Book #4 Project: Bennington College vs. Hampden College in The Secret History

Blog Post #5: Truth in Memoir

A book has to be almost completely true in order to be labeled nonfiction. Of course there can be allowances for discrepancies in memory, as Pulitzer Prize-nominated essayist Laila Lalami told the Los Angeles Review of Books (particularly regarding dialogue), but nonfiction by its very definition is the opposite of fiction: fact. There are methods by which an author can smoothly and ethically combine well-remembered, concrete events with extrapolated, improvised details: novelist Paul Mandelbaum cited Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior as an example, as she placed disclaimers on specific scenes and events in her novel at which she wasn’t present, warning the reader that some elements in this segments might have been fictitious since she had to fill in the gaps. If “gap-filling” becomes necessary for a memoirist, these notes are a perfect solution in order to maintain fluidity, accuracy, and morality as a writer. Half-truths are not okay if they make a “good” story because quality evaluations are again a matter of opinion, not fact. By this contention, the half-truths may be considered “okay” by a fan of the work and despicable by a critic of it. Opinion is malleable, but I agree with novelist Seth Greenland in that the idea of reality being malleable (as evidenced by the public’s argument regarding truth in memoir) is an alarming trait of our current age. We need lines between genres to extinguish that concept that reality is malleable; to establish fiction as wonderful (yet impossible) fantasy and exalt the truly epic memoirs that spotlight real heroes in our world. When memoirists sell lies, they run the risk of discrediting those with actual astounding stories that need to be heard and need to inspire millions of readers. We also need genre boundaries to streamline the reading selection process as well as create effective book marketing strategies.

Book 3 Listicle

Why The Metamorphosis is More Frightening than Station Eleven: To be clear, Station Eleven depicts the collapse of humanity, with the fictitious Georgia Flu decimating approximately 99 percent of the global population. The Metamorphosis documents the struggle of an indebted traveling salesman who wakes up one morning as an insect. Although many would prefer the latter, considering that a majority of humanity would be spared, practically, I favor Station Eleven, because at least one could still feel connected with humanity.

1) Gregor couldn’t communicate with his friends and family. He only makes garbled, inhuman noises; his speech was described as “an animal’s voice” (20). Gregor’s attempt to connect to his brethren in the midst of his suffering is futile. It is often misinterpreted as aggression, causing his loved ones to mistakenly fear him and lash out at him. At least people retain their communicative abilities with the outbreak of the Georgia Flu. 2) Our existence is defined by our possessions. Both novels assert this shallow truth. Since Gregor can no longer hold or grasp objects, he’s powerless when his mother and sister rearrange his furniture. Gregor clutches these items as final handholds on his humanity, questioning, “Was he really eager to let the warm room, comfortably furnished with pieces he had inherited, be turned into a cavern…[with a] quick and complete forgetting of his human past as well?” (54). The importance of objects is highlighted in Station Eleven with the Museum of Civilization, a gallery in which quotidian goods such as iPhones and credit cards are literally placed on pedestals. The apocalyptic Georgia Flu rendered such objects useless, but they still held sentimental value. If you were trapped in the body of an insect, you could no longer touch or manipulate these key items of your existence. 3) It’s hard to empathize with a cockroach. Especially if one is the only person to have ever inexplicably morphed into a cockroach. No one, not even Gregor’s family, knows how to approach the issue, and when his father realized he had tried to escape his bedroom, he was assuming that Gregor had committed some violent crime or other” (60). He then proceeded to go on a rampage against his own son, bludgeoning him with an apple that crippled him permanently. In the face of a global cataclysm, there is at least a sense of community. The survivors were united in their memories, and Kirsten, a protagonist of Station Eleven, “never entirely let go of the notion that if she reached far enough with her thoughts she might find someone waiting, that if two people were to cast their thoughts outward at the same moment they might somehow meet in the middle.” As the sole human-turned-insect, Gregor didn’t have that luxury. 4) You could still be an artist in the apocalypse. With a loss of manual and oral abilities comes a loss of the capacity to create. Gregor was limited to ruminating in his bedroom, whereas the Traveling Symphony in Station Eleven was a group of survivors that performed Shakespearean plays. Although one might expect that art would be discarded in such a state of desperation, the troupe runs on the mantra from Star Trek, “Because survival is insufficient,” painting it across their caravans. At least if one survives the apocalypse, they can feel the joy of generativity. 5) The world doesn’t stop for anyone. This may seem to be a trifle, but when Gregor, the breadwinner of the Samsa family, became incapacitated, his parents and sister still had to pick up the pieces, grinding away at menial labor. Thanks to the worldwide annihilation of the Georgia Flu, stressors such as student loan debt were stripped away (Tanya, the final girlfriend of protagonist Arthur Leander, was fretting over paying hers off the night of the outbreak). At least a global cataclysm would erase these petty problems! I’m being honest with this post. I’m demonstrating my selfishness. But I think it’s important to be truthful with ourselves, embracing our egocentricity as humans.

