A Foray Into Agatha Christie: Intro

It must have been a year or two ago that I asked my mother what her favorite book she'd ever read was-- or at least one of her favorites. Let me put this into context for you. My mother is reading a different book every couple of days. She reads all the time, usually with a cup of tea in her hand, the tail of the painted cat curling up to form the handle. Most of the books she reads have this little tag on the side:

which, at least in the Cecil County library system, denotes that the book is a mystery. It doesn't necessarily mean the mystery is of the murderous variety, but most of them are. Titles like So Soon Done For, Death Walks in Eastrepps, and Bones of Contention always prompted me to ask my mother how was this book, what was happening in it, how did she like it.

I myself have never really gotten into mystery books, save some Nancy Drew or Encyclopedia Brown. So no "serious" mysteries. I figured I should give it a try.

Okay going back to the beginning of this post (having now, hopefully, put it into context for you, my dear reader), where I asked my mother to give me one of her very favorite books. The result? Witness for the Prosecution, a book with a cover like a pile of well-loved letters (literally) and the edges of whose pages were colored green. Intriguing, no? That's what I thought.

I started reading it a couple months after she gave it to me, I believe (remember, this is about a year ago still). It was interesting, and the first chapter was good, but I got totally lost on the second chapter, so I put it down. To be fair, I was quite busy at the time, so I had very little time to read.

Fast forward to this past Friday. I'm planning on going up to Philly on the train, and I want something to do in the 70 minute ride from Newark. Usually I just listen to an audiobook or music, but then again usually I go from Wilmington, where the ride is a measly 40 minutes. Looking around my room, I mentally analyze the size of the books in my room and how much I want to read (or, in most cases, re-read) them. The Little Prince? Awesome book, but too much of an easy read and I just read it about a month ago. Wreck This Journal? Requires too many other materials. The Fault in Our Stars? Not really in the mood to cry on public transportation. And so on and so on. Finally my eyes alight on Witness for the Prosecution, at the top of a large stack of books. Small? Check (smaller than my planner). Interesting? Check (at least what I remember of it). This could work.

I finish the first and second chapters in the train ride up, and only after I finish the second chapter do I realize that it's not a chapter at all but a second story. Ahhhh. Everything makes sense now.

SO. Why is this blog titled as an intro? Simple, because the subsequent blogs are going to be (or at least the plan is for them to be) about the individual stories. Hopefully. Or else there'll just be a couple blogs about a couple stories each.

Also, check out how awesome Ms. Christie looks:

Don't think she looks awesome? Okay maybe she doesn't.... until you've read her stories. Dun dun dunnnnnnnnnn.

So It Goes.

I believe the first time I read this book was about two or three summers ago; my goal of that particular summer had been to read some "classic" (read: serious) literature. I knew nothing about it more than its name and that one of my counselors from camp had read a book by the same author. I checked it out from the library and got right to work.

At first, it met my expectations perfectly. War, firebombings, veterans growing old- this is the stuff of the serious and stuffy novels which I had set out to read. Once the Tralfamadorians arrived, however, my preconceived notion of the book went right out the window, and landed plop on the sidewalk outside. But therein lies the problem. My preconceived notion didn't go right out the window. It lingered, causing my brain to be intensely puzzled at every passing chapter. Slaughterhouse Five was supposed to be a serious book, serious but good. While it was well-written, it was only serious in some parts, the other parts somberly comical. Better said: it gave the illusion of being serious all the way through. But how serious can one be about aliens and being "unstuck in time"? I finished the book, of course, but was left with a very strange impression, and one that I wanted to refine with a rereading. However, as I am apt to do, I got busy and had no time to do so.

Fast forward a couple of years to about a month or two before today. I am browsing audiobooks because I am preparing to drive up and surprise visit my friend in Pennsylvania. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? But Slaughterhouse Five, sans tiny reindeer. So I bought it, reminding myself that it's not as serious as I thought it was, reminding myself to clear my mind before starting. 

Of course the man reading the audiobook has a beautiful voice, and I speed through it, between the drive to PA and back and the train ride to and from Philly. Quite possibly the coolest part of the listening experience: afterwards, there was an interview with Kurt Vonnegut himself, followed by a short audio clip of him reading the beginning of the novel. Anyone can read another persons work and sound good, but there is nothing quite like the author reading it as he intended it to sound. 

Onward and upward, to the actual content of the book (no spoilers, I promise). To begin with, it was quite thought-provoking. Not only did it portray a face of war that usually isn't portrayed, but it also juxtaposed that next to a culture that didn't view death as a bad/sad/constant thing. Both elements were interesting alone, but took on a different meaning when paired.

