An Analysis of the Characters in The Glass Menagerie

[WARNING: This contains MAJOR spoilers]

Hello Friend, today’s post is going to revolve around the characters of “The Glass Menagerie”, a memory play written by one of the three foremost playwrights of the twentieth century, Tennessee Williams. Williams was a genius! I don’t agree with his views on every subject [his views were pretty nihilistic, and he always depicted life as something dreary and dreadful. His plays were a means of venting his negative emotions. They always give me something to think about, and I’m really glad I read “Sweet Bird of Youth”—this was my introduction to Williams]. The Glass Menagerie contains strong autobiographical elements, featuring characters based on the author, his overly emotional mother, and his mentally fragile sister. This post is mainly going to be about the characters, but I’m just going to give you a brief summary of the play as well [so you know what I’m talking about, haha.] It’s set in the small, unobtrusive town of St. Louis in the United States of America, 1937. There’s this young man [in his early twenties] called Tom Wingfield; he has a slightly older sister, Laura, who is crippled and extremely reclusive. Their mother, Amanda Wingfield, has been raising the two of them single-handedly for sixteen years, ever since their father “fell in love with long distance” and left them to fend for themselves. Tom is the main bread earner of the family [Amanda works as well.] Throughout the play, it is seen that this family is completely dysfunctional; Amanda constantly nags her children—especially Tom—and Tom sometimes goes out of his way to aggravate his mother, while Laura, poor Laura, desperately tries to keep the peace. None of the three characters are willing to face the reality of their situation: they are extremely poor and hardly able to make ends meet, but they insist on living in a world of their own creation, particularly Laura. There’s another seemingly minor character, Jim O’ Connor, the “gentleman caller” whom Amanda has been expecting for a while [she wants Laura to be married off as soon as possible, as Laura is completely dependent on her mother and brother for aid of any kind; she is not able to do much by herself.] Now, let’s move on to a proper analysis of the characters!

Tom Wingfield

Tom Wingfield is the narrator and protagonist of The Glass Menagerie. His style of narration is quite unique, as he seems to be looking at his past through a screen; he frequently talks to the audience directly, and cites this play as a “memory play”, as he is drawing upon his memories and presenting them in the form of a play. He can be seen as an unreliable narrator; in fact, in the beginning, he warns the readers that everything they see may not be as it seems. He opens this play with this memorable quote: “Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. In this respect, I am not unlike the stage magician. However, he gives you illusion in the guise of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant guise of illusion.”  Tom is a very complex, multi-faceted character, as he frequently struggles with himself and his indecisiveness; he feels greatly burdened and pressurised as he is the main bread earner of the family; he has to look after his mother and sister. Though Mr. Wingfield has left them sixteen years ago, his presence still looms over the house; Tom yearns to follow in his father’s footsteps and leave his mother and sister once and for all. Tom is in now in a position far beneath him: he is working at a shoe warehouse. His earnings are not enough to support all of them, forcing his mother to work as well. He is an aspiring poet, and earnestly wishes to propel himself out of the harsh reality which he finds himself in. Few people know about his literary pursuits. Due to his mother’s constant nagging, he has grown rebellious and restless; however, he initially finds himself unable to follow his father due to a strong sense of duty and responsibility [as well as his mother’s emotional blackmailing.] At the end, after a massive row with her, he decides to leave them for good; he loves his mother and sister, but the responsibility is too much for him [I don’t exactly blame him.] Shortly after, he gets fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoebox. This is the last time his mother and sister see him. Though Tom has left them, he feels guilty about his decision, and is haunted by the face of his sister, Laura. To signal the end of the play, he asks her to “blow the candles out.”

