Texas Face

The climactic chapter of Libra in which Kennedy is assassinated is chockfull of imagery. This is one of the reasons I love this chapter. In only a couple dozen of pages, DeLillo has inserted so much meaning. One of my favorite images that DeLillo uses in the chapter is the “Texas face.”

As Lee prepares to shoot the president, he takes a moment to take in the sights of the motorcade. At this point, he is still cocky and hasn’t thought things through, and is thus overly optimistic. As he watches the president’s car pass, he sees the governor:

He spotted Governor John Connally in one of the jump seats, a Stetson in his lap. He liked Connally’s face, a rugged Texas face. This was the kind of man who would take a liking to Lee if he ever got to know him. (DeLillo 395)

Later in the chapter, as Lee is starting to realize that he has been put on and is actually in danger after having fired the shots, he imagines another Texas face:

He was already talking to someone about this. He had a picture, he saw himself telling the whole story to someone, a man with a rugged Texas face, but friendly, but understanding. Pointing out the contradictions. Telling how he was tricked into the plot. What is it called, a patsy? He saw a picture of an office with a tasseled flag, dignitaries in photos on the wall. (DeLillo 401)

In this passage, with Lee arguably starting to see the situation with less of his narcissism and optimism, you can see his worry. The image of the “Texas face” strikes me because it so accurately captures how Lee thinks and acts throughout the book. He starts out thinking nothing can go wrong, and then he is proven wrong. A lot of the Lee’s character can be summed up in these two short passages.

Interestingly, and as a bit of a side note, DeLillo makes it very obvious that these passages are to be thought about in conjunction. In addition to the image of the “Texas face,” DeLillo also adds images after both of these passages involving cartons and books. Immediately after the first mention in this chapter of the “Texas face,” DeLillo adds the sentence, “Cartons stamped Books” (395). After the second passage, he writes, “Books stacked ten cartons high” (DeLillo 401). 

Same Old Lee

It finally happened. Lee shot Kennedy. The whole book has built up to this. There are so many things I want to say about this chapter, but to save you from having to sift through all of my jumbled thoughts, I decided to write about Lee in this chapter.

I know that I have gone on and on about Lee, but the duality of his character fascinates me. Another key component of the characterization of Lee that I like is the fact that he doesn’t change. Even though the events in the novel take place over years and he is thrown into increasingly complex and escalating situations, Lee still remains the slightly lovable dumbass that we have seen throughout the book. As he began to take position to shoot Kennedy, he kept going through scenarios in his head about how big he would be. Interestingly, it isn’t until a while after he fires his three shots that he feels any nervousness. It isn’t until after months of planning that Lee even begins to consider what’ll actually happen after the murder. It isn’t until he’s already done it that he really considers the consequences:

Lee got out and walked north on Beckley, hearing a jangling in the air, feeling the first nervousness. What do I look like? To anybody seeing me, where do I look like I’m coming from? He checked the numbers on the license plates of parked cars. Do I look like someone leaving the scene? His stomach was empty and he had that feeling in the mouth where there’s a rusty taste, something oozing from the gums. (DeLillo 406)

He pretty much wanders the streets aimlessly for a bit, not really taking the post-assassination plan seriously:

He went down Beckley figuring there was no choice but to go to the movie house where they were supposed to pick him up. He knew he couldn’t trust them but there was nowhere else to go. He had fourteen dollars and bus transfer. They had him cold. He could be walking right into it. The lurking thought, the idea of others making the choice now. He wanted to believe it was out of his hands. (DeLillo 407)

And this all ends with him shooting a cop. He shoots a police officer in broad daylight after thinking he was cleverly avoiding arrest. He tried to talk his way out of being searched and ended up making himself seem more dangerous. This is classic Lee at his finest.

           

            

Libra

A while ago we were given a prompt in class. We were supposed to write about the significance of Lee being a Libra. I don’t want to rehash my journal entry on the subject, but I found this prompt very interesting. Lee being a Libra is not just a quick way to relate him to the title, it holds very relevant meanings. Most importantly, when I think of Libra, one of the things I think of is a division. I associate the scales with dichotomies, and I see a huge dichotomy in Lee. On one hand there is the dumbass I previously talked about, and then there is the ambitious planner that he thinks he is. Even though his plans aren’t complete or well thought out, he does try to make them, and one cannot argue that he isn’t ambitious; he knows he’s gonna be in the history books. There is a huge difference between how Lee sees himself and how others see him. He sees shooting himself as some big thing, and the guy who finds him sees him as an idiot. He sees himself as a revolutionary in Russia, and they see him as a pathetic child. In the assassination plot, he sees himself as the key historical figure as always, taking that ridiculous picture with his gun, while the others involved in the plot see him as an expendable pawn and a scapegoat. 

