No One Believes in Magic Anymore: Irony, Communism, and the Reality of the Supernatural

Woland, one of the major characters in Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, is introduced within the first few pages of the novel as man who was later described multiple ways, but the narrator notes that, “all of the reports were worthless” (5). The most important thing about Woland, the narrator states, is that he is a foreigner (6). This is an irony that is continued throughout the narrative; he is actually a foreigner nowhere because he is Satan.

Woland’s purpose in the narrative functions primarily in one of three episodes that take place in the novel: The Moscow episode. The irony of Woland’s character is that he is the devil, he is supernatural, he exists in the reality of the narrative, yet at the beginning of the novel, no one believes he exists. This irony is drawn throughout the Muscovite episode. Bulgakov uses this irony to comment on the harm the oppressive communist regime of Josef Stalin brought on the Russian people.

The title of the first chapter, “Never Talk to Strangers” is an ironic twist on the consequences of Berlioz and Bezdomny’s conversation with Woland. The title refers not only to those consequences but also to the restrictions placed on the Russian people with regards to speaking to foreigners for fear of spies. This fear is especially apparent in the first chapter as Berlioz and Bezdomny mentally try to guess where Woland is from. Their conversation with Woland sets the events of the novel in motion when they tell him, “We don’t believe in God” (7). They go on to tell Woland that their country “made a conscious decision long ago not to believe the fairy tales about God” (7). These facts about Communist Russia become very important throughout the Muscovite episode particularly with nearly every character involved in the episode, including the narrator, continually repeats clichés regarding the devil such as “The devil knows what’s going on [. . .] the devil knew how [. . .] the devil knows what [. . .] the devil only knows” and so on (87, 90, 97, 105). The irony of these phrases is that devil, Woland, really does know what is happening in each instance, making the statements no longer clichés but ironic statements of fact.

The irony is continued in many specific scenes; the most important is the chapter titled “Black Magic and Its Exposé.” Woland decides to demonstrate his power to the people of Moscow. He secures a slot at the theater managed in part by Stepan Styopa Likhodeyev. When Woland appears in Stepan’s apartment and isn’t recognized, Woland asks him, “What? You’ve forgotten my name too?” referring to the atheism of the entire country (65). On the night of the performance, the master of ceremonies introduces Woland thus:

I would like to present the famous foreign artiste, Monsieur Woland, in a performance of black magic! Of course, you and I know [. . .] that there is no such thing in the world as black magic, and it is nothing other than a superstition and that Maestro Woland is simply a master of conjuring technique, a fact which will become obvious in the most interesting part of his performance, that is, when he reveals the secrets behind his technical skill. (100)

Again, the atheism of the nation is presented and in an overtly, almost unnecessarily obvious way. The emcee comes across as attempting to stifle any belief in magic that Woland’s tricks might bring about. Of course, the tricks are real.

Woland begins the show, first by appearing in a chair out of thin air followed by a question he poses to his assistant: “Tell me, dear Fagot [. . .] have the Muscovites changed, in your opinion, in any significant way? (101). At first, he answers his own question by discussing modern inventions which were not present during his last visit to Moscow. The audience is completely silent, still stunned by Woland’s miraculous appearance. After a brief interruption, courtesy of the emcee, Woland writes off the exterior changes saying he is “not so much interested” in those things and states that “A much more important question is: have the Muscovites changed on inside” (101)? This is one of the central questions of Bulgakov’s text itself and the rest of the chapter makes a clear statement about the condition of the Muscovites during his lifetime and while under Stalinist rule.

Bulgakov’s answer would most likely be, “No, they haven’t changed. They only pretend to have.” The reality, as Woland demonstrates, is that while the Muscovites pretend to be large supporters of communism and its ideals, especially the condemnation of capitalist materialism, they are subject to the temptations of materialism like anyone else. Woland punishes the Muscovites for this. Fagot makes money fall from the sky creating chaos among the audience as they rush to grab the money shouting at each other, “That’s mine! It was coming toward me! [. . .] Don’t push me or I’ll push you back” (103)! The emcee assures the citizens that there is an explanation for the money, and ironically, the true explanation is that Fagot literally made money appear out of nowhere. Fagot then orders Behemoth, the giant black cat, to tear off the emcee’s head, which prompts the audience to cry out for the head to be returned, still believing that what they are seeing is not real. Woland begins a meditative speech, directed at Fagot, prompted by the audience’s pleas: “They are people like anywhere. They love money, but that has always been true... People love money, no matter what it is made of, leather, paper, bronze, or gold. And they are thoughtless... but, then again, sometimes mercy enters their hearts... they are ordinary people” (104). This is a blatant statement about the Muscovites under Stalinist rule: They only pretend to have changed on the inside. Deep down, what is truly human about them hasn’t changed, so to pretend as though it has is ridiculous.

Woland makes the Muscovites look truly ridiculous when he invites the women in the audience to receive new clothes in exchange for their old. Shortly after the incident with the emcee, Woland quietly disappears with his armchair and allows Fagot and Behemoth to finish the show. A store appears on stage, again out of nowhere, and the women in the audience, after seeing the success of one woman and her new shoes, rush the stage in a frenzy, completely ignoring the very tenants that are supposed to make communism superior to capitalism. Even after this, the audience still does not believe what they witnessed to be reality, and a man demands an exposé. Fagot reveals that the man is having an affair, sending the audience once again into complete chaos. Fagot and Behemoth disappear just as Woland had, and the show is over. As soon as it ends, all the new clothes disappear, leaving many women in their underwear, running around in the street outside the theater. They are tricked by Woland who perceived the Muscovites to have ultimately changed for the worse.

Bulgakov uses the irony of a real supernatural power existing in and interacting with an atheistic society to convey his own feelings toward the oppression imposed by communist rule in Russia. Through Woland, the reader is confronted with the belief that no matter what rules are imposed, human beings do not truly change inside. There are certain traits that are always innately human. Bulgakov and his countrymen hadn’t changed; many simply pretended.

Works Cited

Bulgakov, Mikhail. The Master and Margarita. Trans. Diana Burgin and Katherine Tiernan O’Connor. New York: Vintage International, 1995.

The Duality of Karl in The Beet Queen

In Louise Erdrich’s The Beet Queen, mythology, both Eastern and Western, is infused with the text. Erdrich includes Nordic, Hindu, Christian, Greek and Native American mythology, and even combines them. This intertextuality is dominant throughout the book, and is especially noticeable in the character of Karl. Karl’s nature and being demonstrate a dualism found in Greek and Christian mythology in particular. It is through Karl’s duality that the intertext of his character is fully developed.

Karl’s character can be related to Greek mythology in the forms of Pan and Dionysus. Though his origin is unclear, some myths tell that Pan is abandoned by his mother, just as Karl is. It is because of Pan’s monstrous form that his mother abandons him. Similarly, Dionysus never meets his real mother who is killed by his father, Zeus, and taken from the womb to be born a second time from Zeus’ leg. After his birth, Zeus turns him into a goat in order to further conceal Dionysus from Hera (Souli 50). Karl is also born out of an adulterous relationship. The dual nature of both Dionysus and Pan can be partly defined in their half animal, half human form. Though not half animal, Karl reflects dualism in his gender. When he first meets Giles Saint Ambrose on the train, Giles says, “You’re a girl, aren’t you?” and even when Karl denies it, Giles doesn’t seem to understand (23). Karl decides that he is attracted to Giles, and when they begin to kiss, Giles realizes, “You’re no girl,” [. . .] then he kissed Karl on the throat and began to touch him in a new way” (25). Both Pan and Dionysus engaged in and encouraged promiscuous sex. Pan was very sexually active with both nymphs and young boys alike (Souli 56). It is through this duality in both gender and sexuality that intertext between myth and modern is developed.

Karl also shares characteristics with figures in Christianity. Both Lucifer and Jesus, though vastly different, each have dual natures. When Mary slides down the ice and cracks it at school, she says, “The pure gray fan of ice below the slide had splintered, on impact with my face, into the shadowy white likeness of my brother Karl” (39). Everyone else, with the exception of Celestine, sees the face of Jesus. When Karl is an adult, he finds his brother Jude, who, not knowing Karl’s true identity, calls him, “the devil” (82). This presents another aspect of Karl’s duality: the nature of both good and evil residing in him. He is analogous to Jesus, perhaps subconsciously, in the eyes of one sibling, and analogous to the devil in the eyes of the other.

This duality, however, is best exemplified in Karl’s actions while in seminary. Karl tells the reader, “I had a great talent for obedience. I was in love with the picture of myself in a slim black cassock, and felt that the green lawns of the seminary and white brick of the chapels set me off to good advantage” (55). While Karl is putting forth this image of a holy seminary student, the advantage he refers to is that he can attract the attention of men whom he wants to sleep with. He admits, “Between the lines of sacred texts, I rendezvoused with thin hard hoboes who had slept in the bushes [. . .] they saw me as a pure black flame” (55). He is committing, in the eyes of the priests and his fellow students, a terrible sin while putting forth a holy image. In this same way, Lucifer was an angel, pure until he wanted to put himself on God’s throne. In his heart resided evil, although his exterior portrayed a holy being. Karl’s dual nature in this respect can even be compared to Jesus who, in Christian tradition, is believed to have been fully human and fully God. While Jesus himself committed no sin or evil, he was tempted and had the ability to; the natures of God and man can be equated to good and evil.

While Karl is not completely analogous to any one of these characters, he can be seen as a compilation of their traits. It is through the duality of Karl’s character that intertextuality exists in Karl. This creates an intertext not only between The Beet Queen and each cultural mythology but between all three in which Karl is one nexus for all three.

Works Cited

Erdrich, Louise. The Beet Queen. New York: Harper Perennial, 1986.

Souli, Sofia. Greek Mythology. Trans. Phillip Ramp. Athens: Editions Michalis Toubis S.A., 1995.

