Addressed in this post: style & why AP?
Each portion of All the Light We Cannot See seems to center around at least one tragedy; in the third quarter of the book, we witness the death of Madame Manec, Etienne's beloved maid.
Madame Manec serves as a sort of mother figure for Marie-Laure, who, with her father gone, is parentless. She is also a political role model; her admirable efforts to organize a resistance against the Nazis, who occupy France, demonstrates her courage. When Manec dies of Pneumonia, Etienne and Marie-Laure—along with a hefty percentage of Saint-Malo—mourn a particularly devastating loss. "Madame is dead, Madame is dead," a shocked Etienne repeats.
This passage is followed by a letter from Daniel, who tells his daughter that "joy is not a strong enough word" for the feeling he had when receiving the basic necessities she sent him months before. Though Daniel acknowledges the difficulty of his situation—"How I wish they would let us have soap!"—the fact that he, an imprisoned man, is happier than her, still free to some degree in Saint-Malo, is an ironic exhibition of the complex impacts of war.
Daniel's letter is one of many that Doerr employs to progress his narrative; Werner also writes and receives letters, to and from an increasingly disheartened Jutta. A single letter, in most cases, comprises an entire chapter. This isn't abnormal for the book; the chapters are rarely longer than three or four pages. This element of Doerr's structure contributes significantly to the style of the book. When we read short chapters, especially those that shift perspective, we are able to more adequately connect the characters. For example, later in this passage, Marie-Laure, Etienne, and Werner all have separate experiences with radios, and the short chapters help to illuminate what makes their seemingly distinct experiences similar: Werner and Marie-Laure both feel trapped in their respective environs, and their relationships with their radios help to liberate them temporarily. This idea comes full circle when Werner, "trapped beneath whatever is left of the Hotel of Bees," hears Marie-Laure reading Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea on the makeshift network that her uncle has managed to establish (after Madame Manec's death, Etienne turns into something of a disc jockey, playing music to distract him from the deterioration of his world.)
But the uncommonly brief chapters sometimes limit the extent to which we are able to sympathize with the characters, because we are not permitted to fully immerse ourselves in their experiences. Readers can best understand and relate to characters' struggles when they become engrossed in long, often messy passages that display a train of thought or a stream of consciousness. This limitation is hindered, not helped, but Doerr's use of third person narration, which further inhibits our ability to get inside our characters' minds. (I'm not suggesting that this is the case for all third person narration—only that which is coupled with short chapters that are comprised mostly of dialogue and brief descriptions.)
The short chapters are reminiscent of a young adult or popular fiction read. That idea is hard to ignore when one considers whether this book is "of AP merit"—a loaded and delightfully snobby phrase. One must first establish that not all AP-worthy books are created equal; to suggest that Doerr must be held to the same standard as Toni Morrison, or that Morrison must be equated with Shakespeare, is absurd. But one has to draw the line somewhere, and that line gets blurry around the territory of All the Light We Cannot See, which at times can feel like a beach read, and nothing more.
But our perspective on what is "of AP merit" is faulty regarding books published, say, in the last ten years. We know what won the National Book Award, the Man Booker Prize, or the Pulitzer (cough, cough), but we don't know what works will endure—what will be considered classics of our era.
A good indicator might be the question, "Would we teach this to our kids in English class?" All the Light We Cannot See certainly has historical merit. Doerr develops characters in a manner that might be called original, or even inventive. Motifs aren't as plentiful as they are in, say, Song of Solomon, but they're there—radios, death, entrapment. In the end, these traits elevate the work to the AP level.
One wonders, however whether reading this instead of a work by Morrison (or Atwood, Fitzgerald, Vonnegut, Conrad, Joyce...) is a justifiable use of valuable AP time (the exam is nigh!) Some might say that adding a book published in the last ten years to the curriculum is a good idea; I agree. But I wonder if All the Light is the best that our millennium has to offer—what about Americanah? The Namesake? White Teeth?
But maybe I'm just in search of a book that would easily lend itself to essay prompts. Those last three—chalk-full of tried and true AP favorites like identity, relationships, politics, and the past—seem like they were written to be written about.
All the Light? Not so much. But the jury's still out.
Each portion of All the Light We Cannot See seems to center around at least one tragedy; in the third quarter of the book, we witness the death of Madame Manec, Etienne's beloved maid.
Madame Manec serves as a sort of mother figure for Marie-Laure, who, with her father gone, is parentless. She is also a political role model; her admirable efforts to organize a resistance against the Nazis, who occupy France, demonstrates her courage. When Manec dies of Pneumonia, Etienne and Marie-Laure—along with a hefty percentage of Saint-Malo—mourn a particularly devastating loss. "Madame is dead, Madame is dead," a shocked Etienne repeats.
This passage is followed by a letter from Daniel, who tells his daughter that "joy is not a strong enough word" for the feeling he had when receiving the basic necessities she sent him months before. Though Daniel acknowledges the difficulty of his situation—"How I wish they would let us have soap!"—the fact that he, an imprisoned man, is happier than her, still free to some degree in Saint-Malo, is an ironic exhibition of the complex impacts of war.
