Posts Tagged ‘coeliac’

I haven’t felt much like writing lately. I have a lot of anxiety and anger in my personal life right now, and I am the sort of person who enlarges his mental health symptoms instead of trying to cure them. Delaying writing about books means that it’s hard for me to recapture the feelings I had when reading, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I seem distanced from my subject matter this summer.

It is a wild adventure we are on. Here, as we are rushing along through the darkness, with the cold from the river seeming to rise up and strike us, with all the mysterious voices of the night around us, it all comes home. We seem to be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways; into a whole world of dark and dreadful things.

Please don’t judge the book by the films, or the appearance of the book’s characters in television. I haven’t seen all the adaptations, but I watched Bela Lugosi’s and Gary Oldman’s performances, and while I applaud the actors, I want to strangle the writers. A love story between Mina and Dracula? It’s stupid. Eliminating Lucy’s suitors? It’s weird. What’s wrong with Stoker’s story that no one seems capable of just showing it the way he told it?

Dracula is the most violently pro-Catholic book I’ve ever read. In most Gothic texts Catholics are the enemy, what with Lewis’s monk selling his soul to the devil, and Radcliffe’s Italians being sent to the Inquisition, and Melmoth appearing in the Spanish Inquisition. Think about how racist the British were toward the Irish and the Italians – Roman Catholicism was either feared or ridiculed (I’m thinking about Villette, where the romantic lead tries to convert the protagonist and she’s just not tempted). Dracula is an ancient evil, so he has to be defeated by an equally ancient religion, though considering European history neither the man nor the church is really that ancient. Regardless, crucifixes force him away, as does the host. The Catholic Church places a lot of emphasis on the little crackers they use in Mass, because they believe it magically becomes the literal body of Jesus when it’s been prayed over. Ten years ago (last time I checked), they refused to produce a gluten-free version of the communion wafer because apparently only wheat can transubstantiate. Catholics with coeliac disease either have to poison themselves on a regular basis or self-excommunicate. Prof van Helsing uses the wafers to control Dracula and poison the ground against him.

Let’s talk for a minute about the dirt. A lot of people say that a vampire has to rest in the dirt of his homeland, or at least he has to go underground. That’s not the issue for Stoker. Dracula has to rest in consecrated ground, cemetery dirt. But if you’re going to a Protestant country, how easy is it to find a Catholic cemetery? Remember, for religions based on a priesthood that has to be conferred from one man to another like Catholics and Mormons, Protestant ceremonies don’t count. It’s only holy if one of their own does it. So when Dracula comes to England, he ships thirty boxes of proper Catholic cemetery dirt so that he can be sure of finding a resting place. Van Helsing literally poisons his dirt by putting communion wafers in the boxes, turning something holy into something repellent. As a vampire, Dracula is all topsy-turvy with the good/evil thing.

Most of Dracula’s powers are as they are in other media: turning into a bat or wolf or mist, controlling animals and mental health patients, hypnotism. But he has no trouble walking around during the day; he doesn’t get all sparkly or burst into flames or anything. He is weaker during the day and so can’t change his shape, but that’s the only effect. When Dracula is away from blood, he ages, sometimes rather quickly. Drinking blood returns his youth, even making his hair darker. The thing that always confuses me about vampires in film, though, is the way they equate age with power. Surviving several hundred years could make someone more wily, better at living through whatever trials they face, but being really old doesn’t make a person physically stronger. The ability to punch people really hard isn’t the only or most important type of power, and we never see vampires in films going to the gym to bulk up. But Dracula didn’t get smarter with age. Van Helsing describes him as having a child-brain, still experimenting with his limitations after four hundred years. It might be better to describe vampires as animals with speech – Dracula is outsmarted by a group of well-meaning idiots.

And why do I call them idiots? Because of the racism and misogyny.

Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has a man’s brain – a brain that a man should have were he much gifted – and a woman’s heart. The good God fashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when He made that so good combination. Friend John, up to now fortune has made that woman of help to us; after to-night she must not have to do with this so terrible affair. It is not good that she run a risk so great.