The Inescapability of Memory, or Why We Remember the Past and not the Future

In the epigraph of her ninth novel, Cat’s Eye, Margaret Atwood quotes a passage from Steven Hawking’s A Brief History of Time: “Why do we remember the past, and not the future?” In reference to the novel, this quote raises two interesting questions. The first is with regard to the nature of time itself; Hawking asks why do we remember the past rather than why can we only remember the past, suggesting that it may be possible to somehow look into and thus remember the future. Hawking seems to suggest that knowing the future is somehow equal to the past. Thus, the second is rhetorical but vitally important in Elaine’s quest for identity: What is advantageous about the future? Throughout Elaine’s childhood, she is obsessed with women older than her—with guessing what she will be like once she’s older. In her fifties, Elaine cannot escape the effects of her past, is concerned with meeting the future version of Cordelia, and continues to question her own future in an attempt to answer these questions about the nature of time. It is through meeting Cordelia in the present that past, present, and future will become one.

From the first lines of the novel it is clear that the narrator, Elaine, is concerned with the properties of time. She tells the reader, “Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. If you can bend space you can bend time also, and if you knew enough and could move faster than light you could travel backwards in time and exist in two places at once” (3). This sets the tone, the framework for the novel. The plot revolves around Elaine’s desire to exist in two places at once: not only to know her future when she is a child but to perhaps return to the past to make things different when she is an adult. The way she can do this is by encountering Cordelia in the present: Cordelia would then be the future version of the memory Elaine has of her. Elaine would like to see those two existences as one.

As a child, Elaine is fascinated with the older women she is surrounded with. She examines their dress, their mannerisms, their tone. In the early part of her life, Elaine’s mother is the only woman she knows. She has nothing to compare her to. Once the family moves to Toronto, Elaine makes friends and notes what she finds odd about them, and while she is fascinated by this new girl world she has been sucked into, she can’t help but notice her friends’ mothers and how different they are. She thinks, “it’s strange to think of Mr. and Mrs. Campbell lying in [the twin beds] at night,” when Carol shows Elaine her parents’ sleeping arrangement (56). She is told that “Grace’s mother has a bad heart” and she notes that “Mrs. Smeath is not like Mrs. Campbell [. . .] She doesn’t wear lipstick or face powder [. . .] She has big bones, square teeth [. . .] skin that looks rubbed raw” (63). She notes her clothes, her hands, every detail of her physical character. Mrs. Smeath clearly had a large impact on Elaine because Elaine painted, “many of her” as an adult (443). There are differences between Cordelia’s mother and her own: “Cordelia’s mother arranges the flowers herself, wearing gardening gloves. My own mother doesn’t arrange flowers” (78). Even her teacher, Miss Lumley, is subject to Elaine’s examination. This culminates in her imagining Miss Lumley’s underwear. That is all Elaine can think of: “The ominous navy-blue background of Miss Lumley’s invisible bloomers” (87). Elaine is “afraid of these bloomers” (87). Deep down, Elaine is really afraid of what she is going to become when she gets older. She does not particularly like the variety of older women she is surrounded with. She does not like or understand the world of girls she is now a part of, but she is trapped: she does not see a positive future for herself because that vision is a reflection of the women she is surrounded with.

It is not until her teenage years that Elaine begins to truly imagine what she will be like when she becomes an old woman. She and Cordelia watch the old ladies on the streetcars. Elaine admits that the crazy ones are “the kind we like best. They have a certain gaiety to them, a power of invention, they don’t care what people think” (5). Elaine, back in the present, thinks, “What if they just couldn’t see what they looked like? [. . .] I’m having that trouble myself now” (6). She wonders what Cordelia looks like now: “I think of Cordelia examining the growing pouches under her eyes [. . .] Perhaps in a worn coat and a knitted hat like a tea cosy, sitting on a curb, with two plastic bags filled with her only possessions, muttering to herself” (7). She has not seen Cordelia since their teenage years, thus an encounter such as this would be the only way for past and future to collide. Elaine is her future self: the self she cannot deny was shaped primarily by Cordelia, yet she does not know what Cordelia’s future self is like.

She cannot escape her past as she walks the streets of Toronto, a grown woman. She begs, “Get me out of this, Cordelia. I’m locked in. I don’t want to be nine years old forever” because it is Cordelia who left the greatest impression on her, especially during that year (437). The mystery of time is confusing to Elaine in this respect because she desperately wants to meet the future Cordelia. She is a memory, stuck in the past, perpetually young, yet Elaine tells the reader, “Really it’s Cordelia I expect, Cordelia I want to see” at her retrospective, but she never does (450). Elaine decides, “I’m headed for a future in which I sprawl propped in a wheelchair, shedding hair and drooling [. . .] While Cordelia vanishes and vanishes” (451-452). She wants her future to involve Cordelia just as her past had. Elaine calls herself “A reflection” of Cordelia: “We are like the twins in old fables, each of whom has been given half a key” (450). She believes she will find closure through meeting the future Cordelia because otherwise Cordelia will simply fade into the past, just the way her brother Stephen did after his death. When she accepts the fact that she will never see Cordelia again, she says, “This is what I miss, Cordelia: not something that’s gone, but something that will never happen. Two old women giggling over their tea” (462). No matter how hard Elaine tries, she cannot remember the future the way she does the past. There is no way of knowing the future Cordelia.

The past plays a definitive role in the future; Elaine clearly experiences that. But it is the role of the future with which Elaine is most concerned. Her fixation on it continues to shape her even into adulthood. The cliché, “Hindsight is twenty-twenty” seems not to fit for Elaine. She does not look into the past to see clear answers, only more questions. Foresight is what she is after through meeting Cordelia: a collision of past, present, and future. In Elaine’s world, Hawking’s question then makes sense. Why shouldn’t we look into the future as we do the past?

Works Cited

Atwood, Margaret. Cat’s Eye. New York: Random House, 1988.

We Will Divide and Pull Apart

It occurred to Jonas, upon seeing the future, that it was a mistake to tell his wife she no longer needed to inform him when throwing out any of his personal effects which she deemed junk. The nagging had become almost unbearable and that is why he chose the laziest way out possible.

“Don’t be disappointed if you lose something you think is important,” she warned him.

“It’s all important. That’s why I still have it,” he replied.

“You are a pack rat.”

“I’m a collector.”

Jonas knew the later was correct, but it was more than a simple matter of right and wrong. He did like to be right. But more than that, he didn’t want to think of himself as something as deplorable as a pack rat. He did have collections. There was his collection of CD jewel cases. Thousands of them. A jewel case for every CD he had ever bought since he was twelve. Many of them were cracked and broken because, although Jonas loved to hold on to things, he was never careful about it.

“Why do we need those?” his wife asked.

“They might be worth money someday.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Well, with the advent of mp3s and downloadable music, soon CDs will go the way of the vinyl record. Only collectors and true music fans will be interested in them. And records nowadays are worth more when they still have everything in tact. Everything, dear.”

“And how long until this music revolution?”

“Who knows? Could be a decade or more. But with the speed of technology nowadays, could be tomorrow.”

His collection of ticket stubs was much larger in number, though easier to contain and thus, keep out of his wife’s warpath. He kept them for the same reason he did the jewel cases. Someone might want them someday.

His collection of paper scraps was much less perceptible in its reasoning. He found his first scrap when rifling through photographs of a trip he took to Europe during his first summer out of college. He had not ever looked at them. His wife finally forced him look them over and discard any that he did not want. Stuck inside one of the envelopes was a receipt for gelato from a stand in Florence. This little piece of paper had some how miraculously made its way back six thousand miles from Italy to Jonas’s first apartment. Then to every apartment after that. And finally to his first house with his wife. He put it in a file folder and into the filing cabinet in their home office. It wasn’t because he thought someone would want it someday. It was proof that he had been somewhere. He had existed outside his normal life.

All of this was packed into a single filing cabinet in their home office. There were many more artifacts of course. Papers and things only Jonas knew the meaning of. For Jonas to explain the meaning was not enough to convince someone of their value. One would have to be Jonas. Recently, every time he placed a new item or set of items in the filing cabinet, it rumbled. Closing any of the doors now required the use of a sledgehammer. Jonas was certainly glad he invested in a durable material for his filing cabinet. He thought that it might be time to buy a second, but he decided he’d rather not spend the money.

The future (or vision) came to Jonas as he was watching Sport Center. He never watched Sport Center, and that was what he used to designate the experience as a vision. But it was real. The image of Stuart Scott’s talking head moved out of the screen.

“Honey?” Jonas mouthed.

No sound came out.

His wife was no longer on his plane of existence anyway.

Stuart Scott’s head detached itself from its body and floated out of the screen. In one single moment, future folded onto present. Stuart Scott’s head flattened, forehead to chin, folded in on itself, just as time had, and then imploded, taking everything with it. The T.V. was gone. The living room was gone. The street was gone. The city was gone. The mountains and trees were gone. The oceans were gone. Jonas floated, bodiless, through the void of space. Space was both black and white. All black and all white simultaneously. In this same instant, space and time were gone. Jonas had never been able to conceive of such a thing until that moment. He was sure no one had. Jonas could perceive that all these events had taken place in the same instant, though the idea of instant no longer had any meaning since the disappearance of time. The instant was now stretched forever in to eternity, no end and no beginning.

As quickly as everything had disappeared, it all came rushing back, faster than the speed of light. Space first, its emptiness pouring into the deeper, more complete nothing it had left behind. The sky began as a speck, a star in the distance, and exploded in a fireball of purple, orange, red, yellow and blue.

It looks like Sunset, Jonas thought. Jonas had never seen a sunset before. Only pictures. He knew that they occurred at the end of the day. He knew that they were colorful. But time was still absent. There was nothing to allow Jonas to locate what he was seeing in time, so what he saw was only sky and colors. He was thankful for the colors because he might not have been able to distinguish the sky from the oceans, which had now appeared. Mountains and trees blew out of the water. Then houses and streets slipped up out of the ground. They were two-dimensional at first, but popped into depth once free of the ground. Jonas was back on his couch. He sensed time coming back. Clear, waving lines, like heat rising off hot pavement, appeared and flooded his vision: like looking at the room underwater. Jonas was aware that everything was taking place in one instant, but now he was living the instant out what felt like minutes. He knew then that time had indeed returned. Once this realization hit him, a rushing sound, a great wind came into his ears and then suddenly stopped, snapping the all the lines into perfect clarity.

He turned his head to see his wife at the fireplace, burning pieces of paper.

—What are you doing? he asked.

—You gave me permission, remember?

—To burn paper?

She turned her head and glared at him.

