Going Native: A Comparison of Two Imperial Administrators

Douglas Kerr's "Three Ways of Going Wrong" is a convincing article that connects the African colonial stories of Kipling, Conrad, and Coetzee and successfully creates a "myth" that all three stories' plots follow. He is careful to point out, however, that Coetzee inverted the myth by telling his story from the eyes of the transgressor (the Magistrate), the one who "goes native". However, the Magistrate is quite different from someone of Kurtz's nature, and it is in this aspect that Kerr's argument of plot unification becomes unraveled.

In "The Heart of Darkness", Joseph Conrad creates a primordial setting in which a man named Kurtz becomes a fallen hero for the Empire. His capacity to collect rubber is unmatched, but as he becomes more and more acquainted with the local lifestyle, he finds himself unable to resist the call of the wild people and that of the wild forest itself. Kurtz has an insatiable greed for power, so much so that he achieves a supernatural status in both races: a god to the natives, and a Lucifer (a fallen angel) to the Empire. In the pursuit of power, Kurtz loses all inhibitions due to his time spent deep in the recesses of the Congo. His outpost is lined with poles, atop of which sit the severed heads of his enemies. When he is finally forced to leave with the rest of the men, Kurtz becomes increasingly weak as he leaves his place of power, and perhaps more clear-headed as well. His famous last words, "The horror!" indicate that he finally had an epiphany and has seen the evils of his ways, presumably before going to meet the evilest one of them all. There is no doubt in anyone's mind of the nefarity with which Kurtz strays from imperial decree and goes, as Kerr puts it, "beyond the pale."

On the other hand, Coetzee's Magistrate does not appear to have evil intentions when he "goes native". Rather, his interest in not just the barbarian girl but also the barbarians themselves and their culture is more like an intellectual curiosity - at first. However, as he becomes more and more associated with the barbarian girl, and finally when he is arrested, he is viewed as someone who became too close to the barbarians, someone who sympathizes with them. Whether he is genuine in this emotion is debatable: the Magistrate is a man who likes to think he is doing something noble and just so it can be recorded in history, when he reality he doubts everything about himself and the people around him. However insecure the Magistrate may be, his reasons for fighting the will of the Empire are far more benevolent than those of Kurtz'.

Both the Magistrate and Kurtz have steely resolves, yet both ultimately fail in their quests. The Empire triumphs, leaving Kurtz dead and the Magistrate, in effect, a non-entity. This similarity is one that Kerr could have pointed out: that no matter how the individual fights, the Empire wins, even in the face of defeat (as in "Waiting for the Barbarians"). The cold sunglasses of Colonel Joll represent much more than a fashion statement. His face is the impassive face of any Empire: a face that betrays no emotions, save for the unending quest for eternal self-preservation. It is a quest that neither the fanaticism of Kurtz nor the pathos of the Magistrate can extinguish, revealing, in the end, how similar they are. (575)

Initial Responses to WFB

When I first began reading Waiting for the Barbarians, I didn't like the story so much as I liked the relatively "normal" wrtiting style. After the pretentiousness of Conrad and the stream of consciousness of Faulkner, I was more than ready to encounter a simplistic, straight-forward, plot-driven novel like the one Coetzee writes.

The storyline itself, however, did not grab my interest - at first. Coetzee's Magistrate (the narrator) plays the atypical "white knight", caring for Colonel Joll's prisoners in a motherly fasion. He immediately believes in their innocence, and he grows increasingly hateful of Colonel Joll for his torture tactics, which result in the death of the old prisoner. When the Colonel finally does leave, the Magistrate is relieved to be "alone again in a world [he] know[s] and understand[s]." Unfortunately, after this incident, his world will never be the same again. The visit from Colonel Joll is the first stone tossed by the Empire; by the end of the novel, the outpost has been buried by an empirical avalanche.