Wilhelmina Harker is amazing. She doesn’t push hard against the restrictions placed on women in her time, but works within those limits to find fulfillment and happiness. Women can’t get a job? Okay. She finds a husband with similar interests and determines to ‘help’ him with his work. She teaches herself shorthand to help him better. Just to make that clear: She learns a second language so that she can interview her husband’s clients. She may not be a lawyer in name, but I have no doubt that she’ll have a better grasp of English Law than he does, given the time to study on her own. The men’s investigation moves forward when she’s a part of it; they suffer setbacks when they leave her out. Even though women of her social standing did not travel unattended, when her Jonathan gets sick she goes to Budapest alone to take care of him. She has an independence and resolve that society didn’t claim to value in women, though the authors of the time certainly did. Her intelligence and charisma would have ensured success in any endeavor she chose, and she chose to be a wife, probably the best-paid and most secure profession for a woman in the 1890s.

Lucy Westenra is Mina’s sleepwalking best friend. She’s more into the material, boy-chasing side of life that misogynists tend to claim is natural for a teenage girl. She gets three marriage proposals in one day, and her three suitors seem to follow the Mind-Body-Soul paradigm. They’re all three friends and have gone hunting in the Americas together. Dr Seward is the mind; he runs a mental hospital, though we’d see it more as an asylum, or torture chamber for the mentally ill. Or crazy-people jail. He and Mina are probably the most prolific narrators. Quincy Morris is the body; he’s from Texas and runs the hunting expeditions. Arthur Holmwood is the soul; he’s a gentleman of no settled profession. Of course Lucy chooses the Soul Suitor. And really, why shouldn’t she love the richest man? After his father dies, he becomes Lord Godalming. Arthur and Quincy spend a lot of time together offscreen, so it’s fun to imagine that body and soul are more into each other than they are into her, but there’s no real textual evidence for that. Lucy’s suitors are paralleled by Dracula’s three brides, the female vampires who fail to seduce Jonathan (though they do get to Keanu Reeves).

Lucy dies because of male stupidity. Seward can’t figure out why she’s sick, so he brings van Helsing over from Amsterdam. Van Helsing immediately recognizes the symptoms of blood loss and arranges for multiple transfusions, but even though he knows there’s a vampire at work he won’t tell anyone. He fills Lucy’s room with garlic and crosses and tries to keep her room closed at night, but he doesn’t tell anyone why, so her mother clears all that shit out and keeps the window open. If he had just talked to people about what was going on, she could have been saved. Instead, on the night her wedding was planned, she comes to her not-yet-husband as a vampire and he stakes her. The staking releases her soul from torment and she becomes good again, just before they cut her head off and stuff the mouth with garlic. Arthur makes a comparison between the blood transfusion and sex, trying to comfort himself that at least he had that satisfaction, but he doesn’t know that she got blood from nearly every male character in the book, making her probably the most visibly promiscuous girl in Victorian literature.

Isolation is Dracula’s greatest weapon. Getting people alone gives him his best opportunity to prey on them. The female isolation in this book is just baffling. People were talking about “The Surplus Woman Problem,” because Englishmen were sent all over the world to fight in wars and extort resources from the colonies while women were expected to just stay at home. This led to an extreme gender imbalance on the English homefront, and explains why Victorian novels are full of older women who never married. They were considered surplus, extra, unnecessary and unwanted, old maids. There’s a convent in Budapest where the nuns nurse Jonathan and facilitate his marriage to Mina, there are those three vampire women who never leave Transylvania, but there are really only three female characters in the book, and Lucy’s mother is very minor. So, for about half the book, Mina is the only real female character, surrounded by seven men. It’s just not realistic.

Then again, that does leave us plenty of time to explore male homosocial bonding.

I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man’s heart.

I read a theory once that Dracula is about internalized homophobia, a representation of Stoker’s fear that he might be gay. It’s an interesting theory, but I don’t see a lot of evidence for it. Vampiric activity is highly sexualized in a we-can’t-talk-about-sex kind of way, which makes it disturbing that female vampires seem to prefer children even though they can hypnotize men and enforce their cooperation. Among adults, vampires bite people of the opposite sex; Dracula is a rapist, but he’s not a gay rapist. He plans to leave Jonathan Harker to the ladies, but he doesn’t bite the man himself. The staking is also highly sexual (curing a woman’s rape trauma by fucking her properly?), with Arthur doing Lucy and van Helsing doing all three of Dracula’s brides. When it comes to killing Dracula, Jonathan cuts his head off without staking him to the ground first; it denies him spiritual peace by not returning his soul, and it reasserts Jonathan’s heterosexuality because men don’t penetrate other men in this book.

