Okay. So. I finished Love in the Time of Cholera last week. To my disappointment, Urbino did not show up much more past the second "Oh, no! My husband is dead!" moment, which pretty much means there was little humor and more romance. Even more to my disappointment, it ended in the most cliché way possible.
I saw it coming like I see a D on a test I haven't studied for (not that that’s ever happened, Mr. Coon!). I mosey along through my day, ignoring the fact I have a test the next day. I might pull out the textbook for the class in question, but play Zuma or read or stare out the window instead of cracking open the book. I can see the grade coming, but think, "Oh, maybe I won't fail it. It's probably going to be easy anyway." That false hope was what I had for the ending of Cholera. I could see the ending coming while reading, but tried to ignore it. Maybe their love could miraculously continue when they returned home, I thought. I could deal with that. It is a romance novel after all. Or maybe their love will come to a tragic, but beautiful, end when Florentino can finally get his tool to work in bed. They would die together in each other's arms after making love. That ending would be a little harder to swallow, but I can roll with it, mostly because of the potential symbolism: One could reason that because Florentino has finally joined physical love and spiritual love into one glorious emotion, he can finally rest easy, having received what his soul had been searching for all his life.
But no. No, Marquez couldn't let me keep my lunch down. Tension rises because of forbidden love. Reality floods their fairy-tale world. My abdomen clenches in expectation. I swallow some Pepto-Bismol to soften the churning acids in my stomach. How will the lovers keep their romance going? Will the charitable captain be punished for his kindness? Who can save them? My eyes become watery, a last-ditch effort to conserve my well-being by not allowing me to read the words. A sneeze attack, a cramp in the leg, a coughing fit—all part of the natural instinct of self-preservation. Ah, here is brave Florentino! He will be the hero! I read, despite my body’s attempts to dissuade me, as Florentino, with the Rocky theme song playing in the back, heaves a sigh that flicks off the weight of the world he so clearly has on his shoulders, flips his gray hair and flashes his eyes towards the horizon. “Forever,” he says in a voice so wispy it has the power of an earthquake.
And then it ends.
Fade out.
Just like that.
I have to rush to the bathroom and never see fettuccini the same again.
The only thing I can appreciate about the ending was that it puts a new twist on the title of the novel. I mean, that ship at the end is theoretically in the time of cholera since it’s flying the cholera flag. I don’t get a whole lot if I follow that train of thought, but at least it’s something!
I’m not going to say that Love in the Time of Cholera is a bad novel. Not at all. It’s just definitely not my cup of tea. It’s a romance and some people like those. I don’t think less of those who do. Something tells me I’d prefer the novel in Spanish, but that could just be the faint whisper of Latina I have in me peeping through. And there’s also a part of me that wishes I knew every language ever simply so that I may read every book in its native tongue. Anyway, it’s unfortunate that my last impression of Cholera involved a toilet bowl and some Lysol. I’m sure Marquez deserves more than that, if not Dr. Urbino. (659)
December 2, 2007
November 20, 2007
All I Can do is Cover my Ears and Sing Loudly
Okay. So. There are many reasons why I don't like Love in the Time of Cholera. The title is lame, it's a romance, it gets less and less amusing as the story progresses, and it's written by a Columbian. Well, maybe I don't mind that it was written by a Columbian, but I feel as if I should. I don't know why. I just roll with it. Anyway, the reason I dislike this book the most is Florentino Ariza. Yes, I will explain.
I think we have to delve a bit into my personal life to understand my intense aversion to Florentino. So, I had this ex-boyfriend once who really frustrated me after a while. I cannot tell you how many times I would bluntly tell him that he didn't have any balls and that he should grow some if he expects to talk to me about anything. Now, I don't mean he didn't have any balls in the literal sense, but figuratively. He simply refused to argue with me or tell me when something I did bothered him--he didn't want me to get upset. He was also always whining about something. He didn't see me enough, didn't talk to me enough, didn't hear from me enough. Apparently, I needed to be with him in some way every moment of every day. He was also very emotional. I may come off sounding really insensitive (which I guess can be partly true), but there were times when I just had to say, "Really, Ethan? You're crying over a Nip Tuck episode? Why don't you grow some balls?" or "So, you're just going to mope rather than telling me I'm wrong? Grow some balls, man. Suck it up and do it." I always said it in a form of a question, but I never really let him answer, not that he would have anyway. I had to use such a crude phrase because he didn't get it otherwise. Ethan just didn't have the guts to stand up for himself or the self-control to reign in his emotions a little. And he was clingy, so I was stuck with his constant emotional rollercoaster all the time. I find it hard to respect someone who melts over every little thing and who is constantly in need of something/someone.
And herein lies the problem with Florentino. Florentino embodies the emotionally needy, clingy, stalker personality that I just can't stand and have very little compassion for. He obsesses over Fermina (much as I felt Ethan did over me) and constantly seeks reassurance that she cares for him or something. Plus, he's sappy. When I think of a sap, I think of Florentino. It is okay to have passion, especially Latin passion, but Florentino is Latin passion on speed. It makes me want to slap the book so that I can feel I'm slapping Florentino. Slapping sense into him, of course. He's got no ganas. He was a matyr constantly in need of a persecutor. The first time I read about Florentino, I immediatley thought, "Man, this guy is such a girl."
After I thought that, I felt terrible. I was horrified. You should've seen the look on my face. I looked like a criminal caught in the middle of a robbery. My eyes were wide with disbelief, mouth dropped with horror, and my face as red as a ripe strawberry. I had discovered something I never thought I would: I'm a sexist. Could I not allow men to feel the emotions of a thirteen year old girl? Nope. Those were for girls.
So, I guess the real reason I hate Florentino is because of what I see in myself because of him.
What a jerk. (602)
I think we have to delve a bit into my personal life to understand my intense aversion to Florentino. So, I had this ex-boyfriend once who really frustrated me after a while. I cannot tell you how many times I would bluntly tell him that he didn't have any balls and that he should grow some if he expects to talk to me about anything. Now, I don't mean he didn't have any balls in the literal sense, but figuratively. He simply refused to argue with me or tell me when something I did bothered him--he didn't want me to get upset. He was also always whining about something. He didn't see me enough, didn't talk to me enough, didn't hear from me enough. Apparently, I needed to be with him in some way every moment of every day. He was also very emotional. I may come off sounding really insensitive (which I guess can be partly true), but there were times when I just had to say, "Really, Ethan? You're crying over a Nip Tuck episode? Why don't you grow some balls?" or "So, you're just going to mope rather than telling me I'm wrong? Grow some balls, man. Suck it up and do it." I always said it in a form of a question, but I never really let him answer, not that he would have anyway. I had to use such a crude phrase because he didn't get it otherwise. Ethan just didn't have the guts to stand up for himself or the self-control to reign in his emotions a little. And he was clingy, so I was stuck with his constant emotional rollercoaster all the time. I find it hard to respect someone who melts over every little thing and who is constantly in need of something/someone.
