The Catcher in the Rye

 

"That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be" (225).

American classics are not my strong suit. For one, I spent a lot of my time in college reading British literature, and when you settle into a certain region, it is difficult to breach new horizons. A second reason is that I tend to find the themes of American literature, on the whole, generally narrow and somewhat depressing.

There is a saying that Americans believe a hundred years to be a long time, and Europeans view a hundred miles as a long distance. In literature, I think that this maxim also applies. European literature tends to span the length of time, both literally and metaphorically. There is a sense of the self within a tapestry of ancestry and a multi-national awareness.

The characters seem to ask, "How do I find my way as a part of the broader world, both within and above my need to find a personal identity?" Les Mis, 1984, Rebecca, The Time of the Doves, Anna Karenina...all stories from different countries and about people as individuals, but ultimately embracing one or more themes of ancient tradition, national or international awareness, and a cyclical timeline of interconnected events.

American literature, on the other hand, has largely been a pursuit of both national and personal identification. "Who are we as a nation, and how can we each establish a distinct voice?" The Scarlet Letter, Huck Finn, To Kill a Mockingbird, Death of a Salesman...yes, there are universal themes, but they center around the individual rather than the other way around. America's relative youthfulness, isolation, size, and individualistic spirit certainly all play a role in this phenomenon that I am not prepared to fully analyze in a simple blog post.

While there is nothing wrong with these themes, I tend to find them (as young Holden might say) rather boorish in literature. The Catcher in the Rye is, unfortunately, representative of everything that I dislike about American literature. Here is why.

1. "Guys that are boring--But I have to be careful about that. I mean about calling certain guys bores. I don't understand boring guys" (160).

An unflinching look at the mentality of a teenager. As an author, JD Salinger is giving "rats in a trenchcoat," except that his version of this phenomenon is best described as the mind of a teenager disguised within the body of an adult. He portrays the selfish, simultaneously insecurity and over-confident, lacking in self-awareness, judgmental, anti-authoritarian short-sightedness of the middle-class American teenager suspiciously well.

I know that this is the case because I was incredibly annoyed throughout my reading of The Catcher, and consistently felt the need to call Holden's mother and send him to his room. Or a work camp. Whichever was closer.

In all seriousness, there is something very important about preserving our remembrance of what it was like to be a young person with an under-developed brain and over-developed sense of our own importance. Some of us never grow out of this stage. It is incredibly difficult to organize a measured response to life when everything is completely out of proportion--small occurrences feel so traumatic, and big ones seem to have little to no effect.

Would any of us go back in time and re-live the years between 13 and 19? I, for one, absolutely would not. It renews my empathy for those coming into their adulthood, because I can recall being desperate to find my place, but also feeling as though the world couldn't care less about my efforts. For realism, Salinger receives full points. 

2. "Besides, he was such a touchy guy, it wasn't any pleasure discussing anything with him" (108).

Completely unlikeable characters. My first criticism is that Holden, as a narrator, is mostly an absolute terror. Every once in a while, there will be a moment wherein he shows empathy for another human being or speaks with candor about his grief surrounding the loss of his brother. Those moments, however poignant, are few and far between.

Holden is unreliable. But not in a fun way. We see all of the other characters through his lens, and in true teenage fashion, he doesn't like most of them. Adults are annoying and out of touch, other boys are boring, and the girls are essentially objects for him to consume for his own pleasure. The result of this portrayal is that none of the people who populate this book (other than perhaps 1 or 2 exceptions) would I want to spend more than 5 minutes around.

I understand the concept of creating realistic and morally gray characters, but there must be some creation of empathy towards them, or else the reader does not and cannot care about what happens to them. I think Holden needs to go to military school and have some sense knocked into him, because he acts like a spoiled brat for about 200 pages. I was frankly sickened by most of his choices and his internal commentary, and the attempts to build empathy for him fell flat because of these aspects that could not be overlooked.

3. "I was only thirteen, and they were going to have me psychoanalyzed and all, because I broke all the windows in the garage" (50).

Little to no plot. The book takes place over the course of a few days, as Holden escapes from his school dorm after being expelled from yet another high school, and goes to New York to fritter away his time before his parents will be expecting him home. All he does is drink, attempt to hire a prostitute, walk around in the dark, call friends and try to hook up with them, and essentially kidnap his little sister from her room.

I was continually waiting for something to happen--for him to face the consequences of his actions or encounter a problem that would force him to realize the ridiculousness of his actions. Maybe for his parents to make an appearance. But no, he spends all of the money in his wallet and runs amok with essentially no accountability, and then he has some sort of revelation at a merry-go-round that life is worth living. Or something like that.

It is hard to believe in a positive character arc when every time Holden shows some glimmer of maturity, he immediately descends back into his philosophy that fate owes him the desires of his heart and that he is the main character of everyone's story. 

4. "I was crazy about The Great Gatsby. Old Gatsby. Old sport. that killed me...If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will" (183).

No real consequences. Finally, as previously mentioned, he does not face any repercussions for the choices that he makes. Underage drinking and hiring of prostitutes aside, Holden is a pretty dumb smart kid. He is clearly the embodiment of "intelligent but doesn't apply himself," given every resource to succeed but choosing instead to metaphorically show the middle finger to anyone who tries to help him.

I don't like the precedent that this storyline sets, making it seem as though teenagers are just rebels at heart and need to be given room to grow at their own pace, even if that includes breaking the law and generally treating every other person with disdain. Grief can chart a course in our lives that is completely unexpected and impossible to define, but I didn't feel that the loss of his brother was enough to give Holden a reason for going off the rails the way that he does.

Overall, this novel is definitely a pass for me. I wouldn't recommend it, I would never assign it, and it can be tossed on the pile of, "I don't understand how this became a classic."

Tender is the Night

 

"--Do you mind if I pull down the curtain?

--Please do. It's too light in here" (93).

Fitzgerald allegedly advised his daughter to "absorb six good authors a year." If absorbing an author involves reading all of their publications, then such a feat could be quite a difficult one. While I can say that I do read the novels of more than six authors every year, I certainly cannot report having absorbed their writings in entirety. I both approve of this idea and shrug my shoulders in wonder that any fully employed person can achieve this goal.

