This essay is intended to try and answer some of the questions you may have about the plot, characters, setting and motifs of the novel. Needless to say, it is not intended to be a summary of the novel itself.
“The Awakening” – Literary Analysis
When it was published in 1899, “The Awakening” was considered vulgar by most critics. The inferior social status of women was firmly entrenched, especially in the South. An accompanying concept was the assumed moral superiority of women, at least in sexual matters. Upper-class ladies like Edna Pontellier were ornaments, displays of their husbands’ wealth. A book that challenged the traditional roles of women was likely to be controversial. The public was not ready to accept a liberated woman, even if she did commit suicide in the end. Kate Chopin disappeared from the literary world when her book was critically attacked and banned from libraries. Not all critics gave negative reviews. Willa Cather, later a famous novelist herself, praised “The Awakening.” Cather acclaimed the style of Chopin and also compared the protagonist to Emma Bovary and Anna Karenina, heroines of classic European fiction. From the mid-twentieth century on, critics, especially feminists, have raised the status of the novel to an American masterpiece. It has been celebrated as an important literary document in the history of women’s rights and as an artistic success.
Kate Chopin tells Edna Pontellier’s story without comment; the action and dialogue present ambiguities. Various schools of criticism have interpreted “The Awakening” from diverse views. Feminist critics have promoted it as a neglected text that should rightly be placed among the outstanding novels of the nineteenth century. It presented the plight of a woman who cannot accept the idea of being limited to a socially defined role. Edna rejects the economic and social success that her marriage to Leonce gives her in favor of working out her own destiny. She prefers to define her role actively rather than to be a passive object. Her awakening is sexual in part, but it is also a search for creativity, as suggested by her attempt to paint. She seeks the advice of the only artist she knows—Mademoiselle Reisz. She reads Emerson, the voice of individualism. From these sources, she gains the courage to challenge the authority of her husband. In her flight for independence, Edna Pontellier becomes a threat to the values of a society.
Feminists critics also recognize other elements of the book relating to psychoanalytic theory, mythology, linguistics, and cultural studies. Critics from different fields saw it as a naturalistic, an extended work of local color, or as a conflict between Creole and American cultures. A major emphasis, however, was the consideration of the novel as a work of art, which often involved an examination of patterns of imagery that tie the novel together.
One example is how Chopin uses birds to help define Edna’s situation. On the first page, the caged parrot suggests her feelings of being trapped by traditions. The mockingbird, on the other side of Madame Lebrun’s door, further illustrates her passive role, in which a voice of her own was not expected. Edna, however, spoke for herself by moving out of Leonce’s house into what she called her pigeon-house, suggestive of both a dependent domestic bird and a wild bird that has found its own nest. The advice that Edna got from the pianist included a reference to a bird that would have wings strong enough to fly above traditions and prejudices. Also, when the pianist played for Edna, the latter envisioned a naked man looking toward a distant bird in “hopeless resignation.” Finally when Edna decided on suicide as a final act of free will, she watched a broken-winged bird descend into the sea. Edna Pontellier broke free from her cage, but she floundered in an alien environment. The story of her brief flight, however, has become a celebrated novel.
Further Reading:
Chopin, Kate. The Awakening. Edited by Margaret Culley. New York: Norton, 1976.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Literary Analysis -- "Fahrenheit 451"
This essay is intended to try and answer some of the questions you may have about the plot, characters, setting and motifs of the novel. Needless to say, it is not intended to be a summary of the novel itself.
Fahrenheit 451 – Literary Analysis
“Fahrenheit 451” was Ray Bradbury’s first major novel. His earlier book-length work, “The Martian Chronicles,” was a loosely connected cycle of short stories. In the opinion of many critics, “Fahrenheit 451” remains his only really impressive novel. Appropriately enough for a writer who has generally been considered a master of short fiction, this novel grew out of a story, titled “The Fireman,” which Bradbury had published in 1951. “Fahrenheit 451” reached a wide audience through Francois Truffaut’s film adaptation of 1966, which starred Julie Christie as both Mildred and Clarisse and Oscar Werner as Guy Montag.
