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.

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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.

Shel Silverstein - Magical Eraser

 

 

The first poem I ever read! I loved it then, and I still do now.

Reading Journal _ "The Dead"

“All the living and the dead” were “in for a night.” The Misses Morkan’s annual dance was a fully accompanied one, with everybody who knew them coming. Along with the food and the well-decorated house, the party was quite elegant and grand. However, what should have been a lively gathering seemed to be rather dead.

The Old Square Piano

The guests were old, with Julia and Kate, the hosts, being no exception. The piano, a somewhat central entertainer of the party, was an old square one, too. Mr. Browne who loves to flirt with the women smiled in his wrinkles, and people compared spring beds with coffins at the dining table, a usually jolly place. Mary Jane’s Academy piece had no melody; young men left, and Gabriel mentioned the generation “waning” and its “lack” of hostility in his speech. The Lass of Aughrim was sung in hoarseness, and its words expressing grief gave off a depressing air. Spirit, liveliness, and pleasure were nowhere to be found.

Though it is unusual that the annual dance, as it is a dance party, was static, on one hand it allowed Gabriel to think, to ponder. Gabriel’s random thoughts are expressed through his stream of consciousness, in which James Joyce conveys his ideas about the nature of thought. According to Joyce, every thought tends to be personal, with each consciousness always changing and sensibly continuous. This is why Gabriel’s emotions and perceptions seem to flow, with no break in between to separate one from another, eventually building up to form a sense of Gabriel as one entity. That his thoughts sometimes do not appear to be coherent clearly depicts life as an ongoing process where sometimes, nothing happens. As Sigmund Freud mentioned in his analysis of the human psyche, the unconscious may be a barrier to recognizing the truth, due to the appearance of once repressed thoughts on the surface. This illuminates Gabriel’s epiphany, or the sudden realizing that “one by one, [people] were all becoming shades.”

Everything goes on in Gabriel’s mind and also in an unattended moment, both characteristics of the “Joycean Epiphany.” This sudden spiritual manifestation, showing a phase of mind itself, does not occur when one wants it to, but when it is most unexpected. One would think that Gabriel would encounter his enlightening moment while giving a speech or perhaps while perusing through his thoughts when Mary Jane plays the music, but no, he does so when he looks outside the window and sees the snow, imagining a young boy with gorgeous eyes shivering beneath the tree. Focusing on the “whatness,” the “Joycean Epiphany” refers to the way a person perceives things. In “The Dead,” Gretta’s confession of her past yet still memorable love startles Gabriel, causing him to overthrow his original attitude towards the world and start focusing on the genuine meaning rather than the outer looks. Before the shift, the word “eyes” appears twenty-eight times, highlighting how important appearance is to Gabriel, but afterwards, actual expressions of emotions can be noticed.

“Therefore, I will not linger on the past,” states Gabriel, quite firmly in his speech at dinner. His dislike for clinging onto the past can be seen even in his slightest acts, such as him vigorously scraping his feet and trying to get rid of the snow, which symbolizes the past and the oppression deriving from it, on his goloshes. Gabriel seems rather strict about his feelings, and he apparently controls his own thoughts, filtering them by the standard of whether or not it is relevant to the present. This value, however, is shattered by Gretta’s story of her relationship with Michael Fuery, whom she thinks to have died for her. Although he was the one who had emphasized the need for people to forget about the past, he changes; he is jealous and angry when Gretta could not stop talking about how sweet a boy Michael Fuery was, and “generous tears fill[ed] Gabriel’s eyes” when he discovered the passionate love between Gretta and Michael. He starts yearning for the liveliness of romance that he had never had.

No longer is Gabriel obsessed with his belief that one must live in the present and the present only. He recognizes that the past and the present coexist, and that actually, as in the time of his epiphany, the dead may be more alive than the living.

“He is dead,” says Gretta.

Is he really?

*   *   *

Traditionally, an epiphany is defined to be a flash of recognition in which someone or something is seen in a new light, oftentimes conveying a divine touch. To me, though, an epiphany is when you suddenly “get it,” when everything falls into place, enabling you to realize something that you had no clue of beforehand. It could be as simple as Ella’s sudden realization that she could “unspell” herself from obeying everyone’s orders in the movie of “Ella Enchanted.”