Of course, Fitzgerald was never what anyone would consider "traditionally employed," as he spent his adult life alternately living the roaring '20s lifestyle of a successful writer and barely making ends meet in drier financial times. He lived mercurially, epically, tragically, curiously. His celebrity marriage was the stuff of supermarket tabloids and influenced every one of his novels, as far as I can tell.

Speaking of absorbing authors and Fitzgerald himself, I have reached the end of my journey in reading all of his published works. This journey began when I was in high school and first read The Great Gatsby, and I must say that I have been looking for the magic I found in one of my favorite American classics ever since. I'm not entirely sure that I've found it, although traversing so many of Fitzgerald's has certainly given me a very well-rounded and interesting reflection on the writer himself. I have chosen to conclude my time with Fitzgerald, for now, with his final novel, Tender is the Night.

1. "The faces were only formally sad but Dick's lungs burst for a moment with regret for Abe's death, and his own youth of ten years ago" (200).

Narcissism and the unreliable narrator. Nick from The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite unreliable narrators. He gaslights himself about so much of life; most dangerously, the magnanimous character of Jay Gatsby looms over him like an idealistic specter. To read the story of East and West Egg in 1920s New York is to experience a study in reading between the lines and seeing the villains amongst the glittering facades.

I have begun to think that perhaps these characters are less intentionally written than I originally believed, or else this style of characterization was all that Fitzgerald found interesting or within his capability to write. After awhile, the intensely internal focus of every character, along with their inability to see their own failures with any clarity or accountability, begins to wear on the reader.

Tender is the Night carries the internal ponderings of characters who wear their flaws upon their sleeves and seem to ascribe to certain un-relenting ideologies without self-awareness. Rosemary is young and beautiful, not yet jaded by her own magnetic attraction, but wisened enough to pursue her own every desire with impunity to consequences. Dick has a savior complex, which cannot come without some degree of narcissism. Perhaps the most self-aware of all is Nicole, his wife, who is in fact a schizophrenic suffering from supposed mad delusions.

The problem with all of the characters, but most especially Dick, is that they seem to barely hit upon awareness of their own shallowness and then fade away from it, back into the many attractive trappings of their privileged lifestyles. Tender is the Night did not do well when it was first published, as Americans steeped in the Great Depression and on the cusp of another world war were disillusioned by these tales of careless wealth and dramatic self-aggrandizement.

I can honestly see where this failure to appease his audience occurred. I believe that all three of these main characters--Rosemary, Dick, and Nicole--are supposed to be sympathetic in their own ways, whether because of their innocence, ignorance, or chronic unhappiness. However, each one falls short of this mark because of how wide the chasm is between their supposedly pure motivations and the nature of their mistakes.

2. "...it was Tommy Barban from Monte Carlo, saying that he had received her letter and was driving over. She felt her lips' warmth in the receiver as she welcomed his coming" (280).

Unsympathetic characters. Why do these characters, who are most likely intended to evoke our empathies, miss the mark so profoundly? At some point, the irresponsible consumerism, casual drunkenness, and ill-begotten marital affairs become too heavy a burden to bear. Dick "saves" Nicole and essentially sacrifices both his career and some semblance of his manhood (through financial, emotional, and sexual independence). But does he really save her? He crosses the bounds of ethics and marries his patient, against his own better judgement. 

When everything goes wrong and their marriage erupts from within, the inevitability of it doesn't feel like a naturally occurring conclusion without real culpability. The unraveling of it all is written as a shoulder shrug--"This is how life is. They made the best decisions they could with the information that they had at the time. What can one do in the face of passion and desire but ride the wave to its end?"

I beg to differ. Dick is cowardly, selfish, a manipulator and womanizer. From beginning to end, the supposed sacrificial work that he does to serve those around him is in fact a thinly veiled narcissism masquerading as people-pleasing. He loves to think of himself as the perfect, ideal man, doing whatever is needed for the young and innocent women who fall prey to his orbit. But alas, a predator is all that he is, and this identity is proven true when he self-destructs through the above-mentioned vices of alcoholism, emotional instability, and unfaithfulness.

The women in the book are not much better. Rosemary is a self-centered actress who uses her innocence and reliance on older men and women to cover her extremely poor character qualities. She befriends Nicole while simultaneously romantically pursuing Dick until she gets what she wants. Nicole, although holding probably the most reasonable explanation for poor behavior (her mental unwellness), also cheats and lies and schemes her way out of her marriage and into the arms of another, although not in that order.

3. "Most of us have a favorite, a heroic period, in our lives and that was Dick Diver's" (119).

Disjointed plot. Fitzgerald published an edited version of Tender is the Night that was chronological rather than containing a flashback throughout the middle third of the text. I'm not sure if this change would have truly improved the story, but it may have somewhat prevented the disjointed feel of the plot. But the problems are not merely found within the order of the storyline. 

The book seems to ramble and meander its way through explanations of events that don't seem to have much to do with the main characters' development, including a random duel in the first few chapters and the murder of a black man about halfway through. These vignettes contain no real consequences for the primary storyline whatsoever. I may need someone to educate me on the subversive symbolic importance found in these moments, because I am lost as to what value they actually add to the story at large. 

4. "The vividly pictured hand on Rosemary's cheek, the quicker breath, the white excitement of the event viewed from the outside, the inviolable secret warmth within" (93).

Beautiful prose. Fitzgerald was a beautiful lyricist. He described everything from nature to internal motivations with the clearest of word choice and most poignantly placed phrases. My books are full of underlinings that indicate a moment in the text that stood out to me for its striking literary quality. 

The characters are always emotionally driven, detailed, and imperfect. I can appreciate the somberly unsatisfying endings that were Fitzgerald's talent, wherein the villains aren't really punished and the good (if there is any) isn't truly rewarded. His novels are a strange mix of realism and romanticism that is so unique to his work and era.

The Beautiful and Damned, This Side of Paradise, The Great Gatsby, and Tender is the Night all hit at a singular note. The men in his stories either cannot quite make something of themselves despite unmet potential or find themselves incredibly dissatisfied with the success that they do achieve. The women are often tossed about by the whims of their romantic counterparts, but they also portray a searing determination to arrive at their own desires through any manipulative tactics available to them.

