Australia, the 1950s. June is 16, rich, and ready to fall in love. at the annual gymkhana, she finds that love:
"June wasn't listening again, because
...moreAustralia, the 1950s. June is 16, rich, and ready to fall in love. at the annual gymkhana, she finds that love:
"June wasn't listening again, because she was watching a different boy who'd come into the marquee, wearing white slacks and a tennis shirt and a look of such anxiety and blind determination that she wanted to know what it was he intended to do. He was tall and lean, his hair was mouse-coloured, and his body as much as his face gave an impression of useless, lonely haughtiness. He walked quickly about the marquee, but stopping to stand and stare, gazing angrily and longingly at the guzzling lunchers as if he yearned for them to recognize him but defied them to do so."
and so begins an awkward but almost immediately passionate romance between June and the 17 year old Benjamin.
based upon the strength of his classic Absolute Beginners - which is one of my absolutely adored favorite novels - i like to consider Colin MacInnes one of my favorite authors, and so over the years i've been slowly collecting and reading all of his works. i love his idiosyncratic writing style, his warmth and his verve, and i feel a real connection to both his curmudgeonly humanism and his open bisexuality. he's one of those authors i would have loved to have known.
June in Her Spring is his first work of fiction and, unfortunately, it shows. the novel does have plenty of strengths: it creates a vivid portrait of a particular time & place in Australia (with a first to me: snooty sheep farmers! huh); it includes many smart little snapshots of various supporting characters whose personalities and histories and aspirations are conveyed in the space of a few sentences; it captures that feeling of being young and wanting to live your dreams NOW NOW NOW; and it occasionally showcases MacInnes' skill at crafting prose and narratives that are loose, offbeat, herky-jerky, and tender yet tough-minded. the talent is clearly present - although at this point, not quite fully formed.
but the debits outweigh the credits. perhaps MacInnes was too close to his subject matter? June herself is often charming but also rather unpleasantly bland; Benjamin is occasionally sympathetic but for the most part he is a somewhat repugnant and unappealing character to be stuck with for the length of the novel. two key characters - June's feckless older brother and Benjamin's controlling guardian - are portrayed in such a repellent way that their every appearance gave me a feeling of nausea. but most egregiously of all is the distinctly hysterical take on - in the words of the back cover synopsis - "the heritage of madness and homosexuality which would destroy their innocent love". ugh! the hysteria just became too much for me, and when combined with a surprisingly sour and abrupt ending, i was left with a lot of irritation and dissatisfaction after reading the last page. ah well - can't win 'em all, i guess. sad sigh.(less)
i saw Dusty reading this and asked him what it was all about. he said it was hard to say, it was about life and people and what a countertop looks lik...morei saw Dusty reading this and asked him what it was all about. he said it was hard to say, it was about life and people and what a countertop looks like and what a place feels like and how people think or not-think. at least i imagine that's what he said, its been a month or so. he also said that Steinbeck was his favorite author. he finished reading the book and then gave it to me. i would say that Dusty is my friend, sure, why not.
The Wayward Bus is about a bunch of people in post-WW 2 america. it features a pimply and testosterone-filled youth, a homely waitress, a smokin hot stripper, a conformist old executive & his quietly manipulative wife & their independent daughter, an angry old man, a war vet turned traveling salesman, a horrible and self-loathing wife and her husband - a "man". at least that's how Steinbeck takes pain to describe him, repeatedly. what is a "man"? have i met one? anyway, all these people met up at a diner and most of them get on a bus together, and that's the novel. The Wayward Bus is about Wayward People. or more specifically, people who are in transition or who want to be in transition or who are experiencing a moment in their lives where transition could potentially happen, if they let it. if that transition is the right thing to do. what is "the right thing to do"? i don't know.
Dusty is my BIL's younger brother. he seems to always be in transition. what is he doing right now? i don't know. i see him during the Christmas holidays, we usually crash in my sister's living room, we watch our nephews open gifts, we drink some drinks, we have Christmas dinner together, we go our separate ways. before Christmas i usually take him and the rest of the family out to a really nice dinner. that's my Christmas gift to them all. it is the kind of anonymous 'expensive' gift that is very easy for a bachelor like myself to give. all it requires is a lot of money and very little thought. Dusty gives me good gifts for Christmas. he thinks about his gifts; they are meaningful, and personally meaningful to me. he has the gift of giving thoughtful gifts. i think i used to have that gift as well. did i lose it?
Steinbeck is a brilliant writer, let's just get that out of the way. his prose is genuinely amazing. cliche time: he is a painter using words. his writing absorbed me - but a depressing kind of absorbing. he describes these characters inside and out, you know what they look like and how they will react in a given situation. he contextualizes them. he supplies the macro and the micro. he beautifully describes these characters' surroundings, natural or man-made, the history of a particular setting, what it looks and smells and feels like, the resonance of a place. he moves from that to what a countertop looks like, a small and under-furnished room, a bus (lots & lots of bus!), a cave, a barn, an abandoned house. my God, the man describes the inner life of a fly right before it is crushed! the novel feels both big and small. he gets into these characters' heads, he shows the why and the how and the what-if of their waywardness, their possible and impossible transitions and journeys. he makes you know them. even the angry old man - even he gets his reason why, his context, his pain & fear & longing, even he is made whole for the reader. for some readers, he makes you love them, or at least able to empathize with them. but not for this reader. thanks to Steinbeck, i "know" them. i guess. but empathize? probably not. they seem to exist solely to carry out the stereotypical functions of their gender, to obsess about sex, about power, to dream of freedom, to dream big and then act small. i don't like these characters. are lives really so small? maybe it is a smallness in me that refuses to recognize their needs and desires as my own, to dismiss them as "stereotypes". i suppose. so yeah, Steinbeck is a brilliant writer. he makes me understand these characters enough to make this reader's skin crawl at the thought of them.
