I really like the story. I do. Yet, I'm puzzled, as I was/am with Hawthorne. I don't know what the author is really saying. I know that Melville did try to put a lot of his own personal "code" in his work -- and I think Hawthorne was also feeling out the notion of a "code" in Letter and Goodman Brown and the Minister's Veil. I think Melville's characters are better -- more fleshed out, more interesting in their self torture, and infinitely easier to identify with.
With Bartleby, it seems like Melville is toying with us. Does Bartleby really exist? Is he a metaphor for depression? Of course, almost all literature for me is about depression or psychosis or suicide. But I can't imagine that Bartleby is supposed to be real. And by real, I mean a character on par with Turkey, Ginger-Nut, or Nipper. Nipper is almost my favorite character in the book! I loved the descriptions of him trying to get his desk right, and his sudden jostling of it out of nowhere. I could almost feel that character in my veins. And if we are supposed to identify with the narrator, what does that say about us? (At least that is what Blythe asks.) What would we do with a guy like Bartleby? What do we do with a guy like him. What do I do? Well, if a certain unnamed young girl in our class who enunciates like it's a paying gig, and is, apparently, a Nazarite (at least from the waist down), reminds of Bartleby, well then, I suppose I react by looking at her a little sideways and asking, can this actually be authentic? See, Bartleby was authentic, a real original. I almost like him. The girl? We're a long ways from like.
I have to go back to the part in Bartleby where the narrator goes through his strange employee's desk. The most interesting part is where he is reaching into the far recesses of the desk. This imagery really reminded me of reaching into the far corners of the mind, and not understanding what you come up against.
Bartleby is sort of a hero. He stands his ground. He won't back down. All else that we know about him is what is projected onto him by the narrator. Is Bartleby really lonely? Is he really tortured? Is he even hungry? He is really never believed, nor accepted for who he is. He is not exactly an outcast, but he stands outside of society. He fits in, almost too well, so then he stands out, when he renegs on what makes him fit in. What if all of us just pulled a Bartleby and reneged on everything that makes us keep the machine running? What's so great about Bartleby is that he doesn't take the opposite position, or pursue another course, he just ceases to do what is asked of him, what he is used to doing. There is a passage on passive resistance, and maybe this is really Melville's whole point, that if more people would pull a Bartleby the whole capitalist system would crumble, and that we have more power in saying no stoically than in saying no holding a machine gun, which is really just a new kind of yes. Bartleby wins, doesn't he? Doesn't he get what he wants? I envy Bart, really. I also wish I could stick to his diet.
12 comments:
You would really want to live on GingerNuts? Remember, he wastes away of starvation. Maybe he's the first documented anorexic! Maybe the whole story is just about our longing to be thin! Okay, NOT. I don't at all "know" if B is real; he honestly seems more like some kind of psychological projection of a Resistant Self. But....again...maybe not.
"Bartleby" turned out to be one of the favorite stories my Intro to Lit class read this semester. We had more fun with that story than almost any other one in the anthology.
I've always wondered about Bartleby, actually. He seems to have such pain, such trauma. Whatever has happened to him has created such a deep wound, a fatal one, obviously. And yet we find humor in the situation. I wonder what THAT says about us as readers?
I don't know that I agree. I mean, everything tragic about Bartleby, except his death, of course, was projected on to him by the narrator. Blythe thinks that Bartleby wanted out, that's why he was saving his money, and that his decision to give up was after realising that he would never get out of his situation or station as a scrivener. I found that hard to argue against.
And what is really funny about the story is the narrator and the other employees. What I find humorous is not really stoic, lifeless Barleby, but the narrator scarmbling around, trying to maintain his "peaceful" "safe" life whilst Bartleby continues to say and do unsafe things like refuse to work or do work for which he is not paid.
I'm not sure why Melville decided to throw in the dead letter bit. It seems like a ploy to divert the majority of readers who want a rational explanation for why Barleby appears so morose. And why does he repeat, I am not particular? It's confounding.
I remember hearing something on the History channel, something to the tune of, "America was gearing up for the Civil War," and the line was said in the context of the century previous to the War, as if life is just a history in the making, gearing up or winding down from a particular momentous event. Thinking of literature from that time period I can see that there are defintiely ideas that come through in the text that show a breaking apart of ideas and no real answer or resolution. Bartleby has shattered the peace and continuity of the narrator's existence, and there is no peace to be had afterward. I think that is quite postmodern. Isn't it pretty to think so?