I think part of the reason the story did not initially appeal to me was the apparent lack of depth concerning our narrator. At first, he is merely an opposite to the dark forces of the Empire. HIs personality and character are revealed more and more as the novel progresses, and there are sides of him that are positively disturbing. Take, for example, his utterly bizarre relationship with the barbarian girl. When he brought her into his home, I believed he was just being a Good Samaritan. Then, at night, he begins that strange ritual of rubbing her broken ankles and cleaning her legs. This interaction would be similar to that of a lover, but the Magistrate hardly ever considers actually having intercourse with his slave (yes - she is no better than a slave to him, I think). Eventually, he is even repulsed by her. The Magistrate's frequent mood swings and his over-sexuality add to the novel as a whole, because the narrator is no longer just a good man protecting against the Empire - in some senses, he is a barbarian himself. (355)

Konrad Korzeniowski's Letters En Route to the Congo

- Begins with a very Romanticized childhood story of knowing he wanted to go to Africa when he was younger; characteristic of Conrad's grandiose style

- Past experiences: one year spent at Malay Archipelago, two years as "master" of an Austrailan boat in Pacific and Indian Oceans (the Otago, Jan. 1888 - Mar. 1889)

- No apparent reason for either of these professions, nor of journeying to Africa

- Original name: Konrad N. Korzeniowski; alternate names: C. Korzeniowski, Conrad Korzeniowski, Conrad, J. C. Korzeniowski

- Writes to: Uncle Alexander (dies shortly before seeing him), Aunt Marguerite (widow of Alexander), Maryleczka (cousin), Karol (cousin); all very warm with family members

- Departure for Africa very inauspicious, according to Conrad: rain, "dismal day", etc.

- Pretty pessimistic view on life: "in this wicked world", "One doubts the future", definition of life: "A little illusion, many dreams, a rare flash of happiness followed by disillusionment, a little anger and much suffering, and then the end"

- Is disheartened and "uneasy" about the fact that "there are only 7 per cent. who can do their three years' service!" But Conrad leaves himself after only six months, along with the other 60% of the Company's employees

- Isn't looking forward to the twenty-day trek to Leopoldville on foot ("How horrible!") and is interested in the prospect of commanding a "sea-going ship" following his return

- Why did Conrad take this job?

Closure in Faulkner's "The Sound and The Fury"

I believe the only event in the final "Dilsey" section of the novel that signifies closure was Quentin's robbery of her brother. Her departure leaves the family completely devoid of any variety in their daily lives, and now the remaining household members will be forced to deal with each other in the same boring routine until another member (presumably Mother) dies. Apart from the drama that Quentin causes, there is nothing else out of the ordinary in this section. It's true that Dilsey, Frony, Luster, and Benjy go to church, but they attend services occasionally according to the novel. It's also true that Luster deviates from the standard road to the graveyard (for the first time ever, perhaps), which completely upsets Benjy. However, this is quickly remedied by Jason, who forces Nancy back onto the old path. Neither of these events are life-changing or particularly significant, but they do give us examples of the continuing decay of the once-proud Compson family. I may not agree with Dilsey's statement, "I seed de beginnin, en now I sees de endin," because I don't see the ending quite yet; there is no question, however, that the end is near for not only the Compson family but also for the atmosphere of the old Deep South. (212)

Flower Symbology in "The Sound and the Fury"

Throughout Faulkner's classic novel The Sound and the Fury, there is a great deal of folkloric references made by a variety of characters. However, most of these concern "Southern regional and Negro folk beliefs" (2), which are not widely known. Thankfully, Charles D. Peavy explains the many allusions to Southern life that Faulkner makes in his article, "Faulkner's Use of Folklore in The Sound and the Fury".

The most interesting point in this article that I found was Peavy's discussion of the relevance of flowers in the novel, specifically Benjy's attraction to the jimson weed. To begin with, the jimson weed (Datura stramonium) is a member of the nightshade family and is by consequence poisonous. As Peavy points out, the fact that Luster and his relatives even allow Benjy to play with the weed is quite surprising given its potentially life-threatening toxicity. Furthermore, the jimson weed is quite malodorous, and it is sometimes referred to as the stinkweed. This association can be important in a number of ways, but I believe it is most central as an extension of the theme of smell. Quentin associates honeysuckle with Caddy, sex, and incest; Benjy associates the smell of trees with Caddy; and the family in general identifies the smell of jimson weed (a bad smell) with Benjy (a bad person in terms of luckiness).

Another interesting point concerning the jimson weed is its physical appearance. The weed, which has white or yellowish leaves, is closed for the majority of the day; only later does it open to emit its pungent odor. However, when closed, the weed stands erect and is viewed by both whites and blacks alike as a phallic symbol. During the scene where Benjy chases Temple Drake (which later results in his castration), there are a number of jimson weeds where she walks, and they "slash" at her legs. The sexual overtones of this chase is revealed given the physical description of the weed and the associations that come with it.

