Sorry, folks, the Scattering’s shutting its doors. I think we all saw this coming. It was fun. But if you keep writing super cheap indie science fiction, I’ll keep reading it! I just won’t review it… and hey, that’s probably a good thing.
A college acquaintance of mine who falls into the social category of “I don’t know him extraordinarily well but it’s okay to comment on his fb posts if you can reasonably assume that he is posting something outrageous for the explicit reason that he wants people to comment ” (laugh, but I know you know what I mean) recently shared a link to a very strange music video. And for this … thing (I’m not sure I’m comfortable calling it music again — the first time was iffy enough), outrageous might not be a strong enough adjective.
Take a watch. And unless you can by some incredible feat of mental strength survive 4 minutes of inanity — in which case, my wide-brimmed Palm Springs summer hat is off to you, sir or madam, because I am not one of those people — I imagine that 30 seconds is about enough.
This is Blood on the Dance Floor’s “Bewitched.”
I think this merits our friend Liz Lemon saying, for all of us:
The strangest thing about this video (how do you disturb me? let me count the ways…) may be that these Blood on the Dance Floor, Lady Nogrady (no comment), and director Patrick Fogarty really tried. I mean, they really tried. They just threw in so many clichéd lyrics and such overwhelmingly hackneyed special effects that the end result was anything but bewitching. More like a curse.
Unconnected as this may seem at first, the “Bewitched” video reminds me of nothing less than some of the academic articles I’ve been reading this summer to prepare for grad school in T-minus 8 days. These authors (oh Saint Cassion of Imola! pray that I become not one of them in future days!), like Blood on the Dance Floor, are too concerned with being a part of “the scene” than producing quality work (the buzzwords, oh gods, the buzzwords!)
Which leads me to my latest project — Operation: Make Everything Pretentious!
What would happen if some scenester academic wrote a review of “Bewitched”? Let’s take a whack at it!
From the Journal of New Media Academese
Beyond Heaven and Hormones: Romantic Attraction Reconsidered as Diabolical Eroticism
… thus, clearly, [the singer's] repeated allusions to the supernatural are a challenge to modern scientific understandings of “love” as, in part, biologically determined, as well as rejecting the current culturally euphoric attitude surrounding romance by appealing to the more ambivalent connotations of sex in relation to the occult.
Notably, the female sex partner–described by the male singer as a “witch” holding him in thrall–holds the dominant position of power within the relationship, by means of her (albeit allegorical) allegorical theurgy, a descriptive characterization that serves to engender (pardon the pun) an incisive challenge to societal assumptions of heteronormativity, a not uncommon theme within the hermeneutics of artistic discourse. And so in summation–
It’s totes obv.
Save this video for Valentine’s Day, folks. Or maybe Halloween.
… so I guess this proves that there really is a first time for everything. Imagine that.
Just as I was resigning myself to neglecting my little second-tier science fiction review blog as I (in contravention of the traditional American mythology) head East to find my fortune (because I’m still pretending that there’s fame and fortune involved in being a history grad student, if only for my parents’ sake), I find that a fellow blogger with the quite distinguished handle of Lord David Professor has nominated me for an award.
Because nothing says “meritorious” like long, syntactically-impenetrable sentences with lots of parenthetical digressions and hyphenated adjectives (see what I did there? (see what I did there?)).
To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how this Internet award nomination chain thing works. But from what I can gather from my gracious nominator’s own blog post, I have to answer some questions and make nominations of my own.
So, without further ado, proof that I am truly not worthy of
The Super Sweet Blogging Award
1. Cookies or Cake?
If my parents are to be believed, I had about half a dozen pacifiers when I was a toddler. I slept with them in my crib. One was my clear favorite–it had a twin, a “bippy” (as I called it) with an exact twin, same color, same non-Newtonian viscous rubber composition. But they tasted different, and I could tell with one lick which was the preciousssss and which was a counterfeit. One night my favorite bippy fell out of the crib and rolled under my sister’s dresser. My mother says I cried and cried, and she tore the room apart to find it. We were re-uinted, but in the interim I found I had a taste for my thumb. I bit my nails to this day.
