. Spinning .

Investigating the topic of my last post a bit further by googling just as had the googler below, I follow some links to some happy discoveries:  Teacher directions to sixth and seventh graders at two different schools regarding their upcoming reading of Steinbeck’s The Pearl.

Ms. Monique Goosby, teacher at Harte Elementary School in Chicago, IL, has this as part of her class instruction on the reading: 

*Infer-Reading between the lines to draw conclusions, to make predictions before and during reading, and to identify the theme to help myself understand what I am reading.

At Dana Hall School in Wellesley, MA, the incoming 7th graders are instructed thus:

Example: Chapter One (near the end):  Why does the doctor say to his servant, "I am a doctor, not a veterinary." 

The doctor says, "I am a doctor, not a veterinary," because he does not like to give care to the Indians, whom he considers animals.

At this early stage in their reading careers, I think these kids will be on the right track.  My hat is tipped to these and other dedicated teachers who appear to be teaching theory and thinking in their students.

Except, of course, for maybe those few who googled me instead.

So to prove the moral, the story follows along to destroy the family of Kino and the pearl is shown to have caused devastation and death.

Hmmph.

This parable is a common one; wealth is the root of all evil.  I disagree–though thoroughly wishing to have the opportunity to prove or disprove the theory personally.  What I see, and what I still prefer to close my eyes to despite proof in little ways, is that man’s nature may be naturally evil and that good is an accomplished, learned feat that man has tried to breed into his nature over the centuries.

Had everyone left Kino alone to happily turn his pearl into the better things he wanted for his family, there would be no evil in the story. 

But the story is about people.

Perhaps I have found some reason, some justification for my thoughts on the moral of this fable:

Everything that loved water came to these few shallow places.  The cats took their prey there, and strewed feathers and lapped water through their bloody teeth.  The little pools were places of life because of the water, and places of killing because of the water, too.  (p. 104)

How different really is the water from the wondrous pearl?  Needed for survival, it is a blessed thing, yet draws by instinct those that would take advantage of the opportunity to steal the blessing and even the very life of those who use it.  Because they seek survival as well and have not the morals or the intellect to hunt hard within the brush.

I do like the book, but I’m not getting the underlying theme perhaps of wealth being evil–unless I’m misunderstanding the lesson, being of different mind.  It is human nature that can be evil.

Once again, Juana, sure that the pearl is the source (rather than her thievin’ neighbors) of the trouble, takes it and steals away into the night and tries to destroy it:

Quietly he tracked her, and his brain was red with anger.  She burst clear of the brush line and stumbled over the little boulders toward the water, and then she heard him coming and she broke into a run.  Her arm was up to throw when he leaped at her and caught her arm and wrenched the pearl from her.  He struck her in the face with his clenched fist and she fell among the boulders, and he kicked her in the side.  (p. 76)

Of course Kino is angry–through there is no excuse for his hitting and kicking her.  The doctor, the priest, someone who has entered his house to steal the pearl, the pearl buyers–all are screwing him royally, and now his wife wants to throw the pearl away.  It is human nature that is evil; the nature of those who feel for some reason that they should have what Kino has, deserve a portion of it.  Kino’s response to protect it, in my mind, cannot be called evil or greedy.  He is dirt poor and has found a pearl that will provide something better for his family.  But the pearl is blamed for what is happening to them. 

My closest friend just sold their house in MA for $695,000.  I’m enjoying helping her find a new one, looking at the MLS listings in NH where they’ll be moving–they have a lake cottage there already but want a regular home as well–listening to her tell me about what she’s seen. 

Kino and Juana need to sell that pearl and move to a place where they can be among people who understand that what they have is theirs, and who are willing to celebrate the good fortune of others instead of claiming it.

Steinbeck’s The Pearl is a fable, therefore a moral of some sort is a part of the deal, and one that reflects human nature in its struggle between good and evil.

The pearl that Kino, the protagonist, finds is of awesome beauty and size.  He and his wife, Juana are extremely poor and when their baby is bitten by a scorpion, even the upperclass doctor will not come to help because he knows he will not be paid.  The pearl is found on Kino’s first dive after the child has been bitten and is doing well because Juana has managed to suck out the poison.

But the problem here is that while so far in the story it would appear that the thrust of the argument is that money (the pearl) is evil, I feel that rather it brings evil in the form of the greed and envy of the others rather than in Kino, who has good and simple plans: a replacement for a lost harpoon, a rifle, a wedding for him and Juana, new clothes, and an education for their son.

