The Rise of the Novel: 2007

Monday, April 30, 2007

Novels, Expectations, and other Miscellania

In the spirit of sort of wrapping things up as the semester comes to an end, I thought I'd make a post about the various threads and themes I've assimilated this semester. I think I've
learned a lot not only about the material we've been studying, but how it relates more personally to how I approach the novel. I suppose it's been established that I have a very gendered approach to assimilating material. In earlier classes, I think I viewed that as more of a detriment than an asset, in that every time I approached a piece of literature, I would invariably find myself interpreting it from a gendered position, in terms of exploring language, power, and gender relations without the literature. Now, however, I feel that that is rightfully the focus of my approach, rather than a "rut" that I'm stuck in.
Also, I feel like I understand how important it is to acknowledge audience expectations in interpreting literature. In saying that the pieces we've been examining do or do not conform to the expectations of the novel, we are not so much making a quantitatively true statement about the novel as we are making a statement about our expectations for the novel. I think understanding that is the key to exploring the genre and its development.
Soooooooo, I feel that this class has helped me not only refine (and accept) my own particular viewpoint, and understand how my expectations affect how I understand literature.
As this relates to what we're discussing in class, Emma, as I mentioned in my presentation, conforms more to my expectations of the contemporary novel than the other works we've read (this would be logical, given the class's focus on exploring the development of the genre). However, as it does, I find myself evaluating the work as I would any novel- is it exciting? Am I engaging with the characters? Am I relating to any of the characters? Which I think is a rather dangerous approach for me to take, as it negates the historicity of the novel, and doesn't allow for the placing of the novel in its appropriate historical context. So, I am attempting to focus on Emma without expectations for how I will react to it.

Emma and the Monk

My part of the presentation tonight is going to involve genre. Specifically, Emma as a Gothic novel. I know, it's crazy! I'll share some criticisms with you, and let everyone draw their own conclusions.

Emma is a very interesting novel on a lot of different levels, which I'm not really going to get into tonight. (Time constraints! Grr!!) The idea of marriage fascinates me, especially Emma's initial desire to never marry. Is she a hypocrite? This ties in nicely with Pamela, another possible hypocrite. Also, leisure time in the book is a theme I'm interested in. Chekhov's Three Sisters highlights the leisure time of the wealthy, and Emma does the same thing. Granted, Chekhov casts a very negative light on the bourgeoisie, does Austen do the same in her novel? How overt are politics in this novel? I hope we have the chance to discuss all these topics in class!

The Narrator's Importance

My portion of the novel presentation on Emma today will focus on Austen's narrative technique. What I love about this novel is that we seem to get a lot of opinions - there is no one person we turn to for all of our information. I see the marked difference in the narrative style from say, Richardson or Fielding. So, why is that? What made Austen different?

I discovered the answer through the course of my research for my presentation, where I came across a familiar term - free indirect style. I am familiar with the term from my many literature classes, as it is a style that frequently appears. However, one article in particular connected free indirect style to our current studies particularly well. The essay, written by Casey Finch and Peter Bowen (it is on my works cited page that you'll receive tonight, for those of you who are interested), discusses the idea of gossip as a narrative technique in Emma. What is most interesting, and helpful, I think, is their discussion of how Austen and her style fit into Watt's definitions of narrators. If you think about it, from the works that we've read thus far, there are two types: 1) Author is formall absent and there is a focus on the psychological condition of the subject (as seen in Defoe and Richardson) and 2) Realistic, external approach, where there is an intrusive, omnicient narrator (Fielding). Austen does not cleanly fit into either of these. Rather, she combines elements of both to incorporate the free indirect style. As a result, we, as her readers, get not only the psychological closeness to the subjective world, but we also have editorial comment as well. The best of both worlds? Regardless, I think this is a perfect example for what we've been trying to do all along this semester --- that is, trace the development of the novel. Here, Austen plays with the two narrative techniques that were frequently present in the eighteenth-century and creates a unique form that is used beyond her day. It can be seen throughout Emma that she used her predecessors' techniques, but made them her own. That, in and of itself, is what makes literature (and tracing its development) so fascinating!

Monday, April 23, 2007

Emma

Emma is quite different from the other literary works we have read in this class, at least to my mind. It is more direct and explanatory as it unfolds itself, making it easy to follow and apppreciate. The story also seems to resemble the modern novel a little more closely as well. .

There is obviously a narrator in this story. It is the narrator's voice that interests me the most. It is ever-present, audible in the lines and pages of the story, yet is not like Behn's narrator. The reader does not seem to be told what to think. At least as far I have read, there do not seem to even be the vague suggestions on what the reader should take from the story as was present in Evelina. In my ears, I felt like I could hear the voice of the main character, Emma, as the narrator even when the reader was not seeing the story from over her shoulder.
The cover of the book (Penguin Classics copy) also struck me. Assuming the picture is Emma's, it seems quite fitting for Emma at least considering the personality painted by the story. She has a smug expression on her face, that is almost openly defying. The expression seems to defy the norms in a relatively subdued and almost submissive manner. One could surmise that her expression was borne of fatigue, if one had not been exposed to her as a character in the story.

Everything's Jane, or The Two Janes: Spencer & Austen and Women Writers

Jane Spencer argues in her article that women writers of the eighteenth-century moved toward a mode of writing that conflated the domestic, private world of women with the outward, public sphere of men by establishing their fiction in the emerging public sphere - a sphere that comprised private groups in public interaction. In doing so, women writers were able to meet the heretofore masculine tradition of political writing in the genre of romance and domesticity they had been more or less confined in.

Jane Austen deftly fits Spencer's model, and in several ways exemplifies it. Austen weaves her Emma in an environment of domestic middle-class English countryside life, following the meddling of Emma Woodhouse in the romantic affairs of others. Part of what makes the story so significant and engrossing is the terrible impact that such meddling can have. In nineteenth-century life, the social mobility of a woman or a man depended greatly on his or her marital match. The social and political weight of a man could be increased or decreased according to marriage - certainly it could make or break a woman. Emma's interference in the lives of others and the ensuing conflict that arises over it not only provides positive support for Spencer's thesis concerning the moral authority of women writers, but also illustrates her conception of the negative influence of the political and social authority of men. Emma's obsession with the act of marriage, and indeed her own disinclination for it, demonstrates the problems inherent in the masculine obsession over social class due to marriage. She tries to force poor Ms. Smith and poor Mr. Elton into naturally awkward social positions, and at the possible detriment of Harriet and herself. Emma is aware of the social danger of marriage and is personally unwilling to gamble with it (unless, as she admits, "were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing!"), but her willingness to interfere with the social standings of others emphasizes the blatant faults of the impersonal manipulation of social marriage over romantic marriage (82). Emma's progression in the novel reflects Austen's intentions for the reader - toward an understanding of the importance of proper action in domestic matters due to its reflection in social and political matters, and its reflection in the personal happiness or grief of individuals.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Antonia v. Ambrosio & Matilda

After reading The Monk, it left me with alot of food for thought. The plot and arrangement of events intrigued me. I found Lewis' method of presenting Ambrosio as an eloquent, impeccable abbot whom the city idolizes. As the true nature of his heart is uncovered, it baffled me and even disgusted me. But because of his initial introduction as a character, I felt like I was waiting somewhat on the edge of my seat for the outcome of the monk. Even though I had read the summary on the back of the book, I felt like each page I read I subconsciously wished that Ambrosio would reach a point of turn around.

Matilda's revelation of herself as a female and their coming together for the sake of Ambrosio's new found lusts was interesting to me. I think it showed the nature of the human being and how hiding behind the robe could not shield Ambrosio from what lay inside. It was interesting to me also how one thing led to the other in his life. The influence of Matilda is also obvious. Yet,in my mind I could not really blame him, nor could I blame her for each new venture he explored. It is also interesting how he graduated from one crime to another. While he never really felt remorse for the things he did, I felt like he felt trapped in the exploration of his indulgences and felt he could not back away.
Antonia seemed to be the innocent lamb that Ambrosio sought and pursued frantically till he possessed and defiled her. I found her innocence interesting, but not particularly appealing. This is because I can not possibly see what her mother hoped to protect her daughter from by keeping her from the knowledge of the harsh world they lived on. It had me wondering at some portions of the story what thoughts ran through Antonia's mind as she was pursued by Ambrosio. I think it is interesting that a young woman howbeit a girl of fifteen years old could have no knowledge of certain things.
Fully aware that Antonia was the victim of the story as she lost her virtue and her pride, the story still had me wondering if Ambrosio could in fact have been a victim as well. A victim to his desires which he had never learned to curtial, as he had not been exposed to such temptations at all during his life, as much as we know though.
Other areas of interest were the continual labeling of Antonia as friendless. It makes me wonder, who is a friend? Apart from her mother, she had Flora who was almost wholly loyal. She had relations that we were told would gladly have taken her in and cared for her upon the death of her mother, so did the narrator teach us that she was friendless?
Also, the role of the poems and the songs in the story was interesting. The mystery that surrounded the life of Agnes, Ambrosio's monastery as well as St. Clare's was also interesting.

