The Fortress of Solitude

Review

My coworker, the very delightful writer and media critic Dan Carlson at Slowly Going Bald, lent me his copy of Jonathan Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude after discovering my fondness for postmodernism and comic books. He said he thought I’d enjoy it, and…well…he said right.

The narrative centers around protagonist Dylan Ebdus coming of age as one of the only Caucasian children in a predominantly African-American Brooklyn neighborhood, tracing his life from his “fat, podlike, Tweedledee” (6) childhood self to a thoroughly confused but ultimately satisfied adult. Ostensibly a superhero story, the core tenets of the genre serve more as a largely effective support of the overarching – and very human – themes rather than narrative ends in and of themselves. As Ebdus grows up alongside companions Mingus Rude and Arthur Lomb, he finds himself embroiled in issues such as parental abandonment, race relations, the flexibility of human sexuality, gentrification, and drugs. And all along the way, he discovers how the stories present in his favorite comic books and music have their own parallels within the societies and imaginations they spring from.

To me, that is exactly why I found the book such an engrossing read. As a fan of superhero stories, I appreciated how Lethem deconstructed their usual devices in order to tell a story with a far firmer grasp in our reality. Any and all science fiction elements remain ambiguous – whether or not they exist as actualities or as a thread of common imagination is left to the reader to interpret as he or she sees fit. What they represent holds far more importance, and Lethem’s eloquently flowing prose dissects superhero mythos to shed light on all the divisive, seemingly binary, elements of human society. Externally, many of the depictions of race relations – just to use the most obvious example – initially seem to underscore the gulfs that exist between the groups. However, Ebdus and Rude begin to bond over the shared experience of emotionally and/or physically unavailable parents and their mutual love of comic books. Both of them, in their own ways, start off hoping to emulate their favorite heroes – ultimately showing how even the most seemingly different people still share some thread of commonality. Throw in a ring that may or may not bestow superpowers onto the wearer and Lethem solidifies his points quite adroitly. I am, of course, almost insultingly oversimplifying the entire book for brevity’s sake. Suffice to say, though, The Fortress of Solitude is one of those unapologetically complex novels that ought to be experienced moreso than read if one hopes to really dive down into its very heart.

Bibliographic Information

Lethem, Jonathan. The Fortress of Solitude. New York: Doubleday, 2003.

Further Reading

While not entirely the same, I couldn’t help but see The Fortress of Solitude as almost a fusion of Junot Diaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity. Neither of these authors infuse their works with the same degree of science fiction ambiguity as Jonathan Lethem, but many of the themes still dovetail nicely all the same. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, for example, involves race relations and identity using superhero comic books as a conduit for finding both escapism and inspiration to build personal strength and identity. Dylan Ebdus’s later obsessive immersion in all elements of music (specifically, the output of African-American artists) shares a number parallels with how protagonist Rob Fleming’s life hinges on his record collection and shop in High Fidelity. They are not perfect matches, but I think that many readers will still enjoy them for their similarities all the same.

~Riot

No Mad

Review

The premise of Sam Moffie’s No Mad showed some great promise right from the start. As his marriage crumbles, protagonist Aaron Abrams ends up in a state of shock and sets off on a road trip across the United States to gather research for his first nonfiction book. Unfortunately, the solid plot is just about the only thing that impressed me about this novel. Abrams certainly does go on a journey through the country, but I found myself not caring one bit about any of his adventures along the way.

My biggest problem with Aaron Abrams as a hero is his portrayal as absolutely perfect in every way. If he has any flaws, then Moffie does an excellent job of hiding them. Almost every page hemorrhages praise onto him for being an amazing father, one of the greatest living writers in America, a red-hot lover, and all around smashing fellow. Realistic imperfections help readers better connect with the main characters of a novel – to feature one entirely without any negative points really only works in a story that already requires a suspension of disbelief to begin with. And even then such techniques can be dicey. One need only look at the myriad portrayals of Superman to see this. But for a work where the author explicitly asks readers to sympathize and relate to the protagonist, it helps considerably to not depict him or her as almost unfailing in every way.

