After Reading
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Dr. Bordelon's The Short Story: On Campus |
"Carnal Knowledge" Irony rules in this story. At the most basic level, the irony is revealed in Jim's sudden conversion to vegetarianism and animal rights. Far from a conviction based in on study of ethics, this conversion is a conviction based on a more animalistic, primal emotion. After Alena tells him of Alf's torture and walks over to a box to retrieve some documents, Jim thinks "If I was moved by the emotion she'd called up, I was moved even more by the sight of her bending over the box in her Gore-Tex bikini" (¶26). Earlier, when he first hears about the torture, his sympathy goes out first, not to the dog who, after all, used him as fire hydrant but to Alena: "'Tortured him?' I echoed, feeling the indignation rise in me this beautiful girl, this innocent beast" (¶21). From the start, it's obvious to the reader that the passion Jim feels for the animal rights movement is directed not towards saving animals, but towards "the fluency of her limbs and the sweetness of her vegetable tongue" (¶45). Other ironies abound throughout the story, from Alf's name, which recalls the stupor-inducing sit-com from the 80s with the same name, to, of course, the fate of the turkeys on the road. The title, for example, is layered in irony. Carnal knowledge denotes sexual knowledge, but carnal also refers to flesh and the question here is which flesh? Is Boyle only referring to Jim's relationship with Alena, or is he also bringing up the narrator's "relationship," for want of a better word, with meat? The smooth elision between "veal scaloppini" and "Alena Jorgenson" in the first two paragraphs suggest that the two aren't that separate in his mind. Similarly, referring to the variety of meats in the first paragraph, Jim thinks "it was all the same to me" (¶1), and from the way the paragraph is constructed, this phrase also includes Alena. Unwittingly, Jim reveals that because of this strange connection between meat and his prior love interest, his attraction to Alena is entirely physical carnal and thus of the flesh. For Jim meat and love are something he "never really thought about" (¶1); they both are merely something to consume. The irony in the story is illustrated in more subtle ways as well. We're used, as readers, to looking for a change in a fictional character. From the opening of the first two paragraphs, it might seem that something in the narrator has changed. The before/after construction "I'd never really thought. . . " in the first paragraph to "And then I met . . . " (emphasis added) in the second suggests a movement, a difference in Jim's mind. Yet the final paragraph reveals the paucity of this change. Ironically, after he realizes that he can no longer have the "meat" of Alena, he craves the "meat" of a burger. When he says aloud "it's only meat" (¶ 116) what is he referring to? The burger he envisions, or the girl he has just lost? . . . . Or both? Boyle's technique for revealing irony is juxtaposition: he jams two contrasting images/ideas together to expose the differences in their meanings. One of my favorite examples occurs when Jim is on the picket line. As "the breath of saintliness seep[s] steadily into" him, he slides into fantasy: "Now I was the protester, a placard waver . . . now I was Alena Jorgensen's lover and a force to be reckoned with" (¶49). This is the picture he has of himself in his mind. The reality is revealed in the very next sentence: "my feet hurt and I was running sweat and praying that no one from work would drive by and see me there on the sidewalk with my crazy cohorts and denunciatory sign" (¶49). Would such a fire-breathing protestor worry about his own aches or his job? Did Sammy worry about his job in "A&P"? But don't worry about me trying to make Jim a hero realistic or otherwise. He has all the negative qualities of Sammy, without his redeeming sense of morality and ethics. The hints he unconsciously drops about his character reveal a lonely, self-centered man adrift and "disconnected" (¶55) from the world. His infatuation and rapid identification with Alena reveals an emotional immaturity that, in turn, reveals part of his attraction to being a protestor: as he revealingly notes, "I was giddy with the adolescent joy of it" (¶56). I think Jim is a little too in touch with his "inner-child." There are also hints of an emotional coldness, probably in part due to his "disconnection." As his whirlwind romance (the action of the story covers about two weeks) with Alena deepens, he wonders, "Was it love? The term is something I've always had difficulty with . . ." (¶55). Earlier, he noted that when he met Alena he was "between relationships the person I'd been seeing off and on for the past year wouldn't even return my calls" (¶14). Also, he's alone on his birthday, without even any friends and only the promise of his mom and Aunt Irene to celebrate this special day. I think we can safely infer that his personality is not, shall we say, engaging (in fact, as my reference to emotional coldness suggests, he's remininisent of the narrator in "Horizontal Snow."). His