Bradbury’s novel is a classic example of dystopian fiction, a subgenre of utopian literature. Literary utopias, such as Thomas More’s “Utopia”, after which the entire genre was named, present fictional depictions of societies that are clearly superior to the one in which the author lives. The societies described in such seventeenth century works as Francis Bacon’s “New Atlantis” and Thomas Campanella’s “La citta del sole” are highly structured and static. Utopian novels of the nineteenth and early twentieth century added the concept of progress, situating their utopian communities in the future rather than a remote place. Utopian books of that time exhibit a strong belief in the social benefit of advancing technology.
After World War I, however, there was a vehement backlash against the very idea of utopianism, which took the form of dystopian novels. Dystopian novels show that any attempt at establishing utopia will only make matter much worse. The great works of this tradition, such as E. Zamiatin’s “My,” and Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World,” and George Orwell’s “1984,” establish a pattern that is clearly reflected in Bradbury’s “Fahrenheit 451.”
The set of characters in Bradbury’s novel closely follows established genre traditions. Like the protagonists of many other dystopian novels, Guy Montag starts out as a loyal member of the future society and only gradually shows signs of disaffection. His progress toward rebellion is aided by a female companion (Clarisse) and an older mentor figure (Faber, and to some extent Beatty also) who provide alternate set of values.
The most crucial element in the dystopian hero’s process of initiation, however, is the discovery of books that help explain the existence of the dystopian society and offer means to overcome it. This is a stock scene in dystopian literature, and it is found in many of the genre’s major titles. Bradbury developed this standard motif into a spirited defense of literature itself. In Montag’s world of state-sponsored book burning, books are simply carriers of potentially subversive messages—their very physical existence evokes a rich cultural tradition antithetical to the leveling tendencies of the mass media. Furthermore, Montag, as a lone reader engrossed in a book, symbolizes the ideal of individualism in a society intent on standardizing every aspect of people’s lives. Thus “Fahrenheit 451” takes the genre of dystopia to its logical conclusion by enthusiastically proclaiming the power of the written word against any kind of oppression.
Bradbury’s imagery is both vivid and highly ambiguous. The very first paragraph depicts Montag’s flamethrower as a “great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world.” This sets the pattern for a complex juxtaposition of natural and mechanical images that dominates the novel and reflects its central tensions between the country and the city, or culture and technology. Many elements of this future society are portrayed as perverted versions of natural objects: the “beetle” cars used for joy riding, the “seashell” radios that keep people awash in sound, the “cobra-like” stomach pump used on Mildred after her suicide attempt, and, most significantly, the merciless killer robot called the Mechanical Hound. This contrast between the natural and the artificial is also employed in relation to Clarisse and Mildred. While Clarisse is associated with trees and the change of the seasons, Mildred is depicted as cold and mechanical.
As the novel progresses, however, Bradbury transcends the static opposition of the natural and the technological and focuses on the ambiguity of his central symbol, fire. Guy Montag is initially fascinated by fire, and this fascination persists, even as his repulsion against the act of book-burning grows. He once compares Clarisse’s luminous face to the light of a candle, an image that brings up a nostalgic childhood memory. The first of the many literary quotes that draw Montag inexorably toward forbidden books describes a martyr’s death as the lighting of a candle.
The destructive aspect of fire is embodied by Beatty, a true pyromaniac who is constantly playing with fire. For Beatty, fire is the ultimate weapon that allows him to cleanse and purify society by literally incinerating any dissenting voices. When Montag turns the flamethrower on Beatty after having torched his own house, Montag momentarily switches roles with this devil’s advocate, and he briefly muses afterward, whether Beatty might not have wanted him to do this.
The ambiguity of fire reaches its climax at the end of the novel, when the cities are destroyed in a nuclear war. Strangely, this scene employs no fire imagery at all and lyrically describes the destroyed cities as briefly floating in the air before they disintegrate. Out of the ashes of the cities, as Granger hopes, the Phoenix of a new civilization will arise, yet the bird Phoenix is also the emblem of the book-burning firemen. Thus, “Fahrenheit 451” at least partially disassociates the reader from the optimism of its protagonists and remains poised between dystopian despair and a utopian belief in the inevitability of the triumph of reason.
Dietz, Frank. “Literary Analysis.”