Moffie highlights Abrams’s status as the epitome of all that is man by having nearly every woman throw herself at him with reckless abandon. Any female character who does not immediately want his body and his money is either a raging shrew (his wife), a lesbian (his agent), or his daughter. They are nothing more than accessories in what reads as a reductive, adolescent male power fantasy where nubile young strangers waltz up to the leading man and volunteer, “I am 27 years old and you are so hot” (281). Suffice to say, I found this attitude incredibly insulting. Books do not always have to feature strong female characters, of course, but few works of contemporary literature are as blatant in their misogyny as No Mad. All heterosexual women here seem to fall in lust at the instant implication of money, power, and looks – which, of course, Abrams seems to have in droves – and are willing to bare all after knowing him for mere minutes. What negligible character development Moffie gives them comes second to their wanton desire of the hero. They serve only to stroke his ego, among other things, and nothing more.

Stylistically, I actually appreciated the inclusion of many interviews Abrams conducts while researching his book. It diverted some of the attention away from the self-absorbed hero and onto some of his former school friends. Though broadly-written, modern-day archetypes, their stories still seemed the more compelling of the lot. Moffie also infuses the narrative with numerous pop culture references, which is something I am pretty much always fine with. However, he has a tendency to bold every single one of them, as if the readers are incapable of deciphering the included bands, songs, writers, and other figures on their own. This technique – especially when paired with both the attitude that Aaron Abrams himself invented the great American game of Jinx and the juvenile depiction of women – imbues the book with an overall sense of smug superiority that condescends the audience instead of asking them to feel and explore the story.

Bibliographic Information

Moffie, Sam. No Mad. Charleston, S.C.: BookSurge, 2008.

Further Reading

Upon reading the book’s description in the press release, the first thing that popped into my head was how much it sounded like an updated version of Saul Bellow’s classic epistilatory novel Herzog. Both No Mad and Herzog deal with middle-aged Jewish men attempting to make sense of their broken lives and loves through writing and travel. But Moses Herzog is portrayed as a deeply, deeply flawed man who frequently self-sabotages his own happiness and stability. He is fully human – simultaneously repugnant yet sympathetic in his plight.  It is far easier to become absorbed in his struggles as a result, whereas the epic pinnacle of perfection that is Aaron Abrams only serves to isolate.

Critical Mass

Review

One of the most intriguing elements of Kathleen M. Henry’s provocative dissection of Catholicism Critical Mass lay in its structure. It fluidly alternates between traditional narrative, one-woman play, prayers, poetry and satirical commentaries on the mass and confession rituals. The end result is a lyrical, whip-smart exploration of the inner workings of a Catholic parish over the span of several generations – definitely not for those offended by religious critique.

Her two main themes involve the Church’s views on women and sex, deconstructing how the two intersect and the ways in which they effect the Catholic community. Henry does not narrow her focus to only one protagonist – rather, she follows multiple women through multiple decades and delves deeply into how the Church shapes and molds their lives both for good and for ill. She compares and contrasts the suppression of the feminine in religious rituals and practice with that of the priests. Not surprisingly, she finds parallels between the ways in which Catholicism attempts to regulate sexuality in the clergy with its views on women and – to a lesser extent, lesbians. It’s pretty controversial stuff, but practitioners of any given faith should be allowed to question practices they find outdated, offensive, or repressive. Henry expresses her concerns with eloquence, veiling her anger using poetic language rather than harsh words of contempt and rage.

Bibliographic Information

Henry, Kathleen M. Critical Mass. Bloomington, IN: iUniverse, 2008.

Further Reading

A deep understanding of Catholicism is absolutely necessary to fully understand the nuances of Critical Mass. Those unfamiliar with the faith can find answers to any questions they may have about the narrative using The Catechism of the Catholic Church as an informed framework.

~Riot, who is feeling very much under the weather right now and apologizes for the short review

Sputnik Sweetheart

Review

Tragic, lethargic, and stunningly elegant, Haruki Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart explores themes and characters familiar to readers of his other works, but nevertheless presents yet another haunting treatise on extreme loneliness and unrequited love. Murakami passionately engrosses readers in his dissection of these emotions – it’s not enough to simply attempt relating to them. He also depicts the ways in which they slowly eat away at a person from the inside out, like an acid leaching out from their very marrow. A silent solidarity between author and audience.

