Final Project

Formatting issues prevented inline placement of my essay, genres, and letter in Blogger. Please find my final project here.

Post 1: Partial Draft

Although I’m not ready to write a draft just yet, I thought I’d use this post to create some structure for my paper as well as collect and implement some of the research that I have done thus far. First, I’d like to discuss the foundation of my topic.

I read Charles Seife’s Zero: The Biography of Dangerous Idea. In this book, Seife addresses the importance of the number but also the politics and history of its birth. I’d like to open my paper by talking about this history to introduce the concept of the void and nothingness.

The first evidence of numbers is a 30,000 year old wolf bone with marks carved on it that was clearly used to count something (Seife 6). This indicates the reason that zero did not exist originally - there was simply no need for it. Early number systems worked similarly to tally marks, linguistically expressing numbers as repetition of their parts. For instance, a number like 6 would be “two and two and two.” However, as number systems developed, zero became necessary to use as a placeholder in the Babylonian number system that assigned value to numerals based on their place within a number, like our current one (13). Though this represented progress in zero’s development, it was still far away from having true value.

In the early West, zero faced harsh opposition. The Greeks learned their math from the Egyptians. Both systems highly emphasized geometry and as a result zero did not make sense. After all, there can be no zero length or zero area. Prominent scholars such as Pythagoras and Aristotle embraced these ideas, denouncing the idea of zero as absurd (40). Aristotle rejected nothingness in his model of the cosmos, which placed the earth at the center of the universe with many celestial spheres around it, like an onion. There are a finite number of spheres, with every outer sphere moving the one inside it. However, there must be something moving the outermost sphere. Aristotle stated that this proved the existence of God, denying that there could be a void far beyond earth. When the Romans took over Greece, this idea was adopted by the Catholic Church, extending its influence far into the future. The Catholics reinforced the idea that zero could not exist by stating that since God is omnipotent, there can be no nothingness.

When zero finally came, it came from the East. Hindus had embraced the idea for centuries, with their religion actually describing one of their gods as the embodiment of the void (65). In Arabia, algebra was created, using zero as a foundation for its operation. A man named Leonardo of Pisa brought the Arabic numerals used in algebra to Europe, and zero along with it. The idea began to catch on and break down the Aristotelian anti-zero policies of the Church. In the Renaissance, zero blossomed in art, when an Italian architect, Filippo Brunelleschi, took visual art into 3D by creating perspective and the vanishing point (an infinitely small point in a drawing in that has zero size but contains infinite space).

The enlightenment of the Renaissance allowed zero to take hold in the West, providing a new dimension for artistic innovation. This opened the door for the use of zero in an art form in which its presence is heard and felt: music. In music, zero, the void, nothingness, takes the form of silence. Silence, defined as the absence of sound, can often be just as strong of a force as actual notes themselves.

In Joseph Haydn’s string quartet from Opus 33, the piece appears to end, leaving silence. The audience begins to applaud, yet the music suddenly resumes. This repeats multiple times. Eventually, the piece actually does end, yet there is nothing but silence and tension in the room, as the audience does not want to be fooled again. In this way, silence is used to manipulate the minds and emotions of the listeners. Given the nature of the work, it is nicknamed “the Joke.” [http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/music_box/2009/08/silence_is_golden.single.html]

Another piece that I’d like to discuss is John Cage’s 4’33”, in which the pianist walks onto the stage and performs absolutely nothing for the duration stated in the title of the piece. In the absence of sound, this work creates art. In the minutes of the piece, listeners are forced to hear the sounds that they might not otherwise listen to: the tapping of a foot, rustling paper, the wind blowing outside, even their own heart beating.

I’d also like to address the power of silence in music as an element that can be equally gripping and moving as a melody. I’ve selected the song “Gretel” by Snarky Puppy and the Metropole Orkest to illustrate this point [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BoF7ZzMUrgA]. In particular, I’ll discuss the dramatic stops present shortly after 3:20. With the full orchestra and band suddenly ceasing to play, an unstoppable force is created.

The point of this paper, in abstract, will be to argue the importance and functions of zero and nothingness. After discussing the foundations of these ideas, I will focus on the use of silence in music as a contrast to sound, as a void out of which true tune is borne, as a space to generate creativity in a listener, and as a comparably forceful element as actual playing. Through this multifaceted exploration, I hope to prompt readers to reexamine their true conception of nothingness.

