Written by poet Theodore Roethke, "Last Class" is a prose experiment that reads a lot like a really long poem, but is probably better classified as prose. I'm sure there are plenty of arguments for either side, but in the end, Roethke chose to format it as prose, so guess what, it's prose.
This is not my favorite form, but the experiment has merits. I personally didn't enjoy reading "Last Class" very much, because it was difficult to read. However, there is legitimacy is the poetic images Roethke creates throughout the piece which made the class in the story vivid and real. I especially liked the short descriptions of the different types of people in the class, like the quince, the bufflehead, and brain girl.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
Thought we were banished from poetry in this class...
Yeah, I know, it's not a poem. The style and word play and random, vivid imagery conjures thoughts and feels of poetry throughout; it is one long poet's monologue. But, despite it's heavy poetic feel, this story is still a story.
I don't get it. I tried. I think a sense of time would have helped. I'm not sure if this is his token "this whole thing was my own sick joke, now get out of here and go fuck yourselves if this is the first time you're catching on" speech that he gives on the last day of every class, or if this his own goodbye to his teaching career and this is how he chooses to go out. I'm not sure if the various faculty (The Creep, The Quince, Bullo, etc.) and students (Eulalea Mae, Patricia Jane, Hell-for-Stuff, etc.) are the categories into which he has placed individuals over the course of the semester or his career, or if they are specific individuals, as he refers to them with gender-specific pronouns. I never had a sense of the "when," and that bothered me.
On the one hand, I feel like the man's (I'm assuming the teacher in question is a man) lambasting his class openly for the first time in a way that he has been subtly for the duration of the time he has spent with both his students and his faculty peers. He talks about everyone's potential to have caught "some sly generous hint from the unconcious...from the side of my mouth," implying that despite what he was trying to do, something true, or at least genuine, slipped in there. Perhaps this is his own assault on the requirements of teaching a specific part of a specific curriculum to a specific sect of students? So perhaps he's saying "It's all bullshit. If you didn't catch it before now, you're an idiot. And if you didn't think I knew you were trying to play me, you're an idiot." It feels like the guy has a lot of bottled up malice and he finally explodes.
On the other hand, I get a sense of feelings of meaninglessness and worthlessness, that he's taught what he wanted and how he knew to the best of his abilities, but in his mind in never came out quite right, and was always received wrong. Perhaps, every once in awhile, someone was able to see the forest for the trees, to understand that a discussion and exploration of a long-ago-published sonnet can be the exact same as breaking down and understanding the self. But he can't openly say that. And I feel like maybe he wants to, maybe he's tortured and self-loathing for his refusal or fear or inability to do so, but regardless, he can't and this is only chance at a safe outlet.
This was a bitch to read. The playful, lyrical tone made me feel like I was constantly missing one thing for trying to remain focused on the image of something just-mentioned and then long-gone. But I liked it. The wit. The snarkiness. The repressed anger. The holier-than-thou attitude and judgement. He combined all of these human elements with the occasional concrete, vivid description, and despite the fact that we don't get any real scene, we still see something (albeit likely entirely different from one of us to the next) in our own heads. I thought it was an interesting approach.
I don't get it. I tried. I think a sense of time would have helped. I'm not sure if this is his token "this whole thing was my own sick joke, now get out of here and go fuck yourselves if this is the first time you're catching on" speech that he gives on the last day of every class, or if this his own goodbye to his teaching career and this is how he chooses to go out. I'm not sure if the various faculty (The Creep, The Quince, Bullo, etc.) and students (Eulalea Mae, Patricia Jane, Hell-for-Stuff, etc.) are the categories into which he has placed individuals over the course of the semester or his career, or if they are specific individuals, as he refers to them with gender-specific pronouns. I never had a sense of the "when," and that bothered me.
