Elizabeth Costello: A metafiction on life and death

<Elizabeth Costello>: A metafiction on life and death

The novel <Elizabeth Costello>, consisted of puzzling yet thought-provoking lessons, has received mixed reactions from critics. Some extolled it as a collection of cerebral and creative discourses while some claimed that <Elizabeth Costello> is neither compelling, nor critical work of J.M. Coetzee. Regardless of the controversy over the quality of the novel, one cannot deny that there exists an overarching theme that encapsulates the lessons that Coetzee gives, through the mouthpiece of its unyielding and impassioned protagonist Elizabeth Costello. It is thinking on life and death.

 

Life

<Elizabeth Costello> invested heavy amount of its book on the lives of animals, suggesting the notorious analogy between the Holocaust and the ceaseless enterprise of killing animals (Coetzee p.65). Superficially thinking, it indeed seemed to direct our attention to the animal rights and our diet, which has been heavily reliant on the constant regeneration and killing countless animals. Yet what Coetzee really tried to emphasize is probably the sheer value of life and our attitude towards life, regardless of whether it is human or not.

Notwithstanding possible objections, embodiment is a powerful concept that provides a unique yet prima facie abstruse perspective of not just the animals and humankind, but of the entire universe. By fullness of being, Costello suggested the bodily freedom to occupy the space and move in space, shifting the locus of life from the consciousness to the sensation of being a live, physical presence in the world. This concept applies to all of us, the human beings as well; it is the fear of ceasing to exist and be able to perform our bodily functions that terrifies us most about the death.

By bringing the concept of sympathy, or lack thereof, Elizabeth Costello at least to some extent succeeded to place the ongoing factory of death on an equal plane with the historic event of the Holocaust. Costello logically argued that our failure to exercise the capacity of sympathy is what made our attitude towards life as equally terrifying, if not more, than that of people around the Holocaust camps. Getting away with daily murder and not feeling polluted the slightest bit, all of us may have our hearts closed more firmly than the Germans, Poles and Ukrainians, whom we readily and hypocritically criticize today as the bystanders of the Holocaust.

 

Death

<Elizabeth Costello> faithfully presents an epitome of metafiction, as its aging protagonist Elizabeth Costello seemed to gravitate towards the discussion of death in the second half of the novel. The last sentence of the Lesson 4, “It will soon be over” (p.115) is a double entendre, which reaffirms the metafictional changes in direction the novel is heading.

[Lesson 5 The Humanities in Africa] is about death as much as about art. While all but one chapter within this lesson is dedicated to Costello’s visit to Africa, the climax of the lesson is condensed in the final chapter, in which Costello began the story of Mr. Phillips. A series of accounts Costello displayed a delicate sensibility towards dying Phillips. Certainly Phillips was once a lively, well groomed man with a successful career (p.146), like young people naturally envision themselves as ever vital and youthful figures. In young Phillips, who had a feel for drawing, there was no single hint of death, a process of gradual withering. Yet death at last began knocking at his door. “Listening to the sounds of the pain” (p.152), Phillips was now just an old bag of bones waiting to be carted away (p.151). Aware of such fate will replicate to her, Costello thought to herself that there is no more devilish cruelty than ‘putting to a close our visit to this world’ (p.152).

Savoring this line over and over generates a sense of solemnity, an overflowing frustration that one’s life is ultimately timed. It is a physically poignant and suffocating experience as if one’s blood streams get suddenly evaporated. In an atmosphere of such dignity for life, the detailed description of Costello’s treat for Phillips is neither funny, nor erotic. It can only be characterized as a whole-hearted act of humanity amid the shadows of death.

 

Closing remarks: Our days are numbered

The last [Lesson 8 At the Gate] is probably most enigmatic part of this novel. Not giving any clear clues as to where and when, J.M. Coetzee seemed to depict all of us through the mysterious wanderings of Costello. Knowing whether Costello was dead or alive by now is meaningless. Judging whether it was her dream or imagination or afterlife or reality is also worthless. It is the very sense of uneasiness and anxiety inside Costello that matters. It is a hunch that we all unknowingly share, but it is also something we pretend not to know or acknowledge. Nevertheless it will come true one day, with no exceptions.

