Hiding Behind His Title: From Both His Name and His Conscience

Though seemingly enveloped in a shroud of unique benevolence, it is upon deeper scrutiny that another side of the Magistrate’s dual personality becomes apparent. By use of the rather harsh Colonel Joll as foil to our narrator, J.M Coetzee first casts the Magistrate in a flattering light: when Joll demands the investigation of the old man and young boy caught as prisoners, the Magistrate begins to openly question the orders, thus simultaneously protecting the two as well as instantly separating himself from the “antagonist” Joll. Not only do we as readers behold this flout of political power in the name of justice, but we remain privy to the Magistrate’s thoughts as he himself realizes “I grow conscious that I am pleading for them.”
This concept of the Magistrate’s “good” versus Joll’s “evil” occurs several times throughout the book: when Joll tortures the prisoners, the Magistrate sneaks down to aid them. When Joll starts out to find more prisoners, the Magistrate does what he can to impede the journey. When Joll sends home the captive river people, the Magistrate grows openly angry at the injustice of it all and demands bread for the people. By drenching his character in both public geniality and personal intelligence (evident in the many sections concerning the Magistrate’s inner drive for answers and history, such as his excavation of the buildings in the desert), Coetzee effectively blindfolds the reader into feeling sympathy and pride for the Magistrate. However, this assessment is incorrect. Though perhaps not able to be rightfully called “evil”, the Magistrate proves himself to be no more than a coward on several occasions. He may begin his response to Joll’s injustices with apparent humanity and compassion, however as soon as the situation begins to get difficult, the Magistrate (who has “not asked for more than a quiet life in quiet times”) switches faces. The man who once risked his own safety and position to check on the tortured prisoners, does nothing more than temporarily help the young boy before leaving for his “military stew and his comfortable bed”. The man who once seemed to embrace the morality of taking in the innocent river people, only “flees for refugee to the furthest corner of [his] apartment” when sickness and misfortune hit. Instead of living up to his title as apparent protagonist, the Magistrate prefers to hide from the problem (just as he hides from the crying and coughing baby) and bury himself within his inner thoughts and self pity, behaving as though the moral strife that comes with his position is not, in fact, his responsibility, nor his concern, rather, was thrust upon him as a cruel fate for after all, he “did not mean to get embroiled in this.” What is the purpose of creating such a flawed narrator? Is the Magistrate any better than Joll?

1902 Encyclopaedia Britannica

*Article from the Encyclopedia Britannica that details the state of informed public opinion about the Congo (one of the largest political divisions of Equatorial Africa) the year “Heart of Darkness” appeared in book form
*Breaks down the history of the Congo in terms of history, physical features, population, stations, constitution, judicial machinery, religion, finance, defense, land, minerals, animal products, agriculture, industries, commerce, communications, waterways, and shipping
*The political history states that in the General Act, the deliberations following the International Conference at Berlin, the Congo was given a list of provisions concerning the relationship between it and Europe under King Leopold, trade monopolies, and the civilization of the natives
*The geographic information outlines the physical features, such as the various streams, rivers, and mountains. The climate varies only slightly year round, and violent storms wrack the area – points out that “Europeans are subject to the usual tropical diseases, and the country is not suited for European colonization”
*The European population at the end of 1886 was 254
*Mentions that “the native population are pagans, fetish worshippers, and on a very low plane of civilization” – mentions colonies set up to train 500 boys up to the age of 14 who are neglected, orphans, or rescued from slavery for the sole purpose of providing recruits for the armed forces of the State – “Missionaries have displayed great activity on the Congo”
*Trivializes agricultural feats: “Until the advent of Europeans the natives…did little more than cultivate small patches of land close to their villages”
*Focuses on the “splendid navigable waterways” of the Congo as the “most powerful instrument in the development of its resources”