lack of convictions also exposes him as a character who is difficult to admire. Right before he "liberates" the turkeys, his conscience stirs, and we wonder if he will back out at the last minute. Interestingly, at first his sympathy isn't for the birds, but for the person who he'll be injuring: "I thought of the turkey farmer asleep in his bed." While he does feel sympathy for the birds, his main feelings lie somewhat further south: "I thought of Alena, long-legged and loving." With this vision in mind, the choice for Jim becomes clear: "I took the tin snips to the wire" (¶93). For Jim, lust rules over convictions. Here, as in "A&P," the first person narration allows us to see all his flaws, but again, his lack of growth in the story leaves him with few, if any, ennobling qualities for the reader to admire. In this, he is, I think, similar to Alena Jorgensen. In the interest of full disclosure, before discussing Alena and the connections between her character and Boyle's critique of extremism, I guess I should take a cue from the first question in the photocopied story and state my own views on animal rights if you don't really care, feel free to skip this paragraph. I'm no fan of the animal rights movement nor do I practice vegetarianism. I'll address the latter first: while I don't go around trying to convert people to eat meat, I do take a dental view of diet. With our combination of front incisors and canines for ripping and tearing, and our molars for grinding, it's pretty apparent that we, like our simian ancestors, are omnivorous. My thoughts on the former, the animal rights movement, are more complex. Like any extremist movement, they deal in absolutes: all animal testing bad, all animals (except humans) good, which makes it difficult for someone like myself, who likes to look at things from all sides, to agree with their positions. Having spent long hours on a farm and in the woods, I know that animals aren't known for their kindness to other species (I've seen a puff of feathers cloud a pigeon as a hawk strikes it in mid-air) or often their own (I've seen the pink exposed flesh from the "pecking order" of free-range chickens). Also these groups often favor violent tactics, which I abhor. Yet here things get a bit murky. Knowing how difficult it is to get humans to change their habits, I realize why many groups resort to violence. Would the South have stopped slavery on their own? I doubt it. Would the Irish and English be sitting at a bargaining table if not for years of "troubles"? Probably not. Still, as an idealist, I cannot give up my hope that humans are capable of acts of altruism without the threat of violence. All of this is to preface my reading of the story as a broad satire on animals in general from humans to dogs to turkeys. Unsurprisingly, irony also dominates Boyle's presentation of Alena. Her work with the animal groups does not make her more admirable than Jim. Instead of a more enlightened individual, she has turned to self-loathing; this is startlingly revealed when she tells Jim: "We're the plague on this planet, don't you know that?" (¶111). Ironically, she can only see the bad in humans and apparently, only the good in animals. Her rather dismissive view of Jim, even if he is a creep, shows that her altruism doesn't extend to relationships. When Jim tells her angrily that he didn't know humans were the plague, her impassive face "she gave [Jim] a look that let [him] know it didn't matter" stands in marked contrast to her concern over animal rights. It seems that Homo Sapiens isn't an animal in her book. And just why is she involved in the animal movement? Is it as clear as the righteousness of her own convictions, or could it be for reasons distinctly similar to Jim's? What, for instance, is Rolfe (or is it wolf?) doing in the story? Could one of her motivations for animal rights be her fascination with Rolfe just as Jim's motivation is his fascination for her? Let's take a look at the evidence. She throws "herself in [Rolfe's] arms" and gives him a kiss "with some meaning behind it" (¶67) when she meets him. Hmmm. One kiss does not a relationship make. Okay, then what about the change in her manner around Rolfe? She seems particularly vivacious around him; Jim notes that she "hadn't stopped chattering since we stepped through the door" (¶70). Well, maybe she's just excited about being there? Maybe he's just an old friend that she's happy to see? Right? But for me the clincher is her reaction when Rolfe reveals his plan to liberate the turkeys: Alena "was gazing on [him] as if he'd just dropped down from heaven" (¶78). In her eyes, Rolfe is no ordinary human, but a man apart from the common run of males. For her, he attains a god-like stature, and, in an ironic parallel to Jim, her actions toward him suggest a giddy infatuation. The fly in the ointment with this reading is the point of view. Since we learn about Alena through Jim's voice, the voice of the jilted lover, we should take everything with a grain of salt. But even taken with a blue box of Morton's, her statements and actions are meant, I think, to give us pause. And I wonder if her relationship with Jim, on some