What does Coetzee want us to do with <Elizabeth Costello>? Although it is impossible to read the author’s intention, one thing is clear: after turning the last page we are somewhat different from what we used to be. Probably a famous, resounding quote by Steve Jobs closely captures the spirit of this personal impression of <Elizabeth Costello>. “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?”

The Lowland and Slumdog Millionaire

<The Lowland> vs. <Slumdog Millionaire>: a thematic analysis of two different media

The novel <The Lowland> and the film <Slumdog Millionaire> are two distinctive works that successfully (despite some controversies over the western biases in the case of latter) portray modern India through the eyes of local characters. Interestingly enough, both works share many features such as brotherly love, a girl in between the brothers, and social forces and environments that say the destiny of two brothers. Among various differences between them, this post delves into the way <The Lowland> and <Slumdog Millionaire> depicted two of the main themes which this class has focused on, thereby examining not just the content but also the medium of the two works we have covered.

 

The past and memory

One central theme to both <The Lowland> and <Slumdog Millionaire> is the past and memory of it. As pointed out in the class discussion, <The Lowland> moves quite in a linear direction in time. In a fast-paced plot, the death of Udayan significantly shaped, if not entirely determined, the destiny of main characters for the remaining pages. For instance, Bijoli, Udayan’s mother, continued on living as if her sole purpose of life was to remember Udayan by “washing the memorial tablet and replace the flowers (p.180)” every day. Lahiri’s visual description effectively conveys the heart-wrenching tragedy that Bijoli is still going through: “Udayan’s ghost does lurk, inside the house and around it, in and around the enclave. (p.180)” The movie version of <The Lowland>, if existed, would not as effectively have expressed this scene as the ghostly presence is better left undescribed; visualizing unreal subject would be extremely challenging because even in the best-case scenario the seriousness of Bijoli’s sorrow would be greatly sacrificed.

<Slumdog Millionaire> rather unfolds its story backwards, starting at the interrogation scene and then visiting each scene that had occurred in the past as Jamal recalled and explained to the police how he had got answers right. This flashbacking technique, which dominates this film, is an apparent example of the past lingering in present with the help of memory, as witnessed all throughout <The Lowland>. Aiming to get Latika’s attention more than prize money, Jamal is probably a victim of the past event (painfully losing Latika twice) that forever converted him, like the characters in <The Lowland>. Without this defining moment, <Slumdog Millionaire> would have been a plain rags-to-riches story.

This scene also highlights an interesting aspect that differentiates a book from a film. Although we tend to think a film contains more information than a book, the truth seems to be the opposite as a movie goer would engage in the film just for the running time only while a reader interacts with the book much longer, naturally creating a world filled with her own imagination. A huge difference in the degree of engagement would generate varying degrees of impression. This is why the effect of a single past event of Jamal seems not as striking as that of the characters in <The Lowland>, let alone the inherent difference in density of the content. Nevertheless, <Slumdog Millionaire> is composed of Jamal’s numerous past experiences, juxtaposed with scenes at the quiz show; thus there is no heavy reliance on one past event that is found in <The Lowland>. Thus the plot of <Slumdog Millionaire> is stably driven by several experiences Jamal had gone through, well mixed with vivid imagery, various compositions and rich sound effects.

 

Deterritorialization

Another theme that characterizes both works is deterritorialization.Covering a long period of time, both works reveal the moments of main characters losing sense of place, especially when they revisit their hometowns. When old Gauri visited India to trace back where she and Udayan had spent youth together, she found herself lost, feeling “connected to no one. (p.320)” Finding almost every aspect of the Calcutta from her old house, the courtyard, (absence of) the lowland, local people all too foreign, Gauri reached the peak of deterritorialization when she remembered “That her reappearance meant nothing. That she was as dead as Udayan.(p.320)” After a long period of her non-existence in the town coincided with rapid developments of the Calcutta, Gauri is now a person completely unknown to Tollygunge, Calcutta.

