Book Review: Kurt Vonnegut's "Cat's Cradle", "God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater", and "Breakfast of Champions"

Happy Halloween, dear readers! It's been a very busy, very exciting month for me, so I apologize for not updating lately. However, I do have stuff to share with you, so dig in! First is my review of a Kurt Vonnegut volume I wrote for HonorSociety.org. It's one of the longest reviews I've ever done (even longer than the Zora Neale Hurston review I did), but please bear with me and check it out! You can access the original article here, or read it in it's entirety below.

           Book Review: Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle, God Bless You Mr. Rosewater, and Breakfast of Champions

In the wake of, among other things, several mass shootings that have paralyzed the nation, one could reasonably argue that there is little to laugh about in the current political and social climate. Yes, comedy is supposed to push boundaries, but surely you have to draw a line somewhere, right? To do otherwise would not only trivialize these horrific events, but the memories of their victims of as well, the argument concludes. However, as with every argument, there is a counter-argument to be made: rather than simply trivialize tragedy, satire and comedy draw attention to and underline the elements that make a given development or phenomenon tragic. And while the first thing that might come to mind when one thinks of such humor is an Internet troll making racist or sexist remarks in the comment section or a 10 year-old repeating dead baby jokes they read on the Internet to friends on the playground, dark comedy has played a prominent, perhaps even integral role in our arts and culture for centuries. Indeed, one of America's most celebrated writers of the 20th century, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., made this style of humor his stock and trade. A veteran of the Second World War who was captured by the Germans and subsequently witnessed the fire bombing of Dresden, Vonnegut saw his fair share of horror. But instead of being broken by these horrors, he was inspired by them, writing dozens of novels and short stories over the course of his prolific career. His most well-known work (as well as the one widely regarded as his magnum opus) is the slim-yet-sublime Slaughterhouse-Five, but the three collected in this volume, Cat's Cradle, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, and Breakfast of Champions, are also worthy entries in his impressive canon. A writer of great contrasts, each of these novels bear the simple, straightforward yet still deeply profound manner Vonnegut wrote in, the pitch-black sense of humor he reveled in, and the hopeful, humanist outlook he believed in.

The first selection, Cat's Cradle, would be a real downer if it weren't so hilarious. In fact, it starts off with John, the protagonist, telling the reader that the following chaos started when he set out to write a book called "The Day The World Ended" (Vonnegut, pg. 11) about the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and what Americans were doing that day. Not what one would exactly call a rich spring of mirth, but astonishingly, Vonnegut is able to use one of only two incidences where nuclear weapons were offensively deployed (against civilians, no less) as a springboard for this chuckle-inducing satire. Making frequent quotation and reference throughout to a cryptic religious figure called Bokonon (who offers such droll tidbits of wisdom as "She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he sees what God is Doing," [Vonnegut, pg. 13]), John explains how his research for his book set him on the trail of one Dr. Felix Hoenikker, the "Father of The Atom Bomb" and thus a prime target for inclusion in John's book. Described by colleagues of his as inscrutable and indifferent to the point of callousness, Hoenikker is revealed to have not only passed on, but to have limited his interaction with his children to fashioning the titular cat's cradle out of string, developed a dangerous chemical substance called ice-nine that freezes water solid, and when told by a fellow scientist after testing their first prototype atomic bomb that "Science has now known sin," (Vonnegut, pg. 19), earnestly replied "What is sin?" (Vonnegut, pg. 19). Taken aback by the literally devastating ramifications of ice-nine, John resolves to track down Hoenikker's estranged children in the hope that they can tell him more about the substance, learning that one of them, the hopelessly technical Franklin, has by virtue of his surname become Minister of Science for the Caribbean island of San Lorenzo. Soon enough, "[a]s it was supposed to happen [as] Bokonon would say" Vonnegut, pg. 53), John finds himself assigned a story about San Lorenzo-based humanitarian Julian Castle and on a plane to the curious nation, where, depending on how you look at it, fate awaits (as Bokonon would have it), or nothing awaits (as Bokonon would also have it).

On San Lorenzo, John meets a litany of larger-than-life characters: "Papa" Monzano, the island's aging dictator who is waging a brutal crackdown on Bokononist activity, Mona Monzano, "Papa's" stunning adopted daughter who plays a xylophone at a welcoming ceremony for the American ambassador and flirts with men by rubbing the bottoms of their feet with hers, and Newt Hoenikker, Frank's midget brother who spends his time painting abstract art, of which John remarks, "The scratches formed a sort of spider's web, and I wondered if they might not be the sticky nets of human futility hung up on a moonless night to dry," (Vonnegut, pg. 93). None, however, are bigger than the civilian residents of San Lorenzo, who speak in a dialect of English so completely removed from any such existing dialect as to be utterly laughable. When asked by one of John's fellow Americans who Bokonon is, the cab driver ferrying them around says he is a "Vorry ball moan," (Vonnegut, pg. 85) and that anybody who tries to help him will get the "hy-u-o-ook-kuh" (Vonnegut, pg. 85). Or as we might say in American English, Bokonon is a very bad man, and anybody who helps him will get the hook, shorthand for the San Lorenzan execution tool of choice. In spite of this horrific treatment of his followers and potentially himself, Bokonon takes it all in stride, musing in a poem that John reads, "'Papa' Monzano, he's so very bad,/But without bad 'Papa' I would be so sad,/Because without 'Papa's' badness,/ Tell me, if you would,/How could wicked old Bokonon/Ever, ever look good?" (Vonnegut, pg. 62).