Amanda Wingfield

Amanda Wingfield is one of the most important characters of The Glass Menagerie. She is the emotionally unstable mother of Tom and Laura Wingfield. As I stated before, she’s been raising them single-handedly for the last sixteen years after her “charming” husband walked out on her and the kids. Amanda is understandably bitter about having been left on her own; she loves her children and wants the best for them, but finds fault with everything that Tom does, and is a perfectionist. She is aware of the fact that she and her children are hardly able to make ends meet, and attempts to cope with her situation by delving into her past as a much-desired Southern belle; this typical “faded Southern belle” character type has consistently been seen in several of Williams’ works, particularly in “A Streetcar Named Desire.” However, the woman in “A Streetcar Named Desire”, Blanche DuBois, is actually psychotic and delusional, whereas Amanda is merely in denial. She could’ve had her pick of men, yet she chose Mr Wingfield, who abandoned her—this awareness makes her all the more bitter, and she wants to spare her daughter, Laura, such pain. Being unable to move forward in life is one of Amanda’s biggest weak points. She is unwilling to let go of her glorious past. Moreover, she is afraid that Tom will, someday, leave them to fend for themselves; he does leave them eventually. Though Amanda seems dreamy and silly, she displays astonishing pragmatism at times; she knows full well that uneducated, unemployed, unmarried girls get palmed off onto grudging relatives who have to support them financially. She does not want Laura to go through something so degrading. Though Amanda is not a very sympathetic character in the beginning [as seen from Tom’s perspective], as the play progresses, the audience gradually begins sympathising with her. She does have a massive victim complex and tends to over-react, but this does not take away from the sympathy the audience feels for her. At the end of the play, she is seen comforting Laura after Tom walks out on them; her silliness is gone, and she seems dignified and beautiful in a surreal way.

Laura Wingfield

Laura Wingfield is another major character in The Glass Menagerie. The title [I’m sure you’ve all been wondering about that for a while now] refers to her prized collection of tiny glass animals; Amanda calls them a “menagerie”. Laura is most likely based on Williams’ sister, Rose. Laura is depicted as a quiet, quaint, conservative and rather “odd” girl; she also has a slight physical defect [she is crippled and walks in a somewhat awkward fashion.] This has dealt a severe blow to her self-esteem, as she is aware that she is “different” from other people; she has a massive inferiority complex. She is a very perceptive girl, and is incredibly close to her brother. The Glass Menagerie is a play that establishes a thin, but firm, boundary between reality and illusion; however, Laura is entirely in a world of her own creation. She is too frail to face the harsh reality which she and her family are living in, and she has created a make-believe world as a coping mechanism [though she is hardly aware of this herself.] All the animals in her “collection” are as fragile and oddly beautiful as herself; glass reflects a myriad of marvellous colours if the light falls on it in a certain way. Similarly, Laura is extremely beautiful when viewed by people who understand her peculiarities; sadly, no one really understands her [Tom and Amanda are puzzled by her behaviour at times, too. Indeed, I’m sure that even she hasn’t figured herself out. She sort of just drifts along, existing without actually living—if you get what I mean. I know I’m not making much sense here.] The little glass unicorn, her personal favourite, symbolises and mirrors her own state of mind; different from everyone, not meant for this world at all [in short, otherworldly], beautiful but strange, and so fragile you could shatter her just by holding her close.  She is so socially inept that she has given up education because of her deep-seated terror of interacting with people; this annoys her mother no end. At the end of the play, the glass unicorn’s horn ends up getting broken; this symbolises all that has been taken from and broken in Laura. Her spirit, frail enough already, has been completely shattered by the “gentleman caller”, Jim O’ Connor. She gives him the broken unicorn as a “souvenir”, suggesting that, in its current state, it befits him more than her. [I’ll be getting to what he did to her soon. Just be patient!] There is another symbol used for her in the play—blue roses; a tribute to Rose. Just like Laura, blue roses stand out due to their unique beauty and grace—however, this is all just superficial. Their beauty, is not actual, not lasting. It withers quickly. Laura may seem extremely pretty initially, but her beauty fails to leave a deep impact on people.

