Societal Alzheimers

Does anyone remember the wide-spread pseudo-panic that swept the country this time last year? The vehemence with which we all mercifully chattered about the inevitability of our fates? I do. And I find it quite odd that staring at the same date that two years ago would spin our country into a societal meltdown brings only a smile to our faces. Allow me to elaborate, as the Mayan Calendar supposedly predicts, the world and all of its wrongdoings will meet a swift and violent end come December 21st 2012. When this theory came began to become publicized by the media the peoples interest morphed into gut wrenching fear. Maybe this theory no longer fell under the category of a simple conspiracy? The thought crossed my mind more than once, and rightfully so. Within days of comprehending the apparent severity of the situation I along with millions of others contributed to "December 21st apocalypse" as the most searched term on google for 2010. As I scoured scores of websites I came across methods of our demise ranging from planetary collision to zombie infections. What crushed my dismal hope of survival further came with the release of John Cusack and all his glory in the cinematic flub of the century 2012. This film lit the fuse, turning an already impressionable mentality into a cacophony of despair. Millions searching for this event turned into hundreds of millions, including myself and it got to the point of absurdity that NASA began releasing articles disproving the theory in order to calm the public. However, their release only calmed the those skeptical of it in the first place and for the most part, those plagued with concern found no solace. With all of the internal chaos swarming around for the weeks after the film I can still remember my little cousin coming to me teary eyed asking about the verity of his certain end. At that point a realization struck me that only have us as a people created this mad theory to the point of ludicrousy. As I sat there explaining the scientific and archaeological evidence in as best a way a nine year old could comprehend I found myself feeling more relaxed than him, even though he simply smiled and went to finish his hot wheels track. With my explanation of the impracticality of such a stellar end I found myself feeling elated, on a higher tier of thought than everyone else still frantically searching for reassurance. However, this great catastrophe of panic and outrage fizzled as quickly as it detonated, exemplifying an overdone theme in life: time, does in fact heal everything. Within weeks conversations never even contained a hint of the subject, as a matter of fact, when I brought it up to see what reaction I would net, all I got was an indifferent shrug. To this day this mystifies me. How could those who seemed so ignorantly humble in the face of the “ apocalypse” now hold less interest and fear than I? Well, maybe the answer lies in the overdone theme of time healing all wounds, or quite frankly, the lack thereof, honestly, all this shows: society gets bored. Yes, this profound absence of emotion over an event so turbulent that it prompted thoughts of suicide among pockets of our population all boils down to societies innocent boredom, the passing of a trend. Quickly our minds rerouted themselves from fiery death to Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez kissing at the beach, which I suppose acts for the better. Society seems to function much better when they sit panting over their computers fretting over the ending to Gossip Girl rather than purchasing the deeds to underground bunkers to ride out a solar flare, hurricane, earthquake, tsunami storm. Thus, the beauty of our society resides in our ability to move on when necessary, and never look back, thankfully. Because if we did not possess this ability then our town of Chagrin Falls would most likely find itself in a frenzied destruction over our judgement day this Friday, which on the bright side would mean no school. I mean, if we had a hurricane day already who says a pre-apocalypse day seems like too much to ask?

