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Nathan Legge WRI 010 Reading Reflections

In Cold Blood

Part I 02/05/12

The town of Holcomb is described as a peaceful if bleak town where very little happens. It sounds like the opening to a Western novel until you realize that virtually all Midwestern towns carry the same description. I will not provide a synopsis here. Suffice it to say that the two murderers are rather well-characterized, which shows clearly that this is more a dramatization than a police report. Here, I shall merely list several points that stuck out to me during the reading. On pages twelve and thirteen continues from a description of Mr. Clutter’s farming practice. I can relate (especially when it describes the plane crash incident). Owning a home garden myself, I know what care it takes, how much is invested, and how heartbreaking it would be for beautiful peach trees to be so damaged. On page sixty-nine, Mrs. Clare hears of the murders and tells her mother, “When Homer died, I used up all the fear I had in me, and all the grief, too.” This is an interesting little digression into the psychology of grieving. People have different ways of coping with misfortune. Some are expressive, some freeze, some bottle their grief and call it irrational, but all suffer to an equal degree. Mrs. Clare, perhaps only passingly, believes the pilot that crashed into the peach trees to be the murderer. It is interesting to note what she says on page fifty-three. “All the neighbors are rattlesnakes. Varmints looking for a chance to slam the door in your face. It’s the same the whole world over.” This, after all that narration about a peaceful and quiet, close-knit and loving community with a welcome sign proclaiming it “A Friendly Place.” Perhaps Mrs. Clare is a rare case, but I believe this points to a lesser-known axiom “Disaster brings out the worst in us.” The one major problem I have with this story is that it is not fiction. Books and lectures on literary theory have prepared me for dissecting fiction archetypes and story elements. But to judge nonfiction is to judge real events by the standards of fiction writing. This, to me, seems the wrong thing to do. This all revolves around a rather complex question; If “In Cold Blood” is based on factual details (at least as factual as after-the-fact investigation can produce) how is it that Capote can play up the elements found in fiction? Are there no archetypes typically found in fiction novels? For instance; the “Hero” (Bobby Rupp?), the “Princess” (Nancy Clutter?). Perry is not “The Monster”; he is a monster. I know I am searching too hard for these elements, but I see no other way of applying literary theory to nonfiction. Although this is nonfiction, it is one of the first of its kind. I cannot help but feel that— either deliberately or not—Capote might have added or exaggerated certain details to make Legge 2 the story seem more interesting or meaningful. Just how realistic was Capote aiming to be, here? We may never know.

Part II 02/06/12

Part Two is almost entirely concerned with the actions of the two criminals after their crime. Their robbery of the City business district; their escape into Mexico; the faster- than-expected loss of money, and lack of “entrepreneur” success fishing and treasure hunting; and their desperate retreat into California where the chapter ends. There were several things I made not of in Part Two. The first was wondered by a man tasked with removing the “evidence of crime” from the Clutter house. “How was it possible that such effort, such plain virtue, could overnight be reduced to this—smoke rising as it rose and was received by the big, annihilating sky?” (Capote 79). A declaration of the irony of life and twists of fate. “Another reason . . . was that this hitherto peaceful congregation of neighbors and old friends had suddenly to endure the unique experience of distrusting each other . . .” (Capote 88). Has reality finally descended on these happy people, or am I just being cynical? On a literary not, what appears to be the Hero (Al Dewey) and his trusted companions (Nye, Church, and Duntz) set out to capture the criminals; to “slay the monster” (Capote 80). We see this in many Overcoming the Monster plots; the faithful knight gathering his trusted men to slay the dragon. An in-depth character study of Perry begins on page 110, kicked off by his memories of the murder haunting him. Perry carries nothing with him but emotional baggage—physically. His father’s biography of him begins on page 125. Very enlightening (Capote 125). This “emotional baggage” was first introduced on page 14: “. . . All his worldly belongings: one cardboard suitcase, a guitar, and two big boxes of books and maps and songs, poems and old letters, weighing a quarter of a ton.” This suggests the failure of the two criminals to be “complete” Selves, as Booker would say. How has the Ego taken over? Is either of them too masculine or too feminine? I shall pay close attention to Willie-Jay’s “Impressions I Garnered from the Letter.” What does this man represent? The voice of the author explaining things for the audience, or the voice of reason; guiding Perry towards the Self—but missing the chance to complete the task? This analysis explains undercurrents of Perry’s isolationism, mistrust, and egocentrism (Capote 143). Virtually no progress is made with regards to Dewey and his investigators. During this chapter, it slowly becomes apparent that Al Dewey is not the Hero Figure at all—which means that this cannot be an Overcoming the Monster plot. Almost all characterization seems to be centered on Perry. All of the other characters receive perhaps a page of description. So far, Perry seems to be the protagonist and Hero. In this case, Perry would be what in literary theory is known as an “Antihero.”

