A Raisin in the Sun

 

"They spirited alright, my children. Got to admit they got spirit...Like this little plant that ain't never had enough sunshine or nothing - and look at it" (43).

I owe yet another positive experience with a classic to one of the professors who guided me through my Master's. The course was Dramatic Literature, and I registered for it because the class that I actually wanted to take wasn't being offered that semester, and I only needed one more elective to graduate. One might say that my participation was, if not reluctant, at least passively resigned to competently finish the assignments before me and move on to thesis work. Completely outside of my expectation, I did, in fact, end up analyzing a series of plays for a portion of my thesis. I suppose God organizes our lives with a continuity that human foresight lacks.

The theme of the class was: family relationships in dramatic literature. My high school and undergraduate educations were somewhat lacking in exposure to any plays other than Shakespeare, and so most of the subject matter was new to me. A Raisin in the Sun was one of these. While not my favorite play, it is one to which I returned, as the stark characterization of family life is resonant with the contradictions of the everyday. It is a quiet play, set in a singular location, without much shocking plot work. Anyone looking for the sort of excitement or scandal required to keep the attention of many a modern theatre attendee will not find it here. The importance in what Lorraine Hansberry accomplished is in her subtle and straightforward insistence on displaying what each family experiences in its own way, without ringing bells or unexpected twists. Whatever a reader's familial origins may be, this play will touch on some aspect of what it means to be together with the people who understand one another, simultaneously, for the best and for the worst.

Why should you sit awhile with this inconspicuous text?

1. "You see, Mr. Asagai, I am looking for my identity!" (51)

The characters. Each member of the Younger family portrays an important role consistent with the successes, failures, and challenges of the average working-class American. Beneatha, the younger daughter, searches for her identity; she is a young black woman struggling to break free of what she perceives as the oppressive restrictions of previous generations while simultaneously connecting with her African heritage. Walter desires nothing more than to be a man as society defines manhood. Unfortunately, he does not have the maturity or freedom within his mother's home to take control of his family's direction and solely provide for them. Even George, a side character who is an occasional date for Beneatha, functions as a picture of the shallow carelessness of a young man seeking a pretty girl without too many challenging thoughts in her head. Everyone involved in the story plays their role to perfection, and from within the archetypes rise complexities that are familiar to anyone struggling through the daily messes of life.

2. "Son - you - you understand what I done, don't you? I - I just seen my family falling apart today - just falling to pieces in front of my eyes. We couldn't go on like we was today" (86).

The family dynamic. Speaking of daily complexities, familial conflict is a key element of ARitS. Family can either strengthen or condemn, support or humble. This reality is especially true in the case of multi-generational homes. We see three generations of family living in a small, two-bedroom apartment on the south side of Chicago. They trip over one another in their attempts to achieve personal dreams and goals, and there is little privacy to be had. Every member of the family has both selfish and selfless tendencies. For example, Mama interlopes in the parenting and marital relationship between Walter and Ruth, but also endeavors to do everything that she can to protect the integrity of her family's future. Ruth berates Walter for running after every barely formed get-rich-quick investment that comes his way, but she also quietly advocates for him when discussing the use of the insurance check with his mother. 

Here we find the core of why this play was, and still is, so important: every person has a family. And what we all know, every time we enter a room with a group of those people who hold us dear while also instigating more anger and hurt than we have felt anywhere else, that our lives rise and fall by our families. We are each our own worst contradictions-everything that we think to be true about ourselves is thrown into question by those who know us best. ARitS reminds us of this truth and gives us hope for moving forward, whatever we may face in life. Our families are who we are-past, present, and future-for better or worse (and sometimes both at once). 

3. "All that talk about dreams and sunlight that goes on in this house. It's all dead now" (128).

The symbolism. Hansberry's symbolism is often attached to the physical, daily world, leaving the reader with a sense that meaning is sitting innocuously all throughout the home. The most obvious metaphor, that of Mama's plant, is a dear reminder of the care she gives each member of her family as they battle their lacking resources necessary for growth. It sits by the window and survives, not truly thriving, but sprouting new leaves against all odds. The final moments in the play show Mama carefully cradling the pot as she leaves the apartment for the last time. The plant will go to their new home with them, and perhaps it will find new life where there is sunlight and nourishment. 

