Loyalty, Trust, and Trauma in the Hunger Games

Last night I finished the last of the Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins. Interesting series. I’m working them out in my head here, so it includes spoilers.

To separate the books, I’d have to admit that the first book is written the best, the story starts to fully engage in the second book, and the third book allows the characters to become more realistic and frustrating—which is a brave move as a writer (I think), especially when a lot of people hinge some emotion on your fictional world. Mostly I let myself be caught up in the narrative (because sometimes that’s healthy particularly when you have book-snob tendencies), but I occasionally thought, “Really? A dash—there?” or “Careful with the fragment power…” and wished that she could have had more time to refine the books on a sentence level. Still, the books are worth reading; they got into my system and made me analyze a few relationship things, which I appreciated.

People warned me about the last book. They told me I’d hate Katniss. They told me I might have issues with the ending. When I completed the first book, I worried that this would be as a result of the love triangle (gag! Please no more Edward-Bella-Jacob stupidity…at least Katniss can shoot things and has a personality…). I didn’t want to deal with that and almost didn’t read the next two, but gave it a try anyway. Happily the focus remained on survival and grew into themes of loyalty, trust, and coping with trauma (the last I didn’t fully anticipate, despite the violence of the situation). If the characters had been unaffected then they would have seemed heartless, shallow, or simply unbelievable.

When I closed the cover last night I gauged my response: it was almost like the feeling I had after Jonathan Safron Foer’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (a must read). Something both painful and redemptive. Of course, especially in pop-fiction, people want the characters to survive unscathed. They want to see overall success and satisfaction. We’re trained to cheer the main character on to triumph. Katniss does not. Despite her fire and intensity, her humor and convictions, she falters emotionally, she fails in her mission to kill Snow, she fumbles in her most important relationships, she emerges from a coma depressed and deranged. Plus she is young, inexperienced (as we all are to a degree) and used. The books don’t skirt around the realities of broken people and the impact of political unrest, war, and frankly a lack of love and compassion. Katniss wasn’t alone in not trusting anyone, in battling with her loyalties. She can’t be called a “hero,” (which is perhaps why people have stretched a lot and compared her to Winston in 1984), but she can be called human and 17. If anyone is cast as a hero, it’s Peeta—not for his devotional to Katniss necessarily—but because of his courage at trying to figure things out after the trauma, at his willingness to face reality even when he didn’t know what that was, in his ability to create hope, in his selflessness. I knew Gale wouldn’t be sticking around when his character progressed only minimally and mostly as memories; he should have been developed more if only to be more than a narrative tool. I thought Katniss would end up alone and sunk, but I’m glad that Collins allowed Peeta’s loyalty to Katniss and to living life resolve the series—trauma scars people, often permanently, but it doesn’t have to be the final abyss.

Thinking on trauma in addition to the importance of trust and loyalty makes me further reflect on knowing the reality of the Plan of Salvation, on being able to trust God when mortality feels (and is) suffocating, on knowing the loyalty of Christ to me as an individual—so much that He atoned to make me whole. His life exemplifies that compassion and unity are possible even in seemingly hopeless circumstances. This is not stuff in pop-fiction, and those who try often flop with some moralistic beating-the-audience-over-and-over which is less appealing (see The Wednesday Letters, which is fine but not thought provoking or well written). Still, as I heaved my huge body into bed last night and looked at Wesley’s exhausted face, I felt whelmed. Thankful. Relieved to know that our loyalties and trust are in the Lord and in each other, amazed to realized that we will face our own set of horrors. Perhaps we won’t step away as heroes but I know we can grow in our humanity and purpose.

Notes on Lance Larsen's First Book

Erasable Walls is a good first book. I say this because I've been thinking about first books and how Edward Hirsch calls them collections of "the best ofs..."--meaning they don't flow as well as the next books because the writer is still figuring the process and himself out. I thoroughly enjoyed Erasable Walls on its own, but since I read the other two collections first, I can see how Larsen has become more comfortable and confident in his work.

I knew going in that Larsen is a narrative and personal poet--meaning there are people in the poems, healthy sentiment, an arc you can follow as a reader (compare to lyric poetry which covers more "landscape of the soul" and other abstract concepts). I enjoyed the whole collection; my favorite poems centralized on the attempts to spiritually translate a situation, though.