Setting the Context for the 19th Century Gothic Novel

As I was reading Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick's "The Character in the Veil: Imagery of the Surface in the Gothic Novel," I found myself drawing many connections to Bronte's Jane Eyre. One of my favorite things about this class is the ability we have been given to see how the novel has developed during the eighteenth century.
Reading The Monk, I could see some not-so-obvious connections, but it wasn't until I read Sedgwick that I saw how much influence the Gothic novel of the 18th century has on its successors in the 19th century. I tried to remember reading Shelley's Frankenstein (because I'm sure I'd have more to work with, but sadly that was back in my undergrad years (which seem so far away!). Jane Eyre is fresh in my mind, so that is what kept diverting my attention when reading the essay. Bronte's novel can be read as a gothic, especially when considering the scenes involving Bertha Mason and the Red Room scene Jane experiences as a child. However, it was Sedgwick's discussion of the veil that really peaked my interest. Sedgwick argues: "The veil that conceals and inhibits sexuality comes by the same gesture to represent it, both as a metanym of the thing covered and as a metaphor for the system of prohibitions by which sexual desire is enhanced and specified" (256). With this explantion in mind, I recalled the scene where Bertha rips Jane's veil off. It can be interpreted in many ways, but I would argue that given Sedgwick's perspective, Bertha is essentially trying to take away Jane's sexuality - the very thing that attracts Rochester to her. Something so seeming innocent, then, becomes a subject of importance. Similarly in reading The Monk, I wasn't really zoning in on the importance of the veil and what it meant regarding the female characters. However, as Sedgwick points out, from the beginning of the novel when Antoinia appears at the church covered in a veil, readers should read into this a bit more and be able to connect it with her sexality. Sorry if I've gone a bit off topic. I am just fascinated with my new found ability to see and understand how the 19th century novel developed from the 18th century, and will often obsess about it as I read.

Lewis's The Monk, Sexuality, and Desire

Whether this was Lewis's intention or not, The Monk can be read as a damning indictment of the "unnatural" practices of the Catholic Church. Lewis displays a remarkable amount of sympathy for those guilty of sexual transgressions,
as long as those transgressions are in a form that he considers acceptable. For example, Agnes' and Raymon's relationship, although she has taken the vows and they are not married, are viewed with sympathy by characters in the novel, except for Ambrosio, whom we know is guilty of the worst transgressions himself. Repeated mention is made that the convent doesn't suit Agnes' character, and that to shut herself away and not have the chance to have a husband and children is an unnatural choice. Yet Ambrosio also experiences sexual desire, but his desires manifest themselves in a twisted way. He uses withcraft and subterfuge to achieve his evil aims, and the consummation of his desire for Antonia leads to her destruction. On page 297, Lorenzo's thinks, as he watches a religious procession, "He had long observed with disapprobation and contempt the superstition which governed Madrid's inhabitants. His good sense had pointed out to him the artifices of the monks, and the gross absurdity of their miracles, wonders, and suppositious reliques. He blushed to see is countrymen the dupes of deceptions so ridiculous..." (Lewis 230). The nuns of St. Clare are described in equally unflattering terms, with mention made of the intrigues and petty jealousies that flourish inside the claustrophobic confines of the convent. Far from expressing admiration for those who choose a religious vocation, Lewis seems to be telling the reader that ardent Catholicism causes more harm than good.
There is also an interesting inversion of sexuality of the characters in Lewis's work, particularly Ambrosio and Matilda, which I will be talking about further in my presentation tonight, but consider the language that is used to describe Ambrosio at the outset of the novel. He has never left the cloister walls, he's virtuous and a a virgin, and is protected in the abbey much as a young woman would be. His reaction to Matilda's sexual advances and their eventual liasion is also described in very gendered terms, as Matilda takes the lead in their sexual relationship, leaving Ambriosio "trembling and weak." After Matilda has him under her control. she drops all pretenses to gentleness and timidity and begins displaying a masculinity that Ambrosio finds very distasteful. Of course, since we learn that Matilda is no woman and not human at all, we see how Ambrosio has adopted the traditional "feminine" role in their relationship, while Matilda has played the role of despoiler.

Monday, April 2, 2007

What's in a name in Evelina?

Both Alana and Kris raised some very interesting points regarding Evelina. To add to their points, I'd like to throw out something that's bothering me after reading the novel.

Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book. Burney did an excellent job with the characterization, the writing, especially the dialogue, etc., but the gender inequality of her time period shines through. Of course, that's not a critique of Burney; she is merely portraying the world as she sees it.

What especially bothered me about this novel was Evelina's search for her name. Specifically, she is searching for her rightful name and fortune. Her very identity! The whole book is about this struggle. But as soon as she gets what she was after, her name, she gives it up! Her marriage to Lord Orville completely negates her struggle for self identity. It's sad, really. Evelina is without a true identity for so long, and her true moment of awareness is too brief. Is that silly? It's really bothering me!

Also, I'd like to talk a little bit about the name "Anville" that she is given by Villars. It makes me think of an anvil, which I'm sure it can't be referring to. Is it simply an anangram, or is it important in another way?

The Advantage of the Uncouth: Burney's Indictment of Middle-Class Morality

The Epstein essay surveying liminality in the heroines of Burney's novels drew a slightly different response from than was elicted from Alana. I was drawn to the fact that Burney depicted her heroines in these peculiar stations to explore their abilities to identify themselves in their societies. In the case of Evelina, I find her liminality, while certainly indicative of her inability to establish a position on her own, that is without a male counterpart, an interesting and often humorous probing of ridiculous social convention.

As Epstein points out, the liminalities with which Burney garners her heroines often "blast the social structures...of social preservation" (203). It is this point that attracted my attention during reading Evelina, and what drew my notice reading Epstein's essay. The humor of many of the early situations in the novel when Evelina goes to London stems from the absurdism of the conventions she needs to follow. It's true that Rev. Villars does not prepare her for the world in his overprotective rearing, and this leads to her inability to navigate her own way when she is released to it. But this serves the plot's purposes perfectly (all the while adding a realistical psychological dimension of weakness to his character), so I find it less an indictment of the paternal control of young women in society (though it is that) and more a circumstance within which Burney explores the utter lunacy of requiring such delicate and specific conventions given many other characters' true actions. In many ways, Evelina is better prepared for the world than many other women (notably Miss Mirvan), for she does not have the shackles of absurd convention to prevent her from detecting hypocrisy and cruelty in those that abuse those conventions. Evelina's inability to fend off suitors in a "suitable" way, leads her to more comic, uncivil, and effective means of protecting herself (e.g. accompanied by prostitutes, laughing in the faces of those she dislikes).

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Evelina, Pamela, and liminal women

Julie Epstein raises several interesting points in her essay, "Marginality in Frances Burney's Novels." She talks about the "liminal" state that Burney's heroines Evelina, Cecelia, and Camilla inhabit. To be liminal
is to be between states, as Evelina is between girlhood and (married, assumptively) womanhood. She has left her father's house but has not yet entered her husband's, and as such she occupies an in-between and rather dangerous zone. Transitioning between these two stages requires her to place herself at a position of access, if only with designs of attracting a husband, but it also invites danger upon her. As we see repeatedly in Burney's narrative, Evelina seeks to control those who have "access" to her, both physically and in placing demands on her time, but she fails to exert a significant amount of control. As a liminal woman, she lacks the power to even control others' access to her. We see this particularly in scenes in which Evenlina struggles to maintain her bodily integrity, such as when her hand is taken against her will by Mr. Lovel and later by Sir Clement. Evelina attempts to free her hand, but such is her concern about offering offense to anyone, that she often ends up struggling fruitlessly. We also see scenes in which she is cornered not only physically but conversationally by other characters, such as when Sir Clement refuses to stop badgering her about her invented dance partner. The length and detail Burney invests in describing these scenes lead me to believe that they are very thematically important. At Evelina's first ball in London, she is faced with a sort of Gordian knot of etiquette. She cannot turn anyone down for a dance without a reason, such as being previously promised to dance, yet when she attempts to offer such an excuse, her equivocation is perceived and provoked by Sir Clement. Ergo under the constraints of etiquette Evelina cannot effectively free herself from anyone, either physically or other wise, without risking offense even in the act of protecting her bodily integrity. When she is confronted, she becomes tongue-tied and awkward. I am struck by the differences between Pamela and Evelina. Evelina, technically a lady born although she is not claimed by her family, seems to possess little recourse to protect herself should she wish to abide by conventional rules of etiquette. On the other hand, the plebian Pamela fights back verbally and often quite physically to defend her bodily integrity, and it seems that her wits and sharp tongue rarely desert her. As a servant, Pamela is not bound by the contstraints that bind Evelina, and although this seems to allow her more freedom it also seems to place her in more danger, as she has no titled or monied protector. The question of access is one I would like to follow up in class, given the opportunity.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Sentimental Journey

Sterne in his A Sentimental Journey, seems to be setting a standard for the novel, though he might not have done so with full intention. The story goes smoothly, almost like a gentle lull as if the words are being spoken softly (at least to my ears). I think that this reading is mellow and a lot less "bouncy" than most of the other readings we have had in this class.

The story is about a traveler who takes the time (and lets us know that he is doing so) to define the title he attributes to himself. He lets us know why we are to consider him a sentimental traveler. The voice of the narrator is evident, but unlike Behn or even Fielding, it is not loud and imposing. The narrator's voice rather seems to be calmly authoritative. The reader is told the events of the story, but does not seem to be told what to think. It almost seems as if the record of the narrator as provided by the narrator seems to be the only believable version, and it does not seem like we are given any reason to either doubt or question the voice. There also seems to be this underlying sense of immense appreciation. It is almost as if the narrator evaluates everything he encounters as if the sights are new, and the people are all unique. The narrator seems to be in awe. This has me wondering if the author could have achieved the same effect if he had chosen to make his main character a king or an ex-convict. I think that the fact that Yorick is a parson influences the tone of the story.