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Part III 02/07/12

Finally, the momentum of the investigation shoots through the roof. A former cellmate of Dick’s named Floyd Wells is introduced on page 159. He presents the fateful lead that ultimately brings the two criminals to their doom. Things move very quickly from then on. The KBI learns everything they can about Dick, including the person he has most befriended; Perry. On page 167, the tragedy of Dick is not revealed. His family blames Perry for his corruption. This struck me as odd. Throughout the book, there are hints that Dick is manipulating Perry to his own will. Not to mention how Dick had not met Perry until both of them were in prison. On page 185 Perry’s sister Barbara Johnson recounts how Perry once drunkenly bore his sole. A very interesting revelation, perhaps closing the book on the tragedy of Perry (who by now is undoubtedly the “Hero” of the story). On page 207, Perry is shown to take pity on the hitchhikers, while Dick is reluctant. Could this small detail be foreshadowing the pillows and mattress box placed under their victims? Could it be that the boy and his grandfather mirror Perry’s younger life with his own father? Not that Dick lacks emotional problems of his own. “Envy was constantly with [Dick]; the Enemy was anyone who was someone he wanted to be or who had anything he wanted to have” (Capote 200). The next page features the first mention of Dick’s pedophilia (another something that later shocks his parents). On page 214, Dick prepares to abandon Perry in Las Vegas. Unfortunately for him, he is arrested on grounds of theft and parole violation. While being interrogated by two KBI agents, Dick is struck with the revelation that he is known to be one of the perpetrators of the Clutter slaughter (Capote 223). Knowing that Dick has betrayed him, Perry tells his side of the story (Capote 233). Al Dewey sits in the patrol car with Perry while heading to the courthouse jail. “. . . [H]e found it possible to look at the man beside him without anger—with, rather, a measure of sympathy— form Perry Smith’s life had been no bed of roses but pitiful, an ugly lonely progress toward one mirage and then another” (Capote 246). This is perhaps the first sign of pity shown for Perry and his past. This is also where I assume it snaps in the mind of the general audience that Perry is the Hero in a tragic story of his own life. The Clutter murders were the tragedy in the context of the story, but a second tragedy is revealed slowly out the book; the tragedy of Perry’s childhood, culminating in the education that his father denied to him.

Part IV 02/07/12

Finally, the two criminals are tried in a Kansas court before a jury of their very unsympathetic peers. Feelings of hopelessness for the two hangs heavily in the air. Their lawyers (Fleming and Smith) aim for little more than a reduced sentence. A meek attempt that ends up utterly destroyed by the prosecution. During the trial, Perry’s father cannot be located in Alaska. Perry’s sister Barbara Johnson requested that her address be kept secret, as she claimed to be afraid of him. “When informed of this, Smith smiled lightly and said, ‘I wish [Barbara had] been in that house that Legge 4 night. What a sweet scene!’” (Capote 259). At this point, we realize how alone Perry was and is over the course of the book. This may explain his disabling dependency on Dick—something that had earlier convinced me that Dick was the manipulator in their relationship. Dick is far more sociable than his cohort, and his charming attitude is noted many times by Capote. While awaiting trial, Perry dreams yet again of the yellow bird: “She lifted me, . . . I was free, I was flying, I was better than any of them” (Capote 266). Those last seven words speak volumes. The inmates awaiting death row seem to have one trait in common; a complete disregard for placing value in human life. What this means is that, in order not to be suicidal, they must place themselves on a higher level than others. Both Dick and Perry have a superiority complex, convinced that they deserve the ease of life seen by others. On page 319: “All summer Perry undulated between half-awake stupors and sickly, sweat-drenched sleep. Voices roared through his head; on voice persistently asked him, ‘Where is Jesus? Where?’ And once he woke up shouting, ‘The bird is Jesus! The bird is Jesus!’” Heartbreaking, but anyone can connect the dots: the bird represents Redemption. Something he had never achieved (at this point, most people would turn to an “all-accepting” figure such as Jesus). Dr. Jones’ (hypothetical) analysis of Perry mirrors Willie-Jay’s analysis of him much earlier in the book (Capote 296-298). Everyone that offers their impressions of Perry seems to call him gentle and humble. Personally, I do not lend credence to the old adage “It’s the quite ones you have to watch.” However, in this case, I must admit that Perry’s quiet nature was a mere front, hiding his darker nature behind apathetic eyes. For instance; of the foster parent that molested him as a young child, Perry recounts: “She was later discharged from her job. But this never changed my mind about her & what I wished I could have done to her & all the people who made fun of me” (Capote 275). These are things no one can decipher by simply knowing him. That is why Capote sought to include as much about Perry’s past and words spoken by him personally. Every now and again, Perry says something that makes everything so much clearer. “They never hurt me. Like other people. Like people have all my life. Maybe it’s just that the Clutters were the ones who had to pay for it” (Capote 290). Surely, the On page 288, Mrs. Hickock says of Perry, “ . . . I’ve got nothing but pity for him now.” The trial—and admissions therein—is where the character analysis of Perry finally ends. It is obvious that he is indeed a tragic figure—but one from the circumstances of his birth. It is as though he were not a malevolent man at all, but a mere vessel carrying the pathologies given him by the traumas he had suffered throughout his life. Nevertheless, he had several strange ideas (The yellow bird, for example) that, in my mind, cannot be accounted for by such pathologies. In closing, I think it is ironic that Judge Tate died before the two men he sentenced to death (Capote 342). I am sure this happens far more often than we are aware of. The narrative ends with Al Dewey at the community cemetery. Susie Kidwell as moved on. Bobby Rupp has moved on. The two Monsters (or protagonist antihero) have been destroyed. Those who survived lived happily ever after. The curtain closes.