Dusty is in the military. sorta. he's out now but still connected. he's young and handsome so they feature him in videos on youtube where he explains how the military counters terrorist threats and how to use various weapons. Dusty has been in Iraq. Dusty is a Buddhist. i think. he appreciates eastern philosophies and dislikes material possessions and wants to work with his hands, preferably in nature. i don't know if he has Big Goals in his life but he is a thinker. he thinks and then he switches up his life. then he thinks again, and switches it all up again. he is a Wayward Bus kinda guy.
i am not a Wayward Bus kinda guy. this is an incredible book in many ways but i did not connect with it. i don't appreciate its take on human nature. it depressed me, these characters depressed me. sometimes i look at things like The Wayward Bus and am reminded that i may have smarts but i don't think i have a lot of depth. i am content and usually just want to be left alone. i'm not Wayward, i'm the opposite, i'm here to stay. i look at these characters and sometimes they are like bugs to me, like that fly getting crushed in that cake. Dusty looks at them and he sees real people. he empathizes with them, their situation resonates with him, he connects. why is that? i look at Dusty and i see a real person. don't i? what is a real person anyway.
despite all the wayward and meandering existential angst above, i think this is a brilliant book. you should read it. i loved it and yet i didn't like it very much. you can love something without liking it, right?(less)
i thought Angela was handing me a flute full of bubbly champagne but it turned out to be a glass of spicy vinegar from a jar of pickled peppers &...morei thought Angela was handing me a flute full of bubbly champagne but it turned out to be a glass of spicy vinegar from a jar of pickled peppers & sausages. Angela, you vicious trickster. still, i found the taste to be surprisingly interesting. maybe not refreshing or pleasing to the taste buds... but interesting! i quickly finished the whole glass.
Love - a title steeped in so much sick irony, given the novel's cruel narrative and its wintry themes - is about an insane young lady, her beau, his demented brother, the apartment that all three share, and how lives just go on no matter what. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, Hey! it is set in late 60s London (i presume - i think the city is nameless) within that special milieu that exists on the outskirts of many colleges - an artsy, ambisexual, insular, young, messy milieu. it stars: a charmless young miss who comes from money & paints surreal landscapes over all of her walls and who is clearly both bonkers and toxic (our heroine!); a perfectly nice young man who is pleasing to the eye and who just wants to be happy and who has an arsenal of disarming smiles and who ties up and beats his girlfriend when she irritates him (our hero!); an animalistic brother who has decided to continually live in his school of hard knocks and who does eventually call for an ambulance after he finds a person who has tried to commit suicide - but not until he takes a few cool snaps (our villain?). the plot is pretty much the detailing of the strange, disturbing dance between the three. what is Love and what is it saying about "love"? honestly, nothing that i want to know. i don't believe in its perspective!
if you love Angela Carter as much as i do, you will find much to enjoy in this novel. her language is as brilliant as ever, full of evilly sardonic non sequitors and stylized dialogue and lots of surprising bits of characterization and of course imagery that is surreal, hyperreal, unreal, and grimily realistic. the writing is so offbeat that at first i thought all the characters and scenarios were meant to be postmodern constructs and a series of dream scenes. but nope, this was actually a "contemporary" novel dealing with actual characters and their relationships. shudder! i lived in a world like this for a few years and thank God it was nothing like Love's Inferno.
i suppose i should say what i think this novel is about so that this "review" is actually a review and not a book report. but i don't wanna. i don't believe in Carter's analysis of love and relationships. too bitter, cynical, demeaning, etc. well she did write this when she was 30 or so and i was probably prey to the same feelings at that age. wasn't i? i don't remember; i probably was taking too many drugs at the time, much like the characters in this book. but even if i don't agree with Carter's vision, her phenomenal and thoroughly idiosyncratic skill at constructing berserk narratives & her use of language that is full of nuance and spikiness & her ability to tell stories that read like diabolical fairy tales are all entirely in place. and so Love is quite enjoyable. a perverse kind of enjoyable, but hey i find my enjoyment in many different kinds of places.
look upon Angela Carter:
she's beautiful and she looks like she could kill you just because it may be an interesting thing to do. or not, as she may have some gardening to finish up that is even more interesting. ::sigh:: my kind of gal!
my 80s edition of Love contains an amusing afterward by the author. it's not really even an afterward. it is Angela Carter, many years later, showing a bit of affection towards her younger, cynical self, and imagining the eventual destinies of all the novel's surviving characters. the difference between the two Carters is profound. the author of Love wants to turn the world inside out and is high on her own cracked, brilliant malevolence. the author of the afterword is still cracked and brilliant but has replaced that malevolence with a kind of empathy, a kind of kindess, a clear-eyed and unsentimental wisdom. i want to grow up to be that kind of Angela Carter.
my first review of 2013! hopefully not all of my reviews this year will be as long-winded. but the author really deserves me going on a bit. Happy New Year!(less)
these french writers and their fragile lives enclosed in steely armour. the cliche is Passion but my experience has been Passionless Renderings of Pup...morethese french writers and their fragile lives enclosed in steely armour. the cliche is Passion but my experience has been Passionless Renderings of Puppet Lives. intellectual, tres intellectual. Ernaux does write beautifully. she also writes like the Queen of Insects, studying her insect kingdom, watching and reporting on their movements, their scurrying, their little lives. how can such a good writer be a writer who leaves me so cold? still, the style is compelling if not particularly moving. Spare. Dry. Unromantic. the novel as a brilliant analysis, as a clinical dissection - with just as much warmth. if i were to judge a country based on its books, i would assume that France is draped in perpetual winter. the novel is apparently considered a national treasure. oh, you french people. so french!
a smart young lady trying to find herself in California. the assassination of her father - America's counterterrorism chief. a portrait of Kashmir bef...morea smart young lady trying to find herself in California. the assassination of her father - America's counterterrorism chief. a portrait of Kashmir before all the ugliness and horror. the life of a man: lawyer, Jew, printer, resistance fighter, diplomat, husband, lover, father. a portrait of Kashmir - the ugliness, the horror. the life of a man: acrobat, actor, husband, freedom fighter, terrorist, chauffeur, assassin. a courtroom drama. a tale of a guy who really knows how to handle himself in prison. a troubled young lady finding love and thirsting for revenge. a miniature epic. a work that is sublime and transcendent. a frustrating book. a masterpiece!
