Style in Crusoe and Pamela

In Robinson Crusoe and Pamela, it is particularly interesting to track how conscious the authors are of engaging in this new form. Since other forms of literature had their roots well established in classical tradition, they did not have to defend their style in-text. However, when something different arises in the field of literature, it seems that they cannot have value in and of themselves, without first defending that value tooth and nail.
The physical act of writing, and the awareness thereof, is so heavy in both of these iconic novels that some unintended consequences arise. The author must make their first-person narrator show that they are writing down these words, or else the words must have happened out of midair. In most contemporary novels with a first person narrator, the story is told without any mention of the fact that it is being written down, let alone the experience of writing it down being critical to the plot of the story. It becomes too problematic, as one can see in both Robinson Crusoe and Pamela, that it can interfere with the progression of the story (which most likely accounts for the fact that most authors now ignore it entirely). In Robinson Crusoe he runs out of ink and cannot journal day by day, which in terms of the plot of the story shifts from extremely specific copying to broad summaries of years or even an entire decade. In Pamela, she must depend entirely on opportunities to write in order to tell her story at all. She cannot orally tell the story to us, because Richardson has to account for the fact a reader is reading words printed on a page. For almost every single letter, Pamela must justify the time lapsed between letters, the reason for writing, and the emotions felt towards the specific reader (mother, father, Mr. B, or Mrs. Jervis). As she becomes unable to write letters to her parents, she turns to writing letters that will not be sent, or a diary style. Even the act of writing it down is a question of validity or plausibility for the novel at this time.
The unintended consequence of this style is that a story MUST be written in the past tense, and told AFTER the storyteller has had time to see the whole consequences, alter the memory in their mind, or justify their own actions. Why can we depend so willingly on the memory or truthfullness of Crusoe or Pamela as distanced story tellers? Even the act of writing down a memory will in some way alter the true experience. In Defoe's other blockbuster novel, Moll Flanders, the author must show that Moll is writing down her story at the end of the life. But with fifty years of distance from the onset of the story, just as with Crusoe, how reliable of a narrator can they be? It would be like listening to the crazy ramblings of a grandparent about "when I was your age," knowing full well that a majority of the story is exaggerated, fabricated, or about someone else entirely. I'm not saying that is what is going on in these novels, but the necessity for an author to show that the story is being written down, and making that experience plausible, in fact makes it fantastic and less believable because the narrator is always telling the story after it happened and they had time to think about it. It makes a character like Moll Flanders less sincere about her moral rehabilitation, Crusoe less credible about his intense work ethic, and Pamela less righteous in comarison to every other character. I mean, if a sixteen year old girl was ranting to you about a highschool senior who had a crush on her or a fight she had with her caddy friend, wouldn't she always make herself out to be the angel and the opponent into the devil? But if you witnessed the events, you might see that Pamela was making herself out to be different then she truly was. Perhaps Pamela was leading Mr. B on from the start, and Mr. B was the one resisting for the duration of the plot. Perhaps Pamela was the one who laid traps for Mr. B and hid in the closet until he fell asleep and then molested him. All I'm saying is that the style of always needing to tell a story retroactively, as a defense for the validity and plausibility of encountering a story in print, in fact undermines the credibility of the storyteller.

"Religion" in Robinson Crusoe

I have delayed writing an entry on this subject because I have had difficulty wrapping my head around exactly what Defoe was doing with religion in his first book. I imagine an 18th century England that is very senstive towards religion, not only values of the religion but also which group one associates with. As we have also learned, the idea of reading or writing a novel also presented a sensitive, precarious issue for those involved, not to soften the readers too much and present a "religious," moral message that makes reading worthwhile or meaningful. These summative statements really do a disservice to the many layers of the precarious situation of novel reading or writing at this early stage, but I imagine Defoe was in an exceedingly difficult position in trying to write a fantastic, yet plausible book that had a message (and that message of course should coincide with the maximum number fo readers). For this reason, I see Robinson Crusoe's religious overtone forced by Defoe, and transparent enough for any reader to feel connected to it tangentially. The true focus, to me, is in the industrious nature of Protestantism and how it fuels capitalism.

