We're All Just a Bunch of Perverts with Short Attention Spans

I don’t mean to tread too much on familiar ground, but I felt a real need to discuss this issue following yesterday’s parade of clips from 1923 all the way 2006. What I found interesting wasn’t necessarily the way the various decades reflect upon its unique vision of the 1920s but rather how the unique visions of the 1920s reflected upon the various decades. Both of the issues I’ll be discussing were brought up in class, but I frankly don’t feel they were discussed enough (probably an inevitability considering that we had around 3-5 minutes to debrief after the clips were over).

Specifically, I’d like to talk about the increasingly short camera shots and increasingly provocative dancing featured by the women within the films. The progression is almost too perfect, starting first with Eubie Blake and Noble Sissle, the least offensive of the bunch. I’ll begin there, and instead of being overly wordy (as I’m so used to in these blogs), I’ll just focus on the aspects of the clips most important to this blog’s subject.

Experimental Sound Short (1923):

Two men standing by a piano and singing. The shot is steady throughout the entire scene.

The Jazz Singer (1927):

More movement and action within this scene, though the only one singing and dancing is a man. There are a few cuts throughout the scene, but no real camera movements at all.

Some Like It Hot (1959):

Marilyn Monroe, enough said. She’s sex personified, though her dancing is rather minimal. Her outfit in the second clip shown, however, is a bit more than simply revealing. Camera movement is still slight, though there are several different shots, used for both emphasizing various aspects of the scene and merely to switch things up for the viewer.

The Great Gatsby (1974):

The party scene includes no real singing, and the dancing isn’t exactly sexual in nature, though the jumping into a pool is rather promiscuous. The editing is much more contemporary, including various cuts and changes in scene to keep the audience’s interest piqued. The glittering hair covers brought up in class are first introduced here, in a small number. While not necessarily sexual in nature, they do emphasize the role of women a great deal more than any of the other women in the earlier clips.

The Cotton Club (1984):

The dancing here is much more sexual, though the quick cuts away from the dancing make it hard to condemn that. The second clip shows more traditional dancing from the men and sexual dancing from the woman. Quite an interesting choice. The cuts here are even faster than anything before.
Chicago (2002):

Very sexual, very quick cuts. Flashy and bright.

Idlewild (2006);

Basically a hip-hop video set in the 1920s. Super fast cuts, super sexual dancing.

As you can see, the progression appeals increasingly to the perverted, low attention-spanned masses that we find ourselves surrounded by day-in and day-out. And I don’t mean to exclude myself from that group merely because I’m criticizing it. I was much more interested in the clips from Chicago and Idlewild than the Experimental Sound Short. This fact is merely a byproduct of the fast-paced, sex-driven world we live in.

And this is why classes like the one I’m writing this blog for are important. Modern interpretations of the 1920s, while valiant, do very little to maintain the era itself. Without real academic study, it’s very possible our view of the 1920s will be the hypersexed and hyperfast world presented by Chicago and Idlewild.

And that’s a sad world to live in.

The Sun Also Rises

I've spent a lot of time with this blog, possibly too much, discussing whether or not I like a particular story we've read. It's a tad egotistical to think that anyone would care whether or not I like a piece, but I'm willing to live with that. So willing, in fact, that I'm going to do it again this week. Thanksgiving is all about tradition, is it not? Why rock the boat now?

Also, I should warn anyone reading now that I recently discovered the HTML tag for italicizing text. Be prepared for a lot of emphasis in this blog. Probably too much. Way too much.

So, The Sun Also Rises. In a word, awesome. In a few more, one of the most intriguing novels we've read all semester. What makes this fact worth mentioning is that it seems to embody exactly what I said I didn't like about The Beautiful and Damned and Babbit. It's long, retreads the same ground over and over, and plods along slower than my eighty-year-old grandmother after three plates of turkey and stuffing. Being a stubborn as I am, it's pretty hard for me to admit this, but I found myself really enjoying The Sun Also Rises despite its obvious "first half of 20th century" characteristics.

Another staple of these long-winded reviews is that I always latch onto one aspect of the book and talk about it to death. Again, this blog will be no different. What makes The Sun Also Rises so powerful are its fascinating assortment of characters, from Jake to Lady Brett to Cohn. They are so unlike any characters I have ever read, and for this reason (above all others), this story has stuck with me for a little over a week now.

First we have Jake Barnes, who quite honestly hooked me before I even opened the novel. His injury alone is intriguing and quite original (as far as I'm aware, at least), managing to speak on both the physical and emotional levels all at once. It's a perfect symbol also, especially considering Jake's relationship to Lady Brett. Honestly, it's brilliant. A man who becomes impotent after an injury in the war also has an impossible crush on a woman who is addicted to sex? It's perfect! His final line, though perhaps slightly undeserved, is also amazingly effective. It's one of those "YES!" moments that you get when watching a movie where the good guy finally stands up for himself that leaves he standing pumping your fist in the air. I think a little bit too much happened during the story itself for me to became "endeared" to Jake, but his concept and growth will probably stick with me for some time.