the first section of the novel follows the life of young urban sophisticate India, a documentarian and the daughter of a famous father. right off the bat, i had issues. Rushdie's voice is justly famous for its idiosyncracy. he is a "witty" writer. his voice is polished, erudite, disarmingly casual, sometimes dry, sometimes broad, intellectual, political, personal. Shalimar is full of sharp, wry characterization that is delivered in prose that is complicated, flowing, detailed in long sentences and even longer paragraphs, with much use of striking bits of offbeat imagery. the dialogue can be realistic but just as often feels archly stylized. i couldn't help but think that many characters spoke like Rushdie himself must speak. all of this became rather off-putting, as if Rushdie was oh such a clever man - like that oh so clever gent who goes on and on at a cocktail party, entranced with being the center of attention while never noticing how genuinely pretentious and condescending he sounds (i'll admit here that that dreary kind of cocktail party person is frequently... myself. sigh). this is not to say that the first section wasn't often funny. it was. particularly in Rushdie's depiction of the all-american boy-next-door type, and that type's glorified kind of anonymity. but you can still really want to smack a funny person upside the head if their humor comes wrapped in up-his-own-ass cleverness. at least i did. and all that said, the last part of the section - an assassination and a daughter's removal from reality: brilliant. just brilliant.
the second section takes us into the past, to a Kashmiri village named Pachigam. my God, this section was beautiful! Rushdie's prose sings. the story of this village, its wonderful characters, two young people in love, the myths and legends, the magic, the rivalries, the coming of military types from India and revolutionary types from Pakistan, the stories within stories, the feeling of time moving inexorably forward, the troubling hints of bad times on the horizon, the grand passions, the small things, the humanity, the color and light and life and all the glorious details of a world that is no more... marvelous! just marvelous. i wanted to live in this world. here is also where it becomes absolutely clear how much Rushdie respects the strength of women and the power of art (art in cooking, acting, theatre; art as a tradition and a lifestyle). there is a dreamy kind of wish fulfillment happening in this section. things are not idealized and the narrative is not a sentimental one and characters are not one-dimensional - and yet this section is so full of people surviving in hard times, people living their lives to the fullest, people standing up for each other and being brave and being honest and being utterly themselves - i read this novella-sized section in a state of bliss. it is beauty on the page. i could read the story of this village over and again. swoon!
the third section is the story of Max Ophuls. his name is that of a brilliant, classic director. he has a sinister, cringing assistant named Ed(gar) Wood(s). hey that's the name of another brilliant, classic director, a low-rent one, one who exists on the exact opposite part of the film spectrum as Ophuls. is this another example of Rushdie being clever for the sake of cleverness? perhaps. it doesn't matter. this section is also fantastic. Rushdie knows how to write thrilling wartime drama. Rushdie knows how to write tales of escape and derring-do and brave flights across troubled waters. is there anything the man can't write? this section starts in World War 2-era France, the life before the war, the resistance during, the politics and the spies and the lives lived in hiding. it gives you a brave heroine as well - complicated, butch, tender, merciless, independent, an incredibly sympathetic lady, and - much later - a stone-cold bitch. then Rushdie takes you out of France, into India, and into a disturbing affair. the fall of a Kashmiri villlager turned mistress. Rushdie writes of great events but keeps the personal front and center. he keeps things intimate and he keeps his characters real. Rushdie knows how to write.
some serious spoilers follow!
the fourth section returns to the Kashmiri village of Pachigam and is a tale of horror, why is that. it details the ruthlessness of religious fundamentalism and the madness of mindless militarism and the bloodthirstiness that occurs when the two meet, why is that. it shows us traditions dying, traditions being slaughtered, small things ground under the boots of smaller minds, villages burning and women raped and people tortured and beloved characters being hurt and broken and tormented and demeaned and killed, why is that. the authorial voice remains stylized and that should lead to some distance between story and reader but if anything the wryness and the stylization and the continued use of magic make the brutality even more stark and horrible, why is that. humans are fucking miserable bugs to treat each other this way and yet that's how it is and people die and people don't care and people live to rationalize their disgusting lack of humanity and people die who only want to live and people die and people die and people die, why is that. i hate people, why is that. i read this in an airport terminal while my flight was delayed for hours and it was hard not to cry and so i took many smoke breaks to try and let the heaviness lift a little and i kept returning to the book and i started to feel a strange feeling of being altered, of looking at things from very far away, of wanting to be far away, and yeah i did start crying, why is that. i'm writing this now and for some reason the tears are flowing again, why is that. why the fuck are people so fucking cruel and why is history a record of cruelty and why should humans be alive anyway, why do they do the things they do, i will never understand that, just thinking of what humans do to each other fills me with such sadness and rage and confusing feelings that i barely understand, why is that. people are so fucked up, why is that why is that why is that why is that.
the fifth section returns us to modern day California. tale of a troubled young woman trying to be strong. tale of a man so hollowed out by his lack of love that he is nothing but a terrible shell with a terrible purpose. tale of some courtroom shenanigans. tale of a prison break. tale of a tale of a tale of a tale. things come together; things come apart. Kashmir is more than Kashmir - it is a living symbol for so many things. there is always room for love, even in the middle of vengeance. sometimes the lack of love is replaced by something else. sometimes hate is like love. sometimes things just can't be understood or explained. Rushdie tries, he really does, he tries brilliantly. his sentimental humanism is obvious in the very motivation of Shalimar the clown, who is not your typical terrorist. i don't mind the sentimental humanism; sometimes i crave it. Rushdie is a humanist who has not let the fatwa destroy his sense of decency or fairness, his need to see a person's tale from all angles, to see the why and the how of humans turning into monsters. Rushdie understands both the futility and the necessity of revenge, different forms of revenge. Shalimar the Clown ends on an exciting note. Shalimar the Clown ends on a mysterious note. what will happen next? is there any hope? perhaps i am more of a pessimist than Rushdie because he clearly has hope while i think of humans and often feel hopeless. Humans Off Earth Now! but maybe not. there's hope yet, right? it is a strange and terrible and wonderful feeling to read a book that gives and then takes away and then gives back - just a little - a kind of faith in humanity. hey look the book is bigger on the inside than the little thing you are holding in your hands.(less)
5 Stars for the wonderful opening story "The Repairer of Reputations".
although i wonder if 'wonderful' is the correct word. after all, this is a stor...more5 Stars for the wonderful opening story "The Repairer of Reputations".
