The Strange The Stranger Chapter 1

Oh, a post about literature? Welly, well, well, well. Astonishing. Right before I started college, I read Camus,' The Stranger. I had gone to Australia and met a great guy there who shared my love of The Cure, and discussions about their music led to him asking me if I had read The Stranger, for one of The Cure's early songs is heavily influenced by it. I had heard of Camus, through popular culture and all of that, but had not tried French literature beyond some of Rimbaud's translated poetry, and Lautremont's "Chants de Maldoror." My Australian friend said I should read the novel, commenting that it is a short little thing, and very good. I ended up reading Matthew Ward's "American" translation, not for any real reason. Just coincidence.

So I read it, and I liked the style. I ended up also reading The Plague, which I liked immensely. Then, right after I started college, I picked up The Rebel, Camus' ideas about the rebel and revolution. I tried to read it then, which was, I would say, in 2003 or 2004. I liked the beginning, but as it got more difficult, I put it aside. I don't think I had really read enough theory to understand it well enough to enjoy it.

I haven't actually picked it back up with the intention of reading it all the way through, yet. I was skimming it the other day, and noticed that it has a section on the rebel in novels. I read a little bit of that, and I really liked it. I had pulled The Stranger off of the shelf at the same time that I yanked The Rebel, also by coincidence, because The Stranger is so skinny, and they were sort of stuck together. I knew what a brief read it was, so I decided that I should read it again, as a graduate.

I'm always a little nervous reading translated work, and even more when analyzing it. Oh, well. I will do this as usual:

Part 1

Chapter 1

This novel has a Part 1, so this is presumably the beginning of something that will happen in stages. Something, it seems, will build.

The opening sentence is great: Maman died today. The death of the mother, the creator, the collapse of the cave from whence we all came, is an excellent setting. It is a reminder of that long since forbidden intimacy that Meursault later seems to both crave and abhor. It's a sentence which reminds of that particular intimacy, and is also a renewal of the loss of it, or the extinguishing of the hope of ever having it again. It is Freud that postulated that we all want to get back into the womb? I don't know. I should really read more philosophy. Anyway, we are dealing with the death of a mother -- kind of like in As I Lay Dying. I wonder if Camus was a fan of Faulkner.

I guess you could say that this novel is written in the first person. I wonder, though, who the speaker is talking to, and if we are in what I can only think to describe as "real time." Are we experiencing a story past tense or present tense? We seem to be in the speaker's mind, but also floating at times outside of him, looking either at him or away from him. I don't get the feeling that the narrator is really aware of us. When he says things like, "I don't have anything to apologize for," referring to needing time off from work, and feeling guilty for asking for it, I'm not sure if he's telling us, or trying to convince himself.

I think Camus wants us to believe that what we are reading is all that goes on in Meursault's head. There is such a lack of any kind of judgement, but perhaps this is because, as he tells us, he's been influenced by the fact that Maman had never in her life given a thought to religion. It's interesting that instead of saying that his mother wasn't religious, he uses the phrase, "never given a thought." This implies that thoughts are not intrusive, but extrusive. They could just be sitting there, with no subject, no predicate, simply waiting for you to choose what to give them to. That means that there is another consciousness deciding, or thinking, what to think about. In that case, there is another consciousness that Meursault is not disclosing, or perhaps cannot disclose to us. The one that chooses what he is going to give his thoughts to. Or at least that is his experience -- so he's not acknowledging the super-ego? Alas, there I go again, quoting that which I'm not familiar enough with.

The action at the funeral and the senior home is probably what initially establishes the novel's reputation as concerning a "detached" man. Yet, I didn't find it hard to identify with Meursault as he finds the home a virtual prison for the elderly, and the behavior of the attendants there absurd. What I noticed about this episode was the various systems that he has to deal with to get this ceremony over with in order for Maman's death to "have a more official feel to it." Until these systems are dealt with and used, "it's almost as if Maman isn't dead." The structures, the systems, are what pronounce her dead, for Meursault doesn't even glimpse her dead body. It's an experience made up of bare nerves and intolerable foreignness.

