Divergent Parallels

            Fundamental to both J.M. Coetzee’s Waiting for the Barbarians and Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness is the notion of the “transgressor,” the individual who defies societal norms as he becomes not only geographically but also culturally removed from the capital of civilization. Despite this central thematic idea, the lens from which this transgression is viewed significantly differs from each novel, a reminder of the gap in attitudes toward the Empire-subject debate. This divergence in style serves as a reflection of the historical evolution in the discourse of colonialism and imperialism, highlighting the contrast in the ultimately interpreted message.

            Both Coetzee’s and Conrad’s work reveal the essential dilemma at hand in imperialist societies, where there exists a dichotomous view of the superiority and inferiority of an Empire’s subjects and a moral conundrum for those who create disturbances for the normative beliefs. In Conrad’s world, the “natives” of Africa are a backward, primitive people, waiting to be a civilized by a “torchbearer of modernity and progress” like Kurtz (Kerr 22); and in Coetzee’s universal land, the Barbarians are something crude, yet exotic. While curiosity of their peculiar ways may be acceptable, the thought of “going native” or assimilating is categorically forbidden as it is considered “beyond the bounds of what is considered acceptable and civilized” (Kerr 21). Yet, in both novels, two central characters—Conrad’s Kurtz and Coetzee’s Magistrate—defy these bounds. Kurtz, who goes deep into both the literal and figurative jungle to reap fabulous profits from ivory, is regarded as a man who “has gone too far, and far beyond what is lawful” in his complete immersion in and preference for the life of the natives (Kerr 23). Like Kurtz, the Magistrate is regarded as an outlaw, a traitor for “consorting with the enemy” by men like Colonel Joll, a man charged with the maintenance of “the law” (Conrad 77). He too is geographically and culturally detached from the capital, having lived on the frontier for thirty years, long enough to have adopted the local patois. Even if the motif of the “native woman” exists for both novels: Kurtz has his African mistress, despite the Intended at home; and the Magistrate has the Girl, although he returns her to her people.

            Yet, despite these striking parallels between the two novels, a fundamental distinction exists between the modes of presentation of a similar plot element, differentiating the conveyed messages. From the perspective of all of his European companions, including Marlow, Kurtz has gone too far in actions, “[w]hatever the roots of [his] savagery” (Kerr 23). Unlike Kurtz, though, the magistrate is not universally condemned. While Colonel Joll instills a transient sense of malice in the town’s inhabitants, it proves to only be temporary, as the Magistrate eventually resumes his position of authority, despite his alleged disgrace. Moreover, though, Heart of Darkness is told from the perspective of someone who is not a transgressor or an outlaw, Marlow, whereas Waiting for the Barbarians is narrated (in the present) from the point of view of the transgressor, the magistrate; it is controversial to label the Magistrate as also an outlaw since that would require universal condemnation, which is not the case. It is this crucial difference between the two novels that creates a divergence between their parallels. It is very easy to read Heart of Darkness and interpret Kurtz’s savage demise as a symptom of being cutoff from the homeland or corrupted by the perverse forces of the “Dark Continent”; however, it is difficult to read Waiting for the Barbarians and side with Colonel Joll”s cruel, immoral, and fundamentally inhumane view. Translating the Magistrate’s narration into “the lawman’s point of view” reveals a story bereft of the original meaning (Kerr 26).

      This distinction between Heart of Darkness and Waiting for the Barbarians emphasizes the shift in discourse of colonialism, especially with regard to Africa. While Conrad may have intended to contain his message of the dangers of imperialism and all its virtues within a context readily acceptable to his European audience, the critique of imperialism is still “circumscribed by and processed through the lawman’s gaze and memory,” the discourse of the colonial Europe (Kerr 27).  Dissimilarly, Coetzee takes this familiar subject and brings it into the discourse of postcolonialism. The existence of two polar opposite attitudes towards the Barbarians reflects the complexity of dispositions in Coetzee’s era towards such people as the natives described by Conrad. The uncertainty of the frontier town following the departure of the imperial overlords signifies the historical aspect of decolonization and the shift to an uncertain order. (758)

            

