Random Beings: Modernism, Categorization, and Virginia Woolf
2 November 2009
I see the concept of “random” coinciding with the quote by D.H. Lawrence that “Individualism makes the mistake of considering the individual a fixed entity.” I see these two concepts as being related in such a way that an individual is an ever changing being that experiences things differently during each moment or event. In other words, they have random experiences and thoughts; they do not have a fixed perspective that is impervious to change. I do not see random thought as a negative description; it is, in my opinion, a mode of expression and experience from moment to moment; One moment being cheese sandwiches or the color of a pencil, the next moment having the possibility of an epiphany or the contemplation of a leaf.
Generalizing the random experiences of females and relegating that experience to only times of stress is, to me, an assumption that one person’s experience is the fixed experience of all who “fit” into that category, which in this case would be females. I would like to take it one step further and argue that not only are we random beings with the ability to create a whole new world of thought within any given second, but that this random existence applies to all of us, men and women. Now I am the one making a generalization, but I assert that the generalized randomness would allow for each experience to be unique; one person would think random thoughts when stressed precisely because they are a random being.
This assumption of fluidity and possibility extends to the writers as well; we would be correct in saying, for example, that Virginia Woolf is a Modernist writer, and we would also be correct in saying that she is a feminist writer. She exists simultaneously in both worlds, and possesses a random existence. She would exist as both or neither, a feminist or a modernist depending upon who is looking at her and through what lens.
It is my opinion that the assumption of a fixed entity reinforces the binary system that determines an either/or definition for every aspect of our existence. Random beings, as defined for this post, have the capability of defying the binary system in such a way that it is hard to define them as either this or that. Because a woman is a feminist, it does not follow that she is unhappy in her marriage, (as evident in Virginia’s suicide note to her husband in which she writes “I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.”). Because a woman is married, it does not necessarily follow then, that she is a heterosexual, as evident with Virginia’s life-long friendship and love affair with Vita Sackville-West. The possibility of existing as a both/and is also evident with the correspondences between Woolf and Arnold Bennett; Even though they vehemently criticized each other regarding the do’s and don’ts of literature, upon meeting each other, neither could honestly say that they disliked the other. In fact, they had a sort of mutual respect for one another; they existed as both adversaries and equals.
The description of one as a random being allows for the next moment in our lives to contain possibilities limited only by our imagination. It allows for writers to create new modes of expression, and it allows for everyone, as an existing individual, to experience the world as it really is; ever-changing and confusing. We are not either a critic or a creator, a this or a that; we are capable of being both, and we are confusing, complex beings.
Feeding the Monster
21 July 2009
It has been a little over 10 days since my last post. I could say that it is because I took the GRE last week and I was all wrapped up in the preparations. That wouldn’t be a lie-I did and I was. But it isn’t the entire truth. You see, the thing is, I was reading New Moon. And after my scathing rant about Twilight, I was embarrassed to be reading the second in the series. But there I was-every night before bed, reading just a little more. I kept thinking that I wasn’t going to finish this one, because really-it was SO BLAND. I mean, blander than Michael Feldman’s Whad’Ya Know, blander than the most boring tapioca pudding you can imagine. (Although, I rather like tapioca pudding.) Bella actually says that “compared to the fear that he didn’t want me, this hurdle-my soul-seemed almost insignificant,” and, AND, she laments “I don’t trust myself to be…enough. To deserve you. There’s nothing about me that could hold you.” So not only does nothing really happen in the book, but Bella is blatantly saying that relationships are about entrapment, and that her very own soul is not as important as Edward’s attention. And of course she doesn’t deserve him. Hell, she is a girl. Do girls deserve any of the men that deign to look at them? (note well the sarcasm and disgust.)
And yet… I kept reading. This is where my epiphany lies.