I love "Errand." What are our errands? Of our fingernails or knees?

Another section, from "Letter to Hieronymus Bosh" that I appreciated: "This afternoon I found a mouse with a chewed-off head / on my doorstep. What was he guilty of? If tossing / him into hte field was a kind of prayer, I offered it / quickly, but didn't mean it. A single, lazy arc." How do our actions become prayers? Or how should they be prayers? What does it mean to really have compassion on the least? Is simply noticing ever enough?

"Denouement" felt like a poet's poem--on naming and language and expansion. Most collections of poetry have at least one meta moment. Usually every poem has a line or so that hints toward it, perhaps because one of the purposes of poetry is to draw attention to how we shape the world and our experience by the way we name things, by our labling processes. So Adam addresses the new world. "And no punctuation--all commas adn periods / swallowed by a grammar of infinity: / for who can parse God?" as we see the punctuation, the thundering dash, and definite colon, all leading up to the question mark that hangs heavily and implies that we believe we are whole, or know we are lacking, but ultimately we attempt to parse ourselves so that we can understand God, so we can grasp our relationship to something even as simple as the comma that may or may not be there.

Overall, I savored the book and my main complaint is that I bought a used copy and dislike the previous owners' marginalia (alas).

Catching up, again.

Our normal, happy life. Florals, stripes, pants...

At the state capital, learning more about Texas and the Civil War.

Levi helps with the mopping.

November in Texas.

Family shot--we realized we didn't have one for the year!

(the mom puts on her lion face to make the baby smile. Oh. Dear.)

Thanksgiving = food equivilant of a marathon. We had a great time.

Menu: turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, steamed squash, twice baked red-pepper sweet potatoes, cresent rolls, vegetables and dip, stuffing (complete with homemade bread!), buryani, cabbage salad

And apple, pumpkin, coconut cream, and banana cream pies. With lots of cream.

Close up of stuffing--I was nervous about it.

Cranberry sauce I made the day before and forgot to pull out for dinner! Still yummy with apples, pineapple, oranges, walnuts, honey, and a healthy doese of pepper.



This is just to say

I ate the oranges from the refrigerator.
No one else likes them here
but the cold, pulpy flesh almost
convinced me of winter.

Even in Texas. Even pregnant.

I've realized lately that I'm a bit of a book snob. Or just a snob in general. I never intended to be! I'm not perpetually dissatisified! I just seek perfect phrases, sentences, punctuated moments--and rarely find them. Never in my own work, occassionally elsewhere. My relationship with literature becomes more complex with time. Is it wrong to want good writing to be widely read? Is it wrong to want good writing? A month ago, I read Short Takes, the first of the Kitchen/Jones anthologies of short nonfiction--and decided that the following anthologies are much better and I wonder if there is such a way to forget genre distinctions and write something simply true and fulfilling and awesome--and how to anthologize that?

Perhaps that is called life.

A note on some poetry (drafted months ago...)

Time builds up and I start feeling guilty about this dumb blog. I should form better, more efficient reports on what I read, but some days I can barely check my e-mail (Levi + technology = haphazard joy, destroyed machines...). And some days I struggle to slip in any writing time at all--the blog is just lower priority, I guess. Forgive me for my inconsistency; I don't live up to my own expectations most of time.

I have now officially read all of Jane Austen's work. Perhaps this desire came because I am surrounded by boys. Pride and Prejudice is witty and passionate and quoteable--no wonder there are multiple versions of it. Plus it's a fast read. Persuasion is not appreciated enough. I haven't heard many people rave about it, and it can be raved over. Sense and Sensibility is such an interesting look at sisters. What I love about Austen is the interiority she reveals by focusing on exterior realities. Granted, sometimes certain books and authors just fit my mood.

I've also recently reread Dandelion Wine (that was to celebrate summer). Ah. And Cheaper by the Dozen (one of Wesley's favorites--and very fun). I've read a few others and they are logged away in Excel. Eventually I may just figure out GoodReads.

This post is actually about three poetry collections.

I didn't mean to read The End of Desire by Jill Bialoski. Wes ordered The End of Oil for one cent online, and the bookstore had the two mixed up in their catalogue. They told us to keep it and sent the money for shipping back. Neat. While there were some great lines and what Doug Thayer calls "moments of insight," the collection felt self-absorbed and strangely self-congratulatory in its confessional style (annoying). It made me remember why people resisit the idea of personal nonfiction and confessional poetry. I worry sometimes that my work comes across that way. It is easy to believe you're exploring when you can't see the larger picture. People who have already made the map, or at least seen it, have a different perspective.

