The following is the first post of our latest roundblog; more intriguing thoughts from Wollstonecraft and Melville are coming soon! For now, here's Shelley's impression:
In Steven Galloway’s The Cellist of Sarajevo, all three main characters in war-torn Sarajevo maintain a deep connection with and pride for their city—for their home and identity. Despite the fear, anger, and doubt that constantly pervade their internal thoughts and actions—feelings understandably arising from trying to survive in a violent and uncertain setting—Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan act with much resolve and conviction (however subtle such behavior is displayed) because of the love and honor they have for Sarajevo. Whether they are nostalgically contemplating the pre-war Sarajevo of old, or reflecting upon the decisive meaning of remaining in or fleeing the city, it’s clear the characters have much difficulty witnessing and experiencing their beloved home and all that it represents being destroyed and brutally altered. At the same time, an undying hope of a beautiful Sarajevo rising from the ashes still persists.
Kenan: “How do you build it all up again? Do the people who destroyed the city also rebuild it…if a city is made anew by men of questionable character, what will it be?” (48-9)
Arrow: “Is there a difference between disappearing and going into a grave…There is, of course, the question of survival. She doesn’t want to die…But the young girl who was overcome by what it means to be alive…doesn’t want to die either. That girl may be gone for now, may have no place in the city of today, but Arrow believes it’s possible that someday she might return. And if Arrow disappears, she knows she’s killing that girl” (173).
Dragan: “Dragan is terrified, has never been so afraid. But he can’t force himself to move any faster. After a while he stops trying. He keeps his eyes on the safe area he’s heading toward, and he tries not to think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. He begins to understand why he isn’t running. If he doesn’t run, then he’s alive again. The Sarajevo he wants to live in is alive again” (224).
Even though the characters worry about the future of their city, and essentially, the life of their personal and cultural identity, they all act as Dragan does as he attempts to cross the road amidst targeted gunfire: with a calm, brave determination, echoed in the tone of the language throughout the novel. Subsequently, not only does the old Sarajevo become “alive again,” but the individuals themselves actively live in a city ravaged by violence and death. By vigorously living in such a hostile environment, even if much of this “living” exists within the characters’ mindset, or appears to be understated, Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan illustrate their intense pride as natives of Sarajevo.
Understanding this makes me wonder, how culturally connected am I to my hometown, where I have long-since moved from? If my hometown was being destroyed in war, with defenseless citizens being killed in the streets, would I stay or would I go, if I had the choice? To be honest, for better or worse, I think my desire for survival outweighs any cultural connection or identity to a specific place, however meaningful that place might be, and has been in my life. So why is it different for me than it is for these inhabitants of Sarajevo? Perhaps their relationship with their city is stronger because their families have lived there for much longer, for generations. Consequently, they are more attached to Sarajevo—to a physical place—than I, an American descendant of pioneers, could ever be. But maybe I would be if it came down to it, if my “home” was ever confronted with war, though there’s no way to ever be sure until it happens. In the same vein, it’s extremely difficult (perhaps even futile) to compare the Bosnian Sarajevo to the American California; they are so different, it’s tough to completely understand or identify with the nature of the characters, especially in terms of their relationship with their culture and city.
This text also makes me wonder, how would I behave in such conflictive times? I kept waiting for one of the characters to start sobbing, to scream in fear or anger, or to completely break down and panic, but none of them do. At his worst, Kenan is immobilized by his fear, but even this depiction emphasizes a certain level of composure—a composure highlighted by the courage of the cellist and his beautiful music. From the point of view of the novel, it’s obvious that the characters experience mental and emotional anguish, but none of this angst clearly reveals itself in their actions. Why might this be? How and why do they maintain such a level of control? Is it the means of survival, or are they showing that they will not be overtly intimidated in their beloved city and home? Regardless, Galloway’s account of civilians living in war makes readers consider their own cultural identity, specifically in reference to place. The novel also works to provoke readers’ thoughts concerning their own supposed behavior in times of strife and battle: would you “live” through acts of courage and conviction, or would you act otherwise?
Monday, February 21, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Don't judge a book by its movie commericials
For a gift several years ago, a friend gave me Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson. I hadn’t read it because I thought that (based on commercials I had seen for the movie) it was just a tragic romance. Since, she’s continually asked me if I had read it yet, and every time I said no I could sense she was disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm for a book she really loved and a gift she spent time in choosing. Finally, after feeling a little guilty, I picked it up during a very snowy few days (my first blizzard). I’d been so sick of all the snow, and I was in the mood for something a little depressing. Also, now that I had experienced a real winter, I felt that I could truly understand the wintry, damp landscape on which the story is written. Just a few pages into the story, I realized how wrong I had been and was reminded of the old adage: never judge a book by its movie.