Dracula is exciting and modern (for its time), oddly feminist if you look at it from that angle, and I love an epistolary novel with several different perspectives. This isn’t the first vampire story, but it is the most famous and influential. I strongly recommend it for anyone who likes Gothic novels or who feels vindicated when a Dutch Catholic teaches English Protestants how to destroy Slavic monsters. Can’t trust eastern European immigrants, apparently. So racist.

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A new kind of novel by Ray Bradbury, master of miracles, fantasy and terror, and the author of THE ILLUSTRATED MAN, A MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLY, and SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES.

False advertising. There was nothing new about this sort of novel. Cranford, The Pickwick Papers . . . A group of episodes joined by their common setting and characters. You see, Ray Bradbury grew up in a small town in the Midwest, in town with his enormous, amazing extended family. He wrote a bunch of stories about them, some realistic, some re-imagined with supernatural effects. The realistic ones were gathered with a bit of framing narrative, and became Dandelion Wine. The supernatural ones, when joined with the work of Charles Addams, led to The Addams Family, and then later were collected in their original state as The October Country. But there’s nothing earth-shattering about this book.

That being said, it’s really good.

This is a story of childhood, based on Bradbury’s own, but fictionalized. The detail I’ve been pondering on the most is the timing: summer of 1928. Summer is the most intense experience of childhood; away from school and responsibilities, children are free to be themselves. But the important thing is the year. The next year, the stock market crashed, and the world slid into the Great Depression. The United States got out of the Depression by supplying World War II, and since the introduction of nuclear weapons we haven’t had a moment’s rest. 1928 was the last peaceful time for the United States, when we weren’t afraid. Three generations now, who don’t understand what it was like in 1928, when there was no fear. My grandfather, who was five years old in 1928, died six months ago, and there are not many people of his age left in the world.

I grew up in the 1980s. When my parents were kids, they were taught that they could be safe in a nuclear attack with Duck and Cover, but my generation didn’t have that false hope. We knew that at any moment we could all be killed. Everything we knew and loved could be destroyed by the menacing, somehow simultaneously inept and dangerous enemy, there on the far side of the world. When the Soviet Union finally collapsed, we had spread extra nuclear weapons in the Middle East to contain the Soviets, and then those weapons were turned on us. The Clinton years were less fearful, but then there were the September 11th attacks, and we now have a Department of Homeland Security, because even though we put more money into Defense than any nation should require, we still don’t feel safe. I voted for Obama primarily because he promised to get us out of our most dangerous conflicts in the Middle East, and he took his own sweet time doing it. When I lived in Saudi Arabia, my son called me to ask if I was in danger, because he was learning about current events in school. I want my kids to see the world as beautiful and exciting, not scary and war-torn.

This novel is about time. It slips and slides away from us. . .

“John!”

For John was running, and this was terrible. Because if you ran, time ran. You yelled and screamed and raced and rolled and tumbled and all of a sudden the sun was gone and the whistle was blowing and you were on your long way home to supper. When you weren’t looking, the sun got around behind you! The only way to keep things slow was to watch everything and do nothing! You could stretch a day to three days, sure, just by watching!

“John!”

. . . and the timeframes of our lives don’t match up, as when a thirty-year-old man falls in love with a ninety-year-old woman.

“Do you know, it’s lucky we met so late. I wouldn’t have wanted you to meet me when I was twenty-one and full of foolishness.”

“They have special laws for pretty girls twenty-one.”

“So you think I was pretty?”

He nodded good-humoredly.

“But how can you tell?” she asked. “When you meet a dragon that has eaten a swan, do you guess by the few feathers left around the mouth? That’s what it is – a body like this is a dragon, all scales and folds. So the dragon ate the white swan. I haven’t seen her for years. I can’t even remember what she looks like. I feel her, though. She’s safe inside, still alive; the essential swan hasn’t changed a feather. Do you know, there are some mornings in spring or fall, when I wake and think, I’ll run across the fields into the woods and pick wild strawberries! Or I’ll swim in the lake, or I’ll dance all night tonight until dawn! And then, in a rage, discover I’m in this old and ruined dragon. I’m the princess in the crumbled tower, no way out, waiting for her Prince Charming.”