And herein lies the problem with Florentino. Florentino embodies the emotionally needy, clingy, stalker personality that I just can't stand and have very little compassion for. He obsesses over Fermina (much as I felt Ethan did over me) and constantly seeks reassurance that she cares for him or something. Plus, he's sappy. When I think of a sap, I think of Florentino. It is okay to have passion, especially Latin passion, but Florentino is Latin passion on speed. It makes me want to slap the book so that I can feel I'm slapping Florentino. Slapping sense into him, of course. He's got no ganas. He was a matyr constantly in need of a persecutor. The first time I read about Florentino, I immediatley thought, "Man, this guy is such a girl."
After I thought that, I felt terrible. I was horrified. You should've seen the look on my face. I looked like a criminal caught in the middle of a robbery. My eyes were wide with disbelief, mouth dropped with horror, and my face as red as a ripe strawberry. I had discovered something I never thought I would: I'm a sexist. Could I not allow men to feel the emotions of a thirteen year old girl? Nope. Those were for girls.
So, I guess the real reason I hate Florentino is because of what I see in myself because of him.
What a jerk. (602)
November 8, 2007
A Collection of Rambles
You asked for a list of stuff I've read by Mark Twain. I really don't want to do any other work right now, so here it is:
Huck Finn
Tom Sawyer
Connecticut Yankee
Joan of Arc
The Diaries of Adam and Eve
Letters from the Earth
The Prince and the Pauper
Portions of:
The Gilded Age
Following the Equator
Roughing It
Innocents Abroad
Almost all of his short stories, with the exception of "A Murder, A Mystery, and a Marriage" (but I'm getting to that one!). I've read nearly every compilation of his letters I can get my hands on. I love the letters to his brother Orion. My favorite writings so far are "The War Prayer" and a short essay on his dream love, which is very interesting. If you haven't read it yet, I can get you an online copy. I also found what he wrote right after his daughter Jean died to be very touching and insightful, more in to Clemens than Twain, of course.
Anyway. That's the list as much as I can remember it. Oh, and please excuse the lack of italics. It was saying something about containing illegal characters (oh my!) when I went to post this with italics. Being almost completely computer-illiterate, I closed my eyes until I was convinced the cops weren't coming, then removed the italics and posted it.
Huck Finn
Tom Sawyer
Connecticut Yankee
Joan of Arc
The Diaries of Adam and Eve
Letters from the Earth
The Prince and the Pauper
Portions of:
The Gilded Age
Following the Equator
Roughing It
Innocents Abroad
Almost all of his short stories, with the exception of "A Murder, A Mystery, and a Marriage" (but I'm getting to that one!). I've read nearly every compilation of his letters I can get my hands on. I love the letters to his brother Orion. My favorite writings so far are "The War Prayer" and a short essay on his dream love, which is very interesting. If you haven't read it yet, I can get you an online copy. I also found what he wrote right after his daughter Jean died to be very touching and insightful, more in to Clemens than Twain, of course.
Anyway. That's the list as much as I can remember it. Oh, and please excuse the lack of italics. It was saying something about containing illegal characters (oh my!) when I went to post this with italics. Being almost completely computer-illiterate, I closed my eyes until I was convinced the cops weren't coming, then removed the italics and posted it.
November 5, 2007
I'm just a shadow today
Listen: I’m really diggin’ Faulkner’s stream-of-consciousness style. It’s really easy for me to read. Plus, it’s like Faulkner’s sticking it to the man by not using punctuation! That’s my favorite part of his style. No punctuation. In fact, I love it so much that I’m going to adapt his style for this blog.
Mr Coon I can only imagine the look on critics faces when they first read The Sound and the Fury I mean Im pretty sure it was a radical form of literature They were probably pretty upset about it but then some thought it was pretty cool Jessi thats not proper English the reader wont understand what youre saying But Ms Egnew thats how he talks Hes from the ghetto Hes not gonna talk all like someone with an education Faulkners abandonment of punctuation is also very cool It forces the reader to really look beyond the sentence into the ideas beyond the words Punctuation can sometimes do the opposite of whats intended instead of making ideas easier to understand they simplify and Mom hes clearly being sarcastic look at what hes saying no hes not hes insulting you and me lessen the power of the idea itself When dealing with dialogue a lack of punctuation is endlessly entertaining mostly because the reader suddenly must deal with my favorite aspect of English inflection For instance when Mom says what is she angry annoyed sad tired pleased curious or all of those at the same time Inflection provides the flexibility necessary for English to function as a viable language Of course thats also what makes it really difficult to learn Well thats not the only difficulty just one of them Thats not how you spell beautiful Jessi how long will it take you to learn that by the time you leave my class you will know how to spell beautiful but that u is useless it doesnt make sense and why is that a even there it should be an e
I also really like how we are literally inside the characters mind Well I guess not literally but pretty literally About as literally as you can get without actually being the person Its easier to understand a character through what triggers memories and what memories they dwell on more Mark Twain Mark Twain Mark Twain Mark Twain The reader is exposed directly to what gets a character going or what has important symbolism for him like water and honeysuckle for Quentin she laughs oh my gosh its really not that funny I think but keep my mouth closed what good will it do and she still laughs and laughs and laughs I have a feeling that more readers would enjoy short stories if more short stories were written in Faulkners style though perhaps a bit more understandable Readers who dont like short stories often complain that theres not enough character development and that they dont feel connected to a character because they dont know much about him With stream of consciousness learning about a character is much more efficient Much can be learned of a character in the limited space of a short story Did you ever read Twain did you did you I feel I understand Quentin better through Faulkners style than I could have if he had chosen a different form
There is a wonderfully attractive freedom in Faulkners style and to be quite honest I find the more structured the section like Jason or the last portion of the novel the more difficult it is for me to understand and the less I like it I dont really know the answer to this question I just dont get math cant you leave me alone for one second so I can understand this why its more difficult I assume its just because I was used to Benjy and Quentin
Did you ever read Twain did you did you 653
I think this blog is proof that Faulkner has an amazing skill to convey the inner thoughts of a person into a cohesive piece of literature that transcends the lateral works of most of what came before it. I tried to imitate stream-of-consciousness and fell flat on my face (as seen above.) It was fun though.