Jim O’ Connor

Ah! The “gentleman caller”! [OK, even I know I’m milking the gentleman caller thing a bit. A gentleman wouldn’t actually have done what he did to Laura.] Jim is an old high school acquaintance of Tom and Laura. He was a popular athlete and actor during his days at Soldan High School. Subsequent years have been less kind to Jim, and by the time of the play’s action, he is working at the same shoe warehouse as Tom. His hunger to shine again is depicted by his study of public speaking and ideas of self-improvement; he regularly attends night school and has a very cheery, “can-do” kind of attitude. Jim and Laura engage in conversation, and he compliments and kisses her—only to tell her, immediately afterwards, that he is engaged. Engaged! And getting Laura’s hopes up like that!  Well, that’s the last straw for her. She gives him the broken unicorn, and he quickly leaves. That’s the last we see of him [thankfully.] That’s all I can write for him, really.

Isn’t this an extremely interesting play?

That’s all for now! See you next time!

Thank you! I hope you liked my article!

Home Burial

Hello Friend, I was really missing Robert Frost [heh heh], so today’s post is going to revolve around an excellent poem of his: Home Burial. It’s not a very well-known poem at all—in fact, it’s pretty obscure, and if I hadn’t had to study it, I probably wouldn’t have known of it either. This poem is seriously slept on, though. It’s not everyone’s up of tea—it’s an extremely dark, morbid, sad poem, full of pain and bitterness and sorrow [the title is Home Burial, after all]. It’s one of Frost’s longest poems and has been written in a narrative style, with no rhyming scheme; in this sense, it can be compared to his other narrative poems, such as  The Death of the Hired Man and  The Black Cottage. [If you’ve read my post on Robert Frost’s themes and poetic devices, you’ll remember that I’ve mentioned Home Burial in it.] I really love how this poem explores an extremely tense conversation between a couple who have lost their baby not long ago. They have different ways of coping with their loss [ I’ll explain in detail soon]; each misunderstands the other, leading to a massive rift between them. Home Burial symbolises two deaths—the death of a child and the “death” of a marriage. The two characters of this poem are both very complex, and the readers can clearly see and interpret the poem through their eyes. Their clashing view-points make this poem extremely interesting [I cried a little after I read it the first time. That’s how good this poem is.] Best of all, it has an ambiguous ending! I love it when Frost just puts his pen down and leaves the readers to figure out the conclusion themselves!

As the poem opens, the wife is seen standing at the top of a staircase, mournfully gazing at her child’s grave through a window. Her husband, standing at the bottom of the stairs, does not immediately realise what she is looking at and questions her; she is distraught as what she sees as his “apathy”; and rejects his attempts to communicate with and reach out to her.  She verbally lashes out at him, and attempts to leave the house; he pleads with her to stay, asking her to talk to him and lighten her weight by confiding in him. He does not understand what it is he does that offends her or why she should grieve outwardly, even though it has been a while since they lost their child. For her part, she cannot understand his composure, and resents him for it: “Friends make pretense of following to the grave, but before one is in it, their minds are turned and making the best of their way back to life and living people, and things they understand. But the world’s evil.” She’d rather denounce the world than accept the fact that her grief is crippling her; she can’t keep mourning forever, though of course her loss is irreparable. A part of her realises, however unconsciously, that her grief is devastating and impractical; she does not want to admit this, though. This outward display of her unbearable sorrow is the only way she can deal with her loss. She does not want to return to the “world of the living”; she doesn’t want to return to life, she doesn’t want to be a “false friend”. She is clearly extremely emotionally unstable, and though her husband insists that talking to him will relieve her somewhat, she does not believe in the power of communication as much as he does.