So the priest shows up, the neighbors show up, the doctor shows up and though Kino is suspicious, allows the doctor to hoodwink him into "curing" the baby from the scorpion poison.  The only one who seems to be genuinely happy for them is Kino’s brother (aside, I should be so lucky).  Despite the obvious, Kino and Juana are fearful and angry and Juana even suggests that they throw away the pearl.

I realize that these are simple folk and that this is a moralistic tale, but what about the alternative:  find better and more decent friends?

Torn between McCarthy and Toni Morrison, I seek out John Steinbeck’s The Pearl as my next selection.  It is mainly because it’s a short novel, Steinbeck is easy reading, and with the burden of Hypertext 3.0, Patchwork Girl, and Ethics on my plate it seems like it will fit in without taking attention away from the others.

I’m also trying to slip in a story or two of my own among the copyediting I’m doing on sixteen short stories for a good friend.  While I’ve learned to read for story and technique as well as proof at the same time, I think editing mode is reestablished with the need, and I’m more likely to be objective about my own work when it is slid in there as part of the scheme. 

Perfect trio:  Reading and writing and rain.

It is a great matter to observe propriety in these several modes of expression, as also in compound words, strange (or rare) words, and so forth.  But the greatest thing by far is to have a command of metaphor.  This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, for to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblances.  (Aristotle, Poetics,  Part XXII)

And here lives Steinbeck’s gopher. 

Cannery Row is well described in detail of "across the street" and "down the tracks," etc., and it is a neighborhood held together by the canneries.  It is a working part of town; it is not sleek and beautiful.  Yet, I do not see it as grimy or poverty ridden.  This, I believe, is what Steinbeck’s message is in part; that the place is the people, the people are the place.

Within the narrative structure of Cannery Row and the stories of its primary characters, Doc, Mack, Lee Chong, and the rest, we met Mary Talbot, who loved parties; two little boys, Joey and Willard, who sparred mentally dangerously close to cruelty; and a gopher, who makes his home in the vacant lot and builds an underground paradise, lays in a larder, and goes out to seek the one thing missing, the one thing that will not come to his door–a female gopher.

The gopher goes outside his territory in his quest because this pull of companionship–or simple need–is more important than his home.  He finds one, but she is kept by an old battle-worn male, and the gopher is forced to fight and flee.  Even in his gopher palace he is not content.  He must travel outward, far from the safety and beauty of his chosen home to the more likely possibilities of a garden, where traps abound yet promise of a female awaits.

There is a Chinaman who does nothing but wander from one place in town to another every dusk and dawn.  He is a thread of "within" and "without" the boundaries of Cannery Row.  He is alone and no one knows him; a child named Andy boldly questions him and is frightened off by what he sees within the Chinaman’s eyes.  It is, I think, the unknown, the unfamiliar.

Cannery Row becomes more than embellishment or Spectacle as Aristotle would proclaim it.  It is, I feel, the grounding and the proper place for the action and the characters to belong.  Their world, as they created it.  As Mack near ruined it with the dishonoring of his deed.  As it recovered and became a good place again with the coming together of all the residents at the second party. 

It is a living thing.

I stopped too soon, and yet while another party rages as before–again, intent gone astray as led instead by human nature–the meaning is there and vague, unclear.

Doc enjoys this second party; a surprise he soon finds out about and plans as well, buying whisky and food, locking away the valuables to keep them safe.  It starts out slow and tentative, builds with booze and banter, yet controlled and well-enjoyed by all.  Then slows down, as Steinbeck tells us: 

The nature of parties has been imperfectly studied.  It is, however, generally understood that a party has a pathology, that it is a kind of individual and that it is likely to be a perverse individual.  And it is also generally understood that a party hardly ever goes the way it is planned or intended.  (Cannery Row, p. 172)

After the raucous dancing music is replaced with Monteverdi, as the whiskey dries up and is supplanted with the mellowing of wine, Doc reads from a book of poetry.  The poem tells of an aching for lost love.  All are moved and quiet. 

The next morning, Doc wakes up to a similar mess as to the first party, yet he is smiling, content.  Is the difference in the being there?  To have partaken of the feast, to have enjoyed despite one’s own intent of best behavior?  To have known a first love, to have a right to the memory of it–is that what makes the difference in a life?

I think that Aristotle’s theory of the Character as being central by mode of Thought and moral leaning to react to actions here is what’s at work.  Is giving in to the revelry a moral flaw?   These are good people gathered here to share in an event.  Is weakness what allows enjoyment of the party, of life itself?