What face of war isn't usually portrayed, you ask? The face of the unheroic hero. The soldier who hopes he dies, who doesn't want to be in the war in the first place, who looks ridiculous and not at all "like Frank Sinatra or John Wayne". The soldier who marches in combat boots painted silver, and only continues to survive for two reasons: through random fortunate circumstances, and because he is the main character.

All I will say of the Tralfamadorian view of death is to quote the book. (From chapter 2, so if it spoils anything, it won't spoil much.

The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist.They can see how permanent all the moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever.
When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in the particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is "So it goes." The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just that way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance.

It's such a strange view on death, and one that is difficult to adapt your mind to, difficult to start using. I've tried, and it works sometimes, although I haven't really had deaths that are world-shattering to apply it to. But it's a different view than what we are always taught about death. It's not a bad thing; it simply is. So it goes.

Poo-tee-weet.

May the Ford be with you.

(spoilers to follow, consider yourself warned)

Imagine yourself in a world where a caste system is genetically imposed, it is not at all uncommon for you to have a whole slew of people with the exact same face as you, you're allowed and encouraged to be promiscuous (with protection, of course), the movies stimulate all five of your senses, in addition to evoking other feelings, and there are tablets that give you all the happy lovely feelings of being drunk without all the unhappy anti-societal side effects.

Sounds perfect, right? Who wouldn't want to live there?

You would, if you hadn't been born there. Like John ("the Savage"), you would be surprised and likely repulsed by the fact that the word "mother" is equivalent to the worst swear word, that it is as if Shakespeare, the Bible (and thus, Jesus and God), art , and history never existed. There are no comedies or tragedies, because there is no longing, marriage, lust (except for once a month, a scheduled process for the good of the individuals), and, and most importantly, there is no sadness. All of this is strictly anti-social: against the society. Everything is done for the good of society.

DEFINITE SPOILERS AFTER THIS POINT.

Overall, I liked the book quite a bit, except for one thing: the moral it seems to exude. The basis of the problem begins in the next-to-last chapter, where John (the "Savage") is talking to his Fordship the Controller (kind of like Big Brother + the president), named Mustapha Mond. The conversation goes like this:

"Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an eggshell. Isn't there something in that?" he asked, looking up at Mustapha Mond. "Quite apart from God–though of course God would be a reason for it. Isn't there something in living dangerously?"

"There's a great deal in it," the Controller replied. "Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time."

"What?" questioned the Savage, uncomprehending.

"It's one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory."

"V.P.S.?"

"Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenalin. It's the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconveniences."

"But I like the inconveniences."

"We don't," said the Controller. "We prefer to do things comfortably."

"But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."

"In fact," said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be unhappy."

"All right then," said the Savage defiantly, "I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."

And here I found myself rooting for the Savage. He wants to be unhappy because it means he can have God and love and freedom and beautiful things. Of course, he couldn't have all of these things and stay in the society; that was just downright dangerous! But Mustapha Mond isn't completely bad. He lets the Savage pick where he is going to live, and he picks a small abandoned air-lighthouse (for planes, not boats) where he goes to plant food and read and torture the poisons of society out of himself. The society, however, cannot stay away (something that I am puzzled his Fordship allowed) and in the end they seem to drive him absolutely crazy, for he can't escape them. The last bit of the book goes:

That evening the swarm of helicopters that came buzzing across the Hog's Back was a dark cloud ten kilometres long. The description of last night's orgy of atonement had been in all the papers.

"Savage!" called the first arrivals, as they alighted from their machine. "Mr. Savage!" There was no answer. The door of the lighthouse was ajar. They pushed it open and walked into a shuttered twilight. Through an archway on the further side of the room they could see the bottom of the staircase that led up to the higher floors. Just under the crown of the arch dangled a pair of feet. "Mr. Savage!" Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south-east, east. …

And just like that, the savage is gone. And I, as the reader, am left with two conclusions. The first is that he died because he wanted suffering, because he wanted beauty and pain and God. That he died because he was not a part of the society, that this is what he gets for acting out and not taking soma. The second conclusion is that the society killed him. That they pursued him relentlessly and poisoned his soul until he hung himself. Either one I'm not happy with, to be honest.

Overall: I liked the book, didn't like the ending. Perhaps upon rereading I will like it better. I would suggest it to anyone though..... Although if you read this far the end is totally spoiled.