On the one hand, I feel like the man's (I'm assuming the teacher in question is a man) lambasting his class openly for the first time in a way that he has been subtly for the duration of the time he has spent with both his students and his faculty peers. He talks about everyone's potential to have caught "some sly generous hint from the unconcious...from the side of my mouth," implying that despite what he was trying to do, something true, or at least genuine, slipped in there. Perhaps this is his own assault on the requirements of teaching a specific part of a specific curriculum to a specific sect of students? So perhaps he's saying "It's all bullshit. If you didn't catch it before now, you're an idiot. And if you didn't think I knew you were trying to play me, you're an idiot." It feels like the guy has a lot of bottled up malice and he finally explodes.
On the other hand, I get a sense of feelings of meaninglessness and worthlessness, that he's taught what he wanted and how he knew to the best of his abilities, but in his mind in never came out quite right, and was always received wrong. Perhaps, every once in awhile, someone was able to see the forest for the trees, to understand that a discussion and exploration of a long-ago-published sonnet can be the exact same as breaking down and understanding the self. But he can't openly say that. And I feel like maybe he wants to, maybe he's tortured and self-loathing for his refusal or fear or inability to do so, but regardless, he can't and this is only chance at a safe outlet.
This was a bitch to read. The playful, lyrical tone made me feel like I was constantly missing one thing for trying to remain focused on the image of something just-mentioned and then long-gone. But I liked it. The wit. The snarkiness. The repressed anger. The holier-than-thou attitude and judgement. He combined all of these human elements with the occasional concrete, vivid description, and despite the fact that we don't get any real scene, we still see something (albeit likely entirely different from one of us to the next) in our own heads. I thought it was an interesting approach.
Undecided
As my title reas, I'm quite undecided on how I feel about last class. I think, overall, there are so very brilliant things in here, but at the same time there's a lot of "flab" in here that really keep the story from being great.
I'll start with the brilliant, which would absolutely have to be headlined be Roethke's second paragraph concerning the faculty. This paragraph is full of fantastic truths ("verbal about everything except what they know") and strong aliteration ("just plain nutty - at least aren't dull"). I believe what makes this part strong compared to other parts of the story (I do, however, think there are other parts that are just as strong) is there's nothing overdone. I don't feel overwhelmed as a reader, but at the same time I don't feel spoonfed. There's just enough going on where I do have to do some critical thinking in my comprehension, but I can still have a nice flow to my reading pace. I also really like particularly here how Roethke follows up this paragraph with the next where he does include himself and proclaims the we of the faculity, including himself in his harsh analization - which I find hilarious and honest.
The not-so-brilliant revolves around Roethke's pounding of adjectives and quick phrases throughout the story. For me, a lot of parts felt like a twisted piece of poetry rather than work of straight up prose. Probably the first page and a half of the story is very overwhelming. I felt like I had to stop much too often in order to gather what was being said and how it was being said. This caused me to lose interest, and it wasn't until my second reading that I had a sense of understanding with this story (honestly). Also, I felt a lot of this story was "forced" (if that makes sense) - that Roethke tried desperately in some places to create this ovewhelming voice. There's a certain arrogance I perceive from that which I don't like.
Overall, though, it was an interesting read. It definitely gave me a lot to think about.
I'll start with the brilliant, which would absolutely have to be headlined be Roethke's second paragraph concerning the faculty. This paragraph is full of fantastic truths ("verbal about everything except what they know") and strong aliteration ("just plain nutty - at least aren't dull"). I believe what makes this part strong compared to other parts of the story (I do, however, think there are other parts that are just as strong) is there's nothing overdone. I don't feel overwhelmed as a reader, but at the same time I don't feel spoonfed. There's just enough going on where I do have to do some critical thinking in my comprehension, but I can still have a nice flow to my reading pace. I also really like particularly here how Roethke follows up this paragraph with the next where he does include himself and proclaims the we of the faculity, including himself in his harsh analization - which I find hilarious and honest.
