(Revised) Paper Proposal

Ginny Hoyle Lawrimore

Paper Proposal and (Working) Annotated Bibliography

for

The Use of First-Person Narrative in “Black Like Me”: The Power of “I”

Paper Proposal

This research paper posits that the strong social message of “Black Like Me” is made possible by the author’s decision to provide first-person narrative structure instead of traditional third-person journalism. In “Black Like Me,” which consists of a diary-like format that catalogs different forms of racial oppression at that time, John Howard Griffin uses first-person narrative and explicit personal opinions to speak universally of the severely strained race relations of the time. This paper will argue that the use of first-person narrative and a powerful use of “I” throughout the book allows for 1) empathy for blacks, 2) a complexity of race identity, 3) revelation of racist south.

Method           

For the purpose of this paper, a close, analytical reading of the use of first-person narrative structure will be conducted of John Howard Griffin’s “Black Like Me.”

References

Aucoin, J. (2001) Epistemic responsibility and narrative theory: The literary journalism of Ryszard Kapuscinski. Journalism. vol. 2, 1: pp. 5-21.

The author of this essay argues that a “combination of epistemic responsibility from moral philosophy and narrative theory provides a foundation for establishing literature-based standards for judging the quality of literary journalism.” This essay’s portion on first-person and third-person point of view will be used for this research paper.

Baldwin, K. (1998). Black like who? Cross-testing the “real” lines of John Howard Griffin’s "Black Like Me.” Cultural Critique, No. 40. The Futures of American Studies. pp. 103-143

This essay offers a critical view of Griffin’s endeavors and discusses “passing” and racial identity. The author argues that the “introduction of passing into the discussion about race has served to elucidate this risk, as narratives of passing articulate in particularly complex ways the constructedness of "race" as a process primarily dependent on ways of seeing.”

Delgado, R. (1993). Critical race theory: An annotated bibliography. Virginia Law Review. 79, 2. pp. 461-516

This bibliography looks at critical race theory and lists and annotates the major entries within the theory’s corpus. 

Ginsberg, E. K. (1996). Passing and the fictions of identity. New Americanists. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Through discussions of such literary works as “Black Like Me,” the authors of this book examine issues of power and privilege and ways in which passing might challenge the often rigid structures of identity politics. Specifically addressing “Black Like Me,” the this book examines how the behavior, dress, language, and the body itself “contributes significantly to an understanding of national and racial identity in American literature and culture.”

Griffin, J. H. (1961). Black like me. New York: New American Library.

“Black Like Me” is the primary source for this research paper.

Hartsock, J. C. (2000). A history of American literary journalism: The emergence of a modern narrative form. Amherst: University of Massachusetts.

**Dr. Rodgers – If you have this book checked out, can I borrow it? This book looks at the techniques of the realistic novel and how past writers “developed a new narrative style of reporting aimed at lessening the distance between observer and observed, subject and object.”

McQuail, D. (2005). McQuail's mass communication theory. London: Sage Publications.

This book provides information on theories in the field of mass communication, covering the major components of mass communication and how its theories relate to the “broader understanding of society and culture.”

Russell, Margaret M., Race and the Dominant Gaze: Narratives of Law and Inequality in Popular Film, 15 Legal Stud. F. 243 (1991). (2, 4).

Specifically addressing “Black Like Me,” this essay examines the “role of popular movies in replicating and reinforcing images of racial subordination” and  “analyzes the ‘dominant gaze’ of mainstream Hollywood cinema through which people of color historically have been objectified as morally or intellectually deficient, and analogizes it to dominant legal narratives that omit or marginalize the experiences of people of color.”

Sims, N. (1990). Literary journalism in the twentieth century. New York: Oxford University Press.

This book is a collection of critical essays on literary journalism that “address the shifting border between fiction and nonfiction, literature and journalism.” The book’s discussion of first-person and third-person point-of-view in narrative will be especially helpful.

Zinsser, W. K. (1998). On writing well: The classic guide to writing nonfiction. New York, NY: HarperCollins.

This book will be used for its portions dedicated to first-person and third-person point-of-view in literary journalism. 

