sábado, 29 de março de 2014

Criticism, Trudy Ring with Capote By Trudy Ring



Criticism, Trudy Ring with Capote
By Trudy Ring



Trudy Ring is a frequent writer, editor, and reporter on literary subjects.
In the following essay, she gives an overview of Capote’s “A Christmas Memory,” concentrating on the portrayal of the character of Buddy’s cousin.


“Over the years, some critics have pronounced ‘A Christmas Memory’ overly sentimental, but most of them, along with the reading public, have found it genuinely moving.”
Truman Capote often drew on his Southern childhood in finding material for his fiction. He also frequently focused his stories on unconventional, strangely appealing women. “A Christmas Memory” is possibly the best example of a Capote story that exhibits both of these features. Capote described it as his favorite among his stories, and it showed his writing shifting from a preoccupation with the darker aspects of life to warmer and more sentimental subject matter. (He would return to darker subjects later, with In Cold Blood, his account of the murder of a family in rural Kansas.) Capote said he liked “A Christmas Memory” because of the truth in it, but the story is actually an idealized and embellished portrait of his childhood and of his elderly cousin, Sook, who provided much of the warmth and companionship he knew as a youngster.
Capote’s parents were divorced when he was four years old, and his mother placed him with relatives in Monroeville, Alabama, while she went to New York City to look for a job. Young Truman lived most of the time with four cousins, all much older than he. The one with whom he formed the closest relationship was Nanny Rumbley Faulk, nicknamed Sook. She was reclusive and many people considered her peculiar. Relatives later pointed out after characterizations of her began showing up in Capote’s work, however, that she was more intelligent and less naive than she appeared. At any rate, she was able to relate to Truman almost as if they were both children. Later, like Buddy in “A
Christmas Memory,” Truman was sent away to boarding school. Unlike his fictional counterpart, he went through an emotional break with his cousin. Capote’s family members, including Sook, were unable to accept his homosexuality or deal with his alcoholism and drug abuse.
Capote modeled several of his characters on Sook. In addition to the kindly and eccentric woman of “A Christmas Memory,” she is represented in Dolly Talbo in his novel The Grass Harp. Some other Capote heroines are based less directly on Sook, but are closely related to her. One of them is the character who is perhaps Capote’s most famous creation, Holly Golightly of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. William L. Nance, a literary scholar who has written extensively about Capote, referred to Holly as “a dreamer-heroine whose prototype is the elderly friend of ’A Christmas Memory.”’ Nance also noted that these characters are evidence of Capote’s nonsexual yet strong attachment to women, especially women who do not quite fit into mainstream society.
The elderly woman of “A Christmas Memory” certainly is out of the mainstream. Buddy says that his cousin, although in her sixties, “is still a child.” She is not stupid, but she does not live her life according to an adult idea of what is sensible or practical. She has a sense of fun that appeals to the boy. Buddy is tolerant of his cousin’s eccentricities, which Capote describes in detail and with affection. Her appearance, described in the story’s second paragraph, marks her as an unorthodox person. She wears tennis shoes and a baggy sweater with a lightweight calico dress; her “remarkable” face is craggy yet delicate. Later, the narrator, the boy grown up, relates more facts about her. “She has never: eaten in a restaurant, traveled more than five miles from home, received or sent a telegram, read anything except funny papers and the Bible, worn cosmetics, cursed, wished someone harm, told a lie on purpose, let a hungry dog go hungry,” Capote writes. Then he tells us the things she does: “tame hummingbirds . . . tell ghost stories . . . so tingling they chill you in July, talk to herself, take walks in the rain, grow the prettiest japonicas [a flowering shrub] in town, know the recipe for every sort of old-time Indian cure.” The story provides fewer details about the little boy, but it is obvious he is a precocious child, something that inspires admiration in his cousin. She loves to have Buddy tell her the stories of the movies he sees; she will never go to a movie because she wants to save her vision for when she sees God.
Buddy and his cousin create a happy world of their own. They “are not, on the whole, too much aware” of the other relatives who live with them; instead, they find joy in each other’s company. Incidents throughout the story underline their attachment to each other and their distance from the rest of their family. Because Buddy and his cousin have little money, most of their pleasures are improvised, from gathering pecans left on the ground after the harvest to making their own Christmas gifts and ornaments. They are enthusiastic about their various moneymaking schemes, from entering contests advertised on the radio to setting up their homemade museum, even though these schemes are more often failures than successes. They enjoy interacting with people outside of the world of their conventional relatives and neighbors — such as the bootlegger Haha Jones or the strangers and near-strangers to whom they send their Christmas fruitcakes. The old woman lets Buddy drink whiskey, which gets her in trouble with the rest of the family. And while the other family members give him disappointingly practical Christmas gifts, she gives him a kite. That’s what he gives her, too, in an exchange of gifts that, as critic Stanley Edgar Hyman once pointed out, is as corny and as emotionally effective as the exchange in O. Henry’s “The Gift of the Magi.”
Over the years, some critics have pronounced “A Christmas Memory” overly sentimental, but most of them, along with the reading public, have found it genuinely moving. It is particularly heartrending when Capote moves from the idyllic Christmas Day that Buddy and his cousin spend flying their kites to Buddy’s separation from his friend — a separation created first by distance when Buddy goes away to school, then by the old woman’s death. It is indicative of their bond that Buddy feels her death before he is told of it. In life, Capote’s bond with Sook was so strong, and so painful to break off, that he was driven to recreate it along with similar relationships in his fiction for many years afterward. “A Christmas Memory,” according to Nance, “has a unique importance” among Capote’s works because it is so much a model for his later stories, often centering on unusual women who live in a world of their own and who inspire love that has little to do with sex. “The pastness of the experience is also essential; Capote’s is a fiction of nostalgia,” Nance observed. ” ’A Christmas Memory’ is one of his best and most satisfying works because it places the feelings he can dramatize most powerfully in the setting which is best suited to them.”
Source: Trudy Ring, for Short Stories for Students, Gale Research, 1997.

