moody literature

The Child by Tiger --- > murder

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? -- > rape

Hills Like White Elephants -- > abortion

The Destructors -- > war/extreme vandalism

Most Dangerous Game -- > hunting/killing

Interpreter of Maladies -- > adultery/guilt/failed relationships

How Far She Went -- > abduction
The Rockinghorse Winner -- > gambling/death

I would have to say all of these are some variant of a dark, twisted, violent, or depressing story. Is this characteristic of literary works in general? Perhaps.

It cannot be denied that an uncanny number of the stories we've read are of this nature. But it may be too big of an assumption to conclude that this is the "true nature" of literary fiction because it is perhaps not entirely intentional that the circumstances are as it is. Not all literature is dark--we've learned recently that humor can exist in literary works. But the high occurrences of death, murder, rape, etc. readily eclipses the light-heartedness that may exist. Why is this so?

You would have to recall the purpose of literary texts. They aren't written to make us feel good-- quite the contrary in fact. They reveal some profound truth about human nature. And chances are, whatever is worth revealing about human nature is not gloriously wonderful. In truth, humans are mostly quite aware of the gloriously wonderful parts of their nature. It's the dark side, the side that involves murder, rape, death, and adultery that people are prone to avoid in everyday thought. Literature is a world of deep exploration of hidden universal truths, ones that are presumably not the most delightful. They are written to make us feel uncomfortable, informed, and enlightened.

Further, the use of dark, twisted stories are considerably more memorable. I am much more likely to remember a shockingly violent story than one filled with mildness. Understanding the heavy themes of literature is important, but the impression it leaves is perhaps even more significant.

The moodiness of literature actually serves a purpose. It's all about impact.

the elusive white elephant

And the award for obscurity goes to Mr. Ernest Hemingway and his "Hills Like White Elephants."

"What the heck was he talking about?"-- my thoughts after finishing the story the first time. Only two and a half pages, the language is straight-forward enough. The events are not out of the ordinary. But what in the world is that story about?

Here's a good lesson: A second, closer reading of the story can be quite therapeutic.

The story is told in an almost clinically objective manner, void of emotional or intellectual commentary, a type of perspective quite unfamiliar. Every phrase is dedicated to the facts-- what they say, what they do, what their surroundings look like. We have no idea what the girl is thinking, what the American is thinking. This attribute alone is what makes this story enormously elusive. In every line, it seems, the reader is forced to extract some hidden meaning, "reading between the lines," as they say. There is no other method to properly discover the emotion, the internal thoughts obscured by the thick veil of objectivity.

The revelation that the "simple operation" is really an abortion is actually not as important as it initially seemed. Granted, I can finally comprehend the specifics of their conversation, but the fact that the couple is arguing over an abortion is not the point that Hemingway is attempting to make. Even without knowing the taboo operation, we can still sense the presence of some burden complicating the couple's relationship. We can still understand the severe communicative problems, where one can hardly hear what the other is saying. We can still see that the girl and the man are clearly avoiding legitimate conversation about their deep troubles. Hemingway is commenting on the obscurity of their communication and thus their relationship-- not the topic itself. In fact, it is quite possible that Hemingway utilized objective obscurity as a demonstration of this vague territory of uncommunicative communication.   

Obscure, indeed.

short and sweet

I've always liked short stories--a good thing, considering the the number read in English class.

Moreover, the short story is a form of literature just as significant as a novel, despite its brevity. A short story is, as its name suggests, brief in duration, but is as potentially enriching as a novel. Obviously not a full course meal, the short story is more like a piece of hard candy-- shorter-lasting but sweet all the same.

Of course, the length of a short story is much more comforting than that of a novel. But this form of prose offers much more than its less time-consuming nature. As a result of its brevity, a short story provides more simplicity, even in the conveyance of a complex theme. More focused on a single plot, setting, and message, short stories are ideal for a more extensive study of literary themes, ideas, and styles of varying authors, as readers can more quickly delve into a wider breadth of short story literature. Further, more intensive focus can be dedicated to the singularity of the story without the distracting elements of some novels.

As exhibited by many of the short stories already examined in class, these brief literary snapshots can offer as much power as any novel. "The Destructors" produced views on the destructive imprint of war on post-war generations. "The Child by Tiger" commented on the puzzling duality of good and evil in human nature. "How Far She Went" explores the extent of pride, guilt, and admiration. Heavy subjects are no obstruction for the short story.

Novels are movies. Short stories are snapshots-- photographs that are all the same worthy of a good exploration.

ambiguity

What's the point?

That's exactly what I exasperatingly ask myself every time I find myself in the midst of a so-called "literary" work. The surface of these texts is inundated with countless words and sentences with difficult-to-discern meanings, seemingly written to deliberately perplex the reader. The vagueness is uncomfortable, the purpose is far from explicit, and the reader inevitably ends with more questions than he had previously. So what's the point?

Of course, we are told that these works are the manifestation of universal truths, revealing some profound revelation on human nature. They are considered literary for a reason, and that reason, contrary to what most high school English students see, is presumably not that they are ridiculously difficult to comprehend.

The point, then, is this: it takes more than the typically resentful, unfocused teen to truly delve into literature. Literary texts are written to make people think--to really think, the kind of contemplating that can be uncomfortable, that can be frustrating, and that can produce more questions than existed previously. It takes something as perplexing and vague as literature to fully expound upon the perplexing and vague human life. Ambiguity, an inherent aspect of literature, mercilessly tests our minds, especially those that are stubbornly mathematical. Everything seems to be frustratingly open to interpretation. 

This is precisely the challenge of Advanced Placement Literature.