Understanding some of what plagued the short and vacillating lives of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, I can see that he unfalteringly wrote autobiographically. I can appreciate very much the talent that he clearly had, and I also mourn the artistic growth that he denied himself through an inability to move past personal pitfalls both professionally and personally. While Tender is the Night has great potential and maintained my attention, The Great Gatsby does most of the same work in a shorter and more polished form.

In Cold Blood

 

"I didn't want to harm the man. I thought he was a very nice gentleman. Soft-spoken, I thought so right up to the moment I cut his throat" (244).

Coming away from my immense enjoyment of Breakfast at Tiffanys, I was looking forward to finally digging into Truman Capote's most renowned work. In Cold Blood is the first-billed listing in any conversation about true crime. All of the girls telling murder stories while putting makeup on have him to thank for their multitude of followers.

Unfortunately, due to no fault of Mr. Capote's, this one was a non-starter for me. I picked it up and put it right back down several times. The writing itself is beautifully rendered, and the story is meticulously and creatively told. I can only conclude that the combination of genres (true crime told within a narrative format) killed the momentum (Ha. Set me up with my own comedic true crime YouTube). My reasons for enjoying the likes of Dateline and 48 Hours are very different from my motivation for reading murder or crime novels. 

The commentary in my head while finishing In Cold Blood was telling me contradicting things:

If this is true crime, I want the details and only that, not a lot of extra fluff around the criminals and victims before and after the crime itself.

If this is a novel, I shouldn't already know how it ends. Otherwise, what is the point of suffering through layers of foreshadowing, characterization, and plot development?

Against all odds, I finished the novel, and here I am to tell you my thoughts in the most balanced form that I can muster.

1. "Then, with the dog running ahead of him, he moved southward toward the fields, lion-colored now, luminously golden wit after-harvest stubble" (12).

Beautiful prose. Capote was a truly gifted wordsmith. He could write a symbol or description that cuts right into the reader's soul, and here he is able to utilize that prowess to the utmost. The Kansas landscape, a seedy gas station in the middle of the night, the family hound, a neighboring cellmate...Each detail is carefully crafted to communicate the emotion behind a scene. Not only can you picture it, but your bones can feel that place and those often-disregarded minutia. Even when I was bored of the story itself, such world building kept me going.

2. "And certain sounds returned--a silver dollar rolling across the floor, boot steps on hardwood stairs, and the sounds of breathing, the gasps, the hysterical inhalations of a man with a severed windpipe" (110).

Detailed characterization. Sometimes criticized for filling the gaps of the knowable a little too much, considering the books qualifications as literary NON-fiction, Capote delves into the inner lives of each person involved in this tragic story. The Clutters feel like your own family, and their murders cut like the proverbial knife to the heart. Questions of motivation, culpability, and guilt are explored through the psyches of two criminals: one a self-proclaimed "normal" with a familiar background, and the other with somewhat of an unfortunate or unconventional past. 

While Capote does not necessarily succeed (if it was indeed his intention) in creating sympathetic villains, he does invite the reader to delve into societal notions concerning the influencing roles of "nature and nurture" on criminality. 

3. "This biography always set racing a stable of emotions--self-pity in the lead, love and hate running evenly at first, the latter ultimately pulling ahead" (130).

Long-winded extraneous information. My final point, the only real literary criticism that I have to offer, has to do with the extreme amounts of information provided on this very topic. After the murder is committed and the perpetrators are overtaken, there is still a significant amount of book left to digest. Writings from the family members of Dick and Perry fill the pages, and it seems that nearly every person waiting on death row alongside them is described within their own short portion of plot.

I won't lie, I skimmed much of this decidedly unrelated information. I already wasn't vibing with the presentation of the content, and all of the "side quests" certainly did not hold my interest. If these aspects needed to be included for Capote's vision to come to fruition, my opinion is that they could have been severely shortened and summarized, to much greater effect.

Overall, I would not pick up In Cold Blood a second time, but I am glad that I was able to experience it. I understand Capote's importance in this genre, and while it may not be for me, I am certain that he continues to have an audience of incredibly engaged readers.

This Side of Paradise

 

"Oh, it isn't that I mind the glittering caste system...a bunch of hot cats on top, but gosh, Kery, I've got to be one of them" (45).

If there is a characterization that F. Scott Fitzgerald knew how to write very effectively, it is that of a high-functioning narcissist. Do with that what you will. The Beautiful and Damned, The Great Gatsby, and This Side of Paradise all center around young men and women who can put on a great show of charm and social adjustment, but ultimately are much too selfish to avoid disillusionment with the world's many inconveniences. 

Whether wealthy or poor, and often waffling between the two throughout the course of the novel, his characters feel owed satisfaction of their desires (wealth, status, love and relationships). In the end, every reader knows that the callous world will not bow to the demands of its citizens. At the very least, every dream requires prolonged work to attain. Those free dreams that are imparted upon entitled individuals are usually not what they really wanted anyway.

1. "You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination" (136).

Consistent characterization. In This Side of Paradise, Amory is set up as a man built by his formative experiences. His overly doting, self-absorbed, and class-obsessed mother sets him on a path of preoccupation with "making something of himself." Of course, this goal is not entirely without merit, but the book delves into the many problems created by both his motivations and tactics for doing so. Amory wants to be important and viewed as successful by his peers, and thus he spends most of his time meditating internally rather than actually living or forming lasting relationships. Everything he does must be categorically worthwhile to get ahead in whatever environment he finds himself.

Unfortunately, that desire is not strong enough to actually propel him into any real pursuit of achievement. He is lazy almost to a fault, preferring to do nothing at all if whatever task he finds before himself does not seem extremely visible and offer immediate gratification. The result of it all is that he is never truly held accountable and ends up poor, single, without any true friends, and lacking in a skill set that would at least give him a livable income.

While this characterization is utterly insufferable and quite infuriating, but Amory does just enough randomly good or selfless acts in order to garner some sympathy with the reader. Multiple times throughout the novel, I found myself thinking that maybe he was finally on the road to change and had hit that point when a person realizes that they are the architect of their own demise. But no! Just Amory being Amory. He ends up destitute, the consequence of his own actions, which is satisfying in a sense as well.