The not-so-brilliant revolves around Roethke's pounding of adjectives and quick phrases throughout the story. For me, a lot of parts felt like a twisted piece of poetry rather than work of straight up prose. Probably the first page and a half of the story is very overwhelming. I felt like I had to stop much too often in order to gather what was being said and how it was being said. This caused me to lose interest, and it wasn't until my second reading that I had a sense of understanding with this story (honestly). Also, I felt a lot of this story was "forced" (if that makes sense) - that Roethke tried desperately in some places to create this ovewhelming voice. There's a certain arrogance I perceive from that which I don't like.
Overall, though, it was an interesting read. It definitely gave me a lot to think about.
Roethke's "Last Class"
Whether Roethke’s Last Class was an endearing goodbye masked as a rough and harsh recounting of all the things the group had endured and the people they know or as a fictional salute to the young women—I have no clue. I read and re-read the first page so many times, and I still couldn’t for the life of me figure out what to make of it, what it meant, etc. I understand that, much like the title, this is the narrator’s last class to teach his group of students he’s watched blossom throughout the years, but why Roethke decides to be so vicious about it (if it is to be construed that way; I can also see it as a sarcastic joke) is beyond me.
Roethke’s images, to say the least, are unique and poignant and sharp to the eye. I can safely say I’ve never read something like, “Poems with all the charm (if they didn’t lay eggs) of aborted salamanders,” or “the female hill-billy that learned to count.” These descriptions paint such accurate pictures of the things they’re describing that it made me want to so desperately understand the overall attempt this piece was making, but, I just couldn’t get there. The only part that I really enjoyed or made true sense of, I should say, was the rundown of the individual faculty members and the names he gives to all of them. It’s plain to see, just by the language and tone, that between the narrator and the girls, these nicknames have special significance and portrays the particular person exactly. The same goes for the descriptions of the girls themselves. This makes me believe the narrator wants to leave the girls with tough skins, so to speak, but, maybe not.
I like Roethke's poetry immensely, and as for this piece, it wasn’t bad, and I’m sure there is some deeper significance in it somewhere, but presented as is, in this packet, standing alone, it just seemed strange and awkward, with pretty lines to cover up the mean edges.
Roethke’s images, to say the least, are unique and poignant and sharp to the eye. I can safely say I’ve never read something like, “Poems with all the charm (if they didn’t lay eggs) of aborted salamanders,” or “the female hill-billy that learned to count.” These descriptions paint such accurate pictures of the things they’re describing that it made me want to so desperately understand the overall attempt this piece was making, but, I just couldn’t get there. The only part that I really enjoyed or made true sense of, I should say, was the rundown of the individual faculty members and the names he gives to all of them. It’s plain to see, just by the language and tone, that between the narrator and the girls, these nicknames have special significance and portrays the particular person exactly. The same goes for the descriptions of the girls themselves. This makes me believe the narrator wants to leave the girls with tough skins, so to speak, but, maybe not.
I like Roethke's poetry immensely, and as for this piece, it wasn’t bad, and I’m sure there is some deeper significance in it somewhere, but presented as is, in this packet, standing alone, it just seemed strange and awkward, with pretty lines to cover up the mean edges.
Thought we were banished from poetry in this class...
Yeah, I know, it's not a poem. The style and word play and random, vivid imagery conjures thoughts and feels of poetry throughout; it is one long poet's monologue. But, despite it's heavy poetic feel, this story is still a story.
I don't get it. I tried. I think a sense of time would have helped. I'm not sure if this is his token "this whole thing was my own sick joke, now get out of here and go fuck yourselves if this is the first time you're catching on" speech that he gives on the last day of every class, or if this his own goodbye to his teaching career and this is how he chooses to go out. I'm not sure if the various faculty (The Creep, The Quince, Bullo, etc.) and students (Eulalea Mae, Patricia Jane, Hell-for-Stuff, etc.) are the categories into which he has placed individuals over the course of the semester or his career, or if they are specific individuals, as he refers to them with gender-specific pronouns. I never had a sense of the "when," and that bothered me.
