Ayn Rand and Victor Hugo

After reading The Fountainhead and Atlas Shurgged, I was disgusted by Ayn Rand's philosophy. Imagine my surprise, then, when Web surfing revealed Rand's admiration of my favorite author--Victor Hugo. She mentions his works frequently in her Romantic Manifesto, even devoting a chapter to her introduction of Ninety-Three. Her comments reveal that she had read even some of his most obscure works. Admittedly, the two share a couple superficial elements of Romantic prose. Both paint exaggerated characters, headstrong and independent. Both often write about people with near-absurd commitments to their values. However, the substance of their prose--their social aims--are profoundly different. I don't think Hugo would approve of Objectivism. Nor does Rand approve of the liberal goals Hugo professed.

Hugo writes, in his introduction to Cromwell (often called his "Romantic Manifesto") that "Romanticism is liberalism in literature". Hugo means liberalism as we know it: advancement of the awareness of and help for poverty, equalization of opportunity, and socioeconomic progress of every sort--hardly Rand's ideal. Independent of political aims, their ethical philosophies could not have been more distinct. The intensity of Hugo's heroes' commitment to duty and self-sacrafice is only equalled by that of Rand's characters' rejection of the same ideals! In Les Miserables,  Hugo writes, "It is a terrible thing to be happy! How content one is! How all-sufficient one finds it! How, being in possession of the false object of life, happiness, one forgets the true object, duty." Compare this to the following excerpt from Atlas Shrugged, "You have sacraficed happiness to duty... Happiness is the proof of your moral integrity". Rand's further objection to duty as a moral standard is evidenced by her statement, "Immanual Kant is the real villain of our age".

Comedy Tonight

In recent years, I've dreamed of being a theater and opera critic. Even if the salary is small, the perks (free tickets!) more than compensate. But there's one flaw in my critical apparaisal of shows: I cannot stand comedy. It's inexplicable. Charles Isherwood recently wrote a New York Times article about feeling like the only one in the theater who's not laughing. It's happened to me--at just about every comedy I've ever attended.

I try to enjoy myself, I really do. I'll walk into A Behanding in Spokane after reading a rave review, expecting the best. I'll even force a little chuckle near the beginning to warm up. But at some point, dousing teenagers with oil and threatening to light them on fire fails to be funny (even though the rest of the audience is in hysterics).

Antígona

A Spanish-style sonnet (different rhyme and rhythm scheme than the Shakespearean style most of us are accustomed to) from my junior year of high school. Inspired by Griselda Gambaro's play Antígona Furiosa. The third sonnet I wrote. The first two have never been seen by anyone, because they're even darker and probably not a good reflection on the mental health of my fourteen-year-old self.

Me llevan a la cueva, al fin brutal,
A mi sepulcro de piedra tallada.
Soy terca; mi muerte es adelantada,
Y esa prisa ha llegado a ser fatal.

Ya me dejan—moriré, soy mortal;
Me dan de vivir un día, una nada.
Sin ni agua ni comida sobrada,
Sedienta y hambrienta espero el final.

Rechazo el suplicio que sufriré;
Rechazo ser botada, ser desecho.
¡No! Con orgullo a mi muerte iré.

Del vestido soga hago, la ato al techo.
Con mi mano, la vida extinguiré,
Atrevida y orgullosa de lo que he hecho.

The Temptation of the Impossible

Mario Vargas Llosa's book of commentary on Les Misérables is titled The Temptation of the Impossible. Llosa's title refers to the improbability of Hugo's world, where coincidental meetings are the crux of climactic scenes and characters are superhuman. These days, though, the impossibility for many teens seems to lie in the length of the novel.

A typical conversation with someone asking me for a book suggestion might go like this:
“Ilana, what’s your favorite book?”
“Les Misérables.”
“OK, maybe I’ll read it. Do you know where I can get it?”
“I think Powell’s has it unabridged. Be careful; don’t get an abridged version.”
“Abridged? How long is this book anyway?”
“Oh, two thousand pages…”
“Do you have any shorter books to recommend?”
At that point I sigh and recommend another Hugo book, usually Ninety-Three.