On The Finishing Of "On The Road"

I finished On the Road this past week, and it's hard to put into words just what I thought. I love Jack Keroauc's writing for the same reason I love Alan Ginsberg's: because of the nuggets of perfect phrases that they contain. The phrases that make me read and reread them, and then underline them in my book. FOR EXAMPLE. Describing the act of post-making-love, he says,

"Then, like two tired angels of some kind, hung-up forlornly in an L.A. shelf, having found the closest and most delicious thing in life together, we fell asleep and slept till late afternoon."

The closest and most delicious thing in life together. It's hard to describe how reading things like this makes me feel.

But I digress.

On the Road was like a 300 page beat poem, and unlike most novels, it seemed to have no clear focus. It was a novel written entirely in feelings and urges and manic drug highs. It was truly interesting to read, not only for the fact that it's Jack Kerouac, but more for his blunt, honest descriptions of the people he encounters. From people with whom he hitchhikes to his aunt to Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassady) to any jazz player he meets, his descriptions of them are always such that you can imagine being in the same room as these characters. Which is a really cool thing.

I liked the book, I really did. However, I felt like most of it went over my head. But I own the book, so I'll be taking it with me to college and such, and perhaps next time I read it, it will make more sense. I also felt like I would understand it SO much more if I read it while I was high. Not in a hurry to try that one...

Overall, a good book which I would recommend that anyone who likes the Beat generation should read. But don't hold it to such high standards that it becomes impossible to be satisfied when you're done.

I Am Jack's Total Lack of Ambition.

#BeginRant

There are pros and cons to blogging, as there are to everything.

Among the pros: at your best, it can make you feel like the top of the whole freaking world, like a lighthouse from which shines all of your brilliant ideas. At your worst, it can be the ultimate best friend: the one that simply listens to your complaints and angst and never says a thing about it and is always there for you.

The one con I am running in to along this magical, AP Lit, adding more stuff to my plate than I need to journey is that sometimes it makes me feel like I am an intrinsically uninteresting person with nothing worth blogging about. That said, I only usually feel like this after I've exposed myself to a half an hour or so of raw teenage angst and hate on tumblr (**disclaimer: I love tumblr, don't get me wrong. And there are a lot of good, cool people on there. But you can't escape the angst.)

#EndRant

I. Feel. Great.

Big turn around from yesterday... If anybody reading this had to interact with me yesterday, they know it was not fun. Simply put, it was one of those days where something could easily put you in a good mood, but the whole world decides not to. Just a plain old bad day.

And then today... well today was a totally different story. It was like nothing could put me in a bad mood, and nothing even tried. For so many reasons, today was great. I feel like I'm on top of the world.

And so it got me thinking... maybe its those really bad no-amount-of-coffee-can-make-me-hyper days that makes the days like these all that much more amazing. For example, what if today had happened without the badness of yesterday. Would it feel the same? Does sugar in the middle of a meal taste less sweet then sugar eaten directly after salt?

Regardless, it tastes sweet. And I'm loving the taste.

The Book That's In My Backpack?

On The Road. By Jack Kerouac. 

And of course, it's fantastic. It's like Howl told with a different voice. From a different perspective. And I really love Howl. Especially since I saw the movie, which was so incredibly good.

I've been putting off reading more of the Beat generation mostly because I don't have time, but partially (I suppose) because I'm afraid I wouldn't like it. And there is a part of On The Road that doesn't captivate me quite like Howl did (does?). Not every line resonates with that awe-inspiring.... I don't know. That feeling when your heart just tingles just the right way after the voice in your head reads the line. Perfect example:

"But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"

Only Keroauc could make a run-on sentence so poetic. Reading work from the Beat generation allows me to live vicariously through people who have long since lived their life. It's so magical. They all have lived their lives and made stories and (thank god) written it all down. And now, I get to live in their shoes, at least a little bit. I mean, look at them. Who wouldn't want to live in their shoes?

Ginsberg                                              Kerouac

People talk all the time about escaping into a book, but I can't do this most times. Kerouac I can read in random lobbies of collegiate buildings. 

The Beat generation is so exhilarating. It's such a contradiction though. I mean, as I understand it, people were disdainful of this group. This ragtag group who wrote and smoked and drank and had sex. Who published things with obscenities whose very merit was questioned in court. But as much as they were held in contempt in their time and told that they didn't contribute anything to society, they ended up contributing so much. Ask any english teacher. The Beat generation contributed something inarguably awesome (as much as that word is over-used now, I mean it in the absolute sense of the word: filling me with awe) to the field of literature. 

p.s. If you're ever doubting that Kerouac truly embodied (represented?) the Beat generation, just google search "beat generation"....