2. Chocolate or Vanilla?
All that thumb-sucking did something to my tooth growth patterns; when those glowing white baby teeth fell out, my mother saw with dismay that my “grown-up teeth” were a grotesquerie of fangs and overbite and overlapping ridges of enamel. We have no pictures from that time. I got braces young–age 10, fifth grade. The orthodontist gave me headgear to wear at night. I tried, I tried to wear it, but how can I be blamed for what happened in the middle of the night? When I woke every morning, I found my headgear had been thrown across the room, to land under my sister’s dresser. She still wears her retainer.
3. What is your favorite sweet treat?
They sent me to a special dentist once, an expert in root canals. He was not our usual dentist, the sinister man who play golf with my father sometimes, when Jerry and Mike were unavailable. He was, they said, the best. I still had my braces. These were the days of full metal bands around the molars, the days when fillings were metallic, when biting down on foil sent electric shocks down to the tips of your nail-bitten fingers. The braces, they said, were moving my teeth (dramatic changes took drastic measures), and somehow that had created an abscess at the root. Well that was bad, and the expert was supposed to fix it. He told me: “Wave your left hand in the air if you feel any pain.” Then he numbed me. He touched my chin, and my cheek, and even my ear–I couldn’t feel anything, not even the pressure. But when I began to drill he touched a nerve too, and I felt that. My left arm jerked into the air, but he didn’t stop. I called out incoherently, his hands in my mouth. I bit his latexed hands. ”I felt that!” I said. He looked at me strangely. ”No you didn’t,” he said.
4. When do you crave sweet things the most?
I drink my water room temperature, my hot chocolate lukewarm. I’m told that in a root canal the dentist removes the nerve entirely, but if that’s true then I have a phantom nerve, and sometimes it twinges, and 12 years later I’m afraid to tell anyone. I have insurance. I don’t care.
5. If you had a sweet nickname, what would it be?
Please, please … please don’t make me think about this anymore. The pain– THE PAIN!
Thanks for the nomination, Lord David Professor! I totes should win.
Anyway, in the grand tradition of chain mail and FWD:FWD:FWD:FWD subject lines, here are my nominations:
1. He’s a prolific author, a fellow Lostie, and sings non-religious songs about Christmas. He also may or may not have a clone who also writes sci-fi and let me be a beta reader for a forthcoming book. It’s … B.C. Young of The Time Capsule (and, on this blog, of Miscorrection fame)!
(I’m letting them know on their respective blogs right. this. second.)
To finish up, I’m pretty definitely completely sure that I did this totes wrong, but guess what? It was fun! Wow, all this sweet talk made me really hungry for some spaghetti. Off to cook — everyone else can eat cake.
To inherit the estate of a dead business tycoon, an underdog and his eccentric group of friends must work together to beat a fiendishly difficult video game rife with 80s pop culture references and all the while try to keep a step ahead of an evil corporate cheater.
SF fans might recognize this as the plot of Ernest Cline’s novel Ready Player One. But substitute “80s pop culture references” with “the racist stereotypes of a moist towelette magnate” and “evil corporate cheater” with “evil corporate Gus from Breaking Bad” and you’ve got the plot of “Digital Estate Planning,” the third-to-last episode of our favorite, increasingly-nerdy comedy Community in this, its third and darkest season.
I love Community. I wrote a lukewarm review of its second-ever episode years ago for another blog, which I heartily repent. Not that I was wrong about Britta being self-righteous and super annoying in the first season, because I totally wasn’t wrong. Now that Annie seems to be established as the new female lead (as Jeff says to Britta in Course Listing Unavailable, “You seemed smarter to me when I met you”), I have no complaints.
How could I, when Dan Harmon and Co. delight in proving their nerd credentials every Thursdays? Like the red and blue universes at Annie’s Model UN UN-off (Fringe), or the evil Glee club Christmas episode (I completely believe that Will Schuester could secretly be a serial killer. Sweater vests really are weird).