The husband, on the other hand, has a very different way of coping with his grief. It’s his loss as much as hers.  However, in his case, there’s no outward display of grief; being a farmer, he chooses to find solace by immersing himself in his work. His wife berated him for digging his child’s grave with his own hands; she took it as another example of his callous unconcern.  But you, dear reader, know that’s not the case, don’t you? She did not understand his way of dealing with it, of keeping his pain hidden and bottled up… it’s really sad how these two just don’t get each other. Digging that grave was something he wanted to do for his child, rather than simply handing over the unpleasant task to someone else. It was a form of service for the baby. He’s a farmer—he has a very pragmatic, grimly philosophical ideology, with the cycles that make up a farmer’s life, and an organic view of life and death. At the end of the poem, the wife, who has worked herself up into a mighty temper, storms past him and out the door, while he calls after her and threatens to bring her back by force, leaving the readers to wonder what happens next; it’s really quite open to interpretation, isn’t it? Their shared sorrow should’ve brought them closer, but it just drove a wedge between them—and both of them are at fault. The man does try to understand his wife to some degree, but soon gives up and becomes confrontational towards the end.

You know, dear reader, there’s a subtle power struggle in this poem. I didn’t realise it the first time I read it, because it’s so unobtrusive at first glance; but when I re-read it, I picked up on it pretty fast.  At the beginning of the poem, the woman is standing at the top of the staircase and the man is standing by the door, between her and freedom. She’s basically trapped. Initially, the man uses this to his advantage, advancing on her until she cowers under him; however, a swift role reversal is noted when during their highly charged and heated exchange, the woman rapidly regains her courage and slips past the man, going up to the doorway and intimidating him with just a look: “she turned upon him such a daunting look that he said twice over before he knew himself, “Can’t a man speak of his own child that he’s lost?” Woah—cowering under him and then frightening him half out of his wits with just a glance! You go, girl! Now that she’s close to the door and the man is at the top of the staircase, power has passed from his hands to hers.  I bet you weren’t expecting her to have the hand in this power struggle so soon! At the end of the poem it is seen that she has achieved the freedom she so badly wanted; she has thrown the door open and exited the house, and it is implied that her husband’s threats are futile.

Isn’t this an extremely interesting poem? I hope my post has done it justice!

That’s all for now. See you next time!

Thank you! I hope you liked my article!

An Analysis of Dystopian Fiction

[WARNING: This contains MAJOR spoilers]

Hello Friend, today’s post is going to revolve around dystopian fiction. As you probably know already, dystopian fiction is one of my favourite genres. I really like the way it explores and exposes the flaws of our society through a futuristic, gruesome setting; I believe that dystopian books are a great way to get your point across if there’s some issue, no matter how small, that you want to see resolved.  We are humans, and humans will be flawed. It’s in our nature, and this is what makes us what we are.  However, some authors tend to let their emotions carry them away, and they often forget that we can’t be goody-goody all the time—if your characters are humans, let them act like humans. Our strength is that though we may be weak and make mistakes, we learn real quick, and our mistakes enable us to stand on our two feet.  Authors usually keep this in mind while writing dystopian fiction.  When I was younger [around thirteen to fourteen years of age], I didn’t really like dystopian fiction much, mainly because it’s so blunt, dark and gritty, but now that I’m older, wiser and more experienced, I’ve realised that this is exactly why I love dystopian fiction.  Pretty sure I’ve stated this before, but I want to say it again: for a student of sociology, reading dystopian fiction is great practice, because analysing it is fun! And it’s useful, too. Besides, if you want a reliable sketch of human nature, pick up a dystopian book.

