Abee. His writing is exciting and full of breath and vulnerability. Abee is currently working as an elementary teacher in Echo Park, where he lives with his family. He writes about all this stuff very openly in the book. Here's a few parts I love:
"Nothing, just people exploding silent volcanic bus ridden galactic. The hands of stars, the arms of deserts, the body of engines, bellies of fruit, the navels of spines, the lips of long skies, dark skies. Oh, the eyes of eyes. Eyes carrying rivers of eyes, eyes that have seen the world around three thousand times, eyes that look on tomorrow as the day they are going to die, eyes that wish to kill something, someone, but never will, eyes that cheat and eyes that wish they loved someone well enough that they would not have to lie, eyes afraid of being anything, so they stare into the cinder blocked wall of nothing and that is what they become, eyes of those who have laid awake all night for no reason besides the sound of the ocean coming through their walls.The eyes that have stared down on the face of love, leaving in the morning, off to work, now been gone the whole day, and now they are coming back. Those eyes of love, eyes that saw the baby's heart beat, eyes that put the child to sleep. The eyes that met the eyes of the web builder as it built the body that was the body that came into his eye. I look out the window, turn from imagining what everyone is thinking, thinking, man, that's just what you are thinking."
"Teaching English to 12 years olds in Silverlake, I cannot believe that I do this. What am I doing? What the hell am I doing here? I'll be standing in front of class, and I step out of my body, I sit down and watch myself, I sit there and I watch this guy give instructions, saying stuff like 'Get out your homework', something like 'sit down or I am going to call your home', crazy things, things that no sane person would say to people, to kids, no sane person would do this to kids, would do this to themselves...Kids should be running around outside, going crazy in the pastures and jumping up and down in the mud, they should be making naked lady pictures in the sky, they should be freaking out. There should be sex class, where the kids get to learn everything about sex and make all the stupid sex jokes and dick jokes and write down all the crazy dreams they have, make weird porn video projects using paly dough for the actors, they should have mindless violence class where the kids just get to beat the shit out of things and maybe even eachother..." THIS ENCAPSULATES HOW I FELT AS A TEACHER ALMOST EXACTLY!!!
There are so many more beautiful and funny parts. The whole book is pretty amazing. I love this way of looking at Los Angeles. Here is what I jot down as a stream-of-consciousness exercise after I was inspired by the book:
I am not of people these days. I curl up into a ball, flutter my eyes open and closed, ducking and hiding from the world. It's been a long time. I've lost my body. I'm only a head, detached from the universe and the lights, seeing a stranger in the shadows of arms and legs. I don't want to write things where people pity me anymore. I want to pity the world, a world of sadness and so much hope, a world I can never be part of. I am sad bones, this is how I was born. Sometimes I try to fake it. A smile. I love to laugh but my laughter is pitter patters of tears instead. This is my being, I can't get away from it. I know that sadness is my roots, and now I can say this as fact, not as something to be pitied for. It just is. I look at the girl who likes nature and finds awe in starfish. Yes, this is beautiful. She has a fucked up life, I think, but she is happy, can see wonder where I can no longer keep my eyes open. I do nothing. I have a lot. I work all night and watch strange spaces form, globs of night fuse with globs of morning. This is a strange place to occupy, my favorite place. The air is fresh and I can jaywalk at 6 am on a busy street. The air is quiet and I can get warm food if I want to. Last year I drank all night and smoked cigarettes with no addiction. I drank mornings and sometimes drank in this space. This holy glob that exists outside of definition. This fuse of darkness and light, like how can you really say when the last piece of sand has fallen from the hourglass, I mean the very last piece, it's kind of like that. Wonderful and weird. I'm reading a book about Los Angeles. This city haunts me, broken ghosts follow me, but i still choose to stay here. It's strange to read about places you know in one way, and hear how someone else knows them in another. Two balls of nothingess. If we ever could collide would an explosion occur, or just a dull fizzle? This book makes me so sad, because I am emotional lately, because even the word lonely makes me cry, because babies make me cry. And also because it is sad. But it also makes my heart beat with happiness and i get scared, the kind of scared thaat the world is so wild and you have so much to do and so much to give but here you are, curled up in a ball, done with people, probably for good, resting on sad bones, accepting this fact, but wanting.
Okay, so read this book. It will inspire you too. Next up I'm pretty sure is another book by Steve Abee called "King Planet", but I'm not completely sure. Will let you know soon! Sorry again, but posts might be slow. I've got a lot of law stuff coming up...but the project continues. Until next time--
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Monkey Wrench Gang: A Vulture's-Eye View
I do apologize if it seems like awhile since I last posted. My project is still going strong, but it's taken me awhile to finsh this last book just because it's a little longer than some of the others. Also, some interferences, like losing the book, getting into a car accident, deciding my entire future by selecting a law school, you know, minor things like that. But--on to the book!
So, "The Monkey Wrench Gang" was written by the environmental radicalist Edward Abbey, who is still revered by many as a hero, a legend, and a folk figure. Many call this book anarchistic and dangerous, as it has inspired acts of "eco-terrorism". Perhaps most notably it is held as a direct source of inspiration for the 1981 act by the group Earth First! , which emulated the opening scene from the novel where the Glen Canyon dam is destroyed. Yes, it is true that there are lots of "violent" acts in this book performed in the name of saving the earth. However I could not help but side with the radicalist protagonists and their mission of saving the earth by destroying representations of industrialism and modernism. It truly made me contemplate some questions: How much is "too much" when defending what you love? Is it morally justifiable to harm in the name of good? Have today's groups such as PETA taken too much of a radicalist stance, thus ostracizing "moderates" from joining their cause? Or is this beyond the point altogether?
The novel takes place in the American Southwest, a place I know little about despite my geographical proximity to these vast lands. It lacks the prosaic language of the novels I read by Abani, yet it makes up for it with humor and dry wit, as well as a lot of action. "The Monkey Wrench Gang" starts out with an introduction to the four main characters who come together and form the "gang". First off there are Dr. A.K. Sarvis and his younger "girlfriend" and assistant, Bonnie Abbzug. Sarvis is an Armenian doctor who has a penchant for destroying capitalistic ventures such as billboards. He is much like a cariacture, always puffing on a wet cigar, fat, balding, aging. Bonnie is described as beautiful, a Jew from Brooklyn, who helps Sarvis both with his medicine and his billboard menacing. The doctor constantly proposes to her, but she always refuses, bent on maintaining her feminist and single lifestyle. In a moment typical of the humor of the book, the two are on a mission to torch down some billboards one night and Sarvis cannot decide which one irks him the most. Suddenly he comes across one that reads: Wonder Enriched Bread Helps Build Strong Bodies 12 Ways. Sarvis thinks to himself: LIARS! This has definetely irritated his doctorly knowledge, ahd he has found his final victim of the night. Down with the billboard that dispenses incorrect medical advice. Another main character is George W. Hayduke, a former Green Beret and POW in the Vietnam War. He is a rude, crude, beer-guzzling bear of a man, definetely the most radical of the bunch in his environmentalist ways. He is also the most knowledgable in terms of being an outdoorsman, the man who always seems to save the day, but who is such a risk-taker that he also runs into the most trouble. A daredevil and almost "superhuman" power in terms of his ability to escape the most questionable circumstances, he is the one who the story seems to truly revolve around, the true hero of the novel. An incarnation of Edward Abbey himself? More on that later. The fourth member of the gang is Seldom Seen Smith, a "jack" Mormon with three wives who has a wandering way and who works as a wilderness guide for a living.
In fact, it is on one of the wilderness tours that Seldom Seen leads that all the characters meet, and soon discover their common penchant for destroying billboards and tractors and other obstacles to wilderness. On the tour they begin talking about their ultimate goal: to blow up the Glen Canyon Dam. At first it is just talk, but the gang soon forms, and they each contribute their expertise as they plan the dam's destrution. Doctor Sarvis is the money behind the operation, Abbzug the practical reason. Seldom Smith knows the terrain like it's his own backyard, and Hayduke brings his survival skills and sense of risk-taking from his army days.
From this point on there is a lot of destruction. The derailment of a train carrying supplies to builders, the disabling of expensive tractors, the trashing of construction sites. The government begins to catch on to the foul play, and sends out Search teams, headed by a man named Bishop Love who is bent on catching the criminals. Yet many times the gang is able to elude the authorities, despite many close calls.
So, there is a ton of action in this book, full of exciting chases, and escapes, and near-death experiences. This is all very interesting, but what I thought perhaps more interesting were the moments in-between, the moments of internal dialogue, when we get to know the characters beyond their tough exteriors, and see them not just a members of this gang but also as human beings. The novel is written from the point of an omniscient narrator, and that truly gives us a bird's-eye view of their internal thoughts and struggles, or shall I say, in this book, a vulture's eye view. The book both begins and ends with a vulture flying high above, but more about that in a minute.
Here are some of my favorite moments when we get to see the character's feelings:
Doc: What's a meniscus to come between lovers?
She was silent.
Doc: We are still overs, aren't we?
At the moment she wasn't sure. A vague oppression filled her mind, a sense of things absent, lost, yet to be found.
Doc: We were lovers last night, he reminded her gently.
Bonnie: Yes, Doc, she finally said.
Here you can sense the desperation of the aging Doc Sarvis, and the desire of Bonnie to be free, yet feeling bound out of loyalty and habit.
Another showcase of Doc's loneliness after he gives Hayduke permission to sleep with Bonnie:
He ordered a second martini, following with his gazethe movement of the girl's structurally perfect thighs as she withdrew in sinuous meander among the tables back to the chrome-plated rails of the service bar. He thought as she walked of those inner surfaces caressing one another in frictionless intimacy, how they led and where and why. He thought, with a pang as poignant as morning dreams, of Bonnie.
