annotative essay - Michael Anthony

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Annotative Essay on the book: ‘All Quiet on the Western Front,’ by E.M. Remarque

October 18, 2015May 11, 2016 Michael Anthony

When soldiers are sent to the trenches of war, amongst the necessity for their rifles, daily food rations and combat boots, there is also a necessity for them to have left their loved ones behind. No families are allowed on the front lines, for just as a man would never masturbate in front of his dear mother; neither would he commit an act of war. Those things which happen during battle are for warriors’ eyes only. But what E.M. Remarque does in his work of fiction, All Quiet on the Western Front, is to bring war to the eyes of those who have never seen it; and it is through his detailed depiction of the inner landscape of a soldier’s soul, that he gives vision to the families, and creates a truly unique work of literary fiction.

[pullquote]”A good book forces a man to convalesce into himself and write in the margins his deepest thoughts; spurred on by a word or phrase.”[/pullquote]We are carried through the book by E.M. Remarque’s main character, Paul, whose internal thoughts, emotions and musings, teach us more about war than every General and Politician, combined. No television personality or Pulitzer Prize winning journalist could convey what a soldier, who was there, can with a mere look of the eye, or a single spoken sentence, “The war has ruined us for everything.” It is in this way that the author shows his hand; for within the first ten pages, I knew that the author had to be a combat veteran himself—after a Google search I discovered that I was right. A reader can always intuitively feel when an author has ‘been there,’ and ‘done that,’ and not merely been to the library and done the appropriate research. It’s why writers throughout the ages have continued to give the sage advice “stick with what you know.” Anything else is unacceptable, phony. And this is where the author’s true talents lay.

As a reader I felt more as though I were reading a man’s private journal than reading a work of fiction, for in the same way that fiction can feel more real than non-fiction, the author found a way to have his story told fully and personally. This is excellently done on E. M. Remarque’s part, because when an author writes a good book, it truly should act as a journal for the author’s character, and become a journal for the reader. A good book forces a man to convalesce into himself and write in the margins his deepest thoughts; spurred on by a word or phrase. A typical work of fiction or non-fiction hardly drives a reader to write in the margins, or to stop and pause as he ponders over a thought which has, seemingly, randomly popped into his head. The author’s greatest achievement isn’t his descriptions of the actual landscape of war, nor his political descriptions and breakdowns of the madness of war, although both are well done, his real style is in his ability to bare a man’s/character’s soul and have the reader feel as though they are reading non-fiction rather than fiction.

“We have become wild beasts. We do not fight, we defend ourselves against annihilation. It is not against men that we fling our bombs, what do we know of men in this moment when Death is hunting us down—now, for the first time in three days we can see his face, now for the first time in three days we can oppose him; we feel a mad anger. No longer do we lie helpless, waiting on the scaffold, we can destroy and kill, to save ourselves, to save ourselves and to be revenged.”

It is through detailed musings like this which we learn more about the author, the characters, and the story itself, then we could through the scenery of the trees, scenes of actual battles, or dialogue. As stated before, the author excels in all three aspects, but what truly makes his work unique is the inner, not the outer. Although, in order for the author to truly make his internal musings as powerful as he does, he sets things up by first building up the scenery of the war, “The wire entanglements are torn to pieces. Yet they offer some obstacle. We see the storm-troops coming…” deepens it with the scenes of action, “We make for the rear, pull wire cradles into the trench and leave bombs behind us with the strings pulled…”, and only then does he delve into the inner character workings and musing. “We have become wild beasts. We do not fight, we defend ourselves against annihilation…”

“E. M. Remarque shows us that what drives his story is the inner parts of a man.”

What is absent from the author’s story is any plot or typical character development. There is no arch. No one, or nothing, is keeping Paul from his true love or his goal; nor is Paul fighting for any altruistic reason, he neither seems to be fighting against any real enemy or even himself, and he fights for no reason. Paul is merely a man struggling to exist as a soldier in a war. The author fills in the blanks and the storyline with, instead of a typical hero/love plot, reflections from a young soldier as he struggles through war and ultimately ends up with nothing and no one. There is no growth. No middle. No climax. No end. No conclusion. But the story misses nothing, and through the author’s technique of internal character exploration, the story is carried on even though we have no definitive storyline to carry us through. War calls for no further subtext than a soldier trying to stay alive, and keep his sanity. There is no different war story to be told. This is what the author gives us.

A book made of such mental vivisection that if it were any more real, readers would have to be treated for PTSD.

“And this I know: all these things that now, while we are still in the war, sink down in us like a stone, after the war shall waken again, and then shall begin the disentanglement of life and death.”