Beautifully written, the story is not just about lost love and time, but about a secluded town off the coast of Washington struggling with racism, war, and change. In America, it seems that our race problems are only black and white, and Guterson reminds us of an all-too-often forgotten moment in our history when we destroyed the lives of thousands of Japanese. But though this thread is important, the story is about people and how we often fail to cope with pain, and the ripple affect singular moments can have on us and the people around us.
The story’s main plot involves a Japanese man accused of murdering a white fisherman, and as the past unfolds and the present is examined, the central mystery unravels. But this is not the only reason the story is “gripping.” There are so many lives wrapped up in this moment--people who are forced to see the past for what it was, and try (though some fail) to learn and heal.
Because I’ve always grown up in the busy suburbs of California, I could never entirely understand the idea that there are/were places where everyone tries to know, watch, and judge your every move. But in this story, Guterson does not make this idea foreign or old fashioned nor does he write with nostalgia; it is merely a natural occurrence on a small island, born of a place and a time. And, that is just how he writes the story, as if every character is living and breathing, and their actions natural. The story is not overly emotional or heart-wrenching nor is the ending is perfectly wrapped up. The reader is satisfied, but it is not as if the characters’ lives end where the story ends. It feels like the characters have gone on living and growing.
Above all the story reminds us that no man is island. We need people, we are part of each other, but despite our need, what’s truly hard, is that we cannot and will never really know each other.
“The heart of any other, because it had a will, would remain forever mysterious.”
Beautifully written, the story is not just about lost love and time, but about a secluded town off the coast of Washington struggling with racism, war, and change. In America, it seems that our race problems are only black and white, and Guterson reminds us of an all-too-often forgotten moment in our history when we destroyed the lives of thousands of Japanese. But though this thread is important, the story is about people and how we often fail to cope with pain, and the ripple affect singular moments can have on us and the people around us.
The story’s main plot involves a Japanese man accused of murdering a white fisherman, and as the past unfolds and the present is examined, the central mystery unravels. But this is not the only reason the story is “gripping.” There are so many lives wrapped up in this moment--people who are forced to see the past for what it was, and try (though some fail) to learn and heal.
Because I’ve always grown up in the busy suburbs of California, I could never entirely understand the idea that there are/were places where everyone tries to know, watch, and judge your every move. But in this story, Guterson does not make this idea foreign or old fashioned nor does he write with nostalgia; it is merely a natural occurrence on a small island, born of a place and a time. And, that is just how he writes the story, as if every character is living and breathing, and their actions natural. The story is not overly emotional or heart-wrenching nor is the ending is perfectly wrapped up. The reader is satisfied, but it is not as if the characters’ lives end where the story ends. It feels like the characters have gone on living and growing.
Above all the story reminds us that no man is island. We need people, we are part of each other, but despite our need, what’s truly hard, is that we cannot and will never really know each other.
“The heart of any other, because it had a will, would remain forever mysterious.”
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A Place to Call My Own
I'm always surprised by what my students find interesting, for even though there is only little over a a decade between the youngest of them and me, things that I find fascinating (classic films, graphic novels, Etsy, indie music, etc.) are met with a yawn, or, worse yet, an eye-roll. But this week has me particularly scratching my head.
When I was in high school, I distinctively remember feeling like I was a person lost in time. I didn't feel like a child of the millennium -- I didn't want to get jiggy with it, or have anything to do with whatever "it" was. If I had to articulate what I wanted -- I would have given some heartfelt but entirely convoluted explanation of how I felt like I belonged in a quiet small town, somewhere in rural California, hearkening back to a world where things were hand-made and small wonders were still a way of life. I have no idea what time period I was precisely longing for (I was, after all, a raging feminist / tomboy who wasn't afraid to announce that Rochester should have died in Jane Eyre so she could be free) but I just felt that the past was far more interesting than anything this generation was going to come up with.
And I wasn't alone. One of my friends in high school had a family ranch that had been passed down for generations, a place so authentically OLD that you'd have thought Anthropologie adapted their kitschy throw-back style from their white-washed walls and rusted, once-brightly painted, useful tools strewn about. She loved that place and was proud of her family's ties to rural California, and, by God, our whole group jealously fantasized about the sort of life that ranch represented -- especially after it had graced the pages of Martha Stewart Living as an homage to a better time, a better style.
So what I don't get is -- why don't my students feel that same sense of disconnectedness and longing for a different, quieter, gentler life?
This week as my students work on descriptive pieces, I assigned them to write about a house. (Now, keep in mind, I've had many of these students before and have heard their expressions of dissatisfaction about the way technology consumes their lives.) Out of all the thrilling, creative, and opportunity-laden options they had to write about, the most popular choice was an office.
Yes, you read that right -- an office.
While I'm praying that commenting on homogeneous furniture and cubicles is the hipster thing to do now, I was even more surprised by their least favorite choices -- a tie between a rural farmhouse and an English estate.