While all of this is going on, John continues his search for the late Dr. Hoenikker's ice-nine, learning that his children split what remained of it amongst themselves and attempting to figure out what should be done to neutralize the threat it poses. As it turns out, "Papa" had Frank's share of ice-nine, and uses it to commit suicide, prompting a changing of the guard in which John marries Mona (much to his joy) so that he may take over as President of San Lorenzo in place of Frank, who feels he can't handle the pressure of the job. Just as things seem to taking a turn for the better, a terrible accident destroys "Papa's" palace and plunges his frozen body into the sea, turning the whole ocean solid and irreversibly changing the planet's climate. Millions die in the ensuing cataclysm, among them many of the characters in the story, with John and Mona only surviving by hiding in one of the now-destroyed palace's undergound dungeons. Upon emerging, however, Mona is shocked to the point of hysterics by the site of an apparent mass suicide of San Lorenzans, and resolves to join them. "...still laughing a little, she touched her finger to the ground, straightened up, and touched the finger to her lips and died," John matter-of-factly tells us (Vonnegut, pg. 150). Wandering through the frozen wilderness, the grief-stricken John meets the mythical Bokonon, who miraculously survived as well. Sitting on the forever-frozen earth with pencil and paper in hand, the ever-adaptable Bokonon reveals that he is at last ready to complete The Books of Bokonon, which end with him climbing San Lorenzo's highest mountain and "tak[ing] from the ground some of the blue-white poison that makes statues of men; and I would make a statue of myself, lying on my back, grinning horribly, and thumbing my nose at You Know Who" (Vonnegut, pg. 157). After this grim conclusion, readers won't be able to help but wonder if all this (this as in life, the universe, and everything) is part of some plan privy only to a higher power or intelligence with too much time on their hands, or if, as Newt says when remembering all the times his father would make X's with string and tell him there was a cat's cradle somewhere in the mess betwixt his hands, there's "No damn cat, and no damn cradle," (Vonnegut, pg. 94). 

For those put off by the bleak nihilism of Cat's Cradle, the next novel in this collection, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, presents a more optimistic side of Vonnegut's philosophy, even as it operates in the same satirical vein as the previous entry. It concerns the multi-million dollar fortune of the illustrious Rosewater family, which is protected from government expropriation through a charitable foundation meant to safeguard it and fated to pass into the hands of Eliot Rosewater. A war hero, Harvard graduate and volunteer firefighter, it appears that Eliot would be a responsible steward of his family's vast fortune. But as the reader learns however, others are not so keen on the thought of Eliot inheriting his family's vast fortune, and are determined to prove him not fit to handle such a responsibility. Norman Mushari, a young, conniving lawyer eager to nab a piece of the Rosewater pie, sets out to prove that Eliot is insane and thus incapable of running the Rosewater Foundation. How does he reach such a conclusion? By reading confidential documents of Eliot's that contain lines such as this: "Be generous. Be kind. You can safely ignore the arts and sciences. They never helped anybody. Be a sincere, attentive friend of the poor," (Vonnegut, pg. 170). Crazy? More like Christ-like to this writer. But when you consider how they treated the actual Christ, it's no surprise that the Mr. Rosewater's altruistic tendencies would be pathologized by those around him. Even his wife, Slyvia, is baffled by Eliot's eccentricities, as seen when she tells him she is going to burn some overalls, fields jackets, and other working-class clothes he traded most of his high-end wardrobe for and he bluntly replies, "Burn my tails, my dinner jacket, and my gray flannel suit instead," (Vonnegut, pg. 177). He couldn't care less about the luxurious garments, the great wealth, the very life of privilege he was born into. All he cares about is helping those less fortunate than him. So great is this desire that Eliot abruptly leaves Sylvia and his responsibilities behind and heads out to Rosewater County, Indiana, built and envisioned by previous generations of Rosewaters as a great port of commerce and left to fend for itself when this vision failed to materialize. Endeavoring to care for the predominantly blue-collar residents of Rosewater County abandoned by his ancestors and become "an artist" (Vonnegut, pg. 186), Eliot explains to Sylvia over phone, "I'm going to love these discarded Americans, even though they're useless and unattractive. That is going to be my work of art," (Vonnegut, pg. 186). A tad messianic on his part, yes, but I didn't compare him to Jesus for nothing!

Naturally, Eliot's mission to become a good Samaritan is not smoothly received by his loved ones, least of all Sylvia. Having put up with Eliot's charitable inclinations since they first married, Sylvia finds herself succumbing to a nervous breakdown (the second since her marriage to Eliot) when he runs away, only to recover and find her frustration over Eliot's humanitarianism giving way to self-loathing about not being able to live up to the radical example set by him. Nor is Eliot's father, powerful conservative Senator Lister Ames Rosewater, pleased about his decision to leave the family, their foundation, and most importantly, their fortune behind and walk amongst the dregs of society, causing him no end of irritation when he tries to convince Sylvia to get ahold of Eliot and initiate sex with him on the chance that she will get pregnant and father a son who, in light of Eliot's madness, will become the rightful heir to the Rosewater fortune and she flatly refuses, saying that despite how much it hurts her, she ultimately accepts his choice. When the Senator becomes incredulous that she could agree with Eliot's decision to seek "the sniveling camaraderie of whores, malingerers, pimps, and thieves," (Vonnegut, pg. 198), the heartbroken Sylvia lets him in on a secret: "The secret is that they're human," (Vonnegut, pg. 199). Meanwhile, the wily Mushari plots to have a cousin of Eliot's, twice removed and barely making ends meet as an insurance agent in a small Rhode Island town, designated as the fortune's trustee so that he might have a chance to keep some of the loot for himself in the inevitable legal confusion. As for Eliot, he occupies himself with running a Rosewater County branch of the Rosewater Foundation (staffed exclusively by himself) from which he day and night manned two phone hotlines, one for fire department alerts and one for Rosewater Foundation business (that is, if you call letting bums and whores pour their hearts out to you "business"). Things come to a head when Senator Rosewater, his hand forced by Mushari's efforts to prove Eliot's insanity, comes calling for his son so that he can defend himself before his peers and is mortified by the ascetic lifestyle Eliot has arrogated to himself, claiming that only a "nut" (Vonnegut, pg. 272) could live like that. "What if the nut came out and gave sensible explanations for his place being the way it is?" Eliot innocently asks (Vonnegut, pg. 273). "He would still be a nut," the Senator retorts (Vonnegut, pg. 273).

