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This is the heartache of Günter Grass' The Tin Drum:  

“We were convinced that she looked on with indifference if she noticed us at all. Today I know that everything watches, that nothing goes unseen, and that even wallpaper has a better memory than ours. It isn't God in His heaven that sees all. A kitchen chair, a coathanger, a half-filled ash tray, or the wooden replica of a woman named Niobe can perfectly well serve as an unforgetting witness to every one of our acts” (177).

The bildungsroman and picaresque forms dart toward maturity where the realist novel wanders beyond its pages. In this way, the two are like plays, exercises in set design, built upon on this formula: "[this place] looked [this way] and its [features] were exactly the color of [unexpected comparison] and [this profound change] took place here." Oskar Matzerath's tin drums are his only environmental constant, so his melancholy glances back at the Maritime Museum, Fräulein Spollenhauer's classroom, and the wintry storefronts' sliced windows have not seen everything that creates the Oskar we see in his cell and posted bed, like Jan's execution. The cursed masthead Niobe only knows Oskar for ten pages, so her "unforgiving witness" cannot condemn very much. We must ask, is his imprisonment to blame for this newfound feeling of surveillance? Regardless, at a certain point in one's life, it seems, only one's cups and books follow them, as Oskar's tin drums, or my copy of Anne Sexton's Live or Die, whose centerpiece poem, "Wanting to Die," concludes: 

"Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,

 raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,

 leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

 leaving the page of the book carelessly open,

 something unsaid, the phone off the hook

 and the love, whatever it was, an infection."

The poet's death seeps into her entire kitchen. Oskar's prison allows him to delve back into his past, with no more urgent obligations to steal his time. The Tin Drum as picaresque/bildungsroman extends only to young Oskar. For him, his mind is Niobe. For Bruno's Oskar, our narrator, the man shushed at night for his aggressive playing, the mind is a prison.

Tin Drum-JK

            “You’ll have to take my word for it…”(34) This line captures the tone of the work, the reader is totally dependent on a man with a Peter Pan-like obsession, who is locked up in an insane asylum. The immense level of detail given to us is undermined by the idea that the stories are contained within a tin drum. What is real and what has simply been created is unknown, we have to simply trust the author and try to follow the scrambled sense in which he presents himself.

            This leads to a slightly deceptive nature within Oskar’s family story. It seems as if the story being told is one that could be altered by Oskar on a whim, for he constantly alludes to the nature of storytelling, and how some stories may have different endings, yet he chooses the ones that he believes. The action of cutting up photos of himself and his friend in hopes of “creating new, and we hoped happier, creatures” captures this idea of an altered past.  The fact that he is locked within an insane asylum also begs to question the legitimacy of his stories, his wish to remain a child affects how he presents the what has happened to him and those who came before him. 

            .Koljaiczek embodies the deceptive that is mirrored by Oskar. Koljaiczek, when marrying Ana took over the life of the deceased Wranka, left behind the days of arson. The presentation of the two sides of the same man is slightly confusing for Oskar portrays them as two completely different beings, as if he really did change. Koljaiczek once burned down a mill, and now as Wranka he throws away matches leaving his family in darkness. This can be compared to the way the point of view within the story flips back and forth in a dizzying manner with the narrator and the author intermingling, leaving the reader wondering who is presenting the story. 

Cultural Influences of the Author and the Character

[Approaching Tin Drum: Objective and Subjective Criticism]

           Grass’ The Tin Drum is considered a German novel even though it takes place largely in Poland, and doesn’t much consider German mentality in its portrayal of the world (i.e. Oskar does not identify as German). Character histories and names and referred cities delve into Polish culture; Oskar even addresses the oddity of the relationship between language and surname in the second chapter: “Well, that’s enough about my grandfather regardless of whether we call him Goljaczek (Polish), Koljaiczek (Kashubian), or Joe Colchic (American).”

The protagonist of the novel is not a native German, and historical issues within the country of Germany (not those that affected the world, i.e. The Third Reich) are not discussed. Grass’ own heritage and nationality, then, are the basis for the presumption of “the German novel” category. By contrast Toni Morrison’s Beloved is classified as an American novel, but it goes beyond the life of the author: it takes place in the US, addresses social and political issues the US has faced, and questions the American ideal of “freedom”. Effectively, it is multifacetedly American because unlike The Tin Drum, it’s directly relevant to the culture it embodies in many ways.