“You should have written books.”

“My dear boy, I have written. What else was there for an old maid? I was a crazy creature with a headful of carnival spangles until I was thirty, and then the only man I ever really cared for stopped waiting and married someone else. So in spite, in anger at myself, I told myself I deserved my fate for not having married when the best chance was at hand. I started traveling. My luggage was snowed under blizzards of travel stickers. I have been alone in Paris, alone in Vienna, alone in London, and, all in all, it is very much like being alone in Green Town, Illinois. It is, in essence, being alone. Oh, you have plenty of time to think, improve your manners, sharpen your conversations. But I sometimes think I could easily trade a verb tense or a curtsy for some company that would stay over for a thirty-year weekend.”

Yeah, I could use a pleasant houseguest who stays for a lifetime. The first time I wanted someone who was beautiful, virtuous, and talented; I found it, but now I want someone who is kind, financially stable, and who loves to have sex with me. And male. The ex was none of those things. The first three qualities are still favorable, but the latter four have become more important.

Bradbury also describes what it’s like to be depressed, in terms intelligible to a twelve-year-old with that mental colour.

“Doug,” he said, “you just lie quiet. You don’t have to say anything or open your eyes. You don’t even have to pretend to listen. But inside there, I know you hear me, and it’s old Jonas, your friend. Your friend,” he repeated and nodded.

He reached up and picked an apple off the tree, turned it round, rook a bite, chewed, and continued.

“Some people turn sad awfully young,” he said. “No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.”

He took another bit of the apple and chewed it.

“Well, now, where are we?” he asked.

He tells this to our protagonist, who had a dangerous fever at the time. He mentions later that this night that Mr Jonas visits, he chooses to live. This is why I’m still here; I have chosen to live. Sometimes this decision is in danger of changing, but I will continue to choose to live. I found a clear medical reason for my recent cloud of gloom, unrelated to my financial, romantic, or spiritual difficulties. I’ve always figured that sushi was safe for someone with coeliac disease, because it’s rice, raw fish, and vegetables. So the local grocery store has a sushi counter – hooray for the randomness of Texas – and I’ve been treating myself to some cheap sushi when I want to comfort-eat. But it turns out that they use fermented wheat protein to bind the rice together; in other words, the part of the plant that is poisonous to me is the part I’ve been eating. Depression and rage are a normal part of my body’s response to gluten. I really need people to start reminding me of that when I get that way.

So, time. When I get depressed, I want time to slow down. I binge-watch TV programs until I fall asleep, or I read in the tub late at night, unwilling to go to bed because that means the day is ending and I’ll have to start the next one. But moments don’t last. I wake up at half past midnight, sweat-stuck to the leather loveseat with a crick in my awkwardly bent neck, or up to my chin in cold water with hands and feet so wrinkled they hurt. I’ve been so unwilling to let time move along that I’ve been putting off my blogwriting – I’ve finished another book since this one, and am nearly half-way through the next. But a good friend once told me of the antidepressant qualities of really strong chili peppers, so I’ve been eating spicy foods and cutting out the sushi and getting better. I’m letting go of my need to control time.

I may have passed my childhood in a time of fear, but I don’t have to stay that way. As I think over the films I love from that time, yes, I see the fear, but I also see the hope. We may have had Red Dawn, but we also had Back to the Future and Footloose, media that remind us we can make positive changes in the world. Even kids can make the world a better place. I may not be Michael J Fox or Kevin Bacon, and I’m certainly not a teenager, but I can give my children a better world than the one I received from my parents. Maybe this is why I’m still teaching; I believe in the ability of teachers to improve worlds, one life at a time. I may find hope by leading others to it.

Bradbury’s stories are not always hopeful. People die, streetcars are replaced by buses, the happiness machine brings unhappiness and is destroyed, eras end. But the eras of happiness and peace existed, and when we’re threatened by poverty and war, we can remember when things were different, and as long as we know that life doesn’t have to be this way, we can change it. Perhaps this piece of nostalgia can benefit our future.