Annoyed, Yet interested

To begin, I am skeptical of my enjoying allegorical novels lacking a defined setting and explicitly identified characters. The vague “Empire” and the unknown location of the frontier country in which the story takes place perturbs me as I cannot seem to dismiss the details as being trivial relative to the message, no doubt, being conveyed.
Nevertheless, I digress in addressing the nature of the characters so far presented. Although he is clearly not the central character of the story—I think I reasonably interpreted the magistrate as being that—I find myself the most fascinated by Colonel Joll. First intrigued by his condescension towards the apparent provincial mannerisms of the Magistrate, my curiosity peaked over the Colonel’s apparent mission in the Magistrate’s jurisdiction. I wonder whether or not he is a truly manipulative agent of the “Third Bureau” who in Machiavellian fashion tortures a Barbarian boy until he confesses an attack is being planned, just as Joll desires. Joll’s reprehensibility I am quite confident in, but his cleverness I am not so sure of. Whether he is a cunning agent of the Empire’s secret police, “the most important division of the Civil Guard,” who recognizes the need for a justification even if its deeply hollow, or a man who blindly serves his Empire and is absolutely sure the boy is lying when he does initially “spill the beans” on the pending attack.
To broach a broader subject than Colonel Joll, I found myself a bit annoyed by what I interpreted as being anachronistic elements in the text. While Coetzee establishes no clear context, as mentioned above, that does not necessarily give him the authorial freedom to warp time, especially when it is strongly insinuated that the novel takes place in some era of imperialism. The notion of a “Third Bureau” is reminiscent of Soviet bureaucracy, something that only existed in the era in which Coetzee wrote the book. Furthermore, the notion of some special branch, specializing in interrogation and torture, seems chronologically foreign to a time period where lances are still of use.
Yet, my concern over these details is probably unwarranted as I initially stated as it does not really distort anything thing Coetzee may wish to convey. I am anxious to see how Coetzee further develops Joll’s character and how the nascent conflict between the Magistrate’s and Joll’s characters play out.

"Congo Free State" 1902 Encyclopaedia Britannica

--Congo Free State was the result of Belgium's King Leopold II's personal ambition. It has it roots in the 1878-founded International Association of the Congo that, in 1885, became the sovereign power known as the Congo Free State. It became the personal kingdom of King Leopold II--an independent state "administered as if it were a colony."

--The Congo can be divided into 3 zones: (1) the small coast area west of the Crystal Mountains, (2) the large central zone bounded to the north by the Congo and Mobangi rivers, on the east by the Mitumba range, and on the south by the Congo-Zambezi watershed and the Portuguese frontier; (3) the smaller zone east of the Mitumba range.

--The state only shows a slight change of temperature throughout the year. Tropical diseases are rampant, and "the country is not suited for European colonization."

--The region is roughly 900,000 square miles with a native population, largely of "Bantu stock" betweeen 14,000,000 and 30,000,000. "[D]istributed bands of pigmy people" are found in the forest. In 1900, there was a total of 1958 Europeans.

--The Free State is "an absolute monarchy" with no constitution. Civil and Law codes are "promulgated by decrees," and a provision is made for the mandation of ordinances by the Governor-General. The Free State is divided into 14 districts.

--"The native population are pagans, fetish worshippers, and on a very low plane of civilization." In 1900, there were 300 missionaries. In many areas, "cannibalism is rife, and degrading ceremonies are practiced."

--King Leopold spent 1.2 million pounds of his personal fortunate on establishing the state. State revenues lept from 72,261 pounds in 1886 to 11,200,000 in 1900, primarily from the "collection of caoutchoue, or rubber, from the forest, and the trade in ivory."

--There are three rights to land ownership: (1) the right of natives to "land in their own occupation," (2) private ownership by Europeans, and (3) state ownership of all land that does nto fall into the above categories.

--One railway exists, stretching 260 miles and built in 1898. The State maintains 26 steamers on the inland waterways. All other transportation is done by porters.

