homoerotic and emotionally distressing! i knew, even before the first chapter ended, that finny'd died—would die. and when it happened i felt it like a punch in the gut, like something that lasted only a second in reality but left you hurting like an exposed wound. even now, as i write, i feel my hands shaking and my throat clogging with words i don't know how to say.
it is a tale of delusions, of hurts and aches and lies. it is a tale of two boys: one who bares his heart to the other, the other who runs and aims at the heart because he is afraid. he cracks the heart, betrays it, twists the blade into it and watches, horrified, as it bleeds. but not once does he loosen his grip.
When I finished the book and put it down, I was faced with the same conflict that each of the daughters went through. My feelings towards my heritage and roots are complex. My mother is many things that I wish to be, and yet many that I am afraid of becoming.
I enjoyed the book, though. The characters were real, that the sentiments expressed were ones I could relate to, the feelings, the style: they all felt familiar to me. It’s strange that I have never read this book, being American Chinese.
The novel’s ending is left open, with a tinge of hope for the future.
Frankenstein provides insight into the dual natures of the human condition through a Gothic tale, provoking introspective thought and (in some cases) horror. Mary Shelley uses this haunting narrative to engage with intellectual and ethical questions in an intriguing manner, and the result of her musings is the story of Victor Frankenstein (& the monster).
If Frankenstein represents scientific enquiry, his monster is a scientific experiment gone wrong. He is feared by not only society, but also his creator, and in his isolation he learns. He learns about himself and the world around him; he learns to care for his adopted family, he learns that he is lonely, and he learns about revenge. The monster represents the outcast, a monster who becomes the monster because everyone perceives him to be such. Through him, Shelley’s beliefs are laid bare: society not only creates the monsters, but deserves them. If the monster is to be believed, if he began good and became evil, then the moral of his story is that accepting outcasts is mankind’s responsibility. The monster is the flip side of Frankenstein’s psyche - without Frankenstein, he loses all meaning to his created life, and chooses to be in control of his own destiny.
Shakespeare’s “Othello” reframes the classic tragedy—and in conjunction, the tragic hero—in a new, unorthodox light.
“Othello” is many things. It’s a morality play: Desdemona personifies good, Iago evil, and Othello is the ‘everyman’ of the story. It’s the tragic tale of a classical hero: Othello falls victim to his irrationality and emotion, and dies regretfully. It’s predictable, really: Othello’s emotional nature is manipulated through some cleverly dropped words by Iago, and his rationale is completely overridden by angry grief. He spirals into the waiting hands of Iago, and it is there that he meets his downfall.
But Othello, though he is the titular character, does not seem to be the focus of the narrative. Instead, Iago is the first character we meet, and this is a hint to how big his role truly is. He is the one behind all of the machinations that bring about Othello’s downfall, and the only one working to bring it about. It’s strange if the main character gets all (or most of) the soliloquies in a play—much more so if the primary antagonist does. Shakespeare seems to be suggesting that Iago, rather than Othello, is the main character.
Iago is the embodiment of the “appearance versus reality” trope: he fools everybody around him with his words and behavior, dropping personas as easily as a snake sheds its skin. Not only does he manage to alter perceptions of himself, he manages to do so for other characters as well: he convinces Othello of Cassio’s deviance, Roderigo of Othello’s inadequacy (and his own superiority), twists and twists people around until they are wrapped around his finger. He is so wholly evil with seemingly no good motivation, so much so that he seems almost like a caricature. He is Shakespeare’s most diabolical villain, by any and every measure. Iago detests all that is good, like Satan. He exhibits a sort of self-hatred or perhaps an envy of goodness, actively deceiving many. He is Satanic imagery personified, and makes the play interesting.
As always with Shakespeare, the play has many overlapping themes. The one I found most intriguing, though, was the commentary on humanity—specifically with Othello. The first time that Othello is introduced to us, he is presented as a noble, dignified general despite common belief. He is attributed with goodness and humility, despite the color of his skin. As the play progresses, however, his rage blinds him and makes him into a bull with horns for Iago to lead him by. He is driven to madness by Iago’s machinations, and the savagery that results from it proves the Venetian court’s worst suspicions: Othello was “revealed” to be the wild, animalistic man they had expected from the very start..
I also loved the way the theme of trust was woven in throughout the play. Trust is one of Othello’s greatest virtues, and Iago uses it as an Achilles heel. He, knowing full well the extent of the trust Othello has in him, pierces Othello right in the center of it. He uses his reputation as an honest man to backstab literally everybody without being discovered—until the very end. Othello’s trust in Iago outweighs his trust in Desdemona’s love and fidelity, and this proves to be the unhappy ending of the pair.
