Assassination Aura

In his 2005 preface to Libra, DeLillo doesn’t focus on the historical consequences of the Kennedy assassination as they are traditionally understood—what it meant for international and domestic politics, for our understanding of covert intelligence and its role in a democracy, how it shaped relations with Cuba, what it did to “the American psyche,” how it inaugurated the period of social unrest that carried into the 1970s, and so on. These have all been discussed at great length, and continue to be debated. DeLillo focuses more on what the assassination has meant to us in less traceable ways—the “aura” that continues to surround the event, and the images and characters it has introduced into American popular discourse. It has become a story that is fascinating in its own right, apart from any argument about its significance. In part because of the deep uncertainty pervading any coherent account of the events leading up to and following the shooting of the president (which opens to door to a seemingly unlimited string of conspiracy theories), and in part because so many of the key moments were captured on film (the serendipitous “Zapruder film,” the shooting of Oswald by Ruby, broadcast live on television), the Kennedy assassination has become a part of American popular culture.

JFK conspiracy theories have become a “world within a world,” to quote DeLillo’s refrain in Libra. Even a timid excursion into the thriving online archives and discussion groups reveals an alternate universe of trivia, speculation, and strong feelings. There’s a kind of “fanboy” dynamic to a lot of this stuff—it is a world unto itself, not unlike that of Star Trek fans or Minecraft enthusiasts. The fascination makes a lot of sense, on one level: it’s a massive mystery story, full of bizarre coincidences and eccentric characters, international intelligence and counterintelligence, organized crime, and forensic analysis. As DeLillo’s “CIA historian” Nicholas Branch discovers, it is a giant, neverending “novel” that keeps rewriting itself as we read: “the Joycean book of America . . . in which nothing is left out” (182).

The assassination—its names, images, and intersecting narratives—has become a part of the American popular imagination in a way that no other assassination has. And this has a lot to do with why it’s such a quintessentially postmodern event. The images and names circulate in a way that has nothing in particular to do with politics, or conspiracies, or assassination. The phrase “grassy knoll” can never again be used to simply identify a feature of the landscape; a “schoolbook depository” is part of the national working vocabulary in a way that has nothing to do with depositing schoolbooks. There have been punk bands called the Dead Kennedys, Lee Harvey Oswald, and the Jack Rubies. DeLillo refers in his preface to the t-shirt image that circulated a few years back, where the iconic image of Oswald being shot in the gut by Jack Ruby was ingeniously refashioned to look like a punk band on stage:

“There at center stage is the mythic figure of Oswald, barking his sad and ragged love into a hand mike” (viii). Oswald totally looks the part of the punk frontman, and it’s easy to forget the fact that we’re looking at a man being fatally shot—a fatal shot that had enormous consequences for securing the mystery and ambiguity that continues to haunt this story. (And note the iconic Dead Kennedys DK logo spraypainted on the wall in the background—an additional and rather morbid meta-joke.) This is a great example of a meme that precedes the internet and Photoshop. In fact, the Oswald-Ruby-rocking-out image was itself made into a kind of “meta-meme” back in the early 2010s:

I can’t think of any other subject of widespread conspiracy theories that enjoys this kind of pop-cultural capital (with the possible exception of the Roswell UFO stuff—there’s a definite air of postmodernist camp surrounding that whole thing). We don’t see t-shirts with the iconic “falling man” photograph from 9/11 refigured as a stagediver or bungee-jumper (even typing such an idea feels deeply wrong); I’m not aware of John Wilkes Booth’s image being deployed for comedic or ironic effect fifty years after he killed Abraham Lincoln. For some reason, a combination of deep seriousness and ironic pop appropriation combine when we talk about the Kennedy assassination. The people who obsessively pore over the details of that day in November 1963 can seem like heroic, monkish seekers of truth, exposers of a deep-seated government coverup of one of the most important events in American history, or they can seem like deeply paranoid, obsessive freaks, denizens of the most rabbit-holey rabbit hole on the internet. There’s an undeniable compulsion to try to unravel this insane tangle of a story, and there’s also a little repulsion—a desire not to get involved.

The title of my previous post, “Conspiracy A-Go-Go,” alludes to one of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite movies, Richard Linklater’s plotless 1991 classic Slacker. The film follows a seemingly random assortment of characters around Austin, Texas, on a random summer day; we stick with each character for a few minutes and then move on. This scene takes place in a used bookstore, as a young woman makes the mistake of browsing through the JFK Assassination shelf.

The putative author of “Profiles in Cowardice” here is a classic parody of the conspiracy theorist—when asked about himself, he launches into a kind of private language full of references and allusions, and it never occurs to him that she’s maybe not part of the cult. And under it all is a kind of nervous self-promotion. Most viewers probably identify with the woman, who just wants to look at some books in peace. She doesn’t even remember this dude from that class they supposedly took together. But he’s so myopically fixated on his private narrative, he can’t pick up on any of these social cues: conspiracy theorist as social misfit. When people start talking about the Kennedy assassination, there’s a tendency to roll the eyes and say, “Not all this crap about the grassy knoll again!” But at the same time, when I read Libra, it’s easy to get sucked into the story beyond the novel, of which the novel is a part. You can see how this guy might’ve gotten hooked.

Google “Lee Harvey Oswald” at your own risk.

Conspiracy A-Go-Go

The assassination of John F. Kennedy on November 22, 1963, is a defining event of the twentieth century. People who were alive at the time like to recount where they were when they heard. It shook the nation to its core: a young, charismatic, and popular president who was on the brink of some major policy advances in civil rights to be killed so suddenly, so violently, and so publicly. Even if it were as straightforward a case as the official record still insists—Lee Harvey Oswald acting completely on his own initiative, to make a dramatic statement in support of Fidel Castro—the event would have loomed large, even in the assassination-heavy 1960s (which included the subsequent public killings of Robert Kennedy, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King, all of which followed JFK). It is obviously an event of enormous historical importance—a rupture in American democracy at a very sensitive time, globally and domestically.