An Ordered Ending

The final section of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury provides closure to the reader after a literary adventure through the lives of the troubled Compson family by alluding to the return of order. Throughout the previous sections—Benjy’s, Quentin’s, and Jason’s—we have seen chaos. Benjy, in his infantile way, had to contend with Caddy’s loss of innocence; Quentin implicitly committed suicide over the agony of a non-existent feminine ideal; and Jason cynically relates his misanthropy and misogyny. Yet, despite this copious pessimism, Dilsey’s character serves as a force that brings the remaining Compson family members back to an ordered equilibrium. Faulkner’s decision to concentrate the narrative perspective on Dilsey emphasizes the her indescribably significant position she fills for all members of the Compson family. Throughout the aforementioned turmoil, she was the one who carried on with the daily tasks of life that kept the Compson machine running, albeit not always very smoothly. This reminder of her important function—the drama of the other characters’ lives can be a bit overshadowing of her at times—suggests that Compson family—Miss Cahline, Jason, and Benjy—will persevere. Dilsey, through her infinite exertion, will once again restore affairs to a status of order. Yet, this reliance Dilsey raises a perplexing question: who will supplant her upon her corporal departure? Unfortunately, Faulkner did not write, among his many post-publication commentaries, an explicit answer to this question that I am aware of; thus, the it is left to a literary critic to derive a textual answer that clearly was intended by Faulkner’s subconscious. (260)

Dichotomous Logic

Wadlington, Warwick.“The Sound and the Fury: A Logic of Tragedy.”American Literature, Vol. 53, No. 3 (Nov., 1981), pp. 409-423

 

            Upon my initial reading of the scholarly article I chose, I was dismissive at the central thesis of the inherent dichotomous logic in The Sound and the Fur, regarding it as another example of overly interpretive, “bad” literary criticism—although not nearly as bad as the article describing how The Sun Also Rises’s Jake Barnes’s adventures through Paris were a metaphor for WWI. Yet, when I stumbled upon a passage regarding Benjy’s structured perspective of everyone and everything, I was intrigued and decided not to search for another article.

            The article’s alliteratively named author, Warwick Wadlington, contends that Benjy “reduces everything to an unqualified opposition (Caddy and not-Caddy).” According to Wadlington, Benjy’s world is black and white. He cites the first scene of the novel as evidence, commenting that “the mental landscape is without middle ground or nuance—there is only this side of the fence or that side of the fence.” Moreover, Wadlington even asserts that Benjy’s narrative outlook is a “proper introduction to the Compson experience of life.” For Benjy, there is an inherent order to his life, despite his profound mental retardation, an element reeking of paradox.

            Yet, this potentially paradoxical element is what I found most provocative, even if it was not the focus of the article. Wadlington’s assertion that there is a natural logic to Benjy’s understanding of his surroundings makes sense on two different levels. The first and the more obvious of the two is that it is only reasonable to assume that Benjy’s narration would be overly reductionist considering his own intellectual capabilities. While this is not my main concern, it is worth noting that Faulkner creates another distinct dichotomy between the sophistication of his mental faculties when viewed through an external perspective—notably Luster’s—and through Benjy’s internal monologue. Although his silent discourse has several gaps, it nevertheless displays understanding. Returning to Wadlington’s contention that Benjy defines his world in terms of Caddy and not-Caddy, it is important to circularly note that this logic is, well, logical. For Benjy, the most important figure in the world is his sister, Caddy, because she is the one who shows the most genuine affection for him. Repeatedly, Benjy explains his relationship with Caddy in terms of binary possibilities: she smells like trees, or she does not smell like trees—there is no middle ground.

            Although, Wadlington’s argument concerning Beny’s strict binary perspective makes a resonating point—a point that’s significantly textually supported—I disagree with his claim that Benjy’s outlook is a the proper introduction to the rest of the Compson family as he argues it is. Wadlington is under the impression that this era of logic that characterizes Benjy’s perspective is inherent in the tragic lives of the other Compson family members. Caddy seems to be a perfect counter example to this argument, considering her dilemma surrounding her need for marriage to avoid the scandal of the public knowing her past sexual indiscretion(s). Her situation is extremely nuanced, unlike Benjy’s. Furthermore, I cannot help but sense that Wadlington makes a passing insinuation that Faulkner incorporated Benjy’s perspective for the explicit purpose of introducing the life of the Compsons. If that is Wadlington’s intention, then I have to vehemently disagree: the first scene provides a face-valu            e—gap-ridden, however—account of events that affected various members of the Compson family, an account that differs significantly from the later emotionally biased perspectives of Quentin and Jason.

