Gonzo Journalism

I recently read two of the most prolific examples of Gonzo journalism in my Journalism 318: Literature of Journalism.  With the recent addition of a Mass Communications minor to my degree audit, I added several Journalism classes to a course load already laden with writing heavy History and English classes.  My initial reaction to the differences between journalism and literature was that one conveyed hard facts while the other created a story to relay a truth.  Or better yet, an atmosphere.  It never occurred to me that the two occasionally combine.  But they do.  And as I read Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, I became enthralled with Gonzo journalism at its finest.

            Gonzo journalism combines describing the action while simultaneously living it.  Thompson did this in his acid-trip of all acid-trips to Las Vegas.  He wrote in a first-person narrative in order to achieve an accurate representation of the scenario through personal experiences and emotions.  Elements of literature enter journalism as a Gonzo journalist forsakes hard facts for the sake of conveying a particular interpretation of the situation to the reader.  By using sarcasm, humor, and exaggeration, Thompson revealed a satirical journey he experienced into the heart of the American dream.

Tom Wolfe approaches Gonzo journalism in a slightly different fashion.  He maintains a first-person narrator throughout the story.  He is physically next to Ken Kesey.  But he stays outside the realm of immediate action.  Wolfe dictates the journey of the Merry Pranksters and the kool-aid teaming Acid Graduations as an outsider.  But his creative approach and prose saturated in Owsley acid make him a less reliable narrator.  Similar to his friend and colleague Thompson, Wolfe wished to conjure a portrait of the Merry Pranksters by using elements of journalism and literature.   And in a book that reeks of marijuana, Hell’s Angels, and LSD, he did just that.


A Moveable Genre?

Tip-toeing the line between novel and memoir,  A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway, recounts Papa’s time in 1920’s Paris.  The book weaves episodic tales about the author’s Lost Generation peers, from F. Scott Fitzgerald to Gertrude Stein to John Dos Passos, into a compelling narrative commentary on the now-romanticized epoch most associated with Hemingway.  But how does A Moveable Feast differ from, say, The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, or even For Whom the Bell Tolls, which draw heavily from the author’s personal experiences?

Listed under “Biography/Memoir” on Amazon.com, A Moveable Feast: The Restored Edition makes this unusual negotiation easy for the average reader: it seems to promise that, though Hemingway’s other books may are interpretations of personal experience, this is what actually happened.  But The Restored Edition promises commentary and reorganization from Papa’s heirs, Sean and Patrick Hemingway; not to mention the fact that Hemingway wrote AMF far removed from the 1920’s, and had quite a memory-clouding thirst for vino tinto at the time.  So is Hemingway’s memoir what actually happened, what the author thinks actually happened, or what his estate wishes had happened?

Though we’ll never know for sure, the answer falls somewhere in the middle.  As readers, we are concerned with Hemingway’s life experiences, and if AMF is what the author thought and remembered about the 1920’s, then the question of difference between the memoir and what actually happened seems marginal.  All history gets communicated through perspective, and Hemingway’s word is as good as anyone else’s,  however, Papa’s stature and unique, reporter-esque style casts a strange light upon A Moveable Feast nonetheless.


Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Born on January 19, 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts, many credit Edgar Allan Poe as the father of the detective story.  Poe found himself orphaned at the age of three after his mother died and his father left the family.  John and Frances Allen, successful Virginia tobacco merchants, adopted Poe and raised him.  Poe initially attended West Point Military Academy before his expulsion for failing to fulfill his military duties.  His infamous detective stories started in 1841 with the publication of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”  He won a literary prize in 1843 for “The Gold Bug.”  He reached his height of fame with the “The Raven” in 1845.  Poe entered a period of declining health after the death of his wife Virginia in 1847.  He passed away on October 7, 1849.


Descent by Kathryn Stripling Byer

The Louisiana University Press recently debuted Kathryn Stripling Byer’s book of poetry titled, Descent.  Byer frequently contributes her work to Shenandoah.  David Huddle reviewed the book and wrote that,

“Byer’s work is to be cherished for its beauty, its courage, and the gift of its revelation.  Her poems shine a light that we yearn for here in the darkness of the first century.” 

The following poem from Descent, titled “Gone Again,” first appeared in Shenandoah.

