November 22

I figured that one of the most detailed, vivid, and shocking chapters of both Libra and American history deserved its own blog post, so, I made one. Even before Mr. Mitchell mentioned it in class, all I could think of was how cinematic this chapter was. Like, it kept gliding smoothly from one point of view to another until we all collided as the climatic bullet left the chamber and entered the President's skull. Easily one of the most dramatic and powerful chapters but also very saddening. I know I appear somewhat cynical in terms of these books, but although I don't like Libra as a book, I really did like this chapter. 

The fictional yet possibly insight we get into one of the most debated upon hour of American history is so tantalizingly possible, yet completely unreal at the same time. That may seem somewhat confusing, but let me explain. What could Lee Harvey Oswald have been thinking moments before he was about to shoot one of the most powerful and influential people in the entire civilized world? Was he sweating bullets, violently shaking his hands, making the shot by a fluke? Was he the cold, calculating solider acting completely on orders, going through the motions and not letting emotions play any role at all? Or was he considering the color of the First Lady's dress and judging how well she looked, how excellently she would look on the magazines and news articles for years to come? I mean, it seems ridiculous and yet completely possible, based off of the picture of Lee DeLillo has painted for us, you know?

I address this earlier in one of my blog posts, but I got so irrationally frustrated with Lee, far more than I should have been. His confrontation with the cop on page 409--ARGH. I probably should have been rooting for the cop to get out the car and slap some cuffs on the jerk. He just shot the President and now he's complaining about the smell of cigarettes or bending over with documents--just comply with him and you'll probably go scott-free. Then later, you see him complaining about not getting a shower. So. stupid!

Anyway, I think I've made it pretty clear that this is a powerful, emotional chapter that acts as a perfect climax for the book, despite the fact that we already know what's going to happen (the President dies). It's sort of like Slaughterhouse Five when he gives away the climax right at the beginning, and yet manages to write a cohesive and compelling story that makes want to read all the way through to the end.

Lee

I previously mentioned that I was interested with Lee's character, but otherwise indifferent, not especially sympathetic but no sense of dislike was present either. I did like his mysterious smile. Anyway, as the book has progressed, Lee has become more and more complicated and an ever "rounder" character. I found myself gravitating towards his situation sometimes and other times, I just couldn't do anything but shake my head and marvel at his stupidity. 

For example, in the earlier sections of the readings, when Lee decided to defect to the Soviet Union with his "top secret" military information, you could tell that he put some serious thought and effort into his decisions and it wasn't a whimsical fancy. Later though, I really began to lose some sympathy for him--in my eyes, he viewed himself as a very important figure, but when he realized he wasn't getting the attention he felt he deserved, he reacted petulantly by slitting his writsts. I mean, the scene in which he shot himself was ridiculous almost to the point of hilarity but the only reaction slitting his wrists got from me was: idiot. 

During class, we had an interesting discussion about whether or not we felt sympathy for him. Well, to answer that question, I'd have to give my description of Lee's character as the story progressed. I certainly didn't hate him or wish him dead, but I didn't really like him either. I still believed he was a complete moron because.... well, there are simply too many examples. For instance, when he chooses to have a picture taken for his family, he chooses to pose with his guns. Why his guns of all things?! "Look, here's Daddy and here's his favorite gun!" I really just didn't understand him. Perhaps I'm just dense, but a lot of this book just had me scratching my head. 

Near the end of the novel, after the shooting of President, Lee shot a cop--in cold blood. As Iain pointed out, he had no real reason to do this. The cop had every right to be suspicious, and his suspicions were only fueled on further by Lee's absolute refusal to cooperate. Again and again: ughh, Lee, why are you stupid!? Still--I didn't really want to see him dead.

Later, following Jack Ruby's infamous public shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, I found myself thinking: that's sad... Lee was still so young. Which is totally strange, since I spent mostly the entire novel thinking how much of an idiot Lee was. Amazingly enough, DeLillo had managed to flesh out JFK's assassin to the point that I no longer thought, "Yeah, that son of a bitch got what he deserved!" I mean, this man killed the President of the United States, but DeLillo had manged to shape him into a very human, very real character that was not an animalistic, crazed killer... Well, maybe a little crazy...

