Why I Love Fruits Basket

Apparently the most popular post on my blog is “Yuki x Machi: An (Over)analysis.”

Most readers disagree with my analysis, I am sure, though there has always been a minority of Yukiru shippers who have the same opinion as I do. There are others out there who think the “mother figure” twist seems odd, and that Kyoru has some signs of an abusive relationship. This is all I can see, no matter how I try.

Plot wise, Kyoru makes sense in order to break the curse so that everyone can live happily ever after, but Yukiru has more chemistry. If the author must go with Kyoru, though, then Yuchi would be more realistic as a temporary rebound rather than Yuki’s true love. Their relationship seems more platonic than Yukiru, though Yuki claims otherwise.

In any case, FB is the only manga that is still dear to my heart after making a profound impression on me as a child. Beneath the cutesy exterior is a story that handles heavy themes such as child abuse, loneliness, and unrequited love. Other manga lost their appeal when I grew up, even if they have better artwork, because they lack the depth that FB has.

FB reminds me of what is truly important in life…namely empathy, kindness, and love. These are God’s core values, though I must confess that I lose touch with them from time to time. FB also reminds me that relationships are more important than any other pursuit.

True West

True West is one of those meta works, a play about writing a (screen)play. Usually I assume stories like that will be pretentious and boring. Sometimes they are, but True West doesn’t strike me that way. The plot is straightforward and character driven with deep themes about art, family, and modernity, among other topics.

There are only four characters in the play, which is nice because I don’t get confused about who’s who. The writing has a feeling of clean simplicity; Shepard wastes no lines, and the characters aren’t shy about expressing their innermost thoughts and feelings. They get to the point quickly and argue often. This makes the play interesting and easy to read; plus, it’s quite short.

At first the brothers Lee and Austin seem like polar opposites. Lee is a crude, irresponsible drifter, while his younger brother Austin is a soft-spoken writer with a stable screenwriting career. At first I felt sorry for Lee because his brother seemed so much more successful than him. However, the situation completely turns around about halfway through the play, which according to my friend (a dedicated Shepard fan) is typical of his work.

Austin’s personality is comparable to a tame lapdog, whereas Lee is more like a wild lone wolf. Austin is pleasant, yet rather boring. Since his life is so stable and his personality so unassuming, he has difficulty writing a screenplay that would catch the Hollywood audience’s attention. As a college educated man, he sometimes overthinks and tries to make his plays too logical and cerebral, which doesn’t interest the average moviegoer. His mild manner lacks Lee’s natural authority and spontaneity.

Lee’s story is rather stupid as far as a realistic plot is concerned, but admittedly interesting and something that would be fun to watch. Most Hollywood movies are more about action than intelligent dialogue, and Lee has no problem coming up with suspenseful action scenes, probably because he has had so many precarious experiences. Austin is the typical writer type: quiet and introverted, who expresses himself better on paper than through speech. Lee is the opposite; he has a charming personality, good sense of humor, and he is skilled at initiating engaging conversations. These qualities attract Saul, the producer, who isn’t used to interacting with such an eccentric personality and believes he has discovered the real deal — that is, the true artist who doesn’t just write from imagination, but from experience, which adds a special richness to the art.

Saul prefers Lee’s play to Austin’s, which understandably causes poor Austin to tailspin into an identity crisis of sorts — what a humiliation to be usurped by his unsophisticated brother! Then the Shepard switch occurs; Austin’s mild manners fade away as he gets drunk and imitates his brother by breaking into houses and stealing people’s appliances. Austin loses his calm demeanor and starts to yell and swear like Lee usually does — implying that Austin’s intellectualism might be a bit of a sham. After all, he derives from the same background as Lee, and their father doesn’t sound much like a responsible scholar judging from the brothers’ conversations about him. Their mother had a harsh and uncaring personality as well. Beneath the exterior, Austin is actually quite similar to Lee.

Lee suddenly starts acting like a talented writer, speaking calmly and requesting silence so he may type his masterpiece. However, the act quickly fades as Lee realizes he knows zilch about character building or formatting a screenplay, and he can hardly spell. Lee expresses his anxiety by crushing the typewriter — a dramatic, yet also humorous act.

The play is a dramady of sorts in general.

