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Magical Marquez

My assignment this week was to read “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings”. This is the only story I have ever read by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and I loved it for its sadness. I read an obituary written for Mr. Garcia Marquez, by Johnathan Kindell in April of 2014 for the New York Times. He says that Garcia Marquez is the “master of the literary genre of his own creation known as magical realism, in which the miraculous and the real converge” (Kindell NYT 2014).

In this story, a winged man shows up from out of nowhere. He is dirty, and missing most of his teeth, and also a goodly portion of the feathers from his wings. Pelayo and Elisenda, the couple which are visited by the man are, at first, troubled by his appearance, but easily recover when the notion to capitalize occurs.

My heart cries a little for the man with wings. He showed up in a rainstorm, and was quickly relegated to the chicken coop where he was poked and prodded and pestered and even burned with a branding iron. The last of which caused the people to finally realize that his passivity was more likely “cataclysm in repose” (Marquez par. 8). I feel a closeness with the supposed angel that extends from my belief that if I were graced with the presence of a guardian angel, he would look much like the man in this story.

His presence causes great blessing for his hosts. Because of his existence, the family is able to build a newer, bigger home. In spite of this, he seems to be more of a nuisance than an asset. He is driven from the house with the swish of a broom, and given little comfort, but for a blanket and a shed.

In the end, he hides his new feathers and the song on his heart from those who might take them from him. He gathers up his might, and takes on a clumsy flight and makes his way toward the horizon to the relief of Elisenda and to myself.

In the obituary I read, Kindell said that “In [Garcia Marquez’s] novels and stories, storms rage for years, flowers drift from the skies, tyrants survive for centuries, priests levitate and corpses fail to decompose. And, more plausibly, lovers rekindle their passion after a half-century apart” (Kindell NYT).  I think I love this man. He seems to suit my deep need for really good fiction. I hope to read more of him soon.

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Modern Women

This week in my literature class we read “The Yellow Wall-paper” by Charlotte Perkins Stetson, “A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner, and “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been” by Joyce Carol Oates. The primary characters in these stories share one glaring similarity. None of them have any control over their lives. As far as the women in the 1st two stories go, they were positioned in a time period when women had no implication of control over their lives; however, Connie in “Where Are You Going…” was written in a time of liberation for women. She feels as though she does have some say in what happens to her, but in this story it simply is not so.

My frustration raged while I read this story. I attempted to will poor Connie to tell Arnold Friend to kiss off, lock-up the house, and hide away with a big knife. But it’s not my story, and like Connie, I have no say.

In class, Professor talked about Cult of Personality, or the charismatic draw possessed by Arnold’s character, and how some people just have a way about them that makes it nearly impossible to resist them. From an outward point of view, it seems easy to say that there is no way that I would be fooled by this kind of charm, but then again, I did marry my 1st husband, of my own free will……

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Hemingway. Who knew?

I just finished week 2 in my Lit class. I can now add Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ernest Hemingway to my list. So far I’ve learned about theme, exposition (when and where), climax, and even hubris (pride to a fault). This is an ancient idea that seems to be ever so prevalent in this day and age.

I read Hills like White Elephants, by Hemingway and it’s a thinker. An American Man and the Girl that is with him are at a train station and they are trying, unsuccessfully, not to have a serious discussion about a simple operation that she should, or should not, have in order for him to continue loving her and so they can get along again. I can tell from the man’s tone that he thinks it is the best option, but he doesn’t want her to feel like he forced her to do it. She is leaning heavy on the fence about it and does not seem ready to make a decision, and she is in no mood to discuss it any further. This was easy to discern because she says to him “please please please please please please please stop talking.”

The professor gave the class a disclaimer for Hemingway before he showed up on the homework schedule, but after my 1st reading of this short story I had absolutely no idea what type of operation the couple is discussing. My classmate suggested that it is abortion, and all at once it became obvious. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that it never even crossed my mind as a possible topic. Now though, I’m intrigued. I can now picture Jig; she’s wearing trousers and a silk blouse, insecure but not too feminine, intelligent but not yet wise. 

Professor says that Hemingway tends to write in feminist overtones. I think I need more…..

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You’re never too new to read something old.

It is quite possible that I have read nearly a thousand books in my life. Two of my old favorites, The Little Red Hen and Stone Soup, came to mind recently when my daughter announced that our family is growing. Over the years, my hobby has been fueled by the innumerable volumes of pop-fiction offered at my local library.

In 2011, when this same daughter entered high school, her English teacher sent her home with To Kill a Mockingbird. She had no interest in reading it, whatsoever. When she laid the book on the coffee table, my heart sang a little. I had to read that book.

I finished it in two afternoons, and for a moment I considered starting at the beginning all over again. Instead, I went to the library and made my way to those shelves tucked away in the back corner of the building and within the week I was hooked. Since that time, I have read several books by John Steinbeck and Mark Twain, some Robert Frost poetry and a whole stack of V.C Andrews; I read anything I could find that was written by an author that seemed familiar. Some books were really good, and some took real effort to finish.

I’ve been in community college for 2 years, and during the school semester, the only reading I manage to accomplish is academic. Imagine my luck now, I’ve found myself in a literature class. It’s kind of scary to tell you the truth. I don’t know the first thing about what is good or no good, but my professor says that all opinions are valid, as long as they’re well thought out.

How Wonderful……