Orlando

I decided to read Orlando for a few reasons:
1. Like many feminists, I was brainwashed by the evil of "A Room of One's Own."
2. I read, and enjoyed, Mrs. Dalloway (in a class with Paul Dresman presiding, one of my faves).
3. In my blog reading, someone somewhere called Orlando something of a science fiction novel. In the past year I have started reading sci-fi (I know, I know, what have I been doing all of my life?), so I thought it would be interesting to look at this novel with that frame.

Orlando, in the beginning of Woolf's tale, is a man with a rich family heritage—literally, rich. He lives in a massive estate, has oodles of servants, and wears fancy clothes (among other things). He desperately wants to be a poet, however, but can't figure out how to do it, considering the constriction of wealth. He winds up in Turkey to serve an ambassador, where he marries a whore and is assumed killed after a conflict.

Well, he's not dead; he took a long nap and woke up with a new body, of the female sex. From here, she lives with some Gypsies and rekindles her love of the outdoors, and comes to understand what is important in life (as it turns out, the Gypsies are not at all impressed with her family's land holdings or wealth). She eventually goes back to England, rekindles some old relationships (one with another gender-switcher), and time-travels to Victorian England, where her main pursuit is a husband (remember, everyone was stuffy back then). Things happens, she finds a husband, and she ends up in modern day England (1928). I'm being purposefully vague, but I also don't remember the latter part of the book as much as the first three quarters. I was a bit bored (which I don't want to admit! I love Woolf)!

One of the most intriguing things about this novel is that Woolf wrote it about one of her close friends, Vita Sackville-West (not to be confused with a Sackville-Baggins hobbit). Woolf modeled the Lady Orlando on her, even using Sackville-West's relationship with a lovely lady as the basis of Sir Orlando's crisis (his with the Russian fox Sasha). I suppose that is the easy way to skirt the reality of Sackville-West's bisexuality; Woolf did write this in the 1920s, after all.

My complaint? Woolf has an opportunity to make a grand feminist statement. Because Orlando lives for a few hundred years, we should see how women's rights have changed. Woolf is the author of "A Room of One's Own," after all! But we don't see how Orlando's rights (property ownership, sexual freedom, access to education) change over the course of several centuries and a swap of sex. I really expected this to be hard-hitting—if Woolf did cover the rights and opportunities granted to each gender, I completely missed it. At one point in the novel, Orlando revels in her femininity after seeing how a flash of her calf nearly

killed a sailor (157). All that says, however, is that women's sole power is their sexuality or beauty. Even if that's true in that era, why not juxtapose that with Orlando considering how much power she had as a male, but didn't realize? There is just so much potential for a critique of the male privilege (but maybe Woolf was bored with the topic).

Petty feminist critique aside, I would recommend this book for the awesome time-traveling aspects. Who doesn't like time travel? If you said "ME!" you are a waste of cyberspace. But, as I wrote before, I got bored towards the end; perhaps I thought it was repetitive, and I expected more to happen. Nevertheless, I recommend one read this novel, especially once you consider the year it was written. Equal rights and time travel were two topics not discussed nearly enough, and Woolf was a great contributor to both. I also don't want to downplay the other themes we could discuss; this novel celebrates being a woman, considers what marriage really is, and the role of poet in society. Through my lenses, though, I feel the most pertinent point to bring up is the feminist one—and there is so much more to discuss about Orlando! But I've written enough.

KK

Next: Another biography, but this time, it's self-aggrandizing (obviously, it's of the auto- variety). It goes without saying, it was written by a man.

Dune by Frank Herbert

Now that is a nerdy sci-fi book—I had no plans to read it. But, a friend and I met for a beer, and he brought it along to read while waiting for me. I said I had never read it, which is shocking to a creature that's read it so many times. So shocking in fact, he finished it the next day, in for our next meeting at '80s Night. That's how I ended up with a copy of Dune shoved down my pants while listening to "Love is a Battlefield." (What else are you supposed to do with a book while gyrating? If only I had—and wore—big-pocketed raver pants).

I have been trying to read more sci-fi, as I completely ignored the genre MY ENTIRE LIFE (I have a lot of catching up to do). What I like most about sci-fi is its speculative and metaphorical qualities. Oh, and, you know, sexy aliens and pleasure 'droids.

