Coming-of-(AN, but not necessarily THE)-Age

In the last chapter of Sag Harbor we see Benji start a new plan of self reinvention that echoes his at the beginning of the book. Once again it involves shoes---this time the combat boots. Seeing Benji restart the cycle rather than reach a conclusion to the original plan underscores the transient attitude taken towards identity and "self" from the previous chapter.

When Benji says "people called me Benji but that didn't mean I wasn't Ben" it's obvious that once again the new "Ben" he's describing, the one with a quota of girls to make out with per semester, is not the Ben narrating the book. He's just another temporary self.

But this attitude toward self has weird implications on the book's place in the coming-of-age genre. I was expecting the story of Benji becoming (or starting on the path to becoming) Ben, the mature narrator. Yet even by the story's end Ben seems very far removed from his 15-year-old self. So Ben's not the "destination" in this coming-of-age. What is? Can there even be one? Isn't the very idea of a character reaching maturity, coming into completeness as an adult sort of in complete opposition to the view of each self as separate from the previous self and, furthermore, a mere outward projection not necessarily any closer to a true internal nature?

Now, we do see Benji change in some ways, but they largely seem to be the result of him entering  new stage of his life wherein he'll be too old to come out to Sag anymore, and not necessarily even in the direction of narrator Ben. And in the last chapter, the references to the cyclical nature of the people of Sag come at us in full force (he keeps talking about this kid he sees as the new Benji and wondering about his predecessor) so it seems like these changes are inevitable and not lasting. They're just who he'll be as someone too old to come out, before he's someone who comes out again with kids, before he's the old guy who only comes out of the bedroom once a day. Again, the transient self. Does the idea that Benji is just following this predictable track cheapen the coming-of-age we've just seen? Does it make it insignificant?

And yet, Ben as removed as Ben implies he is from Benji, he gives us the physical proof that they are one in the same. The BB in his eye says "no, Benji is progressing toward being Ben". It's proof that our selves do not each live entirely each in their own vacuum.

To Be Posh or Not to Be Posh

For me, one of the most interesting discussions going on below the surface of Black Swan Green was of the class dynamics in Jason's life. At the outset, its unusual. Jason is concerned that his relatively high wealth is a detriment to his social standing. He tries to avoid looking or acting "posh", which, for me at least, was the opposite of what I witnessed in middle school. To be cool was to have the most Abercrombie and Fitch in your wardrobe and come back from breaks the tannest from trips to the tropics. And indeed, once Jason's relatives come to stay, the (awkward) class tensions between Michael and Brian follow that model. Uncle Brian gets in all sorts of coded jabs implying that Jason's dad is less wealthy than him, and Michael, embarrassed and offended, struggles to convince Brian he's not.

We see Jason's default class dynamic challenged again in "Solarium". Jason's fear of being posh is one of the reasons he publishes his poems under a pseudonym. This idea of poetry being high class is underscored when we meet Eva. She's the first person he ever talks about his poetry with, and she's ridiculously, ostentatiously posh. Her personality and way of living are so far removed from all that Jason has experienced in Black Swan Green that they makes him feel comfortable talking about art, beauty and classical music. Perhaps it is because of her influence that Jason is so receptive to "Moonlight Sonata" later. 

But it's not as simple as "part of Jason's coming-of-age is learning to not be afraid of being posh". "Embrace your privilege" would be a weird moral. No, class plays a major role again in "Knife Grinder", and the dynamic is turned on its head again regarding the gypsy camp. The language the people of Black Swan Green use at the Village Camp Crisis Committee specifically attacks the gypsies for being uncultured, unlearned, and poor. They complain about them taking welfare, calling them lazy and beggars. Jason doesn't seem swept up in all this, though. Certainly he likes Mr. Moran, who's a quarter gypsy. And when he gets to the gypsy camp, he finds them decrying settled people in exactly the same ways. 

Ultimately, I think Jason's observation about how both the gypsies and townspeople "wanted [the other side] to be gross, so that the grossness of what they're not acts as a stencil for what they are" is vital. Class doesn't necessarily dictate differences in people; people use class to divide themselves. Maybe at the start of the book Jason could have concluded that people with the least privileged upbringing make the worst bullies, but when Ross Wilcox is knocked out of commission he's immediately replaced by Neal Brose, whose upbringing is pretty much the negative referent of Ross's. I like that Jason's development in the book regarding class isn't so much of "one understanding falls away for an opposite one" so much as "a facile understanding gains nuance".

Wait, So, Are We Doomed to Oblivion or Not?

Reflecting on this book, I feel like Robinson is making two major points. Feel free to dispute whether these are the two main themes of the novel, but I really see her driving home in the last chapters that

a) In the broad view of things, nothing is permanent. We are all inherent transients pretending to be housekeepers. We are only playing at stability and permanence, and those who drift are being more honest to our true nature.

b) Family members who have died are more formative presences in our minds and lives than those family members who live comfortably and normally around us, or than they would have been had they not died.

