Premature Review of The Blinding Knife

Fans of Brent Weeks undoubtedly waited with anticipation for his latest novel: The Blinding Knife.  I certainly did.  I found his world of colors and magic very original and quite interesting.  The intrigue in the Chromeria and the world of the seven satraps lent just enough credence as powerful parallels to our own world.

His prior novels (at least the ones I've read) were great reads.  This series continues with the same non-stop page turning effort I exhibited with the other books.  Well, for me it was and continues to be non-stop Kindle-app-on-my-iPhone page tapping.  I even walk around the office with my nose to the iPhone, ignoring everything around me like I know better.  That makes for a good book, and The Blinding Knife slips easily into that category.

Sometimes, there are times when the story does something special, like a unique turn of a phrase or an excellent use of a metaphor.  This happens rarely in most of what I read.  I cannot say whether it is due to talent, effort, or consequence, but most authors ply their craft by following templates that push the reader along--cliffhangers and sudden twists of plot--rarely building something that really stops me cold and brings a wry smile to my face.

Well, Weeks pulled one off in The Blinding Knife that pushed my respect meter up several more notches.  If you haven't read the book, then stop right here and read it.  Otherwise, please continue...

[Spoiler Alert]

Gavin--the real Gavin--spends so much time imprisoned that his mind slowly and inevitably begins to crumble.  The walls of his cells are reflective, so he can see himself.  Unfortunately, he creates a persona out of the reflection and calls it the Dead Man.  Gavin becomes emaciated, weak.  The Dead Man reflection becomes the man Gavin needs to believe is not himself.  Gavin is a fighter and strong-willed.  Succumbing to the realization that he has become the thing in the mirror goes against his nature.

It reaches the point where Gavin doesn't need to see the reflection to carry on a conversation with himself.  He even argues with the Dead Man, who knows what Gavin thinks and slowly becomes the more rational individual as he continually warns Gavin about dangers and such.

This is what Weeks builds for the reader.  The Dead Man slowly emerges the more rational individual and quite nearly reaches the point of existence when Gavin creeps through the pitch-black tunnels between cells.  As he ascends farther away from the green cell, The Dead Man no longer emerges in the reflective walls, but speaks to Gavin in the dark.

When Dazen (a.k.a. Gavin!) finally kills his imprisoned brother, he walks up to the corpse and notices that the only thing reflecting back from the walls is a dead man.  Ah-ha! 

This is an excellent closure technique for the dead man metaphor.  As The Dead Man becomes more real, Gavin gets closer to his own death.  The reader also suddenly realizes that the constant reflections of The Dead Man portended his death.  Touche!

I highly recommend this book and the series.

A Success at Failure -- Analysis of Amy Tan's short story "Two Kinds"

A Success at Failure

Amy Tan, a child of Chinese immigrants, wrote the story “Two Kinds”, telling the tale of a Jing-Mei’s rebellion against her mother’s desire to change her into a prodigy.  As Jing-Mei’s mother continually tells her she does not try hard enough to succeed, the conflict between Jing-Mei and her mother escalates. Jing-Mei grows more stubborn, making every effort to resist her mother, and the relationship devolves into a standoff where mother and daughter both refuse to budge from their position.  “Two Kinds” shows the irony in Jing-Mei’s relationship with her mother; while her mother believes Jing-Mei does not try hard enough to succeed, Jing-Mei succeeds in her struggle for identity by refusing to become the person her mother wants.

The story opens with a brief synopsis of Jing-Mei’s mother’s past.  As a Chinese immigrant fleeing from war, her mother leaves behind everything: “her mother and father, her family home, her first husband, and two daughters, twin baby girls.” (Tan 206)  As a resident in America, Jing-Mei’s mother does not wallow in misery but instead looks forward to a life with limitless boundaries, honestly believing that “[y]ou could become instantly famous.” (Tan 206)  Brent tells us that Chinese immigrants view America as a true land of opportunity and that tradition demands a daughter’s obedience to her mother (1).  With a history steeped in traditional Chinese culture and a spirit of adventure, her mother decides Jing-Mei will fulfill this dream and become a child prodigy.

At first, the anticipation of riches and fame propel Jing-Mei into cooperating with her mother, persuading Jing-Mei in the belief she can attain perfection.  She imagines herself in several wonderful images, each colorful and immensely satisfying.  These dreams, however, fail to sate her dreams for perfection because “sometimes the prodigy in [her becomes] impatient” (Tan 207).  Her uncertainties fester and lead her to discover her independent spirit, laying seed to the growth of her rebelliousness and the blossoming of the thorny relationship with her mother.

