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  • T S Eliot, with his sister and cousin

    Welcome to Arts One Open

    Arts One Open is an open, online extension to the University of British Columbia’s Arts One program that enables anyone to join this voyage of discovery and critical analysis. We provide recordings and other material from lectures given in Vancouver by some of UBC’s most experienced teachers.

Recent posts

Here are the most recent posts to the site, including blog posts by students and instructors in Arts One. Click on the titles to go to the original posts if you want to comment.

Thoughts On Uses of Graphic Vs. Written Memoirs

Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home is a memoir that has been written/drawn as a graphic novel (apparently it is also described as a graphic memoir because to call it a graphic “novel” would be technically wrong, what with it being a totally different genre but I digress). I’ve read my fair share of graphic novels and a couple of memoirs before, and graphic memoirs weren’t too hard to imagine for me even before reading this book.

In a way, I do think that it makes sense for it to become a popular format for memoirs, with how different the subject content will touch the readers between the more traditional written text and the visually aided graphics. Memoirs, no matter how you write them, are obviously very personal and (most of the time) completely subjective. This here is the reason why I believe choosing to make a graphic memoir is much more effective and better suited for certain aspects compared to the written.

As an all-word written memoir, the readers are made to visualize the author’s experience themselves, whereas graphic novels simply show, and more (the little details that might seem out of the loop with the story that is currently being told may be added for, in a way, better understanding of specific characters like the example of the grease stain on page 39 which humanizes them and makes them that much more real unlike the fictional characters of any other novels). No matter how beautifully descriptive the author may have written out their memories, we as readers will each imagine our own versions of it, tweaked here and there with our own experiences. How engaging each version is depends on what kind of a reader you are really, and which you’d enjoy more is not anyone’s call. However for a memoir, I believe that knowing this story is exclusively, completely the author’s experience with the transferring and understanding of the memories as an outsider is important, though (once again) it may vary on what the author wants to accomplish. Thoughts?

Posted in blogs, lb4-2016 | Tagged with Bechdel, graphic novel

An original comic by Jade Greer

I consider Fun Home one of my favorite texts we have read in Arts One, so I thought it would be fun try and make my own comic. To provide some background information on the story I’m about to illustrate:

It was a typically Monday morning, around 11 am. The sun was shining and I was putting the final touches on my Arts One essay. I looked outside to see a group of squirrels hanging out. They looked so cute and happy, just playing around the garbage cans. All of the sudden, a garbage truck pulls up and three squirrels jump and run as fast as they can. I figured everything was all good, until… I saw a little bushy tail sticking out of the garbage truck. Before I knew it, the truck picked up the garbage and took the squirrel with it. Then it drove away.

This story was a hard one to retell, as it has taken a real toll on my life. RIP Trashy the squirrel.

Here’s my comic and I hope it does the story justice.

 

 

Posted in blogs, lb1-2016 | Tagged with comics, graphic novel

The Significance of Memory

Since I just uploaded my blog post on Riding the Trail of Tears, I wanted to draw a parallel between Hausman’s cyberpunk historical fiction novel and author Alison Bechdel’s “family tragicomic”, Fun Home. Both works place great significance on the role of memory in the narrative frame.

Despite both pieces being entire different in genre and subject matter, the role of memory is one of the most prominent themes throughout each work. In Bechdel’s graphic memoir, she reflects on the relationship between her and her father throughout her childhood and how it has subsequently impacted her adult life. The story is told non-linearly, echoing the natural process of human thought by rapidly switches topics and time periods, while still working to create an overall cohesive narrative. This type of non-linear reflection is also seen in Riding the Trail of Tears: the chapters bounce between subjects, particularly between Tallulah’s tour group and the Misfits, while frequently referencing past events and memories.

