Journal #15: Mark Twain (Part I)

"He even failed to notice that the man who talks corrupt English six days in the week must and will talk it on the seventh, and can't help himself."

This account of Fenimore Cooper's failure to display believable dialogue was the prelude to an example that made me laugh my butt off as I read it. In Literary Offences, Twain cites a passage from Cooper's Deerslayer in which the main character spews a ridiculously overdone, poetic description of nature personified. The character is saying that his "sweetheart" is nature, basically... all metaphor like, in a scene that makes me picture a dramatic stopping of time, with sudden sunbeams on the character and perhaps angels' voices singing in harmony... when in the rest of the story, the same character says things like
"It consarns me as all things that touches a fri'nd consarns a fri'nd."

This attack on phony and inconsistent dialogue struck me so funny because it's something that I've naturally taken notice of in reading, and that when it's done on the contrary, I am immensely impressed by it. There are authors who have an ear, and a knack for such a thing. Twain is one of the best, and therefore has every right to deride Cooper for his lack of it. I've never read Cooper, but I'm guessing if I did, I wouldn't believe in his characters if they are as schizophrenic as Twain has suggested.

If a story starts with a kid yelling "Run, Jimmie, run! Dey'll get yehs!" it can't very well shift from first to fifth gear and suddenly present us with remarkably blue lakes that behoove tourists to visit, and little Swiss pensions of elder days. Luckily, Stephen Crane stays true to voice and character in Maggie, and so does Henry James in Daisy Miller. If the dialects or tones of each piece were awkwardly intertwined, the reader would be confused.
The best writing is the believable kind. Whether fiction or nonfiction, the reader has to believe that the characters are genuine. Even if a story has no actual quoted dialogue, the narrator must be consistent.

Journal #14: Edith Wharton

"Waythorn could afford to smile at these innuendoes... He knew that society has not yet adpapted itself to the consequence of divorce, and that till the adaptation takes place every woman who uses the freedom the law accords her must be her own social justification."

Mr. Waythorn, in the beginning, thinks he himself quite "evolved" about the modern woman. He marries Alice, who has been twice married before, and scoffs at a society that gossips about a woman who would dare divorce. The irony comes later in "The Other Two" when Mr. Waythorn is forced to confront the likes of both her ex-husbands.
When he meets Gus Varick, he is instantly competitive, disturbed at how at ease Varick is around a man who is now married to his former wife. The internal monologue that ensues in Waythorn is amusing, since he pretended to be so indifferent about the thought of Alice's past. I wonder if he would expect his wife to be undisturbed about his past wives, if he had them.
Although sex is never mentioned, I'm guessing that in the early twentieth century, a woman was considered "used" after having been married. It would be known, then, that she was not a virgin. I'm sure this was one of the things (maybe the most pressing) that would run through the mind of a man in Waythorn's position at the time, whether he liked to admit it or not. The funny thing is that the double standard still exists among many heterosexual men of modern day society. Although it's not common anymore for a woman to be a virgin 'till marriage, many men still seem to cling to some kind of ancient ideal, even if only at a subconscious level, desiring a woman who is not "ruined." Women are inclined to lie to their male partners about their past sexual history if it is one of promiscuity... you know, to "soften the blow." And I could be wrong, but this ridiculous ideal only seems predominantly present in the heterosexual male. Everyone else has come to their senses.













In Wharton's story, Waythorn is preoccupied with disturbing daydreams about Alice's past lives with her and her ex-husbands. He wonders what gifts they have given her, and pictures what their lives must have been like from day to day. I bet in reality, he would've been reeling about Lily, who was the product of her past sex life with Mr. Haskett! Oh the horror! Mr. Waythorn eventually begins to see his wife in a different light, a dimmer one... He becomes a skeptic about her reasoning on why her marriages ended. While he once figured the men must've been the cause for failure in each case, he comes to admire Haskett and concludes that maybe it was actually his wife who was at fault, and is likely afraid he might be "used" in the same unfortunate manner.
Funny how a man's mind works. I can't say women are not hypocrites as well, but on this matter, I think the men have us beat.

Journal #13: Henry James, Daisy Miller

"Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me; and three of them were by gentlemen..." She paused again for an instant; she was looking at Winterbourne with all her prettiness in her lively eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. "I have always had," she said, "a great deal of gentlemen's society."

This statement Daisy Miller makes in her earliest conversation with the character Winterbourne is a loaded statement, or can be viewed as such. For that particular time period, the actions of Daisy are quite "wild" to sum it up. And a statement such as that is an early display of an implied confidence in her own physical appearance for one, and also a bold example of her habits in general. She tells this strange man right away that she freely flirts and "dates" various men (controversial, then). I wonder if this is an attempt at seeming more wild than she really is, or if it is Daisy wishing to seem more sexually "mature" than she is.