Enjoying these things the most makes writing about Dune difficult. Usually I latch onto some allegory right quick, and harp on the relevant qualities of a decades-old novel. Dune had my devoted attention after the first 15 pages or so, and I was ravenous to finish it. Yet I hadn't identified what it could be, besides a story about some people living on a desert planet.

Dune takes place mostly on a desert planet, Arrakis. It's like a big sand dune, obvs. Our protagonist, Paul Atreides (Maud'Dib) is a youth gifted with a preternatural intellect and fighting ability, which he owes to selective breeding and strict training. He's also a prophet, leading a group of underestimated sand people, Fremen, who had no reason to trust him. But he becomes their fearless religious and combat leader, as they struggle against Imperial forces. The Fremen, once over their initial discomfort, treat Paul as a messiah (like Jesus or Obama). At this point, Paul is thought dead by the Imperial forces, so the established rulers ignore the Fremen and their crazy desert-religion.

I struggled for a while to determine what this book was about, but with further reflection, themes abound: don't underestimate people conditioned to live under circumstances unlike your own; if you don't like the conditions of your environment, cooperate to create change; water (read: everything) belongs to your tribe/community; what addiction can control; etc. These are all explored thoroughly in the novel, especially the ecological aspects. I think Frank Herbert took about 599 years to write the novel—did you know he got the initial inspiration after visiting the dunes of Florence, Oregon?

Anyway, I've been long-winded, and need to draw this to a close. I recommend reading this, if you want to become familiar with one of the most-read and well-regarded sci-fi novels ever. I had just two qualms with it (but that's because I'm a damned feminist). One was the final line of the novel: "While we, Chani, we who carry the name of concubine—history will call us wives" (489). Apparently tens of thousands of years from now, women will still consider themselves the "other" of men, and we will be known only as wives or concubines, not people of our own right. Of course I want women to be known as something other than what their relationship was to a man. Ok. Number two; there was one homosexual character, the Baron Harkonnen, and he was pretty disgusting: fat, sadistic and treacherous. This character is already pretty evil; what can we do to demonize him further? Oh yes, let's make him gay. We'll surely disgust our readers.

But aside from those two items, I really enjoyed reading Dune. Talk about exhaustive world-building: occupations, planets, culture, and languages were all created for this novel (and later, sequels, and later yet, prequels). It really appears to be sci-fi's answer to Lord of the Rings. Pretty badass.

KK

Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins

Last week I finished reading Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins. OH, WHAT A BOOK. As quoth by Playboy on the back cover, it is "flat-out fabulous." Dear readers, I read Still Life with Woodpecker by Robbins last year, and loved it also. Both books are like crack. Well, what I imagine literary crack to be, anyway: forever relevant, full of allusions, and impossible to put down! As in Still Life, I encountered the following in Skinny Legs: an engaging plot, strong female characters, a whole lot of randomness, and graphic sex scenes.

It goes without saying I will read all of Robbins' books.

Skinny Legs chronicles the cross-country adventure of Ellen Cherry Charles and her new hubby, Boomer... in a large turkey. Ellen Cherry is an educated artist, and Boomer is the fool who created the turkey out of an Airstream trailer, not realizing until later it was "art." Naturally, a question asked by the book is: how do we define art?
But that's not the only question. Another important one is: How do we solve the Israel-Palestine conflict (adding to that—can we)? Naturally, we get a lot of great discussion about this through a Jew and Arab who open a Middle Eastern restaurant together.

Another shocking thing: inanimate objects are capable of locomotion—most just don't know how. But if you've ever wanted to follow a devout Christian spoon, a transsexual Can O'Beans, and a sensual conch shell around New York City, this is your book! In addition to these colorful characters, we also meet Ellen's parents and her uncle, a fire-and-brimstone preacher hell-bent on summoning the Third Coming. Many of these characters start out in Colonial Pines, Virginia; move to NYC; and end up in Jerusalem.

