Am I There Yet?

One of the discussion topics that came up last Friday was the question of whether or not Benji had come of age. I'm pretty sure it was James that suggested "coming of age" is a gradual process, a series of events. I've been thinking of my own "coming of age" and what it means to me, and I've decided I quite agree with the suggestion of a gradual process.
In the last chapter, Benji may undermine some of the success and growth that he's gone through over the summer, but no matter, he's still gone through change that's made him a different person, even if it's just slightly. I feel like that's pretty similar to a "real life" coming of age process, or at least, there are parallels to my coming of age. I feel like I'm not going to have the one glorious moment like Stephen watching the bird flying, or Holden watching Phoebe on the carousel. Rather, I feel like I'm coming of age, right now, in this moment. It's a slow process, and sometimes, I don't even feel like I'm any different. But if I look back a month, two months, a year, three years, I see definite changes. Looking back, I realise how much I've grown, developed, and matured through time. I still have a ways to go (by society's standard, and personal relativity), but I think that's the point. I feel like it takes a while to realise the difference in your character, because the process is gradual and you may not even be aware that you're changing. And I'll continue to grow and change; I'll always be learning new things, and there will always be opportunities to grow and mature: become more "adult." And in a lot of years, I could be 50 and still not have my "revolutionary coming-of-age moment," but I could look back, and see how I've changed and grown, and realise that I have come of age, just slowly, gradually, and in my own time.

"There aren't any actual swans in Black Swan Green... It's sort of a village joke" (66). 
hahahaha so funny! best joke I've ever heard! please tell me more!

No shade to whoever came up with the village name of Black Swan Green, but every time this village "joke" came up in the novel, I found it really cringe-worthy and almost annoying. It seems as though when anyone mentions the village name and/or asks about swans, Jason or some other poor villager has to quickly, and some what embarrassedly, explain how their town name is a joke, and hahaha, can you believe it? that there are actually no swans in our town? 

I didn't find this novel to be particularly humorous, except for maybe a few small ironic parts. Maybe it's the fact that I didn't especially enjoy this novel, and I'm just trying to pick it apart. But the few places that David Mitchell tried to inject humor fell short on me. (Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, I don't even think the BSG joke is even meant to be funny; I think I've just interpreted it as a poor attempt at a joke that's not even a supposed to be a joke). 

Another factor in my adverse attitude toward Black Swan Green was that it felt so sad and depressing. I thought that this novel was even more disheartening than Catcher, where there was at least some humor and light sections to break up Holden's depressive moments. However, as I kept reading through BSG hoping for an uplifting moment, it never seemed to come. A few of the moments were sweet and victorious for Jason (his sister commenting on his poetry, kissing Holly, becoming friends with Dean, to name a few), but even added up, I felt as though the book fell short of feeling satisfying for me.

So I opened this post with me sarcastically poking fun at the Black Swan Green village name joke. And I guess that's just kind of how I felt reading this book. I really wanted to like it, and there were some redeeming parts; it just didn't seem to create the most inviting atmosphere, in my opinion, and I didn't feel as though there were enough positive moments to break apart the overarching serious tone of the book.

On page 100, Lucille turns on the light.
It's no secret that Sylvie likes to sit in the dark, even eat in the dark. Ruth even mentions that during the summer, they would only eat after the sun had set, after the windows "went stark blue" (p 86). I didn't really understand that they were eating in the pitch dark, no lights except for what little crept through the windows. This became quite apparent after the scene in which Lucille turns on the light.

"...she stood up and pulled the chain of the overhead light. The window went black and the cluttered kitchen leaped, so it seemed, into being, as remote from what had gone before as this world from the primal darkness."

I knew that Sylvie had a bit of trouble with housekeeping, in the literal sense. Ruth mentions that Sylvie would go on sporadic cleaning sprees: scrubbing the door and half the kitchen ceiling, soaking towels in diluted bleach for weeks, opening all the windows and doors (and then forgetting to close them) to air out the house, etc. (85). However, the state of the house really, ahem, comes to light quite literally soon after.

It seems to be dinner as normal, sitting at the dark table, smelling the bacon cooking, listening to Sylvie butter and stack bread. However, these sensory descriptions aren't what Lucille and Ruth are seeing, but what they're hearing and smelling, sensing. Suddenly, in the midst of sitting in the dark before dinner, Lucille, seemingly in a slight panic, pulls the chain and floods the room in light. What Ruth describes next is the scene that's stuck with me throughout the whole book. As the room is suddenly flooded in light, the girls abruptly realise that they're eating from "plates that came in detergent boxes," there are "heaps of pots and dishes," "the paint was chipped and marred," the curtains are half burned, and there's soot all over the walls and ceiling. Ruth describes the sudden flood of light as "[startling] and uncomfortable." (100-101).