2. "You will admit that if it was not life it was magnificent" (9).

An undertone of blandly humorous irony. A sense of realism, that the world is a certain way and isn't going to change, undergirds the whole novel. Smoking is bad for your lungs and will probably result in lung cancer, but gosh is it fulfilling in the moment when you want a cigarette with all of your friends. The way that Amory lives while he is young, and even after he goes to war, is all for the pleasure of today. He pretends to want more, but he never really does anything to climb the social or economic ladder. He has many capabilities and advantages, but they only do so much for him until his natural failings drag him down.

He is something of a philosopher, sitting back and talking with his friends and lovers about the meaning of life and how society's problems can be solved. The issue is not the soliloquizing itself, but rather the jaded naivete behind it all. That may sound like an oxymoron, but Amory embodies it. He is an idealist, unconsciously expecting a world that will just fall into the palm of his hand. Alternatively, he complains about the pointlessness of effort in the face of inevitable failure.

The absolute lack of self-awareness, while being entirely self-focused, is partly what makes many of the characters, including the protagonist, so interesting. It is a psychoanalysis of entitlement mixed with flighty apathy and occasional good intentions. The author seems to reach through the dialogue to wink at the reader and say, "Isn't this just the wildest take? Can you believe they really think this way? So tragic, you have to laugh."

3. "Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays" (170).

Creative elements. This point could go either way for me--positive or negative. TSoP is famous (or infamous, depending on your position) for breaking into a play in the latter half, for a few chapters, and then returning to traditional novel form. I understand the purpose as being a nod to Amory's constant posturing, as though he is the star of a sitcom or reality television show. When he meets Rosalind, a name strikingly similar to that of Romeo's love obsession before he meets Juliet, he has found his performative match.

They swirl around each other for weeks, caught in the throes of intense romantic attraction. They play the parts just as everyone would "expect," and inevitably, Rosalind drops Amory for a much richer paramour. All of these aspects fit perfectly into the star-crossed lovers trope. Neither of them is selfless enough to sacrificially love another person, and ultimately Rosalind is right when she says that they would end up hating one another in marriage for just this reason.

All that to say, I understand the play, and I think it is a bold move. Do I respect it? Yes. Do I also think it's a bit melodramatic? Also, yes. But that's why we read Fitzgerald.

Strangely, as I read back through these points, it would almost seem that I didn't actually like this novel. In reality, I liked it a lot more than I thought I would, especially after reading The Beautiful and Damned and being disappointed. It's a bit long and bloated, and the characters are extremely irritating at several points, but it is also very realistic to people's true motivations and the natural consequences of life.

Breakfast at Tiffany's

 

"I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest heart" (66).

As a fan of Audrey Hepburn and her many on-screen iterations, the iconic adaptation of Truman Capote's novella, Breakfast at Tiffany's, is a not-so-unique favorite. The feel of the movie denotes a whimsical realism, leaving the viewer with a sense that something ethereal has touched down in a very normal corner of New York City. By chance, I landed upon a copy of the original during my last visit to one of the bookstores that I sacrificially assist in staying open.

Imagine my delight in reading a story that was so well captured in its movie version that I found myself reminded of each scene's delivery with renewed appreciation for the nuance found there. It would be hard to choose a favorite--movie or book--because they seem to be cut from the same cloth. I can also confidently give this story one of the highest honors that I have to impart: it was actually the perfect length! My opinion on many a book and movie, even those that I genuinely enjoy, is that at least some small portion of extra fluff could have been cut to elevate my enjoyment. I felt that this one had exactly what it needed to be both effective and delightful.

1. "They would never change because they'd been given their character too soon; which, like sudden riches, leads to a lack of proportion...a lopsided romantic" (46).

Iconic characters. From the narrator, who is never named, to the side characters like Sally Tomato and Doc Golightly, this story is populated by a stunning number of men and women who circle around Holly's eccentricities. The protagonist is a woman of humble means, coming from a backwater orphan adolescence and "Pygmalion-ed" by a Hollywood executive who imagines her a future star. She gives herself a new name, à la Marylin Monroe, and finds her place amidst the vast bustle of war-time New York City.

Capote's genius is in his ability to craft people who seem to really exist, as though they could be a friend of a friend. Simultaneously, they are rooted in very particular personality traits, motivations, or fears that eclipse all other aspects. Condensing characters in this way provides a look into the very specific human psychologies that interest us most in ourselves and others.

Holly is, as previously stated, the naive girl from the small, country life, beyond her own years (as well as her humble surroundings) both physically and intellectually. Unfortunately for her, such rapid and early maturation prevents her from developing any emotional regulation or practical long-term thinking. She is thrust into the sparkling world of high society and realizes that she can achieve almost transcendent independence through exploitation of her female form and the scrappy wit that gives her an ironic edge.

2. "It should take you about four seconds to walk from here to the door. I'll give you two" (50).

Iconic relationships. Holly attracts men who want to use her, fix her, love her, marry her, or a combination of all four. Mag Wildwood, one of her only female "friends," seems to embody a fifth desire: to be Holly. Money is, of course, not a small motivator either. Everyone's ulterior motives conclude in the creation of storm after storm. 

The quote at the beginning of this review reveals an innate desire on Holly's part to be honest, but not necessarily in the moral sense. She is not above leaving her family without explanation, changing her name, and living through the financial support of a revolving door of men until she finds an especially wealthy one to marry. The commitment that helps her sleep through the night is to a personal honesty, staying true to her own wants and needs without entering into any social contracts of which she cannot follow through. 

The main love story, if it can even be called that, is between Holly and the narrator whom she calls "Fred," after her soldier brother. Imagine Audrey Hepburn thrusting Cat out of her taxi and into the rain, leaving New York, and abandoning her life there as thoroughly as she left Doc and her teenage marriage. Can't quite see it? I guess the directors didn't think that ending would sell as well. But Capote isn't afraid of an unsatisfying conclusion, especially one that tells us so much more about true human nature.

