“Do you think God stays in heaven because he too lives in fear of what he’s created?”

—Dr. Romero, Spy Kids 2

In Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Victor plays the role of God, creating his version of Adam and simultaneously breaking the known laws of science. While Victor was incredibly passionate about this endeavor at first, when his project is finally completed, he’s filled with regret. When Victor leaves the creature to his own devices, the readers are all filled with indignation. How could Victor be so irresponsible towards what he created? This angers the audience and makes Victor an even more unlikable character in the eyes of the reader. Yet when God turned his back on Adam and Eve, and eventually humanity, no one is filled with indignation.

This hypocrisy is evident through the framing of religion and God in general: God left humanity behind because it betrayed him, yet this is viewed as the fault of humanity. Religious camps, seminars, and Sunday schools will constantly harp on the substanceless values of humanity, claiming it is the fault of society as to why God isn’t in closer and more direct connection with his billions of creatures. 

Feeling bad for the creature in Frankenstein, even through all his wrongdoings, is a common interpretation for the readers. The creature was brought into the world without any guidance, so how can one judge his actions so harshly? Even through his horrible actions, generally readers feel bad for the creature because of society’s general treatment of him and, frankly, his ugliness. In a way, everyone is a creature too—the Bible constantly tells humanity of its wrongdoings and faults, and how these faults create an ugly person. 

So in summation, those on Earth and the creature in Frankenstein are very similar. Victor and God are very similar in their behavior towards creating their creatures. Victor and God also both decide to turn their backs on these creations. Victor is hated for his decision, but God is an all loving, all knowing being that surely has the best interest of everyone in his heart.

The universal goal among us is one of self preservation. The instinctual—seemingly justified—will to live a long life. For some reason, we have been ingrained with the idea that living longer is somehow better. Why we assign time as the ultimate value in the universe is probably a product of our limp, flaccid way of living: one that encourages the status quo and produces the ultimate sense of ennui permeating through nearly everyone’s minds. In Dubliners, through the contrast of Gabriel and Michael, James Joyce asserts why this over-simplified view of human life doesn’t result in the best outcomes. Especially for Gabriel. 

It’s the early 1900s, and life for the middle class is slowly becoming more and more comfortable. Gabriel, a well educated Irish man, seems to be the pinnacle of what life is all about—confidence, appearance, intelligence—he’s got it all. Even Gabriel believes he has it all. Yet when life comes crumbling down for Gabriel, through the knowledge of his wife’s dead lover, he has no answers. Stuck in unfocused thinking patterns about impending mortality, Gabriel’s epiphany centers around his previously unrealized lack of purpose. Gabriel, despite his appearance, doesn’t have it all figured out. 

Appearance plays an important role in defining Gabriel, even for Gabriel himself. He must appear wealthy, intelligent, and stoic to receive any praise from others, who in turn give Gabriel the praise he desperately needs for his fragile sense of self-worth. Gabriel followed society’s blueprint, yet still lives his life for others for fear of losing his purpose. When it becomes obvious this isn’t working, Gabriel spirals out of control, driving home the central question Joyce is asking his readers: what is the true meaning of life and death? 

Life is life and death is death, as we’re taught, and living is always better than dying. ‘Don’t smoke cigarettes—they lower your lifespan by fifteen years!’ ‘Don’t drive too fast—you could lose control and harm yourself or others!’ These sentiments, and many, many more are instilled within our very being from infancy. While I agree with some of these sentiments, especially those that warn about the harming of others, I do not agree with the no fun attitude expressed throughout all of society. Apparently James Joyce didn’t either, with his excessive use of Morphine and Cocaine at the end of his career. 

Although it may seem through my mixed signals that I am encouraging all who read this to go on Morphine and Cocaine binges (hopefully not at the same time), I only use these to illustrate a point. Blindly following conventional wisdom leads to the life of Gabriel. A life dedicated to proving one’s own existence. Just because one is alive and well does not mean they are alive and well. Death can be physical, death can be mental, but true death is the death of Gabriel: living a life without purpose, without passion. Living the one life he has for others instead of himself. Living the one life he has, already dead.