Helplessly burdened with a burning, unshakable love for his best friend – the manic, eccentric Sumire – the nameless narrator wiles away life as a fourth grade teacher forcing himself to find contentment in emotionless affairs and isolationist nights in front of videotaped soccer matches. He settles for the romantic consolation prizes when Sumire falls heavily for her beautiful, sophisticated boss Miu, but it only furthers his descent into desperate repetition and frustrated fulfillment. No matter the sexual orientation of the lover or the beloved, Murakami fully understands the complexity of unrequited affections. He understands the near impossibility of letting go once you connect with someone on nearly every level – one “[cannot] just shelve those feelings, for there [is] nothing to take their place” (177). Emotions are not a light switch to be flicked on and off at will. They wax and wane at their own leisure, paying little heed to the needs of their hosts.

Once Sumire disappears, the narrator begins reflecting on this universal aspect of life and love. This gives way to broader questions regarding the possible tangibility of reality and issues of duality within an individual. In Murakami’s hands, this transitionitory device flows seamlessly and naturally without coming off as hackneyed or forced. Description is his strong point, with people and places and concepts related in clear, vivid prose. He economizes his words with enough restraint to prevent various shades of purple from cropping up.

Bibliographic Information

Murakami, Haruki. Sputnik Sweetheart. New York: Alfred A Knopf, 2001.

Further Reading

Though I did not find it nearly as compelling as Sputnik Sweetheart, having read it led me to appreciate Murakami’s Norwegian Wood all the more. I wasn’t entirely taken with it on the first read, but since it treads almost the same ground as Sputnik Sweetheart, I now have a more complete picture of Murakami’s melancholic views of the bittersweet aspects of love and life. It definitely allows me to look back on Norwegian Wood with fondness rather than a dismissive gesture.

~Riot

[Diversity Rocks! Challenge Progress: 11/24]

An Embarrassment of Riches

Review

Gerald Hansen’s novel An Embarrassment of Riches features comedy as pitch-black as the moors of the Emerald Isle itself. It’s an absolutely hysterical tale of the Flood family’s delirious pursuit of protagonist Ursula Barnett’s lottery winnings, with much of the comedy stemming from the progressive evolution of their absurd and shocking displays of greed. Fronted by callous matriarch Fionnuala, the Floods descend upon Ursula and her American husband Jed’s blessed fortune like amusingly clueless vultures, begging for financial assistance for everything from house payments to First Communion gowns. As villains and foils for the frazzled, good-hearted Ursula, Fionnuala and her PR nightmare of a family are antagonists I hated to love and loved to hate. Their epic avarice knows no boundaries, and the lot of them are entirely without shame or any sense of decorum and common decency. This utter lack of any redeeming traits combined with Hansen’s dry, dark, and explosively ironic delivery makes them the most delightful aspect of the novel.

Although An Embarrassment of Riches is undoubtedly a comedy, Hansen infuses it with themes unique to the Northern Irish experience. Though it takes place in the present, Ursula finds herself inextricably tied to her past as an informant and spy for the IRA and struggles to reconcile the desperate sins she feels she committed. Dymphna Flood, Fionnuala’s pregnant teenage daughter, panics over the possibility of mothering a Protestant bastard. The concrete-thick tensions between the native Catholics and their Protestant neighbors is one of the main focuses, giving readers unfamiliar with or physically removed from the years of violent incidents in the country an insightful glimpse into its fascinating history. Though fiction, it presents the emotions behind the war – both literal and figurative – between Catholics and Protestants with an almost stomach-twisting accuracy.

Readers unfamiliar with the Irish vernacular may stumble more than once with the prose, which proudly does not hide its heritage. Hansen provides his audience with a “Derry-Speak Dictionary” (10) to guide them through slang terms and heavily accented English. It’s kind of awkwardly inserted into the text – I almost would argue that a simple appendix would have been the better solution, but that’s personal preference speaking – but it helps considerably. Although flipping back and forth at first seems a bit daunting, once a regular rhythm and understanding is established, the reading coasts on much smoother. While I have no qualms whatsoever about writing in vernacular – so long as it’s not those vomitous instant-message-speak books – some people do, and I figured it was worth mentioning to interested readers.

Bibliographic Information

Hansen, Gerald. An Embarrassment of Riches. Lincoln, NE: iUniverse, 2007.

Further Reading

Weirdly, I didn’t think of another book while reading this. The wonderful Irish film directed by Kirk Jones, Waking Ned Devine, came to mind first and foremost and pretty much stayed there all throughout. An Embarrassment of Riches is considerably more dark – most especially when dealing with eight-year-old Siofra’s unrelenting quest for the perfect First Communion ensemble – but both the novel and the movie concern themselves with an Irish lotto winner being swindled out of money by a cast of enjoyable eccentrics. There’s other differences, with the IRA angle replaced with something else entirely in the film, and family drama expanded into a community-wide cash grab. In general, though, both take a humorous approach to themes of greed, selfishness, and the absurd lengths people go to solely for the love of money.