And:
Doc thought of his friends out there somewhere, far way to the north and west, among the rocks, under that simple light, doing their necessary work while he idled away his middle age. The devil finds work for idle hands. Dr. Sarvis reached for the newspaper. Saw the full-page adon the back. Boat Show, Duke City Ice Arena. He thought he might go have a look at the new houseboats. Tomorrow, or the next day. Soon.
Here is a moment of Hayduke's inner reflection, near the end of the novel;
He breaks a small branch from the cliff-rose, its lovely orangelike perfumed blossom now going to seed. He scrapes the shit out of his pants. Why? Under the circumstances, why bother? Well, thinks George Hayduke, it's a question of dignity.
I like these moments of peeling away and revealing the human sides of these radicalists, and there are many more both subtle and pronounced throughout the novel.
Now, back to the concept of the vulture, and the idea of death in this novel. As I mentioned, the vulture appears at the starts of the novel, reappears throughout, and shows up at the end. We know the vulture is a symbol of death and decay and so this must be foreshadowing of death to come. However, what death is it referring to? At the end of the novel, Bonnie and Doc surrender to the authorities, and Seldom Seen gets caught. This leaves Hayduke as the lone man left. He has always been the most vigilant of the group, so this is no surprise, and throughout the course of the novel you come to love him for his passion, however misguided it may seem. However at the end he is cornered by the authorities at the Maze and they shoot him: he appears to die. His body is never found, but witnesses say they saw it fall into the river below. Yet in the Epilogue, Hayduke himself comes to visit the other three gang members who have been let out of jail on parole and bail, charged with misdemeanors and one felony. Hayduke is actually alive...or is he? Is this a ghost? A figment of the imagination? It seems as if this is how the novel MUST end: Hayduke can never surrender, and so the only options are for him to die, or to escape. To me it seems like Hayduke is the true radicalist, the incarnation of Abbey himself. Just as environmental radicalists continue to write things like "Abbey lives!" on bathroom stalls, Hayduke himself lives on as a hero, a legend, and a folk figure. The gang never did get around to blowing up the Glen Canyon Dam, and Hayduke mentions that he now has a new identity, and a new job...as night watchman at the dam. He will never give up his mission, and he will never actually die, even if he does so physically. Perhaps the vulture refers to the death of wilderness, and the American Southwest, due to industrialism? Or does it refer to the death of modernism and industrialism instead?
This was an interesting book, one I would never pick up and read on my own volition, but one I'm so glad I had a chance to read. It brought me to a whole new world of the wilderness in America, and living in Los Angeles I am very far removed from such experiences. Beyond all the action and destruction, it also brought up issues of passion, personal dignity, desire, and drive, which is missing from a lot of our lives. I know it showed me a lot about what true dedication and committment to an idea is, something that I can definetely think about, something I definetrly could use more of.
Next up: a new author, Steve Abee, and his book "The Bus: Cosmic Ejaculations of the Daily Mind in Transit". Should be interesting. Until then--
So, "The Monkey Wrench Gang" was written by the environmental radicalist Edward Abbey, who is still revered by many as a hero, a legend, and a folk figure. Many call this book anarchistic and dangerous, as it has inspired acts of "eco-terrorism". Perhaps most notably it is held as a direct source of inspiration for the 1981 act by the group Earth First! , which emulated the opening scene from the novel where the Glen Canyon dam is destroyed. Yes, it is true that there are lots of "violent" acts in this book performed in the name of saving the earth. However I could not help but side with the radicalist protagonists and their mission of saving the earth by destroying representations of industrialism and modernism. It truly made me contemplate some questions: How much is "too much" when defending what you love? Is it morally justifiable to harm in the name of good? Have today's groups such as PETA taken too much of a radicalist stance, thus ostracizing "moderates" from joining their cause? Or is this beyond the point altogether?
The novel takes place in the American Southwest, a place I know little about despite my geographical proximity to these vast lands. It lacks the prosaic language of the novels I read by Abani, yet it makes up for it with humor and dry wit, as well as a lot of action. "The Monkey Wrench Gang" starts out with an introduction to the four main characters who come together and form the "gang". First off there are Dr. A.K. Sarvis and his younger "girlfriend" and assistant, Bonnie Abbzug. Sarvis is an Armenian doctor who has a penchant for destroying capitalistic ventures such as billboards. He is much like a cariacture, always puffing on a wet cigar, fat, balding, aging. Bonnie is described as beautiful, a Jew from Brooklyn, who helps Sarvis both with his medicine and his billboard menacing. The doctor constantly proposes to her, but she always refuses, bent on maintaining her feminist and single lifestyle. In a moment typical of the humor of the book, the two are on a mission to torch down some billboards one night and Sarvis cannot decide which one irks him the most. Suddenly he comes across one that reads: Wonder Enriched Bread Helps Build Strong Bodies 12 Ways. Sarvis thinks to himself: LIARS! This has definetely irritated his doctorly knowledge, ahd he has found his final victim of the night. Down with the billboard that dispenses incorrect medical advice. Another main character is George W. Hayduke, a former Green Beret and POW in the Vietnam War. He is a rude, crude, beer-guzzling bear of a man, definetely the most radical of the bunch in his environmentalist ways. He is also the most knowledgable in terms of being an outdoorsman, the man who always seems to save the day, but who is such a risk-taker that he also runs into the most trouble. A daredevil and almost "superhuman" power in terms of his ability to escape the most questionable circumstances, he is the one who the story seems to truly revolve around, the true hero of the novel. An incarnation of Edward Abbey himself? More on that later. The fourth member of the gang is Seldom Seen Smith, a "jack" Mormon with three wives who has a wandering way and who works as a wilderness guide for a living.
In fact, it is on one of the wilderness tours that Seldom Seen leads that all the characters meet, and soon discover their common penchant for destroying billboards and tractors and other obstacles to wilderness. On the tour they begin talking about their ultimate goal: to blow up the Glen Canyon Dam. At first it is just talk, but the gang soon forms, and they each contribute their expertise as they plan the dam's destrution. Doctor Sarvis is the money behind the operation, Abbzug the practical reason. Seldom Smith knows the terrain like it's his own backyard, and Hayduke brings his survival skills and sense of risk-taking from his army days.
From this point on there is a lot of destruction. The derailment of a train carrying supplies to builders, the disabling of expensive tractors, the trashing of construction sites. The government begins to catch on to the foul play, and sends out Search teams, headed by a man named Bishop Love who is bent on catching the criminals. Yet many times the gang is able to elude the authorities, despite many close calls.
So, there is a ton of action in this book, full of exciting chases, and escapes, and near-death experiences. This is all very interesting, but what I thought perhaps more interesting were the moments in-between, the moments of internal dialogue, when we get to know the characters beyond their tough exteriors, and see them not just a members of this gang but also as human beings. The novel is written from the point of an omniscient narrator, and that truly gives us a bird's-eye view of their internal thoughts and struggles, or shall I say, in this book, a vulture's eye view. The book both begins and ends with a vulture flying high above, but more about that in a minute.
Here are some of my favorite moments when we get to see the character's feelings:
Doc: What's a meniscus to come between lovers?
She was silent.
Doc: We are still overs, aren't we?
At the moment she wasn't sure. A vague oppression filled her mind, a sense of things absent, lost, yet to be found.
Doc: We were lovers last night, he reminded her gently.
Bonnie: Yes, Doc, she finally said.
Here you can sense the desperation of the aging Doc Sarvis, and the desire of Bonnie to be free, yet feeling bound out of loyalty and habit.
Another showcase of Doc's loneliness after he gives Hayduke permission to sleep with Bonnie:
He ordered a second martini, following with his gazethe movement of the girl's structurally perfect thighs as she withdrew in sinuous meander among the tables back to the chrome-plated rails of the service bar. He thought as she walked of those inner surfaces caressing one another in frictionless intimacy, how they led and where and why. He thought, with a pang as poignant as morning dreams, of Bonnie.
And:
Doc thought of his friends out there somewhere, far way to the north and west, among the rocks, under that simple light, doing their necessary work while he idled away his middle age. The devil finds work for idle hands. Dr. Sarvis reached for the newspaper. Saw the full-page adon the back. Boat Show, Duke City Ice Arena. He thought he might go have a look at the new houseboats. Tomorrow, or the next day. Soon.
Here is a moment of Hayduke's inner reflection, near the end of the novel;
He breaks a small branch from the cliff-rose, its lovely orangelike perfumed blossom now going to seed. He scrapes the shit out of his pants. Why? Under the circumstances, why bother? Well, thinks George Hayduke, it's a question of dignity.
I like these moments of peeling away and revealing the human sides of these radicalists, and there are many more both subtle and pronounced throughout the novel.
Now, back to the concept of the vulture, and the idea of death in this novel. As I mentioned, the vulture appears at the starts of the novel, reappears throughout, and shows up at the end. We know the vulture is a symbol of death and decay and so this must be foreshadowing of death to come. However, what death is it referring to? At the end of the novel, Bonnie and Doc surrender to the authorities, and Seldom Seen gets caught. This leaves Hayduke as the lone man left. He has always been the most vigilant of the group, so this is no surprise, and throughout the course of the novel you come to love him for his passion, however misguided it may seem. However at the end he is cornered by the authorities at the Maze and they shoot him: he appears to die. His body is never found, but witnesses say they saw it fall into the river below. Yet in the Epilogue, Hayduke himself comes to visit the other three gang members who have been let out of jail on parole and bail, charged with misdemeanors and one felony. Hayduke is actually alive...or is he? Is this a ghost? A figment of the imagination? It seems as if this is how the novel MUST end: Hayduke can never surrender, and so the only options are for him to die, or to escape. To me it seems like Hayduke is the true radicalist, the incarnation of Abbey himself. Just as environmental radicalists continue to write things like "Abbey lives!" on bathroom stalls, Hayduke himself lives on as a hero, a legend, and a folk figure. The gang never did get around to blowing up the Glen Canyon Dam, and Hayduke mentions that he now has a new identity, and a new job...as night watchman at the dam. He will never give up his mission, and he will never actually die, even if he does so physically. Perhaps the vulture refers to the death of wilderness, and the American Southwest, due to industrialism? Or does it refer to the death of modernism and industrialism instead?