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Breakfast at Tiffany’s

02/16/12

Upon reflection, Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1950) is far less complex and engaging than his following work. This novella is said to be so popular because of the character of Holly Golightly. She is apparently so original and unconventional that a “new archetype” had been introduced to literature when the book was published. Perhaps I am simply naïve about the development of modern literature, but this novella seems to be base-level characterization. Of course, if we again go with Booker’s theory on character archetypes, Holly might have been original, but by no means broke conventions. Holly is described for the outset as a sweetly absentminded and innocent, childlike figure. Something Booker would describe as an “anima” figure. The anima can be a child or (more regularly) a female. The hero’s princess, “other half,” or someone who represents the balance of feminine values. The anima is necessary for a hero (or protagonist) that is egotistical and absorbed in masculine qualities while lacking the feminine. He can be arrogant, barbaric, jealous, malicious, or apathetic; needing the anima to restore empathy and bring him to terms with humanity—make him altruistic. From the very first description of Holly, it is apparent that Capote wishes to portray her as this anima figure. “It was a face beyond childhood, yet this side of becoming a woman” (Capote 12). Yet, later: “Guided by a compact mirror, she powdered, painted every vestige of twelve-year-old out of her face (98). What does this anima tell of the narrator? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he is there as an objective observer. He does, however, seem recluse; cut off from humanity; alone in his dusty, dark apartment. But even if he is a wildcard, something can most certainly be said about her friends and lovers. They have fallen in love with her childlike innocence in an almost father-like protective attitude. She is young and naïve; attractive to many men who want to be protectors, as this often inspires an unbreakable bond (codependency). On page 52, the narrator is overcome with the feeling of Spring while with Holly. Holly represents life—liveliness, zest for life, excitement, whatever was lacking in his life while he sits alone, writing in his dark room. From a literary perspective, this would explain why he falls in love with her, like all the others. But Holly has a fundamental flaw. “ . . . Desirable or not, it is a natural thing that we should change. All right, here were two people who never would (Mildred and Holly)” (58). This is something Booker would have jumped at. What led to her conflict? And how does she remain a personality that we (the narrator and audience) can picture in our heads as a static and sassy personality, no matter how long she has been gone? Why is it nearly impossible to imagine Holly as an older woman or a young child? Because her personality is set in stone. She never grew up, and does not wish to. And she might still be out there today. Unchanged. Unsettled. Restless to the last.

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The Revolt of the Cockroach People