The encorpation of memories in both pieces of literature serves to ground the narratives in some sort of identifiable time frame which the reader can identify and use to follow the complex story progressions. The memories laced within present-day narratives act as roots from which the story can grow. As Nick Sousanis said in his lecture on the union of text and image in comics, text is “tree-like” in that written storylines are rooted in specified events in time and space, which can then grow outward and more complex. Bechdel’s choice to use image as well as text in Fun Home allows her use of memory to expand the plot in ways that Hausman’s work cannot: Memories are now not simply told, but shown, adding to their significance and their emotional resonance with readers.

Posted in blogs, lb4-2016 | Tagged with Bechdel, comics, graphic novel, Hausman, Sousanis

The Practicality of Historical Virtual Reality

I had this blog post written out to post during our Hausman week, but I forgot to upload since I was preoccupied with writing the essay! My apologies!

 

In Riding the Trail of Tears, Hausman poses a difficult question to the novel’s readers about the practicality of historical virtual reality. The incorporation of VR into literature allows indigenous authors to root their work in the new territory of cyberspace. In these western frameworks, the landless territory of VR is a way to reconnect with land-based indigenous history and blur the boundaries between historical and modern, physical and virtual, and can even grow to become space of radical empathy that folds the boundaries between self and other. Historical VR can serve as an investigatory or analytic space, a continuation and amplification of colonial violence that allows users to “know” history in different and more completest ways, thus allowing us in the modern day to reflect and learn from the crimes of our past in order to promote tolerance in the future.

However, historical VR is not without its flaws. By characterizing real people and turning tragic events into a tourist attraction, we eliminate a sense of horror and realism despite experiencing the Trail firsthand. In trying to get closer to history, we actually distance ourselves from it. Where Hausman further complicates this issue is by taking the question of historical VR’s morality and reflecting outward at the readers themselves. We as readers see ourselves in the fictional tourists of Tallulah’s group 5709, enamoured with the concept of VR and its transformative abilities; yet because of our omniscient perspective of the novel as a whole, we are able to learn from the mistakes of characters in the novel itself and have a much more profound understanding of society’s past crimes against First Nations Peoples than if we ourselves had ridden the TREPP. Pretty meta huh?

So, what do you guys think? Is historical VR a good way to teach the youth of today about the tragedies of the past, or by trying to experience historical events firsthand do we undermine their significance?

 

Posted in blogs, lb4-2016 | Tagged with Hausman

Loneliness and Abandonment in Austerlitz

Loneliness and abandonment are two themes that I believe pervades Sebald’s Austerlitz and help convey its striking sense of melancholy. Both of them revolve around a kind of ostracization and alienation, a sense of not belonging, which deftly encapsulates Austerlitz, who really has no idea of where his roots are before his early childhood memories become unlocked. Even then, he can only wonder what could have been if he had been raised in Czechoslovakia instead of in London, but he can never return to it. He is in a halfway space between countries, neither one of them feeling truly like home. There is England, which he grew up in, France, where he studied in, and Czechoslovakia, where he was born in. But they are unable to form a cohesive whole together, and Austerlitz seemed stretched across these three countries, never fully tangible in one exact place.

One important aspect of this book is how little Sebald focuses on the complex dynamics between people, instead choosing to explore their inward natures. He could have constructed a network of acquaintances and close friends that Austerlitz interacts with, considering that it is often a person’s friends that shape a character’s personality, but it is his absence of these that allows him to tell his story in full to the narrator, who acts very much as a window to the audience.   The narrator and Austerlitz connect not only because of their interest in architecture but also their solitary natures, the narrator also being seemingly free to wander about Europe not bound by any obligations to other people. Perhaps Austerlitz sees the narrator as someone that he can finally open up to, so much that he discards any form of greeting or pleasantries, as Sebald notes through the novel and instead delves straight into the story. Maybe the narrator can be seen as a figment of Austerlitz’s imagination, a long-awaited reprieve that never comes and so emerges out of necessity as a hallucination. Sebald’s treatment can be explained as a result of Austerlitz’s position, or perhaps a way to exemplify/exacerbate it; because Austerlitz’s predicament is so uncommon, having not realized who his true parents are even after turning more than 50 years old, he is not truly able to connect with people who have strong ties to their country, their home and their family.