Dumb Lee

In the early chapters of Libra, I couldn’t help but to think of Lee as an idiot. I still have this problem, but now I understand him a little better. Anyways, in the early chapters of the novel, I was shocked by his inflated sense of self and his inability to think things through. He’d think he’d have a well thought out plan, and then end up acting with almost no contemplation. For example, he shot himself. He didn’t accomplish anything. He was called a fool, that’s pretty much it. He acts with no thought. He studies books about communism in his youth, but he seems not to absorb any of the information in them but rather reads them because he thinks it makes him fit an archetype. He reads these books because it makes him look like he’s special, like he’s a revolutionary. He travels to communist Russia, seemingly having thought it out, but steps off of the plane to find out he’s not wanted. He tries to exchange American secrets for favor, but it is said that almost nothing he says is of value. If the man who interrogated him didn’t pity him, he would’ve gotten nothing. If not for the man’s pity, Lee would’ve been royally screwed. He could’ve ended up dead in a foreign country. The man is an idiot. And this stupidity and narcissism only grows with time. In Libra, Lee Harvey Oswald comes off as nothing more than a dumb, easily manipulated child.

Kindred

I admit that I am engaging in a bit of overkill here, but I can’t stop writing about familial ties in Kindred. Every time I think about the book, something new pops up that I can’t believe I haven’t seen before. I keep on finding these random thoughts and facts that I should have thrown in the paper. This one is blaringly obvious, at least more so than the others: the title of the book. Dictionary.com defines kindred as many things:

1.  a person's relatives collectively; kinfolk; kin.

2.  a group of persons related to another; family, tribe, or race.

3.  relationship by birth or descent, or sometimes by marriage; kinship.

4.  natural relationship; affinity.

All of these can be seen in the book. The simple title of the novel conveys so much meaning. Dana and Rufus and all of the other related characters can be seen as part of a large tapestry of relatives. It is interesting to see these two focused on out of a huge number of relatives. Also, the book centers on this one group of people who are all related through the Weylin plantation, as well as focusing on race. The connections of both marriage and birth are explored deeply in the relationships between the Weylins, between Kevin and Dana, Rufus and Alice and Isaac, and almost every other character in the book. Lastly, I feel that natural relationships are explored. Dana definitely has an affinity for Rufus early in the book, being almost made to care fr Rufus as Tom Weylin says. Then there is the affinity between Alice and Dana, who are seen as similar in so many people’s eyes. These natural relationships are a huge focus in the novel. Octavia Butler accomplishes so much through the use of one word: kindred.

The Arm

Recently in class, we discussed the loss of Dana’s arm. A lot of people commented on how Dana did not lose her arm in the past, but on the return trip home and were consequently confused as to the importance of the loss of her limb. I thought that it was important that she had a physical reminder of her travels in addition to the psychological scars, and the loss of her arm was sort of a sick farewell memento. However, on rereading the ending for the purposes of writing my response paper, I found something very interesting that somehow escaped me on my first read:

“Nigel…” moaned Rufus, and he gave me a long shuddering sigh. His body went limp and leaden across me. I pushed him away somehow—everything but his hand still on my arm. Then I convulsed with terrible, wrenching sickness. Something harder and stronger than Rufus’s hand clamped down on my arm, squeezing it, stiffening it, pressing into it—painlessly, at first—melting into it, meshing with it as though somehow my arm were being absorbed into something. Something cold and nonliving. Something… paint, plaster, wood—a wall. The wall of my living room. I was back at home—in my own house, in my own time. But I was still caught somehow, joined to the wall as though my arm were growing out of it—or growing into it. From the elbow to the ends of my fingers, my left arm had become a part of the wall. I looked at the spot where flesh joined with plaster, stared at it uncomprehending. It was the exact spot Rufus’s fingers had grasped. (Butler 260-1)

Rufus’s attack is the reason Dana lost her arm. The fact that he grabbed and held her arm is the reason that she lost it. One cannot say that she lived in the antebellum South unscathed. I think the loss of Dana’s arm is meant to be a very real scar of Rufus’s behavior. Just like Alice had deep emotional scars, and arguably died (which is both physical and psychological), due to Rufus, Dana was also left scathed by him. This is the conclusion of Rufus’s story arc. He dies as a bad man. As my paper focuses on familial ties, the dynamics of family relationships can be discussed here. Rufus doesn’t just grossly mistreat a Black woman, which could be argued as just him doing what is ok/expected of him in his time, he hurts his family.  

It Begins

When I first started Kindred, I really enjoyed the straightforwardness of the novel. I liked the fact that it was an easy read, unlike so many other books we have explored. While I do appreciate and understand why many authors choose to write dense books in hard to follow styles, it is nice to read one that does not require much unpacking. I can actually understand what every sentence means in a very real way, instead of having to ponder it abstractly. After Mumbo Jumbo and, to a lesser extent, Ragtime, I have no complaints about this. I much prefer simple reading that holds a lot of deeper meaning such as in The Sun Also Rises. Thus, I really liked the style of Kindred.