Fahrenheit 451 – Literary Analysis
“Fahrenheit 451” was Ray Bradbury’s first major novel. His earlier book-length work, “The Martian Chronicles,” was a loosely connected cycle of short stories. In the opinion of many critics, “Fahrenheit 451” remains his only really impressive novel. Appropriately enough for a writer who has generally been considered a master of short fiction, this novel grew out of a story, titled “The Fireman,” which Bradbury had published in 1951. “Fahrenheit 451” reached a wide audience through Francois Truffaut’s film adaptation of 1966, which starred Julie Christie as both Mildred and Clarisse and Oscar Werner as Guy Montag.
Bradbury’s novel is a classic example of dystopian fiction, a subgenre of utopian literature. Literary utopias, such as Thomas More’s “Utopia”, after which the entire genre was named, present fictional depictions of societies that are clearly superior to the one in which the author lives. The societies described in such seventeenth century works as Francis Bacon’s “New Atlantis” and Thomas Campanella’s “La citta del sole” are highly structured and static. Utopian novels of the nineteenth and early twentieth century added the concept of progress, situating their utopian communities in the future rather than a remote place. Utopian books of that time exhibit a strong belief in the social benefit of advancing technology.
After World War I, however, there was a vehement backlash against the very idea of utopianism, which took the form of dystopian novels. Dystopian novels show that any attempt at establishing utopia will only make matter much worse. The great works of this tradition, such as E. Zamiatin’s “My,” and Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World,” and George Orwell’s “1984,” establish a pattern that is clearly reflected in Bradbury’s “Fahrenheit 451.”
The set of characters in Bradbury’s novel closely follows established genre traditions. Like the protagonists of many other dystopian novels, Guy Montag starts out as a loyal member of the future society and only gradually shows signs of disaffection. His progress toward rebellion is aided by a female companion (Clarisse) and an older mentor figure (Faber, and to some extent Beatty also) who provide alternate set of values.
The most crucial element in the dystopian hero’s process of initiation, however, is the discovery of books that help explain the existence of the dystopian society and offer means to overcome it. This is a stock scene in dystopian literature, and it is found in many of the genre’s major titles. Bradbury developed this standard motif into a spirited defense of literature itself. In Montag’s world of state-sponsored book burning, books are simply carriers of potentially subversive messages—their very physical existence evokes a rich cultural tradition antithetical to the leveling tendencies of the mass media. Furthermore, Montag, as a lone reader engrossed in a book, symbolizes the ideal of individualism in a society intent on standardizing every aspect of people’s lives. Thus “Fahrenheit 451” takes the genre of dystopia to its logical conclusion by enthusiastically proclaiming the power of the written word against any kind of oppression.
Bradbury’s imagery is both vivid and highly ambiguous. The very first paragraph depicts Montag’s flamethrower as a “great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world.” This sets the pattern for a complex juxtaposition of natural and mechanical images that dominates the novel and reflects its central tensions between the country and the city, or culture and technology. Many elements of this future society are portrayed as perverted versions of natural objects: the “beetle” cars used for joy riding, the “seashell” radios that keep people awash in sound, the “cobra-like” stomach pump used on Mildred after her suicide attempt, and, most significantly, the merciless killer robot called the Mechanical Hound. This contrast between the natural and the artificial is also employed in relation to Clarisse and Mildred. While Clarisse is associated with trees and the change of the seasons, Mildred is depicted as cold and mechanical.
As the novel progresses, however, Bradbury transcends the static opposition of the natural and the technological and focuses on the ambiguity of his central symbol, fire. Guy Montag is initially fascinated by fire, and this fascination persists, even as his repulsion against the act of book-burning grows. He once compares Clarisse’s luminous face to the light of a candle, an image that brings up a nostalgic childhood memory. The first of the many literary quotes that draw Montag inexorably toward forbidden books describes a martyr’s death as the lighting of a candle.
The destructive aspect of fire is embodied by Beatty, a true pyromaniac who is constantly playing with fire. For Beatty, fire is the ultimate weapon that allows him to cleanse and purify society by literally incinerating any dissenting voices. When Montag turns the flamethrower on Beatty after having torched his own house, Montag momentarily switches roles with this devil’s advocate, and he briefly muses afterward, whether Beatty might not have wanted him to do this.
