wellforde13 – Snopes

A Farewell to Arms, An Introduction to Hemingway

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This past week I finished reading Hemingway’s A Farewell To Arms and now feel as though I have a grasp on the author. Or at least I am beginning to. My understanding of Hemingway has not come as easily as with other authors, such as Fitzgerald, whose writing is immediately extraordinary and imaginative. Hemingway writes in stark observations. His images are short and his commentary often brief and evaluative. Sentences such as “it was good,” or “I felt happy” are a common formula to the author’s writing and thus it becomes difficult and at times overwhelming to detract the true emotion of the writing. In A Farewell To Arms, Hemingway writes of the War, as is common with many writers of the modernist period; however, his portrayal is so immediately juxtaposed with romance that the latter subject becomes in some ways triumphant if only for its resilience.

Perhaps the most profound aspect of the novel is Hemingway’s commentary on language itself, spoken by means of the narrator Lieutenant Frederic Henry. He confesses,

“I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, glorious,

and sacrifice and the expression in vain. We had heard them,

sometimes standing in the rain almost out of earshot, so that

only the shouted words came through, and had read them,

on proclamations that were slapped up by billposters over other proclamations…” (185).

Within this passage, Hemingway prescribes futility of expression as the ongoing ailment of the modernist period. War has created a terrible sense of meaninglessness and therefore words such as sacred, glorious, and sacrifice, have become vague and incoherent. In fact, they are indicative not of substance but of its opposite, commercialism. These words suggest propaganda rather than truth and for that reason they do not appear within Hemingway’s writing. These “obscene” words cannot be taken literally and are unproductive in light of warfare. Hemingway provides a code with which to understand his writing as well as the starkness of society, one that suffers from lack of meaningful expression and instead thrives on the concrete, “the numbers of regiments and the dates” (185). And yet in the midst of this bleak situation arises his romance with Catherine Barkley. Hemingway’s development of this story is profound its in authenticity despite the cynicism of the narrator and his limited expression. This resilient prose is perhaps most effective for its ability to reveal vulnerability, the fragile interior of a war-torn state.

Reflections on The Age of Innocence

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In my Modern American Novels class, we recently read Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence. Although I read the piece in high school, the story seems even more symbolic and meaningful than when I first encountered Wharton’s writing, as is the case for modern literature of the sort. In lecture, we learned that the New York of Wharton’s fictional world is not unlike that in which the author grew up. In other words, she wrote what she knew. The details of décor, the subtleties of language and the suggestiveness of minute gesture reveal grand emotions which none of the characters can seem to express through language alone.

Slowly becoming aware of his attraction to Madame Olenska, Newland Archer is visibly moved by an opera and projects his complicated feelings onto the plot of the observed performance. He is moved to tears, and because he is entrapped to society’s rigid expectations, cannot verbalize to anyone, let alone himself, these sentiments. This novel is a coming-of-age tale for an entire society developing in the Age of Innocence. May Welland is the quintessential innocent figure who must undergo transformation to be considered a mature member of her elite society. It is Newland Archer, however, who is the true protagonist and one to whom the term coming-of-age applies. It is a reversal in the standard social development, though. He borrows the perspective of the foreigner Madame Olenska and, after having viewed New York through her eyes, sees the frivolities of a broken society as though they were cracks in the lens.

Throughout the development of the plot, New York society becomes both his ally and enemy. It is a force that both stabilizes and infuriates him. The power of Wharton’s writing derives from the narration’s ability to capture the society’s restraints within the language itself. The narration may not address explicitly the growing love felt by Newland for the Madame Olenska but Wharton’s description of something as subtle as his reddening cheek implies as much.

As the story progresses, Wharton adds layer upon layer of templates through which to examine the rest of the plot. By the second to last chapter, Newland Archer has suffered a series of anxieties beginning with his curious feelings about the Countess Ellen Olenska. After having pictured what New York society must look like through her eyes, he subconsciously adopts Ellen’s perspective and begins to experience an altered reality. Whereas in the beginning of the novel he thinks his bride-to-be May Welland a perfect creature of innocence, light, and beauty, he begins to eventually judge her to be nothing short of a vapid woman, doomed to turn out just as her mother did. Subsequently Newland develops strong feelings for Ellen and wishes desperately to divorce himself from the elitist society and inhabit a world wherein he and Ellen can be together without any social stigmas. He begins to fantasize about such a place and thus every encounter with Ellen is marked by mystical elements. During these particular passages, Wharton pays closer attention to landscapes and sentiments as opposed to accessories and garments of the “clan.” In such a world, he and Ellen exist independently of any others and are therefore free to become romantically involved.