A Parallel of Inferiority

An inflated sense of self-importance, a desperately skewed perception of reality, an intrinsic lack of the capacity to truly love another: though perhaps different in some aspects, the fundamental reason behind Mother and Jason’s intimacy lies not within what is independent of each, but rather, that which is held in common. Upon close evaluation of her character through both Quentin’s and especially Jason’s chapter, it is evident that Mother (along with all her selfishness and distorted opinions) is a woman within whose very core lays the fear of inferiority. This fear is interlaced within each of her “relationships” with both children and husband: Benji is her “punishment” from God, thus representing retribution for her “sins”, Quentin an undervalued stranger in her eyes, the embodiment of a true “Compson”, Caddy her catalyst to happiness and familial pride, and Jason, her husband, a man she feels is unrightfully superior to herself. However, Mother is not the only character whose primary concern seems to be combating (and often denying) this overwhelming sense of inferiority. As evidenced through his desperate need for public acceptance, unwavering desire for monetary accumulation, and twisted craving for every facet of control he could possibly obtain, Jason Compson serves as a mirror in which his mother’s potent reflection is exposed. The two share several negative attributes and it is this that ultimately binds them together tighter than they perhaps realize: their individual lack of inner competence is thus translated into a mutual bond that strengthens with every passing flicker of inferiority. What are Mother and Jason’s differences? Is there another explanation for their relationship?

Playing with Poison

"Faulkner's Use of Folklore in the Sound and the Fury" by Charles D. Peavy introduces a whole new insight into the famous piece of classic literature. By shifting focus from specific nuances of the plot line to a far more in depth observation about both the writing itself and various interests of the author, Peavy sheds a new light on the novel, one which otherwise would have likely gone unnoticed. Peavy points out the minute details almost hidden within The Sound and the Fury that deal with elements of classical folklore and support them with his own notions of Faulkner's apparent interest in the subject. He cites various instances in the author's biography which would support this notion, such as when Faulkner moved into the old Bailey home in Oxford Mississippi and soon after renamed it "Rowan Oak", based upon the folk belief that the Rowan tree is said to protect the inhabitants of a house from various forms of evil. Peavy goes on to say that Faulkner later attempted to grow a Rowan tree on his property, however, he was not successful.
With this brief account of the existence of folklore within Faulkner's personal thoughts and life, Peavy begins to build his argument. He states that the several details evident within The Sound and the Fury are not simply random additions to the text, but instead, placed there purposely to represent symbolic themes which are based off of folklore. The one that intrigued me most was the symbolic importance behind Benji's Jimson weed. Seemingly just a plant name selected randomly to describe the plant which Benji is given to play with time and time again, Peavy counteracts this notion and replaces it with a theory that makes Faulkner's selection of the weed name far most important. Peavy mentions the folk belief history behind the weed (often called a "stinkweed"): "The Jimson weed is quite common in the Arkansas-Louisiana-Mississippi area and has a multiplicity of meanings in the folklore in this region. A course, ill-scented annual plant, the Jimson weed is a member of the nightshade family, and is, of course, quite poisonous." Peavy then goes on to state that the plant is rumored to have poisoned and killed many children who came across its dangerous attributes, and thus, is it surprising that Benji would be allowed to play with such a hazard multiple times throughout the novel. Peavy explains that perhaps the reason Faulkner equipped Benji with so dangerous a poison is symbolic; once Caddy (who "smelled of tress") left his life, all that was left behind was the stench of the stinkweed.
I found this article interesting because it replaces the previously unnoticed with a far more in depth outlook upon Faulkner's writing, one that without Peavy, may have remained hidden within the pages of complex text forever.

• Faulkner's Use of Folklore in The Sound and the Fury
• Charles D. Peavy
• The Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 79, No. 313 (Jul. - Sep., 1966), pp. 437-447
  (article consists of 11 pages)
• Published by: American Folklore Society
• Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/537508

Through the Looking Glass

In order to truly understand the intrinsic (and somewhat neurotic) qualities of Faulkner's Quentin Compson, one must pay special attention to the unmistakable parallelism between Quentin and Benjy. On the most superficial level, their similarities are obvious: both share many of the same memories, both may be classified as reliable narrators based on their rather objective recollections, and both share the same disjointed and chaotic thought process. However, on a deeper level, the brothers mirror each other in two essential ways. The first is a strong, somewhat atypical devotion to their sister, Caddy. Benjy expresses his devout "worship" of Caddy through his inherent reliance upon her throughout virtually every stage of his life. Even at the age of thirty three, Benjy's necessity for Caddy remains, as evidenced in his physical reaction when just her name is mentioned. Quentin's devotion to his sister is also supported continuously throughout the book: he serves as both her protector and confidante and his obsession to her is so prevalent that Quentin subconsciously relates almost every aspect of his existence to hers. Another parallel concerns the senses. It cannot be coincidental that throughout the first chapter of the book, Benjy repeatedly utilizes every sense he has control over to express his surroundings. From the scent of Caddy ("Caddy smelled like trees") to the feel of her "chest going", Benjy compensates for his muteness by relying heavily on his other, more sharpened senses. However, this habit of comprehension through the senses is not unique to Benjy's character; Quentin shares the trait several times throughout chapter two. The language of sensing their external environment through all ways but speech is almost shockingly similar: on page eighty one, Quentin describes Caddy's wedding through his emphasis on hearing "her heels then in the moonlight like a cloud" and later on page eighty nine, he focuses on his sense of smell when he says "I could smell water". This mirrored trait raises a question deeper than a shared method of expression: if Benjy utilizes his controlled senses to compensate for his physical lack of speech, what, psychologically, is Quentin compensating for? Why might Faulkner put such emphasis on the similarities between Quentin and Benjy?