<Slumdog Millionaire> too covered the transformation of India, in Mumbai. A flashback starting from an aerial view of the endless shacks with tranquil music playing established a ‘control group’, right before turning to the ‘experimental group’ where the deterritorialization took place. Then at the construction site, young Jamal asked for whereabouts of Latika in vain. Young Jamal said “A girl lived here. As tall as me perhaps.” This contrast along with Jamal’s encounter with the strangers and his wandering in confusion all successfully add up to the deterritorialization taking place in Mumbai, delivered by the perspective of young Jamal. Although Jamal was not away from Mumbai as much as Gauri was from Calcutta, Jamal discovered that his childhood territory no longer existed amid construction boom. Later in the film, Jamal’s brother reconfirmed the phenomenon by saying “That used to be our slum…We used to live right there, man…Now India is at the center of the world.” Presented with the view of the high-rise buildings springing out of their old slum, this scene seems to suggest one superior aspect of film over book as an instant visual contrast effectively illustrates Jamal’s alienation from his hometown.

 

Closing remarks: Literature vs. Film

With the advent of cutting-edge technology, it might be tempting to predict the demise of the print and declare the triumph of visual media, like television and film.

Yet, there is at least one reason apart from the scent of the paperback to believe otherwise. It is the autonomous and unfettered world of imagination that a reader only can achieve. It might possibly be more colorful than the visual splendor that any movie can provide. We have desire to be fed and pleased by the visual magnificence with the help of film. Nevertheless we also do have a desire to freely dream and create our own world of imagination, with the help of the book only.

The relationship between film and literature would be complementary, not mutually exclusive. While many complain that movie version of a book or vice-versa fails to meet their expectations, the analysis of the novel <The Lowland> and the film <Slumdog Millionaire> would reveal that it is better to acknowledge the inherent differences between them and at the same time enjoy the unique strength of the two media.

 

My place, Ho Chi Minh City

East of the River, north of the River’s Delta, there is a bustling city of eight million. After landing at the Tan Son Nhat Airport, visitors are immediately welcomed or surprised by the two things. One is the stuffy air with the smell of motorbike exhaust. Another is a crowd of local people gathering around the stainless barricade of the entry place, even at late night, for no apparent reasons. Looking closely at every single visitor’s look and costume, the local people at the airport seem to have forgotten the sense of time, unlike the rest of the city’s residents.

Taking Nguyen Van Troi Boulevard and Nam Ky Khoi Nghia Boulevard leads to the core of the city, Quan 1. A cluster of the consulates, patrolled by skinny soldiers armed with AK-47s, and top-notch hotels.

In front of the Notre-Dame Basillica, a popular tourist attraction and wedding shoot location, stands an emerald building with its lower parts white and colonial-styled. A beige-coat doorman with naïve kindness opened the large and heavy glass doors for me. A sudden coolness greeted me. “Hallo”, the two receptionists said with an undulating tone.

Outside the entrance to this emerald building, motorcyclists were lined up every night and day, calling you out, asking you to ride the motorcycles. Shaking my head to each request, I made my way to an outdoor café for a glass of Café Sua Da. Tasting the bittersweet coffee, feeling the blazing sun and closing eyes. Hearing incessant, ear-tickling honks.

A swarm of motorbikes were the most spectacular scene of the city. As if small birds migrate in a harmonious herd, the motorcyclists managed to drive without bumping into each other, moving in the same directions at the identical speed. In an hour or two, I saw more motorbikes than I had seen in my life. During the rainy season, when the weather turns whimsical and a sudden squall started, the motorcyclists on the road put on vinyl raincoats in a second. They were never startled by the raid. Their transformation while driving was unbelievably skillful and fast to the eyes of a thirteen-years-old boy sitting in the backseat of a sedan.

So many times I had crossed the river, which was named after the city, and taken the Nguyen Huu Thi Boulevard. It was the finest or the least bumpy way to the newly-developed neighborhood where my school was located.

The neighborhood was called Tan Phong Ward, but it was almost always called Phu My Hung, name of the Joint-Venture company that literally built a new city in this area. Once, there were tropical forest and scantly located shacks. Inside and out were marshes spanning endless acres.

At the school campus, located at the tip of Phu My Hung, I used to stand still and gaze at the opposite side of Phu My Hung, a forest yet to be developed. Untouched and unscathed. Wondering what it would be to be in that grassy side of the world, I daydreamed in the middle of the grassy soccer field of my school.

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My place is, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. The picture below shows the view of my school. You can see the opposite side of Phu My Hung.