I've decided I'm also going to start posting direct links to my columns.
This weeks column is a review of Brian Wood's "Local," which was easily one of the best comics I've read in years: http://www.mycentraljersey.com/article/20090223/ENTERTAINMENT08/902200327/1091/ENTERTAINMENT09
As a general rule, my columns can be found at:
http://www.mycentraljersey.com/entertainmentcolumns
way down toward the bottom of the page.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Quidditch, and Our Need for Brutality
After looking back over my last entry, I’ve come to the conclusion that I not only enjoy examining the broader implications of a small detail in a text (particularly a fantasy text), but also that such an approach might be a good foundation for this ongoing assignment. In the case of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, the element I’d like to look at is the sport of Quidditch.
Despite the fantastic nature of the sport itself, the role Quidditch plays in the novel’s world is undoubtedly familiar. The wizarding world’s zeal for the sport, both as players and spectators, is a clear extension for our own passion for sports, a passion which we can trace back to the very dawn of civilization. One might argue that over the course of human progress our sports have become more refined and more civilized, but certain elements of brutality and aggression have undoubtedly remained a part of those activities.
The nature of the wizarding world in this novel seems to hint at the idea of degrees of civilization and progress, and the importance of knowledge in defining civilization. Witches and wizards know vastly more about the true nature of the world than their muggle counterparts; they are a culture which places extreme importance on the value of academic pursuits and the acquisition of knowledge. Consequently, it seems logical to presume that wizard culture represents a more sophisticated and developed civilization than that of the muggle world, and yet Quidditch is as brutal a sport as any muggle equivalent, and I’d argue that it is more wholly celebrated in their culture than any single sport is in our own.
Likewise, in my own world there is essentially only one sport, Hockey. Since I was really too young to remember, my father has been taking me to Madison Square Garden to sit up in the blue seats, where we scream, holler, and curse (the last of which I learned to do in that very building). Watching and playing Hockey has been an essential part of my world for most of my life, and I’m not ashamed to admit that the violence of the sport is every bit as important to me as the elements of skill and strategy. It is an indulgence into a kind of more primitive mindset which has become, frankly, a necessity in my life.
I suppose Quidditch is a somewhat less violent sport than Hockey (most sports are). There is no denying, however, the essential role violence plays in the sport; Wood’s explanation of the game for Harry’s benefit makes that fact abundantly clear.
“Have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry asks, to which Wood replies, “never at Hogwarts,” adding, “We’ve had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that,” before going on in an unworried way with his lesson (Rowling, 169). Harry’s fears, however, are not wholly quieted by Wood’s lack of concern, and he presses the point causing Wood to offer further assurances. “Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the bludgers,” says Wood, “I mean, they’re like a pair of human Bludgers themselves” (Rowling, 169).
In this short passage, not only does Wood exhibit a lack of concern over the violent aspects and physical risks of Quidditch, he celebrates the Weasley twins’ proficiency for violence as a defining quality of their characters. The importance of Quidditch in the wizarding world, violent aspects and all, is a reflection of human cultures need to have a controlled and consensual connection to our own violent and brutal past. That Rowling chose to include to sport so preeminently in the construction of her artificial world, when the major events of the text itself would likely have satisfied reader’s need for action, speaks of just how pervasive the relationship between culture and sport really is.
Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. New York, NY: Scholastic, Inc., 1998.
Despite the fantastic nature of the sport itself, the role Quidditch plays in the novel’s world is undoubtedly familiar. The wizarding world’s zeal for the sport, both as players and spectators, is a clear extension for our own passion for sports, a passion which we can trace back to the very dawn of civilization. One might argue that over the course of human progress our sports have become more refined and more civilized, but certain elements of brutality and aggression have undoubtedly remained a part of those activities.
The nature of the wizarding world in this novel seems to hint at the idea of degrees of civilization and progress, and the importance of knowledge in defining civilization. Witches and wizards know vastly more about the true nature of the world than their muggle counterparts; they are a culture which places extreme importance on the value of academic pursuits and the acquisition of knowledge. Consequently, it seems logical to presume that wizard culture represents a more sophisticated and developed civilization than that of the muggle world, and yet Quidditch is as brutal a sport as any muggle equivalent, and I’d argue that it is more wholly celebrated in their culture than any single sport is in our own.
