On the Bookshelf: Five Weeks in a Balloon – Its epic run-on sentences and portrayal of African tribes


You’d read this if you had your hands on this sexy book!

Five Weeks in a Balloon – the lesser known of the Voyages Extraordinaire – was published in 1863. Beginning my reconnaissance into the genre of science fiction, I thought it only venerable and appropriate to start with the novels of the man coined one of, ‘The Fathers of Science Fiction’. To start with its primordial form makes it possible to realize the full evolution of the genre from its inception to its modern forms. (More to come on that in subsequent articles.)

As an interesting side notation, Jules Verne garnered significant disapproval from the French literary community during his lifetime. Verne was type-casted as a singular genre writer; his works unworthy of academic study. Verne was attempting a new type of adventure novel – a genre that literary critics claimed could not be done. He was also regarded as a children’s fiction writer, popularized because of the circulation of abridged reprints of his novels. Sadly, it was only posthumously that Verne received the recognition he deserved.

It is curious to wonder why his novels were type-cast as science fiction (or more accurately during that time, scientific). Especially since Verne did not associate his writings with the genre of science fiction, but rather consistently denied any scientific pretext in his stories.

It was ambiguous territory then, and also now for myself as I began reading. I was unaware of the requirements of science fiction novels. A science fiction buff eloquently put it as follows: science or technology, in some form, must be integral to the plot. Now, this is a broad definition, but for the intent of this article, it will suffice.

Through that lens, Five Weeks in a Balloon is indeed a science fiction novel if only by today’s standards and definitions. Verne had written about scientific inventions before they were ever fully realized in society. He wrote, with surprising accuracy, of the innovations of hot air balloons, space travel, submarines, airplanes, rocketry, Polar exploration, and African exploration. At the time of publication, little was known to Europe about the latter.

It would be crude not to mention his goal in his unconscious creation of the science fiction genre. He wanted to “depict the earth [and] at the same time to realize a very high ideal of beauty of style”. He wanted his readers to traverse the global terrain through his novels – a noble campaign indeed.

The style of Five Weeks in a Balloon is subtly tongue-in-cheek from sentence structure to chapter organization. I attribute run-on sentences as lending themselves to comic or ironic content. Something in the monotony and ridiculous repetitiveness of someone constantly rambling on-and-on-and-on that is inherently comical. Five Weeks in a Balloon is, fundamentally, a compilation of epic run-ons, with the occasional splash of structural variation for that resounding punch line.

We have always been cautioned against the excessive use of run-on sentences. I tip my hat to Verne for ignoring the stigma attached to run-ons. Run-on sentences, when used correctly, can be a powerful literary device. This novel is the best example I have seen yet. At no point did I feel that the long-winded run-ons distracted from the plot or the fluidity of my reading. However, what I did find terribly distracting was the amount of British vernacular and science-related words used. I found myself consistently cracking open my dictionary. Does anyone really know the difference between syenite and loam? Who knew ‘caleb’ is the Hebrew term for dog? Or that ‘grog’ is/was known as a very distinct and strong concoction of alcohol, popular among sailors. My point being, though distractive, I learned a great deal about that period in history. There is no real complaint from my end.

The other point I’d like to address is Verne’s controversial portrayal of the African Tribes. His depictions can be described in one of the two ways. To our politically correct modern society, the first description of Africans being ‘barbaric’ is jarring. His implications appear to be a product of old-world views of inferiority based on the caste system.

As for what Verne had to say about the novel was this: “I wrote Five Weeks in a Balloon, not as a story about ballooning, but as a story about Africa. I always was greatly interested in geography and travel, and I wanted to give a romantic description of Africa.”

The usage of the term ‘romantic’ gives me pause as to typecasting him as an old racist.

One such commentator suggested that the novel was a satire of African exploration and the ‘traveler’s tale’. I believe this second theory of portrayal to be the more likely candidate as to how Verne meant to convey Africa, according to his sentiments.

What the commentator indicated by the ‘traveler’s tale’ is a story of ludicrous occurrences (though rooted in truth) that becomes inevitably embellished for the entertainment and esteem of the ego. We are all guilty of hyperbole in some capacity; whether it is promoting your career in the most optimistic light for a judgmental family member, or exaggerating a courageous feat (a small fire became a conflagration where two children and four kittens were rescued from the eighth story of a building).