—No, to dispose of anything I deem as junk. You’ve had these pictures, these ticket stubs, these scraps of paper for far too long. It’s time for them to go.

—But—

In another instant, everything Jonas witnessed during his journey to the future went in reverse before his eyes. But he did not have the luxury of experiencing the instant apart from time as he did before. In an amount of time not perceptible to the human mind, Jonas was back on the couch again. Stuart Scott’s head was back on Stuart Scott’s shoulders.

Jonas looked down at his hands. He had thought he felt his fingers leaving his hands once he realized what his wife was burning. It must have been because of the time warp, Jonas thought. It wasn’t, and Jonas knew that, but he did not want to admit it to himself. He removed himself from the couch and entered the kitchen to get some water. He felt the air brush against his face. He counted his steps to the kitchen in rhythm with the tick of the grandfather clock sitting in the hallway. The tile floor of the kitchen was cold, and Jonas was suddenly aware that he had feet. He reached out and felt the smooth wood of the cupboard. The glass he pulled out of it had a different texture. He moved his hand back and forth between the glass and the cupboard.

“What are you doing?” his wife asked, entering from the dining room.

“I’m—living,” Jonas replied.

“I see that.”

She took the cup from his hand and put under the faucet to fill it up for him. Jonas watched as the water poured out of the faucet and instantly expanded, filling the glass. He walked over to the sink, and took the glass from his wife’s hand. He poured out the contents, slowly, and then put the glass under the faucet again. He turned it on, first allowing only a few drops to exit and then a little more, his eyes fixed on the bottom of the glass. Again the water instantaneously expanded and filled the bottom of the glass. He poured it out and tried it again.

“What the hell are you doing?” his wife asked again.

“I want to see it happen. The water fill the cup.”

“Take your insanity somewhere else, please.”

“Where?”

“You know, your papers started overflowing out of the filing cabinet.”

“What do you mean overflowing?”

His wife explained that as she was trying to get the home office in some semblance of order, paper began to flow out of the filing cabinet, slowly like lava from a volcano. She took the broom from the closet in the hall and began to beat it back until it was once again contained.

“But it won’t last long,” she warned. “The only thing to do is burn it.”

“Why not just throw it out?”

“No, no. There’s much too much. There’s one hundred filing cabinet’s worth of—stuff—in that one cabinet.”

“Why don’t we buy another filing cabinet?”

“I’d rather not spend the money,” his wife replied, disconcerted.

“But a fire?”

“My mind is made up. You said—“

“I know what I said.”

Jonas walked back into the living room and out the front door.

On the porch, he noticed it was fall. The trees lining his street were all green, none having leaves that indicate the passing of time. Green year round. Jonas’ maple tree was different. It had all the corresponding colors of fall, and individual leaves drifted lethargically to the ground. A motionless fire consumed the tree. Jonas walked out to the maple that stood on the edge of his front yard. It rose two hundred feet and stretched its branches a span of forty feet. The base of the trunk protruded half way into the front yard, across the sidewalk and into the street. It was scarred from the saws and axes of men who had tried to cut it down. The street curved around it, as did the sidewalk. Jonas didn’t really like to think of it as his tree. It was there when he and his wife bought the house. It had always been there, Jonas assumed. The city obviously grew around it: and farmland and orchards must have before that. And Indian tribes before that. And who knows what before that. People sometimes came from other parts of the city to stare in awe at the motionless flames. It was the only tree like it in the whole city. The leaves this afternoon were almost too bright to look at, even with the sun concealed behind a dainty cloud, the only one in the sky. The sun was almost gone now. Jonas’ house faced the Western horizon. He watched as the sun moved from behind the cloud, the colors of the sky began to change and deepen, matching the colors of the tree. The maple tree grew brighter with the sun’s revealed light. Brighter and hotter. Jonas could no longer look at the tree, and he fell backwards from the heat. The fire took motion, and just as the sun disappeared, a bright flash appeared over the horizon, for a split second, igniting the tree. As quickly as the flash came, it disappeared. The tree was ablaze. The one dainty cloud, which had concealed the sun over the horizon, was now expanded into a thick, grey blanket over the city. A cold wind blew from the horizon. It swept across the city, rustling all the leaves off the trees. It put the fire out with no effort. A cloud of ash flew down the street, following after the wind. The maple tree was bare. It was now winter.

Snow began to fall. Jonas smelled smoke.

He walked back to the porch and into the house. It was freezing inside. Jonas went to the thermostat and turned it up as high as it would go. Through the kitchen and out the back window, he could see a fire in the compost heap. He ran out the back door and discovered his wife.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“You gave me permission, remember?”

“To burn paper?”

She turned her head and glared at him.

“No, to dispose of anything I deem as junk. You’ve had these pictures, these ticket stubs, these scraps of paper for far too long. It’s time for them to go.”

“But—“

“But nothing, Jonas,” she said sweetly, “The filing cabinet will no longer overflow. This is everything from it. It’s empty.”

“But, I—“

“Jonas. This is it.”

She picked up a shovel and began to scoop in mounds of paper. The stack was the width of their house and at least two stories taller than it. Nearly the height of the maple tree. Jonas went back inside.

His wife worked all through the night, the snow falling and melting hundreds of feet above the pyre. The next morning, Jonas looked out the window to see his wife, still shoveling into the fire. His papers. His ticket stubs. His photographs. His jewel cases. Everything in his collection. Even old clothes were being scooped into the insatiable fire. He could feel his heart struggling to pump blood to the rest of his body. His extremities were beginning to numb.

“Can’t you see what this is doing to me?” he called to his wife from the back door.

“It’s liberating you.”

Night after night, she kept the fire going, never stopping.

“Aren’t you tired? You should sleep.”

“If I stop, you’ll take what’s left and put it back. Then where will we be? No, I can’t stop until it’s finished. The fire is keeping me warm and strong. But I could use a glass of water. Do you mind, Dear?”

Jonas complied and brought his wife a glass of ice water.

The snow did not stop. It snowed every day of winter that season. The news reports called it a weather phenomenon. The city was blanketed with snow. Every square inch except for a large circle surrounding the fire, which his wife continued to feed. Jonas spent his winter afternoons watching the maple tree, hoping it would soon return to its former glory. Day after day passed. Jonas felt weak. He didn’t know if it was a condition of the heart, because he had not spent time with his wife in months, or if it was simply the cold. He decided he needed to write. He’d write down what was happening to him and throw it into the wind. He thought in this way he could deceive his wife and keep something of his alive, something that had meaning only to him. He told her about his plan to mock her.

“Sweetheart, I think it’s wonderful you’ve decided to take up a hobby,” she told him, “But I can’t see them going anywhere, except into the fire.”

He lost his first finger two weeks before the vernal equinox. It didn’t happen all at once. First his fingernail disappeared, and then knuckle by knuckle the rest of the index finger on his right hand vanished. The pile outside was getting much smaller. More fingers followed over the next few days in the same fashion. First on his right hand, his writing hand. He had to revert to his left. In the afternoons, he watched the maple tree, its branches becoming heavy with snow.

“Do you see my hands?” he asked his wife a few days later.

“No. Where are they?”

“I don’t know, but they’ve been gone for days now. My toes are disappearing too.”

“If this is some kind of joke, it isn’t funny,” his wife said, never stopping her shovel.

“You’ve been doing that all winter, don’t you think you should stop for a while? Help me find my hands.”

“Don’t be simple. They’ll turn up. Besides, I’m almost finished.”

The pile had shrunk to the size of a small igloo. Jonas wrapped himself in a blanket to hide the disappearance of his limbs. He confined himself to the bay window in the living room, where he could see the maple tree. Before his feet disappeared, he used them to tack paper to the side of the sill and attempted to write with his mouth. It was unsuccessful, but he did it anyway.

The day before the equinox, his wife reduced the pile to just a few scraps of paper.

“Almost finished!” she sang out, unaware of Jonas’ location.

She wandered the yard collecting stray bits of paper, tossing them into the fire. She made sure to get every piece. Jonas decided he had to finish his manuscript and throw it to the wind before his wife came in to take it to the fire. He scribbled madly, his pen between his fading teeth. He finished the last sentence, signed it, and used his mouth to open the window. The wind swept into the living room and pulled the short stack of paper out in a whirlwind. They blew up and down the street, but as his wife had predicted, Jonas’ papers ended up strewn about the backyard, where she, unaware of their origin, picked them up as she had the others. One by one she threw them into the fire, which had also shrunk to a few isolated flames. Everything was at its end.

She did not read the papers as she threw them in. She did not know they belonged to Jonas. She crumpled the final paper, which happened to be the first page, and tossed it into the fire. The flames curled the corners and the page opened up to reveal the text. The first line read, It occurred to Jonas, upon seeing the future--

Life Over Death: Binary Opposition and Logocentrism in Joyce’s “The Dead”

The presence of binary oppositions in Joyce’s “The Dead” is a central part of the story, particularly in Gabriel’s epiphany. Classic oppositions such as meaning over meaninglessness and life over death are two of many, which have dominated the history of Western thought. Gabriel’s own worldview, an unconscious product of these oppositions, is in the end deconstructed. He firmly believes in meaning over meaninglessness and, most importantly, life over death, two classic, logocentric notions. It is through Gabriel’s experiences in the story that his binary oppositions become deconstructed.

To begin, it is important to first define what it means to deconstruct logocentricsm specifically, and thus define, in very simple terms, what deconstruction aims to do. Jonathan Culler, in “Semiotics and Deconstruction,” offers a helpful definition: “To deconstruct logocentrism is to show that what was taken to be the truth of the world or the ground of an enquiry is in fact a construct that has been imposed and which is contradicted by certain results of the enquiry it founds” (138). It also important to note that in deconstructing these two oppositions, meaning over meaninglessness and life over death, the opposition is not reversed. Norman Melchertt, in The Great Conversation, using the example of speech over writing, explains that:

The claim is rather that the characteristics of what was held to be secondary and derivative are already, and necessarily, found in what was thought to be basic and primary. It is not, then, that the speech/writing dichotomy is simply overturned, so that it becomes writing/speech, with writing now in the primary spot, but that a deeper sense of “writing” is discovered that underwrites both terms. (707-708)

It is not that Gabriel discovers meaninglessness or death to be more important than their classical primaries. Rather, he discovers it is impossible to deny that death is inherent in life as meaninglessness in meaning.