Crazy about Strantzas

Not only have I found a handful of incredible short stories to choose from, but I have found a new favorite writer as well. The writing of Simon Strantzas embodies everything I look for in a story: beautiful language, detailed imagery, and captivating plot. Now add to that a dark, twisted sense of horror, and you have a short story by Strantzas. Before this assignment, I had never heard of the somewhat morbid writer, but as soon as I happened upon it, I noticed a somewhat sinister vibe that is not unlike the writings of a certain Edgar Allen Poe. That was the deal cincher.
Strantzas has quite the collection of short stories, several of which are bound together in two literary compilations: “Cold to the Touch” and “Beneath the Surface’. As though the titles weren’t entrancing enough, both covers depict a livid image (or in the case of “Cold to the Touch”, lack thereof) which define the word “eerie”. Though I almost wish I could spend weeks doing nothing but combing through his short story collections (and quite frankly, I might), I’ve narrowed my choice down to four stories: “Behind Glass”, “Something New”, “Dinner at the Factory”, and “Pinholes in Black Muslin”. I am unequivocally thrilled by and in love with all four.

The Internal Battle Royal

Filled to the brim with blaring racism, disgusting profanity, and poisonous hated, Ralph Ellison’s Battle Royal evokes emotion to the fullest extent. The painfully lucid imagery and descriptive passages that depict the horrifying bigotry and intolerance towards the narrator make Battle Royal hard to stomach and harder yet to fully emotionally comprehend. However, though the sickening plotline of violence and degradation is most striking and first captures the eye (or perhaps more fittingly, the heart), Ellison’s story cannot be solely classified as a narrative of racial injustice and inequality: it is, in fact, a story of the struggle for identity.
“I am an invisible man!” Already within the first paragraph, Ellison provides us with the material to piece together the fact that the narrator is lost. “All my life I had been looking for something…I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer.” Ellison then introduces a new element: a curse. It is with this curse bestowed by the narrator’s grandfather while on his deathbed, that the narrator begins his descent into a rather deep identity crisis. The grandfather spoke of the ongoing fight between races, of his role as a quiet “traitor”, of his emphasis on beating the white man by playing his own game of feigned respect and good conduct. His words, though perhaps meant to be instructive, instantly became something of a catalyst to his impressionable grandson, for as soon as they were uttered, they hardened into chains that bound the narrator to a split life. From that point on, whenever the narrator felt joy or compassion from being kind and humble to a member of the white community, he felt the biting meaning behind his grandfathers words: “And what puzzled me was that the old man had defined it as treachery”. Such an internal battle could only lead to a sense of tumultuous loss of one’s own concept of identity.
It is upon this axis of split identity that the narrator continues to rotate blindly throughout the duration of the story. Ever since the moment the curse it spoken, the narrator seems to lose his true self underneath the weight of it. When faced with the horrors within the ring of the Battle Royal, the narrator can very clearly and easily feel physical pain and suffering. He can very easily distinguish the blows to his head, the taste of his own blood, and the sounds of racist jeering and yelling all around him. His level of intelligence is high and his sense of moral recognition isProxy-Connection: keep-alive
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intact, “Some were still crying and in hysteria. But as we tried to leave we were stopped and ordered to get into the ring. There was nothing to do but what we were told.” However, though fully able to decipher and understand the terrors of the violent situation he has been put into, the narrator’s sense of self (stemming from lack of known identity) remains confused and entirely distorted as he cannot give up his trust and faith in the “good” conduct of the white men. This warped viewpoint presents itself multiple times throughout the text, but most problematically when the narrator receives his prize at the end of the night, “I was so moved that I could hardly express my thanks…I was overjoyed; I did not even mind when I discovered the gold pieces I had scrambled for were brass pocket tokens advertising a certain make of automobile.” If for no other reason than this twisted outlook alone, it is evident that thanks to the curse that split his identity in half, the narrator truly is an invisible man.(652)