In Kim's report yesterday in class, she talked about Weber's thesis on Protestantism as the center of Capitalism. The rise of the individual in Prostentantism is exhibited in the personal diaries, the personal charting of good deeds, the self-realizations for callings in life, some are even called to "make money" (oh how things have changed since then). The development of this sense of self and the self's role in attaining salvation (or attaining knowledge if one will be saved or not) actually has a secular effect. The actually tenents of religion are almost completely irrelevant. Robinson Crusoe's enlightenment on the island comes from RANDOMLY opening the Bible to any page and reading a singular line and adopting that line as his temporary slogan. The same effect could come from randomly opening the Koran, the Torah, or even a non-religious text such as an anthology of William Shakespeare or Benjamin Franklin's almanac.

By using religion to fit the prototype of what a "Novel" should look like (interesting that a something considered "novel" had a prototype), Defoe actually shows how little associating with a specific Religion matters. The truly important task for religion to accomplish is sustainability and adaptability. We can see this idea today, where conversations across Religions about Religion are tenuous, awkward, and generally pointless (I would compare it to a political debate about abortion between two opposing sides, the conversation will almost never end with someone changing their view). And yet, as fiercely as people attach themselves to a specific Religion, the principles of all faiths seems to adapt to the economic system that we, in the United States, live in: Capitalism. The forced, awkward presentation of Religion in Robinson Crusoe previews the environment that we live in today, where it is not variations of Christianity that create sensitive issues, but total differences in religion. And yet, for as much as religion matters to the individual, Defoe shows that deep down it is as grounded and meaningful as flipping open a book, reading a sentence, and using that sentence for whatever purposes one wants.

Property and Providence in "Robinson Crusoe"

WARNING, this is long but I couldn't help getting carried away.

The idea of property in "Robinson Crusoe" is very compelling to me when one considers the social and political environment of the imperial powers during the production and distribution of this book. A short time before, John Locke elucidated his ideas on property as a natural right and his derived from one's own labor (or by the extension of one's property's labor, i.e. one has a natural right to the property and labor of one's slaves). Daniel Defoe develops these ideas with the unique circumstances, and yet conventional views of Robinson Crusoe. It is with references to slavery that highlight the self-contradictory understanding of property and ownership.
The first encounter with "slavery" is in fact the slavery of Crusoe. Upon his escape, he claims his aide, Xury, as a servant. When they are happened upon by a Portugese ship. He ultimately sells Xury to the captain, with some minor qualms in his heart that are quieted by this view on property: "he offered my 60 pieces of eight for my boy Xury, which I was loath to take, not that I was unwilling to let the Captain have him, but I was very loath to sell the Boy's Liberty , who had assisted me so faithfully in procuring me own." Interesting that the qualms he has do not come from the fact that the Boy's Liberty should not be Crusoe's property to sell. And yet, Xury's work to procure Robinson's liberty instead counted as the labor of Crusoe himself, since he claimed a natural right to own Xury.
Of course, later Crusoe falls victim of a shipwreck and is deserted on an island. The object of his trip was to lead a voyage to procure slaves from the coast of Guniea for their plantation colony in Brasil. Yet, during all of Crusoe's self-examination, during his constant repentances for his lust for adventure and wealth, for his disobedience to his father, he never considers the possibility that the object of his trip was the origin of evil, and the "Just and Omnipotent Providence" that he prays to was really thwarting this false notion of property built into the psyche of Old World imperialism.
If this sounds confusing, it should, because the web of self-justifcation was woven quite intricately. Later, once Robinson establishes himself quite thoroughly on the island through hard work and labor, he claims to himself that "I was King and Lord of all this Country indefeasibly, and had a Right of Posession." Although he gives Providence all of the control and credit for his life and gratitude, he establishes himself as the highest entity of the island because he worked hard for it. He also later refers to all of the animals in his command with rhetoric used in slavery: "there was my Majesty the Prince and Lord of the whole Island; I had the Lives of all my Subjects at my absolute Command. I could hang, draw, give Liberty, and take it away, and no Rebels among all my Subjects." This arrogance towards having a natural right to determine the fate of others speaks volumes for the assumptions made under Locke's umbrella of property.
His only human companion, Friday, not suprisingly, cannot avoid the shadow of this umbrella and his swallowed up in Crusoe's conceptions of property. Although he willingly becomes a loyal aide fo Crusoe (even places Crusoe's foot on his head), it does not dawn on Crusoe that he is committing a wrong by merely viewing the work and labor of Friday as his own property and not treating him as an equal, making Crusoe marginally more moral than the cannibals that Friday had escaped from in the first place.