The narrator does not really spend a lot of time ruminating on the nature of the road he travels upon or on the number of houses he sees for instance,as is typical with Defoe, emphasis instead is on the select moments the narrator chooses to expatiate upon, and the people he chooses to bring to light. For instance, the author zeroes in on the story of the dead ass. He tells the story and concludes by saying that if only humans loved one another like the man loved his donkey, the world would be a better place in essence. With Richardson, it seems like we are being instructed in the way we should act and how we should approach problem situations, as exemplified by Pamela. With Sterne, however, it is almost as if the reader can hear the wistfulness in the narrator's tone. The reader is not being told that he/she is uncaring, even though the reader is obviously included in the narrator’s wistful generalization.. Instead, it seems that the narrator is lamenting what is, and what is prevalent. There seems to be an identification of the issue, but unlike Richardson or Fielding, it seems to be left there, as a suggestion.

There is definitely present in the story the theme of travel as well as self-discovery as a result of travel. Yorick not only leaves England but he steps out of his comfort zone and learns to see the world differently, as it is, or at least as he chooses to see it. This is seen in his relation to individuals of different socio-economic status.

There are also a number of references to emotions and feelings and sentiments. As others have already pointed out and we have briefly touched on in class, there also seem to be inherent references to gender differences. Would Yorick be considered manly for paying attention to the things he does?

"A Metro-Sexual Journey," and fun with gender

Both Alana and Kris raise very interesting points about gender in Sentimental Journey. I found myself wondering about some of the same issues while reading this novel. Aside from the completely fascinating study of gender in this novel, there seems to be a wealth of societal modes and overtones.

Each time I picked up this book, I examined the cover. I’m not sure how many of you have the same copy as I do: I have the penguin classic with the four men looking at a painting. What a great picture!! I still can’t get a read on it. The first time I looked at it, it seemed to me that the men were leering at the naked woman, with the man in blue smirking like a kid who knows he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to. Later, as I looked at the cover throughout my reading, the men seem to be calmly critiquing the artistry of the painting, with their gaze focused mainly on the cherub in the corner. Now, after reading the book, I’m still undecided on which interpretation would be more appropriate. I go back and forth between the two extremes. I do the same when I read Yorick’s tales; my opinion of Yorick and his “sentimental” nature is all over the map.

First of all, I’m amazed at Yorick’s ability to solicit tears from those he comes into contact with. Seriously, amazed. Possibly unbelieving. Also, I wonder if perhaps Yorick is equating politeness with “sentiment.” In fact, I’m still not quite sure what this “sentimental” label is all about. The intro mentions Yorick’s “sympathy and charity towards those he meets on route,” but I am hesitant to believe that acts of kindness equal a “sentimental” label (xi).

Because I have a burning desire to relate everything to present day, I thought a little bit more about the concept of a “sentimental” man (sorry!). To me, the “sentimental” man that Sterne seems to be representing is similar to a “metro-sexual” man today. The Urban Dictionary defines a “metro-sexual” male as “A man with a woman's vanity,” also “good looking, stylish, fashionable, trendy, cultured, & well groomed.” The definition continues with “very conscious about his image and looks in public…believes in quality than quantity. definitely, not gay, always want to make sure he is up to date in fashion, style, and usually the trend maker…open to new things as long it is viable…just a man who cares a great deal about outward appearance and sensitivity.” (www.urbandictionary.com) Yorick seems to fit this definition absolutely and completely.

This novel makes me wonder about the state of the typical “man’s-man” in this time period. How much respect from other men would a “sentimental” man get? Yorick seems to be redefining his gender with traditionally feminine attributes; was this a common practice of men in this period? Is this an example of a “foppish” man? Were the women similarly elevated? Was this just a way for Yorick to get more action? By the way, Yorick seems to be extraordinarily focused on sex, especially for a priest!!

I really enjoyed this book. Sterne has a very light touch, and his method of interspersing dialogue and thought is intriguing. There’s a lot of stuff in this book, I can’t wait to discuss it!

Monday, March 19, 2007

Independent enGendering

Quite independently, Alana and I came upon the same source for our presentation. It, too, got me thinking about Sterne's presentation of Yorick, a character often associated with himself. It is curious to think of Yorick as some kind of androgenous, though still sexual, character; even curiouser when one recognizes the influence Sentimental Journey had on the growing sentimental novel, as Mullan observes. The growing empowerment of women in the eighteenth century novel (which even traditionalists like Watt note) finds a balance in the "Man of Feeling," to use Mackenzie's term. For in that new hero, a more feminized male hero is engendered in the novel. But I mention the curiousity of this movement with respect to Sterne due to his treatment of the female reader of his Tristram Shandy, as persuasively argued by Barbara M. Benedict (among others). Benedict points out that the easily frightened, dense female reader that Sterne engenders is foiled with his intelligent, thoughtful male reader. Benedict finds Sterne's work to be antagonistically anti-feminine, critiquing romances, "female" trends in reading ("novelty over significance," for instance), and the corruption of the male literary culture (Benedict 490).

But this chauvinism is not apparent in Sentimental Journey. Without going into it too much here, I encourage everyone to consider the changing gender roles of the novels we've read. How does Sentimental Journey fit into this strain? Might you consider Sterne chauvanistic based on your reading of SJ alone? Did the sentimental novel change men's presentation in novels significantly?

Poor Yorick-sentimentality and gender in Sterne's work

While preparing my presentation on Sterne's Sentimental Journey, some themes kept reappearing throughout the book that had a fascinating effects on the narrative. Granted, we've kicked around the idea of gender and gendered reading quite a bit in this class, but
it has such an effect on the works we've read and our reaction to them that I feel it's valid to continue exploring as a theme. While reading other's interpretations of Sterne's work, I came across a journal article by Rebenna Gould entitled "Sterne's Yorick as a Male Hysteric." Gould made some interesting connections between the feminine attributes of hysteria (in the 17th century sense of the world, not the modern sense of the word) and Yorick's character, which I will cover in more detail in my presentation. However, Gould makes some very interesting points about the masculinity, or lack thereof, of Yorick. I do not think it is entirely accurate to claim that he is presented as an androgynous or asexual creation, as Gould does, since Yorick seems to be rather lucky with the ladies. Still, Gould makes a valid point in observing that Yorick is certainly not presented as overtly masculine, in contrast with the vigorous Le Fleur. Sterne uses feminine words (for example, Yorick's use of "prostitute" to describe himself) in connection with Yorick, and furthermore Yorick does not seem to be perceived as very masculine (and therefore dangerous) by any other characters in the story. Is Sterne feminising Yorick? Knowing that Sterne invested Yorick with several biographical details as they related to him personally, that is a hard question to answer. Certainly Yorick's "sentimentality" as the "man of feeling" rather than a man of action could be interpreted as feminine with regards to our traditional assignation of certain qualitites with the label of feminine or masculine. I rather feel as though this feminised quality of Yorick's makes him ultimately more accessible to those he comes into contact with. He makes emotional connections with both men and women, as as he is not perceived by women as a threat, he is given a certain amount of license in regards to being in private with them (which, I would point out, he certainly takes advantage of). We have seen a similar play with the concept of masculinity and femininity in Richardson and Fielding's work, and I feel as though the authors are attempting ot make certain points or assertions about the qualities invested in those gendered concepts. Richardson, for example, gives Pamela quite a bit of power but only within an extremely feminised sense. I don't want to ramble on in this post, but I really find this idea quite fascinating, and hopefully we will have a chance to discuss this further tonight.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Some thoughts on Joseph Andrews

Next class, we've got quite a few things to take care of--three presentations being the most significant of that to-do list. I'd also like to be able to tie up a few remaining issues relevant to our discussion of Joseph Andrews.

Last class, we briefly considered the role of gender in Fielding's work, and I'd like to take that idea up again--especially insofar Fielding's narrator characterizes women (Mrs. Slipslop, Mrs. Tow-wowse, Lady Booby, Fanny Goodwill, and the several incidental characters who seem inevitably to represent the height of vanity and affectation, which Fielding's narrator describes as the chief concern of the novel).

I'd also like to discuss the way the narrator treats coincidence and the conventions of romance, and if possible, get your thoughts on the important metaphors of travel and dress in Joseph Andrews. You might like to compose your post around one of those topics, which will help kickstart our discussion.

For those of you presenting next class, you might also consider how these ideas could be incorporated informally into your presentations. This last is not necessary, but it might help keep our discussions on point.

Monday, March 12, 2007

A Case for Terseness

Watt's chapter on Fielding's epic theory of the novel raised some curious questions for me. Particularly his mention of the aversion Richardson and Defoe seemed to have for following the epic tradition spurred me to reconsider Watt's tracing of the development of the novel (Richardson's abohorrance of the violence was an interesting footnote). In following his reasoning, it occurred to me that the novel form could have been theoretically suited to the short form of the novellas of Haywood et al.
Watt focuses fully in his book on the social concerns that prompted the novel's "birth" (if, indeed, it could even be said to have an exact gestation and emergence), but in his chapter on Fielding and the epic turns his attention to the literary tradition the novel followed. In the beginning of the chapter, Watt quotes Defoe on Homer, and something Defoe said struck a chord with me, "the Poet never did much himself, only published and sold his Ballads still, in his own Name, as if they had been his own; and by that, got great Subscriptions, and a high Price for them" (241). It seems obvious to me he is referencing contemporary problems, rather than Homer's socioeconomic conditions. This quote reminded me of the ever-present influence of commercialism in the rise of the novel.