Mr Coon I can only imagine the look on critics faces when they first read The Sound and the Fury I mean Im pretty sure it was a radical form of literature They were probably pretty upset about it but then some thought it was pretty cool Jessi thats not proper English the reader wont understand what youre saying But Ms Egnew thats how he talks Hes from the ghetto Hes not gonna talk all like someone with an education Faulkners abandonment of punctuation is also very cool It forces the reader to really look beyond the sentence into the ideas beyond the words Punctuation can sometimes do the opposite of whats intended instead of making ideas easier to understand they simplify and Mom hes clearly being sarcastic look at what hes saying no hes not hes insulting you and me lessen the power of the idea itself When dealing with dialogue a lack of punctuation is endlessly entertaining mostly because the reader suddenly must deal with my favorite aspect of English inflection For instance when Mom says what is she angry annoyed sad tired pleased curious or all of those at the same time Inflection provides the flexibility necessary for English to function as a viable language Of course thats also what makes it really difficult to learn Well thats not the only difficulty just one of them Thats not how you spell beautiful Jessi how long will it take you to learn that by the time you leave my class you will know how to spell beautiful but that u is useless it doesnt make sense and why is that a even there it should be an e
I also really like how we are literally inside the characters mind Well I guess not literally but pretty literally About as literally as you can get without actually being the person Its easier to understand a character through what triggers memories and what memories they dwell on more Mark Twain Mark Twain Mark Twain Mark Twain The reader is exposed directly to what gets a character going or what has important symbolism for him like water and honeysuckle for Quentin she laughs oh my gosh its really not that funny I think but keep my mouth closed what good will it do and she still laughs and laughs and laughs I have a feeling that more readers would enjoy short stories if more short stories were written in Faulkners style though perhaps a bit more understandable Readers who dont like short stories often complain that theres not enough character development and that they dont feel connected to a character because they dont know much about him With stream of consciousness learning about a character is much more efficient Much can be learned of a character in the limited space of a short story Did you ever read Twain did you did you I feel I understand Quentin better through Faulkners style than I could have if he had chosen a different form
There is a wonderfully attractive freedom in Faulkners style and to be quite honest I find the more structured the section like Jason or the last portion of the novel the more difficult it is for me to understand and the less I like it I dont really know the answer to this question I just dont get math cant you leave me alone for one second so I can understand this why its more difficult I assume its just because I was used to Benjy and Quentin
Did you ever read Twain did you did you 653
I think this blog is proof that Faulkner has an amazing skill to convey the inner thoughts of a person into a cohesive piece of literature that transcends the lateral works of most of what came before it. I tried to imitate stream-of-consciousness and fell flat on my face (as seen above.) It was fun though.
October 26, 2007
Another Twain Sighting
Okay. So. I'll admit it. I have an unabashed Mark Twain addiction. Every week, I'm reading something by him or about him, whether I've read it before or not. Sometimes I can get my fix as easily as reading a few Twain quotes, but other weeks I need to delve into Connecticut Yankee again. He is a lot like God to me; everywhere I look, I see some whisp of Twain. Every time I read his work, I learn or perceive him in a different way. I'm forever delighted with each new shade of the Southerner I discover.
When I was home sick earlier this week, I didn't have much of a concentration level. My attention span was no larger than that of a gnat. Unfortunately, I hadn't had much time last week to read some Twain, just a few quotes--a sparse hit for an addict. On Monday, I started to get the mental itch, the inner craving, the rabid blindness peculiar to addiction. By Tuesday, I had lost all sense. I had gone into a mental fit the night before and now I lay on the couch, dejected and apathetic to anything but Twain. I turned on the television and listlessly flipped through the channels. Then, there it was! My heart leapt with the joy of a believer meeting the Creator! Tears came to my eyes. Turner Classic Movies was my Christ. It saved me from imminent insanity with its own unique cross: The Adventures of Mark Twain! A movie biography on the author himself! Sure, it was made in 1944, sure it was highly inaccurate, but it had his quotes, vaguely sketched out his life, and was new to me! I was saved. Thank you, TCM. Mark Twain (and Samuel Clemens to a slightly lesser degree) truly is mi pan de vida.*
By now you're probably wondering how on Earth this is at all related to the AP English classes of this week. You're saying, "Jess, what are you even doing? This is completely absurd. Your fever must be back." I may be absurd, but Twain is completely relevant to class.
I found him whilst reading The Sound and the Fury. One of my favorite scenes in the book so far is when Caddy is put in charge of the kids while Damuddy is sick. The bickering between Jason and Caddy is so childlike and typical of siblings that one has to laugh. It reminded me strongly of Tom Sawyer and the quintessentially Twain youth found whenever in his writings he finds a chance to play a child. The natural arguments Caddy and Jason have in this section are a much-needed reprieve from the bizarre nature of the rest of the novel.
I see myself and Vicky arguing about who's listening to who right away. FINALLY, I can connect to the novel in a way I understand. See, Vicky has always been bigger than me, even though I'm the oldest. Naturally, she had a greater aversion to doing what I said because of her size. I remember once Mom and Dad had stepped out to go get milk or something from the grocery store. They said that Vicky had to "mind" me. Right after they left, Vicky started jumping on our already broken couch. I told her to stop. That started the same argument Caddy and Jason have.
"Vicky, you're supposed to listen to me. Mom and Dad said so."
"I don't have to listen to you! You're not Mom!"
"You're still supposed to listen to me!"
"Nuh-uh!"
"Yess-huh!"
And so on and so forth. The bickering ended with Vicky disowning me and lasted until they came back from the store. When Caddy rebukes Quentin for not eating by saying, "You've got to eat if I say you have," I'm right there with her going, "Respect her parentally-deigned authority, kid!" I'm sure Vicky would take Quentin's--and especially Jason's--side.
The natural rivalry between Jason and Caddy reflects the author's understanding of the usual when all we the readers have known is his mastery of the strange. Twain and Faulkner (when necessary) can capture the life and heart of a youth so well that one would think he was nine. I ask of Faulkner, as Quentin might (though minus his animosity), "Did he have a sister?"