Let me back track a bit. Last year, (or was it two years ago?) I would visit a certain website daily for all my movie news. This website would be third on the list of my morning web-rounds, and I would read the silver screen updates. And THEN. Then, I would rant to my husband that night about the utter stupidity of the website’s executive editor. I would marvel at how this guy could run a website about movies, when he SO CLEARLY had a) an aversion to fact-checking, b) no conception of the history of Hollywood cinema- for him, movies did not exist before 1982, and c) the persona of an unrefined, immature, and unprofessional moron. Yes. I HATED THIS WEBSITE. And yet I would visit it every day for about a year, because it fueled my day. A little bit of hate and disgust with my morning coffee was just what I needed to set me out into the world with a smugness that I just couldn’t find anywhere else. Twilight does this for me. Heather B. Armstrong recently posted something that resonated so strongly with me: “my righteous indignation, it flared up so magnificently that I sat down to read the whole book, just so that I could be angry at it. WHO DOES SHIT LIKE THIS?“
I do, Heather. I do.
My husband and I call it my Alex Billington Syndrome. Everything that annoys me is dubbed an A-Bill, or some version thereof. I eventually stopped visiting the site, and I now wonder what fueled my self-righteousness in the period between First Showing.net and the Twilight series. I wonder what I will do when I have finished Stephanie Meyer’s handbooks for co-dependent and abusive relationships. I ask you, people, what will I direct my self-important, superior rants at?
I am sure I will find something. If nothing surfaces, there is always Ann Coulter’s Bookstore.
Know Thy Enemy. Its Name is Twilight.
1 July 2009
Here is the post on the second backlogged book that I had mentioned-the first being Jane Eyre and the second is Twilight. Unlike Jane Eyre, my reasons for reading Twilight are not only relevant, but necessary, as I can’t allow myself to let anyone out there think that I read Twilight because of a willing interest. No, no, no. I read the book because I realized, during yet another debate with my friend about the evils of the Twilight gender models, that I was a complete hypocrite-because although I may be right, and Twilight is an evil re-imagining of the vapid, helpless princess stories for a new era, I had never actually read the book. And let’s be honest- How annoying is it when someone spouts off all this OPINION, without even doing their homework? It’s pretty damn annoying and self-righteous, and I was that person. So in order to confront my own hypocrisy and lend some actual weight to my arguments, I made a deal with my friend. I would read Twilight and she would read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
I admit it. I was scared. I was scared that I was going to start reading Twilight and I was never going to be able to put it down. I was afraid of being absorbed by the mass legion of Twihards out there that scream out their love for the series, and lament the lack of any “real men,” like Dream-Boat Cullen. I was afraid I was going to LIKE IT. And the funny thing is, I kind of did. I read the book in two days, cursing at the responsibilities that got in the way of my reading it in one day, and I was entertained. To a degree. I was entertained in the way that squeezing a whole tube of toothpaste into the sink is entertaining. Or having a food fight, or smashing a bottle on the sidewalk…these forms of “entertainment” are not necessary, the satisfaction is hollow and fleeting, and the fallout/cleanup of these events is far worse than any “fun” that was had. And in instances like the last one-breaking a bottle-the underlying aggression in the act can be damaging in itself. This is the entertainment of Twilight.
So much, and yet not nearly enough, has been written about the anti-feminist nature of Twilight. The folks over at feministing have some really great community posts about the misogyny in Twilight, and how the series is “A Significant Step Down From Buffy.” I expected the book to present a horrible role model for healthy relationships. What I didn’t expect was that the model was far worse than I had imagined. Not only does he like to watch Bella sleep, but Edward invades the minds of her friends in order to hear what she is thinking. Yup. Because she smells good (and therefore this whole dichotomy is her fault) and he can’t gain direct access into her mind, Edward’s entire existence is focused on controlling Bella. (although, it IS interesting that the audience is given what Edward is denied-First person access into Bella’s thoughts.) I can’t go into everything about this book that makes me sick, because, well, it makes me sick, but real quick: let’s pretend for a minute that your friend, your daughter, your son, your mother, anyone you care about came to you with this story:
-I met this guy last week and he is HOT, but I don’t think he likes me because he growled at me and acts like I smell bad.