Lady Brett is another story entirely. I hated her in the beginning. Flashes of Gloria Patch and Hazel Morse characterized Lady Brett for me at the outset. She seemed so, well, boring. Again, I'm pretty stubborn, so it wasn't until the first rodeo that I began to realize she was actually so much more. Jake tells her not to watch (assuming, like I might have, that she's just a typical woman who won't enjoy the violence). Lady Brett, on the other hand, not only watches but is fascinated by the events taking place around her. It was a great characterizing moment, and I must take my hat off for the skill of Hemingway here. He completely changed my mind about her. Someone in class characterized Lady Brett as "one of the guys," which I think is very true. Gloria may have been in groups with all the guys (or more specifically, the guys all form groups around her), but she was never really "one of them" the same way that Lady Brett is.

On the other side of the coin, we have Cohn, who is one of the boys but is never really part of the boys. Admittedly, Cohn flirted with annoyance from time to time, but there was always some semblance of pity there to keep me interested. I think it was Jake's introduction of Cohn in the first pages that hooked me, but it was Cohn's Muhammad Ali impression that really sold me. He'll never match up with Jake Barnes or Lady Brett Ashley, but he definitely added to my enjoyment of The Sun Also Rises.

Well, the tryptophan is kicking in and I'm Hemingwayed out. Discussing these characters was a lot more difficult than I'd thought it would be and frankly I'm a bit disappointed with the results, but it works. All that needs to be said is that it was Hemingway's characters that kept me interested in The Sun Also Rises from the first page to the last line.

Sandra Hollin Flowers on Toomer's "Box Seat"

In her essay “Solving the Critical Conundrum of Jean Toomer’s ‘Box Seat,’” Sandra Hollin Flowers argues that Toomer’s “Box Seat” should not be read merely as “the urban correlative to a rural journey,” but rather as “an expressionist drama denouncing black middle-class values” (Flowers 301). She continues on to assert that Toomer achieves this through his use of “enclosure, locking, a positioning imagery” throughout the short story to “criticize class division among Afro-Americans during the early 1920s” (Flowers 301). Flowers first cites Nellie McKay as an inspiration for this new reading, who revealed that Toomer’s trip to Washington D.C., and thus the inspiration for the urban portion of Cane, was not a planned trip but an impromptu one meant to temporarily relieve him from the stresses of the south. If the trip was not directly intended as research for the journey Cane provides, Flowers argues that the true meaning of the text must lie elsewhere, namely the issues of “class division among Afro-Americans” introduced in her thesis (Flowers 301). One following citation, this time from E. Franklin Frazier, sets up the class divisions and exactly why Washington D.C.’s setting is suitable for Toomer’s thematic concerns. According to Frazier, Washington D.C. held a “relatively large Negro professional class,” with African-Americans “in the nation’s capital [having] incomes far above those in other parts of the country” (Flowers 302). Once the foundational backdrop of “Box Seat” is firmly established, Flowers moves on to the summary of the narrative itself, focusing specifically on those events most pertinent to her argument. Much attention is given to the two-part structure of the story, a device used by Toomer to “exact parallel meanings from recurring imagery” (Flowers 302). Flowers asserts that Part I “establishes socio-economic distinctions by using houses, seating arrangements, and movement to demarcate social classes,” while Part II “modifies this imagery to parody the nascent middle class’s pretensions” (Flowers 302). Next, Flowers explicates the text thoroughly, identifying and explaining each piece of positional, enclosing and locking imagery to fully explore the depth of Toomer’s message within “Box Seat.” Finally, she asserts that “‘Box Seat’ occupies a more significant place within the canon of Toomer’s work than has generally been recognized” (Flowers 305). According to Flowers, “Box Seat” is much more than the urban parallel to Cane’s rural backdrop, rather serving as Toomer’s most powerful depiction of his “preoccupation with the social and psychological pettiness of the black middle class of his era” (Flowers 305).