Likewise, in my own world there is essentially only one sport, Hockey. Since I was really too young to remember, my father has been taking me to Madison Square Garden to sit up in the blue seats, where we scream, holler, and curse (the last of which I learned to do in that very building). Watching and playing Hockey has been an essential part of my world for most of my life, and I’m not ashamed to admit that the violence of the sport is every bit as important to me as the elements of skill and strategy. It is an indulgence into a kind of more primitive mindset which has become, frankly, a necessity in my life.
I suppose Quidditch is a somewhat less violent sport than Hockey (most sports are). There is no denying, however, the essential role violence plays in the sport; Wood’s explanation of the game for Harry’s benefit makes that fact abundantly clear.
“Have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry asks, to which Wood replies, “never at Hogwarts,” adding, “We’ve had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that,” before going on in an unworried way with his lesson (Rowling, 169). Harry’s fears, however, are not wholly quieted by Wood’s lack of concern, and he presses the point causing Wood to offer further assurances. “Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the bludgers,” says Wood, “I mean, they’re like a pair of human Bludgers themselves” (Rowling, 169).
In this short passage, not only does Wood exhibit a lack of concern over the violent aspects and physical risks of Quidditch, he celebrates the Weasley twins’ proficiency for violence as a defining quality of their characters. The importance of Quidditch in the wizarding world, violent aspects and all, is a reflection of human cultures need to have a controlled and consensual connection to our own violent and brutal past. That Rowling chose to include to sport so preeminently in the construction of her artificial world, when the major events of the text itself would likely have satisfied reader’s need for action, speaks of just how pervasive the relationship between culture and sport really is.
Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. New York, NY: Scholastic, Inc., 1998.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Dogs and Daemons in "The Golden Compass"
Since I’m not really doing anything else with this blog, I’m going to be using it for some class-work over the next few weeks, starting with this entry discussing Philip Pullman’s The Golden Compass:
“As Lyra held her breath, she saw the servant’s daemon (a dog, like all servants’ daemons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet.” (Pullman, 5)
When I encountered this passage early on in the novel, before I had really even developed an idea of what daemons were and what they represented, I marked it as something for consideration later on. The notion of all servants’ daemons taking the shape of dogs was not discussed much throughout the novel, beyond this initial mention, but the notion remained one I wanted to pause and give some consideration to.
I’ve had dogs for the vast majority of my life, and the years when I was living in apartments and rented houses which didn’t allow them, I always felt something was missing. In recent years, I’ve become increasingly interested in the nature of the human-canine relationship. I find it fascinating that some of the earliest animals (if not the very first) humans endeavored to domesticate were lethal and territorial predators; and I find it even more fascinating that the effort was so profound a success, establishing a interspecies relationship which has lasted almost 20,000 years. In my day to day observations, I’m continually intrigued by the way my dogs communicate with one another, with my family, and with the other animals in our household. To put it succinctly, I’m convinced that investigation into the nature of our relationship with dogs is capable of providing a vast wealth of insight into humanity and human nature; which brings me around, after a bit of a tangent, to the quotation from The Golden Compass, and it’s potential implications.
Much is made of the daemons throughout the novel, and yet at the novel’s conclusion their exact nature remains something of a mystery. The idea is strongly alluded to, that daemons represent in some outward way an elusive but intrinsic element of their human counterparts (call it spirit or soul, or some other similar concept). If this is the case, what does it tell us if all members of a certain class/profession adopt the same outward manifestation? I’m speculating here, of course, but I believe if one were to conduct a sort of survey of what idea the image of a dog might represent (and I don’t think I need to make the case for the importance of representative imagery in the text), that the overwhelming consensus would be, “loyalty.” Loyalty would certainly be a desirable and valued quality for servants in the novel, but is it intrinsic? Are the servants in Pullman’s text presumed to be universally loyal? This seems unlikely, and presents to me something of a dilemma in regards to what the dog daemons actually represent.
One answer to that dilemma, of course, is the multiple levels of representation suggested by Lyra’s interpretations of the alethiometer. I’m hesitant, however, to dismiss the significance of the universal nature of servants’ daemons, and the potential questions that condition fosters, based solely on the ambiguity of symbolism in the text. I believe that Pullman’s use of dogs is a subtle clue to a profoundly troubling aspect of the novel and the notion of daemons.