3. "...it was a subject to ponder, how, from such wreckage, she evolved the eventual effect: pampered, calmly immaculate, as though she'd been attended by Cleopatra's maids" (42-43).

Je ne sais quoi. There is a certain undeniable quality to Breakfast at Tiffany's that combines the aimlessness of the post-World War I generation with the rapidly modernizing culture as it is thrust into yet another world war. Everything that draws us to mid-century narratives, with their traditional male and female characters functioning in new-found freedoms as society leaves behind many of the previous century's restrictions, is found in these pages. The golden age of Hollywood was just a few years in the future. This style of writing functions as an archetype for the striking stories that would soon become the romantic obsession of the world.

It is difficult to place one's finger on exactly the pulse that has made this story such an enduring classic. Perhaps it is just that: Capote, and subsequently those involved in the film adaptation of his work, managed to feel the essential heartbeat of the changing world and its many wonders and anxieties. They poured all of it into a few magnanimous characters and let them speak with their own brand of honesty.

Go Set a Watchman

 

"As sure as time, history is repeating itself, and as sure as man is man, history is the last place he'll look for his lessons" (197).

To Kill a Mockingbird is a classic that has stood the test of time and remained an integral part of many American classrooms. Over half a century after its publication, Harper Lee's only other novel was published, to the great surprise of the public and just a few months before her death. Fans, young and old, immediately patronized booksellers in order to purchase a copy of this un-anticipated second installment in what was never before classified as a series.

Then began the outrage. To Kill a Mockingbird was a light shining in the darkness of mid-century racial prejudice. It boldly declared the need for every person to take up their shotgun and rid themselves of the rabid dog of racism before it continued to infect the entire country. Go Set a Watchman, however, seemed more like a cautionary tale on meeting your heroes, unless you want to realize that they aren't always what they seem. It presented previously beloved characters as flawed and selfish, and lacked the sparkling anecdotes and crisp metaphors of its predecessor.

Go Set a Watchman was actually written before TKAM, and Harper Lee's agent sent it to several publishers before she decided to write a different story that pre-dated the events she had previously set to type. She clearly felt no inclination to have that original work published after years of literary silence, and yet her virgin work hit bookshelves in 2015 with (according to the note in the book) very little editing done to its original form. Is there something valuable to be learned from this novel? It has been continually controversial, but in the theme of TKAM before it, most things that make people upset usually do so for a good reason.

1. "Every man's island, Jean Louise, every man's watchman, is his conscience. There is no such thing as a collective conscious" (265-66).

Identity and independence. The whole concept of Go Set a Watchman, and perhaps the reason why so many readers found it disappointing, is the development of independent thought and personal responsibility. To Kill a Mockingbird very intentionally sets up a dichotomy between right and wrong, metaphorical black and white, the prejudice of racism versus undebatable stances such as equal rights, honesty, common human decency...etc. These are all very obvious binaries that demonstrate a clear moral high ground.

Go Set a Watchman presents more complex political and moral issues that entail grappling with significantly more gray areas. For example, is it wrong to allow someone to engage in free speech when what they are saying is incorrect or offensive to you? Is it better to speak up loudly for change and burn all bridges with the community, or should one approach change more slowly, in order to maintain those communal ties? 

Atticus has made choices in the process towards change that Scout abhors, even though they both seem to agree on the same final outcome. She rails against him, angry and hurt, clearly taking the situation very personally because Atticus was a perfect hero in her eyes. It shocks her that he would do anything that she disagrees with. The end of the book does not offer any answers or display a clear path forward, but rather chooses to focus on the benefit to Scout in realizing that her father is human and that they will not always agree.

The whole point, starkly different from TKAM, does not seem to be an establishment of clear good and evil. The questions we are left with are: how can we use critical thinking skills rather than believe whatever we hear from the people that we trust? How can we disagree in a healthy way and produce intelligent discourse for change that doesn't result in name-calling and personal attacks? Can we all agree that the issues before us are complex, there may not be one perfect way forward, but we all want the same result and can thus work in tandem?

2. "What does a bigot do when he meets someone who challenges his opinions? He doesn't give. He stays rigid. Doesn't even try to listen, just lashes out" (267).

Political discourse. The second point branches from the first. Having a political conversation in our current climate is nearly impossible, especially amongst individuals from different sides of the aisle. Why is that the case? Well, this lesson is one that Scout learns when she finds herself disappointed in her father's actions. To begin, she keeps her findings a secret and doesn't ask any questions in order to dispel possible misunderstanding. When her anger has become so pent up that she can no longer withstand it, she blows up with deep emotion and is incapable of hearing any explanations.

While not everyone may agree with Atticus' proposals on how best to achieve certain ideals, it is clear to see that his calm and collected manner are a huge contrast to Scout's deeply personal and combative dialogue. He leaves her with the statement that he loves her no matter what, and she leaves essentially disowning him as her parent. Many results can come from engaging in open and vulnerable conversation: convincing, compromise, understanding, and grace. 

Screaming "I'm right; you're wrong" arguments only end in one way, with hypocrisy and broken relationships. One cannot expect others to listen when they themselves are only interested in talking. Herein lies perhaps one aspect of GSAW controversy, in that it doesn't conclude with clear ideals. Instead, it displays multiple sides and leaves them open ended, choosing to make a comment about the nature of political conversations rather than enter into the conversation itself.

3. "I need a watchman to lead me around and declare what he seeth every hour on the hour. I need a watchman to tell me this is what a man says but this is what he means" (181-82).

Messy motivations. While there are a great many aspects of this book that I find thought-provoking and valuable, it is very clearly a draft that needed a lot more editing and feedback to reach the level of TKAM. There were several moments when I had no idea why characters were behaving in certain ways, and their motivations remained unclear even after I had read on. Calpurnia, who is supposedly a pseudo-mother to Scout and Jem, mysteriously casts Scout out of her inner circle of friendship even though she has done nothing wrong. This example is one of many that filled me with questions that were never really answered, and I think the ambiguity detracts from the storyline.