Zapruder

After watching the Zapruder film in class for the first time, quite honestly, there wasn't too much going through my mind. Yes, it was disgusting, greatly saddening, incredibly literal, yet still so mystifying, but it was still just another person getting shot in the head. I'm nearly 18, I've seen my fair share of blood and gore movies. There shouldn't have been anything extremely special about seeing someone get shot in the head, even if it was the President of the United States--that could have just been an actor for all I know. 

However, as the loop began to replay, I found that my eyes were uncontrollably drawn to the screen again and again. It was the same thing from the same perspective with the same [crappy] quality shot and the same brief frames of Kennedy ducking out of the frame and then quickly reappearing. It was one of those things in which you just couldn't tear your eyes away, despite you being disgusted with yourself for doing so.

Mr. Mitchell mentioned that there were people who knew this ~90 second clip by heart, frame-by-frame. I've only seen it... maybe 5 or 6 times, and was already getting quite sick of it. How many times do you have to see something before it goes from a recorded clip of a living, breathing human being getting his brains blown out and his hysterical wife scrambling across the car to scoop up his brains and skull in a futile, desperation-fueled manner to a lifeless, analytical sequence of pixels and physics devoid of any emotion? 

It's not exactly a big secret to learn that the brain can alter the way we take in information from the physical world and change it to what it desire--after all, how else did LSD work? Yes, that is somewhat oversimplified, but the idea that occurred to me in class is based off of these principles. After seeing this film dozens upon dozens of times, how many people saw the driver shooting Kennedy, simply because they wanted to believe it? If it's possible, it certainly could add an interesting twist to the set of conspiracy theories. 

Project

I must admit, when Mr. Mitchell first handed out the assignment sheets for the end-of-the-semester creative writing project, I inwardly (and possibly outwardly) groaned with extreme displeasure. I’m a second semester senior and my work ethic has been dwindling since the calc AP I took last year. This seemed like just another piece of busywork that was destined to suck up my free time and sleep hours.

However, as I started to look into possible topics, I found a lot of interesting historical anomalies that I’ve heard about but never really looked into before such as the notorious serial killer Jack the Ripper or the Zodiac Killer. I ended up spending a lot more time than I intended reading into and researching these cases and thought about how fun it would be to create identities for these shadowy assassins. After all, who doesn’t want to write a good detective story? Later though, I found yet another topic that piqued my interest—American CIA intrigue. Everybody’s well aware of the poorly executed Bay of Pigs and most people have heard of United Fruit etc etc. That led to me thinking: could there have been any other cases of CIA influence, just like in Libra? 

After doing a bit more research, I discovered Operation Northwoods (a secretly planned CIA operation involving Reichstag-burning-like false flag events designed to incite national violence against Cuba) and sort of just built off of that from there. Eventually, I decided that a good interlocking topic for all these CIA intrigues would be the Cuban Missile Crisis and my story just sort of wrote itself from there. 

Turns out, I did end up losing a good amount of sleep but it was more or less worth it in the end.

Déjà Vu

When I first started reading Libra, I was definitely getting a Ragtime vibe. The erratic level of detail with seemingly random comments placed here or there that give depth to characters and settings we only see or read once was very characteristic of Doctorow. (At least, it was to me. Perhaps I'm just crazy.).

I also drew a parallel between Lee and Younger Brother through the whole riding the subways thing. Both characters seem rather aimless and just sort of wander around. The similarity doesn't get much further than that though, as we start to learn more about Lee. A peculiar kid, to be sure, reading things that are much above his level, chilling at the zoo because school doesn't teach what he wants to learn, and separated from others, yet unafraid to stand up for himself if need be. To be honest, I don't have an exact opinion formed of him yet.

Speaking of Lee's odd behavior, I was actually reading the exact portion Mr. Mitchell pointed out in class (I can't find the page number, but it was the one involving him reading Marxist theory while following the text with his index finger) and thought to myself, "Hey, I used to do that while thinking.... oh no wait. I used to do that while pretending to look like I knew what I was reading when I was trying to help tutor a friend..." I suppose I thought that physical action somehow intensifies any activity. Whatever happens, Lee's level of intelligence levels ought to be an interesting point to follow later on in the book.

At this point, I'm trying hard to wipe out what preconceptions I have about Lee Harvey Oswald and his assassination of Kennedy, but to be honest, that's pretty hard. My mind continually wanders back to "What will go wrong, what will snap, to cause him to commit the atrocious act of taking another human's life?" The author seems to intentionally create a very enigmatic character--I am unable to sympathize with him for being an outcast because DeLillo doesn't play the pity card, but neither am I able to cheer him on because (so far) he isn't a terribly attractive or charismatic character. He does, apparently, have that indecipherable smile though--something I've always wanted to have. Sadly, I do not have a indecipherable smile--in fact, they are quite transparent.