On the one hand, I feel like the man's (I'm assuming the teacher in question is a man) lambasting his class openly for the first time in a way that he has been subtly for the duration of the time he has spent with both his students and his faculty peers. He talks about everyone's potential to have caught "some sly generous hint from the unconcious...from the side of my mouth," implying that despite what he was trying to do, something true, or at least genuine, slipped in there. Perhaps this is his own assault on the requirements of teaching a specific part of a specific curriculum to a specific sect of students? So perhaps he's saying "It's all bullshit. If you didn't catch it before now, you're an idiot. And if you didn't think I knew you were trying to play me, you're an idiot." It feels like the guy has a lot of bottled up malice and he finally explodes.
On the other hand, I get a sense of feelings of meaninglessness and worthlessness, that he's taught what he wanted and how he knew to the best of his abilities, but in his mind in never came out quite right, and was always received wrong. Perhaps, every once in awhile, someone was able to see the forest for the trees, to understand that a discussion and exploration of a long-ago-published sonnet can be the exact same as breaking down and understanding the self. But he can't openly say that. And I feel like maybe he wants to, maybe he's tortured and self-loathing for his refusal or fear or inability to do so, but regardless, he can't and this is only chance at a safe outlet.
This was a bitch to read. The playful, lyrical tone made me feel like I was constantly missing one thing for trying to remain focused on the image of something just-mentioned and then long-gone. But I liked it. The wit. The snarkiness. The repressed anger. The holier-than-thou attitude and judgement. He combined all of these human elements with the occasional concrete, vivid description, and despite the fact that we don't get any real scene, we still see something (albeit likely entirely different from one of us to the next) in our own heads. I thought it was an interesting approach.
I don't get it. I tried. I think a sense of time would have helped. I'm not sure if this is his token "this whole thing was my own sick joke, now get out of here and go fuck yourselves if this is the first time you're catching on" speech that he gives on the last day of every class, or if this his own goodbye to his teaching career and this is how he chooses to go out. I'm not sure if the various faculty (The Creep, The Quince, Bullo, etc.) and students (Eulalea Mae, Patricia Jane, Hell-for-Stuff, etc.) are the categories into which he has placed individuals over the course of the semester or his career, or if they are specific individuals, as he refers to them with gender-specific pronouns. I never had a sense of the "when," and that bothered me.
On the one hand, I feel like the man's (I'm assuming the teacher in question is a man) lambasting his class openly for the first time in a way that he has been subtly for the duration of the time he has spent with both his students and his faculty peers. He talks about everyone's potential to have caught "some sly generous hint from the unconcious...from the side of my mouth," implying that despite what he was trying to do, something true, or at least genuine, slipped in there. Perhaps this is his own assault on the requirements of teaching a specific part of a specific curriculum to a specific sect of students? So perhaps he's saying "It's all bullshit. If you didn't catch it before now, you're an idiot. And if you didn't think I knew you were trying to play me, you're an idiot." It feels like the guy has a lot of bottled up malice and he finally explodes.
On the other hand, I get a sense of feelings of meaninglessness and worthlessness, that he's taught what he wanted and how he knew to the best of his abilities, but in his mind in never came out quite right, and was always received wrong. Perhaps, every once in awhile, someone was able to see the forest for the trees, to understand that a discussion and exploration of a long-ago-published sonnet can be the exact same as breaking down and understanding the self. But he can't openly say that. And I feel like maybe he wants to, maybe he's tortured and self-loathing for his refusal or fear or inability to do so, but regardless, he can't and this is only chance at a safe outlet.
This was a bitch to read. The playful, lyrical tone made me feel like I was constantly missing one thing for trying to remain focused on the image of something just-mentioned and then long-gone. But I liked it. The wit. The snarkiness. The repressed anger. The holier-than-thou attitude and judgement. He combined all of these human elements with the occasional concrete, vivid description, and despite the fact that we don't get any real scene, we still see something (albeit likely entirely different from one of us to the next) in our own heads. I thought it was an interesting approach.
Last Class
Theodore Roethke's Last Class was a piece of prose that flirted with verse so hard she got turned on and helped lead the prose to the bedroom.