Another symbol, the insurance check, dominates the plot and is held in almost reverent regard by each member of the family. That money is their ticket to a better life-whatever each of them may determine to be the best path forward. Beneatha's education is assured identity and progress, Walter's liquor store is self-sufficiency and independence, Ruth and Mama's house is a place for the family to thrive. Isn't that how we all operate within life, attaching specific meaning to whatever resource our hearts cling to? Perhaps it is only obvious from the outside looking in.

I would recommend A Raisin in the Sun as a reserved treatise on the challenges of life, for any who are searching for identity, security, or the strength to keep growing.

Pygmalion

 

"You see, really and truly, apart from the things anyone can pick up (the dressing and the proper way of speaking, and so on), the difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she is treated" (63).

Occasionally one comes across a text with baggage. The ambiguity of the preposition in this proclamation is intentional, as the reader brings the baggage and attaches it to the literary work so that the two become inseparable. The result is that the novel no longer stands on its own, and the reader's opinion on and experience with the text are inextricably linked to his or her presuppositions. For this reason, I always attempt to avoid adaptations, summaries, reviews, or any such secondhand interactions with a book on which I desire to form my own independent opinion. Unfortunately, I am not always successful, whether that failing be due to negligence, ignorance, or plain lazy curiosity.

In the case of a book with great social traction, such as Where the Crawdads Sing, I was the victim of all three. I happened upon information about the book from the mouths of my own peers before engaging with the screen adaptation and scrolling through a series of unfortunate online reviews. My judgment of the book was irreparably tainted. While I may have my thoughts, it is difficult to determine if they are objectively begotten or a partial result of my ill-fated journey through the media adjacent to the novel. In other cases, such as with The Lord of the Rings series, watching the movies from a young age aided my understanding and love of the books as I became old enough to read them. My interactions with Tolkien's storytelling previously to actually investing in his writing has indubitably affected my thoughts on the works, but in the positive sense rather than the negative.

For better or worse (and perhaps impossible to mete out the difference), most individual's reading of Pygmalion will be like entering into a relationship late in your 20s. You may have some beloved memories of the early stages of dating, but no doubt they are intertwined with many hesitancies. In some ways, you hope that this new person will carry the good qualities of the others with whom you have matched; the Lord forbid that he or she prove to be too similar. You desire something different, something new, without the person being too far off from the "type" to which you are attracted. 

In approaching Pygmalion, if the reader loves a musical, Audrey Hepburn, Julie Andrews, or the tropes of a mid-twentieth century romantic comedy, the play may or may not be what he or she is looking for. The original text differs enough from the adaptations that it might disappoint a truly die-hard My Fair Lady aficionado. It could also prove to be a refreshingly original take (since it is, in fact, the original) on the classic story of Eliza Doolittle learning to become a lady. Seeing as it is such a short read, the hour or two that it takes to make it through the pages may be a worthy endeavor in order to find out. My own thoughts, confused as they may be, still fit themselves neatly into The List:

1. "I suppose the woman wants to live her own life; and the man wants to live his; and each tries to drag the other on to the wrong track. One wants to go north and the other south; and the result is that both have to go east, though they both hate the east wind" (21).

The irony. If one researches George Bernard Shaw, it is apparent that the dogmatic Professor Higgins may be somewhat autobiographical. He was a man who was quick with an opinionated ideology, and the shock value of a sentiment seemed to hold as much importance as the content. These personality traits arise within the pages of his most famous work. Read literally, Pygmalion could be construed as anything from upsetting to egotistical jargon. The dry and edgy humor so often attributed to the Brits fills the dialogue. Taken as it was intended, with an eye to the dramatic demonstration of human archetypes, the outlandishly exaggerated characters manifest as the sarcastic representations of class and gender that they are meant to be. As an American reader, even one who typically loves the bite and wit in British literature, I find that my enjoyment of the play has increased upon subsequent reads as I train myself to take each interaction as the parody that it is.

2. "What call would a woman with that strength in her have to die of influenza? What become of her new straw hat that should have come to me? Somebody pinched it; and what I say is, them as pinched it done her in" (39).

