Literary realism vs. internal logic

I've been teaching Eliza Haywood's Fantomina, Or, Love in a Maze recently and some students can't get past the fact that the story's eponymous heroine manages, four different times, to seduce a man while she is in four different disguises. Yes, she is an excellent actress and yes he's probably a little dense. I would also argue that Fantomina picks her "personas" carefully, selecting roles that most eighteenth-century men would already associate with female sexuality (prostitute, maid, widow).

But my students' inability to let this point go speaks to a larger issue about any kind of narrative art form—the question of whether or not it's "realistic" and the odd moments in a text/movie/story that disrupt the sometimes-necessary suspension of disbelief involved in consuming narrative. In other words, it's not the larger conceits that we have issues with, but the smaller inconsistencies. For example, when watching the time-travelling movie Run Lola Run, in which the same story is played out three different times with the heroine learning from the previous rendition, my friend Natalie was bothered by how the protagonist and her boyfriend seemed to be talking to each other while separated by a sliding glass door. Though she wondered how they could have heard each other, she didn't question the movie's overall concept that Lola somehow managed to travel back in time twice (do-over!) in an attempt to save said boyfriend.

I have realized, however, that the issue I'm describing is not a question of realism but rather of logic. We expect a work of art to have its own internal logic and at least be consistent in its own world: If all the animals talk, that's fine; if only one animal talks, it's weird. And as readers we somehow still expect an internal logic, things to "make sense" in the world of the movie. The need for unity is strong indeed.

Words added

Words added to my Word spellcheck dictionary tonight: Bakhtin, Bakhtin's, carnivalesque, parodic.

Why yes, I am teaching the Masquerade in Eigtheenth-century England tomorrow. Why do you ask?

Laughing baby

Of all the Internet clips of impossibly cute, laughing babies, this one is my favourite. Why? The physical comedy.

A song named Derrida

Tonight I learned, from that great font of knowledge that is Wikipedia, that there exists a song called "Jacques Derrida". It's by the band Scritti Politti, which paid cheeky musical tribute to the (then not-) late, great deconstructionist on its 1982 debut album.

The song is a rather dated, sped up bassanova (a mediocre sound file is available at the first bullet point here), but some of the lyrics make me laugh, most notably

He held it like a cigarette
Behind a squandee's back
He held it so he hid its length
And so he hid its lack

Also, singer/songwriter Green Gartside pronounces it "Jacques DerEEda".

Yes yes. I'm too easily amused.

P.S. The most recent Scritti Politti CD, White Bread, Black Beer, is worth a spin.

Ottawa

At the end of the summer, at the Fringe Fest, I won a free flight with Westjet. Due to restrictions and fine print and my tight schedule, the only time I could really take advantage was over the short November Reading break. And so, I went to Ottawa to visit Rutha and some relatives.


After a very early flight, I arrived in our fair capital hungry and tired. After a nap, tea and a snack, Rutha and I went to a lovely and very decadent Sicilian-themed dinner.

If I look a little flushed in the photo, well, that glass of wine I'm holding didn't drink itself. Oh, and this was dessert:


A little cannoli on the left and a cassata (almond pastry filled with riccota and chocolate) on the right. Soooo much sugar.... Until dessert, everyone had been getting full and mellow. But afterwards there was silliness and Sicilians spontaneously singing.

On a more somber note, the next day (Nov. 11) we went to the Remembrance Day ceremonies at the National War Memorial. The weather was beautiful and as a result the crowd was huge. If you look closely at this photo you can kind of see what's going on at the memorial. Kind of.

It was a little odd to finally "see" an event in person that I had watched many times on television, most notably because I couldn't see anything except a giant TV screen that had been set up. So despite the fact that I was "there", I still watched most of it on TV (at an angle) without clearly hearing the sounds of the ceremony. As a result, the effect of the somber occasion was bit muted.

Most of the time in Ottawa was spent just hanging out (shopping, lots of coffee) rather than seeing things, since I've been to Ottawa several times before. So we walked around the Glebe area, went shopping in the market, and I walked along the canal:


I then spent a couple of days with family, whose lovely company was enhanced with what seemed to be an endless supply of chocolate and a seriously cute three-and-a-half-year-old who never stops talking. Oh, to be young and verbal.

Nice knitting, but...

I'm on a bit of a yarn/knitting kick right now, browsing through pattern sites, looking for neat projects. Came across a pattern for a really cool-looking 5-in-1 chameleon hat that quintuples (?) as a tuque, ear warmer, balaclava, jesterish-looking hat, and neck warmer. On closer inspection (flickr photos), however, I came to a key realization.

The darn thing is LACE. The neat resemblances to chainmail notwithstanding, there's no way it will keep you warm.

Too bad. It's an awesome design.

Broken Bodum, take 2

For the second time in six months, I have broken a bodum. The first time was entirely my fault—I accidentally knocked it over and it shattered into a million little pieces on my kitchen floor. Clean up was a bitch and I mourned my Bodum-brand French press for the duration of an afternoon.

This time, all I did was press the plunger down. And this happened:


Note, though, that the piece of glass on the counter does not match the gap in the bodum.


Which means that the other piece is in my coffee. Which means that I cannot even drink my coffee for fear of little glass pieces. Which also means that I won't be buying a cheap-ass IKEA bodum again.

And yes, those are homemade chocolate chip cookies in the photo's background. You know what goes great with chocolate chip cookies?

Coffee. That's what.