NBC seems to have a thing for pop culture cross-pollination. And I don’t just mean Abed talking about tv shows, because that’s just what he does. (As an aside–I think I remember criticizing Community for being too “postmodern” with the whole Abed-being-constantly-self-referential thing, but maybe postmodern grows on you.) Anyone else notice that, on 30 Rock last night, the POW Avery communicating on camera through finger-twitching code sub-plot was pulled straight out of Homeland?
Anyway, “Digital Estate Planning” continues that tradition by taking a page (literally) out of Ernest Cline’s book Ready Player One, which itself still strikes me as a gamer’s version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Of course, even for those of you who haven’t read Cline’s debut novel, released last summer to great fanfare from nerds everywhere, Community ep 3.20 is still as entertaining as ever, along with the two others that followed it last night. Just thought someone should point this out, in the interest of introducing Cline’s fans to Community’s fans, and vice versa (though I imagine the respective fandoms have quite a bit of overlap).
Not much else to say, except, as always:
* * *
I haven’t seen much publicity for it, but the movie titled Cristiada in Mexico and For Greater Glory in the United States is coming to theaters June 1st. I imagine a sizable number of moviegoers will fill the seats so they can watch Eva Longoria (or, for ladies who prefer older gentlemen, Peter O’Toole). I don’t imagine that many U.S. viewers, however, will know much about the historical event the film revolves around: the Cristero War of the 1920s in Mexico.
I did an undergraduate research project on press surrounding the Cristero rebellion, two years ago, and with this movie coming out so soon I’m hoping that some of that research proves useful. If you can read Spanish, I commend you to the Spanish-language Wikipedia entry (it’s much more complete than the English article, unfortunately).
The full text of my research paper with sources: Los Fieles: Faith, Anxiety, and Prejudice in the Press during Mexico’s “Religious Crisis,” February-July 1926
Another previous post — Mexico’s Holy War: Faith, Prejudice, and the Press in 1926
A month ago marked the 85rd anniversary of his death, and next month, it will have been 12 years since his elevation to sainthood by Pope John Paul II. On April 12, 1927, Father Velasco—a Catholic priest—after putting his affairs in order (he repaid the 50 pesos owed to a fellow cleric; he bequeathed his typewriter and vestments to a friend)—and after blessing his captors in the sign of cross and the name of the Virgin of Guadalupe, he was taken outside, forced to his knees by Federal soldiers, and shot in the back of the head.
In May 2000, he was canonized as San David, a martyr, and one of 250,000 Mexicans killed in the conflict known today as la Cristiada, or the Mexican Cristero War—a rebellion unique in modern history as a popular uprising that took the international community completely by surprise.
Lasting from summer 1926 to spring 1929, the Cristero rebellion represented a popular reaction to the contemporary Mexican administration’s increasing restrictions on religious speech and practice in the country—a country with a Catholic population upwards of 90%.
The very name of the war bears witness to the deep-set piety of the rebel soldiers, christened Cristeros by opponents ridiculing their battle cry: “¡Viva Cristo Rey!” or “Long Live Christ the King!”
However, in the months leading up to the initial outbreak of violence the depth of Catholic devotional sentiment in the Mexican population was completely underestimated by the American press, which saw the seething controversy to the south as a strictly institutional conflict—not the rebellion of individual cristeros, but a “Church War.”
The flashpoint for mobilization was July 31, 1926—when the Catholic Episcopal hierarchy of Mexico ordered, as protest against clerical persecution, the indefinite suspension of worship services throughout the country—and the federal government obliged by attempting to take possession of church buildings.
Lay Catholics resisted.
Crowds of hundreds, most of them women, spontaneously mobilized to defend the churches—even as police brigades brought fire hoses and mounted federal soldiers to disperse the congregations. One Mexico City newspaper summed the day up in a single headline—“Los Fieles [the faithful] Will Not Abandon Their Churches.”
