Poppy Talks

Today’s MUSING MONDAYS post is about reading non-fiction…

Do you read non-fiction regularly? Do you read it in a different way or place than you read fiction? (question courtesy of Diane)

Yes, I do. And I do read it differently – non-fiction takes more brain processing power, since it’s not just a nice story, and so I tend to read it more earlier in the day or on weekends, when I’ve got the extra time and space to think about something a little harder.

Symbolic? Or Not?

My husband is not an avid reader, and he used to get very frustrated in college when teachers would insist discussing symbolism in a literary work when there didn’t seem to him to be any. He felt that writers often just wrote the story for the story’s sake and other people read symbolism into it.

It does seem like modern fiction just “tells the story” without much symbolism. Is symbolism an older literary device, like excessive description, that is not used much any more? Do you think there was as much symbolism as English teachers seemed to think? What are some examples of symbolism from your reading?

Oh good heavens. I don’t think symbolism is ever going to be outdated. Nor is allegory, themes, or any other of the subjects we all chafed at learning in high school literature class.

First of all, I have to take a short tangent to point out that “modern fiction” is a slippery character. While mine is not the English degree in my family (there are two), if I recall correctly, “modern fiction” pretty much covers anything written after we left serialized storytelling to soap operas and comic books. Kafka and Woolf, both from the 1920s, are considered to be “modern fiction” – as is William Golding, Whassisname Hemingway, and William James (whom I have never successfully read).

Golding’s Lord of the Flies (which I hated) is highly symbolic. Shipful of lost boys stranded on an island with no adults to tell them what to do. Literary study of what happens in society if there is no higher authority to praise the worthy or punish the unworthy. Even the title references Beezlebub, itself a symbol of the evil that will run rampant without authority.

Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea also contains symbolism, although English teachers use the book more to illustrate themes. If the theme of the book is man’s place in relation to nature, the fish stands in as a symbol for all of nature.

Getting away from high school English class, however, let’s look at some other varieties of “modern fiction”….

Here’s one few would expect to find high-falutin’ things like symbolism and theme in: Mercedes Lackey’s Fairy Godmother. In this book, Elena – a failed Cinderella figure whose prince still thinks girls have cooties and certainly isn’t holding a ball anytime soon – accepts a job as a godmother’s apprentice. As she meets the Fairy Queen, whose approval she needs in order to start working magic, she is warned of all of the things which might befall a godmother and her region.

“It was one thing to be warned about the evil magicians, and to remember all of the things she had read and heard. It was quite another to see them at work, in rapid succession. And some — were horrors.

Some of the horrors were blatant — entire countries laid to waste, the inhabitants made into hopeless slaves, afraid to do anything but obey because of the cost of disobedience. Some of the evil ones were precisely as she might have expected, gloating despots squatting on thrones they had no right to, torture and exploitation the hallmarks of their reigns.

But some were subtle, and once Elena realized what she was seeing, the implications were chilling. Often the evil one was not on the throne itself, but was the power behind it, whispering into the monarch’s ear. The effect was insidious; rather than creating despair for all, the dark one created factions, pitting the privileged, wealthy, and titled against those beneath them, placing the effort of exploitation one layer below the monarch. This kept despair from being total, for there was always the hope — ‘But when the King learns of this…’ — even though the hope was destined never to be fulfilled. These spiders spun a cunning web, beginning as they always did by eroding conditions gradually, with rights converted to privilege, then the privilege revoked on one pretense or another, always for an excellent reason, always on a ‘temporary’ basis, until the next ‘privilege’ was taken and the previous grievance forgotten.”

No matter what your politics are, it seems obvious that this passage is symbolic – whether Lackey meant it to be or not – of what a particular faction in US politics claimed was happening through most of the 2000s – and of several historical and political precedents before then.

And that’s part of the thing – the writer of a book only does about two-thirds of the work of creating meaning with his or her words. Each reader will read and interpret those words slightly differently. What the writer intended is important, but what the reader sees is equally important. This will upset several people, I know, as there are roots in that belief that extend far into identity politics and political correctness – to wit, that it doesn’t necessarily matter whether you intended your words to offend (although if you did, shame on you). If they DO offend, feelings are hurt, people are upset, etc etc, and you need to step up and handle it with something other than complaining that since offense wasn’t intended, it shouldn’t exist.

Want to give some acknowledgement to other bloggers who’ve answered this question. Pop over and read their responses if you find this interesting.

I think symbolism is usually secondary to the story anyway, and can add meaning if you look for it, but is not essential enjoying the story in any way.

Florinda in California adds this thought in her post:

Some genre fiction, particularly fantasy, is practically built on symbolism. (This occurred to me as I scrolled past the His Dark Materials trilogy in my LT catalog.)