The strain of looking after the people of Rosewater County and handling his family's efforts to extricate him from said people proves to be too much for him, and sure enough, the metaphorical prophecy fulfills itself and Eliot actually undergoes a nervous breakdown, from which he is snapped back to reality only by the intervention of Kilgore Trout, an obscure science fiction author (as well as Vonnegut's recurring, perpetually unfortunate spirit animal) who was summoned by Senator Rosewater to the facility Eliot was staying at on account of the Senator remembering Eliot's passionate appreciation of his work. After being told that Trout explained to everyone else involved that, far from being the acts of a lunatic, Eliot's stint in Rosewater County "was quite possibly the most important social experiment of our time," (Vonnegut, pg. 294), Eliot learns that a plan by Mushari to tarnish his reputation backfired when one of the prostitutes Eliot comforted in Rosewater County claimed he fathered twins by her, sparking a series of similar allegations to arise across the county. With the sheer volume of women claiming to be pregnant by Eliot, Mushari's original claim is effectively discredited and the family fortune is once again safe. Having regained control of his faculties as well as his fortune, Eliot delivers one last, unwelcome surprise to his father: he is adopting all of the children in Rosewater County, making them the new inheritors of the fortune shielded by the Rosewater Foundation. Not content to share the family's wealth with his newly-adopted sons and daughters, he instructs the Foundation's legal counsel "And tell them... to be fruitful and multiply," (Vonnegut, pg. 300). Considering that one might look at God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater as a 20th century variation of the Christ story, it's only fitting that it concludes with a quotation of scripture. Not bad for a book by an avowed atheist like Vonnegut.

The final entry in this volume, Breakfast of Champions, is easily the most experimental of the bunch, and thus the most open to interpretation. It ostensibly revolves around the karass (to borrow a word from Cat's Cradle's Bokonon, meaning two or more people linked by fate) of Kilgore Trout, promoted from a cameo appearance in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater to the admittedly protagonist of his own novel, and Dwayne Hoover, a well-off automobile salesman on the brink of losing it. What pushes Dwayne to finally lose it? A combination of his body "manufacturing certain chemicals which unbalanced his mind," (Vonnegut, pg. 322) and an invidious idea put into his head by one of Trout's absurd novels: that "Everybody else was a fully automatic machine, whose purpose was to stimulate Dwayne. Dwayne was a new type of creature being tested by the Creator of the Universe. Only Dwayne Hoover had free will," (Vonnegut, pg. 323). Trout, as down on his luck and starved for recognition as ever, is not entirely responsible for this unfortunate development however. In fact, he isn't even aware of Dwayne's existence until he is invited to be the guest speaker at an arts festival in Dwayne's hometown of Midland City. It is here that Trout meets Dwayne, who at this point is drunk, desperate, and begging for "The message, please" (Vonnegut, pg. 496), leading him to seize Trout's copy of the book containing his dangerous idea. Having read that "You are surrounded by loving machines, hating machines, greedy machines, unselfish machines, brave machines, cowardly machines, truthful machines, lying machines, funny machines, solemn machines... Their only purpose is to stir you up in every conceivable way, so the Creator of the Universe can watch your reactions," (Vonnegut, pg. 498), Dwayne promptly goes on a rampage, sending eleven people to the hospital, including visiting Gothic novelist Beatrice Keedsler, earnest cocktail waitress Bonnie MacMahon and his gay son Bunny before being apprehended. Strapped down in an ambulance, Dwayne doesn't "notice the restraints. He thought he was on the virgin planet promised by the book by Kilgore Trout... The book had told him that he went swimming in cold water on the virgin planet, that he always yelled something surprising when he climbed out of the icy pool. It was a game," (Vonnegut, pg. 511).