Mack, Doc, and all the residents of Cannery Row have been affected by the string of events that are no more serious to world matters than a bringing together of people in appreciation of the goodness inherent in one of their own.  By knowing to appreciate, they too are to be considered good, and this, despite Aristotle’s insistence on class as part of nobility, is what makes them real and grants them access to a Tragedy in their lives, however small in import on a scale of human wrongs. 

I’ve finished this most exquisitely written novel, and enjoyed the writing as much as the story, and gained quite a bit in having taken the time to study the elements of story as put forth in Poetics.  Even as I seek out the next bit of fiction to read, I find myself insisting that the book is done and over with…but then, there is the gopher…

"The element of the wonderful is required in Tragedy.  The irrational, on which the wonderful depends for its chief effects, has wider scope in Epic poetry, because there the person acting is not seen."   Aristotle, Poetics, Part XXV

Mary Talbot, Mrs. Tom Talbot, that is, was lovely.  She had red hair with green lights in it.  Her skin was golden with a green cast and her eyes were green with little golden spots.  (…) When she was excited, and she was excited a good deal of the time, her face was flushed with gold.  Her great-great-great-great-great grandmother had been burned as a witch.    John Steinbeck, Cannery Row, p. 142

The element of the wonderful, as Aristotle suggests, is a necessary part of Tragedy.  While at this point in Poetics he is speaking of Epic Tragedy, poetry format rather than narrative or stage play, when speaking of story style of one such as Steinbeck, I would not hesitate to apply it and slap "poetry" labels upon it.

The above excerpt is one of several that Steinbeck slips in among the story of Mack and Doc and Cannery Row.  It is an encapsulated metaphor as is the book, the party being, I suspect, life itself.  In the brief chapter (24) that is the exclusive story of Mary Talbot and her husband Tom, we meet another idealist who believes deep in her heart that attitude is all.  Despite the bill collectors, the joblessness with no near prospects, Mary believes that parties can cure Tom’s depression, his realistic view: "Mary came softly in, for the blue-gray color of his gloom had seeped out under the door and through the keyhole.  She had a little bouquet of candy tuft in a collar of paper lace.  (p. 25)

As a determined realist, my fantasy reserved for escape rather than to cotton-candy wrap the world as it exists, I seek the answer to the optimistic attitude that claims it offers opportunities closed to those with dour expressions, hopeless outlooks.  A smile alone will never do it, but it may, by reason of its own false bravado and effect allow another person entry into one’s space and leave a glow within that thus inspires. 

Action, though, action I agree (with Aristotle) is the Plot.  That Diction, Thought and Character are only the modes.  For plot is carried by action, and reaction is a direct response born of character and thought.

I’m finally getting to finish this novel, having sidetracked myself for the better part of a week or more in analyzing it.  I find, having ventured a few chapters further that the episode of the planning and the party for Doc has had a profound effect on the characters, and must say that I am glad at least that I recognized it as the story, although feel now that I perhaps should have read the book through before focusing on it to write the essay (which I’m now calling "done," even as I feel it could have been less unwieldy had I not jumped so quickly into it).

There are two chapters in particular that Steinbeck has slid in among the pages of the story that need to be delved into a bit deeper.  They are metaphorical, they are to be pondered; they are meant to offer commentary and inspire thinking about the story in a way other than strictly narrative.  I believe that the story is both better understood and expanded by these additions, and will need to complete the book before I can go back and apply them. They seemed to be narrator input that came of understanding that which we could not be completely aware of without having read through the scenes presented to the characters of Cannery Row, and yet I’m sure that they reveal a knowledge of man himself and his world not completely related to Mack and Doc and Lee Chong and the others exclusively.

Meanwhile, I find Steinbeck’s voice and style thoroughly absorbing, pleasant and skilled, much as in the way of Cormac McCarthy where character takes on the burden of the human race and is of primary importance to the story in revelation of human nature and its action and reaction to the world regardless of circumstance and time.

Unreal.  I’m up to twelve pages, single-spaced, and still working.  Although the vast majority of the text is taken up in quotations from either Poetics or Cannery Row, there is some input by me in comment.  This is not what I had intended, but this is what it grew into as a project. 

Too bad it’s only for my own purposes–wins me no degrees, no recognition, not even a lousy grade, which is why I haven’t as yet gotten into a bibliography, although I probably will add it in just to cover my ass since this is currently available online as I work on it.  And after all this, I’ll probably keep it there until I’ve gotten over myself on the effort alone.

