Conspicuous Covers

Occasionally, in specific circumstances, I become highly aware of the seemingly inappropriate cover or title of certain books. At an Obama rally in Fall 2009, I happened to be reading George Fredrickson's White Supremacy for a class as we waited in line. Of course, the full title reads White Supremacy: a Comparative Study in American and South African History, but the aesthetically-minded individual who designed the cover seemed to overlook the fact that perhaps some readers would feel uncomfortable with the bold, white words "white supremacy" highlighted against a black background, the subtitle subtly placed below. It did not help that my friend was reading a book on education and democracy in America, the cover depicting smiling children who were eager to learn and, presumably, had left the concept of white supremacy far behind. I wanted to tell people, as they glanced at me and averted their eyes, that only weeks later I would be reading Fredrickson's complementary text, Black Liberation. (Or, to be more precise, Black Liberation: A Comparative History of Black Ideologies in the United States and South Africa).

Luckily, incriminating titles have not troubled me lately. Rather, unambiguous, seemingly neutral titles have elicited more impassioned reactions. A friend observed, "The Mabinogi and Other Medieval Welsh Tales? Why are you reading Medieval Welsh Tales?!"

Unlikely Nostalgia

I never thought I would say it, but I miss the fog-dense Lima air, moist with car exhaust, heavier than the backpack on my shoulders, pacifying in its consistency. I miss the walks back and forth between my sister's house and my apartment, when the density of the climate pressed on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. After the first month or so, when the streets had become familiar, I began to read while I walked, weaving through the crowds in Plaza Kennedy, enthralled in the twisted family dynamics of Gabriel García Márquez's Cien años de soledad. And although the book was set in Colombia, I never left Lima--the climate kept me grounded; the air held me in place. Instead, I moved the Buendía family to Peru and shrouded their suffering in the gray ocean fog of Lima. As I walked through the streets toward my sister's house, cold with moisture that never materialized, I danced along the line of dual existence that literature alone can offer.

And now, in the crisp October air of Minnesota, I miss the weight of Lima's winters and the texture of books damp with fog. This unlikely nostalgia is just the symptom of a deeper longing: I miss the moment when my sister would open the door for me, her smile shattering the unceasing gloom, the warmth of her hug scolding away the weather.

I know it's been too long since I've read for fun when...

...I start to consider Derrida's writing literature.
...my favorite book of the semester is The Scarlet Letter.
...the only character with whom I can even remotely establish a connection is the woman who kills her children in the Saga of the Volsungs.
...I begin to think of ways in which to fictionalize scholarly articles and develop them into engaging novels.
...I consider New York Times articles on drug-related violence in Mexico "fun reading."
...I look longingly at a visiting parent's copy of Freedom by Jonathan Franzen.
...I feel like Medieval Welsh tales are an indulgence.

The Convergence of Medieval Literature and Human Rights

One of the most delightful aspects of college is the ways in which the content of one class overlaps and intersects with that of another. Admittedly, I did not expect to find such striking connections between my political science classes (Transitional Justice and Global Governance) and my English class, Medieval Heroic Narrative.

It was not until I began puzzling over Beowulf for my paper that I started to think, Hm...early humanitarian intervention. Beowulf goes to other nations to defend innocent civilians...from monsters. Later, Havelok the Dane, a gruesome, violent piece of literature, exemplified the importance of due process and legitimate justice: "Havelok commanded that no one should beat or do him shame, until the knight had righteously doomed him" (308). The hero states, "Justice spares neither clerk nor knight;" this evocation of equality before the law seems hopeful, promising (309). Of course, the (justly-determined) punishment situates us clearly in the realm of Medieval horrors: "They condemned Godrich to be bound endwise on a filthy ass, with his head to the tail, and in shameful dress....to be bound to a stake with a great fire about, until he was burned to dust" (309). These Medieval texts include compensation in gold for past injuries and elaborate funerals for the victims as a concession to the living relatives. I thought of monetary reparations and the construction of monuments and memorials today.

My expectation that there should not be an overlap between human rights-related topics and Medieval literature was based on glaring ignorance about the violence of the time period. As I continue to read these narratives, I am beginning to understand that, even in the absence of official, international human rights law and language, mass killings and atrocious violence have always raised the same question: What now?

The First Lines

The first lines of Faulkner, like the last sips of a strong cup of coffee, demand dedication. Like the thin layer of unwanted, lukewarm liquid, speckled with grounds that slipped around the filter, at the bottom of the mug, the first lines of Faulkner lie cold, uninviting, almost daring. And yet they promise, as the most bitter coffee promises, a rare intensity, a tangible shock to the palate.

The first lines of Go Down, Moses are no different. They are a challenge, an incomplete sentence, seemingly inconsiderate to the reader and yet somehow deeply deferential to her intelligence:
"Isaac McCaslin, 'Uncle Ike', past seventy and nearer eighty than he ever corroborated any more, a widower now and uncle to half a county and father to no one"

This morning, more dedicated to Faulkner than to coffee, I leave the layer of bitterness in my cup and open my book.

A Cop-out

Because Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon left me speechless and dazed, because of the unbearable intensity of every sentence, I cannot begin to write about it.

So, I will comment on a piece of wisdom in the foreword:
Morrison deconstructs the opening sentence of the novel, stating that "the sentence turns, as all sentences do, on its verb."
There you have it. The English professor's mantra: Avoid the passive.

The Aftermath

The professors do not ask about the aftermath.
After the papers are printed and turned in, I am left to clean up the mess I have made of my relationship with the texts. Sterne's A Sentimental Journey looks at me indignantly--we exchange dialogue.

SJ: It wasn't enough just to read me? You had to write about it? You picked me apart, plastered me with green post-it notes, misquoted and misinterpreted my language, claimed to understand me...and now you want everything to be okay?
Me, almost in tears: I'm sorry; I had to. It was supposed to deepened our relationship--I learned things about you I didn't know before.
SJ: You don't know me. Don't pretend to know me.

These conversations proceed endlessly, a result of the anxiety, the coffee, and an irreparable transformation in my interaction with the books I have chosen to write about. I am searching for the hours after I read the final pages, my most authentic experience of the text, but they have been replaced by hours of planning, quoting, and analyzing. I am searching for the spontaneous laughter and the unfeigned shock of the first time, but I have turned them into phrases about "comic wordplay" and "unexpected instances of sentimentality."
A Sentimental Journey looks at me unforgivingly: You sacrificed our relationship for a six-page paper.