The most prevalent reference to a flower apart from the jimson weed is the "cornflower blue" of Benjy's eyes. This vivid phrase was not first used in The Sound and the Fury, however. Faulkner used it in a short story, titled "The Kingdom of God" published four years prior to the publication of his novel. In this story, another mentally-handicapped boy like Benjy is given "cornflower blue" eyes. This light, easy color represents innocence in both Benjy and the other character. Indeed, another name for the cornflower is in fact "Innocence." Thus, like the jimson weed, cornflower represents much more than just a flower chosen at random by Faulkner; like the entire rest of the novel, these two references served a specific purpose. As the readers, we just have to take it upon ourselves to find out what this purpose is, which makes reading The Sound and The Fury all the more enjoyable. (484)

The Effects of Separation in "Shiloh"

In Bobbie Ann Mason's "Shiloh", a trucker is terribly injured in a highway accident, resulting in the loss of his job (5) and a return to his home, his wife, and his marriage. This trucker, Leroy Moffitt, believes that his injury is a blessing in disguise, because he believes they must "start afresh" (9) now that he is pemanently home. His wife Norma Jean, however, is made more uncomfortable by his presence; at one point Leroy admits that oftentimes she is almost surprised to see him when she enters their house. Nonetheless, both characters share one trait: they are in the midst of a renaissance in their lives - but they are going in opposite directions with them. Separation is at the heart of all this change and tension.

Leroy and Norma Jean get married at the tender age of 18, due to the fact that Leroy impregnates her (26). Following the death of their son, Leroy becomes a trucker and goes on the road for the next 15 years, stopping only occasionally at his own house (16). Instead of confronting the emotions attached to the loss of their baby, Leroy and Norma Jean betray their immaturity by running away from the problem - or, in Leroy's case, driving away from it. As a result, they never really talk about their lost son, and this is one reason why the second-chance marriage fails. Although Leroy and Norma Jean were technically married during this 15-year period, it was really a separation, emotionally and physically, caused by the child Randy.

This long separation, coupled with the forced reunion of their marital union, shakes them both up. Leroy takes up a number of hobbies: hobbies that would be common for a 10-year-old boy, but hobbies that are depressingly pathetic for a 34-year-old man to be doing (6). Norma Jean, on the other hand, reinvigorates her life. She cannot stand to be around Leroy, perhaps because he reminds her of Randy (9), or perhaps because she is simple not used to being around someone - as she says at the conclusion of the story, she wants to be left alone (154). Nevertheless, Norma Jean partakes in a number of activities that will benefit her life. She begins lifting weights, jogging, and even enrolling in a course at a community college (86). She is already preparing herself for another separation with Leroy, but one that this time will be a conscious decision on her part.

Thus, the aformentioned renaissances are revealed: Leroy desires a rejuvenation of his marriage, and Norma Jean wants to begin a new life by ending her marriage. Shiloh serves as the scene for the climax that we knew was coming all along: Norma Jean finally voicing her wish for a divorce. Interestingly, Leroy is shocked by the statement, even though he knew "he [was] going to lose her" (94). And unfortunately for Leroy, the rebirth of his marriage ends in death, like the son he once had. For Norma Jean, her goal of separation succeeds as she speeds past Leroy when he is trying to catch up with her. However, her renaissance for a new life might also have ended in death, as Bobbie Ann Mason's ending is arguably ambiguous. Regardless of whether or not Norma Jean jumps in the end, the marriage of the Moffitts ends at the battlefield, where many men lost their lives, and where one trucker appears to lose his. (573)

The Effects of Jealousy in Raymond Carver's "Cathedral"

From the beginning of this short story, it is very clear that the main character dislikes his wife's blind friend. However, the reason for this dislike is not so clear, on the surface. The character attributes his dislike of the man to a dislike of the blind: "The blind moved slowly...never laughed...were led by seeing-eye dogs" (1). But these offensive comments are almost comical in their absurdity; after all, whoever heard of being prejudiced against the blind? The comments are so ridiculous that they practically invite the reader to find a deeper, more meaningful explanation for this man's disgust with his wife's blind friend. In reality, the simple answer to all of these repressed feelings of disapproval is nothing more than jealousy.

To begin with, the husband is jealous of his wife's former life - and, especially, her former lover. His quick dismissal of their relationship is evidenced in paragraph two: "She was in love with the guy, and he was in love with her, etc." The et cetera is particularly significant in that it represents the (apparent) disinterest the main character has in his wife's relationship with this "guy." The et cetera appears again in paragraph three: "...married her childhood, etc." From what we can interpret, this man's wife had a fine relationship with "her childhood" - that is until she divorced him, resulting from her loneliness from the life of an officer's wife. And throughout all this, she was maintaining a relationship with the blind man, and in the process, she became much closer to him than she was to anyone in her life.