The ambiguity of fire reaches its climax at the end of the novel, when the cities are destroyed in a nuclear war. Strangely, this scene employs no fire imagery at all and lyrically describes the destroyed cities as briefly floating in the air before they disintegrate. Out of the ashes of the cities, as Granger hopes, the Phoenix of a new civilization will arise, yet the bird Phoenix is also the emblem of the book-burning firemen. Thus, “Fahrenheit 451” at least partially disassociates the reader from the optimism of its protagonists and remains poised between dystopian despair and a utopian belief in the inevitability of the triumph of reason.
Dietz, Frank. “Literary Analysis.”
Literary Analysis -- "A Farewell to Arms"
This essay is intended to try and answer some of the questions you may have about the plot, characters, setting and motifs of the novel. Needless to say, it is not intended to be a summary of the novel itself.
“A Farewell to Arms” – Literary Analysis
Ernest Hemingway once referred to “A Farewell to Arms” as his version of William Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet.” Several parallels exist. Both works are about star-crossed lovers; both show erotic flirtation that rapidly develop into serious, intense love affairs; and both describe the romances against a backdrop of social and political turmoil. Whether “A Farewell to Arms” finally qualifies as tragic is a matter of personal opinion, but it certainly represents, for Hemingway, an attempt to broaden his concerns from the aimless tragicomic problems of his earlier characters to the fundamental question of life’s meaning in the face of human mortality.
Frederic Henry begins the affair as a routine wartime seduction, “a game, like bridge, in which you said things instead of playing cards.” He feels mildly guilty, especially after learning about Cathernie’s vulnerability because of the loss of her lover in combat, but he still foresees no complication from the temporary arrangement. It is not until he is wounded and sent to her hospital in Milan that their affair deepens into love—and from that point on, they struggle to free themselves in order to realize it. Yet they are constantly thwarted, first the impersonal bureaucracy of the military effort, and then by the physical separation imposed by war itself, and, finally, by the biological “accident” that kills Catherine at the point where their “separate peace” at last seems possible.
As Henry’s love for Catherine grows, his disillusionment with the war also increases. From the beginning of the book, Henry views the military efforts with ironic detachment, but there is no suggestion that, prior to his meeting with her, he had any deep reservations about his involvement. Hemingway’s attitude toward war was always an ambiguous one. He questioned the rationales for fighting them and the slogans offered in their defense. Like Henry, he felt that “abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, or hallow were obscene.” For the individual, however, war could be the necessary test. Facing imminent death in combat, one either demonstrated “grace under pressure” and did the “one right thing” or one did not; one either emerged from the experience as a whole person with self-knowledge and control, or one came out of it lost and broken.
There is little heroism in this war as Henry describes it. The hero’s disengagement from the fighting is made most vivid in the extended “retreat from Caporetto,” generally considered one of the great sequences in modern fiction. The retreat begins in an orderly, disciplined, military manner. Yet as it progresses, authority breaks down, emotions of self-preservation supersede loyalties, and the neat military procession gradually turns into a panicking mob. Henry is caught up in the momentum and carried along with the group in spite of his attempt to keep personal control and fidelity to the small band of survivors he travels with. Upon reaching the Tagliamento River, Henry is seized, along with all other identifiable officers, and held for execution. After he escapes by leaping into the river—an act of ritual purification as well as physical survival—he feels that his trial has freed him from any and all further loyalty to the Allied cause.
Henry then rejoins Catherine, and they complete the escape together. In Switzerland, they seem lucky and free at last. Up in the mountains, they hike, ski, make love, prepare for the baby and plan for their postwar life together. Yet even in their most perfect times, there are ominous hints; they worry about the baby; Catherine jokes about her narrow hips; she becomes frightened by a dream of herself “dead in the rain.” Throughout the novel, Hemingway associates the plains and rains with death, disease, and sorrow; the mountains and the snow with life, health, and happiness, Catherine and Frederic are safe and happy in the mountains, but it is impossible to remain there indefinitely. Eventually everyone must return to the plains. When Catherine and Henry descend to the city, it is, in fact, raining, and she does, in fact, die.