Throughout the story, Gabriel is extremely self-absorbed and concerned with personal appearance. He is desperately trying to be important. Immediately after his introduction to the reader, he makes an inconsiderate comment to Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, someone he has known for years, and immediately, “Gabriel coloured [. . .] and, without looking at her, kicked off his goloshes” (23). He felt, “he had failed with the girl” (24). He is not necessarily concerned with his feelings, but more his own appearance. Looking good at all times is one way in which Gabriel can ensure his life has meaning. When contemplating the speech he is to give to the party guests at dinner, he decides not to quote the lines from Robert Browning for he feared they would be above the heads of his hearers [. . .] The indelicate clacking of the men’s heels and the shuffling of their soles reminded him that their grade of culture differed from his [. . .] They would think he was airing his superior education [. . .] He would fail. (24)
Gabriel not only feels that he is superior to Lily and the other guests, but he is afraid of failing in front of them. He sits below the floor on which the party is taking place, contemplating all this, absorbed in his own self-image. It is this fear, coupled with others that create the greatest fear within Gabriel: Fear of living a meaningless life in the present and fear of dying without having done anything meaningful.

Part of Gabriel’s quest for meaning comes in his value of popular European fashion and culture. He wears, and forces his wife to wear, galoshes, when no one seems to know what they are. Gretta, Gabriel’s wife, explains to aunts: “You’ll never guess what he makes me wear now! [. . .] Goloshes! [. . .] That’s the latest” (25). All the while, she is laughing. Gabriel seems to be embarrassed, either at his aunts’ reactions, or that they are not cultured enough to understand how fashionable galoshes are. In either case, the episode is a source of frustration for Gabriel as he, “laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly while Aunt Kate nearly doubled herself, so heartily did she enjoy the joke” (25). A short while later, Gabriel turns on Miss Ivors, admitting, “O, to tell you the truth [. . .] I’m sick of my own country, sick of it” (32). Yet, he can give no reason. He has refused Miss Ivors invitation to visit West Ireland because he wants to visit France and Belgium, “partly to keep in touch with the languages and partly for a change,” and when Miss Ivors queries, “haven’t you your own language to keep in touch with—Irish?” Gabriel replies, “Irish is not my language” (32). Gabriel attributes meaning to something that to Miss Ivors is meaningless. The reverse is also true because Gabriel sees reconnecting with his Irish heritage as completely meaningless. His idea of a meaningful life vis-à-vis culture is constantly undermined. It seems the characters surrounding Gabriel silently wish him to simply live and be happy with what he has around him. Yet, it is not until the end of the story that the opposition of meaning over meaninglessness is deconstructed.

In Gabriel’s insatiable thirst for significance, he believes in privileging life over death. He equates life with the present and the future, while death is part of the past. Throughout the night, Gabriel is surrounded by images of and conversation about death, though he does not realize it until his Joycean epiphany at the end. Both his mother and father are dead. His uncle, Pat, is dead. In his aunts’ home hang pictures of the dead: “the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet...and beside it was a picture of the two murdered princes in the Tower” (30). Aunt Julia reminisces about Parkinson, who was “A beautiful pure sweet mellow English tenor” (41). It is this talk of dead singers that prompts Gabriel to mention something about death in his speech. He speaks of the past and says:

Those days might, without exaggeration, be called spacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, at least that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them with pride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of those dead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not willingly let die. (43)

Gabriel’s assumption is that once someone dies, so does the memory of him or her. Only through fame can one’s memory live on because that fame, the important and significant achievements of that person deserve to live on in the hearts of humanity. Gabriel also uses the dead, as with his dead grandfather, as a source of humor. He tells the story about Patrick Morkan, stretching the details, without compassion in order to garner a laugh from those listening. In this case, death allows him to use someone as nothing more than a punchline. It is this separation of life from death, and Gabriel’s favoring of life over death that is deconstructed through his wife’s story about Michael Furey.

Gretta’s story about this childhood love brings Gabriel’s selfishness to the full attention of the reader. He mocks, “O then, you were in love with him? [. . .] Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors girl?” completely ignoring his wife’s feelings (56). During the story, Gabriel cannot comprehend why someone would have such strong emotion towards a person who is no longer a part of her life. Michael Furey is part of the past, and although Gabriel does not yet know that Michael Furey is dead or why he died, people of the past have no place in the present except as a way for Gabriel to bring more significance to his own life. When he does finally find out how Michael Furey died, he at first still tries to deny the connection that life and death share and write off Gretta’s experience as nothing important. “So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her sake,” Gabriel thinks to himself, and “It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life” (58). It is at this moment that Gabriel begins to deconstruct the logocentrism of his beliefs. He begins to think of all the people whom he knows now—who are alive—but who would someday succumb to death. He imagines Aunt Kate and himself mourning the death of Aunt Julia. Suddenly, “One by one they were all becoming shades,” and Gabriel realizes that everyone he knows, including himself will die. Simultaneously, things that seemed to have no meaning before—the West of Ireland, death, his wife’s own feelings—are now meaningful. Gabriel cannot escape them because of how he now sees his wife. He realizes that although he has had the utmost concern for his public appearance, his wife, who’s opinion of his public appearance and significance he should value most, is affected by someone whom, for all Gabriel knows, lead a meaningless existence. Based on these realizations, Gabriel lies in bed, watching the snow fall “upon all the living and the dead” (59). Thus, Gabriel’s epiphany deconstructs the logocentrism of Gabriel’s worldview regarding meaning.

The question of what Gabriel does with this epiphany is relevant. While it is enough to say his change was incredibly profound, Joyce leaves the question open to the reader. Either Gabriel learns from the deconstruction of these two core beliefs and attempts to change his life, or he succumbs to the pessimism that his realizations present. However, succumbing to that pessimism would not constitute complete deconstruction of the logocentricism of his beliefs because while he recognizes death as an inherent part of life, Gabriel would still value life over death. If his beliefs have been truly deconstructed, he will be able to move forward and rebuild his relationship with Gretta.

Works Cited

Culler, Jonathan. “Semiotics and Deconstruction.” Poetics Today 1.1/2 Special Issue: Literature, Interpretation, Communication (Autumn 1979): 137-141. JSTOR. 3 October 2007.

Joyce, James. “The Dead.” The Dead: Case Studies in Contemporary Criticism. Ed. Daniel R. Schwarz. New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s: 1994.

Melchert, Norman. The Great Conversation: Volume II: Decartes through Derrida and Quine. 4th Ed. Boston: McGraw Hill, 2002.

Knowledge and Invention: Modernity as the Destroyer in García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude

Humanity’s quest for knowledge has allowed for its greatest achievements but has also been its greatest scourge. Through the quest for knowledge, the world has seen the advent of devices and theories, which have changed the course of history and have, many would argue, made the world a much better, safer place. However, the quest for knowledge has also been the root of war and devastation as deadlier weapons are invented, disagreements over what is true continue to arise, and the waste from the modern, developed world pollute. In his masterpiece, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez explores the detrimental effects of an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and the devastation that Modernity has had on the world.

In the earliest days Macondo, the village is an Eden of sorts. Colonel Aureliano Buendía remembers that “many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point” (1). The town held an innocence that quickly disappears once Melquíades, a gypsy, introduces science to José Arcadio Buendía, Macondo’s founder. He introduces magnets, a telescope, and a magnifying glass to José Arcadio Buendía. Melquíades helps him build an alchemy laboratory. It is through the introduction of these tools of science that José Arcadio Buendía begins to lose his mind. He reveals to his wife that, “The earth is round; like an orange,” and soon the whole town “was convinced that [he] had lost his reason...” (4-5). Once science and the quest for knowledge are introduced, the town loses its innocence. Arabs come to trade with the village. More groups of gypsies arrive to share their secrets. It is José Arcadio Buendía’s search for the philosopher’s stone that ultimately leads to his insanity. The villagers eventually “drag him to the chestnut tree in the courtyard, where they left him tied up, barking in the strange language and giving off a green froth at the mouth” (78). Buendía is speaking Latin, the language of science.

Many years later, a railroad comes to Macondo and with it comes a banana plantation and many other industries: both are symbols of modernity and progress coming to Macondo. The town is confused at first by the building of the tracks. “No one paid any attention to [the gangs] because they thought it was some new trick of the gypsies...” (222). The narrator gives a prophecy of the effect that the train will have when he says it “was to bring so many ambiguities and certainties, so many pleasant and unpleasant moments, so many changes, calamities, and feelings of nostalgia to Macondo” (222). The people, prior to this moment, were not aware of modernity and its innovations at all. The only exposure they had was through the gypsies, Melquíades, and Jose Arcadio Buendía, who went insane. They are amazed by “the pale electric bulbs fed by the plant that Aureliano Triste had brought back when the train made its second trip” and the magic of film, which they call “living images” (223). Modernity appears to be very positive. Strangers from distant lands arrive and bring with them more innovations.

A generation following the arrival of Modernity to Macondo, a strike of plantation workers, during which the plantation is burned to the ground, leads to the execution of three thousand men, women and children. Following the massacre, it begins to rain when “It had not rained for three months” and it is announced by Mr. Brown, the dictatorial manager of the plantation, that “As long as the rain lasts we’re suspending all activities” (309). It rains for nearly five years following this decree and once the skies clear, “the world lighted up...and it did not rain again for ten years. Macondo was in ruins” (330). The train no longer stops in Macondo. The banana plantation and houses of the former workers are completely abandoned: “The wooden houses, the cool terraces...seemed to have been blown away in an anticipation of the prophetic wind that years later would wipe Macondo off the face of the earth” (330-331). This prophetic wind is brought about by the last of the Buendía line and through the simplest, yet most important invention and product of human knowledge: writing.