Of course, Vonnegut doesn't let the plot resolve (and I use the term loosely) as smoothly as I make it sound. Much of the book digresses from the action involving Dwayne and Trout to explain familiar objects, symbols, and various other things to the reader as if they were an alien phenomenon. Accompanying Vonnegut's plain-English descriptions are hand drawn illustrations, rendered in a child-like but truthful manner by the author's own hand. These explanatory episodes usually serve to point out failings or shortcomings of humanity in general and the United States in particular as Vonnegut saw them, an example being a detailed drawing of an electric chair followed by this line of text: "The purpose of it was to kill people by jazzing them with more electricity than their bodies could stand. Dwayne Hoover had seen it twice-once during a tour of the prison by members of the Chamber of Commerce years ago, and then again when it was actually used on a black human being he knew," (Vonnegut, pg. 428). The honest, direct language forces the reader to shed their prejudices about whatever is being described and reevaluate their opinions towards it while the pictures make us wonder what our children would make of such things. Vonnegut's commentary is not just limited to a passive role as narrator. Towards the end of the book, he directly addresses the reader, bemoaning the way Americans live as though they were characters in story books. "Once I understood what was making America such a dangerous, unhappy nation of people who had nothing to do with real life, I resolved to shun storytelling. I would write about life. Every person would be exactly as important as any other. All facts would also be given equal weightiness. Nothing would be left out. Let others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order, instead, which I think I have done," he declares (Vonnegut, pg. 466). From this point on, he is directly involved in the story, sitting in the same cocktail lounge as his characters and observing their actions as he writes them. When Dwayne is taken away, Vonnegut pursues Trout, revealing that he, unlike the people he so derided, actually is a character in a book and that he is his Creator, the Creator of his Universe so to speak. Overwhelmed by this revelation, Trout breaks down and collapses on his knees, only for Vonnegut to add some heartening news. "I am approaching my fiftieth birthday, Mr. Trout... I am cleansing and renewing myself for the very different sorts of years to come," he explains. "I am going to set at liberty all the literary characters who have served me so loyally during my writing career... Arise, Mr. Trout, you are free, you are free," and with that, Kilgore Trout fades away from the hard, unrewarding life Vonnegut consigned him to (Vonnegut, pg. 526). As his avatar disappears, Vonnegut catches what are both Trout's and the novel's last words: "Make me young, make me young, make me young!" (Vonnegut, pg. 526), followed by a large, hand-drawn "etc." and ending with an illustrated side profile of a teary-eyed Vonnegut. This postmodern ending perfectly demonstrates the ambiguous tone of Breakfast of Champions; should we rejoice that Vonnegut has developed spiritually and artistically as he set out to do by freeing his long-suffering literary avatar, or should we mourn as Vonnegut does that he has let a significant part of himself go? It's a value judgment that discerning readers will have to make for themselves.

Although each of the aforementioned novels offers seemingly different takes on mankind and existence, they are all united by a common theme: adaptation. This is most evident when Vonnegut exclaims to the reader in Breakfast of Champions, "It is hard to adapt to chaos, but it can be done. I am living proof of that: it can be done," (Vonnegut, pg. 467). For every disaster caused by man's folly and triggered by his increasingly terrible weapons, there is a Bokonon to climb to the highest peak and thumb his nose at the architect of such apocalyptic affairs. For every lawyer scheming to acquire what isn't his and every senator who can't see beyond his own fortunes and misfortunes, there is an Eliot Rosewater to step up to the plate and look after the people that no one else will. And for every Dresden, every wanton destruction of innocent lives, there is a Vonnegut, to remind us that we can and indeed we must change. This message is so urgent and yet so simple that Vonnegut is able to convey it in almost-excessively accessible prose without diluting it's importance whatsoever. Even when Vonnegut makes jokes at the expense of his characters or treats crimes and catastrophes as premises to mine for laughter rather than calamities to decry in solemn tones, it is because of the weight of the situations in question that there is humor, not in spite of it. If, in these trying times, you don't know whether you want to laugh, cry, or something in between, read Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, and Breakfast of Champions. I challenge you to come away from reading all three saying anything other than "God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut."

Book Review: Zora Neale Hurston's "Jonah's Gourd Vine", "Mules and Men", and "Their Eyes Were Watching God"

Hello dear readers, sorry for the extended absence, but my latest is finally ready, and boy, is it quite a read (in reference to the length rather than quality, although I must say I am very pleased with how it turned out!) I took it upon myself to read the volume of Zora Neale Hurston's books displayed above and decided "Hey, why not review ALL of them for HonorSociety.org?" The result is probably the longest article I have written yet, but I like to think it is the best one I have written yet as well! Her books are a real treat to read, so much so that I am already scheming to get my hands on the rest of her works, and strongly encourage you all to check them out for yourselves. The original article can be accessed here, and it is reproduced in it's entirety below.

      Book Review: Zora Neale Hurston's Jonah's Gourd Vine, Mules and Men, and Their Eyes Were Watching God

Although many Americans might remember having to read Their Eyes Were Watching God in high school, a good number of them would probably be shocked to learn that the book, along with the author, Zora Neale Hurston's other offerings, once seemed to be consigned to the grim fate that had befallen their creator up to and after her untimely death: obscurity. Pilloried during her lifetime by such notable African-American (and yes, often male) contemporaries as Richard Wright and Langston Hughes for being insufficiently revolutionary, Hurston's work was forgotten by both black and white Americans for years until Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple, took it upon herself to reevaluate Hurston's work and present it to new audiences. It was this reassessment of Hurston's oeuvre that led to her being granted (quite rightly, I might add) a seat in the annals of esteemed American literature. Although the texts remain the same as they were when Hurston first wrote and published them, the criticism of Hughes, Wright, and other fellow travelers of the Harlem Renaissance that they were quaint at best and frivolous at worst has long since faded away, as the individualistic perspective and rebellious subtext underlying all of them, "a hidden meaning... de inside meanin' of words" (Henry Louis Gates Jr., 191) as one of the characters she purports to have encountered in Mules and Men says, is now recognized by sophisticated scholars and recreational readers. Indeed, curious readers have a chance to see for themselves this "hidden... inside meanin" (Gates Jr,. 191) in a worthy volume put out by Quality Paperback Books that collects two of Hurston's novels and one of her nonfiction outings, as well as introductions and afterwords by academics like Rita Dove and Henry Louis Gates, Jr. On their own, Jonah's Gourd Vine, Mules and Men, and Their Eyes Were Watching God are all engaging, enjoyable reads, but when read in sequence, they give the reader a vivid look at Hurston's tremendous ability to weave stories that not only tickle and touch, but also tell us about ourselves.