But skepticism about the official account of the case arose almost immediately, and it has grown exponentially since. At this point, something like 10 percent of Americans believe the Warren Commission’s conclusion that Oswald acted alone, and a thriving cottage industry of conspiracy theorists—professional and amateur—has scrutinized and re-scrutinized every aspect of every marginal character connected to this case, and a startling number of narratives have emerged, implicating everyone from Lyndon Johnson to Fidel Castro to the CIA to the Soviets to the American mafia in various combinations and collusions. The JFK assassination marks the beginning of conspiracy thinking as a major subtheme of American cultural life. We explored this idea a bit in Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo (written less than a decade after JFK, his “theory” that Harding was assassinated clearly reflects this same kind of paranoia toward official records). It has become increasingly thinkable for Americans to assume that pretty much nothing is as it seems in government statements or mainstream media coverage (a tendency that has reached an absurd apotheosis with the current president denouncing all news media except his preferred source of propaganda to be inherently “fake”—what does it mean for the government to view itself as the target of a conspiracy by journalists?). Plots are unearthed around the assassinations of King and Malcolm X and John Lennon; more recently, the same kind of thinking has raised serious questions about the murders of Tupac Shakur and Christopher Wallace (The Notorious BIG). The July 2024 assassination attempt against Donald Trump immediately spawned a number of conspiracy theories, and you can find extensive documentation of all the ways the campaign allegedly "staged" this event online. The assassination of Charlie Kirk (a postmodern General Walker) by a disaffected online groyper (a postmodern Oswald) was being viewed skeptically within a few minutes of the news. The official narrative of September 11, 2001, is so full of gaps that an organized movement of survivors, victims’ families, and professional skeptics has coalesced under the “9/11 Truth” banner—not all of them supporting any particular conspiracy narrative, but at least raising questions about what the Bush administration knew and failed to act upon in the months leading up to the attacks. Within hours of the announcement, in May 2011, of the assassination of Osama Bin Laden by Navy SEALs, vocal skepticism had the Pentagon seriously considering releasing photographs of his corpse, simply to quiet suspicion surrounding the alleged “burial at sea.” (Whenever a body or a suspect is dispensed with so quickly, the familiar set of questions will arise.) And the penchant for conspiracy thinking has recently shifted from the Left to the Right: on January 6, 2021, as supporters of Trump stormed the Capitol, the narrative of the insurrection as a "false flag event," with the rioters as somehow both "Antifa" and FBI, started to emerge--and members of Congress continue to treat this conspiracy narrative seriously to this day. 

It has become reflexive for us to assume that there’s always at least one other level of reality that we are not privy to. We’re almost comfortable in the view that we don’t really have any idea what’s actually going on at the highest levels of power and influence, and the popularization of this mindset is traceable back to JFK.

This general state of paranoia and skepticism has obvious implications for how we understand history—in terms of its specific content, but also in terms of its truth claims. As DeLillo makes clear through the fictional Nicholas Branch, “official CIA historian,” trying to bring some kind of narrative order to the deluge of facts and data that have been compiled by the Warren Commission and the CIA itself, the more we know about the sequence of events and overlapping coincidences and cross-references leading up to the shooting of Kennedy (and the killing of Oswald soon after by Jack Ruby, and the not-statistically-anomalous deaths of so many people even tangentially related to the story in the years after), the less confident we become that we will ever have any idea what happened. But it’s clear that something happened, and for many people it's clear that it was something more than the official story lets on. We know there’s a history to be reconstructed, but an authoritative and fully satisfying reconstruction will never emerge. The same set of facts are interpreted and reinterpreted to suggest a dizzying range of possibilities. Plots are either drawn out of these facts, or imposed on them—and we can’t tell the difference. And any imposition of plot on a collection of disparate facts means engaging in an act of fictional imagination, as Hayden White would say. Any discussion of the topic necessarily merges fact and fiction; DeLillo simply makes this explicit in his “Author’s Note” at the conclusion of Libra: “This is a work of imagination. While drawing from the historical record, I’ve made no attempt to furnish factual answers to any questions raised by the assassination.” The fascination and continued uncertainty, even after sixty years, surrounding the JFK assassination perfectly frames the theoretical concerns that are at the heart of this course.

Butler’s Subtle Metafiction

            On the surface, Kindred doesn’t seem such an obviously “postmodernist” novel as Mumbo Jumbo, with its typographical extravagence and seemingly arbitrary illustrations and misplaced publication information, or Ragtime, with its cavalier insertion of historical figures into apparently fictional situations, and its treatment of (meta)fictional characters like Coalhouse Walker as "historical" within the context of the novel. Aside from the “lowbrow” device of time travel, which bisects the narrative into two distinct historical contexts and allows for the same character to be present in both, the narrative moves in a conventional, plot-driven manner: once the reader accepts the time-travel trope, the narrative proceeds according to the conventions of realism. Butler alludes to the fact that a young Frederick Douglass would be growing up at this time somewhere not far from the Weylin Plantation, but Butler does not arrange to have Douglass make an appearance in the novel itself. For some of you, this more conventional or familiar kind of novel might be a relief from the disorienting experimental tweakings of Doctorow and especially Reed. Where they undermine and minimize plot, Butler has written an unapologetic page-turner. Most of our reading assignments (and the chapters themselves) end at “cliffhanger” moments, and the reader is compelled to move forward by the momentum of the narrative itself: How will Dana survive as a slave? Will she be able to locate Kevin and get him back to the 1970s? How will Rufus’s violent “courtship” of Alice play out? How does Dana end up losing her arm?

            We’ve talked in class about how common it is for postmodernist novels to reflect upon their own fictionality or constructedness within their own narratives. My early blog post on “Winslow Homer and the Light on the Eastern Seaboard” points out some of the ways that Doctorow anchors his depiction of the early twentieth century explicitly in other art forms, which calls attention to the “artistic” and therefore fictional nature of his own narrative. We might also cite moments where Doctorow’s narrator confesses to “limited information” in his efforts to “reconstruct” the actions and backgrounds of two of his fictional creations, Coalhouse Walker and Younger Brother—positing the narrator of historical fiction as a historian, even with regard to characters he’s entirely in control of (and as he takes all manner of creative liberties with actual historical figures like Houdini, Ford, or Morgan). Reed draws attention to the “novelness” of his novel on pretty much every page—from placing his opening chapter before the title page, to including signed “editorial” notes, where “I.R.” comments on the action in progress, to the general unabashedness about anachronism and conspicuous fictionalization of historical events. These novels don’t try to create an airtight illusion of reality in their fictional narratives; they revel in the fact that they are written, constructed, arranged by an author who is ultimately in control of the whole thing. And, as we’ve discussed in class, this is generally in keeping with the postmodernist view of history as a constructed, subjective arrangement of data and information into narrative (fictional) form. In postmodernist historical fiction, this isn’t mere “trickery” or gimmicks on the part of the authors (“Look at me! I can mess with the reader’s head!”) but part of the novels’ explorations of the fluid nature of historical truth and the potency of conventional metanarratives to influence our view of reality.