Malquíades’ mysterious parchments are a source of frustration for many of the men in the Buendía line. Arcadio attempts to decipher them, but gives up quickly. José Arcadio Segundo, after the plantation massacre, spends the remainder of his life attempting to interpret the parchments until “the only visible in the intricate tangle of hair was the teeth striped with green slime and his motionless eyes” (335). When he finally dies, “he fell back on the parchments and died with his eyes open” (353). The parchments reveal to him the truth of the massacre that he witnesses, but which no one believes happened. With this truth, he dies. The parchment writing has a similar effect in the final destruction of the town. Melquíades appears to Aureliano Babilonia and aides him in deciphering the parchment. The parchment, he discovers, is “the history of the family, written by Melquíades, down to the most trivial details, one hundred years ahead of time” (415). However, “impatient to know his own origin, Aureliano skipped ahead” (416). It is at that point that the wind, which destroys the town, begins to strengthen and as Aureliano reads the final sentences, which proclaim the destruction of the town, it is destroyed. It is clear that Aureliano’s arrogance and selfishness in wanting the knowledge of his origin hastened the destruction of the town, it was the writing itself, which stated Macondo’s destruction.

The quest for Modernity and knowledge are unavoidable. They are an inherent part of human nature and curiosity. However, Garcia Marquez points out the importance of being aware of the potential destructive powers. It is not enough to believe that through the acquisition of knowledge and the furtherance of Modernity will solely benefit mankind. Humanity must be aware there are dire consequences for ignoring the side effects of progress.

Works Cited

Garcia Marquez, Gabriel. One Hundred Years of Solitude. New York: Harper and Row, 1970.

The Mathematics of Banana Trees: The Inconsistency of Memory in Alain Robbe-Grillet’s Jealousy

Memory is an aspect of the human mind that can be terribly inconsistent. Two people can witness the same event yet have two completely different recollections of it. In one’s own mind, memory may be manipulated again and again until what is perceived as the reality of what actually happened is, in reality, very far from the truth of the actual event. A variety of techniques may be used to alter memory and then firmly believe that what has been invented is now actual fact. In Jealousy, by Alain Robbe-Grillet, the shortcomings of memory are employed to fuel jealous rage of a husband; however, it is the repetition of constants (numbers, shapes, and objects), which convinces the narrator that these new memories are fact.

In the narrator’s memory, as described in the book, there are two major events that are constantly repeated and changed: the day of A... and Frank’s return and the discovery and crushing of the centipede. The narrator relates the event one way, but later returns to it with a slight alteration of details, each time making the idea of an affair between his wife, A..., and his neighbor, Franck, more likely. However, there are details, even concepts, within the retelling of each and within the setting itself, which serve to allow the narrator, and the reader, to believe that these retellings are the truth. These objects and concepts lose their original utilitarian value and become something else entirely: markers that what the narrator is remembering actually happened. They begin to signify where they may have never been signifiers before. The narrator makes reference to his belief in his own memory and the idea that whatever he remembers must then be the truth when he states, “It’s no use making up contrary possibilities, since things are the way they are: reality stays the same” (75).

The narrator spends ample time describing the layout of his plantation, including the shape in which his banana trees are arranged and the number of trees per row: “There are thirty-two banana trees in the row...instead of being rectangular like the one above it, this patch is trapezoidal...In the second row, starting from the far left, there would be twenty-two trees...” (51). This description of trees goes on for multiple pages. The number of trees, their geometric shape, and their arrangement by row are all certainties in the memory of events that are very uncertain and which consistently change. The narrator returns to the trees again in his story, and they are always the same shape: “...the corner of a rectangular patch where the bare earth can still be distinguished... the second patch, in the shape of a trapezoid...” (91). This description comes in the midst of much confusion about the narrator’s memory. It is unclear which past event he is referring to in the paragraphs surrounding this description. A... is first “...standing in front of the door,” at a point the reader can only assume is before her trip with Franck and is looking through the entire house and out over the banana trees, which are then described by the narrator with the exact same details as in the beginning. This is followed by a jump in the narrator’s memory when “A... is just coming home” (91). The banana trees are the one constant in an otherwise murky memory of A...’s trip with Franck and serve to assure the narrator and the reader that if this myriad of specific details are remembered correctly, the rest must also be true.

The centipede recurs more than any other portion of the narrator’s memory and becomes the most distorted of all the recollected events. At first, it is an afterthought. The narrator simply mentions that “...a blackish spot marks the place where a centipede was squashed last week, at the beginning of the month, perhaps the month before, or later” (47). It is of no importance; however, as the narrator’s obsession with details grows, the metaphor of the stain being on his house, and then on his marriage, or even on the narrator himself, and the idea that Franck is the cause, becomes a reality. The narrator imagines the scene over and over again:

Franck, who has said nothing, is looking at A...again. Then he stands up, noiselessly, holding his napkin in his hand. He wads it into a ball and approaches the wall...the wadded napkin falls on it...Franck lifts the napkin away from the wall and with his foot continues to squash something on the tiles against the baseboard (65).

This is replayed again as: “Frank stands up, picks up his napkin, approaches the wall, squashes the centipede against the wall, lifts his napkin, squashes the centipede on the floor (89).” There are more descriptions of the event that follow this one, each changing slightly. In the first, there is a much longer, drawn out description, and A...’s “...left hand gradually closes over her knife” (65). In the second, the description is terse, and A...’s hand, “...has clenched into a fist on the white cloth” (89). The only constant is that there was a centipede, and it was squashed at some point.

In the final retelling of the squashed centipede, the original facts have become completely distorted. The centipede is now “...enormous: one of the largest to be found in this climate” (112); however, for the narrator, it is not the size that matters, but that there was, in fact, a centipede. It has become a signifier of the alleged affair. It is this concrete fact that he holds on to, until, finally, the story becomes: “Frank, without saying a word, stands up...with his foot, he squashes it against the bedroom floor. Then he comes back toward the bed...[A...’s hand] has clenched into a fist on the white sheet” (113). The narrator has used the repeating image of the squashed centipede, which began as just a stain, to fuel his jealous rage and convince himself that A... and Franck are indeed having an affair.

Memory is completely subjective unless there is another party to compare facts with. In the narrator’s case, he is lost in his own thoughts and so the reader only has his telling and retelling of the events. Key facts—colors, objects, numbers—are held on to in order to be sure that the memory of an event is correct. They reassure the memory and give it credibility because there are concrete facts relative to some that might not be much more vague. They have the ability to convince and to turn a fictionalized memory into reality.


Works Cited

Robbe-Grillet, Alain. Two Novels by Robbe-Grillet: Jealousy and In the Labyrinth. New York: Grove Press, 1959.

The Art of Invention: Anti-narration in Beckett's Molloy

There are expectations when a reader comes to a work of fiction. At the very least, the reader expects to follow a narrative that will begin and, through a series of events, end. The reader anticipates an objective reality in which characters interact and rules are set for the world those characters will interact in. Although the characters belong to a constructed reality created by the author, the reader expects that reality to never be reconstructed during the course of the text. Written text, however, presents a unique enterprise in that the written word may be easily rearranged and manipulated in order to convey anything or nothing as the author intends. Anti-narration, even anti-language, can be achieved through disarrangement of written text and can potentially break all preconceived notions of traditional literature forcing the reader to view the written word in a different light. Samuel Beckett explores this pliability of language in his novel, Molloy. Beckett uses an anti-narrator, Molloy, in order to demonstrate that the objective reality of a written fiction can be reconstructed or constructed as the narrator moves through the text, thus giving the narrator the ability to create his own subjective reality.

Molloy begins to relate his tale in an obvious state of utter confusion. He cannot clearly explain to the reader what has happened to him or where he has been. He tells the reader, “These are things we shall try to discover. But these are things we must not take seriously,” implying that what he is about to relate may have absolutely no truth to it (17). In fact, the impression is given that Molloy is inventing the entire story as he is going along. He has a starting point, his mother’s room, and from there every detail is invented. The structure of the first section, one solid paragraph with no breaks, gives the distinct impression that this narrative is occurring inside the narrator’s own mind. Molloy does relate the tale of a journey he took to find his mother’s house, yet throughout it he continually reminds the reader that he is constructing the story: “Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong... such a thing is conceivable, since I conceive it... am I imagining it, in the interests of the narrative” (41, 66, 75)? After every fact is dispensed, Molloy then questions its validity, which ordinarily would be very important for the reader to take note of for purposes of deciding the reliability of the narrator, yet that purpose is moot here. Molloy is clearly unreliable without his reassurance of that fact, and ultimately it does not matter what truly happened to him. The reader can never know.

At the end of Molloy’s journey, he begins to use the term ‘region’ to describe where he is and where he is going. It can be inferred that by region, he means reality. He tells the reader, “...regions do not suddenly end, as far as I know, but gradually merge into one another” (88). This idea that realities merge together rather than end is consistent with the notion of inventing or constructing reality because Molloy tells the reader that the narrative he is building is absolutely false. However, it is the reality the reader must accept because there is no other alternative. Molloy, as an anti-narrator, goes beyond the status of what is typically known as an unreliable narrator because he freely admits his narrative is false and no other reality is offered.

Molloy’s confusion with the events grows as he departs further and further from civilization and enters into the forest, which he describes as one of the amenities of his region. The forest is analogous to a state of confusion, and he admits he, “...knew them well, the amenities of my region, and I considered that the forest was no worse” (116). Molloy prefers a reality rooted in confusion to any other reality: something he has clearly established for the reader throughout his narrative. “I did my best to go in a circle, hoping in this way to go in a straight line,” Molloy states as his plan for exiting the forest (115). At this point, the reader is perfectly content with Molloy’s acceptance of the confusion of reality as being no worse than any other state of reality. If Molloy is constructing the reality of the events himself, then there is no reason why he could not choose confusion to be his reality. When Molloy finally exits into the light of the plains, he confesses, “I did not see it from afar...but suddenly I was in it, I opened my eyes and saw I had arrived. And the reason for that was probably this, that for some time past I had not opened my eyes or seldom” (122). Why did he not simply will himself out of the forest and construct the narrative thus? His point is clear: No one can exit the forest through his own cognitive ability. It can only happen by chance.

The idea of multiple realities, a subjective or constructed reality, is one difficult to comprehend. It is difficult to look at the world and understand that the reality of it could be different if chosen to be. The concept is a source of confusion. However, through written text, and specifically the use of an anti-narrator, there can be a physical demonstration of that kind of construction. Molloy, as an anti-narrator, is able to contradict himself and have it be perfectly acceptable. He constructs the world around him as he sees fit.


Works Cited

Beckett, Samuel. Molloy. New York: Grove Press, 1955.