Watt explains the disinclination of two of the major formulators of the novel as a direct reaction to the (ironic) moral ambiguity of the traditional epic, and its faithlessness to fact. This led me to wonder at why the shorter novellas of the day were not popular with these writers, as they could be a direct formal refutation to the epic (which they seemed fixated on) that could match their content. Even Fielding, the heir apparent to the epic form, distanced himself in later years to patterning novels after epics (even in comic form). As Watt notes, "To call Fielding...'the founder of the English Prose epic' is surely to award him a somewhat sterile paternity" (259). It is interesting, then, that the novel has become identified largely by its sheer size. Why such importance given to length? The eighteenth century reading public wanted entertainment; the writers were paid by length (due to serials); the novel was destined commercially, not literarily, for length. If anything, the precise realism and moral instruction the early novels purported to extol would have better lent themselves to shorter works wherein such themes could be handled with acumen.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Presentation Schedule

Please note that I've eliminated the author presentation from our schedule; everyone will complete 2 novel presentations and 1 essay presentation.

February 12:
Michelle, Essay Presentation (Davis's Factual Fictions)
Liana, Novel Presentation (Journal of the Plague Year)

Febrary 26:
Laura, Novel Presentation (Pamela)

March 12:
Grace and Liana, Essay Presentation (Warner, Licensing Entertainment)
Michelle and Grace, Novel Presentation (Joseph Andrews)

March 19:
Kris and Alana, Novel Presentation (The Sentimental Journey)

April 2:
Grace and Michelle, Novel Presentation (Evelina)

April 16:
Kris, Essay Presentation (Paulson, "Gothic Fiction and the French Revolution" OR Sedgwick, "The Character in the Veil")
Alana, Novel Presentation (The Monk)

April 23:
Alana and Laura, Essay Presentation (Armstrong, Desire and Domestic Fiction)

April 30:
Laura, Liana, and Kris, Novel Presentation (Emma)

Monday, February 26, 2007

Pamela as a virtuous girl

I think that the story Pamela is a very successful work of fiction especially considering its time of publication. Richardson also did a wonderful job of creating the character Pamela. I think that Pamela is obviously not the average teenage handmaiden of her time. She is bold, brazen, highly praised by almost everyone who crosses paths with her, and is of course "virtuous." But what truly is virtue in the story?

Pamela is presented as a young girl who was not born of any noteable means (at least we are not given reason to think so). She says that she was reared well and taught to value virtue and honesty even from her cradle. She goes on to tell how she was selected by her mistress, Mr. B's mother and taught to read and sew, and the art of being a gentlewoman in general. So, as readers, we see a young girl that had been separated from the time she was born and reared uniquely, being shown favors unknown to others born in her circumstances. So, we see a young girl who is used to attention and standing out from the crowd.

When her mistress dies, in the letter she writes to her parents, we hear her weeping and mourning her lady's loss to her parents. But as she writes, it seems that she remembers Mr. B and the attention and the unique treatment she is once again receiving and it seems that her tears dry and we can almost hear her smile in the words she writes: "O how my eyes overflow... so comes the comfort... my master said, 'I will take care of you all my good maidens, and for you, Pamela,' (and took me by the hand before them all)... I will be a friend to you" (43). So, Pamela shows herself as she is, self-absorbed.

It is also interesting how her account of the story paints the characters she does not like as physically ugly and appalling people. It quirks my curiousity if she is not stretching the truth concerning them. They (Mrs. Jewkes, Mr. B, Colbrand etc.) seem to be decent enough people when their intents are in tune with hers. When she is dissatisfied with them, she calls them devils and other names to her parents. We are told that she was completely innocent and completely virtuous and that her intent was to return to her parents homes. She wrote to her parents villianizing her master to him, but a simple change in attitude toward her from him was enough to have her flying back to him though he had sent her on her way to her parents. She did not even desire to see them first and then return to Mr. B.

She was aware of the power of her writing and never ceased to wield that power over from the day his mother died. She also fainted whenever he touched her or attempted to force himself on her, tightening her control on him, for each time she did, his mindless passion usually turned to empathy.

I also think it is interesting how the characters that she leads us to believe are trustworthy all sing her praises. I am not in doubt but that she is beautiful, but I think she wields some kind of power that they do not and is conscious of it. Apart from her education, her living in the spotlight from her mistress and then Mr. B, who unfortunately demanded a prize forr his attention from her.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Pamela's hand, and perspective based "Truth"

After our discussion on Monday, I started thinking more about the idea of the "hand." We covered this theme pretty extensively, but I'm interested in the specific aspect of Pamela's hand in the context of authority. In essence, Pamela's hand (which really belongs to Richardson) is an omnipotent narrator. Her voice, or her hand, is the supposed voice of authority, or the "True" voice of the novel.

This is where it gets interesting, to me. I've been toying with a thought for a while now, and it seems to relate perfectly to my feelings about authenticity in "Pamela." See, I'm a post-modernist (romantic post modernist?), and I don't believe that there IS a "truth" in this novel. I know that this is NOT a post-modernist novel, or at least wasn't written as one, but I think that it touches on one of the central arguments of post modernism.

For the purpose of this posting, I want to consider the novel as not written by Richardson, but actually written by the young Pamela. (Disregarding authorial intent and the lack of experience Richardson had at being a young girl) Pamela has a version of events that she relays to her parents, and her parents respond to her described events. Now, why should we believe Pamela? What about her letters make her a trustworthy narrator? Personally, I've found a couple of examples of why she shouldn't be relied on for truthfullness. Specifically, Mr. B refers to her as manipulative!! Also, the constant mentions of her beauty and the descriptions of the praises others lavish upon her imply a vanity that is unbecoming to a "virtuous" woman. To me, these numerous glimpses of narcissisom and egoism completely contradict her purported goodness. There's a couple of other instances that I'd like to talk about in class. Also, Pamela's parent's reactions to her letters are only contingent upon what Pamela chooses to tell them, which I believe is important.

Getting back to post modernism, I think that Pamela could actually believe her version of events, but that doesn't make them "reality," or the "Truth." Perhaps Mr. B's actually believes his version of "reality," as well. One's perspective IS their reality, so who's to say that one "Truth" is actually real? Regardless, it's not our place, as the audience, to know the "Truth," not that there really is one in a fiction novel. Regardless, for the purposes of the story, I think that Mr. B should be given as much consideration as Pamela in this instance. Perhaps Mr. B is NOT a "bad man," but merely the victim of a "bad woman," Pamela. Who can say? But I would argue that Richardson leaves a few indications that Pamela is a little whimsical in the brain pan (more on that later, don't have the book with me to make page references!!)

OK, this argument will have to remain a little incomplete; this posting is getting fairly long. As I'm writing, more and more ideas are coming to me. Perhaps this is an idea for my final project: post modernism in the 18th century novel? Either way, I'd love to discuss this theory in class Monday, or continue my post later!

Thursday, February 22, 2007

The (fe)male gaze and Pamela

Thus far, we've encountered dozens of apparent contradictions within the texts, contexts, and interpretation of the texts and contexts that we've been reading. Some apparently contradictory situations actually exist simultaneously, and
I'm interested in looking a little more closely at some of them. The germ of this thought actually started in my art history class, (this will seem like I'm going on a tangent, but bear with me) while we were looking at slides of Verrocchio's David. Our professor started discussing the homoerotic overtones of the statue, but this statement makes an implicit assumption that the gaze looking on the statue is male. Obviously, given Marymount's rather unique gender ratio, there were about four guys in a class of about 35 people. So, while definitely making a valid obseration about the qualities of the statue, the professor was implicitly dismissing the female gaze in favor of the implied male gaze. The idea of the "male gaze" has come up repeatedly in examinations of works of art or literature. Basically, it is the assumption that the "gaze" or the consumer of a certain work is male, and this interplay between the work and the maleness of the viewer's gaze raises some interesting questions. So, here we have something of a contradiction between what is assumed and what is real. By this I mean that while traditional examinations of literature are made from a male-oriented point of view, Watt reminds us that most readers of the burgeoning novel (such as Pamela were female. Here we have a work of literature created by a male author with a female protagonist, created for the consumption of a reading public that has a large ratio of female readers, yet at the same time examinations of these works often assume the primacy of the male gaze. This paradox repeats itself when we consider that our class is overwhelmingly female. As a reader, I make a conscious effort not to divorce myself from the work I am investigating. That is, I am conscientious of where I stand as a reader in relation to the text, both in consideration of my historical context and my gendered hermeneutic. I hope I'm not going too out on a limb here, but I am fairly certain that my interpretation of Pamela will be different than a male reader (even one in the same historical and educational context as myself) precisely because of the gendered nature of my interpretation. Obviously I am not attempting to post this as a question of opposing, "right or wrong" intepretations but rather making an observation that I feel is relevant to the contents of this novel. This implies all sorts of interesting developments to the ideas of power, property, sexuality, and male/female discourse as presented within the novel itself.
Before this post turns into me being a complete blowhard, I'm very interested in what my fellow readers think about this idea of the male/female gaze of the reader affecting the interpretation of the novel.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Pamela; a story of letters

In reading Pamela, I must say that I could see the parallels between Richardson's style and the novel that is more familiar to us. When I first opened the book, I expected to be bored and exasperated at having to read a collection of letters. But as I read on, the story seized to be just letters to me, but became an actual story I could appreciate. Richardson used the style of narration he chose to tell this love (for lack of a better term) story very well, at least in my opinion.