If any singular event can alter the course of a life, it’s the death of someone held dear. Death has the power to hold people captive to their emotions for a lifetime of sadness, guilt, and long spells of depression. Coping with these emotions can be intense and maddening, often spitting a person right back to where they started. If extreme spells of depression and introspection don’t solve the problem, then how does one overcome the loss of a loved one? According to Tim O’Brien, and former rapper Samsa, the solution to “overcoming” loss is all about filling the void with storytelling.

Storytelling pervades The Things They Carried as the leading overtone to a seemingly doom and gloom story about death and loss. While Tim O’Brien may have intended for the fictional account to be depressing initially, his true intention shines through in the final chapter, when his key message shines and the reader finally gets the point of it all. In this chapter, aptly titled “The Lives of the Dead”, O’Brien reveals the identity of Linda, a girl he loved as a child taken by the clutches of cancer. O’Brien’s way of coping with the loss of Linda is to insert her into his fictional stories, essentially bringing her back to life, as the title implies. 

Similarly, In “Haunt Me”, Samsa describes a scenario in which someone close to him died, leaving a hole in his heart he had to fill. His desired way for the hole in his heart to be filled is through his loved one haunting him. He then goes on to describe various ways she could haunt him, including conventional ways like a ouija board. As the song progresses, Samsa’s ideas progress too, becoming more creative and unnatural. The song lightens up too—as Samsa’s creativity flows and his ideas become more personalized and less basic, he grows a seemingly stronger connection with his loved one. 

While these art forms may not seem similar, this is a real life example of O’Brien’s theory: Samsa, the artist, is spending his free time writing lyrics for someone who can’t be with him anymore. The only difference between Samsa and O’Brien are their individual ways of displaying creativity. Where O’Brien chooses to write books starring Kiowa or imagine stories with Linda, Samsa opts to write personal, nuanced lyrics about the person he so desperately needs back in his life. 

Dealing with loss is a near-impossible mission only accomplished by those who continue to better understand that which was lost. Instead of moping, these people follow the advice of Tim O’Brien, bettering their understanding of their loved ones by personalizing their connections. This newfound, strengthened connection allows people to pick themselves up and move on, because instead of choosing to leave that which was held so dear to them behind, they opt to take that person with them.

When writing any work of fiction, the most important thing an author can do is include a powerful narrative. When the narrative is a well-woven tale full of surprising twists and turns, the reader is powerless to put the book down. When problems arise for the protagonist, assuming the protagonist evokes strong emotions from the reader, the reader simply must know how these problems will be dealt with. Interestingly, Goodbye, Columbus accomplishes its goal of entertainment (because yes, Philip Roth didn’t write this for the purpose of exposing ‘radical economic change’ in the Jewish community) by doing the most overlooked element in most memorable stories: world building.

Reading Goodbye, Columbus in 2019 presents a major problem to any reader born after the 1950s, as the narrative is explicitly focused on a blossoming relationship between Brenda and Neil, a young couple in 1950s. While not inherently problematic, as the story progresses Neil persuades Brenda, quite poorly, into getting a diaphragm for his personal pleasure. In the final chapter, Mrs. Patimkin finds the diaphragm under Brenda’s lavish sweater collection, sending her into a state of shock and horror. After receiving the letter from her mother detailing her findings, Brenda is sent into a similar state of shock and horror. The problem for the modern reader is the contemporary decision society has made on the issue of conception- almost anywhere, it’s socially acceptable to engage in premarital sex and use contraception blockers.

The reader would be left in quite the dilemma if this hard-hitting conclusion held no emotional weight. Sixty pages of supposed sins buildup, finally exposed to the outside world, yet the reader still completely sides with Brenda and Neil, who did nothing wrong by modern standards. While this isn’t a wrong assessment of the situation, any reader who arrives at this conclusion hasn’t read closely enough. Phillip Roth’s Goodbye, Columbus connects with a modern audience, albeit unintentionally, by Roth’s insane attention to detail.