Either way, I think it was James' intention to introduce her as a controversial character, and that the reader may for his opinions as he wishes, just as Daisy's fellow characters in the story may do. In which case, it's all a matter of interpretation. While one reader might frown upon her actions, another may cut her a little slack and not necessarily jump to conclusions and assume she is, without question, a "slut."
Something to consider about the character is that she is quite young. It is not necessarily expected of a young woman to know what she should do with her beauty and sexuality... or maybe it is expected by some, but not fairly so, since a woman at such a young age is likely to be very confused about such things. She's trying things on for size, and she is stuck between adolescence and adulthood. She looks like a grown woman, but still thinks, in many ways, like a child. Pardon the cliché but it's like driving in the dark without headlights. She must either be cautious and careful, or let things happen and be adventurous, and is likely to disappoint somebody in the process. There is no user's manual for becoming a woman. What is my point? I guess I'm not sure... Maybe that my opinion of the female character is that she chose the path of adventure and maybe a bit of recklessness, and while I think she played games and was a bit manipulative, she didn't necessarily lack innocence.

Journal #12: Stephen Crane/The Open Boat

"When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him as important, and that she feels she would not maim the universe by disposing of him, he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply the fact that there are no bricks and no temples."


In Stephen Crane's "The Open Boat," the narrator often ponders the thoughts that run through a man's mind as he faces death. The quote above could be interpreted in many ways, one being that of an atheist or someone who has duddenly become a non-believer or thinks himself slighted by a higher power, whether that be God or "nature."
Throughout the story, there is a palpable sense of hope... or is that just based on the reader's knowledge that Crane will survive, given that he actually lived to tell the story? I'm uncertain. I almost think that the sense of positivity could even have been partially a reaction based on reading Maggie first. Maybe by placing the two pieces side by side, "Open Boat" seems all sunshine and roses, even if it is not quite that. Either way, I have to say that I loved Crane's writing. In Maggie, I loved the dark, raw feel of his language and settings, and I was especially impressed by his use of dialogue in a manner that so effectively made me "hear" it. In "Open Boat" I once again loved his language, but it was different that that of Maggie. I loved the way Crane wrote this account of a true event from a third person point of view, even though he was actually in it... I think it was a compelling way for an author to step back and look at a thing which had happened to him and tell it objectively, while still inserting, at just the right times, his personal feelings, in order to portray what was going through his mind and may have been going through the minds of the other men. I wonder what was going through the mind of the "oiler" at the end.

Journal #11: Stephen Crane/Maggie

"Over the eternal collars and cuffs in the factory Maggie spent the most of three days in making imaginary sketches of Pete and his daily environment... She thought he must live in a blare of pleasure. He had friends, and people who were afraid of him."

The mere title of Stephen Crane's Maggie, suggests that the story is a sympathetic look at this female character. Much of the story, especially the beginning, doesn't even discuss her character directly, though. Instead, Crane carefully sculpts a masterpiece depiction of the bleak and colorless bubble that she lives in. He displays Maggie's brother Jimmie, her wretched alcoholic parents, and a boy named Pete. He paints her dead center into a snapshot that a viewer would feel the reflexive urge to look away from, and leaves her there to fend for herself. The reader wonders if she can possibly survive this... and the answer is ultimately... "No."

While critics argue that Crane is dark and pessimistic, and that Maggie is nothing more than a reflection of his hopeless view of the inevitable shittiness of mankind, I see it rather as a depiction of a woman who tragically falls victim to her surroundings, and fails to find a way out. The poor girl is met with utter ugliness in every human being she encounters, and her unfortunate decline into the abyss of homelessness and prostitution was the only path she knew. All that being said, I think Crane wanted the reader to take a look at people of the streets, particularly prostitutes, and stop to consider why they end up there... take a moment to look at each one as a human person and realize that she once was a child, and that her background may have led her to a place that people judged as "going to the devil." I think Crane portrayed Maggie as the only somewhat likable character among a cloud of unsavory ones, and wanted the reader to root for her. The fact that she died at the end and none of the unsavory characters were changed is perhaps a testament to Crane's naturalistic tendencies, or maybe... a tragedy to be seriously pondered, in hopes that the unsavory characters that read Maggie will take a moment to consider that their selfish and cancerous ways could be guiding the downward path which the people closest to them are stumbling down.

Journal #10: Maria Amparo Ruiz de Burton

"Thus the government washes its hands clean, liberally providing plenty of tribunals, plenty of crooked turnings through which to scourge the wretched land-owners. Don Mariano had for some years been under the lash of the maternal government, whom he had found a cruel stepmother indeed."

