Thursday, September 17, 2015

Fathers and Sons

In the last few days we discussed in class a few things that are characteristic of Hemingway's stories and seem to be continuous throughout In Our Time. Some of these themes inluded: Hemingway's portrayal of women and the single man going off on his own, demonstrating his comepetency (especially in "Big Two-Hearted River"). One of the things that I noticed, that we only briefly touched on was the dynamic between fathers and sons in Hemingways stories.

In both "Indian Camp" and "My Old Man," Hemingway depicts the sons viewing their fathers with great admiration. Both of these stories are show a "bring your kid to work" of sorts, and in each the son is glad to be able to tag along and is reverent of his father's work. 
For example in "My Old Man" we see Joe talking about his affection for his father:

"When I'd sit watching him work out I sure felt fond of him. He sure was fun and he done his work so hard." (Page 116)

and later on page 126:

"Gee I could listen to my old man talk by the hour, especially when he'd had a couple or so of drinks"

Hemingway's depiction of the interactions between fathers and sons makes me wonder what kind of relationship Hemingway had with his own father. Was it just as he writes the ones in his stories, a great admiration for his father? Or perhaps does Hemingway write his characters with the relationship he wished he had shared with his father. It would be interesting to know which one is the real relationship he had with his "old man."

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Tim O'Brien's "Truths"

The further we progress into Tim O'Brien's collection, The Things They Carried, the more it seems that O'Brien is purposefully blurring the lines between the semi-fictional "truths" in the book and the reality of the events. Even though it appears that most (if not all) of the stories in the book are based on the actual experiences of O'Brien and Alpha Company, the reality he presents in the stories doesn't always reflect the facts of the their experiences. It seems to me that he does this as a way to get us (the readers) thinking about what actually matters in the stories, what we are supposed to pay attention to and what we are supposed to come away with.

In "How to Tell a True War Story," O'Brien says that a true war story has no moral, that there is no "lesson" that one shold take from a true war story. This really fits in with his presentation of the "truth" because in neing unusure whether or not the events O'Brien describes actually happened, the only thing that the reader can take from the stories are the feelings and emotions taht were conveyed rather than the actual facts. By keeping from us the reality of the stories, he is telling a "true war story." There are no morals or lessons to draw from the events themselves since there is always a possibility that O'Brien made them all up. However the factuality of the events doesn't change the experiences and sensory details that O'Brien is trying to convey.

One good example of this is in the story "The Ghost Soldiers," when O'Brien is describing the conditions in which the events of the story are taking place. He says "you're not human anymore. You're a shadow. You slip out of your own skin like molting, shedding your own history and your own future, leaving behind everything you ever were or wanted or believed in. You know you're about to die" None of that is factual detail from the story, but it does just as good of a job conveying the feelings that O'Brien wants us to experience.

In the end I think Tim O'Brien just doesn't want us to get hung up on the details of his story, like he described in "How to Tell a True War Story," in the bit about the woman that always comes up to him afterwards to comment on a particular detail that really made the story for her. Even though those seens are there to evoke emotions, O'Brien doesn't want readers to take the facts of the scenes at face value, that would be missing the point, he simply wants us to understand the experiences and the feelings of the stories.