Daniel's letter is one of many that Doerr employs to progress his narrative; Werner also writes and receives letters, to and from an increasingly disheartened Jutta. A single letter, in most cases, comprises an entire chapter. This isn't abnormal for the book; the chapters are rarely longer than three or four pages. This element of Doerr's structure contributes significantly to the style of the book. When we read short chapters, especially those that shift perspective, we are able to more adequately connect the characters. For example, later in this passage, Marie-Laure, Etienne, and Werner all have separate experiences with radios, and the short chapters help to illuminate what makes their seemingly distinct experiences similar: Werner and Marie-Laure both feel trapped in their respective environs, and their relationships with their radios help to liberate them temporarily. This idea comes full circle when Werner, "trapped beneath whatever is left of the Hotel of Bees," hears Marie-Laure reading Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea on the makeshift network that her uncle has managed to establish (after Madame Manec's death, Etienne turns into something of a disc jockey, playing music to distract him from the deterioration of his world.)
But the uncommonly brief chapters sometimes limit the extent to which we are able to sympathize with the characters, because we are not permitted to fully immerse ourselves in their experiences. Readers can best understand and relate to characters' struggles when they become engrossed in long, often messy passages that display a train of thought or a stream of consciousness. This limitation is hindered, not helped, but Doerr's use of third person narration, which further inhibits our ability to get inside our characters' minds. (I'm not suggesting that this is the case for all third person narration—only that which is coupled with short chapters that are comprised mostly of dialogue and brief descriptions.)
The short chapters are reminiscent of a young adult or popular fiction read. That idea is hard to ignore when one considers whether this book is "of AP merit"—a loaded and delightfully snobby phrase. One must first establish that not all AP-worthy books are created equal; to suggest that Doerr must be held to the same standard as Toni Morrison, or that Morrison must be equated with Shakespeare, is absurd. But one has to draw the line somewhere, and that line gets blurry around the territory of All the Light We Cannot See, which at times can feel like a beach read, and nothing more.
But our perspective on what is "of AP merit" is faulty regarding books published, say, in the last ten years. We know what won the National Book Award, the Man Booker Prize, or the Pulitzer (cough, cough), but we don't know what works will endure—what will be considered classics of our era.
A good indicator might be the question, "Would we teach this to our kids in English class?" All the Light We Cannot See certainly has historical merit. Doerr develops characters in a manner that might be called original, or even inventive. Motifs aren't as plentiful as they are in, say, Song of Solomon, but they're there—radios, death, entrapment. In the end, these traits elevate the work to the AP level.
One wonders, however whether reading this instead of a work by Morrison (or Atwood, Fitzgerald, Vonnegut, Conrad, Joyce...) is a justifiable use of valuable AP time (the exam is nigh!) Some might say that adding a book published in the last ten years to the curriculum is a good idea; I agree. But I wonder if All the Light is the best that our millennium has to offer—what about Americanah? The Namesake? White Teeth?
But maybe I'm just in search of a book that would easily lend itself to essay prompts. Those last three—chalk-full of tried and true AP favorites like identity, relationships, politics, and the past—seem like they were written to be written about.
All the Light? Not so much. But the jury's still out.
As I noted within my own blog as well as Sagenays is the fact that this novel seems to lack the complexity and density that all of the other books we have read had. The book offers excitingly, fresh characters and a setting that is second to none. Although I did not find the motifs you had in your synopsis I would agree there are some thrown around. In agreement with you to take this book over others is ridiculous. There are plenty of other books that would lend themselves better to the essays and literary understanding. If you were able to choose again would you still choose this book based on what you have read and noted?
ReplyDeleteNo—I definitely wouldn't choose this book again. I think the only reason I'm happy to be reading it is that I can now be part of conversations about it. But if I could spend 500 pages of time on another book, I would.
DeleteI think your comment about which books will be able to stand the test of time is an important one, as is your question about whether this would be taught in English class. My question is whether I would need to teach it. Do you think a teacher is a necessary requirement for this novel?
ReplyDeleteI am open to including a more contemporary novel in the curriculum for AP and am always willing to hear recommendations. Thanks for the ones you've included.
You ask a good question. The answer, I think, is that a teacher is not required for this novel. Students our age who are somewhat familiar with literature can understand most of what the book is about on our own—the same could not be said for any of the books we've read so far this year.
ReplyDeleteSam,
ReplyDeleteIt appears that all three of us chose the same topic of discussion this week, and came to almost identical conclusions. I think its very interesting that we would all find that the book didn't quite match the literary elegance of the books we've read so far in the course. I did, however, find your description of the short chapters as "reminiscent of a young adult or popular fiction read" contestable: the short burst of information are actually one the aspects of the book I find add the most. What about them bother you? Finally, as I asked will, how do you think this book compares to your summer reading choice? While it's true that this book in no way compares to A Handmaids Tale or Song of Solomon, perhaps those are extremes and not truly representative of what makes a book AP.