This theory lends itself to my interpretation of Verne’s very tongue-in-cheek style of writing. I am not discrediting the first theory; I am in fact merging them. His African characters were written in a prejudiced light though I do not believe this prejudice is reflective of Verne’s opinions or want of slandering the African race. It is more likely reflective of the view of the scientific communities of that era. Looking at this novel as a product of old-world views is doing literature an analytical discredit. When the emphasis is placed on how the prejudice was used as a literary device, this novel becomes a forebearer of modern thinking. The effect of this literary device is satire, and by satirization, the author is making a commentary on society; all these homeboys on their scientific high-horses are ridiculous, and bigots to boot.

The lesser known novel, Five Weeks in a Balloon, does not disappoint. I recommend this book (and this author) to every science-fiction enthusiast, but also to those who aren’t. While major plot points are intrinsically scientific, it is, first and foremost, an entertaining read.


On the Bookshelf: ‘Slaughterhouse Five’ – The Manipulation of Structure


For those who aren’t familiar with Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, it is touted as one of the greatest American novels as well as one of the greatest anti-war novels. Whatever opinion you may hold on war in general, or more controversially Kurt Vonnegut, it was a remarkably inventive novel. An offbeat dark comedy satirizing the struggle of a veteran turned professional writer attempting to chronicle his experience of the war; (specifically, the Dresden bombing,) all with an innovative approach (or a F*&% you) to the standard structure of the novel. What I want to discuss is not the subject matter of Slaughterhouse Five but its use of structure in the book as a literary device.

Structure is the often forgotten, often neglected, red-headed-step-child of literary devices. Writers are aware of its existence and its importance in creating the overall theme of a novel, but seldom is it ever used or considered (effectively anyway) outside conventional forms. Usually, the focus is on diction, syntax, character development, irony, metaphors, etc., which is what makes Vonnegut’s heavy (and very effective) reliance on format so innovative.

Slaughterhouse Five is a brazen deviation from the ever-popular Joseph Campbell “Hero’s Journey” format. He is not a pioneer in experimenting with structure, but he did take that experimentation to the next level with Slaughterhouse Five. Vonnegut masterfully manipulates the novel’s time-space continuum with the plot’s organization.

Without too much of a spoiler, the protagonist is a war veteran and a time traveler. The novel’s structure is crafted around the premise that time is ever shifting and mutable. Vonnegut uses this premise as the catalyst to shift the focus from one story to another story throughout the protagonist’s lifetime at any moment, with or without indication. My summation of it may serve to make it sound lackadaisical, but it yields some of the most intricate and strategic organization I have ever seen. Transitions between time periods are executed seamlessly. I never felt hopelessly lost in the telling of the story. However, there were times where I found myself so immersed in one particular story that when a transition occured, I forgot why the previous had begun, and what it was building off of. In this way, I felt my confusion was intentionally incepted by Vonnegut. In this way, the seemingly loose organization and structure of time echo that of the protagonists’ struggles with time and serve as the bedrock of relatability. The structure is a blueprint that exemplifies the fleetingness and aimlessness of time that the protagonist feels. The overall theme owes itself, mainly, to Vonnegut’s deviation of conventional structure and thus, structure, becomes one of the driving literary devices of Slaughterhouse Five.

Speaking of novels that push the acceptability of a story’s structural integrity, I’d like to elucidate the novel The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by, my personal favorite, Milan Kundera. The author refers to this book as, “a novel in the form of variations.” Kundera experiments with the stereotypical structure of what makes a novel – unity by plot. The Book of Laughter and Forgetting is made up of seven unrelated parts united only by a common theme – laughter or forgetting. Literary conservatives might argue that this format is the definition of a compilation of short stories rather than one homogeneous novel. However, this is precisely the tradition that Kundera is challenging with The Book of Laughter and Forgetting – the mutable power of the novelistic form to adapt variations. Traditionally, what defines a novel is long synthetic prose. The intangible constraint that has seemingly birthed the rigid expectations surrounding the structure of a novel is popularity. Popularity guides conformity, as this is the requirement for marketability. Suddenly, we find the market saturated with the same story, devoid of imagination and teeming with repetition.