Blog 8 - "Plain Style"

Of the four writers examined this week, the art of “plain style,” writing with simple diction, simple sentence structure and clear images, and as described by Jimmy Breslin might best be exemplified by Breslin himself in “It’s an Honor.” The power behind the short, meaningful sentences in “It’s an Honor” serve to speak to the reader in a profound way, both in their descriptive quality and their emotional impact. For example, describing Jacqueline Kennedy’s stance on the day of her husband’s funeral, Breslin writes:

“She walked straight and her head was high. She walked down the bluestone and blacktop driveway and through shadows thrown by the branches of seven leafless oak trees. She walked slowly past the sailors who held up flags of the states of this country. … Even though they had killed her husband and his blood ran onto her lap while he died, she could walk through the streets and to his grave and help us all while she walked.”

The heart-wrenching image is clear and is clearly written for any audience. These are “simple, declarative sentences that people can read” but that also pack a punch, so to speak. For example, the following excerpt speaks of Pollard, the grave-digger:

“He is an equipment operator, grade 10, which means he gets $3.01 an hour. One of the last to serve John Fitzgerald Kennedy, who was the thirty-fifth President of this country, was a working man who earns $3.01 an hour and said it was an honor to dig the grave.”

Throughout “It’s an Honor,” the descriptions are evocative and the dialogue is expressive, yet both are done in a simplistic manner, an approach well suited for Breslin’s aim of “It’s an Honor”: to capture with dignity and poignancy the nation’s overwhelming loss.  

In the opposite spectrum, Truman Capote in “In Cold Blood,” perhaps, least follows Breslin’s description of powerful but plain writing. Capote cherishes the language, ranging his complex vocabulary from words such as agoraphobic to septuagenarian. His sentence structure and diction are arguably not done in plain style, but, instead, generate power in their complexities and the sheer amount of knowledge (see: detail) that went into the creation of “In Cold Blood.” While Capote’s writing does not make up “plain style,” it is, nonetheless, effective and successfully captures both the reader’s mind and heart throughout. An example of his eloquent, yet complex writing style is as followed:

“Christ!,” said Perry, glaring at the landscape, flat and limitless under the sky’s cold, lingering green – empty and lonesome except for the far-between flickerings of farmhouse lights. He hated it, as he hated the Texas plains, the Nevada desert; spaces horizontal and sparsely inhabited had always induced in him a depression accompanied by agoraphobic sensations. Seaports were his heart’s delight – crowded, clanging, ship-clogged, sewage-scented cities, like Yokohama, where as an American Army private he’d spent a summer during the Korean War.”

Another example of this deep-rooted, expressive style is:

“But secrets are an unusual commodity in a town the size of Garden City. Anyone visiting the sheriff’s office, three underfurnished, overcrowded rooms on the third floor of the county courthouse could detect an odd, almost sinister atmosphere. The hurry-scurry, the angry hum of recent weeks had departed; a quivering stillness now permeated the premises. Mrs. Richardson, the office secretary and a very down-to-earth person, had acquired overnight a dainty lot of whispery tiptoe mannerisms, and the men she served, the sheriff and his staff, Dewey and the imported team of K.B.I agents, crept about conversing in hushed tones. It was as though, like huntsmen hiding in the forest, they were afraid that any abrupt sound or movement would warn away approaching beasts.”

Capote, in the above previous example, exhibits his intellectual talent of setting a grand scene using captivating adjectives (quivering, angry hum, etc.) before hitting home a rather simple point in his characteristic articulate and expressive manner: the agents were afraid that they would mess up their lead if they did not keep things under wrap.

[Note: I was not sure what to make of Wolfe’s example in this scenario – “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test” is clearly not plain style, however, it isn’t exactly complex, either. Wolfe seems to be outside of the range of the styles used by Breslin, Greene and Capote in the context of this question, as he captures the psychedelic experience using bouncy, auditory writing much like that of the bus setting in which the story takes place.]

Discussion question:

How do you feel about the all-encompassing way in which Tom Wolfe captures the “community narrative voice,” that reads almost directly inside the minds of those hallucinating on acid – does he go too far? Is it possible for Wolfe to write statements such as “a Cassady monologue on automotive safety is rising up from out of his throat like weenie smoke, as if the great god Speed were frying in his innards” and expect his audience to see it as journalism?  