Unfortunately, very few of the characters seem to have changed for good. Scout transitions from being a beloved and opinionated childhood ruffian to a selfish woman in her twenties, leaving her beau clinging to hope that she will one day commit to him and abandoning her family for New York. As I mentioned, Calpurnia is holding some unknown grudge against the children she helped raise, and Atticus is an elderly man suffering from arthritis and doesn't seem to be making the same quiet but brave stand for equal rights. I hate to be the bearer of this bad news, but Jem is dead, having passed away from some genetic heart condition. Anyone looking for a nostalgic visit to Maycomb, Alabama, will not find it in these pages.

4. "It's just that every time I've come home for the past five years--before that, even. From college--something's changed a little more" (75).

Lacking plot. There is really no plot here whatsoever. The whole book takes place in the space of about a week and is filled with intermittent flashbacks to Scout's childhood, which provide the bulk of the word count. The rest is taken up with a very simple concept: Scout is mad at Atticus, she has a very angry conversation with him, she gets a pat on the back for finally thinking like an individual, and everybody makes up. The most interesting bits are in the conversations throughout the text, but the very low stakes create a significantly less interesting novel, especially when compared with a black man's life hanging in the balance as he is tried for a crime that he did not commit.

Overall, while it is a profound read in many instances and touches on issues that are still prevalent today, publishing a book that was essentially left un-edited since 1960 was probably a mistake. I can understand why people were outraged, or at the very least, disillusioned. That may be part of the point that Harper Lee was trying to make, which is that no person should be idolized so much that their word is taken as law. We must never lose the ability to have conversations with those who hold different values, because otherwise, we will never be required to think critically about our own. The execution of the book, however, leaves much to be desired and could have been greatly improved upon with some very simple edits.

The Bell Jar

 

"I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't...and this made me even sadder and more tired" (18).

Having read much of Sylvia Plath's poetry, this year felt like the right moment to finally interact with her one and only novel, The Bell Jar. There is a part of me that wishes I had read it as a teenager, or at the very least in my early 20s, in order to compare my current thoughts to the response I might have had as a younger woman. When a book infiltrates one's dreams, its impact is evident. The few nights that I read a few chapters before bed and the taste of them lingered in feverish nightmares. I was relieved when I finally reached the end. It is difficult to slog through the inner workings of an emotional breakdown and navigate the twisted thoughts of a person caught in the throes of mental illness. Few authors have undertaken such a risky and unnerving task, and Plath's tragic legacy only add to the solemnity that descended upon me during my journey through the book.

There is some literature that can be liked or disliked, others that can only be accepted and respected for what they are, in spite of our emotional responses to them. I believe this text to be one of the second category. Can anyone truly like interacting with the brokenness of internal struggle and sickness? Perhaps we see ourselves in the characters, or maybe others with whom we have interacted. A lucky few may have had little to no contact with any psychological disorders, and these readers could entirely miss the accuracy in Plath's presentation of disordered thinking. Whatever our response to her work, no one can debate that she knew quite intimately the subject matter on which she chose to write. Such skill came at the highest cost, and her honesty haunts each new generation of readers.

1. "They hung the raw, red screen of their tiny vessels in front of my face like a wound" (82).

Literary artistry. Plath has mastered that form of figurative language that I consider as walking the line between inevitability and surprise. The descriptions cut to the truth of human experience--they feel so true that it almost shocks the reader into contemplating why they hadn't thought of it that before. Simultaneously, the comparisons are fresh. They don't remind one of any other text. Artists are always influenced by other artists, but Plath manages to bury her influences so deeply that each passage shines with the crystal clarity of originality. I think at once, Ah, of course, that is the feeling! and, Well, I have never thought of that before.

2. "...babies doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious world" (153).

Accurate portrayal of mental illness...positives. The accuracy in Esther's decent into madness and depression, and her struggle to dig out of the darkness and back to a functioning life, is unmistakable. Especially for a woman of the mid-twentieth century--wherein women who displayed excessive emotion in any direction would be considered unstable and hysterical--recording the experience of mental and emotional disintegration is important. Many who have had similar struggles may feel seen and understood, and those who have not may take time to understand that which is outside of their realm of experience.

3. "I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life" (6).

Accurate portrayal of mental illness...negatives. The problem with delving into a broken mind is that madness can be catching. I have already mentioned that this book was not an easy read for me, as the nightmarish cast of Esther's plunge into self-flagellation and harm began to manipulate my own way of thinking. A consistent aspect of mental illness is the selfishness that encapsulates the person who is suffocated by their own internal contortion. The internal becomes all-encompassing, even as external forces are blamed as the causal factors for one's agony. Esther views her life as a failure, but she ultimately believes herself to be a victim of the choices that others have made. Her boss, her friends, her parents, her lovers, her counselors and doctors...they have all compromised her in some way, forced her into the shape of a monster that will ultimately destroy every good aspect of her life. While this characteristic may be important to identify, it is imperative that a person does not dwell on such duplicitous thinking for long. We are all prone to selfishness and faulty introspection anyway, and such constant reminders cannot be healthy.

Tread with care if you choose to undertake this read. It is an important work but may not be appropriate for every mind.

To Kill a Mockingbird

"It's not necessary to tell all you know...You're not gonna change any of them by talkin...they've got to learn themselves, and when they don't want to learn there's nothing you can do but keep your mouth shut or talk their language" (143).

There were two types of stories that I enjoyed in my late elementary and middle school years: the fantastical fairy tales that carried me away to shining otherworldly realms, and the coming-of-age, fictional memoir. I loved each for differing reasons, but the second category carried a certain attraction that is difficult to unpack. For one, they were often told in first-person POV and created a sense of closeness between the narrator and reader so poignant that it almost conflated the two. While an imaginative story filled with magic and impossibility holds its own appeal, there is something solid and comfortable in the possible. Reading the thoughts of a young girl navigating relationships, education, and the internal narrative of a developing maturity lent credence to the struggles and triumphs I was also experiencing. Others have walked these paths as well, and they conquered them without discovering a hidden ability, traveling to a different dimension, inhabiting a supernatural body with wings or a cape or a horse's lower half.