although i wonder if 'wonderful' is the correct word. after all, this is a story that opens with a bizarre, sometimes dire alterna-history leading up to a 1920s America that features public "Lethal Chambers" where the dispirited meet their final destination as on-lookers gather to contemplate this terminal disportment. and after this bit of surprising strangeness, the reader is plunged right into the mind of a classic Unreliable Narrator (the poor lad struck his head after a fall from a horse and was never quite the same again), complete with insanely grandiose ambitions and malicious thoughts of revenge and devious yet doltish plans for his enemies - who are everywhere, simply everywhere! with the added bonuses of the creepy title character, various books of ill repute, and some surreal shenanigans starring a peculiarly malevolent cat. all in all, it is a bracing and imaginative bit of darkness on the page. and, to me at least, quite wonderful. the style is so breezy, the pacing so brisk, the imagination so fertile and so oddly modern, the experience was pure pleasure. it is hard to believe that this story was written over a 100 years ago.
i also enjoyed the three tales of weird horror that followed. they did the job, and they did it right. interesting and off-kilter and pleasingly sinister - but perhaps nothing to write home about. the big take-away is the idea of a monstrous play ("The King in Yellow") that horribly impacts anyone who dares read it, and which is a key element in each of the first four stories.
here's an excerpt from said monstrous play (please don't kill yourself or anyone else after reading):
Camilla: You, sir, should unmask. Stranger: Indeed? Cassilda: Indeed it's time. We have all laid aside disguise but you. Stranger: I wear no mask. Camilla: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!
hey, take a look at this cover for an edition i wish i owned. i love it!
if you are at all familiar with this author or classic Weird Fiction in general, then you know the drill. those first four stories (along with Ambrose Bierce's "An Inhabitant of Carcosa") set the template for much Weird Fiction to come, from H.P. Lovecraft to Clark Ashton Smith to Karl Edward Wagner and beyond. the names, the places, the idea of fell books of unhealthy influence, creeping dread, hysterical romanticism, humans viewed as repulsive insects... this story-cycle's place at the beginning of it all is well-known.
it is also a well-known disappointment. only those first four could be classified as Weird Fiction. a fifth, "The Demoiselle d'Ys", is an elegant, wispy ghost story/romance - and is also quite traditional. following that is "The Prophet's Paradise" - a collection of bits of ambiguous prose poetry, or impenetrable fable, or snatches from a larger tapestry never completed, or something.
the remaining four tales (each fancifully titled after certain streets) have barely a whiff of horror about them and so have met a chilly reception over the years from Weird Fiction enthusiasts. they are all about living the lifestyle of a bohemian art student abroad in bohemian Paris' bohemian Latin Quarter. think Trilby minus Svengali. they are about romance, art, naive americans, lack of money, enticing but sometimes tragic whores, some bloodshed (at least in one story), a sad and lonely ending (in another story), some unbearable lightness of being... what it feels like to be young and artistic and ready to enjoy life in a bustling and sometimes violent big city. these stories were slim, rather quaint, rather witty, and quite vibrant. i particularly enjoyed "The Street of the First Shell", which plunges the reader into a you-are-there-now account of the milieu itself and then what it feels like to suddenly find yourself in the middle of a bloody, confusing battle full of heretofore-unexperienced chaos, terror, and death.
overall this is an unusual and surprisingly quirky collection of stories. none of them were failures, all of them were interesting, and a couple really sang.(less)
oh the overripe fecundity of some imaginations. except when i bit into this particular peach, that fecundity turned out to be well on its way to rotte...moreoh the overripe fecundity of some imaginations. except when i bit into this particular peach, that fecundity turned out to be well on its way to rotten. all the quirkiness gave me hives. and the prose... ugh, i'll say no more. i read this one to better get in touch with my Filipino roots. no such touching ocurred. however, i did give it to my mom and she loved it. guess the apple didn't just fall far from the tree, it rolled across the orchard and into the road, where it was run over and turned into instant applesauce. wait a sec, i think i just lost control of my metaphor. or of my cliche. ah, cliches. well, this novel is full of them!(less)
Campbell knocked it out of the park with the wonderfully empathetic, unsentimental, and moving Your Blues Ain't Like Mine... sad to say, she struck ou...moreCampbell knocked it out of the park with the wonderfully empathetic, unsentimental, and moving Your Blues Ain't Like Mine... sad to say, she struck out with this sad affair. assorted bathetic shenanigans and sundry soap operatic histrionics fail to coalesce into anything worthwhile; about as striking and interesting as dishwater.(less)
here are some words and phrases regarding this collection of thematically-linked novellas by left-leaning post-war Japanese author Oe Kenzaburo:
- surr...morehere are some words and phrases regarding this collection of thematically-linked novellas by left-leaning post-war Japanese author Oe Kenzaburo:
- surreal, dream-like
- grotesque, morbid
- humanistic, humane
- unsentimental, clear-eyed
- a modernist style of writing with a postmodern view of the world? or maybe not.