These are both interesting ideas (especially the way that Robinson presents them) on their own, but I felt a certain dissonance when they're considered side-by-side that adds another level. That is, in the novel's own estimation, a transient lifestyle is a lonely one. The very concept of family---having a family, raising a family---seems to require the housekeeping mentality to an extent. The two ideas aren't in direct contrast to each other, but it seems that one encourages the family unit sticking together and the other discourages it. When Sylvie tells the women on the couch how much she thinks of her father since his death, she is presenting it as a tragic thing. "Families should stay together. Otherwise things get out of control" (186). A surprising comment from a woman who didn't contact her family for many years.

How can the novel teach both things simultaneously? Shouldn't familial relationships fade away in comparison to the scope of geologic history, the way that homes and even mountains do? They are no more permanent. The ending of the novel only increases the tension between the two ideas, when Ruth becomes a drifter with Sylvie. I suppose we could view drifter partners as a synthesis of reverence for family and acknowledgement of impending oblivion, but I don't see any reconciliation---rather almost a refusal to pick a side. I'd be very interested to hear other people's thoughts on this.

Sylvia Plath, Sunny Side Up

Sylvia Plath, 1950s

The life of Sylvia Plath is paradoxical in that, in popular understanding, it is defined by a death. It's easy to forget in the throes of intense depression depicted in The Bell Jar that while her life did tragically end in suicide and while Plath did suffer from a very severe mental disease, before that day she was a beautiful young woman, remarkably successful for her age, ambitious and talented. When I read some of the poems and her biography and when I look at this picture (Plath looks so bright and happy!), I remember the lighter side of Sylvia Plath. 

This stands out in particular contrast to the first chapter of Housekeeping. Both Ruth and Esther interject images of death into their prose, but the effect is different. Housekeeping, at least so far, seems chilling. Parts of it feel like the opening scenes of a horror movie in which a lake is possessed by some sort of hungry spirit. When Esther talks about death though, its always in very matter-of-fact, medical language. She doesn't relish in the dark, but finds those thoughts consuming her regardless. And sort of the whole point is that this person whose breakfast cereal has cadavers peering over the top is not the same person that Esther has been her whole life or the person she appears to be from the outside. Before I read The Bell Jar, the name "Sylvia Plath" evoked images of depressed intellectual women in all black reading dark poetry next to a rainy window. That doesn't jive with what I read. Esther interns for a fashion magazine, for goodness sake. She's the overachieving, hyper-driven teacher's pet. The first thing she does when she gets to New York is a shopping spree. She goes to fashionable parties. She has an ivy-league boyfriend (even if he does turn out to be sort of a tool, she did like that about him at first).

Even though Esther loses interest in all these things, and the middle of the book is very very dark, I also find the ending to be light. I think its optimistic. While the book is about a very serious case of depression, I think the point is in the recovery. The last scene Esther is wearing bright red jacket, about to be approved to leave the institution. For me, this makes the overall feeling of the book optimisitic.

Actors Who Say They Hate Actors Are Phonies

Does Holden actually hate the movies? Look, I know he says he does, more than once. But throughout the book, I felt like he wasn't making good on that statement. "Does Holden actually hate the movies?" is written three times in my notebook in various places. I feel like its the sort of thing that Holden would like to say because he likes how it sounds, how people react when you say something as outlandish as "I don't like pizza". I also think he sees the film industry as a proxy for certain values that he'd like to reject, so he wishes he hated the movies. But he doesn't actually hate them.

Sure, he hates Laurence Olivier's Hamlet but that's because he thinks its bad; he was still excited to see it. He says the nice thing about Phoebe is she can tell a good movie from a bad movie, implying there are good movies. He talks about people who laugh at the wrong parts (Brossard and Ackley), implying there are right parts. I hear you say "Caroline, these are such picky points. He probably still dislikes most movies, even if its not every single one". And I hear you. I still got the impression throughout the narrative that Holden seems exactly the kind of person inclined to like movies, because he's constantly casting himself in them.

Holden likes ideals---especially if they can remain unchanged---and images that represent those ideals. He starts fights he has no intention of winning so that he can be the guy getting beat up by a bully without hitting back. He values martyrdom (as we see from his admiration of James Castle), so he puts himself in that role even if that image gets ruined when we pan out and see Holden is the one that started the fight. He likes to paint himself, despite being a 17 year old, as a weathered and jaded old guy. He laughs and thanks them when bartenders ask how old he is, and he claims that he smokes far too much and is trying to cut back. When he's talking to Sally Hayes, the way he describes running away sounds less like a plausible reality, and more like he's got a movie script and is trying to cast Sally and himself in the lead roles. Also, the way he romanticizes people feels like a movie too. Its all expositional details, the kings in the back row, and never the broad strokes that most people would use to describe a friend to someone who doesn't know them.

