Less is More

            Perhaps no author better abides by the dogma “less is more” than Ernest Hemingway. One of Hemingway’s most celebrated works, The Sun Also Rises, exemplifies the uncluttered prose that is standard in his fiction. While this novel may be devoid of complicated verbiage, unnecessary phrases, and distracting rhetoric, the true genius behind Hemingway’s writing lies in the fact that he is able to communicate so much by saying so little.

            Hemingway makes deliberate use of sentence structure. No one sentence matches the length of the previous sentence. Unlike authors like Charles Dickens who tend to present information in a very roundabout fashion, Hemingway’s sentences are pointed. For example, at the beginning of the novel, Jake Barnes says:

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly. Spider Kelly not only remembered Cohn. He had often wondered what had become of him. (Hemingway 3)

            As you can see in the quotation above, Hemingway employs a long list to speculate on the background of Robert Cohn. In contrast, the very next sentence is short and fragmented. These opposing sentence structures are rhythmically pleasing to the reader. The first sentence in the paragraph can be rather overwhelming, but the next sentence is brief and relieving. Hemingway is just as masterful at crafting and suspending tension through his words as he is through his subject matter.

            Moreover, Hemingway is artistic in his use of monosyllables. For instance, when Jake is describing Cohn, he says, “Also he was sure that he loved her” (Hemingway 3). The majority of the words in this statement are monosyllabic, that is, composed of a single syllable. Although simple on the surface, the very bare nature of this monosyllabic prose masks the powerful, underlying layers of meaning. Throughout the novel, Hemingway is careful to employ this technique to stress important items. 

            Finally, Hemingway presents very stripped-down dialogue. In fact, Hemingway simplifies his dialogue to the extent that it can be very easy to lose track of who is speaking. Consider the following conversation between Jake and Robert Cohn:

"No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?"

 "It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be all."

 "Don't be silly."

 "You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" (Hemingway 4)

            In this dialogue, there is no “he said this,” “he exclaimed that.” Moreover, Hemingway does not supplement his succinct dialogue with flowery exposition. When Hemingway starts a conversation, he is sure to finish that conversation on the same page. Although this technique can be confusing for the reader, Hemingway stays true to the straightforward prose that characterizes much of his work.

Works Cited

Hemingway, Ernest. The Sun Also Rises. The Hemingway Library ed. New York: Scribner, 2014. Print.

*****

            I left my hotel. I blinked a couple times, my eyes adjusting to the furious sun. A little dizzy from the previous night’s events, I walked through the streets of Paris thinking about my day. What should I do this morning? Who is still in town? I stopped a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the Select, on the other side of town.

            When I arrived at the café, I joined the crowd of eager sports fans huddled around the TVs. They were watching France play in the 2014 World Cup. I laughed, knowing that they would not best the Americans in this tournament. Never set yourself up for failure. I ordered a bottle of wine. And then another. And then another. By the fourth bottle, I was well on my way to passing out, when Brett tapped me on the shoulder. In her typical boyish grace, she pulled up a chair next to me and told the waiter, “This chap is thirsty. Get me a martini and an olive.”

            We sat and drank for about three hours. Just another lost day with Brett; we spend so much of our lives together yet we are not bound for a lifetime. 

            We walked around the streets for a while. We peered into textile shops, took note of new cafés, and stopped in the Apple Store. You need to have a certain composure when walking into an Apple Store. You have to look well-off, rather wealthy. At the same time, you have to appear casual. It was a headache trying to conform to the Apple ethos, but Brett and I managed. We curiously poked the new iPhone 6 and unconsciously stroked the Mac Pro Computer. Everyone does this. Its the Apple way; always has been and always will be.
            "I'm thirsty chap, let's leave."
            "Alright."
             And we left, circling back to the Select, and continued the day the same way it began.
           

           

Literary Topoi in Wuthering Heights

Sadistic landlords, misguided romances, and a slew of deaths make for a less-than-ideal bedtime story. For Lockwood, however, these rather mysterious occurrences provide plenty of entertainment to pass the time while bedridden with sickness. Emily Brontë’s celebrated Wuthering Heights is a novel that recounts the complicatedly interwoven pasts of Wuthering Heights’ denizens. Uniquely, Brontë frames Lockwood’s narrative around a series of shorter stories that link together to recreate the conflicted history of Wuthering Heights and Thrushwood Grange. In Wuthering Heights, Brontë rejects the classic linear method of storytelling in favor of a more piecemeal structure and relies on Lockwood to put together the pieces.

At the outset of the novel, Brontë portrays Lockwood approaching Wuthering Heights for the first time. Like readers, Lockwood is impervious to the dark history of Wuthering Heights. As Lockwood learns more about the residence’s tenants, his skepticism and disbelief mirrors that of the readers who pioneer alongside Lockwood. The novel begins in media res, in the middle of the action, which inevitably demands a curiosity for the events that preceded the arrival of Lockwood. It is not until Lockwood is bitten by Heathcliff’s dogs and is forced to remain in bed that the story of Wuthering Heights’ past begins to unravel.