However, I shall have learned from this endeavor that in future readings I shall simply nod and smile to myself and think: Hmmm.  Sounds like Aristotle had something to say about this.  And just keep reading.

It doesn’t look like I’ve done much yet, but I don’t have a written outline–that’s not my style of writing–so I just started from point A and with the help of my notes, will continue on from there.  But, just to prove I’m seriously doing this (It will be constantly updated as I go along):

Aristotle’s Poetics as Applied to Steinbeck’s Cannery Row

This post started out as a comment in response to those by Steve and Mark at this post of mine, but in my usual rambling manner, got too ungainly to fit into one of those little comment boxes:

I think that even if Steinbeck had not been aware of Poetics, it was learned in some manner.  What Aristotle put together was not something he made up, but rather what he observed and kindly put down in an essay as to what he found to be the "recipe for success" or at the least, the traditional and established norm, as well as discussing the roots of literature form.  Much of the nature of Aristotle’s essay can be absorbed through reading as well as studying literature and writing, although most of this, I’m sure, has been based on Aristotle’s input anyway.  Even everyday conversation gives us a feel for storytelling.

But I am intrigued by the notion of going so far back into these written basics to see what holds true in Steinbeck’s writing.  Unfortunately, I’ve gotten in deep, over my head maybe even, and I’ve starting writing it in a Word Document that will be linked here, and it will have to be broken down into sections rather than a rambling piece.  Right now I’m concentrating on the building up of Tragedy (vs. Comedy, which started me on this whole thing, the tragi-comic situation Steinbeck created) and there may need to be subheadings or whatever on Plot, Character, etc. as each is valued by Aristotle in Poetics.

In other words, it’s turned into a project.  But the easiest way to understand and post about Poetics is exactly what inspired me to do it–having read it, and then seeing it in action as it applies as I read Cannery Row.  It is easier, I think, to find the "rule" or "law" or "norm" as Aristotle lays them out and apply them to the novel, than to write of Poetics and seek out examples.  Especially since they have been recognized in Cannery Row as becoming familar.

Yes, story is important, although it need not be epic in nature, just something that touches the heart or stirs the mind to interest. 

For me, the enjoyable journey through a story is fed by good writing. 

I can’t get excited, particularly with a novel, about story regardless of its magnitude because it is just that; a product of the imagination.  Hell, there’s more in life every day to get hepped up about.  But with the narrative structure, the plot… (and here I have Aristotle to back me:

But most important if all is the structure of the incidents.  For Tragedy is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and life consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality.  (Poetics, Part VI, para. 5)

…the plot is particularly a product of good writing.  Believe me, I know this well; my stories often fall flat because despite the flow of words, the arrangement and choice of sequence to build the conflicts to follow an arc isn’t there.

While I am still working on applying Poetics to Cannery Row (It’s actually much easier to see what Aristotle means when you read something, remember something that Aristotle wrote, then go back and reread both, his essay becomes clear.), I need to dig out the most relevant section from Poetics to examine the sequence of events in Cannery Row that I just posted on yesterday.  It may take several postings to cover all the aspects, but that’s what I’m trying to do now, pick out the most relevant and obvious of Aristotle’s statement as well as select carefully from Cannery Row to best display the theory without going into a 12-page thesis (which I see now I could easily do.  In fact, if I ever went for a Masters, I’d seriously consider applying Poetics to a literary work.)

A most interesting development in the reading…

For many chapters, Mack and the boys have been planning a party for Doc just to show their appreciation of him.  Well, it starts out as they need to make money to be able to throw a party, so they visit Doc and find that he needs frogs, at least 300 of them.  Back and forth haggling with Lee Chong for the use of his truck–for which they barter its repair, getting gas, getting there while Doc is off on his own trip collecting baby octopi, and an incredible series of mishaps to get all ready, the party is almost pulled off, but Doc is late returning home, and in the manner of Suttree‘s Harrogate, the best intentions leave a mess without proper planning.  Eight hundred frogs are traded to Lee Chong for food, booze, decorations, etc., and while the party goes on fueled by drinking and fighting and general merriment before Doc even gets there, his lab is destroyed and the frogs all escape.

That’s a brief summary without all the details that make this part of the narrative so intense and enjoyable, but the point that struck me is what do we have here? 

A comedy of errors that makes itself into a tragedy. 

So now I need go back to Aristotle to see what he would say about this, after explicitly delineating the separate branches of Comedy and Tragedy by specific values.  Plot would be primary in Tragedy, and the Characters imitative of comedy, and this may well fit with the theory.  This will take me some time…