Beyond a rather awkward summary of “Box Seat” before the actual explication begins, Flowers’ “Solving the Critical Conundrum of Jean Toomer’s ‘Box Seat’” is a highly valuable analysis for anyone hoping to dive more deeply into Toomer’s text. Of particular note is Flowers’ opening page, where she lays down her inspiration for her unique reading of “Box Seat,” as well as introduce the issue she feels Toomer is addressing through his story. One could perhaps argue that it starts off too slow for the average reader, but it really lays a nice foundation of knowledge for the information that is to come. Without this first page, Flowers risks losing a good portion of her readership, so its slow nature is ultimately forgiven when taking the big picture into account. As I introduced earlier, the only real flaw I found within Flowers’ analysis is with the first summary of “Box Seat,” before the actual explication of the text begins. The structure seems to be interrupted by this summary’s placement, especially considering Flowers touches on each of the points she brings up here later, and more in-depth, in the explication. In such a short analysis, one must be very economical with words, and this summary fails to do so. That said, the explication that follows is extremely solid, taking into account nearly every single case of positional, enclosure, and locking imagery. The main meat of the analysis lies in this explication (as it should), and really does a great job supporting Flowers’ thesis. While there are a few instances where I feel Flowers takes some of Toomer’s imagery a bit too literally, such as the fighting dwarves, she does effectively identify and explain each image significant and relevant to her main argument. Flowers’ last paragraph also addresses one of my favorite aspects of her analysis, namely her assertion that “Box Seat” clearly “occupies a more significant place within the canon of Toomer’s work than has generally been recognized” (Flowers 305). In this way, her analysis is positioned as something of foundation for “Box Seat” to stand up, to gain notice among the other stories within Cane. With this statement, Flowers becomes a “Box Seat” evangelist, and her analysis becomes far more significant than it would have otherwise. Her unique vision of Toomer’s work breathes new life into both Dan and Muriel, elevating both “Box Seat” and her very analysis heads above any other, less daring explication of Toomer’s text.

Masterful Restraint (and a Lack Thereof) in "The Closing Door"

It occurred to me just now, as I was pulling my Harlem Renaissance Reader out to discuss Angelina Weld Grimké’s The Closing Door, that it is situated right after Nella Larsen’s Passing. Those who read last week’s blog know how much praise I have for that novel, and I was actually planning on looking at The Closing Door in the same light. Apparently, David Levering Lewis (the editor of the HRL) agrees with me.

Actually, I think a more specific way to define what makes The Closing Door so compelling is its masterful employment of literary restraint or, in one particular case, a severe lack thereof. Before I dive into it, I suppose it would probably be worthwhile to explain exactly what I mean by “literary restraint.” In any given moment, an author has limitless possibilities regarding where he or she could go next with his or her story. Some authors choose to go big, the easiest example would be using lots of guns, blood, explosions, nudity, etc. There’s no subtlety there, no restraint. Sure, it’s exciting for that one moment, but as humans we become desensitized to these things very quickly. Take horror movies for an example. The best ones keep the monster or villain in the shadows, away from view, for as long as possible because this heightens the tension and makes the audience truly involved in what’s going on. That’s restraint. Monster movies that lack restraint will show the monster within the first five minutes and by the end of the movie the audience is already used to the snarling fangs and glowing red eyes. What I’m saying is that, used properly, restraint adds to the tension and involves readers, forcing them to put the pieces of an event together in their own minds with only a minimal amount of actual description from the author. Now, actual definition aside, I’ll dive into The Closing Door.

The story opens in media res, with Agnes Milton already in some sort of care facility, clearly depressed, a “blank, empty... grey automaton” (Grimké 486). We are not given any real clue as to the reason for her decline, though we are given a bit of ironic foreshadowing in the form of the first line regarding Agnes’ “mother heart” (Grimké 486). This in particular in an interesting hook, something that you’d never see in something like Babbit or The Beautiful and Damned, as they seemed locked into their chronological structure. This bit of restraint, holding back all but the most tantalizing of details, is not exactly the restraint I’m referring to, but it helps to set the stage for what is to come.

The piece of restraint I’m primarily referring to when I brought this whole thing up would be on the final page, just before the last paragraph at the end. Yes, I’m referring to Agnes’ murdering of her own child. It’s such an absolutely gut-wrenching scene because of its restraint. Grimké does not show Agnes smothering her baby. She does not employ the use of gratuitous blood or violence. If all she wanted to do was disturb and shock us, Grimké could have just had Agnes take a butcher knife from the kitchen to her child, but you’ll notice the act of murder isn’t even seen. What she does describe, however, is far more disturbing and heart-shattering. Grimké’s narrator sees Agnes standing in her room in the darkness. Okay, strange. Then, there’s the questioning in her own head, “What had Agnes Milton wanted in my room?” (Grimké 500). This is when the reader starts to remember the event that had happened just prior, with Agnes standing over the baby and crying. There’s a sudden moment of horrible realization with a faint hope that maybe, just maybe, we’ve jumped to a conclusion that won’t come to pass. Grimké, almost assuredly anticipating this reaction (or even better, orchestrating it), follows with the supremely disturbing “It was quiet, very quiet, too quiet” (Grimké 500). Only then does she spell it out, and only in one very factual, almost objective statement. I would argue that this scene could have been much, much more graphic, but would that have made it any more powerful? No. In fact, I will assert her that Grimké obvious talent with restraint is the main factor that drives the power of this scene.