A recent change in the mindset of literary critics addresses the issue of an author’s bias and whether scholars should study a work based on what the author intended or was influenced by, or on the work itself. Criticism is moving toward subjectivism—the emphasis of a reading being the reader’s perception of the work outside of its author’s age, gender, sexuality, race or nationality (etc.).

The authorial intent in The Tin Drum is particularly interesting because the narrator and the author, being completely different “characters”, carry with them different biases and opinions, but because one is created by the other, the former is influenced by the world view of the latter. So the matter of discussion is whether or not Oskar can accurately represent a Polish person even though he’s written by a German. Is Grass’ understanding of Poland the same as a Pole’s? How far does he stray from it? Does it even matter, if the work is straightforwardly fictional?

Largely, it rests on whether extracting the author’s intention from the equation in studying literature is the appropriate thing to do, especially when an audience that approaches a well-known, Nobel Prize-winning novel, might not be the most informed on literary criticism techniques.

In his book How to Read a Poem, English critic Terry Eagleton discusses breaking down the “meaning” of poetry into content and form (what a poem says and how we interpret what it means) as respectively objective and subjective areas of study. Regarding reader opinion of literature, he states, “We might disagree over whether someone is waving or drowning, but it is unlikely that he is doing both. Unless the swimmer has a remarkably nonchalant attitude to his death, one of us is almost bound to be wrong.” (102).

The Tin Drum’s being categorized as a “German novel” should also be considered against Hesse’s Siddhartha, which similarly does not address German issues (assuming the idea of Nazism in Tin Drum is a historical issue rather than a simply German one) and yet is not considered a “German novel”. What differentiates the two, exactly? Perhaps we should reconsider the label which, through the assumption of authorial bias, mutes the reality of the character’s world views.

Arhythmic Drumming

            In the novel The Tin Drum, written by The use of the photograph motif and the frequent shift between the first and the third person reflects the major theme of displacement and lack of agency within the novel as well as within the psyche of Oskar. We know that the novel thus far is composed of a man in a mental hospital who is recounting his youth and family history. The retelling is interspersed with photographs that the narrator illustrates for us.  Each of these photographs is of Oskar as a young boy holding his favorite toy, a small tin drum. The fixation on these concrete images illuminates his desire for something concrete, which hints at unrest in other parts of his life.

            The second thing that suggests a displacement or lack of agency is the consistent shifting between the first person narration and the limited third person. This shift can happen quite suddenly when for example, the narrator questions, “is it any wonder if to this day I can’t abide the sound of women urinating in chamberpots? Up in the attic Oskar appeased his ears with drumming” (98). While in this circumstance the shift in perspective occurs when he is speaking about his present or past self, this is not always the case. It suggests that he is aware of a fragmentation of himself, which, besides being a marker of post-modern literature, is something that suggests an imbalance.

            The novel also points to reasons behind his displacement or imbalance. For one, he is a young man growing up in Poland in the late 1930’s, and while we don’t know the outcome in this novel, history suggests that this will not end well. Additionally, the fact that he is unsure of his parentage, adds to this imbalance. The final piece of information that we get suggesting to his imbalance (and possible reason behind his stay in the mental hospital) is the sudden death of his mother. These three major changes/states of unrest lead to the instability in Oskars psyche.

Cut and Paste Photo Album

From the opening pages of The Tin Drum the narrator, Oskar is aware of the different approaches to, and kinds of, storytelling. Thus, Oskar begins his first-person narrative by wondering what exactly is the best way to start: “I found my fountain pen by my photo album in the drawer: it’s full, it won’t fail for lack of ink; how shall I begin?” (5). It seems symbolically important that the pen and the photo album should reside in the same drawer, for they are both lenses, biases of storytelling. Oskar is involved and intrigued by many kinds of stories: told through music, his photo album, his writing and through fairytales.

Grass seems to warn the reader through this comparison between the photograph and the written detail, which are equally malleable, that authors borrow, steal, they imagine, they invent, they play God and manipulate what others can and cannot see by choosing their lens. Whether the characters (maybe they were once real people) really did these things or not doesn’t seem to matter. For Oskar can tell us that he fell down the stairs on purpose, or that he shattered glass to create temptation for others, that Jesus refused to play the drum, but in all of these cases it is through the mouth of Oskar, and how can we know how reliable he really is?

            For example, Oskar and his friend Klepp have their passport photos taken regularly, not because they plan to go anywhere, but rather “we immersed ourselves…in our own strained features” (40). This self-obsession comes back to the way in which authors can manipulate the facts of reality and make stories and pictures say whatever they want them to. This is what Oskar and Klepp do as Oskar says they, “bent and folded those little pictures, cut them up with the scissors we always carried for just this purpose. We pieced old and new likenesses together, gave ourselves one eye or three, ears for noses, let our right ears speak to stay silent, browbeat our chins…Klepp borrowed details from me, I took traits from him: we were creating new, and we hoped, happier creatures” (41).