Post 0

I’m reading about math. More specifically, I’m reading Zero: The Biography of a Dangerous Idea by Charles Seife, a distinguished mathematics professor and writer. For those unfamiliar, the book chronicles the development of the mathematical idea of zero, along with its scientific and social implications.

In the beginning, there was nothing. Yet in mathematics, this truth is almost paradoxical: early systems lacked the numeral zero, meaning that early math was devoid of a numerical representation of nothing. In Zero, Seife describes the reason for this.

The first evidence of human math is a 30,000-year-old wolf bone that was found in Czechoslovakia in the late 1930’s. Inscribed upon this bone is a series of notches that are undoubtedly human-made. Though it is unclear what this object was used for, it was a tool for counting. Seife points out, however, that this sort of tool excludes a need for zero. At this time, most cultures had not a precise idea about any numbers at all, let alone zero. In fact, most only held a distinction between “one” and “many”. Even still, languages such as those of the Siriona Indians of Bolivia and the Brazilian Yanoama people lack words for anything larger than three. Instead, they use the word for “much.” This simplicity demonstrates the small need  for numerical precision in many societies.

The lateness of zero’s creation can be partially explained by a lack of necessity. Seife explains this, writing that, “You never need to keep track of zero sheep or tally your zero children. Instead of ‘We have zero bananas,’ the grocer says, ‘We have no bananas.’ You don’t have to have a number to express the lack of something, and it didn’t occur to anybody to assign a symbol to the absence of objects. This is why people got along without zero for so long. It simply wasn’t needed. Zero just never came up” (8).

When zero finally did come up, it ironically arose out of necessity. Early number systems, sans zero, worked similarly to tally marks. For instance, a number such as six would be linguistically represented as “two and two and two.” As systems advanced, they began to use the place of numbers as an indicator of values. For instance, the number 128 works as follows. 1 in the third place means one hundred, two in the second place means 20, and 8 in the first place means simply eight. However, without zero to use as a placeholder, this type of number system doesn’t work. A number with two eights could mean eighty-eight, eight hundred and eight, eight thousand and eighty, etc. The zeros in this number are what make it clear (88, 808, 8080). Thus, zero arose as a placeholder and came to have significance.

So far, I’ve been thinking about possible topics for the research paper. A section of the book that I found particularly interesting describes how Pythagoras, the famous Greek mathematician, believed that all numbers must be rational, or numbers that can be expressed as the quotient of one integer (...-2,-1,0,1,2…) and another. As he toyed with a monochord, a type of one-stringed instrument, he found that the most pleasing tones were produced when the string was pressed down so that the two lengths formed were in whole number ratios. After reading this, I began to think about the connection between numbers and music, specifically the number zero. This prompted a possible topic: the varying use and function of rest (silent space) in music throughout history.

Post #4 - A Shot at Conclusion

Here, as I write my final blog post about Adam Johnson’s The Orphan Master’s Son, I’d like to tie up some loose ends. In reading this novel, it is nearly impossible to avoid thinking about truth. In North Korea, truth is often obscured to preserve the health of the communist state. Through The Orphan Master’s Son, Johnson asserts that truth has great power to free people’s minds, and its converse: that obscuring truth can keep a people imprisoned. This theme is evidenced at many points in the novel.

The North Korean citizens are driven to work for most of their lives and are forced to meet high production quotas in all jobs. Yet, the government promises that at the end of their life, they will be able to retire to a beautiful beach called Wonsan. When Jun Do works on a fishing boat as a spy, however, he sees that no one is on the beach and that wool has been pulled over the eyes of the people. In fact, when he is interrogated for the first time about events that occurred on the ship, he even goes so far as to question the interrogator: “Asking about Wonsan when everybody knows no one retires there. Everyone knows that’s just a place for military leaders to vacation. Why not just say what you want from me?” (104). But not everyone knows. Only those who are in charge and those like Jun Do, who has seen Wonsan from a ship, are aware that they are working towards a false goal. This obfuscation of the truth helps keep the Korean people imprisoned, and is as simple as just keeping up a lie.

Not only the lower class are deceived, however. Sun Moon has even been tricked, as evidenced by her reaction to her movie not being published preceding Jun Do feeding her the white flower. She says, “This is what hunger must feel like, this hollowness inside. This is what people must feel in Africa, where they have nothing to eat” (259). This reflects how the truth has been obscured from Sun Moon by the upper class illusion. She speaks of Africa, where they have nothing to eat, yet multitudes of people are starving within her very country. But because the truth has been hidden from her by wealth, Sun Moon has seen no problems with the DPRK, a nation plagued by social problems.