Envy: A Fuel For Inspiration

The pompous, the wealthy, and well, those just shy of royalty, we all stumble upon their lairs every once in awhile. Sometimes we just observe their affluence from the road in a solemn wonder, staring at the fruits of capitalism. In no way am I critical of the extravagancy these people enjoy, for the most part they earned their living and consequently elicit respect from my envious gaze. Living in the area we do, Chagrin Falls, upper-middle to upper class living hardly makes me bat an eye anymore, just a way of life. However, this past spring break I traveled to the epicenter of the one percent, ground zero of  opulence, pinnacle of the american dream: Malibu, California. Mansions and Porsches that left me in envy here gave way to oceanside villas and Bugattis there. Hence, I found myself in a bit of a stupor driving down the Pacific Coast Highway getting passed by Ferraris with massive sprawls of gated estates and the pristine beaches competing for my attention. I sat there picking up my jaw from the floor so frequently my arms became sore. These people have, with no exaggeration, everything. Now I understand the implications of this claim: "Oh but I'm sure they are not truly happy", or "They could have depression". Surely their lives must lack some aspect that could help alleviate the sheer jealousy of those driving past the massive sprawls of their beachfront property. Yet, when I went for a stroll on the beaches, passing by the owners of these lavish palaces and fast cars, all of them had a vitality in their eyes that only a sense pure contentment could bring. These people possessed this incredible lack of worry and consternation to my sheer disbelief. However, where most find themselves cringing with jealousy, prying their perfection for a downfall, a kink in their armour, I found myself studying them, their mannerisms, the way they carry themselves. Yes, instead of envy my consciousness honed in on interest, instead of disgust I felt inspiration. The CEO’s, entrepreneurs, and inventors walking alongside me on this beach did in fact have it all. But, they took the same strides as I, they kicked up the sand the same way I did, their hair blew in the wind the same as mine. This parade of success on Zuma beach struck home a precious thought: these people are only human. Sure, I do not know their life story, how they acquired their profound achievement, but I do know that within myself awaits a lustful ambition much akin to what must reside within their own minds. The only thing standing in between my life at a desk job working a nine to five, and diving into an infinity pool overlooking the Pacific: the key to unlock the ambition stowed away within my mind, within all of our minds, and forge it into fruition. To find the key, one must simply find a motivation, an inspiration, and for me that rests within my memories of staring in awe at the vigor of the successful. Thus, I do not look back to the shores of Malibu with a passive longing for the lives of those I walked next to on that beach. But rather, I think back to that pristine shoreline confident that someday I will strut through that same sand which instilled in me inspiration, with a smile of contentment upon my face, knowing I made it. Does that sound a little overconfident? It might, but it not matter, for I have found the key, and the journey starts here.

The Great Gatsby: A Great Conspiracy

Hardly ever do I encounter profound epiphanies, they seem quite rare in their timing and presence, but then again that probably constitutes their profundity. Furthermore, the categorization of an epiphany varies for many and usually encompasses a life altering revelation, maybe at lest a temporarily ameliorating or devastating thought. However, today during the last thirty seconds of my ever awakening first period AP English class an epiphany struck me with the force of a Mack truck t-boning a Smart car. What if Nick's luck of moving into a proverbial "shack" so seemingly different from all other houses in the area, mansions of sorts, took place at the hand of the mysterious Gatsby himself? Does not it seem suspicious that this man with no prevalent reputation lands a house right next to the vast estate of the fantastic Mr. Gatsby? However outlandish this may seem, and however idiotic I may look to many of my peers who unlike myself have read this classic already, it may just come to fruition. For instance, a questionable deal lands an astray Nick Carraway next to Mr. Gatsby in the first place reflecting on how an unnamed young man "suggests [they] take a house together" (3). Normal, yes, but at the last minute "a firm ordered him to Washington" (3). Thus, I believe Gatsby played a hand in that young associate of Nick's convincing him to move right next to him, where he would remain at the disposal of Mr. Gatsby, who we found out in our last reading desperately needs the help of Nick. How seemingly perfect to have Mr. Carraway, the key to reaching Daisy, quite literally at his doorstep. Now, before jumping to conclusions that all of this seems a conspiratorial claim one must account for the resourcefulness of Gatsby as seen in chapter four. He feverishly searches for Daisy, cutting out newspaper clippings of her in the Chicago newspapers, eventually moving into an incredibly expensive mansion just across the bay from her. Therefore, Gatsby obviously has no reason not to do research to find a connection with Daisy in the form of Nick he could use to bridge the abyss that grew between him and his lost love. The idea that the same man that has cities like "Chicago calling him on the wire" and "lived...in all the capitals of Europe" (48, 65) possess the ability to pull strings in such a manner to track and influence an average man from the Midwest does not seem so brash. Finally, the finishing touch on my pseudo-revolutionary epiphany comes with the motivation that backs his drive to perform all of theses tasks to get to woman across the bay. What more could a man with seemingly everything, money, cars...hydroplanes want? Maybe he wants the one material possession that can complete structure of his happiness: love. The one thing he can not purchase with money or influence he can not have, and thus he channels his ambition, I would say more-so than greed, to put Nick under his influence, and acquire that which lays just beyond his reach, the green light across the bay, his own american dream, love.