Admittedly, the scene turns a little creepy once we learn that Quentin has/had incestual thoughts about Caddy. But whatevs. (737)
I would like to note that my word count is unintentionally also a kind of plane. Awesome!
*I realize that you may not understand this reference. Here is an explanation: "Pan de Vida" is one of my favorite eucharist songs that talks about how God is the substanence of life and how we should follow what He does by sacrificing himself for our life. Entiendame? It's really a great song.
Hope you enjoyed the blog.
When I was home sick earlier this week, I didn't have much of a concentration level. My attention span was no larger than that of a gnat. Unfortunately, I hadn't had much time last week to read some Twain, just a few quotes--a sparse hit for an addict. On Monday, I started to get the mental itch, the inner craving, the rabid blindness peculiar to addiction. By Tuesday, I had lost all sense. I had gone into a mental fit the night before and now I lay on the couch, dejected and apathetic to anything but Twain. I turned on the television and listlessly flipped through the channels. Then, there it was! My heart leapt with the joy of a believer meeting the Creator! Tears came to my eyes. Turner Classic Movies was my Christ. It saved me from imminent insanity with its own unique cross: The Adventures of Mark Twain! A movie biography on the author himself! Sure, it was made in 1944, sure it was highly inaccurate, but it had his quotes, vaguely sketched out his life, and was new to me! I was saved. Thank you, TCM. Mark Twain (and Samuel Clemens to a slightly lesser degree) truly is mi pan de vida.*
By now you're probably wondering how on Earth this is at all related to the AP English classes of this week. You're saying, "Jess, what are you even doing? This is completely absurd. Your fever must be back." I may be absurd, but Twain is completely relevant to class.
I found him whilst reading The Sound and the Fury. One of my favorite scenes in the book so far is when Caddy is put in charge of the kids while Damuddy is sick. The bickering between Jason and Caddy is so childlike and typical of siblings that one has to laugh. It reminded me strongly of Tom Sawyer and the quintessentially Twain youth found whenever in his writings he finds a chance to play a child. The natural arguments Caddy and Jason have in this section are a much-needed reprieve from the bizarre nature of the rest of the novel.
I see myself and Vicky arguing about who's listening to who right away. FINALLY, I can connect to the novel in a way I understand. See, Vicky has always been bigger than me, even though I'm the oldest. Naturally, she had a greater aversion to doing what I said because of her size. I remember once Mom and Dad had stepped out to go get milk or something from the grocery store. They said that Vicky had to "mind" me. Right after they left, Vicky started jumping on our already broken couch. I told her to stop. That started the same argument Caddy and Jason have.
"Vicky, you're supposed to listen to me. Mom and Dad said so."
"I don't have to listen to you! You're not Mom!"
"You're still supposed to listen to me!"
"Nuh-uh!"
"Yess-huh!"
And so on and so forth. The bickering ended with Vicky disowning me and lasted until they came back from the store. When Caddy rebukes Quentin for not eating by saying, "You've got to eat if I say you have," I'm right there with her going, "Respect her parentally-deigned authority, kid!" I'm sure Vicky would take Quentin's--and especially Jason's--side.
The natural rivalry between Jason and Caddy reflects the author's understanding of the usual when all we the readers have known is his mastery of the strange. Twain and Faulkner (when necessary) can capture the life and heart of a youth so well that one would think he was nine. I ask of Faulkner, as Quentin might (though minus his animosity), "Did he have a sister?"
Admittedly, the scene turns a little creepy once we learn that Quentin has/had incestual thoughts about Caddy. But whatevs. (737)
I would like to note that my word count is unintentionally also a kind of plane. Awesome!
*I realize that you may not understand this reference. Here is an explanation: "Pan de Vida" is one of my favorite eucharist songs that talks about how God is the substanence of life and how we should follow what He does by sacrificing himself for our life. Entiendame? It's really a great song.
Hope you enjoyed the blog.
September 27, 2007
Doodley-dee
I remember when I was first introduced to Kurt Vonnegut. Mr. Guthrie was the common friend between the two of us. He was teaching a course on philosophy or something (no matter the class, he always seems to work abstract thought in, to my delight) in Project Excellence and happened to mention Vonnegut’s short story “Harrison Bergeron.” I believe I was in sixth grade, but years bleed into one another for me. The point is, I was pretty young. I remember thinking, “Kurt Vonnegut? Must be some Russian guy.” Didn’t think much of it. Mr. Guthrie described the story and it sounded interesting, but I hadn’t given it much thought. A couple of months later, my favorite uncle, Daniel, mentioned “Harrison Bergeron,” wondering if I had ever read it. I said no and came out of the subsequent scolding with the impression that I should read it. Uncle Dan would probably deny his ever giving me a sermon on reading “literature with substance” and not that “lateral mystery junk” I was into at the time, but Uncle Dan goes to Confession a lot. He won’t admit it, but he does. I’m onto your “Coffee Bean” code, Uncle Dan. Plus, he’s studying to become a priest, so he has to get all of his lying out now.
Anyway, I thought the story was magnificent the first time I read it. My mind was in a whirl for literally three days after reading it. Okay, maybe not literally, but metaphorically. Sometimes I exaggerate. “Harrison Bergeron” was one of those stories that I always told myself I needed to write the name down so I wouldn’t forget, but never actually did so. Subsequently, I forgot the title and the author’s name. I would describe the story to people, wondering if they had read it and recalled the name, but all I got was blank stares. Apparently, “it was about the preposterousness of equality and the guy’s name was Russian” isn’t much help to some people. Years passed and, with it, the memory of the story. If my love affair with Vonnegut had ended there, it would’ve been a tragedy. Thankfully, it’s not!
Vonnegut popped up again as I was browsing the local Barnes and Noble a year or so ago. I had gift cards left over from Christmas (a miracle!) and was ready to pay full price for a book (another miracle!). T it so happened was listed close to V at that store. I had been looking at Twain books, of course, but was considering expanding my horizons. After all, this was a special occasion. I was going to pay full price for a book. If I’m going halfway out of my usual habit, why not all the way? I was feeling risky—I might even say alive, but I won’t. It was destiny. The first book I picked up by Vonnegut was Player Piano. I looked over the back, mildly interested. There it was, a review that gave my heart to him right away: “Vonnegut’s writing harkens back to the dark humor of Twain.” Or something like that anyway. More grand, probably. I was sold. That book was sold. Everything was sold. It was love at first review that mentioned Twain?