I’m running a bit longer than I’d hoped to, but I should mention that The Closing Door does have its share of restraint failures. In particular, Joe’s description of Bob’s lynching. Grimké spares no detail, from the hanging to the shooting to the burning to the solicitation of the body parts. Obviously, there’s a serious lack of restraint being shown here. Why, you ask? Surely Grimké didn’t just accidentally forget to employ restraint? Actually, the lack of restraint here makes perfect sense, especially considering it seems to be one of the only (and certainly the most prominent) time it happens within the whole story. I would argue there are two reasons for this lack of restraint:

1) The act itself is a horrible one. Grimké uses the shocking nature of the description, especially compared to the rest of the relatively somber prose, to emphasize how horrible and atrocious the murder was.

2) More importantly, this is the thing that sends Agnes over the edge, so to speak, so it makes absolute sense that it would be the most horrific and obscene description in the story. The shocking, inconsistent nature of it is what sends Agnes spirally into her depression.

There, another week, another blog. The Closing Door is a great piece of work, and really serves (along with Passing) to exemplify some of the more modern pieces within our required reading this semester. I, for one, am definitely glad we read it.

Nella Larsen's Passing

I’ll just say it: Nella Larsen’s Passing is the best book we’ve read all semester. I was not prepared to admit this when starting the book, in fact, I wasn’t expecting to enjoy the novel at all. What makes Passing so great is the mere fact that it is so ahead of its time. According to the back of the book, Passing was published in 1929, and yet it shares its pacing and tight narrative with much later contemporary novels. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

First, the concept is great. It’s so much deeper and more complex than anything within the Harlem Renaissance Reader. The very concept of “passing” is absolutely fascinating from every perspective imaginable. Clare, for instance, is a black woman who has married a racist and betrayed her entire ancestry. Conversely, there’s John, who has been raised to hate black people and yet has married one without his knowledge (oh, sweet irony!). Irene is equally compelling, bound to some unexplained duty to Clare without truly understanding herself. I could go on and on, but I’ve made my point. The characters are great. George Babbit is nothing but a caricature next to these people. Anthony Patch’s struggle with Gloria and money seems trivial and, frankly, just plain boring.

What’s even better than the characters is the pacing of the novel itself. There is no fluff here. Babbit and The Beautiful and Damned were plagued with so much unnecessary narrative that reading them felt like running track in an ankle-deep marsh. There was so much back and forth in terms of characterization that it was impossible to believe by the end that any of the changes within the characters would actually stick. Don’t get me wrong, the length of both novels did contribute to their “epic” feel, but was everything within them absolutely necessary? Not at all. With Passing, everything is necessary and there is no redundancy in the narrative. I know this doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, but it makes the prose so much tighter and provocative.

Not only does the pacing cut out the fat, Passing also manages to provide the reader with all of the information and imagery necessary to easily follow the plot. One of my biggest complaints of Cane stemmed from one of the characteristic of the whole “modernist” style, namely the omission of certain parts of the text. Jean Toomer seemed to think that this would force the reader to pay closer attention and engage more with the text. While reading through these omitted sections, I did not engage any more than I normally would have, but I was more frustrated than I’d been in a long time. I won’t use this blog to rail against such strange and illogical methods (that could be a whole blog of its own), but needless to say there is none of that in Passing. While Larsen avoids using superfluous information, she provides the reader with all the details necessary to know what’s happening within the story without bashing them over the head with it. Case in point, the whole concept of “passing.” I’m sure many in the time the book was published knew what “passing” was, but I sure didn’t. Larsen makes sure to let the reader know (even uninformed ones like myself) exactly what they need to know to understand through character dialogue rather than a simple paragraph saying “This is what ‘passing’ is…” It's this sort of hand-holding that pulls a reader out of a novel and can insult their intelligence. Larsen, thankfully, avoids this.

Another aspect of the novel's pacing that was brought up in class on Tuesday is the structure of the narrative itself. Both Fitzgerald and Lewis tell their stories in a strictly chronological sense, exacerbating the plodding pace issue discussed above. Larsen does not restrict herself in the same way, rather using a flashback in the beginning to hook the reader before diving into the present narrative. Granted, the "hook" is very short and the story probably could have been told chronologically without hurting too much, but the mere fact that the flashback is there opens the story up in ways that confining it to a chronological retelling never could. Breaking up the flow of time in this way is just something you don't see enough from early 20th century texts, and it again forces Larsen's Passing into the limelight.

I fear I’m getting off track here, but my point remains the same: what make Passing so great are the complex characters and especially the near perfect pacing. It’s a testament to the book that I finished in two days what I’d originally planned to split into four. I just could not put the book down, and that’s saying something considering that this is required reading.

I think what impresses me the most about Passing is how those two points I’ve just discussed in length are so modern feeling, like a book I’d pick up in the new releases at Barnes and Noble. F. Scott Fitzgerald is a literary legend, but that does not at all mean his work reads as well as it did when it was first released. Literature has inevitably evolved since the 1920s, and yet Larsen’s Passing seems to pass off as one of the new generation. That in itself is worth commendation, and I for one am more than excited to finish the final part of the book for Thursday’s class.