This was an interesting book, one I would never pick up and read on my own volition, but one I'm so glad I had a chance to read. It brought me to a whole new world of the wilderness in America, and living in Los Angeles I am very far removed from such experiences. Beyond all the action and destruction, it also brought up issues of passion, personal dignity, desire, and drive, which is missing from a lot of our lives. I know it showed me a lot about what true dedication and committment to an idea is, something that I can definetely think about, something I definetrly could use more of.
Next up: a new author, Steve Abee, and his book "The Bus: Cosmic Ejaculations of the Daily Mind in Transit". Should be interesting. Until then--
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Lost!
Sorry if that seemed a bit of a marketing scheme to get your attention. I'm not referring to the hit show that everyone watches in the universe except me, silly. I'm talking about the fact that I was finally going to start blogging about the newest book I'm reading when I realized I must have left it on the plane! Or somewhere in San Francisco. So the book is temporarily lost. Until I go buy another copy, which will be very soon.
But I will tell you that only four chapters into the book I am loving it. I'm reading "The Monkey Wrench Gang" by Edward Abbey, and it's a huge stylistic change from Abani's writing style. It's rude, it's witty, it's politically incorrect. Abbey takes us to the American Southwest, a far cry from Abani's Nigerian backdrop. The time is Post-Vietnam, and there is a lot if industrialization and commercialization going on. Wow, with those words I feel like Ga-linda from the musical "Wicked". But back to the subject at hand, this book is about four very different people who all have one thing in common: a violent love for the environment, and a strong distate for urbanization of the wild lands. So strong, in fact, that they will burn down billboards and bridges in order to save the Southwest. Seem irrational? Crazy even? Not quite when you start reading and getting to know the stories behind the people. Again, I've barely started the book, and I don't like to say too much without it in front of me, but so far, very interesting. Supposedly the book, written in 1975, spawned many real acts of modern eco-terrorism. I can't wait to read more. Until I get found--
But I will tell you that only four chapters into the book I am loving it. I'm reading "The Monkey Wrench Gang" by Edward Abbey, and it's a huge stylistic change from Abani's writing style. It's rude, it's witty, it's politically incorrect. Abbey takes us to the American Southwest, a far cry from Abani's Nigerian backdrop. The time is Post-Vietnam, and there is a lot if industrialization and commercialization going on. Wow, with those words I feel like Ga-linda from the musical "Wicked". But back to the subject at hand, this book is about four very different people who all have one thing in common: a violent love for the environment, and a strong distate for urbanization of the wild lands. So strong, in fact, that they will burn down billboards and bridges in order to save the Southwest. Seem irrational? Crazy even? Not quite when you start reading and getting to know the stories behind the people. Again, I've barely started the book, and I don't like to say too much without it in front of me, but so far, very interesting. Supposedly the book, written in 1975, spawned many real acts of modern eco-terrorism. I can't wait to read more. Until I get found--
Saturday, March 21, 2009
On Personal Demons, and Personal Ghosts
I just finished reading Abani's latest work, "The Virgin of Flames". This book is a lot different from his previous works, although it is embedded with many of his familiar themes of religion, haunting, identity, and overt sexuality. It takes place in Los Angeles, where I live, and revolves around a young adult visual artist named Black who is struggling to find his identity in a city that seems to be a land of transplants, maintaining no true identity of its own. Black is lost. His father is Igbo from Nigeria, and his mother is Salvadoran. He struggles with his mixed-race and mixed-culture background. He also struggles with abandonment and devlopmental issues because his father left to fight and died in the civil war in Nigeria, and his mother died of cancer after abusing him for a long time. All he has left of them are skewed and haunting memories. His father was an alcoholic scientist who claimed to believe in nothing but reason, and on the other side of the spectrum his mother was a deeply religious Catholic who imposed guilt-ridden rituals on Black throughout his childhood. Black's friend Iggy tells him he is haunted by the ghost of his mother, and that he can never find himself if he does not address this ghost and thus cause it to go away.
These are not the only issues complicating Black's sense of self. When he was younger, he was forced to wear dresses until he was six years old. A letter from his father explains this by saying that there is a curse on their family that calls for all males under the age of seven to die, so they have to hide the males by disguising them as females. After all this, Black grew to enjoy dressing as a woman, although he hides this fact from most people. He even steals women's clothing to dress up in private. During his childhood Black experiences confusing sexual experiences, such as the rape by a male gangster, the sprinkling of votive wax on his penis by his mother as a means of "penance", the watching of his dying mother masturbating in front of him. Now in his adulthood Black is obsessed with a transsexual stripper he calls Sweet Girl, and eventually he starts a sort of relationship with her. Black suffers greatly at his confusion over his sexual identity. Is he gay? A cross-dresser? A straight guy who dresses up solely to inspire his art? He also feels confusion over his race, culture, and religion? Is he black? Igbo? Catholic? Atheist? Salvadoran? It seems his only true source of solace is in his art, mostly murals that he creates on sides of walls in East Los Angeles or inside of builidings.
This book was a lot more narrative-based than Abani's last two novellas that I read, and less poetic. It reminded me much more of "Graceland", especially with the whole theme of dressing up to assume other identities, a form of "masking". I was both drawn to and away from this book simulatenously, if that contradiction makes any sense. Its strangeness intrigued me, as it is unlike any book I ever read, and it was hard to put down. At times, it even made me slightly uncomfortable, which is hard to do. I think this has something to do with the rawness and truth at the heart of Abani's novel. He is not afraid to be graphic and upfront, and I think I could see myself in Black at many moments. I guess I have always struggled with my sense of being, and coming to terms with my strange childhood. Many times I have felt "lesser than", and unable to escape the ghosts of my parents and my past. Although my struggle with identity is not the same as Black's, I definetely relate to his lack of internal peace, and his way of turning to art as means of expression and a sort of self-therapy. We all have our ghosts, and maybe that is why this book is at times very haunting.
Speaking of ghosts, and angels, and demons, that is a huge running theme in this novel. Not only is Black haunted by his mother's ghost, but he is also haunted by the Virgin Mary, who he becomes obsessed with, and the angel Gabriel, who constantly follows him around in different forms. He is both haunted and comforted by the Los Angeles River, which he seems to never be able to leave behind. I really enjoyed this focus on both real and imagined ghosts. Following from that, as you can probably tell from the title, there is a huge emphasis on religion, especially Catholicism, and the Virgin Mary. There is a sort of recurrent "good girl" (Virgin)/"bad girl" (Sweet Girl) dichotomy throughout the book. There is a lot on guilt, and ritual, and belief. Very interesting for my Jew-ness.
Funny enough, I am left thinking of this novel. I can't escape the chills it gave me for some reason. At times I wanted to stop reading, but I couldn't stop. I was searching for an end, for Black's internal peace, just like he was. Of course there can be no peace. Maybe I was truly searching for my own peace. Maybe I am still searching. Maybe this book reminded me of that. It is a strange, "fun-house" type ride throughout this book, and I highly recommend it for all the haunted souls out there. Be prepared to be uncomfortable, as you may just see yourself reflected on a way you never have before.
I will leave you with one part that left me thinking. Black is conversing with his friend Iggy, and she starts off:
""Look, let's not talk about it anymore. Origins aren't important, what happened, who did what to whom,, that whole postmortem crap. Matter of fact, even the change away from it isn't important. What's important is committing to the new life, whatever it is. Some things you just put in the ground and leave alone.'
The phrase about origins not being important echoed in his brain like a Ping-Pong ball richocheting off the insides of his skull. The fact of the matter was that he was obsessed with origins , and he believed that in his case, origins held the key to self-discovery. It seemed, though, that those with a clear sense of the past, of identity, were always so eager to bury it and move on , to reinvent themselves. What a luxury, he thought, what a thing, to choose your own obsession, to choose your own suffering. Him, he was trying to reinvent an origin to bury so he could finally come into this thing he wanted to be, and he knew that if he didn't find it soon, it would destroy him, burn him up."
I hope all of you check out Abani's novels and novellas. He also has poetry I would love to read, but it wasn't in the bookstore I am using for this project, though I'm sure i'll get my hands on it somehow. Seriously, he is one of my new favorite authors, and I would never have known about him without this project. I found out that he is now a professor at UC Riverside, so I am going to try to contact him to see if I can possinly meet him. I'll let you know how that goes.
And now, I think this is the last Abani book in the bookstore, so sadly, and happily, on to the next author. I'm not sure who that is yet, but I shall report back soon once I stop by there. Until then--
These are not the only issues complicating Black's sense of self. When he was younger, he was forced to wear dresses until he was six years old. A letter from his father explains this by saying that there is a curse on their family that calls for all males under the age of seven to die, so they have to hide the males by disguising them as females. After all this, Black grew to enjoy dressing as a woman, although he hides this fact from most people. He even steals women's clothing to dress up in private. During his childhood Black experiences confusing sexual experiences, such as the rape by a male gangster, the sprinkling of votive wax on his penis by his mother as a means of "penance", the watching of his dying mother masturbating in front of him. Now in his adulthood Black is obsessed with a transsexual stripper he calls Sweet Girl, and eventually he starts a sort of relationship with her. Black suffers greatly at his confusion over his sexual identity. Is he gay? A cross-dresser? A straight guy who dresses up solely to inspire his art? He also feels confusion over his race, culture, and religion? Is he black? Igbo? Catholic? Atheist? Salvadoran? It seems his only true source of solace is in his art, mostly murals that he creates on sides of walls in East Los Angeles or inside of builidings.