Lee is also performing an act; he isn’t as tough and capable as he pretends to be, which he confesses to Austin. He adopted a devil-may-care attitude to hide the fact that he cannot survive in suburbia, and he is envious of Austin’s life. Of course, Austin is likewise envious of Lee’s adventurous spirit. After being upstaged by him, Austin concedes that Lee has a quality he doesn’t. Austin wants to abandon domestic life and go on adventures like Lee in order to become a true writer, one who writes from rugged experience.

Since the characters are so well developed, the play is interesting even with limited action and settings. Dialogue drives the story; I’d like to see it as an actual stage production. Just by reading the play I can imagine how the characters might look and the gestures they might make, which is quite an accomplishment on Shepard’s part for including such limited descriptions. The ambiguous ending left much to the imagination, which I also appreciated.

Trouble in Paradise

In Tales of the Pacific, my favorite short story was “Koolau the Leper.” Usually I enjoy stories with political themes like this one. The story starts with the diatribe of a leper uprising, as the lepers are treated as subhuman due to their disease. People fear catching leprosy because the illness deforms the body until the lepers appear inhuman; a combination of fear and disgust causes the lepers to be mistreated, as people tend to judge others based upon outward appearance.

Though the lepers are ordinary human beings, people somehow judge their inner character by their outer decomposing flesh. The illness is symbolically equated with moral decay, so the lepers not only suffer greatly from the physical disease itself, but the spiritual anguish of losing their beauty and being ostracized. Koolau, however, strongly opposes the mistreatment. He says, “Because we are sick they take away our liberty. We have obeyed the law. We have done no wrong. And yet they would put us in prison.” Though the lepers are not morally degenerate, they are punished for the curse that nature thrust upon them. Their suffering is doubled, and tripled considering the fact that the disease was imported and spread due to imperialistic greed.

Koolau is a martyr who dies for his cause, even after his fellow lepers betray him; I appreciated his strength, determination, and sense of justice.

London is the quintessential man versus nature author, and in his stories nature is a cruel antagonist indeed. A common theme throughout his short stories is the contrast between nature’s alluring beauty, grotesque violence, and apathy toward humanity. Tales of the Pacific grieves for the fallen paradise of the Hawaiian islands.

Toxic Individualism in The Awakening

French people are weird.

That is the thought that kept recurring in my mind when I read The Awakening.

Yet everyone appreciates dark, artsy, existential French people.

That is the other thought that kept entering my mind.

For lack of a more sophisticated word, The Awakening is weird…and I mean that as a compliment, because I love weirdness. The story is memorable for its dark tone, excellent imagery, and reputation for early feminist thought. Indeed, reading The Awakening felt strangely like watching a modern foreign film.

Though Chopin’s style isn’t flowery and doesn’t contain lengthy descriptions, I had a clear picture of the setting and characters. Maybe because of the brief, yet powerful descriptions, I forgot that I was reading and enjoyed the movie in my mind. Long, convoluted descriptions tend to be dull — apologies to Tolkien — yet Chopin used just the right amount of words to describe each scene. In particular, her precise descriptions of color made a profound impression upon me. The last paragraph is chilling:

“She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an instant, then sank again. Edna heard her father’s voice and her sister Margaret’s. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the sycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked across the porch. There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinks filled the air.”

When I typed those lines, I literally experienced chills. The description of Edna’s death is vague and indirect, yet vividly realistic. The snapshots of random events in her life and then her consciousness fading to musky pink creates a spooky image of dying. Musky pink instantly conjures an image of stagnant Pepto Bismol in my mind — so different from the stereotypical black that writers usually associate with death.

The surreal conglomeration of random life events indirectly hints at the meaninglessness of life. When Edna dies, she doesn’t remember important events such as her wedding or the birth of her children. She remembers vague, disjointed sensations — implying that there is no underlying logic to life and death.

The Awakening is very realistic, much more so than other works from the same time that tend to romanticize life. The story is by no means bathed in an idealistic glow; Chopin uses straightforward sentences with no overstatements. The atmosphere seems to be misty, dull, and grey. Yet the dullness, far from being boring, adds a sense of mystery to the characters and setting. Edna isn’t concerned with having good morals; she seeks an individualistic and artistic life. She and Madame Reisz are free spirits, artistic bohemians before their time.