Pg. 1-133 02/27/12

For the most part, Oscar Zeta Acosta’s The Revolt of the Cockroach People is easy to understand. It deals entirely with the Chicano Movement of the 1960’s-70’s, so a bit of history is needed to grasp the context of the book. It, like any other book, has its flaws. It is a political document, and is told from Acosta’s viewpoint, so there is a bias (and boy does Acosta flaunt it). As a whole, however, it is a very good read full of passion and heartache. This book has actually kindled my interest in the Chicano Movement. Whereas in my last writing class, I dealt with Latino aestheticism and colorism in the Media, Acosta was in the middle of a political underground. In a street war fought with protests and tear gas. A rebel suddenly finding his calling in the struggle against racial oppression. But Revolt can be viewed from several perspectives. The perspective of another rebel looking up to his hero; of an apathetic person what another man once in his position accomplished by becoming involved; of a political contrarian to see a former hero of his opponents; of a future reader looking back at the Chicano Movement, being the product of the efforts made therein. If Acosta had lived until today, I doubt he would like what I see. Racism, classism, and community segregation continue to dominate (not to mention that there still exists no Chicano nation). But who is Acosta, anyway? I had initial interest in him because I look up to Hunter S. Thompson, who was a good friend of Acosta’s. Yet on his own merits, Acosta was a Chicano lawyer that helped Chicano political activists avoid persecution for three years. The man was a sideshow of a sideshow of a sideshow. Today, he is not mentioned in any historical books on politics of the era. He led several demonstrations, but not “the big one” that actually made “the big change.” He was no Martin Luther King, or even a Malcom X. He was no Cesar Chavez. Certainly no Gandhi, and no Jesus Christ—no matter how much he hoped to be. After studying the Chicano Movement for several days, I realize that Acosta was a very small figure; small to the point of obscurity. A raging bull in a humble underground (like so many undergrounds at the time), smack in the middle of a movement that almost no one remembers today. And the hopes he had for La Raza were so high. Acosta originally travels to Los Angeles to write an amazing book and use it as a source of income for the rest of his life (22). Boy, isn’t that just every writer’s plan? But he finds himself at the right place at the right time, and with the right amount of ambition. The descriptions Acosta writes make it clear that he considers himself on terms with “Cockroaches” around the world. “We were at the home base of the holy man who encouraged presidents to drop fire on the Cockroaches in far-off villages in Vietnam” (13). Skin color does not matter to him (unless one is white). The Black Bird is an obvious metaphor for the government, seeking to destroy him and “throw fire on him” (70). I am reminded of the only other time I have heard the expression. The rogue Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. “We train young men to drop fire on people. But their commanders won't allow them to write "f*ck" on their airplanes because it's obscene!” It is more than clear that Acosta views Anglo-Saxons as a race seeking to dominate all other races. When faced with reporters, he makes the appropriate comparison; “We are the Jews of Nazi America,” I tell the people of Berlin (78). Legge 7

Acosta’s mentality of revolutionary opposition against the “white establishment” is one that is felt today by some of my favorite activists. Yet that seems to be all it is; a mentality. Stepping back to the wider perspective, Acosta was nothing more than a lawyer for around fifty clients. Fifty among thousands and thousands of political prisoners in California alone at any given time during the 60’s. He did not make a world of difference, but he is an interesting character nonetheless. More interesting than most activists we actually hear about; politicians in silk suits and limousines.

Pg. 134-258 02/27/12

The second half of Revolt added much more depth to the Chicano Movement. Acosta hints at the rich history of the Chicanos all throughout the book, but nowhere does this become clearer than in his closing statements to the jury on pg. 159. His many references to the Aztecs speak volumes in themselves, almost making this lesson in history redundant. This book make Acosta’s hopes clear to a reader with the right kind of eyes. First, the minor symbolism. In his interview with Zanzibar, Acosta answers an inquiry: “Yeah, the Cockroach People . . . you know, the little beasts that everyone steps on” (135). Suddenly, the term makes complete sense, and Acosta makes it clear that Cockroaches are everywhere; Vietnam, Central America, California, and elsewhere. Wherever the Anglo-Saxon establishment oppresses a minority (or even a majority, in the case of US foreign policy. Thus, this becomes a world struggle; a global paradigm shift in the eyes of Acosta. More than a mere revolution or fight for freedom. Secession from oppressive tyrannies has sometimes been successful, but to this day, the Chicano Movement is not one of them. 201 – “We need to get our own land. We need our own government. We must have our own flag and our own country. Nothing less will save the existence of the Chicanos. . . . I did not, nor did any other speaker tell them to take up arms prior to August 29, 1970” (201). He says this almost as a disclaimer to any of his dissenters who may be reading. He then says later, “If they won’t give us back our lands, at least we’ll have a drop of their blood for our trouble” (214). There is now no doubt as to his separatist nationalism. In regard to the protests in summer of 1970, I happened upon a bit in Robert Bauman’s book that put this into context:

“. . . In August 1970, Latino anti-Vietnam War demonstrators and police clashed in Los Angeles in “the largest protest demonstration ever mounted by people of Mexican descent in the United States.” Chicano activists organized the protest because of the inordinate number of Chicanos being killed in the war. As part of this clash, police killed three Mexican Americans, including Rubén Salazar, a reporter for the Los Angeles Times” (Race and the War of Poverty, 2008; 94).