Of course, if one wants to create a dystopian world, the society and the entire setting has to be completely messed up and flawed—most authors use totalitarian governments. The population is almost always depicted as severely oppressed, and they’re searching for a reliable leader who can propel them out of the mess they’re in, and establish a democratic government. This is the gist of every dystopian book. Every author adds his or her own flair to it and uses several varying techniques to create a vast spectrum of literary effects. Really, I love every dystopian book I’ve read so far, but Battle Royale by Koushun Takami and Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro hold a very special place in my heart. I read Battle Royale purely out of curiosity [and a desire to explore dystopia thoroughly], but ended up analysing and evaluating it in an academic way [yup, that’s totally me.] Takami is a genius! No other book’s ever made me feel so many contrasting emotions at the same time—I was one with the characters, laughing with them, crying with them, and feeling the fear and pain [both physical and psychological] that they felt; they’re just a bunch of fourteen-year-olds, but they’ve been placed on an isolated island seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and instructed to fight each other to the death, gladiator style, until only one survives. Can you imagine it? Can you imagine the brutality of it all? Kids their age should be eating candy, studying hard so they can forge a path for themselves, socialising with their friends and clamouring for their parents’ attention. Instead, they’ve been given knives, ice-picks, guns and rifles of all kinds, bullet-proof vests, sickles etc., and are forced to turn on each other in order to survive. Battle Royale is an excellent representation of the uncertainty of life; it also depicts loss of innocence, as the children [well, a lot of them are more mature than their age, but they’re still just fourteen] are suddenly thrust into this killing “game”, dubbed the “Program”. [Urgh, I hate this government. I mean, who wouldn’t?] Only one is supposed to survive, but the two protagonists, Shuuya Nanahara and Noriko Nakagawa, both make it off the island in one piece [I don’t really like them much… I’m glad they’re alive, because every life is precious, but there were people who deserved to survive more than they did.] Anyway, I’m digressing here; let’s move on. Now do you see why I love this book so much? I’ve just given you a very brief summary here [I’ve written an entire post for Battle Royale before], but it’s really interesting, is it not? The author has used a multi-narrative style to allow the audience to experience the viewpoints of several different characters; I really do like this technique, but I’m a huge fan of first-person narration. The multi-narrative technique is trending now-a-days—I see it in so many books.

Never Let Me Go [I’ve written on this as well] is another piece of sheer genius [it sounds cheesy, I guess, but it’s true, heh heh]; I love it so much cause it employs first-person narration. That book is horrific in its subtlety—there are several ambiguous terms written there, like “completion” [it means death, but this isn’t revealed until much later]; “carer” [a nurse, basically—and this isn’t even “revealed”. It’s just implied]; “donor” [one of the terms that hit me the hardest.] Yes, you guessed it—the author is talking about organ donors. The book revolves around clones, and Kathy H., the thirty-six-year-old protagonist and narrator, is an extremely experienced “carer”—she has spent eleven years as one. She frequently breaks the fourth wall, talking to the readers directly; as she hails from Hailsham, a facility for clones where they were treated as humanely as possible, she is a little snobbish [just a little], and is often envied because she gets to choose the donors she will look after. Because of this, she assumes that the readers are also clones who will envy her due to her privileged status. She frequently makes statements like “I don’t know how it was where you were, but at Hailsham we had to have some form of medical every week” and “I don’t want to brag, but as I am an experienced carer and have developed a sort of ‘instinct’ around donors, I get to pick and choose the donors I want to look after. My colleagues think it’s because I’m from Hailsham, and they envy me.” Kathy’s narration adds to the darkness and horror of the book, as she has the ability to say the most awful things in the calmest, most nonchalant fashion.  Like, for example, she’ll say: “So-and-so just completed”—that’s so nonchalant, right? Completion means death.  But Kathy is a very mechanical person in general, which is why her narration is so interesting—it’s so methodical, misleading, and unreliable in the sense that her memory of some events is hazy, and she often second-guesses herself.  Her only friends, Ruth and Tommy, complete before her; she does express sadness, but the feeling passes quite fast. At the end, she is on her way to becoming a donor, too, and she has absolutely no regrets. She is serene, almost happy.  While the students were at Hailsham, Miss Emily, the head “guardian” [teacher] believed in giving the clones their childhood by not informing them of their bleak futures as organ donors; according to her, it would be best for them if they discovered it all on their own. She did not want to spoil their childhood. I understand this, of course, but I think Miss Lucy Wainwright’s approach was, in a way, better, though it seemed awfully brusque—she outright informed the children of their futures, and did not mince any words or beat around the bush. She tried to soften the blow in her own way, I suppose, but her message was very clear: the clones were meant to be only organ donors. They were not free to pursue their own dreams and aspirations. Dude, it’s a dystopian society which does not treat clones well at all, so don’t you think it’s better to let them know what lies in store for them beyond the protected walls of Hailsham? It’s kinder than thrusting them into the harsh world and letting them discover it for themselves. As it stands, the students, after the initial shock, accepted their fate with quiet resignation. Just like Battle Royale, this book causes a surge of inexplicable emotions within me; I’m sure the point that the author wanted to make was that clones can often be more human than supposedly “real” human beings [that’s what I think—this book is pretty much open to interpretation.]

