Local color in Garland's Up the Coulee and Frederic's The Damnation of Theron Ware

Naturalism in Call of the Wild and a New England Nun

Literary categorization is both an important and oftentimes maddening venture in studying literature. It allows one to examine a text within a specific context, namely historical or stylistic, and thus compare it to other works based on the assigned category or chosen context. The issue is that categories often have overlapping elements, and the differences among these categories are often minimal or arbitrary, so one text or author may be simultaneously claimed as a member in more than one category and sometimes even in vastly different or seemingly contradictory categories.

Three of the major literary categories associated with American literature written during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, realism, naturalism, and local color, illustrate this problem. While some clear differences do exist among these categories, similarities and overlaps also present themselves and muddy the process of categorizing works into these genres. In this way, the burden of categorization relies on providing strong textual and contextual evidence to support labeling a text as realism, naturalism, or local color. The works of Jack London and Mary E. Wilkins epitomize texts that are variously categorized among those three aforementioned categories.

However, what makes London's Call of the Wild and Wilkins's "A New England Nun" memorable to the reader is not the tinges of realism and local color sprinkled throughout the texts, but their respective embrace of naturalism. Therefore, it is the purpose of this paper to examine Call of the Wild and "A New England Nun" within the framework of what literary critics call naturalism -- the notion that the flow of a character's life is determined more by the character's nature and environment (and the forces within that environment) than the character's volition to make things otherwise.

To start this examination it would be fitting to first demonstrate how Call of the Wild and "A New England Nun" fall in the category of both local order and realism. London's Call of the Wild begins:

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego (London 1).

There's an economy to this opening sentence that is representative of London's prose throughout the entire work. It's a simple, straightforward declarative sentence with few modifiers. And the modifiers used are pedestrian and/or gritty -- "tide-water dog" -- "strong of muscle" -- "warm, long hair." Clearly, London is not attempting to impress the reader with vocabulary or belletristic prose; instead he is trying to suck the reader into the Buck's life. It may bear mentioning that the chapter is very seductively titled, "Into the Primitive." There's trouble brewing for Buck, and this is where London directs the reader's attention.

Putting content and character before aesthetic pursuits in literature, or as they say in architecture: "allowing form to follow function," is a primary characteristic of realism. With respect to language, the goal is to create a seamless, uninterrupted experience for the reader. The words must never get in the way of the character and his/her/its plight.

In looking at "A New England Nun" it's apparent that Wilkins opts to take a different approach to the prose within her story. The reader gets a sense from Wilkins' use of language that there is a deeply embedded love of language. Wilkins enjoys writing each sentence (or so it seems). And there's a sense of purpose and meaning behind each carefully selected word.

A few sentences in to the story and she gives the reader this sentence:

"Somewhere in the distance cows were lowing, and a little bell was tinkling; now and then a farm-wagon tilted by, and the dust flew; some blue-shirted laborers with shovels over their shoulders plodded past; little swarms of flies were dancing up and down before the peoples' faces in the soft air."

Wilkins is creating a very lively and detailed backdrop for her character. However, there's a sense of excess in her prose: "blue-shirted laborers" -- "soft air" -- "dancing flies." These images are rendered with care and special attention. But are these details relevant or critical to the story? Does it matter that the laborers are wearing blue shirts or that the air is soft? Of course these questions can be debated, but the reality is unlike London's description of the dogs that are in demand, these backdrop details do little to inform the reader about the protagonist or the central conflict of the story. To borrow a common phrase from the movie business, it's "bonus material." This extra bit of context within the story is one of the traits of local color. Wilkins not only wants to tell a story, but she wants to engage the five senses of the reader. She wants the reader to experience the protagonist's environs to a degree that wouldn't exist if portrayed in a truly prosaic manner.

As far as prose is concerned, Call of the Wild more accurately depicts a realist approach to literature whereas "A New England Nun" is more representational of local color. However, to pigeonhole either work to one category or the other is a mistake. As mentioned they both exhibit traits of local color and realism.

To give an example of how Call of the Wild uses elements of local order, one should consider the dialogue London uses. For example, here is an exchange between two men describing the man in the red sweater:

"He's no slouch at dog-breakin', that's wot I say," one of the men on the wall cried enthusiastically. "Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays," was the reply of the driver, as he climbed on the wagon and started the horses.