To Kill a Mockingbird is one of these stories. It tells a tale that is, at least partially, based on the life of its author. She unravels a plot thread that covers the highs and lows, but also the mundane in-between--occurrences that seem unimportant (albeit funny, sad, or touching in some sense), but actually carry symbolic meaning for those who are willing to take the time and meditate upon them. Could our lives also be shaped by such events? Perhaps there are meaningful and important influences happening right in front of us, and we need someone else's story to remind us to keep our eyes open.

1. "If there's just one kind of folks, why can't they get along with each other? If they're all alike, why do they go out of their way to despise each other" (259)?

The questions. To Kill a Mockingbird has existed in a realm of awed historical preservation almost since its publication, as readers felt its importance as a stirring record of the questions that can start a revolution. As the book itself states, it is the innocence of children that often sets such change into motion. Scout and Jem look at their world with fresh eyes, untainted by the complacency of having been overwhelmed by the world's prejudice for too many years. They ask the simplest of questions, draw the most obvious of connections between the behavior of the adults around them and the contradictory tolerance that their southern good manners dictate. For this reason, TKAM has remained an important and scathing look at the human tendency towards convenient cognitive dissonance, staring at readers through the eyes of capacious youth.

2. "...when I asked Atticus about it, he said there were already enough sunbeams in the family and to go on about my business, he didn't mind me much the way I was" (93).

Family and identity. Scout is the narrator of this tale and the forceful heart behind its emotional impact. She is unabashedly herself, climbing the mountains of societal expectation without care or self-doubt. Atticus defends this wild independence, granting her the freedom that comes with the primary male figure in a young girl's life looking at her in approval no matter her perceived failings. Jem has reached a point in adolescence where he must decide if he will adhere to and perpetuate the standards set by the surrounding culture or give these up for redefinition by a new generation. Sometimes he is one and sometimes he is the other, as we often discover to be true of us all. Scout's character, however, juxtaposes this inconsistency. She makes mistakes and blunders her way through the growth of empathy and emotional maturity, but her framework for herself and the world around her stays constant. Her family has provided an environment in which personal identity formation is encouraged.

3. "...the mockingbirds were silent" (108).

The symbolism. The mockingbird is perhaps one of the premier symbols in modern American literature. This novel is almost an allegory at points, breaking into what appear as short parables to extrapolate the importance of the narrative being told. Symbols like this are, of course, an English teachers dream, but they are also invaluable for teaching concepts that elude many adults. Children understand the world through images, not words. They see most clearly what language has perhaps dimmed for those of us more mature in years--the applicable nature of the everyday occurrence. Two young children watch their bookish, lawyer father take up a rifle and shoot the diseased dog, dumb to his actions, weaving his way toward the people he would take with him on his path to ultimate doom. The canker of the town's racism festers unchecked in a humid courtroom. A group of neighbors, looking each other in the eyes, are able to pull the trigger backwards and shoot themselves in the name of perverted justice. Such stories leave a scar upon our hearts, refusing to go numb, so that the events that should impact us as though we had never seen the evil in this world in fact still do.

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

 

"Right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows better" (355).

Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer are the models for boyhood camaraderie and unhindered adventure. When I teach this novel, the male side of the class usually relates to the characters and story with ready approval. The girls, however, sometimes feel as though they've entered a fever dream where there are no rules and no comforting securities. I think that this response tells us something about the differences between men and women, but also about the success that Samuel Clemens (known by his pen name, Mark Twain) had in writing for a certain audience. My frustrated and sometimes horrified response to the material is exactly how I feel when hearing my brother relay stories about his daily interactions and choices. So, while I'm taking a deep breath in between chapters, I am also struck by the authenticity that Clemens was able to infuse with his storytelling. For this reason, and many others, I give you many a reason to pick up Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, whether you are the intended audience or not:  

1. "We said their warn't no home like a raft, after all...You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft" (256).

The boyish simplicity. Samuel Clemens is a master of the childhood adventure novel. He writes like a boy whose mother had her hands full, and in fact she is quoted saying as much about the prolific author. He creates madcap scenarios for his characters to navigate, and they do so with a nonchalance that provides an ironic underpinning to the whole ordeal. Huck's self-awareness is marked by polar opposites: He will realize truths that no one else in the text seems to understand, but yet he happily goes along with whatever wild enterprise he or his friends dream up. If I had no prior awareness of the book, how would I know the appeal of this novel to the inner boy in every young man? My feminine horror at almost every page turn. The unpredictable setting along the Mississippi River, each ridiculous disagreement and misuse of common words, and the unnecessarily complicated, hairbrained schemes of Tom, Huck, and Jim...This book is exhausting! I consistently find myself wanting to mother all three of them. I'm guessing that this is the effect that Twain was going for.

2. "He was thinking about his wife and children away up yonder, and he was low and homesick...I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for ther'n" (286).

The recognition of mutual humanity. Huck Finn was such an important work for its time, and it still remains so today. The simplicity in Huck's journey as he grows in friendship with Jim, the only true father figure in his life, is a beautiful testament to the unnatural bigotry of racism. Many of Huck's direct influences tell him that skin color categorizes and alienates. Independent of the society that establishes these ideas, he conceives very quickly of the comparative humanity in Jim. They are the same in all essential aspects. An even greater testament to this realization is the fact that Huck continues, for a time, to believe that it is a moral wrong to protect and help Jim. Yet, he still does so out of loyalty to his friend and belief in his individualism. The most powerful tool against hatred and isolation is relationship, and Twain communicates the empathy between Huck and Jim with great poignance.

3. "Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me" (202).

The humor. This point is obvious and almost doesn't need to be made, but for the sake of fastidiousness, I will cover it nonetheless. Situational irony abounds. Twain often plays on the reader's awareness of what the characters seem not to know. The well-rounded emotional impact of the novel is both lighthearted and occasionally serious--Huck Finn is a well-balance novel with all of the personality and depth of a real boyhood coming-of-age. 

One critique--the length. I will fully acknowledge my bias in this area, as I often feel that books, movies, and even songs can go on for too long. There is a lot of fluff and nonsense (primarily coming from Tom as he crafts convoluted rescue plans that really only need a chapter to convey) that make re-reading it somewhat of a chore. I am not probably the audience that Twain imagined, and so I would not hesitate to recommend the book to anyone who desires a look into the mind of a young and hapless teenage boy growing up in a pre-Civil War America.

