Month: March 2006

The Cage

Truman CapoteWhile many suppose — and perhaps rightly so — that Holly Golightly is the protagonist of Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I have been intrigued with the narrator in my reading this time. I noticed that the narrator plays down his role in the novella, acting passive and journatistic and not bringing much attention to himself. I think this fact is what piqued my interest this time; that, and his interest in the cage — something I didn’t really catch till my most recent reading.

First of all, the novella is written in first-person. As a sometimes composition teacher, I frequently tell my students that their choice to write from a particular point of view says much about how their work will be perceived. For example, one of the reasons that the academy stresses the third-person is its suggesting of objectivity in its concentration on the object discussed, not the predilections of the writer. In writing in first-person, Capote draws attention to his narrator and his personality even while pretending to mitigate its influence on the story.

The narrator becomes fascinated with Holly immediately, becoming almost a stalker and definitely a voyeur: “I went out into the hall and leaned over the banister, just enough to see without being seen” (12). Why? There’s something he admires about Holly — something that he sees as a deficiency in himself? This distinction can be seen by the narrator’s attraction to the bird cage that he spies in the window of an antique store. Like Holly, the cage is elaborate and ostentatious: “a palace of a bird cage, a mosque of minarets and bamboo rooms yearning to be filled with talkative parrots” (15). He wants to buy the cage, but can’t afford the $350 price. He later takes Holly to see the cage, and she enjoys “its fantasy,” stating “But still, it’s a cage” (55). Holly later purchases the cage for the narrator as a present:

“But, Holly! It’s dreadful!”
“I couldn’t agree more, but I thought you wanted it.”
“The money! Three hundred and fifty dollars!”
She shrugged. “A few extra trips to the powder room. Promise me, though. Promise you’ll never put a living thing in it.” (59)

His “dreadful” (the price) is not the same as her “dreadful” (the cage itself). Even though the fantasy of the cage is elaborate, Holly sees it as still a cage. Holly knows that even the most wonderful fantasies can become cages — perhaps are always already cages that seek to impose another’s desires and ideas while crushing individuality. For example, Holly escapes from O.J. Berman, just as she is about to become a star. She seems to realize at the last moment, that even the life of a Hollywood celebrity would limit — cage — her life in ways that would limit her freedom and individuality.

Even someone’s love for another is cage-like. The novel is full of ideas about possession, and Holly’s attempts to avoid them. This idea might be best exemplified by her refusal to name her cat:

She was still hugging the cat. “Poor slob,” she said, tickling his head, “poor slob without a name. It’s a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven’t any right to give him one: he’ll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don’t belong to each other: he’s an independent, and so am I. I don’t want to own anything until I know I’ve found the place where me and things belong together. I’m not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it’s like.” (39)

Holly resists the idea of belonging throughout the novel, even warning Joe Bell not to fall in love with a “wild thing” (74). However, the very act of living with people brings a domestication — compels one to be responsible to a community, to be sensitive to others’ feelings, to shape oneself to fit in. It only seems to be a matter of time before attachments come along. While Holly refuses to give the cat a name, she names the narrator right off. Why? Her giving the nameless narrator the name of her soon-to-be-dead brother Fred (it is inconvenient otherwise), she puts him in a cage and determines the nature of their relationship. Perhaps, she felt that comfortable bond of siblings with the narrator right off. There are some cages that we cannot avoid; perhaps there are some cages that are necessary to function in a community.

The narrator goes to great lengths to make himself reporterly. That is, many find him almost a non-entity, lacking self-esteem, and rather boring. However, there are tantalizing clues to the narrator’s life beyond the narrative which also supply a justification for his self-effacement. The critic Tyson Pugh argues that little attention has been given to the narrator’s homosexuality. The narrator seems to understand the necessity — unlike his mordant portraits of Rusty Trawler and Quaintance Smith — of remaining closeted if he is to remain employed and find success as a writer. Perhaps because of Holly’s influence, the narrator develops his own case of “mean reds” and loses his job because of an “amusing misdemeanor” that he does recount (75). Whatever this means, it seems to suggest that he is not acting the way he should by letting his real personality out of the the cage.

Another episode that betrays the narrator’s personality is during his altercation with Holly. Since the narrator met O.J. Berman, the Hollywood agent, Holly has been trying to set them up in order to further the former’s career. Holly insults his writing: “Trembling leaves. Description. It doesn’t mean anything” (62). He resists the urge to hit her, and asks what she feels would mean something.

“Wuthering Heights,” she said, without hesitation.
The urge in my hand was growing beyond control. “But that’s unreasonable. You’re talking about a work of genius.”
“It was, wasn’t it? My wild sweet Cathy. God, I cried buckets. I saw it ten times.”
I said, “Oh” with recognizable relief, “oh” with a shameful, rising inflection, “the movie.” (62)

Another disparity: she, while sharp, precocious, and sophisticated, is a product of popular culture, something that the narrator, upholding a waning literary culture, disdains. This disagreement provides a springboard to him to criticize other aspects of Holly’s life that he finds disagreeable, like her relationship with Rusty Trawler. The narrator’s judgments seek to control and perhaps educate Holly in the lessons that he feels are valuable, delineating a cultural cage. She will have none of it.