Blog 7 - "In Cold Blood"

“In Cold Blood,” a revolution in literary journalism of its time, manages to blend elements of fiction and journalism. The end result is a startlingly captivating montage of events that captures both the hearts and minds of the reader. In the video post of Capote discussing “In Cold Blood, the author adamantly said that the subject matter (ie: crime) is incidental, and that the truly interesting part of the book is how it “sets out to explore an unexplored literary medium.” Using dialogue, scene-by-scene construction, and status detail, Capote successfully captures what reportage, literary journalism and creative non-fiction all have in common: “a concern for the telling of true stories with the concrete detail of dialogue and description – the classic ‘show not tell’ of good narrative prose” (Susan Greenburg). 

Dialogue

In the introduction to the “Art of Fact” entry to “In Cold Blood,” the authors note the “stickiness” that comes with recreation in literary journalism and the question of true remembrance on the part of those claiming what was said after the fact. However, the authors argue that, “it is undisputable that Capote, with his novelist’s ear, heard what the characters could have said and transcribed it more faithfully than any journalist before or since.” [Note: Even though I am a now-devoted fan of Truman Capote, that still seems like a bit of a stretch; however, I think it is as close to the truth as any person has come or will ever come in this particular case. That is not to say that I believe the dialogue – especially that between Perry and Dick – can possibly be even close to exact.] Capote uses dialogue as a way to define his characters through both building and expanding on each character’s “true self” and as a method of getting inside their minds and transcribing its contents for the reader. In relation to the “true self,” Capote uses dialogue to capture the essence of each character while simultaneously providing seemingly extraneous details important to the larger picture. In short, Capote is involving the reader, by pulling them directly into the heart of the dialogue. For example, in the following excerpt, Capote manages to sum up both Nancy and Mrs. Clutter in only a few exchanges:

[To Nancy]: “You go, dear, I’ll keep Jolene company until her mother comes for her,” Mrs. Clutter said, and then, addressing the child with unconquerable timidity, added, “If Joline doesn’t mind keeping me company.” … “I hope you won’t think Nancy rude?”

“Goodness, no. I just love her to death. Well, everybody does. There isn’t anybody like Nancy. Do you know what Mrs. Stringer says?” said Jolene, naming her home-economics teacher. “One day she told the class, ‘Nancy Clutter is always in a hurry, but she always has the time. And that’s one definition of a lady.’”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Cutter. “All of my children are very efficient. They don’t need me.”

From this passage we learn of the beloved status of Nancy in the community and her generous nature, as well as Mrs. Clutter’s inner turmoil and resentment of wanting to be an ordinary mother and not being able to provide that role for her children (and their successes nonetheless). Perhaps most importantly with dialogue is Capote’s grasp of the killers’ minds, as they get closer to their inevitable capture. For example, the following passage touches on Perry’s sheer amazement and subsequent worry at their lack of remorse of killing the Clutters:

“Know what I think?,” said Perry. “I think there must be something wrong with us. To do what we did.”

“Did what?”

“Out there.”

Dick dropped the binoculars into a leather case, a luxurious receptacle initialed H.W.C. He was annoyed. Annoyed as well. Why the hell couldn’t Perry shut up? Christ Jesus, what damn good did it do, always dragging the goddam thing up? It really was annoying. Especially since they’d agreed, sort of, not to talk about the goddam thing. Just forget it.

“There’s got to be something wrong with somebody who’d do a thing like that,” Perry said.

“Deal me out, baby,” Dick said. “I’m a normal.” And Dick meant what he said.  

Scene-by-scene construction

            Like all good, engaging narrative, Capote successfully and masterfully manages to set the reader down in each scene throughout “In Cold Blood.” It is as if Capote was not relying on second-hand and documented information, but is witnessing events as they occur in a near-flawless recreation of the story.  Throughout the book, Capote strategically and thoroughly creates each scene within a larger narrative as the chapters slowly reveal more information. The scenes’ progression, from 1) the crime to 2) the unfolding of the crime to 3) the chase to 4) the capture to 5) the hangings are mostly, but not necessarily, in that order. Capote manages to keep the reader in rapt attention as he reveals bit by bit the entirety of the situation in a manner that is not only rather eloquent, but also simultaneously stark and poignant. From one of the first scenes, Nancy’s last morning, when she and her protégée, Jolene Katz, make a blue-ribbon pie in the lively kitchen of the Clutter farmhouse, to the scene in which Dick and Perry wake up cold and half-starved in a barn before stumbling upon a soon-to-be stolen car, to Mr. Dewey standing lost in the Holcombe graveyard – each serves its purpose of contributing to the larger effort.