"But Ms. Melville, I don't know HOW to describe those places...I wanna switch" was the story I heard all class, no matter how many different ways I tried to make those places sound interesting. For the farmhouse, I can understand their confusion -- it's not something they would be familiar with in their suburban environment. Few, if any of them, have ever been on a working farm and if they have, I'm sure their main memory would be the smell of the manure or too-close encounters with animals, but not the homey details.
But that still leaves me with the estate conundrum. Besides my bucolic California fantasies, the other world I was utterly obsessed with was Europe. I went through several reading phases as a teen -- one year I read every single Agatha Christie mystery the library system had, another was spent lost in the world of Russian novels, but finally, the one that still lingers in my imagination is that of the English estate.
Frankly, if you take them at face value (trying to ignore the class, women, environmental, etc. concerns), there is something about these estate stories that appeals to every generation. I've read them all -- from the classy Austen to the incredibly dramatic (and citified) Foresyte novels by Galsworthy. My students at my school have been subjected to many of them as well. So why aren't they interested? Who wouldn't want to live in one of these worlds, where you can spend your days wandering through the gardens, playing the piano, writing reflective letters, and falling in love with dashing young Byronic heroes? And according to the new PBS show, Downton Abbey, that world also involves a lot of sexual situations, intrigue, and gossip -- which is pretty much any teens' three favorite topics. So that leaves me wondering -- is it just not cool anymore to admit you like what you read? Have they not noticed every delicious morsel of Colin Firth when he was Mr. Darcy? Have they lost their ability to transport themselves into the world of fantasies?
I don't have a simple answer to these questions, but I may start asking in class about their reading habits and encouraging a healthy dose of BBC miniseries as an antidote.
When I was in high school, I distinctively remember feeling like I was a person lost in time. I didn't feel like a child of the millennium -- I didn't want to get jiggy with it, or have anything to do with whatever "it" was. If I had to articulate what I wanted -- I would have given some heartfelt but entirely convoluted explanation of how I felt like I belonged in a quiet small town, somewhere in rural California, hearkening back to a world where things were hand-made and small wonders were still a way of life. I have no idea what time period I was precisely longing for (I was, after all, a raging feminist / tomboy who wasn't afraid to announce that Rochester should have died in Jane Eyre so she could be free) but I just felt that the past was far more interesting than anything this generation was going to come up with.
And I wasn't alone. One of my friends in high school had a family ranch that had been passed down for generations, a place so authentically OLD that you'd have thought Anthropologie adapted their kitschy throw-back style from their white-washed walls and rusted, once-brightly painted, useful tools strewn about. She loved that place and was proud of her family's ties to rural California, and, by God, our whole group jealously fantasized about the sort of life that ranch represented -- especially after it had graced the pages of Martha Stewart Living as an homage to a better time, a better style.
So what I don't get is -- why don't my students feel that same sense of disconnectedness and longing for a different, quieter, gentler life?
This week as my students work on descriptive pieces, I assigned them to write about a house. (Now, keep in mind, I've had many of these students before and have heard their expressions of dissatisfaction about the way technology consumes their lives.) Out of all the thrilling, creative, and opportunity-laden options they had to write about, the most popular choice was an office.
Yes, you read that right -- an office.
While I'm praying that commenting on homogeneous furniture and cubicles is the hipster thing to do now, I was even more surprised by their least favorite choices -- a tie between a rural farmhouse and an English estate.
"But Ms. Melville, I don't know HOW to describe those places...I wanna switch" was the story I heard all class, no matter how many different ways I tried to make those places sound interesting. For the farmhouse, I can understand their confusion -- it's not something they would be familiar with in their suburban environment. Few, if any of them, have ever been on a working farm and if they have, I'm sure their main memory would be the smell of the manure or too-close encounters with animals, but not the homey details.
But that still leaves me with the estate conundrum. Besides my bucolic California fantasies, the other world I was utterly obsessed with was Europe. I went through several reading phases as a teen -- one year I read every single Agatha Christie mystery the library system had, another was spent lost in the world of Russian novels, but finally, the one that still lingers in my imagination is that of the English estate.
Frankly, if you take them at face value (trying to ignore the class, women, environmental, etc. concerns), there is something about these estate stories that appeals to every generation. I've read them all -- from the classy Austen to the incredibly dramatic (and citified) Foresyte novels by Galsworthy. My students at my school have been subjected to many of them as well. So why aren't they interested? Who wouldn't want to live in one of these worlds, where you can spend your days wandering through the gardens, playing the piano, writing reflective letters, and falling in love with dashing young Byronic heroes? And according to the new PBS show, Downton Abbey, that world also involves a lot of sexual situations, intrigue, and gossip -- which is pretty much any teens' three favorite topics. So that leaves me wondering -- is it just not cool anymore to admit you like what you read? Have they not noticed every delicious morsel of Colin Firth when he was Mr. Darcy? Have they lost their ability to transport themselves into the world of fantasies?
I don't have a simple answer to these questions, but I may start asking in class about their reading habits and encouraging a healthy dose of BBC miniseries as an antidote.
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