The title of the story is very interesting to me in that it introduces the main character and also seems to give us a sneak peak of Pamela's fate. I was not exactly certain of what to make of Mr. B's manner of pursuit of the young Pamela. There were moments when I felt that she did have had reason to fear his advances and found myself empathizing with her, considering her position and apparent vulnerability. At other times, I felt that she might have been simply making mountains out of molehills, which probably came from "listening" to the other characters in the story like Farmer Monkton and Mrs. Jewkes. Beside the fact that I had already learned the manner in which the story would end in class, as I read, I could not help but continually worry and wonder along with Pamela, not quite knowing what to expect the next moment. If indeed she would finally lose her virtue to this powerful man we are taught to call Mr. B., and whether all would be lost so to say. But then I closed the book and read the title again, paying closer attention to it, and I could very well predict Pamela's fate.

I see Richardson's announcing to his readers that Pamela's story would not at all end gravely or heart-wrenchingly as a tact that is also used by modern writers today. He lets us know that the story is about "virtue rewarded" The average modern novel, or at least what most of us readers are familiar with usually has some sort of peak into the future, just usually not with as much precision and/or detail. For instance, the summaries of stories that are typically recorded on back pages of novels to stir up the reader's interest. Personally, I would never purchase a novel if I did not have some sort of idea of what it was about. I think this is the same tactic Richardson used to appeal to readers of his time, which shows an area of similarity between the expectations of his readers and of modern readers today.

Pamela also had a number of the common themes including control via power and affluence, the power of "love" and desire. Mr. B. seemed to me to not only serve as a character but as a representative of those who meet their needs by wielding the iron rod of power and control. However, with as much as I have read, I do not see Mr. B as one who merely chases Pamela to have his way with her, but because he desires her and wants to have her by all means. I see him as being so aware of his position and influence that he will not condescend far enough to speak to her as he would to a woman of class or means. This I got from the letters he wrote to her while she was captive, which seemed apologetic and even almost sincere (at least to my ears).

Summarily, in view of all the other works we have read, I see the most evidence of the modern novel in.

Pamela, or writing in letters

First of all, I'd like to state (for the record) that I enjoyed reading "Pamela." Dr. Howe warned us about the language, but I have to say that I was pleasantly surprised. I did not have to resort to an audiobook to delve into this novel, but I do believe that the experience of using one with Defoe helped in the comprehension of Pamela.

Richardson's technique of writing with letters is very effective for me. I could be biased towards this technique; one of my favorite short stories is Stephen King's "Jerusalem's Lot" in Night Shift. In this semi-preface to the novel "Salem's Lot," King tells his story through letters and diary entries. I struggled with the technique when King used it, and found it very disjointed. However, as I read the short story more, and got used to the style, I respected the technique and came to enjoy it. Richardson, like King, uses personal letters as a way to add subtle nuances and emotion to the story. Like Defoe, Richardson is using a first person narrative, but in a highly stylized way.

With Defoe, even though "Journal" was portrayed as an actual journal/diary, I could never believe in it's authenticity. I know we aren't supposed to read for plot or "lose ourselves" in the work, but I believe that the inability of a reader to believe in it's proclaimed form is a failure of on the part of the author. I enjoyed Defoe (after much complaining!), but I was never able to accept it for it's intended form: an ongoing journal occuring at the time the event actually happened.

Richardson, on the other hand, seems to be more comfortable with his medium. Pamela's letters actually seem to be written by a young, confused girl. Her parents replies, as well, seem to come from concerned parents. The letters clearly shift in tone, leading the reader to clearly differentiate between the "narrators." As a reader of "Pamela," I feel like an outsider looking in, a sort of voyeur. With that voyeuristic feeling, there's a sort of dirty/train wreck feeling, where you can't look away, but you feel that you really should. I didn't get that with Defoe; his style was too journalistic. While both books give the reader an "in" to the narrator's state of mind, Defoe gives you the facts, but Richardson gives you the emotion. I hope that makes sense!

I'm really excited to discuss this work in class, especially the idea of an untrustworthy narrator. I'd love to hear what everyone thinks about the fact that Pamela is writing to her parents, and the idea of different masks we wear. Specifically, is Pamela telling her parents the whole truth? Is there a "truth" that we aren't getting in these letters? Is Pamela trustworth? Why or why not? I bring up a lot of these questions before class mainly because I won't be able to discuss them as well as I'd like to in class. I had mouth surgery on Friday, so please forgive the Jay Leno chin swelling, the lack of clear enunciation, and the fogginess that comes from pain killers...

Also, if anyone knows how to make text bold or in italics using a Mac with Safari as my browser, please let me know!

Friday, February 16, 2007

Richardson's Love and Marriage, go together like-well, you know.

I find I'm more easily able to connect with Richardson's language, which really doesn't come as a surprise to me, as Richardson's novel is certainly closer to what the contemporary reader would expect from a novel. What I'm finding very interesting as I read further into the book are the numerous contradictions that exist within it, which Watt touches on in his essay "Love and Novel."
Firstly, Watt's novel has some historical information about the change in the institution of marriage that I think is fairly essential for the reader to know in order to understand the impact that Pamela had on its readers. (Incidentally, when asked why he hadn't married his companion of several decades and the mother of his children, Gene Simmons of Kiss said that "marriage is a lovely institution, but you have to be crazy to be in an institution.") As Watts points out, the concept of "marriage" as we think of it today-the severing of family ties as the conjugal tie attains primacy-had developed not long before. Watts traces the development of courtly love, or "love" as an activity to while away boredom, into the idea of the modern marital relationship. According to Watt, the development of the concept of romantic love is linked with the shift in perception of the family as an economic unit to the family as a relationship-based unit, which is how we see it today. Under English marriage laws, marriage could either be a way to attain economic stability but paradoxically also a way to destroy it, depending on the economic state of the woman prior to marriage. For the wealthy, marrying meant delivering all of your property to your husband, but for the poor, the state of an unmarried woman was considered deplorable indeed. I think this paradox mirrors a lot of the contradictions in Pamela. For example, is Pamela wielding power over Mr. B? It would seem so-he's going to a lot of trouble on her account, and we all know that she gets him in the end. But Watt reminds the reader that for women actually in Pamela's situation who aren't privileged to be romantic characters, the potential for exploitation is very great indeed. So, we see Mr. B kidnap and imprison Pamela, smear her reputation to her family and neighbors, and terrorize her repeatedly, all actions that would be criminal today. And yet we're supposed to cheer, and Richardson's readers certainly did, when Pamela and Mr. B eventually get hitched. So, I have different and opposite reactions to the novel. The part of me reading it for entertainment certainly thinks its funny, even cute, but the part reading it conscientiously through a postmodern, feminist hermeneutic is appalled.
This is just a sidenote, but has anyone here read any works by China Mieville? He is an English anthropologist and journalist who started writing novels, and I think his writing inherits a lot from Defoe. His trilogy of Iron Council, Perdido Street Station, and The Scar all have that same preoccupation with location that Defoe's Journal does, in which the geography and city becomes almost another character.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Looking back at Defoe through Davis

In reading Davis' discussion of the characteristics of ballads and other printed prose narratives, I was able to more clearly understand Defoe's stylistic choices in writing Journal of a Plague Year.

Through reading Davis' chapters about the origin of the novel, I was able to better understand Defoe's Journal of the Plague Year because it brought to light the historical facts that surrounded the new printed prose narratives and how this novel fit those guidelines. The guidelines themselves are very clearly defined by Davis and gave me an understanding of what the expectations were for a novel when Defoe was writing. Also, I was able to compare the guidelines set forth by Davis against my own notions of the novel and what I would believe to be the expectations our generation would have. Defoe's novel adheres to the popular characteristics of the ballads that Davis describes and since the ballads were so popular, Defoe was able to just expand from a short ballad to an extended story with the same characteristics.
Davis discusses that people were drawn to the journalistic style of the ballads because they gave a sense of recentness to the story which may not have happened recently, or perhaps at all. Defoe's journalistic style keeps us as modern readers however from "getting into" the novel the way we would with a Stephen King or Dean Koontz bestseller.
This also leads one to notice the attention to criminal behavior that Defoe pays, just as Davis describes the ballads as being dominantly about criminal activity. This theme of people being obsessed with deviant, criminal behavior is clearly more timeless than Defoe's journalistic style. While we no longer desire for our novels to give accounts in journalistic fashion, we do tend to be drawn towards the more criminal, risque, and deviant types of novels just as Davis described in his chapters. This voyeuristic quality has proven timeless and continues to bolster istelf in our current media.

Journal of the Plague Year as a journal; as a novel

I must confess that after our class discussion last week that I am still not completely in love with Defoe's style of narration but I do understand and even respect it. I think that in a way, using H.F as a narrator of ordinary status (since we do not even know his full name) is effective, just not in a way that is endearing or enthralling to me as a reader. I also can see the difference in the expectations of a novel- reader of our time and a reader of his time.

In evalutating Defoe in respect to Behn, I see a completely different choice in narrative style. When I read Behn, I felt as if I was reading with my ears plugged securely over my ears to keep the noise of the narrator out so I could digest the story for myself. I felt as if I did not have freedom to make my own conclusions about the story as the narrator belted out her opinions as facts sometimes even before she presented the material she was commenting on. In reading Defoe, it was quite the opposite, I had a narrator who lacked empathy and seemed to tell the story in a monotonous voice. I actually felt like H.F was more of a voice than a possible character in the novel. I felt like he was the voice you hear when you see the large block letters announcing Law and Order:SVU while you never see the owner of the voice, for instance. H.F as we noted in class was an ordinary person. We do not have ample reason to believe that he was of high social class or extravagant means and as readers we never fully get to associate with our narrator as we never even learn his full name. Defoe used H.F as a tool to present his story and that was really what he seemed like to me: a tool.