“The days, the weeks, the years out here shall come back again, and our dead comrades shall then stand up again and march with us, our heads shall be clear, we shall have a purpose, and so we shall march, our dead comrades beside us, the years at the front behind us: –against whom, against whom?”

What I’ve learned from this book is that character and internal landscape is king, and combined with good scenery, good action, and good dialogue, a classic can be born. E. M. Remarque shows us that what drives his story is the inner parts of a man, but in order for that to work the scenery must be setup, then the scene itself, and then the inner musings.

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Picture: Flickr/ Gwydion M. Williams

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Annotative Essay on the book: ‘In Cold Blood,’ by Truman Capote

September 9, 2015May 11, 2016 Michael Anthony

First published in 1966, In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote was a new type of book. A hybrid of literature invented by Capote known as a non-fiction novel; the book is based on a series of crimes and, told in an omniscient third person point of view. It was one of the first of its kind, if not, debatably, the first, and it cemented Capote’s mark on the world of literature. Many things can be said of this book, and many things, too, can be taken away.

Truman Capote’s writing style is excellent and he has a tremendous knack for scenery, as can be seen at the very beginning of the book:

“Capote researched, investigated, and studied, hundreds of articles, police reports, books, and people; a task that took him the better half of a decade.”

“The Village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call “out there.” Some seventy miles east of the Colorado border, the country side, with its hard blue skies and desert-clear air, has an atmosphere that is rather more Far West than Middle West. The local accent is barbed with a prairie twang, a ranch-hand nasalness, and the men, many of them, wear narrow frontier trousers, Stetsons, and high-heeled boots with pointed toes. The land is flat, and the views are awesomely extensive; horses, herds of cattle, a white cluster of grain elevators rising as gracefully as Greek temples are visible long before a traveler reaches them.”

Capote’s character descriptions are short, yet powerful and memorable:

“Dick stripped to his briefs was not quite the same as Dick fully clothed. In the latter state, he seemed a flimsy dingy-blond youth of medium height, fleshless and perhaps sunken-chested; disrobing revealed that he was nothing of the sort, but, rather, an athlete constructed on a welterweight scale.”

And he also has a tremendous grasp of plots and what makes a story flow—the book itself took near a few days to read, and kept me captivated throughout, even though I was already aware of the arc and end of the story. All three of these aspects of writing, scenery, character, and plot, Capote proved he was adept at and had a strong understanding of; and it was interesting to see him tackle a new literary technique; however, although a lot could be learned from his skills as a writers, and his new literary technique—something which I recently experimented with it—what really struck me about this book was the staggering amount of research that went into its undertaking. Capote researched, investigated, and studied, hundreds of articles, police reports, books, and people; a task that took him the better half of a decade.

“Most writers don’t have the single-minded-ness, or often the opportunity, to give such devotion to a single cause.”

Not detail was too little for Capote and he did whatever it would take to gather all the information on the subject that he could. In example: Capote knew that he had an abrasive manner that could turn people off, and he knew that he would need access to a lot of people to write this book; in response to this, he convinced his good friend, and fellow author, Harper Lee to accompany him on his research. Harper Lee was reported to have a much, more kind, gentler, attitude and since she was more well-known, and liked, than Capote, people were more receptive to her. Harper Lee helped Capote get access to all the people in the town, police officers, and even the two convicts themselves, Dick and Perry. Had Harper not accompanied him Capote would—admittedly—probably not have been able to get acquainted with all these people; so to accomplish this, Capote had to put his own ego aside and ask a friend for help, and then together they set out on a meticulous journey of gathering information and writing the story.

When undertaking a writing task, the typical fiction writing requires a scant amount of research—though, often a lot can be necessary, in regards to the whole of the book, research isn’t the main aspect; in fiction it’s typically creativity and the actual writing which consume the most time—and the typical non-fiction writing requires copious amounts of research—depending on the type of non-fiction, of course; historical non-fiction requires a bit more than memoir non-fiction—but Capote’s undertaking required both, because he sought not just to tell the factual information of the murders that took place in Kansas, but he sought to do it in a fictitious creative way that combined both approaches, hence the new genre of the non-fiction novel. This I believe is one of the reasons why the process took so long; and for a writer, it can seem rather daunting to know that to create a masterpiece it can take so long for a single piece. Like Michelangelo who created the Sistine Chapel over several years, doing only that. Most writers don’t have the single-minded-ness, or often the opportunity, to give such devotion to a single cause. But Capote was already a famous author at the time—though nothing near the heights he would reach after In cold Blood—and he had the opportunity and means to be able to spend all his time on one single task. This single-minded-ness is what I believe made the difference between In Cold Blood being just another remaindered book versus a book that would still be read decades later. This is where I learned from Capote.