The power of obscuring the truth is also demonstrated in the scene in which the Americans meet the Koreans that I described in an earlier blog post. In his social commentary monologue about America (see post #3), Kim Jong Il points out problems with American capitalist society, but completely ignores the fact that many of these problems plague his country as well! As the Great Leader of the nation, who is constantly lauded and praised on daily loudspeaker announcements in every home, this incredulity spreads to his people. The entire nation has been duped!

These are just a few of the countless examples. Throughout the entire novel, we see that the people of North Korea are oblivious to the baseness of their circumstances. It is because of this that they can be controlled: people are forced into labor camps, some disappear mysteriously but no questions are asked, and all are forced to observe harsh laws that govern nearly all aspects of behavior. Adam Johnson’s The Orphan Master’s Son is a testament to the great power of obscuring the truth.

In reading this book, I noticed that my critical reading skills have greatly improved. It is likely because at the time I read my last book for independent reading, I hardly even knew what critical reading was. As I read this novel, the difference was like night and day. Instead of simply reading for plot, I found myself noticing recurring elements, underlining frequently, and dog-earing pages for easy rereading. And I still enjoyed the book! I read critically not because I had to, but because it felt right. In fact, I’m pretty sure I would not know how to read not critically even if I tried. In reading, I took advice about reading from other authors, such as Thomas C. Foster. He wrote in How to Read Literature Like a Professor that names are important. You will see that, following his advice, I wrote one of my blog posts about the significance of names. Vladimir Nabokov told readers to “notice and fondle details,” and I did just this, making close reading a central part of my critical reading of The Orphan Master’s Son. I noticed these details and connected them to others in an attempt to make supportable, logical meaning as Laurence Perrine calls for in “The Nature of Proof in the Interpretation of Poetry.” A prime example of this is when I connected the language describing “every last bitter mouthful” of past pain in the context of the white flower to when Jun Do actually forces Sun Moon to consume a bitter white flower at the state dinner. While I wasn’t exactly looking for the precise meaning of the white flower (instead I considered if it was a symbol), I believe I am on the right track.

Read The Orphan Master’s Son! I can honestly say that this is one of the best books I have read in a long while. At least for me, the novel was so satisfying because even though it is grounded by a strong plot, there are many layers of meaning to dissect. To top it all off, Johnson is a fantastic writer. His descriptions of the suffering endured by Jun Do were enough to give me chills. This book’s vivid imagery, thrilling plot, and complex themes of human rights and nature in the context of a real nation much like its portrayal in the book (Johnson researched profusely before writing) make it an superbly engaging read. Five stars. Ten out of ten. Adam Johnson has created a masterpiece with The Orphan Master’s Son.

Post #3 - Tension of Nations

In Adam Johnson’s The Orphan Master’s Son, one of the most critical scenes occurs towards the end of the novel. This scene is a tense exchange between the North Koreans and Americans, as the Americans come to the DPRK to take back a citizen who Kim Jong Il has kept captive, Allison Jensen, known to the Koreans as the Girl Rower. A large part of the magic of the scene is due to the tension created by contrasts. This tension begins with the gifts presented by each party: “When all were smiles, Tommy intervened and addressed the Dear Leader in Korean. ‘From the people of the United States,’ he said, ‘we offer a gift--a pen of peace.’ The Senator presented the pen to the Dear Leader, adding his hopes that a lasting accord would soon be signed with it. The Dear Leader accepted the pen with great fanfare, then clapped his hands for Commander Park. ‘We offer a gift as well,’ the Dear Leader said. ‘We, too, have a gift of peace,’ Ga translated. Commander Park advanced with a pair of rhinoceros-horn bookends and Ga understood that the Dear Leader wasn’t here to toy with the Americans today. He meant to inflict pain” (423). The contrast of the gifts of a peacemaking pen versus bookends made from an endangered species illustrate the clash between American formality and North Korean power.

The tense nature of this scene is also demonstrated by Kim Jong Il’s controlling behavior. When the Americans request their citizen, Il denies them: “‘Our nation rescued her from certain death in our waters,’ the Dear Leader said. “Your nation trespassed into our waters, illegally boarded our ship, and stole from me. I get back what you thieved before you get back what I saved.’ He waved his hand. ‘Now for entertainment.’ A troupe of child accordion stars raced forward, and with expert precision began playing ‘Our Father Is the Marshal.’ Their smiles were uniform, and the crowd knew the moments to clap and shout ‘Eternal is the Marshal’s flame’” (424). Here we see a different type of contrast. This contrast is between Il’s harsh words and the happy, patriotic accordion players and singers and creates an eerie atmosphere.