The Scarlet Letter

 

"Wondrous strength and generosity of a woman's heart! She will not speak!" (59)

The Scarlet Letter is another novel that I recall from my early high school experience. What I specifically remember about my introduction to the text was the scandalous nature of its plot concerning a woman who had committed adultery...I was at once appalled and fascinated. I don't particularly remember how old I was upon being assigned the book, but I was young enough to be relatively ill acquainted with most content pertaining to such actions. I did, however, love a good forbidden romance. Imagine my disappointment when I realized that the book begins after the romance bit has taken place, and the reader isn't permitted to observe the two lovers interact until about 75% of the way through. So, NOT a romance. Let me just clarify that fact for anyone unsure of the story you will find herein.

I would probably have said, up until a recent point in life, that The Scarlet Letter has historically remained one of my least favorite classics. As a teacher, I've presented it as necessary within courses of American Lit, but with nowhere near the enjoyment I find in most other novels. My earliest memories of the thing are poor, and it hadn't really redeemed itself upon subsequent readings. Now you may be asking, "Dear lady, what has changed? What mysterious providence led you to a newfound love of this work?"

To which I answer, not much. Not much has changed. I am severely sorry to dash your hopes in such a rude fashion; if you were anticipating a rousing treatise in appreciation of Hawthorne's merits, it will not be found here. I will tell you that I started my summer by re-reading TSL--partly because I want to believe in the validity of the classic and would gladly admit, if possible, that the error lies with the reader, but also partially to vindicate my generally harsh critique. I'm sure I looked very studious and "literary" to the casual observer. But there at the end...I must be transparent. I skimmed a little. I just couldn't read Hester's inner turmoil one more time. We get it; the central conflict is within her. She fights against herself, the expectations of her society, the dark emblem upon her chest. I really would like to see the characters do more than sit and think, stand and talk, walk and think and talk. Except for Pearl, who is allowed to run a bit and tromp through water. Usually while talking. And the number of exclamation points! In the last chapter! Is enough to make a high school English teacher blush (with rage)! Shouldn't the emotional climax of the text speak for itself, rather than requiring punctuation to communicate that we have reached the fullness of plot intensity?

Now, to give credit where credit may be due: from the standpoint of characterization and a thought-provoking portrayal of Puritan societal pressures, I can see the value in the text. It is also a really wonderful study on characters. Teaching character analysis and symbolism is pretty easy when a book is primarily characters and symbols, without much distracting plot to speak of. While there is usefulness in it, I still struggle with appreciating The Scarlet Letter as anything more than a tool for the classroom. There are so much more exciting and well-written texts than this one.

In typical form, we find a list of the "Why?":

1. "Then, what was he? -- a substance? -- or the dimmest of all shadows? He longed to speak out...I, your pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie! (119)

The character analysis. As good a place to start as any, Hawthorne's characters are the major substance of his text. We have whole chapters given to waxing poetic about almost every important individual living in New England. While I have my reservations about this mode of writing a novel, I do appreciate the depth with which he evaluates the physical and psychological morphology of Hester, Dimmesdale, Pearl, and Chillingworth. I can stand before a class of students and ask, "How is Dimmesdale's internal unraveling portrayed?" If they've read chapters seven-twelve, the answer will be evident, as it is written no fewer than twenty times. I love this as a method to determine right away which students need habitual public shaming as motivation for reading the assigned texts. If I've interpreted TSL correctly, I believe they will respond by liking it and coming back for more.

2. "The boughs were tossing heavily above their heads; while one solemn old tree groaned dolefully to another, as if telling the sad story of the pair that sat beneath, or constrained to forebode evil to come," (162). 

The language. Over and above the repetitive prose, which I will address shortly, the figurative language in the novel is beautifully executed. There are many descriptions and revelations, especially pertaining to the setting, that strike the reader. A characteristic of many 19th century publications, narrative and exposition often carry the qualities of romantic poetry. Perhaps, rather than writing novels, Hawthorne should have focused on landscape verse. He really would have excelled.

And, in less typical form, a list of the "Why not?":

1. "The mother herself--as if the red ignominy were do deeply scorched into her brain, that all her conceptions assumed its form--had carefully wrought out the similitude; lavishing many hours of morbid ingenuity, to create an analogy between the object of her affection and the emblem of her guilt and torture," (84). 

The pace. There is an interesting viewpoint in writing about the aftermath of a passionate love affair, but the character work that is done sometimes feels hollow when the reader has no real connection to the relationship that set it all in motion. Pearl's father is slowly revealed over the course of a few chapters, which is not my issue. The plot points are so few and far between, they could be listed in a meager number of bullet points; internal struggle is the main impetus for the book's movement. By the time that Hester and her ex-lover meet in the forest and finally acknowledge their still-burning passion for one another, the reader hasn't been set up to care. In short, it took too long. And yet, not enough happened in all of the novel to create a likely scenario where such an admission would make sense. They each battle the sin that was committed, not their hidden love. I waver between thinking that either they are both infuriating and deserve each other, or it would really be better for everyone if they just continued to struggle in private and left one another alone.

2. "The links that united her to the rest of human kind--links of flowers, or silk, or gold, or whatever the material--had all been broken. Here was the iron link of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break," (132).

The repetition. I've already mentioned this point, but to be clear and ensure that every reader understands, Hester has sinned against the natural order. She is shunned by society. Her struggle is profound, symbolized by the wayward child born of her illicit union. This story does not change until, in the thirteenth chapter, we get "Another View of Hester," which is that... she has sinned against the natural order. She is shunned by society. Her struggle is profound, symbolized by the wayward child born of her illicit union. AND she also still cares for her father's daughter and seeks to protect him. For lack of a more highbrow way to write it, TSL is so boring. You could cut out about half of the chapters and not miss much of anything important.

Harsh, I know. In regard to a recommendation, I would say that The Scarlet Letter may have value from an educational standpoint, but I would be happy to never read or teach this book again. I'd love to speak to someone who likes it (not appreciates or understands it, but LIKES it), because that point of view is beyond the grasp of my mental faculties. 

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.