Speaking of the fertile crescent, the title Skinny Legs and All is in reference to Salome, the Biblical temptress who entertained her stepfather Herod, for which she received a gift of her choice—which happened to be the head of John the Baptist. She is considered a jezebel (not to be confused with the ill-regarded biblical Jezebel) because she danced salaciously for Herod, removing seven veils (something Robbins uses as a plot device in multiple ways) to expose her underage flesh. THAT IS MY IDEA OF A GOOD TIME (if I were a king, not a Kristina King). Anyway, this biblical/Robbinsian Salome has skinny legs. BAM! WE HAVE A TITLE!

So, the Seven Veils thing: Babylonian lore tells us that Ishtar visited the underworld (it's like Enchanted Forest for the gods), and had to remove one piece of clothing for each gate she stepped through; Salome merely adapted that ritual for her depraved dance. A character in the book dances the said cha-cha-cha, lowering veils to expose her flesh, and ultimately, reality. Too bad so many men chose The Super Bowl over the dance!

The dance, the lowering of the veils and raising of our consciousness, is when Robbins is at his best. His characters, particularly Ellen Cherry, learn what really matters in life (it is not politics, religion, money...well, there are seven veils). For the readers, this may be an eloquent reminder (457):

And this further thought occurred to Ellen Cherry after the falling aside of Salome's first veil: that whenever society demonstrated signs of rediscovering the goddess, or returning to more feminine values systems, the patriarchally conditioned psyche generated diseases, literal diseases such as syphilis in the hotly romantic nineteenth century and, in the wake of the Sexual Revolution of the 1960s, AIDS. Those diseases were caused not by sexual license but by the fear of sexual license; by the conservative DNA's inability to adjust to hedonism; and they were compounded by guilt over the suppression of the Great Mother and the denial of the sensuality with which she so frequently underscored her coexistence with the void.

Or, it might be mind-blowing (460):

The monkey wrench in the progressive machinery of primate evolution was the propensity of the primate band to take its political leaders—its dominant males—too seriously. Of benefit to the band only when it was actively threatened by predators, the dominant male (or political boss) was almost wholly self-serving and was naturally dedicated not to liberation but to control. Behind his chest-banging and fang display, he was largely a joke and could be kept in his place (his place being that of a necessary evil) by disrespect and laughter. If, for example, when Hitler stood up to rant in the beer halls of Munich, the good drinkers had taken him more lightly, had they, instead of buying his act, snickered and hooted and pelted him with sausage skins, the Holocaust might have been avoided.

I bet you saw this coming: I highly recommend this novel.

-KK

P.S. Next up is Dune, because it was thrust in my pants whilst dancing to "Love is a Battlefield" at '80s Night.

"Tender is the Night" by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald is a semi-autobiographical novel that follows Dick Diver and his wife Nicole, from their initial meeting as doctor-and-patient, to their inevitable separation. That part is fiction; however, the novel chronicles Fitzgerald's perceived personal and career failings, and his wife Zelda's breakdown (as well as both of their extramarital affairs). Dick and Nicole are masks of the Fitzgeralds, augmented by their real-life friends. I suppose there's no better material than your own life and relationships.

Tender is a beautiful read. Unfortunately, I've read or taught The Great Gatsby too many times—I keep expecting to find all of these symbols and motifs in Tender, much like the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg and the green light in Gatsby. Perhaps it's amateur to compare Tender with Gatsby. Everyone on the planet has done that. Well, I just did: as a representative of the human race, I'll bet there are many like me who haven't read anything by Fitzgerald save these two novels (ok, perhaps also "Curious Case of Benjamin Button"). If you're expecting another great novel in the vein of Gatsby, which shows us how damaging money and ambition can be, you won't find it here. Sure, money is an important part of Tender, but it's something more inherently human that causes the damage: neuroses and addiction.

Nicole is neurotic, having suffered a mental breakdown caused by her incestuous relationship with her father. She is in constant danger of breaking down again; considering they have two children, Dick does as much as he can to prevent this from happening. Ultimately, though, it is their incompatibility that causes a breakdown of sorts. They realize their marriage is through, but try to ignore it (for the sake of the kids?). Nicole ignores it by considering an affair (which she follows through with) and Dick ignores it by drinking—quite a detrimental amount. The entire arc is believable; many of us, in our relationships, have experienced these feelings, or even acted similarly.