- unreal, a hair-raising and uncomfortable kind of unreal
- a genuine realism that kind of hurts to read
- upsetting, angry
- ambiguous, fleeting
- moving, incredibly moving at times. particularly in regards to caring for children and the terrible, wonderful, complicated bonds between parent and child, the gaps and leaps in understanding
- distancing, incredibly distancing at times. particularly in regards to injury and disease, their reality and the metaphors they can embody
- chatty, stream of conscious
- sad beyond words
- horrifying and relevant deconstruction of race
- puzzles and mysteries and ordeals
- so this is the lot of humanity. sigh
- finite experiences, the small worlds that have been jerry-built for us
- what seems like differences are yet more ways that we are connected
- tragic
- hopeful
- a summary of pan-post-war sentiments, and a pointed look at the possible origin of some of those sentiments
- tactile sensation
- emotional sensation
- at times, too real. too honest in its depictions of the insane pettiness, self-aborption, and general cluelessness of mankind
- at times, too unreal. in a couple of novellas, i grew impatient as the dreamlike ramblings took too much time to lead me to their point
- brutal but true
- heartwarming but true
- lessons, hard-earned lessons
- transcendent, sublime
sub·lime (s-blm) adj. 1. Characterized by nobility; majestic. 2. a. Of high spiritual, moral, or intellectual worth. b. Not to be excelled; supreme. 3. Inspiring awe; impressive. 4. Archaic: Raised aloft; set high.
usually i hate corny words like sublime and lyrical and evocative, but i guess in this case the shoe fits.
my favorite of the four novellas is the title novella "Teach Us to Outgrow Our Madness". this is basically the story of the relationship between a morbidly obese father and his mentally disabled son. it is not a cutesy, i'm-really-trying-to-move-you tale, it is not easy on the reader. it is funny. it is sad. the peace it finds (or does it?) is very hard-won. i'm not sure i could read it again, a bit too painful, but... wow, amazing.(less)
perhaps the best things i can say about this one is that it has a sweet-natured, compassionate perspective on humanity and has no fears about appearin...moreperhaps the best things i can say about this one is that it has a sweet-natured, compassionate perspective on humanity and has no fears about appearing goofy and whimsical; perhaps the worst thing i could say about this one is Sometimes Whimsy Goes Too Fuckin Far And It Turns Into The Worst, Most Sickly-Sweet, Precious Little Treacle-Doily Of A Novel That I Want To Just Rip To Shreds.(less)
Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick, i can't believe i have to read this! argh. my colleague Michael (hopefully not a GR member) loaned this to me; clear...moreJesus Christ on a popsicle stick, i can't believe i have to read this! argh. my colleague Michael (hopefully not a GR member) loaned this to me; clearly he knows that i am a "reader". but just as clearly he also does not get that i like my books to have at least an edge of un-reality to them. you know, fantasy. horror. science fiction. historical fiction. and if not that, then just something, anything that moves them away from mainstream depictions of the modern real world. now Room looks like a snapshot of life right from the news. or right from my place of work! good grief, i deal with depressing enough stuff already goddamnit! reading the back cover description was like reading the label of a bottle of poison - i do not want to drink this. but fine, i respect you Michael and so i will read this one. just don't get mad if it takes me two months to get through this fucking thing.
__________
it took me over two weeks to finish the first half. i finished the second half during an afternoon and part of an evening. an amazing novel and a very emotional experience. i think i'll save writing a review for a little bit and let it sink in for a while.
__________
it's hard for me to define exactly why the first half of the novel was so hard to get through. at first i convinced myself that the child's perspective was just too "hearbreakingly poignant", and i am not the kind of person who is enthusiastic about reading works of heartbreaking poignance. but that is patently false; i love those kinds of books although i would never admit it openly. well, i'd say it in a GR review, but i would never say that out loud, if that makes sense. perhaps i'm a hypocrite that way. so then i convinced myself that there was just something wrong with the narrator's voice, something off, he just seemed - at different points - to be either too precocious or too simple for a child his age. i compared him a lot to my nephews, and it didn't gel - his thought process did not parallel their thought process. but then i thought about this kid's situation, the extreme sort of home-schooling he received, the protective wall that his amazing mom built for him, the way he interpreted the world...and it made sense, a whole lot of sense. his voice turned out to be a very real one for me, at least based upon my understanding of his young life.
and so i realized that the reason i was avoiding coming back to Room's first half was more basic, more simple. it made me want to cry, all the time. perhaps i'm too soft, maybe i just have too thin a skin. it's not like i have any illusions about kids - they are not saints to me, nor are they just tiny adults. i'm comfortable around children and i prefer them to many adults i've met, but i don't idealize them either. however i do have a big natural urge to protect them. i'm not sure where that comes from; i don't think it's based on genetics or upbringing. and so it was just really hard to return again and again to a novel that had as its central situation the kind of thing that i try actively to never contemplate. as in, i'll turn the channel or put down the paper if i come across a story like this one. to be honest, each time i read a few lines of the first half, my eyes would well up a little, that shortness of breath thing happened - and often in public, on the bus, at a coffeeshop, reading at a lunch spot. the private world of this novel became a public experience to me. i avoided this book at first because i do not like to appear weak - to the world around me, or to myself.
i told the guy who loaned me the book about my issues and was given some advice: just stick with it, it will open up and it will be beautiful. and so i did. and the book did. it was good advice.
the first half of the book was beautiful as well. wonderfully written. but thank God, the second half really did open up. it was like taking a breath of wonderful, clean air, somewhere in nature, away from the city. the humor remained but it was transformed into something wry, something that was still poignant but with a sheen of sardonic humor that i appreciated (and, truth be told, perhaps had a level of distance to it that i rather lazily connected to as well). the anger i felt in the first half towards Old Nick was inchoate - the kind of blind rage that i feel towards anyone who'd harm a child. the anger i felt in the second half was of a kind that is more comfortable, more familiar - towards the media, towards pop psychology, towards various institutions and the like. the second half had lessons to be learned - lessons about perception and isolation and materialism and the family bond and the bond between mother & son, protector & protected. the simple fact of "lessons to be learned" made the second half so much easier to read, it made the narrative positively propulsive in my desire to learn what was going to happen next. the horribly (and needfully) static nature of the book's first half was replaced by an emotional dynamism that really grabbed me. again, this is not a critique of the first half, which i think was perfectly written. instead, it is a critique of my own ability to deal with challenging, terrifying situations involving kids - since i couldn't do anything to stop or even hurt Old Nick, i wanted only to look away. and so the second half turned out to be more of a familiar road, with familiar pleasures. the first half of the book was horribly unique and my mind balked. the second half eased me back into a world i could deal with, respond to, and not shut down. at the end of the second half, the end of the novel itself, i read those last few sentences over and again, closed the book, and cried. such a relief. it's funny to think of all the tears i had saved up.(less)
i have a friend named Albert. once, long ago, i was matched with him as a volunteer to provide him 'peer support'. our relationship as volunteer and c...morei have a friend named Albert. once, long ago, i was matched with him as a volunteer to provide him 'peer support'. our relationship as volunteer and client continued semi-happily for many years, until i started working for the agency that oversees these volunteer matches. although that match officially ended, we remained friends - although it is important to point out that the relationship continued within the same format: mainly me listening to him. Albert tells many uproarious anecdotes. he's a funny guy - a senior citizen with many tales to tell, a bitchy queen with many hilariously scathing remarks at his disposal, an opera lover and antique-collector who has educated me on these two topics (ones in which i had virtually no understanding). Albert knows how to TALK. he calls me almost daily with incredibly long-winded but often very wry stories, and during my visits it is story after story after story. i don't begrudge him any of this in the slightest - he's a lonely old man and i'm glad to support him. i love him. but gosh, at times it can get a wee bit wearying.
