Reading Journal _ "The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World"

“Every single line… has a starting point in reality,” said Gabriel García Marquez. For him, the reality is his dough whereas his imagination is his toppings. That is, the fundamental plot is realistic, and its elements are what add an air of magic to it, somehow better revealing the truth hidden underneath.

A man drifts upon the shore of a village. The shape of his corpse is the only clue that points to him having been a human. Children, women, then men, upon discovering this unknown, drowned man, are surprised and left “breathless.” With only this, though, the plot is not that fantasy-like; it gets magical as he is characterized by the women cleaning his body to be Esteban, maybe even Lautaro, both who are mythical figures that were the pioneers and  the bravest in their fields. The man is also so huge that they cannot make him clothes of an adequate fit, not even with a sail. “Is this possible?” is what comes to one’s mind, if one gives much thought to every aspect of the story; some details do indeed seem irrational. However, when one reads it with a stream of consciousness, the story is not at all impossible.

Marquez said that “the sense of wonder and infinite strangeness which emerges from much Latin American writing is a true reflection of the complex realities of Latin American experience.” In fact, the oral story telling tradition, myths, and legends weaved into the realistic text come together to “create a cycle,” placing events and details in a manner that they “oscillate between the everyday and the impossible.” Magic realism, by extending and maybe even covering up the distinction between fantasy and reality, magnifies the intended message. As for Marquez, the merging of myth or mystery and reality recreates reality, functioning as a means of expressing “socio-political problems in which Latin Americans are submerged.” Focusing on the coexisting but completely opposite classes of the elite and the underprivileged, Marquez emphasizes that people, especially Latin Americans, are trapped in the misconception that there is a hierarchy, when there actually is no such thing. (Marquez quotes from: Maria Eugenia B. Rave, “Magical Realism and Latin America”) 

When the drowned man first appears, the women are busy admiring him, imagining how bold and marvelous he would have been when he was alive “secretly comparing him to their own men.” However, as the women dress and comb him, there is a sudden silence that is followed by pity that they are “unable to hold back.” They think of “how unhappy he must have been with that huge body since it bothered him even after death.” This can be seen as the villagers' epiphany, as they realize that size and physical qualities are not the standards deciding whether or not the normal are inferior, and that people are not of contrasting levels, but are just different. As the villagers exclaim that “he’s ours,” they become aware that everyone is worthy of what they experience, once they work for it.

The drowned man is a foil character, while the villagers are the protagonists. The man is dead; his existence itself and the impact it calls upon among the women and the men show that despite being silent, he is a mentor that leads the villagers to acknowledging their “narrowness” and motivating them to aim for higher goals, because they, together, need to become a town “worthy” of being called “Esteban’s village.”

If the seaside village with “only twenty-odd wooden houses that had stone courtyards with no flowers” was a white, blank canvas, the drowned man that approached the sea one day as a “dark and slinky bulge” was a swiftly-thrown paint ball. The sudden arrival of the drowned man brought liveliness to the village, giving some color to the originally dull area, and also guiding them to experience an epiphany. The drowned man, having both a magical entrance and exit, allows Marquez to convey his social critique. He criticizes outdated rules of the society and shed light on the infinite possibilities for change. The handsomest drowned man shows villagers that their ambitions are what allow them to live up to their potentials.

_____________________________________________________________________

Some Random Thoughts...

Why was it Wednesday when the drowned man drifted to the shore of the village? Is there some special meaning to Wednesday? Wednesday holds a connotation as a “hump day.” (Wikipedia) Being the middle of the week, once you get over it, the weekend awaits, so it is somewhat relieving. Maybe Marquez chose Wednesday specifically to show that the villagers overcome this "hump" of thoughts and meet their epiphany.

Also, among the numerous characteristics of the still vague (to me) genre “Magic Realism,” there is one called “hybridity.” (Wikipedia) This points to the belief that a story simultaneously occurring in inharmonious areas highlight a “more deep and true reality,” because the fact that both talk of the same aspect of reality merge the different planes as one. So in the case of “The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World,” Marquez underlines the reality of his interest by merging the stories of the sea and the village.