World-building is often entirely overlooked in the grand scheme of a story because of how seemingly unimportant it is. Usually when leaving the movie theater, the audience remembers the complex twists and turns a story went through, or the wonderful resolution to the conflict, or the strong, relatable characters; however, the world can easily make or break a story. If Star Wars was set on a random space station that was set to destroy a random planet in a random galaxy, absolutely no one would care. It may be enjoyable to watch the characters solve the problems on the random space station, but without the incredible visuals carrying the emotional weight, the wonderful setting with cool gadgets, robots, and the cohabitation of humans with aliens, Star Wars is nothing but a good guys vs. bad guys narrative about a young kid, his hot sister (spoilers, sorry), and a boomer saving some random planets.

In Goodbye, Columbus, Phillip Roth shows the audience- including future writers, screenplay directors, or producers- how to do world-building right. Instead of telling the reader explicitly that the Patimkins are well-off and the Klugmans are relatively poor, Roth simply lets Neil’s reaction to the lush lifestyle of the Patimkins do the talking. Neil describes with incredible detail the home, the old refrigerator, and even goes as far as to describe the bountiful selection of goods inside the fridge. These seemingly minor details themselves aren’t important- it’s Roth’s inclusion of them that help paint the picture of Neil’s life before the Patimkins. This example is essentially the blueprint used throughout the novella: don’t explicitly tell the reader anything, instead let Neil show the common thinking of the time using his inner thoughts and descriptions.

While seemingly unimportant, world-building provides a different way of telling a story. Instead of dumping expository information through dialogue, a character’s reaction to an event, or via the literary flashback, Roth decides to build the hollow world of Goodbye, Columbus by developing it around the characters. Without calling attention to it, Roth beautifully describes everything around Neil to allow the reader to draw his own conclusions. This is a noble goal- allowing the creative mind to work, even when it’s through the creative mind of another.

Religion requires faith. As Owen Meany says, “BELIEF IS NOT AN INTELLECTUAL MATTER…IF HE’S (Rev. Merrill) GOT SO MUCH DOUBT, HE’S IN THE WRONG BUSINESS.” I find this particular quote incredibly compelling when thought about in the context of the newer denominations of Christianity. Often times on religious camps, getaways, or services, intellectual ideas are now being spread to the younger members of the church. Not necessarily with the idea of faith or God at the forefront, this new brand of religion is the approach of Rev. Merrill. Shaky, stuttering, and never too sure of himself, it seems John Irving is giving the readers a hint as to how he feels about this pseudo-scientific brand of religion.

When reading or even viewing most works of fiction, faith plays a major role too. The creator will often include events that seem far fetched, too “breaking of the rules” to be true. Often times the creator begs the audience, and the audience complies without even hearing the question, to suspend their disbelief during these scenes. A connection is formed between the viewer and the creator during these times. Sure, it’s unlikely that all six of shots miss John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, but we the audience don’t want to watch a movie without these two, so we’ll let it slide. This allows us readers to receive a better product at the end, usually. The only flipside to this is bad movies featuring The Rock. Those can go away.

The interesting connection between religion and suspension of disbelief in A Prayer for Owen Meany is how well John Irving disguises and blends them together. When a book or movie has these moments, consciously or sometimes subconsciously, the audience has to react and consent to what the creator is showing them. What A Prayer for Owen Meany does instead, and very subtly, is use religion and faith as the scapegoat for this annoying process.

Whenever Owen decides to do something borderline supernatural, the sentence that comes to mind is “It’s because of Owen that I have any faith at all.” It’s like Irving knows what he’s writing is obviously fiction, but appeals to the readers logical side. ‘I know what I’m telling you about Owen seems crazy, but remember, I think it’s crazy too, but I saw it first-hand.’ This is what makes the transition from reacting to consenting so instant in the novel. The fact that it’s almost presented as if the audience won’t believe is what gives us faith.

In A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving’s narrative is so well woven that I almost feel apart of it. The story lives and breathes the essence of childhood, and this nostalgic vibe the book permeates allows for my inner child to come out. Whether it’s John Irving’s outlandish but somehow relatable humor, his use of framing the book as a story in the past, or even how John Irving beautifully transitions the boys from youth to teenhood, there always seems to be something that draws me as a reader into the story and characters more than before. At least, this was my sentiment on the novel before the injection of political beliefs through the form of a grown-up John. 