The Squatter and the Don: After the Mexican-American war, the Treaty of Hidalgo Guadalupe and the Land Act of 1851 cheated "Californios" out of their rightfully owned land. White American "squatters" came in and began to start their own little ranches and plantations on the Californios' land, and began to steal and kill the cattle. And the government used schemes and tactics that made it just plain difficult for the Mexican Americans to keep their land. In the story, Don Mariano realizes that he can't fight the government, so he decides on a peaceful, reasonable, and intelligent proposal that he hopes will convince the squatters to live and work in harmony with the Californios.

It's sad that the "Don Marianos" of true history were forced to submit in this manner, but the story paints a picture of a Mexican American man who does not simply tuck his tail between his legs and wander away empty-handed. He's an intelligent business man who makes one last attempt to keep peace and preserve what little cattle he has left. Unfortunately, the prejudice, ignorance, and stubbornness of the squatters makes them inclined to reject the Don's proposal. His brilliant and common sense approach to plant fruit trees and raise cattle, as the nature of the land intended, is shot down, and both sides end up losing land in the end due to capitalism and expansionism... due to the concept of "Manifest Destiny."
I'm thrilled to be gaining so much knowledge of U.S. history through the excellent readings of this class in American Literature, but unfortunately, but I forge on with mixed emotions. While I know it behooves me to know the history of my country, I continue to lose respect for "white mankind." I look at the way the "pale face" has treated every other race over the years, and how he has decided that white equals superior, and how the delusion still continues into modern day America... We still have a long way to go.

Journal #9: Sarah Orne Jewett

"... Sylvia still watched the young man with loving admiration. She had never seen anybody so charming and delightful; the woman's heart, asleep in the child, was vaguely thrilled by a dream of love. Some premonition of that great power stirred and swayed these young creatures who traversed the solemn woodlands with soft-footed silent care."


This passage struck me the first time I read Jewett's story, A White Heron, but not in the thought-provoking manner in which it has struck me since discussing it in class. What I love so much about the story is the imagery that takes me back to my own childhood. The girl in the story is 8 or 9 years old, and that age, for me, holds some of the fondest and most innocent memories I can think of. Upon first reading, I highlighted the quote above merely for the beauty of it. I loved the crush Sylvia had formed for this man, and imagined that she must be fantasizing about an adult union with him, the way a young girl may do. It was especially endearing because of her portrayal of being a tomboy... It made this instance less typical, I suppose.
After discussing the quote in class, I realized how much weight it carries. It could be looked upon from many avenues of criticism, particularly the question of whether the story is in fact a love story, as it has been disputed. Is it a story about the love between the young girl and the hunter? Is it a story about the love between the girl and Nature? In the end, Sylvia's infatuation with wildlife wins out over her crush on the young man... Is it a story about that rivalry, and a symbol of conformity and typical gender expectations vs. the "back to basics" lifestyle that the girl and her grandmother are living in the the country? Perhaps it is in part all of these, or just the latter. I think it is a portrayal of one small, secret victory over the growing industrialization and capitalism of the time.
By telling a coming-of-age story about a young girl who is much happier in the country than she was in the city, Jewett perhaps expresses her own rejection of capitalism and the "rape" of the land. She mentions the tall tree, which is the last of its kind in those woods, and a symbol of the unfortunate loss of all the others... Jewett exhibits her respect for nature as she personifies the tree as Sylvia climbs it. She personifies many other things, such as the cow, Mistress Moolly, who is Sylvia's closest friend.

The cow might help represent yet another existing theme in A White Heron, which is that of the feminist. The young girl lives in the country with her female grandmother, an independent female cow, and a cat who takes care of itself quite well by hunting robins (I tend to think the symbol of the cat is female, whereas maybe a dog would've been more of a male example, stereotypically). The household is female and thriving just fine as it is, contrary to what may have been expected at the time. And even though this man comes along and interrupts their quaint little lifestyle, tempting them to take payment for telling where to find the Heron, in the end, Sylvia finds that there is more satisfaction in protecting the Heron, and protecting the nature she loves.
Getting back to the quote I have chosen, it raises also the question of sexuality, and although I originally said "But she's only 8 years old," it's reasonable to say that she likely had deeper fantasies about the young man. She was, after all, quite close to puberty. The story could then be one about the threshold between the girl and the young woman, and the inner struggle between the two. Here is this young, wild girl who loves nature, but begins to have womanly feelings toward a strange man... yet in the end, decides not to sell out her beloved creatures. In a sense, the girl beat out the fantasies of the woman, and the reader applauds this.