Let the Dead Bury the Dead

David’s knuckles whitened around his steering wheel. The afternoon sun was burning his face, but he couldn’t do anything about it because the visors in his Civic coupe were small. Normally, the passing trees and buildings would continually blot it out, but David was stopped. Traffic backed up Figueroa from Exposition all the way to Adams. He had been crawling for fifteen blocks. David cursed the MTA for their poorly planned bus stops, which forced lumbering buses to block the right lane of traffic. Downtown Los Angeles was not supposed to be this busy at three in the afternoon.

His phone buzzed in his hand. A text message.

Hey gonna b late. Out celebrating new job. Should b home in 30. Just let urself in – Brendan.

His knuckles whitened more. He turned left on West 37th and left again on Broadway. He had to pay ten dollars to park three blocks from Brendan’s apartment. Downtown was unusually cold for April. The wind whipped through the narrow canyons of sky scrapers, creating a biting chill. David reached into the planter next to the front door of Brendan’s apartment building and pulled out a key secured to the wall with painter’s putty. He used it to let himself into the lobby. David hated Brendan’s apartment building. It clearly had not been renovated since the fifties. He tried not to be prejudiced against anyone, but the other tenants made him uncomfortable. They came from worlds very different than his and Brendan’s. Welfare. Food stamps. Thrift stores. It was difficult for David to understand.

He took the rickety elevator to the fourth floor; his knuckles white again around the hand rail inside. David walked down the hall to apartment 4F and found the door unlocked. The floor was wood and very dark. A small mattress lay in the far corner, it’s foot toward the wall the door was on. A T.V. sat facing it. Next to the mattress, a small dresser. The kitchen sink was full of dishes; they spilled onto the counter. A beat up recliner hugged the wall adjacent to the kitchen, an attempt to keep as much floor space as possible. David sat down in it and pulled out his phone to text Brendan.

I’m here – D

He set it down on the small side table beside the chair. There was a card for last year’s birthday from Mom and Dad sitting on it. David picked it up to read.

Happy 22nd Brennie!
Hope the money helps!
Love,
Mom and Dad

David set it down, turned on the T.V. and waited. Brendan threw open the door at 6:30. He stumbled around the room, throwing his keys and jacket on the floor before collapsing on his mattress.

“Sorry I’m late,” he slurred.

“No problem. You okay?”

“Ugh...Yeah,” Brendan replied, sitting up quickly.

His left eye was purple and swollen completely shut. David had never seen a black eye so serious before. It didn’t look real—like it was created with heavy make-up for a movie.

“What the hell—“

“It’s a long shtory,” Brendan spouted.

“Are you still good for dinner?”

“Oh—F—F—Fuck yeah.”

“Okay, well let’s get going. You can tell me the story on the way there.”

They left Brendan’s studio and walked the three blocks back to David’s Civic.

“Which way?” David asked.

“Up Fig. Left on Olympic. Are you excited for this?”

“Definitely.”

“No. Dave. I don’t think you understand. This is going to be the best food you’ve ever had. This is the best Korean bar-b-que in Los Angeles.”

“Sweet. So why are you drunk at four in the afternoon again? And why do you—”

“Okay, okay—Here’s the story,” Brendan began, “Have you ever seen the UFC?”

“I haven’t seen it, but I know what it is.”

“You know what it is, right?”

“Yeah, I just said—“

“Okay, well I was telling Scott, he’s the one who got me the job, I was telling Scott how the Ultimate Fighting Championship is going to bankrupt boxing in the next ten years. Put it out of business.”

“Okay.”

“So this asshole behind me shtarts getting all worked up about it. And he comes over and shtarts talking sh-shit to me and Scott. And I’m having none of it. None.”

“So you try to demonstrate your respective favored sports on each other.”

Brendan paused for a second.

“Something like that.”

They sat in silence the rest of the way to Korea Town.

“Turn right here,” Brendan directed suddenly as they approached a side street off of Olympic. On the corner was a restaurant, the name of which was in Korean.

“They have a valet, but it’s expensive. Let’s just hoof it,” Brendan suggested.

“Sounds good.”

David parked around the block and the two of them walked to the entrance of the restaurant. The interior was open and jungle-like. The ceiling and walls was actually a giant pitched tent. The hostess sat David and Brendan near a planter with a small waterfall. In the middle of their table was a grill.

“Harrow,” the server sputtered quietly. “Bev-ar-radge?”

“A bottle of hot sake and two large Hito’s,” Brendan requested quickly. “And some water.”

“Bottle sake. Two rarge Hito. Water. Okay!”

“No one speaks English hear,” Brendan tried to whisper to David.

On the table were small dishes of various sauces and shredded and stewed vegetables. Brendan took his chopsticks and ate some sprouts one sliver at a time until the server came back with their drinks.

“Ready for order?” the server asked.

“Yes,” Brendan began, “We’ll have the marinated steak. Mare-i-nate-ed pork. Mare-i-nate-ed chicken. And two white rice.”

The server stopped to check his pad and then repeated, “Uh—A mare-nate uhsteak. Uhbeef. Mare-nate chick’n. Uh—white rice.”

“No, no, no,” Brendan said, sounding impatient. “Mare-i-nate-ed steak, pork and chicken. All marinated. Pork, no beef.”

“Oh!” the server said, apparently understanding. “Oh-kay, oh-kay.”

“He’s gonna fuck it up,” Brendan told David as soon as the server walked away.

Brendan lifted the small steaming bottle of sake and poured a shot for himself and David. He then opened one of the bottles of beer and filled their small glasses half full.

“You ever done a sake bomb before?” Brendan asked.

“Nope.”

“Okay, you just pour the sake in the beer and gulp it down. It’s gonna be warm, so swallow it fast, or it’s gonna taste like shit. Ready?”

David nodded and lifted his small, porcelain shot glass.

“To new jobs,” Brendan announced.

David dumped his sake in the short beer glass and gulped down the warm mixture quickly, before the taste could really get to him. It wasn’t as strong as he was expecting. Brendan picked some more at the sprouts.

“So tell me about this new job,” David said, “It’s in a law office or something?”

“Well not exactly. I’m selling law service.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of like lawyer insurance.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s pretty awesome. Okay, so, everyone needs a lawyer at one time or another, right?”

“Um—I don’t—I suppose.”

“Well around here, a lot of people do. But—Most people can’t afford to keep a lawyer on retainer. So then they get stuck with some public defender or if they’re suing, they have to go higher some shyster. Pre-paid legal is like the 1-800-Dentist of the law world. The company screens all the lawyers, so you’re getting the best.”

“So you get a commission, or are you on salary—“

“It’s commission based, but it works so much better than a traditional commission.”

The waiter brought a massive platter of raw meat to their table and a smaller platter of raw chicken. The meat platter had what was obviously marinated steak, but it also had thin rolls of dry beef: the kind David had seen at a Mongolian bar-b-que before.

“I fucking knew he would fuck it up,” Brendan said as the waiter walked away. “He brought us the fucking brisket instead of the marinated pork.”

“Looks good to me,” David said.

“It’s not. The problem is, we can’t get more until we finish this. They make you pay extra for whatever you don’t eat. So we’ll just eat what we want and hide the rest under the salad,” Brendan explained, pointing to the large bowl of mixed greens on the table.

Brendan took his tongs and lifted a large helping of marinated steak on to the grill. David followed suit and put some chicken on with his tongs. The meat sizzled, and the tantalizing smell of the cooking marinade lifted in wonderful smoke and steam. David was suddenly starving. The waiter came back with two bowls of white rice and a bowl of rice paper.

“Let’s put some of this brisket on, so you can see how terrible it is,” Brendan said, setting some on the edge of the grill.

“So you were saying about the commission?”

“First, another toast.”

Brendan poured more sake into their shot glasses and filled David’s and his beer glass half full. Brendan raised his shot glass.

“You make the toast this time,” he said.

“Okay. To...To eating as much meat as we can.”

“An excellent toast.”

David watched as Brendan first shot the sake and chased it with his beer. David opted to take it the same as before.

“I’ve never done that before,” Brendan coughed, his whole body shuddering. “That was hot.”

David watched as Brendan stared at the steak and reached up to tenderly touch his swollen eye.

“I think this steak is about done,” Brendan said, “The brisket too. The chicken takes a little longer.”

David took his tongs and lifted a piece of steak and a piece of brisket onto his plate. He took his chopsticks, dipped the steak in a small dish of dark sauce and then set it in his rice. He attempted to scoop some rice up with the meat, but it wasn’t working, so he stuffed the steak in his mouth and shoveled in some rice after.

“Good?” Brendan asked.

“Mmmmhmm,” David replied, his mouth full.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, savoring each piece. David didn’t think the brisket wasn’t as bad as Brendan made it sound. It seemed to take on the flavor of which ever sauce it was dipped much better than the marinated steak. It was also easier to pick up with rice.

“So,” David began, “Finish telling me about the commission.”

“Oh right,” Brendan said, swallowing a piece of chicken. “Well, I bought into this thing under Scott, who bought in under some one else, who bought in, and so forth. Every time I sell a service, Scott gets a small commission and the guy above him gets a small commission and so forth. Now, Scott has three people under him, including me. The guy above him has God knows how many. I mean—when you think about all the people he signed up who then signed up more people—he must be making a fortune just in other people selling. He probably doesn’t even need to sell!”

“So it’s another pyramid scheme?” David asked.

Brendan’s face quickly contorted into a frown.

“No. It is not a pyramid scheme. It’s not even like multi-level marketing. I mean not completely.”

“How?”

“Because, the service I’m providing is something that people actually want. Who wouldn’t want a prepaid legal service at their disposal? It’s not like I’m peddling shit out of some catalog. It’s not at all like when I was doing Quasar or Two-by-Two. Totally different.”

David just nodded. They sat in silence again, cooking and chewing quietly. The pile of brisket was slowly diminishing.

“We need that pork,” Brendan said.

He took his tongs and put the rest of the brisket on the grill.

“You see what we do is cook this until it’s just charcoal,” he explained, “Then we hide it under this salad.”

“Brendan, we can just pay for it. I don’t care.”

“No! I’m tired of these fucking Nips ripping me off for getting my order wrong. We’re hiding it.”

“That wasn’t even the right racial slur. And I don’t understand why we didn’t just send it back,” David said.