level, wasn't a set-up: did Alena and Rolfe plan to leave Jim behind all along? Note that Alena was "curiously silent" during the car ride to "liberate" the turkeys (¶81). Could this be guilt working on her? Then, Rolfe asks Jim to leave the keys in the ignition, a proposition to which Alena quickly (as if she knew it was coming?) encourages Jim to accept. Now isn't it a bit odd to leave your keys your only means of escape in the getaway vehicle? And isn't it funny that Rolfe and Alena can get to the car so easily? It's almost as if instead of splitting up after leaving Jim, they acted together as a team. Note too, how the lights on the car "blinked on briefly" before Alena and Rolfe high-tailed out of the area. They deserted their comrade in arms rather quickly, don't you think? If the movement had treated all its operatives in such fashion, it would have fallen apart. In effect, they abandon Jim, leaving him to face the music while they hightail it outa' there. Granted, Jim could easily finger them: "It was Rolfe who was the mastermind, Rolfe I tell you!," but I could easily envision Alena's incredulous face as she tells the police, "Why no officer, we [arm encircling Rolfe's waist] were here all night. . . ." While caustic, this scenario fits into the sardonic world-view presented by Boyle in the story. For Boyle, man is one big, dysfunctional family. When Jim wants to impress Alena, he accosts a woman wearing a fur coat and gets brutalized. When Alena wants to spend more time with Rolfe, she unceremoniously dumps Jim. In this story, self-interest is the controlling factor in human relations. This selfishness is seen at a basic, more instinctual level as well. When push comes to shove, Boyle argues, self-preservation rules: man and beast could care less about each other. Again, he uses ironic parallels to show this. Note the juxtaposition of paragraphs 97-98. When the turkeys are frightened, they trample over Jim: "I was a roadbed, a turkey expressway." In the very next paragraph, the tables are turned; Jim, after hearing "There! Who's that there?" "kicked [the turkeys] aside like so many footballs, slashed and tore at them as they sailed through the air." Boyle suggests, through this comparison, that since both are animals, both will act like animals when their lives are threatened. If the turkeys were capable of raising and slaughtering humans for feed, they would. While this doesn't make the eating of animals any more ethical, Boyle uses this irony as a blowtorch to scald the tears of animal activists. He seems to be saying "look, as much as you cry for these animals, if they were in your position they'd be eating you!" His view on animal rights movement (and by extension, other extremist causes) seems similarly bleak. Boyle suggests the futility of such actions in at least two points in the story. The first occurs early, when Jim is treading the pavement in front of the fur store. Jim thinks: "To the rest of the world, to the uninitiated masses to whose sorry number I'd belonged just twenty-four hours earlier, we were invisible" (¶50). Exactly. How often do you (and I include myself in this) pay close attention to product boycotts or protests? While I'm not sure I'd cross a picket line, I'm sometimes guilty, depending on the protest (i.e. if I agree with it), of dismissing them as cranks. To the great mass of people, most protest is invisible and, Boyle would add, not an expression of free speech, but, as it is with Jim and may be with Alena, a way to score points with others. The most graphic (in all senses of the word) example of the movement's futility lies in the fate of the turkeys. I wonder, what did Rolfe and Alena think would happen to the turkeys? They are domestic turkeys, fowl that are not known for their intelligence. They wouldn't suddenly learn to forage in the woods, and their vast expanse of white feathers would make them an easy target for coyotes and other predators like cars. That scrim of blood on the windshield of Jim's car at the end of the story is Boyle's answer to animal rights extremists: the turkeys will fulfill their part of the food chain one way or another, either by appeasing appetites primed by a national ritual or by becoming road kill (and thus food for scavengers). And Rolfe and Alena's negligence it seems too obvious to be ignorance verges on the criminal. Okay, let's get back to love which is what this assignment is about, right? What's Boyle saying about love in the late 20 th century? Well, not anything good, at least as it's presented here. His bleak view of human relationships doesn't leave much room for love. Instead, he depicts us as satellites with transmitters but defective receivers, able to rendezvous with each other, but sending out signals that are distorted into a kind of sensual static. After indulging in carnal knowledge, what else is there? The problem is that too many people have come to the conclusion, like Jim, that it's all meat: too many have now confused love with lust. In that, I don't think Boyle is too far off the mark. Instead of communication note how often Jim misreads Alena's actions (my favorite is early in the story when he looks in