For a story with such a unique narrative structure, Brontë selected a rather typical setting for the level of narrative that involves Lockwood and Nelly. Yet however bland a bedridden Lockwood may be, Brontë’s chair-and-bed setup adheres to structural convention. In Theory and the Novel: Narrative Reflexivity in the British Tradition, Jeffrey Williams posits that framed narratives contain classic topoi of specific times and places, that is, literary clichés that constitute the setting. Frequently, these topoi effect “not only a pedestrian social entertainment to pass the time, but symbolically a pharmakon to stave off danger and grief” (Williams 111). In Wuthering Heights this literary topos takes the form of Nelly’s long conversations with Lockwood in which she recounts the background of Wuthering Heights to take his mind off the “grief” of his grippe. Totally unfamiliar with the history of Wuthering Heights, Lockwood must accept Nelly’s stories as truth, even though her own biases distort her recollection of the details.

Because Ellen “Nelly” Dean is one of the only sources of authority concerning the history of Wuthering Heights, Lockwood, and by extension readers of Wuthering Heights, invest a lot of confidence in Nelly’s narration. However, it is crucial to remember that Nelly is a fallible human being and that her picture of the past, while accurate, may not be complete. For instance, Nelly tends to downplay events that cast her in a negative light. Such is true when she explains to Linton Heathcliff that his father will “be fonder of [him] than any uncle, for [he] is his own” (Brontë 172). As readers will realize at this point, Nelly is lying. There is no evidence throughout the rest of the novel that supports the notion that Heathcliff will love his son, especially considering how he treated his mother. After dropping off Linton with Heathcliff, Nelly moves to leave the scene quickly, asserting that she had “no excuse for lingering longer” despite Linton’s pleas for help (Brontë 175). Such urgency to gloss over this part of the story when she converses with Lockwood suggests a subtle attempt of cover-up on the part of Nelly. On balance, Nelly is a pretty reliable character, but readers have to keep in mind that her subjective lens will cloud her objective depiction of Wuthering Heights’ history.

           So, Wuthering Heights is an incredibly self-contained novel. The character interactions are plentiful, but only occur between the two distinct households of Wuthering Heights and its literary foil, Thrushwood Grange. While Wuthering Heights is characterized by wild passion and hatred, Thrushwood is governed by compassion and order. In many ways, this novel’s scrambled structure mimics the disjointed lifestyle that dominates Wuthering Heights. Brontë’s narrative places a huge premium on Lockwood, a critical vehicle who discovers the events of Wuthering Heights’ past. The readers simply accompany Lockwood on this journey. While his sources may not be completely truthful, Lockwood nonetheless helps us understand an incredibly nuanced narrative within a novel that could not have existed without his voice.

Works Cited

Williams, Jeffrey. Theory and the Novel: Narrative Reflexivity in the British Tradition. Cambridge, England: Cambridge UP, 1998.Questia School. Web. 17 Sept. 2014.

Brontë, Emily, Anne Brontë, Charlotte Brontë, Caroline M. Freich, G. D. Hargreaves, and Jan Hargreaves. Wuthering Heights. London: Smith, Elder &, 15 Waterloo Place, 1870. Print.

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Your Inner Fish

“Find your inner fish,” whispers Kevin Bacon, your social engineering instructor. Its 9:00 AM and you are attending the Popularity Verity with Bacon seminar in upper Manhattan. All your dubiousness of attending the event rapidly departed after your first enlightening encounter with the actor. After just an hour of his mingling and conversational exercises, you are now more confident than ever. You feel great about yourself. Your self-esteem, you decide, has never been higher. But what will you do with the Bacon doctrine? After some thought, you resolve to apply these newfound social skills to your personal life and to your workplace.

Your mind rewinds to the icebreaker question: How many times have you farted in public? Initially, you think, “Who the hell is this guy? Did I really sacrifice my marriage to be here?” As you motion toward the exit, Bacon swiftly stops you in your tracks and, in front of the class of 30 people, repeats, “How many times have you farted in public?”

In a timid voice you respond, “Once, by accident,” when Bacon proceeds to laugh maniacally.

At once, he proclaims, “You see, this is exactly the problem with society today. Not enough farting, not enough courage. From this moment on, I mandate that you fart at least one time in an elevator daily. This way, you will become unaccustomed to what others think of you and your odors. Eliminate that Shy Guy persona and let the flatulence come forth!”

Your mind struggles to register the sheer extraordinariness of this advice. Your Bacon-induced stupor grounds you, paralyzes your awe-stricken face.

As Bacon prepares to share his closing remarks, you reflect on how Bacon’s counsel will resonate with you for a lifetime. Finally, he bids the audience farewell, reminding you ladies and gentlemen to embrace the spirit of the fish and to always swim with the school. The one that swim in the opposite direction, he asserts, is the first to be eaten by the shark. How delightful, Bacon is talking about fish. Your stomach grumbles and you realize that you are incredibly hungry. 