Wharton continuously juxtaposes these imaginary worlds with the restrictions of Newland’s reality. These tensions culminate perfectly in the final moments of the novel and, just like the closing scenes of the opera, Wharton’s writing has left a lasting resonance.

If You Want To Know the Truth

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I recently reread J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye and realized what has made this novel such a cherished addition to classic American literature. The story is fueled not by plot – which runs its course in about a week’s time – but rather the cynical and humorously honest perspective of Holden Caulfield.

Holden as a narrator is endearingly likeable, and moreover he finds friendship with the reader. A recurrent expression in his narration, “if you want to know the truth,” implies that the reader has won the merit of Holden’s honest, albeit exaggerated, perspective. And as we become further acquainted with Holden, we realize that sort of human approval does not come often. This phrase invites us to understand him in a way he does not yet understand himself. He admits that certain ordinary social customs have a tendency to “depress the hell outta” him. But he is not aware that this mistrust in traditional upbringing becomes an increasingly heroic quality both alienating and distinguishing him from his peers.

Because of my admiration of Salinger’s ability to carefully craft such a disenchanted yet highly intuitive character, I was surprised to read that the story’s first readers did not agree. In fact, The New Yorker turned down an excerpt of the novel due to the precocious attitude of the narrator, which they believe distracting to the story. Another critic, Eugene Reynel could not discern whether or not Holden was actually insane. In his article, “Holden at Fifty,” Louis Menand suggests, “that it might end up on the syllabus for ninth-grade English was probably close to the last thing Salinger had in mind when he wrote the book.” Why then, has The Catcher in the Rye become such a staple in the canon of coming-of-age literature?

I find that despite his colloquial tone and boyish mannerisms, Holden is not so much a voice of teenagers but of a certain restlessness within society. To draw upon Menand’s observation, this identity would be the farthest thing from Holden’s perception of himself. In fact, it is a description he would invariable deem “phony.” However, Salinger deliberately does not instill these beliefs within a radical outcast, but instead a quirky mischief-maker with whom the reader cannot help but sympathize. As Menand writes, teenagers notoriously love to identify themselves with Holden. He suffers from an inability to “apply himself” in academics and social expectations. And yet he is strongly dedicated to his personal relationships: his instinctive respect towards girls, his protection of his sister Phoebe, and his affinity for his audience.

And therein lies the true power of Holden Caulfied – he is an unassuming hero and the perfect disguise for Salinger’s humorous social criticisms. We’re invited, and never forced, to adopt Holden’s view of the world. He is conflicted and compassionate, and if you want to know the truth, I think he’s one of the most complex rebels in English literature.

Louis Menand’s article, “Holden at Fifty:” http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2001/10/01/011001fa_FACT3

Trained to Read

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In his review of Alyson Hagy’s Boleto, New York Times writer Bruce Machart writes, “Good stories teach us how to read them, and the opening pages of Boleto are entertaining, entrancing teachers.” I agree with Machart’s review because I find myself invested in the novel after only several pages. The immediate familiarity and patience with which Hagy writes is reassuring, in the same manner that Will talks to his filly.

As readers, we assume the role of a horse brought into the physical and figurative frontier of Will Testerman’s world. Hagy’s depiction of the west is inviting, and yet unembellished and unforgiving. Hagy writes, “When [Will] stepped out into the unsettled morning with the pressure gauge cold in his hand, the air pushing down through the valley of the Greybull ran icy along the edges of his jaw. It was late spring in Wyoming. The river was as crumpled and brown as a paper bag” (9). In this manner, Hagy is an effective storyteller. And thus we follow her voice and her lead, understanding within the first few pages that this is a novel of honesty and perseverance.

Trained to the author’s writing, we become invested in the narrative and its deliberate crafting. My favorite aspect of fiction is the language. It is the willful surrendering of both attention and imagination that is crucial to the dynamic between author and reader. A trust as integral and simple as the one Will assures his filly: “I will always be good to you, he said. That’s all I really need to promise” (32). Indeed, in the narrative we have found a beloved protagonist, and in Hagy a trustworthy teacher.