The Redefinition of an Undefinable Word

Happiness, yes, my entire class probably detests the word now thanks to its fervent over usage in discussions, writings and homework as of late. The word itself so seemingly bland and overdone yet so inherently inexplicable. Not a single person could paste a concrete and universal definition to those three syllables. However, I find solace in Albert Camus' take on the elusive noun: "You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life". Although Camus may seem a hopeless pessimist based upon this quote, I can not help but find this cynical outlook on happiness...eye-opening. Oddly enough, it makes perfect sense: if one plagues themselves with searching for happiness, how could they know when they finally obtain it? Unfortunately, I have absolutely no possible answer to that question, at all. And more importantly, why should I? The way I see it, nobody should possess the ability to answer such a conundrum. To give happiness a criteria parallels the absurdity of giving fun a strict set of rules. Thus, happiness itself must remain untethered. However, people do not seem to like such ambiguity when it comes to emotions, as far as society concerns themselves they either come in black or white. And, therein lays the problem, in order for society to feel comforted they must have the ability to categorize themselves as happy. For some it could come with a new car, for others something as simple as going for a walk around the block on a warm night. Yet, both extremes seem to always long for what the other has that makes them happy. The wealthy man, sitting in their new Porsche may see the walker with his kids strolling the block, on that warm summer night, smile on his face, and then long for that, just wanting to lay low and take a walk with his own family. On the contrary, those who find joy in a warm breezy night walking, hand in hands with their kids may long for the delicacies of life, maybe that Porsche that just drove by. Evidently, happiness comes differently for each and every one of us, and we must relish in what we know we have that brings a smile to our faces, not longing for what brings a grin to the faces of others. As Mr. Camus might agree, one must cherish their own treasures in life as opposed to wishing to experience the bounty of others, not in a selfish way but in revolutionary way, rewrite what happiness means to society, and tailor it around what it means to you.

An Examination of the Specimen Known as: "The New Kid'

The new kid, we all can picture him: quiet, shooting quick grins at his new peers who still appear so foreign. You know, the kid aspiring to find his place, working diligently to play it cool,  fit in, yet always managing to make an utter fool of himself. Ah yes, the wonders of the ever elusive new student, an interesting specimen, one that I have a special familiarity with, after all, I walked through the front doors of Chagrin Falls middle school as one myself not too long ago. Switching schools does not come with ease, as I discovered quite rapidly. Packing up my belongings, trading familiarization for uncharted territories. Free falling took on a whole new meaning when I dove into the abyss and  left behind my closest comrades while embarking on a new and furtive chapter in my life to the "bubble" of Chagrin Falls. My journey only entailed a 20 minute drive from Shaker Heights, but to me, I might as well have crossed an ocean. Yes, I will admit it, I whined, complained and wanted to return to my roots on Van Aken Boulevard, however my displacement in no way trumps that of the amiable Joseph in Roddy Doyle's 2008 short story New Boy. Whilst we did in fact share the same label of a "new boy" at one point in our lives that seems to act as the only similarity myself and the African Refugee share. However, when reading about Joseph's predicament's on his first day of school I found myself humbled by the way he handles his predicaments. While I did not exactly come to face death threats from obnoxious bullies on my first day of school down at the "prestigious" Chagrin Falls Middle School I did manage to stumble with pronouncing my last name for some profound reason, nerves I suppose. Although a menial mistake, I let it wrench at my inner consciousnesses  For the next four days I convinced myself everyone thought I rivaled that of a dunce, an overreaction of course but what could a thirteen year old do to tell himself otherwise? I still look back upon that first week and think that there existed no better way to have handed that situation, even though I handled it poorly, until the humble and naive Joseph proved me otherwise. When confronted with a situation, exponentially more dire than my own, a simple "you're dead" from the class bully Christian Kelly, young Joseph simply brushes it off thinking "all men must grow and...die" (82). A profoundly simple thought, all men must grow up, and all of us will eventually die, although his naivety obviously plays a role in his oddly unconcerned reaction he did in fact teach me a valuable lesson. While I fretted over a matter so simple , yet so ludicrously complicated thanks to my worry over what others think, Joseph simply takes matters where they stand, not over analyzing, just an innocent interpretation of an empty threat. I now realize, although five years too late, that through the same innocence and simplification, nobody even knew the right way to pronounce my name, and more importantly, nobody cared. Thus, Joseph left me with a clear understanding that sometimes a tinge of naivety fused with a little simplicity, can make the first day of school's problems, and life in general a little more bearable for us new kids.