However, in view and in spite of these differences, I must note that I still enjoyed reading Behn more than I did Defoe. I think this might be because with Behn I felt as if I could almost predict the direction and the end of the story. I saw it almost as soon as I started reading as the story of the tragic hero, the great perfect and hallowed individual who ends up decaying and destroying himself and those around him in the end. It is the same theme I see in Macbeth, in Othello, and several others. Also, the story was the kind that captures attention. I mean as people I think readers always have a tendecy to favor literature that celebrates strengths, like wisdom, comeliness, might, skill in battle etc. So the fact that Behn chose to create characters like Imoinda and Oroonoko in my mind as a reader gave her a boost. Defoe told a story of a dark and gloomy event. One would expect his narrator to be empathetic; to connect with the characters he encountered who were inflicted by the plague. I felt myself expecting him to cry with those who suffered and to write from a personal point of view. That was however, not the case. H.F tells the story like a journalist as has been noted in a former post, disengaging himself emotionally from the happenings of the story. As a reader, I was quite unsure of what to do with that. I mean I found it challenging to follow a story that told of death and dying where the narrator always made sure to wash his hands clean of the certainty of the events by leaving it up to his reader to choose to believe or not to believe some of the things he (the narrator) was told and recorded. Now this is a longshot from Behn.

I can now see what Davis points out as the difference in the expectations of the modern reader as against the expectations of the the reader of Defoe's time. But overall, I think that I still respect Defoe and see why his unique style has remained in publication. I am not in love with his story but I respect his ingenuity.

Defoe's Dry Poetics: The Journalism of Enlightenment Experience

Dr. Howe's comment to Liana's post reminded me of something I've been thinking of since I first read Oroonoko as an undergraduate; our readings of Watt's opening chapters to his Rise of the Novel focus on it, as well. Certainly as modern readers we find ourselves reading to connect - we're all indebted to Freud, among others, for that. I find it a particularly valuable way to read. Yet the revolution of the novel in the 17th & 18th centuries strikes me as one of a very different type.

Defoe's Journal, as well as Oroonoko, owe much of their importance to the ways in which they transformed the historically and realistically unconcerned arts from the Greeks and Romances and such into representations of reality. DeFoe's use of charts of deaths in specific districts strikes us as dry, and even cold, but its inclusion in his account gave a journalistic air of authenticity the readership was not used to. Behn bored me to the point that I stopped reading the book for a week when she began Oroonoko with a lengthy account of the colorful birds she saw. It bored me at first, but it must have thrilled the reading population when they encountered pure sense perception in a "fiction" work (if indeed, they were even considered such at the time). Even the striking titles of these "histories" and "romances" lend a sense that the title page is the only thing that was written with the intent to publish. The title to Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, for instance, ends with the simple words, "Written by Himself." It's as if an editor took the pages Crusoe wrote and created a title page for it that would explain the historical document it contained. It's been done since with much success - Nabakov's Pale Fire, The Blair Witch Project, etc. In much the same way that grainy, dark filmstock makes film viewers feel they are in the midst of real events, I imagine 17th and 18th century readers must have reacted to the charts of Defoe's Plague Year. Defoe's concern seems less with emotional resonance and more with sensory curiosity. The rise of the novel coincides with the Enlightenment, and logic was the order of the day (pun very much intended).

I appreciated Watt's explanation of the philosophical foundations for the rise of the novel in philosophical realism and the deeper focus on sense. I am eager to examine Pamela as an epistolary novel, for it seems to be a prime example of the Enlightenment's desire to sift through evidence for itself. It also speaks much to the rising importance the new middle-class must have been feeling about itself. Reading was no longer meant to be entirely didactic or escapist - it encouraged the reader to glean understanding from sensory experience. Also, the focus on character, rather than the theological or philosophical importance of the plot's events (as we saw even in Fantomina), seems to have derived from what Watt explains is the novel's tendency to identify particular times and settings.

Watt expounded on much of what I had been thinking of in his essay, but I hope I contributed a little to the conversation.

Keeping With the Trend: Defoe's Narrator, the Journalist

After reading Lennard Davis' Factual Fictions, I have a better understanding of Defoe's style in A Journal of the Plague Year. Last week, Liana brought up an interesting point regarding Defoe - the narrator is much like a journalist.

Defoe's narrator does not get emotionally involved with the stories he is telling. He simply presents them to the reader and lets him or her decided how to interpret them. Also, he gives detailed reports on the deaths, which is similar to something we would see in today's newspapers (an emphasis on hard facts and details). A Journal is full of anecdotal stories and other little details, which, when taken together, encompass the entire story as a whole. Last week, many of us raised concerns with regard to Defoe's style. His material is dense, hard to absorb, and we were having trouble reading into it. It's hard for us to read A Journal as a "novel" when we consider the other materials we've read as modern readers. It doesn't look like or feel like a "novel". However, Davis has given me a new appreciation for Defoe's style in A Journal. He outlines a history of the "novel," pointing to various origins of the word and what was considered entertainment and prose from the 16th century and beyond. What I found particularly interesting was the idea that novels developed from journalistic pieces, such as criminal histories and the like. If we can see Defoe's narrator as a journalist, I think we can look past the difficulties we are having as 21st century readers and have a much better appreciation for his style. After all, keeping what Davis has presented to us, Defoe's style appealed to the audiences of his time. What may seem boring and dry to the modern reader, was a fascinating page turner for the 18th century reader. I understand now why A Journal is written the way it is. We should keep in mind that Defoe wasn't thinking about his works surviving centuries to come - he was thinking only about his immediate time and what would appeal to his audience. The fact that it has survived to be read by us attests to the greatness of his narrative style.

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Defoe and postmodern expectations

Lennard Davis's chapter "Factual Fictions" lends some interesting insights into how a novel like Defoe's could be conceived of, and I think it also lends some clues to our difficulty in connecting with Defoe's narrative.
In our last class, we talked about how our expectations as modern novel readers affects the way we reacted to Defoe's Journal. I will even go so far as to propose that it is the expectations of the audience that, in part, shapes the style of narrative. As a postmodern 21st-century readers, I expect emotional, confessional material within the novel. What I interpret as Defoe's detachment is initally somewhat shocking. I expect H.F. to be more personally affected by the plague, perhaps through a family member's sickness, and to react to the plague much more emotionally than in his rather journalistic style of narration. There seems to be a lack of connection between the narrator and the events he is narrating. Why would I expect this? Because the vast majority of novels created for popular consumption today offer this emotionalism to the reader. It is what I expect, and not finding it in Defoe's work feels initially like being tricked, as though the title and the subject matter had prepared me for a certain type of narration which wasn't delivered.
But perhaps we interpreting Defoe's narrative through an inappropriate paradigm. I make this suggestion after ready what is implicitly expressed in Davis's chapter. Davis makes a connection between the expectations of the audience and the content of the "newes and novels" created for them. The audience craves new, titilating, exciting "newes," hence the controversy surrounding whether or not something was "true" and the efforts that creators of ballads and newes went to to assure their audience of the authenticity of their pieces. Doesn't Defoe do the same thing? Above all, he strives to surround H.F.'s narrative with authenticity and plausibility. Therefore, while Defoe may report the more sensational events that occurred during the plague, we noted in class that he always careful to be skeptical of such events, even though the very presence of H.F.'s skepticism heightens our belief in what he reports.
In other words, it is not Defoe's narrative that is deficient but perhaps that our expectations are different. We turn to novels for entertainment, excitement, or a sort of emotional experience (experienced perhaps by proxy through the narrator), whereas Defoe's audience may have turned to "newes" and novels for a sense of authenticity and continuity, such as Davis mentions in "Factual Fictions."

Monday, February 5, 2007

Ballads and Broadsides

In preparation for our next class on Defoe, when we'll also be reading Davis' chapters from Factual Fictions, please take the time to read over in more detail the plague ballad we examined briefly in class:

"A Recollection of the Times: or, Englands Looking-Glass"

The Davis chapters are available on Blackboard, under course documents/"origins of the novel."

A lack of empathy in a Journal

Also in agreement with Alana’s post, I cannot connect with Defoe’s writing in the same way as I connected with Behn’s. I chalk this up to writing style: I find his longwinded, clause-filled sentence structure to be distracting. Defoe’s thoughts seem to be all over the place; his narrative is disjointed.

Laura, I also see myself as a romantic reader. I was very excited when I saw this book on the reading list. I hadn’t read it, but I imagined it to be a sort of cross between Stephen King’s The Stand, the Resident Evil game/movie, and Joss Whedon’s Firefly series (regarding the Reavers, for those of you familiar with the plot.) Well, I was mistaken. Journal of the Plague Year, while certainly about an apocalyptic disease, lacks the emotional impact and complexity of the other works I’ve mentioned. (Can you tell I’m addicted to Pop Culture?) This book should have been harrowing and unforgettable, but instead I found it ponderous and difficult to absorb. I found myself reading a few pages, then having to go back and re-read, as nothing had sunken in.

I wonder if the emotional disconnect I feel from Defoe’s work is due to his methodical approach in writing. His style is almost journalistic in nature, except for the constant interjections of personal (dry and cumbersome) thought. Defoe’s voice is distracting, as is his seeming lack of empathy for those suffering around him. The main character seems cold to me; more concerned with possessions and economic goings on than the suffering and death surrounding him. While I applaud Defoe’s desire to chronicle the devastating events of the plague, I think his effort is strangely indifferent to the very thing he is trying to chronicle.

Sorry for the negativity, let me know your thoughts!