I also really liked the prologue of the book. It starts out in utter confusion with Dana having lost her arm. The scene is hectic and presented without context; it is the perfect way to start the story. The reader is immediately hooked. How did Dana come to have her arm stuck in the wall? What happened that she cannot even try to tell the cops? How did she lose a year of her life? These questions that are provoked by the opening of the book promise a continued interest on the reader’s behalf in the novel. By starting after the action of the story, Butler eschews a traditional setup for a novel in favor of something more akin to Slaughterhouse-Five, like Vonnegut, she tells the end of the story at the beginning, which doesn’t actually spoil the plot, but makes the reader much more interested in seeing how the protagonist reached this place. I really enjoy Butler’s use of this device, and I thought her writing at the beginning of the book was both well done and engaging.

Dresden Rebuilt

One thing that really struck me about the article about Dresden was the images that were taken of present-day Dresden. After seeing the contrast between the bombed-out tower and the bright, bustling snapshot of the historical center of the city really struck a chord with me. As was said in class, this image really evokes a sort of Trafalmadorian idea. Horrible wars occur, it is unavoidable, they will happen, but they should not be focused on, they shouldn’t change anything, look at the happy times. The seemingly decadent modern Dresden does not belie the bombing that destroyed most of the city and killed thousands of people. I believe that this meshes well with the views adopted by Bill Pilgrim, and I do not entirely agree with it. I guess. To be honest, I’m quite conflicted about this whole thing. On one hand, I do agree with and understand the need to move on, there will always be violence and disaster sadly, and we can’t let that stop us from moving forward. I agree that it is important to rebuild, and that it isn’t healthy to just focus on the sad things, in this case the war and the bombing. However, I disagree with the seeming facet of this idea that wars should not be thought about at all. While one should not let a war define them, to try to completely ignore it is dangerous. I might as well throw in the cliché, “those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it.” War changes. You can’t ignore that. War changed Billy. War changed the war. And while that seems awful, I believe you can and should learn from it. I think that instead of just covering up the damage and trying to hide it, it should be taught. Dresden moved on, which was good, but I feel that an emphasis on the importance of the war should be present. You can’t just go with the flow, you have to allow these things to change you and grow from it.

Billy as a Protagonist

Billy Pilgrim is not what you would expect in a war book. At least, not as a protagonist. I could see him as the comic relief, the guy who is in the war due to some odd series of events and just should not be there. And I think this is why he works as the “hero” of Slaughterhouse-Five. In an anti-war novel, he fits. I think Vonnegut was very smart in his characterization of Billy.

I see Slaughterhouse-Five as a decidedly anti-war novel, obviously. I mean, after Vonnegut’s supposed trip to the O’Hares’ house, and the mention of the Children’s Crusade, I can’t look at it any other way. Due to it being an anti-war novel, it should portray war in a way totally different from pro-war media. In most works revolving around war, even with a reluctant hero, the protagonist is a “good warrior.” He can fight, he can get through the war, he is a survivor. I would not call Billy a survivor. He lets a sniper take another shot when the first one misses. He literally needs to be dragged across the battlefield so that he doesn’t stay there and die. He has no weapons, no training, he doesn’t even have boots or appropriate clothes. This brings me to my main point: Billy should be dead. Logic dictates that the man who wasn’t even trained for battle, who has seemingly no valuable survival skills, and who has no will to live should die in the midst of a war. But he doesn’t. Thousands of real warriors died in horrible ways, not knowing who killed them, not knowing they were going to die, and Billy stumbles through the war, somehow surviving. This brilliantly showcases the terribleness and randomness of war. There isn’t structure or rules or etiquette involved. It is senseless death and destruction. Billy doesn’t survive because he is fitter than everyone else. He survives randomly. It just happened, and many others died randomly. Vonnegut uses Billy as an example of the unrestrained, needless destruction of war. He uses Billy to show one of the ways war is so terrible.

First Thoughts on Vonnegut

I really enjoyed the first chapter of Slaughterhouse-Five. I must admit, it is nice to be reading something that I can actually follow and understand. I am excited to read further into this book. Vonnegut’s seeming preface sets an interesting tone for the novel and establishes it as being postmodern without seeming dense and indecipherable. I really enjoy deep books written in seemingly simple language, such as The Sun Also Rises, as you no doubt know by now is one of my favorite recently read books. Vonnegut’s establishment of the book as being anti-war is interesting and leaves me wondering where it will go and how it will discuss Dresden. I enjoy the scene with O’Hare and Mary as it beautifully shows how war tends to be depicted in the media as opposed to how it is viewed by many who have been affected by it. The mention of the Children’s Crusade draws a very interesting and relevant parallel that very strongly shows Vonnegut’s views. Also, I enjoyed the story of Vonnegut’s night in the Boston hotel. I have not read the book before, but I do know that it involves time travel.

The time would not pass. Somebody was playing with the clocks, and not only with the electric clocks, but the wind-up kind too. The second hand on my watch would twitch once, and a year would pass, and then it would twitch again. There was nothing I could do about it. As an Earthling, I had to believe whatever clocks said – and calendars. (Vonnegut 26)

I really enjoy how this passage foreshadows the themes of time and the perception of time. I find it interesting how Vonnegut states that at this time, during the war, time is standing still, and later on, the time traveler moves through time to a place where it does not move.