The Ethical Divide: An Inquiry Upon Justification Versus Meaning

The discussion which our class shared over "The Second Bakery Attack" by Haruki Murakami still weasels its way into my thoughts every now and then, particularly concerning the subject of whether or not the robbery the couple partakes in constitutes necessity. For the most part my class stood on fairly even planes regarding the issue, around half of us, including myself, contending that the robbery saves their still infantile love, others leaning back upon robbery's immoral values. I however could not let go of the highly blurred moral line between the two, and how my peers and I seemed to support something so inherently wrong with such vehemence  The illegality of armed robbery does not ever come into mind as something that deserves further inquiry, yet, the severity of the robbery in the case of the troubled lovers does not seem comparable to that of such a crime. Therein, lays the point of contention. The issue with the discussion rests within the fact that the author wrote the story under the genre of fiction, fiction represents a theme, a lesson learned behind the story, and that seemed to have escaped the thoughts of those who only saw the robbery as illegal. These contenders kept retreating to the grounds of robbery's horrid nature, the illegality  the sheer horror! Yet, the author obviously did not intend to pen a short story with the purpose of simply condemning robbery. I believe the sincerity behind the robbery that arose thanks to their adventure breeds a new found intimacy among the two lovers. Thus, the author intends for the immoral characteristics of robbery to take a spot on the back burner and for the reader to simply look at the profound change within the couple's relationship and not spend so much time focusing on the crime itself. Accordingly, some of peers could not seem to grasp that concept over the injustice of the couple's misadventure. Therefore, I think that the author raises an interesting assertion by simply leaving the story open for the reader's discussion as so happened in my class. The assertion that the justification of right and wrong trumps the freedom of thought to interpret the meaning of what lays between the two. The salvaging love versus the robbery's ethical wrongness falls into this grey area and presented it's relevance to his assertion in our discussion. Thus, I can reflect on the confliction between the two standpoints as a prime example of how the author's assertion demonstrates itself in the minds of my generation. The sharp contrast between the two camps of thought among my peers, proving just how differently our synapses fire when it comes to justifying something so concrete as robbery, to something to abstract as love.