The backdrop is a continuation of Gatsby's roaring '20s: the characters work and take vacations at all sorts of idyllic spots. We see how superficial life is: how people act like nothing is wrong, but in reality, everything they know is falling apart. Fitzgerald skewers the hollow upper class well, because he had plenty of time being a member or knowing them. It's like me writing the great hipster novel (I deny I am a hipster, but damnit, so many signs point to yes...)

I recommend this novel without pause. Fitzgerald has such a way with words—if you don't know it, you've heard this. He's a standard. Also, it's fascinating to see someone spin their experiences into a work of fiction, yet still retain authenticity and honesty. No one is blamed—it isn't Nicole's fault she had neuroses, and Dick didn't marry her for her money. Yet, in the end, Nicole recovers and Dick disappears. Oh! Here's a lesson: when you're in the money crowd, it isn't a lifetime membership.

KK

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

In January I experienced a "Quarter-Century Crisis." I was set to turn 25 and doubting everything about my life: I didn't have a job in my chosen field (education), I was having a hard time paying the bills, and was generally self-pitying.

My cooperating teacher (I taught his 9th grade class while I was student teaching) and now friend recommended I read The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho—something about fulfilling one's destiny. Well, it is now August, and I have finished reading it. Why wait so long? I started it six months after the recommendation!

Funny thing: life ensued. I had many good conversations, which led me to cease my pity party (which was a bummer, because everyone loves parties!) and focus on what I had that was good. I had many supportive friends and my steady college job at the credit union back. Plus, I got a call in February to take a month-long substitute teaching job at a middle school (only thing left to do was sell my too-high-of-a-payment-for-a-sub-teacher car), so I didn't have time (...nor desire) to read The Alchemist.

Well, I finally read it. The novel follows a shepherd boy, who is being groomed for something great by his poor parents. However, he doesn't want to pursue a life in the priesthood, and opts to travel. While wandering the countryside with his sheep, he dreams of a treasure, near the Pyramids in Egypt. We follow Santiago as he pursues his treasure, meeting a great King, the love of his life, an alchemist and war. It was a beautiful story, as all the reviews say—but, to this jaded quarter-centenarian, too heavy-handed. While reading, I underlined scores of proverbs and aphorisms and words of advice, ultimately being told that to achieve my destiny, I need to listen to my heart and not fear failure: that the universe will conspire to help me fulfill my dreams.

There are many beautiful, concise statements in the novel that I could slap on photos of a golden pyramid, a soaring falcon, a galloping steed, or a hidden oasis and market as inspirational posters (I'll have to do that when I have a regular teaching job). They aren't terribly cheesy, but definitely motivational, such as "...there is a force that wants you to realize your destiny" (30) and "when you really want something, the universe always conspires in your favor" (38).

When I subbed for said friend in April or so, I spent a few days teaching out of the book, and it sparked some great discussion and musing. Reading it alone, though, it felt like I was drowning in Chicken Soup for the Soul. I alternated between feeling that there was a beautiful message in the book that we don't hear enough of (people try to dissuade you from your dreams because they're too afraid to chase their own) and wanting to stow it on my shelf next to Dianetics and the Bible (how many times can you handle hearing God/Allah will help you achieve your dream?).

Aside from the ham-handed repetition of Disneyesque advice, there is a lot to like about this book. It was first published in 1988, thus making it a truly modern fable. It has also been translated into approximately 23,000,000 languages (sadly, Klingon is not one of them).

This book is a phenomenon, and for that, I recommend reading it (well, that's a slippery slope for recommendations. Would I ever suggest The DaVinci Code because it's a phenomenon? NO).
It is written in simple, beautiful prose, and will make you think about your life. For that, I recommend reading it. Am I doing what I love? Am I chasing my dream? What's preventing me from doing so?

Oh, yeah: I, unlike The Boy, have no idea what my dream is. I don't know what to chase. But, for the moment, I'm content to make the most out of what I have.
I leave you with some beautiful words: "...it's not love to be static like the desert, nor is it love to roam the world like the wind. And it's not love to see everything from a distance... Love is the force that transforms and improves the Soul of the World... when we love, we always strive to become better than we are" (158).

KK

The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury

KK's review is thus: The Martian Chronicles is badass. Read it.