“I was ill at ease among artists and intellectuals as in bourgeois life, and it was a very long time since I had felt able to make personal friendships. No sooner did I become acquainted with someone that I feared I had come too close…” (125-126)

Also worthy of mentioning is the different layers of relationships and interactions present within the book. The relationship between the narrator and Austerlitz is the ground level, the one taken for granted as a means to enable the story to be told. The second level, according to my understanding, involves Austerlitz’s relationships with other characters, which vary tremendously but also share a lot in common. Austerlitz’s solitary nature lends power to these relationships, as they exist only in relation to Austerlitz. We as the author never see these other characters through their own eyes, so the illusion is created that they exist to rescue Austerlitz from his isolation and loneliness; we are grateful for that but heartbroken when they leave, which they often do in some way or another. His friend Gerald dies in a plane crash, his history teacher Hilary does see him regularly during his college studies but is not mentioned afterward, so one assumes that he has died or drifted apart, Elias and Gwendolyn, despite not being that well-liked by Austerlitz do keep him company, and both of them are disposed of in quick succession, Gwendolyn succumbs to sickness and Elias grows depressed and is sent to an asylum. Further on, Gerald’s family also disappear, Evelyn and Alphonso also end up dying and Adela ends up moving to America; Austerlitz remembering her “unchanged, as beautiful as she was then” (111). Finally, Marie eventually leaves Austerlitz and breaks off their relationship. Each of the characters that keep Austerlitz company end up disappearing, causing him to revert back to his solitary disposition, his liminal state causing his relationships to eventually fade. Maybe the reason why he continues to search is because the narrator, as a kindred spirit, will not leave him, will eventually return after thirty years or so and be there to accompany him. But perhaps there is also a beauty in remembering someone as they were before; they become trapped in time just as photographs are, never growing old or digressing from what you remember them as, that uncertainty being what keeps you company. Austerlitz’s pleasant memories of being with Adela and Marie retain their power because they can never be replicated or degraded. If his relationship with Marie had ended in a more protracted manner, the bitter taste would have overwhelmed his vision of her as a kind individual who despite her family name selflessly cares for him after he suffers a nervous breakdown, and leave him uninterested to search for her whereabouts in the end. All in all, having only two people in a scene projects a sense of vulnerability; if one of them leaves, both of them will be left alone, and it is through this fear that the beauty of togetherness can be achieved and not taken for granted.

Another point I would like to make is Austerlitz’s overall view on the world and what is happening around hm. People tend to impress their current state of mind on their surroundings,  so that if they are happy, the day seems to shine more brightly, and if they are sad, darkness seems to butt their senses. This holds through for Austerlitz in his view of other people. When he arrives in Prague, he senses that the people appear to be “ill and gray[,] as if they were all chronic smokers not far from death” (143), and when walking the streets, he observes their “pale, sad faces” (201), and in other scenes, the people around him are often as morose and desolate as he is. For example, he describes two characters as being “pale [women] of almost transparent appearance” (146); his own state of mind perhaps discoloring their faces more than an ordinary person might see.  He is likely compensating for his own alienation by imagining and keying in on others as being equally alone. His description of other people rarely seem to be endowed with optimism or curiosity, he does not ponder about their background or what else they do outside of their current activity; it is simply plain and factual. Also complementing that is Sebald’s utilization of weather. “Dark, oppressive” (219) days predominate in many scenes within Austerlitz’s story, so that we appreciate the beauty of the sun as it finally emerges such as when he enters Germany for the first term, the train suddenly moving faster as the dark butts of his repressed memories lift, and Austerlitz’s recollection of his childhood in Bala involves the noticeable use of a winter setting, engaging in a kind of pathetic fallacy where the snowy, desolate landscape mirrors the coldness of these memories and the slow, lingering loss of life that Gwendolyn succumbs to.