The Case of the Missing Theme

If I had a chance to sit down with the Pulitzer Prize winning author Elizabeth Strout I would have several inquiries in which I would like to see answered. However, one such question regarding her 2008 novel Olive Kitteridge has meddled itself into my thoughts since finishing the book and even during the story itself. "What is the overall theme of your novel"? It seems such a basic, shallow, and unspecific question however I can not seem to pinpoint an overall purpose for the story. The brunt of the issue lays within the way Strout writes: thirteen separate stories within themselves each with ostensibly little to no underlying connections with one another. Aside from basic plot developments connecting from one story to the next unearthing a carrying over theme seems nearly hopeless. Given, each story has its own set theme which presents itself without much need for analyzation. For instance, the theme of Ship in a Bottle: "sometimes one has to sacrifice what they think is right choice for the betterment of others". Strout proves this theme when Winnie's sister runs off with her boyfriend instructing Winnie not to tell anyone. Consequently, Winnie "almost cried" due to her yearning to tell her parents, and second guessed herself thinking "they could still do it [get her sister], she was still here" (197). However, Winnie does not give it up until her sister had already left, validating the theme. Likewise, other passages have their individual themes, take A Different Road  for example, Strout includes an individual theme of how "One needs to cherish everyday because anything can happen". This exemplifies itself in how quickly a normal day turned into a life or death situation for Olive. When at the hospital for a surprise check-up "A tall man holding a rifle" and a "person in a blue ski mask" take her and her husband hostage (113). They end up making it out alive but not after they have guns pointed at their heads and threats made, this external conflict supports the theme associated once more exemplifying how each story has its own theme. However, therein lay the problem for me. I could not help but search for a connection, a vague similarity, I expected that the last story would provide some sense of closure. Unfortunately the last story seems to posses its own theme as well. Not to mention no connecting of the characters or events took place at the end either which I could bear, but still the question keeps nagging me. Without a universal theme, however ambiguous, how can there be a true purpose? So please Elizabeth Strout, drop me a hint here, what did you intend for the universal theme? Unless each individual theme somehow harnesses a purpose which I have yet to ascertain.

Ovations for Olive

During the first third of Elizabeth Strout's 2008 novel Olive Kitteridge I harbored a slight resentment towards the pseudo main character Olive due to her seemingly insensitive behavior. For example, when in the presence of company, her husband Henry accidentally knocks ketchup over, and she sneers: "Leave it alone, Henry. For God's sake" (7). Olive's derisive tone through the commanding diction of "leave it" makes for quite an uncomfortable situation for her guests. Not only does this spout of anger leave her one guest "looking stricken" but it also indirectly characterizes Olive as spastic but it also forms a slightly menacing persona for her (7). Likewise, my disdainful feelings towards Olive arose once again when at her son's wedding a sobbing sister-in-law asked Olive if she cried at weddings to which olive replied "I don't see any reason to cry" (67). The juxtaposition of a seemingly crass Olive against her emotional counterpart furthers Olive's seemingly cold and inhumane persona. Thus, I could not help but hold a standoffish  mentality against Olive and her sheer apathy for others . However, further on in my reading I began to notice my feelings for her evolve into more of an appreciation for her cynical tones and realistic outlooks on life due to signs of her not being so tough and insensitive after all . For instance, when Olive finally spends time with Chris in New York City she could "not let go of a certain happiness inside her" (220). Strout indirectly characterizes Olive as upbeat, dare I say, jovial and she has finally began to shed her persona of a dispassionate hermit. Olive's dynamic character delves into so many levels, but through this "happiness inside her" she seems to embody a characteristic which every other character has had from the beginning: emotion. I can not help but crack a smile knowing Olive finally has something to smile about herself.  Likewise, the unfamiliar personality of Olive arises again when Rebecca recollects that Olive had told her "If you ever want to talk to me about anything", she could (242). The reassuring tone via the friendly diction of "anything" shines Olive in a light unlike any before, Strout interestingly reveals Olive's gentle and compassionate side through another characters story instead of through Olive's own dialogue. Furthermore, Strout indirectly characterizes Olive as benevolent, a characterization which I had never expected to associate with her, especially back during her days as a school teacher. I am now beginning to believe that Olive has a tough exterior but under her thick figure and allegedly horrid dresses lies a warm, wise person enduring a struggle to uphold her facade as a resilient and tenacious woman.