Jean Toomer's Eye Fetish

Seeing as I’ve been almost completely unmoved by Toomer’s writing in general, I thought it might be worthwhile to take a closer look at his apparent fascination with human eyes. I have noticed, in “Fern,” “Blood-Burning Moon” and especially “Box Seat,” that Toomer often characterizing the characters within his stories by their eyes. I don’t want to speculate too much on why this is, as I don’t feel I have the proper qualifications to do so, but rather hoped (if anyone aside from Dr. Campbell reads these blogs) I could start some sort of dialogue regarding this topic. So, without further ado, I’ll jump into it.

The first case I noticed of this particular inclination toward eye description was the very opening of “Fern.” Right from the first line, Fern is basically boiled down to one key feature: her eyes. In fact, her entire head seemed nothing more than a vehicle to display them to the world, evidenced in the first couple of sentences, “Face flowed into her eyes. Flowed in soft cream foam and plaintive ripples, in such a way that wherever your glance may momentarily have rested, it immediately thereafter wavered in the direction of her eyes” (Toomer 16). Toomer goes on, for a whole half a page, focused solely on Fern’s eyes and the power they held over the men around her. It’s an interesting way to characterize her, sure, but not necessarily enough for a new reader to realize how preoccupied with eyes Toomer really is. Continuing on, however, the pattern becomes more clear.

In “Blood-Burning Moon,” Toomer uses eyes as his chosen image to portray the power and barbaric nature of Tom Burwell’s death. On page 36, Toomer writes, “Tom’s eyes popped” (Toomer 36). It’s a simple sentence, but the power of the line is derived primarily from that simplicity, and along with the scent of burning flesh from the sentence before, the reader is left without any doubt as to Toomer’s intended emotion within this closing scene. It’s interesting that Toomer would choose the eyes to portray the aural and visual aspects of this scene. This is not the first time a human has been burned at the stake in a piece of literature, but it’s likely one of the only ones to use the eye as that one pivotal image.

Finally, and most noticeably, Toomer’s “Box Seat” is absolutely full of examples for his eye fascination. Mrs. Pribby is characterized by her eyes when she is first introduced, “Her eyes are weak. They are bluish and watery from reading the newspapers” (Toomer 60). Of the “portly Negress” described on page 65, Toomer writes that the “eyes of the woman don’t belong to her” (Toomer 65). The man with whom Dan nearly brawls with at the end of the story is characterized likewise merely by his eyes, as if nothing else even matters, “The man’s face is a blur about two swollen liquid things that are his eyes. The eyes dissolve in the surrounding vagueness” (Toomer 66). The eyes, it seems, are the only vivid characteristics the man has, though even they are threatened by the “surrounding vagueness” that nearly dissolves them (Toomer 66). During Dan’s seeming bout of hallucinations, he even admits to this obvious preoccupation with people’s eyes when he says, “I did see his eyes. Never miss eyes” (Toomer 68). Obviously, Toomer is aware of the descriptive pattern of his, and even seems to comment on it here.

Again, I don’t mean to suggest any meaning behind this eye fascination of Toomer’s, partly because this blog has already gone on far longer than I’d originally conceived but mostly because I’d like to hear other thoughts on this subject. Let’s get some intellectual discourse under way, here. This is certainly a subject that requires a little bit of knowledge about Jean Toomer himself, so hopefully someone has a bit more knowledge about him than I do.

Also, in case anyone is wondering, I do, in fact, see the irony in calling out Toomer for his obsession with eyes while the very ability to notice it requires a similar, if not even more neurotic, obsession. So thank you for noticing.

Fred Waring's Collegiate Review

The song I chose to discuss is “Collegiate” by Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians, partly because it was one I’d latched onto since we listened to it in class and also because it provides some interesting points of discussion. First of all, it seems to be a song celebrating the college life, or at least one aspect of the college life (that is, the party side of the collegiate career). One look at the lyrics and one can tell that the issues dealt with are very surface level and care-free, especially farther on in the song when the singers proclaim “Sigma Kappa / Tap-a half-a keg / That’s the Greek for all the lodges we belong to.” In fact, there is no mention of any real education at all, merely an ode to rowdy behavior like poker, “neckin’, muggin’… [and] huggin’.” Even better is that good ol’ Fred Waring never seems to apologize for this behavior, as if this really is what college is about, rather than the typical notion that the focus should be on academics.
Obviously, though, it is apparent both in the lyrics and music (light and boisterous) that the humor presented is very tongue-in-cheek. From lines like “Lend me, give me / Want-a half-a dollar” to “Very, very seldom in a hurry / Never ever worry / Real collegiates are we,” it is clear that, while Waring may not be admonishing college students, he clearly doesn’t respect or admire them. If college students really were as Waring characterizes them, they probably wouldn’t even care even if he was being critical, as they “Never ever worry” anyway. If anything, it’s a friendly form of mockery, poking fun at these students who go to college during this era of “Arrow collar” men to get an education, only to end up partying and chasing girls throughout the semester instead. It is not too out of line to consider this song Fred Waring’s review on the culture of college in general, and he manages to embody it well, while still getting in a few punches along the way.