And so we now come to the true cause of the jealousy: the blind man, the friend who helped the main character's wife through the most difficult period of her life. In this period, she attempted suicide, moved away from her husband, divorced, and then finally met the main character, her future spouse. Yet despite all these traumatic events, in spite of it all, the blind man managed to stand by her in spirit and on tape. It could even be argued that he was the reason she was still alive, since everyone needs some kind of emotional outlet. But the fact remains that the wife's relationship with Robert has proven to be the best relationship in her life. This is best illustrated when Robert visits, because the wife seems rather disappointed she can't be with Robert: "My wife...looked at me...[and] she didn't like what she saw" (30). Furthermore, the wife will not admit to Robert that marrying her husband was a good thing; at least, that's how our main character interprets it (46). Finally, the last indication of an inferior spousal relationship is when the narrator admits that "[his] wife and [he] hardly ever go to sleep at the same time" (85), a good sign of a dysfunctional relationship.

In total, the wife may have spent more time with Robert and the tapes than she has with her current husband - and the husband knows this. He knows that she is disappointed with him, that she has more love for Robert than she has for her own husband, and it is for this reason that the husband hates Robert - at first. He hates him for his emotional relationship with his wife. By the end of the story, however, he has developed a like for Robert, a like that results from personality rather than physicality. The husband is never prejudiced against blind people at all, really; this is why it is so easy for him to become friends with Robert. The narrator does not have a problem with a physical handicap. His problem is one of accepting the lack of emotion between him and his wife, and his other problem is letting go of possibly the worst vice: jealousy. (636)

The Generation Gap in Alice Walker's Everyday Use

The main source of conflict in this short story is Dee, or “Wangero Leewanika Kemanjo” (25), and her equally new-age male companion. These two clash with the mother of Dee and her other daughter, Maggie, both of whom live in an old, cheap house, with “three rooms”, a “tin roof”, and “no real windows” (14). The style of this house is one source of the conflict, as it is “just like the one that burned” (14); that is to say, it is decrepit and shoddy. The “one that burned” was an apparent embarrassment to the person formerly known as Dee: when it burned, her mother was surprised she didn’t “dance around the ashes” (10), and Mama Johnson can’t believe it when Wangero takes pictures of her and Maggie “and the house” (23). However, this newfound appreciation expressed by Wangero for the timeworn is quickly identified as nothing more than a passing fad, a generational hobby that neither Mama Johnson nor Maggie can understand, but something that they can recognize as completely ersatz.

There are many indications throughout the story that these emotions expressed by Wangero are not genuine. For example, when she makes a big fuss about the old quilts, Mama Johnson tells us that just a few years prior, when Dee went to college, she thought the quilts were “old-fashioned” and “out of style” (67). Another instance of insincerity is when Wangero is taking all the pictures upon her arrival: she makes sure to capture the most ancient things, which is namely the house and Mama Johnson herself. Again, before Dee went away to college, she would bring very few people around to the house, as mentioned earlier. Finally, Wangero is false in her emotions toward her own family, which is worst of all. She puts on a loving, appreciative façade for “Hakim-a-barber” (42), when in reality she cares very little for her family, as she has always. At sixteen, Dee considered her mother and her sister as “dimwits” (11), and there is no reason now to believe she feels otherwise. Her true nature is revealed when, after being denied the quilts, she storms off in a huff to the car, where she tells Mama Johnson, “You just don’t understand” (79). She then puts on her sunglasses (82), perhaps to hide her disgust from her family. In essence, though Wangero claims to be a new person, she has all the emotions of the old Dee: namely, embarrassment for and disgust towards her backwards family.