            While I found fault with some of Wadlington’s assertions, the most egregious error was his decision to not expand upon his brief mentioning of Benjy’s logic. It would have been a fascinating read if the focus had been about the logical structure in the understanding of someone who is anything but “logical.” I was extremely disappointed when I continued reading after this brief section, and there was no further analysis of the topic, only a bizarre assertion about an implicit metaphorical battle in the discourse and actions of the Compson characters. It would be delightful if Wadlington ever published another article that focused on the “logic of retardation,” although, considering his analysis was published seventeen years ago, it is unfortunately unlikely. (691)

Finding Liberation in the Yellow Wallpaper

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Paper” may appear a 19^th century gothic short story of wallpaper-induced psychosis upon first read; however, it has much deeper undertones that accompany the narrator’s descent into an altered state of mind. The motif of the patronizing, overbearing presence of a controlling and “always right” husband—John in this case—is a constant reminder of not only the follies of a man who is alleged to be “practical in the extreme” but also the figurative and literal dangers of denying an individual the pleasures and liberties the denier enjoys (¶ 6). The narrator’s increasing fixation on the yellow wallpaper, the trapped woman behind it, and her own defiance of her husband’s wishes is evidence of her breaking free from her claustrophobic constraints.

            Gilman’s depiction of the narrator’s increasing restriction to the sole activity of resting is representative of the commonplace limitations placed upon women—particularly upper-middle class women—by their male “superiors” during the time period. Because of her husband’s concern for health, the narrator is “absolutely forbidden to ‘work’” until she is well again (11). It is interesting to note that Gilman places work in quotation marks, suggesting a broad definition. As the reader sees, the narrator is allowed very few activities to partake in—in the end she can only rest and stare at wallpaper—despite her belief that “congenial work, with excitement and change, would do [her] good” (13). She is even discouraged from writing, facing “heavy opposition” should she attempt to engage it (15). If it seems rather “silly” to believe that writing would significantly damage the health of someone suffering from “temporary nervous depression,” that is because it is (9). Such a notion is reminiscent of the belief that becoming educated would be too cumbersome for the alleged limited mental faculties of a woman—a bit patriarchal, to say the least. Gilman creates a bit of a foil to the narrator’s character with John’s sister, whom the narrator describes as “a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper, [who] hopes for no better profession” and a woman who likely thinks the narrator is made sick by her writing (74). Such a characterization of John’s sister suggests that the women who readily accept the duties imposed by the “cult of domesticity” are characterized by a degree of ignorance. While John’s sister is at least permitted to engage in housekeeping, however stereotypical it may be, the narrator is denied even a modicum of physical exertion. Without access to any constant companionship, it is hard to imagine how one’s mental state can remain healthy, let alone improve. The narrator’s account of her own deterioration demonstrates the dangers of isolating women, or any group of people for that matter, to a realm devoid of activity.

            Yet, the narrator’s confinement and increasing obsession over the yellow wallpaper should not solely be read as a evidence of psychosis; it is really symbolic of her self-liberation. As she increasingly stares at the yellow wallpaper and its “flamboyant pattern committing every artistic sin” due to her room confinement for perpetual resting, she notices “a strange, provoking formless sort of figure that seems to skulk about” that she comes to determine is a woman. It may sound as if she is merely becoming crazier by the day, but in reality, she is seeing a Freudian projection of herself—“the narrator’s subconscious realizing her suppressed feelings of repression and constraint by John,” to borrow a contextual definition from my colleague E.T. Fram. The narrator’s increasing defiance of her husband’s prohibition on physical exertion corresponds with her depiction of the increasingly vehement desire of the “woman…creeping about behind [the] pattern” to escape from the bars of the prison cell that is the pattern (121). The narrator bluntly tells her husband his methods are not working when she says “I don’t weigh a bit more…nor as much; and my appetite may be better in the evening when you are here but it is worse in the morning when you are” (133). Previously, she showed infinite deference to her husband’s opinions. The woman that she sees “creeping up and down” is really an image of the liberated life she seeks. Her new-found conviction that “[i]t must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight” is not only external commentary on fictitious woman but also is a subconscious realization of her disgust towards her own position: she is forced to do anything that she desires behind her husband’s back because he forbids her from “exhausting” herself (198). As soon as she makes that statement, she immediately comments on her habits of creeping about by daylight, whereas before her defiance only carried over into writing. Her distance from liberation becomes smaller and smaller as she tears away at the wallpaper she sees as strangling the woman behind it, culminating in her adoption of the identity behind the pattern, signify her unleashing of her “free self” Her astonishing statement at the end of the story, “I’ve got out at last…in spite of you and Jane. And I’ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back” is the climactic culmination of her desire to not be subject to her husband’s orders (261).

