by Dave
Since Deathly Hallows release last year, I’ve been perpetually puzzled by Voldemort’s characterization in the last two novels. Half Blood Prince humanizes Voldemort in a way that lends HBP a sophistication most of the earlier novels lack — Voldemort’s backstory both enlightens and befuddles the reader, at once shedding light on his origins and potential reasons for Voldemort’s tenor, yet never oversimplifying and reducing Voldemort to simply a pathology. The book sometimes drifts toward the possibility that Voldemort is unaware of and incapable of changing his decisions. Yet, HBP pulls back from that precipice and instead offers only Voldemort’s refusal to care about such a possibility.
Deathly Hallows, on the other hand, turns Voldemort into a cartoon character — more malevolent due to the incompetence of the supposed authorities (the Ministry of Magic) than any great skill of Voldemort’s or his minions. Within two books, Rowling constructs him as a marriage of complex humanity and psychology, only to immediately open the door to reveal nothing more than a tormented psyche shacking up with a massive egotism.
This all begs a question to me: Is Voldemort a flawed character? I’m not asking if he is a flawed character in the sense that Rowling simply made him a bit inconsistent. Deathly Hallows reconcentrates the reader’s attention on the conflict between Harry and Voldemort, whereas previous books had built Snape as the more compelling of Harry’s antagonists. Yet, in DH Voldemort and Snape essentially switch narrative positions. Snape’s everpresent station in Harry’s life is removed. He fades into the shadowy murk occupied by Voldemort for six books, while Voldemort emerges into the consciousness of both the reader and the characters. Essentially, Rowling had built Voldemort’s great power upon a scaffold of shadows and deception. Once she brings him fully into the light, we’re struck with his arrogance and stupidity — the Death Eaters begin to look more like the Keystone Cops. [click to continue…]
by Dave
Last Wednesday, I found out my paternal grandfather passed away at the age of 88 at 7:30 that morning. My memories of him are sparse and fuzzy — tied to some history before my parents split. I have an odd affliction with memory; nothing serious mind you, just a strange dividing line between what I recall quite clearly after the age of 12 and what seems a starkly vague early childhood. I don’t know if there is a true condition for such a thing, but there it is. At this point, I’m not sure how I feel about my grandfather’s death. My family is not especially close, neither on my mother’s side nor my father’s side. I have aunts and uncles, from both parents, I’ve met only once — most of them, in fact. My mother’s parents passed long before I was born. And I was 11 or so the last time I was around my father’s parents. I’m 29 now.
Perhaps saying something about my character, I couldn’t make it to the funeral. I only had a very short notice and I couldn’t arrange for coverage of my classes or make it to Northern Indiana in time. I did send flowers to my grandmother, and my father thanked me for always “coming through” in times of need — what’s harder for me to swallow was his sincerity. [click to continue…]
by Dave
I’ve said before that Victorian Era novels (whether British or American) have always left me cold. It may be a failing on my part, but if you put passages from Thomas Hardy, George Eliot, Henry James, or the Brontes in front of me, I’d have a difficult time distinguishing between them. Dickens has always been one exception to this rule. Hard Times was the one novel in my British Victorian Literature course as an undergraduate that I could truly lean into. Dickens was ahead of his time — nothing new in that statement. But he addressed the injustices of his day in a way that gives his readers hope, yet without falling into the mire and sap of sentimentality. His contemporaries and literary inheritors seem to me to always fall into one those traps. His ability to combine humor, pathos, and cutting observation are unequaled. His closest counterpart, I think, is obviously Mark Twain. I’ve always wondered a bit at the coincidence that these two most perfect satirists should find their audiences at roughly the same time, address very similar subject matter, and do so in remarkably similar fashion, but with their own distinct cultural and national flavors. [click to continue…]
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