Poem: "Journal of the Plague Year"

Ploughshares, Spring 2006 v32 i1 p73(1)
"A Journal of the Plague Year" by Ben Lerner

We would walk with it into the open
Look down and read the shadows
Of the clouds passing over it

The birds sang dial tones
The infected birds
Gray sentences uncurled

As we smoked our manuscripts
The cattle went mad
Their blue lips smiling

At a sign in the distance
We slaughtered the distance
It was not given us

The magic of numbers
We who slept in swaying
Towers underground

Defoe: Novak: Innovator of Fictional form

I must say that I agree with almost everybody else about The Journal of the Plague Year. Defoe was not particularly captivating or engaging to me. However, I did appreciate his sense of accuracy in describing environments, as I felt that I could hear the sounds he heard and feel the things he felt. Yet, at the same time, his obsession with detail frustrated me and almost lost me early in the work.

However, I chose to examine Defoe's work in light of Max Novak's essay "Defoe as an innovator of fictional form." Novak points out that Defoe seems to achieve his purpose of describing the years of the plague in London in a way that was not just purely entertaining and that sucked the gravity of the situation in London at the time out of the story. He postulates that Defoe wrote to adequately portray the city of London in those years of plague. I found this to be particularly true, at least in my opinion. I feel like Defoe used his narrator H. F to show us the city in a way that was descriptive in deep depth as well as plausible and almost realistic. By this I mean that - as Novak points out - Defoe writes about the scene in which certain women raid his brother's warehouse, and amidst the disease and plague indulge themselves in trying on the hats in the room. So, as a reader I felt like this was a brief comic relief, if I might call it that. In essence, while it is apparent that Defoe is using his narrator H. F to tell of the calamities of 1665 London, he does it in a way that provides the reader an expansive view of the events of the Plague including the acts that might be considered too ordinary to attract attention in view of the death and dying taking place. I will say that I was engrossed by Behn's Oroonoko as well as Haywood's Fantomina. Defoe was markedly different to me. This was mainly because he described in too much detail things that I did not particularly care too much about and his story was not of a bright and sunny event. However, I still managed to be able to appreciate his writing style and can see why Novak refers to him as "innovator of fictional form." I see Defoe, at least in relation to the two other authors we have read, as a slight departure from the romantic style, with its fanciful descriptions and common themes to the narration of an event that is ugly and unappealing. I think he performed the task well in that he succeeded in entertaining his readers as well as enlightening them. I think that this might be why Novak sees A Journal of the Plague Year as the first historical fiction. He also tells his story using detail that a reader might not see as useful or just as burdensome, which brings the story closer to everydayness, as numerous events are always taking place around us at any given time, though we might not pay as much attention as Defoe's narrators do to the intrinsic details. His plot also contains some events that I think the story can do without; yet he tells them. I can see how he finds that necessary because life is actually full of such details. In drawing the curtain to a close, I did not really enjoy the reading but I do appreciate Defoe's style.

Sunday, February 4, 2007

The Writing Parallels the Illness

The writing style and plot seemed to parallel the coming and going symptoms of the plague. Not just the physical (body) signs of the illness, but the psychological and geographical signs as well.

The jumping back and forth in time, in setting and internally for H.F. was fascinating and tiresome throughout this reading. However, I can manage to accept that Defoe's intent was well established with his number lists and ever-changing character decision of whether to venture out on the streets of London or stay indoors.

Emotionally speaking, I found this novel to be depressing not because of the death aspect as much as because of the illness aspect: illness of the mind, spirit and population in the face of a bio-threat such as the Plague.

God, can you help me - H.F.'s struggle for survival

I agree with Alana's post in that I am not finding Defoe to be as exciting a read as Behn. That said, I think his writing should be commended by us 21st century readers. After reading the first half of this narrative, I feel as though I've traveled back to London during the time of the plague.

Defoe has painted a vivid picture for me. Although A Journal is fictional and lacking in certain areas, I nonetheless am able to take myself back to the 17th century. As unbelieveable as it may sound to some of you, I see people scurrying to leave town, I hear the cries of those whose family and friends are dying around them. (Perhaps, I am too much of a romantic reader, wanting to get myself lost in each and every book that I read.) As H.F. walks down a London street, noting the drastic changes in scenery, he says: "... the Voice of Mourning was truly heard in the Streets; the shriecks of Women and Children at the Windows, and Doors of their Houses, where their dearest Relations were, perhaps dying, or just dead, were so frequent to be heard" (18). It is phrases such as these that enable me, as a reader, to feel the fear and desperation of the people. This sense of entrapment and fear of never returning to normalcy are what lead me to understand why God appears so frequently throughout A Journal. To answer Alana's question, I do not see A Journal as a testimony to God's mercy. Rather, I see H. F.'s trust in God as an individual reaction to a catastrophic event. I don't believe that he suggested that everyone should trust in God as a means to survive. Instead, he turned to God to help guide him through his decision to stay in London. I'm sure every person dealt with the plague in their own way. After all, his brother preferred to leave town and he was in good company. H.F. chose to stay, for it was "the Will of Heaven" that he not go (12). On the other hand, one could argue that he was forced to stay due to his own fault - he was unable to get a horse and his servant left him before he embarked on the journey. The bottom line is that it is hard for us to correlate God, mercy, and the plague in the same sentence. With so many lives lost, it does make the reader wonder how H. F. survived the epidemic. Was it pure luck or Divine intervention?

Saturday, February 3, 2007

Defoe and Ethics of Plague-Morality and Sickness.

I'm afraid I'm not as connected to Defoe's novel as I was to Behn's Oroonoko. Journal of the Plague Year strikes me as a sort of fever dream, in which Defoe
wanders through plague-stricken London, observing the ravages of the disease. Amazingly, despite wandering here and there throughout the stricken areas, he never contracts the plague. (Convenient, no?) I think there are some interesting observations to made about Defoe's treatment of what he views as ethical violations during the plague-time. Defoe reports snippets of hearsay and rumor, as well as bits of pronouncements and news article, and he often mentions the crimes he has heard rumors of. Defoe relates hearing of houses plundered, servants left to die, and neighbors turning against each other, but he is quick to reassure the reader that these are only rumors, and besides he has known of many instances of kindness and goodwill. He relates an incident in which he returns to check on his brother's property and finds a group of women trying on hats from his brother's warehouse of goods. Although Defoe's narrative is rather detached for the most part, a sense of incredulousness and indignation seems to permeate this event. Defoe seems to shy away from acknowledging the breakdown in public order that occurred with the first wave of plague to hit London. (The plague returned to Europe repeatedly over several decades, but not to this extent.)
Another question I would like to ask of Defoe's novel is, what exactly was his purpose in writing it? An historical account? Defoe mentions God often in his work, but I have a hard time accepting Journal as a testimony of God's mercy, considering the ravages of the plague. I haven't entirely finished the work, but I read the stanza Defoe includes as H.F.'s parting words. Is H.F., after all, just delighting in surviving the plague unscathed? He seems to make no deeply emotional connections to anyone affected by the sickness. He mentions no family members or friends killed by it. Perhaps he is merely serving a journalist to record this extraordinary historical event.

Monday, January 29, 2007

Alphra Behn: Unbiased Narrator or Omniscient Story-teller?

As Grace mentioned, readers of Oronooko can’t help but to become enthralled in the writing style that Behn incorporates into the narrative. Her style is captivating, which is important because, as readers, we must rely on a well-informed narrator to guide us through the narrative since there are no clear divisions and it at times can be confusing to follow. However, as a reader, I found myself also questioning some areas where I thought Behn was blurring the line between fiction and fact, which led me to further ponder the question of her role as narrator. Ultimately, is she an unbiased narrator, strictly adhering to Oronooko’s account or is she an omniscient story-teller, crafting her story from various accounts and adding details as she saw fit, or is she a combination of the two?

One of her most important assets is the detail with which she spends describing the various characters. We not only know what their outward physical appearances are, but we are given a glimpse into their inner workings. Behn alludes to this notion in her dedicatory to Lord Maitland: “An ill hand may diminish, but a good hand cannot augment history. A poet is a painter in his way, he draws to the life, but in another kind; we draw the nobler part, the soul and mind” (3). This level of detail enables readers to have a well-rounded perspective of each character and allows them to make judgments for themselves regarding these individuals. For example, several people have noted the detail with which she describes Oronooko. She uses the same level of detail when describing those around him as well, as seen in the description of Oronooko’s new owner, Mr. Trefry. Of his physical appearance, she writes: “… so extraordinary in his face, his shape and mein, a greatness of look, and haughtiness in his air” (41).

However, I would argue that there are areas where, I find myself questioning Behn as the narrator. For example, Behn does not meet Oronooko until he is on Surinam. Yet, the level of detail in the first half of the novel does not change or become greater in the second half. Also, with regard to her level of detail, how did Behn so accurately know the feelings of her characters? For instance, she writes: “Trefry soon found that he [Oronooko] was something greater than he confessed; and from that moment began to conceive so vast an esteem for him that he ever after loved him as his dearest brother, and showed him all the civilities due to so great a man” (42). Unless Behn was present at that exact moment, I find it hard to believe that she knew exactly how Trefry felt. Yet, the narrator does not appear to be unsure of herself when making this declaration.

Thus, I would argue that Behn’s narrative is somewhat biased in the sense that we are only being told the story through Oronooko’s eyes, and as such, it is a limited perspective. That said, Behn does her best as an artist to paint an accurate portrayal of Oronooko’s life as he has told it to her. Although there are some embellishments and exaggerations, these are elements of the story that make it so great and have allowed it to be passed on through generations of readers. Nonetheless, from the simple fact that we are still reading Oronooko today, it can be said that Behn, as a narrator, achieved her ultimate goal. That is, creating a narrative with the “power to preserve this great man” (5).