Alena's eyes and thinks he'll be in bed feeding her grapes all day; instead he ends up in bed nursing his wounds from the kickboxer) people are too often lost in a fog, kinda' like the fog that covers the final section of the story. It blinds them, preventing them from seeing things as they really are. Jim is lost in a fog of lust over Alena; Alena and Rolfe are lost in a fog of righteousness and can't see the ironic results of their actions. Luckily, Boyle supplies enough clues to keep the reader on the road and to steer clear of the turkeys (both human and avian). "Shiloh" For me, the key note in this story is its ambiguity especially the ending. Does she jump? At the end of the story she's at the edge of a bluff, "looking out over the Tennessee River" (1133). Then there's the odd ending: "The sky is unusually pale the color of the dust ruffle Mabel made for their bed" (1133). Huh? Why end with this strange, enigmatic line? It's one level of Mason's respect for us that she doesn't end the story with a tidy wrap up. We're left dangling, left to infer what happened and what will happen based upon what we've read. In this Mason presents us with an honest picture of a life. Unlike "Carnal Knowledge," the story doesn't move full circle to a resolution or epiphany by the main character. Leroy is left, as we are, pondering Norma Jean's actions. Since Mason employs a limited omniscient narrator, we, like Leroy, can never enter Norma's thoughts and see what her motivations are. On the surface, this is a simple tale of a marriage on the rocks: but just under the surface Mason is playing with ideas of gender, communication, and history. Let's look at the characters first. Leroy is a feckless, desperate individual, trying to hold on to a wife who's grown detached. Given this description, he sounds like an unappealing character, yet Mason crafts him so that by the end of the story you feel sorry for him. Perhaps this is because she makes it clear that he is trying to change. As the narrator notes early in the story, Leroy "has begun to realize that in all the years he was on the road he never took time to examine anything" (1124). The crucial word here is "begun," which suggests a beginning, an effort he is now exerting. Before his accident, he never paid attention to his marriage; it's only now that he's home with time on his hands that he sees that his wife has changed. Another appealing aspect of his character is his love for Norma. This love leads to a kind of desperate attachment. For instance, when Norma tells Leroy about cosmetics, "he thinks happily of other petroleum products axle grease, diesel fuel. This is a connection between him and Norma Jean" (1124). Of course this isn't a connection; it's a sad measure of the lengths Leroy goes to in his attempt to patch up their relationship that he can see a connection between Exxon and Estee Lauder. Yet while sad, it demonstrates a willingness, albeit a confused and misguided one, to reestablish a connection with his wife. Norma, on the other hand, is ready for a change. Mason shows this most markedly by reversing the gender roles in the story. Norma is presented as "Wonder Woman" (1123), determined to change her life and grow. We first see her lifting weights, an activity stereotypically associated with men and with strength. It's apparent from the start that this is a woman who is interested in becoming independent; a woman interested in establishing her own identity. Leroy? He's doing macramé and string art (1123). Later in the story, he takes up needlepoint (1126), all stereotypically female pastimes. The role reversal plays itself out in other ways as well. The breadwinner, a role traditionally associated with the man of the house, is now Norma. She leaves her bowl of "Body Buddies" on the table for him to clean up (1127). Since gender roles are based on power, it's apparent that these two people are engaged in a kind of power struggle. Norma is trying to gain the strength she needs, emotional, intellectual, and physical, to leave her husband. Leroy is trying to hold her back by building the house the nest that she had always wanted. The past tense is crucial here because it's obvious to the reader that she is not interested in settling down: she's interested in moving on. The power struggle is starkly illustrated when Norma discusses their names. "Your name means 'the king'" Norma tells Leroy (1131). When Leroy asks, "Am I still king around here?" Norma's response reveals that in this relationship the traditional role of male dominance has been reversed, and the balance of power has shifted to Norma. Before speaking she "flexes her biceps and feels them for hardness." Like a primate showing his teeth to mark territory or threaten an intruder, Norma first displays her physical prowess before responding, showing that, at least physically, she no longer feels threatened by Leroy. Her actual answer evades the question: "I'm not fooling around with anybody, if that's what you mean" (1131). Note that she doesn't say "Yes you're still king" or "No you're not king:" she doesn't have to. Just his asking the question, indeed, just the fact that he felt he had to ask the