Conservative Charazterization

The main characteristic that makes Elizabeth Strout's 2008 novel Olive Kitteridge shed the visage of a painfully average book would undoubtedly be the vast amount of characters present in the story. Not only does Strout introduce fresh new characters each chapter but she also paints the characters in their own unique image abstractly detailing them within sometimes just a few sentences. Thus, Strout provides the reader with an opportunity to make accurate assumptions about the characters without spending countless pages describing them all. For example, when introducing Henry Kitteridge Strout simply states that he "Retired now" and how he "wakes early as though the world were his secret" (3). Whilst this may not seem like much Strout says so much about Henry's character which I can easily interpret. For instance, the direct characterization of Henry as a retired man indicates he has quite a few years under his belt  which could give me the sense of him as a decrepit old man. However, by including the simile about Henry's mornings seving as "his secret" Strout gives the apparent husband to Olive Kitteridge a slightly whimsical and friendly charm. Furthermore, Strout indirectly characterizes Henry as innocent and almost child-like through having his own little "secret" time alone with the world. Although this might all seem like an opinion, it holds true later on in the story when Henry exemplifies his inferred friendly and innocent persona by  inviting his employees over for dinner, or having the "need to keep everyone content" (4). Likewise Strout's ability to  inadvertently describe a character furthers itself when first discussing how Christopher's new wife Suzanne "will take over...coming from money the way she does" (63). On the surface Strout seems to only indirectly characterize her as wealthy. However by saying this through the often accusatory tone of Olive Kitteridge I am led to infer that she posses the qualities of a spoiled brat. Furthermore, the foreshadowing of Suzannanne "taking over" Christopher's life led me to believe she will act as more of an omen to Olive and Henry rather than a loving daughter-in-law. Again, my inferences thanks to Strout's open-ended characterization of Suzanne as a control freak prove accurate once more when Chris tells his mom that "Suzanne and I are moving to California" (142). Through Strout's ability to develop a persona through only a sentence or two I have come to appreciate the vast amount of characters that I would otherwise detest due to the prospect of memorizing them all.

A beautiful end to a book about, well, a beautiful end.

The end of Kurt Vonnegut's 1963 novel Cat's Cradle left me feeling content but wanting more, not in the sense of the story missing something, but the longing for more of Vonnegut's writing. The story stayed true to it's thematically ironic approach and overall lighthearted yet cynical tone. However, the frequently foreshadowed Apocalypse due to the chemical meant to free soldiers from mud in WWII played out beautifully, entertaining my always high expectations. The description of the world covered in the "poisonous blue-white frost" of ice-nine actually seemed like slightly pretty imagery if you take away the fact that frozen corpses litter the ground (189). Honestly, the place sounds pretty peaceful to me, I would not mind a little scenery change, or some peace and quiet, Vonnegut manages to make the demise of the planet Earth eerily serene. Unlike the modern pop-culture references to a bloody, fiery, damning end to a pathetic humanity which so many movies and books depict, Vonnegut, who even wrote during a time where this outcome could certainly happen, took a different approach, dousing the fear of those reading it by making the end of the book, and the end of the world itself, seem slightly tolerable. Furthermore,  the tone the speaker Jonah uses seems consistently accepting of the doom, and keeping in stride with the book, cynical. For example, Jonah declares that life with the few survivors left on the frozen rock called Earth "had a certain Walt Disney charm" (198). The allusion to the jovial childhood filmmaker gave me a sense that living in a post-apocolyptic wasteland really gets a bad rap and that in Vonnegut's eyes, it can have a "carefree" feeling to it. Thus, the nontraditional depiction of the end times appealed to me in a way that made me want to go hang out with Jonah and his rag-tag gang of misfit survivors, however crazy that may seem. But all in all the ending of the great saga known as Cat's Cradle turned out perfectly. Vonnegut keep the visage of a book centered around mocking the turbulent days of the Cold War and the apocalypse which everyone feared, coloring the then unpredictable and frightening future with a tinge of humor.

There are two things in this world that anger me: parking meters without the "first ten minutes free" button, and Hazel Crosby