Post 4: Adapting The Perks of Being a Wallflower

•             What soundtrack decisions could help successfully recreate the themes of the book and reach its target audience?

The soundtrack has to include favorite songs by Charlie, Sam, and Patrick, as their common love for alternative, dark music cements their bond. Popular, more “mainstream” music would lump them in with preppy students like Charlie’s sister, who they don’t vilify but tend to avoid.

An example song could be “Asleep,” as Charlie includes it twice on the mixtape he makes Patrick for Christmas. Its gentle melancholy also characterizes Charlie’s mood throughout the novel as he struggles with his memories of Aunt Helen’s abuse, the dramas of his peers, and his attempts to navigate his first year of high school. Charlie is a passive character who tries not to make a scene, similar to the quiet pleads of the singer in “Asleep.” Sam urges Charlie to take action, saying he “can’t just sit there and put everybody’s lives ahead of [his].” Like the weary singer, Charlie prefers to quietly slip by than play an active role in his life.

David Bowie’s “Heroes” is essential for the scenes in which Charlie and Sam drive under the tunnel, as it was playing in those scenes during the book. The lyrics to that song describe an alliance between a man and a woman who rule the world like a king and queen, just as Charlie fantasizes about being Sam’s romantic and platonic partner. The act of driving under the tunnel symbolically unites them in such a bond, so it’s necessary that it stays in the film.

•             Which scenes are essential to keep in order to not change the heart of the film?

It’s important to keep every one of Charlie’s memories of his aunt Helen, as well as his memories of visiting her grave. Helen’s molestation of Charlie attributes to his depression, but the fact that he remained so loyal to her during her life and after death is all the more poignant. It casts Charlie as a truly empathetic, nonjudgmental, kind, and forgiving character. It is not only the abuse itself that scars him; it’s the conflict he feels between loathing his aunt for what she did and also feeling a special connection to her. That connection cuts even deeper as Charlie blames himself for her death, since she perished in a car accident when she was out buying him a birthday present. Charlie’s inner tumult causes him to gradually break down and eventually collapse, causing the climax of the book’s plot.

• What cuts might need to be made—whether it’s a scene, event, subplot, or minor character? What would have to be excluded in order to keep what’s most important?

I would cut the scenes of family holidays— while the antics of Charlie’s family are amusing (especially those of his drunken, bigoted grandpa), they aren’t essential to the book’s theme of finding your identity in high school and honestly don’t seem that original. Alcoholic, batty relatives are a common, easy device for a writer to use to get laughs, so I found those scenes rather bland and unspecific to the heart of the story. Although those scenes may enhance the relatability of Charlie’s character, the target teenage audience could empathize with his struggles enough without them (particularly his confrontations with depression, drugs, and partying). 

Book 1 Project: Fan Experience

The Pitch

When readers buy a special edition of Anthony Doerr’s All the Light We Cannot See, they will also receive a link and a QR code to the online virtual simulation of Daniel LeBlanc’s model cities. They can click through the cities to weave through their streets, following the paths Marie-Laure took to the Muséum National d'Histoire Naturelle de Paris, the bakery of Madame Ruelle, and the seaside grotto.

The Origin

Daniel LeBlanc made his daughter a model of St. Malo, and the miniature of Etienne’s house allows her a home base to orient herself around when she explores the outside world. It is the center of the world as she knows it, which is limited by her blindness. It’s also symbolic as the center of Daniel’s gift to Marie-Laure, and therefore, a symbol of the core of his deep devotion to her. Daniel tries to teach his daughter to be more independent with his model cities. He used to always lead Marie-Laure home from the museum in Paris, but one day, he encouraged her to guide him, saying, “I want you to think of the model, Marie” (36).

Daniel created the house also as a safe with a complex locking mechanism. In that safe, he stored the Sea of Flames, a precious diamond sought out by Nazi forces, especially Austrian gemologist von Rumpel. His pursuit of this diamond eventually leads to the novel’s climax, as he determines that the diamond is contained by the model house and is in Marie-Laure’s possession. The gemologist relentlessly hunts Marie-Laure, trapping her inside the attic. Meanwhile Werner, a young German soldier, decides to defend Marie-Laure since he enjoyed her grandfather’s radio broadcasts when he was a boy. At the pinnacle of the novel, he kills von Rumpel and helps Marie-Laure out of the city.

The fact that the house and the city are devoid of inhabitants is another important motif in the novel. As German soldiers begin to overwhelm St. Malo and to capture greater numbers of its insurgent citizens, Marie-Laure thinks that the coastal settlement “is slowly being remade into the model…streets sucked empty one by one” (274). The empty house and city serve as a ghostly facsimile that the true city starts to parallel with the influx of German occupation.