The humor. This point is an extension of the previous, as irony is the intended mode of humor throughout most of the book. Eliza, the clueless flower girl, takes up with Professor Higgins, the man who she believes will train her to be "proper" and enable her to open her own flower shop. Higgins' deplorable habits and tendencies slowly reveal themselves; Eliza herself affects change on the upper society to which she gradually gains entrance. Her good-natured lack of awareness gives way as Higgins continues inexorably in the direction of selfish and sloppy bachelorhood. Ultimately, the ignorantly asinine Higgins is excommunicated from his own social group in favor of the surprisingly charming and self-possessed lady that Eliza has always been--he merely plays a role in smoothing away the rough edges hiding her true magnanimity of character.

3. "Why did you take my independence from me? Why did I give it up? I'm a slave now, for all my fine clothes" (69).

The social commentary. Descending from the ironic and humorous characterization of British society, the discourse on class and gender is not only for the purpose of entertainment. Alfred Doolittle, Eliza's hapless father, undergoes a transformation of his own. He begins as a self-declared member of the "undeserving poor" class. Upon coming into a bit of wealth, he then requires himself to adhere to the rules of "middle-class morality": marrying his lover, supporting his daughter, dressing and behaving in a respectable manner. He is angry about acquiring the possessions that propagate this reality. Eliza is similarly trapped as an educated woman with proper manners, as she embarked upon the whole journey of bettering herself so that she could attain better vocational opportunities. However, upon mastering gentrification of dress and speech, she becomes enslaved to the expectations and standards of high society...a world in which women of her "status" are not permitted to work. Where all of this madcap contradiction leads is up to the reader to decide. Shaw presents the world as he was it in its extremes and allows for the interpretive interaction of those who stumble upon his work.

4. "I sold flowers. I didn't sell myself...I've got a little of my own back" (52-53).

The search for identity. In light of all this intentional and sometimes unintentional change, Eliza, the centerpiece of the story, is molded by her ever-shifting environment. While Pygmalion may be a partial blueprint for the plot of a prototypical hallmark romance, the ending contains that Shaw flair that does not allow for something as unrealistic and prosaic as a "happy ending." The My Fair Lady adaptation leaves the aftermath of the movie/musical up to interpretation (albeit with a strong suggestion that Eliza and Higgins may have more to do with one another after the story's ending); the original play will leave room for no such ambiguous romantic musings. This inclusion is one that I applaud. There is nothing wrong with a love that conquers against all odds (see my review of The Scarlet Pimpernel if you are looking for such a story). But I love that Shaw so stoically avoids that storyline. It is refreshing to have an author determinedly write that no, in fact, the relationship between Eliza and Higgins is NOT the point! There is so much intermittent playfulness and exposition on human nature and society that a shoe-horned happily ever after was never on his mind. Shaw even wrote an epilogue just to undermine those who thought they might speculate on how the couple could possibly come together in the end.

Why read Pygmalion? It is brief, thought-provoking, and indecorously funny. You may want to read it twice, and perhaps it will start to influence the way that you approach My Fair Lady and other variations.

The Scarlet Pimpernel

"'Sacre tonnerre,' said the captain, 'but it is feared that it was that accursed Englishmen himself--the Scarlet Pimpernel" (Orczy 9).

Seventeen hundred and ninety-two. Paris, France. September massacres.

Ring any bells? Let us try a few more: Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Madame Guillotine. Ah, Paris! If only you had known the hour of your visitation. Over a century after the curtain closed on France's "surging, seething" revolution, a Hungarian baroness dreamed of a messiah who might take the stage in an endless replay of swashbuckling and romantic liberation of the innocent. He is a brave master of disguise, living a mild-mannered life amongst his English kin and secretly delivering French aristocrats from the relentless maw of their bloody war. He doesn't display an emblematic S on his turgid chest; however, his moniker happens to carry the same initial. He is, of course, the Scarlet Pimpernel!

It was not until recently that I stumbled upon The Scarlet Pimpernel and drank deeply of its simply satisfying plot, prose, and psychological inspection of a seemingly star-crossed marriage. Maybe Les Misérables has jaded me toward literature addressing the myriad internal French conflicts, but I hesitated upon first immersing myself because I imagined the text being a lengthy portrayal of poverty and struggle ending with death, although not entirely unsatisfying. Well, I was wrong. The legacy of Baroness Orczy can be seen in the superhero storylines of today's media: the man in the mask, the beautiful lady carrying on her own private battles without any idea of her lover's self-sacrifice, and the iniquitous villain singularly devoted to his dastardly plot. I can think of a few directors who might benefit from taking a peek into this work and learning a thing or two about writing within the genre. And now, for our ubiquitous list:

1. "A woman's heart is such a complex problem--the owner thereof is often most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle" (141).