Maturation Issues

           To the average reader, Holden Caulfield will come across as a stuck-up, judgmental brat. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger orbits around this boy’s take on his immediate environment, be it Pencey Boarding School or the racy city-life of New York. In most novels, the development of the plot is the driving force of the narrative, however in Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger places a refreshing emphasis on the development of character. Admittedly, it becomes somewhat obnoxious being inside this character’s head the entire novel, yet it is an enriching experience nonetheless. With careful deliberation, we realize that Holden is an exaggeration of how particularly rebellious teens respond to the coming of age.

            As I mentioned earlier, a reader new to The Catcher in the Rye could accidently slip into the mindset that Holden is somewhat of a conceited personality. But really he is just like any teen. Now that’s not to say that every teen is conceited, but Holden does experience a thought process that many of us can relate to whether we like it or not. We simply do not want to accept the fact that occasionally dark, cynical thoughts have flashed through our mind. It is because we experience the crux of his observations that we taste the darker side of human nature. In any case, Holden’s issues with the world seem rather extreme. He is quick to point out people, places, or things he finds “phony” or superficial; he has comparatively little respect for anything or anyone.

            It is because Holden has not yet found a bounded culture to fit into that the entire novel appears to be him against the world. He is not particularly passionate about anything but his younger siblings and smoking. As Phoebe, his younger sister, indicates later in the novel, he “doesn’t like anything that’s happening” (Salinger 169). Yet deep inside, Holden longs to find a place. This desire is depicted by his violent reaction toward what he calls “intellectuals,” or smart people. Holden is critical of their general personalities right down to the schools that they attend, stemming from his deep-seated insecurity of appearing too smart, but knowing inside that he has the academic potential succeed. Even so, Holden does not act upon this realization because he simply does not possess any academic drive. By all accounts, he has not yet “found himself,” and he will not ever unless he opens himself up to the possibilities of exploring the gray areas of life. Within the scope of this novel, Holden does not achieve this milestone.

           Ultimately, adulthood is maturity and maturity means knowing oneself. Really then, Holden is afraid of maturity, which explains why he respects little children so much more than many of the adults in his life. He fears conformity - adjusting to a specific bounded culture - as it would mean that he has found a place among adults and has surrendered a carefree childhood. Lying is therefore his go-to method for shielding himself from adulthood. This method allows him to keep his true self behind a mask, making him less vulnerable to the manipulative hands of society.

Works Cited

Salinger, J D. The Catcher in the Rye. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 1991. Print.

Merricat: Shirley Jackson's Guinea Pig

     We Have Always Lived In the Castle by Shirley Jackson recounts the horrifying tale of Mary Katherine “Merricat” Blackwood and her family’s chaotic past. As a writer of experimental fiction, Jackson is to be applauded for both her cleverness in subverting genre conventions and her ability to portray Merricat as the unreliable protagonist.
      First, Merricat’s role as the narrator is emblematic of Jackson’s ability to subvert genre expectations. Traditionally, we would expect the narrator to represent the story’s hero or at least some sort of positive force in the plot. Furthermore, narrators in novels, through their actions and personalities, frequently demand sympathy from readers. Effectively, we are conditioned to want narrators to be the protagonists, the “good guys.” Jackson takes a novel approach to this tradition in We Have Always Lived in the Castle by characterizing Merricat as the violent antagonist, but still demanding of the reader’s compassion. In the back of our minds, we know that some sort of poetic justice should occur for the antagonist, yet this is not the case for Merricat. Instead, we often take pity in Merricat’s struggles. For instance, once we know more about Cousin Charles, we eventually agree with Merricat that “the house injured, would reject him by itself” (Jackson 78). Jackson slyly forces readers into rooting for the bad guys.
      Furthermore, Shirley Jackson is creative in blurring the lines between truth and fiction. Because Merricat is the source of all knowledge pertaining to this story, we must speculate whether or not her account of the story is accurate. Joyce Carol Oates in an essay entitled The Witchcraft of Shirley Jackson voices my sentiment that “Merricat taunts us with what she knows, and we don’t know; her recounting of the tragic Blackwood family is piecemeal” (Oates). So in a sense, Merricat is an unreliable narrator not because she feeds us distorted information, but because she often has gaps in her accounts.
      Therefore, Shirley Jackson is creative as she utilizes Merricat as a vehicle for her fictional experiment of exploring genre conventions and the reliability of the narrator.

Works Cited

Jackson, Shirley. We Have Always Lived in the Castle. New York: The Penguin Group, 2006. Print.

Oates, Joyce C. "The Witchcraft of Shirley Jackson." The New York Review of Books. NYREV, 8 Oct. 2009. Web. 14 Feb. 2014.