The model also supplements the book’s mystical, philosophical style, since Doerr implements it in his analogies. “What mazes there are in this world... the streets her father recreated in his models...None more complicated than the human brain, Etienne would say, what may be the most complex object in existence; one wet kilogram within which spin universes,” Doerr writes in awe of our species (452-453). He intends for the reader to marvel at his or her own serpentine mind by claiming that it’s even more intricate than Daniel Le Blanc’s model city. This analogy elevates the ethereal atmosphere of the novel. Doerr also often crafts his figurative language around the model of the house. As Marie-Laure flees Paris with her father, she senses its fragility, “as if all this time the city has been no more than a scale model built by her father and the shadow of a great hand has fallen over it” (71-72).

The Audience

                

             This experience would prolong fans’ devotion to the book, just as the Pottermore site has spurred on the Harry Potter following. It would grant them an interactive experience, allowing them to connect with Marie-Laure by virtually following in her footsteps. Readers who haven’t traveled to Paris or St. Malo may also be intrigued by a concrete image of it, especially since the models came prior to damage from World War II. This idea also highlights the historical aspect of the novel, educating its readers about early-mid 20^th century France. It could be incorporated into a teacher’s lesson plan. Perhaps, if the virtual model were very accurate, it could be featured on the History Channel, along with an analysis of the book’s historical references. Perhaps history buffs would be enticed to purchase a copy.

Model of Etienne’s house in St. Malo

Post 2: What is a book?

Interviewed by the Doppelganger of K.E. Hibner

What is a book?

A book is like the bubble window at the aquarium. You can fold your entire body into a swirling paracosm without being completely submerged in it, still breathing in the air likely conditioned at a cozy seventy-something degrees. At least, until the bubble breaks.

Less elegiac, please.

Okay. My technical definition of a book would be a form of storytelling relying on words and/or images, but not moving images with audio (that constitutes a movie). That definition encompasses the classic print novel, the audio book, the children’s picture book, and the graphic novel. But I’m open to contentions.

So where do you stand in the debate between the e-Book embracers and the traditionalists?

I straddle that spectrum. Ideally, I agree with the traditionalist perspective. I agree with Tom Piazza’s sentiment for the smell and texture of books, which allows them to “seriously impinge on your reality.” We retain information through sensory cues, so I believe the physical elements of a book enhance our reading experiences; we remember and interact with the story more completely. Also, the engine of the book distribution industry is the publishing house, so naturally I advocate for that illustrious, endangered species.

But we have to be realistic. The platform conversation is arbitrary— not only is the digitization of books now inevitable, the digitization of future generations and their habits is too. Thank goodness e-Books are following that trend, so our children can, as Joe Meno wrote, “still have the chance to engage in active imagining, translating word into image, connecting these images to memories, dreams, and larger ideas.” This activity is the basis of all types of innovation that can advance society. We need to shape up that creative muscle; we need to be “force[d] to complete [stories]” so we can expand our imaginations and therefore improve our reality. If posterity attaches their electronics to themselves like IV-tubes, at least those tubes will have a menu that can instantly direct them to an e-Book. It’s a lot simpler and quicker than buying and keeping track of a physical copy, God forbid.

Piazza would argue that you can’t give someone an e-Book.

Well fine, you can recommend books to one another on Goodreads. Not quite the same, I know, but the vacuum of digital conversation is just about to swallow all of us First World-ers. Digitization of books will allow them to further penetrate that chatter. It’s a little sneaky, in a way, like e-Books are double agents slinking into the other side.

I don’t follow.

Whatever, Doppelganger. Crawl back into your hole.

Why I Read

I primarily read to escape from reality. Although TV and movies can provide similar diversions, nothing can replace the immersive power of human imagination. You develop deeper attachments to stories and characters you helped develop with your own creativity. You can escape more completely when your mind is your vehicle.

I’m also fascinated by the English language itself. Reading both novels and poetry provides inspiration for my own writing by enhancing my vocabulary and introducing me to new topics and character dynamics to write about. Many of my poems are image-driven, so I’m always enlightened by new ways authors convert dry, monochromatic text into tangible, sensory experiences. F. Scott Fitzgerald mastered this in The Great Gatsby, as evidenced in this still from the film version of the novel:

Books also educate me about life in the past. I recently read East of Eden by John Steinbeck, and it detailed the strenuous labor of settlers in the American west. It also informed me of how cars were introduced to the general public, how Chinese immigrants were abused in the building of railroads, and how astounded people were by the onset of WWII. Books such as East of Eden educate me about my national heritage, allowing me to learn from past mistakes and have empathy for those I encounter in the present.