There are so many great dystopian books—the Hunger Games trilogy, the Divergent trilogy, The Giver [this is a really old book, it was written in 1993]—I’m lucky to have read all of these, but Battle Royale and Never Let Me Go are books that I’ve really thought long and hard about, so I wrote about them.  I hope it was interesting and fun to read!

Thank you! I hope you liked my article!

Characteristics of a Good Fiction Book

Hello Friend, this time I’m going to write a post on what, in my opinion, constitutes a good fiction book. I’d just been idly thinking about this topic a few days back, since I’ve noticed that a lot of people don’t really know what a good book should contain—in other words, if they’re asked what makes a particular book [say, for example, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory] “good” or “readable”, they don’t have a concrete answer—they just think it’s enjoyable. I feel that every book has that “something”, some selling point, that makes it worth your time and enjoyable; it’s different for every book, of course, but there are a few common characteristics which every good book should contain; at the very least, that’s how I determine how good a book is. I’m a very picky reader, and I don’t praise books highly until I have a very good reason to do so; so why are there so many books that I love so much? That’s because they have everything that’s required—and expected—of a great book. I don’t claim to be a professional critic or anything of the sort [I’m still just a student. I’m writing this post cause I gobble up books faster than I finish my meals, and I just thought it would be fun to write something about why I enjoy reading so much). Books have opened up a whole new world of endless possibilities to me; I can completely lose myself in this world and mingle with the characters and actually see the events unfolding before my eyes… at such times, I feel that I have no earthly worries. I’ve literally felt every possible human emotion while reading certain books—happiness, sadness, angst, love [to some extent, even hatred]; I have laughed and cried with the characters [especially in The Call of the Wild. That’s such an emotionally intense book, and it shows that animals are the most faithful companions a human can hope for; but their natural habitat is the wild, and they cannot ignore their instincts. They must return to the wild, where they reign undisputed.] So please take a look at what I’m going to elaborate on: the Characteristics of a Good Fiction Book.

Fiction as a genre is very vast and expansive, right? Within this genre, there have been so many aspects that have been explored over the ages; so many diverse books have been written.  I’ll read any kind of book, but my personal favourites are fantasy, historical and mythological fiction, supernatural and occult, and dystopian fiction. I’ve always thought a lot about anti-heroes and antagonists, who are often more interesting than the protagonist; often it’s not the protag who’s my favourite character, but the one who vehemently opposes him/her, for the simple reason that that person’s motivations are more complex.