In a nostalgic coming of age story, the reader wants to read about change. Changes in setting, changes in thought, and how the main characters are physically changing. What John Irving opts to do instead of alluding to these past events and how they influence his Canadian and adult self is insert his political belief into a tale of faith, religion, and coming of age. What I find interesting is that I completely agree- and even use these statistics or facts that Irving pulls- all the time. I actually love politics, and being a woke Gen-Z Bernie supporter, I’ll use seemingly any opportunity to manhandle a political fact into something inherently nonpolitical. The problem within A Prayer for Owen Meany is that I cannot shake the feeling of disappointment whenever we are graced with a jump to the present. Instead of listening to John’s insights that we see paralleled with how he learned them in the past, we instead get seemingly random political unrest from an old man. It’s perfectly reasonable to be mad about Reagan. It’s not reasonable to try to score points with the audience for holding similar opinions.

Comedies can be deep, but often all comedies come back to their roots. While lots of famous shows centered around laughs such as Tom and Jerry, Dumb & Dumber, or even The Office, revolve around making the audience laugh through slapstick humor, idiotic or nonsensical characters, or the results of boneheaded decisions, a newer brand of comedy has subtely made its way into the mainstream. This newer brand of comedy doesn’t focus on absurdity as much as it focuses on the mind of its consumers. The main question for the comedian becomes “what is the audience expecting?” instead of “what’s something so stupid anyone can laugh at?”

This cultural shift started with one movie: Monty Python and the Holy Grail. While Monty Python doesn’t lack absurdity, absurdity is no longer the main focus. Sometimes a joke, gag, or reference may go over the head of the viewer, only to smack them right in the face 10 seconds after the punchline. What makes this brand of humor better and more fulfilling to the viewer is the attention from the audience and the specific audience it requires. To call Monty Python and the Holy Grail ‘niche’ is a bit of an understatement, yet those who fit the bill in terms of “who it was intended for” generally love the movie. While it may require more focus, the audience gets more out of it as a result. The same could be said for John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany.

When I read on the back cover of this boring looking novel that was handpicked to torture me this summer for AP English, I scoffed. “Roomy, intelligent, exhilarating, and darkly comic,” according to the Los Angeles Times. How can a book chosen by my English teacher be funny? Was the main thought circling around my head. Boy, was I wrong.

It’s obvious John Irving wants the reader to pay attention. Throughout the early chapters of A Prayer for Owen Meany, I found myself laughing my ass off. I understand it may be hypocritical for me to explain to you how intellectual and dark humor is more fulfilling and then tell you my favorite part was when Owen rasped “YOUR MOTHER HAS THE BEST BREASTS OUT OF ALL THE MOTHERS,” but what I found more funny about this statement isn’t Owen’s use of the word BREASTS in all caps, although hilarious. It’s John Irving’s beautiful understanding of his audience’s mind. 

John Irving understood his audience very well in A Prayer for Owen Meany. This is evidenced by his wordplay and more importantly, the way he paves the reader into expecting one thing and being hit by the other. Before we hear Owen praising Johnny’s mother’s breasts, we have the background that Owen is “angelic” to Johnny and that Owen is the sole reason for Johnny’s faith. This would lead any reader into thinking Owen would be a role model in society, the kid you want YOUR kid to be like. 

This paving of ideas leads to even funnier scenarios too. For example, Hester, Johnny’s cousin that is “pretty but not too pretty” and is described as manlier than Johnny and Owen, is Johnny’s first real girl to sexualize. This is obviously really weird and contributes well into the darker side of Irving’s comedy, but what is more important and more interesting is the ratchet game of hide-n-seek they play in the closet. Because the game revolves around Hester, the only girl, grabbing the boys “doinks” before she is found, and Johnny & Owen obviously find Hester attractive, it seems Irving is going to lead us into a very unsettling place when Owen is crawling near Hester, in the dark, with his doink seemingly about to be grabbed by a foreign presence he just met but finds attractive. Immediately as I got too scared to keep reading, I was greeted by Owen literally pissing on Hester because he got startled when she picked him up and tickled him instead of grabbing his doink. Thank God Irving is a dark comic and not a pedophilic maniac who writes books in his spare time.