This scene was so startling and unnerving to me for many reasons. One being that this is probably the normal atmosphere for the household in general. In the daytime, the mismatched, grungy kitchen is probably seen everyday, but glanced over and not looked at closely. But in the midst of a tensely quiet evening, right before another dinner in the dark, the sudden image of the decrepit kitchen is quite startling and disturbing. What are the conditions that Ruth and Lucille are living in under the care of Lucille? is the rest of their lives as grimy and loosely-run as the startling image of the kitchen, suddenly and uncomfortably brought to light?

I've been a fan of Sylvie throughout the whole book. I like her progression as a character, how she lives a loose, transient lifestyle, etc. However, whenever I think about this scene, which is quite a bit, I begin to feel uneasy. The state of the kitchen does make me uncomfortable, especially since it was revealed so suddenly. It leaves me to question Sylvie and her abilities to look after the girls. This scene has planted a small seed of doubt about Sylvie and her credibility, and I can't get it out of my head.

While reading The Bell Jar, it was quite apparent, and explicitly stated, that Esther Greenwood  experiences/describes parts of her life in relation to a bell jar.  Esther has ways in which she narrates how the metaphoric bell jar changes her sensorial perceptions: by visual distortion and creating a stifling and soupy feeling/atmosphere for Esther to live and breathe.

The visual distortion plays upon both Esther and the reader. To the reader, Esther could be seen as being confined within the bell jar. Her actions, though seemingly orderly and described calmly, have an underlying sense of oddity and alarm. The way Esther narrates from within the bell jar, she depicts and describes circumstance as nothing special, just ordinary. However, she's using the bell jar's distortion to blur and shroud the unsettling events of Esther's depressive condition. On the other hand,  looking from inside out of the bell jar, Esther feels as though she's watching the world with a view only she sees, and it's isolating*. Everyone sees Dodo Conway as an endearing woman with a lovely family; however, looking at Dodo through the bell jar, Esther is alone* in seeing Dodo as some grossly dehumanized fertility machine.

Esther time in the bell jar wasn't just full of "stifling distortions;" Esther describes being trapped in the bell jar full of "sour air," and equating the confinement of the bell jar to a "bad dream." In difference to distorting Esther's narrations perceptions visually, she is also physically feeling confined and stifled. The moments in which Esther feels free are when she describes being "open to the circulating air" as opposed to trapped in the "stifling air" under the bell jar.

*before meeting Dr Nolan, who shares many of the same progressive views as Esther, etc.

Alphaville put out their big hit "Forever Young" in the 80s; Catcher in the Rye takes place in the 50s. Too bad they didn't happen at the same time, because Holden Caulfield would have one hell of a theme song. Imagine if Holden knew "Forever Young;" instead of singing the incorrect words from "Comin' Thro' the Rye" by Robert Burns, I think it would be much more appropriate for him to be singing Alphaville. 

"The only trouble is, she's a little too affectionate sometimes. She's very emotional, for a child. She really is." (68, Holden on his little sister Phoebe). 

So, Stephen. Are you 13? 9? 16? ...does it matter? (eh not really, in my opinion).
In my wonderful-but-brief time of 7th period Coming of Age, we spent a whole class period talking about the "coming-of-age age" and if numbers really mattered in the process of maturing. The numbers 13, 16, 18, and 21 seemed to pop up frequently: becoming a teenager, getting your driver's license, becoming a legal adult, and being able to legally drink. Wow, what important milestones in your journey to adulthood! I mean, you obviously can't really be an adult if you don't have your driver's license and can't exercise your adult-y freedom? Certainly you're not able to "come of age" if you haven't had alcohol... right?
I think it's obvious that to many, these numbers don't mean anything really. I woke up on my 13th birthday, didn't feel any different. My 16th birthday, I got my license, but that didn't exactly make me feel like I'd "come of age" or become an adult. And I've a feeling it'll be the same way on my 18th and 21st birthdays. I think it was Grant mentioned that's it's all relative to yourself. You may seem "less mature" or "developed" (or more, it goes both ways) compared to your peers, but in relation to yourself a year ago, you've grown enormously. Or maybe, depending on situation, someone had to "grow up early" because of a tragedy or some other factor beyond their control. 
So now, back to Stephen. While he's a Clongowes Wood College, his age is kind of murky. But let's just say he's in elementary school/maybe a young middle-schooler. (I mean I've already established that I don't think age really matters). Then you skip ahead maybe 60 pages (give or take maybe 30 pages), and BAM, Stephen could be 13! or 17! who knows. It's a pretty chunky time line if you ask me. But... his development in relation to age doesn't really seem that important to me. Yeah, it's interesting to be nosey and snicker at the image of an inexperienced 14 year old Stephen at a brothel, but as we've been reading and picking up on his feelings (or lack of), we can see more of how he's matured and is "coming of age" in relation to himself.
So. Stephen has a pretty chunky choppy timeline and it's not clear what age he is really. But I kind of think that his age doesn't really matter. He's obviously changing and maturing in his own way and time. So good for you, Stephen Dedalus.