Another element that contributes to the power of this scene is its political elements, which include Kim Jong Il’s beration of America. For the majority of this book, it is easy to think that North Korea is the true “bad guy” given the terrible fate that befalls Jun Do and other citizens. Yet when the Americans come, Kim Jong Il points out that American democracy has many problems as well, when describing why he has chosen blues music to accommodate them. “‘Blues is how people lament racism and religion and the injustices of capitalism. Blues is for those who know hunger.’ ‘One in six,’ Commander Park said. ‘One in six Americans goes hungry each day,’ the Dear Leader echoed. ‘The blues is for violence, too. Commander Park, when did a citizen of Pyongyang last commit a violent crime?’ ‘Seven years ago,’ Commander Park said. ‘Seven long years,’ the Dear Leader said. ‘Yet in America’s capital, five thousand black men languish in prison due to violence. Mind you, Senator, your prison system is the envy of the world--state-of-the-art confinement, total surveillance, three million inmates strong! Yet you use it for no social good. The imprisoned citizen in no way motivates the free. And the labor of the condemned does not power the machine of national need” (427). This statement is so powerful because, although it is ironic that North Korea has those problems too, it does point out that all is not well and good in America.

The scene in which the Americans come to North Korea to reclaim the Girl Rower exhibits a masterfully created tense mood, which provides the perfect environment to describe how Jun Do helps Sun Moon and her children escape and the frustration it brings Kim Jong Il, which is later taken out on Jun Do in his interrogation. The mood is crafted through the use of various contrasts illustrating Il’s megalomaniacal tendencies, as well as ironic political description of America’s faults that also apply to North Korea, showing that neither side is entirely pure. Johnson crafts a vivid picture in this scene that helps drive thought about the true tension between the US and North Korea, as well as the story.

Post #2 - Questionable Symbolism

What you do traditionally associate with flowers? For many, they are a sign of love and beauty. Yet, in The Orphan Master’s Son by Adam Johnson, white flowers are repeatedly mentioned and are associated with a completely different thing: pain. This meaning, however, is consistently told to the reader by the characters. In this blog post, I’d like to examine the various contexts in which the white flower is mentioned, in an effort to understand if it has potential to be a symbol though its supposed meaning is often spoon-fed to the reader through association.

This meaning is first conveyed when the narrator, an interrogator who is in charge of the case of Commander Ga (Jun Do) mentions its apparition when interrogation subjects are given extreme pain by an automated torture machine called the autopilot. It is described following Ga’s description of Mongnan, an older woman who helped him escape the labor camp in which he was imprisoned: “Commander Ga continued with his story of how he and Mongnan sneaked out of the barracks, past the mud room and water barrels, and if we perhaps didn’t say it, we all must have been thinking that the name Mongnan meant ‘Magnolia,’ the grandest white flower of them all. That’s what our subjects say they see when the autopilot takes them to the apex of pain--a wintry mountaintop, where from the frost a lone white blossom opens for them. No matter how their bodies contort, it is the stillness of this image they remember. It couldn’t be so bad, could it? A single afternoon of pain … and then the past is behind you, every shortcoming and failure is gone, every last bitter mouthful” (197). In this quote, the interrogator associates the beauty of the white flower with the transcendence of death when he describes the vanishing failures of the past. Another important thing to note about the description of the flower is the fact that it grows on a wintry mountaintop, almost as if to say that death or loss of consciousness is the only true escape from the soul-crushing circumstances of the DPRK. Finally, the diction of its description hints at another context of the white flower, particularly in the words “every last bitter mouthful of it.”

At a state dinner, Commander Ga / Jun Do (who I will call simply Jun Do from now on for clarity) feeds Sun Moon a similar bitter mouthful of a white flower in anger at her comparison of hunger to the fact that one of her movies would not be screened. “He was suddenly repulsed by her. ‘You want to know the flavor of hunger?’ he demanded. From the table’s floral centerpiece, he plucked a petal from a white rose. He tore off its white base, then placed the petal to her lips. ‘Open,’ he said, and when she didn’t, he was rough with the word. ‘Open,’ he demanded. She parted her lips and allowed the flower in. She looked up at him with welling eyes. And here the tears spilled as slowly, slowly, she began to chew” (259). This reinforces the association of the white flower with pain and hunger, but if in this context it implies just that, it is likely to not be a symbol.