Finally, both the narrator and Austerlitz explore abandoned places, such as the fortress of Breendonk and Terezin. In these places, shadows and gloominess prevail, and Sebald notes that there are rarely any other people in sight. When he first takes the train from Prague, he cannot see any other vehicles or people in the countryside except for the stationmasters. Also, when the author and the narrator visit the Greenwich observatory, they do not “remember meeting anyone” (98). Maybe their wandering way of life slots in between the normal routines of most people, so that they manage to procure historical attractions for themselves only. And it seems that what Austerlitz explores are often just as lonely and alienated as he is, languishing in time and space and waiting for someone to finally uncover them and allow them to tell their story.

Posted in blogs, lb4-2016 | Tagged with Sebald

The Effect of Time on my Psyche

Our discussion on Thursday is what inspired this blog post. It’s kind of a personal, memoir type piece that I couldn’t get out of my head once it was in, because I have had a very personal experience pertaining to time and how it messed with me for a very long time (and still kind of continues to, but not to the level it used to). Writing about it felt weirdly relieving. It’s kind of long, be warned.

 

I wasn’t very young when my parents divorced. Ten years old, it was just old enough for my dad leaving to impact me profoundly, especially after a childhood of anxiety and constantly being terrified that the people in my life would leave me. One of my greatest fears came to life the night he decided he couldn’t live with us anymore.

Time became important to me, an essential part of my life.

After he moved out, somehow my brain started to think that it was only a matter of time before my mom left too. That couldn’t happen.

My dad moved to a house literally about a four minute drive from my house, which is not far by any means. I was happy for this, and I willingly visited him every Saturday with my brother for our court mandated visits. From 9am to 5pm, it was routine. I would wake up at 8, get ready and my mom would drop the two of us off just on time.

“See you guys at five!” My mom would tell us, give us a kiss and once she made sure we were safely inside, she would drive off.

The day itself would go by easily, filled with domestic activities or fun trips. The only catch in my mind was we had to be back home by 4:30 so that if mom was early we wouldn’t keep her waiting. If she wasn’t, which she never was, it would be okay because then I could spend the next half an hour eagerly awaiting her arrival, trying to ignore the doubts in my head.

What if she never comes back? 

Nonsense. You’re being ridiculous. She said she would be back at five, so she will be.

4:45

Only fifteen minutes left, I double checked my bag and made sure I had everything. I double checked my brother’s bag and made sure he had everything.

4:50

I start to imagine what we’re going to do for the night. Will mom take us to get some DVDs so we can have a movie night? Will she have groceries filled with snacks? Did she make our favorite vegetable soup for dinner? Did she go on any fun adventures today?

4:55

Five minutes left! My heart rate always picked up at this point, a mix of anxiety and excitement to see her face and go home. At this point I was fully ready to leave, standing on the landing just outside my dad’s second floor apartment, staring out at the street and waiting for her car to appear.

I know my dad was always behind me, watching me with concern as he knew the likelihood of her coming exactly at 5:00 like I expected was low, and preparing himself for the outcome.

5:00

Sure enough, she didn’t show up. The thoughts immediately intruded.

5:00:10

Oh god, where was she? Alright, it’s fine. You’re fine. She’s going to come.

5:00:30

Calm down.

5:00:55

Almost a minute, she’s still not here. Where is she? Why am I being like this, it’s not like she’s going to come right at-

5:01

At this point I was picking up the shitty $99TTD cell phone that my mom got me to use solely for calls to her. Dialing the extremely familiar number, waiting for her to pick up. The 50/50 chance of her either picking up or not had my heart pounding.

Most of the time she wouldn’t answer.

The logical, and usually accurate explanation for this would be because she was driving, or her phone was on silent. Sometimes she was just ignoring me, knowing my tendencies to freak out unnecessarily.

The weight of the time passing every minute past 5:00, had my chest hurting and my heart beating at speeds I was sure were unhealthy.