Long before the avant-garde became fashionable or even conceivable, Edna longed to break free from her traditional role in life. Yet as much as I enjoyed the story, I could not bring myself to like Edna, though I appreciated her authenticity. She is a selfish and unlikable character with a rather flat personality.

Though The Awakening is about women’s rights, asserting that women are in fact human beings with thoughts, feelings, and desires rather than mere house slaves, I found this to be one of the less prominent themes. Unlike A Doll’s House and Trifles, I do not believe the main purpose of this story is to argue that women are capable of having intelligent thoughts. Though Edna is a woman who wants to break free from society’s restrictions, I think the story would be just as powerful if the main character had been a man instead.

Rather than women’s rights, the main themes I noticed were about art and the meaninglessness of life. While the rich families try to impress each other with their possessions, social etiquette, and fashionable clothing, Mrs. Reisz unapologetically defies all of society’s expectations. She dresses strangely, acts rude, and isolates herself — but she is amazingly talented at playing the piano. Mrs. Reisz is the epitome of the offbeat, misunderstood artist archetype.

While everyone else devotes their lives to gaining more possessions and taking care of children as society would expect, Mrs. Reisz lives a radical life devoted to art and passion. The others perceive her as immoral and strange, yet Mrs. Reisz is simply being herself. She is the only authentic character in the story, other than Edna after she “awakens.”

Mrs. Reisz refuses to participate in social games and false etiquette, and her apparent rudeness actually reflects authentic human nature. Reisz symbolizes how people really are when they drop their pretenses. She and Edna defy society’s standards — yet at least they are not hypocrites.

The Awakening contributes to the pervasive belief in modern Western culture that the individualist — the artist — must necessarily be isolated and at odds with society…another reflection of the extreme individualism that has tainted our culture. Though creating art requires a certain amount of solitude, an artist ought to be deeply involved with others rather than severed from society. Without the rich nutrients of human interaction to draw from, how could an artist create any work of substance that is able to touch people’s hearts?

Daisy Miller’s False Innocence

My grandfather told me that reading Henry James is slow, boring torture. He (my grandpa) is a very intelligent man who earned perfect SAT scores without studying and was accepted into Harvard, so if he thinks something is difficult to read, I am inclined to avoid it and protect my brain from exploding. However, I must disagree with my grandfather about Henry James.

Daisy Miller isn’t boring, at least. Though I’m not familiar with James’s other work, I really liked Daisy Miller — especially the eloquent humor. The story is simple, straightforward, and rather realistic, without sudden plot twists or dramatic revelations, yet I still found it interesting and wondered what would happen next while reading.

Many people seem to dislike the character Winterbourne, though I liked him for his good manners and gentle soul. He may not be remarkable, but his agreeable personality is pleasant, at least…though I thought he was a bit of a doormat for pretending to be fine with Daisy doting on Giovanelli. Winterbourne seems to have no self-respect; if I were him, I would have given up on Daisy and let her be with Giovanelli if she liked him so much.

Winterbourne’s mediocrity serves a good purpose, however, since he is the narrator. A narrator with a strong personality would be distracting. Winterbourne has the right temperament to observe events and comment on them without expressing his opinions too much. Though he is the main character, Daisy’s personality so overwhelms his that he really seems more like a side character.

Though I liked Daisy at first, I liked her less as the story continued. She seems flaky, immature, and oblivious to the feelings of others; I didn’t understand why Winterbourne liked her so much, other than her beauty and mystery, which are shallow reasons to be in love. Winterbourne wants to characterize Daisy as innocent, though I had the impression that he projected qualities onto her that she didn’t really have; in my opinion, Daisy’s actions portray the opposite of innocence. She feels no loyalty toward Winterbourne though she supposedly loves him, and I agree with Mrs. Walker that Daisy’s flirtations are irresponsible.

Then Daisy says, “That’s all I want — a little fuss!” That statement conveys her true character and reveals her motivations. She enjoys ruffling feathers and causing drama, for no other purpose than childish immaturity and rebellion. So, in a childish sense Daisy might be considered innocent, though not in a moral sense.

A Review of Mark Twain’s “Letters from the Earth”

Before I analyze the depth and meaningfulness of “Letters from the Earth,” I would like to mention that while reading it, I experienced a nagging hunch that Mark Twain wrote it while intoxicated.