In this rather inconsequential exchange between two denizens of the dog trade London shows some local color. For starters, he writes his dialogue to mimic the vocalizations and accents of the local people. Changing "dog-breaking" to "dog-breakin'" and "what" to "wot" is done to express the provinciality of the speaker. The reader understands immediately that the man is not a sophisticate; he is - in all likelihood - a man of little means.

Moreover the second man's use of the word "cayuses" is done to emphasize the regional dialect. At this point in the story, Buck is on his way up north to Alaska via the West Coast. The term cayuses is part of a regional dialect in the Pacific Northwest, it traces its roots back to the Cayuse People (Native Americans). Cayuse means Indian pony. While the word cayuse may be foreign to the reader, the reader is not distracted by the word. Even if the reader doesn't know the meaning cayuse, the context in which the word is used allows the reader to imagine that "Druther" -- presumably the man in the red sweater -- is very good at taming animals. But because London chooses this particular word, he adds a regional layer to the story (without compromising the flow of the narrative). He allows one word and a few misspelled words to give his story some local color.

In looking at the dialogue used by Wilkins in a "New England Nun," it's clear she takes a more realist approach. Unlike her narration, which is filled with bits of local color, her dialogue tends to be rather simple and straightforward. Compared with some of the dialogue in Call of the Wild, Wilkins dialogue lacks the same overt sense of uniqueness. For example, here is an exchange between Louisa and her would-be suitor Joe:

"Well, this ain't the way we've thought it was all going to end, is it, Louisa?" said Joe. She shook her head. There was a little quiver on her placid face. "You let me know if there's ever anything I can do for you," said he. "I ain't ever going to forget you, Louisa." Then he kissed her, and went down the path.

Aside from the word "ain't" there's no attempt to implant a regional term or detail to imply otherness. Instead, this exchange is written plainly. But the action of the scene is pretty heart-rending considering what has happened. Part of the reason why this particular exchange has gravitas is that Wilkins chooses to write away from the action. After Joe asks her that question, and the infidelity and the end of the relationship sets in, there's obviously a flurry of emotion boiling beneath the surface of Louisa, and instead of going into detail and expressing everything Louisa is feeling, her emotion is manifested tersely in a "little quiver on her placid face." This understated manifestation of emotional toil is certainly characteristic of realism. Somewhat ironically, the fact that it is understated and not finely wrought makes it all the more powerful. It has been argued, that less is often more. And this is perhaps a perfect example of that, especially the way the scene ends: "Then he kissed her, and went down the path." (Honestly, what more needs to be said?)

Now that it has been established that both Call of the Wild and "A New England Nun" have elements of both realism and local order, it's time to present them in terms of their most powerful literary attribute, categorically speaking (of the three aforementioned literary categories): naturalism. As mentioned, naturalism in literature is the notion that social conditions, heredity, and environment unalterably impact and shape human character. Both Buck and Louisa are limited and forged by the social conditions that surround them, their heredity and environment.

Buck's transformation from a semi-slothful house pet to a high-octane sled dog is prompted not by his own free-will - Buck never really decides to become the leader of the pack - but by his subjugation. When Buck is taken in by his new owners and they force him to pull a sled, he has very little recourse. In fact, it comes down to a simple choice for him: Adapt or Die. Instinctively Buck chooses the former and what results is an atavistic regression toward primordial behaviors that help him to survive and ultimately succeed in his new environment.

London describes this process of losing one's domesticity beautifully in the novel. It reads,

"This first theft marked Buck as fit to survive in the hostile Northland environment. It marked his adaptability, his capacity to adjust himself to changing conditions, the lack of which would have meant swift and terrible death. It marked, further, the decay or going to pieces of his moral nature, a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for existence (59).

The shackles of decency have been shed. And a new modus-operandi has been adopted, one that favors theft over charity, fear over love, cunning over caring, etc. all so that Buck may survive under the brutal law of club and fang. It is often said that adversity reveals character, but perhaps our philosophers had it wrong, perhaps its better said: adversity forms character.