The female voice. I believe in meaningful art. In fact, I would say that art created merely for the purpose of entertainment and not at all connected to the human experience is a waste (construe this statement as you will, for these pages are too short to soliloquize such nuanced subject matter). However, recently I attempted to embark upon a journey into a novel on a starlet of the '60s (my current era of fascination) and was inclined to put the book down after only a chapter. This particular text mentioned the disadvantages of women and the pitiable failings of men (through exposition, I might add, completely breaking out of the narrative) an estimated five to ten times in so many pages. My annoyance at these seemingly unrelated additions stole any curiosity I might have had about the plot or connection to the characters. I can accept a certain amount of an author's posturing for his or her ideological standing, but there comes a point where enough is enough! I cannot stomach such use of narrative for the sake of virtuous preaching. 

And here is where The Scarlet Pimpernel sets itself apart from so many modern novels: Baroness Orczy was a woman of singular talent. She faced the severely more gender imbalanced world of the late 19th century, and she did so by writing a female protagonist who is not offended by the heroism of the man immortalized on the cover of her novel. Margeurite is a woman--feminine, beautiful, witty, and brave. She can also be selfish, emotionally destructive, and naive. Orczy created a character that is true to the humanity of both men and women. Might we not be who we are, with the qualities of our gender intact and appreciated, but not ultimately defined by anything other than the universal elements that govern all of life?

This portion of my appreciation for the text is quite lengthy, so I hope that you will forgive me this indulgence before I move on to the next. To read a female character who is both flawed and admirable, who is not undermined by the success or failures of another (regardless of gender), is refreshing and necessary. I find myself nodding along to the thoughts of Margeurite as she exists in a myriad of realms without contradiction: a woman, a hero, a lover, a damsel, a person. In writing what is true, Orczy has created a case for the argument that so many women scream at the clouds these days. Women are human, equal to men, but they are also unique, divinely their own. Don't tell the world that this statement is true; show us through the crafting of good art.

2. "'I made friends with Madame Guillotine's lover,' she said with a coarse laugh, 'he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down" (7).

The theatricality. What makes a superhero flick so engaging? One answer might be the immense spectacle of it all, the improbability of the incredible rescue of the helpless. Our friend the Pimpernel flits across the English Channel with impunity and disguises himself as the most disquieting characters while whisking away the families next in line for decapitation. This dramatic iteration of an already immensely vivid historical conflict keeps the reader turning pages and suspending all disbelief for the sake of the hero who tickles our imaginations with his unscrupulous fight for justice.

3. "Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the rose-lit garden, she would have seen...he kissed one by one the places where her small foot had trodden" (139).

The romance. How could we discuss such a novel without touching on the aspect that enlarges our hearts while the thrilling action widens our eyes? Sir Percy has every appearance of a hapless man attached to the stunning Margeurite for reasons unknown. Miscommunication and pride are the obstacles that stand in the way of their intimacy, and the reader is equally frustrated and entranced by their verbal disconnect and mutual internal agony. They long for each other, but yet feel that the other has either betrayed or been betrayed too thoroughly for redemptive recompense. Of course, it takes many lives and a foreign country's survival hanging in the balance to draw them together. But that is all par for the course of love, is it not?

It is so rare to find a novel that produces all of these aspects so fully, with such panache and relatability. If you are looking for a classic that is, to condense it all down to one word, a fun read, look no further than the book before you.

The Great Gatsby

 

"He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself" (Fitzgerald 110).

I can remember looking at the cover of The Great Gatsby as a high school student, anticipating a text that would be an absolute sedative. Some fear cropped up within me that the words would be indecipherable, the plot out of reach, the characters of too high a caliber for me to fathom them. The fatal flaw that an author would have written for me was a debilitating anxiety over not understanding. Perhaps the result of being pushed ahead a grade in English, or maybe plain pride in my supposed "giftedness" in the subject, I was horrified that the reality of my perceived ineptitude would rear up and I would be made to feel failure. It would be better, I reasoned, to exert barely any effort and partially blunder than to apply myself and be seen as a fool.