~Riot

The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea

Review

One of the most beautiful aspects of Yukio Mishima’s writing style is the economy with which he penned his words. His prose is simple, thoughtful, and poetic with no element coming off as unnecessary, pretentious, or extraneous. Everything balances and harmonizes in an airtight, impenetrable narrative. Mishima was a consummate writer, and The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea is both a fine example of and introduction to his works.

The carefully structured novel involves intersections in the lives of a thirteen-year-old boy named Noboru, his elegant, widowed mother Fusako, and her bewildered lover, Ryuji. Mishima juxtaposes their personalities with intense precision, metering out the painful and subtle results rather than relying on bombastic scenes of dramatic discord. Suffering occurs in private, infusing an aura of isolation and repression which contributes considerably to the novel’s strong characterizations. While much fuss is made over the somewhat idealized (by my standards, anyways) romance between Fusako and Ryuji, the most fascinating and dangerous relationship in the book belongs to Ryuji and Noboru. Along with his friends, the young boy adheres to a strict, stoic, and almost Spartan credo dubbed “objectivity,” which involves the complete rejection of all signs of emotion or weakness. They seek to become paragons of the unquestioning masculine warrior archetype, resorting to twisted displays of abject cruelty and senseless violence as a means of purification. While initially admiring Ryuji for his adventuresome life as a Second Mate in the Japanese Navy, Noboru and his friends grow to despise him as his feelings for Fusako swell. Seeing love and sexuality as the epitome of weakness, they embark on a quest to punish Ryuji for losing everything that made him a man. However, their efforts end up almost entirely in vain, as the sailor himself frequently subjects his psyche to internal chiding waffling between life on the sea and life on land with his lover.

What makes the concepts behind and depictions of objectivity and brutality in The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea is the fervor with which Mishima embraced elements of such nihilism in his own life. When reading about his life as well as his leadership of the ill-fated Tatenokai paramilitary organization, it’s difficult to separate the writer from the grim actions of the young men in the book. While I wouldn’t make the claim that there’s autobiographical trappings, I think an understanding of Mishima’s life certainly enhances one’s understanding of the themes and events that comprise his narrative. In this case, fiction and nonfiction seem as intertwined as the characters in the novel itself.

Bibliographic Information

Mishima, Yukio. The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea. New York: Vintage International, 1994.

Further Reading

Mishima’s The Sound of Waves is considerably more optimistic than The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea, but it was my first experience with his work and was obviously a quite effective introduction. It’s another great example of his beautifully economic, eloquently flowing writing.

~Riot

[Diversity Rocks! Challenge Progress: 10/24]

A Tiger for Malgudi

I haven’t been neglecting my promise of new features. Some of them are dependent on the cooperation of a friend of mine, and the party in question at the moment is in the middle of moving. And – you may gasp at this – but taking care of something like that takes a wee smidge of precedence over my blog. Rest assured, however, I’m not planning on leaving anyone in the lurch. You’ll just have to wait. New features don’t come easy…it’s a game of give and take.

Enough channeling my inner Supreme. There’s a review to be written.

———

Review

As much as I am loathe to admit it, R.K. Narayan’s A Tiger for Malgudi is the second book I had to look at sadly as it bawled helplessly on my futon while I pat it on the back cover and once again had to explain, “Look. It’s not you, baby. You did everything right. It’s just not working for me anymore.” Narayan writes with a beautiful, flowing prose and a philosophical premise exploring the inner life of a tiger wrenched from his jungle home and forced into human servitude. A Tiger for Malgudi is a visceral, emotional work that holds a mirror up to animal exploitation and the extent of human cruelty without coming off as preachy or self-righteous. Rather, the nameless feline narrator serves more as a reflection of mankind’s capacity to universally inflict pain on one another as well as animals.