Status details

Status details, details that reveal a character’s place in the social order, define the world within the context and make the character’s world clearer to the reader. In “In Cold Blood,” these provide a character map not just from a socioeconomic standpoint, but from inside the character’s worldview, as Capote masters shifting “as quickly as possible into the eye sockets, as it were, of the people in the story” (Wolfe, New Journalism). For example, in the following sentence, the readers learn that Mr. Clutter is not a fancy man, but one who values hard labor and the sanctity of marriage: 

“On his left hand, on what remained of a finger once mangled by a piece of farm machinery, he wore a plain gold band…”

In another example, Perry is revealed to be one who enjoys low comedy and is slightly childish, but who also pines for a more dignified, academic life. Dick, meanwhile is revealed to be a blue collar mechanic without actually stating so. See below:

“… and though the verses were very obscene, Perry, who thought them nevertheless hilarious, had had the manuscript leather-bound in a prison shop and its title, Dirty Jokes, stamped in gold.

            Dick was wearing a blue jumper suit; lettering stitched across the back of it advertised BOB SANDS’ BODY SHOP.

These details hold meaning, and not always the meaning that the reader might expect. For example, Capote takes the concept of status details one step further removed in his description of the courthouse cats, a double use of detail that also captures the lives of Dick and Perry – two strays with “strange and clever habits” who take advantage of those more foolish than they in the name of survival.

            “Among Garden City’s animals are two gray tomcats who are always together – thin, dirty strays with strange and clever habits. The chief ceremony of their day is performed at twilight. First they trot the length of Main Street, stopping to scrutinize the engine grilles of parked automobiles, particularly those stationed in front of the two hotels, the Windsor and Warren, for these cars, usually the property of travelers from afar, often yield what the bony, methodical creatures are hunting: slaughtered birds – crows, chickadees, and sparrows foolhardy enough to have flown into the path of the oncoming motorists. …”

Nonfiction novel

“In Cold Blood” reads like a fictional narrative, both in its level of extreme detail and its construction – a suspenseful collection of narrative cuts that heighten with tension as the situation becomes more and more intense toward the capture of the defendants. [Note: With its cinematic tendencies, it is easy to see why this book was made into a film not only once, but twice.] This nonfiction novel, as Capote describes it, is essentially the idea of writing reportage using strictly fictional techniques with completely accurate and true events, which had not been done before “In Cold Blood.” The difference between fiction and journalism, according to Capote, is that journalism moves on a horizontal plane, always superficial and on the surface level (ie: basic info, trivial quotes, etc.) Fiction, on the other hand, allows the author to delve deeply – vertically – into the characters’ feelings and thoughts. What Capote has accomplished in “In Cold Blood” is a perfect blending of the two, a mastering of the subjects and events so completely that he is able to weave in and out, up and down horizontally and vertically at virtually the same time.

Discussion question:

Do you feel that Truman Capote showed any favoritism toward Perry Smith over Dick Hickock in his writing of “In Cold Blood” (even though his portrayals of both defendants were arguably sympathetic)? Or, at any point, do we see any intrusion of the author into the nonfiction narrative?

(My own example: I noticed on page 278 that, during the retyping of Dick’s self-written essay, word for word, Capote chooses to extract a portion, noting, “Here Hickock revealed his pedophiliac tendencies, and after describing several experiences, wrote …” It would appear that Capote edited this part out of the book for unknown reasons – perhaps revulsion or protection of the reader – though he certainly didn’t protect the reader from other forms of violence.) 

Paper Proposal

Ginny Hoyle Lawrimore

9/12/10

Paper Proposal and (Working) Annotated Bibliography

for

Media Coverage of Dove World Controversy: An Alternative Needed?

Paper Proposal

For this research paper, I plan to critique the local print media’s coverage of the now-cancelled Quran burning by the Dove World Outreach Center in Gainesville, FL. Specifically, I am interested in how The Gainesville Sun provided information on Dove World leader Terry Jones compared to the alternative, literary journalism approach utilized by The New York Times. I will provide evidence that, in this particular case study, literary journalism might have provided a clearer and deeper understanding of this seemingly insignificant sectarian conflict turned global controversy.