1976

Simeon brought up an interesting point last week, the whole idea of us going back in time now and living in 1976 to do a sort of double-Dana thing. Granted, the technological and social gap won't be as enormous as was 1976 compared to 1815, but it'll still be very interesting to see what sort of parallels we can draw between then and now.

I felt that the description given by Dana concerning the 1815 world was very apt--the world was just somehow harder. Same United States, different lifestyle. Nowadays, life for the middle class of America can be considered somewhat cushy, or soft. Oh sure, I like to complain that my life is difficult and stressful, full of college decisions and schoolwork, but there are loads of things I take for granted that simply weren't the case back in 1815 or even 1976. More research is necessary for me to make an accurate description, but transportation, communication, and the attainment of information is just a gazillion times faster and better than ever imagined back in 1976.

This could be a promising idea for the semester project. I don't know. I mean, it actually sounds like a very interesting topic, but I should probably check with Simeon first. Anyway, referencing the idea of a postmodernist fiction, this could potentially be a story based on another story who drew its from that of its ancestors. Doubly confusing and extra postmodern. The largest snag I can think of when it comes to writing about this topic would be the fact that I'd have to center it around a major conflicting social issue as widespread as slavery. Then again, perhaps it doesn't have to be as widespread, just equally significant and intense. I foresee a great deal of research ahead.

Rufus

Since I didn't get a chance to do an introductory reactions post about Kindred, I'm just going to go ahead and jump right in. It started off very strong and held my interest for quite a long time. As I progressed and I realized that the book was focusing more on her relationship with Rufus and her living in 1815 than the fact that she was traveling through time. It never did end up explaining how that happened. Personally, I think she took it rather well. I don't think I'd adjust terribly well to the time traveler's lifestyle. But back to Rufus.

At first, like everybody else, I accepted him for being a somewhat selfish and rather self-destructive child but essentially not a bad person, just a product of his environment. I was rooting for him, as a matter of fact. Every time he did something stupid or mean natured, I would be say, "He'll grow out of it" or "His passion got the better of him." However, as the story progressed, he would just get more and more out of control with his acts of violence and demonstrations of control. I guess the proverbial hair that broke the camel's back, for me, was the point in which he actually swung his gun out at Dana. At this point, I was really just plowing through the book to finish it. I enjoyed it up until that point almost entirely because I had hoped there would be a happy ending between their relationship but it didn't seem like it would happen. In fact, I might even go so far as to say that I agree with Nikita--after Hagar was born, I was just mentally telling Dana to gtfo. Perhaps not go so far as to kill Rufus herself, but once Hagar was born, she was secure and the whole time paradox idea was more or less safe.

Finally, the way Butler ended the whole story did not sit too well with me. I liked how she described Dana's personal torment when it came to literally ending the life she had worked so hard and spent so much effort in saving. However, I still just had this feeling of, "okay, so now what--wait, that's it?" As if Butler simply got bored with writing and decided to kill it off. I agreed (silently) with Juliana's point in class about how she left a part of her behind, quite literally, because she had invested so much of her time and life in 1815 and I suppose I could see how Butler wanted that to be a symbolic point... but I don't know. Although I can't come up with a particularly better ending, I still didn't really like this one.

Thoughts

The quarter is ending and my work ethic is dwindling but I still have just about enough to churn out one final blog post before I take some time off for a bit of rest and relaxation.

Slaughterhouse Five went by remarkably fast and it is, without a doubt, my favorite out of all three of the books that we've read so far. I explained most of the reasons why in my last post: Vonnegut's great sense of somewhat black humor and also because I just utterly detested reading Mumbo Jumbo. Sorry Ishmael Reed.

Anyway, before I give my final thoughts on Slaughterhouse Five, I'd like to add on a few parts that I found particularly humorous. On page 93, Vonnegut describes Billy watching the movie about World War II backwards and everything happening is reverse. I just could not stop laughing while reading that section. I'm not even sure why because that scene didn't seem to have much significance to the plot line (he was about to be abducted by our buddies, the Tralfamadorians) and was just sort of like a random blurb about Billy's life. I guess it was his descriptions "It was their business to put them in the ground, to hide them cleverly, so that they may never hurt anybody ever again" (94). Another moment was his description of Jesus and his crucifixion: "Make absolutely certain he isn't well connected." I had never thought of that particular story that way, but now that he said that, I'm never going to be able to forget it.