question illustrates who's in charge here. Norma, the dominant partner, will decide their fate. This power struggle has its roots in the communication breakdown between Norma and Leroy. His attempts at conversation founder due to weed and what seems to be an inability to articulate his actual feelings. At one point in the story, as Leroy lies back on a couch and listens to Norma play the organ, he asks her "Well, what do you think." At this point, Norma is still open to conversation. Instead of flexing her muscles as she does in a later conversation, she asks, appropriately, "What do I think about what?" (1128). This is the moment when Leroy should begin pouring out his heart and innermost feelings about their relationship. As the narrator notes, "he wanted to know what she though what she really thought about them;" instead, he chokes. "I'll sell my rig and build us a house." This is the last thing Norma wants to hear. She dismisses him with a curt reply and begins playing, prophetically, "Who'll Be the Next in Line" (1128). One topic that both probably needed to discuss was the character who never makes a physical appearance, yet whose presence looms over the entire story: Randy. Their lost child is not mentioned much, yet this absence speaks volumes about the troubles in Norma and Leroy's relationship. Leroy notes that the death of a child often means the end of a relationship, but his job as a trucker provided the cushion that prevented the marriage from falling apart. Yet it also sets the stage for its eventual dissolution. Their lack of communication signals a marriage that has not grown and matured. After Norma tells Leroy she wants to leave him she says, "I feel eighteen again. I can't face that all over again" (1132-33). Leroy represents the past he's a reminder of Randy, of being rushed into marriage, of facing the shame of losing your child, of the woman she used to be and is now striving mightily to move away from. They know that they should talk about him early on the narrator notes that "Leroy wonders if one of them should mention the child" (1124) but time and distance has made it too difficult a subject to broach "I can't face that all over again." As a trucker, Leroy had been on the road, and the easy, daily give and take between a husband and wife was replaced with long absences punctuated by short stays where the novelty of being with a "new" person replaced true feeling. These absences, while they prolonged the marriage, left it empty. Although married for over ten years, Leroy and Norma lack the connectedness, the shared history that marks a stable marriage. This history is what, as Leroy realizes at the end of the story, has been missing from their relationship. At Shiloh, a Civil War battleground (with emphasis on the civil=family), Leroy muses that "the real inner workings of a marriage, like most of history, have escaped him" (1133). Since Mason chose it for the title, the battleground itself must have significance in the story. Historically, the battle marked a turning point in the war; while technically a draw, the South lost so many men that, after the battle, the victory of the North was a forgone conclusion. Similarly, their visit marks a turning point in Leroy and Norma's lives; while they may stay together a bit longer, their marriage will probably not stand the test of time. Without the fine web of connections that comes from daily contact, the history of their relationship is, as Leroy thinks (comparing it to his dream of building a log cabin) "empty too simple" (1133). One thing that isn't so simple is the ending of the story. Does Norma Jean jump? On the con side, how would you reconcile someone so interested in self-improvement with someone who would commit suicide? She's spent the whole story working towards gaining independence why would she throw it all away at the moment she's about to achieve it? Mason subtly hints at this independence by making the end of the story reflect back on the beginning. The story opens with Norma "working on her pectorals" (1123). It ends with her seemingly "doing an exercise for her chest muscles" (1133), which is essentially the same as what she was doing at the beginning. Would this "Wonder Woman" jump? And even if she would jump, would she necessarily fall, or would she fly away? These exercises require you to move your arms in an odd, bird-like manner as you flap your "wings" to stretch your pectorals. Perhaps she is figuratively reborn, leaving the nest to become her own person. This is not as far-fetched as it sounds. While at the battlefield, Mason describes her "picking cake crumbs from the cellophane wrapper, like a fussy bird" (1132). Earlier, Leroy makes a bird connection when he observes her taking bread out to the bird-feeder, and shifts from wondering if the birds close their eyes when they fall, to noting that Norma closes her eyes "when they are in bed" (1127). It's the odd juxtaposition, from bird to Norma, that makes me wonder here. Another aspect that points towards a rebirth is that Norma was conceived at Shiloh. This is suggested in the penultimate paragraph when Leroy jams together the following information: after