Compare & Contrast
  • 1930s: Schools and most other public facilities across the South are segregated by race.
    1956: The University of Alabama expels its first black student in defiance of a federal court order; Southern congressmen issue a manifesto pledging to use “all lawful means” to defy desegregation.
    Today: Schools and public facilities are open to all regardless of race, but economic inequality is still seen by some as a barrier to full integration.
  • 1930s: The first “talkie” was produced in 1928; a few years later all films have sound. Elaborately staged musicals become one of the movie industry’s most popular genres.
    1956: As a result of the country’s rising prosperity following World War II, television is introduced to many homes, providing cheap, nearly endless entertainment. Movie attendance falls by millions, and many theaters close. The industry fights back by developing thousands of drive-in movie theaters.
    Today: New forms of mass media include cable television and the Internet.
  • 1930s: At the height of the Depression unemployment is nearly 25%. President Franklin Roosevelt attempts to stimulate economic growth through his New Deal programs.
    1956: Post-war prosperity makes the United States a dominant world power. President Eisenhower warns of the “military-industrial complex” at the heart of the country’s economy, but government continues to expand.
    1990s: Both Democrats and Republicans proclaim an end to the era of big government, but true economic and social reforms are slow to impact people’s lives.
  • 1930s: Fascist dictatorships and militant nationalists gain power in Europe as the Great Depression throws countries into economic and social turmoil.
    1956: The fear of communism fuels the Cold War. The arms race escalates, and Soviet Premier Nikita Khruschev tells the U.S. government, “History is on our side. We will bury you!”
    1990s: Communist regimes in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union have been replaced by democratic-style governments. China, the last significant communist power, enacts many capitalist reforms.
What Do I Read Next?
  • “The Thanksgiving Visitor,” a 1968 story also by Capote, is a companion piece to “A Christmas Memory” and recounts further adventures of Buddy and his friend Sook, as well as Buddy’s run-in with Odd Henderson, the town bully.
  • Capote’s novel The Grass Harp (1951) tells the story of a band of social outcasts, including a young boy and his older female relative, who disrupt their complacent community when they retreat to the woods and begin living in a treehouse.
  • Carson McCullers’s Ballad of the Sad Cafe (1936) is the story of Cousin Lyman, a traveling hunchback dwarf who brings excitement to a lonely Southern town when Miss Amelia falls in love with him and follows his suggestion to open a cafe.
  • Black Boy is Richard Wright’s 1941 autobiographical novel, which vividly describes his harsh, hardscrabble boyhood and youth in rural Mississippi and Memphis, Tennessee. The book is a coming-of-age story that details how Wright worked to realize his dream of being a writer despite the constraints placed upon him by a racist society.
  • Let Us Now Praise Famous Men (1941) is a nonfiction chronicle of the daily lives of Depression-era tenant farmers in rural Alabama with black-and-white photographs by Walker Evans and accompanying text by James Agee.
  • Paper Moon, is a novel by Joe David Brown about a Depression-era traveling Bible salesman and the hassles he experiences when he is saddled with caring for his precocious daughter. Also filmed in 1973 under the same title; directed by Peter Bogdanovich and starring Ryan and Tatum O’Neal.
  • John Dufresne’s 1994 novel Louisiana Power and Light is a comical send-up of the Southern Gothic tradition and revolves around the adventures of Moon Pie Fontana, a physically disabled child-star radio evangelist, and his family down in the Delta.
http://www.answers.com/topic/a-christmas-memory-story-8