            And Oskar often does just this: explaining his grandfather’s death he refers to the multiple stories—maybe he ended up dead under the boat, maybe he escaped to Greece because he was a strong swimmer or because he was saved, or perhaps he made it to Buffalo, NY (24-25). The end result is the same in all of these stories—he is never seen again—but difference lies in the outlook, some of these stories are cynical, others hopeful.

Oskar’s grandfather, himself, was a persona, living in the guise of another human being. Oskar admires this and does so with himself: saying that he consciously chose to be what he is, that he was more Jesus than Jesus. Through the self-projection of importance and amalgamation between himself and other figures—Jesus, Tom Thumb—Oskar is able to turn himself into what he says that he and his keeper Bruno are: “we are both heroes, quite different heroes, he behind his peephole, I in front of it; and that when he opens the door, the two of us, for all our friendship and loneliness, are still far from being some nameless mass devoid of heroes” (5). But for all of this Grass keeps hinting at how the facts of Oskar’s family history could change on the page from what they were in reality, images can fall out of context, photographs can be manipulated, can only show us the window of the camera, and therefore we must deduct for ourselves what is going on and happening to either side of Oskar’s world view. 

Faith Hope Love

Faith Hope Love

In Grass’ The Tin Drum, the chapter Faith Hope Love stands out to me for a couple reasons.  I see it as one of the most beautifully written chapters with the repeating patterns and the raw emotion.  Nowhere else in the novel, so far, do we see the style found in this chapter; the repeating of, “Once upon a time”.  I think that this chapter also very much represents a turning point in the novel for Oskar’s character.  He goes from being a little boy with a glass breaking scream, to someone who has to actively search out his own drums.  However, I am hesitant to say he turns from a child figure to an adult one because Oskar still displays very childlike tendencies after this chapter.  For example, when Oskar and Jan are found by the Home Guard, Oskar sacrifices Jan for his own well-being by, “transforming the poor man into a villain who had dragged an innocent child to… use as a human shield” (229).  This is a childlike response in the way that Oskar disregards a father figure’s life to save his own.  So, while I will not say this chapter turns Oskar from child to adult, I do believe it is a turning point all the same because Oskar, at the very least, has to start taking his life into his own hands.

            I believe that this is spurred from the toy maker Sigismund Markus’ death.  Not only does this tragedy take away Oskar’s toy maker, but he also witnesses the brutal destruction of his toy drums.  He sees the drums as innocent and never having done anything to provoke violence.  Therefore he states, “I was worried about my drums.  They didn’t like my drums” (186).  From seeing the destruction of the toy shop and Markus dead at his desk, Oskar begins to question all the things he does not understand in the world.  The terror that he feels at seeing his drums destroyed makes him realize that finding new drums will be a challenge that he must take on.  No longer is his mother or Markus around to give him new ones effortlessly.  Oskar’s realization makes him take an active part in his life.  For instance, when his drum begins to ware, he takes it to Jan who he knows can fix it.  Although he does handle the situation like a child (as discussed above), at least Oskar tries to fix his drums instead of waiting for new ones to be handed to him.

No Miracle on Easter

No Miracle was a very interesting chapter to read on Easter Sunday.  I am technically a Catholic, I was baptized and confirmed and all of that jazz, but I admit I lost my faith through a series of events, such as realizing I am an outcast who can never marry in the church.  My Women’s Studies class has also done some damage to my already shaken faith.  I went to church today with my religious suitemates and had some similar thoughts to Oskar’s.  For instance, why is Jesus white?  It makes no sense, if you believe the fairy tale that the old white men have been telling for centuries, that a man from the middle east will have white skin and blue eyes.  The whole point of the Catholic religion is to have an excessive amount of power over the followers.  As a woman I am particularly offended by the fact that a woman cannot be a priest.  The brainwashing is so effective that we just accept that we are supposed to listen to the old men and call it “tradition.”  It is these powerful old white men who invented the illusion of the Virgin Mary, the perfect woman, she never has sex and yet breeds for the men.  There is nothing more impossible for girls to strive for than the Virgin Mary.  By making every woman a sinner for having sex the Catholic church keeps them guilty and powerless.  Oskar describes it well when he says, “it’s all over for that character…who looks like me yet is false” (Grass 132).  Oskar looks like this depiction of Jesus yet cannot believe in him.  There was too much proof that Jesus did not fit into his world.  I didn’t mean to make this post all about me, so I’ll write some more about the book.  Jesus the gymnast is such an interesting concept.  From a perspective not bogged down by tradition and guilt, Oskar can see the unrealistic depiction of Jesus.  He makes a joke at Christ’s expense.  I find myself wondering what Grass is trying to do with this chapter, beyond the obvious point of showing Oskar as a prophet or Christ figure.  Is he disproving all other Christ figures in novels?  