Imagine my delight when I re-discovered “Harrison Bergeron” while looking through the literature textbook over the summer. The story is so quintessentially Vonnegut that I just want to hug it and go, “Aw, Kurt, you’re such a humanist!” “Bergeron” challenges everyday thought with a dark twist of humor and a haunting message, just like most of Vonnegut’s writing.
What I love the most about “Bergeron” is the difference Vonnegut emphasizes between equality and equality of opportunity. Americans tend to call for equality. I argue with my mom about this sometimes. “Mom, no, not total equality. Just equality of opportunity. That’s what America’s about. That’s what the founding father’s meant,” I say. Mom shakes her head and continues about some feminist thing. Probably about the fire department again. See, the fire department has different requirements for women than they do for men. The female requirements are easier. Women have to do fewer pushups and pull-ups and all that kind of stuff to make it into the department. I say this is wrong, unjust. If women want to claim they’re just as good as men in every way, why should the requirements be different? Mom claims this just makes it fair for women. It makes it equal. To me, this is “Harrison Bergeron” in action. We never agree. (756)
I realize this blog is rather disjointed and scattered, but I like to think that it is merely Vonnegut’s influence seeping into my writing, especially since I’ve been reading so much of him lately. I know this blog also didn’t have a whole lot to do with the ideas discussed in class, but I felt it was relevant. Hope you don’t mind. Oh, and I did discover that "Vonnegut" is German-based, not Russian.
So it goes.
Anyway, I thought the story was magnificent the first time I read it. My mind was in a whirl for literally three days after reading it. Okay, maybe not literally, but metaphorically. Sometimes I exaggerate. “Harrison Bergeron” was one of those stories that I always told myself I needed to write the name down so I wouldn’t forget, but never actually did so. Subsequently, I forgot the title and the author’s name. I would describe the story to people, wondering if they had read it and recalled the name, but all I got was blank stares. Apparently, “it was about the preposterousness of equality and the guy’s name was Russian” isn’t much help to some people. Years passed and, with it, the memory of the story. If my love affair with Vonnegut had ended there, it would’ve been a tragedy. Thankfully, it’s not!
Vonnegut popped up again as I was browsing the local Barnes and Noble a year or so ago. I had gift cards left over from Christmas (a miracle!) and was ready to pay full price for a book (another miracle!). T it so happened was listed close to V at that store. I had been looking at Twain books, of course, but was considering expanding my horizons. After all, this was a special occasion. I was going to pay full price for a book. If I’m going halfway out of my usual habit, why not all the way? I was feeling risky—I might even say alive, but I won’t. It was destiny. The first book I picked up by Vonnegut was Player Piano. I looked over the back, mildly interested. There it was, a review that gave my heart to him right away: “Vonnegut’s writing harkens back to the dark humor of Twain.” Or something like that anyway. More grand, probably. I was sold. That book was sold. Everything was sold. It was love at first review that mentioned Twain?
Imagine my delight when I re-discovered “Harrison Bergeron” while looking through the literature textbook over the summer. The story is so quintessentially Vonnegut that I just want to hug it and go, “Aw, Kurt, you’re such a humanist!” “Bergeron” challenges everyday thought with a dark twist of humor and a haunting message, just like most of Vonnegut’s writing.
What I love the most about “Bergeron” is the difference Vonnegut emphasizes between equality and equality of opportunity. Americans tend to call for equality. I argue with my mom about this sometimes. “Mom, no, not total equality. Just equality of opportunity. That’s what America’s about. That’s what the founding father’s meant,” I say. Mom shakes her head and continues about some feminist thing. Probably about the fire department again. See, the fire department has different requirements for women than they do for men. The female requirements are easier. Women have to do fewer pushups and pull-ups and all that kind of stuff to make it into the department. I say this is wrong, unjust. If women want to claim they’re just as good as men in every way, why should the requirements be different? Mom claims this just makes it fair for women. It makes it equal. To me, this is “Harrison Bergeron” in action. We never agree. (756)
I realize this blog is rather disjointed and scattered, but I like to think that it is merely Vonnegut’s influence seeping into my writing, especially since I’ve been reading so much of him lately. I know this blog also didn’t have a whole lot to do with the ideas discussed in class, but I felt it was relevant. Hope you don’t mind. Oh, and I did discover that "Vonnegut" is German-based, not Russian.
So it goes.
September 20, 2007
The Blind Leading the Blind
Most would have to say that “Cathedral” is pretty literal, fairly exemplary of Carver’s minimalist tendencies. There isn’t a ton of symbolism in the text—at least, not the way I read it and it’s certainly no “Revelation”—and the reader doesn’t necessarily have to dissect the dialogue to discover the jealousy of the husband, who never receives a name. But Carver uses symbolism very effectively when he does employ it. His symbolism in “Cathedral” is poignant, though scarce, and emphasizes the undertones of the short story. Robert impresses me the most when it comes to Carver’s symbolism skill. Robert embodies the husband’s insecurities and leads him from blindness to sight throughout their encounter.
Right off the bat, the husband expresses his distaste for Robert’s visit. In the first paragraph, the husband frankly says that he “wasn’t enthusiastic about his visit” and specifically points out that Robert was “no one [he] knew.” The husband’s jealousy is not yet apparent, but one starts to sense it in his disgusted fascination with Robert’s touching the husband’s wife and even with their tape correspondence. If anything, the husband is defensive. He latches onto the fact that Robert is blind, claiming a prejudice against them.
I get the sense that he is just looking for a flaw in Robert and doesn’t have an actual problem with blind people. This sense is strengthened when the husband starts to talk about his wife’s childhood sweetheart. Immediately, the husband starts to bash him, to lower the sweetheart to below his level. The narrator starts into a slightly disjointed story with vague details, apparently intending to give the impression that it all wasn’t a big deal to him. Yet, he takes shots at “the officer-to-be,” “the man who’d first enjoyed her favors” (4). Once when speaking about the officer, the husband says, “Her officer—why should he have a name? he was the childhood sweetheart, and what more does he want?” (5). That’s pretty defensive. Then, the husband refocuses on Robert. He first goes after Robert’s wife: “Beulah! That’s a name for a colored woman.” Apparently, he’s a racist now too. Next he attacks the little wedding Robert and Beulah had, asking “who’d want to go to such a wedding in the first place?” (15). Next comes a slew of criticisms from the husband extending from what Robert was left with after Beulah dies—Pathetic!—to Robert’s beard that was altogether too much. It’s clear by the time the husband, wife, and Robert sit down to dinner that the husband is far less than pleased with Robert’s presence.