I suppose Camus begins with this because it is one of the more absurd moments in life that we construct. We don't usually personally bury our loved ones; others, strangers, bury our dead. Others do all of the work for us, so that we do not really have the experience. When Meursault arrives at the "old people's home," he wants to "see Maman right away," but he must see the director first. He is a little old man of some distinction, wearing a ribbon from the French Legion of Honor. It's been over 140 years since the Legion was established, and the director is described as little and old. Camus could be commenting on the futility of newness, and new orders. I do think that in The Rebel, he notes that every rebellion is only a rebellion until order is restored again. Then rebells cease to be in revolt, and they are either policemen or tyrants. So which is the director? I guess since the director holds Meursault's hand until he "didn't know how to get it loose," he seems like more of a gentle tyrant, overpowering, but only just enough to make the Meursault uncomfortable. But there isn't a clear connotation. The director uses modified language to keep from "criticizing" Meursault, while simultaneously justifying the existence of the old people's home, and acts as the authority on the matter.

There's a slight refrain in this novel, that begins in chapter one. It's something like, "that doesn't mean anything." The meaningless that Meursault is referring to seems like a relief from the forced meaning involved in the old folks' home, and even involved in his job and relationship with his boss, and even in his later relationship with Marie. Meaninglessness becomes the answer to confusion, or the option for freedom from feeling. Thus, the compulsion to find meaning, or to make meaning, becomes uncomfortable for the reader.

A good friend and reader explained the feeling I was having about setting and space as dislocation. Dislocation came up a lot for me in Faulkner. I find it very interesting that Camus has achieved a similar sense of dislocation, but uses more subtle literary techniques than say, stream of consciousness. It's almost as if the realm of ideas is a location that both Faulkner and Camus take us to, some psychological personality place where the self is detached from the present, but not entirely unaware of it. Is this the attempt to know the unknowable? Fittingly, I don't know.

Theater Rage

Being as it's probably the most interesting thing I've been doing lately, besides having a job, and planning European vacations, going to the movies will have to be the subject of yet another post. I wrote about Bright Star, and I'm sticking with my notion that it's simply the best film this year. I'm seeing it again on Monday. It's brilliant.

Tonight Todd and I went to see Drew Barrymore's directorial debut, Whip It. The film isn't extraordinary, but I suppose it is mildly amusing. The best thing in it by leaps and bounds is Andrew Wilson's performance as the derby girl's coach. I love those Wilson brothers. They have a genuineness about them that I can't help but admire. What is it? A vulnerability? Charm? Confidence? Coolness? They are just a wildly talented, if a bit limited, trio of men.

The movie was alright, but there's something else I have to tell you. There's something I have to admit to. I have a problem. Let's call it theatre rage. I find myself unconscionably angry when people around me incessantly talk, chomp on popcorn, and open loud candy during films. I mean it really gets me mad. Mutant comic book character mad, where I don't care about getting my butt kicked. This happens to me at concerts, too, but it is never more annoying then when I'm at a movie theater. I have a terribly unreasonable expectation that people watching a film together will be quiet. I mean, before most movies there is actually a message from the theater telling you to be quiet. I mean, I understand that sometimes you have to whisper something, like, I have to pee, or you say, oh, that's Andrew Wilson, but there's this technique called whispering that I don't know people learn anymore.

And I think to myself, am I just getting old and cranky? Am I going to the wrong theater? Apparently not, because when I saw Appaloosa at the Arclight in a 21+ screening with assigned seating, there was a douchebag sitting behind us that wouldn't shut up until we got an usher to remind him. And even then we had to shush him several times. I think -- do I have to see movies at midnight? Especially in movies where the sound is actually kind of important, almost a character unto itself, is the unbecoming knowledge that you "just can't believe that she would do that" -- which is an actual quote from a woman sitting behind me blurting out random statements during that quiet, dialogue heavy movie with Kate Winslet and Leonardo di Caprio. When Todd and I saw Bright Star together, there was a row of popcorn chompers behind us, at least three of them, who must have been trying to win some kind of contest for loudness.