            While the reader is aware that the narrator has achieved her own sense of a liberated self and has released her suppressed resentment against the limitations her husband had constantly imposed on her before, the reader does not know if the narrator has truly freed herself from these limitations. The story ends with the husband John lying unconscious on the floor, but what will his reaction be when he awakes? Will he merely send her off to an asylum for more resting, having determined she has a condition more severe than he previously thought? The ending undoubtedly leaves several questions, yet they do not necessarily detract from Gilman’s feminist message. Even if male understanding does not follow, are not a self-realization of a desire to get out of the strangling yellow pattern of male control and an acting on that desire a necessary prerequisite? It seems that Gilman takes that first step belief to heart with her early contribution to the development of American feminism at a time when people were still not convinced males and females had the same brain size (1056). 

What Turns a Man into the Misfit?

“The Misfit” in Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” poses as a dangerously ambiguous character. While at numerous times he appears to be rational in his decision calculus, he simultaneously seems devoid of the very essence of humanity. How can a man refer to his parents as the “finest people in the world” and then later effortlessly remark that he had killed his daddy ( 90)? The Misfit’s inhuman ability to unproblematically feel guiltless and not responsible for his actions conveys an existence so far removed from humanity that one cannot help but doubt the possibility of his ever being “reached.”

The most difficult aspect to grasp of the Misfit’s being is his capacity to remove himself from any notion or sense of responsibility. Although he states he “never was a bad boy that [he remembers] of,” he simultaneously remembers that “somewheres along the line [he] done something wrong and got sent to the penitentiary” (112). His statement not only reveals his convenient case of selective memory—it would have been helpful at his trial—it also demonstrates his complete failure to associate himself with his actions or their consequences. There is this strong disconnect between his recollection of the past and what others have informed him of it. In response to the grandmother’s comment “[m]aybe they put you in by mistake,” the Misfit affirmatively denies that possibility by asserting “[i]t wasn’t no mistake…they had the papers on me” (115-116). To a functioning observer, the inherent problem of the contradiction in the Misfit’s concurrent denial and affirmation of his guilt would be obvious, but to the Misfit, no problem exists. The Misfit’s flawed logic does not stop there; he even has a back story to explain his father’s death—he “died in nineteen ought nineteen of the epidemic flu” (118). Yet, only moments before, the Misfit stated he did something wrong. If his train of thought makes no sense, that is because certain concepts—responsibility and guiltiness, primarily—do not exist for him. The reader is almost led to believe that the Misfit has disassociative personality disorder, considering his affectionate characterization of his father—“my daddy’s heart was pure gold” (90)—on the one hand and his nebulous recollection that he did something wrong—probably murdering his father—on the other. This mental illness would explain rather well his lingering insinuation that he done nothing worthy of the punishment that he has received. Thus, his “good” identity that he variably displays feels no connection to the crime his “bad” identity allegedly has committed and been punished for.

