We were asked what sorts of divisions we had noticed in Kazin's autobiography, and I keep returning to the same one over and over: Kazin's almost comparison of the movie theater and his synagogue. It seems as though the movie house holds more power, more influence, and more mystery for Kazin than does the synagogue.
"That poor worn synagogue could never in my affections compete with that movie house, whose very lounge looked and smelled to me like an Oriental temple. It had Persian rugs, and was marvelously half-lit at all hours of the day; there were great semi-arcs of colored glass above the entrance to the toilets, and out of the gents' game a vaguely foreign, deliciously stinging deodorant that prepared me, on the very threshold of the movie auditorium itself, for the magic within. There was never anything with such expectancy to it as that twilit lounge." - Pg. 40...
and
"Though there was little ritual that was ever explained to me, and even less in the atmosphere of the synagogue that in my heart i really liked, I assumed that my feelings in the matter were of no importance; I belonged there before the Ark, with the men, sitting next to an uncle. I felt a loveless intimacy with the place." - Pg. 44.
Clearly, the movie house is much more interesting and appealing to Kazin (and I assume also to the reader when we are exposed to Kazin's impressions of the two). He even goes on to say that in the theater he "knew a secret happiness, as if [his] mind had at last been encouraged to seek its proper concerns" (pg. 41). This sounds much more like something someone would say about a synagogue than a movie theater, but for Kazin religion appears to have been somewhat empty. Even after he discovers a "deepness" to prayer (pg. 101) that he had previously not been aware of, Kazin is still left feeling out of touch with God and with the practices of his synagogue. The prayer itself seems to "encourage Kazin's mind to seek its proper concerns," but religion itself (or at least the practice of religion) cannot do this for him.
This is an interesting parallel that Kazin draws, and I found that it somehow resonated with me; perhaps this is because I, too, have never felt inspired by organized religion, and I can much more easily relate to his experiences at the movies than I can with his experiences in the synagogue.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
just something i liked . . . .
this is a passage tied a lot of things together in a way that i could relate to. it's the second paragraph on page 114.
"Under the quilt at night, I could dream even before I went to sleep. Yet even there I could never see Mrs. Solovey's face clearly, but still ran round and round the block looking for her after i had passed her kitchen window. It was an old trick, the surest way of getting to sleep: I put the quilt high over my head and lay there burrowing as deep into the darkness as I could get, thinking of her through the long black hair the women on the counter wore. Then i would make up dreams before going to sleep: a face behind the lattice of a summer house, half-hidden in thick green leaves; the hard dots sticking out of the black wallpaper below; the day my mother was ill and our cousin had taken me to school. The moment i felt myself drifting into sleep, my right knee jerked as if i had just caught myself from tripping over somtheing in the gutter."
while i think this passage is beautifully worded, i was also drawn to it's illustration of what is between real and what is made up. while kazin is imagining a fictional narrative within his dozing mind, they seem to slowly melt into memories which were real. i also really liked the idea of the darkness within the quilt being the form, which physically enabled him to create these non-physical memories/dreams. it is much like the autobiography itself. physically, the book holds the content - the written word of the authors past. but the intangible memories; the images and emotions evoked, always seem to be floating somewhere above the book itself.
this transition from wake to sleep reminded me of the boundary for authors of autobiographies, and how they have to go about recreating their memories. i think it will always be hard to draw the line between truth and lie, when your dealing with memory. since everyone's perceptions are always completley subjective, and relative to their ever-changing emotions, personality, morals & values, etc., there can never be a one, black and white truth. the truth is in vibrant colors! and no one's red is the same as the guy next to him.
"Under the quilt at night, I could dream even before I went to sleep. Yet even there I could never see Mrs. Solovey's face clearly, but still ran round and round the block looking for her after i had passed her kitchen window. It was an old trick, the surest way of getting to sleep: I put the quilt high over my head and lay there burrowing as deep into the darkness as I could get, thinking of her through the long black hair the women on the counter wore. Then i would make up dreams before going to sleep: a face behind the lattice of a summer house, half-hidden in thick green leaves; the hard dots sticking out of the black wallpaper below; the day my mother was ill and our cousin had taken me to school. The moment i felt myself drifting into sleep, my right knee jerked as if i had just caught myself from tripping over somtheing in the gutter."
while i think this passage is beautifully worded, i was also drawn to it's illustration of what is between real and what is made up. while kazin is imagining a fictional narrative within his dozing mind, they seem to slowly melt into memories which were real. i also really liked the idea of the darkness within the quilt being the form, which physically enabled him to create these non-physical memories/dreams. it is much like the autobiography itself. physically, the book holds the content - the written word of the authors past. but the intangible memories; the images and emotions evoked, always seem to be floating somewhere above the book itself.
this transition from wake to sleep reminded me of the boundary for authors of autobiographies, and how they have to go about recreating their memories. i think it will always be hard to draw the line between truth and lie, when your dealing with memory. since everyone's perceptions are always completley subjective, and relative to their ever-changing emotions, personality, morals & values, etc., there can never be a one, black and white truth. the truth is in vibrant colors! and no one's red is the same as the guy next to him.