How to be Boring: A Short Guide Courtesy of Dorothy Parker and Sinclair Lewis

This week, I’ll forgo my usual wordy and overwrought blog posts that begin ambitiously enough and never really live up to their true potential. Instead, I have only one thing to say, as a kind of public service announcement to the world:

If you want to sound boring and/or dull, just repeat everything someone says back to them.

Both Dorothy Parker and Sinclair Lewis agree. Take, for instance, Such a Pretty Little Picture. I’ll transcribe the conversation that occurs between Mrs. Wheelock and Mrs. Coles, which should properly illustrate the epitome of dreadfully dull conversation:

Mrs. Coles: Fred and I are taking a little constitutional before supper.
Mrs. Wheelock: Oh, taking a little constitutional?
Mrs. Coles: Yes, just taking a little constitutional before supper.

In just three lines, both characters have firmly established that neither have a shred of personality among them. It’s quite efficient, really. In three short lines, I as the reader know that I would never, under any circumstances want to talk to either of these two boring ladies. It usually takes at least a few hours before one can really judge a person like that, but to find a way to speed along that process of dislike and personal scorn is commendable.

Sinclair Lewis’ Babbitt is full of awkward and tedious conversations such as this, and Babbitt is the very embodiment of a boring and dull personality. Here is one good example in Chapter 3 when Babbitt discusses politics with Littlefield, his neighbor:

Babbitt: Say, old man, what do you think about the Republican candidate? Who’ll they nominate for President? Don’t you think it’s about time we had a real business administration?
Littlefield: In my opinion, what the country needs, first and foremost, is a good, sound, business-like conduct of its affairs. What we need is – a business administration!
Babbitt: I’m glad to hear you say that! I certainly am glad to hear you say that! I didn’t know how you’d felt about it, with all your associations with colleges and so on, and I’m glad you feel that way. What the country needs – just at this present juncture – is neither a college president nor a lot of monkeying with foreign affairs, but a good – sound – economical – business – administration…

This example is less efficient than Parker’s, but it balances this out by being even more awkward and boring. It takes us longer to get there, but we’re positive by the end that neither of these gentlemen would be interesting to hold a conversation with.

This is a simple and effective way, as both Lewis and Parker prove, to characterize someone as dull. Not necessarily unlikable, but mind-numbingly boring (for better or worse). It’s put to good use throughout Parker’s work and throughout Babbitt, providing further support for this claim.

In short, if you enjoy having a social life and friends, do everything in your power to avoid absolutely anything and everything resembling either of the conversations presented above.

Good luck.

Hazel Morse, meet Gloria Patch. Gloria, Hazel. You two should get along just fine.

One can’t read Dorothy Parker’s Big Blonde without seeing flashes of Gloria Patch throughout the entire piece. Hazel Morse, with the exception of the attempted suicide and various suitors after her husband leaves her, is strikingly similar to Fitzgerald’s Gloria. So similar, in fact, that the same images I visualized for the settings of Beautiful and Damned were the very same that came to mind when reading Big Blonde. Now, this may be a case of my brain just being lazy and unwilling to create a unique world for Hazel to exist within, but I like to think it is not a coincidence.
In fact, I wouldn’t consider it too much of a stretch to imagine Big Blonde as a close retelling of Beautiful and Damned from the perspective of Gloria instead of Anthony. The way they are introduced is especially similar, and their attitudes towards the men around them cinches this concept of their relation to each other. It’s extremely interesting to go from Beautiful and Damned to Big Blonde, because knowledge and experience in one invariably adds to the other a great deal. Fitzgerald does a fine job characterizing Gloria, but it’s more often than not seen through the tinted goggles of Anthony (for better or worse). With Big Blonde, however, we get a close look at what it means to be a “vamp,” a depressed and alcoholic one at that, which is something we just didn’t get in Beautiful and Damned.
It’s actually worth noting that upon finishing Fitzgerald’s novel, I was completely satisfied with Gloria’s role in the story and how she turned out in the end. After reading Parker’s work, however, it becomes apparent that Gloria got off far too easy. Hazel Morse comes off as a much more realistic interpretation of what women who lived the lifestyle that both she and Gloria lived. Fitzgerald seems to forget Gloria’s issues at the end, having her clean herself up and be the responsible one, leaving Anthony to fall apart emotional and mentally. Sure, she is described as “unclean,” but she escapes the story with at least some dignity. Hazel Morse, however, does not. She awakens, having failed at killing herself and then gets scolded for taking her life for granted. Even the doctor seems to think that her life is a waste of effort, having to be pulled away from another woman to even see her. In a way, this seems like the ending Gloria should have received herself. Granted, Hazel Morse had it a bit worse than Gloria, but I still feel that Gloria got off too easy and the fate of Hazel brings this fact into light.
I do not mean to take up this whole blog arguing about whether Gloria or Hazel had a worse life or which character I liked more. I just felt it was necessary to bring their apparent similarities to light. So what, then, does this mean? Why does it matter that Gloria and Hazel are similar?
The most important concept I pulled from this is the simple fact that it proves the authenticity of both Parker’s and Fitzgerald’s rendition of the 1920s woman. Two authors, so very different in a great many ways, interpreted two different characters in a very similar fashion, so there must be some truth behind it. I understand that it’s not a coincidence that we are reading these two stories so close to each other, but I must reiterate how much they complement each other. I enjoyed them both individually, but together they speak volumes more and with greater authority than they ever could have on their own.