“Gone Again”

I used to believe Scarlett would forever be

standing atop that small rise of Georgia clay

staring at Tara, intoning Tomorrow, Tomorrow,

that sad pace of syllables, the Old South

newly colorized, ready to hoodwink another generation

of belles.  But I won’t be among them,

no doddering old lady still telling of how

I remember my mother reciting her tales

of the premiere of Loew’s Grand theater,

all Atlanta agape at the glitterati.  No ma’am.

 

I have sat through that gorgeous monstrosity

five times in English and once in dubbed

Spanish.  Miss Scarlett does not anymore stir

me into a passion of Southernness.

 

Once I imagined myself limping home

with a worthless mule, nothing but rags

in a wagon, waiting for the moon to reveal

the house still standing , me weeping

into my muddy hands, having survived

such a journey and all for a lost cause.

 

I didn’t much like Scarlett after the war.

Standing there in the moonlight

was our shining moment, unfazed by

the real sounds of hound dogs

and katydids, down on the road

a horn playing “Dixie,” it’s drunk driver heading

back home to his fraternity house.

So frankly, my dear.

 

I don’t give a damn whether or not Scarlett’s

barbecue ball gown looks brand new

after sixty-two years. Scarlett makes me feel

tired – all those hours I waster, enraptured

by someone whose skin was sheer

celluloid, whose voice, when the reel came

loose, gibbered like mine when I tried

to pretend I lived down the road

from that movie set, cotton fields painted

on canvas, the loyal slaves hoisting

up sacks full of nothing

but chaff for the wind, that old

Hollywood hack, to keep blowing away.

 


In Praise of Tropic of Cancer

Some time during the winter of last year, I found myself browsing the books section of Amazon.com. If you’re unfamiliar with the website, they have feature a section toward the bottom of each page titled “Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought . . .” and then list a series of recommendations based on whatever item you’re currently looking at. I can no longer remember what my original search stemmed from – it might have been Kerouac’s On the Road – but while going through a succession of suggestions based on whatever search it was, I came across Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. Included in the page’s description of the work, published in 1934 in Paris, was the fact that the book had been banned in the United States for nearly thirty years; it wasn’t until 1964 in a landmark U.S. Supreme Court case that Tropic of Cancer was published in the U.S. This factoid immediately grabbed my interest. What about a book could be so offensive, so graphic, that a country would forbid its entire population from ever reading it?

Instead of waiting the day or two it would take for shipping to bring the book to my front door, I jumped into my car and sped to the nearest Barnes & Noble. Luckily they had a copy of Tropic of Cancer in stock – I wasn’t sure what to think, though, when the cashier said to me upon seeing my purchase, “Don’t drink and read this book.” So, after arriving back at home, I conscientiously filled up a glass of water before turning to the first page of Tropic of Cancer. On the second page, I encountered Miller’s description of his own work:

“This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty . . . what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse…”

So this was the sort of offensiveness that garnered Miller such notoriety. The rest of the book goes on to chronicle his drinking, his carousing, his sexual encounters, and his apathy for his own situation in Paris.

If you haven’t read Tropic of Cancer, I would highly recommend it. Miller was deeply dissatisfied with the ennui he perceived around him, particularly in America. I believe he wrote Tropic of Cancer in an attempt to cut through the disillusionment of his age – whether or not his reader finds themself breaking into laughter or completely horrified, the polarizing nature of Miller’s book ensures that it will elicit some form of response, a break in the monotony of pursuing the “American dream.” Though it’s been over 70 years since the writing of the work and over 40 since its publication in America, I still consider Tropic of Cancer to be a very worthwhile read – at the very least it provides a perspective into an important chapter of the fight for freedom of the press.


J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit Versus Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit (In Three Parts)

With Peter Jackson’s highly anticipated release of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey on December 14, 2012, it is time to turn our attention to JRR Tolkien’s perception of The Hobbit as a children’s tale as opposed to the epic high fantasy which his Lord of the Rings trilogy—and their movie adaptations—are iconic of. The question is: how does the change of genre between high fantasy and children’s literature impact Tolkien’s and Jackson’s artistic perception of The Hobbit?