“A waiting pot never boils,” My dad told that to me once, and I had to ask him what he meant, “It means that when you wait for something to happen, it will feel as though it’s taking much longer.”

The explanation didn’t help me at all, but for some reason I always thought of it. Was I messing up cosmically by waiting for her? Were my incessant calls, voice mails and text messages pushing her away from me? Was the universe out to hurt me by making her show up late, or even not at all? Did the universe want to spite me by making me wait longer?

5:10

Where is she?!

At this point usually the tears would start as I paced the floor of my dad’s living room, waiting for her to call back. The worst scenarios ran through my head, awful images that I would see sometimes in my dreams. Car crashes. A plane flying away, with her in it. Any possible ‘wrong place wrong time’ scenario. My dad would tell me things, I would never really hear what he was saying in my frenzy. I wouldn’t let him try to hug me, I didn’t want to be consoled, I wanted my mom. She might be gone.

5:20

I’ve stopped moving, the only thing I’m capable of doing at this point is curling up on the floor with the phone in my hand trying to regulate my breathing after feeling like I was about to pass out.

My dad is still trying to help me, my brother just looks confused as he stands there, not understanding the potential implications of what her being twenty minutes late might mean.

5:22

My phone rings, I shoot up and frantically press the green button to answer.

“Mom?” I asked shakily. I hear her sigh on the other end.

“I’m outside, honey,” She tells me, and I instantly feel dumb for ever thinking she would leave. My reddened cheeks get slightly redder with the embarrassment, but it’s all overshadowed by the relief I feel knowing she’s right outside.

This happened for months, almost everywhere I went, effectively ruining my 6th grade social life and making it so that it was almost impossible for me to leave my mom’s side if she wasn’t back right when she said she would be. Time was all the mattered, because when she was away from me doing whatever she had to do, time seemed to be the only thing I could count on. I didn’t realize how dependent I was on it until therapy, and even after I’m still painfully aware of it most of the time.

Time affecting the psyche brought back a lot of memories, not particularly good ones, but I’m being honest when I say that writing this actually helped. And hey, now I can look back on that time knowing that I’m now in university, thousands of miles away from my mom in Egypt, and I’m pretty fine.

Interesting, how time was my worst enemy, best friend, and now after all this time, I’ve gotten much better.

Does that make sense?

Posted in blogs, lb1-2016 | Tagged with Uncategorized

Sebald – Time, Memory, and the Human Experience

SAUDADE
sau·da·de
souˈdädə/
noun
  • a feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia that is supposedly characteristic of the Portuguese or Brazilian temperament.
    The word ‘saudade’ came to mind when understanding Austerlitz. I guess it’s because it made me think of the past and how time back then and the memories which unfold give me this certain feeling.

There’s this text that appears at the end of a Wong Kar Wai film, In The Mood For Love (2000) that I’d like to share that talks about memory –

“He remembers those vanished years. As though looking through a dusty window pane, the past is something he could see, but not touch. And everything he sees is blurred and indistinct.”

I find that incredibly beautiful. I know for a fact I have a thing for melancholia and nostalgia. I find it somewhat romantic. To describe looking into the past as a ‘dusty window pane’ is unparalleled to any description I could ever make up. Anyway, let me talk about how what I’ve just said above ties in with Austerlitz.

To set the tone… Here’s one of my favourite passages from the book:

“It seems to me then as if all the moments of our life occupy the same space, as if future events already existed and were only waiting for us to find our way to them at last… And might it not be, continued Austerlitz, that we also have appointments to keep in the past, in what has gone before and is for the most part extinguished, and must go there in search of places and people who have some connection with us on the far side of time, so to speak?”