What's the Point, Fitz?

Call me what you will, but a Fitzgerald hater I am not. In fact, I love F. Scott Fitzgerald. I would defend his works to the grave, either with actual intellectual argument or, if necessary, with petty name-calling and stubborn refusals to concede any adversarial points.
I say all of this only to contextualize how hard it is for me to admit that I have no idea what Fitzgerald was going for with The Beautiful and Damned. The Great Gatsby, for example, spoke volumes about the apparent hollowness of aristocratic society and the absolute perversion of the American Dream. The entirety of Fitzgerald’s prose in the case of Gatsby builds upon these two ideas. When the reader had made his or her way through the story, they can feel as if they’ve learned something, even if that something is nothing more than Fitzgerald’s views on the world and culture he so immersed himself in. With The Beautiful and Damned, however, it’s a different story.
The problem seems to stem, at least from my point of view, from the fact that the different characters within the story seem to be giving different (and in some ways contradictory) messages. Every time there seems to be a chance for Fitzgerald to make a real statement, different characters seem to make arguments for both sides. This will be a whole lot easier to explain using actual examples from the book, so here are a few (but definitely not all) of them:

Cynicism Towards Life: Anthony and Maury are two characters that could very well have allowed Fitzgerald to comment on this idea of cynicism (or alternatively passion) towards life. These two are introduced as cynical, especially in relation to Dick, who is relatively passionate and sentimental. However, Anthony and Maury go in two separate directions. Anthony has his tragic fall and Maury becomes wealthy and happy. Both are cynical, so Fitzgerald can’t be making a comment on this issue (or, if he is, it isn’t a very strong or generalized one).

Shallowness of the Aristocracy: If The Beautiful and Damned only concerned Anthony and Gloria, this may have been a very powerful theme. Unfortunately, there are just too many other characters who also have wealth that fare much better than Mr. and Mrs. Patch. Maury, for one, and also Dick, Bloeckman, etc. Not only do these characters find prosperity, but they seem to be very levelheaded and mature. Surely Fitzgerald couldn’t be commenting on this common theme of his, or else this shallowness would have been extended to all those with wealth.

Importance of Work: Anthony and Gloria both seem to consider being lazy an admirable virtue, which is obviously a backwards ideal (or so we are led to believe in contemporary society), so could this be what Fitzgerald is aiming at? Again, if he is, his other characters seem to undermine this assertion. Maury’s vocational endeavors are glossed over, condensed to only one or two sentences, and Muriel never seems to get a job herself, and yet they both turn out fine.

Futility of Material Wealth and Beauty: This was, during my reading, something I looked for a lot, as it seems a fine fit for a story like this. All of the parties, preening, and arrogance of Anthony and Gloria becomes moot later in life as their money begins to disappear. In fact, the pursuit of money seems to be a major cause of tension in the Patch household, especially after they find out that Adam Patch has removed them from his will. Strangely, this pursuit of wealth is validated in the final pages of the book when the inheritance is given to Anthony and Gloria. All of their laziness and partying is given a completely undeserved pat on the head (so to speak) in this moment. It’s a strange choice by Fitzgerald, to say the least.

Obviously, I’m generalizing in some of the above examples, but what the list does provide is proof that Fitzgerald seems to wander from (potential) argument to argument without really providing solid support for either side. The last argument is, admittedly, the most likely candidate for Fitzgerald’s main theme. Even though they do receive the inheritance, the fruitless pursuit of money and beauty has made them “unclean” in the eyes of others. The journey has left them hallow shells of their former selves, though again, there are other characters who counter this argument. Bloeckman, again, and Dick come to mind (both pursue success and fortune and attain it without “losing their souls,” so to speak).
If one were to combine some of these potential themes, some truth might make its way to forefront. Perhaps, then, the real message of the story is that “Without honest work, the pursuit of material wealth is a nearly impossible endeavor.” This seems to be something that Fitzgerald’s work here could support. But even this is not without counterexamples in the story.
I don’t mean to pick on Fitzgerald or The Beautiful and Damned. I liked the book and (as I explained at the beginning) I love the Fitz. It’s just that this story seems rather sloppy compared to some of his other works. I’m sure others will disagree with me on this last point. Perhaps I just misinterpreted some pivotal scene and the story’s theme is much more apparent than I make it appear. All I know is that, as a Fitzgerald fan, I was ultimately disappointed by the weak moral argument that The Beautiful and Damned presents to its reader.