The first selection in this volume, Jonah's Gourd Vine, also has the distinction of being Hurston's first novel. In spite of it's early place in her career as a writer, the novel possesses many of the characteristics and addresses many of the themes that would come to define Hurston's manner of writing. The most obvious of these characteristics is the rendering of black characters dialog in a written approximation of the vernacular spoken by many African-Americans in the South at the time (the time being the 1930's). The first spoken line in Jonah's Gourd Vine is said by the main character's mother, Amy Crittenden, as a storm approaches her family's home: "Ole Massa gwinter scrub floors tuhday," (Hurston, pg. 1). The unfiltered authenticity of Amy's speech contrasts sharply with the whimsically-figurative nature of the novel's first line: "God was grumbling his thunder and playing the zig zag lightning thru his fingers," (Hurston, pg.1). It's a very sharp contrast indeed, albeit one wholly typical of the stylistic gulf between the dialog and narration in Hurston's other work. But this should not be taken to mean it is a bad one, for Hurston consistently demonstrates throughout her books in general and Jonah's Gourd Vine in particular that what some readers might write off as uneducated chatter can convey as much weight and meaning as witty metaphors and refined references. Of course, the title of the book itself is one such reference, with the protagonist, young John Crittenden, filling in for the famed Jonah of biblical lore. After getting into a heated argument with his step-father that ends in violence, John is kicked out of his home and forced to leave the rest of his family behind. Making the most of this sad situation, John resolves to cross "Over de Big Creek," (Hurston, 10) near his home, as he always hoped to go over it someday. Over the creek, he finds gainful employment under the tough-but-fair Alf Pearson (often referred to simply as "Mister Alf") and attends school, where he meets Lucy, who is equally-part the titular gourd vine as she is the love of John's life.

For a while, things seem to be looking up for John and Lucy, as he is making good money and eventually becomes a preacher known for his powerful sermons. Unfortunately, John finds himself beset from without by enemies in the church hierarchy who would like nothing more than for him to lose his position and prestige and beset from within by his incessant temptation for female companionship outside of his marriage, straining but never quite destroying his relationship with Lucy. This uneasy state of affairs lasts until fate intervenes and, like when God sent the worm to take the vine away from Jonah, sends illness to take Lucy away from John, leaving him distraught and vulnerable to his weaknesses and thus his enemies. He subsequently finds himself married to the devious Hattie, who uses hoodoo (or voodoo, as it is more commonly referred to as) to enchant him into marrying her, before finally settling down with a woman who attends one of his sermons, Sally Lovelace, in hope that he will be able to move on from his previous marriage to Lucy at last. But just when things start to look up for the two, John succumbs to his base instincts again and sees a prostitute, berating himself for betraying Sally as he drives home only to be killed when a train hits his car as he crosses a railroad track. All in all, it is a tragic tale of a man trying to make his way in the world even as he fights with his inner demons, of a man who, as Mister Alf says before helping John escape the law, “God Himself was looking off when [he] went and got [himself] born,” (Hurston, pg. 99), and of a man who, as the preacher says as he is being laid to rest, “wuz uh man, and nobody knowed ‘im but God,” (Hurston, pg. 202).

The second entry, Mules and Men, is an account of Hurston's travels through the American South in search of what the people she speaks with call "lies" (Hurston, pg. 13): that is, African-American folktales and stories, usually of a fantastic or comic nature. As a black Southerner herself, Hurston was no stranger to such tales. Indeed, she proudly reveals that, "From the earliest rocking of my cradle, I had known about capers Brer Rabbit is apt to cut and what the Squinch Owl says from the house top," (Hurston, pg. 1). Although many readers might not share the history Hurston had with these stories, they are able to not only enjoy them for themselves, they are also able to view them through the anthropological lens that Hurston utilized when she revisited these "lies" she heard in her youth. Within are countless tales of the mythic slave John (or Jack, as he is named in some stories), who somehow always managed to find a way to outsmart Ole Massa, whether it be tricking him into killing his horse and parading around town yelling "Hawse hide for sale! Hawse hide for sale!" (Hurston, pg. 43) or making him think his prayers asking God to strike him dead will work by asking a friend to light matches in the tree that Massa plans to lynch him on. Then there are stories like the one of the white man and the black man trying to get a big bundle that God left in the middle of the road first and one in which Jesus builds his church upon a large rock he made after gluing together the different stones he asked the 12 disciples to bring him that attempt, in their own humorous way, to account for social differences between racial and ethnic groups. Of course, some are simply humorous, such as the story of the young girl who goes to school and returns home educated to the pride of her father only for his pride to turn into outrage when he discovers that she can spell everything but a clucking sound local to their area, indignantly exclaiming "Ah could spell dat myself and Ah ain't been to school a day in mah life," (Hurston, pg. 41).

Hurston's search for stories like these took her from her native Eatonville, a Florida community whose self-sufficiency and racial homogeneity nurtured her rugged individualism and unapologetic appreciation of black culture, to the French Quarter of New Orleans, said to have been the home and final resting place of hoodoo high priestess Marie Leveau. Whether this is a historical fact or just superstition is left for readers to speculate, but people like Turner (no first name given) fervently believe, relating the life and fate of Leveau to Hurston before taking her under his tutelage and giving her an introduction to hoodoo. This culminates in Hurston undergoing one of the hoodoo practitioners' rituals, lying naked on an altar without food for, according to her estimate, no less than sixty-nine hours before rising, being clothed in garments made in snake skin, and finally witnessing the brutal killing of several chickens. Slightly less unsettling are accounts of a woman who once killed the chicken of a neighbor said to practice hoodoo when it entered her garden only to later fall seriously ill, mysteriously dying in spite of the best efforts of her doctor and Hurston's encounter with one Anatol Pierre, who claimed that with nothing more than black candles, a coffin, a small doll, a black cat and chicken he could kill a man without ever touching him. Readers should rest easy though, for Hurston makes it out safely in the end, concluding her study of black folklore and hoodoo with an allusion to one of the stories she came across: "I'm sitting here like Sis Cat, washing my face and usin' my manners," (Hurston, pg. 246). Through the laughs and the shudders, readers too can rest assured that they will leave Mules and Men with the same sense of satisfaction and gratitude.