Sebald writes with this trance-like, fleeting yet deep quality which makes me hear the voice of Time yet Time for some reason does not like to overstay its visit and dissolves into a core place within ourselves that transforms into memory. Sebald captures the sentiment and makes the intangible as tangible as you could get when he explores the very journey of being lost and found again, falling apart only to be put back together… This book is covered with wandering beings, movement of trains, mist, fog, smoke, buildings, empty places, streets, forests, cemeteries, obscurity etc. It’s melancholic. We’re wandering. There’s sadness when you wander, just floating by. We’re near death in a way. The prose wanders like the narrator and it gives me the sense of this lost soul trying to find home. It even reminds me of the sadness I felt when Holden Caulfield (from The Catcher of The Rye) endlessly wanders trying to find Allie, feeling as if he could possibly vanish into thin air every time he turned a corner. The narrator’s voice floats and guides us to feel melancholia – it’s beautiful and tender, but there is also a deep undercurrent of sadness and loss.

What Sebald has written truly is a representation of the human experience. It made me feel a lot as I tend to gravitate towards the past. Sebald’s Austerlitz is actually giving me the same feeling I felt when I watched the 2004 film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.  I don’t think it’s a coincidence that both the book and film deal with the themes of memory, time, and the human experience.

Posted in blogs, lb4-2016 | Tagged with Sebald

Burying the past in Sebald’s Austerlitz

image of a railway station platform, with the rail lines converging to a point in the distance

Image from pixabay.com, licensed CC0

 

In Arts One this week we read W.G. Sebald’s novel Austerlitz, and I had to miss one of our seminar meetings due to a health concern so we just had one discussion on this rich and complicated text. I wanted to share some thoughts on a few things I focused on when reading it, that we didn’t get a chance to talk about in our one discussion today.

Light, sight, darkness

The novel begins with the unnamed narrator visiting the Nocturama in Antwerp, from which visit what he recalls the most is “that several of [the animals] had strikingly large eyes, and the fixed, inquiring gaze found in certain painters and philosophers who seek to penetrate the darkness which surrounds us purely by means of looking and thinking” (4-5).

In our lecture on this book, Jason Lieblang talked about how with this discussion of the Nocturama, as well as the discussion of moths (90-94), Sebald may be asking us to consider a different way of looking at the world: to look at things that are usually ignored, to look into what may often be left in the dark such as the minutiae of life (rather than the monumental, the massive). This connects to the criticism of large buildings in the novel, such as the new Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris: a “hideous, outsize building” that has “monumental dimensions” (276). Instead, “domestic buildings of less than normal size–the little cottage in the fields, the hermitage . . . — are those that offer us at least a semblance of peace” (18).

The eyes that penetrate the darkness are also those of Austerlitz, as he is penetrating the darkness of his own history. After one of his mental breakdowns he begins nocturnal wanderings of London (126), during which he was “always irresistibly drawn” to Liverpool Street Station (127)–the place where he arrived as a child on the kindertransport.

It is in Liverpool Street Station that he begins to finally see into his own past, and we get that through a visual image of the Ladies’ Waiting Room being a place that had been “disused for years” (134) and where the light only penetrated about halfway down into the room (135). Then Austerlitz says,

From time to time, and just for a split second, I saw huge halls open up, with rows of pillars and colonnades leading far into the distance, with vaults and brickwork arches bearing on them many-storied structures, with flights of stone teps, wooden stairways and ladders, leading the eye on and on. … I felt as if the room where I stood were expanding, going on for ever and ever …. (135)

This architectural image connects to his memory, as he says that memories came back to him in this room, “memories behind and within which many thing much further back in the past seemed to lie, all interlocking like the labyrinthine faults I saw in the dusty gray light …” (136).