In spite of the heavy-handedness of the subject matter, A Tiger for Malgudi plays host to the occasional instance of dark humor and absurdity. The narrator – foisted with the name Raja by his captives – recounts his life as a denizen of the Indian jungle and subsequent captive stints as a circus act and a film star. Both experiences leave him scarred and cynical, but things end calmly for the tiger “who possesses a soul within [his] forbidding exterior” (11). It’s a nice little tale of redemption and self-awareness, just one where I – again – had difficulty connecting. Narayan is a fine writer, and A Tiger for Malgudi is a fine book with many interesting themes and visuals. Perhaps it was the near-glacial pacing that turned me away, though for a work of philosophy one ought not expect a breezy clip. I’ve enjoyed much slower books than this. So disengagement is more or less my fault once again.

Bibliographic Information

Narayan, R.K. A Tiger for Malgudi. New York: Penguin Classics, 1994.

Further Reading

Another good book involving a self-aware, philosophical animal as its protagonist – albeit not as the narrator – is Daniel Quinn’s Ishmael: An Adventure in Mind and Spirit. It’s been a long while since I last read it, but what little I’ve remembered was positive and got dredged up as I poured through A Tiger for Malgudi.

~Riot

[Diversity Rocks! Challenge Progress: 9/24]

The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven

Review

Sherman Alexie’s collection of interconnected vignettes, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, is a perfect example of the “It’s not you, it’s me”-ism that occasionally happens to all literary critics and book junkies. Alexie does everything right here – his characters are richly realized, his prose is eloquent, his subject matter compelling and tragic, pacing appropriate, and folktales interspersed in a way that’s neither hackneyed nor tacked-on. It is, from a technical and emotional standpoint, a perfectly good and readable piece of literature. For some reason, I just could not connect with it or become immersed in the world he reflects rather than creates.

In spite of that, however, I have nothing but admiration and appreciation for his goals. He tackles difficult and overlooked subject matter that needs to be addressed, such as the rampant alcoholism present on Native American reservations and the desperate poverty and social subjugation that spawned it. The majority of Americans remain unaware of the harrowing situations which led to the vulgar “Drunken Indian” stereotype, and Alexie certainly deserves exposure and accolades for presenting the reality in a candid, painfully honest manner. Every short story delves into the various ways alcohol abuse can ruin individuals, families, and friendships, debunking misconceptions and preconceived notions of life on a reservation while simultaneously shedding light on the current plight of the Native Americans.

The character Thomas Builds-the-Fire may not be the central figure, but he is the book’s most fascinating character. An incurable dreamer blessed and cursed with the ability to weave splendid and provocative stories that few acknowledge, Thomas remains the sole remaining voice of a rich heritage now threatened by depression, apathy, and substance abuse.

So as you can see, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven is an important, well-written book, and certainly one worth reading. My inability to become engaged by it is purely my own fault, and I take full responsibility for that.

Bibliographic Information

Alexie, Sherman. The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. New York: Grove Press, 2005.

Further Reading

I know I’ve recommended this book before, but Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony is an excellent piece of Native American literature that delves into the same questions of individual identity versus tribal identity and brings to the forefront issues relating to reservation life.

~Riot, still exhausted after all these days.

[Diversity Rocks! Challenge Progress: 8/24]

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

Review

Junot Díaz’s tar-black family comedy The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is one of the few reads that perfectly captures the wrenching agony associated with an involuntary social exile. Ostrasized by his peers due to excessive weight, acne, overall awkwardness, and a generous intelligence, the titular hero retreats into a cocoon of role-playing games, comic books, and drafts for an epic fantasy series. He yearns to connect with a female companion, only to sustain a regular “triple-zero batting average” (24). Díaz defines Oscar’s character with this desperately lonely pining – a harrowingly accurate depiction of the daily struggles and mounting depression faced by those for whom love is little more than a heavily idealistic, unattainable pipe dream. His story of blustering through life under the haze of an age-old Dominican curse is juxtaposed with those of his embittered mother, unfortunate grandfather, Amazonian sister, and her rightfully jilted lover.

In spite of the heft of the main subject matter, Díaz wraps it in an energetic, tragicomedic verneer – finding sarcastic, acidic humor in even the most brutal and disgusting scenes. No matter who narrates which chapter, he interjects commentary by a meta-narrator referring to himself as Uatu the Watcher – a reference to the Marvel character who plays a similar role in various comic series. Other allusions, both direct and indirect, to a wide span of science fiction and fantasy media flow throughout the narrative as a testament to Oscar’s immersion. Fortunately, Díaz weaves them into the novel in a way that enhances the story rather than falling upon pop culture references as a crutch. Though they play an integral role in Oscar’s characterization, the novel can still be thoroughly enjoyed by readers with little to no familiarization with the references in question. Had Díaz removed them completely, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao would remain a beautiful, biting, and lovingly crafted example of literature as art.