Later, the interrogator again references the white flower: “Either way, something profound takes place inside these people. In the end, all they can remember is that icy mountain peak and the white flower to be found there. Is a destination worth reaching if you can’t recall the journey? I’d say so. Is a new life worth living if you can’t recollect the old one? All the better” (352). Here, we are given the meaning that the flower represents salvation from the past again. This is made very clear and shows the flower functioning as an important image, but not a symbol because the meaning is almost directly given.

When Commander Ga is finally killed by the autopilot and the interrogator submits himself to the same torture, the narrator mentions that there was no white flower at all. Is the notion of release from mental pain through physical pain real, or is it simply an illusion? While the white flower recurs and has great meaning, it does not seem to be a symbol because its meaning is often explicitly associated with grand concepts.

Post #1 - A Name Game

Adam Johnson’s The Orphan Master’s Son chronicles the life and fate of a North Korean citizen as he grows from a boy into a man. In the totalitarian, communist state in which our protagonist lives, individuals are often sacrificed for the supposed good of the state, and Americans are frequently denounced over the omnipresent loudspeakers of the country for their self-centric capitalist ways. It is of this communistic philosophy that the significance of names in The Orphan Master’s Son arises, for names provide identity and a sense of self that is often scorned by the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

It is only fitting that the protagonist of the novel would then have unusual circumstances surrounding his name. These circumstances come from the realities of his upbringing, which are as such: while he is not an orphan, our protagonist grows up in an orphanage run by his father, for his mother has been kidnapped to the capital of the DPRK because of her beautiful appearance and voice. The main character’s existence is simply a painful reminder for his father of the fate of his wife, so the father is too ashamed to give his son a name. Thus, the son must name himself, and christens himself Pak Jun Do, after a martyr of the state. When asked to explain, Jun Do describes his namesake: “Even though he killed many Japanese soldiers, the revolutionaries in Pak Jun Do’s unit didn’t trust him because he was descended from an impure bloodline. To prove his loyalty, he hanged himself” (25). In this description, we begin to see a trait of the main character that is reflected in his actions throughout the story.

Another notable trait of Jun Do’s name is its similarity to the American name John Doe, which is often used for unidentified or generic people. This conveys the sentiment that our character may be seen as any North Korean citizen and that his specific story is not important, that it could be the story of anyone. This fact actually comes up in the text, when Jun Do is taken to Texas on a diplomatic mission. Americans discuss the similarity to John Doe: “John Doe? Isn’t that the name you give a missing person? … Actually, I don’t think John Doe is a missing person. I think it’s when you have the person, just not his identity. … A John Doe has an exact identity. It’s just yet to be discovered” (140). The assertion that Jun Do has yet to discover his identity is very powerful, for it aligns with another detail of the novel: Jun Do’s change of name and lifestyle.

When the diplomatic mission to Texas fails, Jun Do is placed in a mining camp, where prisoners are forced to work excessively with little to no food. This camp strips Jun Do of his name, for it has no meaning in this harsh environment: he is simply a worker for his great nation. His salvation from almost certain death comes when a renowned military commander visits the camp. He harasses the man formerly called Jun Do, but Jun Do kills him in defense. He is then able to steal this Commander Ga’s identity, and assimilates into a lavish lifestyle in the capital of the DPRK under this new name. While questions are asked, the true Commander Ga had fallen out of favor with the elite of Pyongyang (the capital) so his replacement is covered up. Under this new name, former Jun Do has found his “exact identity.” He is now called a “commander,” showing that he is in control of his situation and has the power to get things done. This is evidenced by the fact that, in the end of the book, he helps the original Commander Ga’s wife, who he has fallen in love with, defect from North Korea, and surrenders himself to torture and interrogation as a result.

This illustrates the significance of his name, for it mirrors the exceedingly loyal, self-sacrificing actions of his namesake, the original Pak Jun Do. Jun Do loves Sun Moon (the true Commander Ga’s wife and popular actress), and thus makes the ultimate sacrifice to help her and her children escape the DPRK. In doing so, he demonstrates the true meaning of his original name as well as his self-assuredness and power that he has assumed by taking the name and identity of Commander Ga. In The Orphan Master’s Son, the main character’s name is significant and illustrates much about his personality and development throughout the novel.