The criticisms the husband makes of Robert illuminates the husbands greatest insecurity: his relationship with his wife. The attacks on Robert are the products of this insecurity. The husband’s insecurity is not directly spoken about in his narration. This insecurity is discerned only through little lines in the story combined with the attacks on Robert. When the trio sits down on the couch in the living room, the husband says something rather revealing: “My wife finally took her eyes off the blind man and looked at me. I had the feeling she didn’t like what she saw” (102). After dinner, we again see a hint that the husband isn’t completely confident with his relationship with his wife. As the wife and Robert are chatting away and catching up as old friends do, the husband bemoans how he “waited in vain to hear [his] name on [his] wife’s sweet lips: ‘And then my dear husband came into my life’—something like that” but heard nothing of the sort (45). The husband’s insecurity in his marriage is magnified by Robert (at least to the husband) and this insecurity blinds him to the great, kind man Robert is, minimizing Robert to simply a blind man.
It is when Robert’s interaction with the wife ends that the husband starts to see who Robert really is. The wife falls asleep and the pair is left all alone. What on earth is the husband going to talk to a blind man who married a woman named Beulah about? Cathedrals, of course. A show about cathedrals comes on the television and it turns out Robert has no idea what they look like. Robert asks the husband to describe cathedrals to him. The husband is incapable of doing so sufficiently. Here is where Robert really steps in symbolically. Robert asks the husband to draw a cathedral while Robert holds his hand to feel the motions. Robert is in fact inviting the husband to see past his jealousy, his insecurity. At the end of the story, the husband can now see.
Robert is essential to the gaining of the husband’s sight. Robert is the one who cures the husband’s blindness by sharing his own inability to physically see. The husband no longer sees Robert as a blind man, but as a man who is blind.
Right off the bat, the husband expresses his distaste for Robert’s visit. In the first paragraph, the husband frankly says that he “wasn’t enthusiastic about his visit” and specifically points out that Robert was “no one [he] knew.” The husband’s jealousy is not yet apparent, but one starts to sense it in his disgusted fascination with Robert’s touching the husband’s wife and even with their tape correspondence. If anything, the husband is defensive. He latches onto the fact that Robert is blind, claiming a prejudice against them.
I get the sense that he is just looking for a flaw in Robert and doesn’t have an actual problem with blind people. This sense is strengthened when the husband starts to talk about his wife’s childhood sweetheart. Immediately, the husband starts to bash him, to lower the sweetheart to below his level. The narrator starts into a slightly disjointed story with vague details, apparently intending to give the impression that it all wasn’t a big deal to him. Yet, he takes shots at “the officer-to-be,” “the man who’d first enjoyed her favors” (4). Once when speaking about the officer, the husband says, “Her officer—why should he have a name? he was the childhood sweetheart, and what more does he want?” (5). That’s pretty defensive. Then, the husband refocuses on Robert. He first goes after Robert’s wife: “Beulah! That’s a name for a colored woman.” Apparently, he’s a racist now too. Next he attacks the little wedding Robert and Beulah had, asking “who’d want to go to such a wedding in the first place?” (15). Next comes a slew of criticisms from the husband extending from what Robert was left with after Beulah dies—Pathetic!—to Robert’s beard that was altogether too much. It’s clear by the time the husband, wife, and Robert sit down to dinner that the husband is far less than pleased with Robert’s presence.
The criticisms the husband makes of Robert illuminates the husbands greatest insecurity: his relationship with his wife. The attacks on Robert are the products of this insecurity. The husband’s insecurity is not directly spoken about in his narration. This insecurity is discerned only through little lines in the story combined with the attacks on Robert. When the trio sits down on the couch in the living room, the husband says something rather revealing: “My wife finally took her eyes off the blind man and looked at me. I had the feeling she didn’t like what she saw” (102). After dinner, we again see a hint that the husband isn’t completely confident with his relationship with his wife. As the wife and Robert are chatting away and catching up as old friends do, the husband bemoans how he “waited in vain to hear [his] name on [his] wife’s sweet lips: ‘And then my dear husband came into my life’—something like that” but heard nothing of the sort (45). The husband’s insecurity in his marriage is magnified by Robert (at least to the husband) and this insecurity blinds him to the great, kind man Robert is, minimizing Robert to simply a blind man.
It is when Robert’s interaction with the wife ends that the husband starts to see who Robert really is. The wife falls asleep and the pair is left all alone. What on earth is the husband going to talk to a blind man who married a woman named Beulah about? Cathedrals, of course. A show about cathedrals comes on the television and it turns out Robert has no idea what they look like. Robert asks the husband to describe cathedrals to him. The husband is incapable of doing so sufficiently. Here is where Robert really steps in symbolically. Robert asks the husband to draw a cathedral while Robert holds his hand to feel the motions. Robert is in fact inviting the husband to see past his jealousy, his insecurity. At the end of the story, the husband can now see.
Robert is essential to the gaining of the husband’s sight. Robert is the one who cures the husband’s blindness by sharing his own inability to physically see. The husband no longer sees Robert as a blind man, but as a man who is blind.
September 14, 2007
Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Interpreter of Maladies” is a short story that focuses on the formation of first impressions based on hopes, rather than facts and observances. But the thing I find most interesting about the story is what links the two protagonists’ hopes: the different effects a son has on each other are the sources of both of their hopes. The Das marriage and the Kapasi marriage suffer tension because of a son in each marriage.
Mr. Kapasi has a son who dies of typhoid. That’s friction enough in a marriage, right? Sure, but Kapasi isn’t lucky enough to just have a son die of typhoid. On top of Mr. and Mrs. Kapasi’s marriage being arranged and having a son die early on, Kapasi takes on a job as an interpreter for a doctor. Kapasi acknowledges that his wife is “reminded of the son she’d lost” because of his job and “resented the other lives he helped, in his own small way, to save” (585). Mrs. Kapasi never speaks favorably of Mr. Kapasi’s job. This tension in their marriage, caused in the end by their son, breeds a desperation for validation, for approval, of his occupation and of, ultimately, his own failings in Mr. Kapasi’s heart. So when Mrs. Das says Mr. Kapasi’s job is “a big responsibility” and “romantic” (584), Kapasi leaps at the appearance of, what he believes to be, the solution to all of his emotional deficiencies. Mr. Kapasi automatically applies all of the solutions to his problems to Mrs. Das simply because she has the faintest potential to be the accepting love he’s longed for all this time. He, of course, disregards her apparent romantic disinterest in him because he so desperately needs her to be the fulfillment of his deficiencies.