One of the more fascinating aspects of the novel was Díaz’s accounts of actual figures and events from Dominican history. Channeling his inner David Eggers, he interjects a battery of footnotes throughout the story providing interesting and insightful sociopolitical and socioeconomic contexts. “Didn’t know we [the Dominican Republic] were occupied twice in the twentieth century? Don’t worry, when you have kids they won’t know the U.S. occupied Iraq either” he acerbically quips on page 19, unafraid to introduce American audiences to new revelations. However, the most shocking and twisted tales come from his statements regarding the painfully real dictatorship of Rafael Trujillo. Lusty and ruthless, Trujillo’s jackboots leave scarring footprints on Oscar’s ascendents and descendents alike. Though never himself seen in the story, his bloodthirsty underlings lurk throughout and initiate horrific, wrenching scenes of violence and terror. Yet in spite of the physical manifestations of the filial curse, Oscar and his family represent humanity’s ability to dredge itself up from having its body smashed into concrete and left for dead in a sugarcane field. They’re resiliant and defiant in the face of evil, and hold faith in the possibility of love even if it kills them to acquire it.

Bibliographic Information

Díaz, Junot. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. New York: Riverhead Books, 2007.

Further Reading

Oscar is the new poet laureate of our generation’s disenfranchised. He is our Cyrano de Bergerac. He is our Holden Caulfield. He is everything Ignatius Reilly fancied himself to be but never truly was. Men of internal beauties transcending their external grotesqueries (literal and/or figurative), though all too often they’re dismissed in favor of those possessing a more PR-friendly carriage. It’s a sickening abomination of love that threads itself through the centuries and will continue to do so - a universal theme whose prevalence remains lamentable.

~Riot

[Diversity Rocks! Challenge Progress: 7/24]

The Color Purple

Review

A bittersweet reflection of two sisters divided by geography and spousal repression, Alice Walker’s epistolary novel The Color Purple weaves an emotional tale involving a woman’s burgeoning awareness of her inner strength. Terrorized by men ever since her alleged father rapes and impregnates her twice by age 14, Celie pulls her personality inward, resigning herself to a life of subservience and abuse at the hands of her unnamed husband. Cruelly denied contact with her beloved missionary sister Nettie, the hopeless, emotionally bedraggled protagonist finds redemption in the eyes and arms of her husband’s mistress, the vivacious jazz singer Shug Avery.

In spite of Celie’s horrifying trials, The Color Purple nevertheless exudes an aura of reassurance and comfort. Her clandestine romance with Avery opens her heart to recognizing her true potential as both a valued member of the human race and as a woman. Celie constantly reflects upon what she considers a lack of strength and character when, in reality, she possesses even more of those virtues than the friends and family she occasionally envies. She is an admirable, resiliant, and brave woman unable to give herself the credit she so surely deserves and incapable of accepting the love she so surely needs. A beautiful, tragic and dichotomous figure, Celie’s gradually unfolding personal redemption infuses the narrative with a sense of hope in the face of filial devastation.

Celie’s compelling awakening is juxtaposed with that of her sister Nettie. Though Walker implies that she escaped the brutalities bestowed upon her sister, Nettie undergoes a spiritual journey of self-discovery working as a missionary in Africa. Where Celie’s letters are characterized by a vernacular approach to English, Nettie’s read accentless and with a stronger grasp of grammar. Where Celie is wrongly degraded for her supposed unattractiveness, Nettie is praised for her beauty. Where Celie only knows of romance as fleeting and harrowing, Nettie finds it rejuvenating and exhilirating. Yet in spite of their vastly different lives, the two sisters are united in their boundless love for one another and their struggles to forge ironclad identities for themselves, resulting in a lovely,

Bibliographic Information

Walker, Alice. The Color Purple. New York: Washington Square Press, 1988.

Further Reading

The two books that jumped immediately to mind as I was reading The Color Purple. Both Zora Neale Hurston’s stunning Their Eyes Were Watching God and Kate Chopin’s influential The Awakening involve the same theme of women overcoming injustices both real and imaginary at the hands of men. They feature strong-willed female protagonists carving their own niches in an overwhelming society brimming with challenges that will either shatter or solidify their character.

~Riot

[Diversity Rocks! Challenge Progress: 6/24. February goal achieved!]