The name “Rubén Salazar” struck me, and upon a quick juggling of search terms on Google I happened upon a book entitled Historia: The Literary Making of Chicana and Chicano History (2001) by Louis Gerard Mendoza. Apparently, Mendoza has done exactly what the Essay 2 prompt will have us do; put Revolt in historical context. According to Mendoza, Roland Zanzibar is a fictional caricature of the real journalist Rubén Salazar; Stonewall is Hunter Legge 8

Thompson; the Chicano Militant Organization is the Brown Berets; La Voz magazine is actually La Raza (Mendoza 210). Given this much, I am interested to know just how much of his novel is genuine and how much is disguise—and how much is verifiable by investigation. It was a small corner of history, but Mendoza seems to be exactly what I am looking for. By his very style alone, I am given to trust Acosta in the things he says—granted that he is extremely biased. It could be that he has invented the racism he saw in the legal system off the top of his head (though it is very unlikely). But whether accurate or not, I believe that he tells things exactly the way he believed them to be—not giving any more or less credit to himself than is due. He may well be the most interesting Chicano militant I will ever read.

Chicano Poetics and House with the Blue Bed

03/04/12

Chicano Poetics (1997) and House with the Blue Bed (1997) were both written by Alfred Arteaga. His work as a journalist seems to have aided in his objective tone, but he seems more interested in studying subjective perspectives. This would seem to follow the Boas school of anthropological study. Arteaga advocates study of Chicano identity on an individual basis (reading individual authors) through poetry and story. Arteaga’s notions about poetry border on the edge of grandeur. He explains a poem as a subjective look into the author’s inner thought. Thus, since an author’s thought is shaped by the world around them, claims about their experiences can be extrapolated via the thoughts they convey in the text. “A poem is set into motion by my act,” he writes, “in all the particulars of my social and personal contexts, and it is set off outward to sing, to dance, to break bones, in the world beyond me” (9). The mindset he puts forward in the given reading of Chicano Poetics is that, in order to attain the feeling of individuals in a given environment at a given time, their subjective opinions are the only medium to do so. Anthropologists, reporters and historians strive for objectivity, and in doing so, they lose the emotion and tone of the population or movement they write about. With that, Arteaga launches into a discussion of the tools used by various Chicano poets to relate their feelings to others. The use of metaphor is, of course, central to all poetry, and Arteaga gives several examples of this in Chicano poems. He defines on strategy: “Difrasismo is the means of representing something in the coupling of two elements” (11). One example is the description of the US/Mexico border as both metal (sturdy) and water (fluid)—nationalistically sturdy but racially fluid. Among these metaphors are the many mentions of Aztec names (usually of gods) in the given poems. “Their evocation serves to illustrate alternate possibilities for apprehending the world” (13). These seems to be an overt theme in all of Gloria Anzaldúa’s works; the forceful blending of multiple cultural connotations. It would seem to make the statement that “If you do not understand, it is because you are an outsider,” which I feel only alienates all but a very small group of readers who understand and appreciate Chicano history. Legge 9

Atreaga then mentions the use of multiple languages in a single text. My first introduction to something called “code switching” came with Gloria Anzaldúa’s writings last semester. I stated then and I will state now that this is a misguided practice, intended to force two cultural perspectives together, but succeeding only in confusing and alienating the audience. As for the excerpt for House with the Blue Bed, it is always nice to see a good story told from a different perspective. Louis Mendoza (author of Historia) also advocates subjectivity in history. The rivalry between Carlos Muñoz and Oscar Acosta represents a clash between contrary ideologies within the Chicano Movement. Similarly, seeing this passive description of Oscar’s visit to the coronary facility both adds credibility to Revolt of the Cockroach People and demonstrates how two subjective perspectives (Acosta and Arteaga) can be so widely removed about the same experience (the autopsy).

The Annotated Wizard of

Chapters 1-11 03/15/12

In the preface, Hearn writes that readers familiar only with the 1939 film “may find Baum’s work a pleasant surprise” (Hearn cii). After reading the book, I have not been so lucky. Perhaps children’s stories are simply not my interest. I prefer more adulterated works, so I will not fault Baum for doing what he does. However, all of this factors into how I feel about storytelling in general. I do not care for artistic snobbery, and that seems to be exactly what Hearn is doing with his book. But what did I expect? This is a book written specifically by someone who looked way too deep into Baum’s story. And there were many more like him. For what it is worth, I shall be taking the position of skepticism. I believe most, if not all, writers begin with a simple idea. A simply idea that forms the structure of a story. Underneath that structure, minor details become less and less important the further from the structure they are. In other words, the more specific a detail, the more likely it is that it is irrelevant. Especially if a detail has nothing to do with the original idea. To that end, the names (to which Hearn devotes a large amount of consideration) are largely irrelevant. The exact way that Denslow draws characters is also largely irrelevant. All of it adds color and intrigue, but the story itself is none the more complex. If the story is taken on its own merits, it would be best to criticize after the whole story has been read. For now, characterization is the main focus of Baum. It takes skill to establish characters, especially in a fast-paced plot. Fortunately, this plot is moderately slow. But characterization is of interest only to children and fans of the story itself. My concern is the essence around the story; the structure, motifs, and archetypes. From a literary perspective, the story is fairly transparent. ’s three companions (not including ) represent logic (), emotion (), and initiative (). Each of them has their part to play and each learns valuable virtues along way. Naturally, the reader learns these virtues as well. A simple story for a simple audience. Legge 10