What I'm saying here is that the language used by Roethke to give the reader images as well as ideas was simply phenominal. For example, the description of the Faculty as "a community that so honors the creative it just sucks it right up bones, blood and all." This is very interesting, considering the paradoxial nature of creativity being taught in the first place. This creativity is "honored" within the school by those who teach it, by destroying it, bleeding it dry.
We go on to read about who comprises the faculty, descritptions such as "Bonwit Teller tough guys, drama boys...fugitives from the loony bin...toads, second-cousins" give the reader something to think about. The images are not immediately recognized. You don't see a toad, you get an idea of a person who is like a toad. The reader has to slow down to absorb this particular kind of language. My personal favorite descritpion of faculty: "poops and prophets."
The reader then goes on to receive descriptions of some of the faculty, such as The Creep. More poetic verse is used here to describe the Creep as being from the "Waltz-me-around-again-Heine-I-Hear-You-Calling-Cleanth school." Just typing that emphasizes how Roethke wants the reader to slow down and absorb his conveying verses.
This was an interesting read and gives good ideas (mind the pun) to apply to our future works.
What I'm saying here is that the language used by Roethke to give the reader images as well as ideas was simply phenominal. For example, the description of the Faculty as "a community that so honors the creative it just sucks it right up bones, blood and all." This is very interesting, considering the paradoxial nature of creativity being taught in the first place. This creativity is "honored" within the school by those who teach it, by destroying it, bleeding it dry.
We go on to read about who comprises the faculty, descritptions such as "Bonwit Teller tough guys, drama boys...fugitives from the loony bin...toads, second-cousins" give the reader something to think about. The images are not immediately recognized. You don't see a toad, you get an idea of a person who is like a toad. The reader has to slow down to absorb this particular kind of language. My personal favorite descritpion of faculty: "poops and prophets."
The reader then goes on to receive descriptions of some of the faculty, such as The Creep. More poetic verse is used here to describe the Creep as being from the "Waltz-me-around-again-Heine-I-Hear-You-Calling-Cleanth school." Just typing that emphasizes how Roethke wants the reader to slow down and absorb his conveying verses.
This was an interesting read and gives good ideas (mind the pun) to apply to our future works.
Last Class
I really enjoyed reading this piece. The language is a little dense but it it well written. However, I kept thinking that it would have been better read aloud or acted out. It just seems like one of those pieces that comes alive and needs to be out loud. I love the way it almost feels like an intellectual roast of a group of people. The inuslts are harsh and intelligent. But they are also playful at the same time. I think this piece was much better than the last one. I mean some of the word choices tripped me up like "beatific bestiality". He uses a lot of phrases that an average person wouldn't put together but he makes it work well. Once I slowed down and focused on some of the phrases I understood more. This is definitely not a piece you can just whiz through. He makes you slow down and savor his words. I like that. And I have to say that I loved the phrase "small-fry sadists". That was great. I did not understand everything he was mentioning but on the other hand I felt like this was a lot of inside jokes so maybe I wasn't meant to understand everything. It worked well for me.
Roethke
Out of all the stories we have read this semester, Roethke’s story is my favorite. I love how as the reader I am instantly forced into the story and given all the details I need in order to coherently follow the structure of the story. The structure and dialogue of the story is very well written, molding the ambiguity of the inner dialogue with that that has been said in such a way that the read doesn’t become “bogged down” in information.
The best part of the story is the different sections of the story. Each section has a subtitle and within that subtitle are simple words and phrases that describe what each section is about. I have never thought to experiment writing a story that is broken in to subtitles and allow for the subtitles to move the plot along. However, the only real plot development, as far as I can tell, is that of Eulalea Mae, although I’m not quite sure what her purpose is to the story.
I am still confused as to what the author wants to show with this story. What is the over all message? The beginning definition or phrase at the top of the story leads me to think of the story as going in one direction but when Eulalea Mae is finally mentioned, I become a lost for words. This reminds me of the Gerbil, yet it is safe to say that in both stories the Gerbil and Eulalea Mae serve as a catalyst for some thing, though I’m worried that catalyst is only to get us through the story.