Now it's time for some ruminations. Why did I enjoy The Martian Chronicles so much? Sure, it's speculative, but it's realistic also. It's definitely a parable for what we do to each other and our planet. The novel traces Mankind's conquering of Mars:
1. We explored Mars, surprised to find a sophisticated civilization
2. We inadvertently killed the native population with a common illness
3. We destroyed what the Martians had so carefully crafted: their strong buildings, their logical faith, and their unique knowledge
4. We covered Mars with ill-fabricated edifices and urban sprawl as we colonized there
5. We fled Mars when we thought Earth needed us
6. Then we blew up Earth in a nuclear war, leaving two battered planets to waste, save for a slice of our population

So #5 and 6 haven't yet happened; but they're entirely likely, or something like them. Look at what I've outlined above; this is history repeating itself. It's manifest destiny, Mars-style (hmm, that'd be a good TV show—or US policy).

That is why I think this book is so badass. Bradbury moves humans to a new planet, and we fuck it up. It seems realistic to me!

The novel is really a series of short stories, taking place from January 1999 to October 2026. Of course they're connected; we see some characters recur throughout. But taken separately, each story makes its own point. All together, it sums up man's folly.
There's plenty of futurist speculation and pointed social satire. I think I've said enough to bait you into reading it, so I won't go into the specifics about each story, or about the character. I leave you with this tantalizing tidbit (64):

"... Well, these Martians have art and religion and everything."
"You think that they knew it was all about, do you?"
"For my money."
"And for that reason you started shooting people."
"When I was a kid my folks took me to visit Mexico City. I'll always remember the way my father acted—loud and big. And my mother didn't like the people because they were dark and didn't wash enough. And my sister wouldn't talk to most of them. I was the only one that really liked it. And I can see my mother and father coming to Mars and acting the same way here."

Spender, the shooter of five crewmates while on Mars, was disturbed by the others' treatment of Martian artifacts; he compares their actions to his parents' (and Americans in general) while in a foreign locale. Spender, in his exploration of Mars, realizes the Martians had discovered the meaning of life (67):

"Man had become too much man and not enough animal on Mars too. And the men of Mars realized that in order to survive they would have to forgo asking that one question any longer: Why live? Life was its own answer. Life was the propogation of more life and the living of as good a life as possible..."

KK

P.S. I see that is was made into a series. BETTER WATCH! Thanks, YouTube.

The Savage Detectives by Robert Bolano

The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño

I cannot recall the day I started this book; I know it was a while ago, though. I picked it up because it is one of Paul Dresman’s favorites (or so I hear). Let me describe Paul Dresman for you: A professor of literature at the University of Oregon, he taught 20^th Century Novel and Beat classes among others, but that’s not why we like him. No, we like the way he laughs at his own jokes; the way his leathery skin is stretched over his skull; the way he gets hot during a lecture and unbuttons his floral-print shirts; the way he looks like he’s always on vacation, even while asking you questions about The Dubliners; the way you love him or hate him; and the way he interests those who study sciences, not just English.

Dresman read this novel in its original Spanish, and was waaay excited that it got translated. When I took a class with him, we didn’t read this novel, but he taught it in another novel class (Nate was supposed to read this book, but skipped most of the middle). So, Nate had this poor unread book sitting on its shelf, and all I needed to hear to convince me to read it was “Dresman.” WE LOVE THE GUY.

My review is going to be discombobulated, because my reading of the novel was discombobulated. I picked it up long ago (almost two months?) and took an absurdly long time to read its 577 pages (thank you, Spring Break, for affording me the time to finally finish). I wish I could say I savored it, but I didn’t; at times, a week went by when I didn’t crack it open. Sorry, book, I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Recommendation: read this novel if you’re patient. If you’re impatient, stay away from it. Common negative responses to it are because of its length and its style: the first and third sections are written as diary entries, and the middle section contains something like 50 narrators (however, the narrators are always clearly identified). You will spend hundreds of pages wondering, “What the hell is the point?” But if you’re patient, the point will become clear. And even if it doesn’t, you will enjoy the language.