The Clearing by Philip White is an immensely personal study of grief, healing, and time as he considers the death of his wife. He's in his thirties. Overall, I found the collection lovely but a bit redundant. Sometimes I buy into the idea that there are only three or so themes out there that we all choose from and cling to--but I still want surprise and joy in the language. I want to feel pushed from the inside out.

Two Great Spiritual Reads

A few weeks ago I read a book that changed my life. Completely. I (unfortunately) have a tendency to edit as I read and wonder why people made certain decisions in their writing, but on this book I looked past all of that and stopped caring. It is written with the Spirit: amazing. Each page uplifts and edifies as a result, regardless of writing style or organization. It's one everyone should read, I can't even offer a decent summary. Such a humble, inspiring work. Wesley and I have made some life/family changes because of it. That's a powerful book.

Point: Read F. Enzio Busche's book, Yearning for the Living God (edited by Tracie Lamb).

This morning I finished Neal A. Maxwell's Not My Will, But Thine. Also lovely, but perhaps organized more intellectually. I thoroughly enjoy Maxwell because his work is quick to read as well as full of things to mull over. I find myself still refering to his ideas and insights years after I have read them. One that stood out from this book:
"What we feel on that occasion will be God's and Jesus' perfect love for us--not a scolding sterness but a profound kindness and immense tenderness. As these virtues flow from them toward us, many will feel the scalding shame of not having returned that love. As we feel their perfect love, we will confess that the justice and mercy of God are likewise perfect."

Isn't lovely that mortality is a matter of developing? I've been thinking a lot lately on how life demands more of our bodies and spirits than they are capable of handling, and yet we are upheld. Sleep deprived, over- or under-worked, strained--our lives are hungry, starved in a variety of ways at different times. But on earth, we refine our soul, we combine the worth and strength of both body and spirit, we daily discover what it means to be mortal and sometimes glimpse the greatness God sees in us.

Of Ivanhoe, Titles, and Foils

I'm in a book club with my sisters and mom. We read Ivanhoe in October. Since I'm behind in my book logging, I thought I'd start with this review. More to come.
Despite my first suprise at not hearing the name "Ivanhoe" until chapter 5, I thoroughly enjoyed the book (note here that I listened to the entire thing--so when it comes to names, etc., I don't have any spelling references!). I determined early on that male authors--at least our friend Sir Walter--of that time period should not spend pages describing clothing since even after lengthy anecdotes of feathers and furs, most of the characters fall into categories of class but are rarely distinguishable otherwise. With that acknolwedged, I do love Wamba--in his jester cap or disguised as a friar.


Throughout the novel I considered why Ivanhoe was the title character. He had few appearances, no real show of valor or strength, and primarily background information (rather than current since he was in secrecy then wounded). The book spent equal time with Wamba and the swineherd, more with Locksley/Robin Hood, and a decent amount with Cedric, Friar Tuck, and the celebrated Black Knight/King Richard. I felt that ultimately, the cast centralized around Rebecca. Rebecca revealed imperfections and virtues, desires and constraints, weakness of person and station but strength of spirit. Her affection for Ivanhoe is really where the reader sees the most of him. As a literary tool, Rebecca's main problem was that she proved Rowena to be a surface character: limited, again, to a vague description of beauty and heritage. At the conclusion of the novel, although we are told Rowena and Ivanhoe live happily, I could almost sense Sir Walter's wish that he had allowed Ivanhoe and Rebecca to somehow end up together. Alas, she a Jewess and he a crusader.

Ultimately, I think Ivanhoe is the proper title character because all of the events and other characters hinge on his existance. While the story only briefly touches on him, it could not happen without him. Cedric and Rowena probably would not have attended the tournament without the initial argument about/with Ivanhoe. Isaac might not have survived (more than once). Brian would have persued Rowena. The Black Knight would not have interfered as he did. Sweet Gurth never would have achieved freedom. Rebecca's champion would not have materialized. In addition to physical events, the emotions and motives of the characters relied on the established goodness and solidity of Ivanhoe. At least as a catalyst.