            But Octavia Butler doesn’t seem to go for any of that. She distinguishes her use of the time-travel trope from classic science fiction, claiming that her novel makes no attempt to “explain” the time travel in quasi-scientific terms. The characters themselves discuss time travel as a new fact that they have to come to terms with (as Dana puts it, early on, “I’m not sure it matters what we think” [17]), and once Dana and Kevin are transported, the narrative proceeds in strict realist terms. The realism is essential to the novel’s purpose of making the distant historical epoch of slavery feel present and immediate to the reader: Butler compels her modern-day readers to “travel” into a past they’d rather forget (or remain ignorant of), and through the force of plotting we become engaged in the story of Rufus and Alice and Nigel and Tom Weylin as Dana herself does. In a fairly traditional manner, the novelistic form serves to make the distant time more “present” in a reader’s imagination.

            There is nonetheless a subtle metafictional aspect to Kindred. Whenever an author makes her main character a writer—in this case, specifically an aspiring novelist, who is married to another novelist—we are encouraged to consider the character as a figure for the author herself. We know that at the time that she first “visits” Rufus, Dana has been hard at work on a novel, staying up late to write while holding down mindless temp work as her day job. What is her novel about? She never says, but we do know that her personal library contains a number of resources on Black history and slavery specifically—has she perhaps been contemplating this very historical period in her fictional work? Does the reader maybe pause and wonder if the book we hold in our hands (narrated, and thus “written,” by Dana) is the novel she’s referring to? Dana is three years younger than Butler herself, but they do share a number of biographical details in common (Butler was raised in Los Angeles and attended writing workshops at UCLA; she was in the early stages of a distinguished career as a science-fiction writer at the time she wrote Kindred). Time travel itself is a compelling metaphor for what any historian—or writer of historical fiction—engages in. By immersing herself in historical studies of the slavery era and especially in the many first-hand slave narratives that document the personal experience of living (and often escaping) as a slave, the author imaginatively transports herself to a distant time and imagines what it would be like to live in that time and place. Octavia Butler has no more of a sense of what slavery was “actually like” than anyone else living in the 1970s, but through research and imaginative projection, she can attempt to draw a persuasive and memorable and effective picture. For a novelist (and, Hayden White would argue, for a historian as well), this entails a powerful act of imagination. She “places herself” at the scene. When we watch, through Dana’s eyes, Alice’s father being beaten by the patrollers in chapter 3 of “The Fire,” an observer transfixed by the spectacle, horrified by the brutality and the tangible consequences of legal abstractions like an absence of any individual rights, the reader is placed in the same position as the author—bearing witness to the history, but unable to do anything to change it.

            In this way of framing it, any historical novelist practices a kind of time travel, even when the novel is consistently realist in its methods—when it attempts an airtight illusion of re-creating a bygone era, hiding its own artifice at every turn. By casting her narrative consciousness as a young Black woman writer like herself, struggling to pursue her dream in 1970s Los Angeles, Butler draws subtle attention to the artifice of her work. Like her character, she is drawn into her own story, forced to confront the painful and contradictory history of the nation that is celebrating its Bicentennial in the “present-tense” year in which the novel is set. In quite literal terms, the novelist-within-the-novel travels back in time and occupies the world her characters occupy, immersed in their stories. But just as Doctorow reminds us that all history is also the story of the moment in which it is written, Butler dramatizes the fact that her novelistic consciousness can’t help but be a product of the twentieth century—this is a postmodern slave narrative, where slavery is portrayed “first-hand” while also being framed in terms of historical distance. The character herself, like the novelist (or any historical novelist, or historian), must contemplate the connections between Rufus’s time and her own—and she must come to terms with the fact that both he and Alice are her ancestors. Slavery isn’t strictly a “Black experience” but an American experience. And Butler’s exploration of the idea that our character is profoundly shaped by our cultural and historical contexts, that we are all “playing roles” to varying extents—the idea that this era might “rub off on” Kevin and Dana, might change them in some ways that they can’t avoid—is also a quintessential postmodernist theme.

            There’s at least one explicit metafictional moment within the narrative itself—when Dana remarks, while trying to make Rufus understand her situation, “Time travel was science fiction in nineteen seventy-six. In eighteen-nineteen . . . it was sheer insanity” (63). Time travel is indeed science fiction in 1976—and the book I’m holding in my hand is labeled on its back cover as “Science Fiction/African American Literature.” In this fleeting moment, Butler seems to wink at her reader in something like the way Doctorow and Reed do. Dana can grasp the idea of time travel better than Rufus because it has become a more familiar concept by 1976: in 1819, H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine hadn’t been published yet (and Rufus wouldn’t have read it anyway), and there were no comic books or movies or TV shows to make the concept thinkable. Fiction in this sense shapes reality—none of you flipped out over the idea of time travel in this novel, as you’ve all encountered it (in fiction) before, many times. Butler is indeed exploring the constructedness of her historical narrative, but in subtler ways than some of her contemporaries. For the most part, she just wants us to go along for the ride.

Notebook Prompt: "When had I stopped acting?"

About midway through her fifth visit to the Weylin plantation (in "The Storm"), as she's been enduring a long stretch without Kevin, Dana observes that she has been "getting used to being submissive" and remarks on her need for some "time to herself": "Once--God knows how long ago--I had worried that I was keeping too much distance between myself and this alien time. Now, there was no distance at all. When had I stopped acting? Why had I stopped?" (220).

In what ways is this lack of "distance" evident in "The Storm"? How has Dana's relation to this "alien time" changed over the course of the narrative? Do you see any loss of her 1976 self in these chapters?

Take 5 minutes to contemplate these questions in your notebook.

Notebook prompt: Does Dana "know" Rufus?

At the conclusion of "The Fight," as Dana and Kevin are attempting to "escape" from the Weylin Plantation on horseback, they are stopped by Rufus, who pulls a shotgun on them in a direct echo of the scene in "The River" at the very start of Dana's ordeal, when his father pulls a shotgun on Dana after she saves his son's life. This echo would seem to indicate that Rufus is "becoming his father" to a significant extent as he gets older. Dana explains her repeated willingness to give Rufus the benefit of the doubt as follows: "I kept thinking I knew him, and he kept proving that I didn't" (186).

Please take 5 minutes now to contemplate this scene and its implications in your notebook: Do you understand Dana's ambivalence about Rufus? Do you find him sympathetic at all, or is he utterly despicable? How does he compare to his father? To your idea of a "typical" slaveholder? How do you view his development as a character over the course of Dana's visits?

Notebook prompt: Dana as an eyewitness narrator

Reread the passage on pages 34-36 in of Kindred ("Just in time . . ." to "an urge to vomit"), where Dana is a first-hand eyewitness to the violent beating of Alice's father by slave patrollers.