The darkness for Austerlitz hides the past–his own past as well as the past of Europe, as discussed in lecture, since his story is not unique. At the end of the novel the narrator is reading a book given to him by Austerlitz, by a man named Jacobsen who was similarly searching for traces of his family’s past. He grew up in South Africa because his grandmother left Lithuania after her husband died and so that part of the family escaped the “annihilation” that others of his forebears suffered (297). Jacobsen peers into a disused mine in South Africa:

The chasm into which no ray of light could penetrate was Jacobsen’s image of the vanished past of his family and his people which, as he knows, can never be brought up from those depths again. (297)

As we discussed in class today, Austerlitz doesn’t end up with full answers about his family–he doesn’t know where his mother went after Theresienstadt, and our last glimpse of him is when he is going off to try to find his father–and neither does Jacobsen. At least, so far as we know; the narrator says he reads “until the fifteenth chapter” of the book (298), but perhaps there is more, and more will be revealed. But the point is that we don’t get any more about either Austerlitz or Jacobsen in this novel; their stories are left unfinished.

Or rather, they are left for the reader to finish. Austerlitz states that he felt at times “as if all the moments of our life occupy the same space, as if future events already existed and were only waiting for us to find our way to them at last” (258), but if that’s the case then the future is left up to readers to determine.

But I am digressing … back to light, sight and darkness.

One other thing that is important in this set of topics is the narrator’s brush with losing his sight (starting p. 35). It is after he visits an eye doctor that he meets Austerlitz for the first time in nearly 20 years (39), and it is at this point that Austerlitz starts to tell the narrator his history as he has come to understand it. I don’t fully have a reading on this, but it surely is significant that it is when the narrator is losing his own sight that Austerlitz tells of what he himself has begun to see of his history. And as Miguel Mota said in our lecture this week, the narrator is equally as important a character as Austerlitz, and it may be that Austerlitz gives his photos to the narrator because he sees in the narrator someone like himself. The narrator, too, finds memories bubbling up in a dark place, in Breendonk, in a casemate (25).

 

Burying the past

I also found, related to the above, several images of things being buried and yet somehow returning to light. I can’t help but think of Freud and repression when we’re talking about burying the past, burying memories.

The clearest example of this is that, under the Bibliothèque Nationale was a warehouse that stored household goods stolen from Jews by the Nazis: “Les Galéries d’Austerlitz,” where military officers and their wives would go to pick out things for their own homes (289). This “whole affair is buried in the most literal sense beneath the foundations of our pharaonic President’s Grande Biblitohèque” (289). As noted in lecture, a place that is meant to house vast quantities of human knowledge is literally burying a past many people don’t want to remember.

This huge edifice of the library reminds me of the fortresses that are discussed in several places in the novel, attempts to defend ourselves against unwanted intrusions that nevertheless continually fail (14-18). Austerlitz’s own attempts at “self-censorship” fail (140), and after his memories begin to resurface in Liverpool Street Station he dreams he is in the middle of a fortress trying to find his way out (138-139). The fortress can also be a defense against what might come up from below, and burying the past with a monumental edifice like the library may also be a similar unconscious attempt at defense and censorship.

Other images of burial and reemergence of what has been buried include that the Liverpool Street Station is built on the site of the Bedlam mental hospital (129-130), and Austerlitz wonders whether “the pain and suffering accumulated on this site over the centuries had ever really ebbed away” (130). Nearby, the remains of the dead who had been buried one on top of the other in graves “dug through existing graves” because there were simply too many bodies to accommodate, are “brought to light” during renovations of Broad Street Station (130).

In addition, there is the village in Wales that was entirely buried under water when a dam was built, the village of Austerlitz’s foster father (51). Austerlitz imagines the inhabitants of the village still living there, underwater, and at times he “often felt as if [he] too had been submerged in that dark water” (52-53), which one could say he is insofar as a part of himself is also buried when he is shipped off to Wales. Austerlitz even thinks perhaps he sees the ghosts of those who lived in the village, those he saw in the photographs of residents (53-54). It’s not hard to imagine the ghosts being those of his own past.

 

There is much more that could be said about all of these issues, I’m sure, but these are the things that stood out to me, and hopefully some of this can spark new ideas in others!

