course, and my aspiring fiction writers frequently bring in biblical parallels, classical or
Shakespearean allusions, bits of REM songs, fairy tale fragments, anything you can think of. And
neither they nor I would claim that anybody in that room is a genius. It’s something that starts
happening when a reader/writer and a sheet of paper get locked in a room together. And it’s a great
deal of what makes reading the work—of my students, of recent graduates of the Iowa Writers’
Workshop, of Keats and Shelley—interesting and fun.
11
. . . More Than It’s Gonna
Hurt You: Concerning Violence
C
ONSIDER
. Sethe is an escaped slave, and her children were all born in slave-owning Kentucky; their
escape to Ohio is like the Israelites’ escape from Egypt in Exodus. Except that this time Pharaoh
shows up on the doorstep threatening to drag them back across the Red Sea. So Sethe decides to save
her children from slavery by killing them, succeeding with only one of them.
Later, when that murdered child, the title character of Toni Morrison’s Beloved, makes her ghostly
return, she’s more than simply the child lost to violence, sacrificed to the revulsion of the escaped
slave toward her former state. Instead she is one of, in the words of the epigraph to the novel, the
“sixty million and more” Africans and African-descended slaves who died in captivity and forced
marches on the continent or in the middle passage or on the plantations made possible by their captive
labor or in attempts to escape a system that should have been unthinkable—as unthinkable as, for
instance, a mother seeing no other means of rescuing her child except infanticide. Beloved is in fact
representative of the horrors to which a whole race was subjected.
Violence is one of the most personal and even intimate acts between human beings, but it can also
be cultural and societal in its implications. It can be symbolic, thematic, biblical, Shakespearean,
Romantic, allegorical, transcendent. Violence in real life just is. If someone punches you in the nose
in a supermarket parking lot, it’s simply aggression. It doesn’t contain meaning beyond the act itself.
Violence in literature, though, while it is literal, is usually also something else. That same punch in
the nose may be a metaphor.
Robert Frost has a poem, “Out, Out—” (1916), about a momentary lapse of attention and the
terrible act of violence that ensues. A farm boy working with the buzz saw looks up at the call to
dinner, and the saw, which has been full of menace as it “snarl[s] and rattle[s]” along, seizes the
moment, as if it has a mind of its own, to take off the boy’s hand. Now the first thing we have to
acknowledge about this masterpiece is that it is absolutely real. Only a person who has been around
the ceaseless danger of farm machinery could have written the poem, with all its careful attention to
the details of the way death lurks in everyday tasks. If that’s all we get from the poem, fine, the poem
will in one sense have done its job. Yet Frost is insisting on more in the poem than a cautionary tale
of child labor and power tools. The literal violence encodes a broader point about the essentially
hostile or at least uncaring relationship we have with the universe. Our lives and deaths—the boy
dies of blood loss and shock—are as nothing to the universe, of which the best that can be said is that
it is indifferent, though it may be actively interested in our demise. The title of the poem is taken from
Macbeth, “Out, out, brief candle,” suggesting the brevity not merely of a teenager’s life but of any
human existence, particularly in cosmic terms. The smallness and fragility of our lives is met with the
cold indifference not only of the distant stars and planets, which we can rightly think of as virtually
eternal in contrast to ourselves, but of the more immediate “outer” world of the farm itself, of the
inhumanity of machinery which wounds or kills indiscriminately. This is not John Milton’s “Lycidas”
(1637), not a classical elegy in which all nature weeps. This nature shows not the slightest ripple of
interest. Frost uses the violence here, then, to emphasize our status as orphans: parentless, frightened,
and alone as we face our mortality in a cold and silent universe.
Violence is everywhere in literature. Anna Karenina throws herself under the train, Emma Bovary
solves her problem with poison, D. H. Lawrence’s characters are always engaging in physical
violence toward one another, Joyce’s Stephen Dedalus is beaten by soldiers, Faulkner’s Colonel
Sartoris becomes a greater local legend when he guns down two carpetbaggers in the streets of
Jefferson, and Wile E. Coyote holds up his little “Yikes” sign before he plunges into the void as his
latest gambit to catch the Road Runner fails. Even writers as noted for the absence of action as
Virginia Woolf and Anton Chekhov routinely resort to killing off characters. For all these deaths and
maimings to amount to something deeper than the violence of the Road Runner cartoon, the violence
has to have some meaning beyond mere mayhem.
Let’s think about two categories of violence in literature: the specific injury that authors cause
characters to visit on one another or on themselves, and the narrative violence that causes characters
harm in general. The first would include the usual range of behavior—shootings, stabbings,
garrotings, drownings, poisonings, bludgeonings, bombings, hit-and-run accidents, starvations, you
name it. By the second, authorial violence, I mean the death and suffering authors introduce into their
work in the interest of plot advancement or thematic development and for which they, not their
characters, are responsible. Frost’s buzz-saw accident would be such an example, as would Little
Nell on her deathbed in Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop (1841) and the death of Mrs. Ramsay in
Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse (1927).
Is it fair to compare them? I mean, do death by consumption or heart disease really fall into the
same universe as a stabbing?
Sure. Different but the same. Different: no guilty party exists in the narrative (unless you count the
author, who is present everywhere and nowhere). Same: does it really matter to the dead person? Or
this: writers kill off characters for the same set of reasons—make action happen, cause plot
complications, end plot complications, put other characters under stress.
And that’s not enough reason for violence to exist?
With some exceptions, the most prominent being mystery novels. Figure at least three corpses for a
two-hundred-page mystery, sometimes many more. How significant do those deaths feel? Very nearly
meaningless. In fact, aside from the necessities of plot, we scarcely notice the deaths in a detective
novel; the author goes out of her way, more often than not, to make the victim sufficiently unpleasant
that we scarcely regret his passing, and we may even feel a sort of relief. Now the rest of the novel
will be devoted to solving this murder, so clearly it is important on some level. But the death lacks
Dostları ilə paylaş: |