I've always thought of Bartleby as one of those dead letters. He has nowhere to go, and he can't even return to his place of origin. No one wants him, and those in power have no idea where to place him. Perhaps I am projecting here, but I've always thought that one of the reasons he stays in the office and refuses to go elsewhere is that realization that there is no one for him out there. Who truly cares what happens to him? (Who loves Bartleby?) He is cut off from the rest of humanity, and he becomes more and more cut off as the story progresses. Whether he has done so to himself or others have done this to him, I don't know. He seems, however, to have thoroughly given up on life and his fellow human beings. Why should he move? Nowhere will offer him any more solace than the place he currently is.
I think it's true that the only person who seems to care for Bartleby is the narrator. At first I couldn't imagine that the dead letters were a metaphor for Bartleby himself, and I felt that the letters were a diversion, meant to make us think that people are what they do.
But is that really the point? The tension in this story builds as Bartleby refuses more and more, and when we discover that he is living at the office and refuses to leave. I don't know if Bartleby refuses to leave because there is no where for him to go, or because he must refuse to leave, as he must refuse to do everything. Bartleby is simply not going to reveal himself, not to the narrator, not to anyone. What is interesting to me is how everyone around him reacts. Nippers and Turkey want to kill him, and his passive refusal makes him an object on which to take out their frustration, but the narrator does feel for Bartleby. Couldn't you argue that the narrator loves Bartleby? The narrator has no obligation to him; Bartleby is the lowest of the low, a scrivener. The narrator's weakness is that he wants to live peacefully and safely. So how do you wake up someone so complacent? Not by being an agressive bulldog, like Turkey, nor by being a seething crimminal, like Nippers. It takes a peaceful, safe, non-combative offender to wake up the narrator to his souless existence.
I think that the purpose of Bartleby is to expose the evils of the capitalist system, and disclose that all it takes to topple it is a people who are devoted to saying no. Unfortunately, the system in the story isn't toppled, just given a pause to reflect. But maybe that is the real real point -- that when the people who are saying no are so outnumbered, all they can hope for is a momentary pause, and then the machine labours on, undaunted. But the narrator is haunted, and if Bartelby is a living dead letter, how many more humans is the narrator willing to shovel into the fire? He offered Bartleby many options, but none of them were a move up in the office. It is as if every option that the narrator highlighted was a shovel into the fire.
I don't know how long we want to keep this going, but... If the narrator loves Bartleby, does that love so disgust or repulse him that he has to abandon Bartleby? That kind of love would be too unconventional for him. Perhaps Bartleby is a "dead letter" because, given the time period of the story, there is no place for him to "deliver" this kind of love? It would certainly make him an outsider, and Melville certainly struggles in many of his works with the male-to-male relationship.
Oh we can keep this going baby! I'm not embaressed!
It would be unconventional, if Bartleby were a real person. But if the love is self-love, then it can easily fight and transform into self-loathing. And he never really does abandon Bartleby. He WANTS to, but he can't release himself from him etirely, hence the story exists, even after Bartleby is dead.
If Bartleby represents the narrator's sexuality, then his refusal confuses me. Perhaps from this perspective his refusal to do work is a metaphor for the narrator's refusal to acknowledge or act on his sexual impulses. Barteby's death could be seen as the death of desire -- or deadening desire so as to return to a safe haven of obscurity. The dead letters could be letters written with the intent of destruction -- perhaps the narrator sent a letter of confession, knowing it was destined for the fire. When Bartleby manifested himself to the narrator, he imagined he could control him, but ultimately, desire has a life and an autonomy that no one can master. But with no outlet, Barteby dies -- he refuses food, refuses to satiate his desire for food. Man, I should have written THIS paper.
You still can, you know.