Her mother’s continual push to change Jing-Mei into a prodigy fuels Jing-Mei’s inner transformation from an obedient daughter to a defiant child.  After several pitiable failures at intelligence tests, Jing-Mei sees disappointment in her mother’s face and Jing-Mei’s desire for perfection crumbles.   Stricken, she takes a close look at herself in a mirror and sees a “sad, ugly girl” (Tan 207) looking back.  Suddenly, a change takes place and a new face emerges in the mirror.   Jing-Mei sees a “girl staring back…angry, powerful.” (Tan 207)  Her metamorphosis concludes, leaving Jing-Mei bold, assertive, and angry, filled with a desire to keep her identity and resist change.  Jing-Mei acts differently after her transformation by displaying profound apathy, causing her mother to lose resolve.

Instead of giving up, her mother decides to transform Jing-Mei into a great musician, and Jing-Mei soon finds herself taking piano lessons.  Her tutor, however, suffers from deaf ears and she takes advantage of his handicap by pretending to studiously play.  Jing-Mei succeeds with her ruse to the point where her mother brags to Jing-Mei’s Auntie Lindo about her piano playing prowess, saying: “It’s like you can’t stop her natural talent.” (Tan 209)  Soon thereafter, her mother places Jing-Mei in a talent show, whereupon Jing-Mei fails spectacularly in her performance.  Undaunted, two days later, Jing-Mei’s mother demands Jing-Mei continue to practice.  Jing-Mei realizes her mother will never relent and she decides to confront her mother in a final battle.

The tension rises and comes to a crisis point when Jing-Mei refuses to play the piano any more.  Her mother resorts to shouting in Chinese, telling Jing-Mei that she must be obedient.  In a fit of rage, Jing-Mei wishes aloud she were dead, like her deceased twin sisters, shocking her mother into silence and ultimately breaking her mother’s will.  Utterly crushed, her mother retreats from the room “like a small brown leaf, thin, brittle, lifeless.”  (Tan 211)   Jing-Mei later recalls “the lid to the piano was closed, shutting out the dust, my misery, and her dreams.” (Tan 212)  Jing-Mei and her mother never speak about the argument, leaving Jing-Mei ignorant of the reasons her mother lost hope in her.

Jing-Mei never veers from her resolve, but a surprising event offers hope for forgiveness.  On Jing-Mei’s thirtieth birthday, her mother says she wants to give the piano to Jing-Mei.  She feels at that moment “a tremendous burden removed” (Tan 212).   The gift appears to Jing-Mei as a signal for reconciliation, yet her mother offers no apology or words of consolation, only repeating the phrase: “[y]ou just not trying” (Tan 212).  As a consequence, Jing-Mei leaves the piano at her mother’s house and pays a tuner to recondition it.

Closure for Jing-Mei comes shortly after her mother’s death when she makes a small discovery at the piano. Helping her father put things in order at her mother’s house, Jing-Mei sits at her piano and plays songs she once learned. She finds the score for “Pleading Child” and discovers “Perfectly Contented” on the other side of the page.  In the final words of the story, Jing-Mei realizes the song she once learned and the new one form a single song, revealing an apt metaphor of her life.

The catalyst of her insight—the two songs formed as one—illustrates an irony present throughout the story.  In the opening text, Jing-Mei’s mother believes America holds the opportunity for anything, after having lost everything in China before her immigration to Chinatown.  Jing-Mei suffers through several tests of intelligence and skill, yet she excels at none.  The irony in the mother’s beliefs compared to the reality of the lack of innate prodigal talent in Jing-Mei grows stronger with each failure.  Following a string of failures, Jing-Mei’s one success rests with her refusal to play music, the culmination of her struggle to maintain her identity.  Jing-Mei’s mother declares her daughter does not try hard enough to excel, yet Jing-Mei does excel by asserting her individuality.  The mother sees only failure from a lack of effort by Jing-Mei, but the daughter exerts every effort to fail.  Ironically, the mother fails to see how Jing-Mei’s success at failure highlights the mother’s failure at driving Jing-Mei to succeed as a prodigy, particularly when Jing-Mei fails to prove herself a genius at the piano.