This book was a lot more narrative-based than Abani's last two novellas that I read, and less poetic. It reminded me much more of "Graceland", especially with the whole theme of dressing up to assume other identities, a form of "masking". I was both drawn to and away from this book simulatenously, if that contradiction makes any sense. Its strangeness intrigued me, as it is unlike any book I ever read, and it was hard to put down. At times, it even made me slightly uncomfortable, which is hard to do. I think this has something to do with the rawness and truth at the heart of Abani's novel. He is not afraid to be graphic and upfront, and I think I could see myself in Black at many moments. I guess I have always struggled with my sense of being, and coming to terms with my strange childhood. Many times I have felt "lesser than", and unable to escape the ghosts of my parents and my past. Although my struggle with identity is not the same as Black's, I definetely relate to his lack of internal peace, and his way of turning to art as means of expression and a sort of self-therapy. We all have our ghosts, and maybe that is why this book is at times very haunting.
Speaking of ghosts, and angels, and demons, that is a huge running theme in this novel. Not only is Black haunted by his mother's ghost, but he is also haunted by the Virgin Mary, who he becomes obsessed with, and the angel Gabriel, who constantly follows him around in different forms. He is both haunted and comforted by the Los Angeles River, which he seems to never be able to leave behind. I really enjoyed this focus on both real and imagined ghosts. Following from that, as you can probably tell from the title, there is a huge emphasis on religion, especially Catholicism, and the Virgin Mary. There is a sort of recurrent "good girl" (Virgin)/"bad girl" (Sweet Girl) dichotomy throughout the book. There is a lot on guilt, and ritual, and belief. Very interesting for my Jew-ness.
Funny enough, I am left thinking of this novel. I can't escape the chills it gave me for some reason. At times I wanted to stop reading, but I couldn't stop. I was searching for an end, for Black's internal peace, just like he was. Of course there can be no peace. Maybe I was truly searching for my own peace. Maybe I am still searching. Maybe this book reminded me of that. It is a strange, "fun-house" type ride throughout this book, and I highly recommend it for all the haunted souls out there. Be prepared to be uncomfortable, as you may just see yourself reflected on a way you never have before.
I will leave you with one part that left me thinking. Black is conversing with his friend Iggy, and she starts off:
""Look, let's not talk about it anymore. Origins aren't important, what happened, who did what to whom,, that whole postmortem crap. Matter of fact, even the change away from it isn't important. What's important is committing to the new life, whatever it is. Some things you just put in the ground and leave alone.'
The phrase about origins not being important echoed in his brain like a Ping-Pong ball richocheting off the insides of his skull. The fact of the matter was that he was obsessed with origins , and he believed that in his case, origins held the key to self-discovery. It seemed, though, that those with a clear sense of the past, of identity, were always so eager to bury it and move on , to reinvent themselves. What a luxury, he thought, what a thing, to choose your own obsession, to choose your own suffering. Him, he was trying to reinvent an origin to bury so he could finally come into this thing he wanted to be, and he knew that if he didn't find it soon, it would destroy him, burn him up."
I hope all of you check out Abani's novels and novellas. He also has poetry I would love to read, but it wasn't in the bookstore I am using for this project, though I'm sure i'll get my hands on it somehow. Seriously, he is one of my new favorite authors, and I would never have known about him without this project. I found out that he is now a professor at UC Riverside, so I am going to try to contact him to see if I can possinly meet him. I'll let you know how that goes.
And now, I think this is the last Abani book in the bookstore, so sadly, and happily, on to the next author. I'm not sure who that is yet, but I shall report back soon once I stop by there. Until then--
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Identity, Isolation, and the Igbo
So, I have not posted in awhile, mainly because my internet has been in and out. However, I have read two books during that time! Both are books by Chris Abani, and I have to say, I think I found one of my new favorite books, and it is rare for me to label a book a favorite.
First up was "Becoming Abigail". I was truly surprised at how different the style of writing was in this novella as compared to "Graceland". There is much less pure narrative going on, and a lot more poetry. Which is to say, I loved it, because I love poetic language. Yet many of the themes Abani touched on in "Graceland" are still present in this work--loss of a mother figure, conflicts with father, isolation, culture clashes, sexuality, temporal jumps back and forth. This particular novella focuses heavily on identity and the body. It centers around Abigail, an Igbo girl from Nigeria whose mother (also named Abigail) dies after giving birth to her. She always feels a bit of resentment from her father as if she killed his wife and her mother, and the fact that she appears almost physically identical to the Abigail of her namesake further complicates her issues of identity. In this story her cousin takes her to live in England, apparently as a kind gesture to "save" her, but in reality he sells her into prostitution and sexual slavery. Along the way she falls in love with her white married social worker, and they have a brief affair before being found out. Abigail often burns her own skin and this self-mutilation serves as a means to escape her body, but also as a way to demarcate physical differences between her and the mother whose ghost she struggles to break free from--and so simultaneously it is a means to accept her own body for what it is and make it palpable. There is also a lot in this story about memory, and how much is truth, and how much is made up. Do we ever have purely "true" memories? Along those lines, do authors have the responsibility to tell "truth" in memoir? Is this even possible?
I think the only way to give justice to this beautiful novella is to quote some of my favorite parts and let you see for yourself.
"Sometimes there is no way to leave something behind. Something over. We know this. We know this. We know this. This is the prevalence of ritual. To remember something that cannot be forgotten. Yet not left over. She knew this. As she smoked. She knew this. This. This. This. And what now?"
"Why did these people know nothing of this? Of the complexities of life and how you can never recapture the way a particular shaft of light, falling through a tree, patterned the floor in a shower of shadows. You just opened your heart because you knew there would be another shaft of light, another tree, and another rain of shadows. Each particular. Not the same as yesterday's. Not as beautiful as yesterday's. Only as beautiful as today's. Even the dead knew this."
"None of the men who had taken her in her short lifetime had seen her. ...They never weighed the heft of her breast the way she did, had, from the moment of her first bump. Sitting in her room, the darkness softened by a tired moon straining through dirty windows, she had rolled her growing breast between her palms like dough being shaped for a lover's bread. This wasn't an erotic exercise, though it became that, inevitably. At first it was a curiosity, a genuine wonder at the burgeoning of a self, a self that was still Abigail, yet still her. With the tip of a wax crayon she would write 'me' over and over on the brown rise of them. And when she washed in the shower the next day, the color would bleed, but the wax left a sheen, the memory of night and her reclamation. But not the men in her life; they hadn't really stopped long enough. She was a foreign country to them. One they wanted to pass through as quickly as possible."
There is so much more beautiful prose in this novella. I love the way Abani uses metaphor, and repetition. The way he can write from the mind of an adolescent woman so convincingly. His focus on memory and the body.
I thought I had read my favorite book by him. But then I read "Song for Night", another novella, and I was truly blown away. Wow. I didn't think I was going to enjoy this one because it is a war story and I'm not really one for "action" books. Instead I found a deeply moving, introspective, poetic novella about a young boy and his comrades who serve as mine diffusers in the civil war in Nigeria. It is about the war, and the situation in the country, but it isn't--underneath it all, it's a story about adolescence, love, betrayal, haunting, memory, pain, survival. However the boy's adolescence and coming of age is of course heavily colored by the fact that he is a child soldier, and that makes for a disturbing and melancholy storyline--just the type I enjoy, ha. The story opens with a discussion on silence. The opening line is, "What you hear is not my voice". This is foreshadowing for what is to come, but I won't discuss that so as not to be a plot spoiler. I will tell you that what the boy is literally talking about is the fact that he and his unit can no longer talk--their throats were cut by the army so that they had no more voices, rendering them unable to scream if they stepped on a mine and blew up--reminiscent of a certain scene in "Slumdog Millionaire". Consequently each chapter is titled with a different aspect of sign language that the children use to communicate, such as "Memory is a Pattern Cut into an Arm" and "Truth is Forefinger to Tongue Raised Skyward". I find this beautiful, and it really speaks to the themes of communication, language, and human connection found in the novella.
Again, this book speaks best for itself, so all I shall do now is quote some excerpts for you.
"There is a lot to be said for silence, especially when it comes to you young. The interiority of the head, whih is a misnomer-misnomer being one of those words silence brings you-but there is something about the mind's interiority no less that opens up your view of the world. It is a curious place to live and makes you deep beyond your years and familiar with death. But that is what this war has done."
"The next day, as one of us was blown up by a mine, we discovered why they had silenced us: so that we wouldn't scare eachother with our death screams. Detecting a mine with your bare toes and defusing it with a jungle knife requires all your concentration, and screams are a risky distraction. What they couldn't know was that in the silence of our heads, the screams of those dying around us were louder than if they still had their voices."
"I remember a group I saw once. Children without arms or legs or both, men with only half a face, women with shrapnel-chewed scars for breats--all of them holding onto life and hope with a fire that burned feverishly in their eyes. If any light comes from this war, it will come from eyes such as those."
"This is how we sign this: forefinger poniting to the sky while the whole body gyrates. For Ijeoma and me, play is a veiled thing, our own private language within a private language, sweeter for being secret. Rock, paper, scissors: one tap on our gun's stock, two taps, three. One tap. One. One tap. Two. A loss. Two taps. One. A win. Two taps. Two. A draw. Endlessly we play, never looking at eachother but smiling into the distance, hearts racing with the aniticpation. Then a steady hand, palm flat. Silence. Still we smile as we scan for the danger, our hearts beating. One. One. Two. Two. Two. Two. Three. Three. Three."