Like that of Romeo and Juliet, the love between Catherine and Henry is not destroyed by any moral defect in their own characters. Henry muses that Catherine’s fate is the price paid for the good nights in Milan, but such a price is absurdly excessive. Nor, strictly speaking, is the war responsible for their fate, any more than the Montague-Capulet feud directly provokes the deaths of Shakespeare’s lovers. Yet the war and the feud provide the backdrop of violence and the accumulation of pressures that coerce the lovers into actions that contribute to their doom. Yet, in the final analysis, both couples are defeated by bad luck—the illness that prevents the friar from delivering Juliet’s note to Romeo, the accident of Catherine’s anatomy that prevents normal childbearing. Thus, both couples are star-crossed. If a “purpose” can be vaguely ascertained in Shakespeare’s version—the feud is ended by tragedy—there is no metaphysical justification for Catherine’s death; it is, in her own words, “a dirty trick”—and nothing more.
Hemingway does not insist that the old religious meanings are completely invalid but only that they do not work for his characters. Henry would like to visit with the priest in his mountain village, but he cannot bring himself to do it. His friend Rinaldi, a combat surgeon, proclaims atheism, hedonism, and work as the only available meaning. Count Greffi, and old billiard player Henry meets in Switzerland, offers good taste, cynicism, and the fact of a long, pleasant life. Catherine and Henry have each other: “You are my religion,” she tells him.
All of those things fail in the end. Religion is only for others, patriotism is a sham, hedonism becomes boring, culture is a temporary distraction, work finally fails (the operation on Catherine was “successful”), even love cannot last. Catherine dies; they both know, although they will not admit it, that the memory of it will fade.
All that remains is a stoic acceptance of the above facts with dignity and without bitterness. Life, like war, is absurd. Henry survives because he is lucky; Catherine dies because she is unlucky. There is not guarantee that the luck ever balances out and, since everyone ultimately dies, it probably does not matter. What does matter is the courage, dignity, and style with which one accepts these facts as a basis for life, and, more important, in the face of death.
Further Readings:
Beversluis, John. Dispelling the Romantic Myth: A Study of “A Farewell to Arms.” “The
Hemingway Review” #9, no.1. (Fall 1989).
Bloom, Harold, ed. Ernest Hemingway’s “A Farewell to Arms.” New York: Chelsea,
1987.
Donaldson, Scott, ed. New Essays on “A Farewell to Arms.” Cambridge, England:
Cambridge University Press, 1990.
Lewis, Robert W. “A Farewell to Arms:” The War of the Words. Boston: Twayne, 1992.
Waldhorn, Arthur. A Readers’ Guide to Ernest Hemingway. New York: Farrar, Straus &
Giroux, 1972.
“A Farewell to Arms” – Literary Analysis
Ernest Hemingway once referred to “A Farewell to Arms” as his version of William Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet.” Several parallels exist. Both works are about star-crossed lovers; both show erotic flirtation that rapidly develop into serious, intense love affairs; and both describe the romances against a backdrop of social and political turmoil. Whether “A Farewell to Arms” finally qualifies as tragic is a matter of personal opinion, but it certainly represents, for Hemingway, an attempt to broaden his concerns from the aimless tragicomic problems of his earlier characters to the fundamental question of life’s meaning in the face of human mortality.
Frederic Henry begins the affair as a routine wartime seduction, “a game, like bridge, in which you said things instead of playing cards.” He feels mildly guilty, especially after learning about Cathernie’s vulnerability because of the loss of her lover in combat, but he still foresees no complication from the temporary arrangement. It is not until he is wounded and sent to her hospital in Milan that their affair deepens into love—and from that point on, they struggle to free themselves in order to realize it. Yet they are constantly thwarted, first the impersonal bureaucracy of the military effort, and then by the physical separation imposed by war itself, and, finally, by the biological “accident” that kills Catherine at the point where their “separate peace” at last seems possible.
As Henry’s love for Catherine grows, his disillusionment with the war also increases. From the beginning of the book, Henry views the military efforts with ironic detachment, but there is no suggestion that, prior to his meeting with her, he had any deep reservations about his involvement. Hemingway’s attitude toward war was always an ambiguous one. He questioned the rationales for fighting them and the slogans offered in their defense. Like Henry, he felt that “abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, or hallow were obscene.” For the individual, however, war could be the necessary test. Facing imminent death in combat, one either demonstrated “grace under pressure” and did the “one right thing” or one did not; one either emerged from the experience as a whole person with self-knowledge and control, or one came out of it lost and broken.