             

Method

For the purpose of this paper, I will conduct a content analysis to examine the characteristics of communication in The Gainesville Sun, a New York Times affiliate, compared to the coverage provided in The New York Times. I will map out the timeline of the first article printed by the Gainesville Sun to the ongoing coverage of the planned event and its aftermath. The process will be repeated with The New York Times’ coverage.

1)    I will first select the titles I want to sample from The Gainesville Sun and The New York Times.

2)    I will then outline the dates to sample these articles (from the first story on Dove World regarding tax status and, later, “Islam is of the Devil” signs and shirts to current, ongoing coverage).

3)    I will then select my units of analysis, or, what will be examined to determine which articles use words that either credit or discredit Terry Jones.

4)    Units of analysis will then be assigned to predetermined categories.

5)    I will then compare which news source offers more of a crediting or discrediting of Terry Jones.

(Working) References:

Cave, D. (2010). Far from Ground Zero, obscure pastor is ignored no longer. Retrieved Sept. 12, 2010, at:

      http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/26/us/26gainesville.html?scp=7&sq=terry%20jones,%20dove%20world&st=cse

This article is the New York Times’ effort to examine Terry Jones using literary journalism techniques while discussing the global spotlight turning on the Gainesville church.

Fisher, L., & Voyles, K. (2010). Anti-Islam church signs stirs up community outrage. Retrieved Sept. 12, 2010, from:

http://www.gainesville.com/article/20090708/ARTICLES/907081008

This article was the first written by The Gainesville Sun in July 2009 when Dove World’s first “Islam is of the Devil” sign first surfaced in Gainesville. This will mark the beginning of the timeline covered for the content analysis.

Frank, R. (2003). Folklore in a Hurry: The community experience narrative in newspaper coverage of the Loma Prieta earthquake. Journal of American Folklore, 116, 159-75. doi: 10.1353/jaf.2003.0024

This academic article examines how personal experience narratives are staples of newspaper reporting. The article states, “though the stories are elicited, summarized, and retold in the third person as community experience narratives, they retain their power to make sense of experience and to bind readers into a symbolic community. This study examines coverage of the Loma Prieta earthquake in San Francisco newspapers.

Goodwin, J., & Jasper, J. M. (2009). The social movements reader: Cases and concepts. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing.

This book contains analyses, articles and book selections on social movements from recent decades. Specifically, this book will provide information on sectarian conflict.

McQuail, D. (2005). McQuail's mass communication theory. London: Sage Publications.

This book provides information on theories in the field of mass communication, covering the major components of mass communication and how its theories relate to the “broader understanding of society and culture.”

Moore, K.C., Smith, C. (2010). Jones goes from obscurity to world stage. Retrieved Sept. 12, 2010 from:

      http://www.gainesville.com/article/20100912/ARTICLES/100919857/1118?Title=Jones-goes-from-obscurity-to-world-stage

This article examines how, “in a matter of weeks, Terry Jones went from delivering sermons to about 30 people in his warehouse-like church in northwest Gainesville to being burned in effigy on the streets of Afghanistan's capital.” The article references and notes initial stories the newspaper ran on the Dove World Outreach Center.

Moore, K.C. (2010). After Dove World protests, city returns to relative quiet. Retrieved on Sept. 13, 2010, from:

      http://www.gainesville.com/article/20100913/ARTICLES/100919805/1118?Title=After-Dove-World-protests-city-returns-to-relative-quiet

This article delves into the aftermath of the planned Quran burning and briefly discusses the story’s reach nationwide.

Rubin, R. B., Rubin, A. M., & Piele, L. J. (2010). Communication research: Strategies and sources. Belmont, Calif: Wadsworth Thomson Learning.

This book provides information on communication research strategies for the field of communication studies. Specifically, I will use this book’s information on how to perform a content analysis.

Sims, N. (1990). Literary journalism in the twentieth century. New York: Oxford University Press.

This book is a collection of critical essays on literary journalism that “address the shifting border between fiction and nonfiction, literature and journalism.”

Stelter, B. (2010) Coverage of Koran case stirs questions on media role. Retrieved Sept. 12, 2010, from : http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/10/us/10media.html?_r=3&ref=todayspaper

This article examines how Terry Jones was able to “put himself at the center of those issues by using the news lull of summer and the demands of a 24-hour news cycle to promote his anti-Islam cause.” The Times article blames the summer news lull and the heightened anti-Muslim sentiment due to the controversy over a mosque designated to be built near Ground Zero.