quarta-feira, 26 de março de 2014

A natureza depende de nós. Francisco Vaz Brasil



A natureza depende de nós.
Francisco Vaz Brasil


Aves
Rios,
Peixes,
Montes,
Árvores,
Nascentes.

Sou um pássaro
Que procura
Um canto no topo de uma árvore,
Para fazer meu ninho,
Para poder procriar,
Como qualquer ser
Que precisa multiplicar a vida
Que está sob a égide e mesmos princípios
Do Gênesis.

Respeite
A Natureza,
Respeite
Seu semelhante,
Respeite a Vida.

terça-feira, 25 de março de 2014

Running on Empty by Marshall Urich, excerpt



Running on Empty
by Marshall Ulrich


Excerpt

Before the start of the race on September 13, 2008, when Heather and I arrived before dawn at San Francisco City Hall, I felt sick to my stomach whenever I thought about the impending grind. Everyone was making their last-minute preparations, especially confirming the day’s route. (Our plan for leaving City Hall had been worked out the night before, a last-minute scramble caused by a lack of communication or miscommunication or someone dropping the ball, depending on who you ask about it.) I tried to distract myself by cracking dumb jokes, giving my crew a hard time, and watching Charlie sign shoes and shirts for about a dozen guest runners who’d registered on the Running America website to come out and be a part of the start of this . . . thing. Oh, shit. What have I gotten myself into?
I always say the only limitations are in your mind, and if you don’t buy into those limits, you can do a helluva lot more than you imagine. So I let my mind wander away from my doubts and rest in my immediate surroundings. It wasn’t yet fully light out, there wasn’t much traffic, and
the only people nearby were part of our deal. Guest runners stretching and warming up. The film crew getting ready to catch the beginning of what they expected to be an epic story. Charlie’s and my race crews climbing in and out of the RVs and vans, double-checking supplies and reviewing the route.
With the buzz of all this activity below me, I walked up the broad stairs to the city hall’s main entrance and considered how much this imposing white building, with its enormous dome and soaring pillars, looked like so many other U.S. government centers, not so different from the one in lower Manhattan that would serve as our finish line. This architectural connection struck me as symbolic—another continuity across the vast distance we’d cover—but, to be honest, it didn’t calm my jangling nerves. Trying to stay positive, I reflected on my original concept for the run and how it had all finally materialized with Charlie’s efforts; the support of our sponsors who’d given equipment, gear, and money; and the keen interest of this talented documentary team hired by NEHST. Together, we’d see America one mile at a time, honor the history and diversity of our country, raise money and awareness for the United Way’s campaign against childhood obesity, and literally follow in the footsteps of those who’d done this before. I’d had the lofty idea, too, that we’d somehow reintroduce America to Americans, showing how similar we all are while also celebrating the differences among the people we’d meet and the dramatically changing landscapes we’d traverse.
Now standing in front of the immense doors of City Hall, I waited for everyone to finish their preparations so we could get moving. This is where it would all begin. You could feel the excitement in the air—and the pity, too.
Finally, just after five o’clock in the morning, Charlie and I stepped off the starting point together, chatting about the road ahead. He’s taller than I am, slightly stooped, with broad shoulders and long legs, but I have a huge stride, so I had no trouble going alongside him. We traveled briskly up and down the hills on city streets, remaining intentionally oblivious to what lay beyond the next streetlight illuminating the long road ahead. We both knew this would be an ordeal, yet we felt some security in our partnership. With two runners, we’d increase our chances
of at least one man making it into New York City, and if we could go all the way together (even if we finished separately), the ongoing competition would push us to set a new record. If one of us had to drop out, then he’d be there for the other guy, support him the rest of the way by sharing crew, gear, or whatever the remaining runner needed.