And yet, despite these obvious feelings of resentment, Mama Johnson and Maggie do not seek, and perhaps do not wish to seek, to change anything about their lives. They are set in their ways, not caring how Wangero thinks about them; after she and Hakim-a-barber leave, the mother and her daughter go back doing what they had been doing before, what they have been doing all their lives: relaxing in their yard with a dip of snuff while the sun goes down (83). They are both, if not happy, content with their lives, unlike Wangero, who is in her heart ashamed of hers. Mama Johnson and her daughter go about the same rituals as “Big Dee” and "Grandma Dee” (75): sewing, cleaning, cooking, having a dip of snuff. And, in this sense, they understand their heritage more than Wangero ever will, no matter what she may think (81). Because Maggie would both appreciate and use the quilts, and understand and remember how they got their, they would mean so much more to her; Wangero, on the other hand, would “hang them” (72), which would destroy the very meaning of those quilts. They were made to be used, not admired; they were made to be worn-down and raggedy, not preserved. It is in this aspect that Wangero confirms just how little she “understands” her heritage – she admires these objects of her past (which include her family) almost as if shopping at an antiques store, whereas Mama Johnson and Maggie appreciate the objects for what they really are: reminders of the people they have loved. In this regard, Wangero, or Dee, will never understand what that truly means. (690)

Summer Reading: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig

Books I read this summer:

Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen

A Thousand Splendid Suns, by Khaled Hosseini

Cold Mountain, by Charles Frazier

The Trial, by Franz Kafka

The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde

On The Road, by Jack Kerouac

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values, by Robert M. Pirsig


To be perfectly honest, I did not really care too much for this book when I started reading. The seemingly esoteric lists filled with motorcycle equipment and camping gear almost made me drop this book. Furthermore, the numerous philosopical discourses just about put me to sleep...but that was only for the first 70 or so pages. Then, the "character" Phaedrus was introduced. I say "character" because he is actually an alter ego of the main character, an ego that was deemed insane and thus was replaced by a separate personality and identity through shock-treatment therapy on the brain. The importance of all this is that Pirsig finally introduces a villian, a character designed to directly oppose the narrator, and it was because of this conflict that I stayed with this novel, and I'm very glad I did.

In Zen, there are three different stories happening simultaneously, and they all relate back to our narrator (who is never identified as Pirsig, but since the story is told in a first-person narrative, I always assumed it was him). The first subplot occurs in the present, where the narrator, his son, and two family friends ride across the northern United States on two motorcycles. During the course of this journey, it becomes more and more apparent that the relationship between father and son (11) is dysfunctional at best, as the narrator notes more and more the return of Phaedrus in his son and in himself.

The relation of the tale of Phaedrus is the second storyline. As the narrator and his son Chris journey from Minnesota to California, they encounter people and places that had existed in Phaedrus's world, people that he knew: places he had taught at, lived in. Gradually, more of Phaedrus's memories are uncovered by these encounters, and as the narrator learns more about Phaedrus and his struggle, so too do we learn that Phaedrus is not really such a villian, just a man with a passion for answers.

The final plot in this novel is a discussion of philosophy, most of which deals with the concept of Quality. Quality, Phaedrus argued, was a separate entity, which encompassed all aspects of rational and metaphysical thought, including "Classical" (analytical) thinking and "Romantic" thinking, which Pirsig quickly identifies as two distinct formulas to view the world in. In Phaedrus's quest to define Quality, he finds all that he had ever looked for in the world: a philosophical theory that makes sense to him, a theory for which he can find no fault and a theory in which everything can fit. Throughout this pursuit of knowledge, Phaedrus goes from a teacher to a student, from a caring husband to an insane intellectual, and from a man who thinks he knows it all to a man who no longer even exists, save for in the deep recesses of the narrator's mind. His struggle to define Quality, to define a term that everyone can recognize, but a term that no one can analytically prove, leads him to a climactic philosophical duel with an esteemed University of Chicago professor, who comes to realize that Phaedrus is the superior philosopher. However, as Phaedrus returns home, he understands that in his hunt to classify Quality, he has been getting farther and farther away from the true axiom of Quality: that it can never be truly defined. Defeated by this realization, he sits and stares at his home for three days before he is taken away to a mental hospital, and where is persona is destroyed.

The book itself draws all three of these separate plots together at the powerful conclusion. The philosophy, the Phaedrus emergence, and the decaying relationship between the narrator and his son - all are tied together when they reach the Pacific Ocean, for it is here, at the end of the journey, where Phaedrus makes his triumphant return. At first glance, the repossession of the narrator's mind seems to give a negative impression, almost as if the villian has triumphed in the end. However, it is the exact opposite. The man who sought answers in life, the one who was destroyed by the greatest question of all time, the individual who was prevented from even his own mind returned to the son that he loved, and the son who loved him, Phaedrus, not this new and so-called "improved" personality that had existed throughout the course of the novel. But in the end, Zen, the state in which the world should be, returns to Phaedrus and his son, and thus Robert M. Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance truly lives up to its name: a masterfully crafted saga that unites intellectual creativity with the powerful bond of humanity. (795)