The last work included in this volume, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is undoubtedly Hurston's most famous work and features thematic and structural similarities to Jonah's Gourd Vine, although it departs from that novel in one very important way: the protagonist, Janie Crawford, is female, giving readers an opportunity to view some of the themes and situations addressed in Jonah's Gourd Vine through the eyes of a woman. Indeed, from the beginning of the novel, Hurston informs readers of what she believes to be the difference between men and women. While men spend their lives waiting for their hopes and dreams, their "Ships at a distance" (Hurston, pg. 1), to be realized, "women forget all those things they don't want to remember, and remember everything they don't want to forget. The dream is the truth. Then they act and do things accordingly," (Hurston, pg. 1). This is the central difference between Janie and John, the difference between Their Eyes Were Watching God and Jonah's Gourd Vine. While John was destroyed both mentally and physically by his endless striving after unattainable goals, Janie tries to make the most of what life throws her way, adapting when necessary to survive, and fighting when necessary to live. It is this wisdom that an older Janie seeks to impart on Phoeby, a curious young girl whom she relays her story to. An orphan, Janie was raised by her grandmother alongside the white children she served as a nanny too, leading her to conclude that she too was white until she started school, much to the amusement of her classmates and teacher. But it wasn't until Janie was older that her troubles started, for that was when, despite her own reservations, she agrees to marry Logan Killicks, a favorite of her grandmother's, on account that he will provide a good life for her and thus she will eventually come to love him. At first, this seems to be the case, as Killicks constantly sings her praises, compliments her appearance, and takes it upon himself to chop all their firewood by himself, but in spite of all these gratuitous acts of kindness, Janie cannot bring herself to love him. Before long, she notices "her husband had stopped talking in rhymes to her. He had ceased to wonder at her long black hair and finger it. Six months back he had told her, 'If Ah kin haul de wood heah and chop it fuh yuh, look lak you oughta be able tuh tote it inside'," (Hurston, pg. 25). In short, the magic was gone, if it ever was there to begin with, and soon enough, she finds herself swept off her feet by a smart-dressed, smooth-talking stranger named Joe Stark, who promptly elopes with her and takes her to a fictionalized version of the Eatonville of Hurston's youth. A powerful, charismatic personality, Joe becomes mayor of the town and begins ingratiating himself and Janie to the citizenry, something that Janie tries to do herself but, in a sign of things to come, is prevented from doing so by Joe. "Ah never married her for nothin' lak dat. She's uh woman and her place is in de home," (Hurston, pg. 41) he remarks when she is asked to give a speech. Surprised and hurt, Janie nevertheless suppresses her feelings and attempts to accommodate her husband's wishes.

Yet, this is to no avail, for Joe's pushy, domineering ways make not only Janie but also the townspeople he is supposed to represent sour on him. Aware of the increasing tension between him and the townspeople, Joe insults and criticizes Janie with increasing frequency when in the company of others, with Janie silently taking it until at last, she explodes on him in front of the men he is discussing business with, prompting him to beat her savagely after the men leave in a feeble attempt to restore his manhood. But the damage has been done, and shortly afterwards, Joe finds himself facing much bigger problems, namely a problem with his kidneys that in the end proves fatal. As he lies on his deathbed, Janie pleas with him to own up to his shortcomings after confessing hers, but it proves to be no use: he dies yelling at her to get out and to be struck dead by lightning. After the funeral, she finds herself getting over Joe's death relatively quickly, prompting disapproving whispers from the community. Indifferent to these rumors, she later muses to Phoeby, "Let 'em say whut dey wants tuh... To my thinkin' mourning oughn't tuh last no longer'n grief," (Hurston, pg. 89), and as it turns out, she has good reason to move past her grief. One day when she is preparing to close her shop, a tall stranger enters and begins flirting with her. Once again, she finds herself in thrall to a smooth-talking stranger, albeit one who goes by the nickname Tea Cake. After the disasters of Killicks and Joe, it appears that Janie has finally found someone who can protect and provide for her while respecting her wishes and autonomy. Unfortunately, their relationship comes to an end when a devastating storm strikes their community and whilst trying to save a cow from drowning, Tea Cake is bitten by a rabid dog. The storm passes, but his resulting madness does not, and after vainly trying to persuade a belligerent Tea Cake to go to the hospital, Janie has no choice but to shoot him when he turns violent. Although she subsequently has to defend herself in court and put up with additional scorn poured upon her by neighbors who believe she killed Tea Cake in cold blood after she is acquitted, she remains confident that she had no choice but to protect herself. Confident, but sad as well, as we learn at her second funeral for a husband, where she wears nothing more than some weathered overalls, the reason being "She was too busy feeling grief to dress like grief," (Hurston, pg. 180). One can rightly say that grief plays a prominent role in Their Eyes Were Watching God, but by no means is it the dominant one. Equally important are resilience and self-reflection, as Janie sums up when she finishes telling Phoeby her tale: "Ah'm back home again and Ah'm satisfied tuh be heah. Ah done been tuh de horizon and back and now Ah kin set heah in mah house and live by comparisons. Dis house ain't so absent of things lak it used tuh be befo' Tea Cake come along. It's full uh thoughts," (Hurston, pg. 182). Prospective readers would stand well to check out Their Eyes Were Watching God for themselves, as they will likely feel like Phoeby does after hearing Janie's story: "Ah done growed ten feet higher from jus' listenin' tuh yuh, Janie!"