But while the narrator lets himself out, Holly is slowly crawling into one with her love for José. Yet, cages work both ways. While Holly seeks to avoid belonging to anyone, she gets the reputation of a lose woman. She realizes the consequences of this perception too late: José’s conservative world cannot encompass Holly’s liberal one. She is left to keep searching for her place of belonging.

While the narrator is pretty successful in keeping attention focused on Holly, the novella is just as much about his growth as it is hers. However, at the beginning of the novella, he seems jaded and cynical, as if he’s still searching for his own Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He rushes to Joe Bell’s bar, perhaps hoping to be inspired once again by Holly, yet finds her as elusive as ever. Chasing Holly gives him only bittersweet feelings: he cannot bring himself, like Joe, to romanticize her on-going travels. Perhaps the writer in him longs to cage her in his narrative, something that Holly does manage to avoid.

Work Cited

  • Pugh, Tison. “Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” The Explicator 6.1 (Fall 2002): 51-53.

Notes on Realism

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he main objective of any good writer is in distinguishing the “actual” from the “real,” and then discovering what relation, if any, they have to one another. The former is defined as what everyone perceives through his/her sensory organs; the “actual” is subjective, and therefore different for everyone. The latter is what is truly real, i.e. the undistorted, intrinsic features of objects and beings. The “actual” is in constant flux, and therefore the mind must adapt with its interminable change. For the realists, the “real” and the “actual” are closer together than they are for other writers.

In realism, the actual is the real. Reality can be observed empirically and logically. Realism was facilitated as a reaction to romanticism. And, instead of dealing with the extraordinary, its subject matter is everyday life, the common and ordinary. It presents a balanced, proportioned view of nature and people. Realism, in its broadest sense, is fidelity to actuality in its representation and must needs exclude idealism. Where romanticists transcend the immediate to find the ideal, and naturalists plumb the actual or superficial to find the scientific laws that control its actions, the realists center their attention to a remarkable degree on the immediate, the here and now, the specific action, and the verifiable consequence. Generally, realists are believers in pragmatism.

Twain’s Life on the Mississippi typified what the realist sets out to accomplish. The River is a symbol of reality in nature, it is an ever-changing flux that must be learned an adapted to without any romantic projections. One must always “take a fresh look” to be on top of changing actuality. One must let nature adapt the mind to reality; the one who truly knows is the one who has adapted to the capriciousness of nature. The only final lesson is that there is no final reality, only ceaseless adaptation.

If the cub is to be a successful river-boat pilot, he must learn the true shape of the river, not the illusion of the shape created by the senses, not the appearance but the reality. “No! you learn the shape of the river; and you learn it with such absolute certainty that you can always steer by the shape that’s in your head, and never mind the one that’s before your eyes” (54). Reality is gleaned through the senses but must not be distorted by the senses. “It is an instinct. By and by you will just naturally know one from the other, but you never will be able to explain why or how you know them apart” (63). Yet the cub’s aesthetic sensibilities are destroyed by his training to see beyond the surfaces. Does knowledge destroy beauty?

The knowledge of the reality behind the surfaces does not destroy the beauty of nature for Huck. Huck is aware of the realistic beauty of nature — he is the middle ground between surface and actuality. He presents both appearance and reality in an unaffected language — beauty is in all of the facets of nature: beauty and terror, appearance and reality. Huck is not a victim of Claude-glass ideals nor pragmatic empiricism, but he is a combination of both in an innocent acceptance.

So like Melville’s Ahab, the cub apprentice is only concerned with penetrating beyond the surface to the reality beyond. And, like Ahab, there is no turning back; he has sacrificed, according to Ahab, “low enjoyment” for a “higher perception.” But beauty can lurk in all of its gloriously imperfect actuality: “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.” To Huck nature was neither an object of beauty nor the raw material of process; rather it was both, therein lies the beauty.

Twain attack false values within Huckleberry Finn. Society represents false, preconceived values; formulas and stereotypes dictates life on the shore. The river offered escape from these erroneous views of life and presented a new, more human, reality. This can be seen through the progression of the Huck’s and Jim’s relationship. Jim becomes a human being to Huck, rather than property — a “value” defined by the shore. Huck’s sound heart battles against his deformed conscience, a conscience nourished by society. Huck truly believes he is going to Hell because he does not turn Jim in, yet his acceptance of this is proof of his defeat over society’s influence.

Henry James was also concerned with false, assumed values. In Daisy Miller, James pits the consciousness of self against societal comme il faut. Winterbourne is a product of Geneva (“the little capital of Calvinism”) and is governed by formulas, original sin, and has no freedom of mind and heart. He could not accept the spontaneity and the freedom of heart and mind of Daisy; they both become victims of his preconceptions. Is she innocent? is all that Winterbourne cares about, for she appears otherwise. Yet appearances are deceiving, for she was “The most innocent!” He could not grasp the nature of the object to be loved, Daisy, without resulting to his formulas. Winterbourne learns nothing; the lesson was seen externally, he did not discover it himself within his own consciousness.