However, if the Misfit’s character is not a composite of identities, then new problems arise concerning his ability to be “reached.” The grandmother repeatedly, and to no avail, attempts to remind the Misfit that he is a “good man at heart,” and does not look like he has a bit of “common blood”—whatever that may be—in an attempt to spare her own life, and perhaps those of her family too (89-91). While it is uncertain if the grandmother is actually attempting to rekindle the slowly dying ember of “goodness” that she thinks is left in him or merely trying to buy her survival through flattery, the responses her attempts elicit reveal insight into the Misfit’s understanding of his own character. Although he states, “Nome, I ain’t a good man,” he clarifies his position by elaborating “but I ain’t the worst in the world neither” (100). Does that mean he still can be the good man the grandmother reminds him he can be? The probability is slim, at best, considering the Misfit’s extensive rationalization of behavior that is implicitly linked with him. His resignation to the belief that “sooner or later you’re going to forget what it was you done and just be punished for it” is further evidence of his failure to associate punishment as the logical consequence of killing a man or taking a tire off his car (124). The Misfit’s response poses two problems: (1) how can he be a good man if taking a human life is something he can forget so easily and (2) how can he be a good man if he cannot grasp the true nature of right or wrong? He is aware that he has committed some offense that everyone else deems wrong; yet, he does not understand how wrong his actions really were. The Misfit’s flawed concept of punishment combined with his view that one ought to “enjoy the minutes you got left the best way you can—by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him” seems to serve as an inherent barrier against his ever being good man (135).

Yet, knowing his current disposition towards life, however sick and perverse it may be, does not provide the same degree of reassurance in condemning him to a final characterization as knowing the source of his disposition. The Misfit exists in such flawed and grotesquely misanthropic ontological state that ambiguity over his history is not acceptable to the reader. Did he suffer some form of abuse as a child that caused him to release his harbored hatred of his father in the form of killing him? Does he suffer from a mental illness that induces him to think there is “no pleasure but meanness” in the world (135)? Or is he merely an incarnation of “evil”—if there is such a thing? Although the question of his being remains an unsolved mystery, despite its central importance in understanding what turns a man into the misfit, it is rather certain that his reflexive shooting of the grandmother, regardless of the theological significance of her final actions, reaffirmed his conviction that he “ain’t a good man.” (967)

The Tragedy of Self-Consciousness

Throughout “Teenage Wasteland,” Anne Tyler depicts Daisy as constantly concerned with her perceived appearance. Despite the absence of others’ direct commenting, Daisy manages to silently identify nearly everything—her attire, her weight, her degree of concern as a parent—that could portray her negatively. Amidst the chaos of events influencing her views on her relationship with her son, Donny, her publicly unknown self-criticism influences her behavior as if someone had directly told her she ought to have “worn nylons instead of knee socks” (¶ 8). Although characters like Cal and Miss Evans directly instruct her how to act, her weakness of rarely ever being resolved allows this damaging exploitation to occur. This unfortunate Achilles' heel proves potentially fatal at a time that requires firmness and resolve.

            Daisy’s insistency on being self-conscious permeates every aspect of character. After she is called into Mr. Lanham’s, the principal, office, she automatically assumes that he perceives her as “a delinquent parent” and “unseeing and uncaring” (3). Moreover, her fixation on “looks” drives her to torment herself over her and her husband’s respective appearances as “an overweight housewife in a cotton dress” and “a too-tall, too-thin insurance agent in a baggy, frayed suit,” despite the fact that their attire is entirely irrelevant to the quality of her and her husband’s parenting (8). Her ability to infer that her apparently ill-chosen clothes and her lack of a gym membership are obvious indicators of her character is a sad reflection of her emphasis on superficiality. While Daisy’s distress over her conjecture of Mr. Lanham’s assessment of her parenting is reasonably justified—her son has lousy grades and has been caught smoking and breaking into another student’s locker—her jump to the conclusion that she is a terrible mother is excessive, to say the least. It seems reasonable to say that Daisy’s utter fixation on appearance drives her to interpret Mr. Lanham’s comments of Donny as “noisy, lazy, and disruptive” as being directed at her, building up her personal shame as a fourth-grade teacher now turned parental failure—or so she feels (2).