Mrs. Das does not have a son who dies, but the son of a man other than Mr. Das. Mrs. Das is filled with guilt, though she terms it pain, in having cheated on her husband and having a child other than his. Of course, she has not told him. The birth of her son fills her with guilt, a guilt she’s been carrying for eight years. She claims she has “terrible urges . . . to throw things away” and that she feels “so terrible all the time” (591). This “pain” induces a necessity for forgiveness, for cleansing in Mrs. Das. She goes through the following eight years searching for someone to pour her secret out who will give her the forgiveness and cleansing she needs. When she discovers Mr. Kapasi is an interpreter of maladies, she believes she has found her baptismal fountain at last.
Mr. Kapasi has a son who dies of typhoid. That’s friction enough in a marriage, right? Sure, but Kapasi isn’t lucky enough to just have a son die of typhoid. On top of Mr. and Mrs. Kapasi’s marriage being arranged and having a son die early on, Kapasi takes on a job as an interpreter for a doctor. Kapasi acknowledges that his wife is “reminded of the son she’d lost” because of his job and “resented the other lives he helped, in his own small way, to save” (585). Mrs. Kapasi never speaks favorably of Mr. Kapasi’s job. This tension in their marriage, caused in the end by their son, breeds a desperation for validation, for approval, of his occupation and of, ultimately, his own failings in Mr. Kapasi’s heart. So when Mrs. Das says Mr. Kapasi’s job is “a big responsibility” and “romantic” (584), Kapasi leaps at the appearance of, what he believes to be, the solution to all of his emotional deficiencies. Mr. Kapasi automatically applies all of the solutions to his problems to Mrs. Das simply because she has the faintest potential to be the accepting love he’s longed for all this time. He, of course, disregards her apparent romantic disinterest in him because he so desperately needs her to be the fulfillment of his deficiencies.
Mrs. Das does not have a son who dies, but the son of a man other than Mr. Das. Mrs. Das is filled with guilt, though she terms it pain, in having cheated on her husband and having a child other than his. Of course, she has not told him. The birth of her son fills her with guilt, a guilt she’s been carrying for eight years. She claims she has “terrible urges . . . to throw things away” and that she feels “so terrible all the time” (591). This “pain” induces a necessity for forgiveness, for cleansing in Mrs. Das. She goes through the following eight years searching for someone to pour her secret out who will give her the forgiveness and cleansing she needs. When she discovers Mr. Kapasi is an interpreter of maladies, she believes she has found her baptismal fountain at last.
August 30, 2007
The Identity
Piscine “Pi” Molitor Patel constantly displays animalistic behavior in Life of Pi but there is one thing that keeps him human: an identity. A defined identity does not exist in animals. An animal may have a personality—preferences for certain foods, a distaste for particular noises—but they do not have the defined identity found in man. With this identity comes a distinctly human characteristic: a search for what exactly that identity is. The exploration into one’s identity is unique to humanity and discoveries can only be made through struggle.
The first sign of Piscine’s search for his identity regards his name. Piscine expresses love and admiration for the man who gave him the name: an old family friend nicknamed Mamaji by Piscine. Mamaji, being a champion swimmer in his youth, is the one who instills in Piscine a love of swimming. Piscine is named after Mamaji’s favorite swimming pool, which Mamaji claims “was a pool the gods would have delighted to swim in” (Martel 11). To be named after such a great joy of his idol is not disagreeable to such a young boy. However, upon reaching secondary school in Pondicherry, Pi has acquired a cruel nickname: “Pissing Patel.” His new school provides a fresh start for change—beginning with his name, a fundamental element of his identity. Should he reject the name bestowed on him by his idol for one that would eliminate teasing and further his social acceptance? Piscine admits that he “would have taken any name over ‘Pissing’” and thus makes the leap into a new boy (Martel 22). Piscine’s jump to Pi represents a distinct desire to turn away from being a boy named after a pool, a part of his identity.
The greatest example of a search for his identity lies in Pi’s religious beliefs. Pi is Hindu, Christian, and Islamic, three very opposing belief systems. Pi’s belief system is unique to him and is a very defining feature of his identity. His conversion to Christianity and Islam is accidental; he approached both faiths with great hesitation and doubt. When he stumbles onto a church, he describes it as “a fortress” and notes that Christianity “had a reputation for few gods and great violence,” a reputation Pi buys into until he met the priest inside (Martel 51). His Hindu identity challenges the Christian god who accepted death out of mere love. Eventually, the god grows on him and Pi, against his current identity, adjusts who he is to include Christianity with initial apprehension. His conversion to Islam happens much the same way. Pi realizes after great reluctance that his identity must include Islam. When confronted by the holy men of his three faiths in front of his parents, Pi struggles with his religious identity again. In the end, he chooses to remain true to his three faiths, saying that he “just [wants] to love God” (Martel 69). Pi discovers, through struggle, that his identity is to love God, and the three faiths are just tools in his embracing his identity.
Pi struggles once more to understand his identity in his survival story itself. Throughout all of Life of Pi, until the very end, Pi only tells the incredible animal survival story. It is unknown that he has another story to tell. However, the Japanese owners of his sunken ship pressure him to tell a story that “reflects reality,” calling his current tale “laughable” (Martel 302, 297). Pi struggles to relay the story they want, but does so, replacing the animals with actual people. Pi is then faced with a tough decision regarding his identity: is he the boy who survived for 227 days on a boat with a tiger or the boy who survived 227 days on a boat with a man who killed his mother, ate other passengers, and whose heart and liver Pi himself ate? At the end of Life of Pi, Pi is still struggling to discover which story is the true part of his identity, and only more discernment will reveal the authentic Pi.