I used to believe in the black-and-white theory to some extent, just assuming that if there was a good, there was a bad. Over the past few years, though, as I saw friends overcome conflicts with one another and more especially as I worked in the judicial council, I came to realize that there was no such thing as a right answer. There can never be a strict line drawn in between two opposite things, although there are exceptions in cases like gender. Tomatoes, for instance, are concerned in ongoing debates endlessly arguing whether they are vegetables or fruits. Similarly, I had an epiphany when I came to know that the same situation can be seen in various perspectives, each view having its own reasoning or story. You know what they say: Every side has its own story.

Reading Journal _ "Araby" (Final)

From a distance, James Joyce’s “Araby” might appear to be a tender yet unsuccessful account of a young boy’s first love. His unconscious declaring of “If I go, I will bring you something.” portrays him as a Prince Charming willing to do anything to win his Cinderella. After all, when the nameless narrator suggests that Mangan’s sister is surrounded by light, he deifies her as an angel. To the young boy, going to “Araby” is the last gate he must pass in order to claim his love. However, on the other hand, the journey might as well be the narrator’s attempt to prove that the world of his dreams exists. He perceives “Araby” as the direct opposite of the blind and drab neighborhood he lives in, being the one chance he can count on to substantiate the existence of the ideal life that he dreams of, perhaps the life that was possible when the priest was alive, genuinely preaching sermons from books that are now “curled and damp,” and when the now “rusty bicycle-pump” was properly functioning. Therefore, it is perhaps more accurate to assume that “Araby” is not a romantic destination for potential lovebirds, but rather a dull and bland domain built for commercial purposes like any other marketplace. Here, the innocent young narrator, who had quite a hard time obtaining enough money to go to “Araby,” develops a new insight into the world. That it is indeed not a place where pure love and faith can exist struck the boy hard; the “innumerable follies” that had tortured him and the fantasies of Mangan’s sister aroused by her “white curved neck” and her “hand on the railing” that he had to endure were all for nothing. In this sense, “Araby” awakens the boy to the reality of people “counting money on a salver” and choosing to flirt rather than to genuinely love, which is not what he had expected at all. The descending images – closed stalls, the greater part of the hall that was dark, fall of coins – signal the boy gradually realizing the brutal truth: the “white” and “twinkling” love that he had so enthusiastically sought after was no more than an ideal fantasy that his imagination had created, only to be turned off as easy as a switch, once the hall became “completely dark.”

Reading Journal _ "Araby"

From a distance, James Joyce’s “Araby” might appear to be a tender yet unsuccessful account of a young boy’s first love. His utter blurting of “If I go, I will bring you something.” portrays him as a Prince Charming willing to do anything to win his Cinderella. After all, when the nameless narrator suggests that Mangan’s sister is surrounded by light, he deifies her as an angel. To the young boy, going to “Araby” is the last gate he must pass in order to conquer his love. However, on the other hand, the journey might as well be the narrator’s attempt to prove that the world of his dreams exists. He perceives “Araby” as the direct opposite of the blind and drab neighborhood he lives in, being the one chance he can count on to substantiate the existence of the ideal life that he dreams of, perhaps the life that was possible when the priest was alive, genuinely preaching sermons from books that are now “curled and damp,” and the now “rusty bicycle-pump” was properly functioning. Therefore, it is perhaps more accurate to assume that “Araby” is not a romantic destination for potential lovebirds, but rather a dull and bland domain built for commercial purposes like any other marketplace. Here, the innocent young narrator, who had quite a hard time obtaining enough money to go to “Araby,” develops a new insight into the world. That it is indeed not a place where pure love and faith can exist struck the boy hard; the “innumerable follies” that had tortured him and the gossip of Mrs. Mercer that he had to endure were all for nothing. In this sense, “Araby” awakens the boy to the reality of people “counting money on a salver” and choosing flirting over selling, when they could be pursuing true values such as love. The descending images – closed stalls, the greater part of the hall that was dark, fall of coins – signal the boy gradually realizing the brutal truth: the “white” and “twinkling” love that he had so enthusiastically sought after was no more than an ideal fantasy that his imagination had created, only to be turned off as easy as a switch, once the hall became “completely dark.”