Does F. Scott Fitzgerald Even Believe in Romantic Love?

It’s quite easy, probably too easy, to think of F. Scott Fitzgerald as a writer who really believes in love. He probably does it in a more cynical way than many writers of his time (and admittedly many idealist contemporary writers), but to the uninitiated reading, his stories are focused on this pursuit of “love”. For those who really pay attention to Fitzgerald’s writing, however, it becomes clear that his general outlook on romantic relationships is very much an unromantic affair. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that Fitzgerald doesn’t believe in true, romantic love at all (at least in the way that we think about it today; a strong physical and emotional bond between two people).
The Beautiful and Damned provides some great support for this theory. One of the best is witnessed in the transition from Part I to Part II. At the end of Part I, we have what can be loosely seen as the climax to a modern romantic comedy. Anthony, after having made some mistake (and things were oh so well too), builds up his courage and makes a plan to win Gloria back. He, of course, does, and she is so in love with him (or so we are meant to believe) that she will break her previous arrangement to be with Anthony. I’ll leave the trials and tribulations that had preceded this moment behind for now (as my argument lies in the long stretch after the supposedly “fall in love,” not during the courting process), instead focusing on comes immediately afterward. In a romantic comedy, which I believe is a fine example (if a somewhat naïve one) of a romantic ideal view, the movie ends here and the audience is left to believe that all is now well in the world of these two young lovers. They will live happily and fulfilled for all of their days. Fitzgerald, however, doesn’t even give them until the wedding before they start pestering each other.
Only two pages later, however, Fitzgerald remarks that in “between kisses Anthony and his golden girl quarreled incessantly” (p. 108). Obviously, Fitzgerald doesn’t realize (or doesn’t care, more likely) that everything’s supposed to be puppy dogs and roses for these two. They’ve had their climactic moment, everything should be happy now. And why not? Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey would have been by now. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, for all their struggles, are at this point in their story living their perfect lives together. Anthony and Gloria, however, are postponing their inevitable downfall from the very beginning by dismissing their quarrels with kisses. I don’t mean to suggest that Fitzgerald must take the cliché road and have the last two-thirds of the book be idealist tripe, but the fact that these problems are introduced so soon after the supposed “climax” of their pre-marriage life seems significant.
I won’t address the lives of Anthony and Gloria after their marriage goes on for too long, because it’s almost a given that their passion would fade as time continues (and I don’t at all mean this as a negative, just a fact of life). What is interesting, however, is that while Anthony struggled almost nonstop with getting Gloria back after she asked him to leave her home (calling it an “obsession” at one point), Gloria’s diary reveals those feelings were not exactly mutual. She seems to be very methodical about the whole thing, listing the types of husbands there are and which one Anthony would be. Granted, she does say she would like to marry Anthony, but her “obsession” is more with the idea of marriage than to her passion for Anthony as a person. Also, we get almost no indication of the same sort of inner struggle during their time apart from Gloria. There is nothing in her diary during the six week Gloria boycott Anthony attempts. Perhaps Fitzgerald uses this moment to remind his readers that there are two sides to this story, and they are not both as passionate as the other.
Finally (there are countless more examples but this blog is getting long enough as it is), I bring forth to the evidence table Anthony’s “semi-fictional” friend, Chevalier O’Keefe. This is a man who epitomizes the ideal, romantic love, being “enormously susceptible to all sorts and conditions of women” (p. 75). He was “a romantic, a vain fellow, [and] a man of wild passions…” (p. 75). This man, this Chevalier O’Keefe, so romantic in his thoughts vows off women and their power over him, deciding instead to become a celibate monk. Just before he takes his vows, however, a woman readjusting her dress distracts him and he tumbles to his dishonorable death. I feel that this is a very succinct summary of Fitzgerald’s feelings toward love (and women in general). They are an inescapable fact of life, and they will be the downfall of the men who love them.
Obviously, anyone with a view like this towards love (not, I would say, an altogether outrageous or unsympathetic stance) cannot truly believe in romantic love. In fact, he seems to cry out against it. Stay away, he seems to say. It is, however, inevitable (as both the Chevalier O’Keefe and Anthony, both sworn away from women and/or marriage end of falling, one figuratively and one literally, for a woman).
I do not, of course, claim this as an inarguable point. I will defend it until I convinced otherwise, but I do look forward to some responses from others who may or may not feel the same way about Fitzgerald’s views on love. In any case, the examples provided above do present a strong case for Fitzgerald’s unconvinced opinion of the idealist romantic love.