Reading Their Eyes Were Watching God on it's own may indeed leave readers with the impression that like Phoeby they have grown, but reading it in conjunction with Hurston's other work like Jonah's Gourd Vine and Mules and Men will likely leave readers feeling like giants. It gives them a chance to see the copious threads underlying Hurston's work, not least among them the human quest for dignity and identity. It is these intangible (some might even say unreachable) objects that all of her characters strive for, whether they be rooted in reality like John the compromised preacher and Janie the indomitable widow or fantastical creations conjured up by generations of African-Americans long before her time like John the wily slave or Marie the mystical matriarch. This doesn't even take into account the sheer pleasure it is to read Hurston's work: the characters come to life thanks to their stylistically-rendered dialog, and her passionate-yet-thoughtful prose fills in any loose-ends left in her narratives. If you're looking for edifying literature or simply an entertaining story, do yourself a favor and read (in sequence, preferably) Zora Neale Hurston's Jonah's Gourd Vine, Mules and Men, and Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Book Review: Christopher Lee's Tall, Dark and Gruesome

Apologies dear readers for not updating you guys recently. I've been pretty busy this month, so I haven't been able to stay on top of my social media game as much as I would like to. All that being said, HonorSociety has published my not-quite-latest piece (the last thing I wrote is currently awaiting publication on their site), a review of the late great Sir Christopher Lee's Tall, Dark and Gruesome. From the moment I first saw him as the elegantly-evil Francisco Scaramanga in the James Bond series, I recognized his excellent acting ability on-screen, and over time would learn of his many accomplishments off the screen as well. Like many, I knew the nearly 100-year old Lee's time was limited, but was still stunned when I finally heard the news. On the bright side, I was able to channel some of that shock into inspiration for this piece, which I like to think of as much a celebration of Lee as it is a review of his autobiography. The original article can be accessed here or read in it's entirety below:

                                                                      Book Review: Christopher Lee's Tall, Dark and Gruesome

A month ago, thousands of horror fanatics, movie buffs, and nerds in general across the world mourned the loss of one of their greatest heroes. Not to say that it was only awkward, slovenly college grads like yours truly who were despondent: among the mourning were such titans of cinema and entertainment as former James Bond actor Sir Roger Moore, Lord of the Rings  and The Hobbit  director Peter Jackson, Edward Scissorhands  and Pirates of the Caribbean  star Johnny Depp, and Star Wars  creator George Lucas. Who was it that could bring so many different people together in fond remembrance of one man? A war veteran? A humanitarian? An actor, even?

All of the above guesses are correct, for it was none other than Sir Christopher Carandini Lee who after 93 years of acting, singing, fighting, golfing, and writing, finally passed away. Having brought to life such iconic characters as Hammer Horror's Gothic interpretation of Count Dracula, Francisco Scaramanga, the refined-but-relentless Man With The Golden Gun  of the James Bond franchise, the conniving Saruman of the Lord of the Rings  trilogy, and the Star Wars  prequels' Count Dooku over the course of half a century, Lee touched the lives of countless viewers, even if it was mainly by scaring the pants off them. They loved every minute of it though, just as much as they loved Lee, whose cinematic exploits were only the tip of the iceberg that was the man's interesting life, as one could see upon reading his fascinating autobiography, Tall, Dark and Gruesome. While the bronze-skinned, 6-foot-5 Lee easily fit the first and second parts of that description, readers will leave with the impression that the “gruesome” part of it couldn’t be farther from the truth. On the contrary, Lee demonstrates a pronounced taste for humor (particularly the dry and self-deprecating kinds), deep respect and an abiding love for friends, family, and coworkers, traits that would be utterly foreign to the rogues he so famously portrayed, although some, like The Wicker Man’s  crafty Lord Summerisle and the fiendish (or, in these enlightened times, the unfortunate) Fu Manchu, shared his obvious intellectual aptitude. Considering the life of both adversity and achievement that Lee details in his book, it is not at all surprising that he would develop such praiseworthy qualities.

The first third of Tall, Dark and Gruesome  reveals Lee’s childhood and life before he became an actor. Born in 1922 to a British general and an Italian countess, the future Sir Christopher should have lived a life of privilege that many even today could never dream of. Instead, he found himself thrust at a young age into a situation all too common in the 21st century. Shortly after his 4th birthday, his father left his mother, leaving the young Lee only with the “actual physical memory of a tall burly man cheerfully and busily sawing logs on a wintry day of woodsmoke in a country garden” (Lee, pg. 15). Being a countess, his mother was able to find assistance raising him, but his aristocratic background did little to shield him from further misfortune, finding himself bullied by his peers on account of his Italian heritage when he went to school. "They only called me 'wop' and 'dago' with extra gusto, and jeered at my pedantic comment that I couldn't be both. I learned early on that the one truly international quality among people of all races is xenophobia," (Lee, pg. 20) he mused in hindsight. This is to say nothing of the harsh punishments inflicted on Lee and his classmates, as seen when he recounts one time in which he and a schoolmate endeavored to return to their school for chapel early only for his bicycle-chain to break, forcing him to walk the rest of the way. Unsurprisingly he and his friend were late, and concluding they were not in the wrong, decided to explain to their teacher why they didn't make it to chapel, even going as far as to produce the broken chain as evidence of their claim. Their teacher kindly listened to their explanation, then took them to his study, bent them over the sofa in his study, and beat them with a bamboo stick.