I wouldn’t mind reading other stories by Roethke, though I’m worried that since I really liked this one, I probably wouldn’t like any of the other ones. Oh well.
The best part of the story is the different sections of the story. Each section has a subtitle and within that subtitle are simple words and phrases that describe what each section is about. I have never thought to experiment writing a story that is broken in to subtitles and allow for the subtitles to move the plot along. However, the only real plot development, as far as I can tell, is that of Eulalea Mae, although I’m not quite sure what her purpose is to the story.
I am still confused as to what the author wants to show with this story. What is the over all message? The beginning definition or phrase at the top of the story leads me to think of the story as going in one direction but when Eulalea Mae is finally mentioned, I become a lost for words. This reminds me of the Gerbil, yet it is safe to say that in both stories the Gerbil and Eulalea Mae serve as a catalyst for some thing, though I’m worried that catalyst is only to get us through the story.
I wouldn’t mind reading other stories by Roethke, though I’m worried that since I really liked this one, I probably wouldn’t like any of the other ones. Oh well.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
What I learned from "last class"
Roethke has successfully done what I have been trying to do for four stories. He does the no-quotations-dialogue, which makes it ambiguous whether someone is talking or thinking, blends inner monologue what’s going on in the story, and makes you sympathize with the character with its strong sense of first-person. His was appropriate and successful, while mine, as many of you have commented, often isn’t.
But now I have insight into why it sometimes work and sometimes doesn’t. I throw my no-quotation trick in with a vast menagerie of other literary devices, as well as actions and plot twists. Roethke’s, on the hand, takes up the entire story – it basically is the story. The entire piece is one big no-quotations trick.
Obviously, this serves to prevent confusion. There’s never time when you ask, “Is he speaking now, or thinking?” Secondly, his trick gets the opportunity to really blossom and make us laugh over and over again, because it doesn’t interfere with other things, ,or slow down what is happening.
Roethke’s story is not really a narrative in the conventional sense – there’s no story arc. He magnifies one single scene from the life of his character that probably played out in about 10 minutes. There are no actions that he has to rhythmically intertwine with his monologue. There is no grand theme that he must collectively point all of his dialogue in the direction of – the grand theme is inherently in the dialogue. He is not bogging down the story with his prose because there is no story to bog down.
And what little action does occur in the story, he pulls off through the dialogue: “As for you, Eulalea Mae – please rise when I name you individually.”
So he is free to insert as many jokes as he wants to. He piles them on top of one another, and they get better and better because they are so excessive. At no point do I yawn and say, “Where is this leading?” because I know it isn’t leading anywhere.
So that’s the lesson I learned from Roethke. If you are going to do the no-quotations trick, and blend inner monologue with verbal speech and action, inner monologue has to be a centric part of the project, if not the only part.
Friday, October 31, 2008
George Saudners' Jon
It took a few pages for me to get used to the language and style of George Saunders' story, and for the first few paragraphs, I was rather put off. There were so many which's and what's and this is, that is, which is , who is-- I got confused and had to slow myself from skimming a greater part of the story.
I kept reading though, and I was happy to see that Saunders' story, despite its awkward, albeit occasionally charming style choice, his characters were interesting, the narrative extremely original, and his off-the-cuff sense of humor was absolutely marvelous.
What really struck me in this story were the details. The trademark after Aurabon, little phrases like "baby belly," the stores and modern references, or even just the repetition of Baby Amber, made this piece seem more real, almost like I could imagine myself in the facilities and doing the assessments on Ginger-Diet Coke.
I will say, since there wasn't a whole lot of exposition, I was a little confused on what exactly was taking place, or rather where everything was taking place, but I also think that added to the story. The point of the piece, I'm still trying to figure out. I get the brainwashing and the idea of utopian society through marketing and conformity, but, well, that's all I get.