A Walker in the City
Kazin's memoir is a very engaging read. I like how the reader has the feeling of being taken on a tour through his home (his actual home and the part of the city in which he lives) and also a tour through his family history. I really find the dynamic between the different nationalities of the authors we've seen so far to be incredibly interesting and important. In each autobiography, we've seen suffering, but it's interesting to see how the foreign writers all eventually make their way to America to acquire freedom, which was ironically where Douglass was literally enslaved. Douglass's memoir brings about shame, horror, and embarrassment in the country's history, but also shows a bit of hope and what was to come. Moving on to the rest of the memoirs, Danticat's is probably the most devastating with the family tragedies that occurred, but America was her family's beacon of light. With Kazin, we see his roots grab hold in Brownsville and create a new microcosm of his family's heritage.
"The light pouring through window after window in that great empty varnished assembly hall seemed to me the most wonderful thing I had ever seen. It was that thorough varnished cleanness that was of the new land, that light dancing off the glasses of Theordore Roosevelt..." (page 26)
"The light pouring through window after window in that great empty varnished assembly hall seemed to me the most wonderful thing I had ever seen. It was that thorough varnished cleanness that was of the new land, that light dancing off the glasses of Theordore Roosevelt..." (page 26)
Senses
While reading A Walker in the City I am struck by how many senses Kazin uses to describe his surroundings. The text is brought to life by the sights, smells, and textures of his environment. During the section "The Kitchen" Kazin describes the brilliant white of the recently white-washed walls. He describes the textures of his mother's dress fabrics. The smells of the table overflowing with Sabbath food.
When I read this I thought do we all think of home in terms of our senses? Or is home something we describe with emotion. When I think of my home the only smell that comes to mind is the scent of the wood stove. Home to me is thought of as simply happiness, but maybe this is because I had never thought to describe it in terms of my senses.
Maybe this is just my "I'm really excited to go home for Thanksgiving" post.
When I read this I thought do we all think of home in terms of our senses? Or is home something we describe with emotion. When I think of my home the only smell that comes to mind is the scent of the wood stove. Home to me is thought of as simply happiness, but maybe this is because I had never thought to describe it in terms of my senses.
Maybe this is just my "I'm really excited to go home for Thanksgiving" post.
Kazin on Kazin
"...a key to my book is of course this constant sense of division, even of flagrant contradiction between wanting the enclosure of home and the open city, both moral certainty and intellectual independence. ...to rebel against the tradition was somehow to hold fast to it." (Alfred Kazin at a symposium at the New York Public Library in 1987).
The Pressing Question to Mrs. Solovey
"You have lived in many places."
"Oui. Nous avons habité des pays differénts. La Russie, la France, l'Italie, la Palestine. Yes, many places."
"Why did you come here?" I asked suddenly.
She looked at me for a moment. I could not tell what she felt, or how much I had betrayed. But in some way my question wearied her. She rose, made a strange stiff little bow, and went out.
~A Walker in the City p. 130
What stood out to me the most in this passage was that "moment" of not knowing what Mrs. Solovey felt. It's a foot-in-mouth moment that I'm sure we've all encountered at some point. Especially with immigration or even just small moves, there's always the question of why they went to where they did. Everyone has their reasons, and some people are proud to say exactly what it was that made them settle on a certain place. Others, however, may have no explanation or no desire to share so they can keep certain events in the past, avoid a sob story, stop any further questions, or many more reasons. It's interesting to get a glimpse of discomfort (as I'll call it) in a situation that may be different from the majority of what we see today, but in a way that it is a believable situation.
"Oui. Nous avons habité des pays differénts. La Russie, la France, l'Italie, la Palestine. Yes, many places."
"Why did you come here?" I asked suddenly.
She looked at me for a moment. I could not tell what she felt, or how much I had betrayed. But in some way my question wearied her. She rose, made a strange stiff little bow, and went out.
~A Walker in the City p. 130
What stood out to me the most in this passage was that "moment" of not knowing what Mrs. Solovey felt. It's a foot-in-mouth moment that I'm sure we've all encountered at some point. Especially with immigration or even just small moves, there's always the question of why they went to where they did. Everyone has their reasons, and some people are proud to say exactly what it was that made them settle on a certain place. Others, however, may have no explanation or no desire to share so they can keep certain events in the past, avoid a sob story, stop any further questions, or many more reasons. It's interesting to get a glimpse of discomfort (as I'll call it) in a situation that may be different from the majority of what we see today, but in a way that it is a believable situation.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
