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.