There is little heroism in this war as Henry describes it. The hero’s disengagement from the fighting is made most vivid in the extended “retreat from Caporetto,” generally considered one of the great sequences in modern fiction. The retreat begins in an orderly, disciplined, military manner. Yet as it progresses, authority breaks down, emotions of self-preservation supersede loyalties, and the neat military procession gradually turns into a panicking mob. Henry is caught up in the momentum and carried along with the group in spite of his attempt to keep personal control and fidelity to the small band of survivors he travels with. Upon reaching the Tagliamento River, Henry is seized, along with all other identifiable officers, and held for execution. After he escapes by leaping into the river—an act of ritual purification as well as physical survival—he feels that his trial has freed him from any and all further loyalty to the Allied cause.
Henry then rejoins Catherine, and they complete the escape together. In Switzerland, they seem lucky and free at last. Up in the mountains, they hike, ski, make love, prepare for the baby and plan for their postwar life together. Yet even in their most perfect times, there are ominous hints; they worry about the baby; Catherine jokes about her narrow hips; she becomes frightened by a dream of herself “dead in the rain.” Throughout the novel, Hemingway associates the plains and rains with death, disease, and sorrow; the mountains and the snow with life, health, and happiness, Catherine and Frederic are safe and happy in the mountains, but it is impossible to remain there indefinitely. Eventually everyone must return to the plains. When Catherine and Henry descend to the city, it is, in fact, raining, and she does, in fact, die.
Like that of Romeo and Juliet, the love between Catherine and Henry is not destroyed by any moral defect in their own characters. Henry muses that Catherine’s fate is the price paid for the good nights in Milan, but such a price is absurdly excessive. Nor, strictly speaking, is the war responsible for their fate, any more than the Montague-Capulet feud directly provokes the deaths of Shakespeare’s lovers. Yet the war and the feud provide the backdrop of violence and the accumulation of pressures that coerce the lovers into actions that contribute to their doom. Yet, in the final analysis, both couples are defeated by bad luck—the illness that prevents the friar from delivering Juliet’s note to Romeo, the accident of Catherine’s anatomy that prevents normal childbearing. Thus, both couples are star-crossed. If a “purpose” can be vaguely ascertained in Shakespeare’s version—the feud is ended by tragedy—there is no metaphysical justification for Catherine’s death; it is, in her own words, “a dirty trick”—and nothing more.
Hemingway does not insist that the old religious meanings are completely invalid but only that they do not work for his characters. Henry would like to visit with the priest in his mountain village, but he cannot bring himself to do it. His friend Rinaldi, a combat surgeon, proclaims atheism, hedonism, and work as the only available meaning. Count Greffi, and old billiard player Henry meets in Switzerland, offers good taste, cynicism, and the fact of a long, pleasant life. Catherine and Henry have each other: “You are my religion,” she tells him.
All of those things fail in the end. Religion is only for others, patriotism is a sham, hedonism becomes boring, culture is a temporary distraction, work finally fails (the operation on Catherine was “successful”), even love cannot last. Catherine dies; they both know, although they will not admit it, that the memory of it will fade.
All that remains is a stoic acceptance of the above facts with dignity and without bitterness. Life, like war, is absurd. Henry survives because he is lucky; Catherine dies because she is unlucky. There is not guarantee that the luck ever balances out and, since everyone ultimately dies, it probably does not matter. What does matter is the courage, dignity, and style with which one accepts these facts as a basis for life, and, more important, in the face of death.
Further Readings:
Beversluis, John. Dispelling the Romantic Myth: A Study of “A Farewell to Arms.” “The
Hemingway Review” #9, no.1. (Fall 1989).
Bloom, Harold, ed. Ernest Hemingway’s “A Farewell to Arms.” New York: Chelsea,
1987.
Donaldson, Scott, ed. New Essays on “A Farewell to Arms.” Cambridge, England:
Cambridge University Press, 1990.
Lewis, Robert W. “A Farewell to Arms:” The War of the Words. Boston: Twayne, 1992.
Waldhorn, Arthur. A Readers’ Guide to Ernest Hemingway. New York: Farrar, Straus &
Giroux, 1972.
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