 

Posted in blogs, lb4-2016 | Tagged with Sebald

History in Sebald’s Austerlitz

My question: How is the theme of the subjectivity of history reflected in the book

I wonder if there is a link between the way Austerlitz handle information about his past and the ending of the book. History is a huge theme in this book and I wondered if the ending was an indication of an underlying message, which I infer to be the subjectivity of history. First, I would like to say that my question is not concerned about addressing the ‘suspense’ at the end of the book. Because, if we are talking about the suspense and what the purpose of the suspense is alone, without contextualizing it, the possibilities are endless. Rather, I think it would be more interesting to form a correlation between the suspense and the way Austerlitz handles information obtained about his past. By the end of the book the theme of history and how history is subjective really stood out to me. The narrator and Austerlitz’s teacher were the two responsible for constantly reinforcing it. The narrator mentions that there is no way to retell history at its truest. Hilary gives us a sense of the limitations of our historical knowledge. He tells us that there is little to no way we can fully understand history in a holistic manner because one, there could be missing pieces to the puzzle, or two, we judge historical events based on preconceived notions. History is not something that can be memorized and retold, unlike say the bible, where we can memorize its verses now and recite, word for word, exact to the original verses, in the future. Historical information retold today, are simply ‘renditions’ of what they truly are because nothing can account for it in its entirety. With this context in mind, the ‘suspense’ at the end could be an indication that Austerlitz will continue his journey on an endless search for historical truth. This is how I think the theme of historical knowledge is linked with the ending.

Posted in blogs, lb4-2016 | Tagged with Sebald

A Brief History of History

The most difficult question any historian has to face when preparing to delve into a new topic or event is invariably: where should I start? Let’s say we want to examine the American Revolution, where do we begin? We could start with the Boston Tea Party, which really kicked off the tensions that would eventually lead to war, but riots don’t come out of nowhere do they? We could start at the arrival of Columbus to be safe but then wouldn’t we be obligated to talk about the European political climate that so badly wanted overseas exploration in the first place? Surely we would because it was this system that the Founding Fathers so badly wanted to get away from. Actually much of their ideas on government were inspired by Ancient Rome and….  

I think you get the point.

 

This illustrates the main problem of historical record. History books are, inevitably, a list of stuff that happened and perhaps a little speculation as to why. Whereas everybody with a brain knows that the past is so much more than that.

 

This failure of history is something that both Austerlitz and Riding the Trail of Tears address in some way. Of the two, Hausman takes a more cynical view of history. To him history is a big joke, a sham, a plaything. History a bit too violent for you? No problem, we’ll tone it down. Want bigger genitals? Sure why not? Christopher Columbus was a hero? Hey, whatever makes you happy. That is of course not to say he’s a complete pessimist. In the end the Misfits overcome their history, their programming and even their little Nunneheh spirits find their way into reality. History is like Pandora’s box. Once the Misfits’ reality is acknowledged, it cannot be kept only in a historical device, it must permeate into the world. Either you live in the blissful delusion that Christopher Columbus was a great guy and that Natives were an obstacle to progress, and you live a happy little life. Or you realize the truth: Columbus was a sadistic slave trader and the Natives got slaughtered for no good reason, in which case try not to cringe the next time you hear the words “unceded Musqueam territory.”

 

Sebald, I think, looks at history with a bit more reverence. Austerlitz is incomplete without his past, but as he comes closer to it it hurts him. In fact, unlike Hausman, Sebald does not see history as something you do or do not have (that may be an oversimplification but this is just a blog post). Austerlitz learns much, but he does not fully connect with his past, which means he cannot fully come to grips with his future. And he knows he will never fully reconcile his history because it is not possible. Like the photos in the book, his fixation on architecture symbolizes an attempt to find something concrete, solid, objective that he can cling to. But in the midst of it all lies a sea of uncertainty.
This is the kind of thing that rolls around in my head, as my seventy year-old boss and I try to discuss history. He tells me we should look forward, not backward. He says that “the past is ancient history”. Pfft, “the past is history”, what a fatuous thing to say!

Posted in blogs, lb4-2016 | Tagged with Hausman, Sebald

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