Earlier this week, we were asked to write about the use of science fiction and whether or not it detracted from his "war novel" type book. I felt like the use of science fiction was actually incredibly helpful. You know how sometimes the best way to get your point across is not by berating an audience and pounding a few facts into their minds again and again but rather by humor and lighthearted guidance? Same idea. Vonnegut did not set out to write a book designed to be a movie with actors played by John Wayne or Frank Sinatra, and what better way to detract from the "war novel" idea than with aliens, flying saucers, and constant references to fictional science fiction novels? Some of the stories didn't seem to make much sense in the context and others seemed to ask questions that were left for the reader to answer--namely, The Gutless Wonder. What was Vonnegut satirizing about society when he said that the people could only accept the robot once he got over his horrendous halitosis, regardless of the fact that he had been constantly bombing cities with zero remorse? Makes you wonder...

Basically, I really liked this book. Hopefully, the upcoming ones with be just as interesting, if not more so, to read!

Slaughterhouse

I've heard about Vonnegut's writing for quite some time now, but as with many authors that are suggested to me, I never get around to actually reading about them because my memory sucks. Fortunately, Vonnegut's writing appeared not once, but twice on my booklist this year, although both times they were under the same book. When it was assigned in World Since, I read through it, but paid only just enough attention to write a quick response. Now, on my second time through, I've found that there are a lot of things I missed the first time around that have made this novel a ton of fun to read (so far, anyway).

Firstly, I actually read the title page and the little list of alternative titles, which adds a few new perceptions to the way Vonnegut wrote this and why he did so. I was also able to pick up on a lot more of his quirky and sometimes dark humor. I'm not sure if this is typical of Vonnegut's writing style or if he adopted this to fit his whole "wartime novel" attitude. Either way though, it's certainly very effective. He rarely, if ever, says an outright joke, yet I found myself laughing aloud at several points throughout the book. I can't place my finger on it--perhaps it's his descriptions, which are already comical to begin with, combined with his flat, matter-of-fact descriptions such as "He looked like a filthy flamingo" (42), "so the coat became a fur-collared vest" (115), and even the specificity of "446,120,000,000,000,000 miles away" (143) that causes all the hilarity.

Speaking of his matter-of-fact descriptions, I saw an interesting similarity between Vonnegut and Doctorow's writing styles: both authors tended to have little emotion during scenes describing the deaths of certain characters. This is especially apparent in Slaughterhouse Five with Vonnegut's "So it goes". The best part though, is how he still manages to capture your interest even though such an emotionally inanimate book would seem like a dull read.

Since a good portion of this novel revolves around Billy Pilgrim's time travelling experiences, it comes as no surprise that the book skips around a lot. Something similar occurred in Mumbo Jumbo, but instead of throwing me off and constantly confusing me (as Reed's book did), Vonnegut makes it work. I'm really liking this book so far!

Storytelling

To start out, I'm not going to lie and say that I like or even mildly enjoy this book. I completed the entire novel about five minutes ago and thought to myself, "Wow. I really didn't like that book at all...." This is actually fairly uncommon--I am generally very tolerant of almost all genres but I just couldn't really stomach Mumbo Jumbo. The reading was dense, the ideas were difficult to latch on to, and the characters seemed distant and difficult to connect with. Of course, I realize that this may have been the entire point, but that still doesn't make me like it.
That being said, I think I'll get to the actual point of my blog: the 30 page story told by Papa LaBas that spans two of the same chapters (in my eyes, 52 parts A and B).

This enormous, Scooby-Doo-wrap-up-esque reading was the actually my favorite part of the entire book. Not only was the story interesting, the characters were memorable, and the story followed a logical path. An unexpectedly amusing part was the seemingly out of place, and yet hilarious interjections of Reed/Papa LaBas's humor. I also noticed an interesting connection between Ragtime and this book as well.

Like any other person, I get a feeling of satisfaction when, after a long while of scratching my head and wondering what could have possibly gone down to explain the situation in Mumbo Jumbo, I finally realize the entire story behind it. However, I also really liked the weird and yet oddly hilarious comments Reed (or maybe LaBas, I'm not even sure who's actually doing the talking in this part) such as, "The only remedies the Church knew was to 'beat the living shit out of them'." or "the minor geek and sorcerer Jesus Christ." I think the former is pretty self-explanatory and although the whole Jesus-was-a-sorcerer is not an unexplored concept, I just had to stop and chuckle to myself when I read "minor geek".