There are so many, many more amazing, quotable parts. Like the entire novella. Seriously. This is one the most physically grotesque books I have read, especially of Abani's, full of decapitated people and cannibalism and brute rape, and yet I find this to be one of the most poetic and beautiful novellas I have come across. Haunting. Now there's some foreshadowing for you. Read it.
Next up is what I think is Abani's last book at the bookstore (last time I was there)--"The Virgin of Flames". Just glancing at this novel (it is longer than the last two) tells me that it takes place in Los Angeles and it appears very different from any of his previous works. I am excited to read about my hometown, although I'm sad to leave the poetics of the last two novellas behind. I'll report back when I have something to say. Until then--
First up was "Becoming Abigail". I was truly surprised at how different the style of writing was in this novella as compared to "Graceland". There is much less pure narrative going on, and a lot more poetry. Which is to say, I loved it, because I love poetic language. Yet many of the themes Abani touched on in "Graceland" are still present in this work--loss of a mother figure, conflicts with father, isolation, culture clashes, sexuality, temporal jumps back and forth. This particular novella focuses heavily on identity and the body. It centers around Abigail, an Igbo girl from Nigeria whose mother (also named Abigail) dies after giving birth to her. She always feels a bit of resentment from her father as if she killed his wife and her mother, and the fact that she appears almost physically identical to the Abigail of her namesake further complicates her issues of identity. In this story her cousin takes her to live in England, apparently as a kind gesture to "save" her, but in reality he sells her into prostitution and sexual slavery. Along the way she falls in love with her white married social worker, and they have a brief affair before being found out. Abigail often burns her own skin and this self-mutilation serves as a means to escape her body, but also as a way to demarcate physical differences between her and the mother whose ghost she struggles to break free from--and so simultaneously it is a means to accept her own body for what it is and make it palpable. There is also a lot in this story about memory, and how much is truth, and how much is made up. Do we ever have purely "true" memories? Along those lines, do authors have the responsibility to tell "truth" in memoir? Is this even possible?
I think the only way to give justice to this beautiful novella is to quote some of my favorite parts and let you see for yourself.
"Sometimes there is no way to leave something behind. Something over. We know this. We know this. We know this. This is the prevalence of ritual. To remember something that cannot be forgotten. Yet not left over. She knew this. As she smoked. She knew this. This. This. This. And what now?"
"Why did these people know nothing of this? Of the complexities of life and how you can never recapture the way a particular shaft of light, falling through a tree, patterned the floor in a shower of shadows. You just opened your heart because you knew there would be another shaft of light, another tree, and another rain of shadows. Each particular. Not the same as yesterday's. Not as beautiful as yesterday's. Only as beautiful as today's. Even the dead knew this."
"None of the men who had taken her in her short lifetime had seen her. ...They never weighed the heft of her breast the way she did, had, from the moment of her first bump. Sitting in her room, the darkness softened by a tired moon straining through dirty windows, she had rolled her growing breast between her palms like dough being shaped for a lover's bread. This wasn't an erotic exercise, though it became that, inevitably. At first it was a curiosity, a genuine wonder at the burgeoning of a self, a self that was still Abigail, yet still her. With the tip of a wax crayon she would write 'me' over and over on the brown rise of them. And when she washed in the shower the next day, the color would bleed, but the wax left a sheen, the memory of night and her reclamation. But not the men in her life; they hadn't really stopped long enough. She was a foreign country to them. One they wanted to pass through as quickly as possible."
There is so much more beautiful prose in this novella. I love the way Abani uses metaphor, and repetition. The way he can write from the mind of an adolescent woman so convincingly. His focus on memory and the body.
I thought I had read my favorite book by him. But then I read "Song for Night", another novella, and I was truly blown away. Wow. I didn't think I was going to enjoy this one because it is a war story and I'm not really one for "action" books. Instead I found a deeply moving, introspective, poetic novella about a young boy and his comrades who serve as mine diffusers in the civil war in Nigeria. It is about the war, and the situation in the country, but it isn't--underneath it all, it's a story about adolescence, love, betrayal, haunting, memory, pain, survival. However the boy's adolescence and coming of age is of course heavily colored by the fact that he is a child soldier, and that makes for a disturbing and melancholy storyline--just the type I enjoy, ha. The story opens with a discussion on silence. The opening line is, "What you hear is not my voice". This is foreshadowing for what is to come, but I won't discuss that so as not to be a plot spoiler. I will tell you that what the boy is literally talking about is the fact that he and his unit can no longer talk--their throats were cut by the army so that they had no more voices, rendering them unable to scream if they stepped on a mine and blew up--reminiscent of a certain scene in "Slumdog Millionaire". Consequently each chapter is titled with a different aspect of sign language that the children use to communicate, such as "Memory is a Pattern Cut into an Arm" and "Truth is Forefinger to Tongue Raised Skyward". I find this beautiful, and it really speaks to the themes of communication, language, and human connection found in the novella.
Again, this book speaks best for itself, so all I shall do now is quote some excerpts for you.
"There is a lot to be said for silence, especially when it comes to you young. The interiority of the head, whih is a misnomer-misnomer being one of those words silence brings you-but there is something about the mind's interiority no less that opens up your view of the world. It is a curious place to live and makes you deep beyond your years and familiar with death. But that is what this war has done."
"The next day, as one of us was blown up by a mine, we discovered why they had silenced us: so that we wouldn't scare eachother with our death screams. Detecting a mine with your bare toes and defusing it with a jungle knife requires all your concentration, and screams are a risky distraction. What they couldn't know was that in the silence of our heads, the screams of those dying around us were louder than if they still had their voices."
"I remember a group I saw once. Children without arms or legs or both, men with only half a face, women with shrapnel-chewed scars for breats--all of them holding onto life and hope with a fire that burned feverishly in their eyes. If any light comes from this war, it will come from eyes such as those."
"This is how we sign this: forefinger poniting to the sky while the whole body gyrates. For Ijeoma and me, play is a veiled thing, our own private language within a private language, sweeter for being secret. Rock, paper, scissors: one tap on our gun's stock, two taps, three. One tap. One. One tap. Two. A loss. Two taps. One. A win. Two taps. Two. A draw. Endlessly we play, never looking at eachother but smiling into the distance, hearts racing with the aniticpation. Then a steady hand, palm flat. Silence. Still we smile as we scan for the danger, our hearts beating. One. One. Two. Two. Two. Two. Three. Three. Three."
There are so many, many more amazing, quotable parts. Like the entire novella. Seriously. This is one the most physically grotesque books I have read, especially of Abani's, full of decapitated people and cannibalism and brute rape, and yet I find this to be one of the most poetic and beautiful novellas I have come across. Haunting. Now there's some foreshadowing for you. Read it.
Next up is what I think is Abani's last book at the bookstore (last time I was there)--"The Virgin of Flames". Just glancing at this novel (it is longer than the last two) tells me that it takes place in Los Angeles and it appears very different from any of his previous works. I am excited to read about my hometown, although I'm sad to leave the poetics of the last two novellas behind. I'll report back when I have something to say. Until then--
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Apocalypse, Now--and the Importance of Naming
I just finished Abani's "Graceland", the first book in my project. Without spoiling the ending, I will say I was surprised with the amount of graphic violence at the conclusion of the novel. Not that the novel has so far been bereft of violence--in fact, this is an underlying theme of the entire book. From the brutality of the army and its corrupt henchmen to the violence of molestation and rape, this novel spans a lot of physical and mental anguish. But the end of the novel is filled with sheer physical terror, and the way Abani describes it makes the pain Elvis and other characters suffer palpable and extremely realistic.
In fact, the end of the novel could truly be described as an Apocalypse of sorts. The corrupt government of Lagos decides to bulldoze poor communities such as the one inhabited by Elvis and his father, and the townspeople decide to fight back, so there is the violence that occurs with this. Then Elvis and his friend Redemption fail in their mission to deliver human organs cross-country as part of their work for the Colonel, a misguided "mob boss" of sorts who has high ranks in the local government. Because they abandon the mission once they realize they will be implicated in the kidnapping and murder of young children for their organs, the Colonel plots to capture and kill them, so they must go into hiding. However Elvis is captured by the Colonel's men and is beaten and tortured until he is just shy of death, only to survive and find his father dead and his town in shambles. All of this physical violence seems to burst forth upon the otherwise more slow-moving and calm narrative in order to jar the readers to attention--and in order to effect a choice that Elvis must make. The Apocalyptic conclusion leaves little room for Elvis to survive in Nigeria. He is a young man torn by the rich tradition of his Igbo heritgae in Nigeria and the democratic and capitalistic promises of life in the United States. His Aunt Felicia has already escaped to start a new life for herself. His father Sunday is not so lucky, and dies at the hands of the bulldozer. Which path will Elvis take? I will leave you to find out.
Another fascinating underlying theme of the novel is its religious parallels and references, which can be seen in the names bestowed upon the main characters. Elivs has the name of an American singer known as "the King", often accused of "stealing" the dance moves of African performers before him and claiming them as his own. This may not be religious in nature, but it is still foreboding of the main character's nature. Elvis has a friend named Redemption, and in the end this is what he helps provide for Elvis. Another main character is the King of the Beggars, often referred to only as the King. This character has obvious allusions to Christ, especially as he is deified in the end of the novel. This is written about the King: "He was spoken of with a deeply profound reverence, and the appendage 'Blessings be upon his name', usually reserved for prophets in Islam, was being used whenver his name was invoked. A group of Rastafarians even claimed he was the Emperor Selassie, Christ himself, the Lion of Judah, returned to lead them home." At the end of the novel Elvis meets a young girl named Blessing who turns out to be a caretaker for him, and a source of love--a definite blessing as her name invokes. At one point Sunday, Elvis' father, fervently talks about the importance of the name. He says, "Do you know we have a lot of deformed children begging? Because their parents know dey have no future. So at birth, before de child knows pain, dey deform it because it increases its earning power as a beggar. Do you see de love? All dey have to give de child is its deformity. All I have to give you is my name, Elvis Oke. And when I die, it will continue to help you build something for your children. Dat's why I don't want you to be a dancer. It will spoil your name." I find this diatribe on love and naming fascinating with its unique perspective. Can violence be perpetrated out of love? Can a name truly affect the outcome of one's life? This quote leaves me wondering.