The piano itself provides no contrast, but it fills two roles in the story.  Its first function as a metaphor provides Tan the opportunity to embellish her main character’s disposition.  Apart from the focal point of the majority of the arguments between Jing-Mei and her mother, the piano represents Jing-Mei.  When Jing-Mei purposely learns and plays discordant hymns during her lessons with the deaf teacher, Mr. Chong, the dissonance becomes a clever representation of the discord Jing-Mei sows.  When her mother offers the piano as a gift, the piano remains in her mother’s home, telling us Jing-Mei has yet to release herself from past events.  After her mother’s death, Jing-Mei returns to the piano only to find it richer and of higher quality than she first assumed.  When she plays two songs and realizes they form a single song, Jing-Mei reaches a clear understanding of her own life.  The pleading of one song and the contentment of the other tell us Jing-Mei sees her growth composed of a short period pleading for independence, followed by a longer period in contentment.  In this way, the piano speaks for Jing-Mei throughout the story, telling both Jing-Mei and us about Jing-Mei’s true self.

Secondly, the piano gives life to Tan’s story through the inclusion of the piano teacher, Mr. Chong, who provides both comic relief and sublime irony.  Whereas appreciation and training in music require an acute hearing ability, Chong’s deafness defeats this requirement for his job.  Jing-Mei takes advantage of his disability and pretends to eagerly learn, leading to her spectacular failure at a talent show.  Chong launches himself to his feet at the end of Jing-Mei’s recital in the talent show and applauds while the rest of the audience struggles with their reactions to the embarrassing performance.  Tan thereby says only the deaf could not hear Jing-Mei’s pleas for individuality, while everyone else fails to understand the message Jing-Mei repeatedly expresses.  Chong makes us laugh when he sways to unheard music, but his humorous antics give focus to the depth of the struggle between mother and daughter.

The tipping point in the relationship between Jing-Mei and her mother illustrates two things: the focus of their disagreement and the strength of Jing-Mei’s will.  In a fit of rage, Jing-Mei’s mother shouts her belief there are “[o]nly two kinds of daughters…Those who are obedient and those who follow their own mind” (Tan 211).  The underlying message says the relationship consists of one mind that wants acquiescence and another that wants independence.  In this one sentence, the story reveals the essence of the mother-daughter relationship, the roles each play, and their extreme emotional polarity.  Jing-Mei’s retort, wishing to be dead like her sisters who perished many years prior, lands not like a bit of straw but rather like a load of bricks upon the camel’s proverbial back, irrevocably damaging their tenuous relationship.  The mother begins the battle with an intent to change a disobedient child, and subsequently submits to a stronger will, an ironic twist on her struggle to bend Jing-Mei to her wishes.

The polarization in their relationship remains static, but Jing-Mei continues to grow.  When she returns to the piano after her mother’s death, Jing-Mei experiences a revelation.  The music she plays forms a contrast both in their names—“Pleading Child” and “Perfectly Contented”—and in their composition—one short and slow, the other fast and long.  The two contrasting songs reveal how far Jing-Mei matures.   They create a subtle extension of the theme via the changing state of Jing-Mei’s life, showing us “her childhood self and her grown-up self represent ‘two halves’ of the same person.” (Brent 3)  As a child, Jing-Mei pleads with her mother to let her become her own person; as an adult, Jing-Mei finds contentment in her individuality.  She realizes the struggle with her mother forged the serenity she feels in her life.

In summary, the wealth of contrasting images and events lends support to the irony in Jing-Mei’s mother’s mistaken beliefs.  She thinks Jing-Mei does not try to be the best she can; yet Jing-Mei works with all her might to be the best individual she is.  The mother holds to her conviction of Jing-Mei’s failures, but she fails to see her daughter’s success at finding and being true to herself.  In a broader context, Tan says our tendencies to mold our children into our ideal image of success often works against the universal struggle to find one’s identity.  Television, powerful advertising, clever marketing, and the myriad opinions of everyone we know swirl around us in a cacophony of conflicting messages, often drowning our pleas for time and space to get to know ourselves and find contentment in being what we are and not what someone else wants us to be.

Works Cited

Tan, Amy.  “Two Kinds”.  Literature: An Introduction to Reading and Writing.  Longman.  Boston.  10^th ed. 