The part about a man being called a rabbit when he was once a lion, the use of dude throughout the piece, and just, the odd bits-- this story really baffled me, and I can't quite get my head around it, but I enjoyed it. I was really pulling for Jon and Carolyn too.
I kept reading though, and I was happy to see that Saunders' story, despite its awkward, albeit occasionally charming style choice, his characters were interesting, the narrative extremely original, and his off-the-cuff sense of humor was absolutely marvelous.
What really struck me in this story were the details. The trademark after Aurabon, little phrases like "baby belly," the stores and modern references, or even just the repetition of Baby Amber, made this piece seem more real, almost like I could imagine myself in the facilities and doing the assessments on Ginger-Diet Coke.
I will say, since there wasn't a whole lot of exposition, I was a little confused on what exactly was taking place, or rather where everything was taking place, but I also think that added to the story. The point of the piece, I'm still trying to figure out. I get the brainwashing and the idea of utopian society through marketing and conformity, but, well, that's all I get.
The part about a man being called a rabbit when he was once a lion, the use of dude throughout the piece, and just, the odd bits-- this story really baffled me, and I can't quite get my head around it, but I enjoyed it. I was really pulling for Jon and Carolyn too.
I'd like to write this in commercialized form...
...but I don't think I'm that brainwashed yet.
This piece was an interesting mix of science fiction and social commentary, yes. In a nutshell, as I understood it, the characters live in a futuristic America composed of the Haves, those totally owned and subservient to the consumer culture, and the Have Nots, the average Joes that aren't brainwashed by the commercialization of society and don't enjoy the same comforts as their counterparts.
Saunders' choice of voice for the narrator grew on me. Initially, I had no idea whether the narrator was a child, teen, or adult, whether he was fully competent or somewhat retarded, and why he kept referring to LI's. I still don't know how old he is suppose to be, and I don't know what would constitute "mental retardation" in this society, as everyone seems to be, in their own way, mentally deficient. But after awhile it didn't bother me; I just took Jon/Randy for the entity that he is, a confused man in a transitional period in his life.
I thought this society was an interesting setting for a coming-of-age tale. And while I certainly think that Saunders was condemning how commercialized our own society is (children sold into luxurious slavery by incapable parents and raised on consumer comforts, I agree, that's fucked), I feel like the crux of his story was Jon's choice. We recognize and empathize with his feelings of fear and anxiety, happiness and comfort, and we pull for him to do the "right" thing, make the scary choice, and get the fuck out of there.
If nothing else, this was unique. I like that Saunders took such a random-yet-well-planned course to write about simple (but obviously complex) human emotion and feeling. It's something I think I'll try soon in my own work.
This piece was an interesting mix of science fiction and social commentary, yes. In a nutshell, as I understood it, the characters live in a futuristic America composed of the Haves, those totally owned and subservient to the consumer culture, and the Have Nots, the average Joes that aren't brainwashed by the commercialization of society and don't enjoy the same comforts as their counterparts.
Saunders' choice of voice for the narrator grew on me. Initially, I had no idea whether the narrator was a child, teen, or adult, whether he was fully competent or somewhat retarded, and why he kept referring to LI's. I still don't know how old he is suppose to be, and I don't know what would constitute "mental retardation" in this society, as everyone seems to be, in their own way, mentally deficient. But after awhile it didn't bother me; I just took Jon/Randy for the entity that he is, a confused man in a transitional period in his life.
I thought this society was an interesting setting for a coming-of-age tale. And while I certainly think that Saunders was condemning how commercialized our own society is (children sold into luxurious slavery by incapable parents and raised on consumer comforts, I agree, that's fucked), I feel like the crux of his story was Jon's choice. We recognize and empathize with his feelings of fear and anxiety, happiness and comfort, and we pull for him to do the "right" thing, make the scary choice, and get the fuck out of there.
If nothing else, this was unique. I like that Saunders took such a random-yet-well-planned course to write about simple (but obviously complex) human emotion and feeling. It's something I think I'll try soon in my own work.
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