Tonight, there was a highschool-aged couple behind us who talked throughout the trailers, and then continued to talk for the first five minutes of the movie, making comments through every line like they were reactionary robots with no control over their impulse to respond. I glared, I shushed. The guy looked like a total bro douche bag, so I finally decided I needed to change seats. Todd tends to kind of panic when I get theater rage, because he feels like I'm going to say something really nasty (like that time I told someone that they had the decorum of a junkyard dog) that will cause him to have to get into a fight, but mostly I think my snobbery and confrontational nature simply embarrass him. I got up in my rage, and spilled all my Junior Mints. Dad blam it. I booked it angrily to some upper seats on the aisle, and we watched the rest of the film a little askew, but it's so much better to be away, away, away from the noise.

I don't know what to do. Anger shaves time off of lives. I love going to the movies. Remember when theaters used to have one screen, and there were ushers inside the auditorium who ensured that no one was disrupting the movie? Sigh.

Bright Star

My excellent friend Willow and I went to see Jane Campion's new film, Bright Star. I noticed that it was playing at the Arclight in Hollywood on the midnight of its opening day, and thought it would be fun to see a late movie, for it's been ever so long since I've done anything like that. Well, you know, at least since Star Wars III. I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but I also knew that people who are in films often see their film or their "friends" in films at midnight showings at the Arclight in Hollywood, so I quietly hoped we might catch a glimpse of Paul Schneider, Abbie Cornish, or Ben Wishaw. I'm not afraid to admit that it would have been exciting, anyway. But, no matter, there were just four of us in the theater.

I have to admit, it's been a long time since I've seen any of Campion's films. There are even a few I haven't seen, like Holy Smoke, In the Cut, An Angel at my Table, or A Girl's Own Story. I didn't even really like Portrait of a Lady, except I thought it was beautiful. In spite of my lack of experience with Campion, I was very excited for Bright Star. I'm not really a huge fan of really long poems, but I love Keats's sonnets and shorter poems. I'd read a few of his letters included in the Longman Anthology of British Literature, but was unaware that he wrote love letters to anyone. Therefore, the subject matter intrigued me.

The film focuses mostly on Cornish's character Fanny Brawne. I love the way Campion does this. We identify with her as she becomes aware of her self as a creature who loves the beauty of words and human hearts, and not just fashion, and we also get to fall in love with her as Keats does, entering the world of romance alongside the utmost Romantic. Brilliant. As an interpretation of British literature that includes biographical material, I think this film is on par with The Hours. I am in awe of Campion; she investigates the idea of their affair exploring how it must have felt to be the being with whom the greatest, youngest Romantic poet is madly in love. What is that creature like? What is their relationship like? Campion makes it so simple; they are, it is, like us -- only imagined, so, more beautiful, and more accessible. The film rides the perilous line of fantasy and reality at exhilarating speed, and with unending amounts of grace.

The acting is so generous. Perhaps that is due to Campion's script, which is perfect, but I really felt that the silent bits were played with such vulnerability that I felt the players were truly opening up to us, and allowing themselves to let us witness the purity of the most intimate moments of our lives. I know it is going to sound awfully silly and selfish, but I often wish I could see myself at different moments in my life. The moment I first knew I was in love with a man, and he me. The moment I first felt my heart crack. I can remember these moments, but I wonder what they looked like. I know not half as beautiful as a Campion film set in the English countryside, but those moments are just as beautiful, and that is what this film does. It reminds you through utterly romantic artifice that those moments in your life were ideal. And she helps you not burst into a thousand pieces by only showing you a story about first love, and first loss. And maybe those are the most beautiful. This movie can convince you of that.

I think I'll see it again this week, by myself. Perhaps, as it so often occurs with love, the second time around will be different.

What's so Great about it?