What difference does Dana’s presence as a witness and narrator make in this scene? What’s it like to experience this scene through Dana’s eyes? What does this fictional narrative achieve that facts do not? Where are you as a reader in this scene?

Take 5 minutes to contemplate your response to this unsettling passage in your notebook. Come to class on Tuesday, October 28, or Wednesday, October 29, prepared to share some of your observations.

Notebook Prompt: The Present State of Jes Grew and Atonism

Near the end of Mumbo Jumbo, with Jes Grew fading out, Earline asks PaPa LaBas, “Is this the end of Jes Grew?” PaPa LaBas replies: “Jes Grew has no end and no beginning. It even precedes that little ball that exploded 1000000000s of years ago and led to what we are now. Jes Grew may even have caused the ball to explode. We will miss it for a while but it will come back, and when it returns we will see that it never left. You see, life will never end; there is really no end to life, if anything goes it will be death. Jes Grew is life. They comfortably share a single horse like 2 knights. They will try to depress Jes Grew but it will only spring back and prosper. We will make our own future Text. A future generation of young artists will accomplish this” (204).

What is the current state of Jes Grew and Atonism in 2025? What does Reed’s historical narrative have to do with today? Do you see evidence of Jes Grew "springing back and prospering" in the years since the 1920s, or since 1971?

Take 5 minutes to contemplate these questions in your notebook.

Hip-Hop Jes Grew

Ishmael Reed is certainly a “specialized taste”—his fiction is difficult, evasive, at times maddening and perplexing. He may not become your new favorite writer, and you may not be giving copies of Mumbo Jumbo as birthday gifts anytime soon. (Although more than one former student of History as Fiction has named it as their favorite novel from any of my classes.) Some of you have probably been hating it, but some have been getting into this novel, finding its playful and irreverent qualities fun and interesting. I hope that most of you are at least enjoying Reed’s absurdist, cartoonish humor. But I know that others have been turned off, and that’s just the way it goes with art like this—not everyone is going to respond with the same enthusiasm. Reed isn’t setting out to write a bestseller, and the novel is designed to be challenging, upsetting, and provocative.

But don’t you agree that this is interesting stuff, however dizzying it might be to work through? That a book which appears to take such a light, loose, and irreverent view of capital-H History is also at the same time so deadly serious about the importance of history? Because this whole Jes Grew/Book of Thoth story is all about history—an “unofficial” cultural history that has been suppressed, gone underground, denounced and marginalized by “official” voices and finding expression in creative, veiled, surreptitious ways. Its expression is policed by a range of gatekeepers that often do operate like secret societies, controlling and regulating the spread and distribution of culture (academies of higher learning, the publishing industry, record labels, promoters, radio programmers,  “the algorithm,”  and so on). These gatekeepers often function in ways that are demonstrably white supremacist, and the history of the twentieth century presents one instance after another where white/mainstream audiences are “protected” from music and dance and art that is “too Black.” Reed’s secret-society narrative might seem paranoid or hyperbolic, but history makes clear that, for whatever reason (Atonism, racism, low self-esteem, anxiety about maintaining “standards”), older American white folks tend to get in a tizzy when younger American white folks start dressing, talking, moving, and thinking like younger American Black folks.

When Jes Grew emerges, it is hard to recognize at first. It doesn’t appear to be anything particularly significant. It pops up in the least likely places, outside the mainstream institutions of academia, finance, media, and culture. It is sometimes “mistaken for entertainment,” as PaPa LaBas puts it (174). It might appear to be a passing fad, a fleeting trend. But it has the capacity to change the world by way of a potent combination of rhythm and Text. It makes people’s heads bob, and it captures their ear, their gut, their knees, and whatever additional body parts might respond to rhythm. But at the same time it engages the mind with narrative and word play and history and punchlines and aesthetic manifestoes and mythology.

Does this description ring any bells for you?

The South Bronx, New York City, the mid 1970s. A more neglected, institutionally ignored and marginalized location would be hard to imagine. Completely off the radar of the mainstream media and culture industry (concentrated just across the East River in Manhattan), no one could have predicted that loosely connected groups of poor Black and Latino kids in one of the most desperately struggling neighborhoods in the nation would be inventing a set of interconnected art forms—visual art (graffiti), fashion (Filas and a Kangol), dance (breakdancing), rhythmically driven music (break beats, lifted from funk, disco, soul, and R&B records), and, perhaps most crucially, spoken words, poetry in the oral tradition—that would eventually transform popular culture around the world. And, like with Congo Square and New Orleans with their Haitian connections, in the South Bronx we once again have a crucial infusion from the West Indies—Jamaica and its “sound system” culture. When PaPa LaBas points out that “slang is Jes Grew too” (214), Reed seems to pretty much predict the emergence of hip-hop, and the epilogue as a whole (which is set in the “present,” 1971, with LaBas at age 100 giving his annual guest lecture on Jes Grew and the Harlem Renaissance) strikes me as an uncanny anticipation of where Black culture in America was in fact headed at the time Reed was writing. There’s an optimism about the end of the novel, despite the fact that the Book of Thoth has been destroyed (the translation is still out there somewhere!) and Jes Grew has died out. LaBas assures Earline, “Jes Grew has no end and no beginning. . . . Jes Grew is life. . . . They will try to repress Jes Grew but it will only spring back and prosper. We will make our own future Text. A future generation of young artists will accomplish this” (204).

To follow the structural logic of Reed’s fictional-historical narrative, jazz, blues, R&B, and funk have all been compromised, weakened, watered down, and prevented from “finding their text”—significant, culture-changing developments that have all been widely influential and generally underappreciated, but have all witnessed commercially more successful “white” versions, cleaned up and repackaged for white consumption (swing, beer-commercial blues, rock-n-roll, disco). (If this is news to you, see Public Enemy’s “Who Stole the Soul?” for a history lesson.) 

It’s too long a story to fully unravel here, but hip-hop has proven remarkably resistant to the traditional forms of Atonist suppression: there have been a wide range of Black-owned and Black-run labels; artists have been able to maintain an unprecedented degree of creative control over their work; the artform has been aesthetically self-policing from the start, sorting out the “real” from the wack or phony. Its integrity has not apparently been compromised by white participation (Grammy awards for Macklemore over Kendrick Lamar notwithstanding). It hasn’t been co-opted or bought or stolen. 