All in all, “Othello” was an enjoyable read. I had half expected to either dislike it or not comprehend anything about it, but to my surprise, I read it easily and liked it. I have to admit, however, that I didn’t feel much for the characters. I pitied the cast (save for Roderigo and Iago, at times) but there was nothing more behind that. Othello didn’t leave much of an impression on me—though perhaps there is a reason for it. “Othello” may have been a different take on the classic tragic hero, but it hasn’t left much of an impact on me. I enjoyed it, though, and perhaps that is all that one needs from literature.
Tim O’Brien has been hailed as the literary voice of the Vietnam War, and after reading his novel, it’s obvious why. Each of these short stories are about young men and boys “carrying the sky”––the weight of the brutality they witness as soldiers caught in the war––and O’Brien writes with the hand of someone who used to be one of those men. War is romanticized so much in literature (the kind of literature that I refuse to touch with a ten-foot pole) that O’Brien’s semi-biographical frankness is refreshing and sobering. Unsurprisingly, I cried.
Every character of the book carries burdens—some physical, some psychological, some emotional, but all of them weigh the characters down. These burdens continue to define them long after the war ends, when they try to come to terms with their experiences. Survivor’s guilt plays a large role here, and we see all of the characters bogged down by their grief and hurts. We see how bearing the burden alone breaks Norman Bowker down to the point where he feels hopeless and lost and so tired of it all. He hangs himself despite having survived the war, and isn’t that death ironic?
One final thing that I found interesting: the fighting—or, rather, the lack of it. War is never proffered to their platoon, but they see its aftermath. The aftermath just might be the thing that makes war real to them, a physical reminder of the horrors that preceded. War leaves wounds, and some wounds do not heal.
Kogawa’s writing is poetic, beautiful as always, and utterly compelling. I loved how practically everything in the book was connected. I felt Naomi (the main character)’s grief through each word—it is a grief that hangs on, tugs at your heart for days afterwards.
“Itsuka, itsuka…” Naomi’s Oba-san says, over and over. “Someday, someday.”
Those are the words I’d use to describe Kogawa’s story. Oba-san’s words are a kind of foreshadowing, almost: it is a promise of things yet to come, things both painful and healing. It is not a word of certainty, either, and it is its wavering nature that solidifies the fears Naomi (as well as the others) has. Oba-san is a novel about journeys––those that are unfinished, those that are of self-discovery, and those that are pushed through with anxiety and a fear of the unknown.
Mornings in Jenin is many things. It is a personal history of Palestinian strife, a commentary on the effects of war, a book that chronicles Palestinian life from the 1940s to the 2000s, an eye-opener.
As I read the novel, I felt like I held decades of Palestine’s pain in my hands. I was given a Palestinian heart in words—an imperfect, messy heart that bled stories and reflection and frustration and fear. And it was this that led me to understanding (or sympathy, at the very least). It all begs the question: is Palestine really a Jewish homeland if it must be colonized?
For me, the most impactful part was the inclusion of multiple generations. Yehya represented the deepest root of Palestine: he was uprooted from his land but refused to wither away and die without a piece of it in his hands. Hasan was younger; he watched as all he knew was taken away from him and went to fight for it without hesitation. Then it came to Yousef and Amal, who watched everything and everyone they loved be destroyed. It was their blood that watered Palestinian soil. I was angry for them, and I mourned their losses with them. I cried for Amal when she became Amy—no more long vowel of hope, no hope left in her but to continue.
Mornings in Jenin served as a reminder to me of love at its most human. We see love blossom and break people down all in the same breath. We see the characters’ love for Palestine and each other. We see how they love fiercely to the very end.
In terms of criticism, however: Amal’s connections to her home, to her family, to her emotions, could’ve been a way to explore her character further. In fact, because family seemed to be such a significant theme, I expected a deep dive into the relationships between the characters. I felt that they were a bit shallow, though. I suppose that “connection” can be a sort of overarching theme that ties it all together (albeit loosely). The multiple narratives made the entire novel a tad convoluted, and the ending felt too abrupt, too detached. Many loose ends were left untied, and it left me feeling like the novel was unfinished.
Jerome K. Jerome’s sense of humor is evident in his novel, and it was an enjoyable read. His voice is dry as he pokes fun at his characters, and aside from the Irish stew, the book had many characteristics of stereotypical British humor: abundant sarcasm, overt mockery, condescension, and of course, insults. I did feel that there were quite a few abrupt changes in tone throughout the book, ranging from joking anecdotes to reverent descriptions. In short, it takes more than a trout made of plaster-of-paris to write humorously.
Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
2.5
mcmanus’ propensity towards mysteries/thrillers is shown in this book. as a sequel to ‘one of us is lying’, i think it’s a bit disappointing. the much-beloved characters of the first book hardly appear, and their cameos are just...insubstantial. the mystery felt old and tired, and the characters were dull or irritating.