I suppose the title of this blog is still relevant; I am still in college. I am enrolled at Cypress for fall, and I am currently registered in a one unit P.E. class. We played ultimate Frisbee today. My team lost, which means we had to do 50 jumping jacks, 30 lunges, and 25 body builders, which are some sort of torturous things where you jump back and forth between a crouch and a plank position. Our team was made up of a lot of small people who tended to shy away from the Frisbee instead of catch it, plus the other team had a defender who is 6'3. I hate losing.

I should be working very hard to get into graduate school, but for some reason I keep letting things get in the way. The New Not-So-Great Depression is actually depressing. I feel really uncreative and unmotivated. I'm being really...I don't know. Whiny. Pathetic. Weenieish. Grouchy. Lazy. Scared. I feel so tired. I know that I go through waves of depression, especially when I don't have any imposed structure in my life. I've been thinking about returning to hair for the mean time, but I would hate to have to leave it again if I got accepted into a program. Not that I would overly miss the work, it's just that I would hate letting people down. People get very attached to their hairdressers, and it's a pain having to say goodbye. But money is money. It's so obscene.

Depression is, among other things, frightening. The psychological kind, I mean. There are so many things that I feel so very passionate about, but when I'm depressed it's as if they all lose their meaning and vibrancy. I get scared to return to an essay I've been working on when I'm depressed. What if I edit it according to my terrible mood? What if I decide to change direction on a whim? I have to hope that the evidence supporting my original ideas is strong enough to override my emotional flights of fancy. Maybe I just need to read something new. Sometimes that does the trick.

I did watch Chinatown and Easy Rider recently. Not exactly pick me ups, but so good. Chinatown is the finer film, if you ask me, but Easy Rider has its charms. I think I like Jack Nicholson's acting better in Easy Rider. I don't think Nicholson has a great range, and I don't know if I believe that he truly inhabits a character as much as takes you on thrill ride through that character's possibility, but he is glorious onscreen. I wish I had more to say about either film, but, if you couldn't tell, I'm kind of short on words these days. I loved seeing John Huston in Chinatown, and was reminded that I love film noir set in Los Angeles, like in Sunset Boulevard, Double Indemnity, and L.A. Confidential. With Easy Rider, well, I guess I had a harder time enjoying the film, as it is kind of a sad commentary on America. I suppose I enjoyed Peter Fonda the most, and his ridiculous but charming character, Captain America. His crying scene on the lap of that giant Madonna is pretty intense, made even more so when I watched the DVD's documentary and found out that Denis Hopper made him do that scene, even though Fonda had lost his own mother to suicide at the age of ten.
Powerful.

As I was watching the opening to Easy Rider, Todd wandered into the living room and said, over the now familiar Steppenwolf biker song, "Born to be Wild": Well. That's really all you need to see.

Looks like unhealthy cynicism is catching.

(500) Days of Sughmmer

Listen, you. You took it all -- Say Anything, Better Off Dead, Sixteen Candles, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and even other relevant later films, like Reality Bites, and High Fidelity, and you barfed your stupid movie all over their precious memory. Using The Smiths and Joy Division and the Pixies? Shame on you! Pretending L.A. is New York? Ridiculous. Your stupid, stupid, stupid sacrilegious movie. I can't think of one original moment in this film. And that actor? What, was Shia LaBeouf too expensive? While I liked these actors in other, less pretentious films, like Ten Things I Hate About You (yes, that actually was a pretty decent kids film), and Elf (she was pretty good in that one, but I really doubt she's worth all the attention she gets), their work here is sub-par, at best.

I actually think that this movie was my own personal "Summer." Lured in by the promise of an unusual kind of love story, I find myself biting down on the most phony "indie" sanctimonious bullcrap. No, the girl is the not the bad guy! You, you stupid movie, you are the bad guy. I hate you, movie.

Back of the Line, Lady!

Guess who's thirty. Actually, don't.