“Because they would’ve charged us for it anyway—Just—Trust me.”

More silence. The restaurant was slowly becoming noisier and busier with the dinner rush. Smoke rose for nearly every table, and the smell was no longer appetizing.

“So what’s new with you, Davey?” Brendan said finally.

“Well, not much. Just getting ready for school in the fall.”

“Oh right, right. English, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And after that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Teach. Get a PhD.”

“In?”

“English probably.”

“You know what you should get a PhD in? Economics. Those guys are fucking millionaires. They do consulting and shit for politicians. Forecasting the economy and shit.”

“Yeah, well I don’t have a degree in economics.”

“Fuck, Dave. It was just a suggestion. So a Master’s in English, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me.”

“It sounds like that to a lot of people.”

“I’m telling you, dude: Economics.”

Brendan turned the brisket over and over until it was black char. He grabbed David’s tongs, and while holding the lettuce in the salad bowl back, he put the steaming gristle into the bowl, and placed the lettuce back on top. David could no longer see the burned brisket. Brendan threw the rest of the steak and chicken on the grill and motioned for the waiter.

“Yes?”

“Yeah, we’d like some more of the marinated steak, and the marinated pork.”

“Steak and pork?”

“You got it.”

The waiter nodded and walked off.

“Another toast,” Brendan announced, refilling all the glasses. “To graduate degrees and economics!”

“Here, here!”

Each shot following the first went down easier. The waiter came back quickly with a smaller plate of steak and pork. Brendan took it right from his hands and dumped the whole thing on the grill.

“I’m sssstarving,” he said.

“Maybe we’d better take it easy on the sake,” David suggested.

“Phbbtt, no. Let’s do another!”

Brendan tipped the sake bottle, but nothing came out.

“Aw, shit.”

“That’s okay, let’s just—“

He motioned for the waiter again.

“Another hot sake, please.”

“One more sake!” the waiter said with enthusiasm.

Brendan smiled at David.

“I don’t know how many more I should do,” David said, “I still gotta drive home.”

“Nah, you’ll be fine. C’mon Davey, it’s not everyday I get an amazing job.”

“Have you told Dad about this amazing job?”

Brendan’s demeanor changed instantaneously again. He looked embarrassed.

“I told him.”

“And?”

“He said exactly what you did.”

“Bren, I didn’t mean—“

“Don’t fuckin’ worry about it, alright? What the fuck does Dad know anyway. Mom was happy for me.”

“Bren, so am I. So is Dad. I was just asking questions. Everyone wants to see you successful. But I do want to know one more thing.”

“What?”

“How much did you have to give Scott to start up?”

“Four fifty. But he loaned me half. He said I’ll make it back in a flash. I just have to sell two policies.”

Brendan paused for a moment and looked David over with his uninjured eye. David knew what was coming.

“Dave—I know you’re all into this teaching thing, but I got to ask you—I mean this is a tremendous opportunity—It’s totally different from all those other things—Those were get-rich-quick schemes—This is—“

“Bren. No—I—Look.”

David looked at Brendan. His face was hopeful, even through the brutality of his injured eye.

“It sounds great, but—It’s just not for me.”

Brendan smiled again.

“I understand, buddy. It’s not for everyone.”

The waiter brought another steaming bottle of sake. Brendan refilled their glasses quickly.

“Oh—Can we have the check?” Brendan asked as the waiter walked away. He turned and nodded.

“Your turn to make the toast.”

David thought for a moment. His heart was becoming heavier with each tip of the glass.

“Here’s to—Here’s to not listening to a goddamn thing Dad says.”

“Fuck yeah.”

David slammed his glass down and picked up his tongs to get more meat.

“You can use the rice paper to make a little soft taco thing,” Brendan instructed.

David gave it a try. The rice paper was slimy, slightly rubbery and cold because it had been sitting untouched all night. But it, like the rice and the brisket, took on the flavor of whatever sauce he dipped it in, which made it good. The waiter brought the check. Sixteen dollars a person, plus twenty dollars for the two bottles of sake, plus fourteen dollars for the two large bottles of beer. David pulled out his credit card.

“I’ll have to take you out when you get your first real teaching job,” Brendan said.

“Sounds good.”

They took their time finishing off the last of the meat. David savored every bite. He realized Brendan was correct in saying that it would be the best food he’d ever had. He felt like it really was. Brendan rubbed his belly after swallowing his last piece of pork.

“Another shot?”

“Last one,” David said.

“You got it.”

Brendan once again filled their glasses.

“Whose turn to toast?” he asked.

“I believe it’s yours.”

“Okay. Here’s. Here’s to gettin’ after it.”

David smiled at Brendan and swallowed his last shot. Brendan immediately poured himself another shot, this time a double of sake in his beer glass. David watched as he let all of it slide down his throat.

“One more of those should do it,” Brendan wheezed.

He poured, drank and slammed both sake bottle and glass on the table at the same time. The party at the table next to them jumped at the sound.

“Okay, I think you’ve had more than enough today.”

“Can’t let the beer go to waste,” Brendan said.

He grabbed the last bottle of Hito, which only had two glasses worth left and shotgunned it. David reached out and grabbed the bottle, stopping him from slamming it down. David met Brendan’s one good eye. It was angry, but quickly calmed.

“I have to,” Brendan pleaded.

David released the bottle, allowing Brendan to slam it down on the table. The bottom shattered. The people at the next table jumped again and gasped. Brendan took no notice of anything.

“You ready?” he asked.

David nodded solemnly and they stood. Blood rushed to his extremities, making them feel not his own. He tried to steady himself as best as he could so as not to look like he was about to drive drunk through Downtown Los Angeles.

“You alright to drive there, champ?” Brendan teased.

“You’re definitely not.”

“I so could.”

“That’s okay. I think I’ll take my chances. I bet you’ll be seeing all that Korean bar-b-que later tonight.”

“Wanna make a bet?”

“Sure. Ten bucks.”

“Okay, make sure you text me later tonight. I won’t lie.”

They walked around the corner to David’s car and got in. The drive back to Brendan’s apartment was slow and quiet. All at once Brendan took a deep breath and spoke.

“I had a dream last night, Davey.”

“That’s nice.”

“It really was actually. I dreamed that you and I were some place. Like a family gathering or something. I can’t remember if Mom and Dad were there—It doesn’t matter. We were both there. And it was like ten years from now—or—sometime in the future.”

Brendan sat quiet for a moment, but David knew he wasn’t finished. The neon lights of Downtown flashed across his face.

“The thing that made it really nice,” Brendan continued, “was that we were both really successful. And really happy. But like—We had taken two completely different paths to get there. But everyone was so proud of us. I guess we must have been at a family thing or something. But—yeah. We had both attained just—just so much success. I really think that’s going to happen someday, don’t you?”

David pulled up in front of Brendan’s apartment building. Brendan opened the door to get out.

“Bren. I do think that will happen someday. Take care of that eye, all right?”

Brendan smiled and said, “Will do. See ya around.”

David watched as his younger brother walked up the stairs and into the lobby. It was nearly ten. He had to be up early for work. Thankfully the traffic in Downtown was much lighter than earlier that afternoon. David focused intensely on the road ahead of him.

Intelligence

I stare at the paper towel dispenser in the men’s restroom on the sixth floor of 300 North Lake Avenue. It’s not one of those new, automatic ones that dispense a single clean sheet with the wave of your hand. It isn’t even the kind where you pull a lever, which spins a roll inside. It’s the old kind—where you pull out one sheet at a time. The boxes are beautifully polished chrome, so they don’t look trashy at all. They look sophisticated in a 1930s, Art Deco sort of way. The paper towels are folded together in such a manner that pulling one out allows half of the next one to be pulled through the opening. It’s the same idea behind a tissue box. One cannot survive without the other—the folding pattern and box design. When those paper towels are just left sitting on top of the dispenser because some janitor was too lazy to put them in, the folding pattern becomes a burden. You try to grab just two, but either you pull ten more, or the whole stack begins to topple over. The dispenser is, in this case, just a mantle. The janitor on the sixth floor of 300 North Lake Avenue was lazy today.

I decide that I need to know who came up with the folding pattern. Whoever it is should be rolling. This is what I need. This kind of idea. I use my thumb to flip through the stack of paper towels, doing what, I’m not sure. Trying to figure out how whoever it was figured this out. There is a pattern here. It’s very easy to see. Over, under. The trick is discovering the pattern in the first place. Once it’s discovered, it seems like the absolute simplest thing in the world. Dalton throws open the door and scares me into knocking the whole stack onto the floor.

“What the hell are you doing in here, Stephen?” he says, panting. “They’re waiting for us. In the conference room.” He is sweating. I can see the sweat starting to form at the corners of his pits. It’s soaked all the way through his suit jacket. “And they have a very nice cheese platter.”

“With Rye Crisps?” I say, perking up.

“Uh—No. I don’t think so. But there are some very nice stoned wheat crackers—Gah! Look—Get your ass in there. Now. We gotta sell this thing. I’m tired of pitching. We need to make a sale.”

“Pitch is the name of the game, Dalt,” I say, straightening my tie in the mirror.

“That doesn’t mean anything, Stephen. I’ll be in the conference room. Eating a stoned wheat cracker with spreadable Brie.”

“Not too many, buddy. Tuck your shirt back in; it’s riding up.”

Dalton looks down at his slightly protruding gut and stuffs his shirt back into his pants, pulling them up higher on his waist.

“Let’s go,” he commands.

I give him a salute as he holds the door for me. I walk swiftly down the hall and hang a left past reception. I wave at the board as Dalton and I walk by the glass wall of the conference room.

“Gentlemen, I apologize for the delay. Are we ready to begin?”

The thing about selling is there’s a thing. You pretend it is the central part of your existence, and for those fifteen minutes, it is. You have to make others want it to be the central part of their existence too. You do that by telling a story. The pitch is a story in which you are the protagonist, all others are antagonists, and your thing—is the key that will ultimately result in a happy ending. It has to have romance. Action. Deceit—but not too much. Adventure, emotion, humor. Above all, people have to buy it. In order to buy it, they have to believe it. They have to believe in it.

Dalton and I sit on the curb in front of the bus stop on the corner of Colorado and Lake. The bench is taken up by cleaning ladies on the way to their next job.

“What is wrong with us?” Dalton demands, as if of the universe.