Although Kurt Vonnegut's 1963 novel Cat's Cradle boasts a variety of amiable and quirky characters, each with their own distinguishing characteristics, which usually seem to take shape in the form of flaws, one character makes me want to vacate planet earth altogether. She goes by the name Hazel Crosby, the wife of the pompous and pudgy businessman H. Lowe Crosby whom seeks a new force of sweatshop laborers in San Lorenzo. Although the motives of her husband might make him seem like the one to detest, I could not help but cringe at every word of his wife. Hazel embodies every stereotype of a ditsy, obnoxious american imaginable. For example, when ranting about her and the speaker Jonas' status as "Hoosiers" she urges "You call me mom" (65). This comes off in an extremely creepy way due to her oddly commanding tone for something that would otherwise be seemingly cute for an older lady to say. However her overly-friendly mannerism combined with her direct characterization as "heavy" and with a "twangy accent" paints a horrific image of everything I am ashamed of in America (63). More specifically, that image presents itself in the form of an overweight, rosy cheeked middle-aged woman with curlers scattered around her thinning blond hair. However innocent this may seem by itself, when combined with being a total ignoramus Hazel becomes the epitome of an arrogant American as seen in the eyes of the world over. Furthermore, my seething frusturation with Hazel arises when after exiting the plane and seeing the locals she quips, "good thing its a christian island" or else she would "be a little scared" (98). Because being christian automatically fornicates the goodness in people, sarcasm intended, Miss Crosby narrow-mindedness shines through her plump physique once more. Thus, prompting me to feel a tinge of embarrassment for being associated with people such as her, however fictional her character may be. The picture perfect religion spewing, oafish american as seen in Miss Crosby manages to set off every one of my pet peeves in one fell swoop creating a foil to other more likable characters in the novel such as the always cleverly cynical speaker, Jonah. l;

It is so difficult to think of something witty to call this post that im being that guy that says "insert title here", i am not proud of this.

              The structure in which Kurt Vonnegut's 1963 novel, Cat's Cradle presents itself appeals so highly to me that two days after purchasing the book I am nearing the final ten pages. Through a melange of quick, anecdotal-like passages making up the entirety of the story, Vonnegut presents a foundation unlike any other book I have ever slaved through under the powerful fist of Ms. Serensky. For instance, the author's passages vary in size, some half a page like "Baracuda Capital of the World", others two or more pages like "Enemies of Freedom" but they always stay consistently short and that accounts for a cool change of pace from books with chapters that drag on so long they disrupt the space-time continuum (58,162). Likewise, the titles of each, "vignette", if you will, have a sometimes vague or sarcastic connection foreshadowing the content of the following passage. Take the one called "The Happiness of Being an American" for example, the sarcastic tone via the verbally ironic diction of "Happiness" coincides with the following passage depicting the arrogant American "entrepreneur" Mr. Crosby calling the well-off owner of the island hotel a "pissant" (110). The theme of the passage obviously being speakers embarrassment of being associated with Americans such as Mr. Crosby. With each title and vignette comes a new development to the story and since Vonnegut lays each out in chronological order the story flows seamlessly engrossing me to the point where after each passage I would try to barter with myself to just read one more, but I kept outsmarting myself to continue reading. Furthermore, the choppy syntax and witty tone of the voice in the novel: Jonah, compiles itself into a familiar, cynical style of dialogue making for a jocular read. For example when enveloped in what are usually one-sided converstations about matters that seem to interest others but no much Jonah he responds sarcastically "um", "nope", "uh huh" (65, 66). The sarcastic tone brought about by the juxtaposition of his short sarcastic quips to the sometimes paragraph long speeches of the other characters develops a witty form of dialogue allowing for a kind of "inside joke" between myself and Jonah when he finds himself trapped in conversation. Consequently, the humor of this novel spawns in part to the recurrence of remarks like these and his consistently "uninterested" tone of dialogue allowing for a quiet snicker here and there. In short, the style of writing all seems to revolve around the short vignettes combined with the cynically ironic tone of the speaker making for a fresh twist to the usually linear and shallow writing styles of previous chapter books I have encountered.