Despite a few instances of moral inconsistency on the part of the Tin Woodman (wanting never to harm a living thing on page 115, and then killing the Kalidahs on 127, then the killing of the wildcat on page 148, and his liberal cutting down of trees all throughout the book) characterization is fairly solid. The Good Witch is good and the Witch is wicked and that is all there is to it. Just about the only antagonist with an arch is the Wizard himself. But the Oz stories hold my interest only until the book ends, for reasons I shall attempt to explain in my next journal.

Chapters 12-24 03/17/12

At last, the party begins their quest into the lands of the , and this is where things start to get biblical. The repetition of plot (forty wolves and crows killed), the slaughter of minions, and one phrase I spotted on page 211; “ . . . gnashed her teeth,” each seemed very reminiscent of the Old Testament. Hearn himself makes a note of Biblical undertones in footnote 8 of page 206. This kind of repetition seems to lack creativity in itself, but the style in which these actions are narrated is something my sister spotted in the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. The Return of the King lack characterization, wit, and innovation. It is a simple listing of one thing after another—less of an adventure story and more of an obligatory history book. This is something that often happens to books, and adventure stories in particular. The characters and conflict have been established. The plot must be resolved before the readers get bored with the story world. Setting descriptions become uncomfortably short and lifeless. The wit of the characters dies. It is as thought the author himself had grown bored of writing the story. None of this is helped by the anticlimactic trek to Glinda’s kingdom, and it is good that the MGM film saw fit to expel it. All chapters must be equally important. If they are not, it steals from the solidity of the story as a whole. There is a general problem that I have with fantasy as a genre. Little to know continuity is required. Story elements come into their own whenever the author wants them to. The world in which the characters and the story exist is as large as the author needs it to be. Someday I shall coin the phrase, “Everything in fantasy is a McGuffin.” A plot device; Deus Ex; an element that exists for the story’s sake and the story’s sake alone. Authors of fantasy, unlike most other authors, have the freedom to pull things out of nowhere. This can lead to incongruity, such as readers noticed with the China country in chapter 20. Enchantments and skills which have no bearing on the world around them are, essentially, the author allowing his characters to break the laws of physics to further his story. This is a big yawn, to me. The Silver Slippers; the Golden Cap; the fact that every living thing in the is sentient and speaks the same language; even the existence of Oz itself are all hypotheticals. This is what fiction is for; posing a hypothetical question and answering it. But in the case of Oz, there are so many hypotheticals that the reality of the story is entirely unrelatable. On top of that, the characters are so alien and their personalities so unrealistic that the very virtues pushed by the book are brought into question. Being a logically mature human being, I of course find the narrative to be insultingly simplistic. Here is the character. Here is what they are (Good/Wicked). Here is why they are Legge 11 what they are. Always, a simple explanation of why they are good or evil is given. An explanation that sounds as though it were thought up by a child. Indeed, it is meant for children, so I suppose my biggest issue is that this literature should not be taken seriously. Baum has built a story using two-to-five-year-old logic that bears no continuity and means nothing to anyone living in the real world. Might I be touching on the stunning realization that all fiction exists for its own sake? Do not think it so insulting to authors. For the best fiction can be said to be that which relates most to reality. Otherwise, it is only a story. And a hypothetical one at that. It can only teach you truths about this hypothetical reality in which it takes place. Because of this, The Wonderful , and all fantasy for that matter, lacks value. Fantasy is useful only to those who do not understand reality and how the universe works. Interesting and involving stories though they may be, the best fantasy can do is trick our minds into taking them seriously, and thus incorporating the virtues pushed in the book and assuming they work just as well in our own reality. A very inexact possibility. What does all of this mean for Baum’s work? Am I to dismiss it entirely? I am afraid so. But it should prove useful for the study of literary theory. Fantasy, after all, is the perfect tool for authors to explore literary elements free of realism or continuity. Yet for the reasons I have listed above, it is a hollow genre. This will sound harsh and crass, but serious authors and mature audiences should be concerned as much with realism as possible, if they expect virtues to be communicated.