Even so, the fight was initially expected to be a rout.
For perspective—At the time, the Mexican government under President Plutarco Elías Calles had a federal army of nearly 80,000 professional soldiers. The rebel movement, on the other hand, was unorganized until 1927—and comprised mostly untrained, and practically unarmed, rural Catholic peasants of the Bajío region, Central and Southern Mexico, which remains even today the bastion of Catholic conservatism in the country. To the contrary—by the end of the war the Cristeros numbered 50,000. And an auxiliary brigade of women, engaged in smuggling weapons and provisions into combat zones for the soldiers, totaled 25,000.
Popular sentiment was enraged—and the uprising reflected the crystallization and shattering of widespread anxiety that had been growing throughout 1926.
A memoirist from San Julián, a small town in Jalisco, one of the centers of the rebellion, recalled the pervading climate of fear and apprehension that entered her community with the New Year:
“The enemies of the Holy Church began to spread their poison everywhere… black stormclouds began to rise in the blue sky—Everyone was afraid.”
But this anxiety of the faithful was ignored. Commentators abroad, particularly in the United States, viewed and reported the conflict through the lens of domestic problems and paradigms: an ideological clash of Church and State.
On one side, the child of the 1910 Mexican Revolution: he Liberal, secular administration of President Calles—determined to suppress religious speech, end religious education, restrict the influence and very number of Catholic clerics in Mexico, and nationalize Church property—in the name of secularization.
On the other the child of the Spanish Conquest: the centuries-old Mexican Catholic Episcopacy under Archbishop José Mora y del Río, equally determined to preserve the Church’s economic privileges and institutional autonomy.
Church and State—no third party in existence. But this was the perspective of an American press embroiled in its own ideological collision:
Just the year before, the famous “Scopes Monkey Trial” over evolution in the education system had made headlines in the United States as a war of secularism or fundamentalism, science or faith, progress or regression, educated urbanites versus rural ignorance. These were the antitheses occupying American minds in 1926—and reporter H.L. Mencken summed up the public attitude in two words: the rural-based, deeply religious segment of the American population comprised: “yokels and morons.”
This domestic situation provided American commentators with a template for the dissatisfied Mexican laity: rural, ignorant, superstitious, racially inferior—and thus incapable of exercising any significant political influence.
Essentially, the United States media projected its own anxieties onto Mexico, and ignored those of the Mexican Catholic.
One incident in particular encapsulates the American perspective:
When Mora y del Rio and the Episcopacy announced that worship would be suspended at the end of July, the Mexican faithful flocked in thousands to churches to receive what many believed might be the final sacraments of their lives. The Archbishop himself was said to have baptized, confirmed, and married over 3,000 individuals in one day alone.
But while the Mexican press reported apocalyptic panic—in San Julián, the faithful prayed in the streets for God’s pity and mercy—TIME magazine treated the incident as entertainment:
“… barefoot, blanketed Indian runners; toothless Mexican gaffers, perhaps pagans all their lives, hobbled in frenzied haste to receive a precious sprinkling of holy water… in this baptismal race.”
Said correspondent was also thoughtful enough to add a footnote explaining to his readers that the people of Mexico were only nominally Catholic, their religion really a pantheon of primitive deities smeared with a veneer of saints and idols.
Even New York City’s premier Catholic periodical, the Commonweal, espoused strikingly similar racial and religious bigotry:
“the plain truth about Mexico… is that a native Indian population is not the same thing as a Caucasian civilization fostered by centuries of Christian discipline.”
The national academic journal Current History exhibited a comparable bias in its July 1926 issue—intended to be a symposium on opinion about the religious situation in Mexico.
The contributing parties—supporters the Mexican Government, American Catholics, and American Protestants (although, notably no representative of Mexican Catholicism went to print)—all, essentially, agreed on one central issue: the degeneracy of the masses in Mexico. The only question that remained was which institution—Church or State—was responsible for developing a program for the “uplift” of the Indian and Indo-Latino population:
“Physical welfare is a fact; spiritual consolations are the resources of a theory.”