There are many issues in this novel that I did not really even begin to touch on. There's the explicit sexuality, often dealing with incest and molestation. There is the huge theme of father-son relationships. There is the author's recurring inlcusion of encyclopedic information about herbs, plants, and recipes to play off of the events of the plot. There's the transformation of characters into mythical creatures and ghosts as a means of showcasing the traditional religion and heritage of the Igbo peoples in contrast to the "new" Chrsitianity and capitalism brought over from the West. I hope some of you will go out and read this novel. It will take you to a war-torn Nigeria, a land many of us know little about. It will show you a whole different lifestyle, and yet one that so many can relate to. As I said, there is so much to be discovered and pondered in this novel.
I will leave you with another of my favorite quotes from "Graceland":
"For the Igbo, tradition is fluid, growing. It is an event, like the sunset, or rain, chanigng with every occurrence. So too, the kola ritual has changed. Christian prayers have been added, and Jesus has replaced Obasi as the central deity. But its fluid aspects resist the empiricism that is the Western way, where life is supposed to be a system of codes, like the combinationsof human DNA or the Fibonacci patterns in nature. The Igbo are not reducible to a system of codes, and of meaning; this culture is always reaching for a pure lyric moment."
I like the idea of fluidity beyong conformity to a code, a sort of ineffable nature and way of life that pretty much characterizes this entire novel.
Next up, I am still reading books by Chris Abani--this time, "Becoming Abigail", a more recent work about a young girl sold into slavery in London from Nigeria, and about her escape and way of life. I will keep you posted on this novella. Until next time--
In fact, the end of the novel could truly be described as an Apocalypse of sorts. The corrupt government of Lagos decides to bulldoze poor communities such as the one inhabited by Elvis and his father, and the townspeople decide to fight back, so there is the violence that occurs with this. Then Elvis and his friend Redemption fail in their mission to deliver human organs cross-country as part of their work for the Colonel, a misguided "mob boss" of sorts who has high ranks in the local government. Because they abandon the mission once they realize they will be implicated in the kidnapping and murder of young children for their organs, the Colonel plots to capture and kill them, so they must go into hiding. However Elvis is captured by the Colonel's men and is beaten and tortured until he is just shy of death, only to survive and find his father dead and his town in shambles. All of this physical violence seems to burst forth upon the otherwise more slow-moving and calm narrative in order to jar the readers to attention--and in order to effect a choice that Elvis must make. The Apocalyptic conclusion leaves little room for Elvis to survive in Nigeria. He is a young man torn by the rich tradition of his Igbo heritgae in Nigeria and the democratic and capitalistic promises of life in the United States. His Aunt Felicia has already escaped to start a new life for herself. His father Sunday is not so lucky, and dies at the hands of the bulldozer. Which path will Elvis take? I will leave you to find out.
Another fascinating underlying theme of the novel is its religious parallels and references, which can be seen in the names bestowed upon the main characters. Elivs has the name of an American singer known as "the King", often accused of "stealing" the dance moves of African performers before him and claiming them as his own. This may not be religious in nature, but it is still foreboding of the main character's nature. Elvis has a friend named Redemption, and in the end this is what he helps provide for Elvis. Another main character is the King of the Beggars, often referred to only as the King. This character has obvious allusions to Christ, especially as he is deified in the end of the novel. This is written about the King: "He was spoken of with a deeply profound reverence, and the appendage 'Blessings be upon his name', usually reserved for prophets in Islam, was being used whenver his name was invoked. A group of Rastafarians even claimed he was the Emperor Selassie, Christ himself, the Lion of Judah, returned to lead them home." At the end of the novel Elvis meets a young girl named Blessing who turns out to be a caretaker for him, and a source of love--a definite blessing as her name invokes. At one point Sunday, Elvis' father, fervently talks about the importance of the name. He says, "Do you know we have a lot of deformed children begging? Because their parents know dey have no future. So at birth, before de child knows pain, dey deform it because it increases its earning power as a beggar. Do you see de love? All dey have to give de child is its deformity. All I have to give you is my name, Elvis Oke. And when I die, it will continue to help you build something for your children. Dat's why I don't want you to be a dancer. It will spoil your name." I find this diatribe on love and naming fascinating with its unique perspective. Can violence be perpetrated out of love? Can a name truly affect the outcome of one's life? This quote leaves me wondering.
There are many issues in this novel that I did not really even begin to touch on. There's the explicit sexuality, often dealing with incest and molestation. There is the huge theme of father-son relationships. There is the author's recurring inlcusion of encyclopedic information about herbs, plants, and recipes to play off of the events of the plot. There's the transformation of characters into mythical creatures and ghosts as a means of showcasing the traditional religion and heritage of the Igbo peoples in contrast to the "new" Chrsitianity and capitalism brought over from the West. I hope some of you will go out and read this novel. It will take you to a war-torn Nigeria, a land many of us know little about. It will show you a whole different lifestyle, and yet one that so many can relate to. As I said, there is so much to be discovered and pondered in this novel.
I will leave you with another of my favorite quotes from "Graceland":
"For the Igbo, tradition is fluid, growing. It is an event, like the sunset, or rain, chanigng with every occurrence. So too, the kola ritual has changed. Christian prayers have been added, and Jesus has replaced Obasi as the central deity. But its fluid aspects resist the empiricism that is the Western way, where life is supposed to be a system of codes, like the combinationsof human DNA or the Fibonacci patterns in nature. The Igbo are not reducible to a system of codes, and of meaning; this culture is always reaching for a pure lyric moment."
I like the idea of fluidity beyong conformity to a code, a sort of ineffable nature and way of life that pretty much characterizes this entire novel.
Next up, I am still reading books by Chris Abani--this time, "Becoming Abigail", a more recent work about a young girl sold into slavery in London from Nigeria, and about her escape and way of life. I will keep you posted on this novella. Until next time--
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Illogical Logic
So I am now about halfway through Abani's "Graceland" and I am really enjoying it. There is a lot in this book that deals with issues of US imperialism, and the imposition of Eurocentric culture in Nigeria, which I touched on earlier. But something else has been striking me as fascinating, and that is the "illogical logic" used by many of the townspeople in Abani's book. I know this is a confusing term, and a strange paradox. What I mean by "illogical logic" is that there seems to be a running theme of characters justifying actions and behaviors with a sort of skewed logic, yet they are able to make sense of the logic so that it suits them.
Let me give an example. Earlier on in the novel Elvis is on the bus when a car in front of him hits a person. Instead of stopping, however, the bus just rolls over the body. Apparently there are many of these bodies strewn about as pedestrians travel across the town of Lagos by dodging cars and trying to traverse the busy roads, often to their own fatality. Elvis turns to the man next to him and has the following conversation:
Elvis: Why can't we cross with the brdiges? Why do we gamble with our lives?"
Man: My friend, life in Lagos is a gamble, crossing or no crossing.
...
Elvis: If you cross the road without using the overhead bridges, you increase the chances of being hit with a car. Simple logic, really.
Man: So what is your point, my friend? We all have to die sometimes, you know. If it is your time, it is your time. You can be in your bed and die. If it is not your time, you can't die even if you cross de busiest road. After all, you can fall from de bridge into de road, and die. Now isn't dat double foolishness?
With this conversation, perhaps you or I might tend to agree with Elvis' viewpoint of logic. Cross at the bridge, and you have less chances of getting hurt. But the man from Lagos insists on a logic based more on a concept of fate and fatalism than we often embrace in Western cultures. At first it seemed to me like a resignation of sorts. Was this man saying people should resgin themselves to almost certain death? That there is no point in taking care of one's safety? That one should just "give in"? But looking at it from another angle, I can see that to ghim, this is a logical way of thinking. When it is your time, it is your time. And if it is your time, even if you take the "safe" bridge, you will fall to your death. This varies greatly from what we are taught in American culture, which teaches us to "defend personal freedom", and basically to look out for yourself above all else. To me it is a culture centered on the "cult of the individual", whereas here the man is setting faith in a larger picture, where each man is just one part of a greater fate-based scheme. I find this "illogical logic" very interesting, and can also see the truth in what the man is telling Elvis.
Later on, Elivs befriends a man who calls himself the King of the Beggars. Elvis seems to help out many who are less fortunate than him, and they all promise him that they will meet again. The King of Beggars ends up coming into some money, and repaying Elvis for his kind deedof providing him with food one day. One day the King of the Beggars warns Elvis that the cigarettes he is smoking will kill him. However a few minutes later he asks for a cigarette.
Elvis: I thought you didn't smoke.
King: Why? Because I say it is bad? I tink de money you give me is bad, but I take it. You see, Elvis, life is funny thing. Now give me de cigarette.
Again, there is a sort of "illogical logic" here, a paradox where someone says one thing and does another thing contrary to what they have said. Despite that this may not make sense, I can relate to this feeling of claiming to believe one thing but acting in a contrary way. Through such "logic", Abani makes us feel for his characters, and makes their world relatable despite the fact that we may live worlds away, and may never have experienced the Lagos of Elvis' world.
This concept of "illogical logic" reminds me of when I was used to teach in South Central Los Angeles. I taught in a very economically poor area, and yet many of my students would come to school dressed in designer clothing or with the latest cell phones or other technology. Yet their parents often did not have enough money to properly feed them or house them. One may think that such use of money is crazy or completely illogical, yet if you put yourself in their place, you may see it from a different view. In a place where you do not have money and the idea of long term saving seems completely irrelevant, what are you going to spend money on? The culture of now. You live in the present. Maybe you never think you will have a house, or a fancy car. But you can buy the "little things" now. You can have a status symbol. And as strange as that may seem to some, it is another type of "illogical logic" that I can somewhat relate to.