Wicked

Pg. 1-92 04/22/12

So far, the book strikes me as almost entirely unrelated to Baum’s Wizard of Oz (1901). I suppose this is a problem with any fantasy novel; the backstory must be invented like everything else. Given that The Wicked Witch’s story need bare almost no congruency where Baum’s book is concerned, this story could have been made much more interesting than it is. Something as implausible as the Star Wars prequels could have taken place—though they are a bad, boring example, stolen from the New Testament. Instead, we have a minister and his wife bringing up an animalistic child against the background of an ominous threat; namely the Time Dragon’s hedonistic cult. As it stands, it’s a rather mysterious dark force hanging over the story. Because it is so distant, it is rather uninteresting— but it had better contribute to the central conflict later on or I shall be very cross! The latter pages of the section deal with Galinda’s character (indeed, the narrative has switched to following her), as if to tell a whole different story that just happens to involve Elphaba. Interesting that it should offer a new angle, but the narrator tells the thoughts of whomever it wishes; suggesting an omniscient narrative that might as well tell the whole story of Oz. Why should we be restricted to following these people around school and learning about the happenings of Oz through hearsay? This is the life and times of the Wicked Witch of the West. A third-person omniscient narrative should not be telling us such a narrow story. Legge 12

That said, I like the style of the narrative. So far, we have not gotten into Elphaba’s head. We do not know what she is thinking (although the preface suggests that this will change). We are learning about her at the pace of others within the story. It is a nice way of keeping her character interesting. The story, on the other hand, does not possess such intrigue. There is a rule in fiction: Whatever you introduce had better be relevant to the story. Maguire has introduced the Time Dragon, racism (speciesism?) against Animals, and the seemingly important character of Galinda around the central biography of Elphaba. All of these must work together to promote a single overarching conflict, and Galinda must undergo an arc along the way. In any case, the plot had better become much larger than it is, because at the moment, it is incredibly uneventful and focused on the lives of young people who, despite being in , are shallow and normal.

Pg. 93-178 04/25/12

The first half of this book reads like a romance novel. meets Galinda and Elphaba. Elphaba hints that she likes Boq and so a “crush” triangle is created. Then they are all working for Dillamond. Then Pfannee’s prank. The arrival of Nessarose. Oh no! Dillamond has been murdered! Now Galinda is learning sorcery, and at this point we are wondering when the plot is going to pick up. All of a sudden, out of the blue: YOU ARE THE WIZARD’S FUTURE GENERALS. YOU WILL WORK FOR THIS FACELESS POWER. ELPHABA WILL RULE MUNCHKINLAND, GLINDA WILL RULE THE , AND NESSAROSE WILL RULE THE WINKIES. Where the hell did this come from!? This was simply too much to absorb at once. Why were these three approached? How can this possibly be explained later on? Sure, the three are prestigious royal descendants of one kind or another. There are others. Are these three smarter than everyone else? We have not been told so. Glinda is the only one learning sorcery, and she has only just begun. Why was she chosen? Why the Thropp sisters? Because they are her friends? I have a feeling that it will all be explained later—like the Wizard has had his eye on the three of them all along. This is a cheap ploy that writers use to explain things that do not follow logically. Like prophecies, they come out of the blue and explain why things happen by saying they were “meant” to happen. It dilutes the integrity of the whole book. I also have the feeling that this was Maguire’s way of speeding things along. He could not figure out a way of subtly steering the narrative to put the plot on that track; he had to force it by having Morrible reveal her grand conspiracy in a way that informed the readers but not the characters, as we are later told that they begin to forget what was revealed. I was mortified just reading Morrible’s speech. And then they go off on a series of drunken events as far removed from this terrifying revelation as I am from the logic of the book. Some sort of spell is keeping them from remembering exactly what happened? Or perhaps it is the copious amounts of alcohol. Either way, the “Eyes Wide Shut” orgy scene seemed a little unnecessary. There is a fine line between adding grit to your narrative and just adding details for the sake of pornography. I understand that this is supposed to be a deeper, darker tale than Baum’s bright and happy fairytales, but what details are not uninteresting are Legge 13 discomforting. Yet I still have hopes that the narrative will improve once the main conflict kicks in.