What a peach, right?

Thus, my earlier memories of the book are not glamorous or whimsical. The main sticking point I can recall was the non-existence of East and West Egg. How a kid that popped through fantasy novels like they were a bag of M&M's became hung up on a partially fictional setting, I will never know. It may have had something to do with the actuality of New York and comparative invention of all the rest of it. In my mind, if you were going to fabricate a small island, you might as well build an entirely new world. Why let laziness get the best of us?

Again, what a peach.

From this point, we move forward in time to a course in Critical Theory. The text utilized by the professor to demonstrate the literary application of each theory was, for purposes of ease and convenience, none other than The Great Gatsby. I purchased a new copy and set out to re-invent myself as a hesitant lover of the massive, mirrored eyes looking out at whosoever may tread upon the hallowed ground of the valley of ashes. Fifteen weeks and five or six reads later, there I was: a fully formed Fitzgerald junkie, purchasing his other, lesser-known works for my summer reads. But how did I get there, you may be asking. What demon possessed and transformed me into someone enthralled by the annals of fictional characters caught up in Jazz Age vices?

Great question. I would love to tell you.

1. "Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light...The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms" (17).

Color theory. This concept was one that I wish had been part of my initial education on the novel...I first became aware of Fitzgerald's consistent and subversive use of color upon my second interaction with Jay Gatsby. What fascinates me about well-executed color theory in literature is the understated way that it conveys meaning to the reader without his or her awareness. We feel the weight of Tom's abusive American aristocracy, Myrtle's desperate facsimile of the upper-class lifestyle, and the corrupted opulence represented by Gatsby's Rolls Royce. But how do these emotions infiltrate our perception of the characters, somewhere beyond our conscious awareness? Fitgerald's genius utilization of color. What binds together all of the characters in the aforementioned list is the inconspicuously obvious golden hue of Tom's hair, Myrtle's clothing, and gleaming exterior of the convertible. Myriad such examples exist within the text, and they cannot be unseen, especially after one has taken an arsenal of highlighters to each and every mention of color.

2. "Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have known" (59).

Unreliable narration. Nick Carroway is perhaps the most understated narcissist I have ever had the pleasure of encountering in the pages of a book. He consistently presents himself as separate from the clueless crookedness of the people around him and casually lauds his moral superiority, but yet there he is, always partaking in the same drinks, drugs, and dances as the rest. He can't decide what he thinks about Gatsby in life, and his borderline obsessive interest doesn't end with Gatsby's eventual demise. The man is larger than his surroundings, singular in his bold willpower, and Nick desires more than mere friendship with Gatsby-he wants to be Jay Gatsby. The unrepentant ambition that topples all moral conviction doesn't repulse Nick, even as he identifies and condemns some of Gatsby's actions as such. Perhaps Nick sees a braver and more austere version of himself in the ruthless Gatsby.

3. "Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever...Now it was a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one" (93).

Human nature. The Great Gatsby is a tragedy of human desires warring with moral and practical truth. Nick falls for the glitzy exterior of the New York set that in fact never fully accepts him. He is an observer, but not reluctantly so. He treasures this role, as it enables him to both associate with and harshly judge those with whom he associates. Gatsby, on the other hand, is in love with himself as the afflicted romantic lead who builds an empire in order to regain his lost lady. Daisy is the perfect item for this disparate longing, as she is beautiful, shallow, and coldly aware of the part she must play to "win" at this self-imposed game.

4. "A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host" (55).

The facade. A continuation of the previous point, Fitzgerald presents the Jazz Age (a term that he coined) with all of the dizzying glamor that draws later generations back to it. He also slowly reveals the falsehood hidden there with all the honest reflection of a man who lived through it. Readers can see the trap inherent within the desperate evasion of responsibility and emotional stability. The characters are imprisoned by their desire for financial and moral freedom, even when faced with the consequence: a sacrifice of truly meaningful relationships or pursuits. The toxic cycles go round and round. They each fall, dizzy, into whatever circumstance will serve their cloying need for physical gratification.

So, should you read The Great Gatsby? If you do, you will find a warning within its dysfunctional storyline, the type of warning that can only come from someone who sat behind the bars of social neurosis himself.