When the Beastie Boys’ Licensed to Ill (1986) skyrocketed to become the highest-selling rap album of all time (to be displaced eventually by Vanilla Ice’s To the Extreme [1990]), it looked to some like the same old story—Black cultural forms appropriated and imitated by whites who then become superstars, while the originators wallow in comparative obscurity. The Beastie Boys were embraced by MTV and white radio in a way that L.L. Cool J was not. But this isn’t how it shook out, for a number of reasons. White people have participated in hip-hop from the beginning, and the culture has always had an awesomely forward-thinking and generally embracing view of its diverse audience—the more people with their hands in the air, the better the show. The most important label in the early years of hip-hop, Def Jam, was started by a Jewish kid from Long Island in his dorm room at NYU. But the roster of significant artists remains almost exclusively African American, which, fifty years into its history, represents a total departure from the Paul Whiteman/Elvis/Clapton/Bee-Gees model of appropriation. The Beastie Boys and Eminem and El-P and Mac Miller (and others) must earn respect on the basis of their skills; they succeed in hip-hop despite being white, not because they are white. 

I won’t go so far as to assert definitively that Jes Grew has “found its Text” in the form of hip-hop (especially as contemporary hip-hop generally seems uninterested in lyricism), and it would be naïve to deny that in many ways the culture has been compromised in its transition to multibillion-dollar international industry. (This has indeed long been a source of discussion and self-analysis within the genre itself.) But the familiar methods of repression have not worked in the familiar ways. The culture that “just grew” out of abandoned, dilapidated playgrounds in the South Bronx has flourished to a truly astonishing degree, and—moreso than jazz, blues, and R&B—the text is an absolutely vital aspect of its appeal. Rap revels in its willingness and ability to say whatever the hell it wants in a proud and defiant manner, without innuendo or other forms of veiling, and yet it remains vitally poetic and figurative and persistently innovative in its uses of language. It has turned “slang” into an aesthetic playing field, with possibilities for multilayered signification, storytelling, personal expression, social commentary, and yes, the passing on of history—its own, and that of the nation. More than any other form I know of, rap is often self-referential, “about” hip-hop itself—where it’s going, where it’s been, what is and is not “real.” It pays homage to its luminaries (Biggie, Tupac, Left-Eye, Jam Master Jay) and educates its listeners on its own history through allusion and cross-reference. It delights in offending the sensibilities and moral standards of the cultural gatekeepers, and it is unapologetic in its typical defiance of criticism.

In short, I propose, even though he’s not literally writing about hip-hop, Reed’s novel suggests that hip-hop is of world historical importance, and not only—or not even—because it is lucrative. (Although, given its origins in poverty and its potential to elevate its artists and executives to rarefied heights of wealth and cultural influence, there is also world-changing potential in its profitability, too.) It is of world-historical importance because it has taken hold. It was repressed in all the usual ways early on—denounced, ignored, mocked, derided as “noise” or “not music” or “not original” or “incoherent mumbo jumbo.” But its spread—fueled by the beat, which Reed traces all the way back to ancient Africa—could not be contained, despite the best efforts of the Atonists over at Fox News.

Notebook Prompt: What Do We Do with Chapters 52?

Starting with the first of the two chapters 52, PaPa LaBas launches into his lengthy "back story" to the case of the missing Text, tracing the origins of this modern-day conflict all the way back to ancient Egypt. 

How would you classify the writing in chapters 52? Is this history? Fiction? Mythology? How does this section fit with the style and reality-status of rest of the novel? Is there any sense in which this narrative represents a valid alternative history, despite all of the conspicuously fictional aspects of the story?

Please take 5 minutes to contemplate these questions in your notebook now, and post one sentence from your notebook in the comments section below.

Notebook Prompt: Abdul's "Amusing Lampoons"

Reread the passage at the start of chapter 26 (pp. 96-97), where PaPa LaBas enters Abdul Hamid's office and sees a bunch of “amusing lampoons” depicting European colonialists on his desk. What are these objects doing in the novel? What do they have to do with Reed’s concerns with representation and culture throughout this novel? Do these African “satirical” figures bear any relation to Reed’s own aesthetic and critical approach in Mumbo Jumbo?

Take 5 minutes to contemplate this passage and its possible connections to the novel's larger aims in your notebook now.

Notebook Prompt: Jes Grew "Seeking Its Text"?

Both PaPa LaBas and Hinckle Von Vampton say that Jes Grew is “seeking its text.” We have been identifying Reed’s fictional “Jes Grew” virus as a rough analog for the real-life historical jazz music, dance, and culture that emerged in the 1920s. What connections might there be between writing/text and dance/music/culture? What might it mean for Jes Grew to be “seeking its text”?

Please take 5 minutes to contemplate these questions in your notebook.

A Happy Ending?

Near the very end of Ragtime, as chapter 40 and the novel itself is winding down, Doctorow indulges in one final metafictional joke: “By that time the era of Ragtime had run out, with the heavy breath of the machine, as if history were no more than a tune on a player piano” (319). The author seems resist the idea that we’ve gotten anywhere over the course of the novel, or that the “history” he’s narrated has been brought to any kind of meaningful or illuminating conclusion. (And if you didn’t notice, the “meta” joke here has to do with the capitalization of “Ragtime”—earlier, when referring to the genre of music, it’s appropriately lowercased, so here it refers simultaneously to the era that is named for the music as well as the novel Ragtime itself, the “era” or historical setting of which has now, in its final paragraph, “run out.” Get it?) We are left with a final image of mad Harry K. Thaw, now officially declared “sane,” marching patriotically in the annual Armistice Day parade. This seems of a piece with the generally cynical or ironic tone of the novel—history does not produce tidy narratives with clear morals or meanings; there is no “point” to be drawn from this story; the lunatic is also the patriot. Time keeps rolling on, and a new era of conflict, strife, confusion, and dark comedy is about to begin. And another. And another.

The primary fictional men in the novel have all died violent deaths in the name of their “causes”—Younger Brother under uncertain circumstances “in a skirmish with government troops” as a zapatista in the Mexican Revolution (305-6); Father as an arms dealer surreptitiously transporting war materiel on the Lusitania, the explosion and sinking of which is allegedly exacerbated by the shipments of “grenades, depth charges and puttied nitro” he is smuggling to Europe on board the purportedly neutral vessel (318); and Coalhouse Walker before a “coordinated volley of a firing squad” courtesy of the NYPD (301). There’s a prevailing sense of futility to these deaths, anonymous and lonely amid the larger flow of history as portrayed in chapter 40. The narrative “camera” pulls back, and in the larger scope of historical narrative these individual stories seem to make not a ripple. It’s sobering, after our deep engagement with the Coalhouse drama, that the only reference to him in the concluding montage is via J. P. Morgan traveling blithely through Europe, “the incident of the mad black man in his Library quite forgotten” (306). The central dramatic narrative of the novel seems to have had no appreciable impact on history—just one more “crime of the century” to be displaced by the next sensational story, erased from the collective memory. And again, this seems in keeping with the tone of ironic detachment we’ve observed in Doctorow’s narrator from the start of the novel. In conventional terms, it’s not a very satisfying ending, just as historical narrative itself may not be satisfying in the way that narrative fiction (traditionally) is.