THIS BOOK IS ALIVE! There are many characters, fictional and nonfictional, and they all feel real. There are no caricatures, even if the story borders on the ridiculous. I could believe every last bit of sex, violence, drug use and poetry. So, even if you can’t make it through the whole thing, or it takes a dreadfully long time to do so (like me!), the characterization is palpable. If anything, it’s a good lesson in how to create full-bodied characters.

So, umm, what is this story about, anyway? Its protagonist is Juan Garcia Madero, a 17-year-old who gets sucked into a poetry movement in Mexico, Visceral Realism. The plot hinges on the two leaders of this group, Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima, as they cavort across the planet and search for the mother of the first phase of Visceral Realism, Cesárea Tinajero.

The novel is a savory ride through these boys’ experiences, as we watch them age, grow up, and wind through countless lives. What is it to be a poet? How do you found a literary movement? Even if you age, do you grow up? What is growing up, anyway? How many artists have become household names? How many artists faded into obscurity? What happens if you get killed in a foreign place? Will anyone realize you’re gone? Did I ask enough questions?

I could analyze the structure of the book (some say it’s ground-breaking; others say it’s a failure; some say it’s a combination of both), but I won’t. I don’t particularly feel like addressing the relevance of the novel, either. Frankly, I’ve failed in reading this novel. I took way too long to read it, and because it’s not my book, I didn’t take a single note in it (yeah, I know I could have used an index card or Post-It flags, but color me lazy). So, I am failing to provide to you the quality reviews (ha?) you’re used to.

Nevertheless, I will give this novel a hesitant recommendation. Read it if you’re patient and curious; read it if you want to get a peek into some implausible, yet totally tangible, lives. I can compare reading this novel to something a minor character notes while watching a major character and another engage in a sword duel: “In a brief moment of lucidity, I was sure we’d all gone crazy. But then that moment of lucidity was displaced by a supersecond of super-lucidity (if I can put it that way), in which I realized that this scene was the logical outcome of our ridiculous lives. It wasn’t a punishment but a new wrinkle. It gave us a glimpse of ourselves in our common humanity…” (454).

KK

The Plague by Albert Camus

I haven't read nearly enough by Albert Camus. Prior to reading The Plague, I had read The Stranger and the short "Myth of Sisyphus." The Stranger is one of my favorite novels; if I try to explain now, this will turn into a review of that. Anyway...

According to the back of the book, "The Plague stands alongside The Stranger among the great novels of the twentieth century. Camus' first book to be published after World War II, it is imbued with the intense concern for the human being that marks all his work. The story takes place in the Algerian port of Oran, where a ravaging epidemic of bubonic plague—which symbolically suggests other spiritual and political plagues—has thrown the city into a harrowing agony. Quarantined from the outside world, Oran becomes a prison of death and disease, to which each character reacts in his own way; the efforts of those seeking to alleviate the suffering become the focus of Camus' human and humane passion."

Some say this novel is an allegory for some crazy-ass political shit: that is is either a metaphor for the French resistance to Nazi occupation, or the spread of fascism. Honestly, I don't know enough about either of those to go into that. I would make an ass of myself. (Then again, some may I make an ass of myself with all this pretentious existentialist talk)...

A. I read somewhere (bad me, no citations) that Camus specifically said this was not an existentialist novel (quickly: Existentialism dictates that existence precedes meaning. It is essential for us to CREATE meaning, because there is no inherent meaning to our existence. It's closely related to Absurdism, in which humans try to find meaning but fail because no such meaning exists. Camus wrote a great deal on these topics (what a badass). I will be a total nerd right now and link to a livejournal post I wrote after reading some Camus. It totally sent me into a mini-crisis). So Camus said this book was not written to make us question the meaning. Were the characters able to realize how absurd life is, fighting the BUBONIC PLAGUE?! Or did they find meaning, thus rising above the absurdity? If we are not allowed to look at the book this way, I am not sure of how to approach it. I don't want Camus' corpse rising from the dead to smite me because I saw The Plague as a book all about finding meaning. What say you. Should I risk it? SHOULD I RISK ZOMBIE-CAMUS?