Strong, well fleshed-out characters are very important if you want your book/s to be successful. Characters are the ones who drive the plot, right? It wouldn’t be possible for the book to move forward without someone [other than the author] at the helm. It’s not necessary for the book to have “good” characters—if they’re humans, they don’t need to act like angels; but they need to be interesting. Their motivations, their dreams, their weaknesses, their strengths, their hopes, their fears—these have to be thought of beforehand. One must pay attention to all their characters, of course, but specific care should be given to the protagonists and the antagonist/s, if any [and I feel there should be an antagonist; the presence of an unconventional antagonist increases the book’s value.]  Protagonists don’t have to be easily readable either—it’s nice to see a multi-faceted, unpredictable main character; figuring them out is fun, as it’s challenging. They don’t have to be so unreadable that the reader can’t figure them out at all—no one will want to read something like that. Seeing the author gradually “unravelling” them as the book goes on is also really great—you know very little about the protag at the beginning, but by the climax, you know everything the author wanted you to. I think that Russian folktales have the most well-developed characters—they’re always very grey, there’s hardly any sugar-coating. After all, no human is completely black or white—we’re either toward the lighter side or the darker one. They’re also pretty feminist; I haven’t come across many damsels-in-distress [Marya Morevna, the infamous warrior queen, is a woman I look up to tremendously; I’m also very fond of Baba Yaga, the witch-grandmother who appears in almost every Russian story, and Ivan, the lazy fool with a massive saviour complex. Unlike typical heroes, Ivan listens to his heart more often than he listens to his mind, and he manages to escape cause he’s really intuitive and really, really lucky. So…yeah, that’s why I have a soft spot for Russian folktales!]  Another book with excellent characters is Wuthering Heights [do I even need to say that…?].  I never found Catherine Earnshaw or Heathcliff particularly relatable [I really abhor obsession of any sort], but they are undeniably well crafted; they’re among the greatest characters invented by mankind [this may seem like a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s true.] Both of them are so strong-willed, and they complement each other incredibly well, adding to the general disharmony and chaos seen throughout the book. I think contrasting characters contribute greatly to the success of a book; Edgar Linton and Heathcliff, Isabella Linton and Catherine—Bronte created the Lintons as literary foils to the wild, unrestrained and rough protagonists [though the Lintons aren’t just foils. They’re very important in their own right.]

A good, strong plot is one of the major components of an effective book. No matter what genre it is, every book needs to keep going, right? If it’s a weak plot that peters out at the climax without wrapping anything up properly, no one will be willing to read it. It’s not always necessary to wrap everything up, because some authors prefer “open endings”—ambiguous endings. I really like this technique myself, more so than “closed endings”; Gone with the Wind is an excellent example of an open ending. We know that Scarlett O’Hara, having lost her husband, Rhett, is determined to win him back somehow; we don’t know what she’s gonna do to accomplish this objective, though, because the book ends when she says “tomorrow is another day”.  Therefore, the ending is largely open for interpretation by the reader. It’s become quite a common technique lately, and psychological thrillers [I love psychological thrillers, especially The Girl on the Train] use open endings almost all the time. Closed endings are required, of course, every book can’t have an open ending, that would be unprofessional. Authors of historical fiction often use open endings, too. You see, I don’t have a firm definition of a good plot as such; I think it depends on the genre. What I do know is that it should be neither too fast, nor too slow. You don’t want to read that you can’t get the hang of, right? And a super-slow book will only make you fall asleep! I like fast-paced plots, but I should be able to understand what’s going on. The Scarlet Pimpernel and Battle Royale are probably the best examples of this [read them and you’ll see what I’m saying.]

I forgot to mention this earlier [sorry!] so I’ll say it now—a catchy title is vital. If the title is intriguing, you’d automatically want to take a peek at what’s inside, right? And if the book is good, you end up sitting through it without even realising it. “Wuthering Heights”, “The Scarlet Pimpernel”, “Never Let Me Go”, “The Death of Koschei the Deathless”, “Treasure Island”, “The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde”—all of these are incredible titles, right? Don’t you feel like reading them at least once? …All right, let’s move on…

The style of narration.  I really like first-person narration; first-person narration manages to beak the fourth wall easily, like in Never Let Me Go; besides, I think that the readers automatically feel more connected and comfortable when it’s a first-person narration. [I certainly do.] First-person narration also allows the reader a deeper insight into the narrator’s thoughts and innermost feelings. I know that first-person narration has limitations—one can only narrate what one saw; third-person narration does not have this limitation, but in third-person narration, it’s not that personalised, and you don’t have that much access to the narrator’s personal feelings. Third person narration is more about the narrator’s observations, while first-person narration is way more personalised.

That’s all for now. See you next time!

Thank you! I hope you liked my article!