Humans will always struggle to discern their true identities. This struggle is not perceived in other creatures. Pi’s identity is revealed to him only as he makes tough decisions about his name, belief system, and history. Pi’s essentially human characteristic is his exploration of his identity through conflict, a characteristic absent in the other characters of the story. (632)
The first sign of Piscine’s search for his identity regards his name. Piscine expresses love and admiration for the man who gave him the name: an old family friend nicknamed Mamaji by Piscine. Mamaji, being a champion swimmer in his youth, is the one who instills in Piscine a love of swimming. Piscine is named after Mamaji’s favorite swimming pool, which Mamaji claims “was a pool the gods would have delighted to swim in” (Martel 11). To be named after such a great joy of his idol is not disagreeable to such a young boy. However, upon reaching secondary school in Pondicherry, Pi has acquired a cruel nickname: “Pissing Patel.” His new school provides a fresh start for change—beginning with his name, a fundamental element of his identity. Should he reject the name bestowed on him by his idol for one that would eliminate teasing and further his social acceptance? Piscine admits that he “would have taken any name over ‘Pissing’” and thus makes the leap into a new boy (Martel 22). Piscine’s jump to Pi represents a distinct desire to turn away from being a boy named after a pool, a part of his identity.
The greatest example of a search for his identity lies in Pi’s religious beliefs. Pi is Hindu, Christian, and Islamic, three very opposing belief systems. Pi’s belief system is unique to him and is a very defining feature of his identity. His conversion to Christianity and Islam is accidental; he approached both faiths with great hesitation and doubt. When he stumbles onto a church, he describes it as “a fortress” and notes that Christianity “had a reputation for few gods and great violence,” a reputation Pi buys into until he met the priest inside (Martel 51). His Hindu identity challenges the Christian god who accepted death out of mere love. Eventually, the god grows on him and Pi, against his current identity, adjusts who he is to include Christianity with initial apprehension. His conversion to Islam happens much the same way. Pi realizes after great reluctance that his identity must include Islam. When confronted by the holy men of his three faiths in front of his parents, Pi struggles with his religious identity again. In the end, he chooses to remain true to his three faiths, saying that he “just [wants] to love God” (Martel 69). Pi discovers, through struggle, that his identity is to love God, and the three faiths are just tools in his embracing his identity.
Pi struggles once more to understand his identity in his survival story itself. Throughout all of Life of Pi, until the very end, Pi only tells the incredible animal survival story. It is unknown that he has another story to tell. However, the Japanese owners of his sunken ship pressure him to tell a story that “reflects reality,” calling his current tale “laughable” (Martel 302, 297). Pi struggles to relay the story they want, but does so, replacing the animals with actual people. Pi is then faced with a tough decision regarding his identity: is he the boy who survived for 227 days on a boat with a tiger or the boy who survived 227 days on a boat with a man who killed his mother, ate other passengers, and whose heart and liver Pi himself ate? At the end of Life of Pi, Pi is still struggling to discover which story is the true part of his identity, and only more discernment will reveal the authentic Pi.
Humans will always struggle to discern their true identities. This struggle is not perceived in other creatures. Pi’s identity is revealed to him only as he makes tough decisions about his name, belief system, and history. Pi’s essentially human characteristic is his exploration of his identity through conflict, a characteristic absent in the other characters of the story. (632)
August 27, 2007
Mr. Coon:
My first attempts to read were met with great frustration. My mother had always been an avid reader; as such, the smell of books and the feel of pages were sensations I always knew. So, when it came time for me to actually learn to read, I was surprised and vexed at how challenging reading proved to be. I remember sitting on our couch, gripping a book with one hand so tightly that my knuckles were white and wiping hot tears away. Luckily, I toiled through the process with the typical Nicholls determination. One day, it all clicked. Letters smooshed together formed words, and words lined up in a row evolved into sentences, and sentences into ideas. It was like finding God, to be quite honest. I was now guaranteed of a friend that was always challenging and dynamic. Reading and writing provided such an effective and easy way for me to express myself and to understand others that there was simply no way I'd ever consider slinking back into the darkness.
I devoured scary stories like The Dollhouse Murderers or The Hound of the Baskervilles and mysteries like The Bailey School Kids series. Then I discovered Mark Twain. I was a fan of the show Wishbone, which produced an episode on Tom Sawyer. Around sixth grade, I saw the book in our library and picked it up with mild interest, recalling Wishbone. I fell in love. It was the beginning of my love affair with Twain--and, upon further research, Sam Clemens himself. My library consists mostly of Twain and Vonnegut, though my interests extend beyond their often haunting humor.
I look for books that will help me understand the essence of humanity better and display the world around me with an acceptance of humanity's sheer absurdity and a hint that it’s not as absurd as it seems. Literature that challenges my current ideas and attempts to reveal the inner play of a human mind is the best kind there is.
Writing provides a way for me to express myself effectively. The pressure of speaking often jumbles words around in my head and my tongue is a poor messenger of what’s within. In the end, the effort mutates the idea I was trying to express into something like a clone without a soul. Writing, on the other hand, provides little pressure because the actual act of writing removes the middle man, the physical distractions and limitations. I've always admired the ability to convey a complex idea with few words, so short stories and poetry are the forms of writing I enjoy most. In writing, my language often becomes too conversational and contains an amount of adverbs and clichés that would make a romance writer blush.
Always,
Jessi :)
I devoured scary stories like The Dollhouse Murderers or The Hound of the Baskervilles and mysteries like The Bailey School Kids series. Then I discovered Mark Twain. I was a fan of the show Wishbone, which produced an episode on Tom Sawyer. Around sixth grade, I saw the book in our library and picked it up with mild interest, recalling Wishbone. I fell in love. It was the beginning of my love affair with Twain--and, upon further research, Sam Clemens himself. My library consists mostly of Twain and Vonnegut, though my interests extend beyond their often haunting humor.
I look for books that will help me understand the essence of humanity better and display the world around me with an acceptance of humanity's sheer absurdity and a hint that it’s not as absurd as it seems. Literature that challenges my current ideas and attempts to reveal the inner play of a human mind is the best kind there is.
Writing provides a way for me to express myself effectively. The pressure of speaking often jumbles words around in my head and my tongue is a poor messenger of what’s within. In the end, the effort mutates the idea I was trying to express into something like a clone without a soul. Writing, on the other hand, provides little pressure because the actual act of writing removes the middle man, the physical distractions and limitations. I've always admired the ability to convey a complex idea with few words, so short stories and poetry are the forms of writing I enjoy most. In writing, my language often becomes too conversational and contains an amount of adverbs and clichés that would make a romance writer blush.
Always,
Jessi :)
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