The overall effect produced by these things is weird. On the one hand, Catcher in the Rye is a work of fiction, and thus I should not be surprised it contains the conventions of fiction (show, don't tell, etc). But on the other hand, it really does feel like it's Holden and not just Salinger who utilises these tropes and tools of works of fiction. Maybe Salinger is only trying to hint at Holden being a natural writer, but for me I kept being struck by the feeling that Holden (being so well versed in and inclined to use the conventions of storytelling) watches a lot more movies than he'd like to let on.

I Want to Be Friends with Holden Caulfield and Here's Why

I have just scanned the "Early Life" section of J.D. Salinger's Wikipedia page. If you did the same, some phrases would jump out at you. He "managed the fencing team," and "Salinger's Valley Forge 201 file reveals that he was a 'mediocre' student." Familiar, no? Others would jump out for the opposite reason. "In youth, Salinger attended public schools on the West Side of Manhattan." Perhaps Holden's dissatisfaction with the elite schooling system is a reflection of the fact that, unlike Holden himself, the author was not born into this society?

All of this is to illustrate a rather obvious point: a fictitious coming-of-age story is going to inevitably be a reflection of the author's own real-life coming-of-age story. We have read one and started another and thus far (my esteemed peers' opinions of Mr. Caulfield notwithstanding) I would much rather be friends with Salinger than Joyce. (Not that J.D. would necessarily want to be friends with me. A few paragraphs later on his Wikipedia page you'd learn he became something of a recluse later in life). 

I came into the possession of this conviction while reflecting on the similarities between Stephen and Holden. I remembered feeling a distinct deja vu for The Catcher in the Rye in the first few chapters of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Now that we've finished Portrait, though, that feeling is gone. Admittedly, I still see both protagonists as textbook iterations of the self-important, intellectual, cynical teenage boy trope, but to very different effect. Stephen, as a reflection of Joyce, pulls himself away from the world in order to create beautiful, objective art about it. He's indifferent to his family and friends, and is only interested in the objective artistic concept of women, not their living, breathing, thinking reality.

Holden is the exact opposite of this. Although not as explicitly stated in the title this time, here we are also seeing the creation of a writer (English is the only class he didn't fail!). Salinger seems to believe, as reflected in Holden, that to create art about your experiences you have to be absolutely enthralled with them. Holden is hyper-aware of the people in his life. He fixates on the most minute details of their habits. He is affectionate (in different ways, of course) of everyone, even as he's calling them phonies, and over the goddamn moon for his kid sister Phoebe, Allie and Jane. I guarantee he knows how many kids his mom has. I'm not saying he's a saint or anything, but the kid has profound empathy.

Maybe Joyce is the truer artist, but Salinger is the guy I'd want to go bowling or something with for sure.

Man to Myth

As I mentioned in class, I saw a possible allusion to the Arthurian legend of the Lady of Shalott in Stephen's poem-writing scene. I don't want to make the argument that Joyce is definitely referencing this story, but I think (especially considering that Arthurian myth is pretty much the base of British mythology) that the parallels are strong. Even if Joyce isn't drawing the connection consciously, its possible that the image from the story (described in the next paragraph), is the result of cultural diffusion.

Basically, both cases depict a lovelorn artist extensively staring at a mirror. The Lady of Shalott is locked in a tower, and only looks at the world by the reflection of the window through her mirror. Everyday she weaves an image of what she sees. One day she glimpses Lancelot and falls in love. She realizes what she sees in the mirror and weaves is only shadows of the world, not the real thing. This realization combined with her utter lack of romantic prospects with Lancelot compels her to commit suicide. Obviously the outcome of the myth is where the connections run thin. But, in a way, Emma is Stephen's Lancelot. In the scene in question he has just finished writing a poem about Emma which is similar to the lady's "reflection of reality' ; the poem does not match the real life event. Both characters have never spoken to their intended love and, while the lady weaves a tapestry of Lancelot instead of writing a poem, both works of art are inspired by their beloved. Perhaps, then, when Stephen is staring in the mirror, he is contemplating how the art he has just created in based not on reality itself, but on reality filtered through his emotions as represented by the mirror.

Of course, the fact that the most famous telling of the Lady of Shalott is a poem by Tennyson complicates things. Stephen hates Tennyson. All I have to say in that regard is that the Tennyson v. Byron scene indicates Joyce is familiar with Tennyson's poetry and therefore may have read the poem I'm referencing.

As an ending note, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the more obvious mythical allusion, more familiar to most members of this class, Narcissus. Most are familiar with the myth of the Greek boy who was so entranced with his own reflection that he wasted away staring at it. If Joyce is drawing this parallel, perhaps Stephen's thoughts as he sat in front of his mother's mirror were more along the lines of, "that is an incredible artist sitting in front of me! I'm so talented! Great poem writing, Stephen!"

The reason I think its worth discussing both of these possible allusions is because of the weight they lend to this moment in Stephen's life. Because it is an image embedded in myth, sitting in front of a mirror for an extended period of time takes on both a romantic and a larger-than-life quality. Thus, in this moment we see a boy becoming (or believing he is becoming) an artist and, accordingly, becoming a figure worthy of mythic status.