That is not meant to be derogatory at all; I am not implying that “Letters from the Earth” is badly written, or incomprehensible, or that Twain couldn’t have possibly held those beliefs in a sober state of mind, or that it is so vulgar that only a drunk could have written it. To the contrary, I’ve had enough experience with bona fide alcoholics to know that, for certain people, intoxication can make them more expressive, articulate, grandiose, and angry. They also tend to make fun of religion while drunk.

For this reason, the tone and subject matter of “Letters from the Earth” seriously strike me as the writings of an intelligent drunk man, though of course I cannot prove this.

That aside, I enjoy the humor of “Letters.” Though Twain is obviously voicing his religious doubts through the character Satan, the fact that the narrator is Satan to begin with is very interesting. Is this really just an atheistic rant, or is Twain cleverly attempting to point out religious hypocrisy through Satan himself, who seems to be more moral than the humans?

In the first few letters, Satan has many interesting points about Christianity — or at least the common cultural idea of it. God is portrayed as a scientist conducting an experiment; He doesn’t really care about creation or the personal affairs of humans. He creates the universe with its natural laws and leaves it at that, in a deistic fashion.

Satan points out the cruelty of nature, with animals killing and eating each other. He alludes to the classic question, “Why does God allow suffering?” Twain’s answer seems to be that God must not care much about creation.

That question bothered as well, when I was an atheist; I didn’t yet understand the concept of sin and the fallen world. Yet the fact that we ask this question in the first place implies that there’s an intuitive sense built into us that the world isn’t as it ought to be; naturally, normal people (who aren’t psychopaths) recoil from death and violence. We long for a different order, a peaceful system free from danger and fear….Yet if the current system is the only option, why would we have developed this pervasive dissatisfaction with the world?

The last letter is my favorite one — a clever and funny take on the hypocritical Christian theme. The twist at the end literally made me lol, and I usually don’t laugh out loud when I’m reading. If a work makes me laugh or cry or ponder for a long time, then I consider the writing effective.

Though I don’t relate much to Twain’s bitterness toward religion, I appreciate his wit and captivating writing style.

The Wonderful Women of Lockerbie

Some works of art inspire joy and laughter while others invoke soul crushing cynicism, yet few manage to do both at the same time. Even most of the enduring classics seem to do either one or the other, and typically they’re on the tragic side. The Women of Lockerbie is a play that balances themes of hope and harsh reality, encompassing the image of a light within a dark world.

The story revolves around a grieving American couple who lost their son in a plane crash above Lockerbie, Scotland. The mother is stricken with grief to the point of being dysfunctional. Searching for closure, she runs around the hills of Lockerbie at night in hope that she will find even just a scrap of her son’s remains. The women of Lockerbie are inhabitants of the hills who try to comfort the couple, and they also have an agenda to return the confiscated clothes of the plane crash victims to their families. The story line switches between this political battle and the personal struggle of the American couple.

The women of Lockerbie are fascinating characters, almost other-worldly, like hobbits or elves. Even those who hardly speak any dialogue have the essence of genuinely good people. Without a word, they appear like saints, radiating wisdom and kindness — and their main spokeswoman, Olive, has a great sense of strength about her. How often do we meet true Christians who convey such strength of character that purity seems to surround their very presence?

After much bureaucratic conflict, the women manage to win the political battle and return the clothes to the families. One powerful bit of dialogue describes hundreds of women protesting for the clothes, though this scene isn’t shown onstage. Another moment that stands out in memory is Olive’s description of war, which inspires her husband to argue about God’s existence. The most memorable moments of the play actually involve no action at all — just poignant dialogue.

When Olive returns the clothes to the grieving mother, she finally calms down and receives the closure she needs. The women of Lockerbie hardly have the emotional strength to wash the bloody clothes in the river…yet in a final plot twist, the emotionally broken mother is the first to wash them. As she does so, the dark background changes to the colors of a sunrise.

The Women of Lockerbie is emotionally exhausting to be sure. The guy behind me cried consistently through the entire play, and — as is said — I doubt there was a dry eye in the theater by the end. Yet what made the play so memorable wasn’t just the buckets of angst, but the underlying message of hope.