Tolkien developed Middle Earth using pre-Chaucerian sources such as Beowulf, Volsumgasaga and Elder Edda .[1] Tolkien regretted writing The Hobbit as children’s fantasy because it undermines the mythological and historical back story that he developed because, as he argues in his essay On Fairy Stories, adult readers are unforgiving and critical by terming much of fantasy as children’s literature. In an article in The New York Times Book Review on June 5, 1955, Tolkien stated “The so-called ‘children’s story’ [The Hobbit] was a fragment, torn out of an already existing mythology. In so far as it was dressed up as ‘for children,’ in style or manner, I regret it. So do the children.” (Letters, p. 218). Tolkien clearly resents the negative adult perception of all fantasy as “children’s literature” and regretfully fell into this stereotype with The Hobbit. However, Tolkien is emphatic that “[The Lord of the Rings] was not written ‘for children,’ or for any person in particular, but for itself. (If any parts or elements in it appear ‘childish,’ it is because I am childish, and like that kind of thing myself now” (Letters, p. 310). While Jackson directed The Lord of the Rings to much critical acclaim as a piece of high fantasy with clear dark undertones, what is he going to make of The Hobbit, a piece whose style as a children’s novel, Tolkien ardently is unhappy about? And how will he mold the lighter, humorous material which is particularly prevalent in the first half of The Hobbit?

Do children’s movies have the same negative connotations toward fairy tales as young adult literature? Nowadays, popular culture engages in cult followings of multimillion dollar franchises like Twilight, Game of Thrones, and Harry Potter through movie adaptations. Yet why does fantasy literature have this polarity between lovers of literature who either engage or fail to engage with fantasy as adults–even if as children or teens they loved fantasists like Tolkien and Lewis?

How will Peter Jackson’s adaptation address The Hobbit as an admitted work of children’s literature while still cleaving to the epic, high fantasy die hard fans of The Lord of the Rings trilogy?  While Jackson’s adaptation is admittedly lighter and engages with the more playful aspects in The Hobbit, he is also working in background material from The Silmarillion as well as other works concerning Middle Earth. It is not strictly an adaptation of a children’s book. The movie is not being marketed as a children’s movie, children are not the intended audience. So how is it going to engage with the children’s story premise which Tolkien himself so disliked? In an interview with ‘Total Film,’ Peter Jackson said, “The Hobbit is very much a children’s book and The Lord of the Rings is something else; it’s not really aimed at children at all […] The dwarves give it a kind of childish, comic quality that gives us a very different tone from [the ‘Rings’ trilogy]” (click here for the Screenrant article on The Hobbit as a children’s literature adaptation).


Interested in The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey? Click here to visit Peter Jackson’s blog to see production videos, pictures, and trailers! For more books on Tolkien and The Hobbit try reading Humphrey Carpenter, Christopher Tolkien, J. R. R. Tolkien, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien edited by Humphrey Carpenter and Christopher Tolkien, On Fairy Tales by JRR Tolkien, The Inklings, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Charles Williams and their Friends by Humphrey Carpenter, or J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis The Story of a Friendship by Colin Duriez.

Sources: The above books, websites, blogs, as well as my essay from my “Worlds Beyond Oxford” class taken with Professor Hannah Field with Advanced Studies in England in Bath, England.


[1]  Humphrey Carpenter, The Inklings, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Charles Williams and their Friends (HarperCollins Publishers, 2006) p. 24-25.


Presidential Poem of the Week

I Hear America Singing

By Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, 
                                                                Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe 
                                               and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off 
 work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck- 
                                      hand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing 
                                         as he stands,

The woodcutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, 
                                        or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young 
                                          fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

 

Walt Whitman grew up in Brooklyn then later Long Island with his eight siblings. His early work in the printing industry fed him his love for written word. He would later teach himself to read. Walt worked first at a printer, then as a teacher, which he would do until he became a full-time journalist at age 22. He founded Long-Islander, a weekly newspaper, and worked as an editor to other New York City area papers until he moved to New Orleans in 1848 to edit their paper, The Crescent. There he was first exposed to slavery, which influenced his later writing. He released Leaves of Grass in 1855, initially with twelve poems, although throughout his life, Whitman would release several more editions of the book. “I Hear America Singing” was released as poem 20 in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass. Here, perhaps in reaction to the Civil War, Whitman is reminding the country that despite fundamental differences, we are still a country united; an important concept to remember in what can be a polarizing time of elections.


May the Force Be With… Disney?