The summer class went well. Sometimes I felt a little outnumbered, a sort of lunatics are taking over the asylum thing, but overall I liked the practice, and think my writing is better than ever. I'm enrolled in the P.E. class that will give me the unit I need to officially graduate, and now I have about a week to decide how many programs I'm going to apply to for Fall 2010. I'm still very confused. I don't know if I want to apply to Master's programs or Ph.D. programs, or both. I'm back in that uncomfortable position of starting over, moving to the back of the line, you know. I'm always fighting the voice in my head that warns me I might be accepted and then be the dumbest person in the room. That might sound as pathetic as it is, but I do have to worry a little, a consequence of departing from CSUDH where I've often been the smartest student in the room. Maybe that is what this college business has really been about. If I have a Ph.D., maybe I'll be able to say, hey! I'm kind of smart...or something.

So I'll be researching and applying to the usual: USC, UCLA, UCR, UCI, Claremont...maybe less, maybe more. I have to proof my submittals to death. I'm so terrible when it comes to the details. I'm going to update/redo my statement of purpose. I think I have a bit more confidence now. I have to be more Shakti-like, able to destroy and give birth to worlds, and less pick me! Pick me! Pick me! It's challenging.

I'm also going to write a paper about the 80's British band The Smiths, and the solo work of its frontman, Morrissey. When I went to London in May, I had to study maps of the Underground in order to know how to get around. What I discovered was that I knew a ton of the names of the underground stations. I had never been serious about a map on London before the trip; the familiarity was due to listening to The Smiths and Morrissey, and the several references to these locations that are in their albums. I realized that I already had a relationship with these places, simply because I was a loyal fan of the music. So I'd like to write a paper -- a kind of "thought experiment" in which I discuss the implications of place in popular music, or maybe what it means to have expectations of a place, based on a mental landscape arranged according to a composite sketch implied in lyrics. I'm also curious about the limitations of fan loyalty. Did I let myself create my own experiences in London? Or was I overly influenced by sentiment created through lines like, "Here is London, giddy London; is it home of the free or what?," "And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side, such a heavenly way to die," "Piccadilly palare was just silly slang, between me and the boys in my gang." It is going to take some research, but I think by the time I'm through I might have something kind of interesting and novel to shop around.

I also need to work more on my ideas about Benito Cereno and Moby-Dick. I've got to be more persistent, or I'll be one of those terrible ABD professors, demanding that students turn papers in on time, but too chicken to self-impose a deadline.

And it's still summer! More surfing! More beer! More happy hours!

Rodney Dangerfield and I

My degree. It just never came in the mail. So I went to university advisement -- as opposed to major advisement, which is the only advisement I've been to, or been advised to go to -- and they informed me that I am four credits short of the units required for a bachelor's degree. Panic. Registering in Fall for four units would cost me $2000. I quickly scanned the university website for the second summer session class schedule. Two courses in advanced composition -- one taught by a dreaded, loathed instructor (by me, anyway), the infamous ponytail man who caused me so much distress in my first semester at DH, but there! The other section presented by the greatly admired Dr. H, who taught last semester's senior seminar. The one who sweetly told me I'd better ask him for a letter of recommendation or he'd be insulted. Ah, sigh. A late night email went out, begging him for late admission. A sincere acceptance followed, including the melodious phrase, you are one of the best students I've had in a class. Oh, tell me more! (This experience is doing nothing for my appreciation of Virginia Woolf's note about the ability to write without praise -- that I read...in her own hand...at the British Library...where I cried...and had to hide my face.)

So I'm in class for the summer. As usual, my classmates are...well, they act and speak as if they are in a sort of academic halfway house. As if they can't quite manage to get by in a real university, and the class is some kind of gateway to real life. Of course, it is a real university. And Dr. H is very forgiving and tolerant of insanely off the mark student comments, which I appreciate, even though I know that my face is scrunched up in cerebral pain at the ignorance and insolence. Even though composition is hard for me. Argument is so...logical. I'm not worried about the class, but I am a little but worried about my writing, so this class is good practice, good reminders, you know.

And don't think I wasn't mad as a hornet when I found out that I had never been advised about those four units. But there comes a time when you just can't waste your breath on things that you can't really change. So it's back to school.