Behn's narrator

I found Oroonoko to be a particularly interesting read because I think it is a story told in a simple way that strikes a cadence with its readers. As we briefly discussed in class on the 23rd, as a reader, I can hear the voice of the narrator quite clearly throughout the story. It is as if the narrator wishes to tell the story of Oroonoko and Imoinda but wants us to know only as much as she knows, or in the light that she chooses. It seems as if she wants her audience to learn to idolize Oroonoko as she does without giving the reader much of an opportunity to explore any other option or opinion about the main character in her story.

Oroonoko is presented from the very beginning as "the hero himself," "[a] great man" (9), framing the opinions of the readers before the character is even introduced. The narrator then describes him lavishly, praising his appearance, his character and his knowledge as she tells her story. In fact, it almost seems as if she puts off her story to appropriately give her character the accolade she deems him worthy of. In listening to her voice, one can begin to see her (the narrator) as a character in the overall story itself, and hence the story Oroonoko could be seen as a story within a story.

We learn to understand the narrator and to appreciate the magnitude of the role she plays in the unfolding of the tragic story of the prince who became a slave. Even when Oroonoko performed acts of bravery and maybe even heroism - like when he killed the tiger - as a reader, I felt like I was not permitted to properly "see" and "hear" this gallant act as plainly as the narrator saw and heard it, for the "sounds" of the act were drowned out in my ears by the narrator's words. It almost seemed to me like the narrator's purpose of telling the story was more to tell of her affiliation to this character who she claims is "worthy of a better wit and a more sublime wit than [hers]."

Considering the role the narrator played in telling Oroonoko's story, it had me wondering how the story would have been told had it not been told from her point of view. It also had me wondering if I would have truly thought of Oroonoko as a hero had the story been told from an unbiased perspective.

Also, the tragic death of Oroonoko caught my attention. I think it is interesting and even significant that he was not so brutally executed by any of those he had planned to take vengeance upon. I think it is even interesting how his executioner was identified as "an Irishman... a fellow of absolute barbarity..." (76), a man brought from elsewhere to commit this gruesome act. Oroonoko murdered his wife and even severed her head from her corpse for the sake of the vengeance he wished to commit. In the end, he used the knife that had spilled his wife's blood on himself to mutilate his flesh and open his bowels, rather than for revenge. He also used it on an over-zealous Englishman and on Tuscan, who had been for a brief time, a friend. I think it is ironic how he met his death at the hands of a stranger to the animosity and intrigues of the lives of the slaves and their masters, and how Imoinda's death (murder) seemed almost to have been meaningless.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Final Project: Assignment Sheet

This term, each student will have the option of completing either a traditional seminar essay of 15 pages in length, or a hypertext project.

Traditional seminar essay option:

Your seminar essay for this course should be 12-15 pages in length. It should give a sustained literary analysis of one or more primary texts assigned within a literary-historical or theoretical context provided by the secondary material read in class. Outside of the secondary material read in class, your essay must include at least one additional reputable secondary source. Your seminar essay must substantially engage with both primary and the secondary sources, though the secondary sources should above all be contextual.

Hypertext option:

Alternatively, you may construct a hypertext of one assigned reading that presents a sustained literary and/or historical analysis. Because the “novel” is first and foremost a “new” medium for the exploration of individual experience in a rapidly changing world, the web presents a unique opportunity for us to investigate the strengths and limitations of a new and increasingly commonplace medium. Like the eighteenth-century novel, hypertext not only requires new modes of reading, but it also represents changing patterns of human thought. As Marshall McCluhan famously argued, the medium is the message; we see the world—and our roles in it—differently in different media.

You may complete this option either individually or in teams of two. While we will not devote course-time to learning the basics of website construction, Marymount has several resources available for such a project; you may also use Microsoft Word to create such a text. I will make how-tos and other guides on this subject available as well. If you choose this option individually, your hypertext must be accompanied by a 5 page overview that describes, in miniature, your argument and what function you see such a project performing (If you choose this option in teams of two, your overview must be 10 pages in length). Did you confront and overcome any specific obstacles, especially in your conceptualization of the project? What does the hypertext as medium allow you to do or see differently, as you read and interpret your text? If you elect this option, you must use at least two reputable secondary sources (for each person contributing to the project), either assigned or researched on your own.

You might begin by examining several existing hypertexts and similar web-based projects, like the student projects included in “Eighteenth-Century England,” an online collection of undergraduate and graduate work by students at the University of Michigan. You might also take a look at the ongoing Pierre Marteau hypertext 1719 edition of Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. You may also take a look at a few substantial projects created by advanced undergraduates at Washington & Lee University for ideas and inspiration; available projects are on the 18th century novel and Restoration and 18th century drama. Finally, you can examine sample hypertexts constructed by students in English 200 last term, each of which were created using Microsoft Word. As graduate students, however, I expect your work to be significantly more rigorous than several of these existing projects. Ultimately, I will post these projects online, beginning a dedicated site for hypertext readings crafted by graduate students at Marymount University.

Many, if not all, of the primary sources we are reading this term are available online from Project Gutenberg; you should feel free to use this resource as you construct your project.

It should go without saying…

Whichever option you decide to complete, your work must be completely compliant with MLA formatting and citation guidelines, free of grammatical and stylistic errors, and written in lively and engaging prose.

Of inhuman bondage

Oroonoko and Imoinda are bound to the traditions of their people in the first half of the novel, and to the whims of Oroonoko's despotic and senile grandfather. In the second half of the novel, Behn states that Oroonoko/Caesar and Imoinda/Clemene are slaves by name only. An argument can be made that Oroonoko's bondage is of a greater degree before he is shanghaied and transported to Suriname, and that rejecting the taboo in his homeland feeds the impulse to go back on his word not to take arms against his masters.

It is not the purpose of this missive to make light or in any way exonerate the institution of slavery, but to point out that a man of high rank and stature can nonetheless be controlled by desire, culture, circumstance and tradition to as great if not greater an extent than one who is labeled a slave. Imoinda receives the royal veil and is bound by traditon and law to report to the king's otan. Though the king is over a hundred years old, already possesses numerous wives, and is apparently impotent, he nonetheless exercises his absolute authority as monarch and summons Imoinda to be his wife. "... [T]he obedience the people pay their king was not at all inferior to what they paid their gods, and what love would not oblige Imoinda to do, duty would compel her to." (Behn, 19) Imoinda and Oroonoko have no recourse but to submit to this whim of self-gratification. The narrator informs the reader that Imoinda would be executed should she refuse the invitation. Oroonoko is bound by the custom that a descendant is forbidden to marry a wife of his anscestor, and for him to pursue Imoinda would be to violate a sacred cultural taboo. Oroonoko declares himself bound by the taboo to his friends, stating that he could not violate the code without setting "an ignoble precedent for [his] successors." (21) Behn tells us that the people of Coramantien possess a native justice unpolluted by concepts of fraud and deceit; the natives rebuke a governor who fails to keep his word that he shall arrive at a certain time. (11) I suggest that among Oroonoko's European attributes, which for the most part Behn lauds as charismatic, there exists an inclination for Oroonoko to go back on his word. Twice he does this, to the great detriment of his fate. Driven by desire, Oroonoko pursues Imoinda and consummates his marraige to her despite acknowledging the cultural stricture. Once he is a slave in Surinam, he tells the narrator that "he would sooner forfeit his eternal liberty, and life itself, than lift his hand against his greatest enemy on that place." (49) Even though Oroonoko/Caesar "suffered only the name of a slave," (50), and his wife is reprived daily of her chores by fawning admirerers, he is overcome by his fear that his agreement with Trefry will not be honored, and that Caeser, Clemene, and their unborn son will remain slaves in perpetuity. While in transit to Surinam, the captive Oroonoko speaks to the importance of honor to the captain, in an effort to bargain for freedom aboard the ship. Oroonoko declares that a man without honor has greater concerns than punishment in the afterlife; he has lost credibility and is subject to the derision of those honest people who know him and his breach. (39) Despite his freedom to hunt and engage in whatever diversions he wishes, Caesar incites the slave community to rebellion, apparently motivated only by the fear that his family will not be granted freedom. Oroonoko's/Caesar's sense of honor is tainted and diluted by the society that has bound him; the betrayals he repeatedly suffers from Europeans instigates his own breach that leads him and his wife to their brutal deaths.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

A Narrator-Oroonoko-Imoinda Power Triangle?

Both Alana's and Kris's posts make very interesting points about the "commodification of women"--especially in light of our discussion last class about female authorship. I wonder what you think about the fact that it is Behn, a royalist and a Tory anda woman writer in a man's literary world, who creates the characters of Oroonoko as well as Imoinda?

A lot of research has been done on Behn's narrator's relationship to Oroonoko, and some has been done on her relationship to Imoinda. In general, she seems to use the conventions of amatory fiction and traditional romance to identify with Oroonoko's nobility, though this is not without its tensions. Critics are often interested in the "likeness" and the "difference" between the narrator and her chief subject, a black royal man who has become a slave and yet is "naturally above it." Yet, the narrator is also using Oroonoko to make narrative, specifically narrative from a "female pen" (40). Similarly, the narrator places herself in an ambiguous position vis-a-vis Imoinda--with much less "idenfitication" than in Oroonoko's case. Imoinda seems repeatedly, as Kris mentions, "killed off"--first by Oroonoko's grandfather, then by Oroonoko, and ultimately, by Behn. How can we read this in terms of the narrator's power, her agency? Thoughts?

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