Unless your permanent residence is somewhere even Survivorman star Les Stroud wouldn’t venture, you’ve heard that Disney has bought Lucasfilm – in other words, the Star Wars franchise.  For $4 billion, Disney now has the rights to the movie series and all the characters in it, meaning that after the original trilogy and the prequel trilogy, Star Wars continues.

When I first got wind of this deal, I immediately thought of South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone, and their satirical take on the most recent Indiana Jones, which ranked 11th on Comcast’s list of the “Worst Sequels of All Time.”  Indiana Jones is also owned by Lucasfilm, which has me worried that a new Disney Star Wars could find itself on that list.  At the moment, the company has plans in the works for a 2015 release of Episode VII, with a new film following every two or three years.

Reactions have been mixed.  I feel that Star Wars, while it had some sub-par aspects in the prequel trilogy, was generally a huge success.  Despite the remaining profit potential, maybe it should be allowed to end that way.  An MTV article quotes George Lucas as saying, “We could go on making Star Wars for the next 100 years.”  Absurd, but what do I know? Was digging up the franchise a good idea?

Further reading:

http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1696485/disney-george-lucas-star-wars-film.jhtml

http://www.usatoday.com/story/money/business/2012/10/30/disney-star-wars-lucasfilm/1669739/


Creative Non-Fiction: A Literary Burrito

 

Like everyone’s favorite Tex-Mex dish, creative nonfiction combines the best of two worlds to create a fresh literary flavor.  Rather than Mexican spices and Texan tortillas, the genre entitled ‘creative nonfiction’ synthesizes journalistic topics and tactics, with the writing and narrative structure of the novel.  But what exactly is creative nonfiction?

With Mailer’s Armies of the Night, Capote’s In Cold Blood, and Wolfe’s The Right Stuff, the glory days of the so-called nonfiction novel would seem to have come and gone, but in actuality, the ascendancy of creative nonfiction is in full swing. As the academy says, fifty years after a literary movement enters the scene, a countermovement emerges and memoirs in the style of Dave Eggers’s A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius or The Woman Warrior, by Maxine Hong Kingston, lead the charge past postmodernism. Wrought in conversational tones, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius tells the story of a young Eggers and his child brother bobbing in the wake of their parent’s death.  Reading like the Internet generation’s manifesto, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius ‘s personalized detail, pop-cultural commentary, and use of modern vocabulary raises a tragic, though everyday, story to epic proportions.  Similarly, Kingston’s The Woman Warrior drapes ghosts and dragons over the harsh realities of childhood as a first-generation immigrant. Juggling a difficult relationship with her mother and intense cultural conflicts, Kingston navigates her California world with a sublime eye and lyrical observations. The title ‘creative nonfiction’ implies that the genre’s defining trait is an interpretive approach to the world, and like their literary predecessors, both Eggers and Kingston’s chief trope is the subjective experience of ordinary reality.  Achieved through nigh-surreal descriptions extracted from a twelve-year old mind, episodes of manic stress and self-reflection, and frighteningly relatable  articulations of our worries and prejudices, the pair of authors tell personal stories in a way the twenty-first reader can understand and empathize with.

Though it runs in the contemporary forefront, creative nonfiction is not without a track record.   Mark Twain’s stories from riverboat life, Hemingway’s Lost Generation tales, and even Paul Theroux and Bill Bryson’s travel-worn accounts of trotting the globe are all interpretive approaches to the normal, though incredibly diverse experiences of this world.  Is this self-indulgent, or life affirming?  In theory, much of what the genre concerns itself with appears narcissistic, however, consider the context: in a de-spiritualized world, where nearly all knowledge is available at the click of a button and science has an answer for almost everything, consciousness itself and our emotional responses to the world seem to be one of the final mysteries.  So, like a philosophical burrito, creative nonfiction blends the empirical reality we know and love, and then coopts the artist’s techniques to morph it into the supernormal.  Affirming the carpe diem attitude espoused by thinkers from Nietzsche to Plato*, creative nonfiction ultimately asks us to go out and ride the roller coaster of life with imagination, through all of its peaks and valleys.

 

*Gathered from carpediem.im and monomorphic.org

Much of the above information was gathered from an excellent class taught by Dr. Michael Crowley, who is an expert on the subject