B. We could write papers and papers on each individual character (well, it's been done, but we could do it again). Cottard tries to kill himself, but finds a reason to live when the plague comes; he smuggles in contraband and makes a killing. Grand spends his free time writing a novel, struggling for months with a complicated opening sentence (only to, at the end of the novel, cut out all the adjectives). Rieux fights the plague tirelessly while his wife is at a sanitarium, only to never be reunited, as she died near plague's end. Paneloux delivers two strikingly different sermons, and believes his faith is enough to fight the plague. And more.

C. You know, this theme of creating meaning is all I got GOOD. There are some others:
*reason vs. emotion (always a literary favorite)
*separation, particularly if it is unending
*does human suffering prove God doesn't exist?
*If you have no future, can you love? Or the converse.
*Modern life—we spend it frittering it away
*being prosecuted for unknown crime

I will stay away from the "meaning of life" analysis, because, well, I do that all the time. In elementary school, during morning announcements, a student was given the opportunity to recommend a book. My teacher nominated me; they expected to be blown away by my recommendation (yeah, I was a nerd then, too). However, I went with the classic One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and disappointed the hell out of them. But you know what? That book totally describes the meaning of life. That's why I picked it.

Instead, let's go with this "spread of fascism" I was so dead-set against. But rather than fascism singularly, I think it is a novel about the spread of isms. An -ism is a suffix that denotes a system of beliefs/theory/doctrine, a state/condition; a disease; a movement... well, there are lots of things -ism can be attached to. So it's not that simple.

You may be thinking, "C'mon, Kristina, what the eff is your point?" That's a very good question. I am finding it insanely difficult to articulate a cogent point. This novel blew my brains out all over the place. Not only are there 19,000 subtexts to every sentence, but it is written so beautifully, too! I have all of these notes, and all of these directions to take this review.

My point: read this book. Read it with a friend, or perhaps a book club. It is very dense and difficult (obviously—I kept putting off finishing it). I knew that it would come to a point where I would admit defeat and say "this book is so hard!" That time came three days ago, when I finished reading it. I admit defeat. Albert Camus, I have no idea what your book is about.

I am going to discuss, then, one of several thousand points he makes. In the novel, the doctor crusading against the plague, Rieux, and his old doctor buddy Castel, determine it must be the plague. And even if it isn't plague, it is best to proceed with precautionary measures as if it were. Because it is certainly something! After agreeing that prophylactic measures were necessary, the agency in charge displayed some nonchalant official notices. But Rieux thought "one had the feeling that many concessions had been made in a desire not to alarm the public" (50).

But why? Well, the government is afraid.
But not afraid of the Plague.
They are afraid of the townspeople's reaction to an announcement about the plague.

Might their priorities be skewed? Should they let people be oblivious until all the sudden, they are having buboes lanced open before dying in agony?
But it's not just a statement about the government. It's about us, humans, in general.
It's not just our governments or leaders who are slow to react (or even refusing to react). We all are. Some say Camus makes it an allegory for Nazi occupation or Fascism (the last chapter really nails this). But it could be an epidemic of any kind:
starvation
genocide
disease
_________ism

We are blind to what is happening elsewhere; to others' pain/agony/situation/inability to live comfortably and happily... But we know something is happening. We prefer to remain unaware and ignorant, as did the people of Oran:

Hiterto, surprised as he may have been by the strange things happening around him, each individual citizen had gone about his business as usual, so far as this was possible. And no doubt he would have continued doing so. But once the town gates were shut, every one of us realized that all, the narrator included, were, so to speak, in the same boat... (63)

In Oran, before the townspeople knew it, their borders were closed and hundreds were dying a day. Bodies could no longer be buried, but were either cremated in batches or dissolved in lime.
This sounds a lot like other things going on in this perfect world of ours.

The Plague is not all pessimistic and heavy-handed like this. There is actually quite a bit of hope, and a lot about love. Rieux and his friends face the plague head-on, determined to find peace with themselves and be reunited with loved ones. Rambert tries to escape the walls, yet realizes his place is fighting the plague; but he is reunited with his wife. Tarrou found his meaning by working against the plague; but when the epidemic waned, his strength did too, and he found peace at death. I leave you with this, bittersweet:

And, indeed, as he listened to the cries of joy rising from the town, Rieux remembered that such joy is always imperiled. He knew what those jubilant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen-chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks, and bookshelves; and that perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it would rouse up its rats again and send them forth to die in a happy city (287).

KK