Pg. 179-286 04/26/12

While reading this section, it dawned on me that this book is something of a chick-flick in text form. A romance novel in the guise of a fantasy novel. This was supposed to be some kind of prequel or parallel story told to contrast that of the 1939 film. Instead, it is a story about the life of a witch with almost no relevance to Oz. Change a few names here and there, and this would be its own story; entirely unrelated to The Wizard of Oz in any way. For one this, this is a story that follows the Wicked Witch of the West through her life— but only at specific increments of her life. The narrative skips from her birth to her at five or six years old, to her as a young adult in university, and then seven years after that in . Half of this part is spent explaining the events that Maguire chose to skip over. Then another seven years later, part 4 takes place. Elphaba became a nun after the death of Fiyero and decides to go on a voyage to Kiamo Ko to tell his wife what had happened? The only constant at this point is the decay of Emerald City, which seems to have descended into unmitigated misery. After a voyage to Sarima’s castle (which could have easily been skipped), we spend pages and pages and pages talking and telling stories. Nanny arrives out of the blue and reminds us all that the Wizard is a corrupt and evil monster. Three quarters of our way through the book and we are exactly where we were fourteen years ago; Emerald City is corrupt and desperate; Wizard of and evil bigot; Elphaba doesn’t like him. It is good if your readers want an outcome, but Maguire sure takes his time resolving this plot. I’m not expecting some kind of cosmic tragedy, here, but for a woman who is supposed to shatter conventions about the nature of Evil, Elphaba does quite a lot of nothing in this story. Like Morrible’s revelation and everything else in this story, the Elephant suddenly tells Elphaba she’s a witch. Did this have any connectivity to what has happened before? I’m not talking and prophecy, but cohesion. It is easy to ignore logic when your genre is fantasy, but this is beginning to resemble schlock. At the end of the chapter, Elphaba realizes that she has lost her way and rethinks her life. Better late than never, but I have already lost interest. I realized as I began the section that this book is nowhere near as substantial as I had hoped. While reading Baum’s Wizard of Oz, I thought his book was a real disappointment compared to the film. The same appears to be true for Wicked. Both are gold on stage but shams on page. In any case, I look forward to seeing how, after 286 pages of setup and limbo, Maguire skips a decade or two and neatly wraps everything up in 120 pages. Although I suspect that his conclusion of this book will have only rudimentary correlations to The Wizard of Oz book or film.

Legge 14

Pg. 287-406 04/27/12

Nessarose becomes the ruler of Munchkinland, which secedes from the Wizard’s control. When Elphaba meets Nessarose, things finally seem to be turning to the political action with which the book should have been filled. During their arguments and political philosophizing, the Tin Woodman’s fate is hinted at in the background. But it is too late for such cute ploys on nostalgia. All it does is remind us of a much shorter story that did not drag us through several dozen chapters of dialogue and trivial events. We are also reminded of the plight of Animals at this time. ‘Oh, right,’ remembers Elphaba, ‘I’m supposed to be doing something in this plot!’ Again, the narrative skips ahead seven years. The tornado arrives out of the blue and kills Nessarose. Without wishing to skip too much, it is hinted when Dorothy enters the castle that the Cowardly Lion (and, of course, the Tin Woodman) are connected with Elphaba’s past. A few comments about what happens during this final confrontation. All at once, Elphaba seems to draw a huge conspiracy between Dorothy, Morrible, and the Wizard. She’s torn by guilt at never having been forgiven by Sarima for her affair with Fiyero. In these last chapters, the Witch snaps and blames Dorothy for all her troubles. This is actually what I would have liked to have been the case, but in a different way. The Wicked Witch should have gone slowly insane. Steadily; over the course of her life. Instead, she started out animalistic, matured into a normal person, became a rebel, was broken, and then died in a frantic fit. For a book that seemed to drag on and on, this ending is too fast and confusing. Not to mention; entirely removed from the original stories. I had expected a book that took Baum’s book or the 1939 film and worked around it in a way that justified the Witch’s wickedness and made us question our own assumptions. Instead, this book ends with a montage of unrelated things that happen at the moment of Elphaba’s death. They might have symbolic importance in relation to other books about Oz, but all of that would be rendered null by this story’s own deterrence from the original book. So that’s it, then! Wicked Witches are both dead. The Wizard fears apocalypse and departs, apparently intending to kill himself in the Other World. Dorothy is never heard of again. Hopefully, she is back in Kansas, although I can see Maguire changing that little detail as well. I am almost positive that the musical adaptation improved upon this story, just as the film improved Baum’s. As it stands, I would call this the weakest of the books we have read during this course. This is a problem I have with fantasy in general. Lack of continuity, logic, and coherence. However, the freedom allowed in the genre is supposed to allow for an unrealistically succinct and cohesive plot; something the most famous fairytales accomplish marvelously. Strange as it is to say, these characters were a little too deep. They were too normal. This book needed more magic—even dark magic. Instead, magic (, witches, Animals, and all) was included by requirement. In short, Making Morrible the catalyst that guided the fate of Elphaba was far too easy and simple. To see Elphaba interact with the Land of Oz; to see how she set up the circumstances that unfolded in Baum’s story (The Field Mice, the , the Scarecrow, the Woodman, and the Lion, etc.); to see how a writer could take the original story and completely switch our opinion of everyone involved would have been a treat. Wicked is a trivializing disappointment.