Marcher, from “The Beast in the Jungle,” lived life in the drawing room rather that real life through experience. The beast is the realization that he has lived the un-lived life. Yet, unlike Winterbourne, Marcher realizes within himself that she missed living by not seeing May’s love for him. The irony is in the fact that he has waited his whole life for some romantic “it” to happen — there never was any beast, or jungle, or true life.

Huckleberry Finn is the epitome of a realistic character. Unlike Tom Sawyer, Huck tests things to see if they are viable. The facts validate the action. Formulas and stereotypes distort the mind and heart — one must move away from those preconceptions to actualize from realistic experiences. Huck has a sound heart wrestling with a deformed conscience; dialect versus “cultural” language; river life versus shore life.

Some Notes on the Devil

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] have often been fascinated by the devil. Upon hearing the word “evil,” many simply turn off, not wanting to hear anymore. Aren’t we, as good people, supposed to shun evil; do our best to destroy it; rebuke it; cast it down? For that’s what God did to his chief angel, Lucifer, and in turn, what Satan did to humanity. Indeed, humanity does not want to negate creation and the endeavors of humanity, but the much of what brings about the grandeur and greatness of humanity lies in its ability to challenge what is, even if it means the occasional revolution and destruction of systems and orders which no longer fit. Lucifer means “light bringer,” and I find that in many literary manifestations of the fallen archangel, he still fulfills that function.

In The Master and Margarita, Bulgakov’s Satanic incarnation, Woland, takes on this role. At one point, he sounds very similar to Goethe’s Mephistopheles when he states: “Think, now: where would your good be if there were no evil, and what would the world look like without shadow?” (348). Similarly, Mephistopheles states — in answer to Faust’s furtive who are you? — “A humble part of that great power / Which always means evil, always does good” (ll. 1119-20). Evil becomes, then, an integral part of God’s universal design, perhaps put best by Goethe’s Lord himself:

[quote]Man’s very quick to slacken his effort,
What he likes best is Sunday peace and quiet;
So I’m glad to give him a devil–for his own good,
To prod and poke and incite him as a devil should. (ll. 102-05)[/quote]

There’s a great irony here: at the center of Christianity and how I’ve observed it working here in the States is a duty to abolish all evil. There seems to be an intolerance among many that cannot — will not — hear of anything but what they consider orthodox, like the respect that a president should be given, or the belief in values in the face of everything. Perhaps they are correct, but the fun part is seeing their reaction to the light. The light, in this case, is that which is uncomfortable, different, contrary. While there are those that suggest that the devil stand for negation — and in some sense, this must be true — but he also needs to be seen as a necessary component for allowing humanity to strive for excellence. The evil in this view, then, is laziness and apathy. I would also add complacency and self-righteousness.

The devil has a lot of work to do.

I have often been fascinated by the devil. Upon hearing the word “evil,” many simply turn off, not wanting to hear anymore. Aren’t we, as good people, supposed to shun evil; do our best to destroy it; rebuke it; cast it down? For that’s what God did to his chief angel, Lucifer, and in turn, what Satan did to humanity. Indeed, humanity does not want to negate creation and the endeavors of humanity, but the much of what brings about the grandeur and greatness of humanity lies in its ability to challenge what is, even if it means the occasional revolution and destruction of systems and orders which no longer fit. Lucifer means “light bringer,” and I find that in many literary manifestations of the fallen archangel, he still fulfills that function.

In The Master and Margarita, Bulgakov’s Satanic incarnation, Woland, takes on this role. At one point, he sounds very similar to Goethe’s Mephistopheles when he states: “Think, now: where would your good be if there were no evil, and what would the world look like without shadow?” (348). Similarly, Mephistopheles states – in answer to Faust’s furtive who are you? – "A humble part of that great power / Which always means evil, always does good” (ll. 1119-20). Evil becomes, then, an integral part of God’s universal design, perhaps put best by Goethe’s Lord himself:

Man’s very quick to slacken his effort,
What he likes best is Sunday peace and quiet;
So I’m glad to give him a devil–for his own good,
To prod and poke and incite him as a devil should. (ll. 102-05)

There’s a great irony here: at the center of Christianity and how I’ve observed it working here in the States is a duty to abolish all evil. There seems to be an intolerance among many that cannot – will not – hear of anything but what they consider orthodox, like the respect that a president should be given, or the belief in values in the face of everything. Perhaps they are correct, but the fun part is seeing their reaction to the light. The light, in this case, is that which is uncomfortable, different, contrary. While there are those that suggest that the devil stand for negation – and in some sense, this must be true – but he also needs to be seen as a necessary component for allowing humanity to strive for excellence. The evil in this view, then, is laziness and apathy. I would also add complacency and self-righteousness.

The devil has a lot of work to do.