—a comment that typifies the 1920s, and even modern, elitist ‘progressive’ trivialization of Mexican Catholic piety.
The Mexican press, on the other hand, did not see the growing religious crisis as an issue of progress; rather, it was about freedom of conscience. This is probably my favorite quote to come from a reel of microfilm. From the Mexico City paper Excélsior:
“We imitate the United States in its defects, in its sports, in its diversions, in its food, in its clothing, in its affectionate ‘spooning’… but in its indisputable virtues, we don’t care much to imitate them.”
Still, the American press remained convinced that religion was not a primary driving force in human behavior—first came social and economic factors. And thus, the religious crisis in Mexico could not be any sort of popular war, let alone a “holy war,” but rather had to represent a power struggle between institutions. Thus when the Mexican Episcopacy called for an indefinite suspension of religious services beginning July 31st—a virtual interdict—American papers such as the Catholic Commonweal assumed the inert, helpless Mexican laity would bear their cross and pray.
But popular anxiety had been steadily growing since Mexico rang in the New Year 1926 and the faithful of San Julián saw “dark clouds” on the horizon. As early as February, a columnist for the Mexico City paper El Universal predicted what the American press could not imagine: violence.
In an article titled “Spiritual peace is indispensable,” a columnist warned against the Calles administration attacking the “essence of the religion”—the sacraments.
Current History writers, such as the Methodist bishop James Cannon, undervalued this deeply-rooted devotion. According to Cannon, Catholic ritual was superstitious ceremony alone—and only served to retard social and economic progress for the Mexican peasant:
“The mass in the morning, the rosary in the evening, confession, communion, extreme unction, the benediction of the grace within a Church cemetery, and responsories for the departed, kept the people well under the control of the church even after they were dead…”
But that is a viewpoint unique to the primarily Protestant United States.
Protestantism, unlike its Catholic rival, developed from a theology of faith and scripture alone. The Catholic Church, contrarily, held tradition on par with these as a source of religious authority: the sacraments were thus not empty ritual to believers, but a conduit of God’s grace and the path to salvation—the essence of religion El Universal mentioned.
And when this was targeted on July 31, 1926—churches seized, worship suspended, and sacraments ended throughout the country—all the assurances of the American press that there would be no reaction meant nothing to the Mexican Catholics who felt their very identity at risk. From El Universal, six months before the July 31st uprising:
“The truth is that the people never commit suicide. They might change, transform, and even disappear; but they never change their essential nature—an integral part of native religion. It is the Mexican people, instinctively, who understand the danger. For them it is a question of to be or not to be… and it costs everything to want to be!”
Until an accord was reached in June of 1929 between the Mexican Episcopacy and the Calles administration, it did cost everything for faithful Mexican Catholics like Father Velasco.
And in the end, the Mexico City paper was right—the Mexican people knew early on what the international community, blinded by racial prejudice and a disastrous underestimation of the depth of religious devotion in Mexico, never saw coming: the tragedy and the violence of la Cristiada.
* * *
I’m far from the only person giving Hilary Mantel a glowing review for Bring Up the Bodies, the second installment in her saga of Thomas Cromwell, the man behind Henry VIII and his ill-starred wives. The critical acclaim, international readership, and heaps of awards for Wolf Hall, published in 2009, may have surprised everyone (Mantel included), but there’s been nothing but hype for book number two.
We’ve heard the story a thousand times and, it would seem, in every possible iteration: histories and historical fiction, romance novels and bodice-ripping tv shows like The Tudors. It isn’t as if the story’s going to change. History has spoken. The tale is a tragedy. And so whatever book you read or film you see, Henry VIII is always going to divorce Katherine of Aragon, and Anne Boleyn will always find her head severed from her pretty little neck.