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The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes by Marcus Sakey, excerpt



The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes
by Marcus Sakey


Excerpt

He was naked and cold, stiff with it, his veins ice and frost. Muscles carved hard, skin rippled with goose bumps, tendons drawn tight, body scraped and shivering. Something rolled over his legs, velvet soft and shocking. He gasped and pulled seawater into his lungs, the salt scouring his throat. Gagging, he pushed forward, scrabbling at dark stones. The ocean tugged, but he fought the last ragged feet crawling like a child.
As the wave receded it drew pebbles rattling across one another like bones, like dice, like static. A seagull shrieked its loneliness.
His lungs burned, and he leaned on his elbows and retched, liquid pouring in ropes from his open mouth, salt water and stomach acid. A lot, and then less, and finally he could spit the last drops, suck in quick shallow lungfuls of air that smelled of rotting fish.
In. Cough it out. There. There.
His hands weren't his. Paler than milk and trembling with a panicky violence. He couldn't make them stop. He'd never been so cold.
What was he doing here?
Like waking from sleepwalking, he couldn't remember. It didn't matter. The cold was filling him, killing him, and if he wanted to live he had to move.
He rolled onto his side. An apocalyptic beach, water frothing beneath a shivering sky, wind a steady howl over the shoals, whipping the saw grass to strain its roots. Not another person as far as he could see.
Had to move. His muscles screamed. He staggered upright and tried a tentative step. His thoughts were signals banged down frozen wires; after an eon his legs responded. His feet were bloody.
One step. Another. The wind a lash against his dripping skin. The beach sloped hard upward. Each step brought muscles a little more under his control. The motion warming them, oh god, warming them to razors and nails and blood gone acid. He concentrated on breathing, each inhale a marker. Make it to the next one. Five more. Don't quit until twenty. Goddamn you, breathe.
The boulders the ocean had broken to pebbles gave way to those it hadn't yet, broad stones with moss marking the leeward side, spaced with pools of dark water where spiny things waited. He stumbled from one rock to the next until he reached the top.
As lonely and blasted a stretch of earth as any he'd seen. Black rocks and foaming sea and sky marked only by the passage of birds. No. Wait.
He blinked, tried to focus. Two thin dirt tracks led to a splotch of color, a boxy shape. A car. Legs cramping. Breath shallow. He couldn't force his lungs to take. To draw enough. Air. The shivering easing. Bad sign. His feet tangled and he fell. Inches from his eyes, pale grass spotted and marked by the appetite of insects. The ground wasn't so bad. Almost soft. Easy now. Easy to go.
No.
Crawl. Elbows scraping. Knees. Forearms going blue. Blueberries, blue water, blue eyes.
He reached the trunk, pulled himself up, the metal burning cold. Slouched his way to the door and bent stiff fingers around the handle.
Please.
The door opened. He maneuvered around it and fell into the smell of leather. His legs wouldn't move. It took both arms to pull them in, one at a time. Gripping the burnished handle, he yanked the door shut. The wind's laughter died.
Instead of a key there was a push-button start. He slapped at it, missed, slapped again. The engine roared to life.
The man turned the heat all the way up and collapsed against the seat.