Blog 6 - "Specimen Days" and "Dispatches"

Walt Whitman – from “Specimen Days”

Walt Whitman is a master at crafting sentences to create his intended effect. “Specimen Days” is no exception. Throughout the excerpt provided in “Art of Fact,” Whitman douses us with ultra-descriptive adjectives and verbs, such as, “the red-life blood oozing out from our heads or trunks or limbs upon that green and dew cool grass.” His poetic sentences, such as, “entering us like a wedge,” or “the tug of a Saturday evening,” carry weight beyond a simple statement. With his use of alliteration and onomatopoeias, Whitman’s second-hand account of the Battle at Chancellorsville reads like a poem, such as, “flashes of fire” and “determined as demons,” and “cheer,” “crash,” and “roar.” Interjected into Whitman’s mostly staccado-sounding style of writing are personal thoughts, such as “Oh heavens, what scene is this? – Is this indeed humanity?” This device takes the reader away from simply reading the description and into the mind of the writer, in this case, his shock and despair at "witnessing" such a scene. Finally, Whitman’s stark comparisons toward the end of “Specimen Days,” set up a rather stunning juxtaposition between nature and the evils of man, such as, “the odor of blood mixed with the fresh scent of the night.” The author also continuously uses the “radiant” moon (and sky) as a sort of omnipotent source of innocence with statements such as, “such is the camp of the wounded – such a fragment, a reflection afar off of the bloody scene – while over all the clear, large moon comes out at times softly, quietly shining.” His decision to name the moon “large moon” instead of “the moon” or “a large moon,” adds a kind of poetic anthropomorphization of nature, watching over this bloody scene – and its effect is truly haunting.

Note: “Art of Fact” points out that Whitman, as much as John Hersey in “Hiroshima” was practicing the art of re-creation and should be noted as a pioneer of the practice. The unsettling part, for me, in this case, is that Whitman uses a first-person point of view in a way that creates an aura of “pretending” to be a soldier witnessing this scene. I do recognize, however, the power in this first-person point of view choice as well as the year in which “Specimen Days” was written.

Michael Herr – from “Dispatches”

In “Dispatches,” Herr’s almost unsettling honesty as he consistently reveals his own fear of war and his inner battle between curiosity and safety, manages to put the reader immediately at ease. Straightaway, we learn that, upon hearing a noise at night, the author would “practically flip out, hoping to God [he] wasn’t the only one who’d noticed it.” Perhaps it is his unabashed fear of war that allows for such a wide-eyed, clear picture of it. Herr’s fragmented and short, succinct sentences manage to speak grandly, such as, “All I ever managed was one quick look in [to the Lurp's eyes], and that was like looking at the floor of the ocean.” And his dialogue is consistently somehow both riveting and pithy. Two great examples of this are the following:

“Didn’t you ever meet a reporter before?” I asked him.

“Tits on a bull,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

or

“Vietnam, man. Bomb ‘em and feed ‘em, bomb ‘em and feed ‘em.”

Herr jumps around in his timeline, going from getting ready to board a helicopter for home to describing the months after returning to returning to the middle of the jungle, a method that leaves the reader with a rather jumbled feeling. However, his fascinating, short bursts of stories are completely satisfying in both their content and style. And he appears to have succeeded in his effort to “explore the collective mind of the soldiers,” as noted in “Art of Fact,” as he describes universal feelings such as watching the helicopter he arrived in fly away and wondering whether “[he]’d made a terrible mistake this time.”

Similarities

Herr’s style in “Dispatches” is similar to Whitman’s in that it is fragmented and nondirectional. Perhaps he is writing in this fashion, at least partly, as a comment on the lack of a “linear ‘front’” in war, as noted in “Art of Fact.” This idea that war is messy and omnipresent is well represented in the style and manner in which Herr writes. However, I feel that Whitman is more chronological in “Specimen Days,” albeit loosely, as the day turns from one to the next, in order. Both authors are gifted in their ability to capture “war” in a grand way, summing up a subject so complex and emotional, in some cases, in just a few sentences. Both, too, utilize a version of shock effect when describing the violence of war, such as Whitman’s “one man is shot by a shell, both in the arm and leg – both are amputated – there lie the rejected members.” Similarly, Herr writes, “… the total impersonality of group death, making them lie anywhere and any way it left them, hanging over barbed wire or thrown promiscuously on the top of other dead, or up into the trees like terminal acrobats, Look what I can do.” However, the point of both examples, in my opinion, is not so much shock value, but the ability to adequately describe the truths of war.