Three Men in a Boat is like listening to Albert, except instead of an elderly gay man complaining about aches & pains and full of digressive but amusing anecdotes about life or whatever, the narrator is a young straight man complaining about aches & pains and full of digressive but amusing anecdotes about life or whatever. there are a lot of hilarious moments. there are even some moments that are moving or even full of beauty (well, two of them, prior to my page 100 stopping-point). but golly, it gets tiring. there is so little point to it all! just semi-amusing tale after tale, on and on and on, with virtually no movement. so very static. for example, over seven pages of 'amusing anecdotes' about tow-lines! really? Jerome K. Jerome, were you getting paid by the word?
so i am doing what i could never possibly imagine doing to my dear Albert: i am walking out of the room, i am hanging up, i am ending this one-sided conversation. Jerome K. Jerome seems like a charming, sweet-natured man, but he is not my friend and i refuse to continue to provide empathetic active listening to a nice guy who is also, at times, such a bore. Jerome - sad to say - you're no Albert. his stories are more entertaining and he has a whole lifetime under his belt. that reminds me, i should call him back now.
still, the writing in Three Men IS drily amusing, i'll give it that.
post-script: after reading miriam's comment below, i hustled back to the book to find this passage. it is about a page and a half, starting at the bottom of page 159. the three young men come across the body of a woman floating in the river and are later told her sad and moving story. it is a surprising change of tone for such a light-hearted, comedic novel of anecdotes. well worth seeking out, even if you are the kind of impatient reader, like myself, who gave up on the book.(less)
i once broke up with someone because she was an ardent follower of ayn rand. it just started bothering me more and more. mind you, this was in college...morei once broke up with someone because she was an ardent follower of ayn rand. it just started bothering me more and more. mind you, this was in college when i was much more obnoxiously political. then she turned around and started dating my roommate: sweet revenge, and a fitting response from an Objectivist!(less)
atwood's splendid deconstruction and then reconstruction of the ties that can exist between women is one of her more pleasurable novels. it is full of...moreatwood's splendid deconstruction and then reconstruction of the ties that can exist between women is one of her more pleasurable novels. it is full of fascinating references to fairy tales; discovering the parallels to rapunzel, sleeping beauty, and cinderella (to name just three) is an ongoing delight and the title character herself is so mysteriously poisonous yet malleable in her many faces that she becomes almost mythic. just as enjoyable is the deftness and richness of the characterization. atwood knows how to write characters who live and breathe, who think thoughts that are so true to life yet who still manage to surprise the reader with the decisions they make. and it should go without saying that the author's mastery of irony, of the poetic metaphor, of language itself, is present in spades.(less)
Peter Ackroyd has a thing about the past coming back to haunt the present. That sounds like a pretty straightforward theme, and is the basis of so man...morePeter Ackroyd has a thing about the past coming back to haunt the present. That sounds like a pretty straightforward theme, and is the basis of so many novels - and yet Ackroyd takes this idea and turns it into such a transformative yet disturbing experience that the result is very different than the one I initially imagined.
I’m not sure what I expected when I first picked this up. Perhaps I was thinking of the darkness of Hawksmoor, except transplanted to the English countryside. But from the very start of the novel, this was something different: the musings of an aged astronomer form the opening, musings that extol the wonder of the bigness of the universe, the incredible largeness of it all... described in such a way that make the reader and the world they live in feel very small, very minor. After that strange and unsettling opening, the reader is shown the life of various amusing and quirky – for lack of a better phrase – “English types”. There are bumbling archeologists. Hilariously pretentious bureaucrats. Dramatic theatre types. A horny Scottish lad and his flirty assistant. Odd, close-lipped, slightly sinister farmers (Farmer & Boy Mint, my favorite characters). And malicious country village queens who would be at home in the world of Mapp & Lucia. All the characters come together, in one fashion or another, around the dig of an increasingly sinister archaeological find in the countryside. The story consists of many small and varied chapters: pithy comedies of manners, obliquely off-kilter episodes full of ambiguity, and sometimes barbed, sometimes wistful domestic vignettes.
Yet underneath many of these characters and scenes, there is melancholy and fear, slowly churning away. For all of the funny one-liners and deadpan character bits, this is a novel with tragic death, disturbing dementia, and a longing for oblivion at its core. It is both adorable and chilling, in equal parts. The mysteries of life and where it all comes from, where it all is going, remain unsolved, of course. The mysteries of why we do the things we do and to what end are also left for the reader to contemplate. This is a novel full of much wit, but the overall feeling I was left with was one of almost transcendent yearning, as felt by the characters, and as felt a bit by me when realizing that this yearning is, as always, destined to remained unfulfilled. Such is life!(less)
City of Spades is the first novel in colin macinnes' once-celebrated "London Trilogy", a trio that has at its center Absolute Beginners, which is one...moreCity of Spades is the first novel in colin macinnes' once-celebrated "London Trilogy", a trio that has at its center Absolute Beginners, which is one of my favorite novels. City is a junior member of the series; perhaps because its portraits of white middle class folks' engagement with african culture is a simplistic one of easy parody of easy targets, or perhaps because its candide-like central character johnny fortune's wholehearted embracing of cultural stereotypes is by its very nature a discomfiting experience...or maybe because the urban patois that is rife throughout the novel comes across as dated or even reprehensible. there is always a certain discomfort when reading a white author's depiction of non-white culture; the reader almost holds their breath in anticipation of any noticeable condescension, lack of realism, or use of stereotype. for me, those were not problems with City; the problem was solely in the jokey characterization of the white characters. perhaps not the worst fault in the world, but i'm not a fan of easy targets in general.