“Nothing’s wrong with us, Dalt,” I reassure, “It may be the product. It may even be our pitch.”

“Either of those would be a pretty big problem, don’t you think? And didn’t you say that pitch was the name of the game or something like that?”

“Yes, but they’re not problems that can’t be solved.”

“Stephen. I’m tired of calling my parents for money. I’m tired of—I’m tired—“

He doesn’t need to finish. I know what he was trying to say.

“There is a solution, Dalt. We just have to recognize the pattern of failure. We need to go back over each pitch and figure out the exact point where we lost them.”

“The pattern?” he laughs, “And what do we discern from this ‘pattern’?”

“Dalton,” I attest, “Recognition of patterns is the most basic form of intelligence. It is what separates us from animals. Selling requires the basic instincts that animals possess, but if you want to make the sale, it requires intelligence. Now, let’s get something to eat and we’ll reconvene tomorrow at my place. Sound good?”

“Well, we have plenty of failures to choose from.”

“That’s the problem with your attitude, Dalt. You’re a pessimist. Failure is not a negative result.”

“And how do you figure that?” Dalton asks in his most sarcastic voice. “We don’t make any money if we fail.”

“Come on, Dalt. You’re just hungry.”

I help him to his feet. We walk down Lake Avenue to Souplantation to eat our fill of salad, chicken noodle soup and blueberry muffins.

I need to wake up and get it together. I feel like I’m losing my edge, though I never truly had any edge to begin with. Well, that’s not entirely true—I shouldn’t sell myself short. I do have an edge. It’s meta-cognition. Dalton calls it self-analysis. But he doesn’t have it like I do. I have been able to boil our business plan down to the absolute simplest form possible all through meta-cognitive thinking. It’s a pattern. Just like how those towels fold one into the other. It doesn’t matter what the product is. I will hop from one product to the next until I find a winner. This is what separates me from the rest: I’m not a believer in my product. I’m a believer in the process. If I can recognize the pattern, I will win.

The line at the Souplantation is horrendous. But it’s worth the wait. I make a half plate of salad: just romaine, seasoned croutons, cheddar cheese, crispy noodles, and honey mustard. Dalton gets a little of everything. Even a small spoonful of Joan’s Broccoli Madness, which has bacon bits and mayonnaise. I take my tray and move to the soup. The chicken noodle is my favorite. Next I grab a small plate and take a couple small rectangles of focaccia and cheese pizza and a blueberry muffin. I find a small table in the corner and set my tray down then turn back to the soda fountain to get some iced tea. When Dalton finally joins me, he has two bowls of soup, firehouse chili and New England clam chowder, three plates of pizza, focaccia and muffins and a small dish of penne with tomato sauce.

“This is the kind of model we need to go on Dalt,” I say with my mouth full of lettuce.

“A restaurant? Stephen, we don’t work in the restaurant industry. The people we’re pitching to don’t work—“

“Ah, ah!” I saw, seizing this teachable moment. “But there is a pattern here. Look at how they order the salad bar. Look at the layout of the different buffets. It’s that pattern that brings people back.”

“Or it’s that they have some amazing blueberry muffins. And I wouldn’t necessarily call that a pattern—it’s more like a system.”

“No, no, Dalt—It’s definitely a pattern. A system is much more complex. System implies parts working together to form a mechanized whole.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“Nothing. But within every system is a pattern. Look at paper towel dispensers for instance—“

“Oh God, is that what you—“

“Just! Listen to me for a sec,” I demand, my breath quickening, “This is the simplest example I can think of. You have the towels and the dispenser. Used together, they form a system, but—it is the pattern that the towels are folded in which makes it possible. Over, under.”

“Give another example,” Dalton responds instantly.

I’ve never heard this kind of enthusiasm from him before. It catches me off guard.

“Okay—Uh—How ‘bout—Like a clock. The gears of a clock. Even more demonstrative than the paper towels. You have them all working together to form a system that makes the clockwork. But the gears themselves are designed according to a pattern. They have teeth and spokes and—It is that pattern that allows the system to work.”

“So—how does this pertain to us then?”

“Because, Dalton. Folks in the business world are always in search of a system. Most never find it. Few will, at best, stumble over it. If they could only recognize patterns—That’s why it’s so important. That is how we will succeed.”

“But how do we find it? I’m tired of searching.”

“All in good time, Dalt. That’s why I’m always looking.”

Dalton and I have two meetings set up for the following week. We give a perfect pitch in the first. We spent a lot of time reviewing our process and cutting unnecessary elements. Part of our pattern of failure has been letting Dalton speak too much. He can be clunky, and he repeats himself. On the other hand, if he doesn’t speak at all, we agreed, then the client might think something is wrong with him. Or that he is my personal bodyguard, which is not the message we’re trying to send.

I stare at the cheese platter while Dalton and I wait for the board to return with a decision. They have Rye Crisps. They are fanned in a circle around the outer edge of the platter. A line of Triscuts lines the inner edge of the Rye Crisps. Inside those is an array of cracker-cut cheeses: Colby Jack, Mild Cheddar, and Monterey. In the center is a pile of summer sausage slices. The pattern is so simple. Like the gears of a clock. I munch a few Rye Crisps quickly and carefully because I don’t want the board to return while my mouth is full.

They are only out for five minutes before they come back in. Generally, not a good sign.

“Gentlemen,” one board member begins, “All though we find your pitch both compelling and interesting, we have decided not to purchase any product at this time. On behalf of the board, I thank you. Good day.”

I rub my temples in the elevator. I want Dalton to think the rejection hurt me like I know it did him. He is slumped in the corner, his head hanging, limp. It’s not a problem. We still have one more meeting. If that fails as well, then we’ll rethink the strategy again. Eventually, we’ll come to a solution. Edison tested thousands of materials before he came to tungsten. We just hadn’t come across our tungsten yet.

“We need to clear our heads, Dalt,” I announce as we exit the elevator.

We take the bus to the northern most stop on Lake Avenue. Then I start walking up to where the street ends. We turn left and walk down Alta Vista Drive, finally hanging a right onto an unnamed road that winds into the mountains. By this time, we’ve walked about three miles, mostly uphill.

“Where are we going?” Dalton wheezes.

“You’ll see.”

The mountain road curves for a few miles into the hills of Altadena before coming to a small parking lot. From there the road continues down in to the canyon. But we’re going to the summit.

“Follow me,” I say.

Dalton complies. There is an overgrown path that begins a yard from the bend in the road. I push the brush back and struggle past tall grass, gnats and an occasional bee. We are both drenched in sweat. Foxtails stick in my slacks and Dalton’s, jabbing our calves from time to time. Dalton lets out a little gasp every time he’s poked by one. Finally the grass turns to sand and rock and opens into a small clearing. Half of the San Gabriel Valley at sunset is visible below.

“You used to be able to see the ocean from here,” I tell Dalton, “At least, that’s what my grandfather always told me.”

Dalton looks at me, but doesn’t say anything.

“Sometimes I just come up here and do nothing. For hours. Just think. And listen. Try to hear what the world has been trying to tell me, you know?”

Dalton nods.

“Breathe it in Dalt. Breathe in that air. We’re above the smog here.”

I take a deep breath, hold it, and let it go in a slow, steady stream. I smile at Dalton.

“We’ll make it, buddy. Don’t you worry. We’re so close to narrowing it down. I can feel it. Can’t you?”

Dalton puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

“We’ve just been circling and circling. Doesn’t it feel like that? Like we’ve just been circling around the answer for so long, coming closer and closer. We’re right there. Like we’ve been talking about it this whole time and not even realized it.”

I close my eyes.

Dalton pushes me as hard as he can from behind. He’s much stronger than I ever thought. I tumble forward, down the hill. I don’t get much time to think before I fall off a cliff. It’s not very high, maybe twenty feet. So that doesn’t give me more than a few seconds to think after the initial shock of what has happened passes and my head clears. Somehow those seconds expand into full minutes, maybe even hours. I suppose they could have been days if I wanted. Sunrises and sunsets flying over the valley as if the sun were on some celestial wheel. I never had the chance to come up here during a sunrise. My grandfather told me it was spectacular: the shadow of the mountains shrinking back as the sun grows higher, revealing the valley as it awakens.

I am able to remember, in those brief seconds, the day I met Dalton. Perhaps I promised too much. Business school can do that to you. I was just as naive as he. Just as hopeful. We are the same. I can almost see the sun sink behind the line of the horizon. Just another second and it would have been gone. I wish I could have seen more sunrises. I wish I could have reached enlightenment. I wish I knew how I never saw this coming.

I open my eyes and turn toward Dalton. But he is gone. It is dark now and I wonder how long I’ve been standing here. I don’t bother calling his name. The evening breeze makes me shiver. My clothes are still wet. I imagine the celestial wheel again, spinning and spinning. If I could only skip ahead to the day I figure it all out without growing any older. I wish I could just disappear.

In Contemplating the Future

The hills are green velvet this afternoon. They resemble a down comforter pulled over the knees of some sleeping, majestic, giant. There’s only one paved road. It runs along the giant’s leg, until it’s lost in some unknown valley. The wind is strong, but somehow comforting. Comforting in the way it holds the wings of hawks afloat for hours. Comforting in the way the ocean breeze hits you: sound rushing in your ears, until you can’t hear anything except a voice telling you everything is going to be okay. The world will be put to rights someday. The Santa Ynez river snakes its way through the valley. The trees on its banks are yellow, if they survived the bitter frost of winter, or bare if they did not. They don’t complain; rather they join in the wind’s voice, adding layer upon layer to it. There are cows here. They hear the wind too and respond in their own simple way. A car horn is heard off in the distance, a reminder that society hasn’t gone away; it’s just not here at the moment.

The wind is stronger now: stronger than it has been all day. And here I am. With my laptop computer. Drinking Italian sparkling mineral water from a glass bottle. Sitting in a lounge chair. I want to blend in. I want to melt away into the velvet green of the hills across the valley. They’re almost completely in shadow now. The sun is about to sink behind them, ushering in the night. The utter darkness that will shroud this humble valley, making it impossible to see the green of the hills. Maybe someday I will return here, when I’m older and more experienced, and say to myself, I always did like the green of those hills. Like velvet. It is good. And it is.