Going Places

     “You drive me crazy, I just can’t sleep. I’m so excited, I’m in too deep.”
     “Alice, stop singing. The snow is driving me crazy enough.”

Apparently, I was the only one excited about this trip to Denver, Colorado. I was singing my favorite Britney song, already making a huge snowman like Frosty in my head. My father, probably glad to be away on a business trip, had left my mother to suffer at the wheel, dealing with my innocent yet annoying exclamations, while at the same time driving to places such as Colorado, Louisiana, Florida, Alabama, Utah, and even Virginia, all the way from Dallas, Texas. Not once did I notice my mother’s fatigue, though, simply excited at the thought of sightseeing.

Throughout my life, I have travelled by foot, by car, by plane, frequently moving as well. Busan, Tskuba, Gumi, Dallas, Cheonan, Seoul, and now Hoengseong… But no, I did not have problems, whether big or small, adapting to the almost regularly changing environment. In fact, that I experienced diverse cultures helped me enhance my social skills and affability. Driving out of a town called upon fragments of past memories, driving on highways surrounded by fast cars and somewhat crowded mountains gave me mixed feelings of both sadness and hope, and driving into a new neighborhood was exciting, allowing me to anticipate new experiences.

Among these moves, though, the turning point of my life was when I decided to move back to Korea in the third grade. It was a crucial choice, except how I chose to do so was based on my parents’ bribes: a four-day ticket to Disney World and a seat in the very front row of the airplane. I was so young, having no such maturity; I naturally neglected the fact that I had no life in Korea. Friends, gymnastics, church, soccer, Kool-aids, weekly outings to Ceci’s Pizza with my friends… Frankly speaking, I do not know if I would have moved back to Korea if I were to be given the choices again. Ten years having passed, would I be able to simply disregard my friends, my lack of ability to speak and write in Korean, and the apparent truth that I could not eat anything in the Korean cuisine, full of “redness?”

Swoosh, and the plane departed. It was then, though, when I finally came to my senses. Oops, too late to run off! I gazed at the land below where I had spent my last yet most memorable four years, where everything seemed so small, like connected pieces of LEGO. Soon enough, the plane was over the ocean and I was engulfed in big, white, and fluffy clouds. Everything was so white and so blue; it was pure, pulling out the honesty in me. Time to return to the reality, since the magical fantasy of the “Happiest Place on Earth” was over. The question whether or not I had made the right choice fogged my mind, numbing me to the bright surroundings. The first few weeks of my stay in America struck my memories, reminding me of how I had trouble saying absolutely anything in English. This was a critical problem, since I was and still am a person whose “thing” is talking. What about gymnastics? Ice skating? Shopping at Macy’s? Peeping at Swarovski jewelry in the display cases of Saks Fifth Avenue? Laura? Spencer? Captivated in my own bubble, I fell into seventeen long hours of thinking.

I was floating with time, along with the clouds that seemed to be doing the same. No one was bothering me, I had no such stress. I was in a limbo. Would Korea be like the States? Would I be able to come back? In a sense, I made a vital decision in an unbelievably simple and positive manner. I guess I just decided to adapt to the new environment, since I was already in the air. I mean, I could go back some day, right?

I am who I am now. Sure, it was hard at first. I had to learn Korean all over again, and I was quite often embarrassed due to my misunderstandings of words. It was not just a “move” like any other, as it involved a transfer between cultures. But I overcame them one by one, maturing in the process. I am told and do feel so myself that my multi-cultural experiences allowed me the not so common positiveness that I have.

Sooner than later, I will go aboard an airplane again and perhaps fall into another shift of time. Back to the United States, just as I had dearly wished for ten years ago. However, the passenger would no longer be the nine year old, immature yet innocent girl, but rather a passionate one who has firm beliefs but is still bright and positive. I will embrace myself in the clouds again, as a focused person who is ready to genuinely go towards her dreams. At this time, hopefully, the clouds will not be just white, but compact and dense with new people and a new community. So swoosh again, over the sea and into the clouds.