All of which makes Mantel’s trilogy-in-progress even more astonishing. By showing us the mind of Thomas Cromwell–the man who usually features as the villain, if he features at all–in Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies, Mantel somehow makes the story new.
I reviewed Wolf Hall for the University of Alabama campus newspaper earlier this year–after reading it for the nth time since I first downloaded the historical novel onto my Kindle in 2009. By that point I was getting very, very excited for the release of book number two.
Well, 3 years of waiting and I read Bring Up the Bodies in under 3 days. I couldn’t help it! As much as you want to savor every word of Thomas Cromwell’s sometimes-cryptic thoughts and Hilary Mantel’s always- and remarkably beautiful prose, Bring Up the Bodies is even more of a political thriller than Wolf Hall.
The pace ramps us as Henry VIII grows increasingly unhappy with the marriage for which he turned Europe upside down, as Queen Anne grows ever more imperious without getting any more pregnant, and as our do-everything Cromwell works to undo the royal marriage–whatever the cost. (I think the title gives us a pretty good idea of the lengths to which Henry’s chief minister is forced to go.)
Of course, as we begin to see in this second book, being “the unknowable, the inconsolable, the probably indefeasible Master Cromwell” takes a toll. By the time of Anne Boleyn’s execution in 1536, Cromwell had been at the king’s right hand for about a decade–and we, the readers, can see the changes the years have worked in him. He’s a far cry from the young lawyer of the first book, joking with Cardinal Wolsey at his apogee and doting on his young daughters (all of these people dead by the end of Wolf Hall). Mantel continues to give us a sympathetic protagonist, but as Cromwell tells himself, a lesson he’s learned in the past 10 years:
“You must thrive in spite of yourself; and so that you may do it, God takes out your heart of flesh, and gives you a heart of stone.”
This is a harder, colder, more confident Cromwell than in Wolf Hall. Even if he is still plain Master Cromwell (no lordship yet), he definitely has the authority to carry out his plans and the king’s orders (because he is nothing if not loyal to the capricious Henry). But at the same time, the ground is shifting.
Enemies are rallying. As Cromwell gains more power, and more money, and more prestige, he (and we) can feel the baleful glares of the old nobility burning holes into his back. This is a book about beheadings, don’t forget, and there are plenty of instances of foreshadowing–if you happen to know the end of Cromwell’s story.
Knowing how close we’re getting to that inevitable bloody finale makes Bring Up the Bodies a gloomier book for me to read than Wolf Hall, but no less engrossing. My heart was pounding by the end, but, I think understandably, it was my neck that I was clutching.
* * *
In this bleak and empty wasteland of the post-Harry Potter world we live in, it’s inevitable that any book about twenty-somethings at a school for magic will come under the closest scrutiny. That would be daunting for most fantasy writers, but in “The Magicians,” author Lev Grossman relishes in the prospect.
His characters are us—college students who grew up in the pages of Hogwarts, Middle Earth and other classics of fantasy lit (including a Narnia-like universe called Fillory, complete with talking animals and thinly veiled religious allegories).
I learned something yesterday: If you’re going to write a blog about as contentious and controversial a topic as the characterization of classic characters in American fiction (and do it with alliteration), you’ve really got to grow a thick skin. Everyone has the right to disagree. And that is something I will defend unto my last keystroke. I, Isabela Morales, the Scattering’s sole author, do so swear.
See what I did there? I used my name. I did that because I personally believe that if I’m ashamed to put my John Hancock to something I publish, then it isn’t really worth publishing. But hey, we can’t expect everyone to follow that rule.
Anonymity is a valuable and important part of our online experience. Why then do we, as a culture, tend to despise, denigrate, deride, and disdain people who post more-than-moderately critical comments without revealing their names? I am here to say that I believe every would-be Internet troll has the right to write unnecessarily aggressive things about academic blog posts without inspiring offense on the part of the author. Which is why I want to post this not-at-all-spiteful public letter of apology for forcing my objectionable prose on last night’s anonymous commenter. You see–
In spring 2009 I was taking a course on American humor and satire at my now-alma mater the University of Alabama. Every week, our professor assigned us brief writing assignments—analyzing either a chapter or character from the book we were reading as a class. The essays from those classes that I’ve posted on the Scattering have consistently been some of my most popular for years now (maybe because they’re possibly the only useful things I’ve published here), and if anyone can explain why my paper on Mark Twain and religious satire has been translated into Spanish more than it’s been read in English, that would be kind of cool to know.
