Another Side of the Fare: NO SOUP FOR YOU!

As the title implies, this blog entry is not about soup . . . or any food at all for that matter. Today (tonight, this evening, etc.) marks the first entry that is unrelated to food entirely! BUT - I know what you're thinking to yourself as you intently read each word written on this virtual page: Good God! What could he possibly write about on this somewhat cold November night?

Well, the answer, my friends is literature (pronounced lit-terra-churrrrrr - and it helps if you have a glass of scotch in your hand whilst you say it). Why literature? As a graduate student in English, my life includes lots and lots of literature, so I usually have something quasi-valuable to say about it.

In particular, I feel as if I need to blog about my lack of understanding of the term "Post-Modern Literature;" however, for the sake of you the readers (or you the reader as I think perhaps one person reads this), I will not discuss this subject right now. My head would explode, which would be rather messy and a pain in the ass to clean up. Instead, I shall blog about (drum roll, please!) . . . Vladimir Nabokov's short story, "Gods."

I will not quote the story directly, but I will reluctantly paraphrase it - really, you ought to read it yourself, too. More or less, the story details an episode in the life of a man and his wife after their young son has just died. The narrator is the man, which could lead one to believe that the narrator is Nabokov (ergo the man is Nabokov), but I think the man is just "the man" and the narrator - neither of whom is Nabokov. The woman is distraught at the loss of her child as they travel to visit his grave, but the man is lost in his own thoughts. He creates stories and fables as if he would tell them to his son, yet he realizes (I think) that his son is really dead. However, despite his illusions, he creates an intriguing story about a hen that is used in a hot air balloon experiment. The hen lands and is found by a peasant, who knows it is a gift from the Virgin Mary. The hen later lays four golden eggs because, as the narrator implies we should realize, the rooster that is the sun impregnated her on the journey in the hot air balloon.

The imagery throughout the story is mind-boggling, but this scene in particular has always intrigued me. What is the symbolism here? Does the hen represent his wife and the "sun rooster" his stories? Regardless, the narrator/man/father/husband realizes that his stories have not cheered up his wife at all. He comments that he cannot overcome her anguish (I believe that might be a direct quote, for the record). However, he is incapable of weeping. He mourns the loss of his son, but the reader might be led to believe that his stories are a celebration of his son - whether dead or alive. Or perhaps his stories are his children?

Upon arriving at the grave, the wife visits it - alone. The man waits and the narrator (who is also the man) notes that there is no such thing as death! I cannot decide whether to take him literally or figuratively (in the sense of heaven and the ever-lasting life). After reading Invitation to a Beheading, I am beginning to think the latter. . . but I am still unsure.

"Gods" is one of Nabokov's shortest short stories, but it also is one of the deepest. I still find myself pondering its meaning while absent-mindedly staring at nothing in particular. I feel the despair of the wife, but I feel the joy of the man as well. It is a joy that is so alive and pervasive - even just in the writing - that you cannot help but to agree that there cannot be death in such a beautiful life.

Then again, I might just be out in left field . . . However, if you get a chance to read "Gods" by Nabokov, please do so. Then, let me know how you read it. If you and I (and all of us) really are gods, what does this mean to us?