noting that Mabel and Jet Beasley were married, he continues "The next day, Mabel and Jet visited the battleground, and then Norma Jean was born . . . ." (1133). The odd wording of this phrase draws attention to it, suggesting that there is some causal link between the two statements. It would be fitting for Norma to return to the place of her conception to be reborn. But Mason is giving nothing away easily, because a case can be made even with some of the same evidence that Norma does, indeed, jump at the end of the story. For starters, wouldn't it be just as fitting for her to go to the place of her conception to die? That would bring her life full circle, lending a sense of completion to both the story and her existence. Other parts of the story lend a funeral quality to her actions. Look at where, physically, Norma and Leroy are at the end of the story: in a cemetery. Why a cemetery? Of all the places for the story to end, why does Mason put Norma in a cemetery. Why not, for instance, next to a cannon? Ending the story amid the tombstones of the war dead tilts the balance rather sharply towards death. That last paragraph contains another odd detail. As Norma heads towards the bluff, "Some children ran past, screaming noisily" (1133). What are they doing here? The paragraph would work just as well without them, so, as alert readers, we must ask ourselves, "Okay, now why would Mason have these kids here?" Let's see. Children in a cemetery between Norma and Leroy. . . . What about Randy? Could these kids be a reminder of Randy? A reminder of what Norma "can't face . . . all over again" (1132-33)? Given the construction of this story and its setting, if Norma can't face something, death seems an obvious alternative. And what about her namesake? Marilyn Monroe is (arguably) most famous for committing suicide. Why not name Norma Audrey for Audrey Hepburn? Why burden a character with a name which connotes a tragic death? Then there is the depressed tone of the last line: "The sky is unusually pale the color of the dust ruffle Mabel made for their bed" (1133). Why is the sky "pale"? Think of the difference if it were "unusually bright"? And what are they trying to, in the words of Leroy "hide . . . under the bed" (1126)? Could it be a suicide? Ultimately, as I note in the beginning of this afterward, you can't tell for sure. All we can do is look at the life as it is presented to us and speculate about what might happen. Ahh love. Doesn't it just warm the cockles of your heart? Well . . . . okay, these stories are more cool than warm. But then again, the statistics bear me out. With about half of all marriages ending in divorce, doesn't there seem to be something wrong about modern love? What, given these two stories, is the missing link? What is it that prevents people from truly connecting, and establishing lasting, nurturing relationships? Well if I knew the answer to that, I'd be hosting a late-night radio talk show instead of teaching English. Or would I? It's one thing to know what's wrong, as Leroy does at some level: it's another to do something about it. That might be the unspoken or unintended message of both of these stories: the time-worn idea that it takes effort and communication on both sides to make a relationship work. What the Author says Mason, Bobbie Ann. Interview. Bonnie Lyons and Bill Oliver. "An Interview with Bobbie Ann Mason.". Bobbie Ann Mason: A Study of the Short Fiction. Ed. Albert Wilhelm. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1998. 110-127. Print. "Recently you said that you had more sympathy for the men in the stories, that women seemed to be breaking through, finding new opportunities, and the men seemed to have lost their way." "This goes back to Shiloh.' I didn't have an y worries about Norma Jean, but Leroy was quite bewildered by all the change." (Lyons and Oliver 126) "When I teach Shiloh' many of the women students assume it's Norma Jean's story and cheer her on for trying to take control and move out of her confining background. They overlook Leroy and don't recognize that it's his story, told from his point of view. Is that common? "Not uncommon. And you can imagine my surprise when I hear that some students think Norma Jean is going to jump because she's standing on the edge of a cliff at the end of the story. That's so weird. Maybe Leroy would jump but not Norma Jean. She's a survivor." (Lyons and Oliver 126) Just as you bring new kinds of characters to our attention, aren't you also validating certain positive feelings that aren't very prominent in contemporary writing? "I think my stories try to end at a moment of illumination, and I think that in itself is hopeful. For example, Leroy in Shiloh' recognizes [127] that his life has got to change. His situation is difficult, but he now knows he can't just deny it or ignore it, and I think that knowledge is hopeful. I see the excitement of possibility for a lot of my characters at the end of their stories. At the end of Love Life' and Wish' and Memphis," for example. I'm really thrilled at what the characters can remember and can conceive in their imaginations" (Lyons and Oliver 126-27) © 2000 David Bordelon |