[Note: I rather enjoyed the stark difference in Herr’s reference to the moon compared to Whitman’s. Herr writes, “The moon came up nasty and full, a fat moist piece of decadent fruit. It was soft and saffron-misted when you looked up at it, but its light over the sandbags and into the jungle was harsh and bright.”]

Organic form

The notion of organic form, “works whose formal characteristics are not rigidly predetermined but follow the movement of thought or emotion being expressed,” certainly exists in “Dispatches.” It’s almost like Herr is sitting in front of us, telling us the stories as he thinks of them, remembering details and getting more excited as he goes along. At times, it almost seems to be “stream of thought” writing, as he jumps in with a popular country song lyric or a random, but enthralling, quotation. I’m not convinced that Whitman’s “Specimen Days,” is of the same variety, as his writing reads, to me, like carefully planned poetry, even if the subject jumps around a bit in describing the battle. I would be interested, however, to hear an alternate argument on the question. In terms of covering an event, I can see how organic form might create an element of truth, or immediacy, in words, as writers tend to go back and edit and then re-edit their work. Creating a kind of writing "as it comes," especially in an action-packed event such as war, in its most raw form has a kind of power that flows from the pages, much like Herr’s “Dispatches.” 

Discussion question:


What literary journalism technique(s) are Herr and Whitman utilizing when they describe natural scenes (moon, sky; jungle) amid the interjections of violence and chaos? Why do they do this?  

Blog 5

I would define the traditional notion of ‘objectivity’ as the ability to report a story in the most thorough and unbiased way possible without letting personal or professional hindrances interfere with the process. However, as I mentioned in class last week, it is my belief that journalists, at best, can only produce an illusion of objectivity. Journalists are human, too, and they have thoughts and feelings about the subjects, events and people they cover. Readers and management understand this, yet it is of the utmost importance that journalists strive to maintain this goal of “complete” objectivity in an effort to live up to the highest journalistic standards possible. For example, when I was a reporter, I refrained from putting political bumper stickers on my car, because I didn’t want anyone to think that I would intentionally sway any story in a bias manner.  The illusion of objectivity is absolutely key to creating trust and continued communication with readers and sources.

As noted in Art of Fact’s excerpt on James Boswell, “theorists of journalism have long noted parallels to Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle in physics: by reporting on something, one subtly but irrevocably changes it.” The mere act of interviewing a source changes the way that person acts, causing them to think carefully about what they say and how they say it. A tape recorder or a video camera, for example, can make the interviewee nervous or unlikely to say what he or she might have said off-tape.

In the Michael Powell interview, Powell discusses the immediacy of current media and how politicians these days would rather play it safe than risk saying something that might hurt their career.

Powell says, “It puts a real premium on being more careful and judicious about your words and your thinking, which I think is good. But sometimes I think it's bad because I think that's why you get political speak out of a lot of politicians -- rather look like you're talking and say nothing than to be candid and maybe regret it. That bothers me because I'm a believer in candor and I like to be pretty straight about what I think about things, but at your peril you have to be sensitive to what you're saying. … This is the new reality.”

This begs the question: if these officials are constantly editing and fixing their words, how objective can a story be? At some point, these interviews just become PR. However, this is an old problem of political/government journalism.

I wanted to point out, too, that the level of emotion involved in covering a story might call into question the notion of objectivity. For example, I was a reporter in Chapel Hill when Eve Carson, UNC-Chapel Hill’s beloved student body president, was brutally murdered in the spring of 2008. I knew her personally from covering various events and I was moved by the literal halting of movement on campus as students sank down in the middle of the quads to sob after hearing the news. I’ll admit, during some interviews, the tears were streaming down my face as I asked the questions. I’d like to think that this emotion on my part contributed positively to my stories on the tragedy; however, I can’t be sure that my own tears didn’t affect someone (or everyone) I spoke with.