Finally, there was a short section concerning Freud in the story. I read over it, realized that there was a similar section in Ragtime concerning his trip to America and how utterly horrified/disgusted he was. In Mumbo Jumbo, Freud appears a little more dramatic as he actually faints because of just how awful the situation in America seems to be. Later (as in, not in the storytelling section), Reed says that Freud believed America was a "mistake", like a failed European experiment. I remember that Doctorow used a highly similar, if not identical, description and I was just wondering to myself if this holds more significance than a mere interesting coincidence.

Impressions

Oh, where do I even begin? His writing style? Content? Grammar? It's all so radically different from Doctorow's writing and yet, they both fall under the category of postmodernism. Interesting stuff.

In class, lots of people were saying that they enjoyed Reed's spontaneity and complete randomness but I was more than a little bit confused. Unfortunately, when I read, if I don't understand it, I tend to just continue reading and  not realize I'm not taking in anything until like five pages later... which inevitably leads to several rereads. Needless to say, I was more frustrated than amused by the end of the reading. I thought that Reed meant an actual disease when he said "disease of the mind" and because we have recently been watching bio movies regarding bovine spongiform encephalopathy, I immediately thought of prions and mad cow disease. Fortunately, this misunderstanding was cleared up later. Anyway, after listening to the discussions in class, I guess I can see how people enjoyed his taunting of the reader by virtually flaunting the supposed "rules" we set for novel writing. Reed breaks the fourth wall and interjects throughout the story his own little additions to the story, giving us insight on what the meant to do, but also sort of throwing us off (well, throwing me off anyway).

The illustrations are also an interesting addition. Reed throws in random pictures that sometimes seem to offer a purpose (the potential Teutonic Knight symbol on page 14) but can also be utterly indecipherable (like the Satanic word search on page 33). I spent a good amount of time searching for any explanations regarding these pictures but found none, which just sort of adds to the mystique of the whole thing. Also, two small things that aren't terribly important but yet continue to bother me anyway is his use of commas (or lack thereof) and numbers for words. I was really disconcerted to see the lack of commas during lists (this, this, and that) but the worst part is that he isn't consistent about that either! Some lists include all necessary commas and the Oxford comma as well while others don't. So vexing. The other one is the use of numbers for words (1 of them, 1000s of men died, etc). This one is even more insignificant but it irritates me so badly! Hopefully, I grow accustomed to this soon or this is going to be a really tough book to get through.

Ragtime

       There seems to be a large variety of responses concerning Doctorow's novel, Ragtime, and the message the author was trying to get across. What was he trying to convey with his depiction of Morgan, Ford, and Coalhouse? Did his narration style end up benefiting or hurting the final product? Was it a good idea to create Coalhouse Walker from Michael Kohlhass?
       Earlier, I posted about Doctorow's oddly detached, matter-of-fact style of narration and how I've never encountered it before. Rarely have I read a book in which the author kills off the characters with such little emotion or detail (although George R. R. Martin series A Song of Ice and Fire certainly comes close). During class discussions, some people made it clear that they disliked this, but I felt that it was rather appropriate for this book, a rendition of history designed to conceal the fictional elements that were included. Doctorow's straightforward "so-and-so died from this condition" really adds to his idea that there is no exact, definite way to tell history. Adding to this effect is his portrayal of Morgan and Ford. After listing several of their accomplishments, he grounds them, in a sense, by giving  them human dimensions like Ford's view of the "fancy paintings" or Morgan's near fanatical ravings of Egypt. Since all of these happenings were conveniently unknown by anyone but the people involved, Doctorow is able to use insinuate that these occurrences could have happened--we wouldn't know; we weren't there.
       Although I am not a stranger to historical fiction, I am more inclined towards fantasy and science fiction, so I can safely say that this is probably the first book that I've read that falls under the category of postmodern. Actually, "safely" probably isn't the right word to use since I'm still somewhat hazy on what qualifies as postmodern, but Ragtime certainly contains many elements that have a postmodern vibe to them. Perhaps the most apparent was his lifting of Michael Kohlhass from von Kleist and then incorporating his story into a world full of very real people like Morgan, Ford, and Houdini. This point also led to several conflicting arguments during class. Personally, I thought it worked well: if it had been a simple rehash of the original story, I doubt Ragtime would have been as successful, but because it incorporated so many new dynamics (such as Tateh, the Family, and the famous historical figures) it made itself a much more interesting novel, easily identifiable as postmodern.