A soft time. Warm air making his body ache and tingle and finally ease. For a while the man stared at the ceiling, head lolled back. Content to watch the drifting spots in his eyes. Tiny floating things that he could only see when he didn't try to look at them. He didn't think about where he was, or why, or who the car belonged to and when they might return, or whether they would be happy to find a naked man dripping on the leather seats.
Just cowered like an animal in his den, the doors locked and heat blasting.
After a long time—how long he had no idea—he felt himself coming back. Surfacing like he was waking from a nap. Words and questions swirling leaves from an October tree, tossed and spinning and never touching the ground.
Gasoline. That was one. Gasoline. What did…
Oh. He straightened, rubbed at his eyes. His muscles weak and languid. The fuel gauge read almost empty. He shut off the engine.
So. Where was he?
The car was gorgeous. A BMW according to the logo in the steering wheel, with gauges like an airplane cockpit. The seats were leather, the trim brushed aluminum, and the dash had a computer display. But the thing was a mess. Socks and a pair of Nikes rested on the floorboards on his side; the passenger seat was buried in maps and take-out bags and soda cups and empty blister packs of ephedrine and gas station receipts and a worn U.S. road atlas and a fifth of Jack Daniel's with an inch left in it.
Hello.
He opened the whiskey, swallowed half the remainder in a gulp. It burned in the best possible way.
Now that it wasn't killing him, the world outside had a kind of desolate beauty. Lonely, though. Other than the narrow two-track the car was parked on, there was no sign of people in either direction. And while he hadn't been fully conscious the whole time, he hadn't seen anyone since he'd climbed in the car.
So then…
How had he gotten here?
Where the fuck was here and what was he doing in it?
Calm. Don't panic. You're safe. Just think about what happened. How you ended up here. You… you…
Nothing.
He closed his eyes, jammed them tight. Opened them again.
Nothing had changed. Had he been drinking? Drugged? Retrace your steps. You were… You were…
It was like that terrible moment he sometimes had waking up in a strange environment, in the dark of a friend's living room, or in a hotel, that period where his brain hadn't yet come online and everything was automatic, just panic and readiness and fear, the tension of waiting for certainty to click, for normalcy to fall like a warm blanket. That moment always passed. It passed, and he remembered where he was and what he was doing there.
Right?
He set the whiskey down, gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Focus.
Focus!
Outside, the wind whistled. The trees looked like they'd been on fire, dark black trunks spreading to broad limbs marked by a handful of stubborn orange and yellow leaves, the last embers.
Okay. Something must have happened. An after-effect of hypothermia, some kind of shock. Don't force it. Tease it. Coax it out. Like the floaters in your eyes, you can't drag this front and center. Come at it sideways.
Your brain seems to work. Use it. Where are you?
A rocky beach. Cold. He could taste the salt on his lips, knew this was an ocean. Which one?
The question was crazy, but he worked it anyway. Let one thing lead to the next. The dashboard clock read 7:42. The sun was just a brighter shade of gray above the waves, but it was higher than before. Which made it morning, which made that east, which made this the Atlantic. Assuming he was still in the United States. Yes. The road atlas.
Okay. The Atlantic. And cold and rocky and sparsely inhabited. Maine, maybe?
Why not. Roll with that. "This is Maine." His voice cracked. He coughed, then continued. "I'm in a BMW. It's morning."
Nothing.
A bank envelope was curled in the cup holder. Inside was a stack of twenties, several hundred dollars. Under the envelope there was something silver that turned out to be a stainless steel Rolex Daytona. Nice watch. Very nice watch.
What else? He leaned over to open the glove box. There was an owner's manual, a key ring with a BMW clicker, three pens, a pack of Altoids, a sealed box of ephedrine, and a large black gun.
He stared. An owner's manual, a key ring with a BMW clicker, three pens, a pack of Altoids, a sealed box of ephedrine, and a large black gun. A semiautomatic, he noticed, then wondered how he could know that and not remember where he had been before he woke up on the beach. Or worse, even his own—
Stop. Don't go there. If you don't face it, maybe it's not true.
The trunk.
He stepped out. The wind whipped his naked body, and his skin tightened into goose bumps. His balls tried to retract into his belly. He stepped gingerly to the back of the car on bloody toes.
Would there be a body in there? Handcuffed and shot in the head, maybe, or rolled in a carpet, hair and boots spilling out.
No: it held only jumper cables and a plastic shopping bag with a red bull's-eye on it. He opened the bag. A pair of designer jeans, a white undershirt with pits stained yellow, crumpled boxer briefs, wadded-up socks. Someone's laundry.
He looked around again. In for a penny.
He shook out the underwear, stepped into it. The jeans were soft and worn, expensive looking. Too fancy for Target, and dirty to boot. Maybe the Target purchases had been a change of clothes. He wriggled into the shirt then slammed the trunk. Climbed back in the car, the air inside wonderful, stiflingly warm. The sour smell of feet rose as he wriggled into the sneakers.
Then he sat and stared out the window.
How had he known that red bull's-eye was the Target logo? How had he known the watch was a Rolex? Or that Jack Daniel's was whiskey, and that he liked whiskey?
How was it that he knew the BMW key fob had an RFID chip that activated the push button start, knew Maine was in the northeast, could identify the symptoms of hypothermia, could glance at a stack of twenties and know it was several hundred dollars—he could do all of that, but he couldn't remember his own goddamn—
He reached for the owner's manual in the glove box, careful not to touch the gun. The book was bound in black leather. Inside the front cover was a registration card and proof of insurance. Both in the name of Daniel Hayes, resident of 6723 Wandermere Road, Malibu, California.
Huh.
He climbed out of the car, walked to the back. California plates.
Who wandered away from a ninety-thousand-dollar car and left the key in the glove box? Where would they go in the middle of nowhere?
And the clothes. The shoes fit. The jeans felt familiar.
Calling yourself Daniel Hayes is a start. Try it on, just like the jeans.
Daniel got back in the car, put on his watch, then cranked the ignition and pulled away.

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