Question for the class:

If literary journalists use their skills to cover important topics not necessarily addressed in mainstream media (as Dr. Rodgers alluded to during last week’s class), can they really be objective? Doesn’t the very act of selecting a “worthwhile” subject, say, the dumping of nuclear waste’s harmful effects, contribute to a subjectivity on the part of the reporter’s understanding of what *should* be covered? 

Blog 4

Considering the issue of “truth”:

In examining riveting, sublime literary journalism, readers cannot help but wonder: if the journalist wasn’t actually there, how on earth did they capture such a level of detail and feeling? (In other words, it would seem that no interviewer is so talented that they could possibly obtain the absolute accurate stream of inner thoughts, feelings, actions of their subject. Enter: doubt.) 

Unfortunately for many journalists, after one commits plagiarism or fabrication (ie: Million Little Pieces), the author is, more or less, branded with reader mistrust of his or her truthfulness in future pieces. It is truly astonishing to me the level of detail that John Hersey uses in Hiroshima, and, believably, it appears, he put the series together over the course of a year. [Note: I would be interested to find out how Hersey chose these particular survivors on which to focus and whether it might have made a difference in the overall effect.] Perhaps, for some readers, John Hersey’s creation of a composite character in “Joe is Home Now” creates room for mistrust in his other works, such as Hiroshima. Some critics, however, such as the authors of Art of Fact, claim that Hiroshima meets the level of authenticity and reliability required of literary journalists and that the book’s “clinical detail” is made possible by the “strength of extensive interviews.”

In other works for this week, such as “The Ultimate Literary Portrait,” the question of truthfulness becomes a little less ambiguous. James Boswell in “The Life of Samuel Johnson” was, according to the Art of Fact excerpt, “eager to express his opinions; he thrust himself into the narrative spotlight; and on occasion he blatantly stage-managed the action.” The “Ultimate Literary” article begs the question: can someone who is friends with (or, perhaps, obsessed with) a subject expect to produce a “true” and “accurate” product? The power of omitting and selectivity suggests subjectivity and Boswell’s claim that an “action of small note, a short saying, or a jest, shall distinguish a person’s real character” makes this reader wonder who is to say *what* makes a person’s “real character”? In this sense, Henrik Bering gets the point across, stating, “Not only is it vital to get the facts straight, but the emphasis also needs to be right.”

Early days of journalism

The line of fact and fiction in the early days of journalism was very loosely drawn. For example, in the “yellow journalism” days, reporters were encouraged to sensationalize their stories, or play up the blood and gore in order to sell more papers and excite public opinion. Joseph Pulitzer and William Hearst often competed in this arena. Politics also caused issue for the aims of truth in early newspapers, as many were bias to one side or another in a wide range of issues and, at times, took liberties about the opposition in editorials and stories, such as playing up an editor’s or opposing politician’s “drunkenness.” This taking liberty with the truth goes back all the way back to U.S. frontier press days, when articles touted the wonders of the "wild west" and used its columns to encourage migration and promote local economies. 

Elements of literary journalism

There are many notable elements in Hiroshima (and other readings this week) that raise this journalism to something literary. For example, as the entry in Art of Fact points out, Hersey “reconstructs scenes and explores the survivors’ thoughts and feelings in novelistic fashion,” restricting “the story to the characters’ sphere of knowledge …” Hersey’s sheer attention to detail and the (on any other day, boring) minutia of these six protagonists’ lives creates a fascinating play-by-play effect on the day of the bombing and the days following.

In honor of Hersey, I determined another literary journalism to be: a humanistic approach. In other words, authors of literary journalism should strive to represent his/her subjects in a humanistic manner through the subjects’ own recounted true thoughts and feelings in a way that is both accurate and descriptive of how events actually transpired.

Another element might be, as mentioned in the Daniel Defoe excerpt in Art of Fact, is: thoroughness of reporting.

Question for the class:

How important do you deem it for literary journalists (and/or all journalists) to create works, such as John Hersey’s Hiroshima, to battle the concept of “otherness” in times of war? As The Art of Fact entry on Hiroshima points out, Hersey “offers American readers a series of sympathetic portraits” and allowed those who felt hatred for the Japanese to realize “that Mr. Hersey’s six protagonists were fellow human beings.” Can you think of any parallel works of literary journalism that capture the horrors and empathy of Iraqi War victims like Hersey does in Hiroshima?