It seems reasonable to say, particularly within the rigid class structures of the novel, that loyalty is not a quality which is simply desired and valued in servants, it is one which is expected. The fact that the servants universally wind up with daemon’s representative of that idea (whether that representation be dubious or genuine) indicates to me that the daemon is not entirely an outward manifestation of some ethereal internal quality; that to a certain degree their shape is defined by external expectations.
The notion that who someone truly is can be so profoundly affected by who they are expected to be has significant implications on the broader themes of the novel, particularly as we consider the fatalistic nature of Lyra’s journey and the way its course has been shaped by the expectations of her parents and foster figures. As a consequence of considering this seemingly incidental line, the relationship between identity and expectation has arisen to become an extremely significant theme in my reading of the text, and I look forward to seeing how it is explored in the latter texts of the series.
Pullman, Philip. The Golden Compass. New York, NY: Del Ray Books/Ballantine, 1997.
“As Lyra held her breath, she saw the servant’s daemon (a dog, like all servants’ daemons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet.” (Pullman, 5)
When I encountered this passage early on in the novel, before I had really even developed an idea of what daemons were and what they represented, I marked it as something for consideration later on. The notion of all servants’ daemons taking the shape of dogs was not discussed much throughout the novel, beyond this initial mention, but the notion remained one I wanted to pause and give some consideration to.
I’ve had dogs for the vast majority of my life, and the years when I was living in apartments and rented houses which didn’t allow them, I always felt something was missing. In recent years, I’ve become increasingly interested in the nature of the human-canine relationship. I find it fascinating that some of the earliest animals (if not the very first) humans endeavored to domesticate were lethal and territorial predators; and I find it even more fascinating that the effort was so profound a success, establishing a interspecies relationship which has lasted almost 20,000 years. In my day to day observations, I’m continually intrigued by the way my dogs communicate with one another, with my family, and with the other animals in our household. To put it succinctly, I’m convinced that investigation into the nature of our relationship with dogs is capable of providing a vast wealth of insight into humanity and human nature; which brings me around, after a bit of a tangent, to the quotation from The Golden Compass, and it’s potential implications.
Much is made of the daemons throughout the novel, and yet at the novel’s conclusion their exact nature remains something of a mystery. The idea is strongly alluded to, that daemons represent in some outward way an elusive but intrinsic element of their human counterparts (call it spirit or soul, or some other similar concept). If this is the case, what does it tell us if all members of a certain class/profession adopt the same outward manifestation? I’m speculating here, of course, but I believe if one were to conduct a sort of survey of what idea the image of a dog might represent (and I don’t think I need to make the case for the importance of representative imagery in the text), that the overwhelming consensus would be, “loyalty.” Loyalty would certainly be a desirable and valued quality for servants in the novel, but is it intrinsic? Are the servants in Pullman’s text presumed to be universally loyal? This seems unlikely, and presents to me something of a dilemma in regards to what the dog daemons actually represent.
One answer to that dilemma, of course, is the multiple levels of representation suggested by Lyra’s interpretations of the alethiometer. I’m hesitant, however, to dismiss the significance of the universal nature of servants’ daemons, and the potential questions that condition fosters, based solely on the ambiguity of symbolism in the text. I believe that Pullman’s use of dogs is a subtle clue to a profoundly troubling aspect of the novel and the notion of daemons.
It seems reasonable to say, particularly within the rigid class structures of the novel, that loyalty is not a quality which is simply desired and valued in servants, it is one which is expected. The fact that the servants universally wind up with daemon’s representative of that idea (whether that representation be dubious or genuine) indicates to me that the daemon is not entirely an outward manifestation of some ethereal internal quality; that to a certain degree their shape is defined by external expectations.
The notion that who someone truly is can be so profoundly affected by who they are expected to be has significant implications on the broader themes of the novel, particularly as we consider the fatalistic nature of Lyra’s journey and the way its course has been shaped by the expectations of her parents and foster figures. As a consequence of considering this seemingly incidental line, the relationship between identity and expectation has arisen to become an extremely significant theme in my reading of the text, and I look forward to seeing how it is explored in the latter texts of the series.
Pullman, Philip. The Golden Compass. New York, NY: Del Ray Books/Ballantine, 1997.
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