            In a depressingly humorous manner, Daisy’s obsession with appearances induces her to serially “flip flop” on positions concerning how to treat her son. When Cal calls Daisy to forcefully suggest she “ought to give him more rope,” Daisy throws her defense of “he’s still so suggestible” to the wind upon hearing Cal’s retort, “Don’t you understand how [not trusting him] hurts?” (36-37). While not textually explicit, Cal’s response implies an understanding of Daisy’s “vulnerability” in the sense of a figurative battle of persuasion. Daisy greets his reply with a 180-degree turn by not only acknowledging that he is right but also by elaborating that “she saw Donny suddenly from a whole new angle” (41). Her fear of looking ignorant—another negative quality she actively seeks to avoid—induces her abandonment of what may be best for her son. More egregious, her reaction to Miss Evans’s, the history teacher, reminders—“you are the parent” and “you should still be in charge”—causes her to become furious at the thought Cal was only serving as a “talisman” to her troubled son (49-50). Leniency for her sudden change of heart is due, however, considering the short-lived realization that all her “luxuries” had been foregone in vain. But that justification is not applicable to Daisy’s reversal of the anger she had only felt seconds before at Cal. What starts as a call to Cal demanding an explanation of his tutoring Donny to get F’s turns into another episode of his “sweet talking.” Why should Daisy want to look “foolish” to a man the reader is told has extensive psychological training? His knockout line, “you and I both know there’s more to it than grades,” hits Daisy’s fatal flaw with nearly perfect accuracy. When she first called she was angry at Cal, but “[w]hen she hung up, it was Miss Evans she was angry at” (54-55).

            If a degree of comical illogic seems rampant in Daisy’s speech and actions, it is because she repeatedly fails to put the needs of Donny before her own. When she ought to be concerned about what is in Donny’s best interests in terms of resolving his behavioral issues and poor academic performance, she instead actively seeks to avoid incurring the disapproval of Cal and others. In response to Donny’s retort that she is “feeling competitive…and controlling” over her concerns of Cal’s efficacy as a tutor, “she bit her lip and said no more” rather than press the matter (62-63). What are the direct consequences of her failure to be the parent Miss Evans tells her to be? Nothing besides the mere infraction of her son’s expulsion from school over “five cans of beer and a half a pack of cigarettes” found in his locker—the principal says it so effortlessly (64). 

            However, Tyler’s presentation of Daisy should not be viewed as satirical. While numerous times she is deceived by the “smile of hunger” emanating in Cal’s words, it is hard to dismiss the notion that her serial flip flopping does not also originate in a desire to desperately help her son (106). One cannot excuse Daisy from the predicament of finding a solution to Donny’s troubles while at the same time maintaining her sanity. If Daisy already has a predisposition to be self-conscious, her chaotic situation only exacerbates it. Her desire to be a perfect mother seems to distort her best intentions when in reality she only yearns for her son to be successful. The true tragedy is that Donny’s situation could not have been more perfect to maliciously exploit her flaw so as to delay an appropriate response before it was all too late. (945)

Realism: A Story of Conflict

Books I Read This Summer:

1. Failed States by Noam Chomsky

2. The New Financial Paradigm by George Soros

3. The Second World by Parag Khanna

4. Creating a World without Poverty by Muhammad Yunnus

5. What Happened by Scott McClellan

6. Financial Statecraft by Benn Steil and Robert E. Litap

7. The Three Trillion Dollar Meltdown by Charles R. Morris

8. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman

9. Blood and Oil by Michael T. Klare

10. On Empire by Eric Hobsbawm

11. The Tragedy of Great Power Politics by John J. Mearsheimer

12. The Great Derangement by Matthew Taibbi

13. New Ideas from Dead Economists by Todd G. Buchholz

14. Ethical Realism by Anatol Lieven and John Hulsman

15. Rising Powers, Shrinking Planet by Michael T. Klare

16. Benjamin Franklin by Walter Isaacson

17. The Long Emergency by James Howard Kunstler

18. Feeding the Fire by Mark Eberhart

19. What We Say Goes by Noam Chomsky

20. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

21. Old School by Tobias Wolff

22. Ben Bernanke’s Fed by Ethan S. Harris

23. Philosophy and Social Hope by Richard Rorty

Since deciding to join an activity that would dictate the manner in which my non-academic time was spent, I have found that debate tends to be the "guiding light" in determining what books to purchase and figuratively consume. While this has not always been the case, particularly when I was not as serious about the sport as I am now, I feel I am almost frivolously squandering the paltry of "free time" that my academic commitments give to me should I choose to engage in a whimsical novel with little relevance to any argument I could conceive of. Nevertheless, I have committed such atrocities in the eyes of the "Debate Gods," although in hindsight, they are reciprocally justified considering Mr. Guthrie's reading some book about 19th century Christian theology at the end of last school year, instead of researching Slovenian anti-capitalist criticism in preparation for nationals--selfish, I know. Thus, with my conundrum laid out, my summer reading choices were incredibly focused on matters relative to this year's debate resolution (Resolved: The United States federal government should substantially increase alternative energy incentives in the United States).

Considering the nature of this year's topic and taking cue from my personal interests, following the onset of summer, I embarked on reading a diversity of non-fiction, and a few fiction titles, to enhance my understanding of core literature for the year. In my undertaking, I completed twenty-three books, some that were incredibly fascinating and engaging and others that caused me to feel inclined to demand a refund from Borders. The book that narrowly beats Parag Khanna's The Second World for the award of "Top Read" is John Mearsheimer's The Tragedy of Great Power Politics, an analysis of the world of international relations and the implications for the post-Cold War era.

Mearsheimer's account is thought-provoking in terms of its forcing the reader to consider the fashion in which nation sates truly perceive and respond to the actions of other nation states. In line with his own understanding of international affairs studies, Mearsheimer focuses on the often regarded conservative school known as realism, the interpretation that contends states, as rational actors, function out of self-interest in an anarchic world where the only adequate stance is to view other actors as being potential threats. What is truly remarkable about the contentions of realism is that no state can be immune to the psychology of fear. A historically unprecedented superpower (i.e. the United States), despite its domination of military power in every aspect, can and should be feel threatened by a much weaker state due to the potential for asymmetric confrontation. It is rather ironic that an individual can feel much more secure than a state due to the ability to turn to the law for protection, but for nations, no such higher body exists--the U.N. is a rather weak transnational body and thus has been discounted.

Somewhat contradictory to my above statements, what I found most appealing to my interests and the least relevant to anything pertaining to debate was the extensive historical analysis Mearsheimer conducts to prove that realism is the correct interpretation of international affairs. A lover of history--particularly European history--I found his analysis of the historical foreign policy of states, such as Germany--prior to 1871 Prussia--France, Russia, and Great Britain, in accordance with a realist framework to be especially insightful because it gives meaning to the plethora of militaristic adventures undertaken by the great powers during Europe's tumultuous history over the last three centuries. For instance, why did Germany not seek to usurp control of continental Europe in 1907 despite the fact that it was a potential hegemon? While such questions cannot be categorically answered, although Mearsheimer attempts to provide his own explanation, they still make the reader realize that history, particularly in terms of geopolitical conflict, is not a collection of seemingly unnecessary events but rather a record of motivations and calculative actions.

While not literature in the conventional sense of fiction, poetry, etc., Mearsheimer's work is a Shakespearean interpretation of international relations that remains a cornerstone of international political theory literature, which in turn is an indispensable component of the wide body of work that stays relevant year after year in the esoteric world of debate. Although The Tragedy of Great Power Politics would not be placed in the literature section of a bookstore, that does not exclude the work from telling a story of the conflict that exists in everyday life at the grandest scale. In some instances, states are almost personified as entities whose actions are beyond the control of those individuals who "control the state." This portrayal of nations as calculative and pragmatic political structures in an antagonistic world rivals, in my opinion, any highly regarded novel that reveals deep personal conflict and turmoil. While The Tragedy of Great Power Politics may seem like a read reserved to political science students and academics, in reality, it is a book that seeks to provide a predictive message for a subject that often determines whether or not tomorrow we have blue skies or a mushroom cloud. A reader who has completed the book, myself included, cannot help but look at everyday international affairs in a new light that is a reflection of either acceptance of Mearsheimer's contentions or an understanding that was formulated out of something seen as problematic in the thesis of realism. I cannot but conclude that The Tragedy of Great Power Politics was and is truly transformative. (910)