Ottomotive is back in buissness

After Larry "checks himself out" from the hospital at the end of the Tom Franklin's 2010 novel Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter a new chapter of his life begins to unfold for the better. Thus the most important exchange signifying this comes when Silas, whom dumped Larry as a friend and ignored him in the past, asks "you might look at the carburetor for me?" (271). This simple question has so much underlying meaning to it and represents a positive change in not only Silas' persona in that of a reignited friendship with Larry, but also Larry's acceptance in his town of Chabot. Silas acts as a synecdoche for the habitants of Chabot whom previously ostracized Larry, unfairly, but now accept him due to his proven innocence. This newfound change in acceptance presents itself in Silas' inquiry to Larry's mechanical skills left untapped due to his conviction as a killer. Throughout the novel, Franklin uses Larry's mechanic shop as a symbol of his loneliness: "the bay door always raised and waiting", "hoping for a knock, a belt to squeal" (27,95). The parallelism of his lonely life, cast aside by society finally gets put to rest when Silas asks Larry this simple question. Silas' friendly tone via the casual diction of "you" infers a level of new found intimacy with Larry that no single person has established since Cindy Walker went missing. Thus establishing he will become the first customer of Ottomotive in decades signifying a formal end to his ostracization when the bay doors click open with a defined purpose as opposed to sitting open and waiting.Furthermore, I think the synecdoche of Silas evolves through this question to hint that from now on the same people who called the poor man "Scary Larry" will now stop by his shop to get their muffler replaced and talk about the last Cubs game.

Man tears are acceptable only when it comes to Larry Ott

The author of Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter: Tom Franklin lays a heavy hand in his use of pathos throughout the novel. In particular moments I found myself on the verge of tears caused by the overwhelming sentiments of empathy felt for the ostracized, lonesome and pathetic character, Larry. For example, when saying prayers with her son, Larry's mother, on the verge of tears pleads, "Send him a friend, one just for him" (86). The assertion coming from this depressing prayer: that even as a child Larry was friendless and a social outcast. This example of pathos evokes sympathy from those who understand how hard a friendless childhood can prove to be. I myself could not help but to fall into that audience thinking back to elementary school, watching the one kid who always sat alone, the sympathetic feelings arousing themselves again whilst reading about how Larry's solitude had even began to cripple his mother. Likewise another time the authors use of pathos had me near the point of sobbing came at the beginning of the novel when Franklin depicts the dialogue spoken after the gunman in Larry's mask shoots him. "'Die.' Okay with Larry" (7). The solemn tone via the gloomy diction of "die" made my stomach sink. The short and choppy syntax of the word packs so much power when spoken as a command. Yet, the following sentence made my gut wrench in empathy. The assertion coming from Larry's acceptance of death sums up his life in one fell swoop. A pitiful existence, one filled to the brim with nothing except lonely days and quiet nights, living in hatred and solitude in the only place he can call home. The short and blunt syntax of this sentence evoked a sadness deep down for Larry's plight, so horribly solemn that he willingly invites death.

Wallace "Stingey"fellow

The character that brings me the most angst in Tom Franklin's 2010 novel Crooked Letter, Crooked letter: Wallace Stringfellow, a grimy, drug addicted alcoholic does so due to his twisted morals and psychotic reasoning, despite befriending Larry. For example, after getting intoxicated and high, regular activities for him, he mentions how girls "like it, getting raped" (179). The disturbing tone, brought about by the insanity of the claim that girls enjoy such atrocity indirectly characterizes Wallace as lopsychotic and twisted. Therefore, I have developed an almost hatred for this character and his malicious persona. I cannot have enough sympathy for poor old Larry Ott so when Wallaces dialogue finally hit me I began to come to another more sinister conclusion about the malacious Wallace Stringfellow.I am beginning to think that Wallace killed Tina Rutherford making me detest him even more, letting the town blame Larry eventually leading to his shooting. As far as I am concerned that stands as just about the most dastardly thing that pothead could possilbly do. Likewise, when discussing his fantasies Wallace describes hoe he would "throw them on the floor" and "Gag em" (179). The casualness with which wallace describes his theoretical actions furthers the assertion that Wallace is a maniac, consequently leading me to develop a fierce aversion towards him. Further adding a tinge of mental instability to his already malicious persona. I have a resentment unlike any other character in the book towards Wallace and his killer-like mentality. In order to say such atrocious alarmed chunk of his brain must have up and left thanks to his love for drugs and alcohol. They say hugs not drugs for a reason but I would never want a hug from this creep.