writing this review reminds me of an aggravating GR review of The Giving Tree, in which the reviewer takes it upon himself to write the first third of the review in his own version of urban patois. there is so much wrong with a clearly intellectual white guy deciding to use slang in which he is not a fellow traveler and in which he is clearly not familiar, as a joke, to mock something or some people in a way that is neither credible nor speaks of any empathy towards folks who aren't himself - in a way that actually doesn't make a whole lot of sense. the joke becomes pointless, meaningless. while it is irritating to hear various middle class white or asian kids' ease with Nigga this, Nigga that, it is even more aggravating to read easy condescension from an adult who is widely read and who surely must be armed with all the lessons learned from living (and reading) in the adult world.
this is, in a way, an opposite of the problem i have with City, but the problems are linked by race and condescension. the white characters in City are jokes and so they speak and think like jokes....but to what end? to make a point that whites are not hep and blacks are the cool cats? the novel overall is a worthy one, funny and poignant and rough around the edges, an entertaining portrait of a certain place and time in swingin' london. but overall i couldn't escape the sense of Methinks the Author Doth Protest Too Much. fortunately, whitey stopped hating himself so much and went on to produce the absolute classic Absolute Beginners.(less)
when i first met aimee bender in a writing class at ucsd, she was the most magical yet misunderstood writer in the room. over two decades later, it's...morewhen i first met aimee bender in a writing class at ucsd, she was the most magical yet misunderstood writer in the room. over two decades later, it's nice to see that nothing has changed. she is consistently original. i'd say that she writes like a lighter, equally offbeat, miniature version of tom robbins. except i don't really like robbins and i sure do like bender. go, aimee bender! go, ucsd!(less)
she blows, and her thoughts never wander far from misguided contemplation of her object of affection. he gets blown, and his thoughts capture the vari...moreshe blows, and her thoughts never wander far from misguided contemplation of her object of affection. he gets blown, and his thoughts capture the various rationalizations of a self-absorbed, self-important cad. should blow jobs really be this tortuous? this short novel never really gets beyond its central conceit, and the basic lameness of the Longest Blowjob Story Ever becomes increasingly, depressingly apparent.
this could have been good. the complicated feelings involved in post-break-up sex is one that most folks can relate to - all the unresolved problems and unrealized goals are a potentially fascinating subject. and yet the protagonists are depicted in a way that makes the reader less than interested in empathizing - a real lost opportunity there. i found the privileged, deluded characters to be distinctly boring and nothing was learned. if anything, i would have preferred thoughts more realistically grounded in the act itself, at least that would have allowed for some genuine amusement. after all, this is basically a guy getting head from a gal as their thoughts roam around, and so stretching it out until it becomes a lengthy and strenuously studied recounting of two unfulfilled lives turns a prosaic act into something very pretentious. the author's central idea soon wore thin and there was certainly no satisfaction at the end.
i picked this up in a hostel donation shelf in amsterdam; it was missing both the back and front covers and the author was unknown to me. i knew nothi...morei picked this up in a hostel donation shelf in amsterdam; it was missing both the back and front covers and the author was unknown to me. i knew nothing about it except that it was something to pass the time reading while high, as my traveling partner slowly regained her health. i think it was the best circumstances in which to read the book; its mysteries and dreamlike meanderings completely free from descriptive and contextual blurb, all explication left entirely to my own impressions. something about the sometimes languorous, sometimes precise writing style and the lingering sense of mysterious motivations barely expressed by the characters was so reminscent of the polite dutch people around me, in their city full of strangeness and charm. reading the movement of the protagonist through periods as an australian jackaroo, a brothel's madame, a soldier in world war 2 france, a transvestite... it felt at first like trying to figure out the narrative of a dream, until slowly, with no great defining moment, everything made perfect and tragic sense. it was a move from a description of a dream into the dream itself. by the end of the novel i felt as if i had looked through the author's eyes and thought the author's thoughts.
in the end, what is the meaning? well, as with all great books, there are many avenues to finding meaning and many sorts of meanings on display, many "points" that can be found and many that are being made, consciously and perhaps otherwise. identity and its potential fluidity. self-affirmation. class and social conventions. masculine & feminine archetypes. an ode to landscapes, both country and city. bourgeoisie vs. bohemia. the peace that some find in war, the war that exists during peace. lots of things. if i had to chose one of the above, i'd say the first: Identity. what is it, anyway?
now a warning: this is dense, dizzying, poetic prose. challenging. think Peake, Pynchon, Paul Scott, etc... he's quite different from those authors but they all share an occasional sort of impenetrability in the writing. well, at least superficially impenetrable - the opposite of a quick and shallow read. wonderful stuff, gorgeous and memorable prose, but not for everyone i suppose.
according to australians i met during the trip, apparently Patrick White's novels are required reading back home, but the kind that few australians ever actually get around to reading. a strange fate for the only australian nobel prize winner for literature! to be known yet unknown - so much like the protagonist of his fascinating novel.(less)
a great introduction to the author, particularly for those readers who quiver in fear at the idea of Infinite Jest and A Supposedly Fun Thing. the lan...morea great introduction to the author, particularly for those readers who quiver in fear at the idea of Infinite Jest and A Supposedly Fun Thing. the language is unsurprisingly brilliant, the ideas at times playful and at other times fairly heavy, and the various portraits fascinating and often repulsive. wonderfully repulsive! men who engage in misandry are often interestingly self-flagellating yet defensive, and wallace is no exception. perhaps the only drawbacks are some forced jokiness and the pervasive sense that wallace is laughing at your expense. and he probably is, somewhere. you're gone but you live forever, david!(less)
it is a sad thing that Jenkins' 1934 novel is not better known! perhaps the darkness, realism, and tragedy that form the basis of this novel's insight...moreit is a sad thing that Jenkins' 1934 novel is not better known! perhaps the darkness, realism, and tragedy that form the basis of this novel's insights on humanity's often predatory nature has precluded it from being embraced.