Brent, Liz. "Overview of 'Two Kinds'." Short Stories for Students. Ed. Ira Mark Milne. Vol. 9. Detroit: Gale Group, 2000. Literature Resource Center. Web. 13 Apr. 2012. Document URL
http://go.galegroup.com/ps/i.do?id=GALE%7CH1420031606&v=2.1&u=tel_a_tbr&it=r&p=LitRC&sw=w

A Struggle in Spirit -- A Critical Analysis of Isben's Play "A Doll's House"

In 1879, when Henrik Ibsen’s play A Doll’s House played for the first time at the Royal Theater in Copenhagen, Denmark, its content shocked several people, and critics found themselves polarized on their evaluation of Ibsen’s literary genius.  Because women during that period in history were socially regarded as less intelligent beings and incapable of any deep understanding, Ibsen’s portrayal of an unconventional wife generated several points of contention.  Some critics failed to see the play for what lay underneath, and not what it showed.  The play, by using the characters as representatives of society and class, says women have both an outward struggle against a patriarchal society and, in their fight for equality and independence, an inward struggle with themselves against the denigrating meme of male gender superiority expressed in society. 

The prevailing perception males held of their own superiority led a literary critic of that time to say Nora, the main character, “does a thing that one of the lower animals would not do,” (Scott) which was the unmentionable act of leaving her children.  Not only does this critic fail to hear the underlying message, he reveals exactly how low women were held in men’s regard.  The play anticipates this critical sentiment when the husband in the play, Torvald, tells his wife that she does not “understand how to act on [her] own responsibility,” (III. 137) clearly expressing a perceived lack of intelligence. In this fashion, the play reveals middle class society mores could not accept a thinking wife.

In addition, Ibsen tells us that women sat at the root of superstitious fears.  Torvald and Nora talk about Krogstad’s past fraudulent indiscretions near the end of the first act.  Torvald sums up the common belief in women’s evil nature when he says: “[a]lmost everyone who has gone to the bad early in life has had a deceitful mother.” (I. 59)   Perhaps, in an age where superstition explained many things, women may have accepted such beliefs without question.  These sentiments, however, clash with the ideals of feminism.  A Doll’s House reveals the social mores of that time and shows the depth to which women’s status had fallen.

The play reinforces this broad theme by providing several allegories to the world at large.  Nora, who first appears flighty and senseless, strikes the pose of the acquiescing female plaything—the ideal woman in the Victorian era’s eye.  Torvald, who refers to Nora as a “songbird” (I. 55) or “squirrel” (I. 4), demeans his wife and thus stands for the male populace who perform this same act bolstering feelings of superiority.  Nora’s friend Christine enters as a messenger of promise, revealing the treasure of freedom and release women all over the world seek.  Torvald’s reaction to Nora’s decision to leave the marriage marches in lockstep with men’s reactions to women’s demands for equality: “Can you not understand your place in your own home?  Have you not a reliable guide in such matters?” (III.145)  His words in the last act mirror the Victorian expectations of the roles played in a marriage, in society, and everywhere.

The men in the play, via Isben’s uncanny symbolism, itemize several facets of the male-dominated society.  Torvald conducts himself as a proper gentleman keeping his wife in check and managing his business in the study.  The expectations of the family in the Victorian era follow suit to this description.  Not only does the majority of art and literature at that time project well-balanced mannerisms, but the populace in the main expected this sort of display in everyday life.  No wonder Nora expends a great deal of effort to keep her illegal act secret.  Torvald displays in a dramatic change in character after discovering Nora’s fraud because his perception of reality finally relents to a message of truth.  When he nearly exhausts himself, Torvald claims: “it must appear as if everything between us were just as before—but naturally only in the eyes of the world.” (III. 135)  The gentleman shows us he both knows what society expects and what the culture of propriety hides from itself, yet appearances and deception also need support.

Rank, the doctor, symbolizes the rationalization used during those years to support society’s attitudes.  Philosophical and scientific circles built reasons in support of male dominance.  There existed at that time strong philosophical arguments for the separation of the genders. A great deal of thought pointed toward the belief in men acting as the active and more intelligent agents, as opposed to the passive and therefore subservient women. (Lee)  Rank supports this belief by the simple fact that he exists both as a male and a doctor.  Yet, this character suffers from indiscretions in a prior generation, succumbing to consumption and expecting certain death in the near future.  Here, Isben says, so will the old thought patterns of imagined superiority and dominance perish as new truths consume old myths.