Hence, I tip my hat to authors like Kurt Vonnegut and Milan Kundera for pushing boundaries and opening doors.

The Loss Legacy of First-World Writers

I want to share an inner monologue I had while reading Milan Kundera’s The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.  As an aspiring writer gauging the merit of an established writer, this may come off as extremely self-deprecating, but this is not my intention.

I am committed to Kundera’s “legacy”. His is an apogee I may never surmount. Realistically, I thought about the level of greatness I was aspiring towards; Kundera, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Nabokov. Perhaps, my generation of aspiring writers is innately impaired. More than that, perhaps aspiring American writers (or any first-world aspiring writers) are aiming for a pinnacle that has closed its gates to us entirely. This concept stemmed from a very simple question.

What makes greatness?

First, let me establish what I perceive to be greatness versus legacy in terms of writers. The words are interchangeable, but for the sake of this argument they will take slightly different meanings.

To be considered a great writer is to be universally and timelessly acknowledged and lauded by fellow writers and academia in the field of literature, writing, and language. To have a legacy is to be withstanding throughout time, to be a milestone perhaps, but not necessarily recognized among peers or academia as a “Master of the Word”. Greatness is achieved through a prolific body or lifetime of work. Legacy can be achieved through one work that has a short burst of popularity that fifty years later might not ever be mentioned again. A distinguishing difference is that greatness is elected through popular vote and academia, whereas legacy is usually only popular vote (i.e., Twilight maintains popular vote, but the academia would not consider Stephanie Meyer a prolific or masterful writer, only an entertaining one.)

“Legacy” has another meaning; the sum of an entire lifetime’s work passed down through time. I know this gets confusing as I use this definition of the word in my opening paragraph to speak to Milan Kundera’s body of work and what it represents. Legacy is not necessarily accompanied by greatness. From here on I will use the words as I have defined them.

So, I pose again: What makes greatness?

After much deliberation over this question, this is what I came up with – experience. A writer that writes from experience or has experience to pen into their work is chapters ahead of the writer who only has imagination.

I am not discrediting imagination. It is impossible to be a successful writer without imagination, and some will argue that all writing is fundamentally based on imagination. I am not denying this or disagreeing with this. However, a writer that has experience has a perspective that one cannot imagine, simply because it is real. The reality comes through, sometimes subtly, in the diction, in the stylistic choices, in the vibrating passion underlying words.

Kundera experienced exile; Tolstoy experienced war. Perhaps the barrier between greatness and legacy is experience but also the timing of that experience. What macro hardship does the American author have to endure in this modern era? Most of a developed nation’s issues are reflections of internal or “micro issues” such as finding identity, finding happiness, finding love; certainly not revolution, famine or exile. Specifically, in America culture, we are in an era of tolerance. There is no real all encompassing dissidence. Americans are allowed to think and say whatever they please, and if everyone in the world disagrees with you – you cannot be persecuted, you cannot be silenced. There is no punishment; there is no consequence. (Note: Holes that I can foresee in this argument include the microaggressions and continued discriminations towards African-Americans and homosexuals. I want to make reference to these as to not seem callous but also as to why I do not consider these in this argument. I consider the struggles of the American homosexual or African-American “micro” in the global scheme of things. In America, despite skin color or sexual orientation, everyone may live with the option or potential of luxury and privilege. People who suffer from discrimination in America still have it infinitely better than in certain African or Eastern European countries.)

All the American, or first-world writer, has to offer the novel are stories about experienced micro issues and imagined macro situations. These imagined situations will be, even in the most subtle ways, evident in the novel. What makes macro situations greater than micro situations? Scope. A level of scope and understanding that cannot be imagined, only experienced. Here lies the fundamental difference between what establishes greatness.

Perhaps I will never achieve the pinnacle of Kundera because I have no understanding or experience of the macro situations that touch a nation, a world, and a people. Perhaps all first world writers are resigned to that same fate. We are born in the shadow of greatness because of the time and geographic location of our births.

Then my boyfriend derailed my dramatic train of thought by interjecting I was reaching for an excuse as to why I would fail. In which case, I have set myself up for failure before I even begin as talent isn’t confined to experience. What a killjoy… clearly he doesn’t understand that all I have are my first-world micro grievances. #FirstWorldProblems