I would enjoy reading that prospective paper on "Bartleby." What I love about Melville, in general, is, as we discussed in class, his refusal to let us "look away," to, as the narrator in "B" desires, "maintain our safe and comfortable existence" as you put it. There is no looking away in Melville. One cannot maintain comfort and safety when reading Melville. There are only hard, hard "truths" that are made even harder because they usually involve truths about OURSELVES and multiple ones at that. There is no safety, no sanctuary, no escape in Melville. Nor, actually, do I think there is in life. We are all Bartleby and we are all the narrator. We desire people whom we should not desire. We desire escape from ourselves and escape from others. We desire to be good. We desire to be bad. And, mostly, we end up like the narrator, obsessed with what we could not understand, or refuse to understand, puzzled, uneasy, writing or thinking about the truths that we chose to ignore, but can't quite. Or, for the truly unlucky, we end up like Bartleby, staring at blank walls, cognizant of the lack of escape possible, and we die.
Look at Benito Cereno. He has an epiphany; he was prevented from "looking away" by Babo and Co. He cannot retreat to the safety and comfort of "home" (in the many senses of home). He is shadowed forever by "the Negro." Delano thinks he has "escaped;" he never "gets it." And yet, still, he obsesses, puzzled, never quite secure again.
We will see this pattern again in Moby Dick. And let's not even talk about The Confidence Man!!
As Sartre famously wrote, "hell is other people." I think Melville knew this. And in reading Melville, I think we are confronted with this. And most of us try to look away.
As an addendum, when I read your writing, I am always struck by how truly brilliant and insightful you are, Brooke, and I don't mean that as an empty compliment to a friend. You are more suited to literary criticism than almost anyone I know, and I include myself in that category. You are, in a word, smarter than I am. I often wish that you would pursue a Ph.D., although I know your heart lies elsewhere. There are so few original minds out there.....
But you'd have to step it up in the "deadlines and requirements department." And, I guess, given that I agree with Melville that ultimately we are looking at blank walls, maybe it is hypocritical of me to suggest that you pursue a Ph.D.
At least please keep writing. I so enjoy it. Really truly.
Smarter? Hardly!!!!
Do you know, sometimes I think my brain is like a great big heap of mashed potatoes. I need someone to come along and sculpt them into a space ship landing pad. That's it! You and ones like you have come along with your forks and shaped me into something that may, one day, make sense!
Maybe it's hypercritical. No, really, I think pursuing a PhD would be really cool, but it scares me to death. I am really insecure. Duh. I don't think of myself as responsible or daring enough to get published. See, I am stuck in that toilet of whirlpooling water where I want to basically make a living discecting published work, but don't want to put my butt on the line. Talk about hypocritical, sheesh. But as time goes on I may get to the point where a PhD is the obvious choice. I still just feel overwhelmed at the thought. Maybe that will change.
Fear is so powerful!
Thank you for saying such cool things about me. It keeps my chin up! Love.
To some extent, I believe that those who are most insecure about their abilities tend to actually have the least to be insecure about. This is not entirely true, but I find it to be a common occurrence. At the risk of sounding terribly sexist, I also think that women tend to at least ADMIT to being overly insecure about their own abilities; I am not sure if women are more insecure in general, or if we simply are more able/willing/conditioned/whatever to admit to such insecurities.
Now, Joe, don't get mad, men are among my favorite people (eek). In fact, I think my friendships are 50/50 along gender lines, and I know from living with 4 (5 when Gavin's in town!) males that men are also insecure about many things. But whether it is that whole APPEARANCE of confidence that men are trained from early days to assume, or, in fact, as Mr. K would say, that men actually ARE more secure, well, not sure on that one.
Getting a Ph.D. isn't the "be all end all" -- it is just that I find your work so fascinating that I'd like to see more of it. Also, it isn't the most brilliant people who get the Ph.D. (LOOK AT ME). It is the people who have staying power. People who excel in the art of delayed gratification (LOOK AT ME!)
Anyway, Ph.D. land can wait -- it isn't going anywhere. I do not want to see you underestimate yourself, and I also would like to see you seize control of your destiny (oh dear melville would groan) and kind of "step up" which a Ph.D. would force you to do. BUT, like I said, getting a Ph.D. is rather thankless in every way EXCEPT in personal satisfaction. And if you want, you can make people call you "doctor." Ick.
Later!
No one who likes drinks and chocolate the way we do could ever be accused of excelling in the art of delayed gratification. We like our sugar, and we like it with cocoa beans and from the distillery, and we'd like it now.
By the way, Samuel Adams Oktoberfest brew is somehow the best beer I've ever tasted, and it's already gone for another 11 months. Tear.
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