Krogstad represents society’s will in its demand for women to fulfill their implicitly-understood contract of their subservience to men.  The bond Nora secures begins with fraud and exists as the means to expose the consequence of the greater fraud of the imagined bondage to men: Nora’s lack of true happiness in the marriage.  The bond itself, however, morphs into a non-existent threat when Krogstad transforms into someone more forgiving and less frigid.  In opposition to Torvald, who fervently attempts to maintain a false appearance, Krogstad changes into the more realistic man after Chrisitne convinces him to accept her back into his house.  Krogstad as the reformed man shows us how a better understanding of society’s inequalities, especially with the enlightened mature woman, holds the key to a gentle reconciliation and a hopeful future.  The threat of punishment in breaking a contract to society fades with men’s willingness to engage in a new beginning.

The fresh start ultimately requires a better perception of women, and Isben informs his audience how they must come to this understanding.  Via a complex metaphor, the women in the play embody both the emotive opposite to men and a spiritual connection to the world.  While Nora portrays current circumstances, Christine represents the future; Nora moves from subservience to autonomy, but Christine maneuvers back toward reconciliation.  Since Nora has yet to discover herself and Christine had earlier done so, Nora represents the very young woman and Christine the older and wiser one.  In support, Isben makes a note of Nora’s stasis and Christine’s decade-long growth saying: “You are a child, Nora.” (I. 22)  The duality of the female spirit lives as two opposite forces, a veritable yin and yang of the soul.

One reviewer appropriately remarks that “[C]hristine reflects the opposite of Nora,” (Metzger), but the allegory proceeds one step further with the inclusion of Anne the maid.  Anne fills the role of mother, revealed when Nora asks Anne to take care for the children and when Christine tells us that Anne was “a good mother to [her] when [she] was little.” (II. 64)  The aspects of the ancient, revered goddess come together with Nora, Anne, and Christine playing the roles of Maiden, Mother, and Crone.  Although pagan in nature, the sacred goddess exists as a powerful mystical icon. (Husain)  Isben takes this philosophical image and uses the three women in the play to epitomize his reverence of womanhood.  Beneath the veneer of a problematic marriage, and under obvious metaphors for women’s rights, A Doll’s House says the portrayal of women in society runs opposite to their profound and sacred nature.

With such grand symbols in play, the theme of the drama expands outward from the literal action of Nora leaving her husband and family.  The harsh social structure of the Victorian era comes alive through both the male characters’ prejudices and the spiritual journeying of the women:  law versus spirit. A Doll’s House brings together this universal struggle and the women’s rights movement through the simple and easily-understandable concept of family.  Perhaps, as George Bernard Shaw said of the play, Nora’s final act likewise ended another act in the great play of human history.  A more likely conclusion comes from the layering of the play’s symbolism: women struggle in spirit and find themselves opposed by well-established conventions in society, while another struggle for men, namely for their emotional maturity, plays just as significant a role in the fight for gender equality and independence.  As the fight for women’s rights around the world commenced in earnest during this time, Ibsen’s play provided a harsh wake-up call for theater-goers everywhere.  The women’s rights movement benefited in part from A Doll’s House, yet the struggle continues to this day as women still battle social traditions for an equal share in life.  Contemporary thoughts and values regarding the sexes have yet to reach their conclusion, progressed only partially since the opening of Isben’s play.

Works Cited

Ibsen, Henrik.  A Doll’s House. Google Books. Plain Label Books.  n.d.  Web.  17 Mar. 2012.

Scott, Clement. "Review of 'A Doll's House." The Theatre 14.79 (July 1889): 19-22. Rpt. in Twentieth-Century Literary Criticism. Ed. Paula Kepos. Vol. 37. Detroit: Gale Research, 1991. Literature Resource Center. Web. 19 Mar. 2012.

Metzger, Sheri. "An overview of A Doll's House." Drama for Students. Detroit: Gale. Literature Resource Center. Web. 19 Mar. 2012.

Shaw, Bernard. "A Doll's House Again." The Saturday Review 83.2168 (15 May 1897): 539-541. Rpt. in Twentieth-Century Literary Criticism. Ed. Sharon K. Hall. Vol. 8. Detroit: Gale Research, 1982. Literature Resource Center.  Web.  26 Mar. 2012.

Lee, Elizabeth. “Victorian Theories of Sex and Sexuality”. The Victorian Web. N.p. 1996.  Web.  28 Mar. 2012

Husain, Shahrukh. The Goddess: Power, Sexuality, and the Feminine Divine.  Google Books.  UofM Press.  18 Feb. 2003.  Web.  31 Mar. 2012.