Likewise, at first glance, the “period of dissolution” (316) that afflicts the Family seems a bleak and depressing development: Doctorow opens the novel with an ironically nostalgic portrait of a respectable middle-class family in New Rochelle, and proceeds to demolish that picture over the course of his narrative. But I would argue that in the conclusion of Mother’s story we have a rare bright spot, maybe even a glimpse of some kind of optimism for the future (which would seem rather uncharacteristic of Doctorow, if the preceding 300 pages have taught us anything). After the conventional period of mourning in the wake of Father’s death, Tateh proposes marriage, and Mother accepts with enthusiasm. Her relationship with Father has been deteriorating (“dissolving”) from the start of the novel, and toward the end they are only “on the most correct and abbreviated speaking terms, the death of Younger Brother in Mexico having provided the final impetus for their almost continuous separation” (317). Her dissatisfaction seems clearly linked to the development of her own independent consciousness (she’s been reading Emma Goldman) and consequent sexual frustration, and Father is increasingly bewildered and put off by her assertiveness, her failure to defer to his traditional role as head of the household. In contrast, we are told, “She adored [Tateh], she loved to be with him. They each relished the traits of character of the other” (319).

We see a more egalitarian or mutual model of a romantic relationship, and it’s a significantly multicultural model as well (with the Yiddish term “Tateh” replacing the WASPish “Father”). While Father is killed, significantly, at the very dawn of modernity (which many scholars identify with the First World War)—“his final exploration” (318), as if his nineteenth-century model can’t survive into the new era—Mother, in contrast, seems to flourish in modernity, as she and Tateh abandon the “Old World” of the East Coast for that quintessentially modern locale, California (likely Los Angeles/Hollywood, since Tateh is in the emergent and quintessentially modern film industry): “They lived in a large white stucco house with arched windows and an orange tile roof. There were palm trees along the sidewalk and beds of bright red flowers in the front yard” (319). Their family reflects a kind of nontraditional, patchwork, multicultural ideal, and in this vision of the future (which children typically represent, according to Whitney Houston) we are offered a possibly hopeful view. It’s inspirational for Tateh, at least: “One morning Tateh looked out the window of his study and saw the three children on the lawn. . . . They were talking and sunning themselves. His daughter, with dark hair, his tow-headed stepson and his legal responsibility, the schwartze child. He suddenly had an idea for a film. A bunch of children who were pals, white black, fat thin, rich poor, all kinds, mischievous little urchins who would have funny adventures in their own neighborhood, a society of ragamuffins, like all of us, a gang, getting into trouble and getting out again” (319). The fictional Tateh is posited here as the creator of the historically “real” Our Gang/Little Rascals series (with apologies to Hal Roach), which was revolutionary in its time for portraying black and white characters as equals, peers, compatriots, brothers in mischief, puncturing the pomposity of the wealthy and privileged at every opportunity. The phrase “like all of us” is telling—there’s a real democracy implied in this vision, not the superficial stuff of flags and bunting and fireworks (associated with Father). There is no hierarchy implied in this family portrait. And thus the three strands of the narrative come together—the WASP child in the sailor blouse, the dark-haired Jewish immigrant girl, and the Black orphan—and in this we might be tempted to see a hopeful vision for a more inclusive future.

Even with Emma Goldman deported from our shores and a violent century of racial and ethnic strife yet to unfold.

The Good Old Days

The enduring appeal of traditional historical fiction, I think, has a lot to do with nostalgia—the kind of imaginative “time travel” that a convincingly detailed, imaginative reconstruction of the past allows can appeal to a reader’s latent or sometimes explicit sense that things were somehow better “back then.” Life was simpler, less chaotic, less mediated or cacophonous. The reader is allowed a temporary escape from the confusion of the modern (or postmodern) world; there’s a kind of solace in it, even as we’re maybe less inclined to view our present age in a rose-colored hue by comparison.

When Ragtime was published in 1975, the United States was in dire need of such nostalgia: the Bicentennial celebrations would hearken back to a heroic and idealistic time when the nation was formed—an armed insurrection against an occupying power that, unlike our recent messy entanglements with armed insurrections against occupying powers in Southeast Asia, seemed to have clear moral bounds, “good guys” (the American Revolutionaries) and “bad guys” (the Redcoats). The national mood had been traumatized by the quagmire in Vietnam as well as revolutionary dissent at home, from the violent strife of the civil rights movement and the disillusionment of Watergate to the more militant and still controversial actions of radical groups like the Black Panthers and the Weather Underground. For many Americans, it must have been difficult to muster a whole lot of patriotic fervor; the “Spirit of ’76” was pretty ambivalent.

The early years of the twentieth century have often been portrayed as a period of comparative placidity and prosperity in the United States (even as imperial powers in Europe were amassing arms and rattling sabers in preparation for world war). From what I’ve read, Random House’s marketing campaign for Ragtime tapped into this national desire for nostalgia quite explicitly—the novel was cast as a kind of “national story,” a backward glance to our origins, a time just before the dawn of modernity, world war, genocide, and the attendant horrors of the twentieth century. Father’s business—“the manufacture of flags and buntings and other accoutrements of patriotism,” as we’re informed on the opening page of the novel—might be seen as an explicit “tease” to such a reader who opens the novel with a kind of red, white, and blue bunting of the mind. (Buntings and flags were booming business in 1976, as well.) But Doctorow’s narrator gives a hint to his contradictory impulses when he adds, “including fireworks.” “Patriotism was a reliable sentiment in the early 1900’s,” indeed—but as this novel continually reminds us, so were explosives, and they weren’t all being deployed in the cause of celebrating American triumphalism. In fact, “Guns were going off everywhere” (191), and one of this novel’s primary aims seems to be to demolish the sepia-toned image of a placid ­fin de siècle. The Family’s complacent view from New Rochelle—“There were no Negroes. There were no immigrants” (4)—is compromised immediately as the narrative unfolds. Their lives become intimately bound with those of immigrants (first, superficially, with Houdini, and later more substantially with Tateh and his daughter) and African Americans (Sarah, Coalhouse, and their son). Younger Brother’s awkward quest to “find himself” ends up leading to an idealistic and self-destructive “career as an outlaw and revolutionary” (243), under the influence of immigrant anarchists like Emma Goldman and Ben Reitman and inspired by the proud defiance of Coalhouse Walker and his “Negro insurrection.” Far from a nostalgic trip down memory lane, a stroll through simpler times when women were laced up in corsets and kept their opinions to themselves and black people (like Mathew Henson) “knew [their] place” (162), Ragtime depicts the years before World War I in the United States as fraught with political violence, grotesque gaps between extreme wealth and dire poverty, and casual racism, sexism, and xenophobia. This is not only a challenge to the prevailing view of this period itself; it’s a challenge to the very idea of nostalgia, the “metanarrative” (perennially appealing, it seems) that tells us we are living in an age that has lost touch with its roots, a diminished and decadent corruption of traditional values. The deeper we get into this novel, the more 2023 starts to look like 1910.