In Defense of D'Elmont

After class today, I was thinking about how readers may be inclined to dislike or be unsympathetic towards the character of D'Elmont as he bumbles through his life leaving a trail of romantic wreckage behind him. While I honestly had similar feelings towards him during my reading, I feel the need to defend D'Elmont from excessive badgering in light of some of the things I learned in Manley's preface to "The Secret History of Queen Zarah" and Ballaster's "Seductive Forms."
First, Manley's directions on how writing, and even reading, should be done show that as a new type of genre, and a new type of author, were being heralded into the literary market, so too was a desire for a "realistic"character. Manley states that "The Heroes in Ancient Romances have nothing in them that is Natural; all is unlimited in their Character; all their Advantages have Something Prodigious, and all their Actions Something that's Marvelous; in short, they are not Men." While I think we can all agree the plot of "Love in Excess" is exceedingly unbelievable and fantastic, here Manley is saying that it is the "character" that is becoming more realistic or more "Natural." So if we try and distill what qualities of men are Natural from Haywood's depiction of D'Elmont, we can see that he is loyal (he has many interal conflicts when he has to compromise male friendships for that overpowering outside force of love), persuasive (even when does not mean to be), and glaringly naive (oblivious to signals the women lay before him, and easily manipulated, i.e. the Baron convincing him that "no means yes"). So the question is, why demarcate these qualities for the lead male of "Love in Excess"? To educate, of course.
Haywood is writing in a time when a reason needed to exist to read, beyond that of pure entertainment. Even Manley concedes that while everything should exist to be believable and recent for an audience, "the chief End of History is to instruct and inspire into Men the Love of Vertue, and Abhorrence of Vice by the Examples propos'd to them; therefore the Conclusion of a Story ought to have some Tract of Morality which may engage Virtue." This novel is clearly Haywood's class on true love and how to attain true love. D'Elmont, with his flaws and with his attributes, is the prize for throngs of women throughout the story. Yet the only one that can capture the heart, rather than just the body, of D'Elmont is the one who puts up the most resistence (albeit D'Elmont had all but conquered this resistence if not for some clever moves by the author) to his advances. In my last entry, I referred to a theme that is consistent throughout the novel that women, according to the times, should not profess their love unless the man has done so first. When Ballaster is elucidating on letter-writing, she says that "the woman's letter/body is then more erotic because more concealed than that of the man [Since they can't outright say what they want in order to save their virtue]. Like clothing, the letter's cloaking devices serve to enhance the appeal of the body by the very act of concealment." It is this concealment of her true feelings throughout the book that is like a trace blood in the water for D'Elmont to hunt down and conquer.
Our "realistic" and Natural man in the book is a ploy for Haywood to show us how to win a man's heart. His characteristics are those of a "prototypical" man, holding true even today. In this timeless peice about love, restrict yourself from blaming D'Elmont (naive and stupid in the web of guile laid by the women) for the romantic wreckage.