Nor did Lee's troubles end after he completed primary education, for the Second World War broke out while the recently-graduated Lee was staying in France, forcing him to return to London before the advancing Germans reached Paris. Although he, along with thousands of Britons, still faced the prospect of Axis ordinance falling upon their heads at any minute, Lee was more heavily hit by the sudden death of his father. Sitting at a civil defense switchboard when his mother told him the news, he was overwhelmed, writing, "The cords and slots of the switchboard swam together in a meaningless tangle before my eyes. I disconnected the whole works and ran into the lavatory to burst into tears," (Lee, pg. 73). After the funeral, Lee enlisted in the Royal Air Force and before he knew it, he was on a ship bound for South Africa. Upon completing his training in the neighboring colony of Rhodesia, he saw action in North Africa and Italy, at one point narrowly avoiding German bombs by plunging beneath a small vehicle, only for the blast to catch him in the rear. "It was like being hit with a shotgun from thirty yards," (Lee, pg. 94) he claims. 

The remainder of the book focuses on his life after the war and his prolific film career, and considering the trouble he initially faced upon entering the profession, absolutely no one could have foreseen his future success. His mother vehemently opposed his pursuit and only grudgingly assented to it after much heated discussion, meaning he could not expect to fall back on his family's plentiful resources and connections if he failed. After being referred to a producer named Filippo del Guidice, he scored a meeting with an agent which ended with said agent saying, "Why on earth is Filippo wasting my time with you someone like you? You're much too tall to be an actor," (Lee, pg. 119). In spite of these early obstacles, he managed to score a seven-year contract with a production company, but it was over a year before he scored his first role in a film - a brief one with one-line, at that.

Lee would go on to spend a decade bouncing from low-budget film to low-budget film before he found himself working on a project for a rising studio called Hammer Film Productions: a remake of Universal's Frankenstein. Whilst preparing to portray the creature made famous by Boris Karloff (who Lee incidentally later became friends and neighbors with), Lee became acquainted with his co-star Peter Cushing, who would go on to not only become a dear friend of Lee but a horror icon in his own right as well. The potential of the duo was recognized by Hammer, and shortly after The Curse of Frankenstein  was released, the studio began work on a new vehicle for Lee and his new friend: Dracula. Released as Horror of Dracula  in the U.S., the film was a success on both sides of the Atlantic, thanks in no small part to Lee's thoughtful interpretation of the character. "...[T]here were aspects of him with which I could readily identify - his extraordinary stillness, punctuated by bouts of manic energy with feats of strength belying his appearance; his power complex; the quality of being done for but undead; and by no means least the fact that he was an embarrassing member of a great and noble family," (pg. 184) Lee offers, and given the enthusiastic way audiences around the world received his take on the bloodthirsty count, they couldn't agree more. 

The book goes on to detail Lee's various experiences on and off-set up until the time of it's publication in 1997. From singing in films co-written by The Rocky Horror Picture Show  creator Richard O'Brien (as well as appearing in a production of that particular musical) and hosting Chevy Chase and John Belushi-era Saturday Night Live  to traveling to Moscow shortly after the Soviet Union collapsed to film a movie and playing golf in Bel Air with Jack Lemmon and Burt Lancaster, Lee is able to cover an amazing amount of ground. It must be said though, that Lee would have been able to cover even more ground if he spent less time on one particular subject that might be accessible only to a niche audience. That subject would be golf, which readers will discover was absolutely not limited to Lee's recreational matches with notables like Lemmon and Lancaster. Some of the anecdotes involving golf, such as the aforementioned one, are amusing, but readers' interest may wane as Lee gets bogged down in relaying the technical aspects of the sport if they are unfamiliar or otherwise not interested in it. It is made more regrettable by the fact that this space could have been allocated to his experiences and thoughts on films that aren't or are mentioned only briefly, such as the cheaply-made but excellently-executed Spanish horror film The Horror Express, which featured him in a rare heroic role, and Rankin-Bass's animated adaptation of Peter S. Beagle's novel The Last Unicorn, which he later half-jokingly allowed him to come as close as producers would let him get to playing Shakespeare's King Lear by having him voice the perpetually-glum King Haggard. Younger readers hoping to read about his more recent turns as villains in the Star Wars  and Lord of the Rings  series' will be sorely disappointed, although Lee can hardly blamed for this given the book's publication almost a decade before these films were made (he would go on to cover those roles as well as others in Lord of Misrule, the second edition of this book).

All in all, Tall, Dark and Gruesome  is a powerful testament to both Christopher Lee the actor and Christopher Lee the man. The story he has to tell alone should reel in skeptical readers, but the way he writes is just as strong. His humorous sensibility suggests a real warmth behind the intimidating exterior portrayed on the big and small screen, and his considered reflections on work and life reveal a regularly-exercised mind. It goes without saying that the book would appeal most to those already familiar with Lee and his work, but this merely means that the curious should take it upon themselves to check out some of his films (and given his copious output, chances are they already have) before reading it. I guarantee the time spent watching Lee's films and reading his book will well be worth it, and would not be surprised if upon finishing the last page, they can't help remembering the last words of King Haggard: "The last! I knew you were the last!" Spoken of The Last Unicorn's protagonist, they easily could be said of Lee, who tied the blockbuster movies of today to the classic cinema of yesterday. For the initiated and uninitiated, Tall, Dark and Gruesome is a great way to remember a man who truly was the last of his kind.