“Capote didn’t know that the book was going to take as long to research and write as it did, but he was willing to give the book and the process as long as it would take to create the work which he sought.”

In my current writing, when I had decided to give third person non-fiction omniscience a try, I had decided to interview my girlfriend, Emily, and several others who were involved. And although during first and second drafts I had interviewed them, for the switch to third person, I decided to take it deeper. I asked, as I hadn’t done before, not just for their memories of the actual events, but also of their emotions and thoughts leading up to, during, and after. These in-depth interviews allowed me to take my own writing deeper and although non-fiction I was able to give it that omniscient third person point of view approach. Now, granted, my interviews were of only a few, and my research paled in comparison to Capote’s, it did take quite a bit of time, did add another layer to my work, and did take longer to write. And although, I am remiss to even consider the possibility of putting as much work, and as many years, into my current project as Capote had, just the thought of knowing that it’s necessary to go that extra mile, works as an inspiration to make sure that I, too, have every I dotted and t crossed. And going the extra mile doesn’t just meat doing more research than typical; often it means actually, physically, GOING the extra mile. When Capote set out to write In cold Blood, he wasn’t content with mere library research. Calling people on the phone for interviews wasn’t enough for him. He couldn’t simply research Holcomb, Kansas, in a book. No, he went down there. He lived there. He didn’t just call up someone to interview them; he went down there, shook their hand and looked them in the eye. He didn’t settle for a lackluster description of the prairies and farms of Kansas, he went down to the farms, petted the cows, and walked the plains. Going the extra mile makes all the difference in writing. Knowing this, and how much great writing craves attention to detail, should stop a lot of would-be-writers. But that’s not always the case.

Many people believe that writing is easy. That it should come naturally. That it should flow. However, no great writer, from Truman Capote to V.S. Naipaul will ever make the statement that writing is easy. Writing is a great undertaking. And although I hope no single book ever takes my so long, consistently, single-mindedly, to write as In Cold Blood did Capote—even though my current one has been in the work for several years now—I believe that having the willingness to take on such an endeavor, and having the strength of will to see something through, is what makes all the difference in great writing. Capote didn’t know that the book was going to take as long to research and write as it did, but he was willing to give the book and the process as long as it would take to create the work which he sought. And that is what made all the difference.

Determination and perseverance. Such things are not typically talked about when discussing the strengths of a good writer and of good writing. But they should be, it would scare away more of the would-be-writers. Some things simply take time and a level of determination that most aren’t willing to give. Had Capote not been as determined to write such a detailed, informed story, then the writing and story itself, probably, wouldn’t have come across as strong or as powerfully memorable. Good writing takes time, it takes determination, and it takes a lot of hard work. This is what Capote shows in his magnum opus In Cold Blood. The testament to literature isn’t just the fine writing itself it’s the level of researching and diligence that went into the non-fiction novel. A great writer can never be determined and lazy the two are not synonymous with great writing. Capote proves that great writing, and being a great writer, takes an uncommon level of determination.

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Picture: Flickr/ Thomas Hawk

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Annotative Essay on the book: ‘Netherland,’ by Joseph O’Neill

April 20, 2015February 24, 2016 Michael Anthony

Why We Read

An Annotative Essay on: Netherland, by Joseph O’Neill

Different books are read for different reasons. Textbooks are read so that we can be informed in what matters most to us: math, biology, philosophy, etc. Suspense and thriller books so that we can be entertained by what interests us: vampires, the mafia, war, etc. Romance novels so that we can be enthralled in what eludes us: love, passion, desire, etc. And the classics so that we can be left pondering why certain things matter, interest, and elude us.

“Yet something eluded the book itself which kept it from entering such a category.”

What about a book, though, which fits into none of the previously outlined categories? Or what about a book that fits into all of them? Or half of them? This is where Netherland lays. Although I thoroughly enjoyed the book by Joseph O’Neill, when trying to classify it I ran into trouble. Well written and a page-turner, though not as entertaining as a Dean Koontz or Stephen King novel, nor as thought provoking as a classic like Catcher in the Rye; where then, does that leave a book, and all others like Netherland? It is classics which contain ‘All of the above.’ Netherland, I believe, had the makings of a classic. It had suspense, mystery, it informed me in subtle ways about life and philosophy, it enthralled me, though briefly, in passion and desire and things which elude the typical life. All things which make a classic. Yet something eluded the book itself which kept it from entering such a category. Thus, I believe Netherland joins the throws of bastard children. It fits nowhere. And this is where it gave the most instruction.

Even though I believe Netherland to be a good, though, unremarkable book, there was a lot to be learned. Both from the parts I enjoyed and disliked. The first issue, and eventual learning, I dislodged from Netherland was the art or dis-art of description. There were many descriptions which made me stop and appreciate the care and revisions in which the author must have gone through to create such a finely tuned well-crafted sentence; while simultaneously, there were several descriptions that I simply skipped over because they were simply, or un-simply, too much.