On another note, there are a lot of colloquial sayings in the book that the characters throw back and forth between themselves. A few of my favorites:
Be careful. When a car hits a dog, its puppy is never far behind.
It is better we are all blind, because in de land of de blind, de one-eyed man is mad.
Only a dead man tells everything, only a fool asks.
And I will leave you with one of my favorite conversations between Elvis and his powerful yet dangerous friend Redemption.
Redemption: Dis is why I like Lagos.
Elivs: Why?
Redemption: Because though dey hate us, de rich still have to look at us. Try as dey might, we don't go away.
Until next time...
Let me give an example. Earlier on in the novel Elvis is on the bus when a car in front of him hits a person. Instead of stopping, however, the bus just rolls over the body. Apparently there are many of these bodies strewn about as pedestrians travel across the town of Lagos by dodging cars and trying to traverse the busy roads, often to their own fatality. Elvis turns to the man next to him and has the following conversation:
Elvis: Why can't we cross with the brdiges? Why do we gamble with our lives?"
Man: My friend, life in Lagos is a gamble, crossing or no crossing.
...
Elvis: If you cross the road without using the overhead bridges, you increase the chances of being hit with a car. Simple logic, really.
Man: So what is your point, my friend? We all have to die sometimes, you know. If it is your time, it is your time. You can be in your bed and die. If it is not your time, you can't die even if you cross de busiest road. After all, you can fall from de bridge into de road, and die. Now isn't dat double foolishness?
With this conversation, perhaps you or I might tend to agree with Elvis' viewpoint of logic. Cross at the bridge, and you have less chances of getting hurt. But the man from Lagos insists on a logic based more on a concept of fate and fatalism than we often embrace in Western cultures. At first it seemed to me like a resignation of sorts. Was this man saying people should resgin themselves to almost certain death? That there is no point in taking care of one's safety? That one should just "give in"? But looking at it from another angle, I can see that to ghim, this is a logical way of thinking. When it is your time, it is your time. And if it is your time, even if you take the "safe" bridge, you will fall to your death. This varies greatly from what we are taught in American culture, which teaches us to "defend personal freedom", and basically to look out for yourself above all else. To me it is a culture centered on the "cult of the individual", whereas here the man is setting faith in a larger picture, where each man is just one part of a greater fate-based scheme. I find this "illogical logic" very interesting, and can also see the truth in what the man is telling Elvis.
Later on, Elivs befriends a man who calls himself the King of the Beggars. Elvis seems to help out many who are less fortunate than him, and they all promise him that they will meet again. The King of Beggars ends up coming into some money, and repaying Elvis for his kind deedof providing him with food one day. One day the King of the Beggars warns Elvis that the cigarettes he is smoking will kill him. However a few minutes later he asks for a cigarette.
Elvis: I thought you didn't smoke.
King: Why? Because I say it is bad? I tink de money you give me is bad, but I take it. You see, Elvis, life is funny thing. Now give me de cigarette.
Again, there is a sort of "illogical logic" here, a paradox where someone says one thing and does another thing contrary to what they have said. Despite that this may not make sense, I can relate to this feeling of claiming to believe one thing but acting in a contrary way. Through such "logic", Abani makes us feel for his characters, and makes their world relatable despite the fact that we may live worlds away, and may never have experienced the Lagos of Elvis' world.
This concept of "illogical logic" reminds me of when I was used to teach in South Central Los Angeles. I taught in a very economically poor area, and yet many of my students would come to school dressed in designer clothing or with the latest cell phones or other technology. Yet their parents often did not have enough money to properly feed them or house them. One may think that such use of money is crazy or completely illogical, yet if you put yourself in their place, you may see it from a different view. In a place where you do not have money and the idea of long term saving seems completely irrelevant, what are you going to spend money on? The culture of now. You live in the present. Maybe you never think you will have a house, or a fancy car. But you can buy the "little things" now. You can have a status symbol. And as strange as that may seem to some, it is another type of "illogical logic" that I can somewhat relate to.
On another note, there are a lot of colloquial sayings in the book that the characters throw back and forth between themselves. A few of my favorites:
Be careful. When a car hits a dog, its puppy is never far behind.
It is better we are all blind, because in de land of de blind, de one-eyed man is mad.
Only a dead man tells everything, only a fool asks.
And I will leave you with one of my favorite conversations between Elvis and his powerful yet dangerous friend Redemption.
Redemption: Dis is why I like Lagos.
Elivs: Why?
Redemption: Because though dey hate us, de rich still have to look at us. Try as dey might, we don't go away.
Until next time...
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Whiteface, and the Veil--Impositions or Adaptations?
So far I am truly enjoying "Graceland" by Chris Abani. The plot jumps back and forth in time between 1983 in the slumtown of Lagos and the late 1970s in Afikpo, a wealthier region of Nigeria. Back in Afikpo Elvis, the main character, still had his mom, who hadn't yet died of breast cancer, and his grandmother, who he both feared and loved dearly. His father drank, but still managed life as a functional drunk, even holding a job as superintendent of the school district. However after his mother dies, his family is unable to cope, and his father's drinking becomes out of control. He loses elections for office and moves himself and Elvis to Lagos, where the young boy must adjust to life in the slums. It is there that he decides he wants to dance for tourists to make money, dressing up as Elvis, and dancing.
I never realized when I started the book how it could have so many similarities to the nonfiction book I just finished, "Reading Lolita in Tehran". After all, Nafisi's book takes place in Iran, and Abani's book all the way in Nigeria. However both places are suffering from wars that revolve largely around religion. In Iran, Khomeini establishes Islamic rule, much to the exclusion of other religious minorities and secular constituents, and in Nigeria battles rage between Christians and Muslims. Of course wars have long been religion-based, from the Crusades all the way up until present day, so this similarity does not come as shocking to me.
What did surprise me, however, was the obsession with the West that occurs with the characters in both books. In "Reading Lolita in Tehran", Nafisi discusses this strange phenomenom at length. Her students seem to either blindly reject the West and its "imperialist" and "decadent" culture, or to fantasize about it without considering its shortcomings. Nafisi ponders that both oversimplicfications can be dangerous. At one point, her students put Fitzgerald's "Gatsby" on trial. The prosecutor, a Mr. Nyazi, states, "Our revolution is opposed to the materialism preached by Dr. Fitzgerald. We do not need Western materialisms , or American goods. If anything, we could use their technical know-how, but we MUST reject their morals." Even here there is an ambivalence, a nod to the West's technical know-how, but a rejection of its morals. This trial went on for some time in one of Nafisi's college classes, and this fact alone shows how the youth struggled with this existence, this notion, of the 'Other"-the West. They listened to Michael Jackson, they read Jane Austen--but here they were, in the Islamic Republic, in a very different environment. They could either deify or reject this "Other"-what other choices did they have? They could dream of living this "American lifestyle", or they could spit on it. This either/or mentality seems prevalent in Nafisi's Tehran. You are either Muslim, or secular. You are either pro-Revolution , or anti-change. You either wear the veil, or you are a whore. These are the choices--but when you look deeper, there are choices in-between the exteremes. You can wear the veil, but wear it askew. You can wear red nail polish under your gloves. You can find fault with Gatsby, but also symphasize with him. You can love Iran, and feel that you belong there, but you can also choose to leave--to Canada, like the young Iranian woman Mitra and her husband, to America, like Nafisi and her husband--to the West. Or you can admire the West and still admire Iran--and stay there, like Nafisi's friend "the magician". This either/or is much more complex under the surface of propoganda speak.
In Abani's "Graceland", the locals also obsess over the West. They drink Coca-Cola, they read Entertainment magazine, and they dream of leaving to America. Abani writes, "Elvis mused over his mixed feelings. His fascination with movies and elvis Presley aside, he wasn't really sure he liked America. Now that the people he cared about were going there, he felt more ambivalent than ever." His friend Redemption deifies all things Western, and divulges his plans to go there with an American visa he has obtained. Yet Elvis occupies this middle ground, this in-between the either/or. He grumbles about Lagos, remarking about how crazy it is that so many people die by crossing the streets at the wrong section, and that the government leaves the bodies to rot because the family cannot afford the fine the government charges to pick up the body. Yet Nigeria is his home, the land of the Kola nut, the land of his mother, and his grandmother.
I am also interested in the idea of external imposition, or adaptation. In Nafisi's 'Reading Lolita in Tehran", there is much debate about wearing the veil and the chador. Some women feel that it is their choice to wear it, and they want to wear it out of respect and propriety. But some, like Nafisi, despise the veil, regarding it as an imposition of the Islamic Republic, and one that renders women "Invisilbe" and "irrelvant". In any case one only has to look at the drawings in the graphic novel "Persepolis" (one of my favorites) to see the striking effect of what it looks like when all women wear the veil and chador, so the only part that can be seen is their eyes.
In Abani's "Graceland", a central part of the novel is that Elvis dresses up as the white singer and dancer, even putting talcum powder on his face as a form of whiteface. Early in the novel, Abani writes about Elvis' encounter with a woman at a bustop. He writes, "She paused in front of him, taking in his clothes and wig and talcum powder running in sweaty rivulets down his face. 'Who do dis to you?' she asked. But before he could answer, she turned and walked away laughing." Indeed Elvis has done this to himself--or has he? Like the veil, perhaps some can view this cotume as an external imposition. Yes, Elvis is not required to wear this mask as women are required to wear the veil in the Islamic Republic, but does he really have a choice? How else is he going to make money? Is this an imposition, or an adaptation?