Although he likes to think of himself as a “progressive” (231), Father is probably the most nostalgic figure in the novel: he’s the most unnerved by Coalhouse Walker and his refusal to deploy “the customary deferences practiced by his race” (162); he’s alarmed by the boatload of immigrants his ship passes on its way to the North Pole (“A weird despair seized him” [13]); he chafes as his traditional role as head of the household seems to have eroded during his Arctic sojourn (“Toward his wife he felt drastically slipped in her estimation, an explorer in body only” [225]). The very idea that his self-image is pinned so thoroughly on his imagined role as an “explorer” (“he had been to the Arctic, to Africa, to the Philippines. He had traveled out west” [225]) aligns him more with a nineteenth-century colonialist attitude than that of the dawning twentieth century (it’s significant that the ship he travels on to the pole is the Roosevelt).

In chapter 30, when Father takes his son to the storied Polo Grounds, perhaps the most nostalgically laden ballpark in the history of the most nostalgically laden sport in American culture, to witness the storied N.Y. Giants under the storied manager John McGraw, we can observe this clash between nostalgia and reality on a number of levels. The setting itself—father and son bonding at the ballgame—is probably the most nostalgic cliché in American culture, and Father himself is shocked to witness the reality of what baseball has become since his Harvard days (“when the players addressed each other as Mister and played their game avidly, but as sportsmen, in sensible uniforms before audiences of collegians” [230-31]). The “paternal figure and commander of his team” (228), McGraw himself, vigorously cusses out the opposing team, and the crowd of cigar-chomping drunks participates vicariously and with gusto in the violent brawls on the field. Even the postmodern reader is likely shocked by spectacles such as the “Boston midget” and the “dirt eater” mascots, grown men whom the players pat on the head for luck. It’s not only Father’s nostalgia that is under attack here; Doctorow challenges the contemporary reader to reconsider the ease with which sports history (especially of baseball) lends itself to the metanarrative of nostalgia. Anyone familiar with the handwringing commentaries in the sports pages that lament the corruption and decline of the “steroid era” or the influence of players’ unions will know what I’m referring to. More than any other professional sport, “America’s pastime” indulges in nostalgic revisionism, and this is simply one more aspect of the “Ragtime era” Doctorow wants to undermine.

And yet, is it possible that the novel allows for another kind of nostalgia? Does the reader who feels alienated by the slick commercialization and end-to-end packaging of professional sports today maybe find this crude atmosphere somewhat appealing? Does the reader who despairs of the perceived diminishment of social activism and the decline of the labor movement in the twenty-first century (who might be heartened by the Occupy Wall Street and Black Lives Matter movements) read Doctorow’s historically anchored accounts of Emma Goldman’s crowded anarchist meetings or the international network of IWW activism with a kind of nostalgic longing? Does Coalhouse Walker’s campaign seem to embody a clear moral position, in contrast to the ambiguities of racism in the “color-blind” post-civil-rights era? Does any evocation of the past tap into such feelings? Is Doctorow himself indulging in a little nostalgia here, despite his subversive, postmodernist, metanarrative-challenging intentions?

Ragtime in New Rochelle

In chapter 21 of Ragtime, the fictional Harlem piano player Coalhouse Walker Jr. plays a couple of Scott Joplin compositions for Mother, Father, Younger Brother, and the Little Boy (with the stubborn Sarah listening from upstairs). The first of these is "Wall Street Rag," which was composed and published in 1909 (so it would have been cutting-edge music at the time). Younger Brother is familiar with ragtime music from his "nightlife period in New York," but "he had never expected to hear it in his sister's home" (159). The narrator describes the family's reaction to these strange and wonderful sounds, the likes of which their out-of-tune parlor piano has never experienced before: "Small clear chords hung in the air like flowers. The melodies were like bouquets. There seemed to be no other possibilities for life than those delineated by the music" (159).

Walker follows this with "the most famous rag of all," Joplin's most popular and well-known piece, "Maple Leaf Rag" (1899)--"This was a most robust composition, a vigorous music that roused the senses and never stood still a moment" (160).

        

(This is from a piano roll recorded by Joplin himself.)

Winslow Homer and the Light on the Eastern Seaboard

Among the most immediately apparent “postmodernist” aspects of Ragtime are the subtle ways that Doctorow acknowledges the fictional status of his narrative within the narrative itself (metafiction), even as he labors to ground it in a specific and clearly defined historical context. Phrases like “at this time in our history” or references to the fact that the novel is being written “nearly fifty years since [Houdini’s] death” (8) pointedly call attention to the written (or constructed, or composed) nature of this story. Rather than attempting to “transport” the reader, to place us “in” 1906 America, to imagine living as these characters did (the traditional aims of historical fiction), Doctorow makes no bones about the fact that he’s writing a novel—and we’re reading a novel. When Houdini’s car crashes into a telephone pole right in front of Father’s house, immediately after the narrative details the Little Boy in the sailor blouse and his fascination with Houdini’s work, he isn’t even trying to make this “coincidence” seem plausible (a fact that itself is drawn attention to when he begins chapter 2 with the phrase, “As it happened”—when clearly it did not “happen,” other than on these pages). He’s flaunting the coincidence, and reminding us that there’s an author behind this whole thing, making stuff coincide.