“As I repeatedly went forth with him and began to understand the ignorance and contradictions and language difficulties with which he contended, and the doubtful sources of his information and the seemingly bottomless history and darkness out of which the dishes of New York emerge, the deeper grew my suspicion that his work finally consisted of minting or perpetuating and in any event circulating misconceptions about his subject and in this way adding to the endless perplexity of the world.”

The above is merely an example of an eighty word sentence that the author used to get across a simple idea. It is one of many such examples. My issue with such writing is that if there’s a forty-five word sentence about how angry a person is, but by word eight I realize that the author is simply describing a basic state of anger; I say to myself “I get it,” and simply skip ahead. Why would I need to read the other thirty-seven words?

“I can only imagine if O’Neill had managed to write the entire book in such an unassuming yet powerful way.”

I’m reminded, as well, of a one hundred and seventy-nine word sentence that appeared in Netherland. Now, I have to believe that there had to be an easier, more flowing way, to say what O’Neill felt he needed to say than in a one hundred and seventy-nine word sentence. I find myself asking: why? Why did this writer deem it necessary to write in such a garrulous way? Was it simply to show off his aptitude for verbosity? And the thing is, the sentence in question, is unnecessary. Though very well written, it perhaps could be used stand alone or in a shorter piece. But in a novel length work, when working through a story and trying to get to the meat of the matter, and trying to be entertained, and trying to learn, and trying to be enthralled, such long-windedness comes across as literary arrogance and, perhaps even, laziness. I’m reminded of the Einstein quote, “If you can’t explain it to a six year old, you don’t understand it yourself.” If Einstein insists on conveying quantum physics as simple as possible, then why is it that authors insist on convey emotions as complex as possible? Can anger, hatred, love or happiness truly be more complicated than the cosmos?

I’m also reminded of Faulkner who self-admittedly wrote some of his work, in such a way, only for the sake of making it as confusing as possible. I have to, again, ask myself why? What is the point of such an endeavor? I understand the aspect of forcing a reader to figure out something on their own. And I support such a thing when done right, and when necessary. But those moments need to come intermittently and only work best, or seem to have a purpose, when it involves something meaningful and worthwhile. This certainly wasn’t the case for Faulkner and it often wasn’t the case for O’Neill. The additional problem that arose regarding this in Netherland was that O’Neill often got it right when writing his descriptions, which made it so much more frustrating when he got it wrong. A few of his descriptions which I believe were perfectly written and which I pictured perfectly in my mind (both happen to be only fifty-one words):

“He believed in owning the impetus of a situation, in keeping the other guy off balance, in proceeding by way of sidesteps. If he saw an opportunity to act with suddenness or take you by surprise or push you into the dark, he’d take it, almost as a matter of principle.”

“Our lecturer, a destroyed-looking man in his sixties, appeared apologetically before us, and I am certain that a compassionate understanding tacitly arose among the students that we should do everything to assist this individual, an agreeable and no doubt clever man whose life had plainly come to some kind of ruin.”

“If a powerful work can be created using 50,000 words, then I find myself wondering why it sometimes takes people 150,000 or more.”

I can only imagine if O’Neill had managed to write the entire book in such an unassuming yet powerful way. Surely, then it would have made it into my category of classics. But alas, O’Neill had left me skipping sentences and entire paragraphs because even though I enjoyed the style and language they were written in, I found them unnecessary. This led me to my first lesson from the novel and into an inquiry of my own writing.

One of the things I’ve constantly struggled with, and something I believe all writers struggle with, is the appropriate dimensions of a description. How much is too much and how much is too little? The word count for some of my favorite books ranges between 35,000 to 65,000 words—and you can bet that in those books I didn’t skip over a single paragraph, sentence or word. In books such as those, which in the scheme of things have such miniscule word counts, there has to be a severe economy of words—but done in a way without losing anything. If a powerful work can be created using 50,000 words, then I find myself wondering why it sometimes takes people 150,000 or more. This is what I struggle to do in my own writing. Often, when editing my pieces I struggle with the descriptions. I will write a nice basic two sentence long description, erase that, and then write a beautiful three paragraph description, replace that with an abrupt ten word description, delete the description all together, and then in the end, try to find something in the middle. I never feel happy with what I’m left with, and that’s my struggle: trying to find out how to say something as simple, yet eloquently as possible. I can’t say how specifically, or precisely what, Netherland has taught me regarding this; however, since the book provided, in my mind, perfect examples of both extremes, it has made me more aware of it and left me pondering over ways to find the happy medium.

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