Coalhouse

         I think it's generally a good sign when the author is able to elicit powerful moral debates over the actions of one imaginary character based on yet another imaginary character. Looks like Doctorow knows his stuff. My personal reactions to Mr. Coalhouse Walker changed throughout the progress of the narrative.
         Initially, I was intrigued by this polite cultured black man who would continually show up at the Family's home every Sunday and leave without complaint upon his near inevitable rejection. I admired his persistence or maybe even stubbornness and wished him the best of luck on his endeavor. Personally, I would never be able to keep that up. One summer, I promised myself I would keep myself in shape by getting up at 6:30 every morning and go for a 2 mile run. On the third day of this regimen, I decided that it was too humid and stayed indoors instead. Rather pathetic, I know. Hey, I don't like humidity. Anyway, I think it's probably safe to assume that everyone reading the book up until his terrorist attack on the firehouse was rooting for Coalhouse in his quest to win Sarah back, and was morally outraged by the slight done to him by the Emerald Isle Volunteer Firehouse. However, it was at this point that people's opinions began to change. Should Coalhouse have shrugged it off with a mental sigh of frustration? After all, this sort of incident was not at all uncommon during that time period. The Harlem lawyer confirmed it--he said he knew it sucked and was unfair, but Coalhouse wasn't physically hurt and should just forget about it.
         Clearly, Coalhouse didn't think this way and he made the questionable move of blowing up the Emerald Isle Firehouse (and unintentionally ruining the rest of Houdini's show). When I read this, I was immediately reminded of Mr. Sutton's "Rules of Respectability". Until that point, Coalhouse had acted perfectly respectable, dealing only in official complaints and firm but polite requests. Then, he switched to physical violence and acts of terror. According to the Rules, that kind of thing loses all public support because it immediately categorizes him as "rough" and unacceptable by society.
         In class, a lot of people, agreed that while his situation was certainly undesirable and they felt sympathy for him, his killing of people (some innocent and some not) is completely unforgivable. While I can see the logic of their argument, I am still on Coalhouse's side and hope that he successfully gets through this ordeal with his car and his life. Whenever I am wrongfully accused, I get incredibly indignant, and someone has yet to poop in my car so I can only imagine what Coalhouse must have felt. I can't wait to see how this ends.

Narration

       Usually, when I read a book, it takes me quite a while before I am able to discern any particular tone the narrator is trying to set. This is likely because unless specifically instructed to search for a voice, I file narrators under two general categories: confusing or straightforward. However, the narrator of Ragtime doesn't seem to belong to either one.

       I think we can all agree that this book can be considered postmodern if, by postmodern, we mean something that doesn't follow any regular conventions and is free-forming, malleable, and subject to change without warning. The narrator seems to branch off on seemingly unrelated tangents at the end of chapters leaving the reader to wonder why the hell he stuck that chunk of text in the place he did. 

       Personally, I find the author's narration style interesting and, frankly, amusing. Oftentimes, the narrator just lists strings of facts in a very matter-of-fact manner with a morally ambiguous tone. If I had to select one word to describe it, I would choose "detached". The enormous paragraph that Doctorow passed as an introduction to Chapter 1 is a perfect example of this, as is the section describing the poor working class of America at the end of Chapter 6. Despite the disturbing images of carcasses and entrails as well as mutilated children described as "happy elves", the narrator's tone implies neither approval nor disapproval. 

       Interestingly, there are also points in the story when the tone dramatically shifts from detached to mocking. This became apparent to me in two cases. The first was the portion of text describing Peary's final picture at the North Pole with his colleagues and Eskimos where the last sentence regarding the photograph read, "Because of the light the faces are indistinguishable; seen only as black blanks framed by caribou furs." I felt like this was the the narrator's way of saying "Good job, Peary. You're at the North Pole. However, judging from this photograph, nobody really seems to care." Again, this mocking tone appeared later while describing Teddy Roosevelt's African safari. He called the former president "the conservationist". While this might be closer to irony than mocking, the sudden jab at Mr. Roosevelt came out of the blue, characteristic of the narration style up till this point. 

      It will be interesting to see how this style will develop or change later on.