Questions:
Is there any way to look upon the curse as a blessing?
If there had been no curse to set his fate, how do you think the narrator would have acted?
What is your definition of the meaning behind “the invisible man”

Nothing Less than A Romantic Hero

A & P by John Updike is easily one of my favorite short stories I have ever read. As soon as I started reading it, I became entranced. There is something so real about Updike’s style of writing. But that doesn’t even begin to explain it, its more than that, something deeper. Its as though Updike sat down and wrote a story that perfectly blended two entirely different genres of writing that almost never mix: realism and romance, oil and water. Its easy to see how A & P can be considered realistic writing, the sentences are short, the meaning is clear, the honesty is stark. The narrator, Sammy, a grocery store cashier, is a typical teenager, his character left unblemished by profound symbolism and the harsh prodding of analytical scrutiny. From the very first few sentences the reader becomes aware of Sammy’s youth and pubescent immaturity, “In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits. I'm in the third check-out slot, with my back to the door, so I don't see them until they're over by the bread. The one that caught my eye first was the one in the plaid green two-piece. (1)” The grammar is simple and the tone is easy and flowing. As the plot moves forward, the piece exposes another realistic trait harnessed by Sammy, his consistent level of comedic input. Through humorous comments and descriptions, Updike is assigning his narrator a very clear personality type, one that demonstrates witty intelligence, and perhaps more importantly, one that separates him from the masses, or in Sammy’s words, the “sheep”. However, such traits are only intrinsic to his teenage character and do not yet identify him as anything but an amusing narrator. If the story began and ended as such, with no defining moment of revelation or character evolution, it would remain solely in the category of blatant realism. But Updike adds another ingredient to the mix: he makes Sammy a romantic hero. As his inner monologue progresses throughout the story, Sammy finally reaches a point of no return when he evolves into a character of extreme maturity. As he stands at his check-out slot, living his mundane life as the only wolf in a heard of sheep, he witnesses the scolding of the girl he has, in a way, fallen in love with by his manager. In an act of swift and decided heroic gesture, Sammy quits his job and walks through the doors, marking his departure from a haven of youthful safety to a world of harsh, livid reality. Within this scene alone, Sammy possesses all the traits of a true figure of romanticism; he shirks the idea of societal conformance, he expresses himself in true passionate emotion, and he rebels against the pre-set rules of conventionalism. As he steps out into the world he has just created for himself, Sammy is hit with reality, “my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter.” It is with this epiphany that Sammy emerges from the harsh fluorescent lighting and rubber-tiled floor into the realm of the true romantic hero, as he shirks his one-dimensional character, just as he shirked his grocer’s smock in the A & P. (543)