Siddhartha: Childlike

    Siddhartha starts out as a very childish character, and even though he seems to be in the middle of an enlightening and inspirational journey, so far his actions and statements remind me of a spoiled adolescent.  

    There is a lot of focus put on the idea of love within the beginning of the novel, and Siddhartha’s reactions pertaining to deep emotions reflect that of a child.  The village is full of people who love Siddhartha yet his view is quickly explained.

“He had started feeling that his father’s love, and his mother’s love, and also his friend Govinda’s love would not make him happy forever and always, not please him, gratify him, satisfy him” (5).

    This notion of lacking fulfillment is not absurd, but the following action of defying his father and announcing his departure was a bit dramatic. Siddhartha uses his father’s emotions against him “anger…apprehension…fear… sorrow” (10).  The silent treatment came across as an act of an angry teenager, and not one of a man who is ready to make his own way in the world.

    This act of defiance is similar to what Siddhartha used against the samanas.

“he caught the old man’s gaze with his own eyes…made him mute, made him will-less, subdued him to his will” (22)

    While Govinda believes that this means Siddhartha has reached a high level of spirituality the mood of the scene still does not sit well with me. He comes off as arrogant, another type of childish behavior, as he whispers Govinda to watch him as he muted the man. Soon after while Govinda is praising him, Govinda shrugs him off and calls what the samanas do mere “tricks” (23).

    The relationship between Siddhartha and Govinda is a much more complex one, even though it is laid out in simple terms within the very start. Govinda loves his friend deeply and will do anything for him. He is called his shadow and it seems that Siddhartha sees him as a constant in his life, which turns out to be an incorrect assumption. Despite the fact that Siddhartha is able to leave his parents and the samana without a second thought, when Govinda decides to stay to learn the Teaching he is lectured in what can be seen as a slightly demeaning manner.

   Such reactions to love and compassion show the childlike nature of Siddhartha, for he is unable to deal with them properly.  Despite this, I cannot discredit the character completely. There are questions asked by Siddhartha that show his thirst for knowledge, I do understand that he is struggling to discover the truth, and that he is going on a journey that I suspect will completely change him. Yet for what I have read, the quote “Beware of too much cleverness!” (34) for now at least, fits quite well.  

Poetics of Meditation

One could easily dismiss Siddhartha for Hesse’s writing style. Unlike Joyce’s Ulysses, the prose is never labored or performed, yet always belies the burden of fledgling ascetic Siddhartha’s yearning after spiritual enlightenment. Passages such as “I was willing to dismember my ego and tear it apart…but I myself was lost in the process” (36) and “One can get love by begging…but one cannot steal it” read like a sacred text, aphorisms gleaned from a life of searching (52).

We cannot pinpoint any Western darkness in Siddhartha’s dark night of the soul. In Beloved, communicating the incommunicable, only makes horror two-dimensional (Paul D's tobacco tin heart), but Hesse pares down his language to communicate, as Eastern languages such as Chinese do, the essential nature of the signified object. While wild, untamed sense experiences elude Germanic grammar’s harsh confines, Siddhartha’s dream about Govinda, limited to just over one hundred words, triumphs.

 Hesse creates a narrow brook and pours his words into it, flowing like the river the hero and his ferryman ponder upon waking. The vision is organized systematically, moving subject-verb-object, describing little because the “kiss” and the “breast” are everything a spiritual kiss and breast could be. The Govinda-cum-maiden’s breast milk “tasted of woman and man, of sun and woods, of creature and flower, of every fruit, of every pleasure…[leaving] him drunk and senseless” (46). Lyrical yet never florid, Hesse’s poetry is substantial and never delves into Beloved's awkward, jarring slam verse or Márquez’s sumptuous descriptions of Macondo in One Hundred Years of Solitude. Like the Buddha, he adopts the Eastern mode, asking his readers to internalize and reflect on the work, coloring it themselves. Simplicity is the action.