-OMG!! He talked to me today. He is so hot and Godlike. I am so plain and human and utterly unworthy of his attention.
-Turns out he has been watching me sleep every night.
-He listens in on my conversations with my friends. But it is just so he can get to know me.
-I don’t associate with my other friends anymore…This Hot guy is all I need.
-He protects me from myself. But it is because he loves me.
-He won’t have sex with me because it is for my own good. And when he kisses me he makes me stand very, very still. If I move even the littlest bit, I provoke him and he can’t take it, so he has to pull away from me.
-He disabled my car..but it was for my own good.
Yeah. Count the red flags at the tip of that iceberg and be awed. And outraged.
The thing is, we are telling our daughters that the only way for a woman to have and recognize her own power is when it is being taken away from her. And we are telling our sons that the way to be a “real” man is to dominate women and control them, because manipulation is sexy. Or as I heard someone say: “stalking is flattery.” This isn’t simply a reinvention of the Princess myth..it is a step-by-step handbook for dysfunctional, emotionally abusive relationships. So, like I said…not nearly enough has been written about the anti-feminist, misogynistic and horrendously damaging phenomena that is the Twilight series. The book may be fun to read, but it is just like throwing that bottle on the ground: a split second of unfulfilling fun with a piece of trash creates a situation that demands dangerous cleanup.
Reader, I Read Her
29 June 2009
I recently finished reading Jane Eyre- a book that has been on my radar for some time now. Jane Eyre is one of those books that everyone has heard of, and when you publicly admit that you haven’t read it, there is inevitably one or two people who will look at you with disbelief. (Whether or not they themselves have actually read it is another matter. One can just as easily recite the events in the novel after watching one of the many small and large screen adaptations of it.) I chose to read it because a friend of mine was reading it and I already owned it- I could read it with her and broaden my horizons at the same time.
My reasons for reading the novel are completely irrelevant.
Two things struck me as I was reading Jane Eyre. One: that Rochester is an ass that enjoys “testing” Jane for his own self-serving sport, and Two: that Bertha, although she is a very real threat when we are introduced to her, was basically shut up and neglected for a decade. That does stuff to people. No wonder this woman wants to attack anyone who comes too close. Jane describes her as a wild animal, a “clothed hyena,” with “shaggy locks” that “snatched and growled.” (380) But Jane is not quite right, is she? Bertha may be frenzied at that moment, but she is no uncontrolled wild animal. This woman has the wherewithal to wait until her nurse has passed out to steal the door key. Admittedly, this is not the best argument for Bertha’s stealth, since Grace Pool is drunk off her rocker whenever she passes out, but there is more, I promise. Bertha can sneak through the house, watch Jane sleep, sneak up and down the halls doing who knows what, light her husband’s bed on fire, and then return upstairs to her bedchamber. Willingly. From what I understand, when a cage door is left open, the animal inside runs free. Bertha was not a hyena, she was a woman who was scorned by her family, pawned off onto a virtual stranger, and locked into an attic when she became too difficult to deal with.
I understand that the cultural understanding of mental illness in the 1840’s was vastly different than our understanding of it in today’s society. However, given Rochester’s propensity for toying with Jane (Forcing her to sit in the parlor every night with company, posing as the gypsy woman to get Jane to confess her emotions to him, letting her believe that he is to marry Miss Ingram…) I think that he locked his first wife up in the attic because he just flat out didn’t want to extend any compassion or patience to a person in need. Rochester’s games with Jane were all about control, and he couldn’t control Bertha. Of course, his tune changes in the end, when it is he that is in need of some patience and compassion, when he can no longer control those around him…when he has been humbled. I don’t hate Rochester. He is human, and the journey that his character takes is fascinating, but I just can’t help feeling that Bertha deserved more: more from her family, more from Rochester, and more from Brontë.