Skin Deep

According to Webster’s Dictionary, there are two viable definitions of the noun “scar:” “a mark left (as in the skin) by the healing of injured tissue” and “a lasting moral or emotional injury”. By both of these definitions, Maggie, the youngest daughter in Alice Walker’s short story Everyday Use, is significantly affected.
The most obvious and exterior example of scaring is evident upon Maggie in the physical form. She is the only character who is noticeably disfigured by the house fire that blemished her body years before Dee’s metamorphosis into Wangero. However, the scars serve not only as an insight to the external injury, but also as an intangible parallel to the marred inner turmoil Maggie has lived with ever since the fire. Through the imagery-filled description of her damaged daughter, the narrator allows the reader to effectively view the impact of the injuries suffered by Maggie in both a physical and emotional context, “Have you ever seen a lame animal…sidle up to someone who is ignorant enough to be kind to him? That is the way my Maggie walks. She has been like this, chin on chest, eyes on ground, feet in shuffle, ever since the fire that burned the other house to the ground. (9)” This ruined depiction of Maggie is emphasized even more when the narrator then goes on to compare her to the pristine physicality emanating from Dee in the next line, “Dee is lighter than Maggie, with nicer hair and a fuller figure. (10)” Thus proving that the bodily scarring left over by the fire manifests itself onto Maggie’s physical being just as it does to her emotional frame of mind.
However, as evidenced almost immediately in the story, the source of Maggie’s scarring is not only the fire, nor does its effect remain external. In fact, the notion that Maggie is both physically and emotionally scarred unveils itself in the first few lines of the second paragraph “Maggie will be nervous until after her sister goes; she will stand hopelessly in corners, homely and ashamed of the burn scars down her arms and legs, eyeing her sister with a mixture of envy and awe.” and to fully emphasize the source of Maggie’s scarred level of emotional security and self-worth, Walker reveals that “She [Maggie] thinks her sister has held life always in the palm of one hand, that “no” is a word never learned to say to her.(2)” This passage paints the picture of a girl marred in several ways, as it lends focus to Maggie’s internal scarring caused by feelings of inferiority towards her sister and lack of confidence within herself.
Another prime example of Maggie’s heightened levels of decreased self worth in comparison with her sister displays itself later on in the text, after Wangero (formally Dee) has returned to her home. As soon as Wangero makes the confident demand for the hand-sewn quilts promised to Maggie, Maggie recognizes her place and backs down, allowing Wangero to receive the gifts instead “Like somebody used to never winning anything or having anything reserved for her.(74)” However, perhaps the most significant moment in this passage is visible within the body language exhibited by Maggie. As she willingly relinquishes her property, Maggie “stood there with her scarred hands hidden in the folds of her skirt. (75)”, thus illustrating her lack of confidence and self-assurance even in the face of her own kind and bloodline. (571)

Everything I Love

1. Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon – It is rare that one comes across a book containing adventure, mystery, drama, romance, and an intricately woven plot line; however, it is rarer still that one comes across all of these and absolutely beautiful writing. There are very few books that have pulled me in so entirely as this one, and I would recommend it to anyone in a heartbeat.
2. The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom – Mitch Albom is by far one of my favorite authors. His writing style, which is filled with incredible language and real emotional knowledge is unlike that of any other author I’ve read, which is why I read this book about four times a year, and every time it amazes me just as much as the first time I picked it up.
3. City of Thieves by David Benioff – A strikingly intelligent novel which combines horrors of wartime reality and two of the most incredible characters I have ever come upon. In fact, one of them, Kolya, makes my Favorite Character list.
4. One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest by Ken Kesey – I have never fallen in love with a book (and a character, Dale Harding) so quickly. Everything about this book, from its off-the-wall humor to its deep symbolism allows me to understand why Kesey is so highly regarded in the literary realm.
5. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini – One of the many books that was just as difficult to read as it was amazing. There were so many scenes of horrendous reality, but at the same time, some of the most incredible writing and story telling that I’ve ever come across. I’m not sure I’ve ever cried harder at the end of a book.
6. The Red Tent by Anita Diamant – At first I didn’t think I’d ever like a book that dealt so heavily with a story based off of a religious tale, but the main character, Dinah, with all of her headstrong imperfections, is one of my favorite characters ever.
7. Gone With The Wind by Maragret Mitchell – Unarguably one of the greatest literary romances ever. The second I finished this book, I decided I’m going to name one of my future children Scarlett or Rhett.
8. Catch 22 by Joseph Heller –. This book was the perfect blend of witty writing and intelligent satire. Yossarian’s (by far one of my favorite characters I’ve ever come across) witty habit of signing “Washington Irving” and when he grew tired of signing Washington Irving, “Irving Washington” on his censured letters also gave my blog its name.
9. Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury – I loved this book. I loved everything about it; the 1984 feel, the almost tangible psychological maturation of Guy Montag, the amazingly frightening world concocted by Bradbury of a future with no books and thus no individual thought
10. Death Be Not Proud by John Gunther – One of the saddest, and at the same time, most honest books I’ve ever read. Somehow Gunther was able to do something I so admire, which is to blend complete reality with the most gorgeous writing.
11. Women of the Silk by Gail Tsukiyama – A book of Chinese life filled with everything I enjoy to read about; culture, strong characters, an entirely unique plot line, and courageous women.
12. Old Yeller by Fred Gipson – The first book I can ever remember reading on my own, and one I remember sobbing over for hours. Though I love it more than anything, to this day I (stubbornly) refuse to reread it, because I have no idea what I would do if I didn’t hold it in the same high esteem I did when I was younger.
13. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? by Edward Albee – I am so amazed by the fact that Albee was able to write an entire play and story line that takes place in just one evening and all in one room. The wit and intelligence and hilariously deep conversation that husband, wife, and dinner guests have is expertly written, and more captivating than most dialogue I have come across.
14. Sophie’s Choice by William Styron – Focuses around an idea incredibly painful to grasp, and yet, the choice of choosing one child over another is buffered by deep passages and intricate relationships. Though she serves only as a character, I couldn’t help but feel so much for Sophie throughout the entire novel.
15. Shakespeare for Children – Though I can’t remember the exact title or authors, I love this book. I remember Shakespeare’s way-too-difficult-for-a-child plays written next to little cartoon drawings of Hamlet, Macbeth, and Romeo, all equipped with speech bubbles saying things like “Basically, lets go on a date sometime, Juliet”. Most importantly, I remember my grandmother reading to me nightly, and I’m convinced it is why I am completely in love with every Shakespearean play I’ve ever read since then…even without the cartoons.