In any case—the last book we discussed that semester was Catch-22, the bleakly funny (anti-)war novel by Joseph Heller. The short essay I posted from class was my comparison of leading man Yossarian and his glum number two, Dunbar. I flatter myself that I provided a few good pieces of evidence to support my claim that Dunbar is Yossarian’s foil; and of course, like a good little college student, I used in-line parenthetical citations for all my quotes (this was before the history department converted me to CMOS).
This all seems like a very long time ago to me, but how easily we forget that the Internet is eternal: once on Google, always on Google. And it would seem that someone found my little essay today and didn’t find it useful at all. In fact, he/she seems kind of pissed off that it exists. I hope, with this letter, written as a public post for completely non-self-indulgent reasons, I can assuage some of Anonymous’s worries.
I just wanted to let you know how very appreciative I am that you took the time to peruse my “ancient” blog posts until you found one worthy, or perhaps unworthy, as you would have it, of comment—and this especially because reading my character analysis of Dunbar in Catch-22 so clearly caused you great mental agitation and psychic pain.
As an avid reader myself, how acutely do I know the distress that comes when one is thrown into collision with unpalatable prose! Please know that I extend to you my greatest admiration and, indeed, perhaps even awe, for setting yourself at the vanguard of the Internet’s blog writing style soldiery! I don’t think that anyone who read the remarks you left on my post of 17 March 2009 could possibly imagine you as anything other but a white knight of wordpress—charging down the RSS feeds of book reviewers with the same courage and conviction that the chevaliers of old (dare I say, of olde?) charged down the jousting lists.
But because I fear that the weight of public opinion might come down against someone who hands down breathtaking accusations and criticism under the name “Anonymous,” I have decided to publish your comments more broadly—for the sake of showing every one of my readers just how much I care what they think about my writing style.
Despite this article being ancient, the following bothers me and so i’ll comment here. I hope you have relaxed your prose by now, but I’m not going to put myself out verifying.
“second only to Yossarian as a character introduced in the book” – this is annoying. Stop trying to sound pretentious when you simply mean “the second character introduced in the book.”
It doesn’t work and is appalling. Had several complaints leading up to this point, but after this sentence I stopped reading.
That being said, it’s your prerogative to write as you will. You simply come off brutish in your faux intellectualism.
Anonymous, I completely understand why you wouldn’t want to put yourself out verifying whether or not I have relaxed my prose by reading any more recent posts, considering how dreadfully my writing style irks you. In fact, I must now regretfully inform you that my prose, if anything, has only grown more contrived, affected, and overblown in the last two years. And now that I will be entering a doctoral program in history next fall, I can only sigh and resign myself to the fact that I will doubtless be swept away by the currents of stilted academic prose by the time I’m through.
Alas! Alack! I should probably leave it at that, to spare you any more agony, but there’s just one thing–
I wonder how you found this post to begin with? Were you searching for essays about Catch-22 online? Because if that’s the case, I would trouble you just one more time to ask whether the actual substance of the essay had any bearing on your research. I hate to think that my grandiloquent diction is getting in the way of my ideas.
Oh, and if I can keep your attention for another moment (and I only make this extended reply because your browser history certainly does not include the search “cliffnotes catch 22”), I’d like to say something about that particular line that you quoted:
Educated people like you and me have probably come across the literary technique of “parallelism” before—you know, constructing your writing in such a way that the grammar of one phrase, say, echoes an earlier sentence. That’s what I was going for what I started my sentence with “Second only to Yossarian in alleged insanity, Dunbar…” and ended it with “… is also second only to Yossarian as a character introduced in the book.”