Reading Journal _ "The Lady with the Dog"

Part I. “Permissible Love”

What Dmitri and Anna had and have… Is it ADULTERY or TRUE LOVE?

Dmitri and Anna started as partners of “a swift, fleeting love affair” but ended as secret, long-distance lovers. How did the young lady with a beret and a white Pomeranian dog become a couple with the man who interacts with “the lower race” only to feel prepared and superior?

Well, their love life was pretty fast-moving. Was it because they were in the particular city of Yalta? Maybe the romance never would have taken place if they had met in another city. A vacation spot full of immoral and supposedly “coincidental” occurrences, Yalta naturally reminded Dmitri of “tales of easy conquests … a romance with an unknown woman, whose name he did not know.” Ha. Perhaps “the lady with the dog” just happened to walk by at the moment. It is understandable, though, to an extent. The narrator describes the scenery of Yalta to be consisted of “a golden streak from the moon,” water that is “of a soft warm lilac hue,” and chirruping grasshoppers. No wonder the two go on a drive, take a walk, and kiss; the atmosphere is the absolute opposite of Moscow, where every single day is a “frosty day” with white snow all over the place.

Dmitri first conceives of his affair with Anna as no more than a fling that simply happened to be a bit more pleasant than the preceding unfaithful commitments, but soon notices that he was wrong. Once he returns to Moscow after Anna leaves to take care of her husband, Dmitri cannot stop thinking of her and admits that she “followed him about everywhere like a shadow and haunted him.” Never having felt this way before, he is dumbstruck for quite a while, but he soon travels to S in search of Anna, and finally meets her in the theater at the production of “The Geisha.”

Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov was once an arrogant and haughty man who knew no one but himself. People did not believe that he could change, not even his wife; however, TRUE LOVE managed to turn him into the genuine “man,” one who is responsible and trustworthy. The development of Dmitri’s attitude toward women, or at least Anna, is clearly illustrated through the noticeable difference in responses to Anna’s actions. He actually cares.

The interesting point, though, is that the wife of Dmitri and the husband of Anna never appeared on stage to present a view. If it was to prevent distraction from the realistic depiction of the affair, it definitely worked. Their absence enables readers to stand in the shoes of Dmitri and Anna and consider if their love is adultery or precious love.

As always, though, Chekhov leaves it up to the readers to arrive at their own conclusions. So, does love need to be approved by others in order to qualify as the “love” we know? Can one be granted permission to love?

Part II. Personal Thoughts

WHY name the story “The Lady with the Dog?”

Throughout the whole story, the exact phrase of “the lady with the dog” is mentioned three times, once in each section. As scarcely as the expression is used in the place of Anna Sergeyevna, it signals the major shifts of Dmitri’s change in attitude towards Anna, maybe even women as a whole.

The first time Dmitri calls Anna “the lady with the dog,” he shows curiosity only because he “had begun to take an interest in new arrivals”; he was bored. Also, it gives off a sense of indifference towards the newcomer, as if the person was absolutely of no importance to the Dmitri. However, the second time he uses the phrase, he clearly conveys the idea that she is different from his earlier immoral partners, as he realizes that their affair would not “end soon” and is in the right place for them to take their relationship to further stages. As time passes, though, Dmitri comes to acknowledge the fact that he is in love, and that Anna is not just any “fleeting affair.” She may happen to be the only real love of his life, the once-in-a-lifetime woman that a man would be lucky enough to meet.

WHY use the 3^rd person (omniscient) as the narrator?

Frankly speaking, I still do not really understand the somewhat twisted mindset of Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov. I wonder if I would have known him better if the story had been written in the 1^st person, where Dmitri might have been more accessible. Having usually responded to love stories with either fondness or envy, I could not do the same with Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Dog,” as the objective view made it impossible for me to sympathize with the man at all.

Being a story of realism, though, I understand why Chekhov refrained from using the 1^st person narrator. The story depicts an ordinary man and an ordinary woman having an affair, using straightforward details rather than rhetorical devices that are sometimes nothing but confusing. Chekhov’s enlisting of the happenings between Anna and Dmitri without mentioning their innermost emotions casts concentration on the events only, allowing readers to arrive at a conclusion of the question whether love should be permissible in an unbiased state.