Getting Lost in the City of Thieves

From the heart-wrenching yet morbidly beautiful tales of raw human nature and incredibly different ways of life written by Khaled Hosseini to Sue Monk Kidd’s honey-sweet novel of a girl’s maturity into womanhood, the list of recommended books was clearly filled to the brim with amazing literature. This fact produced two very true outcomes; the first is that I found great trouble in having to pick my favorites to finish in time for the end of summer, and I finally did with much deliberation. Which brings us to the second – though I finished my required reading, I’ve decided to continue working on the rest of the list. From those recommended, I newly read two this summer (excluding Pride and Prejudice); the wonderfully crafted Emma by Jane Austen and the perhaps more strictly factual All the President’s Men by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. Though quite possibly polar opposites in both content and style, I absolutely loved both. Always a fan of Jane Austen, I found Emma to be just as wonderful as both Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, for Austen always has a way of producing beautifully light plots and strong female characters through the most beautiful writing. And though admittedly it took me a while to get used to the journalistic style of writing, I was soon dragged into the scandals of the Watergate story seen through the reliable eyes of reporters Woodward and Bernstein in All the President’s Men. Along with the books on the list, I read (and fell in love with) Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson, Sophie’s Choice by William Styron, The House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski, Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest by Ken Kesey, and several more. And though both Kesey’s works was a very close runner up, the novel that most drew me in this summer was one called City of Thieves written by David Benioff.
From the second I picked it up, I fell into it. The book tells the story of the initial narrator’s grandfather, a man rich in dark experience and brimming with the life of his convoluted past. Seen through the eyes of the grandfather as a young boy in German occupied Russia during WWII, the book is none other than a plunge into the depths of physical suffering, psychological pain, and the truest of human emotion unearthed by the tumult within the war. But that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. The young boy, Lev, soon finds himself captured by his country’s own men after a misunderstanding near his home. While under arrest, he meets his complete opposite; a beautifully confident, striking young man by the name of Kolya, a deserter from the Russian troops who backs down to no one and believes only in himself. Death for both seems imminent, that is, until they are released by the makings of a deal; if the heartily mismatched duo can somehow forage together a dozen eggs for the Russian general’s daughter’s wedding in a week, they are to be set free. With the fact that finding whole chicken eggs in a country devastated by famine, winter, and violence being their least of all problems, Kolya and Lev set out on a journey which leaves both radically altered in the small period of seven days. Between Lev’s incredible leap into maturity, forced upon him by both the atrocities he takes part in and the world of emotion and adventure opened up to him and Kolya’s humorously and meaningfully rich character which plays as the greatest of foils to Lev’s dark and thoughtful side, Benioff’s tale of death and loyalty unwinds and twists itself into one of the most horrendous and absolutely perfect novels I have ever read. Every aspect of the book appeals to the reader. Benioff masterfully blends adventurous plot with musical language, however, perhaps the most magnetic aspect of his written work lays in the invention of the characters. By creating two heroes from everyday men, each adorned with a myriad of faults and set backs, Benioff adds magic to the individual and thus allows the reader to see within the intrinsic heart of human nature; the will to persevere against all odds. (709)