Clearly, I failed in that. Oh well, we all try these things when we’re young, don’t we?
And last of all—hopefully I haven’t taken up too much more of your time or left the taste of poor diction in your mouth, giving you that fuzzy feeling on your tongue that comes when you go to sleep without brushing—I’d like to say a few words about your word choice.
You are indeed a master wit! I don’t think I’d ever be clever enough to call a complete stranger “pretentious” while myself using terms like brutish and faux intellectualism. I can only surmise that you wanted to use satire to comment on an analysis of satire.
Which is why I love you, Anonymous. And how I do love you for this.
* If you can make it through my stilted prose and pretensions to some modicum of literacy, this, Dear Anonymous, is what we faux intellectuals like to call “satire.” Or perhaps it’s just what my mom likes to call “passive aggressive.” Why don’t you let me know.
Take note, gentlemen: this might help you on your next date. Or not. Probably not.
Our guide to proper 19th-century etiquette, the eminent Cecil B. Hartley, would have been remiss to omit from his 1875 Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette advice on the art of conversation. And lucky for us, almost all of these guidelines have something to do with one’s behavior in “the society of ladies.”
This was the era of the “Cult of True Womanhood,” a pervasive (I suppose a lot of us would say pernicious) set of ideas about how women were supposed to act. We can sum it up into four cardinal virtues for women: piety, purity, submission, and domesticity.
Of course, in 1875, “ladies” wasn’t a blanket statement for all human females–more like white middle- and upper-class human females. But even so, working-class women, African-American women, and others who wouldn’t be called “ladies” or be welcomed in polite society were often held to the same standards of the Cult of True Womanhood.
The point being that these were the cultural assumptions of Hartley’s time, and the things he says about women’s brains and mental faculties (below) would have been quite common. Hey, women themselves were reading the same things in their own publications, like that money-making machine, the womanly advice manual and fashion handbook “Godey’s Lady’s Book.”
So let’s see what Mr. Hartley was teaching America’s young men about relationships between the sexes:
1. No Controversy Allowed
“One of the first rules for a guide in polite conversation is to avoid political and religious discussions in general society … [I]n the drawing room, at the dinner table, or in the society of ladies, these are topics best avoided.”
We still say today that it’s impolite to bring up politics, religion, or other contentious subjects at dinner or at any sort of gathering–even among friends and family. Of course, Hartley mentions three situations in which it’s in particularly bad taste to start a debate: all of them the domestic spheres of a woman. You get the feeling that Hartley wouldn’t take offense to a group of men drinking scotch, smoking cigars, and talking politics in the library after dinner.
2. Don’t Let a Woman Show You Up
I love this one. Hartley has just been discoursing on the importance of being knowledgeable about a broad range of topics (art, science, literature, business, music, international affairs) when he throws in this gem about a woman who chimes in with something insightful to say when the man has lost the train of the conversation for wont of a proper education:
“This facility of comprehension often startles us in some women, whose education we know to have been poor, and whose reading is limited. If they did not rapidly receive your ideas, they could not, therefore, be fit companions for intellectual men, and it is, perhaps, their consciousness of a deficiency which leads them to pay more attention to what you say.”
By jove, that must be it! It’s not that she’s a intelligent woman who has by the custom of the country been denied equal education with men (how absurd); it must be that she wants to get married and so tries really hard to prove herself to men! Well, that makes much more sense.
3. That’s What She Said
You know why I’m glad Steve Carell left The Office this season? Because I’m pretty sure that Michael Scott did more to popularize “That’s what she said” jokes than anyone else on the planet. And if puns are the lowest form of humor, than making a double entendre of an innocent person’s inadvertent sexual innuendo has to be the lowest form of pun.
“To use phrases which admit of a double meaning, is ungentlemanly, and, if addressed to a lady, they become positively insulting.”
Finally, something Cecil and I can agree on. Lord knows there’s not much.
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