Another blogger writes:

So, the better question would be — are you drawn to symbolic writing? Do you try to read complex literature from time-to-time? Do you make a point of reading the literary award winners each year?

The Book Lady’s Blog points out that Piggy’s glasses in my hated Lord of the Flies are symbolic of the intellectualism and civilization – just as Piggy’s girth and slow pace are symbolic of the inability of that intellectual, civilized world to adjust to the rules of the “new” anarchic universe the boys find themselves in. Really, go and read her post.

Here’s the question:

Some people read one book at a time. Some people have a number of them on the go at any given time, perhaps a reading in bed book, a breakfast table book, a bathroom book, and so on, which leads me to…

1. Are you currently reading more than one book?
2. If so, how many books are you currently reading?
3. Is this normal for you?
4. Where do you keep your current reads?

1. Well. Probably. There’s a couple that I started reading, then set down and fully intend to finish.

2. I dunno. Maybe 3?
3. Not really. This is pretty new, just something I’ve been doing for the last year or so. I’m having more “goldfish days”, days when my mental fortitude isn’t up to anything much more challenging than Dick and Jane, so the nonfiction books that I enjoy, I’ve been reading alongside something lighter.
4. Where-ever they happen to land. Seriously. There’s usually 2 or 3 books near the dinner table, several near my desk, one next to the bed, and one next to the sofa. Occasionally, I’ll set one down in the kitchen while I’m cooking.

I saw that National Library week is coming up in April, and that led to some questions. How often do you use your public library and how do you use it? Has the coffeehouse/bookstore replaced the library? Did you go to the library as a child? Do you have any particular memories of the library? Do you like sleek, modern, active libraries or the older, darker, quiet, cozy libraries?

I didn’t have a current library card for several years until last fall – it’s a long story involving my cat, a cd that I had checked out, and the underside of our sofa. So, even though we have a perfectly beautiful library WITH a coffeeshop in the lobby, I tend to migrate to the closest bookstore instead. This causes all sorts of havok at home, as we have a single wall in our office for bookshelves, and we ran out of room on the shelves before even putting them up.

The library as a child…. dark, musty, dusty, with unwashed people sitting in kiosks. The library spooked me a bit, but I loved to go because I loved to read. I just didn’t much like staying longer than necessary.

I lived in Philadelphia for a couple of years, and just adored the library there. I didn’t go to the library downtown very often, but out near where I lived, there was a very nice branch – lots of windows, spacious, with mothers bringing toddlers for storytime. Too far out in the suburbs for anyone to use the library as just a place to get out of the elements. Almost the kind of library Eugene has today. I found lots of great books at that library – most of them, sadly, out of print.

I should borrow books more than I do. I know this. But honestly, now that I have a library card again, the library and I have a battle of wills about an appropriate amount of time to have a book in my possession – they say 3 weeks, I prefer 6. And I’m always forgetting to go online and renew my books for those extra weeks, so every now and then, I drop my last set of books off along with the late fees I’ve accumulated. And then go to the bookstore, where no-one cares how many times I want to re-read a book.

The opposite of last week’s question: “What’s the best ‘worst’ book you’ve ever read — the one you like despite some negative reviews or features?”

That would probably be my obsession with really cheesy fantasy – of the Mercedes Lackey or Anne Bishop variety.

While I’ve never seen a negative review of either author, I assume they’re out there. After all, they’re pure fluff, wish fulfillment fantasy. Talking horses and sympathetic magical undead. Rife with Mary Sue-like characters. And yet, so rich and enticing – Anne Bishop’s Dark Jewels books are like dark chocolate: bold, rich, and luxurious. Sure, they’re violent, people get rent from limb to limb and frequently in even smaller pieces. One of the main characters is an assassin. Another is known for the number of dead bodies left in his wake. And still a third is undead, requiring blood to remain alive well, functional.

Lackey’s books are hardly any more substantial. Personal problems get resolved – as do large political ones – within a neat three-book series. The horses – who are really spirits of those who have gone before and just couldn’t resist the urge to meddle – talk. No-one appears to find this unusual in any way. There’s also a whole set of talking cats, but far fewer, and geographically off in another country, so less dramatic.

If that’s not bad enough, we get to cozy re-tellings of traditional fairy tales, where the heroine does at least half of her own rescue with the help of newly discovered magical powers – and still ends up with the prince by the end of the tale. I love these books, though, because Lackey has a very feminist bent on them – the women are strong and capable and if they need saving, it’s as much because no-one can go it alone when facing evil witches as because there has to be a reason for the hero to become involved in the story.

My absolute favorites, though, are the 100 Kingdoms tales, starting with “The Fairy Godmother”. No-one’s ever asked before, in my hearing, at least, what happens to all of the fairy tales that go wrong? What happens when the nearest prince to Cinderella is still a child? Or a Princess? I love twisted fairy tales, so these books are right up my alley.