Another way that the narrative flaunts its own status as art (rather than “reality”—realism is art that tries to conceal the fact that it’s art) is when Doctorow explicitly (and implicitly) cites visual artists as his points of departure. Clearly, a great deal of historical research has gone into this novel, but even when he’s describing Younger Brother strolling among the salt marshes, he doesn’t attempt a “realistic” description of these marshes. Or, rather, he begins in this vein—“The air was salt. . . . Sea birds started and flew up” (4)—but quickly abandons realist techniques in favor of artistic cross-reference: “This was the time in our history when Winslow Homer was doing his painting. A certain light was still available along the Eastern seaboard. Homer painted the light. It gave the sea a heavy dull menace and shone coldly on the rocks and shoals of the New England coast. There were unexplained shipwrecks and brave towline rescues” (4).

How do we know what the light was like on the Eastern seaboard back in 1906? Was it even all that different from today? (In the daytime, at least—it’s surely much brighter at night these days.) Well, look at this painting—here’s how it used to look. Are these references to the “heavy dull menace” of the sea and the “cold shine” on the rocks and shoals Younger Brother’s impressions? Maybe, maybe not. Doctorow is referring to another work of art here, and not “reality.” The paintings are cited as a kind of narrative-visual shorthand, to do the work of description in the absence of Doctorow’s own adjectives. And in the first (long) paragraph of the novel, this is one more way that the book flaunts its status as art. This flaunting is even more apparent if you’re familiar with Winslow Homer’s work, as Doctorow actually alludes obliquely to one of his most famous paintings: “There were  . . . brave towline rescues.” What initially might appear to be a strange non sequitur stating something about “the kind of things that happened back then,” akin to curious the mention of “odd things [going] on in lighthouses and shacks,” is clearly a reference to this painting:

So is our point of reference the actual coast of the northeastern United States as it existed at the start of the last century? Or is it to another work of art, with no “unmediated” access to reality? I’d say it is both—Homer’s work does provide a handy and compelling visual supplement to the image of Younger Brother moping around the beach with his trousers rolled (an allusion to the marquee modernist T. S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock? He is “having difficulty finding himself” . . .), and Homer’s art is in the naturalist tradition, so this presumably is what the beach “used to” look like in this part of the country. But I’m reminded of Oscar Wilde’s remarks about how the sunsets started imitating Monet’s paintings once he taught us how to see them. Is art imitating life here, or is art merely imitating art?

Something similar happens when Doctorow cites the photography and social activism of Jacob Riis: “At this time in our history Jacob Riis, a tireless newspaper reporter and reformer, wrote about the need for housing for the poor. They lived too many to a room. There was no sanitation. The streets reeked of shit. Children died of mild colds or slight rashes. . . . He went around climbing dark stairs and knocking on doors and taking flash photos of indigent families in their dwellings. He held up the flash pan and put his head under the hood and a picture exploded” (16-17). On the one hand, like the Homer reference earlier, this is another way that Doctorow fills in the historical setting—“At this time in our history.” It’s a way of introducing us to the squalor of the Lower East Side, which will be important to the Evelyn Nesbit plot in the next few chapters, but again, rather than simply presenting detailed descriptions of these conditions himself, as a traditional novelist might do (in order to “put the reader there” imaginatively), again Doctorow piggybacks his narrative-fictional art on another art form—photojournalism. A traditional novelist would very likely have referred extensively to Riis’s vast body of documentary photography as part of their research, in order to bolster descriptions of this setting, but it’s a postmodernist move to implicitly acknowledge this fact. When we read Doctorow’s account of Evelyn’s first impressions of the Lower East Side in chapter 7, we could be reading a summary description of the photographs in Riis’s landmark collection How the Other Half Lives (1890):

           

            Dark-eyed faces peered into the hansom. Men with big moustaches smiled

            through their gold teeth. Street workers sat on the curbs in the heat and

            fanned themselves with their derbies. Boys in knickers ran alongside the car

            with bulky loads of piecework on their shoulders. Evelyn saw stores with

            Hebrew signs in the windows. . . . She saw the iron fire escapes on the

            tenements as tiers of cellblocks. Nags in their yokes lifted their bowed

            necks to gaze at her. (41)

And so on. How does Doctorow “know” what it would have looked like to be chauffeured through these tenements? The same way any novelist or historian would—by doing research, looking at photographic or other visual evidence, and building an imaginative account from there. But as with the Winslow Homer allusion earlier, he cites his sources, which is unusual in historical fiction, and quintessentially postmodernist.

A few more such allusions, before I sign off. The image of Evelyn Nesbit that Younger Brother hangs on his bedroom wall (5) is described in detail in the text—the reader’s first impression of her is via a famous drawing that was widely circulated, Charles Dana Gibson’s “The Eternal Question”:

The description of Harry K. Thaw in his cell, which “glowed like a stage in the perpetual dusk of the cavernous prison,” as seen by Harry Houdini, is a reference to a notorious photograph of Thaw in the New York Tombs (“The prisoner had a broad flat face with a porcine nose, a wide mouth, and eyes that seemed unnaturally bright and large. He had coarse hair combed back from an oddly crescent hairline. Houdini, a vaudevillian, thought of the face of a ventriloquist’s dummy. The prisoner was sitting at a table laid with linen and service. On the table were the remains of a large meal” [30]):

Various accounts of the White-Nesbit-Thaw affair are available online; for a detailed and entertaining one that’s full of visual images, check this out.

Houdini did not perform an escape from the New York Tombs in 1906, when Thaw was an inmate there, but he did escape from the less-infamous Boston Tombs in pretty much exactly the way Doctorow describes (though he does, happily, appear to be wearing underpants).

Finally, the photograph of Robert Peary, Mathew Henson, and their Inuit guides at the North Pole (“It shows five stubby figures wrapped in furs, the flag set in a paleocrystic peak behind them that might suggest a real physical Pole. Because of the light the faces are indistinguishable, seen only as black blanks framed by caribou fur” [81]) is famous in its own right. Hey, that’s Father’s American flag in the background!

Notebook Prompt: Is this "history" or "fiction"?

Reread the long paragraph that closes chapter 6 of Ragtime, beginning with "At the time of course" (p. 39) through the end of the chapter on p. 40. 

How would you characterize the rhetoric in this passage? Is this history? Fiction? Polemic? Satire? What uses is Doctorow making of history here? Where is the author/narrator in relation to this barrage? What perspective or attitude toward this material is reflected? What kind of irony is this, and what is the effect?

Take 5 minutes to contemplate these questions in your notebook.

Notebook Prompt: What is the difference between history and fiction?

What is the difference between history and fiction? In what ways is fiction like and unlike history (and vice-versa)? What does each form of discourse have to offer that the other doesn’t? How do we consume these kinds of writing differently?

Please spend 5-7 minutes contemplating these questions in your notebook. Be prepared to share your thoughts and insights with the class on Thursday or Friday.

Proper Names and Pronouns

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