These ideas of the mask, of costume, of personal freedom, of choice--they may seem black and white, but really these issues are extremely complex under the surface. What masks and costumes do we wear here, in the United States, a democratic country? What is our choice, and what isn't?
In any case, I am only a quarter of the way through "Graceland", but these issues were running through my mind. I'll update when I have something to say. Until then--
I never realized when I started the book how it could have so many similarities to the nonfiction book I just finished, "Reading Lolita in Tehran". After all, Nafisi's book takes place in Iran, and Abani's book all the way in Nigeria. However both places are suffering from wars that revolve largely around religion. In Iran, Khomeini establishes Islamic rule, much to the exclusion of other religious minorities and secular constituents, and in Nigeria battles rage between Christians and Muslims. Of course wars have long been religion-based, from the Crusades all the way up until present day, so this similarity does not come as shocking to me.
What did surprise me, however, was the obsession with the West that occurs with the characters in both books. In "Reading Lolita in Tehran", Nafisi discusses this strange phenomenom at length. Her students seem to either blindly reject the West and its "imperialist" and "decadent" culture, or to fantasize about it without considering its shortcomings. Nafisi ponders that both oversimplicfications can be dangerous. At one point, her students put Fitzgerald's "Gatsby" on trial. The prosecutor, a Mr. Nyazi, states, "Our revolution is opposed to the materialism preached by Dr. Fitzgerald. We do not need Western materialisms , or American goods. If anything, we could use their technical know-how, but we MUST reject their morals." Even here there is an ambivalence, a nod to the West's technical know-how, but a rejection of its morals. This trial went on for some time in one of Nafisi's college classes, and this fact alone shows how the youth struggled with this existence, this notion, of the 'Other"-the West. They listened to Michael Jackson, they read Jane Austen--but here they were, in the Islamic Republic, in a very different environment. They could either deify or reject this "Other"-what other choices did they have? They could dream of living this "American lifestyle", or they could spit on it. This either/or mentality seems prevalent in Nafisi's Tehran. You are either Muslim, or secular. You are either pro-Revolution , or anti-change. You either wear the veil, or you are a whore. These are the choices--but when you look deeper, there are choices in-between the exteremes. You can wear the veil, but wear it askew. You can wear red nail polish under your gloves. You can find fault with Gatsby, but also symphasize with him. You can love Iran, and feel that you belong there, but you can also choose to leave--to Canada, like the young Iranian woman Mitra and her husband, to America, like Nafisi and her husband--to the West. Or you can admire the West and still admire Iran--and stay there, like Nafisi's friend "the magician". This either/or is much more complex under the surface of propoganda speak.
In Abani's "Graceland", the locals also obsess over the West. They drink Coca-Cola, they read Entertainment magazine, and they dream of leaving to America. Abani writes, "Elvis mused over his mixed feelings. His fascination with movies and elvis Presley aside, he wasn't really sure he liked America. Now that the people he cared about were going there, he felt more ambivalent than ever." His friend Redemption deifies all things Western, and divulges his plans to go there with an American visa he has obtained. Yet Elvis occupies this middle ground, this in-between the either/or. He grumbles about Lagos, remarking about how crazy it is that so many people die by crossing the streets at the wrong section, and that the government leaves the bodies to rot because the family cannot afford the fine the government charges to pick up the body. Yet Nigeria is his home, the land of the Kola nut, the land of his mother, and his grandmother.
I am also interested in the idea of external imposition, or adaptation. In Nafisi's 'Reading Lolita in Tehran", there is much debate about wearing the veil and the chador. Some women feel that it is their choice to wear it, and they want to wear it out of respect and propriety. But some, like Nafisi, despise the veil, regarding it as an imposition of the Islamic Republic, and one that renders women "Invisilbe" and "irrelvant". In any case one only has to look at the drawings in the graphic novel "Persepolis" (one of my favorites) to see the striking effect of what it looks like when all women wear the veil and chador, so the only part that can be seen is their eyes.
In Abani's "Graceland", a central part of the novel is that Elvis dresses up as the white singer and dancer, even putting talcum powder on his face as a form of whiteface. Early in the novel, Abani writes about Elvis' encounter with a woman at a bustop. He writes, "She paused in front of him, taking in his clothes and wig and talcum powder running in sweaty rivulets down his face. 'Who do dis to you?' she asked. But before he could answer, she turned and walked away laughing." Indeed Elvis has done this to himself--or has he? Like the veil, perhaps some can view this cotume as an external imposition. Yes, Elvis is not required to wear this mask as women are required to wear the veil in the Islamic Republic, but does he really have a choice? How else is he going to make money? Is this an imposition, or an adaptation?
These ideas of the mask, of costume, of personal freedom, of choice--they may seem black and white, but really these issues are extremely complex under the surface. What masks and costumes do we wear here, in the United States, a democratic country? What is our choice, and what isn't?
In any case, I am only a quarter of the way through "Graceland", but these issues were running through my mind. I'll update when I have something to say. Until then--
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Recession Reading: Famished for Fiction
I just finished the book "Reading Lolita in Tehran", a memoir about reading, teaching, and relating to "forbidden" fiction in the Islamic Republic of Iran in the 1970s and 1980s. In the book, author Azar Nafisi writes, "I have come to believe that genuine democracy cannot exist without the freedom to imagine and the right to use imaginative works without any restrictions. To have a whole life, one must have the possiblity of publicly shaping and expressing private worlds, dreams, thoughts, and desires, of constantly having access to a dialogue betweenthe public and private worlds. How else do we know that we have existed, felt, desired, hated, feared?"
Nafisi's memoir revolves around reading fiction within the realm of a repressive regime during a very specific time and place in history. However her words about the necessity of imagination and fiction to make us "whole" span a boundless time/space continuum. People have needed fiction as a means of survival and growth throughout history, and this does not change today. Here in the United States we are living during a recession, a time of political and economic uncertainty. Unemployment is at 7.6 percent, a high of sixteen years. People are scared. But we still have fiction. We still have that other imaginary world. And like others before and after us, we need to turn to this private world as both a means of self-evaluation and reflection, and as a means of escape.
I have always loved to read and write, especially fiction. I graduated with a degree in Literature and Writing, and continue to read whenever I can. However whenever I come to the end of one book, I almost always have trouble selecting a new one. Should I read one of the classics I never read? A new up-and-coming author? A novel of the avant-garde? So, I have decided to end that problem. I have decided to read all of the fiction books in the fiction section of a local bookstore in Los Angeles, in alphabetical order of the author's last name--hence, The AlphaBook Project.
Since I graduated I have been missing the frequent discussion of books that I used to have with classmates and professors. I am not sure if anybody will read this blog, but I have decided to post about the books I am reading. Hopefully people will join in with comments and thoughts, and discussion will ensue. In the very least, I will get a chance to "think out loud" about many other imaginative worlds that I'm excited to encounter. I'm not sure how often I'll post, or what I'll post about. I'm not giving myself any guidelines other than the main goal of the project because I want this to be enjoyable. I may not have money, I may be in debt, I may have a lot of uncertainty in life right now. But as Azar Nafisi affirms, I always have my other "world", this imaginary space that I can indulge in. And, like many others today, I am famished for fiction.
First up: "Graceland" by Chris Abani. After reading the back of the book, I learned that the author, Abani, is from Nigeria, and he published his first novel there at the age of sixteen. Since he suffered a lot of persecution for it, however, he went into exile in England and the United States, and now lives in Los Angeles. The book is about Elvis, a poor teenage boy in Lagos, Nigeria in the late 1970s and early 1980s, who makes money by impersonating Elvis in hopes of getting out of the ghetto. Sounds interesting. I'll keep you posted.
Nafisi's memoir revolves around reading fiction within the realm of a repressive regime during a very specific time and place in history. However her words about the necessity of imagination and fiction to make us "whole" span a boundless time/space continuum. People have needed fiction as a means of survival and growth throughout history, and this does not change today. Here in the United States we are living during a recession, a time of political and economic uncertainty. Unemployment is at 7.6 percent, a high of sixteen years. People are scared. But we still have fiction. We still have that other imaginary world. And like others before and after us, we need to turn to this private world as both a means of self-evaluation and reflection, and as a means of escape.
I have always loved to read and write, especially fiction. I graduated with a degree in Literature and Writing, and continue to read whenever I can. However whenever I come to the end of one book, I almost always have trouble selecting a new one. Should I read one of the classics I never read? A new up-and-coming author? A novel of the avant-garde? So, I have decided to end that problem. I have decided to read all of the fiction books in the fiction section of a local bookstore in Los Angeles, in alphabetical order of the author's last name--hence, The AlphaBook Project.
Since I graduated I have been missing the frequent discussion of books that I used to have with classmates and professors. I am not sure if anybody will read this blog, but I have decided to post about the books I am reading. Hopefully people will join in with comments and thoughts, and discussion will ensue. In the very least, I will get a chance to "think out loud" about many other imaginative worlds that I'm excited to encounter. I'm not sure how often I'll post, or what I'll post about. I'm not giving myself any guidelines other than the main goal of the project because I want this to be enjoyable. I may not have money, I may be in debt, I may have a lot of uncertainty in life right now. But as Azar Nafisi affirms, I always have my other "world", this imaginary space that I can indulge in. And, like many others today, I am famished for fiction.
First up: "Graceland" by Chris Abani. After reading the back of the book, I learned that the author, Abani, is from Nigeria, and he published his first novel there at the age of sixteen. Since he suffered a lot of persecution for it, however, he went into exile in England and the United States, and now lives in Los Angeles. The book is about Elvis, a poor teenage boy in Lagos, Nigeria in the late 1970s and early 1980s, who makes money by impersonating Elvis in hopes of getting out of the ghetto. Sounds interesting. I'll keep you posted.
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