the premise is simple enough. take a "natural" from any given Austen novel - those simple-minded, childish, often greedy, but also often innately sweet women who the central heroines usually have to protect or at least work around - and set her in a starkly realistic setting approximately 50 years later, filled with characters who truly will do what they feel they have to do to obtain money and comfort. although the language is similar - charmingly nuanced and understated dialogue; descriptive passages that are wry and subtle; characters who are pleasingly well-spoken and well-mannered - the result is very far from a comedy of manners. Harriet's narrative is instead a grueling series of escalating predations and degradations, politely told... because most people with no sense but some money do not have a Jane Austen heroine around to guide and protect them.
the discomfort this novel creates comes not just from the horrors that are visited upon the heroine but also from the inclusion of classic characters and situations that are instantly recognizable from the range of light comedies of manner that have been read and re-read over time. greed is a killer and predators will do anything to rationalize their predatory behavior (even to themselves) - particularly in a milieu where polite conversation and manners are as important as currency.
a dark and forgotten classic, one that is pitiless and passionless in its depictions of human cruelty. the novel is both subtle and furious in its underlying assessment of the avariciousness that can drive that cruelty.(less)
the story of a boy and girl. girl is a tomboy. boy is a mercenary artist. both are nice and only vaguely interesting. they move to the big city and ge...morethe story of a boy and girl. girl is a tomboy. boy is a mercenary artist. both are nice and only vaguely interesting. they move to the big city and get married. boy becomes successful. there is a baby, then another one. girl feels like she's stuck at home. boy sleeps around. they still love each other, the end.
a nice depiction of a certain point in time (new york of the 50s). but not too memorable - and i just read it!(less)
some amazingly intense writing here. characterizations are bizarre yet iconic. i'm glad high schoolers are forced to read this one, it's surprisingly...moresome amazingly intense writing here. characterizations are bizarre yet iconic. i'm glad high schoolers are forced to read this one, it's surprisingly perverse. nathaniel hawthorne...what a weirdo!(less)
the narrator likes to sleep around. a wide variety of guys are observed, slept with, and coolly analyzed. one of them is really sweet but gets alcohol...morethe narrator likes to sleep around. a wide variety of guys are observed, slept with, and coolly analyzed. one of them is really sweet but gets alcoholic and develops a man-boob problem as well as some unattractive issues with inertia. another one is also rather sweet, quixotic in temperament, and walks around nude in his gothic house, just thinking his various deep, dreamy thoughts. there are many, many more and that last one (my personal favorite) takes up maybe two pages of the novel, if that.
the narrator remains rather sympathetic towards each of the many men. she appears to be trying to make some kind of emotional connection, perhaps one that could lead to a genuine, long-term relationship. but one can't help but get the feeling that overall she is unimpressed by the male gender and simply won't admit it to herself. will she ever find love? well, she's not really looking for it - she just wants to bone. and then think about the experience. and then move on. the end.
the prose is excellent. elegant and witty and dry and full of splendid, surprising little sentences here and there. but the key word is dispassionate. which led to a block for me as far as identifying or even empathizing with the protagonist. but identification and empathy are overrated, right? "i don't want to get to know you, i just wanna slap skins". still, it made the experience rather like reading clinical case notes on various patients. i.e. not hot. although the actual sex scenes were sorta hot - when they actually occurred, which is not as often as one might imagine.
hey who is Margaret Diehl anyway and why hasn't she written more books? she sure has the writing chops. ah, mystery. also, check out that awesome cover. creepy!
the movie version starred Sean Young... bizarre choice for such an affectless character. when i think of Sean Young, i do not think of "lack of affect". perhaps the casting director was thinking of Young's glassy-eyed replicant from Blade Runner - which is a phrase i literally just stole from Brad below - rather than the manic Young of various other efforts. Dylan Walsh (known for having a plus-sized stick up his ass in the often laughable Nip/Tuck) is also in the movie version. i was disappointed that they removed man-boobs from his character. instead he smokes cigars while getting sloshed in the bathtub and it is all rather cute and endearing. gosh, so much for realism!(less)
people in the middle of changes. like reading a collected review of assorted slow burning mid-life crises, put to the page by a dry-eyed, not-exactly...morepeople in the middle of changes. like reading a collected review of assorted slow burning mid-life crises, put to the page by a dry-eyed, not-exactly sympathetic observer. humans are sad!(less)
flannery o'connor cruelly dissects society's outcasts. this is not a woman with a generous view of humanity, which makes it an enjoyable but often dep...moreflannery o'connor cruelly dissects society's outcasts. this is not a woman with a generous view of humanity, which makes it an enjoyable but often depressing experience. despite the modern-gothic subject matter and the occasionally ornate turn of phrase, a swift read. strangely affecting and open to interpretation on different levels. and funny!(less)
what do you mean by "technical issues"? are you talking about typos or grammar needing proofreading/correction? or are you talking about the actual wr...morewhat do you mean by "technical issues"? are you talking about typos or grammar needing proofreading/correction? or are you talking about the actual writing ability of the author?(less)
lackluster entry in macinnes' london trilogy. the parallel narratives are at first interesting but become rather tedious in the long run, perhaps beca...morelackluster entry in macinnes' london trilogy. the parallel narratives are at first interesting but become rather tedious in the long run, perhaps because both central characters lack a certain reality - characterization is a bit flat, a bit too jokey. they would be better served as supporting characters in a larger, wider, richer novel. or maybe i was just looking for another Absolute Beginners, surely one of the most vibrant novels ever written. here, the canvas is black & white rather than blazing technicolor - which is a pity. the writing itself is not at fault - macinnes is a master. the problem is in the rather forgettable characterizations and the surprisingly unconvincing narrative.(less)
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